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pascalissmoked · 1 month ago

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Sweeter Than Summer

Summary: It starts with helping Sarah. It ends with her dad looking at you like he can’t breathe without you. Soft smiles, stolen glances—until it’s not so soft anymore. Word Count: 8K Warnings: fluff, age gap (reader is 22 and joel is in his mid 30s), joel being the hot neighbor and a frienc od your dad's, tommy being a little shit to his older brother, team plotting from sarah and her uncle, blood (not gory though), joel not knowing how to take care of Sarah becoming a woman, food consumption, nervous!joel, texas!joel, no outbreak!joel, unprotected sex, A/N: I kinda let myself go with this one. But you can never have too much of dilf!joel anyway. I hope you enjoy xx

Sweat clung to your skin like a second layer, tracing hot trails from your neck to the hollow of your collarbone. Texas, in the dead of summer, had become less of a state and more of a furnace—an open-mouthed oven blasting dry, merciless heat at everything that dared to live in it. No breeze, no shade, not even the patchy ceiling fans in your father’s house could fight it off.

So you escaped to the only place with the illusion of relief: your old man’s rust-bitten Ford truck. The air conditioning groaned like an old man with bad knees, struggling to push out even a whisper of cold. Mostly, it just wheezed in competition with the faint melody of Avril Lavigne’s Complicated playing from a scratched-up CD.

That CD had been a gift from Sarah—the wild-hearted twelve-year-old next door with a halo of curls and a grin full of mischief. She’d handed it to you like it was treasure, wrapped in a scrap of pink paper with your name spelled in glitter pen. Babysitting her had started off as a favor, a quick yes when your father mentioned that Joel Miller—Sarah’s dad—needed someone to help out now and then. You’d barely met Joel, only knew that he worked with his hands, often gone at odd hours, and that he carried the kind of quiet sadness you didn’t ask questions about.

You were a high school senior back then, just counting days until freedom. But somehow, that little girl made you want to stay.

Your evenings slowly stitched themselves into a patchwork of Disney marathons, popcorn burned in the microwave, Sarah’s giggles echoing through the halls of the Miller house. She’d curl up beside you, head resting on your shoulder like a sleepy kitten, cookies half-eaten and forgotten on the table. She became something sacred—a bond, a heartbeat, the closest thing to a sister you’d ever have.

Even after you left for college, you kept coming back. Not out of duty, but because her tiny arms still wrapped around your waist when you walked through the door. Because her eyes still lit up like fireworks when you pressed play on The Little Mermaid. Because somehow, she had become your person.

You leaned back in the cracked leather seat, your legs sticking to it, the AC making a sad attempt at survival. You shut your eyes and let Avril’s voice carry you, half-lost in memory and heat-induced haze, until a sharp knock on the passenger window startled you.

Sarah.

She was grinning, as usual—her curls pulled into a wild ponytail, a Popsicle in one hand, and a look that said she was up to something.

You rolled the window down. “What’s up, bug?”

She climbed in before you could stop her, dragging a wave of hot air in with her. “Dad said we could go get ice cream if you’re up for driving.”

“Did he now?”

“Okay, I might’ve said you were bored and needed to get out. Same thing.”

You shook your head, biting back a smile. She shoved the melting Popsicle into your hand and snapped on her seatbelt with dramatic flair. “Let’s go. Before it gets hotter. I think I saw a squirrel burst into flames on the sidewalk.”

You laughed and turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed to life, the truck rumbling beneath you like an old beast waking from a nap. You caught sight of Joel on the porch as you pulled away—arms crossed, watching with that unreadable expression he always wore. You gave him a two-fingered wave. He nodded once, and that was enough.

Sarah chattered all the way to the ice cream place, asking about college, about whether you had a boyfriend yet (she asked this every time), and whether she’d be tall enough to ride the big coasters at the state fair this year. You let her talk, let her words fill the space like music.

When you finally parked in front of the ice cream shop, the sun had started dipping low, turning the sky into a hazy peach-orange watercolor.

Inside, the cool air hit like salvation. Sarah ran to the counter, already debating between cotton candy and cookie dough. You trailed behind more slowly, letting the change in temperature settle over your skin like a blessing.

As you waited, your phone buzzed in your pocket. A message from your dad:

“Joel asked if you’ll be home later. Said he could use help with something at the house.”

You stared at the screen for a second longer than you needed to. Joel didn’t ask for help. Not unless he meant it.

“What’s wrong?” Sarah looked up from her ice cream conquest.

You smiled. “Nothing. Just your dad being mysterious.”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s always mysterious. He builds things all day and listens to music no one understands.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” you teased.

“I’m not mysterious,” she said, scooping her choice—cookie dough, of course—into a bowl. “I’m an open book.”

You paid for the treats and led her outside to a metal bench half in the shade. The breeze had picked up slightly. It carried the scent of pavement, crepe myrtles, and something else—something you couldn’t quite name. Something shifting.

The sun was beginning to slip behind the rooftops by the time you and Sarah returned to the Miller house, both of you sticky from melted ice cream and heat. The air had that golden hue of a Texas evening—dust motes glowing in the sunlight, cicadas beginning their slow song. The drive back from the ice cream shop had been quiet, but not in a bad way. Sarah had rolled the window down and was humming absently to herself between licks of her cone. You stole glances at her in the rearview mirror. She looked tired but content, her face a little flushed, her curls sticking to her temples.

You knew something had shifted. She’d been quieter than usual on the ride back, a little distracted. Not sad, just somewhere far off in her head. You didn’t push it. You’d learned a long time ago that Sarah always circled back in her own time.

When you pulled into the driveway, Joel was out front, leaning against the porch rail with his arms folded, like he’d been waiting. He looked up as the truck came to a stop, one brow lifting slightly in a kind of wordless check-in. You gave him a nod, just enough to say she’s okay.

Sarah climbed out of the truck slowly and stretched. “I’m gonna shower,” she mumbled, already heading toward the front door.

“You eat dinner?” Joel called after her.

“Ice cream counts!” she shouted back, disappearing into the house.

Joel huffed something like a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He scratched the back of his neck, eyes still on the screen door even after it swung shut behind her.

You shut the truck door and walked over to him. “Everything alright?”

He looked at you then, really looked. Not with panic, exactly, but something close. Hesitation. Worry. Maybe a little guilt.

“You got a minute?” he asked. “Need to run something by you.”

You nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

Joel gestured toward the backyard with a jerk of his chin. The porch boards creaked beneath his boots as you followed him through the kitchen and out the back door, into the thick, humid air. The sun was low now, bleeding orange across the fence line. Crickets had started up in the grass, and you could hear a neighbor’s sprinkler ticking faintly in the distance.

Joel didn’t speak for a while. He stood with his hands on his hips, staring out across the yard like it might offer him a script to read from. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and a little rough around the edges.

“Found somethin’ earlier,” he said. “In the bathroom. A, uh… towel. One of hers. Had blood on it…”

“Oh,” you said, gently. “Her period.”

He nodded, cheeks reddening, clearly trying to keep his voice level. “Yeah. That. She didn’t say a damn word to me. Just shoved a towel in the laundry like nothin’ happened and then asked if she could go out for ice cream. And I remembered… her mom used to—well, she always wanted something sweet on her bad days, so…”

You felt your chest warm. Not from the heat. From him. From this big, quiet man who looked like he could wrestle a bear but stood there now like a deer in headlights, wringing his hands over his little girl.

“She’s twelve,” he added, like that somehow made it more tragic. “I don’t… I didn’t grow up with sisters. Only Tommy. We were a disaster even on good days. I don’t know what to say, or how to—hell, I don’t even know what kind of… supplies she’s supposed to use.”

He fell quiet again, then sighed, long and slow. “I didn’t know who to call. I almost called Tommy, but you know, he’s as useless as I am when it comes to this kinda thing. So… I figured, maybe you’d know.”

There was something in the way he said it—maybe you’d know—that felt less like a request and more like a quiet surrender. Like this was his way of admitting he was scared, and he didn’t know how to say it out loud.

You stepped closer, your voice soft. “You did the right thing, Joel. Giving her space, getting her out of the house. That was smart.”

“She didn’t even tell me,” he muttered. “That’s what kills me. She used to come to me for everything. Now she’s just—dealing with it by herself. Like she had to.”

“She’s twelve,” you said gently. “She’s embarrassed. Doesn’t know how to talk about it. Maybe she’s scared you’ll think she’s different now.”

Joel blinked at that. “Why the hell would I think that?”

“Because that’s what girls worry about when they start this. That people will treat them differently. That their body’s changing and it makes things weird.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes were on the fence again. “Her mom used to say stuff like that. About how she hated how people treated her like she was fragile just ’cause she was bleeding.”

There was a rawness in his voice that hadn’t been there before. Not just nervousness—grief, too. That quiet, familiar ache of someone trying to parent without the other half of the puzzle.

“I’ll take her to the store tomorrow,” you said. “We’ll get her what she needs—pads, whatever she’s comfortable with. Maybe some tea. And chocolate. That always helps.”

Joel nodded slowly, like each word you said was another burden taken off his shoulders. “Thank you.”

You hesitated, then placed your hand lightly on his arm. “She’s not trying to shut you out. She’s just figuring it out in the only way she knows how.”

He looked at you then, really looked—tired, grateful, full of a quiet kind of worry that had nowhere to go.

“I feel like I’m messin’ it all up,” he admitted, so low you barely heard it.

“You’re not.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure.”

A long silence settled between you. The kind that wasn’t awkward, just full. Full of the things left unsaid, of the weight of love and responsibility and the kind of fear that comes with being someone’s whole world.

Joel rubbed a hand over his face and huffed a short laugh. “You must think I’m pathetic.”

“I think you’re doing your best,” you said. “And that’s more than a lot of kids get.”

He let out a breath, slow and steady. Then, after a pause: “You’re good with her.”

“I love her,” you said. “She’s like a little sister to me.”

Joel looked at you again—something unreadable in his expression. Maybe surprise. Maybe something else.

“I’m real glad you’re still around,” he said quietly.

You smiled. “Me too.”

From inside the house, Sarah called out, “Are we watching a movie or what?”

Joel didn’t take his eyes off you, but there was something softer in them now. Something unguarded.

“I guess we’d better get in there,” he said.

“Yeah,” you said, letting your hand fall from his arm. “Before she starts without us.”

It was the first time you'd stayed this late at the Miller house. Usually, your evenings with Sarah ended around sunset—movie paused, cookies half-eaten, Joel pulling into the driveway with dust on his jeans and tired thanks in his eyes. But this time, things were different.

Sarah had asked you to stay. She’d clung to your arm, eyes wide and wheedling, and Joel, surprisingly, had said yes.

“I mean… if it’s no trouble,” he’d added, rubbing the back of his neck, trying not to meet your eyes.

You’d said it wasn’t. And you meant it.

Now, the three of you were gathered in the living room. The lights were dimmed, the TV humming with the opening credits of Holes. Sarah had insisted on it—“It’s a classic, don’t even argue”—and had spread every pillow and blanket she could find across the floor like a DIY fort.

She was nestled into the middle of it, legs tucked under her, one of Joel’s flannels hanging off her shoulders. You sat on the edge of the couch, nursing a soda, while Joel took the armchair, one ankle propped lazily over his knee.

The movie started, and for a while, it was all popcorn rustles and Sarah quoting her favorite lines before they even happened. Joel chuckled at her enthusiasm, and you found yourself watching them more than the movie—how Joel’s eyes softened every time Sarah laughed, how she leaned toward you like this was the most natural thing in the world.

Somewhere around the third lizard sighting, Sarah moved to sit on the couch between you and the armrest, leaning against your side like a sleepy cat. You didn’t even notice when her breathing evened out and her head rested on your arm.

Joel noticed though.

His voice came low, amused. “She out?”

You glanced down. “Dead to the world.”

“She’s like her mom that way. Could sleep through a tornado.”

It was the second time he’d mentioned her. His voice was gentle, a little distant, but not painful. Just remembering.

You both sat quietly for a while after that. The soft flicker of the movie lit his face in blues and golds. He looked… peaceful. More relaxed than you’d seen him at those neighborhood barbecues, where he always kept a beer in his hand and one eye on Sarah like he didn’t trust the world not to fall apart.

Now, she was here, asleep beside you. And you were here, beside her.

When the credits finally rolled, Joel stood up slowly, stretching with a soft groan.

“I’ll carry her,” he said, and you nodded.

He moved carefully, gently scooping her up in his arms. She stirred just enough to murmur your name and Joel’s, then went limp again against his chest.

You watched them disappear down the hallway, the quiet creak of her bedroom door closing like the final note in a lullaby.

When he returned, he found you curled up on the couch, clearly half-asleep yourself.

Joel stood there for a moment, just watching you.

He thought about waking you. He really did.

But then he sighed, rubbed a hand over his jaw, and muttered, “Alright then.”

A few minutes later, he was spreading a clean blanket over you in his room and stacking an extra pillow beside your head. He lingered there, eyes soft, before turning off the light and closing the door behind him.

The smell of coffee nudged you awake before sunlight did. For a few seconds, you lay still, half-dreaming, until the stiff cotton sheets and unfamiliar quiet reminded you—this wasn’t your bed. It was Joel's.

You blinked at the wooden beams above you, the smell of frying bacon drifting in through a barely-cracked door. Joel's room was neat but lived-in. The flannel shirt hanging off the bedpost, the guitar case by the closet, the worn boots by the door—it all felt very him.

You sat up slowly, pushing hair out of your face, squinting toward the hallway. It felt intimate in here. Like you were somewhere you weren't quite supposed to be. And yet, the warmth in your chest told a different story.

The floorboards creaked softly as you padded toward the kitchen, feet bare and cautious. Joel stood at the stove, t-shirt wrinkled, hair a little messier than usual. He was flipping bacon, one hand holding a spatula, the other nursing a coffee cup.

He turned when he heard you, and for just a second, there was something caught in his expression. Not surprise. Something softer.

"Mornin'," he said, voice low and a little scratchy.

"You gave me your bed?"

Joel shrugged, turning back to the stove. "You were out cold. Didn’t wanna wake you. Couch ain’t so bad."

You glanced over at the couch, then back at him. "That couch is shaped like a capital 'L'. No way your back's okay."

He smirked, sliding bacon onto a paper towel. "I'm tougher than I look."

You raised an eyebrow, settling onto a stool by the counter. "You mean grumpier."

Before Joel could reply, Sarah wandered in like a hurricane with the battery drained. She wore a hoodie zipped halfway and socks slipping down her heels. Her face was twisted in dramatic agony.

"It feels like a war zone in my gut," she moaned.

Joel tensed. "You need Tylenol? Heating pad?"

"I need ice cream," Sarah said. Then her eyes landed on you. "You're still here?"

You smiled. "Yep. Joel gave me his bed."

Sarah blinked. Then grinned like she’d just won a prize at the fair. "Ooooh."

Joel, behind her, quietly muttered, "Sarah."

She leaned in close to you like you were co-conspirators. "Did you sleep in, like, his bed? Like with the plaid sheets and the pillow that smells like sawdust and... man soap?"

You tried not to laugh. "That very one."

Sarah's eyes glittered. "I knew it! Dad always acts weird around you."

Joel nearly choked on his coffee. "Alright, that's enough. Go sit down."

Sarah plopped onto the couch, cradling a heating pad Joel must have already warmed up for her. Despite her cramps, she looked content. Radiant, even. You noticed her eyes drifting shut, the tiniest smile playing at her lips.

"We should probably go grab her a few things," you murmured to Joel.

He gave a quiet nod. "She said she used the last pad yesterday. I just... didn’t wanna get the wrong thing. Didn’t know there were fifty types."

You touched his arm lightly. "We’ll take care of it."

Just then, the back door creaked open with that familiar screech that only old hinges and a Miller brother could make.

"Hope I’m not too late for bacon," Tommy called, strolling in like he owned the place. He wore his Sunday-best version of casual: jeans, a button-up rolled to the elbows, and a grin that could get him out of any ticket.

Sarah brightened at the sound. "Uncle Tommy!"

"Hey, sweetheart," he beamed, ruffling her curls gently. "Heard you had a bit of a rough morning."

She held up a thumbs-up from under her blanket. "I’m surviving. Thanks to the ice cream and the guest star who stayed overnight."

Tommy's eyebrows shot up, and he turned to look at you, then Joel. "Guest star, huh?"

Joel stiffened where he stood. "She crashed after the movie. I gave her the bed."

Tommy leaned on the counter, eyes twinkling. "Your bed?"

Sarah giggled. "With the plaid sheets and the soap smell and everything!"

Joel let out a breath like he was trying not to combust. "Can y’all stop announcin' that to the whole neighborhood?"

Tommy laughed, clearly enjoying himself. "I’m just sayin’—breakfast smells like affection, and you’ve got your flannel lookin’ a little less grumpy today."

"She’s good with Sarah," Joel said gruffly, pouring another cup of coffee. "That’s all."

"Sure," Tommy said, nodding slowly. "And the way you’re hovering near her like a guard dog in flannel, that’s also ‘just good with Sarah’?" he whispered.

Joel shot him a warning glance, but Tommy only grinned wider.

"Uncle Tommy," Sarah said sweetly, suddenly conspiratorial, "do you think Dad has a crush?"

Joel nearly dropped his mug. You buried your face in your hands, laughing helplessly.

Tommy gasped theatrically. "Sarah! I think you might be right. Look at that blush—he’s turning redder than my truck!"

Joel groaned. "Jesus Christ, I should’ve stayed in bed."

"Too bad someone else was in it," Tommy teased.

Joel turned to you, his voice dry. "You wanna take her to the store now? Might be safer."

You, still laughing, nodded. "Before Sarah starts handing out wedding invitations."

Sarah waved a hand from the couch. "Too late, I already made a vision board."

Tommy threw his head back, howling. Joel just stared at the ceiling like it might open up and swallow him whole.

You grabbed your bag, still chuckling, and gestured to Sarah. "C’mon, let’s get you the fancy kind of pain relief. Maybe even a heating pad shaped like a llama."

Sarah sprang up with unexpected energy. "This is why you’re my favorite."

Joel muttered, "You weren’t sayin’ that when I was up at 2 a.m. gettin’ you ice water."

She kissed his cheek and skipped toward the door.

As the two of you left, you heard Tommy say behind you, "You know, I really am happy for you, big brother. But I’m gonna keep messin’ with you just the same."

Joel replied with a grunt, but his voice, softer now, said more than his words ever could.

He was grateful.

And he was in trouble.

