#as someone who knows who their parents 'favorite' is

[noorpersona]

Pregnancy: Sakusa

You’ve tried the pillows. The pregnancy belt. The heat pad. You’ve leaned forward, leaned back, sat on the edge of the couch with your feet planted just right like the blogs say. You’ve even tried that ridiculous looking yoga ball that Kuroo swore helped his sister. Nothing works. Not really.

Your lower back has become a constant, pulsing drumbeat of dull pain, like your spine itself is growing resentful. The weight of your belly pulls forward like an anchor strapped to your hips, and every time you shift, you swear you can hear your vertebrae protesting. There’s no sweet spot anymore, just a rotation of tolerable positions. You grit your teeth through them, muttering curses under your breath.

You’re laid sideways on the couch now, a pillow stuffed between your knees, one arm tucked under your bump, the other flopped over your eyes like you’re shielding yourself from the end of the world. It’s not even late. The sun’s still up, golden light filtering through the blinds. You just couldn’t take being vertical anymore.

This is the part no one talks about. Not the cute baby kicks, not the weird cravings or the glow everyone swears you have. It’s this—sore, swollen, and tired in a way that sleep can’t fix. Even breathing feels like it takes effort.

And through it all, Sakusa is there.

He’s been steady. Quietly doting. Not the type to coo over baby socks or rub your feet with oil while humming lullabies, but the kind of man who starts carrying hand sanitizer in your favorite scent just in case you need it. The kind who keeps snacks in the car, reminds you to hydrate without making it sound like a chore, who started going to prenatal appointments not because you asked, but because he wanted to understand everything. Who reads parenting books with sticky tabs and highlights and pretends he didn’t.

He’s not loud about it. He doesn’t post bump photos or narrate your journey in grand poetic terms. But he’s shown up every day in ways that matter. Never once flinching when you sobbed over dropped pickles or had a breakdown in the baby aisle because you couldn’t decide between two swaddle patterns. He holds the pieces when you feel like you’re falling apart. He never makes you feel like you’re too much.

You hear the front door click open, then the quiet hush of it swinging closed. You don’t move. Just listen to the familiar sound of Sakusa’s footsteps coming in—soft, always measured, always deliberate. No keys clatter. He always puts them in the bowl on the shelf. No shoes squeaking either; he wipes them, every time. You know it’s him without having to look.

He pauses in the entryway, no doubt clocking the mess of your position. Then, his voice—calm and even, with that velvety weight that always makes your heart twitch even when you're annoyed.

“Back again?”

“Mmh,” you hum noncommittally, eyes still covered. “Felt like someone took a crowbar to my spine. So I gave up.”

There’s a beat of silence. You imagine him there, eyes scanning you—your hunched shoulders, the tension in your jaw, the deep set crease between your brows. He’s not the type to hover. Not the type to fuss, at least not where you can see it. But you know him well enough by now. If he could physically fight your discomfort, he would’ve by now. With gloves on.

You feel the couch dip near your legs. Then the rustle of a bag being set down.

“I read about something,” he says slowly.

You lower your arm just enough to peek at him. He’s still in his work clothes—jacket slung over the armrest, sleeves rolled neatly past his elbows, forearms bare. His mask is off, stashed away now that he’s home. You catch the faintest crease of worry between his brows, like he’s weighing the next words carefully.

“Can I try?” he asks.

You blink, too tired to be curious. “Whatever. Go for it.”

He tilts his head. “You have to stand up first.”

You lower your arm further to shoot him a flat look. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

You huff, but he’s already sliding a hand beneath your arm. Gently, steadily, he helps you sit up, then rise to your feet with the kind of efficiency that speaks to practice. He’s been doing this for weeks now—helping you in and out of bed, out of the car, off the floor when you insisted you could pick something up by yourself.

“I swear to god, if this is another stretch video where I end up looking like a tipped cow—”

“It’s not.”

“Because if I fall, I'm taking you down with me.”

“Duly noted.”

Once you’re upright, he steps behind you. You feel the warmth of him, close and focused. One of his hands briefly trails up your spine in a slow, soothing pass—a single stroke meant to coax your muscles into releasing some of their stubborn tension.

"Relax," he murmurs, voice low and steady, his breath brushing the shell of your ear.

Then his hands brush your hips and slide slowly beneath the swell of your belly. One palm anchors, the other adjusts. It’s deliberate, the kind of precise contact that could only come from research and repeat watching. Then—he lifts.

Just an inch. Maybe two. But it’s enough.

The relief is instant.

Your lower back uncoils like a spring released from tension. That hot, grinding ache that’s lived there for weeks just… lessens. Not gone entirely, but dulled. Blurred. Like someone finally turned the pressure dial down from an eleven to a manageable hum.

You let out a sound you weren’t expecting—a breath that shudders out of you with more feeling than you meant to show. Like your whole body’s been waiting for this and didn’t know how to ask.

“Oh,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut. “That’s… holy shit.”

You hear him exhale, and the barest hint of a smile follows in his voice.

“Guess it works.”

You nod, or try to. “What even—how’d you think of that?”

“There’s a forum,” he says. “A bunch of people were talking about it. Said lifting the weight can take pressure off the sacroiliac joint. Sounded reasonable.”

Of course it did. It’s so— him. Reading about biomechanics like it’s no big deal. Quietly researching ways to ease your pain without saying a word. You picture him in bed at night, phone dimmed, scrolling through medical threads while you snored beside him.

You lean back slightly, weight shifting into his hold like you’re trusting it—trusting him—with more than just the curve of your belly. His hands adjust to steady you.

Then you feel him begin to lower your bump back down.

“I didn’t say you could stop yet,” you murmur, voice hushed and wry.

His hands still immediately.

There's a pause, not because he's unsure—but because he’s listening. Because when it comes to you, Sakusa never rushes.

You feel his thumbs move slightly, drawing slow circles near your hips as he steadies the lift again, as if to say, I’ve got you.

"Should’ve tried this ages ago," you mumble.

You’re still basking in the quiet relief of his hold. Your back doesn’t feel like it's screaming anymore, and for the first time in hours, your body feels like it belongs to you again—like maybe you're not just a vessel walking around with sore feet and too many hormones.

He shifts slightly, adjusting the lift with a faint grunt.

"He’s heavy," Sakusa murmurs. There’s no complaint in his voice—just quiet awe.

You smile faintly, placing a hand over his. "That’s your fault."

"My fault?"

"You’re six-three, with legs like telephone poles. What did you think was gonna happen?"

He huffs a soft, amused breath behind you. "Could still be your fault. Maybe you manifested it."

You snort. "Yeah, I manifested a linebacker. Great job, me."

"He’s not even here yet and I already feel outnumbered," he mutters.

You squeeze his hand. "Don’t worry. He’ll probably inherit your poker face. You two can be brooding and beautiful together."

A beat. Then, so quiet it barely makes it to your ears:

"He’s going to be perfect."

You close your eyes, feeling everything swell in your chest all at once.

"He already is."

And there’s something so simple, so steadfast in the way he says it that you have to bite your lip against the warm rush crawling up your chest.

You rest your hand over his where it cups your belly. "Kiyoomi?"

"Mm."

"I love you."

His thumb strokes once, slow and deliberate. You hear the breath he draws, steady as ever.

"I know," he says quietly. "I love you too."

And just like that, in the stillness of your living room, with the soft glow of daylight bleeding through the windows and his arms supporting you from behind, you feel the kind of full-body peace that no prenatal yoga class has ever given you.

You don’t move. Neither does he. Because for now, this is enough.

[raevalyntine]

what happens when you buy a little plushie of the man you love?

(zayne fluff! a gift for all zayne lovers out there, let's shower him with the love he deserves)

Akso Hospital had always been proud of its reputation—cutting-edge technology, pioneering research, and a surgical team led by some of the brightest minds in the field.

At the very center of it all?

Dr. Zayne Li. Their prodigy. Their miracle. Their youngest Starcatcher Award recipient. The man whose steady hands had rewritten the outcomes of congenital heart defects. Whose name was printed in journals and whispered in lecture halls. Cold, brilliant, focused. A doctor with a heart so carefully guarded, it felt like a privilege just to see him smile.

You knew better. You’d seen the version the world never got to see.

The one who braided a little girl’s hair in the pediatric wing because she missed her mom. The one who kept your favorite tea stocked in his office. The one whose silence was never empty, but filled with a love so steady you could feel it in your bones.

You didn’t know that the board of directors had been planning a new mascot for the pediatric wing. Or that every single person in the room had immediately, unanimously, said his name. Zayne. Beloved by patients. Respected by interns. The silent strength behind Akso’s brilliance.

So when you walked into the hospital that afternoon, expecting nothing more than a quick lunch date with your snowman of a boyfriend, you weren’t prepared for the way your world stilled.

Because there—tucked between informational brochures and pastel signage, under the soft hum of the hospital lights—

Was a plushie. Of Zayne. Your Zayne.

Your breath caught in your chest.

It was so small. Maybe the size of your palm. But the craftsmanship was unreal—his pale beige three-piece suit, stitched to perfection. His crisp white shirt. The tie you knot every morning as his eyes find yours, and he leans in—quiet, close—to kiss your forehead like you’re his first breath of peace for the day. A miniature stethoscope rested on his tiny chest. His neatly styled jet-black hair was captured in soft tufts, complete with that single familiar swoop at the front. And his expression—gentle, smiling, just a little—was so unmistakably him, it felt like someone had reached into your chest and sewn your feelings into fabric.

His embroidered green eyes were thoughtful. His blushing cheeks were subtle, like warmth just beginning to bloom.

Your fingers trembled as you reached out, brushing the plushie’s cheek with your thumb. And suddenly—your chest felt too full. Was it the hospital lights? Or your hormones? Or just the impossible, overwhelming truth of how much you loved him?

“Oh my god,” you whispered, hands lifting to your mouth. “Is this... Zayne?”

The nurse nearby laughed gently. “Yeah. New pediatric mascot. The kids adore him. Honestly, so do the parents.”

You were already at the counter before she finished speaking, your heart soft and stormy all at once. You held the plush like it might shatter in your hands. It was just… so him. And something about seeing him this way—gentle, warm, huggable—made your chest ache with a pride too big for words.

Then, a small voice near you pulled you out of the moment.

“That’s Dr. Zayne,” a little boy said to his mom, pointing. “He was really nice to me when I had to stay here. He let me listen to my own heartbeat.”

You nearly choked on a sob.

Crouching down, you held the plushie out to him. “Would you like one?”

His eyes widened. “Really?”

You nodded and bought one without hesitation, handing it to him like it was the most natural thing in the world. “He’d want you to have one. He’s… pretty special, huh?”

The boy hugged it tight. “Yeah. He is. He’s my hero!”

And somewhere behind you, footsteps padded softly down the corridor. Zayne had just stepped out of his office, clipboard in hand, his white coat fluttering gently behind him. He stopped the moment his eyes found you—kneeling beside a child, handing him a plushie version of him, your face aglow with so much love it nearly knocked the breath from his lungs.

And then he saw it—the plushie pressed to your chest, your touch light and reverent, like you were holding more than just fabric and thread. He saw the way your fingers paused over its stitched little smile. The way you looked down at it with a softness so achingly full of devotion, he could barely stand still.

And for a long, suspended second, Zayne forgot the beeping monitors, the lab reports, the surgeries waiting to be reviewed. Because in that moment, standing quietly in the hallway, he realised— No professional honour had ever made him feel like this. No accolade, no award, no headline about his “exceptional precision” or “gifted hands” had ever made him feel the way you did.

Like he wasn’t just someone who knew the rhythm of a heart—but had become the reason one beat at all.

He stepped closer. You looked up, startled—but then you softened. And smiled.

You lifted the plush slightly. “Look who I found.”

Zayne let out the smallest laugh, something caught between amusement and awe. “You bought a plushie of me?”

You stood, hugging it gently to your chest. “I bought two, actually. Gave one to a little boy who said you helped him listen to his heartbeat.”

His eyes lowered. “I remember him.”

“I’m really proud of you,” you whispered.

His hand came up, gently brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I thought it was ridiculous, honestly,” he murmured. “Being made into a mascot. I didn’t think it meant anything. But…”

His fingers brushed against yours, just where they rested on the plush’s sleeve.

“…seeing you hold it like that—it feels like it does.”

Your voice trembled with tenderness as you whispered, “It does.”

And right there, in the middle of Akso Hospital, surrounded by laughter and life and the quiet hum of machines—he kissed your forehead.

Soft. Lingering. Like he was stitching the moment into the very fabric of his soul.

You didn’t say anything more. You didn’t need to.

A single, quiet “I love you” passed between you, unspoken, but felt in the brush of his lips against your skin.

The plush stayed in your hands the rest of the day—clutched to your chest, warm and cherished. Like a tiny, stitched promise of everything the real him already was.

Yours. Completely.

[4linos]

between the lines 3.

lee minho x f!reader

synopsis: after a quiet and amicable separation, you and minho learn to navigate the subtle emotional terrain of co-parenting, discovering that the bonds between you aren’t entirely severed. when a new relationship enters the picture, old emotions come into play, forcing you to reassess what it means to truly move on.

warnings: angst, slow burn, mutual pining, jealousy, unresolved feelings, hurt/comfort.

wc: 12,585

[part 1, part 2]

Minho had been walking around with a storm sitting in his chest ever since that day.

The day he stood at your door like a fool, dressed in a shirt he hadn’t worn in over a year, holding flowers that felt heavier with each second that passed, only to have the door swing open and find you radiant, glowing and not alone. Jisung had been behind you, comfortably smug, and Minho had felt the shift in the air the moment your eyes met his.

That was the day he realized what it felt like to be on the outside of a life he used to belong to.

Since then, the world hadn’t really settled around him. He kept his head down at work, avoiding eye contact with people he normally didn’t care enough to avoid, especially Jisung. His thoughts twisted in knots, a toxic mix of guilt, regret, and something sharp like jealousy. He hadn’t even known he still could feel that kind of jealousy. But the image of Jisung standing behind you like he belonged there haunted him.

He didn’t go near your name. He didn’t bring up your daughter. He didn’t mention what happened that day to anyone, not even Chan or Changbin, who had been trying to gently pry the story from him for days.

And yet, despite every effort to keep his distance, there it was again Jisung’s voice, slicing through the low hum of office conversation like it always did: too loud, too casual, too damn confident.

Minho sat at his desk, pretending to review something on his monitor, eyes unmoving as Jisung leaned against a cubicle wall a few rows away. He wasn’t even being subtle, as if he wanted everyone to hear.

“So I think I’m gonna ask her,” Jisung said with a short laugh. “To be my girlfriend, officially. Maybe on a little trip, just us. It’s been casual but I want more, you know?”

Minho didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

“I mean, we haven’t even kissed yet, not even once,” Jisung went on. “But I’ve been trying to respect her pace, especially with the whole, you know, kid thing. She’s amazing though. She’s worth waiting for. But I’m getting real impatient.”

Chan, seated across from Minho, glanced over, likely aware of the simmering tension behind Minho’s controlled expression.

Minho’s jaw was clenched so tight it ached.

He hated this. Not just hearing about you like that, like you were someone else’s now, but hearing about you from him. From the same guy who once tried to argue over printer supplies his first week on the job. From someone who didn’t know what it meant to hold your hand through contractions, or stay up with a crying Hana at 3 a.m., or even remember that your favorite scent was vanilla and your favorite season was early autumn.

Minho could picture it, Jisung asking you to be his girlfriend on some beach or city getaway, Hana with you or not, and you saying yes because why wouldn’t you? He was safe, funny, attentive. Minho had no right to judge, no right to compete, and yet every muscle in his body was tight with the urge to do something.

But he didn’t.

He stayed still.

He didn’t storm over. Didn’t shove Jisung against a wall. Didn’t say she’s not yours to talk about like that. Because what right did he have anymore?

He swallowed his rage, even as it blistered in his chest, and he stared at the screen like he was made of stone.

If he’d said anything… it wouldn’t have been professional. And more than that, it might’ve pushed you further away than he already had.

But as Jisung kept talking, Minho made a quiet vow to himself:

If you really were going to move on with Jisung… it wasn’t going to happen without Minho telling you exactly how he felt first.

Even if it broke him.

Minho hadn’t even realized how tightly his hands were wrapped around the edge of his desk until his fingers started to ache.

It was like his body reacted before his mind could catch up, jaw locked so tight he could hear the tension in his ears, shoulders stiff, chest heavy with something he didn’t want to name. Rage, maybe. Or heartbreak. Or both. It was stupid. He knew that. He shouldn’t be reacting like this. He shouldn’t still be this affected. But hearing Jisung talk about you, his you, the you that used to fall asleep on Minho’s chest, that used to wear his shirts around the house, that used to light up at the tiniest, most mundane things like you were just some conquest he was hoping to claim, some check box on a romantic resume, it made Minho feel sick.

He didn’t even notice he’d been holding his breath until he heard a quiet voice beside him.

“Minho?”

He turned slowly, blinking himself out of whatever haze had fallen over him.

Chan was watching him with concern from the cubicle next to his, brow slightly furrowed, his tone gentle like he knew. And maybe he did. Chan had always been good at reading people. Too good sometimes.

“You alright?” he asked again.

Minho swallowed, loosening his grip on the desk, flexing his fingers to get the circulation back. He gave a stiff nod, not trusting himself to speak yet.

Chan leaned slightly closer, his voice even softer now. “You know, I’m still here if you need to talk. Doesn’t matter that it’s been a while. I get it, people need space sometimes. But I’m not going anywhere.”

