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darkbluekies · 2 days ago

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Make things right? Or make them worse? — part 2

Part 1

Yandere!doctor husband (platonic to his children) x twin daughters ocs x female!reader

Summary: the aftermath of drugging Lydia puts Nadia in a tight situation where she has to give up her own pride to save her sister

Warnings: toxic household, yandere, guilt, poison, throwing up, (things along this way, basically the same as part 1)

Word count: 4.7k

It’s in silence that she whisks the milk in the pot, but she's barely aware she's doing it. She pours some cocoa and sugar into it, continuing to whisk mindlessly. She can hear him move behind her, cleaning up after dinner. Doesn't give him attention.

Nadia pours the hot cocoa into a white mug and places it to the side before washing the pot and whisk. In the same silence, she takes the mug and leaves the kitchen. She’s careful as she walks up the stairs, trying her best to not spill.

She knocks softly in a pattern of two-two—a simple code she and her twin sister Lydia have come up with to let each other know that they are the ones wanting to visit … and not someone else. Nadia opens the door slowly. Her sister is lying in her bed, looking too similar to their mother, you. It hurts her in a way she can’t explain. It's as if she sees herself lay there, because in a way she does.

“Here you go”, Nadia says quietly and sits down on the side of the bed, giving Lydia the warm cup. “Careful, don’t drop it. It’s very hot.”

Lydia scoffs and she knows what she’s thinking—I’m not helpless—which makes Nadia smile. Don’t lose that, Lyd.

“Is it good?” she asks when Lydia is putting the mug against her colorless lips.

“You put too much sugar”, Lydia whispers and smiles carefully. “Thank you.”

“Don’t let him know.”

Him. She doesn’t even call him dad anymore.

“I’ve been lonely today, even more than usual”, Lydia whispers and places the mug on the bedside table. “It’s so excruciating being alone. I miss you so much. I miss school. I miss everything.”

The tears running down her twin sisters face make Nadia tear up too. She wipes Lydia's tears with trembling hands and sniffles. Lydia doesn't speak much anymore. Not like she used to.

“I know”, Nadia whispers, caressing her cheeks.

She wants nothing more than for Lydia to come back to school. Just to see Lydia anywhere else than in her bed would be a blessing. But her washed out skin, her dull eyes and weak voice makes it seem like an impossibility. Nadia would look like that too. She can see herself in her sister’s appearance.

“What day is it?” Lydia asks quietly.

“Thursday”, Nadia replies and clears her throat, feeling a rip from the inside.

Lydia smiles sadly and sniffles. Tears run down her face.

“Gym class”, she whispers longingly. “I loved that.”

Nadia sniffles, voice giving up. “I know.”

Her smile falters. “I miss it all so much.”

Nadia’s entire body twitches with sobs. “I know. I miss you too. People ask for you a-and I don’t know what to say.”

She hasn’t told Lydia that she doesn’t hang out with their friends anymore. She can’t. Not when Lydia isn’t there. She can’t bring herself to enjoy herself as long as Lydia’s here. She hugs her sister and cries into her hair. Lydia hugs her back. They cry together, sobbing in each other's arms.

Lydia pulls away first, wiping her tears and her hair out of her face.

“Crying doesn’t make it better”, she mumbles and clears her throat.

Nadia stares at her with empty eyes. Lydia picks up the mug and takes a few mouthfuls.

“Can you sleep here?” she asks quietly.

Nadia nods without thinking. She has been spending quite a few nights in her sister’s bed after what happened. Lydia doesn’t want to sleep alone, scared that she won’t wake up again. She dreads to think about what would have happened if Nadia hadn’t been in her bed that night when she got poisoned for the first time. Their father wouldn’t have known and wouldn’t have taken her to the hospital. She would have died that night.

Lydia wakes up when Nadia gets out of bed the following morning.

“I’m sorry”, Nadia says. “Go back to sleep again.”

“Sleeping is all I do”, Lydia mumbles tiredly and pulls away the covers. “I can sleep later, I have all the time in the world.”

Pretending to have a real morning routine has helped her with the everlasting feeling of dread. It doesn’t take it all away, but for a few minutes she can pretend that nothing is wrong.

Nadia helps her downstairs to the kitchen by the arm. Lydia sits down by the table and yawns while Nadia boils water and oats.

“Do you want tea?” Nadia asks.

“Yes please”, Lydia answers.

Nadia moves swiftly through the kitchen, cutting bananas, boiling water, making porridge and filling glasses with water. Sitting together at the breakfast table is one of the few normal activities they have together. None of them say anything, morning being their only time to catch their breaths.

They hear sounds from upstairs. The two of them give side eyes towards the stairs, seeing him walk down. He walks straight over to the coffee machine. The twins can feel themselves lose their appetite.

“I don’t want you to leave”, Lydia mumbles when Nadia puts her plate in the dishwasher, when they're alone again.

Nadia shivers. Lydia shouldn’t sound so small, that’s not who Lydia is.

“If I stay home he might change his mind”, Nadia mumbles, voice dry. “He might start to think it's better if I'm home. I don't want to push his thoughts in that direction.”

“What do we do?”

“I'll come up with something. You need to focus on resting. Don't eat anything that I haven't given you, remember?”

Lydia nods. She hasn't. Every time he has come with food, she has refused to eat, scared that he will have spiked it again.

Nadia helps Lydia back upstairs and goes back to her own room to get ready for the day. Putting on clothes, brushing her hair and teeth and makeup—but not even all The makeup in the world could cover up the dark circles under her eyes, the foggy look in her eyes and the destroyed lip she has chewed on. Nothing could cover the absolute emptiness on her face.

She walks out to the white car with Dr Kry. None of them say anything. She gets into the backseat and puts in her headphones. The music drowns out the sound of the car, of his breathing. For a few minutes she can pretend that he's dead.

The car stops outside the school.

“Three sharp, got it?” he says over his shoulder.

“Sure”, Nadia answers, holding her breath as she opens the door.

“Nadia.”

She stops dead in her tracks.

“Since it's friday”, he starts, “why don't we swing by the store on the way home and you can buy yourself and Lydia some snacks?”

“Why?”

“You both have had it rough lately.”

You don't say.

“What about mom?” she questions coldly. “What will she get? Popcorn?”

Dr Kry gives her a quick look in the rear view mirror.

“Fine”, Nadia says. “Let's stop by the store. I'm sure Lydia would love to eat anything that she knows you can not have spiked.”

With that said, she leaves the car, carelessly closing the door behind her. She swings the black backpack over one shoulder. Doesn't look back until she steps into the school. One more day.

Lydia lies in bed, the silence eating her alive. She decides to get her laptop and watch a movie to pass the time, but she can swear that she has watched every movie there is. She had started with the good ones, then when they were done she gave in and watched the okay ones … and when they were done she caved in to watch the bad ones. But when the bad ones finish, what more is there?

She's aware of your presence in the house. Despite the silence it's clear that you are home. She thinks back of how Nadia had tried to run away with you. How brave she had been. Lydia would never dare.

Thank God it's me who's damaged. Nadia still has a chance. I'd never be able to do anything if the roles were reversed. I'd be completely useless.

Lydia climbs out of bed in silence, slowly dragging herself over to the door, out into the corridor and over to your door. You seem surprised to see her standing in the door frame.

“Mom …”, Lydia whispers, feeling tears build in her throat.

She pulls herself over to the bed, slumping down in your arms. Crying. She can't remember the last time she cried in your arms. She stopped after her father told her that tears never solved anything, it only clogged up the mind and made it harder to find a solution to the problem. But now that she's here, wrapped in your embrace, she feels like a little child again, before everything.

“I’m sorry”, Lydia says after a while.

“What for?” you ask, wiping her tears.

“We never should have tried to find the truth. We should have never gone to his office to look for clues. We should have forgotten about it.”

“Why are you apologizing to me, sweetheart?”

“Because I know you wanted more of us. I didn’t understand why before … but now … I understand why you wanted us to be able to live our lives. I … I don’t want to live like this.”

“I know, sweetheart … I wish I could try to help you.”

Lydia shoots you a quick, harsh look. “Then why don’t you? Why do you allow this?”

“Lydia, I—”

“You let him. You lay here, holding me and telling me that you wish that you could help me, but if you really wanted to, you would. Wouldn’t you?”

You look at her with such sad eyes that Lydia almost apologizes, but the fury takes over her limp body, controlling her.

“It doesn’t matter what I say, Lydia”, you say sadly, trying to meet her eyes which she instinctively turns another way. “I’ve tried—trust me—I’ve tried. For years, I've tried, when I still had some of the strength I used to have left in me. I never agreed to this. cursed at him when I found out. But what can I do?”

“Why do you defend him …?”

You lower your eyes.

“I suppose that you still have the folder you read out of … in the hospital. The yellow one. If you read that, you’ll see that I’ve never had any control when it comes to your father. It pained me to fight back. Everytime I did, he pulled me back twice as hard. I don’t have the strength left, I’m sorry, Lydia.” You quieten down before opening your mouth again. “But your sister does.”

Nadia.

Lydia’s stomach twists at the thought of her. How she has been taking care of Lydia since it all started, how she tried to save everyone. How everything was for nothing. Lydia knows very well what Nadia needs to do to make it all go away, but she can’t tell her, because she knows that she will do it right away and she can’t let that happen.

Nadia walks through the aisle with the red basket hanging over her arm. Her eyes wander over the shelves, looking for something to grab, but nothing is appetizing. The nausea, the lack of hunger, has been following her since the first day she was forced to go to school alone. She has had to stop attending football practice because neither her head nor her body were fit for playing. She has been sent to the nurses office more times than she can count, just because of her drastic change. And she has always had to lie. Why? she thinks. Why does she have to lie to cover up his deeds? Shouldn’t she tell everyone?

But the thought always hits her like a slap, making her embarrassed. She can’t. His threats have been clear. She will never see her sister or mother again, and to Nadia, that punishment is worse than what her sister and mother is going through.

“Can I help you?”

Nadia is pulled out of her thoughts, blinking. A shops assistant stands beside her, smiling as if getting her a carton of milk will solve all her problems. If only it was that easy, Nadia thought and sighed, shaking her head.

“No, thank you”, she replies and grabs a random bag of chips.

She walks down the aisle, over to the bulk confectionary. She picks up a paper bag and starts filling it with candy she knows Lydia likes. Sour gummies, licorice. She picks a few careless chocolate bites for herself, but makes sure to include all of Lydia's favorites.

She pays for it and walks out, throwing herself in the backseat. Staying silent the entire way home. She walks straight up to Lydia's room the second the car stops outside the white villa. Lydia is sleeping. Nadia places the grocery bag on the nightstand and shakes her sister softly.

“Wake up”, she says.

Lydia squirms slightly, opening her heavy eyes. She pulls herself up so that her back is resting against a propped up pillow.

“Look what I got you”, Nadia says and places the plastic bag in her sister’s stomach.

Lydia's hands dig through the bag, smiling slightly at the snacks.

“How did you sneak this behind him?” she asks.

“I didn't. It was his idea.”

“Everyone is losing their minds.”

Nadia opens the bag of chips and grimaces. She turns The bag around, inspecting what monstrosity she accidentally took. Salt and vinegar. She gags.

“Oh, come on”, Lydia smiles weakly. “They're not that bad.”

“I don't know whose taste buds you inherited because those are atrocious.”

Lydia breaks out into a familiar smile, one that makes Nadia’s heart break. She wants to restore that smile. Wants to restore all of her.

“I'm so sorry, Lydia”, Nadia sighs. “Everytime I look at you I can't stop thinking how stupid I was. If I hadn't blurted out that stupid thing about what I heard mom and dad talk about you wouldn't be here.”

Lydia scoffs. “If I blamed you, you'd already know that. Besides, I could have said no to looking through his office. It's my fault too. I'd rather take this than live in his delusion.”

“But you'll die, Lyd …”

Lydia's eyes twitch. She swallows. “Okay.”

“No, not fucking okay”, Nadia says grabbing her hand. “I know you're just saying that to end the conversation, but do you think I'll just sit here and be like ‘oh yeah, my twin is dying because our sick father is poisoning her’, or something? Really, Lydia?”

Lydia knows what Nadia has to do to make it stop. She has to crawl down on her knees and humiliate herself. Show him that he has full control over her. For the moment, he's cooperating, seeing the angry spark in Nadia’s eyes, the one refusing to give up. Knowing that she's still searching for a solution. She needs to show that her will to fight has died, by begging, pleading.

Lydia knows, because they're the same. A spitting image of the man she used to love more than anyone. And that's why Lydia can't allow It. She knows what it'll do to his ego. And it disgusts her.

“What do you want me to do, then?” Lydia sighs.

Nadia groans. “I don't know.”

Lydia picks up the bag with candy. “You could at least have chosen more candy for yourself.”

“Why? I'm nauseous. If I eat I'll just throw up and that's a waste of money.”

“And you forgot that I don't have an appetite anymore, but I'll eat it. I'll take the chance to eat candy, even if I don't feel like it … just to piss him off.”

Nadia smiles slightly, sorrowfully.

“I talked to mom today”, Lydia says after a while.

“You did?” Nadia asks, almost feeling surprised.

“Yeah … and … I don't know but she's making me angry. Why does she let all of this just … happen?”

“She doesn't. Not intentionally, anyways. She's hurt too. Imagine how long he's been doing this to her. You feel weak, imagine how she must feel.”

“She should have protected us better.”

“How? She's bed bound. Have you ever seen her walk more than a few meters? Without dad holding her?”

Lydia shakes her head in defeat.

“Trust me, Lydia, if she could she would have”, Nadia says quietly. She cups her sister’s cheeks. “I will find a way to help you … and mom. Somehow.”

Lydia doesn’t answer, but she subconsciously leans into Nadia’s touch.

Nadia sits with Lydia all evening, watching nonsense movies until she falls asleep. She falls asleep on her shoulder, something she normally wouldn't do. Nadia isn’t the most touchy, but her sister is even less, almost seems to be allergic to it. The only one she touches is her sister, but more for practical reasons than comfort. Nadia realises that this can’t go on. She doesn’t like who Lydia is becoming.

Carefully, she removes her from her shoulder and lays her head down on her pillow. Nadia leaves the room in silence. She makes sure to step on the right floor planks. Her legs feel heavy as she walks down the stairs. He’s in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. She’s left standing at the foot of the stairs, staring at his back as he moves around. Something painful erupts in her. The little girl in her wanted nothing more than to throw herself in his arms, like she did when she had gotten a scrub when she learned to ride a bicycle. Wanted him to hold her and whisper comforting words in her ear. Something in her wants to forget what he has done and pretend that it hadn’t happened. Live blissfully unaware. But when she looks at him, all she can see is the monster who has hurt her mother and her sister, and she mourns the father she used to have. Even though they were the same person, all along.

She knows that she shouldn't do this. Shouldn't give up, give in, but if that's what it takes ..

He flinches slightly as he turns around, eyes catching her.

“Nadia?” he asks. “Are you okay?”

She haven’t even noticed the tears blurring her vision. She took a weak step forward, almost stumbling. Dr Kry took a step forward himself, as if ready to catch her, but the space between them felt unimaginably large.

“Please”, Nadia croaked with a voice way too thick to be hers. “Please, dad, I can’t do this anymore.”

“Nadia …”

“I’ll do whatever you want, just please make her well. Stop doing whatever you’re doing to her. I can’t watch her like this anymore. I can’t watch her wither away.”

The tears are flowing freely down her cheeks and she doesn’t bother to wipe them. Her limbs feel lifeless.

“You’ll kill her if you keep this up”, Nadia sobs. “It’s not fair! Not to her, not to me and not to mom. You’ve said it yourself that Lydia is bright and will go far … you’ll never see that if you kill her. I can't live without her. So please, dad, I beg you. Please, please, make her well again.”

She stands there, falling apart, as he watches her with an unreadable look in his eyes, before he sighs and closes the space between them. He gently wraps his arms around her trembling frame, bringing her closer.

“Okay”, he says softly. “Okay, okay, I will.”

Nadia gasps and pulls back. She searches his blue eyes for signs of lies, but they’re as stoic as ever.

“Will you?” she breathes out. “Will you really?”

“If you do something back”, Dr Kry says.

Her heart stops. “What?”

“I will make Lydia well. Only Lydia. And you will behave. No more acting dumb, trying to catch attention from people. You will continue the way you’ve been doing—as if nothing has happened. Is that clear? If you even try anything stupid, you will join your sister and mother. I don’t want to do that, but I will not ruin my family.”

Nadia nods quickly. That's better than his last threat. Lydia has to get well first, then she’ll decide what she’ll do.

“I don’t want to hurt either of you”, Dr Kry admits gently. “I want to see the two of you together. Get some sleep now.”

He gives her a gentle pat on the back towards the stairs. Nadia pulls herself up the stairs and ends up between the door to Lydia’s room and her parents’. She walks into your room. You’re reading.

“Mom.”

You put down the book, eyes widening slightly as you see her.

“Nadia, what’s wrong?” you ask and hold out your hand.

Nadia takes it, sniffling. She sits down on the side of the bed, smiling slightly through the tears.

“I did it”, she whispers and tries to sound happy, but her voice trembles with guilt. “He will heal Lydia.”

Your face relaxes in relief.

“I’m so happy, Nadia”, you say.

“But not you”, Nadia continues, as if she didn’t hear you. “You’re still ...” She can't finish the sentence.

“It’s okay. I rather want you and Lydia to be well.”

“But you don’t deserve this either …”

“I know … but don’t think about that. Make sure to be there for Lydia now. I’ll be okay, Nadia.”

She doesn’t let go of your hand.

“I wish both of you—”

“Nadia, I’ll be fine”, you reassure her and lower your voice. “When Lydia is well enough, I want you to take her and leave. You’re smart girls, you will be fine.”

“But …”

“Even if I was healed, I don’t think I can go back to a normal life. My body will never go back to what it once was and I’ll still be in and out of the hospital. I’d rather stay here in my bed where I’m familiar. But Lydia will be able to go back to her normal self. She deserves to start over. I want you to make sure that the two of you are safe and that you can do what you want to do. Can you do that for me, Nadia?”

Nadia blinks away tears before she nods carefully. You smile softly.

“Thank you, sweetheart”, you say.

Nadia lets go of your hand and returns into Lydia’s room. The older twin wakes up when she sits down, sleepily looking up at her.

“Why are you crying?” she mumbles.

“I’ve done something”, Nadia whispers.

“Something bad?”

“He’s going to heal you.”

Lydia freezes.

She did it. I knew she would.

“Nadia, please tell me you’re joking …”, Lydia breathes out. “You did not beg him.”

“I did.”

“Nadia, that’s exactly what he wanted—”

“I know, but I couldn’t watch you wither away anymore! I want you healed. I want you back.”

“I did not ask you to humiliate yourself for me, Nad!”

“I would much rather humiliate myself and throw all my morals and principles to the side, just to save you. Fuck all that. I can’t be alone anymore. I can’t watch you hurt. I can’t watch you throw your entire life away.”

Lydia’s shoulders sink. The anger in her eyes die out.