The store's fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as you and Sarah wandered down the aisle lined with shelves full of period products. The “feminine care” section was a riot of pastel colors, cryptic labels, and brands that somehow managed to sound both comforting and clinical.

Sarah stared up at them, arms crossed, mouth slightly open. "Okay, so... what's the difference between ultra-thin and ultra-thin with wings? Is it, like, flying powers?"

You snorted. "No flying powers, sadly. The wings just help keep things in place."

"Disappointing," she said with a sigh. "I was hoping for at least a little magic."

You crouched to scan the lower shelves. "Do you want the same kind you had last time, or do you wanna try something different?"

Sarah shrugged. "Whatever you think’s best. I trust your judgment. You’re clearly a seasoned professional."

You tossed a box into the basket. "The seasoned-est."

Sarah peeked up at you, slyly. "So... speaking of judgment."

You raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh?"

"Do you like older guys?"

You blinked. "That’s... a jump."

She grinned, clearly proud of herself. "No it’s not. It’s an investigative segue."

You tried to stifle a laugh. "Sarah."

"What? I’m curious! You’re, like, a woman. With... grown-up tastes."

"You’re twelve."

"Exactly! I need mentorship."

You paused, holding a box of heating patches. "Is this about your dad again?"

"I mean, not entirely. But also: yes."

You gave her a look.

"I just think you two would be cute. You both make weirdly good pancakes. And when you were sleeping in his bed, I swear he was, like, standing in the hallway checking if you were still breathing. Like some kind of lumberjack angel."

You put the patches in the basket. "Lumberjack angel?"

"Don’t mock the poetry."

You walked toward the checkout, and she practically skipped after you despite the heating pad she clutched like a teddy bear.

"Okay but seriously—" she continued, lowering her voice dramatically, "—do you think he’s cute? Like, if he didn’t have the whole ‘dad’ thing going on?"

You sighed, amused. "Sarah, I’m not talking about your dad like that."

She smirked. "That means yes."

You gave her a mock glare as the cashier started scanning your items. Sarah, never missing a beat, leaned on the counter like she was discussing secret spy business.

"Also, Uncle Tommy said you could do better. I told him to hush. I think my dad is the best you’re gonna get."

"Wow. Brutal."

"I'm in pain. Let me live."

As you bagged everything up and started walking toward the exit, Sarah looped her arm through yours and leaned against you.

"Thanks for coming with me. It’s way less awkward with you. Dad would’ve had an existential crisis in the tampon aisle."

"I believe it."

"And also... thanks for not making this whole thing a big weird deal. I was really freaked out yesterday. Thought I was dying. You were cool about it."

You softened. "That’s what I’m here for."

She looked up at you, a little more serious now. "And I really hope you end up my stepmom. But, like, the hot kind."

You blinked. "SARAH."

She cackled. "What? Just planting seeds."

Outside, the sun was warm on your face. You shook your head, laughing as you loaded the bags into Joel’s truck.

And somewhere inside that little gremlin of a girl was the biggest heart you’d ever met. Even on her worst day, she was matchmaking and joking and holding your hand.

God help Joel.

He didn’t stand a chance.

The sun was angling low by the time you pulled back into the driveway, the kind of orange Texas glow that made everything look a little too golden and a little too unreal. Sarah was humming to herself in the passenger seat, clutching the drugstore bag like it held state secrets.

You climbed out of the truck, stretching, only to freeze halfway through.

Joel was out front, shirt sticking to his back in the heat, kneeling beside a crooked section of the fence. A small toolbox sat next to him, half-open, nails scattered in neat little rows. His shirt—dark blue and worn—was clinging to his frame in all the right places. Sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Forearms dusted in sawdust.

He looked up as you shut the car door, and for a moment, all you could do was blink.

“Hey,” he called, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. “Y’all make it okay?”

Sarah jumped out of the truck and held up the bag. “We conquered the period aisle!” she declared, marching proudly inside.

Joel chuckled. “That so?” Then his eyes flicked to you, and something in them softened. “Thanks. For takin’ her.”

You nodded, but your voice caught somewhere in your throat. “Of course.”

He bent back down, hammer in hand, and you stood there a beat too long watching the muscles in his arm flex with each nail he drove in.

It’s just because of what Sarah said, you told yourself. That’s all. She put it in your head.

But that wasn’t entirely true. The man looked like a Calvin Klein ad shot in a lumber yard.

You forced yourself to turn toward the house before your brain made it worse.

Inside, Sarah was already curled up on the couch, heating pad in place, water bottle in hand, victorious and slightly smug.

Joel followed you in not long after, wiping his hands on a rag. He glanced at the clock, then at you.

“You hungry?” he asked. “I was gonna grill a few things for dinner. Nothin’ fancy.”

“Stay!” Sarah added immediately, perking up. “You helped today and you’re, like, family. Dad even makes real food when you’re here. It’s a rare event.”

Joel gave her a look but didn’t argue. His eyes landed on you again. “You’re welcome to. Honestly.”

You smiled. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Joel grilled something—probably out of guilt for the frozen waffles breakfast. It smelled amazing. Burgers, seasoned fries, sliced watermelon, the works. You sat across from Sarah while Joel set everything out. Just as he was bringing over a dish of pickles, the back door swung open.

“Smells like a cookout for three, but I count four plates,” Tommy drawled, letting himself in like he always did. His jeans were too tight, shirt a little too fitted, like he was contractually obligated to flirt with the universe.

Joel gave him a side glance. “Don’t you have a house?”

“Sure do. But yours has food. And company.”

Tommy’s eyes slid to you, and his grin grew. “Well hey there.”

You smiled. “Hi, Tommy.”

Sarah rolled her eyes dramatically. “Don’t even, Uncle Tommy. She’s my best friend.”

Joel muttered, “God help me,” under his breath and passed you the ketchup.

Halfway through dinner, Tommy was in rare form. He elbowed Joel mid-bite. “So. When’s the last time you cooked like this for anyone?”

Joel didn’t look up. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just sayin’. I visit and get leftover chili. She visits and it’s gourmet.”

You were trying to hide your grin behind your water glass.

Tommy pointed his fork at you. “He always gets like this when you’re around. All tense and upright like he’s bein’ evaluated by the food network. You got the man sweating over burger seasoning.”

Joel groaned. “I swear to God, Tommy.”

Sarah giggled. “He did check the grill temp like, five times.”

You caught Joel’s eye. He looked exasperated, but his ears were red. Very red.

Tommy wasn’t done. “You know, Sarah’s got a good eye. She’s not wrong. This whole thing”—he gestured vaguely between you and Joel—“feels domestic.”

“Tommy,” Joel warned.

Sarah added, “We’re basically a sitcom now. One where the hot dad doesn’t know he’s in love.”

Joel dropped his head into his hands.

Tommy raised his glass. “To sitcoms. And slow burns.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or run.

Joel caught your eye again. And this time, he didn’t look away.

It wasn’t a big party. That had never been your dad’s style. But the backyard looked sweet under the string lights he’d looped between trees, casting a soft gold hue over the old lawn chairs and the fold-out table covered in mismatched paper plates and bowls of chips. A CD player in the corner hummed the tunes of old country and early 2000s radio hits, the kind your dad thought “young people liked.”

You’d just turned 22. Most of your college friends were scattered across the state—too far to make it for a casual Sunday night cookout. So it was just a few neighbors, your dad manning the grill, and a soft breeze that hinted at the edge of summer’s peak.

Joel showed up just as your dad was tending to the barbeque, Sarah at his side, her curls bouncing in a way that made her look like she was floating toward you. She held out a card like it was a trophy.

“Happy birthday!” she beamed. “I made you a masterpiece.”

You laughed and took it carefully. The card was covered in glitter and tiny doodles: a birthday cake, a sparkly dinosaur wearing sunglasses, and a poorly drawn but heartfelt portrait of you, her, and Joel standing under a rainbow.

“I love it,” you said, genuinely. “I’m framing it.”

“Good,” she grinned. “It took me forty-five minutes and three glitter glue explosions.”

Behind her, Joel gave you a small smile. He was in a dark gray button-down rolled to the elbows and jeans that didn’t look new, but still somehow looked good. Really good. You’d never seen him dressed like this—like he tried, just a little. He was holding a six-pack of Shiner Bock and a small rectangular gift wrapped in brown paper and string.

"Happy birthday," he said, voice quieter. “Didn’t know what to get, so…”

He handed you the gift and scratched at the back of his neck.

You gave him a curious smile as you took it. “Should I open it now?”

He shrugged. “Up to you.”

You peeled back the paper. Inside was a well-worn copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. The corners were softened from age, and the inside cover had a note in Joel’s neat, deliberate handwriting:

“You mentioned this was your favorite once. Figured you should have a version that’s seen a few years too. —J”

For a moment, the backyard went quiet around you—music, chatter, all of it faded. You looked up and met his eyes. Warm. Kind. Embarrassed, maybe. But also something else. Like he saw you in a way that you hadn’t let yourself imagine too much.

“Thank you,” you said, and meant it more than he probably realized.

Sarah was watching the two of you with her arms crossed, smirking. “You two are so obvious.”

Joel cleared his throat and turned toward the food table. “Burgers should be ready soon.”

You followed, your cheeks flushed.

Later, after burgers and sides and Sarah’s overenthusiastic attempts to pin the tail on the inflatable donkey, which your dad found hilarious, the grill was cooling and the sky was a bruised violet. You were inside the kitchen, trying to find a knife that wasn’t dull to slice the birthday cake. Your dad had disappeared, muttering something about “checking the propane line,” which you were 99% sure was code for “giving you space.”

Joel came in behind you with a tray of empty cups. “Need a hand?”

You turned, knife in one hand, cake staring back at you. “Yeah. Unless you wanna watch me murder this thing.”

He smirked, stepping beside you. Close. His shoulder brushed yours as he reached for a stack of plates.

“What kind of cake is this, anyway?” he asked, leaning just enough to read the label on the box.

“Chocolate with strawberry filling. Sarah picked it out. Said it was ‘romantic birthday vibes.’”

Joel laughed softly. “That girl’s gonna run a matchmaking business one day.”

“She already is. We’re just her test subjects.”

You looked up to find him looking down, his eyes flicking to your mouth just for a second. Just a second—but it was enough to knock the air sideways in your lungs.

You turned back to the cake, hoping your hands weren’t shaking. You started to cut, and Joel leaned closer, one hand resting on the counter beside you.

“Need me to steady the plate?” he asked.

Your hands were a little clumsy, distracted by the warmth of him next to you. “Maybe. It’s a two-person job.”

He chuckled, and you could feel the laugh more than hear it—like it buzzed through the space between your arm and his.

Then—

“You guys are standing really close,” Sarah’s voice rang out behind you, making you jump. She was leaning on the doorframe with a smug little grin.

Joel jerked his hand away like he’d been caught stealing.

“I was helping,” he muttered.

“With cake?” Sarah raised an eyebrow.

“Cutting’s an art,” Joel said, deadpan, making her giggle.

You just shook your head and passed her a plate. She skipped off with her prize, leaving you and Joel blinking in the soft hum of the kitchen.

“Thanks,” you said after a beat. “For everything today.”

Joel nodded, still a little red around the ears. “Wasn’t much.”

“It was,” you said. “And the book… I mean it.”

He smiled, shy but genuine. “Glad you liked it.”

And then neither of you moved. The air hung between you like a stretched-out string.

Until Sarah called from outside, “We need cake now!”

Joel exhaled. “Duty calls.”

You followed him out, but something lingered behind in the kitchen—the warmth of him, the nearness, the feeling that this thing between you wasn’t just in your head anymore.

The backyard had emptied. The last of the neighbors had waved their goodbyes. The string lights were still glowing, bugs dancing lazily in their warmth. Your dad had gone to bed after mumbling something about “too many burgers, not enough bourbon,” and the house was quiet now — quiet in a way that left too much room for your thoughts.

You were in the kitchen rinsing out plates, the hem of your party dress damp from leaning too close to the sink, your hands wrinkled and smelling like lemon soap. There was half a chocolate-strawberry cake left, the one Sarah had insisted on, and somehow you couldn’t just toss it.

She would’ve protested. Loudly.

You dried your hands, boxed the leftover slices neatly, and stared at the little pink-and-brown cake box for longer than you needed to.

Your feet moved before you could talk yourself out of it.

It was pushing 10:30, but Joel’s porch light was still on, casting a dim halo around the faded welcome mat. You knocked lightly, the box balanced on your hip.

A few seconds passed. Then the door creaked open.

Joel stood there barefoot in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, looking tired in the way only dads could be — soft around the edges but still solid, still present. His hair was tousled, and he looked like he’d only just sat down for the night.

“Hey,” he said, surprised but not unhappy. “Everything alright?”

You held up the cake box like a peace offering. “Didn’t feel right keeping it. Sarah picked it. Thought she might want it.”

He stepped aside, motioning you in. “She would’ve. She’s at Tommy’s tonight, though. Asked to sleep over.”

You paused on the threshold, your heart thudding a little louder. “Oh.”

“Come on in,” Joel said gently. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded, stepping inside. The house smelled like clean laundry and cedar. Familiar and warm. Lived-in. You followed him into the kitchen and set the cake down on the counter.

Joel leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Long day?”

You smiled faintly. “Fun day. Weird, too. Turning twenty-two in your childhood backyard while your babysitting kid gives you love advice.”

Joel chuckled, eyes crinkling. “Yeah. She’s... somethin’.”

You leaned back on your elbows against the counter. The room was dim — just the small lamp over the sink on — and the silence was comfortable at first. But then it turned charged. He hadn’t moved. Neither had you.

Your gaze drifted. His jaw was stubbled, his hair slightly damp, like maybe he’d just taken a shower. He looked... good. More than good.

You caught him watching you back, just a second too long.

The moment thickened.

“I, uh,” you started, voice catching slightly. “I meant what I said earlier. About the book. It was... really thoughtful.”

Joel looked at you then — really looked — and whatever wall he’d been holding onto, the one made of age difference and neighborly boundaries and the awkwardness of being Sarah’s dad... it cracked.

He pushed off the doorway slowly, walked toward you, stopping just close enough to make your breath hitch.

“I’m glad you liked it,” he said softly.

The space between you was a livewire.

“I keep trying not to think about you like this,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

His jaw tightened — not in anger, but in restraint.

“Me too.”

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

Then — softly, carefully — Joel reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingered.

“You’re too young for me,” Joel said, the words barely more than a gravel-edged whisper.

You looked up at him, your chest tight, heart thudding in your throat. “I’m not a kid.”

His eyes darkened, like you’d struck a match in the middle of a dry field. He swallowed hard. “I know.”

The silence between you turned into something electric, something living. The only sound was the quiet hum of the fridge and your own uneven breathing.

Joel took a small step forward, just enough to close the last of the space. He stood so close you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the faint crease between his brows like he was warring with himself. His hand came up—slow, hesitant—and hovered near your face before he finally gave in and touched you. His thumb skimmed along your jaw, rough fingertips brushing the soft edge of your cheek.

“Been tryin’ real damn hard not to want this,” he said, voice ragged.

Your breath hitched. “Then stop trying.”

That was all it took.

He kissed you.

But it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was weeks, maybe even months of unspoken glances, quiet admiration, long nights with Sarah between you, laughter over coffee, shared space, and now, finally, just the two of you.

His mouth found yours like he’d already dreamed it. His hands were sure now, cupping your face, sliding into your hair, then down—down to your waist, your hips—pulling you flush against him. You made a quiet sound against his mouth and that undid something in him. He groaned, low in his throat, and kissed you deeper, lips parting, tongue brushing yours, slow and deliberate.

You didn’t realize you’d moved until your back hit the counter behind you. His hands braced on either side of you, caging you in but never pressing too hard. Just close. Just real.

You slid your fingers into his hair, damp from a shower or maybe just the heat of the night, tugging lightly. He leaned into your touch, one hand sliding beneath the hem of your shirt at your back—his palm hot against your skin, callused but careful. The contrast made your knees weaken.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t move far. His forehead rested against yours, his breathing fast, uneven. You could feel his heart pounding through his chest, matching yours like a drumbeat in sync.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said again, but this time it sounded like a confession. A regret that wasn’t real.

“But you did,” you whispered, lips still tingling, hand still curled into his shirt like you couldn’t let him go just yet.

Joel’s eyes searched yours, something stormy flickering in their depths. “If you stay... if we do this... it ain’t casual for me. You understand that?”

You nodded slowly.

A beat passed. Then another.

His hand slid to your cheek again, and he kissed you once more—slower this time, a kind of reverence in it. His lips pressed to yours like he was trying to memorize the feel of you. Like he didn’t quite believe it was real.

When he pulled back again, there was a trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Tired. Hopeful. Hungry.

“You wanna stay?” he asked softly.

You looked at him, really looked. His bare feet on the kitchen floor. His hair mussed. That tiny crease between his brows. The way his eyes had gone soft, all guarded affection and barely restrained want.

“Yeah,” you said. “I do.”

Joel’s breath was still shallow when he stepped back just enough to look at you, like he was double-checking that you were still there, still real. You didn’t let go of him. Your fingers were still hooked into the front of his shirt, still pressing against the solid warmth of him.

His voice was quiet, low and careful. “If we go upstairs…”

“I know what I’m saying yes to,” you interrupted softly.

He hesitated, studying you like you were a question he’d never been brave enough to answer until now. But something in your face, in your voice, seemed to break whatever final restraint he was holding onto.

Joel nodded once.

Wordless, he took your hand.

The walk through the house was quiet, heavy with tension—not the awkward kind, but the kind that hummed in the air like a string pulled taut. Each step up the stairs felt like it carried weight. Anticipation. Choice.

His bedroom door creaked softly as he pushed it open.

In the dim lighting, it felt intimate. Lived-in but not messy. Clean but unpretentious. The scent of him lingered in the space—cedar soap and sawdust, fabric softener and something deeper, something unmistakably Joel.

He turned to face you in the doorway, fingers still twined with yours.

“You still okay?” he asked, voice rough, eyes searching yours like he was afraid to blink and miss something.

“Yes,” you whispered, breathless. “More than okay.”

Joel looked at you for a long moment. Then he leaned in and kissed you again — deeper this time, with more certainty, like the last of his resistance had slipped loose.

Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned softly against your mouth. He tasted like something rich and dark and slow. His hands roamed, reverent and careful, touching you like he was trying to learn you by feel — every curve, every sound you made under his fingertips.

When you gasped as his hand skimmed lower, he paused. “Tell me if you need me to stop,” he murmured into your skin.