Minho looked at him, really looked at him for the first time in what felt like months. Chan hadn’t changed much, still looked like the same dependable, steady friend who’d been there through the good years he worked with him.

It made something twist in Minho’s chest guilt, maybe, for pushing everyone away. Or maybe it was relief that not everyone had left.

“I’m fine,” Minho muttered, his voice hoarse.

Chan didn’t push. He just nodded. “Okay. But if you need a break from… whatever this is,” he tilted his head subtly in Jisung’s direction, “I was gonna hit that ramen place after work. Come with. First round’s on me.”

Minho hesitated.

His first instinct was to decline. That’s what he’d been doing for a while now, closing himself off, burying everything, convincing himself that it was easier to sit in the silence of his own making. But after everything lately after the flowers, after seeing Jisung in your doorway, after hearing him talk like you were his, it felt like the weight on his back was finally too much to carry alone.

“…Alright,” he said quietly. “Yeah. Okay.”

Chan gave him a small smile. Nothing pushy. Just understanding. “Cool. After five, then.”

Minho nodded and turned back to his screen, but the tension in his shoulders had eased just enough.

He still didn’t know what he was going to do. He still didn’t know how he was going to face you, or if he even could. But maybe talking to someone again, someone who knew what it used to be like might help him figure out what came next.

Because pretending like it didn’t hurt wasn’t working anymore.

-

Chan didn’t even ask, he just showed up at the front of the building, passenger-side window already rolled down, calling Minho’s name out like they’d done this a hundred times before.

“Get in, loser. We’re going to talk about feelings,” he grinned. Minho rolled his eyes but felt the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth, something like amusement, or maybe gratitude.

He climbed in, grateful that Chan insisted on driving. It gave him one less thing to think about, one less responsibility to shoulder for just a little while.

When they got to the ramen place, it was warm inside, filled with the soft hum of casual conversation, clinking bowls, the occasional hiss from the kitchen. It was quiet enough to talk, but noisy enough to let Minho breathe a little like the world wasn’t staring directly at him for once.

Chan talked first, about nothing in particular. The weather, their idiot coworkers, a story about Changbin getting caught sleeping at his desk again. He didn’t let the silence settle, didn’t let anything get heavy too quickly, and Minho was thankful for that. He didn’t think he had the strength to drag himself into a conversation about his heart right away.

He laughed once, maybe twice, dry, quiet, but it was more than he’d done in days.

They placed their orders. Chan let Minho sit in his head for a moment before gently nudging the conversation in the direction he’d probably planned from the moment he invited him.

“So,” Chan started, playing with his chopsticks, “you gonna tell me what’s actually going on or do I need to drag it out of you over spicy broth and cold beer?”

Minho didn’t answer at first. His jaw tightened again. His eyes stayed focused on the table.

“Minho.”

He looked up, met Chan’s eyes and found no judgment there. Just concern. Familiarity. Patience.

He sighed and leaned back in the booth.

“It’s her,” he said quietly.

Chan nodded once. No need to ask who.

“I figured.” He took a sip of water, gave Minho time. “You still love her?”

That question hit harder than Minho expected. He didn’t even have to think. “Yeah,” he said softly. “So much.”

“And she’s with Jisung now?”

Minho hesitated before nodding again. “Not officially. I don’t think. But… it’s getting there. He’s going to ask her soon. I overheard him talking about it.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

That made Minho look up, scoffing slightly. “How do you think?”

“Alright, alright,” Chan held up his hands, not to tease but to ground him. “Just checking.”

There was a long pause.

“I saw her,” Minho said after a moment, voice low. “A few days ago. Brought flowers. It was our anniversary. Stupid, I know.”

Chan blinked, genuinely taken aback. “You remembered?”

“Of course I remembered.”

“And?”

“She opened the door with Jisung behind her. They had just… spent the morning together, I guess. He was all smug about it. And I felt like a fucking idiot standing there with flowers like I still mattered.”

Chan’s expression softened. “You do still matter. You’re Hana’s dad. You were her person for a long time. I don’t think that just disappears.”

“She didn’t even remember the date,” Minho whispered. “At least it didn’t seem like it.”

Silence passed between them again before Chan leaned forward, his voice lower now, more serious.

“Minho, if you want her back, really want her back then you need to stop waiting for the universe to hand her to you. You need to show her. Not just with flowers or old memories, but with who you are now. With how much you’ve grown, how much you still care. She’s not going to read your mind. Especially if she thinks you’ve moved on, or worse if she thinks she was the only one who ever held on.”

Minho stared down at the table. The food had arrived, steam curling up between them, but he didn’t touch it.

“I’m scared, Chan.”

“I know,” Chan said gently. “But if you don’t fight for what matters, someone else will. And you’ll lose more than just a girl. You’ll lose a family.”

Those words stayed with Minho long after they left the restaurant, long after Chan dropped him off with a pat on the shoulder and a quiet, “You’re not alone, man.”

Your mind hadn’t stopped racing since the moment you closed the door on Minho.

It had been days, and still, that moment kept looping in your head like a scene from a movie you weren’t ready to stop watching: Minho standing there, hands full of flowers, one giant bouquet meant for you, and a single delicate rose, no doubt for Hana. His expression shifting from hopeful to hollow the second he caught sight of Jisung behind you. That familiar, automatic way your lips had parted to say thank you before he turned, muttering something about how ridiculous he felt for even showing up.

And then he walked away.

That was the part that stuck with you the most. The silence he left behind.

You hadn’t reached out. Part of you wanted to, desperately. But you didn’t know what you’d say. I’m sorry I forgot felt empty. I didn’t expect you to remember felt worse. You weren’t even sure why you forgot. Maybe you’d trained yourself to. Maybe the date had started to feel like a memory that belonged to someone else. A version of you and Minho that lived in a different chapter, one you weren’t sure you had permission to revisit.

You were going to see him in a few days for Hana’s weekend pick-up. The thought of how awkward it might be made your stomach twist. Would he ignore it? Pretend it never happened? Would you? Could you?

You were still thinking about it that morning as you knelt in front of the couch, carefully working your fingers through Hana’s freshly washed curls, gently tying them into neat puffs as she munched on apple slices and watched a cartoon. You’d gotten so lost in the rhythmic process section, detangle, smooth, tie, that the knock on the door startled you.

You stood, quickly wiping your hands on your sweatpants. “Hana, finish your snack, baby. I’ll be right back.”

She nodded, eyes still locked on the screen.

You walked toward the door, pulling it open and blinked.

Jisung stood there, holding up a pink pastry box and grinning. “Donuts,” he said simply, tilting it slightly like he was presenting a rare treasure. “They’re from that tiny corner store near my place. I’ve had them once. Life-changing.”

Your initial shock melted into a soft laugh. “You and your spontaneous visits,” you said fondly, stepping aside slightly, but not far enough to invite him in.

“I like surprising you,” he said, shrugging as he looked past you, toward the living room. “I figured we could have coffee and sugar before I run off to work again.”

You smiled, but hesitated. “I would invite you in, but… Hana’s here.”

He paused. His smile faltered just slightly, but not in offense, more in understanding. “Ah. Of course.”

Then, gently, like he was testing the edge of something fragile, he asked, “Is it too soon to meet her? I mean. Just a… ‘This is Jisung, Mommy’s friend who brings donuts’ kind of thing.”

You didn’t answer right away. The question hung between you, heavier than it should’ve been. Not because you didn’t trust Jisung, he’d been nothing but kind, respectful, and patient, but because it made everything real. It made what was happening real. You were moving forward. Introducing someone new into a part of your life that had, up until now, been protected.

And there was still the ghost of Minho standing on your doorstep, holding flowers, blinking back heartbreak.

Jisung noticed the shift in your eyes. He opened his mouth to backpedal. “Hey, it’s okay. Forget I asked. I didn’t mean to push or make it weird—”

But then Hana’s voice came from the living room, innocent and sweet. “Mommy, my show is over!”

You turned your head toward the sound and made a decision in the space of a breath.

You looked back at him and nodded.

“Okay,” you said. “You can meet her.”

Jisung lit up immediately, almost disbelieving. “Really?”

“As a friend,” you added firmly, still trying to convince yourself that this was fine.

“Of course,” he said quickly, “just a friend.”

You stepped aside, and he followed you in, the pink donut box in his hands and gratitude in his smile.

Still, your heart beat fast, not from nerves about Jisung meeting Hana, but from the echo of something else. Something you couldn’t name yet.

Something that hadn’t left since the flowers. Since the rose. Since the look in Minho’s eyes.

Jisung stepped in through the doorway like he was bracing for impact, carefully toeing off his sneakers and clutching the pink donut box like it was a peace offering or maybe armor. He looked around, eyes scanning the room until they landed on Hana.

She came running from the living room, socked feet slipping slightly against the floor as she called out to you with purpose: “Mommy! My show is over, I need a new one!”

You crouched instinctively to her level, brushing her hair from her cheek. “Okay, baby, I’ll be there in a second.”

That’s when she noticed him.

Jisung stood still, offering the warmest smile he could muster, and gave a small wave like he was approaching a frightened animal. “Hi,” he said gently.

But Hana didn’t return the wave. She didn’t even move. Her expression was unreadable, mouth a flat line as her eyes flicked from him to you, then back again. Slowly, cautiously, she shuffled behind your legs, peeking around the curve of your hip.

It surprised you. She was normally so open with people, even strangers. Sweet, talkative, curious. But now, she was silent. And still.

You looked down at her and rubbed her back reassuringly.

Jisung cleared his throat softly and crouched slightly, pulling one of the donuts from the box. It was pink-frosted with rainbow sprinkles, undeniably the “fun” one. He held it out to her like an olive branch.

“I brought these just for you,” he said with a smile. “This one has sprinkles. Sprinkles make everything better, right?”

Hana looked up at you again. Her brows furrowed into a frown, her fingers curling slightly against your leg.

You gave her a soft nod. “It’s okay, baby. You can take it. Say thank you.”

Still unsure, she stepped forward, grabbed the donut without saying a word, and immediately scampered off back toward the couch. She didn’t even take a bite just sat, holding it like she didn’t quite trust it yet, picking at a few of the sprinkles like they were puzzle pieces.

Jisung let out a long, breathy exhale like he’d been holding it in the whole time.

You glanced at him, shaking your head with a small apologetic smile. “Sorry. She’s usually not this shy.”

He chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “Honestly? That went way better than I expected.”

You laughed gently, leading him toward the kitchen. “Come on, let’s get some plates. And milk, donuts need milk.”

“Totally agree,” he nodded, following you, the pink box resting on the counter as he opened it to point out his favorite. “This one, the chocolate glaze with the maple drizzle, game changer. Trust me.”

You smiled at how specific he was, reaching into the cabinet to grab three cups while he pulled napkins from the holder and arranged the donuts like it was some kind of tasting menu.

But even while the two of you moved in easy rhythm talking, laughing, light chatter, you kept one ear tuned toward the living room.

You peeked over the counter. Hana was sitting back down, now with a new cartoon playing, one you assumed she’d managed to turn on herself with the remote. She wasn’t eating the donut, just plucking off the sprinkles and lining them up along the edge of her plate.

Something about it tugged at your chest.

“Hey, Hana,” you called softly, “come get your cup of milk, baby.”

She looked over, then slid off the couch, padding her way into the kitchen on quiet feet. Her small hands wrapped around the cup you handed her, and she looked up at you for a second before turning back around to return to the living room.

“Thank you,” you said gently, prompting her.

She paused. Then mumbled, “Thank you,” so softly it barely passed her lips.

Jisung smiled. “She’s really cute.”

You nodded, but your smile faltered slightly.

Something about the way she looked at him, like he was unfamiliar, like he didn’t belong lingered with you. You didn’t expect instant affection. You knew that. But still.

You glanced over at her again. She was sipping her milk now, still peeling tiny bits off the donut and inspecting them like they might tell her something.

Jisung leaned against the counter, watching you with soft eyes. “Thanks for letting me meet her. Even if I was downgraded to ‘mommy’s friend with donuts.’ I’ll take it.”

You smiled again, but it was quieter this time. “Yeah,” you murmured, “of course.”

But your mind wasn’t fully there anymore.

Because as sweet as this morning was… you couldn’t stop hearing the unspoken silence in Hana’s small voice.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, even while Jisung told you about maple-glazed donuts and a new show he’d recently started watching, you couldn’t stop wondering if Hana was waiting for a different face to show up at the door. One with flowers in one hand… and a single rose in the other.

-

You and Jisung sat across from each other at your small kitchen table, each with a donut in hand and mugs of milk between you.

Every now and then Hana would glance back at the two of you, not suspicious, just observing. Still quiet.

Jisung followed your gaze and smiled softly. “She’s really smart. She doesn’t miss anything, huh?”

You nodded. “Nope. Not a thing.”

He sipped from his mug, then set it down, suddenly quieter. You could sense the change before he even spoke, the way his eyes didn’t quite meet yours, how he seemed to be working something out in his head. He cleared his throat and shifted in his chair.

“So…” he started, tone casual, too casual, “I actually came by for more than just donuts.”

That caught your attention. You sat a little straighter, setting your half-eaten donut down on the napkin. “Yeah?”

He finally met your eyes then, nervous energy buzzing just under the surface. “I was wondering… if you’d be around this weekend. If Hana’s gonna be with your ex.”

He said the word ex like it was a mild annoyance in his throat no name, just a placeholder. Minho.

You nodded slowly, uncertain. “Yeah, she’s supposed to be with him this weekend. Why?”

Jisung gave a little exhale, then leaned his elbows onto the table, lacing his fingers together. “I was thinking maybe you and I could get away for a few days. Just a weekend trip. Nothing fancy or anything, there’s this cabin a few hours outside the city. I’ve been a few times before, and it’s really quiet, peaceful. I figured… maybe you could use a break.”

You blinked. A cabin trip. Just the two of you?

“I’d take care of everything,” he added quickly, maybe sensing your hesitation. “The food, the drive, the plans. You wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. I thought it’d be nice for us to have some time away… uninterrupted.”

There was a pause. Not a long one. But just long enough for your stomach to twist with something warm and uneasy.

He was nervous. He hadn’t said so, but you knew him well enough now to recognize when something was important to him. And even though he hadn’t spelled it out yet, even though he hadn’t said what the cabin trip meant to him, why he wanted you alone with him for a weekend, your heart knew. Something about the way he looked at you, hopeful and a little too still, gave it away.

He was planning something. Something big. Something meaningful. Something you weren’t sure you were ready for.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, your eyes drifted again to Hana. Her cup of milk sat untouched on the floor beside her as she stacked the rainbow sprinkles into little piles like tiny colorful coins. She glanced up and met your eyes, blinking slowly, then returned to her sprinkles.

“I’ll… think about it,” you said carefully, not quite smiling. “It sounds nice, but I just need to check on a few things.”

“Of course,” Jisung said quickly, brushing off the awkward beat with another one of his easy smiles. “No pressure. Just wanted to ask before the weekend snuck up on us.”

You nodded, but your thoughts weren’t with the cabin. They were drifting.

Back to all the almosts, the what-ifs, and the impossible decisions you’d been balancing between your heart and your mind.

Jisung reached for another donut, trying to fill the silence. You offered him a quiet thank-you as you sipped your milk, but your gaze once again found its way back to Hana, your little girl with sprinkles on her lap and a frown on her face you couldn’t quite read.

And that was when you realized: no matter what your answer would be about the cabin… you weren’t going to be able to give it lightly.

Minho had woken up already tangled in his thoughts, that familiar, heavy storm cloud settled over him before his feet even hit the floor.

So when Chan approached him at his desk, Minho barely looked up. He didn’t mean to sound cold when he said, “Not now. I’m really not in the mood.” But Chan didn’t walk away.

“It’s about Y/N and Jisung,” Chan said quietly.

Minho’s head snapped up.

His whole body stiffened as the haze of his irritation shifted into something sharper. “What about them?”

Chan glanced around to make sure no one was nearby, Jisung had the annoying habit of popping up like a stray cat when you least expected it. He leaned down, voice dropping to a near whisper.

“Jisung told me they’re going on a trip this weekend. Like, a cabin trip. Just the two of them.”

Minho's heart dropped into his stomach.

Chan kept going. “He said he’s planning to ask her to be his girlfriend there. Some big romantic thing. It’s happening soon. Like, this weekend.”

Minho blinked, his mind going blank for a second. Then it filled with a low hum of panic.

“It’s Wednesday,” he said, voice barely above a breath. He could already see it, Jisung grinning like a fool with his smug confidence, setting the scene perfectly, saying all the right things. You smiling, maybe surprised, maybe even touched. Saying yes.

“Yeah,” Chan nodded. “And if you don’t do something about it now, Minho, he’s going to get there first. You’re running out of time.”

Minho sat back in his chair, the pressure building in his chest. “What the hell do I do, Chan? She hasn’t said anything to me. I didn’t even know they were going away.”

Chan studied him, clearly trying to think quickly. “Hana’s staying with you this weekend, right?”

Minho nodded.

“Okay. That’s your in. Say something came up. That you can’t take Hana. That you have to work or—” Chan waved his hand vaguely. “I don’t know—make something up. She can’t go if she has Hana. At least it buys you time.”

Minho hesitated. It felt… wrong. Like sabotage. Like something a desperate guy would do.

But he was desperate.

Chan put a hand on his shoulder. “Look, I know it’s not the most honest thing in the world, but do you really want to sit around and wait for her to come back with a boyfriend? If you’re going to fight for her, then fight, Minho.”

Minho exhaled slowly, wrestling with the knot in his stomach. He didn’t respond right away, but Chan seemed to know he’d gotten through to him.