“I know that he wanted me to give up my pride and beg”, Nadia sighs and smiles sheepishly. “And I wouldn’t do it for anyone else. I can be a complete fool just to make sure you’re safe.”

“You’re so stupid, Nad”, Lydia says, but doesn’t sound mad anymore. “But thank you.”

Nadia smiles slightly.

It takes a week of no poison to get a quarter of Lydia’s strength back, but she insists on going to school anyway. It feels weird to do a morning routine together again, one that ends in both of them stepping outside the house. Lydia sits down in the backseat with Nadia, without a word. She clutches her black backpack tightly, eyes down on her shoes. Nadia doesn't say anything. Dr Kry glances at Lydia in the rear view mirror. There’s something off about her. She’s paler, almost a gray undertone. Her eyes are still sickly glassy.

The white car stops outside the school gates and Nadia gets out, waiting for Lydia to pull herself out of the seat.

“I’ll be here three sharp”, Dr Kry says. “You have to call me if Lydia is too weak too be here. I’ll be here as quickly as possible and drive her home.”

Nadia nods and closes the car door. Lydia gives the white car a cold look as it drives away.

“Ready?” Nadia wonders.

Lydia nods shortly. She holds onto her sister's arm as they walk into the building. Her body feels heavy, but not unmanageable. She moves slowly, and Nadia keeps a similar pace.

She leads her sister to her locker and it took a few tries for her to remember her combination. They leave their belongings in their lockers and carry their computers and notebooks with them to the classroom. Twenty pairs of heads turn when they enter and Lydia wants to run away, but Nadia directs her over to their desk. Their friends are quick to bombard Lydia with questions and exclaims of ‘we’re so happy to see you again’, but she barely answers. The teacher seems happy to see her as well but doesn't make much of a scene about it, thankfully.

Despite being her favorite subject—physics—she can't find any of the old joy she used to have. She has missed so much that nothing makes sense anymore. Nadia can tell that she's gone dull again. She opens a fresh page in her notebook and scribbles: “are you ok?” and nudges Lydia's elbow to catch her attention.

Lydia glances at the page and nods and then doesn't give any signs of life for the rest of the class.

Two classes later and they're finally on a longer break. Nadia brings out a banana for, realizing how little energy Lydia has left. Their friends are talking nonstop, like usual, and Lydia finds her head pounding. If things were normal, she'd join in on the platter, but now it's too much noise, too much clatter. Nadia breaks off a bite of the banana and holds it to Lydia.

“Here”, she says.

Lydia begrudgingly takes it.

“You don't have to treat me like a child”, she mumbles but takes a bite nonetheless.

“I'm not”, Nadia replies and takes a bite herself. “Just trying to keep you alive.”

It is meant as a joke, but as soon as she says it, she regrets it. Lydia lowers her eyes.

“Sorry”, Nadia mumbles shamefully. “Didn't mean it like that.”

“But you are though—doing it, I mean.”

Nadia glances towards their friends. Luckily they don't seem to have heard.

Lydia suddenly grimaces and shakes her head. “No, this isn't working.”

“What?” Nadia asks. “Are you feeling sick?”

Lydia nods. Nadia grabs their stuff and hurries alongside her to the bathroom stalls, leaving their friends without as much as a ‘goodbye’. Lydia hovers over the toilet, throwing up.

“Maybe it is too early for you to be here”, Nadia says quietly. “Maybe we should call—”

“No”, Lydia groans, coughing. “No. I'm not going back.”

“But you can't even stomach bananas …”

“It's just because I'm nervous. I'll be fine.”

Nadia sighs, leaning against the wall.

“Think you can drink a protein shake and keep it down?” she asks. “Or a milkshake? Or just milk?”

“Yes, I'll be fine, don't worry. Don't call him. If I go back I might not come out again and I … I can’t deal with that.”

“Okay … okay, I won’t.”

Nadia slides down the wall until she sits on the filthy floor. Normally they'd both rather die than touch the floor or the toilet without a napkin in the way.

“I'm so exhausted”, Nadia groans.

They sit there for what feels like ages in silence, just listening to their own hearts and feeling dread and exhaustion creep into their bodies. They have two years left until graduation … and then they can leave for university and never come back. But for now, they’re together again and they’ll get stronger day by day. Nadia looks at her sister who has a new look in her eyes. They’re not dull anymore.

They have to survive. They will survive.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere oc x you #yandere oc x reader #yandere oc #yandere doctor #the younger generation

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child-of-the-amis · 1 day ago

Note

He couldn’t help but cry in his arms. He felt so loved and cared for. “I promise one day I will have more to give you. But for now you have all of me as well. Everything I am and will be. I will be them for you.” He said kissing him again. “We should go first thing. So we should wake up early. And slip out before breakfast.”

“Professor. It’s nice to meet you. I am Henri.” He said taken aback by how beautiful that man was. “I am a law student technically but we have to take other fields of study and I heard this class was interesting.”

“Nice to meet you,” Ferre offered his hand to shake, “Dr. Combeferre at your service, welcome to mythology of the ancient world,” he smiled at him.

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galaxy-stardust · 2 days ago

Text

Simon Ghost Riley x you

"Still here"

The clock blinked 2:43 a.m.

You hadn’t moved in hours. Neither had he. The bed was warm but everything inside you felt cold. Like your body was here, but your mind was somewhere miles under.

Simon lay beside you, facing the ceiling, arms folded behind his head. You knew he wasn’t asleep. You could feel it - tight in the way he breathed, his silence too loud, too practiced.

You blinked at the dark.

Then, quietly - barely audible:

“I wanted to die once.”

Silence.

It cracked the room like a bullet.

You swallowed, throat raw.

“Not… not just once, actually. A lot of times. And not in some dramatic way. I just… wanted everything to stop. The noise in my head. The weight. I didn’t want to wake up and feel like I was failing at breathing. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, I just… wanted it all to stop.”

You didn’t cry. Not really. Your voice wobbled, and your chest ached, but no tears came. Just that dull, heavy guilt for saying it at all.

“I didn’t even think anyone would care,” you added. “Like, really care. It felt like I was nothing. Just background.”

Simon was still silent. Heavy. Like he was searching for words with hands that didn’t know how to hold them. And you regretted it instantly. Your heart thudded. “Sorry,” you whispered. “I shouldn’t have said - ”

Then:

“I know that feeling.”

You closed your eyes.

“I sat with a pistol in my lap for four hours once,” he said, flat. No emotion. Just fact.

You stopped breathing.

“Wasn’t drunk. Wasn’t even panicking. Just… numb. Quiet. Like, ‘maybe this is the day.’” He exhaled. “I had no one left. Not really. Didn’t think anyone would notice if I just vanished.”

You turned your face toward him slowly, eyes wide in the dark.

He kept staring at the ceiling. “But I didn’t do it. And I never really knew why. Something stupid always stopped me. Like remembering the sound of a laugh. Or the smell of rain. I don’t know.”

Silence again.

Heavy.

Like both your hearts were bleeding into the same hollow space.

Then he turned, finally facing you. His eyes didn’t shine. They didn’t need to. You saw the storm behind them. Quiet. Constant. Worn.

“Why’d you stop?” he asked.

You shrugged a little, voice barely holding. “I think I realized I wanted someone to fight for me. Just once. Not fix me. Not talk me out of it. Just… sit next to me and not be afraid of how fucked up I feel.”

Simon reached for your hand under the covers. Found it, held it - not like something delicate, but like something anchored.

“I’d sit with you,” he said low. “No matter how fucked up it gets.”

Your voice broke. “Even if I don’t talk?”

“I’d still be there.”

Your heart cracked. You reached up and touched his cheek.

“Thank you for not leaving,” you whispered.

He blinked, and something in his throat worked, like he was swallowing the words he didn’t know how to say. “Same goes for you.”

He reached for your face, slow and unsure. Like he was afraid he'd to break you.

“I didn’t have a reason back then,” he said hoarsely. “I do now.”

The tears came then - quiet, shaky, unwanted. And he let them. He pulled you in, held you close, forehead to yours, your broken edges scraping gently against his.

No fixing.

No promises.

The two of just needed to be seen. And held. And loved exactly as you were.

And now, you were.

Still here.

Still breathing.

And in that small, stolen space between two hearts that almost gave up - you both knew:

You were never truly alone in the darkness.

You had found each other.

And that was enough to keep going.

#cod #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #cod fandom #cod fanfic

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kiss-me-muchoo · 21 hours ago

Text

𝐓𝐨 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐞… || 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary_ Joel and you find comfort while going back to Jackson and after killing Nora, Ellie overhears Jesse and Tommy telling Dina that you and Joel might be alive.

warnings_ age gap (late 20s/joel’s age in s2), pregnant!reader, angst, fluff, fallacy references, canon divergence, SHORT PART,no proofreading

Notes_ next week we’ll get so many joel crumbs omg

「 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐫: 𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 」

♫ ♪ the worst playlist 4 Pedro

✰ Index (+ fics here)

୨ৎ───୨ৎ───୨ৎ———୨ৎ───୨ৎ

Wrong.

“What do you mean wrong? I’ve been trying for two fucking goddamn hours?” Ellie yells tiredly, throwing her hands out in disbelief.

“Because yer hand is still too rigid,” Joel answers her, taking the guitar off her hands.

“I’m not done for today!”

“Yeah, I think you are.” Ellie turns to see you standing in the door, baby Cerise snuggling in the crook of your neck.

Ellie smiled at the sight of you, fresh out of the shower, your hair wet and wearing a tank top and sweatpants.

“When did you get home?” The girl asked.

“Maybe half an hour ago,” you say, entering the room.

“Darlin’… stop being sneaky,” Joel says.

He stands up to greet you with a kiss and then grabs Cerise from your arms.

“You stop being paranoid,” Cerise babbles as she starts pulling Joel’s hair and making you laugh. “See, even your daughter is scolding you”

Ellie looked at the sight in awe, she was just past a year old, her look every day resembling Joel’s more and more.

She was happy, her birthday was in a week, and so far, she felt at home.

Ellie had found her family. Her safe place and everything she never thought she could’ve had.

“Go and let Cerise play in the kitchen while we cook dinner,” Joel nods at your words as you smile at him.

Looks really speak; and you and Joel rarely said I love you out loud, but every look you two shared screamed how in love you were.

Ellie watches as Joel and Cerise leave towards the living room, downstairs.

“So… a week for your birthday, huh?” Ellie sighs with a smile, nodding at you. “I’m warning you, I’ll sing you ‘happy birthday’!”

“Fuck you, god no” both of you start cackling and she finally stands up.

Hands on her hips, just like Joel.

To your surprise, Ellie hugs you.

“I’m kidding. But you don’t have to do anything for me,” you hug her back, brushing her hair.

“Shut up or I’ll make Maria gather everyone to hear me sing for you.”

Soon, a lot of sound starts coming from downstairs, Cerise screaming and laughing while Joel curses.

“I NEED HELP DOWN HERE!” Ellie hears your husband yell, and both of you laugh again.

“Let’s go help your old man,” the girl says as you pat her back.

Ellie loved you very much. And she couldn’t help but feel like you felt the same way.

You were silently her mother, helpmate, and one of her best friends.

When she opened her eyes, she rubbed them and sighed, feeling the cold breeze of the morning.

It was just a dream; you and Joel were gone.

She was in Seattle.

…

You can’t move.

Moving feels heavy, breathing isn’t enough.

You lift your head, and there is the woman in a braid.

She is about to kill Joel…

A few years younger than you, possessing an undeniable rage, she hits Joel's skull with a golf club once, twice, and you lose the count. Your vision gets blurry thanks to the tears. His moans of extreme pain make you cry and scream to the woman to stop.

The blood stars are running down his temple. His eye was so swollen he couldn’t open it. You weep harder, doing everything you can to get free from the embrace of two strangers.

To kill that woman and let your husband live.

But it’s too much blood.

“WAKE UP, Y/N!” Joel yells.

Until there isn’t.

You open your eyes and understand it was a nightmare. Product of what you saw at the ski lodge.

“What?” you ask, still half asleep.

Joel is there, kneeling in the old, creaky bed, firmly gripping your shoulders and looking very worried.

“You started crying asleep,” he says. “And then, you started screaming.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay?” Joel asks, ignoring your apologies.

“Yes… just- what happened at the ski lodge playing with my head” his heart pang in pain at your words.

“C'mere, darlin’…” and you do, you snuggle in the arms of your husband like a baby. “I’m not goin’ anywhere”

Joel holds you tightly, scared to let you go. Both of you are swimming in the same queen-sized bed, but pressed against each other. Joel understands that if they had switched the roles. If it were him seeing how you were beaten to death, Joel wouldn’t have survived.

Let alone now that you told him about the pregnancy.

He tries to tame his fears. It wasn’t the first time after all.

But still, you were his wife, the woman he couldn’t breathe without. Joel knew he would get obsessed with trying to protect you all the way from Arlington to Jackson.

It was safe to close his eyes, so he did, succumbing to sleep with you in his arms.

…

Joel wakes up to a cold on, left side of the bed. He sits up worried, then hears a shot, his sensitive leg is long forgotten as he runs outside the room, towards the entrance of the house. He looks around and finally sees you with his rifle and a hare in hand. Joel lets out a relieved sigh.

“Are you insane? You scared me to death,” he says as you step up to the old porch of the house.

After seeing him so worried and scared, you quickly wrap your arms around his neck, dropping the dead hare.

“I’m sorry, Joel,” you whisper in his ear.

As much as both of you tried to continue your lives, the trauma of the ski lodge and Denver remained haunting your memories.

“Let’s go inside, baby,” you nod at him, letting him guide you inside the house.

After making it to Arlington the day before, Joel and you found an abandoned neighborhood. It reminded me a lot of the descriptions he and Tess shared about Bill and Frank’s home. Until you visited the house of the late couple in 2023 and confirmed it by yourself.

The woods around it had grown so much that the abandoned place and there was no trace of infected or people living nearby. Joel suggested staying the night, so the horse you two had could also rest and eat something.

You fell asleep feeling hungry, making it harder to not go out to hunt something to eat.

The least you could do was to find some food for your husband and the baby.

The truth was slowly sinking in. You hadn’t been able to process the fact that you were pregnant again. Hours after getting the diagnosis, Masiel almost got you, and then the hospital was attacked.

But a new life was growing in your womb. And once again, you were out in the wild with Joel, just like the first time.

You place the hare on the dining table and turn to look at your husband. With the same clothes of the day before, disheveled hair, and eye bags showing how tired he was.

Joel looks up and down at you, he places his hands on his hips, and tries to formulate a decent sentence.

“So… we’re expecting again,” he says, and you simply nod. “How far are you?”

“Almost eight weeks,” god knows why, but suddenly the conversation feels awkward.

You cross your arms, leaning against the old dining table.

“You can’t be out here anymore,” Joel starts, already showing his uneasiness on the issue. “It’s not safe.”

“This ain’t my first rodeo, Joel,” you remind him as he sighs and rolls his eyes. “I knew the risk, but it’s not like you pulled out each night, and despite being at a hospital, condoms are not a trend anymore.”

“The sooner we get to Jackson, the sooner I’ll stop being a burden for you.” Turning around, you start to skin the hare.

“That’s not what I meant,” Joel explains.

“But that’s what it sounded like,” you say, venturing inside the kitchen without looking at him. Your eyes prick with tears, and you do your best to swallow the painful lump in your throat, threatening to come out with a loud sob.

Joel sighs once again, dropping his head back and taking a deep breath.

But you did understand, Joel. He was tired, dealing with ptsd. The least he wanted was more pressure. And you tell him his wife is pregnant? Yeah, he was stressed out.

But in the mind of a woman gestating, your emotions were a little out of control. And you were afraid of indeed feeling like a burden before going home. Where more issues would lurk since nobody knew Joel, and you were alive.

…

A family of four lived inside the house. Two teenagers, mom and dad. They had too many pictures together, framed on the dusty wall in the hallway that connected all the rooms on the second floor.

You enter the master bedroom, completely untouched. The living proof that the world was once fine. The shame of wandering through a stranger’s belongings was long gone. The woman of the house had been tall, frail, and had a shy face, but was very pretty. Still, her clothes fit you, and she had a lot of expired makeup.

Your hands fold three tops to put inside your backpack when the door creaks open, and it makes you alert and startled.

It was Joel, fresh out of the shower. You went first, and the water was flowing brown for the first three minutes.

“You scared me,” you say, returning to fold the clothes.

“I’m sorry,” Joel states, but you just shrug.

“It’s okay, this house is old as hell.”

“No, I mean I’m sorry about me being an asshole before” you look up at him.

“It’s not like the first time. I’m just… shocked,” he admits, taking a seat in the bed where you were folding the clothes. There’s a little expression of awe on your face as you listen to him.

“I get it, Joel,” from the bottom of your heart, you mean it.

“I just want to protect you and make sure we make it back home.”

“I think the worst is over. We were with the enemy for months, and we didn’t know,” Joel nods.

“So WLF?…” he asks, sighing.

“They can go and fuck themselves” you say with a bitter smile. “I don’t think they’ll go back to Wyoming. Their policies only apply in big cities where they can afford the risk of making a settlement.”

“Yeah, but what if?- “You grab Joel’s hand to stop him.

“What? They return to the ski lodge to see that our bodies are gone? Or Ellie goes after them for revenge?” Both of you chuckle. “We’ve already taken too long; we need to go back. I can’t keep going to sleep knowing they think we’re dead.”

“I know, darlin’. We are very close…”

Unbeknownst to you and Joel. Not many good things were happening back in Jackson. And certainly not in Seattle.

“So… you are making me a dad again? At the ripe age of 61?” You chuckle at his comment, letting him grasp your hair. “We’re insane, aren’t we?”

“We’re kinda jinxed,” you admit.

“We are. But I don’t mind as long as we’re together,” Joel says, making you unable to not pretend his words didn’t touch your heart.

“Give me a kiss,” you say, stepping between his legs. He smiles amidst the kiss, feeling his chest relax and trying to be optimistic. Just for you, as always.

Drops of rain start tapping against the window, and both of you look at it.

“We’ll leave tomorrow in the morning,” Joel states firmly, you only nod, retuning to kiss him just a little more.

…

The breeze was humid, hot, and you knew you shouldn’t be wearing a dress when you’re out in the wild. But you don’t care, the isolated street in Arlington had proved to be safe enough.

“What are we exactly looking for?” Joel asks, kneeling beside you. Both of you ignore the loud crack of his bones. Mainly because you won’t want to worry.

“Anything that can give us energy or boost our immune system,” you answer with a little smirk.

Your hands dig into the bushes, spider webs gone thanks to the rain that had been pouring for the last two hours.

“I dunno, darlin’… seems like there’s no such thing” at your husband was killing your hope, you shushed him right after grasping something. “What?”

“Oh my god, Joel…”

Fresh raspberries. You were collecting raspberries. You had never tasted them before.

“I had never tasted raspberries in my life,” you say, pulling out your hand from the bushes, at least four raspberries rested in your palm.

Joel smiled at the sight. Seeing you so happy about something so meaningless as finding raspberries reminded him of what the world had reduced to.