You shook your head. “Don’t stop. Please, Joel.”

He kissed down your throat, down your chest, leaving a trail of warmth wherever his lips touched. Your back arched instinctively, your body aching to be closer. There was nothing rushed in the way he undressed you — every movement was measured, like he was unwrapping something he’d wanted for a long, long time but never thought he’d be allowed to have.

And when you were bare beneath him, laid out in the soft hush of his bedroom, you felt more seen — more wanted — than you ever had before.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” Joel murmured, his hand brushing along your waist, your hip, your thigh. “Don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”

You reached for him, found the hem of his shirt, and he let you lift it up and over his head. He was solid and warm and real beneath your palms, and when you kissed down his chest, he hissed through his teeth — a sound that made heat curl deep in your stomach.

The rest came off piece by piece — not rushed, but not slow either. Just… inevitable.

And then he was over you again, skin to skin, his weight pressing you into the mattress, grounding you. His nose brushed yours, like a silent request.

You cupped his cheek. “I want this. I want you.”

He kissed you again — not soft this time, but sure, open, claiming. His hand slipped under your thigh, lifted you to him, and you felt him press against you, heavy and warm.

You both gasped as your bodies joined — not all at once, but slowly, carefully, like you were fitting puzzle pieces together. Like your bodies already knew the rhythm even if the rest of you hadn’t caught up yet.

Joel’s breath stuttered as he sank fully into you, and for a moment, he just held there — his forehead against yours, both of you trembling, trying to hold on.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “You feel like heaven.”

You didn’t have the words to answer. Just the way your hands clung to him, the way your body opened for him, welcomed him in.

He moved slowly, deliberately — not just fucking you, but feeling you, like this meant something. Like he was afraid to miss it.

And you met him, movement for movement, every breath shared, every sound caught in the dark like a secret.

There was something tender in the way he whispered your name when you cried out his — something reverent, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to have you like this. And when your body tightened around him, shuddered beneath him, he caught you through it, kissed your cheek, your mouth, your neck — whispered that you were perfect, that you were his.

He followed soon after, his voice breaking into a groan as he pressed as deep as he could, shaking with the force of it, with everything he’d been holding back.

When it was over, he didn’t move far. Just enough to roll you gently to your side and pull you close, your bodies still tangled together, still warm and slick with each other.

You felt him kiss your shoulder, then your neck. “You okay?” he asked again, voice softer than ever.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Joel…”

He pulled you tighter. “I got you, baby. I got you.”

You tucked your face into the space between his neck and shoulder, listened to his heartbeat.

And that’s how you stayed — wrapped in warmth, in quiet, in something neither of you were ready to name, but both of you felt all the same.

A/N: Should i make a part two for this? Idk how i would continue it, so if you want drop some ideas in the comments. Thanks for reading hun xx

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adore-laur · 5 months ago

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Omgg I would love to see different times dadrry gets protective !! Like I can so see him being one of those dads that set boundaries the first time the baby is being introduced to family. He’d be like “no kissing on the face, no taking her away from mom without asking her first and wash your hands before holding her” etc etc. Or him getting defensive when people start to pity him when they find out he’s having a third girl and he gets annoyed and defends his girls 😭😭

Also ofc need to say your dadrry series is the best thing ever I still have tumblr solely to read your writing ☺️☺️

PROTECTOR

——

Pacific loons wailed hauntingly near the shoreline as you sat in the patio's swing chair, listening to the sundry sounds of nature. The oceanic view was a calm presence, one that often lulled you into a hypnotic trance with the endless ebb of waves and the horizon's dying light. Above the railing, brass wind chimes produced a plinking melody in the wind. The atmosphere of home engulfed you like a warm hug.

It was a moment of serenity while Harry went on a grocery run with the girls. He had offered to take them after work, and it was sweet of him to give you time to decompress after parenting alone all day. Plus, it got them out of the house. You would usually be able to take them somewhere for fresh air and fun sights to see, but pregnancy fatigue prevented any hopes of traveling past the front door.

A month had elapsed since you surprised Harry with the news of a third baby. Two weeks since you both had found out it was a girl. In that time, life had coasted by blissfully between the routine of working part-time, daycare drop-off and pick-up, and bonding with your little family over the weekend.

As much as you cherished the hustle and bustle, it was necessary to prioritize personal time. Sometimes it came in the form of sinking into a hot bath, venturing to the beach with a novel, or catching up on much-needed sleep. Today, it consisted of feeling the breeze pass through your hair and appreciating the beauty of southern California.

It would be easy to fall asleep out here. The crashing waves, birdsong, and rustling trees were a lullaby. But you knew the moment you closed your eyes, you would miss the last streaks of the sunset, with its delicate wisps and golden clouds. So you shifted slightly to wake your limbs that were becoming jelly-like, and as you did, the blanket previously draped across your collarbones pooled into your lap. You stared down at it, smiling. The bedroom's storage ottoman held approximately a dozen different blankets, all with some sort of sentimental value attached to them. The crocheted quilt your first daughter had come home from the hospital with; the heated one with Mom embroidered on it; the oversized fleece one Harry liked to specifically use for cuddling either you or his girls.

The one you had chosen for your peaceful patio time was a ragged, faded patchwork quilt that Harry had kept (possibly stole) from the walk-up apartment you lived in together nearly eight years ago. It had watched your love for him grow beyond your wildest dreams. Had seen moments of rib-aching laughter, frustrated tears, pain and passion, and a commitment that would always withstand rough waters. Neither of you had wanted to part with that blanket, so now it stayed in a special place in the home that had once been a far-fetched fantasy.

As your fingers plucked loose threads from the fabric, you felt your phone vibrate with an incoming call. It was hidden somewhere under the thick blanket, and after a moment of searching, you picked it up and looked at the screen. It was Harry, made evident by his contact photo—a family picture on the Temescal Canyon Trail, your youngest strapped to your chest in a carrier and Harry carrying your oldest on his shoulders. A generous elderly couple had offered to take it, with the stunning backdrop of the expansive coastline. You especially loved the picture because it showed off Harry's legs in his athletic shorts, all long and tanned.

"Hey," you answered, assuming he was calling from the grocery store. He often did with ideas for meals or questions about kiddie snacks. Sometimes he'd ask what desserts you were craving, and then he'd spoil you by bringing home more than you could even fathom eating.

"Hi, baby," he said, sounding winded. "Can you unlock the door for me? Both girls are out like a light in my arms."

"Oh!" you said, not expecting him back so soon. Nature's hypnosis made you lose track of time. "Okay, I'll be right there."

"Thank you. I'd hang up, but my phone is balancing rather precariously on my shoulder."

You laughed and hung up for him, then untangled yourself from the cozy confines of the swing chair before heading inside. You were careful to hop over the dolls and picture books and blocks scattered across the living room carpet.

When you reached the front door and opened it slowly, your heart melted. Harry stood there holding one daughter on each hip, their little bodies slumped against him as they slept. You could tell your youngest was in a deep sleep. Your eldest, though, was definitely pretending so she could be carried inside like a princess. The sunset's pink light peeked into the garage and softened Harry's handsome features ethereally. Who else could look this good after grocery shopping?

"We're home," he whispered, and those two simple words filled your heart with an unspeakable amount of happiness.

"I'll help put stuff away," you replied quietly, taking his phone to relieve him from his uncomfortable position. "You go tuck the girls in." It was nearing their bedtime anyway, so better to take advantage of a smooth transition.

Harry smiled with that attentive look on his face, then bent to tenderly kiss the sweet spot on your neck. "You're glowing," he murmured in your ear, then walked past you, leaving your cheeks flushing like a besotted teenager.

Once the groceries were put away and the kids were down for the night, you and Harry went to relax in the bedroom. The sky was now devoid of color with stars twinkling faintly, and the full moon spilled its light through the bay window.

You were already in your pajamas, collapsing onto the comforter, when Harry asked, "How was your day?" He shut the closet light off, dressed in just a T-shirt and black boxers. There were those legs again, the lean muscles a feast for your eyes.

"Mellow," you said. "We stayed inside mostly. Morning sickness has been kicking my ass."

"Good thing you didn't have to work today."

You nodded. That was the nice part about working part-time and partially from home—it allowed for the freedom to be with the kids more often. You didn't mind taking them to daycare, especially since it was imperative for socialization, but it lessened your anxiety when you had them under your supervision. It was a suitable balance.

"Did everyone behave at the store?" you asked, sliding your socks off under the sheets.

"Yeah. No tantrums." Harry raised his eyebrows proudly, and you both shared an air-five. "They seemed knackered. Slept all the way home."

"I tried my best to tire them out."

"Well, you succeeded," he said appreciatively, then joined you in bed, stretching his limbs. You were so thankful for his diligence. To work ten hours and then parent to take some responsibility off your plate was admired more than you could ever put into words.

Harry reached his hand over to the nightstand to resume the book he'd been engrossed in recently but paused and turned to you instead. "Can I gossip with you?" he asked.

You quirked your brows. "What happened?"

He breathed deeply and stared into the distance. "So, I was in the cereal aisle, right?"

You laughed while cuddling up to him. "This is juicy so far."

"It's not even gossip, really," he said. "Just something that irked me."

"Please continue."

He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and painted a picture of the scene. "I had the girls sitting in the shopping cart, and an old lady nearby started fawning over them. Which is fine, because they're adorable. Anyway, she started asking a bunch of questions—how old they are, what their personalities are like. Somehow I accidentally let it slip that we have a third one on the way, and I know we're telling our families next week, but I got caught up in the conversation and—"

"You're so bad at keeping secrets," you interrupted with a good-natured groan.

Harry kissed your forehead apologetically. "The worst. So, this lady had the audacity to act all surprised that I was going to be a father of three girls. Gave me a face like she pitied me. And then guess what she said..."

"I assume something mildly offensive," you replied.

"She goes, 'I bet you were hoping for a boy. To bring some balance to your home.'"

You scoffed and said, "More like chaos. What did she even mean by that?"

He shook his head, equally puzzled. "I don't know, but I just said, 'I'm very happy with my life,' then grabbed a box of Cocoa Puffs and went on with my day."

You frowned. "Why do some people think having daughters is such a burden?" It was mind-boggling. They had taught you so much and would continue to as they grew and spread their wings. It was your purpose to shape them into resilient, kind, and empathetic women. What a beautiful honor anyone would be lucky to experience.

"I'll never understand," Harry mused, locking eyes with you. "It's the most..." He trailed off with an emotional smile, and you stroked his cheek, letting him take his time. It wasn't often you or he could speak so rawly about the life you'd created together. "It's just the best feeling imaginable, you know? I can't describe it. All I know is that I wouldn't want it any other way."

You kissed him softly, feeling the sincerity of his words in the way he gracefully slipped his tongue past yours. With your palm still cradling his cheek, you halted his kisses using your thumb to say, "You're this family's heartbeat."

His lustful green eyes opened, his pupils dilating as if absorbing your admission. "If I'm the heartbeat, then you're the lungs."

"Sweet-talker," you teased.

"You started this love fest."

After a stretch of comfortable silence, Harry settled his hand on your small bump, a warm and knowing touch. "Please don't think I'm waiting on a son," he said.

You snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. I know more than anyone else how much you wanted daughters. You told me during our first date."

"I did?"

"We talked each other's ears off that night about our futures. The universe must have been listening." The conversation was burned into your brain. In that dim oceanside restaurant, you had known he was a keeper.

"Yeah," Harry whispered, kissing all over your stomach, leaving no skin unmarked by his gentle lips. He then rested his head in your lap. "I can't wait to meet her."

You hummed. "Have you ever thought about what she'll be like?"

"A combination of all four of us."

A ghost of a smile spread on your lips. "We're going to have our hands full then."

"I'm ready."

"I know you are," you said while playing with his hair. "That's why I chose you."

He was a protector, down to the fibers of his being. You didn't have to be in the room for him to remind the world of his devotion to being your husband. To being a father. He laid it all bare, and you could only hope that it would be passed down to your daughters like an heirloom blanket.

——

#harry styles blurb #harry styles fluff #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #dad harry #dadrry #dad!harry #harry styles fanfic #harry styles #adore-laur

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bernardsbendystraws · 5 months ago

Text

Fresh Air

Matt Sturniolo x Reader

Check out my pinned post for more of my writing.

00 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 FINAL

Summary: One night at a party seems to change everything. A strange man with a friendly smile and a sleeve of patchwork tattoos seems to make you feel at home for a change. You're finally happy to have made a good friend to lean on - especially when it comes to your not-so-great relationship with your boyfriend. But what happens if you lean too much...what happens if you fall?

Warnings: 18+. This series contains mature themes, read at your own risk. (SMUT, angst, parental troubles, financial hardships, and more. Don't like, don't read.) This warning is made for all parts.

A/N: To be added to the taglist, send a request in my inbox or comment on the pinned post. I'm far more likely to see requests sent to my inbox.

With love and big tits, Rose.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

06: A Little Blurry...

Matt’s arms swarmed around me, the heat between our bodies under the covers making me feel like a puddle of comfort. Stripes of light peeking through the blinds made the calm aura only grow, my skin feeling as soft as ever as I feel his fingers start to twindle hazily on my bare lower stomach.

The more and more conscious thoughts that seeped in, the more my bones started to vibrate under my skin. What did I do? Did that really happen? Did I…did I cheat on my boyfriend?

“Morning, dollface.” His hum is spoken with a gruff voice. As my senses start to wake with panic, I let myself feel the dry warmth between our bodies. Was it all just a dream? Is that still cheating?

“Um…morning,” I sigh, chaotic thoughts starting to calm as I let my body melt back into his embrace.

If it was just a dream, I wouldn’t feel like this. It’s definitely still cheating. This can’t be okay - I just cheated on someone. Fuck.

Matt seems to notice my anxious energy. “Are you okay? Did you not sleep good?” he asks, peering over my shoulder to look down at my face.

But I just can’t look at him.

“I need to go. I…I need to go now.”

__________

Awkward and tense silence had infiltrated our normal relaxing drives as Matt dropped me off at my apartment. I couldn’t bring myself to explain, the mere thought of even saying such a thing out loud made me nauseous, it made my skin shrivel with disgust.

I’m a cheater.

The one thing I never thought I’d say, the one thing that a younger version of me would be crushed to hear.

He had told me to call him when I was ready to talk. But, what was there to talk about? I couldn’t even look at him without seeing the vicious guilt that poured down over my body like acid. It burned to know how utterly fucked I was - how my own stupidity had led to a mountain of grief and shame to deal with.

I find myself clicking away at my phone until I reach her contact, tapping on the call button and bringing the phone up to my ear as I anxiously run my hand through my hair. “Hello?” Manon answers. My mouth opens and shuts, words stuck on the edge of my tongue as I feel my chest collapse harder and harder.

“Could - could you, um,” the panic overrides my senses, words seeming harder to pull together as I let my fingers grip harder at my scalp. It hurts but at least I can feel it. And maybe I deserve the hurt too.

“Are you okay? Hey,” she soothes, the jingling of keys projecting through the call as I hear her shuffle around, “-’m on my way. Take deep breaths, c’mon,”

It’s like I can barely hear her. The urgency blasting about guilt and making decisions - it’s all too much.

“-talked to…hello?”

“I…can’t focus, I’m just - just - just panicking and I,” a cry fumbles from my lips as I clutch onto the thick fabric of the hoodie laying on my chest, almost as if I could try to claw the feeling out.

“Breathe, I will be there soon, ke…”

It’s like she just disappears. The subtle melody of her voice is heard, but no words are being processed in my brain - only guilt.

I cheated on someone.

I’m a cheater.

I didn’t even deserve to be upset, but here I was, crumbling to the floor as I gripped onto Matt’s hoodie covering my body, the soft material starting to feel like a brutal exfoliant, only emphasizing that rotten disappointment echoing through my mind.

Even imaging the look on Hayden’s face felt like death. Knowing that every time I’d look in the mirror, I’d be repulsed.

And…knowing that I would never be able to look at Matt the same.

A/N: Thank you for reading. Any interaction is appreciated!!! I am hoping to get out weekly updates of this series. Let me know your thoughts <333

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reveryfics · 2 months ago

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I don't expect this to be done before any pending requests lol, but billy butcher x supe!reader? thanks !!

Inside man

Billy Butcher x Male Reader

Summary: Billy claims an inside man working with Vought can provide Compound V for him and Hughie, but he fails to disclose the source is also a Supe with previous ties to Billy.

A/N: Actually super excited to get a request for Billy. Practically begging for more requests for The Boys (I'm desperate for something other than Marvel)

TW: Suggestive - Language - Crude humor

The chrome edges of the Starlight Diner sulked under the sporadic assault of lightning, each flash momentarily illuminating the rain-streaked facade. Water cascaded down the panoramic windows, a relentless drumming that swallowed the outside world, leaving only the low, guttural rumble of thunder that vibrated through the sticky vinyl of the deserted booths. It was the kind of storm that felt alive, a breathing entity that held the diner in its watery embrace.

Inside, the air was a stagnant broth of forgotten meals, a ghostly aroma of stale coffee clinging to the lingering scent of deep-fried grease. Most of the long fluorescent tubes overhead were dark, casting the space into a patchwork of shadows that writhed with the erratic flicker of the few remaining lights. One above the Formica counter sputtered with a persistent, almost desperate hesitation, bathing the red vinyl stools in a fleeting, sickly glow before plunging them back into the encroaching darkness. Dust motes danced in the weak beams, tiny galaxies in the still air.

In the far corner, a hulking jukebox stood like a silent sentinel. Its once vibrant panels of red, blue, and yellow were now muted by years of neglect, the chrome trim pitted and dull. Only a handful of bulbs flickered within its glass face, casting brief, kaleidoscopic patterns on the dusty linoleum floor. It remained stubbornly silent, its promise of forgotten melodies drowned out by the storm’s relentless symphony. The selection buttons, once eagerly pressed, were now stiff and unresponsive, a testament to countless forgotten dances and late-night confessions.

Outside, the parking lot had transformed into a shimmering expanse of dark water, reflecting the diner’s meager light in distorted, wavering patterns. A lone, dark sedan sat idling near the entrance, its headlights slicing twin beams through the torrential downpour, illuminating the swirling chaos of raindrops. The rhythmic thrum of its engine was a low, persistent hum against the roar of the storm, a lonely heartbeat in the desolate landscape. Wisps of exhaust, ghostly white against the dark asphalt, curled into the rain-soaked air, dissipating almost instantly as if swallowed by the downpour. The car sat with an air of tense anticipation, Billy hunched behind the wheel, knuckles white against the steering wheel, and Hughie a tight knot of nerves in the passenger seat.