“Whatever you do,” Chan said, voice softer now, “don’t wait. You’ll regret it if you do.”

Just then, someone called out for Chan across the office. He gave Minho a final nod and turned to go, his footsteps already fading as Minho sat frozen at his desk.

Jisung. Cabin trip. This weekend. Girlfriend.

Minho ran a hand down his face and leaned back, eyes unfocused, heart thudding in his chest like a slow drum of panic.

He needed to act.

But this time, it couldn’t just be jealousy driving him.

It had to be love. The kind that mattered more than pride or bitterness. The kind that didn’t want to stop you from being happy, but wanted to be the one who made you happy.

So as Minho sat there, staring blankly at his screen, he began to plan. Not just how to keep you from going, but how to show you that what you had with him wasn’t just a memory worth mourning…

It was a future worth choosing.

-

Minho was halfway home when his phone buzzed in the passenger seat. The sky outside was a hazy, fading blue, streetlights flickering to life one by one as the city settled into its quiet, humming dusk. He didn’t recognize the number at first, he had your contact saved under your full name, something formal and almost defensive, something he never changed after the breakup because changing it to anything softer felt too dangerous.

But he knew it was you.

He didn’t hesitate to answer. He never did.

“Hey,” he said, quietly. Warily. The same way someone opens a letter they’re afraid to read.

Your voice came on the other end, soft and cautious. “Hey, Minho.”

It was the first time you’d spoken since your anniversary. It had only been a week, but it felt like a lifetime had passed. Since then, the silence between you had stretched long and heavy, filled with the weight of all the things neither of you had said.

“I just—I wanted to ask if there was any way you could pick up Hana a little earlier this Friday?” you said carefully, like you were trying not to make it sound like a big deal. Like it was just another scheduling thing.

But Minho already knew what this was.

He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter with one hand, even though he was already parked outside his apartment building. The other rested on his thigh, tapping anxiously against his jeans.

You never asked for early pickups unless you had a good reason. You knew the routine. Knew he left work and drove straight to you, always arriving just after five, never late. And he never said no. No matter how inconvenient or last-minute or chaotic it made his day, he always worked around your requests. For Hana. For you. He never wanted to make things harder.

But today, today was different.

Today, he already knew the reason behind the ask, and it made his chest burn.

He let the silence stretch just a little longer before responding, voice low. “Why?”

You hesitated. Not long. Just long enough for him to hear you scrambling. “I just have… plans. Something came up.”

“Something,” he repeated, not bothering to hide the skepticism in his tone. “What kind of something?”

“Minho,” you said, gently. Like you knew what he was doing. Like you knew he was testing you.

He stared at the empty seat beside him, jaw clenched, emotions churning. He could’ve called you out. Could’ve said what he knew, what he’d heard from Chan that you were planning to go away with Jisung. That this weekend was the weekend. That your “something” wasn’t vague at all.

But he didn’t say it.

Because he didn’t want to hear you lie. And he didn’t want to hear the truth either.

So he exhaled and said, simply, “I can’t. I’m busy.”

There was a pause on your end. He imagined you blinking in surprise. You weren’t used to him saying no, not when it came to Hana. And not like this.

“Oh,” you said finally. “Okay.”

You didn’t press, but he could hear the disappointment in your voice. It was subtle, but it was there. That quiet frustration, like something had shifted between you and you didn’t know why.

He felt it too.

“I’ll see you at the usual time,” he said, softer this time. “Five.”

You didn’t argue. “Yeah. Okay.”

You both sat there on the line for a beat longer, as if waiting for the other to say something else. Something more. But nothing came. Just the sound of breath and distance and words unspoken.

“Goodnight, Minho.”

“Goodnight.”

When he hung up, he stared at the dashboard for a long while, guilt crawling up the back of his neck like heat. But he didn’t move. Didn’t call back.

Because the truth was, he wasn’t busy.

He had no plans on Friday. No obligations. No excuse.

Except the one that lived in his heart:

He wasn’t ready to watch you go away with someone else. He wasn’t ready to let you slip through his fingers again. Not without trying.

And maybe that made him selfish.

But this time, he wasn’t going to stand on your doorstep holding flowers.

This time, he was going to fight.

-

Thursday.

Minho barely slept. His thoughts ran circles through his head, bouncing between guilt, longing, and a creeping desperation he hadn’t felt since the night he packed up his things and left your shared apartment. Since then, he’d been careful, too careful, maybe, never pushing, never begging, always giving you the space you asked for, hoping silently that the time apart would eventually lead back to something familiar. Something whole.

But now, time was running out.

He could feel it like pressure behind his ribs.

He hadn’t been able to think of a single thing since your call the day before. He’d laid awake, staring at the ceiling of his apartment, arms crossed behind his head, thinking of every possible excuse to keep you from going on that trip with Jisung. Every scenario sounded ridiculous, selfish, or would put Hana in the middle and that was something he refused to do.

So now, Thursday morning, he sat at his desk at work, jaw tight, eyes unfocused on the screen in front of him. His fingers tapped restlessly on the woodgrain, and he barely even noticed when Chan came up beside him with two cold drinks from the office break room.

Chan placed one by his hand without saying anything at first, then took a long sip of his own before finally asking, “Anything yet?”

Minho blinked. “What?”

“A plan,” Chan clarified. “To stop it.”

Minho sighed, shaking his head slowly as he leaned back in his chair. “No. Nothing that doesn’t make me look like a complete idiot or a jealous ex who can’t let go.”

Chan raised a brow. “You are a jealous ex who can’t let go.”

Minho scoffed quietly, not in disagreement, but because he didn’t have the energy to argue.

Chan set his drink down and leaned one arm against Minho’s desk, lowering his voice. “Alright. What if you stop thinking about it like it’s about Jisung, or Hana, or even that weekend? What if it’s about you?”

Minho turned his head slowly, giving him a confused look.

Chan explained, “You’re not trying to sabotage their trip, right? You’re trying to remind her what she means to you. Why you loved each other in the first place. Why she maybe still does. So make it about that.”

Minho frowned, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. “I don’t know what that would even look like…”

Chan shrugged. “You said you haven’t really talked since the anniversary, right? Why not use that? Say you didn’t feel right leaving it the way it was. That you want to talk. Just the two of you. No distractions. No Hana, no Jisung. Just… honesty.”

Minho stared at him for a long moment, heart thudding. It was the simplest thing. Honest. Straightforward. Real.

And terrifying.

But it stuck with him.

He stood up abruptly, grabbing his blazer off the back of his chair and collecting his things in a flurry of motion.

Chan blinked in surprise. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to her,” Minho said, slinging the strap of his bag over his shoulder, determination hardening his voice. “Can you cover for me if anyone asks?”

Chan smiled slowly, standing upright. “Go.”

As Minho made his way out of the office, the cold drink still sweating on his desk, Chan called after him just loud enough to be heard over the hum of the office:

“And don’t say anything stupid.”

Minho didn’t answer. He was already halfway to the elevator, heart pounding, pulse racing, his fingers curled tightly around the steering wheel of his next move.

He didn’t know what he was going to say when he got to you.

Only that it had to be said now. Before it really was too late.

-

Minho drove with white-knuckled hands gripping the steering wheel, the radio silent, the streets outside blurring past him in streaks of dull grey. His heart was pounding louder than his thoughts, louder even than the doubt telling him this was a terrible idea. He shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be showing up unannounced. But the image of you laughing with someone else had rooted itself so deeply in his chest that he couldn’t breathe until he said something. Until he did something.

He didn’t even remember parking the car. All he knew was that he was suddenly at your doorstep, standing there like a fool, his pulse drumming like war inside his ears. He knocked, harder than he meant to, and louder than he ever had before.

You opened the door moments later, eyebrows drawing together in a mix of confusion and mild shock. You glanced behind you, as if checking to see if anyone else was home, and then back at him. Your voice was hesitant.

“Minho? What are you doing here? Hana’s still at school.”

He didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t. The words were swelling in his throat and tangling in his nerves, but if he waited any longer, he’d lose his chance.

“I know. I’m not here about Hana.” His voice cracked slightly. “I just—please. I need five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

You didn’t move. He could tell you were wary, maybe even annoyed, but something in his face must’ve given him away because after a pause, you stepped aside and let him in.

He stood in your living room, awkward and tense, the silence too familiar, too full of memories. Then, before he could stop himself, he said it:

“I love you.”
He took a breath. “No—I never stopped loving you.”

You blinked, stunned. He kept going before you could say anything.

“I tried. I tried so hard to move on, to respect the fact that we both agreed to end things. But it’s never gone away. And I know I messed everything up, and I know you’re seeing someone now, but I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t kill me every time I see you with him.”

You were still silent, and that scared him more than anything.

“That day,” he said, quieter now, “our anniversary… I came by with flowers. I know I shouldn’t have, but I just— I thought maybe we could talk. And I saw him. Walking out of your place. With that smug smile. And I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. I couldn’t even breathe. I haven’t stopped regretting everything since.”

You sat down slowly on the edge of the couch, your arms crossed loosely over your chest, watching him. Letting him unravel. He kept going, voice trembling in places.

“I keep replaying everything in my head. what I could’ve done differently, what I should’ve said. And maybe it’s selfish of me, showing up like this, but I had to say something before it’s too late. Before you go on that trip with him.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “How do you know about that trip?”

He hesitated. His expression twisted into a guilty frown. “I… I didn’t mean to find out. I work with Jisung.”

Your eyes narrowed. “You never told me that.”

“I know. I didn’t want to seem like the jealous ex. Even though I am. But it’s not just that. It’s not just about being jealous. It’s about the fact that I still love you. That I never stopped loving you. Even when we broke up, even when it made sense. I never stopped.”

You exhaled sharply and stood up. Your voice was tight when you finally spoke.

“So now you want to be with me? Now that I’m seeing someone else?”

He flinched at your tone. “It’s not like that. I mean, it looks like that, but I swear this isn’t some reaction. I didn’t plan this because I saw you with someone new. I’ve felt this way for so long. I just… I was afraid to tell you.”

You shook your head. “You were afraid, so you stayed silent, and now that I’m starting to move on, you show up and ask me not to go on a trip with someone who’s actually been there for me?”

“I know how it sounds. But if, if there’s even one part of you that feels the same way, that misses what we had, that still wonders ‘what if’ please. Just tell me. I’ll do anything. I’ll wait. Just don’t tell me it’s really over.”

Silence fell again. The kind of silence that carried weight. History. Pain.

You were looking at him like you didn’t know whether to break down or scream. And he stood there, exposed, vulnerable, every wall he’d ever built crumbled at your feet, hoping, desperately that maybe, just maybe, there was still something left to rebuild from.

Your silence was deafening.

Minho stood there, his breath held hostage in his chest, heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape. He didn’t need you to say anything, he could already feel it in the way your eyes dropped to the floor, in the way your mouth pressed into a thin, unreadable line. In his gut, he feared he knew what was coming.

That he was too late.

That you'd already fallen for Jisung, and this trip, this weekend getaway he’d found out about through whispers in the office wasn't just a casual thing. It was a beginning. A line being drawn in the sand between what used to be and what would never be again. A new chapter where he no longer belonged.

He felt sick. And helpless. And like the ground beneath him was shifting just enough to knock him off balance.

But then, softly, so softly, it was your voice that broke the silence.

“I’m not going on that trip.”

Minho blinked, his entire body freezing like the air had been sucked out of the room. He looked at you, eyes wide, unsure if he’d misheard or hallucinated out of desperation.

You looked up at him slowly, your expression hard to read, somewhere between vulnerable and guarded, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I was going to, but… something didn’t feel right. I knew Jisung was going to ask me to be his girlfriend while we were away. I could feel it. He’s been hinting at it for weeks.”

Minho didn’t breathe.

You gave a small, dry laugh humorless, tired. “And I couldn’t say yes. Not because he’s a bad guy, he’s not. He’s… good. Kind. Consistent. But I’m not ready. Not yet, at least.”

He swallowed, still not trusting himself to speak, afraid that if he said anything too soon, he’d break the moment. But your words were unraveling something tightly wound inside of him. Slowly, piece by piece.

You exhaled, and for the first time, your voice cracked just slightly.

“That’s actually why I asked if you could pick Hana up early this week. I wanted to talk to Jisung before it was too late. Before he asked, and I had to hurt him by saying no.”

Minho’s heart twisted first in relief, so sharp it nearly dropped him to his knees. And then in something else. Something heavier.

Guilt.

He hadn’t known that. He’d assumed. Feared the worst. Convinced himself that he’d lost you for good when he saw Jisung leave your place. He’d let jealousy cloud everything. But now, now he realized something else.

There was still a door open.

Even if it was barely cracked, even if it wasn’t a promise, there was still a chance.

He let out a shaky breath and sat down, not trusting his legs anymore.

You were standing across the room, arms loosely crossed, but your walls were down, more than he’d seen in a long time. You looked at him, and for the first time, there wasn’t anger in your eyes. Just weariness. And something else. Something close to longing.

“I never wanted us to end like we did,” you said softly. “But we were tired. And we were hurting each other without meaning to. I thought breaking up was the right thing. That it would give us room to breathe. To figure ourselves out. And maybe it did, but…”

You hesitated, and he leaned forward slightly, drawn to your words like gravity.

“…I never stopped wondering if we’d find our way back.”

His breath caught.

That’s when it hit him. Really hit him.

He might still have a chance.

Not because you were lonely. Not because Jisung didn’t measure up. But because a piece of you was still holding onto what you and Minho once had. Because maybe, just maybe, you were still holding space in your heart for him.

And it was that sliver of hope that finally let him speak again, voice trembling but sure.

“If there’s a way back… I’ll find it. I’ll do the work. I’ll wait, if that’s what you need. Just tell me there’s a chance.”

You didn’t answer right away. You looked at him for a long, long moment, and then you walked over and sat beside him on the couch, close enough to feel his warmth, but not close enough to touch.

“Right now,” you said quietly, “I don’t have all the answers. But I know I want to figure them out. Not with anyone else. With you.”

Minho looked at you with something almost childlike in his expression, hope, tentative and aching. His voice was soft, but steady, when he asked, “Do you think… if I really try this time—if I show up better, if I really communicate the way I should’ve back then… do you think we could try again?”

His eyes searched yours, not demanding a promise, but asking for permission to hope.

You didn’t answer right away. The question hung in the room like a fragile thread, waiting to be either pulled gently forward or snapped. You could feel the weight of the past pressing against the moment, the mistakes, the miscommunications, the nights you cried alone while pretending it didn’t hurt.

But this was different. He was different. There was something raw about the way he looked at you now, something stripped down and sincere, like he’d peeled away everything that had gotten in the way before.

You let out a small breath and gave a short, slow nod.

Minho’s reaction was immediate, a wide, relieved smile blooming across his face, and for a moment, he looked younger, lighter. Like the years of regret he carried had been momentarily lifted.

But before he could get too far ahead, you raised a hand, not to stop him but to anchor the moment.

“It has to be slow,” you said firmly. “Really slow, Minho. I’m not jumping into anything. I’ve got Hana to think about. I’ve got myself to think about. We can’t go back to what we were, we have to start fresh. New pace. New rules.”

He nodded quickly, almost eagerly. “Yeah. Yeah, I get that. I want that. I don’t want to repeat what we had. I want to build something better.”

And then, gently, cautiously, he reached for you.

His arms wrapped around you with such care it made your chest ache. He didn’t pull you into him, he welcomed you, waited for you to meet him halfway. And you didn’t hesitate. You stepped into his embrace and let yourself melt into the warmth of his chest, burying your face there. His familiar scent, his heartbeat against your ear, it all came back in a rush.

He rested his cheek lightly on your hair and exhaled a shaky breath, just about to whisper something, how much he missed this, missed you, how often he’d dreamed of this exact moment, when your phone vibrated loudly between you.

You let out a small sigh and pulled away, checking the screen.

“It’s time to pick up Hana,” you said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear as reality crept gently back in.

Minho laughed, the sound light and real. “Of course it is,” he said, standing up and reaching for his jacket. “I’ll go. I don’t want to ruin this moment for you. I want you to sit with it. Let it settle.”

He made his way to the door, pausing before he stepped out.

“But don’t forget,” he said, pointing at you with a small, mock-serious smile. “I’m going to try. Seriously this time. I’m not letting you slip through my fingers again.”

You gave him a long look, soft and bittersweet. “I know. And I need to talk to Jisung. Tonight.”

He nodded slowly. The name didn’t sting the same way anymore. Not now, not after what you’d said. But still, a flicker of anxiety crossed his face before he caught himself.

Then, after a beat, he asked, half-joking, half-not, “You’re not gonna change your mind, right?”

You laughed under your breath, tilting your head at him. “Minho…”

He narrowed his eyes, squinting like he was trying to read your mind. “That wasn’t a no.”

You smiled, eyes twinkling just slightly. “I promise.”

He held your gaze a second longer, letting that promise soak in. Then he smiled, for real this time, wide and hopeful and full of something that had been missing for a long, long time.

And then he was gone, jogging down the steps to his car, probably already picturing Hana’s excited little face when she saw you at pickup.

You stood in the doorway for a moment, holding the weight of everything you’d just said. Everything you still had to do. Tonight, you would talk to Jisung. You owed him that much. And you owed yourself the honesty you’d been avoiding.

But in your chest, something had shifted.

Not a return to the past, but a beginning.

Careful. Slow. But real.

And it was enough. for now.