And at the same time, he found himself also enjoying the moment. Because anything that made you happy also made him happy.

“Give some water, please.” he hands you a glass with water he had been drinking inside the house.

You rinse the berries, and soon you are handing him some. Joel smiles at you before taking a bite along with you.

The moment feels surreal. Like a deep breath that you had been holding since the day at the ski lodge. A sense of hope that in a couple of days you’ll be in Jackson and everything will be fine again.

Then… birds flying away, scared.

“What was that?” Joel stands up first.

When you do, you see a lot of birds flying away from a trail of dark smoke coming from the south in the woods. “Change of plans, we need to leave now.”

“But we have our-“

“No… y/n, we are leaving right now,” Joel says with a stern look.

You nod, following him with hurried steps inside the house.

You grab your rifle, the food was packed, and the clothes tucked inside the backpacks.

“Fucking hell” you say as you stand in the porch. Joel follows you and stands.

“What?”

“The horse, Joel… is gone,” you say, pointing at the door of the garage.

Your husband sighs tiredly.

“Doesn’t matter. We’ll get a car once we enter the city again; we need to leave.”

You look back at the smoke, looking fainter than before, mixing with the orange sky of the sunset.

You start following Joel with quick steps., your hands holding the rifle as your fingers barely grasped the trigger. Then you see how the large street of old houses starts looking farther and farther, until it disappears from your sight and both of you enter the woods again. To the north…

…

Ellie stands in the darkness, her heart is beating fast, blood rushing with the adrenaline flowing all over.

Some of Nora’s blood was splattered on her face. But her shaky hands gripped the door frame as she watched Tommy bandage Dina’s leg, and Tommy started an improvised meal for her.

“She’s taking longer than expected,” Jesse says.

“She’s coming back, we know it,” Dina bolts to answer him. Ellie knew they were talking about her.

“This was a bad idea,” Tommy adds.

“Tommy. She doing this for”

“For Joel and y/n. I know…” the man glared at Dina.

A heavy silence fell upon the old room.

“She saw all of it. Joel screaming, y/n crying, and-“ as Dina was speaking, Ellie closed her eyes, forcing herself to avoid remembering.

“They might be alive,” Tommy reveals.

Dina seized talking, Ellie gasped, covering her mouth as tears started to roll down her cheeks.

“What?” Dina asks with a broken voice, face full of surprise.

Jesse eyed her with shame. Ellie realized he probably already knew.

Tommy moved away, sighing before standing up and preparing the right words.

“When the horde came, we were out of reach for weeks; we didn’t do patrols,” Dina nodded, urging him to keep talking. “After the reconstruction of Jackson, the snow fell heavier, and we couldn’t reach the ski lodge to collect the bodies. Until the spring arrived, Maria sent Jessie to look again with others.”

Tommy and Jesse eye each other, building tension.

“And?” Dina asked.

“There were no corpses… their backpacks were gone as well,” Jesse said.

Dina sighed, rubbing her eyes.

Ellie almost fainted. Her view turned blurry, and panic flooded her.

The rage she had been containing completely out. She hated even more Nora, her death being proof of her pain. All the trauma, all the suffering… because of that braided woman.

Ellie knew she had to kill Abby.

…

The sound of the river was loud enough to make you almost yell.

Ellie knew she was dreaming. This time, she was aware it was a memory.

She was still in Utah. Joel was leaning against the SUV, rifle in hand, as you were with the girl.

Both of you are still in hospital gowns, splashing water on your faces after hours of being sedated.

“There was no cure, right?” Ellie asks. You shrug, looking at the water flowing.

“Even if there was a cure. I think we would’ve died, Ellie.”

“You have Joel, you have someone waiting for you.” You turn to look at her with a frown. “I don’t. It would’ve been correct for me to make the sacrifice.”

“Ellie… you’re my family,” you firmly say. “You and Joel are my whole world.”

She only eyes you with awe, not knowing what to say. Maybe it was because of the reaction to the sedative.

“I would kill anyone who made me separate from you two,” you admit.

Evidently, the words sank further as time progressed.

__________________________

Short part bc I’m tired, but I’m done with finals so expect longer parts from now on <3

imma start sharing my tw acc bc I’ll gladly be friends with any babe who wants to be moots there, I mainly post about pedro, both in english and spanish so yeah… im @kissmemucho and I have the same pfp as here <3

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭_ @just-mj-or-not @mmkkzz @hiroikegawa @nosebeers @glitterspark @annulmaelae @heartpatch @doodlebob-mp3 @ennvsco @isabella-rose-trastamara @chewie-bars @bypurple @umadirectioner @mrsbilicablog @yvonne-dump @hannah9921 @maystyles @minifresas

#joel miller x reader #pedro pascal x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x you #joel x reader #the last of us x reader #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal smut

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scarletwinterxx · 2 days ago

Text

the archer - choi seungcheol imagine

helllloo ~ short backstory as to why this is titled 'the archer', i was omw home one day and the line "Who could ever leave me, darling But who could stay?" just stuck. i hope when you read this one, it will make sense😅 oh and yea we have a cute shy cheol for this one sksksks

for my other svt fics, check them here

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(photos not mine, credits to rightful owner)

You’ve heard the crying before but tonight, it’s relentless. For nearly an hour now, it’s been Soojin’s voice echoing through your studio, softening only to rise again like a wave you can’t block out with pillows or music.

You lie there, eyes on the ceiling, heart pacing with a mixture of concern and hesitation. It’s not your place. You barely know him—Choi Seungcheol, your next-door neighbor with the quiet eyes and tired smile. You’ve exchanged the occasional nod in the hallway, a few polite words in the elevator. He moved in six months ago, shortly after the baby was born. Alone.

But something about the way the cries go unanswered tonight makes you swing your legs out of bed and pad toward your door. You don’t think too hard as you knock. It takes a moment before he opens it.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, already looking apologetic. “She—she won’t calm down. I’ve tried everything.”

“May I?” you ask, surprising even yourself.

He blinks at you, caught off guard. But when you extend your hands, he hesitates only a second before handing her over.

She’s warm and trembling, but you sway gently, instinctively, and hum something low under your breath. an old tune from a drama your mother used to love. Soojin’s cries hiccup, then soften. Within a minute, she’s quiet against your shoulder.

You glance up.

Seungcheol is staring at you like he’s witnessing a miracle.

“Uh—wha—how?”

You glance at him, one eyebrow raised as you continue to gently sway with Soojin nestled against your shoulder, her tiny fists tucked under her chin now.

Seungcheol looks like someone just handed him the answer to a test he didn’t study for.

“I… I swear I tried everything,” he says, running a hand through his hair, which sticks out at odd angles like he’s been yanking at it all night. “Bottle, diaper, bouncing, singing—I even googled ‘is my baby possessed’ at one point.”

“That must’ve given you comforting results,” you say, adjusting your hold slightly as Soojin lets out a soft sigh. “Any luck with the holy water?”

“Didn’t get that far. I was about to throw salt at her, though.”

You laugh. You haven’t laughed like that in a while, and from the way his expression shifts, neither has he.

“Okay, but seriously,” he says, crossing his arms loosely over his chest as he leans against the doorway. “What did you do? Are you some kind of baby whisperer? Do you own a magic shoulder?”

“She probably just likes that I don’t smell like desperation and instant noodles,” you tease, nodding at the small mountain of convenience store trash on the kitchen counter behind him.

Seungcheol groans and presses his palms over his face. “That’s so valid. You’re right. I reek of ‘guy barely holding it together.’”

“You said it, not me.”

Soojin shifts in your arms but doesn’t wake. You lower yourself gently onto the couch, adjusting your hold.

Seungcheol watches, awe still etched into every line of his face. “She never calms down like that with me,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “She usually screams like I’ve offended her ancestors.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

You blink. Right. You’ve lived next door for months and this is your first real conversation. You tell him your name.

He repeats it, softly, like he’s testing the sound. “Well. I owe you. Like… a lot. If I had knees left I’d be bowing right now.”

“Save the bowing for when she starts teething,” you murmur, eyes on the baby now curled like a bean in your arms.

He laughs, and it’s warm and real, like it hasn’t been heard in his apartment for a long time.

“So,” he says after a moment, still watching you like he can’t quite believe it. “Do you do this for all your neighbors or am I just lucky?”

You glance at him over Soojin’s soft head. “Only the ones who google ‘possessed baby’ at 3 a.m.”

“Damn,” he grins. “That narrows it down.”

“She probably felt you freaking out,” you say, keeping your voice low so you don’t wake the now peacefully sleeping Soojin. “Babies are weirdly psychic like that. You panic, they panic harder. It’s like emotional Wi-Fi.”

Seungcheol squints at you. “You’re telling me this tiny human was mirroring my mental breakdown?”

You nod. “Pretty much.”

He drags a hand down his face. “Well, that makes me feel both seen and judged by someone who can't even sit up by herself.”

“She is very advanced,” you say with mock seriousness. “Clearly an empath.”

He huffs a soft laugh and flops into the armchair across from you, legs sprawled, head tilted back. “You have one too?”

You glance down at Soojin, then back at him. “A baby? No. I just like them. And—lucky me—they like me back.”

He lifts his head and raises a brow. “That’s not fair. I made her. She should like me.”

“Maybe she’s still bitter about the eviction from the womb.”

He lets out a half-laugh, half-groan, like he’s not sure whether to be offended or impressed. “I’m never going to win an argument in this house, am I?”

“Not with her from the looks of it”

He tilts his head, giving you a look that’s part amused, part grateful. “Seriously, though… thank you. I didn’t realize how close I was to completely losing it tonight.”

You shrug, glancing down at Soojin’s soft lashes against her cheeks. “It’s okay. Everyone has their limit. Even sleep-deprived single dads who try to summon baby-calming magic via YouTube.”

He groans again. “Ugh, please don’t remind me.”

“No promises.”

Seungcheol smiles—really smiles this time. “Well… if you ever want to visit your favorite fan again…”

You glance up at him. “Are you saying I have visitation rights?”

“With Soojin? Definitely. With me… maybe. I’m still evaluating.”

“Rude.”

“Fair.”

You don’t say anything at first. Just watch him watching her.

Then, softly, “She looks just like you.”

His eyes flick to you.

You nod, gentle. “Same nose. Same shape of her eyes when she squints. I saw it the moment you opened the door.”

Seungcheol huffs a quiet laugh, the sound laced with disbelief. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, smiling down at Soojin. “It’s a good face to grow into.”

He exhales, some of that pressure inside him loosening, like you handed him a valve to let the fear out slow. He rubs the back of his neck, looks down at the floor, then at his daughter again.

“I’m scared all the time,” he admits. He doesn't know why he's telling you this but it's too late to stop, “Like—I love her so much it physically hurts, but I keep wondering if that’s enough. If loving her this much makes up for everything I can’t give her yet.”

“You’re here,” you say. “You’re trying. You’re sleep-deprived, semi-malnourished, and your apartment smells like baby wipes and cold coffee. But you’re here. That already makes you better than a lot of people.”

“Also,” you add, “she fell asleep in like, two minutes. I’m pretty sure that means she’s happy and safe. Or she’s secretly plotting. Either way, you’re doing okay.”

“Thanks,” he says. “For everything tonight.”

You shrug one shoulder. “What are neighbors for, right?”

A knock at your door isn't unusual. Packages, random hallway noise, maybe the building ajumma making her rounds with gossip and kimchi. But this one is too soft to be a delivery guy and too polite to be a kid. You pause your Netflix episode and head over, peeking through the peephole.

It’s Seungcheol.

You open the door and he’s standing there in jeans, a hoodie zipped halfway up, one strap of Soojin’s diaper bag slipping off his shoulder. He looks a little frazzled, hair tousled like he ran his hand through it too many times.

“Hey,” he says, a little breathless. “Sorry, are you busy?”

You glance behind him. Soojin is in his arms, blinking like she just woke up from a nap and hasn’t decided whether the world deserves her attention yet.

“Not really,” you say, brows raised. “Everything okay?”

He nods, shifting Soojin to his other arm. “Yeah—yeah, I just—look, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t really quick, but I have to run down to the ward office to drop off some paperwork. It’s boring, annoying, and they hate when babies scream through it.”

You smirk. “So you’re abandoning your child to avoid judgement.”

“Exactly,” he deadpans. “And you’re the only person she doesn’t seem to think is a demon in disguise.”

You hold out your hands automatically, and he hesitates just long enough to look guilty before gently placing Soojin in your arms. She blinks up at you like, Oh, it’s you. Okay, this is fine, then promptly grabs a fistful of your shirt.

“I’ll be gone maybe thirty, forty minutes tops,” he says, already half-turning like he doesn’t trust himself not to second-guess this. “I swear, if she cries, I owe you—like—coffee for a month. Or five years. Whatever’s fair.”

“She’ll be fine,” you assure him, bouncing her a little as she starts to hum her sleepy protest song. “Go do your boring adult things. We’ll be here, judging your outfit.”

He looks down at himself, frowns. “What’s wrong with my hoodie?”

“It’s giving ‘college sophomore in finals week.’”

He looks personally wounded. “Wow. Harsh from someone wearing pajama pants.”

“Bold of you to assume these are pajamas and not my formal lounging attire.”

He grins, then presses his palms together in a dramatic bow. “Gamsahamnida. You are a lifesaver.”

“Go, Seungcheol,” you say with mock severity, like you're kicking him out of your own house. “Before I charge you babysitting rates.”

“Noted,” he says, already backing down the hallway. “If she starts crying, play her that weird folk song you hummed the other night. She apparently likes that.”

You snort. “It’s not weird. It’s vintage. Now go.”

He disappears down the hallway, mumbling something about government forms and how adulthood is a scam. You close the door, look down at Soojin.

About an hour after Seungcheol left, someone knocked on your door again.

“She’s out,” you said.

Seungcheol blinks “Out?”

“Like a light,” you said, stepping aside to let him in. “Didn’t even fight it. Just conked out mid-conversation with her carrot.”

He entered cautiously, peering over at the couch where Soojin lay snoozing like an angel, one sock halfway off her foot. His whole body went still for a second, like even his breathing slowed down.

“No way,” he muttered. “She never naps this easily. I have to do a whole routine. Like, bouncing, swaying, bribery, gentle pleading—”

You held up a hand. “To be fair, I did sing her an exclusive remix of ‘Arirang’ with some freestyle humming in between. It was Grammy-worthy.”

Seungcheol leaned down slightly, adjusting Soojin’s sock with that instinctive tenderness he probably didn’t even notice he had anymore.

“You’re doing okay, you know,” you said quietly.

He looked at you, startled.

“I mean it,” you added. “You always look like you’re bracing for a storm, but… she’s happy. You’re doing okay.”

He swallowed, his throat bobbing. “I never know if I am.”

“You are.”

He nodded slowly, then straightened up, brushing a hand through his hair. “Okay. Um. Thank you. Really. I owe you, like… a year’s supply of coffee or something.”

You grinned. “How about you start with dinner next time?”

He paused. Not in surprise but like he was waiting to make sure you really said what he thought you said.

“Dinner?” he repeated.

You leaned against the doorframe, casual. “Yeah. You bring the baby, I’ll bring dessert. Seems fair.”

“Deal,” he said.

“Why don’t we let her sleep?” you say, voice soft. “You want coffee?”

His head snaps toward you like you just offered him oxygen. “God, yes.”

You stifle a laugh. “Come on.”

You move to the kitchen and start pulling mugs from the shelf. Behind you, he hovers awkwardly for a second before cautiously lowering himself onto one of the kitchen chairs like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to sit down in someone else’s life yet.

You hand him a mug, fingers brushing his. “Cream and sugar?”

He stares at you for a second too long.

“Huh? Oh—yeah. Just a little.”

You smirk as you fix it the way he asked, then slide it across the counter. “Look at you. Saying ‘just a little’ like you didn’t pour half the sugar jar into your coffee the other morning.”

He narrows his eyes over the rim of the mug. “I was sleep-deprived. I needed moral support in powdered form.”

You sit across from him with your own cup, resting your chin in your palm. “And here I thought you were this composed, competent, remote-working professional.”

He scoffs. “I am composed and competent. Most of the time. Except before 8 a.m. Or when Soojin decides sleep is for the weak.”

“So… most days,” you tease.

He shakes his head, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. One that doesn’t look so tired now. You sip your coffee and let the quiet stretch a little, comfortable and warm.

“Thanks again,” he says after a moment. “For today. For—whatever magic you’ve got going on. I still don’t get it.”

You shrug. “She’s easy to love.”

There’s something in his face that flickers at that. like he’s trying not to show how much those words hit. His thumb taps against the side of the mug.

“She really is,” he says. “But… sometimes I forget that it’s okay to enjoy it. I’m so busy trying to keep up with everything, I think I forget to stop and—feel it.”

You lean back slightly, studying him. “Well. You’ve got backup now. Whether you want it or not.”

He settles more into the chair, like your words gave him permission to breathe a little deeper. The mug cradled in his hands, still warm, anchors him in the moment.

You glance toward the living room, then back at him. “You always wanted to be a dad?”

He hums, considering. “Yeah. I think so. Not like—I didn’t grow up dreaming of diaper bags and formula,” he says with a faint smile, “but… I always liked the idea. Being someone’s safe place.”

Your heart stirs a little at that. You hadn’t expected such a soft answer.

“And now that you are?” you ask, gently.

He exhales a laugh, tilting his head. “It’s like I got dropped in the middle of the ocean with floaties and a smile and they were like, ‘Good luck!’” He pauses, then adds, “But then she looks at me like I’m her entire world and suddenly I don’t mind drowning a little.”

You smile into your mug. “That’s… weirdly poetic for someone who wears socks with mismatched cartoon characters.”

He looks scandalized. “You noticed that?”

“Hard not to when you wore Pororo and Iron Man.”

“Okay, but hear me out. Laundry day.”

“Sure,” you nod solemnly. “Blame the system.”

“What about you?” he asks after a moment. “No kids of your own, but you’re, like, terrifyingly good at it.”

You shrug, swirling your coffee. “I’ve always liked being around them. Babysat a lot. Volunteered at a daycare during uni. There’s something honest about babies, you know? They don’t pretend. If they like you, they like you. If they don’t, you know immediately.”

He grins. “So what you’re saying is, Soojin’s got good taste.”

“Exceptionally,” you deadpan. “Especially considering her father pairs Iron Man with penguins.”

You both laugh again, soft and low so you don’t wake the sleeping queen in the next room.

“You know,” he says, almost shy, “I didn’t expect any of this. The neighbor thing. You, being... kind.”

You quirk a brow. “Kind? Is that what we’re calling basic human decency now?”

He gives you a look. “It’s different. Most people don’t know what to do with single dads. They either pity you or overstep.”

You nod, thoughtful. “I’m not here to fix anything. I just... like her. And you’re not exactly awful either.”

He chuckles. “High praise.”

You finish your coffee and set the mug down with a soft clink. “Besides, I figure anyone who handles a teething crisis without crying deserves at least a neighbor who makes decent coffee.”

“This is decent?” he teases, lifting his mug. “That’s all I get?”