They exchanged a brief, charged glance, a silent acknowledgment of the precarious path ahead, before steeling themselves against the elements. Billy wrenched open his door, the wind and rain immediately assaulting the interior, and plunged out into the storm. Hughie followed close behind, hunching his shoulders against the icy onslaught. Billy reached for the diner door, the metal cold and slick beneath his fingers, and pushed it open with surprising ease, stepping into the relative quiet of the interior. Hughie trailed in his wake, his eyes darting nervously around the shadowy space.

"You sure he's here?" Hughie mumbled, his voice barely audible above the receding roar of the storm, his gaze sweeping across the vacant booths and deserted counter.

Billy shrugged, the movement causing rivulets of rainwater to cascade from his soaked hair. He shrugged off his damp trench coat, the heavy fabric making a soft thud as he hung it on a nearby, rickety coat rack. "Supposed ta be 'ere already," Billy grunted, his eyes scanning the dimly lit space with a predatory intensity.

A faint, distant sound – the unmistakable clinking of dishes – drifted from the back of the diner. Hughie instinctively tensed, his hand instinctively reaching inside his jacket. He positioned himself slightly behind Billy, his gaze fixed on the swinging door that likely led to the kitchen, a flicker of fear in his wide eyes.

Just then, a figure leaned out from the small, rectangular serving window that connected the kitchen to the main dining area. The metallic tang of the bell above the window sliced through the silence as you jabbed at it with a playful finger. Billy’s head snapped in your direction, his hand already halfway to the gun tucked in his waistband, his finger twitching against the imagined trigger. Recognition flickered across his face, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly as he registered your familiar smirk.

You offered a lazy wave, your lips curving into a wider smile. You met Billy’s gaze, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “Bit trigger-happy there, Butcher? Almost blew my pretty little head off again.”

Billy sighed, a puff of air escaping his lips as he visibly relaxed, his hand dropping away from his weapon. He grumbled under his breath, “It was one time.”

You chuckled, pushing yourself away from the serving window and sauntering towards the gap in the counter that led behind the diner bar. You leaned against the cool Formica, resting your chin in the palm of your hand, your eyes dancing with amusement. “You also said that when I fucked you in the backseat of your car,” you hummed, your voice a low purr. “Yet I vividly remember the sound of a grown man begging to be fucked in the ass once again just the other night.” You teased, your gaze unwavering as you watched the color flood Billy’s face. “Missing your wife pegging you, huh, Butcher?”

Hughie cleared his throat, the sound deliberately loud, cutting through the charged silence that had fallen between you and Billy. You rolled your eyes, the playful smirk still lingering on your lips as you gestured towards the stools in front of the bar. “Take a seat, boys.”

You reached into the inner pocket of your jacket, pulling out a small, clear baggie filled with a viscous, shimmering liquid – Compound V. Billy’s hand shot out instinctively, but you were quicker, yanking your hand back just out of his reach. “Whoa there, slowpoke.” You held the baggie aloft, your expression turning serious. “Look, I’m on board with you two going against Vought and the Seven. Believe me, I’d throw Homelander into a black hole myself if I could.” You paused, your gaze softening slightly as you looked at Billy. “But as a supe myself… someone who had this crap forced into their veins… I know how dangerous this is, Billy.”

Billy’s jaw tightened. He’d heard this lecture before, the thinly veiled concern that always laced your warnings. He knew you genuinely hated Vought, hated the way your powers had been thrust upon you, turning you into something you never asked to be. But the worry in your eyes, the almost maternal protectiveness that sometimes flickered there, still grated on him. He hated the fact that he was starting to… well, not hate it. He hated the way it made it obvious that you were more than just his inside man, more than just the person he occasionally fucked in grimy motel rooms.

Billy silently mouthed a mocking “blah blah blah” as he once again reached for the baggie. Before his fingers could close around it, Hughie’s hand shot out, stopping him. Hughie’s eyes were narrowed, suspicion etched on his face as he looked at you. “Billy never said his inside man was a supe that worked with the enemy so closely.”

You crossed your arms, a sigh escaping your lips as you dragged your free hand down your face, a gesture of weary resignation. “What’d you expect, sunshine? Beautiful girl with big tits and bleach blonde hair batting her eyelashes for intel?” You scoffed, your tone sharp.

Hughie stumbled over his words, his cheeks flushing slightly. “No, I just… I wasn’t exactly sure if we could trust you, even if it seems like you’re helping.”

Billy noticed the sudden glint in your eyes, the way your nails dug into the sleeve of your jacket at Hughie’s accusation. “Woah, alright, settle down, Hughie,” he interjected, his voice firm. He looked at you, his gaze surprisingly steady. “I trust him. Besides, he’s done nothin’ to suggest he ain’t helpin’.”

You let out a long breath, the tension slowly draining from your shoulders. You gently set the baggie down on the counter in front of them. A small, almost hesitant smile touched Billy’s lips. He reached for the baggie, his calloused fingers brushing against yours for a fleeting moment, before handing it to Hughie. “Alright, lad. You head on out to the car.” He nodded towards the rain-lashed windows. “Get that stashed somewhere safe.”

Hughie took one last, searching glance in your direction, a flicker of uncertainty still in his eyes, before clutching the baggie tightly and hurrying out into the storm. The diner door swung shut behind him, the sound muffled by the downpour.

Billy turned his full attention back to you, scratching at the stubble on his chin. “Appreciate this, songbird,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft.

You rolled your eyes, pushing yourself back from the counter and leaning against it, a genuine smile pulling at the corners of your mouth despite yourself. “Don’t mention it,” you murmured. “Seriously, don’t mention it. Last thing I need is that blonde wack job finding out and ‘making an example’ out of me.” You puffed out your chest and deepened your voice in a mocking imitation of Homelander. “‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t our little double-crosser. Let’s show everyone what happens to traitors, shall we?’”

Billy chuckled under his breath, a low, rumbling sound. “I’d pay for front-row tickets to watch him try.”

You glanced towards the car as its headlights flickered on, illuminating the swirling rain. “Just be careful with that stuff, Billy,” you said, your voice laced with a genuine concern that you couldn’t quite mask. “It’s not a magic bullet.”

Billy cut you off, his hand reaching forward to grasp the collar of your shirt. He yanked you forward, your breath catching in your throat as his lips crashed against yours in a sudden, heated kiss. You let out a choked gasp, but your arms instinctively snaked around his neck, your fingers tangling in the damp strands of his hair as you kissed him back with equal fervor. Your other hand steadied yourself against the cool surface of the counter, the world outside the diner fading into a blurry background of rain and distant thunder.

You and Billy continued to make out, the urgency of the kiss mirroring the storm raging outside, barely breaking for air until the insistent blare of the car horn pierced through the haze of your embrace. You pulled away, your chest heaving, and cleared your throat, gesturing with a nod of your head towards the waiting sedan just outside the rain-streaked window.

Billy sighed, a frustrated sound, and pushed himself away from the counter. He turned momentarily, his gaze lingering on your flushed face and swollen lips. “See ya later,” he murmured, a hint of a smile playing on his own lips.

You smirked, crossing your arms over your chest. “Meet me at the Sunset Motel? Room twelve. I know a few more positions you might enjoy.”

Billy shook his head, a wry grin tugging at his mouth. He flipped you off with a casual gesture as he grabbed his damp coat from the rack and headed back out into the storm. You watched as he climbed into the car, the taillights disappearing into the downpour as Hughie pulled away from the deserted diner. Silently humming a tune to yourself, you turned and disappeared through the swinging doors that led back into the darkened kitchen.

#billy butcher #billy butcher x male reader #dc the boys #the boys billy butcher #dc x male reader #dc fanfic #mlm #fanfic #fanfiction #x male reader #xmalereader #requested

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rei-ismyname · 5 months ago

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Nightcrawler on Krakoa - The Spark is not a religion.

During Dawn of X Nightcrawler felt uncomfortable with certain aspects of Krakoa, especially the cavalier attitude towards death. On the day of the first Crucible, Cyclops sought him out to talk through his own feelings on the matter and they discussed it at length. Kurt had no answers, only questions, though he did end the conversation with something definitive. 'I think I need to start a mutant religion.' Contrary to what I've seen many people say, he didn't actually start a religion. This is an exploration of The Spark, Kurt's very secular answer to the personal and societal questions he had.

Melody Guthrie chose to die and be reborn

Since I'm looking to prove a negative - 'The Spark is not a religion' - it would be helpful to have a definition of the term. Scholars, philosophers and theologians have been trying to agree on one for centuries with the mainstream having given up. I'll come back to this, but Kurt's own religious framework is Catholicism. Plenty to work with there.

Florilegium translates as 'book of flowers,' but its usage is the equivalent of 'zine' or 'scrapbook'

Kurt accepted that his feelings of discomfort were in part rooted in his faith, so that's where he began his examination. As shown above, he 'set aside metaphysics' quite quickly - he gave up on 'starting a mutant religion' for many reasons, not least because 'it's not for me to contest matters of faith.' His feelings, that something was missing from Krakoa, remained. An obvious religious marker is the 'The Book of Spark' and the biblic stylisation. As we'll see, it's just Kurt's diary and not a holy text. I speculate that some of Catholic trappings Kurt used during his quest tripped some people up, in the same way the call and response ritual after The Five resurrects someone felt 'culty' to some. I think Hickman was being deliberately provocative, but at the end of the day it's an affirmation of identity before the community and celebration of rebirth - an ad hoc element of Krakoa's nascent culture.

After some soul searching and 'self-distraction,' Kurt was about to give up on the project altogether. There were bigger problems on Krakoa, such as 'The Patchwork Man' (who ended up being Onslaught) and the aforementioned cavalier attitude towards dying. Chuck asked Kurt to investigate because he's better with people, starting with David Haller - Legion - son of Charles Xavier and Gabrielle Haller. After rescuing him from ORCHIS the two formed a friendship based on, among other things, a mutual concern about the sustainability of Krakoan culture.

Importantly, Legion was not a disciple of his father and his didn't take his promises at face value. His loyalty was to Kurt and to mutants in general. An outsider and an agitator, but with only good intentions. He advised Kurt to begin by interrogating the 3 laws, and along the way they met Krakoans who were similarly concerned that they were a nation but not yet a people. Having rejected the whole 'starting a religion' thing, the mission shifted to finding or establishing 'something that makes folks feel like they're all in the same story' - as Stacy X put it. Obviously the presence of Onslaught was a factor in the unrest, but he was feeding off what was already there.

'Murder no man' and 'make more mutants' certainly gave Kurt food for thought, but interrogating them didn't help much with his primary mission. 'Respect this sacred land' did, specifically reinterpreting it to include the people on it. He acknowledged that all the laws were flawed, but this one in particular set him on the path to the Spark. It seems simple in retrospect, obviously Krakoa needs to protect its citizens, but the Quiet Council kinda missed that. It's especially egregious when you consider the scope of the project - all mutants living side by side, including those that have hurt a lot of people and would continue to. Problems like that just don't go away, and with some of those mutants on the Quiet Council (cough* Sinister) people are going to feel unsafe and isolated.

That first line is important - 'this is not a mutant religion'

Needless to say, Onslaught was defeated. Defeated by the lesser known mutants as a large group, creating a mutant circuit inside Legion's head. Legion had the space and Kurt had the idea but the people chose to fight and love and live. They didn't listen to Kurt because of religious or political authority, they listened because they liked the idea.

The Spark is a philosophy, a way of living. It encourages choice, risk, individuality, and seeking happiness as a community and as a people. There's no worship, no reverence of a higher power, 'no prayer or veneration.' Zero exploration of eschatology. It's compatible with existing faith because there's no overlap, except for the community aspect. It's definitely not a bloody religion.

There is one alternate future where The Spark is turned into a religion/faith - the Sins of Sinister timeline. Mother Righteous hijacked it as a tool to control uneducated enslaved clones and drew on their faith and sacrifice to perform deeply harmful magic. Considering SoS was an exercise in perversion and abomination, in corrupting good things into their twisted dark opposites, The Spark as religion/tool of evil should tell us that the real thing is nothing of the sort.

Kurt does love the aesthetic of religion, as you'd expect, which explains why the communal holodeck in Legion's head is called The Altar. Altar is not a strictly religious term, though, and the altar is nothing like a church. Lost and Cortez (of all people) are telling people about it because it helped them with their own pain, given without reservation. You could ungenerously view it as evangelism, but if you do that then you've broadened the term to the point of meaninglessness.

Kurt didn't start a mutant religion, The Spark isn't a religion. Pass it on :)

#x comics #nightcrawler #legion #the spark #not a religion #x men #krakoa #marvel #comics #lost #fabian cortez #stacy x #kurt wagner #david haller #mother Righteous #sins of Sinister #the crucible

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lilacxquartz · 3 months ago

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an imp in fae’s clothing;

yandere m!fae x f!reader

plot: while you were minding your own business, you catch the undivided attention of a fae who you can't seem to shake off — themes: this will get dark, magic, mortal reader, manipulative character, yandere, original story, original character • on ao3 • next chapter >

a/n: new oc of mine, haha. this is like a personal project based on an oc i have, just putting the work out there so it’s actually somewhere type thing! art by me(c) — tw: violence (not against the reader)

Chapter 1. Unexpected Company

Once again, just like every other night, you were tucked away all alone in your bedroom with your blinds flipped shut, sealing away the rest of the world from view. The night was still young, but you were tired—though, not physically, mentally, perhaps, with the idea of being outside just being… simply unappealing.

You were content like this though; with your nose either tucked deep into a book that channeled into your escapism habits or mindlessly scrolling through every sort of social you had installed on your phone, until you grew bored. Hours had passed by that point, too, and it wasn’t that you were tired in the slightest, but you let your eyes drift to meet with the ceiling—the stark white surface seeming fuzzier than before, like lacing static.

However, just as you settled your gaze back onto the foot of the bed, that’s right about when you noticed someone else right there with you, sitting cross-legged, staring right at you, as if they belonged.

At first, when your eyes landed upon the person, you couldn’t quite comprehend it. You were alone, weren’t you? There was no possible way that a whole being could have just materialised in front of you within a matter of minutes and yet, here they were.

With glittering freckles that bordered on pearlescent adorning reddish skin made up the complexion of the person—or perhaps something else entirely, sitting right in front of you—one eye blushing plum hues while the other looked completely blank, matching your stunned expression. Your eyes drifted to catch a scar taking up one half of their face, long aged and settled deep. Their hair, like their freckles, was almost shell-like, boasting silvery whites, pinks and blues, blending into a pale amethyst.

Tattered dragonfly-esque wings speared from their shoulder blades, limply sitting over the bed as they leaned forward to study you with a chilling intensity, despite their expression being warm otherwise. Their clothing, or lack thereof from the waist up, was made up of a worn down gauze wrapped around their left shoulder, their bottom half wearing baggy brown patchwork trousers.

As you studied them, they seemed to do the very same in return; tilting their head off to the side and slightly twitching their pointed ears.

“You can see me, can’t you?” they asked, a male voice filling out your ears. The being’s voice was pleasant; not too deep and full of melody that felt almost playful.

You blinked at him, watching as his eyes slowly widened along with his smile. If you were being entirely honest, you weren’t too sure how you should be reacting. Your first impression of seeing some unknown person, let alone a man, was to scream—but for whatever reason—you couldn’t.

In fact, you couldn’t utter a single noise at all.

You pinched the skin on hand before you entertained the thought at all, the sharp sensation of pain coursing through your body confirming to you that this was all real.

(But how?)

“What…?” was all you managed after a moment, practically choking the word out.

Without thinking, you shot out your hand to try and wave through him, to try and disperse the image of what you thought was, one hundred percent a hallucination, only to strike him physically instead. The creature let out a breathless laugh, as if amused by your attempt to will him away, while you in turn, flinched at the connection.

You recoiled so hard, that you pulled away, letting out a sharp gasp before throwing the blanket across the bed, letting it momentarily drape over his head. Within a matter of seconds, you retreated as far as you could, pressing your back right up against the headboard of your bed, snapping your knees to your chest with such haste, that it nearly knocked him back.

“Now, now,” he teased, steadying himself, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

You gulped hard. “W-who—what—who are you?”

The being smiled, settling his elbows over his knees so that he could rest his chin on his palms. His eyebrows raised slightly as his one visible pupil zeroed in on you, intensifying his voice as though excited, “I’m Eloyrn,” he whispered, tilting his head before levelling it once more, “you can just call me Elo, though.”

You couldn’t help but simply stare at this strangely friendly creature who spoke casually to you, as if they were an old friend of yours. Nothing about their tone was serious in the slightest, even when you in return, displayed clear signs of distress and just as you were about to ask what he was—or what he wanted—he leaned forward again, parting his lips.

This time, he whispered your name, causing you to flinch again. “That’s yours, right? I love human names. So much variety, so much potential,” he spoke as though struck with awe, repeating your name over and over again in a near-worshipping chant.

“I’m sorry,” you continued when you were able to, interrupting him, “but what exactly are you?” you asked, pointing your eyes at his ears, his eyes, and his overall look. He couldn’t have been human.

Eloryn promptly ceased his mantra, sagging his shoulders into a relaxed posture. He tilted his head back to stretch out his neck, revealing a glimpse of his sharp jaw before meeting with your gaze once more. Keeping his tone light and playful, he tried to answer you, “I believe that you humans call my kind a fae.”

You blurted out your response, unable to stifle it, “Like a fairy?”

He laughed lightly but shook his head, “Not quite, but I suppose these pesky wings aren’t too convincing to counter my words,” he shrugged before leaning in, “I’m closer to a woodland spirit.”

“A woodland spirit…?” you repeated, narrowing your eyes, “but this is a city,” you added in a straightforward tone, still refusing to believe what you were seeing.

“Ah, but this whole area used to be part of a forest at one point,” Eloryn corrected you, “you can call me a city spirit though, if that makes more sense to you given the modern times – I’m quite… adaptable, you’ll come to find.”

For a moment, your mind was reeling with much too many unanswered questions that kept on piling up. Fae? Spirits? You must have either fallen asleep or have hit your head somewhere because this very exchange couldn’t have been real, and yet…

(He felt so real?)

“Okay…” you trailed off, trying to keep a handle on your barely contained panic, “and what do you want with me, exactly?”