Minho had barely stepped through the front door when the weight of the conversation he’d just had hit him fully. His body was buzzing, not from nerves anymore, but from something gentler. A release. A strange blend of relief, exhaustion, and the quiet hum of hope. His hands were still jittery from the adrenaline, fingers twitching slightly as he tossed his keys into the bowl by the door and leaned against the wall, exhaling deeply.

Then his phone rang.

He glanced down to see Chan lighting up the screen.

Of course.

He picked up, not bothering to mask the rawness in his voice. “Hey.”

“Yo,” Chan greeted, already sounding like he knew something had shifted. “Bad time?”

Minho shook his head, even though Chan couldn’t see. “No, no. I just got home… from talking to her.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end, then a burst of excitement.

“No way—you actually did it?” Chan's voice lit up with the kind of joy that only came from someone who had been there for the ugliest parts of your story.

Minho let out a long, deep sigh, almost a laugh—part disbelief, part release. “Yeah… I did.”

“And?!” Chan pressed. “How did it go?”

Minho smiled softly, sinking down onto the couch like his bones had finally loosened. “It went… better than I thought. She’s not going on the trip. With Jisung, I mean. She said she’s not ready. But she didn’t say no to me. She said we could try. Slowly. That we could maybe… start again.”

He trailed off, overwhelmed by the way it sounded out loud.

Chan let out a cheer through the phone. “Minho, that’s huge! That’s amazing, man. I’m really happy for you.”

“Yeah,” Minho whispered, his voice unexpectedly thick. “Me too.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the low hum of the connection between them. Then Chan’s voice turned gentle, sincere.

“I’m proud of you, you know that? You actually faced it this time. You didn’t just bury it or run from it like you did last time.”

Minho went quiet. The smile lingered, but it faded at the edges, mellowed by memory.

“Yeah…” he murmured. “I remember.”

He had run. From everyone. Especially from Chan and Changbin.

When the breakup first started looming, those cold arguments late at night, the silence that followed them Minho had pulled away, piece by piece. And when the final conversation had happened, when it was real, when he saw his bags by the door and your voice broke as you said goodbye, something inside him had shut down entirely.

He stopped going out with the others after work. Stopped answering texts. He started coming in late, leaving early. And when he was at work, he wore a mask so thick not even Chan, who’d known him since his very first day could break through.

He hadn’t known how to talk about the pain. How to say that losing you felt like losing oxygen. So instead, he retreated.

Chan must’ve felt the shift in the silence because he spoke again, this time quieter.

“Hey… I know you remember how bad it got. You pulled away so hard we barely knew how to help. Me, Changbin, everyone. And we were worried. You wouldn’t even let us try.”

“I know,” Minho said, voice low. “I thought if I let anyone see how bad I was doing, it’d make it real. That it would make me weak. So I just… disappeared.”

“You weren’t weak,” Chan said firmly. “You were hurting. And we got that. We just wished you’d let us in. Even just a little.”

There was a long pause before Minho responded.

“I hated how broken I was. I didn’t even recognize myself. I felt like I’d failed at everything, being a partner, a father, a friend. And I didn’t want you or Changbin to see me like that. I couldn’t even look at myself.”

Chan didn’t respond right away. When he did, his tone was soft but unwavering.

“Well, now you’re facing it. And you’re doing better than you think. Just don’t forget that we’re still here. This time, if it gets hard again and it will, because that’s life, don’t shut us out. Let us be there. Let us show up for you, Minho. You don’t have to carry all of this alone.”

Minho blinked quickly, swallowing the sudden knot in his throat.

“I won’t,” he said quietly. “I promise.”

Chan smiled through the phone. “Good. That’s all we ask.”

Minho leaned back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. The air in the room felt lighter somehow. Less suffocating. He’d spent so long locking parts of himself away, trying to manage everything in silence, convincing himself that vulnerability made him burdensome. But this? This conversation, this simple, grounding reminder that he had people, real people, in his corner?

It meant everything.

“Thanks, Chan. For not giving up on me,” Minho said, voice steady again. “Even when I disappeared.”

“You’re my brother, Minho. I never would.”

And with that, the call ended, and Minho sat there, phone resting on his chest, a quiet smile tugging at his lips, not just because he might get another chance with you…

…but because, for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel alone.

The sun had started its slow descent by the time you finally sat down. For most of the afternoon, you’d been pacing back and forth across the living room, phone in hand, trying to figure out how to say everything you needed to say without causing more hurt than necessary.

Hana was in her room, humming softly to herself as she played with her toys, completely unaware of the weight sitting in your chest like a stone.

You’d thought about sending a long text. Maybe laying everything out in writing so you could control the tone, avoid awkward silences, or tears, or worse, disappointment. But that felt too impersonal, too cold. He didn’t deserve that. Jisung had been nothing but kind. Steady. Patient.

You considered asking him to come over, but that didn’t feel right either. You didn’t want to give him false hope, or make him drive all the way here just to leave with a fractured heart.

So you sat there for a long moment, fingers hovering over his name in your call log.

And then, finally, you pressed it.

The phone rang twice before he picked up, voice bright and warm.

“Hey,” he said, clearly smiling. “I was just about to text you. Are you packed yet? I managed to get off work early tomorrow so we can head out a bit sooner. I figured we could beat traffic and maybe grab dinner somewhere up there. Oh and don’t forget to pack something warm, okay? It’s going to be colder than we thought.”

You closed your eyes. That part hurt the most, his excitement. His thoughtfulness. The way he was planning this trip with care, imagining moments the two of you would never actually share.

“Jisung,” you said softly, trying to keep your voice from shaking. “Can we… talk for a minute?”

There was a pause. Not long, but enough to let you know he sensed the shift. When he spoke again, his voice was more cautious.

“Yeah. Sure. What’s going on?”

You swallowed hard, gathering your thoughts before beginning. And then, slowly, carefully, you laid it all out, the truth.

You told him how you weren’t going on the trip. How you'd realized you weren’t ready for a relationship, not with anyone. How the timing wasn’t right. And then, gently, you told him about Minho.

You tried to explain it without excuses, without painting Jisung as a placeholder or Minho as a hero. You were honest, clear that your heart still hadn’t fully healed from everything you’d been through, and being with someone else without facing that part of yourself wasn’t fair. Not to you. Not to him.

He didn’t say anything at first. There was a long silence on the other end of the line, and you hated how your heart twisted waiting for him to respond.

When he finally did, his voice was quiet, but not cold.

“So… it’s because of him.”

You didn’t deny it. “Partly. But not just because of him. I think I’ve been trying to convince myself that I was ready, and I wasn’t. You were wonderful, Jisung. You were everything someone should want. And that’s what makes this so hard.”

He let out a breath almost a laugh, but not quite. “I mean, I kinda had a feeling. He always felt like the elephant in the room. I never wanted to admit it, but... yeah. I knew you weren’t fully in it.”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to lead you on. I never meant for it to go this far.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “You’re not a bad person. You just… weren’t ready. That’s not your fault.”

“I’ll pay you back for the trip,” you said quickly, guilt tightening in your chest. “The reservation, the gas, the—”

“No,” he interrupted, firm but kind. “Don’t do that. Seriously. I’m still going. I think I need the break more than ever now.” He let out a small chuckle. “Maybe I’ll sit in the hot tub and re-evaluate my life or something.”

You laughed, despite yourself, a bittersweet sound. “Well… I hope it gives you what you need.”

He was quiet again, but this time, the silence didn’t feel heavy.

“Just… promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“Don’t disappear, okay?” His voice was soft, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t heard before. “I know it didn’t work out romantically, but I really care about you. And Hana. Even if she barely talks to me and kind of looks at me like I’m invading her space every time I show up.”

You smiled at that. “She’s just… protective. She’s still adjusting to all of this. But she doesn’t dislike you, I swear.”

“Well, I’m still convinced she plotted against me at least once,” he joked, a touch of humor returning to his tone. “But seriously, I want to stay in your life. As a friend. If that’s okay.”

“It’s more than okay,” you said sincerely. “Thank you for being so understanding.”

“I’m trying,” he said with a sigh. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck, though.”

“I know,” you whispered.

“I’ll be okay,” he added after a pause. “Eventually. Just… don’t feel guilty for doing what’s right for you, okay?”

You nodded, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Okay.”

“Alright,” he said, more upbeat now. “Well, I guess I’ll go pack for my sad solo mountain retreat.”

“Don’t forget warm clothes,” you teased softly.

He laughed. “You got it. Talk soon?”

“Yeah. Talk soon.”

And just like that, the call ended.

You sat there for a moment, phone still in hand, staring at the blank screen. There was a strange peace in the quiet now. You had dreaded that conversation all day, but Jisung had met it with more grace than you thought possible.

It didn’t make it easy.

But it made it right.

The silence after the call ended was louder than anything.

You set the phone down slowly, hands resting in your lap, fingers tracing the outline of each other as if trying to soothe the restlessness still lingering in your chest. The conversation had gone as well as it possibly could, and yet, something inside you ached, not with regret, but with the quiet exhaustion that comes from being honest.

Honesty wasn’t always clean. Sometimes it felt like unraveling.

The sun had dipped below the horizon now, casting the room in that early evening blue-gray stillness. The kind of light that makes everything look softer but heavier too like the house was holding its breath with you.

You didn’t cry. You thought maybe you would, but instead, you just… sat. Still. Letting it all settle.

Then, without warning, the sound of quick little footsteps broke through the stillness.

“Mommy!”

Hana came bursting into the living room, her tiny arms full of a stuffed animal, hair a little messy from rolling around on the carpet in her room. She launched herself into your lap like a small, bright comet, all warmth and movement, wrapping her arms tightly around your waist and snuggling her cheek into your chest.

You smiled down at her, startled but comforted, brushing her hair gently away from her face.

“Hey, baby,” you whispered, voice catching slightly. “Everything okay?”

She nodded quickly, still holding you. “I just wanted to hug you. You were being quiet.”

That simple observation, spoken so innocently, made your throat tighten. Children had this uncanny way of seeing right through you. You held her closer, letting her weight press into you like a grounding force.

“I needed that,” you murmured, kissing the top of her head. “Thank you.”

She pulled back just enough to look up at you with wide, curious eyes. “When can I see Daddy again?”

You paused, shifting slightly so you could look her in the eyes.

“This weekend, remember?” you said softly. “You’re going to spend the night at his place.”

She smiled at that, clearly excited. But then her expression shifted into something a little more thoughtful, more serious.

“I wish we could all spend the night together,” she said.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean, baby?”

She rested her chin on your shoulder, her voice muffled but sure. “Like before. When Daddy was still here. I liked it when we were all together.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, breathing through the pang in your chest.

“I know,” you whispered. “I liked it too.”

She was quiet for a moment, and you wondered if maybe she sensed the unspoken things adults tried to keep hidden. She was small, but she was observant, always had been. It was in the way she watched people, the way she listened even when no one thought she was paying attention.

You pulled her closer again, tucking her head beneath your chin. Her little hands clutched your shirt, and the rhythm of her breathing began to slow as she relaxed in your arms.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” you said quietly, more to yourself than to her. “But I promise I’ll always be here. No matter what.”

She didn’t respond in words, just gave a sleepy nod, like that was enough for her.

And maybe, for now, it was enough for you too.

Because in that small, honest moment, just you and her wrapped in the quiet hum of love that had never wavered, you remembered why you were trying so hard to get it right this time. Why slow was okay. Why healing mattered more than rushing into answers.

You didn’t have everything figured out. The road ahead was still uncertain. But right here, in this stillness, in the warmth of your daughter’s arms, you felt something you hadn’t in a long time.

Peace.

It was a crisp Friday evening when Minho pulled up outside your place.

He sat in the car for a moment after parking, hands gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him steady. He wasn’t sure what to expect. He was here for Hana, yes, but he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t thinking about you just as much.

A part of him had been convincing himself that nothing would be said. That maybe you’d keep things simple, just hand off Hana with a polite smile, exchange a few logistical notes, and send them on their way. And he’d understand if that were the case. You had no obligation to talk more. Not after the emotional chaos of the last few days.

Still, some quiet part of him,

buried under nerves and realism,

hoped you'd say something.

Anything.

He barely had time to finish the thought before the door opened, and there you were.

You stepped outside, Hana bounding ahead of you, her backpack bouncing behind her as she ran up to Minho with bright eyes and a cheerful “Daddy!”

Minho smiled, crouching down to hug her tightly, brushing her hair back as he greeted her. That moment was easy, effortless, natural. But his eyes flicked up to you as he rose to stand, his heart climbing to his throat.

You looked calm. But he knew you well enough to recognize the thoughtful set of your mouth, the way you held your arms loosely at your sides like you were steadying yourself from within.

You approached slowly, and for a moment, it was quiet, just the sound of birds somewhere overhead and Hana chatting to herself as she climbed into the backseat of Minho’s car.

Then you spoke.

“I talked to Jisung.”

Minho blinked. His body went still, and he didn’t know what he expected you to say next, only that he hadn’t expected you to say anything.

You held his gaze as you continued, your voice calm but honest. “I told him everything. About not going on the trip. About not being ready. About… you.”

Minho’s breath caught in his chest. “You did?��

You nodded. “I owed him the truth. He was kind. He didn’t deserve anything less.”

He swallowed, eyes searching yours for something, hesitation, regret, anger. But there wasn’t any. Just quiet strength. The kind of clarity that comes from doing something hard and knowing it was right.

“I told him I wasn’t ready to be in a relationship,” you went on, voice softening. “Because I’m still figuring things out. Because there’s still a part of me that’s trying to make sense of everything that happened. But I also told him I couldn’t ignore how I felt when you came to the door the other day. That I hadn’t been able to ignore it for a while now.”

Minho didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, the wind brushing gently through his hair, his lips parting slightly like he was afraid to exhale too hard and ruin the moment.

“And…” you hesitated slightly. “If we do try again, it has to be slow. For me. For Hana. For both of us.”

Minho nodded immediately, almost too fast. “Yes. Of course. That’s all I want. I mean, not all, but… I’m not expecting things to be like they were. I just… I want a chance to do it right this time. At your pace.”

You gave him a small, cautious smile. “That’s good. Because I don’t want to repeat the past. I want something different. Healthier.”

Minho stepped a little closer, not touching you, but close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence again. Familiar. Not suffocating like it used to be when things were hard. Just… grounding.

“I’m going to show up this time,” he said quietly. “Not just when it’s easy. Not just for the sweet moments. I’ll be there for the hard ones too. Even if I don’t always know what to say.”

You nodded, your voice almost a whisper. “That’s all I need.”

For a beat, you both stood there in the morning light, not rushing anything. Letting the quiet say the things your hearts didn’t quite know how to put into words yet.

Then Hana’s voice piped up from the car, calling for her dad to put on her favorite music. You both laughed, light and easy, like old times. Minho turned, heading to the driver’s side, but before he climbed in, he looked back at you.

“I’ll text you tonight,” he said.

You nodded, smiling again. “Okay.”

And he got into the car, pulling away slowly, glancing in the rearview mirror one more time to catch your silhouette on the doorstep, soft, thoughtful, strong.

And just like that, something had shifted. Not everything. Not instantly.

But enough.

Enough to begin.

Nearly two years had passed since that early spring morning, since the front door opened on a fragile, hopeful beginning.

There had never been a dramatic reunion, no grand announcement to friends or family. No social media posts or loud proclamations. Just quiet, intentional love. It had started with conversations. Long ones. Painful ones. Healing ones. Sometimes they were over late dinners after Hana had gone to bed, sometimes whispered while folding laundry or brushing teeth. It hadn’t been perfect. There were setbacks. But through it all, you kept choosing each other, quietly, steadily.

You hadn’t planned to fall back into the rhythm of being a family. But slowly, almost without realizing it, you did.

Minho started spending more time at your place, first for Hana. That was the excuse. He’d come to drop her off and she’d beg him to stay just a little longer. One night, she asked for a bedtime story. “One more, Daddy.” He’d read it with a smile in his voice, her little head resting against his chest, and when you’d peeked in the room, you’d found them both curled up on her bed, eyes heavy with sleep. That night, he stayed on the couch, claiming it was too late to drive home, though it wasn’t even 10 p.m.

You didn’t say anything. Neither of you did. Not when it happened again. Or the next time. Until one day, you realized you had his toothbrush in your bathroom. A drawer with his t-shirts. His cologne on your shelf. And you didn’t remember when it all officially changed, only that it had. And you were happy. The quiet kind of happy that feels like home.

Now, nearly two years later, the house was fuller.

The soft sound of children’s morning cartoons hummed in the background while you stood behind Hana, gently parting her hair into sections. Her legs dangled off the kitchen stool, kicking lightly with excitement.

“Mommy,” she asked for the fourth time that week, “is the baby coming soon?”

You smiled, one hand resting unconsciously on your belly as you twisted her braid. “Not that soon, sweetheart. A few more months.”

Hana let out a dramatic sigh, the kind only a six-year-old could manage. “But I already made space in my room!”

You laughed, gently tugging her braid loose and starting again. “That’s for later, remember? The baby will sleep in our room for a while.”

“But I can still help, right? Like with diapers and bottles and what if the baby cries at night?”

“Then we’ll all help,” you said softly. “That’s what family does.”

Before she could fire off another question, footsteps padded into the room Minho, fully dressed for work, adjusting his watch as he walked in with that still-sleepy look he never really lost in the mornings.

“There you are,” he murmured, eyes locking with yours first. His voice dipped gently, his concern immediate but unspoken. “Why’d you leave bed so early?”

You gave him a tired smile, one hand resting on the curve of your growing belly. “I couldn’t sleep again. Got too frustrated tossing and turning.”