You smirk. “I’m keeping ‘great’ in my back pocket. You have to earn it.”

He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, and smiles in that quiet, melting way he’s got. “Challenge accepted.”

It’s been a few days, but the rhythm is already familiar.

You’re coming home later than usual. Just as you hang up and juggle your keys, you hear it again. soft giggling, baby babble, and the unmistakable click of a stroller wheel bumping over the hallway tile.

You glance back and there they are. Seungcheol in a black cap and hoodie, pushing the stroller like he’s trying to look inconspicuous but failing because Soojin is loudly babbling and flapping her arms like she’s the mayor on parade.

“Caught you,” you say, smiling.

Seungcheol grins sheepishly. “We were trying to sneak back in.”

“Oh yeah? How’d that go for you?”

He peers down at Soojin, who grins up at you like she just told a great joke. “She’s terrible at stealth.”

Soojin kicks her feet in response and lets out a very enthusiastic raspberry.

He unlocks his door, gesturing you over. “You wanna come in? She’ll never forgive me if you don’t.”

You grin. “I could be convinced.”

A few minutes later, your groceries are in the fridge, and you’re sitting on his living room floor, legs crossed, feeding Soojin tiny bits of cut-up apple. She’s babbling nonsense and trying to grab the bowl, grinning like this is the best part of her day.

Seungcheol leans against the counter, arms crossed, just watching.

“She’s been in a mood lately,” he says. “But you walk in, and she turns into a cartoon sunflower.”

You glance over your shoulder. “She just knows good vibes.”

He smiles quietly. “You’ve got this… thing. With her. I don’t even know what to call it.”

“Charm,” you say matter-of-factly.

He snorts. “Dangerous charm.”

Seungcheol walks over, drops to the floor beside you, close enough that your knees brush. You both look down at Soojin, who is now focused on trying to fit her whole fist in her mouth.

“I never thought…” he starts, then stops, fidgeting with a baby spoon. “I mean, before she was born, I didn’t know if I’d be doing this alone. I had no idea how to be good at it and I’m still scared. All the time. Like if I mess up once, it’s over. For both of us.”

You reach out, brush your fingers gently against Soojin’s soft little hand.

“She’s happy,” you say. “She’s healthy. She feels loved. That means you’re already doing the most important part right.”

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “Not just for this. For… showing up. For her. For me.”

You hold his gaze for a beat. “You don’t have to thank me. I like being here.”

He lets out a breath. “Yeah. Me too.”

He watches Soojin for a while, her small hands grasping at the last apple slice like it’s a national treasure. There’s a little silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just soft, shared air.

Then, without you asking, his voice comes low, careful.

“Her mom… left after she was born.”

You don’t move. You just listen.

“She—uh, she told me she wasn’t ready. For any of it. And I guess I knew. Deep down. We were already drifting, and then the pregnancy—it just pushed everything to the surface.”

He looks down at his hands, thumb rubbing at a small mark on his knee.

“I tried to hold things together for a while. Bought the crib. Took the classes. Thought maybe if I showed her I could do it, she’d change her mind. But after Soojin was born… it was just me.”

You feel something tighten in your chest.

“I signed the papers. Named her. She wasn’t even there. No message. No goodbye.” He pauses, blinking a little too fast. “And I didn’t know if I was angry or just… numb.”

He exhales slowly, the sound more of a release than a sigh.

“It’s weird. People always say they can’t imagine doing it alone. But you don’t really get the choice. You just… do it. You wake up. You feed her. You change her. You learn what each cry means. You hold her even when you’re falling apart. And the worst part is that sometimes I wonder if I’m enough. If one parent can really make up for the absence of another. If she’s gonna grow up and ask where her mom is and… and I’ll have to tell her.”

You reach over without thinking and gently lay your hand on his. He flinches slightly, not because he’s startled—but because it’s been a long time since someone touched him like that. Quietly. Kindly.

“You are enough,” you say, voice steady but soft. “She doesn’t need perfect. She needs you. And she’s got you.”

His eyes meet yours. There’s a shine there he doesn’t bother to hide this time.

Soojin lets out a tiny burp and promptly faceplants into her own lap, startling herself into a squeaky hiccup. You both look at her, then at each other—and laugh.

And just like that, the heaviness lifts. Not completely. But enough.

Enough to let the warmth back in.

Seungcheol leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. His voice, when he speaks again, is quieter than before. Like he’s afraid saying it too loud might make it more real.

“I just don’t want her to grow up thinking she wasn’t wanted.”

You look at him, and something in your chest aches. He’s not just talking about Soojin now. He’s talking about himself too. About the fear that all his love won’t be enough to drown out the silence someone else left behind.

“She won’t,” you say softly, certain. “Not with you. Not with the way you look at her like she’s your whole world. Not with the way you know the exact rhythm that calms her down. Or the way you whisper to her when you think no one’s listening.”

He gives you a shaky little smile, eyes shining, jaw tight like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“She’ll know she was wanted,” you say again, firmer now. “Because you show her. Every single day.”

He nods slowly, like he's trying to believe you. Trying to let that truth settle somewhere in the spaces guilt has lived too long.

“When she was a newborn, she hated the crib. I used to hold her all the time even when my arms ached, her little cries broke me. It still does”

You smile, imagining a newborn Soojin and a sleep deprived Seungcheol, “Yeah well cribs don’t have a heartbeat, yours probably calmed her down”

And that statement stirs something in him. Seungcheol turns to you, something breaking open in his expression. Not sadness, exactly. Just… gratitude. Raw and unguarded.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

You squeeze his hand gently. “Anytime.”

It’s a slow, golden Saturday. You’ve got no plans today no errands, no calls, no responsibilities. Just you, your comfy clothes, and the peace of a rare free weekend. Meanwhile, right next door, Seungcheol is pacing his living room barefoot in a plain tee and gray joggers, Soojin perched in her bouncer like a tiny queen on a throne.

He stops mid-pace, turns to her.

“Okay. Hear me out,” he says, pointing a spoon in her general direction. “We should go ask her.”

Soojin gurgles and kicks one leg.

“But like—not in a weird way,” he adds quickly, eyes wide like he’s already spiraling. “Just casually. Like, ‘Hey, what’s up, you doing anything? Wanna hang out with this delightful six-month-old and her semi-stressed dad?’ Totally normal.”

Soojin lets out a fart noise with her mouth and slaps the penguin.

“Exactly. See, you get it.”

He rubs the back of his neck and glances toward the door.

“But what if she’s got plans?” he mutters. “Like… what if she’s one of those mysterious types who secretly has a jam-packed social calendar. What if she’s got a date. A tall, charming, emotionally available—ugh. No, nope, not thinking about that.”

He turns back to Soojin, hands on hips.

“Okay, but what if she’s just chilling in there with snacks and no idea what to do with her Saturday? What if she wants someone to knock?”

Soojin makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a cough-sneeze-laugh hybrid and flings her penguin across the room.

“That’s a yes?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

She kicks both feet at once and squeals.

Seungcheol sighs dramatically. “Fine. If this crashes and burns, you’re going to daycare on Monday in mismatched socks out of spite.”

He walks to the mirror, runs a hand through his hair, then turns to Soojin. “Do I look casual? Like, ‘Hey, I just came over on instinct and not because I’ve been rehearsing what to say for the past fifteen minutes’ casual?”

Soojin lets out a loud raspberry, very pleased with herself.

He points at her. “Don’t sass me. You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Finally, he scoops her up—socks and all—grabs a burp cloth (because he’s not a total amateur), and heads for the door.

“I swear, if she’s got company over and I walk in holding you like a prop, we’re moving apartments.”

Soojin gnaws on his collar, utterly unfazed. He sighs, shifts her in his arms, and knocks. Twice. Light. Hesitant.

Then waits.

And you, from the other side, put your book down, already smiling because somehow, you knew it would be them.

Seungcheol is standing there, Soojin on his hip with one sock off and the other one half-on, clinging to his collar like she owns the place.

“Hey,” he says. Voice a touch too casual. “We were just… y’know. Wondering if you were around.”

“I am around,” you say, stepping aside. “And I see I’ve been summoned by royalty.”

“She insisted,” Seungcheol says, shifting her with a grin. “Practically bullied me into coming over.”

You raise a brow. “Ah. So this was her idea, huh?”

“Yeah. She’s the boss. I’m just the driver.”

Soojin lets out a burble and grabs your sleeve with sticky fingers like she’s making a legal claim.

“Well,” you say, gently taking her from his arms, “I’m honored to be chosen by her highness.”

You cradle her easily, bouncing her on your hip. “She smells like she’s recently made some… decisions,” you add, scrunching your nose playfully.

Seungcheol’s eyes go wide. “Oh no, did she—? Wait, really?”

You laugh. “Relax, she’s clean. I’m just messing with you.”

He exhales, clearly relieved. “Okay. Good. Because I forgot to bring the emergency diaper and I was not about to make a dramatic exit.”

You nod solemnly. “Wise. Nothing ruins a cool entrance like a diaper blowout.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Anyway… I was just thinking, if you’re not busy today, maybe we could hang out? Or just… sit around and pretend we’re doing something productive?”

You smirk. “That sounds like exactly what I had planned.”

You motion toward your living room. “Come in. She can help me finish this coffee I forgot about an hour ago, and you can tell me what you’ve been pacing about for the last thirty minutes.”

He steps inside, mock offended. “Okay, how did you know I was pacing?”

You grin. “I didn’t but now I do”

A little while later, after Soojin had taken a tour of every object on your coffee table and spent a solid five minutes drooling purposefully on your shoulder, Seungcheol stands up with a stretch.

“I should probably grab her stuff—she’s gonna get hungry soon, and I didn’t bring anything except a bib and blind optimism.”

You snort. “Go. We’ll hold down the fort.”

He’s only gone for maybe five minutes before he reappears, slightly out of breath, carrying a small insulated bag and what looks like a pink spoon in his mouth.

“Sorry,” he mumbles around the spoon before pulling it free. “She has this weird sixth sense about when I try to move fast and immediately decides to throw a crisis.”

You take the bag from him as he plops onto your floor with a sigh, Soojin perking up at the sound of the zipper being undone like she knows exactly what’s coming.

Seungcheol pulls out a small container of baby food and holds it up like it’s radioactive. “Just a warning. She hates this. Like, we’ve had full negotiations over a spoonful of this stuff.”

You laugh, settling on the rug with Soojin in front of you. “What is it?”

“Sweet potato banana something? It smells… unsettling.”

He hands you the spoon and the little jar like he’s surrendering it. “She usually swats it away. Or looks at me like I’ve betrayed her.”

You scoop a small amount onto the spoon, raising an eyebrow at Soojin. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got, tiny critic.”

She blinks at you, eyes curious. You gently offer the spoon—and without hesitation, she opens her mouth and eats it. Chews. Swallows. And then opens her mouth again.

You glance at Seungcheol. “Um. That didn’t seem like a struggle.”

He looks absolutely gobsmacked. “What—wait—she ate it? Just like that?”

You nod, offering her another spoonful. She chomps happily.

Seungcheol stares, eyes wide. “Are you some kind of baby whisperer? What is going on?”

You shrug, trying not to laugh. “Maybe I just have really good snack energy.”

Seungcheol leans back against your couch, watching the scene like it’s defying all natural laws. “I swear, when I try, it’s like feeding a tiny, angry gremlin who knows martial arts.”

He watches you feed her another bite and he doesn't say anything at first but his face softens. Something gentle settles in his chest. And quietly, just to himself, he thinks, Maybe we needed her in our lives more than I realized.

Soojin is fully invested now—tiny mouth open, little hands waving in excited anticipation every time you bring the spoon near. At one point, she grabs at your wrist with surprising determination, trying to pull the food toward her faster, making a high-pitched whine that’s half-demand, half-excitement.

“She’s got a strong grip,” you laugh, letting her catch your fingers as you scoop up another bite. “She means business.”

He puts a hand dramatically over his heart. “Betrayed,” he says, deadpan. “By my own blood.”

“She didn’t even hesitate!” he says, sitting up straighter to look at Soojin like she’s done something treasonous. “All that effort I’ve put in—singing songs, dancing like a clown, inventing entire operas just to get her to eat half a spoon. And here she is, practically writing you a love letter for mashed bananas.”

Soojin responds by making a delighted little grunt and reaching for the spoon again with both fists.

You grin. “Don’t take it personally. Some of us just have snack-based chemistry.”

Seungcheol slumps theatrically against the couch. “This is how it starts. First the food. Then she’ll want you to read her bedtime stories. Then I’ll be voted off the island.”

You gently guide the spoon back into Soojin’s mouth, chuckling. “She’s just expanding her circle. You’re still the main character, Dad.”

“Barely,” he mutters, though there’s no real pout to it. He’s smiling—watching his daughter giggle and eat and look up at you like you hung the moon.

And yeah. He’s a little dramatic. But he’s also never been more relieved to be outshone.

It hits him. Not like a big, dramatic realization but like a slow, quiet bloom in the back of his mind, impossible to ignore. You laugh again, brushing a bit of puree off her chin, and Soojin squeals in response, delighted.

It’s almost daunting, how easy you are with her. How completely she adores you. How at home the two of you look like this.

And he tries—really tries—not to read too much into it.

But part of his brain… the part that’s been whispering louder every day lately… it won’t stop.

It’s saying: This is what it could look like. This is what it could feel like.

And it terrifies him.

Not because it’s bad but because it’s good. Because for the first time since Soojin was born, he’s seeing a picture he didn’t even let himself hope for.

A picture with someone in it.

Someone who isn’t just passing by in the hallway anymore. Someone who holds his daughter like she’s something precious. Someone who might be holding him too, in ways he hasn’t dared to admit.

You glance over your shoulder and catch him staring.

“Everything okay?” you ask, tone light.

He clears his throat, straightens a little too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, just… zoning out.”

You smile, not pressing. “Don’t worry. Happens to the best of us.”

You’re wiping Soojin’s hands with a wet tissue, cooing at her like you’ve got all the time in the world, even though she keeps squirming and trying to eat the wipe instead. You’ve got that calm, unbothered rhythm to your movements, like nothing this baby could do would surprise or overwhelm you. Like she’s yours.

You glance over. “You good?”

He clears his throat. “Yeah. Just thinking…”

Finally, he exhales. “The weather’s… really nice today.”

You nod slowly, smiling. “That it is.”

He looks at you a little longer, then finally goes, “Do you… wanna grab lunch? Like, out? I mean—if you don’t have plans. Which, if you do, that’s totally fine, I just thought it's too bad to waste a good day”

“I don’t have plans,” you interrupt gently, amused. “Lunch sounds good.”

“Yeah?” His eyes brighten a little.

“Yeah,” you say again, bouncing Soojin a bit. “And I think our third wheel here is already dressed for the occasion.”

Soojin squeals like she agrees wholeheartedly, flapping her arms and narrowly missing your chin.

A few minutes later, you’re all out the door. The spring air feels fresh on your face, the streets buzzing with quiet weekend energy. You walk side by side, Soojin tucked against Seungcheol in her little carrier, her head bobbing gently as he walks.

Every now and then she lets out a content sigh or babble, and he automatically adjusts the shade over her face, so used to moving with her now it’s like second nature.

And then he speaks, a little hesitant.

“I’m not, uh…” He clears his throat. “I’m not stepping on anyone’s toes, right?”

You glance at him, brows slightly lifted.

“No jealous boyfriend about to appear out of nowhere and beat me with a stroller or something?”

You burst out laughing. “Wow. That was oddly specific.”

“I’ve seen things,” he deadpans. “This is Seoul.”

You shake your head, still smiling. “No boyfriend. No jealous ex. No one waiting in the wings.”

He hums, eyes on the sidewalk ahead. “Okay. Just had to check.”

You glance at him again, slower this time. “Why? You nervous?”

“A little,” he admits, hand resting instinctively on Soojin’s back. “You… You’ve been really kind. And easy to talk to. And Soojin loves you, obviously. I didn’t want to assume anything. Or make you uncomfortable.”

You look ahead, thoughtful, before replying softly, “You didn’t assume anything. You asked.”

He meets your eyes then, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it that way. And maybe he didn’t know how much he needed to hear that.

The place Seungcheol picks is tucked on a quiet street corner—one of those old-school Korean restaurants with handwritten menu signs taped to the walls, it’s cozy, worn in a way that feels like a warm hug.

The owner, a sprightly woman in her late sixties with cropped hair and a floral apron, greets you all with a wide smile as you step in.

“Omo, what a cutie!” she says, eyes immediately landing on Soojin nestled in Seungcheol’s carrier. “Look at those cheeks. Aigoo, she’s a living doll!”

Soojin blinks at her, wide-eyed and curious, then lets out a delighted sound that has the woman absolutely beaming.

She waves you toward a table by the window, already reaching for menus. “Sit, sit! This one’s good with the sunlight for the baby.”

You thank her, and Seungcheol gently shifts Soojin out of the carrier and into his lap while you take the seat across from them. The owner returns with water and leans slightly closer, eyes dancing between the three of you. Then she claps her hands once.

“Aigoo—what a beautiful family.”

You pause mid-sip. Seungcheol blinks.

“Oh—uh—” he starts, fumbling a little.

“We’re not—” you add, just as quickly.

But the owner just waves you both off with a cheeky grin, already scribbling something on her notepad. “Ah, I see, I see,” she says, in the tone of someone who does not see but is choosing delusion. “No need to be shy. Young parents these days, so stylish. Such a pretty mama and a handsome papa. And this baby—so healthy!”

Soojin gurgles right on cue, smacking the table with glee. Seungcheol opens his mouth again, clearly gearing up to correct her.

But then you just smile and say, “Thank you.”

The owner beams. “I’ll bring you something nice, service. For the baby, okay? Don’t worry, it’s all soft. Very gentle for little tummies.”

And just like that, she disappears into the kitchen.

Seungcheol looks down at Soojin, who is currently grabbing for the side of his sleeve with one hand and trying to eat the air with her mouth slightly open.

He chuckles. “Well. That happened.”

You lean back. “She meant well.”

“Sure. Though now we’re officially a stylish young couple with a baby.”

“Hey, I’ll take ‘stylish.’”

Then, quieter: “You handled that well.”

You smile, reaching across the table to nudge Soojin’s tiny hand. “I don’t mind being mistaken for your family.”

His eyes catch yours for a moment. And he doesn't say anything right away.

But the silence between you?

It feels like an answer he isn’t quite ready to say out loud.

The table fills slowly with food—banchan dishes placed with practiced ease, two bubbling pots of jjigae, warm bowls of rice.

“She really thinks we’re a thing,” Seungcheol says under his breath, amused, as the woman disappears again behind the swinging kitchen door.

You lift your spoon and glance up. “You sound like you mind.”

He pauses, opens his mouth, closes it. “No,” he says after a second. “Not really.”

You nod, smile into your rice, and don’t push.

Soojin sits in her little portable chair between you, supported by pillows and mostly fascinated by a plastic spoon she’s been chewing on for ten straight minutes. Occasionally, she lets out a delighted squawk, causing you or Seungcheol to look over instinctively, like clockwork. He wipes her chin. You fix the corner of her bib. Neither of you comment on how easily it all flows.