Eloryn laughed at your question, finding your guarded mannerisms to be more endearing than something to be concerned about. “What don’t I want with you?” he asked as if it was obvious, “I have been around you for a while, you know, hovering over you, just… being near you,” he murmured, softening his voice that time in a way that was more threatening than it was gentle, “watching over you, memorising your habits—memorising you,” he then paused, pulling back ever so slightly, “curious that you can see me now, though, I wonder why.”

You creased your brows at his words, still not fully processing the full extent of the obsession he had just confessed to you, your mind stuck on a different detail instead. “Hang on, you’ve been watching me?”

Eloryn’s lighthearted demeanour returned within an instant at your question, adopting a loud, bursting tone, “Of course!” he exclaimed proudly, before smoothing it down into a softer tone once more. “Always. I’ve been keeping you safe, keeping others away from you, all so that I can watch you day to day, every day—every minute—every second—”

At his crazed whispered worship, you tried to retreat further away once more only to be met with the wooden surface of your headboard kissing your back. You shook your head at the prospect, rejecting his worship, not liking this a single bit. Something about being watched—let alone perceived by an invisible entity filled you with a great deal of dread.

The fae, however, moved closer to you, kneeling over you, planting both of his hands parallel over your body so that his palms flattened near your hips. Hovering over you, his icy breath ghosted over your face, leaving you frozen solid into place and unable to move beneath his looming form.

“You can see me,” he repeated, “you can feel me,” he emphasised, retaining that uneasy tone, “which means you can’t get rid of me by just moving on with your life,” he added, almost crazed, “god,” he spoke, uttering your name once again, “you’re stuck with me forever – how exciting!”

Just as you wanted to push him back, however, to shove him as far away from you as possible, your mind went blank. Suddenly, an anchoring, compressing feeling enveloped you, plunging you into darkness. Your mind went elsewhere and your body turned rigid, forcing you into a deep slumber.