He crossed the room in two steps and leaned in to kiss your lips, his hand automatically reaching for your belly with a tenderness that still made your breath catch. “Next time, wake me up, okay?” he said, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead now. “Even if it’s just to complain. I’d rather be tired with you than sleep through it alone.”

You nodded, your eyes warm, and he turned to Hana, who squealed with delight as he tickled her side.

“Good morning, princess.”

“Daddy! Stop!” she laughed, squirming away with a wide grin. He ruffled her hair playfully before kissing the top of her head.

You turned back to the kitchen, checking the time. “Will you be home for dinner tonight?”

A question that once felt like a gamble. A question you used to ask even when you knew the answer would be “I’ll see,” delivered with the kind of distracted vagueness that always left your chest a little hollow.

But now? Now, Minho didn’t even blink.

“Yeah,” he said, looking back at you as he adjusted his bag on his shoulder. “I’ll be home.”

You didn’t say anything in return. You just smiled. And that was enough.

Minho bent down again, kissed you once more, slower this time, more present then turned to Hana. “Be good for Mommy, yeah?”

She saluted him with exaggerated seriousness, and he laughed.

And then he was out the door.

You stood there for a moment, your hands resting on your belly, watching as Hana inspected her braid in the mirror on the wall.

There was peace in the routine. A softness that hadn’t existed in the beginning. A stillness that came not from perfection, but from the choice day after day to love each other better than before.

And as your daughter grinned at her reflection and the baby inside you fluttered with a kick, you whispered quietly to yourself:

“We’re okay.”

And you were.

More than okay.

You were whole.

//

[a/n: surprise!! it’s my birthday tomorrow but i wanted to give you guys a little gift. (: final part of BTL.]

masterlist.

❌proofread

[official taglist: @alisonyus @lenfilms @captainchrisstan @anastasiiiiaaaaa @emilyywhyy @ready2readnwrite lmk if you’d like to be added/removed 😙 ..] [ BTL taglist @christasmind @tsunderelino @staytinyarmy @luvhannies @leeknowno @ravengxbss @fairylix]

[anime-in-new-albion]

Marrying for Love ~ Malleus Draconia

Summary: As Crown Prince of Briar Valley, Malleus is expected to become King one day. However, he still needs to find a partner to rule by his side. And that's where you come in...

Pairing: Malleus Draconia X Fem!Reader

Genre: Fluffy Drabble

Word Count: 731

Warning: N/A

Masterlist

You have met a lot of princes in your life, but none were quite like Prince Malleus Draconia of Briar Valley.

He was a rare kind of mage and beauty and an even rarer kind of gentleman. He cared deeply for his people, his friends, and his family. He didn't really have enemies wherever he went. His magic was incredibly powerful and he wielded it well. He was soft-spoken, intelligent, humorous, and compassionate. Malleus was born to be a Prince and strived to prove he was worthy of being King of Briar Valley every single day.

There was just one obstacle in his way: marriage.

According to the customs of this ancient kingdom, he couldn’t ascend the throne until he was married. It was the chink in his relatively perfect armor. Even though he was considered the perfect man throughout the realms, Malleus was hopeless when it came to finding a suitable partner, at least in Lilia's eyes. Sebek was still under the impression it was the other party who had the problem, not Lord Malleus. 

Sure, Malleus could talk to people, but he couldn’t flirt and couldn’t understand flirting to save his life. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t seem to understand the subtleties of romance, much to Lilia's displeasure. He thought he taught him better.

Really, it was no surprise his parents, with the help of Lilia, arranged a match for him.

And that’s where you come in.

Oh sure, you know how to flirt and be coy and romantic with others. But after spending one evening with Malleus, you knew it wasn’t going to work with him. And you’re nothing if not adaptable.

From the first moment you met him, you knew he craved an honest relationship, where you didn't play games and you were very clear with your intentions from the start. You took it upon yourself to just get to know him, all of him, and not just the parts he wanted you to see. It was a start. And he found it was something easy he could do. While you learned more about him and what made him who he is, he learned about you. And what surprised him the most was the fact that he genuinely liked you. And that you genuinely liked him too.

Time was ticking down and you found that this idea of an arranged marriage didn’t seem so terrible. However, you were still worried. Slowly, Malleus was learning how to flirt and be romantic. You were afraid he wouldn’t need you anymore, he wouldn’t care about you anymore as much as he did when you first met. You liked that he needed you. He made you feel wanted and loved. But what if he found someone better?

You kept your worries to yourself. Being the Crown Prince of Briar Valley, Malleus had enough to worry about. You didn’t want to complicate your relationship with him in any way. Nevertheless, in the privacy of your room, you wished that Malleus would be yours just like you were his.

So you can imagine your surprise when he invited you on a stroll through the royal gardens one day. Sure, the two of you often went walking in these gardens, but it usually wasn’t until after all of his royal duties were complete. It was the middle of the day when he sent for you, not late evening after dinner like normal. Though you were confused and more than a little anxious, you did not want to keep him waiting. Quickly, you found him near the entrance to the gardens and the two of you began to walk together, arm in arm.

Malleus eventually stopped in a small pavilion surrounded by your favorite flowers. He sat you down on one of the benches and began a long-winded speech, which wasn't a common occurrence for him. He went on and on about how even though your relationship started as an arranged marriage, he felt something more for you. He thought of you as less of a companion and more of a lover he wanted to treasure forever. He explained that to him, you were the perfect partner to spend the rest of his life with. However, he didn’t feel like he was actually engaged yet.

So he asked you a question:

“Will you marry me?”

And of course, you said, “Yes.”

[prettydaisygirl]

Congrats on 500 followers!! You deserve it and so much more.

Can I get a 🌼 with Remus/soulmate au/ and “could you please come and get me?”?

Maybe the reader is Sirius younger sister and didn't escape with him. But it got to a point where she can't handle it anymore and asks Remus to come get her?

Maybe Regulus can come too. I wouldn't want him to stay in that house by himself.

Thank you so much!! I love you and your stories so much!

hello lovely!! Thank you so much for your request! I have been waiting for someone to request a soulmate au, they genuinely might be my favorite ever. Even more than zombie au which is really saying something for me lmao. Hope you enjoy <3

🌼 daisy (innocence, loyalty, pure love): pick a character and an AU from the lists above & a prompt from this list and I will write a <500 word drabble

daisy's 500 follower celebration bouquet

Remus Lupin, soulmate, and "Could you please come and get me?"

cw: muggle/modern au, reader is Sirius and Regulus' sister, Walburga's A+ parenting 

°˖✧✿✧˖°

The echoed sounds of your mother’s screams find your ears even in your bedroom, where you’ve tucked yourself away in your closet between your old sweaters and sundresses. You shake, trying to will yourself out of hiding, trying to gather the courage to help Reggie, but you can’t. Each of her words hits you like an axe to the chest, even if they aren’t directed at you. You both should’ve left while you had the chance, why had the two of you come back here instead of running away with Sirius?

Your phone pings, and you know who it is without looking. It’s Remus. Lovely, sweet, kind Remus who certainly knows about your inner turmoil because he can feel it. The identical markings on your wrists prove that. If your body wasn’t fully consumed by fight or flight, you’d feel Remus’ spiking anxiety. 

You don’t immediately reach for your phone, even when it pings for a second and third time. Your body trembles and the panic coursing through you is deep, instinctual. Learned from years of harsh words and even harsher punishments. It’s not until you can feel the longer vibrations of a phone call that you finally reach out a shaking finger, answer, and put it on speaker. You don’t think you can lift it to your ear.

“Rem?” Your voice wobbles, you hope he can hear you. He can, evidently, the phone crackling for just a second before you hear his voice. 

“Love? What’s going on?” His voice is clipped, short but not hard. Like he’s worried someone else might be able to hear him.

“Remus-” It’s like hearing him breaks you. Even just the sound of his voice is enough for your body to fight against its instincts, seeking his warmth and comfort even through the phone. “Can- Could you please come and get me?”

He doesn’t mention the fact that both he and Sirius had warned you not to return home. He doesn’t need to, the consequences of your choice are flowing through his veins, pain and fear and everything terrible you have to experience in that house. He just wants to give you everything good.

“Of course, love. I’m on my way.” You can hear him moving, another voice behind him speaking up. You can guess it’s Sirius, especially once Remus clears his throat and asks, “Is Reggie alright?”

“I don’t… I don’t know. He told me to go upstairs and she’s been… screaming at him and throwing things.” A sob escapes you, guilt settling in your stomach and then Remus’.

“No, don’t do that. Don’t blame yourself.” You can hear a car start, other sounds signifying that James and Sirius are likely coming too. “Stay where you are. I’m coming, lovely.”

“You’re coming?” You repeat, burying your face in your knees. The tears soak into the fabric of your clothes.

“I’ll always come for you, love. Even when you don’t call, I’ll still know, and I’ll still be there. I promise.”

And you let his words cradle you until his hands can.

°˖✧✿✧˖°

© prettydaisygirl

[elleaitch22]

Love on Fire

Chapter 2: This is How It Starts

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

A/N: Sorry! I’ve been gone all day. I had cooking class with my little brother! This will be a slow burn btw, probably slower than Terms of Endearment 😬 If you have requests for this story or suggestions, please let me know! I might just put them in 😊 Gotta go work on Chapter 15 now! Hope you love it! Love you, bye!! xx Elle

Warnings: Fertility treatment discussion, mentions of medical procedures and an injection

Word Count: 3.1k words

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The car swerved a little.

“What do you mean you’re having a baby?” Paige questioned, getting control of her truck.

Azzi gripped the tray of cinnamon rolls in her lap. “Jesus, Paige.” She muttered.

“Don’t ‘Jesus, Paige’ me, Jazlyn. You didn’t even tell me you were dating anyone.” Paige huffed.

She knew Azzi would find someone else eventually. She’d been preparing herself for this moment since Azzi went on her first date junior year. But still, ten years of preparation and Paige still wasn’t ready.

“I’m not seeing anyone!” Azzi exclaimed. “We’re just getting old, P. I don’t want to be an old mom. I want to be the fun mom who races her kids, so I need to get started.”

Paige nodded, her whole body relaxing a little. “So, how’s this gonna work?”

“Well, my doctor already checked all my levels and stuff, so after I pick a donor, I have to take medicine for a couple days, then they’re gonna do an ultrasound, I’ll get a trigger shot the night before they shoot me up, then I’ll take some pill for a couple weeks, then take a test to see if it worked.”

The car swung into the parking spot, but neither woman moved to get out.

“You told Mom and Pops yet?” Paige asked, brow raised.

Tim and Katie Fudd were amazing parents. They supported Azzi in pretty much everything she did, but they never liked when she diverted from the plan. They hated it when she passed on basketball scholarships to pursue studies in culinary and baking arts. They lectured her when she decided to move thirty minutes away to open her bakery. She knew this wouldn’t be any different.

“Not yet. You know she’s gonna lecture me about doing this by myself.” Azzi sighed. “I know they’re going to be excited eventually, but I don’t want them to try to talk me out of it, especially because it might not even work.”

Paige cupped her knee, “You’re gonna be a mom, Az. Besides, you won’t be doing it by yourself. You know I’m always here.” She swallowed. “I’ll help you pick a donor if you want. You know how indecisive you are.”

The pair giggled.

“I’ll come with you to your appointments. I’ll go get your weird ass cravings in the middle of the night. And you know you can tell my dad and Katie, if you want.” Paige finished.

“You’re my favorite person, Paige Madison.” Azzi smiled.

She climbed out of the car, leaving her tray of baked goods. “Biscoff cinnamon rolls this time. Let me know what they think.”

-----------------------------------

Paige carried the warm tray of cinnamon rolls to the kitchen, seeing some of her crew sitting around the table.

“Bucky is here!” Cameron, the EMT called happily.

Her partner, Rickea scrambled over to the blonde, “Whatchu got for us today?”

“I don’t got shit for you, Kea. I’m still pissed.” Paige glared at the woman playfully.

“It was an accident! I didn’t know that was your pasta salad!” She whined, talking about Paige’s lunch she’d stolen the week before.

The tray of cinnamon rolls was plucked from Paige’s hands before she could respond. “What’d your wife make use today, Rook?”

The chief is already removing the foil from the top of the pan. “Biscoff cinnamon rolls today, D. Make sure Rickea gets nothing.” It’s pointless to correct Chief Taurasi; she’d been calling Paige and Azzi wives since Paige’s graduation from the fire academy.

Flau’jae and Ant reach into the pan and pull out rolls, while Steph, Phee, and Stewie pull plates from the cabinets.

“Yo, if you ain’t gonna marry that girl, say something. Because I’ll do whatever she wants if she keep making shit like this,” Anthony tossed to Paige, mouth full.

Jalen came behind him, smacking the back of his head. “Azzi’s a lesbian, Edwards. And even if she wasn’t you’re not her type.”

Paige chuckled at the truth in her best friend’s statement.

Until he opened his fatass mouth again. “Seriously though, P, when are you gonna stop playing with my sis?”

The blonde glared at the traitor. “Shut the fuck up, J.”

“I know you’re not talking, Suggs. Didn’t Hailey have to slide into your DMs?” Stewie questioned.

“Aye, bruh. We not talking about me right now. Besides, my girl got a ring on her finger.” Jalen finished with a smirk.

Paige just rolled her eyes, walking to gym. Maybe she’d be able to process whatever she just signed up for with Azzi while she lifted.

She was halfway through her third working set of bench presses when she heard the door open.

“You good, Paige?” A gentle voice called.

Phee.

Napheesa Collier was Engine 22’s engineer, and she’d worked very closely with Paige until the blonde was moved to Squad 5 last month. Paige loved working with Stewie, Jalen, and Ant on Squad, but she missed her mentor.

“Yeah. Azzi just said some shit today. It’s heavy on my mind.” She reracked her weight, and sat up, breath heavy.

“Wanna talk about it?” Phee questioned, sitting on another bench.

Paige shook her head, “Nah. I don’t know if I’m allowed to yet,” she laughed. “It’s personal, and I don’t know if I’m doing what’s best for her, or if I’m being selfish.”

Napheesa giggled, “Paige, my love,’ she started. “I’ve known you for eight years now. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do anything selfish when Azzi’s involved. Your default setting is to make her happy.”

She hadn’t thought about it like that. Obviously, she wanted to be involved with whatever kid Azzi ended up having, but she couldn’t tell if it was to help Azzi or to fulfill her own fantasy of having a family with the brunette.

“You might be wrong this time, Phee. God, I wish I could talk to you about it. You and Stewie always know the right shit to do.” Paige groaned.

Phee laughed against, “Yeah. Because we’re grown ass women who know how to handle our emotions.” She patted Paige on the back, “Just talk to her about it. Whatever it is, I’m sure she’ll understand.”

Before she walked of the gym, Phee turned around again. “Let Azzi know those cinnamon rolls were bomb and ask her if she can do a cookies and cream ones next.”

Once Paige was left alone, her mind started racing. She was so happy for Azzi; she always knew the brunette would be the best mom. But she always assumed she would be the child’s other parent. She thought she would have already had the guts to tell Azzi how much she loved her. But she didn’t. And now, she would have to watch from the sidelines. She was going to miss out on the baby’s first ultrasound. First kick. First smile. First roll over. She was going to miss all of it. And she had no one to blame but herself.

But she couldn’t let Azzi go through all of that on her own.

Azzi didn’t deserve that.

She deserved the best.

And Paige was going to be the best for her, no matter what she was feeling for her best friend.

-----------------------------------

“I told Paige,” Azzi said, piping a shell border around the cake.

“That you’re in love with her?” Caroline spun around from the cupcakes she was dusting with edible glitter.

Azzi fixed her with a look.

“You can’t blame me for having hope that you might follow through. It’s a compliment!” Her co-owner muttered. “What did she say?”

Azzi giggled. “She looked like she was buffering at first. Thought someone had actually gotten me pregnant. But you know Paigey.” She smiled. “She volunteered to do it all with me.”

Caroline stopped mid-sprinkle, hand hovered in the air.

Fingers with pink fingertips shot out over the cake. “I told you, you idiot. Now you owe me twenty bucks.”

“After I finish decorating this cake.” Azzi rolled her eyes. “Who’s out front?”

“KK and Ice, but Sarah’s out there to keep them in line.”

Azzi loved her surrogate sisters, but they (KK) could be a handful at times.

“So, are you going to let her help you?” Caroline asked after a beat.

Azzi still hadn’t made up her mind. “I want to, I really do. But I’m scared it’s gonna make me love her even more than I already do.” She paused, placing the piping bag down and brushing powdered sugar off her apron. Her voice lowered. “I don’t know if I can handle all that, especially when my hormones are going crazy.”

“I know you won’t believe me, but I’ve been around you guys for years. She’s in love with you too; let her help you, sis.” Caroline urged.

Azzi looked up. “But what if you’re wrong, Carol?” Her voice cracked. “It’ll break me; I love her more than anything. I won’t make it if she doesn’t want to stay.”

Caroline didn’t say anything at first. She just picked up one of the extra cupcakes, handed it over, and said, “Eat sugar. Breathe. Everything will fall into place.”

-----------------------------------

The next morning, Paige gets off work, showers, and knocks out. They had six calls over the last 24 hours, and she was exhausted.

On the other side of town, Azzi was waiting on a patient table at Caldwell Fertility.

“Okay, Azzi, you’re going to take Letrozole for the next four days. You might experience some moodiness, headaches, and hot flashes. If you feel like you’re experiencing something out of the normal, go to the emergency room.” Dr. Caldwell stated plainly.