“So,” you say between bites, “what does stylish dad do when he’s not being mistaken for my husband?”

Seungcheol chuckles. “Work. Meetings. More work. And then about sixteen loads of laundry.”

“Ah, a man of many hats.”

“Too many. I swear, I didn’t even own this many burp cloths before she was born. I don’t know where they come from. They multiply.”

You laugh, “Like gremlins?”

“Exactly. Feed them formula after midnight and bam twelve more burp cloths in the drawer.”

You both burst into quiet laughter while Soojin slaps the table enthusiastically, completely unaware of the comedy unfolding around her.

He doesn’t date. Hasn’t even thought about dating. He’s a single dad with enough on his plate to feed a small village. But sitting here, with you across the table and Soojin babbling between you like she belongs to both of you—it feels suspiciously close to something he used to want.

Something he wasn’t sure he’d get.

When lunch wraps up, the owner insists on taking a photo of “the beautiful family.”

You start to protest, but Seungcheol just laughs and waves you into the frame. You lean in beside him without hesitation, Soojin in his arms, her head flopping slightly against your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Click.

And just like that, there’s a photo of the three of you now.

Later, he won’t be able to stop looking at it.

You juggle your keys, your takeout bag, you hadn’t planned to stop by anywhere but the moment they handed you an extra set of banchan and grilled fish at the restaurant, something tugged at you.

Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was… him.

You pause in front of Seungcheol’s door, free hand raised to knock. You think you hear faint music something mellow, like a playlist for winding down.

You knock twice. Then the door opens.

Seungcheol blinks at you, hair slightly mussed like he’s run a hand through it more than once.

“Hey,” you say, lifting the bag. “I accidentally ended up with enough food for two. Felt like a waste to eat alone.”

“She’s still with the sitter,” he says, stepping back to let you in. “I had some work I needed to wrap up tonight.”

“Oh,” you say, kicking off your shoes and stepping in. “So it’s just you?”

He smirks faintly. “Just me.”

“Well,” you grin, “lucky me.”

He lets out a soft, honest laugh at that and you both settle at his small dining table, where he quickly clears a stack of papers and a nearly empty coffee mug to make room.

You open the containers and start unpacking, setting up the rice, the kimchi, the fish, the spicy radish.

“You didn’t have to,” he says.

“I wanted to.” You glance up at him.

He watches you move the plates around like it’s your table too—like this isn’t the first time. Like it won’t be the last. The food steams gently between you, the air filling with the familiar comfort of grilled sesame and garlic.

You glance at him. “You okay? You look like you’ve been thinking too much again.”

He leans back slightly in his chair. “Yeah. I just…” He rubs the back of his neck. “It’s quiet without her. That’s all.”

“Lonely kind of quiet?” you ask, soft.

He nods slowly. “Yeah. That kind.”

You don’t say anything for a moment. You just pick up your chopsticks and slide one of the containers closer to him.

“Well,” you say gently, “for tonight, you don’t have to eat in the quiet.”

He looks at you like you’ve said something bigger than what you meant—something that echoes a little too close to a wish he hadn’t allowed himself to name yet.

But instead of running from it, he says, “Then stay a while?”

You nod. “I’d like that.”

And as the night eases in around you both, laughter slipping through conversations, the space between you doesn’t feel quite so quiet anymore.

The food dwindles slowly, not because you’re eating slow but because the conversation keeps veering—sideways, up, spiraling through nonsense.

You learn that Seungcheol is deeply opinionated about how jjigae should be spiced, and that he once accidentally deleted an entire quarterly report because Soojin spit up on his keyboard mid-call.

You nearly choke on rice at that one.

“She projectiled,” he says, completely deadpan, “like something out of an exorcism.”

“Why do I feel like you weren’t this funny when we passed in the hallway before?” you tease.

“Because I wasn’t,” he admits, sheepishly. “I think I was trying not to fall asleep standing up.”

It’s adorable, the way he trips over his own words. Like he’s still not used to speaking freely, like he’s trying to find a version of himself that doesn’t second-guess everything he says around you.

You pretend not to notice his ears tint pink.

Eventually, when the table’s cluttered with empty containers and chopsticks, you help him clean up. He tries to wave you off—“You’re the guest, you don’t have to—”

“I’m not leaving you with this war zone.”

Somehow it turns into a dance of bumping elbows and nearly dropping the dish soap. He’s holding a wet bowl when your hand accidentally brushes his under the faucet.

He freezes. Just a second. But you catch it.

“I don’t bite,” you murmur with a teasing smile.

“Y-yeah,” he says, eyes flicking away like the faucet is suddenly fascinating. “I know.”

When the last bowl is drying on the rack, you both end up just… standing there. Side by side. Not saying much.

He glances at the clock. “It’s getting late.”

“Yeah,” you say, but you don’t move right away.

He shifts his weight, rubs the back of his neck again. “Thanks. For coming over. For the food. And just… being around.”

You look up at him, eyebrows raised in gentle teasing. “Why do you always sound like you’re giving an acceptance speech when you say nice things?”

“I—” He laughs, low and helpless. “I’m rusty, okay? I haven’t had adult conversations that didn’t involve pacifiers in like, months.”

You smile. “You’re doing fine.”

You step out into the hallway, then turn, glancing at him again.

“You know,” you say, “if you’re free tomorrow… you could come over for dinner. Just you. I mean unless you’ll miss the spit-up too much.”

That earns a real laugh. A shy, surprised one.

“I’ll try to survive,” he says, his hand braced against the doorframe, like he’s not sure if he should lean in or keep his distance.

You grin, backing away. “Then it’s a date.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Wait, is it—?”

But the door’s already closing behind you. He stands there for a good thirty seconds, blinking at the wood grain.

“…A date?” he mutters to himself.

Then smiles, just a little.

Definitely doomed.

The next day Seungcheol adjusts Soojin’s little headband as they walk up to the sitter’s door, her soft babbling filling the air between them.

“Okay, I know we’ve been over this,” he says, one arm holding her close, the other fumbling for the doorbell, “but let me just say for the record—she was the one who said this is a date”

Soojin blows a raspberry.

“Exactly,” he nods. “You get it.”

“It’s just dinner. Two adults. Eating. No pressure. Just… food. With a neighbor. Who laughs at my jokes. And smells really nice. And always has that soft, glowy thing going on with you that kind of makes my brain forget how breathing works sometimes.”

Soojin lets out a coo and smacks her tiny hand on his chest.

“I know,” he sighs. “I sound like an idiot. You don’t have to rub it in.”

The door opens and the sitter beams, reaching for Soojin with practiced ease. She goes willingly—of course she does—and Seungcheol hesitates for half a second before letting go.

“Be good, okay?” he tells her, brushing a kiss to her temple. “And if I don’t make it back, tell her it was the grilled mackerel that got me.”

The sitter chuckles. “You’re being dramatic again, Mr. Choi.”

But even as he walks away, trying to play it cool, he’s hyperaware of everything.

He groans softly. “I should’ve brought Soojin. She’s a good buffer.”

But it’s too late now.

He adjusts his collar one last time. Then knocks. This time, he's the one holding his breath.

You open the door with that familiar easy smile. Your hair’s tied back in that half-messy way that makes you look both totally relaxed and somehow unfairly gorgeous.

Seungcheol forgets what planet he’s on for a second.

“Hey,” you say, stepping aside to let him in. “You’re just in time. I was about to taste test and pretend I knew what I was doing.”

He walks in like a man trying not to trip over his own shoelaces. “You cook and downplay your skills? What don’t you do?”

You raise a brow as you shut the door behind him. “Flatter people at the door like a drama lead.”

He clears his throat and tries to sound normal. “So… Soojin said she’d cover for me if I don’t survive this.”

“Oh yeah?” You glance over your shoulder. “And what does survival entail exactly? You afraid I’m gonna poison you?”

“No, I’m afraid I’ll like it too much and then embarrass myself asking for seconds before the rice is even done.”

You snort. “Wow. That’s dramatic.”

“I know. I was practicing in the mirror earlier.”

You pause at that, turn to face him, spoon still in hand. “Wait, what?”

He freezes. Blinks. Regrets everything.

“I mean—not seriously, I wasn’t like—practicing lines or anything. I just—I was…” He trails off and finally throws his hands in the air with a sheepish laugh. “You know what? Yeah. Mirror. Full speech. There was pacing involved. It wasn’t my finest hour.”

You break into a laugh that makes him feel like he just passed some kind of secret test. “Well, now I have to impress you. I can’t let that rehearsal go to waste.”

He watches you lift the lid off a pot, steam rising in fragrant clouds, and swears the apartment smells like something from his childhood—warm, familiar, comforting.

“You okay?” you ask, looking at him again, voice softer now.

“Yeah,” he says, hands shoved in his pockets, that same shy smile tugging at his lips. “This is… nice.”

You tilt your head. “It’s just dinner.”

You turn back to the stove, giving the stew one last stir, but your smile doesn’t fade and Seungcheol sees it. He sees how the corner of your mouth twitches like you’re trying not to grin. Like maybe he’s not the only one feeling this.

“You want to try it?” you ask, ladling a bit into a small bowl. “I need an honest review.”

“Sure, but if I say it’s good, you’ll think I’m just trying to impress you.”

“You are trying to impress me,” you say without missing a beat.

He freezes halfway to the bowl and laughs, quietly. “Wow. Okay. You’re terrifying.”

You hand him a spoon. “Eat, coward.”

He takes the spoon, eyes still on you as he tries it. Then closes his eyes. Groans. “Okay. Okay, see—now I can’t be cool about this. This is actual comfort food. Like, soul-restoring, existential-clarity food.”

You raise a brow. “Is this the speech you practiced in the mirror?”

He points the spoon at you. “You wish it was this polished.”

You both laugh again, that easy rhythm building between you like it’s always been there, waiting.

As you finish prepping, he helps without asking. Dinner is soft and familiar. Seungcheol tells you about the time Soojin tried to eat a remote control with the most serious face he’s ever seen.

When everything’s finally done and the dishes are stacked neatly in the sink, you both end up on the couch without really saying anything about it. You sit with your legs tucked under you. He leans back, elbows on his knees. Close. Not too close.

“I had fun,” you say first, voice quiet now, softer under the buzz of the kitchen light.

He nods. “Me too.”

Then a pause. Not awkward. Not rushed. He turns his head toward you slowly, like even this moment is something he doesn’t want to break by moving too fast.

“I wasn’t really expecting tonight to feel like this,” he admits.

You look over. “Like what?”

He shrugs, but his voice is warm. “Like the part of the day I didn’t know I was waiting for.”

“You’re kind of a softie, huh?”

He groans and drops his head into his hands. “Don’t call me out like this.”

You laugh. “Too late.”

And when he lifts his head again, there’s color on his cheeks, that same bashful smile tugging at his lips—but this time, it stays. For a while, you don’t talk. You just sit. Close. Quiet. Like neither of you is quite ready for the night to end.

“So… uh,” he starts, clearing his throat once, then twice. “Soojin and I… we’re—uh—we were gonna go to the aquarium. This weekend.”

You raise your brows, curious. “Yeah?”

He nods. Doesn’t look at you. Just at his sleeve. “Yeah. Just… thought it’d be good. For her. Well—for me too. Kind of our first, like, out-out trip, y’know? Outside the baby bag radius.”

You smile, head tilting. “That’s really cute.”

He lets out a breath of a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. Yeah. So…”

He trails off. You wait. Then he blurts it all in one go: “If you wanted to come too I mean I thought maybe you’d like it but it’s totally fine if you’re busy or if you hate fish or—”

“Seungcheol.”

He stops. Freezes like he’s been caught in a lie. You’re smiling again. That calm, steady kind that says you’ve got all the time in the world to wait out his nervous spiral.

You lean forward slightly. “I’d love to come.”

His eyes snap up to yours, wide like he wasn’t expecting that answer to be real.

“Yeah?” he says, voice too hopeful, too soft.

“Yeah,” you say, easy. “I mean, how could I say no to Soojin? She’s clearly the boss.”

He laughs, the tension finally breaking a little in his shoulders. “She is. Completely. I’ve accepted it.”

“Good,” you grin. “So… Saturday?”

“Yeah. Saturday.” He looks like he’s mentally adding that to five different lists. “Cool. Cool, cool cool…”

You squint. “You’re going to overthink this the whole week, aren’t you?”

“Only absolutely,” he says without missing a beat.

But he’s smiling. Really smiling now. And for the first time in a long while, it feels like things might actually be moving toward something better than just figuring it out day by day.

Saturday comes. You're locking your door when you hear the soft wheels of a stroller squeaking down the hallway. You turn just in time to see Seungcheol pushing Soojin toward you. Her little legs are kicking excitedly, hands flailing the second she sees you.

“She’s been doing that since we left the apartment,” Seungcheol says, breathless like he jogged here, “which is either a good sign or she thinks you have snacks again.”

You laugh, crouching to greet her. “Hi, boss lady. Ready for some fishy business?”

Soojin squeals like she understood every word.

Seungcheol grins at the both of you, adjusting the strap on the diaper bag.

“You look nice,” you say as you stand.

He straightens. “Thanks. You too.”

Then he immediately adds, “I mean, you always do, but—uh—not that I’ve been paying attention like in a weird way, just—you know, normal neighbor-level noticing.”

You snort and start walking. “You rehearsed this too?”

“Absolutely,” he mutters.

The ride is full of soft Soojin giggles and your laughter overlapping with his quiet commentary. She grabs your fingers like they belong to her now, and when Seungcheol tries to reclaim her attention with a pacifier, she practically bats it away in protest.

By the time you get to the aquarium, it’s late morning and the crowds are still manageable. The moment you step inside Soojin goes completely still in her stroller as the first tank glows to life with swirls of orange fish. Her mouth falls open.

“Oh no,” Seungcheol whispers. “She’s about to have a spiritual awakening.”

The two of you take turns pushing the stroller, stopping often so Soojin can smack her little hands against the glass. At one point, a stingray glides by, and she lets out a tiny gasp so dramatic that a passing toddler actually applauds.

Seungcheol leans down next to her. “That’s right, baby girl. Get your nature documentary moment.”

You can’t stop laughing. “She needs her own voiceover.”

He shrugs, then adopts a deep narrator voice. “Here, the wild Soojin discovers her first sea cucumber. She is—”

“Absolutely unimpressed,” you finish, pointing at Soojin’s deadpan expression.

Lunch is simple convenience store kimbap on a bench outside, the stroller parked beside you, Soojin chewing on a toy like it wronged her in a past life. Seungcheol offers you half of his triangle kimbap without a second thought. You don’t even hesitate to take it.

“This was really nice,” you say after a moment. “I mean it. Thanks for inviting me.”

He glances at you, then at Soojin, then quickly away again. “Yeah. I—uh. I’m glad you came.”

After lunch, with the sun warm and steady above, you glance down at Soojin in her stroller. She’s got her tiny fists outstretched like she’s summoning someone, and that someone is clearly you.

You kneel beside her with a soft smile. “You wanna see the fish up close, huh?”

She squeals, arms waving dramatically now, little feet kicking like this is the most urgent request in the world.

Seungcheol stands nearby, halfway through packing up the leftover wrappers into a bag. “You don’t have to, she gets heavy—”

You’re already scooping her up, one arm cradled under her legs, the other behind her back like it’s second nature. “I think I can manage a very powerful six-month-old.”

Back inside, Soojin’s wide-eyed and alert, tiny hands reaching for the glass every time something colorful swims by. You walk slowly, giving her time at every tank, while Seungcheol trails beside you, hands occasionally brushing yours as you both lean in close to point something out to her.

The three of you moved deeper into the aquarium, into a quieter exhibit tucked in a corner where the lights were lower and the tanks stretched high like glass walls, casting slow, rippling reflections across the floor.

You let out a quiet, awed, “Oh—look at that,” and without thinking, your hand reached out.

You grabbed his hand. The free one. Your fingers wrapped around his instinctively, tugging gently as you stepped closer to the tank, pointing upward toward the shimmering dance above you.

“Look how they move all at once—like they’re connected,” you said, voice soft.

It took a second. A full second before you realized your fingers were still around his. Still holding him. Still warm and unhurried. Your eyes flicked down—then up—to see him already looking at you, his face unreadable for a beat too long. Not surprised, exactly. Not alarmed.

Just still.

You opened your mouth to say something—maybe apologize, maybe pull away—but then he shifted his hand.

Not to let go.

His fingers curled around yours. Gentle, a little unsure, but steady. And when your gaze met his again, there was a quietness there. Something real. Something that settled between you both, subtle but unmistakable.

Soojin shifted slightly in his arms, murmuring a half-asleep sound, and he gave her a gentle bounce as his thumb brushed against the side of your hand.

Neither of you said anything more. Not because there was nothing to say, but because for the first time words didn’t seem necessary at all.

The next few days blurred into something soft.

It started with small things.

You’d stopped knocking when you came over. Seungcheol had said once, “Just come in,” and you had.

One afternoon, you were helping fold laundry on his couch. Soojin was on the floor, busy gnawing on a teether, occasionally babbling up at you like she was chiming in. You tossed a baby sock at Seungcheol’s face. He caught it mid-air, mock-offended.

“That’s assault,” he said, tone flat but lips twitching.

“You missed a fold,” you replied, pointing at a tiny shirt he’d lazily half-folded.

“Why do baby clothes even need folding? They’re this big,” he said, holding up a onesie with both hands, then tossing it dramatically into the basket.

You laughed, and the sound made him glance over. You were grinning, hair falling a little into your face, and something about the sight made his heart do a slow, inconvenient flip.

You didn’t notice it Or maybe you did.

Another night, you both ended up cooking dinner together. His kitchen now seemingly half-stocked with things you liked. It wasn’t planned. You were there, Soojin was asleep early, and somehow your hands were brushing while reaching for the same spice jar. Again.

He paused when your fingers touched. You didn’t move either.

Then you looked at him and said, softly, “You always hesitate.”

His brows lifted slightly. “Hesitate?”

You leaned in just a little, eyes steady. “Like when you’re about to say something but stop yourself.”

He went very still. Then looked away, mumbling, “I don’t wanna mess this up.”

You didn’t push. Just smiled, gentle. “You’re not.”

Later that night, you were on the couch again. Soojin had fallen asleep in your arms mid-bottle, and you didn’t want to move her, so Seungcheol had passed you a blanket, then sat beside you again without a word.

His arm brushed yours. You didn’t move away.

In fact, you leaned into it.

And he let his shoulder rest against yours, hesitant at first. Then, gradually, comfortably, as the silence stretched and the tension thickened like a thread being pulled tighter.

Neither of you spoke.

Because maybe that silence said everything.

Because maybe you both already knew.

The living room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the kitchen light left on behind you. Soojin was curled up against your chest, utterly knocked out, her soft breaths rising and falling with yours.

Seungcheol was beside you, not quite touching but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. His hand was on the back of the couch, just behind your head, and every now and then, his knee would brush yours.

You chuckled quietly, so soft you felt it more than heard it.

He turned his head. “What?”