Though, right as you felt yourself slip away, you felt a slight weight settle beside you, as if someone was pressing their body right against your back—completely unseen to you—pulling you into the deepest sleep you’ve ever had.

~~~

When you next awoke in the morning, you thought that this odd event might as well have been a dream or at the very least, a realistic nightmare. As you came around, however, artefacts of the night before had remained. Things like the sudden absence of warmth from someone lying closely next to you or the creeping sensation of not being entirely alone.

You tried to get through the course of the upcoming day regardless, and other than feeling that something—or someone—was potentially lurking in the shadows, nothing out of the ordinary occurred, until you had to go back home.

Your usual time for leaving your job was in the evening, but before it got dark, so around six. Your boss was, however, who was not unknown for demanding overtime, often making anyone he could get away with pressuring to do just that, talked you into something along those lines. Needing the money, you begrudgingly accepted it, even if it meant getting off work when the skies were growing darker.

By the time your bus had dropped you off at the usual spot, too, the neighbourhood was utterly empty save for the many lampposts dotting around the road, warmly illuminating the pavement. It was about a five or seven minute walk from the bus stop to your apartment, so you weren’t too worried, but your city was also not exactly known for being the safest either.

You didn’t fuss about it too much, though, thinking more about what to eat when you got back home, and definitely not about the approaching figure that was quickly closing in on you. Not who you’d expect, however, because you couldn’t have—that was just all just a dream, right?

It was quick as it all happened, giving you no hint or warning of what was about to come. Large calloused hands wrapped around the long sleeves of your arms, causing you to shrink back in alarm. Instinctively, you tore forward, stamping your heel over the stranger’s foot, causing him to hiss in pain, stumbling back a step. You swung your heavy bag to meet at his side, whacking him hard and prompting the assailant to finally let go.

Your eyes fluttered, thinking back to last night.

It couldn’t have been Elo—what’s his name—Elowyn, Eloryn? No, because he didn’t exist and even if he did, he wouldn’t have been that easy to fight off, given what he was, surely.

Shooting forward, you made a break out of the attacker’s grasp, hearing his footsteps trail right behind you—pushing forward, forcing yourself to bridge as far away a distance from him as much as possible and yet—falling to your hands and knees as your breath tore out of your lungs. Gasping sharply, you tried to recollect your bearings before pressing onwards, only for the same rough hands to meet at your shoulder again. You jolted as you felt them tightly clamp around your back, yanking you back before letting go within an instant.

You paused, trying to process the events, your chest still heaving in and out.

At first you couldn’t understand what you were hearing, but then—

A strangled cry came from the man behind you, followed by a sickening crack and snap; a sharp scream passed through your ears only to be then rapidly stifled. This sort of sound continued to slowly pass through the man, filling your ears with something you couldn’t quite comprehend.

You shuddered as you turned around, unsure of what to expect, only to be met with the sight of your attacker desperately darting his eyes around, unable to understand where this sudden assault could have been coming from. While on the other hand, you saw the creature from the night before, standing there calmly—slowly, excruciatingly moving his fingers up his arm—dusting the bone into shattered rubble beneath the skin. With wide eyes, you watched as he then moved onto the other arm, and then to his legs, before turning the once confident aggressor into a blathering, broken stupor.

Crawling back on your feet, perhaps a minute too late, you tried to escape in a hurry but then you felt a cold presence sweep by you, only to be met with Eloryn standing over you, extending his hand to you with a cold smile on his face.

“I’m always going to be with you,” he said, pulling you up to sink into his chest, “you can’t get rid of me, remember?” he reminded you again, wrapping his arms right around you. “In fact, I won’t even let you try.”

Feeling scared, bewildered, but also just mostly confused, you froze up at the unreal situation you found yourself in once more, reluctantly leaning into his form—but not out of comfort—out of fear.

Because what on earth did you do exactly, to have attracted the attention of someone like this?

(And was he more of a friend? Or was he a foe?)

(If you were being honest, you were almost too scared to find out.)

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huggaboos · 7 months ago

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A Day in the Digital Den

(TADC short agere story! Two smol beans and their caregivers! Enjoy!)

The soft hum of the digital world buzzed in the background, a constant melody that filled the sprawling confines of the abstract space. Today, however, it had a softer, warmer air about it. Sunlight — or the simulation of it — streamed through non-existent windows, casting gentle golden rays across the playroom floor.

Pomni and Jax, now regressed with the energy levels of excitable toddlers, sat in the middle of a patchwork rug covered in colorful blocks, plush toys, and a few odd objects that had seemingly manifested from the code itself. Pomni was busy stacking blocks with intense focus, her tongue sticking out slightly in concentration. Jax, meanwhile, was doing his best to knock them down with the most dramatic "accidental" swipes imaginable.

“Whoops! My bad,” Jax snickered, grinning wide as the blocks tumbled into a heap.

Pomni huffed, her tiny frame puffing up with irritation. "Jaaaax! I worked hard on that!" Her eyes narrowed into a pouty glare.

Perched nearby, Kinger observed with the regal air of a king watching over his kingdom — albeit a very peculiar kingdom of foam blocks and stuffed animals. His eyes, always a little wide with wonder and confusion, darted between the two. "Easy, easy, little ones. Toppling it? That's treason, Jax."

“Pfft, treason?” Jax plopped onto his back, kicking his legs playfully. “What are you gonna do, King? Throw me in the timeout dungeon?” His laughter echoed around the area, loud and infectious.

Ragatha, sitting cross-legged on the other side of the rug, giggled behind her hand. “He’s got you there, Kinger. I don’t think the 'timeout dungeon' has enough room for his ego.” She smiles at Jax, who beamed at the recognition.

“Ha! She gets it,” Jax said, shooting finger at her.

Ragatha leaned forward, hands on her knees, her grin warm but mischievous. “Oh, don’t think you’re untouchable, little guy. I am bigger than you right now, after all.”

Jax’s eyes widened with mock panic. “Y-Yeah, well, I got… I got speed on my side!” He shot up and dashed across the room, little feet padding noisily on the floor. Pomni, feeling rather playful, darted after him with surprising determination.

“Get him, Pomni!” Ragatha cheered, cupping her hands around her mouth like a stadium announcer.

“I am! I am!” Pomni’s voice came out as a high-pitched squeak as she wobbled after him, arms stretched forward like a monster chasing its prey.

Kinger tapped his chin thoughtfully. "This pursuit shall be chronicled in the royal archives as 'The Great Chase of Jax the Jester.'" He nodded to himself, satisfied with his self-appointed role as historian.

The chase zigzagged around toy piles, running in loops around Kinger, whose balance teetered but never toppled. Ragatha leaned forward, arms spread, pretending to block Jax’s path. “Nowhere to run, prankster! Surrender at once!”

“Never!” Jax pivoted hard, his foot slipping just enough to send him spinning. He crashed into Pomni, the two of them rolling in a heap of giggles and tangled limbs.

Pomni was the first to recover, taking the opportunity to tap Jax with her hand. “Gotcha! No more block-smashing for you!” she declared triumphantly.

“Alright, alright, I give!” Jax wheezed through his laughter, his eyes scrunched shut with mirth. “You win, Princess Pomni!”

“Princess?” Pomni blinked, then tilted her head with a smile. "Hmm. I like the sound of that." She lifted her arms like royalty being honored. "All hail Princess Pomni!"

“Hail, indeed,” Kinger said with a flourishing bow so deep it looked like he might fall forward. “Princess Pomni, champion of order and builder of great towers.”

“Don’t forget block protector,” she added with a proud nod, puffing up like a hero.

“Sure, sure,” Jax said, still flat on his back. “Block protector, kingdom defender, and supreme tattletale, too.”

“Hey!” she squeaked, cheeks puffing out in indignation.

“All hail Princess Pomni!” Ragatha said again, laughing as she ruffled Pomni's hair. "And the Jester Jax, whose antics keep us all on our toes."

"Hey, I like that one," Jax grinned, sitting up and brushing off his imaginary cloak. "Jester Jax. Sounds pretty cool."

"More like troublemaker Jax," Ragatha quipped, tossing a soft plush cube at him. It hit him square on the head, eliciting another round of giggles from everyone.

The warmth of the moment lingered, like the glow of a setting sun that never truly set in this world. Kinger settled back, his eyes half-lidded as if savoring the peace. Ragatha leaned back on her palms, watching the two little ones bicker, laugh, and play without a care in the world.

For all its strangeness, this world — at least for now — felt like home.

#safe agere #sfw agere #agere sfw #sfw age regression #sfw age dreamer #sfw little blog #sfw interaction only #sfw littlespace #sfw caregiver #tadc agere #tadc kinger #tadc pomni #tadc jax #tadc ragatha #agere story #huggaboo

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writteninlunarlight-years · 7 months ago

Text

Y/N's Song

This is part 2 of the story Tears To Shead. Sally's Song by Amy Lee TW: Violence, unrequited love, heartbreak, self injury (reader uses her banshee powers against herself), the executions

Years have flown by since you unleashed chaos upon Hell with your Banshee powers, manipulated by Alastor's manipulation. Deep down, you always knew he would disappear the moment he had the chance. While you led infernal wars, he stirred up trouble on Earth. But fate has a twisted sense of humor—Alastor eventually fell too, joining you in the depths of Hell.

Alastor, as if born of this realm, wielded powers that matched the most formidable beings in Hell. Meanwhile, you rose in prominence, becoming the trusted right hand of Lilith and Lucifer. You were their go-to strategist, granted the privilege to navigate the rings of Hell alongside them. Your wardrobe transformed from stark silver and blue to a vibrant tapestry of colors, a whimsical patchwork dress that reflected your new status.

When you heard about Alastor’s demise, you held onto the hope that you’d never see him again. The thought of facing him and revisiting old heartaches was unbearable. Yet, cruelly, fate had other plans. Alastor reentered your life, and a tentative friendship began to blossom amid the chaos of Hell. You, now a key advisor, and he, a resurrected overlord, bonded as you both tried to prove your worth to the community.

Years of solitude turned into years filled with laughter and camaraderie. Alastor found a new place in your heart, a place you were too scared to acknowledge for fear of rejection. You had watched him turn away so many suitors, and the thought of being another disappointment paralyzed you.

As Alastor climbed the ranks, a madness began to envelop him—a stark reminder of the man you first met. You could sense the darkness creeping in, the spark of insanity igniting his ambition. While you earned respect as a natural leader, especially as Lilith grew more despondent, Alastor’s descent into chaos deepened.

In a manic frenzy, he confided in you his grand designs to overthrow Lucifer and Lilith. He envisioned himself as the ruler of Hell, and his laughter echoed with a madness that sent chills down your spine. You recognized that look all too well—the harbinger of an overlord's inevitable fall.

You begged him to reconsider, to take a step back. But your words fell on deaf ears; he saw your concern as a hindrance. As tensions escalated toward a catastrophic clash, you knew that with his shadows and your Banshee wail, Hell would tremble under the weight of your conflict.

New sorrow washed over you. It became painfully clear that you and Alastor were not meant to be. No matter how hard you tried to carve out a future together, his relentless thirst for power overshadowed any chance for love or companionship.

Yet, your feelings for him lingered—a bittersweet ache as you watched him chase his destructive ambitions. You remained a quiet observer, mourning the man he once was while he sought supremacy over Lucifer. Each step he took toward ambition felt like a dagger to your heart, a silent lament echoing in your soul.

As you followed his trail of devastation, you sang a haunting melody that intertwined with your grief: “I sense there’s something in the wind that feels like tragedy’s at hand, and though I’d like to stand by him, I can’t shake this feeling that I have.” Your skin, once vibrant with color, dulled to an ashen gray, reflecting the weight of your sorrow.

When Alastor launched his assault on Lucifer’s castle, you felt a painful tug in your chest. With a single strike, Lucifer thwarted him, sending Alastor reeling back into the shadows. You reached out in vain, your heart breaking as he slipped away, determined to seize power once more. “The worst is just around the bend, and does he notice my feelings for him? And will he see how much he means to me?” The words echoed in your mind as despair consumed you.

In a desperate attempt to reach Alastor, you invited him back into your home, hoping that a touch of care might spark some reason in him. You prepared a feast, doting on him as you once had, trying to recall the warmth of your past camaraderie. “Try as I may, it doesn’t last. Will we ever end up together?” you wondered aloud, offering him a boon: if he would only cease his relentless quest for power, you would provide him with this nurturing life every day.

But instead of gratitude, you faced his fury—not at your affection, but at your opposition to his ambitions fueled him. He scoffed at your bold request and, with a bitter laugh, stormed out, leaving you feeling empty. As he departed, you sensed your essence fading, your song slipping further into despair.

The arrival of the executioners filled you with a chilling dread. Like Lucifer’s family, you found a semblance of safety within your walls, but your heart ached with worry for Alastor. Once the chaos settled, his anguished cries echoed in the distance—yet again thwarted by Lucifer, even amid the brutal executions. “No, I think not, it’s never to become…” you murmured, reaching out for him in vain.

When Alastor finally turned to you, the pain etched on his face cut deep, and he simply looked away. Each rejection felt like a dagger to your soul. As your powers surged within you, the weight of your sorrow transformed you. In that moment, you felt like a mere doll, your essence stripped away, a haunting reflection of love turned to anguish.

“For I am not the one…” you whispered, the truth settling heavily in your heart. You realized you would never be what Alastor truly needed. As the years rolled on, this reality became clearer: no matter how fiercely you cared, he would always seek something beyond your grasp. Seven years passed, and once again, he was lost to the very ambitions that had consumed him.

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cilil · 7 months ago

Note

Hi, do you have any advices for budding writers on AO3 or here?

Hey! :)

I've given this some thought and compiled what I hope might be some helpful pointers, but if there's anything else or anything specific you want to hear more about, feel free to ask again. Also I'm assuming this is about the amazing craft of fanfic and not, uh, building a platform or whatever (I wouldn't be very helpful with that, I'm a nobody x)).

Share what you feel comfortable sharing.

So since you're asking about budding writers on AO3 and Tumblr, I take it you're at a point where you feel comfortable sharing your writing online, which is amazing. Nevertheless, I feel the need to once again mention (just for anyone who may be in the same or a similar situation) that it's completely alright not to be comfortable with it (yet) or not to share everything you write. I share almost everything simply because I'm annoying and it makes me feel accomplished and since I've grown pretty comfortable with it, I might as well; but not everyone feels that way and feelings also change. It's completely alright to write just for yourself or a small circle of friends.

Don't worry too much about "being good".

I will be the first to admit that I deeply relate to struggling with perfectionism when it comes to writing (and other creative pursuits). However, as someone who's been reading fic for many years, tends to be into quite niche and obscure things sometimes and is rarely spoiled by big fandoms' abundance of food, I want all writers, especially new ones, to know that you don't have to write the most amazing, perfect, publishing-ready pieces. What matters is your passion and creativity, which will show in your writing regardless of skill level. Not to mention that fic is free and in fact a tool for many to experiment.

That's not to say you can't strive to improve or be good - by all means, I find it admirable if you want to hone your craft and make progress as you continue to write. Just don't let perfectionism ruin your fun and stifle your creativity.

How to get better without trying overly hard.

Aside from just writing, writing and writing (that is the most important part though), how do you improve without making it a point to do so? Well, if it works for you to read/watch guides or you enjoy specific writing exercises, that's great, but one thing that I find gets overlooked a lot in writing spaces is simply: Reading. Just reading for fun.

I find that I often discover little things in other people's writing that I really like and then I think to myself "wow, that's really neat how they did that, maybe I could take a page out of their book" (pun intended) and make it a point to pay attention to these things when I write. Essentially, it's like creating a nice patchwork blanket which is your style, made up of your own voice and preferences as a writer and cool stuff you picked up on the road.

Let me just name some examples, which, yes, are also an excuse to shamelessly blow some writer friends of mine a well-deserved kiss of appreciation. @sauron-kraut writes incredibly polished short stories with beautiful wording and atmosphere that have a lot of little hidden things to discover and dissect, and I want to steal her ability to set the stage and hide those easter eggs. @a-world-of-whimsy-5 is an absolute legend when it comes to writing medieval and medieval-adjacent stuff, and I learned so much from her fics. @i-did-not-mean-to has a way of writing with such esprit and wit that I always end up in a good mood after, a style of narrative voice I've adored for over a decade, and I've greatly improved my humorous writing in particular thanks to her. @crackinthecup has the marvelous ability to craft extremely emotionally evocative scenes, which have encouraged me to be more courageous and experimental in my sentence melody and structure. @tragedybunny has a way of writing that reminds me of coming home to a warm and comfy place, and I will find out how she did it and how I can do it as well.

So as you can see, it can be super helpful to compare notes with your fellow writers. Never be discouraged by someone else's ability; instead learn and expand your own.

Feedback, criticism and community.

Let me just get one thing out of the way: You don't have to take criticism from everyone. Or at all. As far as I understand, the fanfic community has come to to agree that we're doing this for fun and don't give criticism unprompted/when we aren't sure it's wanted or welcome. As a general rule: Take criticism from those you would also seek advice from. Ask for feedback if you feel comfortable, and if not, that's a valid boundary to have and I will gently smack anyone who presumes to pick apart writing that was made for fun and generously shared with the community for free.

The community aspect, however, should be taken into account on other fronts. While I won't tell anyone they have to interact and believe that, in an ideal world, everyone's writing would just speak for itself, it is helpful to engage with the community. Things you can do (both on Tumblr and AO3 if also applicable/possible) include: Respond to people interacting with your works, interacting with other people's works (for example while you're doing your reading sessions and looking at other writers' styles) and just overall being present, being talkative, going with the flow.

Again, this is not a must. But I will say that pretty much all of us want positive responses and interactions on their work and that just won't work if you expect everyone to show up for you all the time and never show up for anyone else. Engagement, passion and community are our "currency" in the absence of money and reciprocity is an important element of that. A lot of friction and complaints in the fanfic community regarding lack of interaction or entitlement are rooted in misunderstandings of this fundamental principle.

But don't take this in a cynical manner. Seek out what you enjoy, share the joy and passion and you'll make friends just accidentally - which is the part that I find makes fandom on AO3 and Tumblr so much fun! (I don't even want to be a "traditional" author anymore, I want this instead😁)

Find your groove and groove along.

Lastly, make sure your writing is fun for you or else it'll become a chore and eventually get ruined for you as a hobby. This is unfortunately a continuous task as your needs and interests shift - for example you might be in the mood to do an entire drabble challenge one month and during another month you feel so drained that you couldn't do another one. Or you might want to write something different for a change. Or whatever it may be.

Either way, one recent lesson I've learned is that I got too tied up in obligations and it left no space for spontaneous inspiration, so I never got to write what I wanted to write in the moment and it pushed me quite close to burnout. Do yourself a favor and always hold that space for yourself. In practice, this could for example mean that you do one event and on the side write this cool new idea you had, instead of doing three events - which is fun and games until it starts getting too much and you don't have time for your passion projects.

Finding your groove also includes the whole technical aspect, such as which writing programs you use, which device (or none at all), where you write, how to make yourself comfortable, how to get in the right headspace for things. I would also like to encourage all of you to be a bit crazy and whimsical about this: For example I've gone to the perfume store, picked out a scent for a specific character in a specific scene and sniffed it while writing the description several times now. Do what it takes. And say goodbye to your squeaky clean search history - you will research some weird stuff just to get that one line right.

So yeah, these are just my random thoughts on fic writing and what has been helpful in order for me to have lots of fun with this hobby. Happy writing!

#on writing #writing advice #fanfic #fanfic community #fandom

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smolghostbot · 2 years ago

Text

Patchwork Melody - Spring

It's finally here... the first meeting story for these two blorbos. This is Chapter 1 of a 4 chapter story, so it ends on a biiit of a cliffhanger, just a heads-up. Dashes denote a POV change.

Part 2 here!

Word Count: 7k (!!!)

CWs: accidental dehumanization (Typical for this kind of story), kidnapping, accidental ableism, allusions to history of abuse, POV depiction of PTSD flashback and panic attack which are improperly handled. The worst of this lives in Part 4.

Tag List (Hopefully this isn't too presumptuous): @gt-daboss

=====

Part 1

The small figure runs, ducking behind the flower box they were digging through moments prior. Just run, just run, it already saw you!, they think, as they push every muscle past its limits in a dramatic last stand. They hear a soft voice from far above as they try desperately to flee. The ground behind them starts to rumble as they realize with fear that they've run right into a corner. Turning around with terror on their face, they cower behind their backpack, trying desperately to use their most prized belonging as a shield, if it meant they would live another day. Glancing past the bag, they stare up at the red eyes peering down at them, awaiting their doom, or worse, their captivity.

It was a sleepy Saturday morning as Melody walked out of her apartment. Normally, they wouldn't dream of being awake this early, but another round of insomnia decided that six in the morning was the perfect time to wake up and start the day. She had the day off work, and decided to go for a walk to wake up a bit after throwing on an old t-shirt and some jeans. While they'd love to go back to sleep, they'd already gotten in enough hot water for missing work, and couldn't afford to ruin their sleep schedule again. Literally, because an apartment with a front porch in this part of town doesn't pay for itself. After locking the door and putting her keys in her bag, Melody couldn't help but notice that the jingling noise didn't stop, just got softer.

Melody looked curiously over at the source of the noise, something within the flowerbed next to her door. What she saw was some sort of tiny creature with a mop of silver-gray hair that had a lone purple streak, large pointed ears that each seemed as long as its head, and what appeared to be a blue backpack. This strange thing seemed to be rooting around in the dirt as if looking for something.

Mel immediately felt a mix of excitement and curiosity. If she wasn't just having some sort of insomnia-induced hallucination, this was clearly some sort of elf, or other type of fae, based on its short size and ears. The backpack probably indicates sentience… could she talk to it? Learn from it?

But also… whatever this thing was, it was one of the cutest things she had ever seen. As Mel leaned in closer, the tiny creature's ears twitched, and it seemed to notice her with a look of dawning fear as it began to run away.

"Hey, hey, hey, don't be afraid, I don't want to hurt you, just know what you are," said the human. At least, the terrified sprite thought the being was a human. It had the height and weird rounded ears, but its eyes were a bright red, and its hair seemed to be a greenish… blueish… a color that human hair is not, at least as far as they knew.

Even aside from their hair and eyes, the human was definitely an odd-looking one, being rather tall and lanky, even by the standards of humans. They were wearing a simple gray shirt, with some sort of figure on the shirt that the sprite couldn't recognize, and a denim jacket with matching pants. Their face, staring in wonder, was somewhat pale, with a light dusting of freckles that matched the sprite's own. It was outlined by a fairly chiseled jaw, but was otherwise soft in features. Round glasses were perched on their nose, creating an odd distortion on the giant creature's eyes from the sprite’s perspective. The human was staring them dead in the eyes and leaning down even closer, before they spoke again, their slightly deep voice a soft whisper, as if afraid to hurt the sprite's ears.

"Hello? I'm guessing you're either ignoring me or can't understand me. I promise I mean you no harm, little cutie. I just want to get a closer look at you real quick... I'll let you go on your way in just a moment…"