Azzi nodded, cataloging the information in her head.

The doctor droned on. “We will see you back in one week and three days to do an ultrasound to measure the follicle and your uterine lining. If all goes well, you will do your trigger shot the next night, which will be cycle day 12. The next morning, we will inseminate you. You will start progesterone twice daily and test weeks later. Do you have any questions?”

Dr. Caldwell didn’t really give Azzi any time to ask questions. In thirty seconds, she was being ushered to the front to set up her next appointment.

The receptionist gave her a thick notebook. “We’ll see you on Wednesday, July 9 at 10:30. These are the donor profiles. Please make sure your donor is selected by the date of your next appointment.”

Four hours later, Azzi was sitting on the couch, fifty sperm donor profiles spread out around the living room when the front door opened. A tall blonde peeked around the corner, hands toting bags of takeout.

“I brought Hana Hibachi.” She said, raising the bags. “We didn’t really get to finish talking earlier.”

Azzi moved some of the papers off the couch. “Come on. You can help me pick my baby daddy.”

“Woah,” Paige coughed, moving towards the sofa. “I didn’t know you were already that far in the process.”

Azzi picked up the plate that had steak and vegetables, knowing that couldn’t be Paige’s food.

“Yeah, next Wednesday they’re gonna ultrasound me. If everything’s right, I’ll give myself the shot on Thursday night, and they’ll shoot up the club on Friday morning.”

Paige nodded, brows almost touching her hairline. “Okay!” She looked like she was rebooting. “Let’s do it. Have you made any decisions yet?”

“I think I have it narrowed down to ten,” She replied, nodding to the pieces of paper spread out on her coffee table.

“Hmm.” Paige hummed, lowly.

“What?”

“I don’t know, Az.” The tips of her ears reddened. “I just thought…I thought when we had a baby, I’d be more involved.”

Azzi’s breath hitched. “We?”

“You know what I mean,” Paige laughed it off. “Hand me one of those.”

They argue for the next forty five minutes.

“Yeah, he wears glasses, but have you seen toddlers in glasses? They’re so fucking cute!”

“He has a tattoo of his dog, doesn’t seem like he makes the best life choices.”

“And this one has a PhD in astrophysics!”

“Az, he’s 5’4. And you’d probably die if your kid was that much smarter than you.”

“I can’t have a lactose intolerant child, ice cream’s my favorite food, Paige.”

“Yeah, but he has a degree in biochem, his sperm’s probably smart as shit.”

“They can’t have asthma on both sides of the family. The kid’s lungs are gonna be fucked!”

“We can’t have a redheaded baby, Azzi. Can you image your skin tone with red hair?”

After a while, they’d narrowed it down to two.

Donor #53502, or the Golden Retriever as they called him, was a soccer coach with a degree in kinesiology. He was athletic, energetic, and loyal. He was tall, blond, blue eyed, but he had allergies and wore glasses.

Donor #20985, or the Quiet Genius, was going to be a doctor, but he was still in med school. He was also athletic, but he was a thrill seeker. He was soft spoken and gentle. His parents were from India; he had dark hair and eyes.

“I’m thinking the Golden Retriever,” Azzi started. “He just seems right, I guess. What do you think?” She turned to Paige.

Paige read the his profile again and something sour twisted in her gut. He sounded perfect. And completely wrong. He wasn’t her.

Her brows were raised again. “I was thinking the Quiet Genius. He’s quiet; you probably don’t want a child that’s gonna be bouncing off the walls. And he’s really smart, so that can’t hurt.” She paused, “Honestly, I don’t think you can go wrong with either option.”

“Rock, paper, scissors?” Azzi’s fist was already laying on top of her other hand.

Rock and scissors.

“I win,” Azzi said with a grin, leaning her head on Paige’s shoulder. “Thank you, Paige, thank you for everything.”

“Of course, Princess.” She replied, kissing her forehead.

-----------------------------------

The next week passed quickly.

Paige called every morning to make sure Azzi had taken her medicine, apparently, she made a calendar for the month of July and all the fertility-related things.

She went to Azzi’s appointment the afternoon before to make check her uterine lining. Held her hand through all of the discomfort, smile and squeezed her hand when Dr. Caldwell said everything looked great.

“So tonight between 8 and 9, you’ll have to do your trigger shot. You want to aim for an inch or two below your belly button.” Dr. Caldwell said. “Then on Friday morning, you’ll come in a 9 for the insemination.”

“Okay,” Azzi’s voice was high with anxiety. She hated needles. It would definitely be worth it, but she still didn’t want to get a shot.

As they walked out, Azzi’s lips were still turned down.

“Okay, so you’ll come to the firehouse tomorrow night, since I’ll be on shift?” Paige asked, starting her truck.

Azzi turned to her, shocked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I can’t take the rest of the day off; Stewie hardly let me come for the appointment.” She smiled.

Azzi was still confused. “Yeah, I get that. So why am I coming to the station tonight? Are y’all having a dinner or something?”

Paige turned to her, brow raised. “Azzi. You hate getting shots. You’re going to come to the station, and I’ll give it to you.”

Azzi stared at the blonde. The sun was shining behind her head, and she looked exactly like the angel she was.

“You’re the best person I know, P.” She said, cheeks flushed.

Azzi was floaty for the rest of the day. She didn’t even yell at Sarah when she accidentally dropped a tray of cupcakes that she just finished decorating. Not even Carol’s teasing about Paige could bring her mood down.

After the bakery closed and everything was wiped down and mopped, she took the ten-minute walk to the fire station. She smiled, seeing Flau’jae, Anthony, Shai, and Rickea playing basketball out front.

“Bueckers, your girl’s here!” Flau’jae called, as Azzi walked up.

She was met with cool air as she opened the door. “Azzi Ray!” Cam exclaimed. “Come on, I’ll bring you to Paigey.”

“So, have you and Ben finally set a date?” Azzi asked while Cameron dragged her through the firehouse.

“November 22; the Saturday before Thanksgiving. It’ll be cool, but not too cool.” Cam smiled.

The brunette’s smile widened, “I’m so excited for you guys!” She squeezed her friend.

“And here we are!”

Paige was in the weight room doing hammer curls. Azzi giggled. There was a time Paige hated lifting, preferring to play basketball or go running instead.

“I’m here for a shot?” Azzi started. “I prefer vodka or tequila, but I’ll take Pregnyl tonight.”

Paige turned to her beaming. She grabbed the medicine the brunette was holding out to her.

“Let’s go pretty girl.” Paige took her hand, leading her away from the workout space.

They wound up in one of the dorms. Paige dropped to her knees and pushed Azzi’s shirt up. “Hold.”

It wasn’t a request, and Azzi obeyed quickly.

The blonde rolled her leggings down a bit.

She’d held countless needles in her life. On the job, they were just tools.

But tonight?

Her hands shook.

She swallowed, forcing herself to calm down. Azzi was already nervous enough.

She took a deep breath and cleared her mind.

“Okay, I’m gonna wipe and then give the shot. It’s probably gonna burn a little, but remember what you’re getting out of this, okay?” Paige said, looking up at her best friend.

The wipe was cold, and Azzi wasn’t prepared for it.

Paige blew on the spot, drying it.

Azzi’s pulse skittered beneath her skin.

Paige's breath was cool.

Azzi’s hands clenched into fists.

That did irreparable damage to her.

Paige was on her knees.

Paige was looking up through hooded eyes.

Paige blowing just a few inches above her panty line.

Azzi’s thighs clenched involuntarily.

“Okay, on three, alright baby?” Her voice low.

“One. Two.”

“OW!” Azzi gritted through clenched teeth. “You said three!” She whined.

Paige giggled. “It hurts less when you don’t see it coming.”

She bowed her head and whispered into Azzi’s belly.

God, let it work.

Let her be happy.

Let her need me—just enough that I don’t fall apart wanting more.

“Amen.”

A prayer, she was praying.

Tears filled brown eyes.

Caroline was right.

Azzi pulled her shirt back down and stared at the closed dorm door after Paige left.

She wasn’t sure what hurt more — the pinch of the needle or the fact that she wanted to pull Paige back in and ask her to stay. To lie beside her. To press her forehead to her belly again and promise they were a team.

She looked down at her flat stomach, rubbed it softly.

"Please, please work."

[forsaken-headcanons]

I have a ridiculous amount of headcanons for Chance specifically, so here's my list :3 some of these are inspired by canon-ish info, some are completely from my brain cell (who is working very hard)

- can play piano and violin because of his parents, doesn't really care for either. He plays his violin like a fiddle sometimes just to confuse people.

- actually has a surprisingly low alcohol tolerance, gets tipsy quick

- trained himself to handle the taste of whiskey and fireball, but he doesn't actually like them. Prefers sweeter drinks or cocktails.

- makes fantastic mocktails and unhinged drinks (think the guy who makes feral cocktails on TikTok and stirs them with a Philip's head screwdriver)

- has VERY fast reaction time due to playing fast-paced games (spoons)

- SHOCKINGLY good at math, for having half a brain cell to his name. Especially when it comes to probability! He always knows if the odds are in his favor

- lowkey counts and functions in base 13. 13x4=52 and that's just kind of how his brain is wired now. Confuses the HELL out of other survivors by counting using 13 so much.

- VERY superstitious. not in a "666 scary :(" way, but he defo has his superstitions he follows

-> four leaf clover, rabbit's foot, or 777 = luck

-> other triple numbers have meaning to him too, but 777 is HIS special number

-> has never broken a mirror in his life, would have a panic attack if he did

-> doesn't believe in black cats being unlucky, but DOES believe that mistreating them would bring misfortune

-> washes all of his clothes and showers if he had a bad night (wash off the bad luck)

-> lowkey participating in witchy cleansing rituals without being aware of it

- typa guy to call his (romantic) partner his "lucky charm" and either bring them with him or something belonging to them (clothes, trinket, photo, maybe even lipstick marks lmao)

- gets slightly insulted when anyone sees the black fur on his clothes and jokes about black cats being unlucky (it's rabbit fur, not cat fur, but he's still insulted for those innocent kitties)

- is at least sort of aware that his luck is better than normal, so he sometimes gives lucky things he finds (like clovers) to someone he cares about instead of keeping it for himself. He doesn't really need the boost, and he knows it!

- can't cook for shit. His parents had people hired to do all that stuff for them, so when he moved out on his own, he ended up eating basically exclusively takeout, anything he could microwave, or at restaurants.

- favorite foods are snow crab, escargot (im projecting), and the baked cinnamon honey apples his maid used to make when he was a kid. LOVES garlic. Garlic butter, garlic sauce, garlic bread, he loves it.

- a little chubby! Sure, he's a twink, but with a diet like his? He's got a little meat on his bones. He's got a little bit of muscle to his arms too, from handling the recoil of his flintlock.

- got his flintlock from his dad, as his first gun. Refused to switch to a better one once he learned it.

- has very pale eyes, and is extremely light sensitive! Got his sunglasses for this reason, as a gift from his mom.

(Can I claim 🍀 🍋 (Lucky lemon) anon?)

I love these! They fit Chance so well. You made me think Chance was a spoiled rotten when he was a kid, bravo to you!

And of course! It's nice to have uou, 🍀🍋 anon!

[talesfromawannabewriter]

@things-arent-what-they-seem66

Back at the remains of the Hazbin hotel everyone was celebrating as they began to build the hotel again.

Charlie wouldn’t lie when she said she was slightly disappointed in the fact that her father wasn’t here to partake in it but she understood his reaction.

Though he didn’t speak much of Adam when he did she spoke of him so fondly. He said that their time in Eden were among some of his favorite memories.

It was sad almost to know that someone so sweet turned into a cruel bully who enjoyed the tormenting and suffering of others.

She wondered how such a thing could happen. She knew that her parents had an affair under Adam’s nose but there had to be more than that.

She shook herself from those types of thought as she focused back on the task at hand that she was given.

At the end of the day it didn’t really matter. Because Adam was dead and he wasn’t coming back.

As cruel as it was to think about, maybe that was for the best.

The sounds of anguished screams stopped the princess in her tracks. Along with everybody else. Soon the screams were filled in the air as they echoed across the land

They all turned when they recognized where they were coming from.

It was coming from within the city.

Keep you for Myself

inspired by @libby-for-life and @lilacwriter07. Thanks for sharing your vision on a completely psychotic Lucifer obsessed with his human.

@things-arent-what-they-seem66

Lucifer whistled himself a happy tune as he flew down from the Heavens to his most favorite place in all of the cosmos.

The garden of Eden.

But it wasn’t the landscape itself that he was drawn to but rather who resided within there.

Adam

Lucifer’s cherished human. The one who made his heart stop altogether when he saw him for the very first time.

He was so adorable with all that dirt on him as he stared at everything with wonder and curiosity.

When their eyes met for the very first time Lucifer knew that they were meant to be.

If only Adam realized it too.

At first Adam had welcomed his presence and place in his life as a guardian angel and best friend.

They would spend hours and hours keeping the other company as they went about the garden discovering and naming every single thing.

He especially loved watching his human try each new fruit for the first time. His face he made as he bit down into it was just so precious.

He barely left the first man’s side each time he went down to Eden. Not wanting to leave him for even a second.

At first Adam didn’t seem to mind it. But lately he had noticed that Adam had been a little distant.

Not by much but just enough that it caused concern within the angel of music.

Maybe what the apple of his eye needed was a reminder of how much he was loved and cherished by the seraphim.

He had his gift ready to be delivered to him the moment he saw him. Adam loved to sing and make music. He doubt that he wouldn’t fall in love with this.

Lucifer landed on the soft green grass on top of a hill and immediately called out for his human.

Lucifer: Addy! Where are you?

Immediately he went on a search for him. Meanwhile in a cave nearby deep within the confines of the rocky home was none other than the first man himself.

Who upon hearing the voice of the angel grimaced.

[pomefioredove]

Hello!!!

I saw that your requests were open and I just wanted to request something about Riddle! Can I request a reader who kinda doesn't like Riddle and is also academically harsh on themselves after the comment he made about their parents before his overblot. Riddle doesn't know this and eventually confronts them and they just break down about how they feel like they are failing their parents who are immigrants that never got to have a education and how his comment on their parents just made them mad and made them try harder in their studies but they can't seem to understand the material. I'm not sure about how I want this to end but I guess it would not hurt to have them become friends.

I'm mostly requesting them due to the fact I'm hard on myself academically and I'm afraid that even being forced to play assistant principal for a man child and being the only one in the school to say sorry when I bump into someone without having the need to having to fight to the death??? And the fact that Riddle said that about our parents. I apologize but if Ace reacted slower, Riddle would have ended up down to Twisted Wonderland's center of their planet or shot into Jupiter's orbit.

I'm sorry if you can't or won't do this and how chunky this request is. You are one of my favorite writers for twst and reading your stories makes me feel like I'm reading from the Library of Alexandria and the words of a pure poet. Have a good night or day and take care!!!

*is, again, months late* HI I'M HERE I CAN DO THIS!

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ that I will

summary: riddle's comment got to yuu more than he thought type of post: headcanons/fic characters: riddle additional info: romantic or platonic, gender neutral reader, reader is yuu

Riddle was used to the thick skin of Night Raven College students

he could collar them, constrain them, make them work day and night for the goals he knew they could achieve, he could berate them and besides the bellyaching and the words spoken behind his back, it all bounced right off of them

but not you

Riddle had forgotten, or feigned to think, in the moment (which he would never admit to) of your strange position at school

unlike the others, chosen by the Dark Mirror for their cleverness, talent, and confidence, you had happened upon the school by complete accident. you were not even a full student, more of a glorified assistant for the Headmage, who was permitted to take classes for Grim, not for yourself

and that was to say, you did not have the cutthroat attitude of a typical Night Raven College student. you weren't rich, nor powerful, nor did you spend every day of your life studying under the eye of a watchful mother. you didn't even have magic

and so, when he said those fateful words, Riddle had wounded your heart more than Ace had wounded his skin

after his overblot, you made amends, and moved on to more problems beyond the sturdy doors of Heartslabyul, but his words stuck to you like stinging nettle

it was only one night, near the final stretch of the semester, that Riddle had caught you up near four in the morning, massaging your head in one hand and flipping through a thick potionology book in the other

"What in the world..." he murmurs, coming closer to the study desk you sat at.

"It's almost dawn. What are you doing here? And don't lie."

Riddle demanded it as if you were caught in the act of a crime- you did spend much time with Ace and Deuce, after all- what if they had tricked you into stealing or cheating? Perhaps you were doing their homework for them? You had never been late to turn in an assignment.

You look up, eyes wide but dark and dull. How long have you been awake?

"...Studying," you say.

Riddle's expression sours. Just as he thought- Ace had tricked you into doing his homework for him- he would be on dish duty for a week after this.

"For what, may I ask?"

"...For Crewel's exam tomorrow," you say, turning a page although you hadn't read the last. You must be exhausted. "I can't fail it like the last one."

Riddle hmphs. He finds that hard to believe- you're a diligent student, always studying, never caught without a book under your arm or a pen between your lips.

"And by you, I assume you mean Ace Trappola?"

"What?" you ask. "No. I failed the last test. If I keep failing... I won't pass."

Riddle's eyes dart to the textbook on the table. It's an extremely advanced potionology manual, one you wouldn't read until your third year at Night Raven College. Riddle, of course, had mastered it when he was eight.

"I don't see what you'd learn from that," he says. "You would be better off staying on the course that your professors have provided for you."

You hesitate, turning to the open page as if it would answer him for you.