You looked at him, and your smile deepened, eyes amused. “You’re too easy to fluster.”

His lips parted like he had something to say but nothing came out. His brows lifted slightly, cheeks dusted pink in the low light.

“I am not,” he muttered, clearly flustered.

You let out another quiet laugh. “You so are.”

He shook his head, a hand running through his hair. “You’re the one who says things like that and then looks at me like… like that.”

“Like what?” you asked, tilting your head.

He groaned under his breath. “Like you’re not even trying to kill me but somehow you are.”

You paused.

And then, softer, your voice barely above a whisper, “You don’t know how my heart literally jumps when I see you.”

The words settled between you, unhurried, delicate but powerful.

Seungcheol’s eyes met yours.

There was a beat.

Then another.

He opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed. “You can’t just say stuff like that,” he said, voice low and uneven.

“I can’t?” you teased gently, lips twitching.

“Not when we’re like this,” he said, nodding slightly to Soojin nestled on your chest. “And it’s late. And you’re… here. And you say something like that.”

Eventually, you leaned your head back against the couch cushion, still holding Soojin close, and murmured, “Maybe it’s okay, though.”

Seungcheol turned to you slowly. “What is?”

You glanced at him. A tiny, knowing smile on your lips. “Letting it happen.”

The next morning, you found a coffee waiting for you outside your door. A simple sticky note pressed to the lid with his messy handwriting:

Thought you might need this. You always look too good to be that tired. - SC

You grinned the whole time you drank it.

One evening, you were helping him put Soojin to bed, your voice low and soft as you read aloud from a worn picture book. Seungcheol leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching.

Later, in the kitchen, as the night settled into quiet again, you rinsed out Soojin’s bottle while he dried dishes beside you. Your shoulders brushed once. Then again.

And this time, he reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You paused, looked at him, caught that flash of hesitation in his eyes, like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like that.

“You’re getting bold, Choi Seungcheol,” you teased gently.

His lips quirked. “Trying,” he admitted, cheeks pink. “Is it working?”

You set the bottle down, turned slightly to face him. “It’s cute,” you said, voice soft. “You’re cute.”

And just like that, the boldness flickered. His eyes widened a bit, and he ducked his head with a huff of embarrassed laughter. “Ah, don’t say it like that. I’m gonna combust.”

You stepped closer, your hand brushing his.

He didn’t pull away.

Instead, his fingers slipped between yours still a little shy, but deliberate now. Steady.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” you said, tilting your head. “You’re kind of the highlight of my day.”

He looked at you then. Really looked.

And smiled that slow, sincere smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Yeah?” he said softly.

“Yeah.”

You just looked at him, heart stuttering, and then leaned in without a word, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He blinked. The tips of his ears flushed red. “You—okay. That’s fine. Cool. Totally fine.”

“You’re flustered again,” you teased, grinning.

“You kissed me!”

“Not even on the mouth.”

“You kissed me,” he repeated, dazed but smiling.

And then, because it was him, he cleared his throat and offered his cheek again.

“…Just in case it was a fluke,” he muttered.

So you kissed him again longer this time. And he didn’t say a word after but his hand found yours, and he didn’t let go this time. You smiled, the kind of smile that crept all the way into your eyes and without a word, you stepped in and wrapped your arms around him.

You could feel his heartbeat against your chest, steady and strong—but a little fast. Like yours.

“I’m not very good at this,” he murmured, voice low near your ear.

You hugged him tighter, your cheek resting against his collarbone. “You’re doing better than you think.”

His voice came quieter this time, barely above a whisper, “I really like you.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, your smile still there, softer now. “I know.”

His brows lifted, surprised. “You do?”

You nodded. “I really like you too, you know.”

His mouth opened a little like he was ready to say something but then he just smiled. He leaned in, forehead pressing gently to yours. “I think I’m gonna keep falling for you,” he whispered.

“Good,” you whispered back.

The apartment was quiet again, warm in the late afternoon light filtering through the sheer curtains.

Seungcheol was in the kitchen, rinsing out Soojin’s sippy cup and tossing a few snack wrappers into the bin. He didn’t even really need to clean, he just needed to do something because otherwise his heart might start sprinting again just from thinking about how easily you laughed earlier.

When he stepped out to check on you two, a dish towel still slung over his shoulder, he froze.

There you were.

Curled into the corner of the couch, Soojin nestled securely in your arms, her tiny hand fisted in your shirt, both of you deep in sleep.

Your head had tipped slightly to the side, mouth parted, hair a little tousled from the nap. Soojin was using you like a personal pillow, her cheek pressed to your chest, completely still except for the slow rise and fall of her breathing.

And just like that—like a switch flipping in his chest—Seungcheol knew.

It wasn’t a crush. It wasn’t just appreciation. He wasn’t just touched that you loved his daughter.

He was in it. In deep.

There was something terrifying and sacred about the way the two people he cared about most looked so safe with each other. About how he didn’t want this to be a moment—he wanted it to be a life.

Eventually, he moved quietly, grabbing the folded blanket from the armrest and gently draping it over the two of you.

You stirred slightly, shifting, and your eyes fluttered halfway open. You looked up at him blearily, smile lazy and content.

“Hey,” you whispered, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Hey,” he said just as softly.

You didn’t even move to get up, just adjusted your arms around Soojin and let your eyes fall shut again, trusting him to take care of whatever needed doing.

Later that evening, Seungcheol stood just outside a convenience store, phone pressed to his ear, one hand buried in his coat pocket as he stared out at the quiet street. The light above him buzzed faintly, the sky overhead dimming into early night.

“Hyung?” came Jihoon’s voice on the other end. “You okay?”

“I need to drink,” Seungcheol said flatly.

There was a beat of silence.

“…Like, now?”

“Now,” he confirmed.

“Did something happen?” That was Soonyoung chiming in now, voice already laced with concern and that slightly chaotic energy Seungcheol expected.

“I left Soojin with the sitter. Just come meet me. That fried chicken place near the station.”

Another silence.

Then Wonwoo’s voice, casual but amused: “You sound like you’re about to confess to a crime.”

“I might as well have,” Seungcheol muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

Ten minutes later, the guys showed up, filing into the booth around him. Beers clinked onto the table. Chicken arrived. And then the staring started.

Seungcheol just slumped in the booth, arms crossed, beer untouched.

“…Okay, spill it,” Jihoon said. “You didn’t call us out here just to eat.”

Seungcheol looked at them, defeated. “I think I’m in love.”

Soonyoung nearly choked on a fry. “Wait—what?”

“With your neighbor?” Wonwoo asked, already grinning.

“She fell asleep on my couch holding Soojin like—like it was nothing. Like she’s always been there. Like we’re…” He groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “I am so done.”

The table fell into chaotic laughter.

“I knew something was up!” Soonyoung exclaimed. “You’ve been all weird and fluttery for weeks!”

“I haven’t been fluttery,” Seungcheol mumbled.

“Bro, you giggled last time she texted you,” Jihoon deadpanned.

“Okay, maybe I giggled—”

“This is good, though, right?” Wonwoo leaned forward. “I mean… she’s great with Soojin. You like her. She likes you.”

“That’s the thing,” Seungcheol said, staring at the beer bottle. “It’s too easy. Too good. I keep waiting to mess it up. Or for her to realize I come with a lot more chaos than most people want.”

“But she already sees that,” Jihoon pointed out. “And she hasn’t gone anywhere.”

Seungcheol paused. Thought about you, smiling sleepily at him from his couch just hours ago.

“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “She hasn’t.”

“But like—what if it doesn’t work? I mean, she’s—she’s calm and smart and funny and actually sleeps more than three hours a night. And I’m over here talking to my ten-month-old about whether I’m embarrassing myself!”

“Didn’t you just say it was good?” Soonyoung blinked.

“I did, but that was ten minutes ago when I was delusional and riding the high of a nap scene from a drama,” Seungcheol groaned. “Now I’m thinking about the reality of it.”

He shoved a piece of chicken into his mouth like that would fix it, then talked around it.

“I mean, look at me. I’ve got formula in half my clothes, I haven’t gone on a proper date in more than a year, and my idea of romance is asking someone if they want to share baby wipes. That’s not attractive. That’s functional despair.”

Wonwoo raised an eyebrow. “Functional despair sounds like a great band name.”

“I’m being serious,” Seungcheol said, waving his chopsticks. “She deserves someone who’s not already drowning in dad mode. Someone who doesn’t have to pause kisses to check if the baby monitor blinked.”

“So don’t kiss near the baby monitor?” Jihoon offered unhelpfully, popping a fry in his mouth.

Seungcheol ignored him and ran a hand through his hair, “What if I fall harder and then she decides she can’t do this? Or worse, what if Soojin gets attached and then she leaves? That’ll wreck both of us.”

“Or,” Wonwoo said slowly, “she stays. Because she already cares. You’re kind of freaking out about something that hasn’t even started.”

“I’m pre-freaking,” Seungcheol corrected. “It’s like damage control but emotional.”

Soonyoung stared at him. “Do you even hear yourself?”

“Yes,” Seungcheol said dramatically. “And I don’t like it.”

“You’re so gone it’s almost poetic,” Jihoon muttered.

Seungcheol groaned and dropped his forehead to the table. “I hate how much I like her.”

And underneath all their laughter, the teasing and snark, none of them missed the truth in his voice.

Wonwoo leaned back, one eyebrow raised. “Do you though?”

Seungcheol lifted his head slowly, hair slightly flattened from where it had been pressed. “Do I what?”

“Hate how much you like her.”

Seungcheol sighed, finally leaning back in the booth. “No,” he muttered. “I don’t. That’s the problem.”

Jihoon smirked. “You poor sap.”

Soonyoung grinned. “Wait until she actually kisses you. Your brain’s going to short circuit.”

“If she kisses me,” Seungcheol stressed. “I’m still not even sure I’m not imagining half of this. What if I’m misreading things? What if she’s just naturally sweet and I’ve been out of the game so long I’m confusing basic kindness with affection?”

“Okay first of all,” Jihoon said, “you’re not imagining it. Remember when you said she called Soojin her girl once. Like, ‘where’s my girl?’ You don’t ‘my girl’ someone else’s baby unless you’re all in.”

“Exactly,” Wonwoo said, raising his glass. “You're not doomed. You're just deeply, ridiculously smitten. Congratulations.”

Seungcheol let out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan, and picked up his beer.

“Yeah,” he said, staring at the glass. “I really, really am.”

He stood there, keys in hand, swaying just slightly not from alcohol, really, but from overthinking. The hallway was quiet, dim, the kind of silence that made every thought echo a little louder in his head.

His fingers hovered over your door, not quite ready to knock.

He sighed and leaned his shoulder against the frame, muttering to himself, “She’s probably asleep. Or busy. Or—”

Click.

The door swung open, and there you were, hair a little tousled like you'd just gotten comfortable, holding a half-full mug and blinking in surprise.

“Oh—hey,” you said, a little smile tugging at your lips. “Were you about to knock?”

Seungcheol froze like you’d caught him sneaking candy from a jar. “I—uh. Maybe. I wasn’t sure if—uh—hi.”

You leaned on the frame too, mirroring his posture. “Hi.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking anywhere but your eyes. “I didn’t mean to be weird. I was just… standing. Near your door. For no suspicious reason.”

“Completely normal,” you deadpanned, but the soft laugh in your voice made his shoulders relax.

“I was with the guys,” he explained. “Had a drink. Nothing wild. No one danced on tables.”

“Disappointed in you, honestly,” you teased, stepping back slightly. “You wanna come in?”

He blinked. “Really?”

You tilted your head. “Well, you were already loitering. Might as well make it official.”

You glanced over your shoulder as you set your mug down on the table. “You good?”

He blinked, then cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. Just… wasn’t expecting you to open the door right when I was about to have a full internal crisis.”

You smirked, settling onto the couch. “Timing’s always been my thing.”

“You ever feel like your brain’s just… racing ahead of everything else?”

You gave a soft laugh. “Constantly. That’s why I eat snacks in bed. Brings balance.”

He chuckled, head dropping for a second before he glanced at you. “I think I’m just…” He hesitated. “Scared.”

Your voice was quiet. “Of me?”

“No. God, no.” His answer came quickly, eyes wide. “Of… how easy it is. With you. And how fast that happened. It’s not bad. It’s just... surprising. And kind of terrifying.”

You leaned back, watching him gently, your voice softer now. “You don’t have to rush anything.”

He looked at you like that was the first thing he needed to hear all week.

“I know,” he said. “I just… I want to get it right. With you. With her.”

“You already are,” you said simply. “Even when you’re awkward and rambling.”

He groaned and flopped back against the couch. “Don’t remind me.”

You smiled, looking at him. “It’s charming.”

He turned his head toward you. His voice was quieter. “You think?”

You nodded. “I do.”

And maybe it was the way the room felt warm or how the night wrapped around the moment so gently but he looked at you for a long beat, his eyes a little softer, his heart a little louder. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

You didn’t say anything either. Just leaned over, slow and easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He went still for a moment when your head gently rested against his shoulder, but then you felt it the subtle shift of him relaxing, his shoulder settling just a little deeper into the couch so you’d be more comfortable. Like his body had made space without him thinking about it.

His arm lifted awkwardly at first, like he wasn’t sure where to put it, before it curved around your back, warm and tentative. You heard him breathe in, soft and shaky.

“This okay?” he asked quietly, the words brushing the top of your hair.

You nodded, your voice just as low. “Yeah.��

Silence fell again, but it wasn’t awkward this time. It was gentle. Companionable.

Eventually, he whispered, half-laughing under his breath, “This is really dangerous.”

You tilted your head slightly to look up at him. “Why?”

His eyes were on the ceiling, a crooked smile forming. “Because I could get used to this.”

You shifted just slightly so you could look up at him, your cheek still resting against his shoulder. “You know,” you said softly, “you’re allowed to feel things. To want things. You can be more than Soojin’s dad.”

His gaze dropped to you slowly, like the weight of your words took time to settle. His eyes searched your face, but he didn’t speak, not yet.

You reached up, brushing your fingers gently over the crease between his brows. “You’re still Seungcheol.”

And it wasn’t until right then that he realized how much he needed to hear that. How long he’d been carrying this version of himself, carefully trimmed down to the essentials: provider, protector, father. As if there wasn’t space for anything more. As if it was selfish to even hope for it.

But here you were. Not asking for anything. Not expecting him to be perfect. Just… seeing him.

“I forgot,” he said finally, his voice a little rough. “I didn’t mean to, but I did.”

“You’ve been doing the hard stuff,” you murmured. “You’ve been strong for her. But you don’t have to lose you in the process.”

His arm tightened around you slightly, his thumb brushing against your side in small, grounding circles. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to. The way he looked at you said everything.

“I didn’t think I’d get this again,” he said after a long silence. “This kind of quiet. This kind of—someone.”

You looked up at him again, your voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t lose your chance, Seungcheol.”

He glanced down at you, his eyes searching yours like he was trying to believe it.

“I think you’re kind of incredible,” you added, smiling just a little. “Even when you’re running off to buy emergency baby food or panicking in the hallway at midnight.”

A small, surprised laugh slipped from him, his eyes crinkling. “You remember that?”

You bumped your shoulder into him lightly. “You muttered a full monologue out there.”

He shook his head with a bashful smile. “I was trying to psych myself out of it.”

“Did it work?”

He looked at you again. Really looked. His gaze softened.

“No,” he said quietly. “Not even close.”

“I don’t know what this is yet,” he said, his voice unsure but honest. “But I know I don’t want to run from it.”

You smiled, leaning your head back on his shoulder. “Good. Because I wasn’t planning on letting you.”

He chuckled under his breath, his head tilting down to rest against yours again.

And just like that, the silence returned—but this time, it held something new. Something neither of you said aloud yet, but both of you felt.

The beginning of something.

It’s another random day, the three of you just lounging around.

Soojin was curled between you, triumphant and snug, and Seungcheol was pretending to pout, eyes narrowed at her while trying not to smile. His arm was still behind you, his body warm and close, and for a second you looked at him

And then, almost without thinking, you leaned in.

A soft kiss. half on his cheek, half on the corner of his lips.

He froze. You pulled back slowly, your smile still there but quieter now, a little uncertain. And then he turned his head toward you, just enough that your faces were closer again, but not quite touching.

“You missed,” he said, voice low, a little breathless.

You raised a brow, trying to play it cool even as your pulse fluttered. “Did I?”

He nodded slowly, his gaze dropping to your lips for just a second. “A little.”

Soojin, completely oblivious, let out a content sigh in your arms and stuffed her fingers into her mouth.

You looked at him, at the way his usually calm eyes were dancing with something nervous and bold all at once. And then you leaned in again closer this time, a heartbeat away—

Only for Soojin to let out the loudest hiccup of her life and slap a drool-covered hand to your chin.

You and Seungcheol both burst out laughing.

“Okay,” you said, grinning as you wiped your face. “She’s really committed to cockblocking you.”

Seungcheol laughed so hard he had to cover his mouth. “She’s ten months old and already has better timing than I ever will.”

But even after the moment passed, even with Soojin demanding your attention again, he kept glancing at you from the corner of his eye—like the space you almost closed still lingered in his chest.

You were finishing the last of the dishes, sleeves rolled up, humming under your breath when you felt the shift in the room. You didn’t need to turn around—you could sense him. That quiet energy of his when he wasn’t quite sure how to act, like he was rehearsing what to say even as he approached.

Then, arms slid around your waist.

You smiled before he even said anything.

“Hey,” Seungcheol murmured against your shoulder, his voice low, a little too casual.

You grinned, rinsing the last plate. “Hey yourself.”

His hold tightened, not too much, just enough to feel the beat of your pulse and make you pause. His chin rested on your shoulder, breath warm against your neck.

“You do this now every time I’m doing dishes?” you teased, flicking water off your fingers. “Getting cozy so you don’t have to help?”

“I like the view,” he muttered.

You turned your head toward him with an amused look. “Of the sink?”

“Of you at the sink,” he said, then groaned quietly like he hated himself for how that came out. “That sounded better in my head.”

You laughed, setting down the towel and turning in his arms, your hands still a little damp as they rested against his chest. “You’re really bad at this, huh?”

“I am,” he admitted, no hesitation, ears slightly pink. “Like, embarrassingly bad.”

“I kinda like it,” you said with a soft smile. “It’s… endearing.”

“Yeah?” He tilted his head slightly, watching you. “Endearing enough that I don’t need to pretend I came out here for water or something?”

You squinted at him. “You came out here to flirt.”

“I really thought I was being subtle.”

“You were about as subtle as Soojin when she wants to be picked up.”

He let out a breathy laugh. “Wow. Harsh.”

“But accurate,” you teased, poking his chest gently.

There was a beat then, quiet and close. His hands were still on your waist, yours resting between his ribs and shoulders. The kitchen was soft around you, dim and warm, the sound of the hallway clock ticking faintly in the background.

And suddenly the air changed.

Seungcheol swallowed. “I’ve… kind of wanted to do this for a while now.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Help with the dishes?”