Having cornered the tiny creature, Melody bent down to lift the adorable tiny thing. Her first observation was just how small it was, probably no bigger than a few inches. Held within her loose fist, the tiny thing's squirming legs didn't even reach her pinky finger. Her comparatively massive red eyes, the result of her decorative contacts, gazed at the tiny creature with fascination, watching it flail about in her hand with a raw curiosity. Despite putting almost no pressure into her grip, afraid of hurting this small creature, she couldn't even feel the struggles of the little thing. Now that it was closer and (slightly) more still, she was able to get a more detailed look at its features. Its skin had a grayish pallor that Melody wasn't sure was natural for whatever it was. Its eyes were a vibrant purple, offset by the duller purple of the bags under them. Purple eyes would help the theory that it has magic… maybe. Aside from the backpack, which she now noticed was denim, it seemed to be wearing a loose-fitting brown cloak or tunic of some sort, with one shoulder exposed, and a small green scarf around its neck, both made out of some kind of fine fabric. Definitely not silk, but not any fabric she recognized. The scarf was a bit odd, given the spring weather, but maybe its body is supposed to be as cold as it felt in her hand. Something cold-blooded? Layers would make sense, then.

The creature's squirming slowed down, as it seemed to realize the futility of its motions. Its long ears drooped down in a clear display of sadness, and its vibrant purple eyes closed. Melody attempted once more to communicate with this tiny thing in her hand.

"Are you done, little cutie? No more thrashing around? If I let go, do you promise to not try to, like, jump or anything? You would probably hurt yourself falling from this height."

The sprite hung their head low. Upon being asked to not resist by this massive human, they nodded their head slowly in compliance. It's true, they would survive a fall from this height onto maybe a carpet, or the grass, but a drop this tall on pavement would surely leave them seriously injured… at best. And seriously injured is not the state to be in this close to a human.

The human's face lit up at the nod, and the excitement in their voice was clear as they began rapid-firing questions. "Wait, you can understand me? What are you? A fairy? An elf? Who are you? May I know your name? Where are you from? Are there more of you? Do you know magic? Why were you in my flower bed?"

The sprite couldn't keep up with the questions, and simply stared wide-eyed at their captor as if trying to process every question at once. As this human became more passionate in their questioning, their grip absent-mindedly tightened on the sprite in their hand.

Mel continued asking questions, this was her chance! Their whole life has been waiting for the moment something supernatural would finally happen, and now some kind of fae literally shows up at their doorstep. They were so excited, in fact, that they forgot about their grip until the tiny creature in their hand suddenly moved. Its ears perked up in alertness as it twitched its spine in pain. Its face contorted into what appeared to be a yell or scream, yet no sound came out. Immediately, Mel panicked and loosened her grip on the strange creature, letting it rest in her open palm.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! Did I hurt you? Let me see!" Mel immediately noticed the creature clutching its arm in what was clear pain. A terrible chill ran down her spine, worried that she accidentally hurt the small thing, and fearing how much worse she could have done if she didn't notice.

"I… I'm so sorry, let me take you inside and we can talk there, I can see what I can do for your arm, and get you some food and water too if you need them," The human said, as if the creature she held in her palm had any choice at the moment. The human wasted no time before turning around and carrying her new find back inside.

Part 2

The young sprite had never been in this particular apartment, but immediately wished they had known about it on stealthier terms. The place was packed, plants decorating most surfaces as well as the bookcases close to the two windows. Further away, another bookcase was present, this one adorned with plants that seemed to need less sun, as well as rocks, jars of mysterious dried plants, and a few tiny bottles filled with interesting colored substances. Combined with the many thick books for cover, this place would be a prime Borrowing house.

When they were finally released from their captor's hands, they found themself roughly placed in a plastic container on a tabletop, the sides of which were easily twice as tall as the sprite. After giving a cautionary check, the plastic was indeed too smooth to climb. As the scared sprite went to dig through their bag for a hook or something, the human lifted their backpack away, placing it on the table outside of the container.

"Nope, nope, you can get this back once you answer some questions and we look at that arm of yours. I don't want you running off and getting yourself hurt, my apartment is absolutely not safe for something so small. I promise it's just for a moment," the human stated matter-of-factly. As she turned and walked towards the kitchen to retrieve her first-aid kit, she continued her barrage of questions. "So, what are you, little cutie?"

After bringing the first aid kit over, unsure what to really do for a tiny magical(?) creature, Mel noticed the lack of response. It definitely nodded yes to their question before... probably. But judging by its lack of response now, maybe it was a mistake? A simple motion of a struggling thing, taken out of context. She had to make sure. "You... can understand me, right? Nod yes and take... two steps sideways if you can understand me."

The creature stared at her, tilting its head in confusion. As it tilted its head, Melody couldn't help but notice how cute it was. Its oversized ears seemed to move slower than the rest of its head, reminding her of the floppy ears of a dog or a kitten, despite their pointed shape. When the creature did exactly as asked, Melody's eyes went wide with excitement, now having definite proof that it, no, HE understands her. He? Probably, it definitely looks masculine. She made a mental note that male pronouns would do unless the little thing corrects her. She couldn't make out an age exactly, but he seemed on the younger end. Maybe a teenager? His head and ears made it hard to tell, being so much bigger than a human's would be at the same scale. Melody gave another shot at speaking with the small creature. "Okay, so once again... what are you? Please tell me?"

Melody noticed the creature trying to do some sort of hand motions, but couldn't understand. Was he trying to cast magic? Is that a thing he can do? Melody watched with curiosity to see if anything would happen, only to be disappointed as nothing changed.

There was a quiet, awkward moment between them, as the tiny thing's ears drooped sadly again. Eventually, she spoke again, slightly confused. "Uh… was that supposed to do something? Whatever, that's fine, you don't have to say anything. I've got all day, little cutie. I'm not going to go anywhere until you talk."

Unfortunately for Melody, her determination to find out more about this strange little being lost out to her impatience within about three minutes. Their head laying on the table, they began to beg, their voice sounding desperate.

"Come onnnn, just say something. Anything. Give me any kind of answer. Pleeeeease?"

The sprite remained silent, appearing lost in thought.

Could this human be reasoned with? As they went to motion to their bag, the human continued speaking.

"Please? I just want to understand you, I can't help you otherwise."

After another moment, the sprite's giant captor stood up and walked away. They instantly became terrified. Was the human getting something to punish them for their silence? Were they finally dropping the nice facade?

Eventually, the human came back to the table with a large book. Placing it down gently, so as not to scare the tiny creature with a loud thump, they began to flip through the book.

"Okay… pointed ears say an elf, but your ears aren't really very… elven. Maybe you're a mousefolk? But you have no tail… or if you do, it's a tiny one hidden under that little robe of yours… I did find you outside of my house, and your outfit looks a bit ragged… uh, no offense, of course. Maybe you're a brownie? I have some milk in the fridge, would that get you to talk?"

They could only look at the human with a confused look. What was she going on about?

"... No wings, so you probably aren't a fairy… unless you lost your wings. Did you ever have wings, little thing?"

The confused sprite only shook their head in a slow "no".

"OK… well, I probably… uh… should have gone for something more professional than a D&D guidebook… I think I still have my old college textbooks around here somewhere… gods knows those things are way too expensive to chuck…"

The human left, and took several more books off the shelf after a few minutes of looking around. She flipped through each book, taking what felt like forever, muttering to herself as she went.

"We're miles from the nearest forest… you clearly aren't invisible… Definitely don't look human… Those clothes don't look at all suitable for living in water… it's… maybe technically nighttime? But you weren't leaving a gift… unless… you were actually planting seeds! Is this backpack full of seeds?"

The small sprite instantly went into a panic as the human looked over to their backpack, frantically shaking their head in a no, and praying that the human didn't try to dig into the bag. They already had to fix it up after… the last human they met. Luckily, this human seems to have had no plans on that and continued digging through the books, becoming more frustrated over time.

Eventually, they seem to have hit their limit, and threw their head back in agitation before speaking in a more aggressive tone than they had previously. "Ugh! Why won't you just say anything!?"

Melody noticed a knocking noise on the plastic container her little "guest" was in, and saw the mysterious little thing clearly trying to get her attention. As she looked over at him, she saw him frantically motioning with his hands over his neck, in an X shape. His mouth was moving, speaking in an exaggerated way, as if to make it easier for her to see that no sound was coming out of his mouth. He clearly looked scared, probably threatened by her voice raising. Her eyes lit up in both realization and embarrassment.

"Oh my gods. You aren't just being silent to be difficult… you can't actually speak, can you?" As he nodded a yes, Mel lowered her head into her hands in shame.

"Shit, I'm such a dick. That's what your little hand motions were, oh my gods you were signing! My dumb ass was sitting here thinking you were trying to cast spells or something, ugh, I'm such an idiot! Maybe not everything about this situation is silly and fantastical, Mel, maybe he's just mute and you're being insensitive like always."

Their head raised and their face shifted into a goofy expression as they began to cheer with a clearly sarcastic voice, "Yeah Mel, yeah, woo, get upset at a mute guy for not speaking, like a COMPLETE ASSHOLE, hell yeah, casual ableism, woo!!"

The human hung her head in embarrassment again before continuing to berate herself, putting her head in her hands.

"Ugh… I swear, I didn't know, if I had known I would never… I'm not some, like, prick, I swear. Oh my gods, I'm so stupid. Way to make a first impression, at least I know you can't hex me or whatever because I would be so cursed right now for sure."

If the sprite could communicate at the moment, and wasn't still terrified of this human, they would have had some strong words about how kidnapping was also not a good first impression. However, they had no intent on insulting their captor, despite the clear look of regret already on the human's face. They remained still, waiting for the human to compose herself.

Part 3

After a bit too much self-flagellation, Melody tried to think logically about the situation. "OK, so I don't actually know sign language, if that wasn't obvious. Can you write?"

After getting an enthusiastic nod and a point at their little backpack, Melody thought she understood.

"You can write, and have something to write with in your little bag?"

After getting a slow and cautious nod in response, the human gently placed the backpack inside of the plastic container and waited to see what happened. The small creature instantly pointed to a lighter part of their backpack intently.

"What are you pointing at?" As they looked closer to the tiny backpack, they noticed what appeared to be a different fabric sewn on, with some kind of… unusual symbols written on. The little thing pointed repeatedly to himself, and then the writing.

Her disappointment was obvious as she spoke her next words. "That's… your name… isn't it?"

The small creature seemed to be somewhere between excited and nervous as they hesitantly nodded, obviously seeing the lack of recognition on Mel's face.

"I…" They sigh before continuing, "I have no idea what that says, little cutie."

Melody picked up one of their books and pointed to an arbitrary passage of text, making sure the little one could see it. "Can you… read these words? Any of them?"

The tiny being's large ears drooped in disappointment and he shook his head sadly, as Melody's own expression mirrored his. This was about to make things much more complicated.

"Okay, well, I can't just keep calling you 'little cutie'... even though you totally are, you need some kind of name. Maybe I can try to guess? What about… Gilbert? Linus? Stop me if any of these are close to your name... Derwin?"

. . .

The completely blank response they got from the little being said everything Mel needed to know.

"Yeah, you're right, this is stupid. This would be so much easier if I could just read your little backpack patch…"

The human's face seemed to light up as they said that, to the confusion of the sprite.

"Wait a second… that sounds cute… what about Patch? Just- Just as a nickname. Until we can figure out a better way to communicate. If you like it, of course."

At this unexpected politeness, the sprite nodded their head enthusiastically. Truthfully, the name didn't sound that bad… especially compared to Derwin. And though there's no real magic behind them, names do have a certain power when it comes to empathy, something that they hoped would work on this human. They remember how the last human they encountered refused to call them anything other than… they didn't exactly get named.

"Perfect! Well then, it's nice to formally meet you, Patch. I guess I never introduced myself, it's… probably safe to do that. You tried to tell me your name, after all. You may refer to me as Melody, or Mel," the human stated, in a slightly odd manner, as she gave as much of a curtsy as possible while sitting in a chair wearing a t-shirt.

Melody went to hold out their hand, before awkwardly withdrawing and brushing it through their hair, as if they were about to give a handshake but realized the complication there. They continued talking as if nothing happened.

"Okay Patch, so I can't read your writing, but you can nod. We can… we can work with this. Can I ask you questions and you can nod yes or no?"

The small sprite nodded in approval, happy but anxious to finally be communicating, and Mel began asking simple questions.

"So… do you have magic?" At this, Patch hesitated before shaking his no sadly.

"Okay, just checking. Are there others of your kind?" Yes.

“Can they, um… can they speak?” Yes

"Is it the same language I’m speaking?" Yes.

"Do they live near here?" Mel asked, before being met with a nervous look on Patch's face. Not wanting to offend, Melody quickly continued on. "That's fair, I'm sure you're supposed to be secretive, right?" Yes.

"Okay… can you say if you live near here?" Mel asked, to a nervous nod yes. "Oh, okay! I guess you could say we're kinda like neighbors then! Um, alright, if I can ask another question, how did you get here? Like… this area?"

After being met with an unamused glance at the open-ended question, Melody decided to restate it. "Did you get here through some kind of, I don't know, portal or wormhole or… or spaceship? I just can’t believe I’ve never seen any of your kind before." Patch's head tilted again in confusion, clearly not comprehending what the human was saying.

"Okay, we'll go back to that. Actually, wait, scratch that, we need to go back a lot. Are you hungry?"

Patch's response was skeptical as they anxiously nodded yes. "Don't be so nervous. Do you like, um… I haven't been to the store in a bit… I have…" Melody paused as she tapped her chin, thinking. "Some leftover Chinese food? Some pretzels? A few apples…"

Melody noticed the sprite's ears perked up as she said apples.

"Apples are good?" She asked, to confirm what she had noticed. As Patch nodded his head slowly, Melody excitedly continued, happy to have figured out a way to help the little sprite. "Perfect! I'll be right back. I'll bring some food and water, and then we can look at that arm of yours."

After a few stressful moments, Patch saw the human return with a small green apple and a knife, which they eyed nervously. Something that sharp in the hands of a human… Patch shuddered as their mind flashed back… and in a panic, they suddenly became well aware of the fact that they were trapped inside of an enclosed space, with a human walking closer brandishing a weapon bigger than they were. They desperately tried to scamper up the side of the container with a renewed fervor, but with only one good arm, the effort was hopeless. Melody noticed the movement as she spoke.

"Woah there, Patch, calm down. I'm just going to cut it first and then give it to you, okay? Just be patient for a moment."

They watched as the human somewhat clumsily sliced the apple, clearly trying to avoid cutting herself. Eventually, about a third of the apple was sliced, and gently placed next to Patch.

"Here you go, Patch. Eat up, and I'll, uh, find a way to get you some water real quick."

Melody was only gone for a moment, as she found a water bottle cap and filled it with water. When she returned, the apple slice was well over halfway gone, leaving only the peel, which the little being had apparently eaten around. Melody could only chuckle to herself at how quickly Patch had eaten that much. "Woah, you were hungry, weren't you, Patch?"

Melody noticed Patch's face and ears turn a bit red, as he rubbed behind one of his big ears sheepishly.

"Do you… want more?"

The little being, still looking bashful, shook his head no, and patted his stomach. Melody placed the cap inside of the plastic container and watched as Patch quickly drank the entire thing. Clearly this creature needed to eat and drink a lot more than his size suggested… unless he was particularly hungry. Looking closer, Melody could see that Patch's skin had already dramatically changed color, being more of a human-esque warm skin tone than the gray tint it was before. Was… was he malnourished? Should she insist he eat more, or was devouring that apple slice already "eating more"?

Deciding to trust the tiny creature's judgment, Melody began to cut another slice of the apple for herself, not wanting to waste the rest of it. After holding out the slice to Patch as a final offer, and receiving another head shake as a response, Melody took a bite of the apple slice, and looked over at Patch, only to see him staring at her.

Patch knew they should have looked away, but couldn't help but watch as Melody took a massive bite out of the apple slice. The sprite tried not to think about the fact that the bites the human took were each roughly as big as they were. While they almost believed (almost) that the human meant them no harm, they still couldn't help but panic at being reminded that they were sitting in what was technically a food container and watching the human eat. They wouldn't… right?

Memories immediately flooded back of them, the last human to have taken Patch like this, and how they would threaten the sprite. Shivering in fear, the sprite looked away, closing their eyes tightly and hoping to get rid of the memory, so they could focus on the present.

Part 4

"Okay, now that we've got you some food and water, let's look at that arm, and see what's wrong. I'm going to take you out of this container, but you have to promise me that you won't leave this table, okay? I don't want you to get hurt."

Patch nodded, but instantly regretted it as Melody's hand quickly reached down to scoop them up and place them down on the desk. While it was only for a moment, the sight of the human's hand flying towards them at such a fast speed caused them to flinch and recoil in fear.

“Okay, hopefully that was… a bit gentler, wouldn’t want to hurt your arm again,” Mel said, unaware of how much Patch was thrown about during that small trip, even with Mel consciously trying to be gentler than before. “So, I’m far from a doctor, but I get the feeling you wouldn’t want me to bring you to an actual doctor, or like… I dunno, a vet or something.” Melody immediately noticed Patch’s face grew worried as she quickly added on to her thought, “Not- Not to imply that you’re an animal, just they’re better with small things like mice, and you’re… anyways, let’s… just take a look at that shoulder. Can you, um, roll up your sleeve or something?”

Hesitantly, Patch did as they were asked, and rolled up their ill-fitting sleeve as far as possible, revealing a red and swollen shoulder. They saw the human wince as she saw it. "Okay… that looks like a sprain… at best. Obviously it hurts to put pressure on it, but can you move it?"

Thinking how to answer, Patch moved their arm a little, and then winced in pain, causing Melody to gasp slightly. "Oh no no, don't move it if it hurts! But that's something, that means it probably isn't completely broken… okay… maybe we should wrap that up? Like in a sling or something. Um… let me check my phone real quick, I'm sure I could figure out how to cut some of this tape up into a little sling for your shoulder. I'm so sorry again if I caused that, I wasn't thinking and I just…" Melody said, her thoughts trailing off as she started to research what to do about this tiny injured arm, leaving Patch to plan their next move.

Finally free from the container, and with their giant captor distracted, Patch instantly decided to make a break for their backpack. Quickly digging through the front pocket, they pull out their trusty rope hook before slinging the large pack over their good shoulder. Without hesitation, they immediately latch the hook to the table's edge. It's a loose fit, but they only need to get about halfway down before the fall is safe, from the looks of it. Wrapping their legs around the rope to make up for the sprained arm, they begin to descend. It's slower than they would normally go, but the ground is so close, and there's enough clutter that they can easily find a hiding spot as long as-

"Hey! What are you- no! You promised!" Melody cried, as she reached out to grab the little runaway, cupping him in her hands.

"Are you mad? That drop could have killed you! And trying to climb with some kind of broken arm, what were you thinking, Patch?"

After she deposited him back on the table, Melody let out a sigh. Her red eyes focused intently on Patch, as if trying to read his mind. "Why are you trying to get away from me that badly? Don't you get that I'm just trying to help you?"

I'm just trying to help you…

…

I'm just trying to help you…

"... so please, just come onto my hand. I'll take care of you, little guy. I promise."

Hungry, lost, and desperate, they find themself nodding, staring into the deep blue eyes of the figure in front of them, their smile wide. Maybe this human is telling the truth, maybe not all humans are bad… maybe the elders were wrong after all, they think to themself.

As they reach out and touch the hand, it is as if they strike a pact with a demon. They hear that all-too-familiar laughter as everything around them darkens. Memories flood back, stinging their soul like ice cold flames. Their whole body is filled with phantom senses as the combined physical and mental impact of the last two years of their life hits them like a tidal wave. Heat, cold, pressure, pain, sights, sounds, smells, taste. Too bright, too dark, too loud, too quiet, too much, too little. They try to scream, for anybody to help, human, sprite, spirit, anybody.

But as always, no sound comes from them.

…

"Uh… Patch? Are you… okay?"

Mel's scolding tone softened as the little thing in front of her began to tear up, staring off at something. She took in his appearance, trying to figure out what was wrong. He looks… like he's breathing faster, maybe, and seems to be gripping his little backpack as if his life depends on it. Did she scare him? What did she say? Unsure what to do, Melody brought a finger gently to Patch's face, to wipe away the tears.

"Hey, little guy, I'm… it's okay, I'm not mad or anything, I…"

Melody's finger suddenly filled with pain, as she pulled it away in shock.

"OW! What the hell, Patch! Did you just bite me!? What's wrong with you!? Is that how you treat somebody trying to comfort you? You just bite them? What are you, a raccoon!? We both know you're better than that."

Mel had never been the best at reading faces, especially when the face was half an inch tall, but the emotion on Patch's face as she yelled seemed to be one of fear. He was staring at her, almost through her, his bright purple eyes completely dilated like a deer in headlights. His ears were pulled back, almost flat against the sides of his head, and Mel could tell his breathing had gotten even heavier and more uneven.

"Well? I know you can understand me, Patch, don't pretend like you can't. Why the hell did you just bite me!?"

Melody wasn't sure what kind of answer they expected, but Patch curling into a fetal position and sobbing was definitely not it. As the tiny person silently cried on her table, Melody could only whisper one thing to herself.

"Oh, fuck."

Part 5

Patch woke up from their slumber, and found themself half-covered by… soft paper of some kind. The kind usually found in human's kitchens. They didn't remember when they fell asleep, the last thing they remembered was… panic. Ah. As their mind began to wake up, they realized they must have fainted or something.

As they regained their bearings, they noticed Melody, sitting all the way across the room on a chair facing them, but clearly invested in a book. As the sprite sat up and pushed the makeshift blanket aside, the human's eyes darted up from the book.

"Uh… hey. I'm… if you're awake, I'm going to come closer, okay? Just back to where I was sitting before. I can't really see you that clearly from this far away, and I'd like to hear what you have to say. Or… see it, I guess."

After a moment, the human got up, and carried the chair back to where it was before. The human seemed… uncharacteristically anxious. What were they doing?

"I… don't know what I said, or did, to make you respond that way, but I clearly upset you. Badly. I'm sorry."

Patch was thrown for a complete loop at the tonal whiplash of how she was acting compared to her attitude before. What happened while they were unconscious?

When Patch began sobbing, Melody instantly knew that she messed up. Badly. That wasn't the response of somebody snapping back in rebellious defiance, that was somebody lashing out in terror. In her fascination with the strange person on her table, she completely overlooked that she was probably, like, thirty times his size. If they were in that situation, they would probably be absolutely terrified, especially if something that much bigger started yelling and shouting. And it was so obvious to them in hindsight that he was having a panic attack. Melody cursed herself for not realizing sooner. Imagine having a panic attack and then you see a car barrelling towards you, no wonder he -literally- snapped at me, she thought, cursing her lack of social skills again.