"...I didn't really get it. I thought if I read something more advanced, and I went back to the textbook for the class, I'd understand it more,"

Foolish, for someone of your academic level, but Riddle understands the logic.

"How long have you been reading this?"

"Since... five, I think,"

In the afternoon? Then you've been in the library for... no, that can't be right... thirteen hours?

Riddle stares. He opens his mouth, and then closes it again, struggling for an answer. He can now make out the glow of your cheeks, the glisten of your eyes in the low light- you'd been crying before this. Of frustration, no doubt. An uncomfortable memory of himself comes to mind, the hours he spent just like this- secretly staying up well into the night to better acquaint himself with the material his child mind couldn't yet comprehend, but was expected to nonetheless.

"...It's..." he starts. "...Terribly unhealthy to forgo sleep and meals in favor of studying. Your mind must be sharp and prepared for an exam."

"I'll get some sleep later," you dismiss his worries with a wave.

Riddle lowers his eyes to your pages and pages of notes, nonsensical and near unreadable.

"...Absolutely not," he decides, taking your hand and yanking you up. "You'll rest, and that's final- if I have to chain you to your bed, so be it."

"But-" you start, though you're too tired to resist. He takes you away from the table, out of the library.

"-But you were right,"

Riddle snorts. "I often am. You can't possibly expect to take an exam in this state. Your mind-"

"Not that," you say, softly. "About my parents."

His steps slow, and then stop, and then he lowers his eyes at you again.

"What?"

You look away. "...They would be so disappointed in me. I-I don't understand any of this- any of my classes. I'm failing them. If I had-"

Riddle's eyes had widened in horror at the realization of what you meant. You, the child crying over a book they didn't understand, and he...

"This... is because of me?"

You look at your feet, refusing to meet his eyes. "...Not exactly,"

"This is because of me," he repeats, as a statement this time. "I... I..."

His hand tightens around yours, and he walks faster.

"I was wrong," he mutters. "And a complete fool. To treat you that way. I had no idea what you'd..."

"It's okay," you say.

He scowls. "It's not. You have every right to be mad at me..."

Even though you're not. He knows you're not blaming him, although you really should. Although he deserves it.

He can see that look of confusion and self-hatred on your face. It frustrates him. How could he ever treat you like that? Like how he was-

Riddle cuts that thought short. He hasn't the time to linger on that now.

He takes you inside Ramshackle and into your room, tucking you in despite you still being dressed in your uniform and shoes. No time to worry about that.

"You must sleep," he insists. "If I hear of you sneaking into the library again, I'll have no choice but to report you to the staff. And I really would not like to do that..."

Riddle sighs. He's not very good at this.

"What I... mean to say... is that... you're not a disappointment," he mutters. "Even if you are failing your classes. It says nothing of you. No one who works so hard could be considered a disappointment at anything. Now, come morning, I'll have devised a study plan that will benefit us both. How does that sound?"

You think about that for a moment, cradled in the creaking bed, still tired and delirious, no doubt.

But you nod nonetheless.

"...On one condition,"

Riddle raises an eyebrow. "A condition?" For him?

You certainly are quite different from the other students.

"What is it?"

"...You have to get more sleep, too," you say. "And work a little less."

He startles as if you had bit him, his eyes wide and hands withdrawn to his chest.

...But he's in no position to deny you. Funny as that is.

"...Very well," Riddle agrees. "That I will."

[dinarosie]

hello! As a Snape fan, what do you think of this comment about his home life? It's a part of a larger discussion about Harry's abuse under the Dursleys, someone said there's a double standard with how characters like Sirius and Snape are treated for their past abuse while Harry's is minimized. This is one of the responses and tbh idk what to feel about it.

"Yeah it's weird because people talk about how canonically Snape had an awful abusive childhood, when the canon scenes we have are his dad shouting at his mums while he cowered in a corner, him being dressed in odd clothes and poorly kept (though this is something he maintains throughout his life) and a scene where he says his dad "doesn't like anything much." And often these same people claim Harry didn't have an abusive childhood even though he was beaten, starved and locked in a cupboard. Make it make sense."

Thank you for bringing this up—it's a really important conversation, and I'm happy to address it.

I’ve honestly never seen Snape fans deny the abuse Harry went through. This is not a competition, Unlike some Marauders fans, we don’t need to steal someone else’s backstory to validate our favorite character We’re not here to “steal” Harry’s suffering. But it’s often Snaters who turn the pain and trauma of both Harry and Snape into some kind of contest, asking: “Well, Harry also had a hard life—so why didn’t he turn out like Snape?” That’s when we’re forced to point out the key differences between them.

Another important point: the books are about Harry. There are seven books written for and about him. Everything we know is tied to Harry. Other characters and events are only narrated in relation to his journey. Even the glimpses we get of Tom Riddle’s childhood are because they’re relevant to Harry. That’s why we get such detailed insight into Harry’s childhood pain and trauma.

J.K. Rowling simply can’t—and frankly doesn’t try to—spend the same amount of time exploring the trauma of another character, like Snape. As deep and layered as Snape is, these books are the story of Harry Potter, not Severus Snape. Unless Rowling decides to write another seven books from Snape’s point of view, from childhood to death, we have to accept that what we get are snapshots.

So the author makes do with small but powerful images to convey the reality of abuse. And they’re enough. We are not meant to think young Severus had a bright, cheerful childhood filled with rainbows and unicorns.

As I said, Rowling doesn’t write paragraphs about how Snape’s basic childhood needs weren’t met—instead, she shows it through his thin appearance, his poorly fitted, mismatched clothing. She doesn’t spend entire chapters describing the poverty he endured, but she makes us feel it through the rundown setting of Spinner’s End and his wearing of his mother’s old clothes.

She doesn’t spend chapters exploring Eileen Prince’s background, her toxic marriage, or the domestic violence she and her son faced, nor can she delve into Eileen’s powerlessness, passivity, or possible depression Instead, we get quiet but heavy moments: a broken woman, a screaming man, and a terrified child crying in the shadows.

Likewise, the author can’t extensively explore the tense, neglectful, and harmful relationship Snape’s father inflicted on him, so she embeds it in dialogue—like when Snape tells Lily that his father “doesn’t like anything” (not magic, not his mother, not young Severus). And she conveys it in his body language, such as when he pulls at the grass—subtle but powerful indicators of severe anxiety, shame, and the desperate need to release nervous energy.

And the most important difference? Harry eventually gets to live a normal life. The memories may still haunt him, but he survives. At thirty-eight, Harry is alive, warm, surrounded by friends and the Weasleys, with a loving wife and children, a job he enjoys, and a fortune passed down from his parents. Severus, at thirty-eight, dies in the Shrieking Shack—in the very place where some of his deepest traumas happened. He dies in pain, after years of anxiety, guilt, spying, and isolation. No family. No friends. No love. No life of his own. No chance to recover. No distance from the memories that damaged him.

And to say “Snape can’t have been abused because he dressed weird as an adult, just like as a kid”? That’s one of the most ridiculous takes I’ve ever seen. He lived in survival mode his whole life. And you’re criticizing his fashion choices?

I’m so sorry he didn’t have a childhood stylist. I’m sorry he grew up so deep in poverty and violence that he never learned to care about appearances. I’m sorry that even in adulthood, while dealing with depression, trauma flashbacks, constant fear, and the stress of espionage, he didn’t have time to stroll through Ralph Lauren and figure out what season suits him.

[writingalphabetsoup]

always the bridesmaid, never the bride

katsuki bakugo x reader

cw: angst, gender neutral reader (after the title, reader doesn't use any gendered pronouns), katsuki longing for you but you never noticing, not ending up w katsuki at the end (sigh), lowercase intentional, not proofread !!

480 words

katsuki bakugo never seemed like the marriage type. hell, he never seemed like he had it in him to date and love someone with such intensity and fervor. 

that was, until he met you. 

you and katsuki always got along in a way that no one seemed to understand. your sharp tongue dismantled every remark he made, coming back to bite him tenfold. your quick reflexes blocked every blow, spinning his moves around to make your own. to those who didn’t know any better, it seemed like you two hated each other. 

but those people never saw the katsuki behind closed doors, the katsuki who “begrudgingly” cooked you your favorite meal when you’re sick, the katsuki who was allowed to let his guard down just enough to relax into the plush of your couch cushions during movie night. 

no one saw the way his eyes lingered on your face — too long to be considered platonic, but just short enough to miss it if you blinked. no one saw the way how, when you met his stares, he looked back at whatever he was doing, his steely gaze backing down ever so slightly. 

there were no grand declarations of love, but there were signs. 

your parents saw how you became more alive when he was around. his parents saw how he wasn’t biting your head off but instead was leaning his against yours. everyone who was lucky enough to catch the smallest glimpse of your reality saw how you two were more than just friends. just not you or him.

but that was years ago. now, here you are, and there he is, both at different parts of the aisle. so close, yet so far. 

in the midst of your never ending limbo, your younger sister had her eyes set on katsuki. thanks to you, she saw how soft katsuki’s “rough” edges were. thanks to you, she was able to weasel her way into his life. and thanks to you, she was able to marry the only man you truly felt yourself around. 

but you weren’t about to deprive your little sister of her happiness. you were going to be the bigger person, even if it meant only having katsuki in your life as your brother-in-law. it seemed that some things just weren’t meant to be. 

so you stood there, behind your sister with tears in your eyes as the officiant pronounced them husband and wife. 

you clapped and cheered, wiping your tears away with a smile, missing how he glanced at you one more time before kissing your sister, cementing their marriage. you missed how, before they walked back down the aisle, hand in hand, he gave you the same fleeting glance as the years before. 

you bit your tongue, and you held your breath, and you prayed that this was some cruel dream. 

and it was all for not.

[arlana-likes-to-write]

Kiss Me

Family Masterlist

Summary: Kissing your girlfriend in front of your family wasn't something you never did until you do and you are okay with it.

Based on this request

Warning: none.

These quiet moments at the Avenger Tower were your favorite. The world villains all agreed to give your family a brake. Which you were grateful for. Your heart could only take so many missions away. With the slow day, Kamala asked if you wanted to watch a cricket game with her. You agreed because you loved spending time with her and learning about her culture. Cricket is super popular in Pakistan. You spent a few minutes in the kitchen making snacks and sitting in front of the TV. While the announcers introduced the two teams, Kamala explained the game.

She said it was similar to baseball, as the objective was to score more runs than the opposing team. However, instead of running bases, the hitters run between the wickets. To get the striker out, the bowler (another fancy word for pitcher) can hit the wicket, or, similar to baseball, the ball can be caught. It seemed easy to follow. Mostly, you liked watching Kamala get excited when the team was doing well.

The smell of food and the commotion drew others out. First, it was America. Then Kate and Yelena. Finally, Sam and Bucky. You curled your feet underneath and leaned into the corner of the couch. A book that you were trying to read was opened in your hands, but your attention kept getting brought back to the TV every time someone cheered or shouted at the TV like the players could hear them.

Even though her attention was on the TV, Kamala had her arm on the back of the couch and her hand resting on your shoulder. Every time the team got a little rowdy, she squeezed your shoulder. It was comforting, but you kept smiling to let her know you were okay. You wanted her to enjoy her time.

Suddenly, the watch on your wrist buzzed. You pulled back your sleeve to read the screen. It was a calendar reminder of a therapy session you had in 30 minutes. “Shit,” you mumbled, shoved the bookmark in the spine of the book, and closed it.

“What’s wrong?” Kamala asked.

“Nothing is wrong,” you smiled. “I have a therapy session I forgot about,” you stood up from the couch. “I’ll come find you when I’m done.” You touched her cheek and brought her in for a quick, soft kiss. When you pulled away, Kamala smiled at you with her soft eyes. You giggled and carefully moved out of the way towards Natasha and Wanda’s room. They had a computer set up there, where you felt safe.

They were at Billy and Tommy’s school for a parent-teacher meeting, so you could have the space to yourself. It wasn’t like you minded having your moms listen to your session. Sometimes, it was easier to talk about everything without them hovering.

You sat at the desk and pulled a quilt over your lap. In one of the drawers were some items that made your sessions easier: a few fidget toys, coloring pages, and crayons. Natasha even added some of your favorite snacks. While the video program was loading, you grabbed a chocolate bar.

It wasn’t long until your therapist joined the call. She was an older woman who specialized in PTSD in children. “Hi, Doctor Hayward.”

“Hello,” she smiled. “How are you today?”

“Good,” you smiled back and broke off a chocolate square. “Kamala and I were watching a cricket match. I don’t understand the game, but she enjoys it.” You liked talking about your girlfriend. Dr. Hayward was the first person you told about your feelings. It made it easier to talk to someone who wasn’t a part of the team. “A few others joined, but I had to come here.” You threw away the wrapper. “I-”

The memory hit you like a freight train. The way you stood up and, without a second thought, kissed her in front of everyone. PDA made you uncomfortable. Even when your biological parents kissed, it made you squirm. With everything you’ve been through, it was nearly impossible for you to kiss Kamala in front of others. The closest you’ve done was hold her hand during a movie night. “I kissed her.” Dr. Hayward raised her eyebrows to her hairline.

“I thought you’ve kissed her before.”

“Yes, I mean no, I mean,” you groaned and dropped your head into your hands. Dr. Hayward was patient, which is why you liked her so much. “I kissed her in front of everyone. I don’t do that. Public display of affection freaks me out. But I kissed her in front of the team.”

“And how does that feel?”

“Honesty, it feels great,” you admitted. The usual anxiety you thought you’d feel wasn’t there. If you weren’t in a therapy session, you would kiss her again. Dr. Hayward gave you a reassuring smile and moved on to what she wanted to discuss. Another thing you liked about her, she never made each milestone a big deal. However, your mind wasn’t with it. It kept going back to Kamala. How was she feeling about it all? You couldn’t wait to see her.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Everything turned to white noise when your lips touched hers. Nothing else mattered. It was unfair how easily you made her heart flutter. The smile never left her face while she watched you walk away. Even the cricket game meant nothing to her until a throw pillow hit her in the face. “What was that?” She asked, throwing the pillow back at Yelena. Unfortunately, the blonde caught it.

“I had to make sure your face was not stuck like that,” Yelena said, taking a handful of popcorn from the bowl. Kamala rolled her eyes, huffing as she leaned back on the couch.

“I think her eyes turned into hearts,” America chuckled.

“And I thought Peter and MJ were bad,” Sam added. Kamala tried to focus back on the game. However, the comments kept coming.

“At least we know one way to stun her into silence,” Bucky was next. “All we need to do is have her girlfriend kiss her.” Kamala groaned, throwing her head back. She knew better than to throw a witty comment back at them. It was better to let them get it out of their system.

“Guys,” Kate laughed. “Be nice. They are so cute in their honeymoon phase.” At least it was over, and they focused back on the game. But Yelena moved to sit beside her, putting her arm around Kamala’s shoulders to pull her close.

“Thank you,” the blonde mumbled. Kamala stole a glance at the blonde, but her eyes were on the game. “She is not big on PDA so that was big for her.” Kamala knew that. She had seen you get uncomfortable when your moms kissed in front of you. “She is comfortable because of you.”

“I haven’t done much,” Kamala mumbled. “It’s all her.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

After your therapy session, you felt lighter. You left the room and headed towards the gym, which was where Friday told you Kamala was. She was stretching on a yoga mat. It wasn’t long before she felt your presence. “Hi,” she smiled.

“Hi,” you smiled back. “Can I join you?”

“Always,” you walked over and sat next to her. “How was therapy?” She asked.

“It went well,” you said, holding out your hand, and she slowly took it. I did something before I left, though.” She tried to keep her expression indifferent, but a smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

“You did,” she said slowly. “Are you okay?”

“I am,” you answered. “It felt nice. Felt right.” Now, her smile was more prominent.

“The team teased me about it,” she admitted. You winched. The team was too scared to tease you about your relationship with Kamala. She got the brunt of all it.

“Sorry,” Kamala shook her head.

“I will endure all of their teasing,” she said. “As long as you are still with me at the end of the day.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said. “Kiss me again.” She nodded and leaned forward. The kiss was slow as you savored the feeling of her lips on yours. Your hand went to her cheek to keep her there. Finally, your head rested on her forehead.

There were moments when you were scared of opening your heart to Kamala. You had been hurt so many times. But time and time again, she proved she was in for the long haul, and you loved her for that.

[bringonthevices]

some various madhel headcannons

- mad has three cats: pavo, stefano, and kiri, all named after opera singers. they're slinky and half hairless. she forgets they exist but they're her absolute babies when she remembers them, and her main source of comfort when her career starts to dwindle.

- helen has two cats post-potion: periwinkle and henry (she kept their shelter names) that she treats like gods. she ends up taking care of all five cats once she and mad live together

- mad would bite off her own hand before she admits it but she feels most content curled on the couch with hel and whatever animals they have at the time

- helen is an only child and her parents were lecturing professors, she essentially lived with her grandmother while they traveled and then at home by herself after she got older.

- mad is the baby of four siblings and she's from buttfuck nowhere, arkansas, but she tells everyone she's from chicago. this is all hel, or anyone, knows

- they go through active and inactive phases after faking their deaths.

- when inactive, hel will spend her time doing some kind of archival work while madeline practices various hobbies (she's genuinely good at swordplay now) and they'll travel around to see various world wonders for the 700th time.