He huffed a laugh, nervous and fond all at once. “God, you’re really not gonna let me have this moment easy, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

Then he leaned in. Tentative, close enough for your breath to catch but still watching your face like he was giving you every chance to pull away. You didn’t.

Your hands slid around his neck instead, fingers curling into the hair at his nape. “Okay,” you whispered, “I’ll let you have this moment.”

He smiled. Soft, real, and just a little shaky.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t perfect. His nose bumped yours a little, and your teeth almost clacked from the way you both smiled halfway through it. But it was warm and real and his hands tightened just slightly like he was anchoring himself there with you.

When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead to yours, eyes fluttering shut.

“Worth the bad lines?” he asked.

“Definitely,” you whispered, cheeks flushed.

And from the hallway, as if on cue, Soojin let out a sleepy little squeak in her crib.

You both laughed quietly.

“Guess that’s our timer,” you said, leaning into him again.

He kissed your temple, still holding you like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. “She’s gonna be so mad she missed that.”

It was an ordinary morning. Soojin was babbling her usual string of soft sounds while sitting on the floor between you and Seungcheol.

You were handing her one of her favorite toys, grinning as she smacked it against her chubby thigh in excitement. She was bouncing, babbling, making nonsense sounds and grabbing at your sleeve like she always did when—

“Mama.”

It was soft. Clear. Unmistakable.

You froze mid-reach. So did Seungcheol, his mug halfway to his mouth.

The silence that followed was almost comical. Soojin just blinked up at you like she hadn’t just shattered the entire room into stillness.

You slowly turned your head to look at Seungcheol. He was already looking at you, eyes wide.

“Did she—” you started.

He nodded, eyes even wider now. “She said—”

“Mama,” Soojin chirped again, reaching for your hand with her gummy grin.

You blinked fast, a wave of emotion flooding your chest so quickly it knocked the breath out of you. “Oh my god.”

Seungcheol was already moving, crawling closer to the two of you, completely abandoning his coffee. “Wait—say it again, Soojin. What was that?”

But she just giggled now, slapping your arm with baby enthusiasm, still beaming. “Mama!”

You laughed, a sound caught between a sob and sheer disbelief, hugging her instinctively to your chest. “I swear I didn’t teach her that. I didn’t—”

“I know,” Seungcheol said, staring at you both like the world had just shifted. “She just… she chose it.”

“She called you mama.”

You looked up at him, cheeks warm, eyes a little wet. “She did.”

He leaned in and kissed the top of Soojin’s head, then your temple. His voice was barely a whisper, like it was only meant for the space between the three of you.

“She knows who loves her.”

Your eyes welled up so fast it surprised even you. You blinked hard, trying to breathe through it, but the moment, it cracked something open.

Seungcheol’s head snapped up, alarm flashing across his face. “Wait—are you crying? Are those—are you okay? Was it too much? I mean, she just—she just said it out of nowhere, I didn’t mean for—"

You let out a watery laugh, shaking your head as you held Soojin closer. She patted your cheek, like she could sense it. “No—no, it’s not that, it’s just—” you looked up at him, your voice catching in your throat. “Do I deserve that? Is that okay with you?”

His breath caught. His mouth parted, like the words couldn’t come fast enough.

“Hey,” he said, moving closer on his knees, gently reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “You didn’t take her from anyone. She chose you. She’s been choosing you.”

You swallowed hard, but the tears still fell, quiet and honest. “I’m not her mom…”

“You love her like one,” he whispered. “She feels that”

You stared at him, breath shaky.

“I didn’t know if it was okay,” you murmured, “to feel this much.”

He leaned forward, forehead touching yours. “It’s more than okay.”

Soojin squirmed in your arms, reaching one tiny hand up to grab a piece of your hair and yanking gently. You both laughed, eyes still wet. And then Seungcheol pressed a kiss to your cheek, soft and sure.

“Welcome to the family, mama.”

You were crouched on the floor, gathering up Soojin’s toys and it hit you all at once. The memory, bright and clear, of her smiling up at you with those shining eyes, her chubby hands reaching out as she said it.

Mama.

The quiet shuffle of feet made you look up. Seungcheol stood at the edge of the room, eyes wide with concern, a half-folded blanket still in his hands.

“Hey—” he said gently, moving to crouch in front of you. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

You shook your head, wiping at your cheeks, the words barely able to form. “I don’t know. I just—” you swallowed, voice cracking. “She looked at me like that. She smiled and she called me mama like I’ve always been that for her and I—”

He moved closer, hands bracing on your arms as if to ground you.

You took a deep breath and looked at him, tears still spilling. “How can I even love someone this much? She’s not even mine, but I feel it—I feel like she is. Every part of her. And then I think…” Your voice wobbled harder. “I think, how could anyone not want that? How could her mother not want her? Not love her?”

Seungcheol’s expression folded not in shock, not in discomfort but in something raw and full of understanding. He pulled you forward, wrapping his arms around you tight, pressing your face against his shoulder as you cried.

“I ask myself that all the time,” he murmured. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand it. But I’m grateful—” he held you tighter—“so damn grateful that she has you. That she loves you.”

You clutched his shirt in your fists, letting yourself cry into him, letting the weight of all of it — the love, the ache, the wonder of being chosen — pass through you.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” you whispered.

“You won’t,” he said softly. “You already gave her what no one else did.”

You pulled back a little, eyes still glassy. “What’s that?”

He smiled gently. “Your whole heart.”

“I don’t want her to grow up ever thinking she doesn’t have enough love,” you said, voice raw and breaking. “She doesn’t deserve that. She deserves so much more.”

Seungcheol’s arms tightened around you, his breath catching like your words had punched straight through his chest.

“She won’t,” he said firmly, his voice a little hoarse now too. “Not with you in her life. Not with us.”

You pulled back, just enough to look up at him, your face still streaked with tears. “What if one day she wonders why her mom left? What if I can’t—what if I’m not enough to cover up that kind of ache?”

His hands cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing the tears away with the gentlest touch. “You being here doesn’t erase what happened,” he said. “But it gives her something else to remember. Something better. She’s gonna grow up knowing that she was wanted so badly that even the people who didn’t have to stay… did.”

Your breath hitched.

“I didn’t mean to love her like this,” you admitted. “I didn’t expect to. But now I can’t imagine not.”

“She doesn’t know anything else but love when you’re around,” he said quietly. “You’ve already changed her whole world. Mine too.”

You closed your eyes, more tears slipping free, but they didn’t feel heavy now. They felt… full.

“I’m so glad she has you,” he whispered. “I’m so glad I do too.”

And there, in that quiet room filled with baby toys and love you didn’t see coming, you nodded and leaned into him, holding on like the two of you — all three of you — were exactly where you were meant to be.

He was just coming out of the other room, towel slung around his shoulders, when he heard your voice. Not loud. Not laughing. Not teasing like it usually was when you played with Soojin.

This was quieter—gentler.

He padded closer to the bedroom doorway, peeking in without making a sound. You were sitting cross-legged on the floor in one of his old sweatshirts, Soojin nestled between your knees, her little arms lifted as you struggled to get her tiny hand through the sleeve of her onesie.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” you whispered, a fond smile on your lips as you smoothed the fabric over her back. “Look at you, almost dressed all by yourself. You’re so smart.”

Soojin babbled in response, wiggling slightly as if trying to help.

“You are,” you told her softly, brushing a kiss to her cheek. “So smart, and brave, and kind. And everyone who meets you is going to see that, because you shine. You know that? You shine.”

He stilled, towel forgotten in his hand. Something tugged hard in his chest. You laughed a little when Soojin blew a spit bubble in reply, unbothered, like she understood every word you said.

“And you’ve got the strongest little heart,” you continued, guiding her chubby feet into her leggings. “You’ve been through more than most, haven’t you, sweetheart? But you keep going. You keep smiling. And you’re so, so loved.”

You paused for a second, your fingers slowing.

“By your dad,” you whispered, kissing her forehead. “By me.”

Soojin squealed, flapping her arms with glee, and you grinned, lifting her up in a little bounce. “Yeah? You know it, huh?”

Seungcheol leaned against the doorframe before he could stop himself, heart in his throat, eyes on you like he couldn’t believe this was real. You glanced over, surprised, but your smile didn’t falter.

“Hey,” you said, lifting Soojin a little higher. “We’re dressed. Tell Daddy we got dressed like champs.”

He laughed “I heard.”

You tilted your head. “Too much?”

He shook his head. “Not even close.”

And in that moment, watching you cradle his daughter like she was the whole world and speak to her like every word mattered, Seungcheol realized something else.

You weren’t just part of his life now. You were helping build it.

You were still laughing softly with Soojin, brushing her wispy hair back and blowing a gentle raspberry to her cheek, when he said it.

“I love you.”

Your hand paused midair.

The room stilled not tense, but full. Full of everything that had been building for weeks in glances, in soft touches, in the way you carried his daughter like she was a part of you, too.

You looked up slowly, lips parted slightly, eyes wide with something between surprise and breathless warmth. “What?”

He stepped forward, leaving the towel forgotten on the hallway floor. His voice was calmer than he expected, his hands at his sides, heart pounding—but steady.

“I love you,” he repeated. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to say it just now. I was going to… I don’t know. Plan it better, maybe.”

You blinked, standing up with Soojin still in your arms, her head now resting lazily on your shoulder like she was sensing something important.

“But then I heard you,” he went on, his voice rough around the edges. “The way you talk to her. The way you love her. And I just—there was no way I could keep it in.”

You stared at him for a beat longer, as if trying to decide if this was real, if you were allowed to feel everything you were suddenly feeling.

Then your mouth curved into the softest smile, and your eyes glistened.

“You’re really bad at planning, huh?”

He let out a breath of a laugh, stepping closer. “Terrible. But I meant it.”

You nodded, hugging Soojin a little tighter between you. “I know.”

He tilted his head, suddenly unsure again. “You know?”

Your smile deepened as you stepped close enough to press your forehead to his, Soojin squished gently between your chests. “Of course I know.”

Then, quieter, your lips brushing his:

“And I love you, too.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for months.

You felt it — the way his shoulders dropped, the quiet shudder of relief through his body, how his hands finally moved to hold your waist, steady like he was anchoring himself to the moment. You didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned in closer, letting Soojin nestle in between you both like she belonged there — because she did.

He let out a breathless laugh, rubbing one hand gently up your back. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You smiled against his jaw. “You let me in. That’s enough.”

Soojin shifted in your arms with a sleepy little whimper, and both of you instinctively rocked slightly, a quiet rhythm the two of you had already fallen into like it was second nature.

Seungcheol watched you the curve of your smile, the softness in your eyes, the way your arms curled protectively around Soojin like you were born to love her.

And now, him too.

He pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. “I want you to stay.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyebrows raised slightly. “Today?”

He shook his head, a little crooked smile tugging at his lips.

“No,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “I mean… in our life. Always.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest, full and aching and warm.

You whispered, “Okay.”

And when he leaned down this time — with Soojin smooshed between you both, giggling now, tiny hands batting at your chins — you tilted up to meet him halfway, a soft, sure kiss shared right there in the center of your little world.

Messy, imperfect, beautiful.

Yours.

It was the day before Soojin’s first birthday, and the apartment was a gentle mess of soft pinks, pastel streamers, and tiny decorations waiting to be set up.

Later that evening, after Soojin had gone down for the night, the apartment was unusually quiet. The living room still held the remnants of earlier chaos. You were at the table, folding the last few napkins.

You caught him staring.

“What?”

He gave a guilty little smile. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

“That’s always dangerous.”

He laughed under his breath. “True.”

“Thinking about what?”

He hesitated, then came to sit across from you, elbows resting on the table, hands clasped. “Just… tomorrow. Her first birthday. It feels like a milestone for her, but also… for me.”

You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hands. “I think it is. You kept her alive, loved, and growing for a whole year. You did amazing.”

“She made it easy. And you…” he trailed off, gaze softening. “You came in and filled in every space I didn’t know was empty.”

Your heart squeezed at that.

“You know,” he said after a beat, “I used to count down every hour until bedtime. Just so I could breathe for a second. And now—now I look forward to the mornings because I get to see her smile. And I get to see you.”

You smiled gently, voice quiet. “Cheol…”

“I mean it,” he said, sitting up a bit straighter. “You changed everything.”

You reached across the table, resting your hand over his. He turned his palm to meet yours, fingers lacing instinctively, like they’d always meant to do that.

Then he squeezed your hand. “Wanna stay over again tonight? Just us. Before the chaos of tomorrow.”

You smiled softly. “Only if you make me your famous midnight ramen.”

He grinned. “Deal.”

He stood, pulling you up with him by your joined hands. You laughed as he tugged you close, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.

Later, you found yourselves curled on the couch, sharing a blanket, your legs tangled, a bowl of instant ramen balanced between you. You took turns feeding each other, whispering quiet jokes and memories from the past few months, letting the soft light from the kitchen be the only thing illuminating the moment.

And neither of you said it, but it was clear. This, it wasn’t fleeting. It was growing roots.

Right here, in the warmth of laughter and late-night ramen, on the eve of a little girl’s first birthday.

You're both lying in bed, the lights dimmed to a soft glow, the sheets pulled up to your waists. Soojin was asleep in her room, the baby monitor quiet on the nightstand. Seungcheol was on his side, facing you, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other resting just barely on your waist.

You’d been talking about her birthday party tomorrow, about whether the cake would survive the trip from the bakery, about how she was probably going to end up covered in icing before the day was done.

You’d laughed, light and sleepy, and then the room had gone quiet. Not awkward—just still.

And you’d gone quiet too.

He noticed it almost instantly.

“Hey,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles along your arm. “Where’d you go just now?”

You blinked out of your thoughts, glancing at him. “Nowhere.”

He raised a brow, giving you a look.

You exhaled a soft laugh. “Okay… not nowhere.”

He waited, eyes patient, a quiet comfort in the dark.

“I was just thinking,” you said, your voice low, barely more than a whisper. “How fast everything changed. How we went from being strangers in the hallway to…” You trailed off, gesturing softly between you and him.

“To this,” he said.

You nodded. “And how it doesn’t feel scary. I thought it would. But it doesn’t.”

He smiled, eyes still on you. “I thought it would too. I tried really hard to keep things from going too far, honestly.”

You gave a playful scoff. “Wow. Thanks.”

He laughed quietly. “I mean because I was scared. Because I thought maybe it was too much to hope for. That someone could just… walk into our lives and fit so perfectly. Be exactly what I didn’t know I needed.”

“I still get scared,” he admitted. “But every time you’re here, or she reaches for you, or you say her name like it’s the most beautiful thing in the world… I stop doubting for a little bit.”

You shifted closer, pressing your forehead to his. “Then I’ll just have to keep doing all of that. So you don’t forget.”

His hand found yours under the blanket, fingers curling around yours gently.

“Okay,” he said, voice low. “Deal.”

He never said it outright again after the first time, “I love you”, but he didn’t need to.

It lived in every small thing he did. In the way he made your tea just the way you liked. In the way he gave you the first bite of everything. In how he never missed a chance to touch you — hand on your back, brushing your fingers, tucking your hair behind your ear.

And you — you loved them back so fiercely it scared you sometimes.

“She’s so loved,” you whispered

“She is,” he said, almost like a vow.

You looked at him — this man who had doubted everything once, wondered if he could be a good father, a good partner, someone worth staying for. Now he says things like vows he'll keep for the rest of his life.

“I was so scared,” he murmured, voice low. “That I’d mess her up. That I’d never get it right.”

You reached for his hand. “You did everything right, Cheol. Everything.”

A long pause.

Then, softly, with a small laugh in his voice, he asked, “So… same time next year for birthday number two?”

You smiled, leaned up to kiss him — gentle, reassuring. “Already thinking what theme we should do next”

Right here, right now he doesn't even remember all those who left, everything he once lost. Now, all he can think of is what he has, wha he gained ever since he met you.

Wrapped in each other, the past behind and the future so very close, it felt like the beginning of everything good. Of everything true.

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purinbunnii · 3 days ago

Text

SFW Headcanons

1. Unapologetic Flirt

Rafayel doesn’t just flirt — he performs. Every wink, every low-voiced compliment is calculated to make you blush. But it’s never hollow — his eyes always linger like he’s memorizing you.

“Is it my fault you look so good when you’re annoyed with me?”

Example: You’re irritated after a late meeting, pacing and venting. He lounges nearby, watching you like you’re the best show on Earth. “Keep going,” he says, grinning. “You’re even hotter when you’re furious.”

⸻

2. Deep Emotional Awareness

For all his teasing, Rafayel sees people. Especially you. He catches on to every shift in your voice, every flicker of doubt — and his charm quiets into something much more honest.

“You don’t have to be strong for me. I like you just the way you are — tired, messy, all of it.”

Example: After a particularly rough mission, you try to shake it off. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, no jokes this time. “You gave too much of yourself again, didn’t you?”

⸻

3. Possessive in Private

He’s all smooth smiles in public — but behind closed doors, he’s very clear: you’re his. He doesn’t need to shout it. A hand on your back, a heated look — it’s all there.

“I don’t mind sharing your time… but not your attention.”

Example: Someone flirts with you during a briefing. Later, Rafayel pulls you aside with a lazy smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Didn’t know we were entertaining guests.”

⸻

4. Affection Through Touch

He’s constantly touching you — a guiding hand at your waist, fingers ghosting along your wrist, lips pressed just behind your ear for no reason at all.

“You calm me down, you know that? Just… being near you.”

Example: You’re falling asleep on the ship lounge couch. He walks by, sees you, and without a word, tucks his jacket over you and kisses your forehead.

⸻

5. Romantic Mischief

Expect sudden candle-lit dinners in the engine room or love notes hacked into the mission logs. Rafayel doesn’t do boring when it comes to love.

“Routine kills passion. Lucky for you, I’m a professional at keeping things interesting.”

Example: You wake up to soft music and a projection of a sunrise on the ceiling. He’s sitting beside you with breakfast. “Rise and shine, my favorite view.”

⸻

NSFW Headcanons (18+)

1. Slow and Calculated

Rafayel takes his time. He studies you like he’s solving an equation — every gasp, twitch, and moan filed away so he can draw it out longer next time. Control turns him on.

“I want to see how long I can keep you right here… just like this.”

Example: You’re already trembling beneath him, but he doesn’t rush. His hands glide lower, mouth dragging slowly across your skin. “No hurry. We’ve got all night.”

⸻

2. Low, Dirty Talk

His voice drops in bed — deep, dark velvet. He murmurs against your throat, telling you exactly how good you feel, how wrecked you look, how much he wants you.

“You should hear yourself. Do you even know how beautiful you sound when you break for me?”

Example: You’re breathless, fingers gripping the sheets, and his lips are by your ear, voice steady and reverent as he rocks into you. “Take me in. That’s it. You’re doing so well.”

⸻

3. Loves Control — But Gives Just Enough

He likes to lead — pressing you down, holding your wrists, deciding when you come — but only after reading you, ensuring it’s what you crave too.

“You want me to take over? Then say it. I need to hear it.”

Example: He pins you against the wall, but waits. His hand rests at your throat gently, and his gaze darkens. “You trust me, don’t you?” he asks. When you nod, he smiles — slow, devastating — and finally takes.