She continued to watch the poor thing, not wanting to say or do anything, for fear of upsetting him further. After what felt like an agonizing amount of time, he seemed to stop crying, but Mel noticed that he had also gone still. They looked closely, suddenly afraid of the worst, but he seemed to simply be asleep. Unsure what to do, they ripped off a small piece of a paper towel and carefully laid it over his sleeping body, being careful to avoid it touching his face. They picked up one of the more detailed books, as they figured now may be the time to look for more answers as to what this little fellow is.

"So… it's been about a half hour since you fell asleep. I don't know if you measure time the same way, so that may not be helpful, sorry. Are you feeling okay?"

Still baffled, Patch gave a hesitant nod yes. The human seemed nervous, as if thinking carefully of what to say. "I… must be pretty scary to you, huh?"

Patch didn't respond, unsure if this was a trick or not.

"You don't have to say it, that's fair. You're probably worried that I'll be upset. You don't seem to believe me that I won't hurt you. Has…" She stopped to think, trying to figure out how to word this gently, "I'm not the first human who's met you, am I?"

Unsure where this was going, Patch softly shook their head in a "no". Melody sighed before continuing. "And they… weren't very nice to you, were they?"

Her red eyes stared deeply at Patch, as if attempting to glare into his very soul. Patch tried their best to avoid eye contact, but it was clear what the answer was.

"I'm… sorry. For whatever that person did. You didn't deserve it, whatever it was. I know that means, like, fuck-all coming from me, though." The human sighed again before continuing their speech.

"You know, I… I'm not very good at this. At any of it. The whole emotional support thing. Not just because you're a little… whatever you are. I've always been the worst at upsetting people without meaning it. I honestly, swear to the gods, only brought you here to help you. You were injured, and I caused it. Or at least some of it. But… I probably let my excitement get ahead of me. I know, I put you in a literal plastic container like an asshole, but I was just… worried. I didn't want you running away with your arm injured. Honest. I get it if you don't believe me though."

Patch's look of confusion hadn't gone away. This human seems… like they're planning something. Why the sudden act? Are they trying to get them to let their guard down?

"I didn't want to move you while you were sleeping, but… I can bring you outside, if you want to leave. I'd… want to leave me too. Just point to the door and I'll do the rest. But, I would genuinely like to learn more about you. You may have been able to tell that, well, I've always wanted to meet somebody special. Anybody. And then I found you and just got so excited and… I'm sorry about it."

Carefully, Patch walked over to their backpack, waiting for the human to stop them… but she didn't. They hoisted the bag over their good shoulder, and walked over to the hook that was still on the edge of the table.

"That's fair. Can you please let me put you on the floor, though? I promise, no funny business. Just like… an elevator. It's the least I can do."

This is it, Patch thought. She's going to insist that I get in her hand, and then wham, into a box or cage or something. Figuring that if anything happens, it happens regardless, they shake their head in a firm no.

Melody's heart was breaking during this entire conversation. They finally met something supernatural, and it was pissed at her. She did literally everything possible wrong, as always, and now it was costing her the most interesting event of her life. But she tried to continue being apologetic, figuring that this wasn't about her at the moment.

"I get it. Let me at least move a chair over then? You can climb down to the chair, and then the floor. Please let me do that at least?"

There was a hesitant nod of approval, and Melody moved the chair as promised. Their tiny guest made his way down to the floor, and started walking to the door. It took a bit of time, but Mel didn't dare interrupt or interfere.

"All right, I'll open the door so you can get out. It's been… nice to meet you, Patch. Even if you don't feel the same."

She opened the door just enough for Patch to get through, to make it clear that she wouldn't follow. He climbed over the door sweep and stepped outside, before turning around to look at the human with confusion.

"... What?"

Patch was… confused. Did the human just… let them go? Just like that? No grabbing them? No having to escape out a window, having to climb down a brick wall in the dead of night? Just… letting them walk out the door?

They pointed and motioned in a direction, confused, hoping the sentiment of "I'm going to go now" was a universal one. It seemed to be, as Melody gave them a nod. "Yep. Go wherever you want, I'm going to shut the door… and probably go back to reading, I guess. Maybe try to figure out what you are still, but I won't follow you. You have my word."

And with that, Patch walked away. The door closed, and Melody went back to reading their book, as all of the tears that they were holding in finally came pouring out.

Part 6

It had been about two weeks since Melody met Patch. Two weeks since she made him hate her. She returned to work as normal, spending the slow days at the library reading up on mythologies, trying to learn anything about what he was. Research led down a rabbit hole of conspiracies and disinformation about the existence of all sorts of elves, fairies, and other such creatures, but somehow nothing reputable. Melody could only be baffled by this, How could they live in a city, and yet nobody has ever documented them existing? Despite this, Melody kept Patch’s existence close to her own heart. After all, he clearly just wanted to be left alone.

Before leaving for work every morning, they made sure to leave out an apple slice, and every evening, it was gone when they came home. It was probably just taken by a bird or rat or something, especially because the peel was also missing, but they wanted to believe that maybe Patch was getting them. The other option, that the little being had run as far from her as possible, was just too much to bear. Leaving out fruit was all she could do to believe she was repenting for how she treated him.

It was a dreary evening, about sunset, when Mel had to go out to the nearby alley to throw out her trash. As they were taking the trash out back, they saw something move in the corner of their vision. They turned to see what it was, expecting some kind of pest, when…

"Oh, Patch! I, uh… hello."

#aaaa pressing the post button is so hard right now the fear is real ok i'm doing it i'm pressing the button #tell me if this is Too Long and i can split up the further chapters #actually just tell me anything. at all. i'm clawing at the walls for feedback over here #g/t #giant/tiny #g/t writing #g/t ocs #g/t whump #tiny whump #g/t angst #oc tag: patch #oc tag: mel #patchwork melody

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knoepfl · 6 months ago

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A Crazy Christmas Surprise

8/24

Characters

• Jinx: An unpredictable, chaotic individual battling the voices in her head and her own unhinged thoughts. Beneath her manic exterior, she craves connection and understanding.

• Reader (You): Jinx’s steadfast partner, determined to bring her joy and comfort despite the challenges of her mental state. Creative, caring, and deeply empathetic.

Trigger Warnings

• Mental health struggles: References to hallucinations, loneliness, and erratic behavior due to Jinx’s mental state.

• Chaotic themes: Jinx’s love for destruction and her manic energy are present throughout the story.

Masterlist

Words: 799

It had been weeks since you’d noticed Jinx’s hallucinations growing worse. She was more erratic than usual, talking to the voices in her head louder, losing herself in conversations with ghosts only she could see. The chaos in her mind seemed to be winning, and it broke your heart.

---

The streets of Zaun never really celebrated Christmas in the way Piltover did, with its grand displays and extravagant lights. Down here, the holiday was just another day for most people, filled with the same struggles to survive. But for you, this Christmas felt like it had to be different.

You loved her, every messy, brilliant, and unhinged part of her. And tonight, you were going to remind her she wasn’t alone, no matter how loud the voices in her head got.

The warehouse you both called home was unusually quiet when Jinx returned. She swung the heavy doors open, her trusty minigun strapped to her back, her eyes darting around suspiciously.

“Helloooo?!” she called out, her voice echoing in the dimly lit space.

The lights flickered on, and she froze. The usually dingy room was transformed. String lights were draped across the walls, casting a warm glow, and brightly colored streamers dangled from the ceiling. In the center of it all stood a massive pile of boxes, haphazardly wrapped in mismatched paper, topped with a glittery bow.

You stepped out from behind the pile, grinning nervously. “Surprise!”

Jinx blinked, her mismatched eyes wide with disbelief. “What… what is all this?”

“It’s Christmas!” you said, throwing your arms out. “I figured you’ve never really had one before, so… I wanted to make it special.”

She stared at you for a long moment, her fingers twitching as if she didn’t know what to do with them.

“You… did all this? For me?”

“Of course, I did,” you replied, stepping closer. “You deserve something good, Jinx. Something fun. Something just for you.”

Her lips twitched, and she let out a nervous laugh, scratching the back of her neck. “I don’t know what to say. I mean, it’s kinda cheesy, don’t you think? All the lights and the… bow?”

“Very cheesy,” you agreed, grinning. “But you love cheesy.”

She snorted, finally letting her guard down a little. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Come on,” you said, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the pile of gifts. “Open them!”

Jinx hesitated for a moment before dropping to her knees in front of the pile, tearing into the first box with her usual reckless enthusiasm. Inside was a small music box, painted in her favorite chaotic colors. When she wound it up, it played a hauntingly beautiful melody, the tiny ballerina inside spinning wildly as if dancing to her chaos.

She grinned, her eyes sparkling with genuine joy. “This is amazing!”

“Keep going!” you urged, your heart swelling at the sight of her happiness.

One by one, she opened the gifts. There was a new set of tools for her tinkering, a stash of her favorite candies, a sketchbook filled with blank pages for her wild ideas, and even a custom-made stuffed bunny with stitched-up eyes that matched her aesthetic.

But the last box was the one you were most nervous about.

She tore into it with the same energy, gasping when she saw what was inside: a handmade blanket, patchworked from scraps of fabric you’d collected from around Zaun. Each piece told a story—bits of old banners, fabric from her favorite clothes, and even a scrap from the scarf she’d worn the night you first met her.

“You made this?” she asked, her voice quieter than usual.

You nodded, suddenly shy. “I thought… maybe it could be like a hug, for when you’re feeling alone. Or when the voices get too loud.”

Jinx clutched the blanket to her chest, her lip quivering slightly. For a moment, you thought she might cry, but instead, she lunged at you, tackling you into a tight hug.

“You’re the best, you know that?” she murmured, her voice muffled against your shoulder.

“I try,” you replied, laughing softly as you hugged her back.

She pulled back, her grin wide and a little manic, but her eyes were softer than you’d seen them in weeks. “This is the best Christmas ever. Seriously. I mean, I didn’t even know I needed this, but… you just get me, you know?”

“I try,” you said again, smiling.

Jinx wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and plopped down on the floor, motioning for you to join her. “Come on! Let’s eat candy and blow stuff up or something. Christmas isn’t over yet!”

Laughing, you sat beside her, knowing that tonight, for once, the voices in her head might be drowned out by the sound of her laughter. And that was all the Christmas gift you needed.

---

#fanfic #fanfiction #oc #fluff #arcane #arcane x reader #arcane fanfiction #Arcane Jinx #jinx #jinx arcane #jinx league of legends #Jinx #Powder #Hallucinations #Christmas Surprise #Surprise #Christmas #Presents #Christmas Presents

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pupsmailbox · 1 year ago

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DOLL︰PUPPET ID PACK

NAMES︰ abbie. adorablesse. adorablette. aerlyn. agatha. alexis. almond. alora. andy. angaline. angie. annabelle. anne. annie. antoinette. apricot. ash. aspen. aui. ava. babette. babydoll. barbie. beau. bella. bellamy. belle. bells. bibi. blu. blue. bluesse. bluette. blushe. blushesse. blushette. bonnie. boo. bram. button. buttons. cadel. carmilla. carrie. catherine. charlie. charlott. charlotte. charolotte. chus. colere. commedia. concealesse. cypress. dahlia. dawn. dearesse. dearie. deimora. desdemona. doey. doll. dollace. dollaintye. dollawie. dollerie. dollesse. dollette. dolleyed. dollface. dolli. dollia. dolliae. dolliana. dollie. dollina. dolline. dollita. dolllet. dollni. dollsine. dolly. dollyne. dolseki. dottie. dwollie. dwolline. eeria. elissar. eliza. elodie. emily. emmie. evelyn. everly. eveyln. faith. felicity. figurina. frill. frillace. frillae. frilleine. frillesse. frillette. frillita. frilly. ginevra. gladys. grace. gracelyn. gregory. gwenivive. haunt. hauntique. hushed. hushie. iraia. iresse. islanne. jane. jinx. joujou. julie. juniper. kiva. lace. lacesse. lacette. lacey. lacie. laciene. laciette. lain. laintess. lakka. lala. lalki. lanie. lelita. lillith. lilly. lilo. lily. littlita. lolttie. lorelei. lovelace. lovey. lovie. luci. lyalka. lydia. lyra. lys. madison. mahina. mandy. margaux. mari. maria. marianette. marianne. maribel. marie. marin. marinletta. marinlita. marion. marioneta. marionette. marionne. marisol. marotte. marrionette. mary. marybelle. maryjane. maskie. max. melodie. melody. mika. millie. minuette. misky. misty. molly. moonie. morgaña. muriel. muñeca. mwahs. nabelle. nappi. nellie. nemesis. nene. neni. nimbus. nina. nola. nuri. olive. oliver. olivia. patch. pinkesse. pinkette. pinkie. pinky. pinocchio. pippin. pochi. poe. poppet. poppy. porce. porcelae. porcelain. porcelainette. porcelainne. porcelette. porcelina. porceline. porcelline. pupella. pupetta. puppetesse. puppetina. puppetlita. puppetta. puppette. puzzle. quietesse. quinn. ragdoll. ranoia. ravanche. raven. rebel. ribbon. ribbonne. riley. rion. robert. rose. rosetta. rosette. rubella. ruby. salem. sasha. satin. savi. scarlet. scarlett. sebastian. secrette. sew. sewine. sewline. shatter. shine. shush. smiley. smilie. softesse. softette. softie. soriv. spirit. sprout. statuette. stichina. stitches. suni. surri. sweeheart. sweetie. sweetine. teerlita. tempest. thalia. thorn. thredette. tibo. toyelle. toyine. ulysses. vanessa. vee. vera. veralice. vintage. viola. violet. vivian. vivienne. william. willow. winston. wisp. wispera. wrathes. zizi.

PRONOUNS︰ adorable/adorable. ae/aer. an/antique. anger/anger. antique/antique. app/apparition. bae/bell. ball/joint. balljoint/balljoint. balljoint/balljointed. bell/bell. berserk/berserk. bisque/bisque. bjd/bjd. bla/black. bliding/bliding. blue/blue. blush/blush. boo/boo. bow/bow. button/button. che/che. cheer/cheer. chey/chem. cloth/cloth. conceal/concealed. contain/contained. control/control. coquette/coquette. cracked/cracked. crae/crack. cre/creepy. cu/curse. cu/cute. cute/cute. da/dark. dea/dead. dea/dearie. dea/death. dead/dead. dear/dear. delica/delicate. delicate/delicate. despair/despair. do/doll. doll/doll. doll/dolly. dolljoint/dolljoint. dolly/dolly. dress/dress. dress/dressup. dress/up. d♡ll/d♡ll. eer/eeerie. elegant/elegant. en/energy. fab/ric. fabric/fabric. fair/fair. fi/figure. fig/figure. fragile/fragile. friendly/friendly. frill/fill. frill/frill. fury/fury. gho/ghost. glass/glass. glaze/glaze. glo/gloomy. gru/grudge. ha/haunt. happy/happy. haun/haunt. haunt/haunt. hwe/hwm. hx/hxm. hy/hym. h♡/h♡m. ix/ix. joi/joint. joint/joint. joy/joy. keep/quiet. ki/kill. kyu/kyu. la/lace. lace/lace. lo/love. lo/loved. lolita/lolita. love/lovely. lovely/lovelie. mad/mad. mae/mae. mar/marionette. marionette/marionette. mi/mier. mim/mimic. ny/nym. ol/old. pale/pale. patch/patch. patchwork/patchwork. petite/petite. phan/phantom. pink/pink. play/play. play/plaything. play/playtime. play/thing. play/time. plush/plush. plush/plushie. por/porcelain. porce/porcelain. porcel/porcelain. porcela/porcelain. porcelain/porcelain. pose/pose. pretty/pretty. pup/puppet. puppet/puppet. puppeteer/puppeteer. reven/revenge. rib/ribbon. ribbon/ribbon. rod/rod. ruffle/ruffle. scary/scary. secret/secret. seem/seem. sew/sew. sew/sewn. shadow/shadow. shey/shem. shi/shift. shush/hush. shwe/shwer. shx/hxr. shy/hyr. sh♡/h♡r. silk/silk. slee/sleep. smile/smile. sock/sock. soft/soft. sou/soul. spi/spider. spi/spirit. spo/spook. spook/spook. sta/stalk. sta/stare. stitch/stitch. stri/string. string/string. sweet/heart. sweet/sweet. sweet/sweetdoll. sweetie/sweetie. ta/tap. tae/teer. tea/teatime. tea/time. thread/thread. thxy/thxm. thy/thym. th♡y/th♡m. ti/ny. to/toy. tomb/tomb. toy/toy. trick/trick. unca/uncanny. vin/vintage. vintage/vintage. wan/wander. withheld/withhold. wood/wood. wrath/wrath. yarn/yarn. 🎀. 👗. 🧦. 🧵. 🧸.

#pupsmail︰id packs #id pack #npt #name suggestions #name ideas #name list #pronoun suggestions #pronoun ideas #pronoun list #neopronouns #nounself #emojiself #dollkin #puppetkin #toykin #dollcore

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lixii00 · 3 months ago

Text

Chapter 3: A Mad Tea Party and Madder Hatter

word count:1772

Y/N grinned, the White Rabbit’s frantic farewell echoing in her ears like a delightfully absurd melody. “Path of mismatched teacups,” she murmured, turning to survey her surroundings. It didn’t take long to spot them. A chipped porcelain cup painted with roses that seemed to bloom and wilt in the blink of an eye lay nestled amidst a patch of luminous bluebell-like flowers. A few steps further a stout earthenware mug inexplicably adorned with miniature clock faces leaned against the trunk of a tree that appeared to be made entirely of candy canes spiralling together.

Following the quirky trail felt like stepping deeper into a whimsical dream. The teacups, each more outlandish than the last led her through a landscape that shifted and shimmered like a kaleidoscope. Giant, grinning Cheshire Cat flowers winked from the branches of trees that dripped lemonade. Caterpillars clad in tiny smoking jackets puffed rainbow-coloured smoke rings that dissolved into giggles. The air hummed with a strange, vibrant energy, a symphony of the nonsensical that resonated strangely with something deep within Y/N. It was chaos yes but a beautifully orchestrated chaos, a rebellion against the mundane order of her own world.

The path wound upwards, leading her to a slightly raised area, bathed in the golden light filtering through the peculiar flora. And there, amidst a riot of colour and improbable furniture, was the tea party.

It was in a word magnificent Or maybe ‘madnificent’ would be more fitting. A long, impossibly laden table stretched beneath the shade of a sprawling oak tree whose leaves were actually tiny playing cards. Teapots of all shapes and sizes perched precariously on stacks of books. Cakes with candied eyes stared back at her. Sandwiches formed themselves into miniature castles. And around this chaotic feast sat three figures who could only be the inhabitants of this delightful madness.

First, she saw him. The Mad Hatter. Or, at least, she presumed it was him. Alice’s descriptions, though whimsical, hadn’t quite prepared her for the sheer spectacle of the man. He was a whirlwind of vibrant colours and mismatched patterns. His coat, a patchwork of velvets and silks in hues she couldn’t even name, seemed to defy gravity, swirling around him even in the still air. A cascade of fiery orange hair, untamed and glorious, sprung from beneath a hat that was… well, it was truly something. Towering, tilted at a precarious angle, adorned with ribbons, feathers, playing cards, and what looked suspiciously like a sleeping dormouse tucked into the brim, it was a masterpiece of madcap millinery.

Beside him sat a large hare, twitching its nose incessantly and drumming its long fingers on the table. This had to be the March Hare. He poured tea with a frantic, almost violent, energy, splashing it far more onto the tablecloth than into the waiting cups. And between them, nestled amongst a pile of cushions and dozing peacefully, was a small, furry creature, likely the Dormouse, judging by the way the Hatter occasionally nudged it with a sugar cube.

The Hatter was in the midst of some theatrical pronouncement as Y/N approached, his hands gesturing wildly, his voice a melodic, slightly off-key song. “…and therefore, I say, the answer to why a raven is like a writing desk is obviously… because it simply is!” He punctuated this earth-shattering revelation with a flourish of his teapot, nearly knocking over a tower of teacups.

He noticed her then. His head, already at a comical tilt, tilted further, his bright green eyes widening behind their ridiculously long lashes. Everything about him seemed exaggerated, amplified, as if he existed in a world set to a slightly faster, more vibrant tempo than reality. He stopped mid-sentence, his gaze fixed on Y/N with an intensity that made her stomach flip-flop in a most peculiar, and not unpleasant, way.

“Well, well, well!” he exclaimed, his voice a warm, slightly gravelly tenor. “What have we here? Another lost soul tumbled down the rabbit hole? Or perhaps a particularly well-dressed mushroom come to join our… elevated discourse?” He hopped up from his chair, a movement as graceful as it was sudden, and swept into a flamboyant bow, his preposterous hat threatening to topple.

“Neither, I assure you,” Y/N replied, a smile playing on her lips. “I am Y/N. And I believe I was directed this way… by a rather frantic white rabbit.”

“Ah, the White Rabbit!” the Hatter chuckled, straightening up with a flourish and clapping his hands together. “Always in a terrible flap, that one. Thinks punctuality is the highest virtue, bless his cotton tail! But,” he leaned closer, his eyes sparkling with curiosity, “a friend of the White Rabbit, are you? Or something… more… intriguing?”

“Intriguing, perhaps,” Y/N considered, enjoying the playful interrogation. “He seemed to think I might be able to assist with… hats.”

The Hatter’s eyes widened further, if that were even possible. “Hats!” he echoed, his voice rising in pitch. “Did you say… hats?” He spun around, dramatically, and pointed a finger laden with rings at her. “But… but you smell of them! A delightful aroma of silk linings and steam-pressed felt and… is that a hint of… lavender and madness?” He inhaled deeply, his eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline. “Good heavens! You’re a… a hatter!”

“Indeed, I am,” Y/N confirmed, feeling a thrill of recognition at his words. He saw it. He understood. In this mad, wonderful place, her craft wasn’t just a profession, it was… a scent. A presence.

“A hatter!” the Hatter repeated, his voice filled with a sudden, almost reverent awe. He rushed towards her, grabbing her hands in his, his touch surprisingly warm and firm despite the flurry of his movements. “Oh, this is simply splendid! Magnificent! Utterly… hat-tastic!” He beamed at her, his grin wide and genuine, radiating an infectious enthusiasm.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome to our most un-birthday tea party, fellow artisan of the crown!” he declared, pulling her towards the table. “Join us! Join us! We have tea that changes colour, cakes that sing off-key, and riddles that have no answers! And now,” he squeezed her hands, his eyes twinkling with mischief, “we have a real hatter amongst us! Oh, the possibilities!”

He gestured to a chair, a velvet monstrosity upholstered in patchwork playing cards, nestled between himself and the March Hare. Y/N settled into it, feeling a strange sense of belonging, of rightness, that had been absent from her life for far too long.

The March Hare shoved a teacup into her hand, sloshing the contents over the rim. “Tea?” he grunted, his ears twitching more rapidly than ever.

“Thank you,” Y/N said, accepting the cup, the liquid inside shimmering with an iridescent sheen. She cautiously took a sip. It tasted… like blueberries and sunshine and a hint of something utterly indescribable.

“So, a hatter, you say?” the Mad Hatter leaned forward, his elbows on the cluttered table, his gaze intense and curious. “From… well, from somewhere not… here, I presume?”

Y/N nodded. “From another… world, I suppose you could say.” She hesitated. How much to explain? How much would even make sense in this realm of delightful absurdity?

“Another world!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands again. “Oh, I knew it! I knew it!

The March Hare, in the process of aggressively buttering a slice of bread with a jam-covered knife, simply grunted in agreement.

“Tell me,” the Hatter urged, leaning even closer. "Tell me everything! What are hats like in your… other world? Are they properly mad? Do they sing opera? Do they occasionally attempt world domination?”

Y/N laughed, the sound light and free, echoing through the bizarre garden. “Well, no world domination attempts, thankfully. But they can be quite… creative. And sometimes, yes, a little mad.”

“A little mad!” he gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “Only a little mad? My dear girl, in Wonderland, hats are required to be excessively, gloriously, unapologetically mad! It’s practically the law! Isn’t it, Hare?”

Another grunt from the Hare, accompanied by a shower of crumbs.

“But tell me more,” the Hatter pressed, his enthusiasm bubbling over. “What sort of hats do you make? Show me! Oh, to see hats from another world! It’s simply… astronomically exciting!”

Y/N hesitated. She hadn’t brought any tools, any materials. She hadn’t expected to… well, to fall down a rabbit hole and land in a tea party with a mad hatter. But then, expectations seemed to have little place in Wonderland.

“I don’t… I don’t have anything with me right now,” she admitted, feeling a flicker of disappointment.

The Hatter waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense, nonsense! We have everything we need right here!” He gestured to the chaotic table, piled high with an impossible array of objects. “Ribbons, feathers, playing cards, jam, marmalade, sleeping dormice… the possibilities are endless!” He grabbed a stray feather, a vibrant purple one, and tucked it behind her ear. “See? Instantaneously more hat-like!”

He watched her, his gaze intense and searching, and Y/N felt a strange pull towards him, a sense of recognition that echoed the White Rabbit’s words. It wasn’t just curiosity in his eyes, it was something deeper, something… familiar. As if, somehow, impossibly, they had met before. Or were meant to meet.

“Tell me, Y/N,” he said softly, his voice losing some of its theatricality, becoming quieter, more intimate. “Do you ever feel… like you’re not quite in the right world? Like there’s a piece of you missing, a part of your soul that sings to a different tune?”

His words resonated within her, striking a chord deep in her heart. She had felt that for as long as she could remember, a vague sense of displacement, of yearning for something more, something… madder.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Yes, I do.”

A slow, understanding smile spread across the Hatter’s face, a smile that reached his sparkling green eyes. “Then perhaps,” he said, his voice gentle now, “perhaps you’ve finally found your way home.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against her cheek, sending a shiver down her spine. And in that moment, amidst the madness of the tea party, the chaos of Wonderland, and the strangely familiar gaze of the Mad Hatter, Y/N felt a spark ignite within her, a flicker of something that felt very much like… hope. And perhaps, just perhaps, something even more extraordinary.

#fanfiction #fanfic #fem reader #mad hatter #lixii00 #mad hatter x reader #alice in wonderland #red queen #crazy #tea time

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