- when active, mad acts on smaller stages under a pseudonym (paloma diamond, mainly) and helen ghostwrites / produces and they'll typically settle in a bigger city

- hel and mad only spent 4 years as "close friends" (lesbian situationship) pre-canon but it was more than enough time to form a lifelong love-hate dynamic

- they didn't talk for a year or so after mad moved to LA and Helen didn't follow (mad was very upset that Helen didn't come along, and Hel knew that if she did come she'd just be pushed aside)

- mad almost visited helen at the health spa. she even got flowers but sat in the parking lot instead for an hour and went back home. she did not tell ernest

- hel is the only one who sleeps. mad lays in bed with her for the drama of it all but she spends most of her night half awake. when helen has nightmares (often), mad will run her fingers through hels hair until she calms down again

- mad can sing decent enough, hel is nearly tone deaf, but god knows they'll still end up doing karaoke at 4am

- hel runs a r/madelineashtonsnark reddit like the fucking navy. mad will have her read some of her nastier posts out loud when they're drunk and in the mood to fight

- mad prefers champagne, helen prefers red wine. their favorite foods are potato chips and chocolate, respectively, and they'll absolutely demolish a shitty local fair together

- helen "dies" first so madeline can weep at her funeral. it's very dramatic and hel gets her a fake Oscar statue for it "the only one you'll ever get, mad"

- mad steals helen's sad graphic shirts throughout their entire relationship and jams them all into a back drawer to wear when she misses her

- hel has photobooks of the various places they've been / pets they've had / career moments that are mostly photos of mad. she and mad look over them only when they can't remember where they've been or if they've lived somewhere before

- mad is and always has been staunchly against having kids. another topic to not ask her about and she's not interested in anything even remotely close to mentoring

- hel didn't want kids so much as she thought she had to say she did when she was alive, but she does think the world is better off without people raised by the two of them. she's also not sure how she'd ever start to share mad with someone else

[angstfactory]

Nah, there wasn't any pity for Dante, to learn he had a bad ear. Jesse took it as it was: a matter of fact. "Yeah? Born with it?" Normally, he might not have bothered to ask, but he was curious enough now to want to know. Maybe he should have caught on sooner, but Jesse wasn't normally around others with hearing problems. So to him, all he heard was some kind of accent and way of speech from Dante, that he attributed just to being how the guy spoke. Wasn't any different than he imagined people heard him, when he talked, knowing he likely sounded like some aimless midwestern that couldn't be placed.

"Pretty sure all our thinkin' was bein' done in the crotch," Jesse surmised bluntly, snorting. "Though.." he mused on, as he recalled a heady memory or two from his youth, "I bet those were some of the most genuine promises I'd made." Head dropping back some, he laughed lowly. "Guess I oughta be glad they never tried to cash in on 'em at the time, or else my life now would be real different."

Shit, who even said it would be different in a bad way, either? Maybe he would be settled by now; married, with children. Happy in some weird way he had never allowed himself to imagine before. Yet there was just as much chance, maybe even more so, that he'd have wound up in the same situation as his parents. Yeah, actually, he was glad those girls never cashed in.

While Dante shared the many ways this Spanish word could be used, Jesse reached to take off the black stetson because it wasn't exactly comfortable to have it biting into him while stretched out as they were. "Why's it that, I feel like ya used it in all those contexts towards me tonight," he assumed, with a smirk of his own as he idly tapped the hat against his thigh, considering the times the other mentioned it tonight. Jesse figured he had definitely earned a couple of the ones that called him an asshole, with how he started off the night. Funny how easily things got flipped about, and now here they were, laying in his truck.

When Dante shifted forward and his tone switched up, Jesse got the impression there was some unsaid push there. A quiet challenge of boundary, as the other tested where he might be. Because none of this was all that innocent, was it? There was no mistaking the lean in, the drop in tone, or the drawn-out search of his face and form — these were moves recognized by Jesse, because they'd been done by Jesse. They were things he might say and do when trying to test the limits of someone else's interest in him, to see if they were on the same page of him, and just waiting for the signal. Those signals came in many forms, too, but there was never a way to mistake when the interest wasn't reciprocated. They landed like cold buckets of water.

Point was, he didn't for a second believe Dante was only explaining yet another way his favorite term could be expressed. Dante was capitalizing on the excuse of it, putting a feeler out to test for Jesse's interest. And if Jesse wasn't reciprocal, well they could both sit back and laugh it off, as oh, no, I was just sayin'. It might very well have been the first time he felt he was accurately clocking signals, from another man.

The CD was still going, and ironically enough, it was on All Revved Up With No Place to Go. Specially, the part about someone having to draw first, draw first blood.

A short chuckle came out, that may have been from surprise and definitely some nerves. He didn't typically find himself in these kinds of situations. Felix had essentially been Jesse's one major foray into that side of him, and that'd been years ago now. Didn't mean his attraction to some other men had gone anywhere, though. Dante was dramatically different to Felix, however. Felix had been a shy, blushing, babbling mess of nerves anytime Jesse stood too close, and those signals had been so obvious, he had known what to do with them.

Dante? Well, he wasn't any blushing or shy person. He had just as much grasp of himself as lead as Jesse figured he himself did.

Just go for it. The decision was abrupt, and perhaps brought on by the other man easing back in some space between them. Jesse chased it away with an incline forward, deciding to step outside his comfort zone, and sought to kiss Dante's grinning face.

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ His brow furrowed at the other, like Jesse had been missing something obvious. “Yeah. I got a bad ear.” That’s what being a fuckin’ dumbass does to a guy. He looked away then, out toward the flickering shadows cast by the movie screen. He didn’t want to see Jesse’s face just in case there was pity in it. Dante didn’t think there would be, Jesse didn’t seem the type, but if there was, it’d piss him off, and he was too damn comfortable right now to let himself get riled again.

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The moment passed, easy as breath, and at the mention of desperate promises, Dante laughed, sharp and boyish. “Can’t argue with that. Shit, I probably said a lotta things just to get into someone’s pants back in the day.” He leaned back on one arm, the other drumming lazily against the truck bed, smile tilted like a crescent moon. “Don’t mean I didn’t believe ‘em, at the time. Just… maybe didn’t think ‘em all the way through.”

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He glanced sideways, back at the screen, before he answered. What’s cabrón mean?  When his eyes flicked back toward Jesse, he had a blank expression on his face, but his eyes twinkled with mischief. “I sure am.” He let that sit there for a second, long enough for it to sound like he might’ve meant it, but he started laughing again. “Means a lotta things,” he said, lifting a hand like he was listing options off his fingers. “Depends on who’s sayin’ it. Could mean you’re a badass. Or an asshole. Or a pain-in-the-ass. You could say, uh, eres un cabrón, pero te quiero. Said that to my cousin a lot. Means you’re a pain in the ass, but I love ‘ya.”

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Dante smiled faintly at the memory, then glanced at Jesse again. “Or you could say ‘pinche cabrón,’ like, ‘fuckin’ asshole.’ Tone’s real important, y’know?” He made a face, mock scowl, furrowed brow, then immediately flipped it into a grin. “Same word, different vibe.”

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Then he shifted suddenly, leaning in like he was about to tell a secret. Their faces were only inches apart now, and his voice dropped, half teasing, half daring.

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Or,” he said, eyes glinting, “if you’re lookin’ to score, you might say…” His smirk deepened, and he gave Jesse a once-over that was all in good fun.

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Aye, you lookin’ real smug there, cabroncito.”

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The word came out like a slow curl of smoke, soft on the edges. He snickered after he said it, pulling back a little but still close enough that the warmth between them hadn’t disappeared. “See? All in the delivery.” He was grinning now, pleased with himself, the tail end of a giggle caught in his throat - but he braced himself for the smack he was sure was coming.

[annabelle-creart]

New Trolhunters Au

Not necessarily nothing new.....

Just had a weird dream and wanted to make all more dramatic................

...nothing new, actually, just.... drama- more under the cut- let me explain- I promise it has sense- please read it:

It all started in a dream, and then I made everything weird-

Jim Lake is a shy, clumsy and down-to-Earth boy, he has no idea what he will do after school but refuses to be doctor because he can't stand seeing people die like what happened with his father... oh, yes, his father, James Lake Senior, didn't abandoned them when Jim was five, instead, he died of sickness when Jim was 11, and it was shit, Jim had been sacrificing his own childhood making chores and taking care of her mother so she can work and take care of James, and yet all was in vain because he died and since then he's barely counting it as he survives having just one friend, Toby. Also, he likes Claire since he was a little kid because she gifted him her doll because his toy broke and since then he appreciates her and likes her

Toby, compared to Jim, is quite popular, charismatic, social and smart enough to make conversation, easily conquered Darcy Scott and managed to make her father like him, he's the coolest guy around, but if you ask him, definitely he will say his best friend in the world is Jim Lake Jr. Who is right here- he vanished... Jim doesn't like attention or crowds. Also, both Toby's parents are alive but they travel all time and Toby doesn't like them for not paying him the slightest of attention, instead, he sees Nanny and Barbara as his true moms

Claire Maria Nuñez, apathetic, against government, vegetarian and emo, the worst combination for a conservative white mexican family in Arcadia Oaks, his father works all day and her mother is councilwoman and when they're home, they're taking care of her baby brother, Enrique, and she HATES HIM- DAMN BABY DOESN'T SHUT UP! She definitely prefers NotEnrique the changeling, but yet she fights to get her baby brother back home because, well, is a baby in another dimension. She plays the guitar and loves acting

And All was normal... until it wasn't

Jim and Toby found a weird glowing clock-like thing, they kept it to see more of it, Toby goes to say hi to Darcy and everyone else on the way and Jim is left alone by accident with Steve, he vanishes quickly thanks to Eli and goes to class

The history teacher, Walter Strickler, is giving his classes as usual, he asks Jim something but says anything by pure awkwardness, yet, Strickler uses his wrong answer to make a plot-twist to make it the right answer (mostly because he knows Jim knows the correct answer), he really likes the kid, he's sweet, and he only needs someone to take care of him. Jim and Toby go

Walter Strickler, a history teacher that everyone sees common and normal but in reality is a changeling that barely keeps his life on place, he tries to conquer the world for the Janus Order at the same time he takes breakfast and signs his student's exams, that man haven't got more than one fucking hour of sleep and less than three cups of double coffee both in morning and in nights since his husband died... and that was like 5 or 7 years ago, he can't even keep a track of time properly. Also, because it's cheaper, he lives with his best friend in the world since they were whelps and favorite side-kick Nomura

Zelda Nomura, an art curator that works for Arcadia's museum so she can receive all gumn gumn artifacts, yes, she's a changeling too, she lives with Strickler since she divorced with a man that didn't even like her, because it's cheaper and because she doesn't trust in the man anymore to be alone by it's own, Strickler is a disaster and she knows it. She's smart, clever and careful of everything but also enough charismatic to do anything by herself, she's also even a better fighter than Strickler

Later, Jim and Toby at Jim's house were playing video games when a pair of silhouettes got in the house when Barbara was out for work, they discovered two trolls stealing the amulet they had discovered before, and by pure instinct, Jim activates the amulet, which doesn't have sense because 1) Jim is human, and 2) The amulet never called his name before

Blinkous Galadrigal, a scholar and a trollhunter trainer, he's a nice guy in general despite his only current priority in the world is making the trollhunter able of living another day and protect him, he's not the best of warrior but is really smart, has knowledge about almost all trolls know and even what they shouldn't know, he was better in everything than his older brother Dictatous but that's another story, right now he's trying to keep himself from falling apart because just this morning he saw the love of his life die and now has to train a human kid... a very traumatized one, while also trying to deal with his step-son (which he does poorly)

Also, we have Arghamount, yes, Arghamount, not AARRRGH!!!, Arghamount, he was a krubera captain in a big city under the surface centuries ago (he lived in that city since a whelp because his kind had to ran away because of their last's queen treachery), unfortunately, they were attacked with no warning by the more powerful gumn gumn army of the time, commanded by Gunmar the Black, fortunately, he, his family and a group of survivors made their way away from war, finding Glastonbury Tor Trollmarket and living there since then, then things happened and all had to go to the new world and here we are

On the other hand, Claire only wanted to be Hamlet, but instead Miss Janet choose this unflavored, scaredy kid, Jim Lake, so, she starts making little jokes to him to make his life impossible during essays, so, Claire can be Hamlet, none of them work, but he still misses the essays and Claire manages to become Hamlet and Jim passes to be a secondary character, until Jim finds Claire in trouble and tries to save her and something of something does and doesn't and she finds out this shit of changelings is serious and here we are, now she's part of the team and Toby doesn't like her because she's unbearable on his eyes

Also! before all the trouble with Claire, obviously, Jim finds out he has to kill this idiot named Bular the Butcher, but idiot just because the team don't like him, he's actually very much smart than he appears, most of the plans are made by him, he's just too egotistical to actually step where Jim loves most... until he finds Strickler likes the kid... but that's another story! Bular is also the gumn gumn prince...

On the other hand! Jim is also fucked up in Trollmarket because Vendel, the elder of the town, doesn't like the kid, also, there's this weird krubera queen that is from the "last krubera tribe that survived Gunmar" but that's shit, she sold her own species in chance to survive but that's a little secret for another time and she happens time later after Vender, also we have Draal, Ngora, Vernonia, Dictatous, Angor Rot, Merlin, Gunmar, Morgana and blablabla, let me resume

Draal is an idiot who wanted the amulet and thought it was for him but instead the amulet "chose" a human kid and he doesn't like that, he's a brute at best and both egotistical and driven by anger, nonetheless, he later starts to treat right this kid because, well, he saved his life on battle. Also, he still has beef with Blinky for having something with his father, Kanjigar (man has more daddy issues than Bular)

Also we have Ngora, Arghamount's wife and healer of Heartstone Trollmarket, she does a bit of everything and is pretty smart, but hates violence at best and prefers staying away from trollhunter's manners, she's most a domestic troll, but life isn't easy and she will not let her husband go to battle at his age, not alone at least

Vernonia is traveler merchant who sometimes comes and visits and brings interesting items for the team to use, she's also adventurous and courageous, also a skilled warrior, she's also Arghamount and Ngora's daughter

Dictatous, always the black sheep of the family, now the damn wolf, he's egotistical at beast and preferred to be Gunmar's second hand in chance of surviving being kidnapped to the darklands, also driven by jealousy for his younger brother, Blinky

Angor Rot, an assassin controlled by a magical ring Strickler has, he went in search for power because his village was destroyed by Gunmar and instead, he found an evil witch who used him to hunt trollhunters, because, Gunmar was in almost all places by this point and the trollhunters had to travel a lot, finding their paths crossed with this hell of a troll. Also, he's Ngora's older brother, and yes, he knows Arghamount, Angor was at their wedding day

Merlin-

Morgana is the evil witch, yes, she's mistress of evil and only does things to fuck up the world because... yes

Gunmar the Black, a damn giant troll born from destruction and made to MAKE destruction, he will bury down your village in ashes because... yes

Merlin is-

Merlin: This is not okay

Jim: sorry?

Vernonia: eh, are you okay, old man?

Blinky: Ah- Great Merlin, what is wrong-?

Merlin: all this is wrong

Toby: ...what's wrong?

Claire: I think he's senile or something

Merlin: no no no- this is not supposed to be like this!

Draal: I don't understand

Merlin: You are not supposed to exist!

Vernonia: excuse me?

Merlin: you are not supposed to be with them

Angor Rot: yep, he's senile

Merlin: You are suppose to be dead!

Draal: what?!

Toby: dude, what's your problem?!

Arghamount: how you dare-!

Jim: WOW WOW WOW! I this this is just a simple misunderstanding! Ah, Merlin, right? I'm Jim, the trollhunter! You're amulet chose me, hehe

Merlin: yes, that was supposed to happen... when did it call you?

Jim: sorry? Oh! Well, we think that because I am a human, the amulet didn't call my name exactly, but, it lets me wear it, so-

Merlin: no... it had to call you

Jim: ah... but it didn't...

Merlin: ...this is not okay

[landprince]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66178309/chapters/170571799

Fandom: Kingdom Hearts Characters: Sora, Riku, Kairi Rating: E Pairing: Sora/Riku Words: 2,472 Tags: stalking, obsessive behavior, kidnapping, alternate universe- modern setting, stalker!riku, toxic soriku hours, listen as a bitch with BPD and who's had a 'favorite person' before and done Questionable Things, I'm going to base Riku's behavior off that time in my life, I'm not saying Riku has BPD but I'm using my own obsessive behavior past as reference for this fic Summary:Two years ago a tragic car crash happened that killed Sora's parents and forced him into a year long coma. Miraculously, he survived it all and came out of it largely unscathed and trying his best to return to normalcy. During the time Sora was in a coma, Riku started recording everything as a documentary for Sora to see---be it what he missed out on or lectures for school to keep up his grades---but recently Riku's recordings of Sora have gotten more… obsessive.

"Do you guys ever feel like you're being… watched?"

"What do you mean?"

Sora sighed, leaning back in his desk, and folding his arms tightly over his chest.

"I don't really know how to explain it," he said slowly, "but lately there seems to be this constant feeling of eyes on me. Whenever I'm out alone, it feels like someone else is there. I feel like I have to constantly look over my shoulder."

"It's probably your imagination," Riku mumbled distractedly. He was too busy reading over his notes for his next class to pay much attention to Sora and Kairi's conversation. "I've told you before: you can't handle scary movies, so stop trying to watch them."

"I didn't watch a movie!" Sora defended, the legs of his desk chair scraping with the force of his abrupt response as he rocked forward to shove at Riku. The older boy didn't so much as budge as he was pushed against, but the corner of his lips twisted in amusement at the try.

"Don't dismiss Sora so casually, Riku," Kairi admonished as she started packing away her finished lunch. "So, you think you're being, what? Stalked?"