⸻

4. Praise Over Degradation

Rafayel might tease in everyday life, but in bed? He’s reverent. He wants you to feel like the center of the universe — every kiss, every thrust layered with worship.

“You’re perfect like this. Under me, around me, for me.”

Example: You reach your peak with a cry, and instead of laughing or cocky remarks, he whispers, “That’s it. Just like that. You’re stunning when you let go.”

⸻

5. Intentional Aftercare

After everything, he’s soft. Wipes you down with warm cloths, brings you water, spoons you close. He stays awake just to watch your breath steady.

“Don’t move yet. Let me take care of you.”

Example: You doze off in his arms, skin still flushed. He brushes hair from your face, kisses your temple, and mutters, “You’re too good for me, cutie. I’ll keep proving I’m worth it.”

#lads au #lads posting #lads rafayel #lads x reader #lads fanfic #headcanon #lads mc #lads #lnds fanfic #lnds x you #lnds x reader #lnds #rafayel x you #lnds rafayel #love and deep space rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #rafayel x mc #rafayel x y/n

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suskz · 2 days ago

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Hold me tight, keep me close

pairing: Lee Felix x fem!Reader

t/w: fluff ; hurt/comfort ; smut ; period sex ; wet and messy ; piv sex ; fingering (f!rec) ; menstrual blood ; so much blood ; reader is on her period ; Felix is so sweet and caring ; unprotected sex (don’t do that, kids) ; coming inside.

w/c: 4.5k

a/n: sorry for the late post, guys! It took me longer than I expected 😭. But it’s finally here! I really love this one, because Felix is soo caring and just what I need rn (I’m on my period y’all 🥹). It’s 2am here, I’m gonna go sleep now. Enjoy!!

The first thing you feel when you wake up is a hand gently shaking your shoulder, then a voice calling your name.

“Y/n, love.” It’s your boyfriend’s voice— deep, but soft. You shift in place, intending to stretch, and that’s when you notice a strange sensation between your legs. It’s wet.

Your eyes snap open, and you don’t even have time to think about what it could be before you sit up in bed, forcing Felix to pull his hand back, and look at the… the crime scene.

Maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration—most of the blood is in your pants and only a little made it onto the sheets, but still—you stained them.

Hesitantly, you turn your head toward your boyfriend. He lifts his eyes from the blood-stained sheets to meet yours, offering a small, reassuring smile that seems to hide a hint of uncertainty.

You feel mortified. You feel the urge to cry, but nothing comes out—not a tear, not a sob.

Instead, you suck in a sharp breath, and his eyes immediately fill with concern.

“It’s okay,” he reassures you, then seems to second-guess himself. “Is it okay?”

You lower your gaze and let him move closer, placing a hand on your thigh where the blood hasn’t reached, gently stroking it with his thumb.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think it would come today.” you apologize, shame washing over you.

“You couldn’t have known,” he says kindly. “It’s okay.”

“Felix, it’s disgusting, and these are your clothes— fuck,” your voice comes out cracked. “Look at the mess I made.” You lower your eyes to the red stain on the white sheet, “Doesn’t it gross you out?”

“Hey, don’t say that,” he frowns. “It doesn’t bother me, not even a little.” He cups your face in his hands and turns it so you’ll look at him. “It happens. It’s okay, it’s just laundry—nothing to worry about.”

You look into his eyes for a few seconds, searching for any sign of doubt, and nod at his words when you find none. He smiles softly.

“You go take a shower now,” he runs a gentle hand through your hair. “I’ll go buy you some pads, okay?”

You nod again. “Thank you,” you smile, grateful to have such a caring and understanding boyfriend. “Do you want me to show you a picture?”

“I’ve seen them so many times, I know exactly which ones they are by now.” He chuckles and you do too.

“Let’s clean this mess first—” you stop suddenly when a sharp pain hits your lower stomach and you feel warm liquid soaking through your underwear —and probably reaching the bed— eliciting a muffled groan. “No, never mind, let’s do it later.”

He watches you shift around, trying to ease the pain, feeling bad seeing you in discomfort. “No, I’ll do it. Don’t worry. I can also get the painkillers you use.”

“No, it’s okay. I can handle it until I get home.”

You don’t know why you say it, because honestly, it feels like you can’t even stand another half hour.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry.”

He nods.

But when you step out of the shower, you still find the pills on the sink —right next to some pads and clean clothes— and his thoughtfulness melts your heart.

When you leave the bathroom, he’s just finishing making the bed. He looks up at you and gives you a tender smile, a touch of pride in his eyes at the sight of you wearing his clothes.

You huff a quiet chuckle. “You know I could’ve just put on what I wore yesterday, right?”

His cheeks tint with a soft, almost imperceptible blush. “Yeah, I know. But I wanted to see you in mine. You look cute.” He smiles sweetly.

Then he comes over, wrapping his arms around you in a warm hug and pressing a loving kiss to your forehead. You stay like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, in comforting silence.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” you say for what feels like the hundredth time, but he shakes his head.

“No more of that. I already told you—it’s all okay. The bed’s clean, and I can always get new clothes. See? No big deal.”

You hum and snuggle a little closer to him.

“I love you,” he says suddenly, his ears turning a little red at the words he’s still not quite used to saying.

You look up at him, a little surprised but happy to hear it. “I love you too,” you reply, your face flushed. He gives you a soft peck on the lips, and the two of you just look at each other for a while.

But that quiet moment is cut short by a sudden noise.

Your face burns with embarrassment, your ears flaming as you hide in his chest.

Felix’s laughter only makes it worse.

“Hungry?”

“What do you think? I haven’t had breakfast yet.” You mumble, your voice muffled against his shirt, trying to hide your embarrassment behind a normal tone.

“Pancakes?” he suggests.

Your eyes light up at the suggestion, and you look up at him with the expression of a delighted child.

“Yes, please!”

He laughs at your eagerness and how adorable you are.

—

“Do you feel like going out with the guys? We can go another time if you’d rather.”

You and Felix are cuddled up on the couch watching TV. Your back rests against his chest, one of his hands gently stroking your stomach, while the other holds you close.

How could you say no to him? You made these plans a week ago, and you don’t want to cancel last minute just because your period started and you’re not at your best. You still look presentable, and both of you had really been looking forward to this hangout with the guys.

“No, I’m fine. I still want to go.”

Felix nods at your response. “I’ll be at your place by 3.”

And he is. You’d gone back home after lunch to get ready, and Felix came to pick you up—though not before having to wait an extra 10 minutes for you, as usual.

Now you’re at a bar with Felix, the rest of the members, and Chan’s girlfriend, whom you’ve recently grown close to.

“You should’ve seen Minho’s face when that little girl called him ‘dad.’ It was hilarious,” Seungmin grins, amused by the memory, and everyone bursts out laughing—everyone except Minho.

“I can totally picture it,” Hyunjin laughs.

“Do you really want to end up in the air fryer, Hyunjin?” Minho threatens, and Hyunjin instantly stops laughing, glancing around nervously.

“Is it because you feel old now that a kid mistook you for her dad?” you tease with a smirk. You’re one of the few people who can get away with it—just like Minho has a soft spot for Felix, he has one for you too.

Felix’s arm is wrapped around your waist, his fingers gently stroking your side as he laughs at your comment—and at the tongue Minho sticks out at you in return.

A little while later, you excuse yourself to go to the bathroom. You’ve had the pad on for a few hours now, and you definitely need to change it.

The restroom has three sinks and two stalls—one for men and one for women.

You stop in front of the mirror first, checking your appearance and simply taking a moment to look at yourself. Then, suddenly, a sharp cramp hits you, making you double over with your hands on your lower belly.

You should’ve brought your painkillers with you.

You huff in frustration and rest your hands on the sink, leaning on one leg. That’s when it happens. Warm liquid begins to run down your leg—your position caused your pad to shift.

Caught off guard, you straighten up, trying to keep your baggy pants from touching your thigh.

Damn these white pants. You knew you should’ve worn black jeans.

But as you head into the women’s stall, it’s impossible to keep them from getting stained. That clean white fabric turns into a dreadful shade of red.

When you pull them down and sit on the toilet, you see the full mess you’ve made on your thigh and pants, and tears begin to blur your vision. There hasn’t been a single thing today that your period hasn’t ruined.

You should’ve stayed home.

A sob catches in your throat.

You don’t know how much time has passed, but apparently, you’ve been gone a little too long, because Felix walks into the restroom, looking for you.

You try to stop crying and settle enough to answer him, but when a heavy sob escapes your throat, the tears start flowing down your cheeks again.

“Y/nie?” your boyfriend calls out, approaching the stall you’re in. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

You don’t answer.

“Can you open the door for me?”

Still no response—but your sobs slowly quiet down until they stop, and finally, the door clicks open.

Since it’s just the two of you in the restroom, he opens it just enough to see you but doesn’t step in, wanting to give you space. Still, it’s so hard for him to stand there, seeing your tear-streaked face and the way your bottom lip is quivering.

“Sunshine, what’s going on?” His voice is deep but soft—reassuring.

The words die in your throat, so you lower your eyes to your pants—and he understands. You’ve already tried to clean your thigh the best you could, but there’s still some red left.

“Is that the reason? Baby, it’s okay. It happens. Nothing we can’t fix.” He offers you a gentle smile—but is surprised when fresh tears start falling down your cheeks again.

That’s when he quickly steps inside, shuts the door behind him, and kneels in front of you. His hands cup your face, his thumbs wiping away your tears—and in that moment, you’re so thankful he’s your boyfriend. He presses a soothing kiss to your forehead.

“I-I don’t even know why I’m crying,” you say, your voice cracking. “It’s just…” you sniffle, and he waits patiently, nodding. “It’s the second time today, and it’s ruining everything. And now I’ve got stained pants and all this pain, and I didn’t even bring my pills with me. I ruined the hangout, and I’m afraid I’m bothering you too.”

“You’re not annoying me—you never could. Don’t even think that, okay?” he reassures you. “I’m sorry you’re having such a hard day, love. I get how you feel, and I hate that it’s going like this. I wish I could take some of the pain away so you wouldn’t have to feel this bad.”

He places a hand on your stomach, gently stroking it, a small pout on his lips. “Is it hurting a lot?”

You nod, sniffling. There’s a dull, radiating ache that reaches down into your thighs, making it feel like they’ve been split in half. You just want to go home.

“But I can still help make your day better,” he says with a soft smile. “Let’s go back to my place and cuddle in bed. How does that sound?” he asks sweetly, and you nod, closing your eyes for a moment and leaning into his gentle touch.

“Good. No more tears now, okay? It’s going to be okay. I’m here with you.” He gives your thigh a comforting squeeze to reassure you.

Afterward, he leaves you some privacy to finish cleaning up, waiting just outside your stall. When you come out, he offers you his hoodie to tie around your waist and cover the large red stain on your pants. Then the two of you return to the others, just to say goodbye before leaving together.

At his place, you find yourself in the shower for the second time today, while he prepares a cozy spot for the two of you to spend the rest of the afternoon cuddling.

He also quietly slips into the bathroom to leave you some fresh clothes. When you get out of the shower and see them, you almost start crying again because of how thoughtful and loving he is. Out of all his clothes, he picked your favorites: a pair of soft gray sweatpants you always wear when you’re at his place, and a worn-out white shirt you often wear when you snuggle, especially after sex. There’s also a black hoodie that’s way too big on you —which is exactly why you love it— and a pair of fluffy blue socks.

When you leave the bathroom, he’s already waiting for you on the bed, and you immediately throw yourself into his arms. You stay like that for so long you lose track of the minutes—or the hours. You could stay like this for days without ever getting tired of it.

One of his hands gently rubs circles on your back while you absentmindedly scratch his arm with your nails.

“Feeling better now?”

You hum. “Yeah, much better.”

There’s a cartoon playing softly on the TV in his room, and outside, the occasional sound of cars passes by. Everything is so calm and peaceful, you don’t want to get out of bed for at least a few more days, or months—or maybe ever.

But of course, things can’t stay perfect. You let out a whine when a sharp cramp tears through your lower belly, making you squirm, your face contorting in pain. Felix coos and places a hand over the spot that hurts, tracing soothing little circles.

Damn your body.

Felix leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek, then your lips—once, then again, and again. You’re not even sure how you ended up with your back on the bed and him hovering over you, but it doesn’t really matter.

He starts leaving sensual kisses down the side of your neck, trailing lower until he reaches the hem of the hoodie you’re wearing.

Then his lips brush against your ear.

“You know, I heard orgasms help with period cramps.”

He bites your earlobe gently.

“Wanna give it a try?”

Then he licks and sucks it. He doesn’t give you time to answer before his lips crash onto yours again. Both of his hands slip under your hoodie and T-shirt, finding your hot skin.

“Please, baby? I really need you,” he says softly, needily.

But he quickly notices your hesitation and pulls his hands out from under your clothes.

“We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” you admit, avoiding eye contact. “It’s just… we’ve never done it while I was on my period, and I’m scared the blood might gross you out.”

But he gently takes your chin and lifts your face to look at him.

“Baby, I’m not a kid. A little blood doesn’t scare me,” he says confidently. “And it definitely doesn’t gross me out—especially when it’s from you.”

You smile, then nod. “Okay, then I want to.”

He gives you a kiss on the lips before getting up to grab a towel, which he lays under you to avoid a mess neither of you will want to clean up later.

You undress each other quickly, down to just your underwear. He kisses your stomach, just below your belly button, while his fingers toy with the waistband of the boxers —his boxers— you’re wearing. “Can I?” he asks, checking that you haven’t changed your mind, and you answer with a quiet, “Yes.”

He pulls your underwear off quickly and tosses them to the floor like he always does—only this time, they hit the floor with a weird thud because of the pad, making you cringe.

His fingers move skillfully between your folds, teasing you before slipping two inside, making you gasp—and he lets out a low groan. His fingers might be short, but they hit that sweet spot just right, and he knows exactly how to work it, making your hips buck against his hand in pleasure.

He adds a third finger. “Feels good, baby? You like my fingers inside you?”

You nod quickly. “Yes,” you moan.

You try not to focus on the squelching sound, aware that it’s louder because of the blood. You don’t even dare to look down, afraid of seeing his fingers stained red or the mess probably already soaking into the towel.

“Felix, can you— please touch my clit too?” you ask, voice soft and shaky.

He smiles, clearly happy you’re telling him explicitly what you want. And he’d be lying if he said seeing your innocent face and hearing that shy little request didn’t make his cock twitch.

He lets a string of spit fall from his mouth onto your pussy, collecting it with the thumb of his free hand and bringing it right to your clit. He rubs in slow circles —side to side, up and down— knowing exactly how you like it.

“Good girl… just keep telling me what you want, yeah?”

“Can- can you…” You gesture toward your tits, and he gets it, chuckling.

“Wanna feel my mouth on these pretty nipples?” You nod, and he doesn’t waste a second—licking and sucking just the way that has you writhing under him.

Your eyes roll back and you let out breathy, broken moans, completely overwhelmed by how good it all feels—by all the attention he’s giving your body.

He pulls back for a moment. “Gonna make you cum on my fingers first—then I’m gonna fuck you nice and deep.”

And just like that, he picks up right where he left off.

Felix is so hard in his underwear he thinks he’s going to lose his mind if his cock doesn’t get touched soon. He tries to grind against the bed, but it’s difficult from his current position. So instead, he finds your leg and starts grinding against it, moaning around your nipple.

When you realize what your boyfriend is doing, you feel even closer to the edge. He’s really getting off on hearing and watching you fall apart.

“Lix, I’m close. I’m so close—”

His fingers move faster, both inside you and over your puffy clit, and within seconds you’re coming on his hands, rolling your hips against his fingers as he keeps moving to help you ride out your orgasm.

When the intense wave fades, your hips collapse onto the bed. His touch leaves you for a moment as he wipes his fingers clean, then he’s back—kissing your lips, your nose, your forehead like he can’t stop touching you.

His hips have also stopped rutting against your leg.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his deep voice soothing.

“Really good. Felt good,” you murmur in response. He intertwines his fingers with yours as you start sharing soft, chaste kisses. You both smile into them, and at one point, you even huff a quiet laugh through your nose.

“It turned me on, seeing you grind against my leg,” you say after a little while, placing your free hand on his cheek, then slowly sliding it down toward his chest.

“Yeah?” he says with a smirk, but the blush on his cheeks betrays him. “Watching you feel that good made me so hard I couldn’t wait anymore. But it still hurts…” He takes your hand and, locking eyes with you, guides it slowly down to where he’s hard beneath the fabric. His breath hitches the second your palm presses against him.

You start stroking him slowly. Eventually, your hand slips inside his boxers to feel him bare, and you pull him out, stroking him gently from base to tip, giving a slight squeeze at the head that draws a strangled moan from him.

“You’re so hard, Felix,” you whisper against his lips. “Don’t you want to fuck me?”

“Yes, please,” he breathes, a hint of desperation in his voice.

“Then why are you holding back? Fuck me like you mean it.” You squeeze his cock a little harder before letting go. Every trace of shyness is gone now, replaced by something bolder, now that it’s not just sweet and loving and all about you.

Felix whimpers involuntarily. He’d used every ounce of self-control not to bury himself inside you the moment you came. He didn’t want to overstimulate you and wanted to give you time to recover, but apparently, that’s not what you want anymore.

“Gonna enter you now, okay?” he warns, lining his cock up with your entrance. One nod from you is all it takes, and he’s sliding in with a single thrust, letting out a guttural moan. “So wet ‘n tight f’ me…”

When he starts moving, he seems more sensitive than usual, judging by the breathy moans and gasps he lets out. His hips don’t settle into a steady rhythm—his thrusts are fast and shallow, showing just how needy he’s been this whole time.

His hands, planted on either side of your head, are clutching the sheets tight in his fists. One of your hands grabs his arm, sliding down until your fingers find his, and when he notices, he intertwines them with yours. He rests his forehead in the crook of your neck and takes a deep breath.

His thrusts grow longer and deeper—pushing all the way in, pulling out just barely, then slamming back inside with force.

When you bring a hand to his hair, he starts kissing and licking your neck, sometimes sucking on your skin hard enough to leave marks that’ll be hard to hide—though deep down, he hopes you’ll keep them.

Your soft, high-pitched moans are something he could listen to for days. Your whimpers make his cock twitch and leak inside you. Your teary eyes are so damn beautiful, he could stare at them forever.

When he pulls back to look at you, his breathing is uneven, and his moans sharper than before. He’s close.

But he’s holding back for you, because he wants to make you come on his cock first.

God, your boyfriend is so sweet.

You clench around him, and he shuts his eyes to focus.

“Don’t do that, or I’m gonna cum,” he begs, desperate.

“You can come, Lix, it’s okay,” you reassure him, but you know that won’t be enough to make him give in. “I want you to fill me up nice and deep. I’m ready to take everything you’ve got, want to be so full of you,” you continue, hitting a weak spot of his.

His orgasm hits him suddenly, his cock spurting ropes of hot cum deep inside you. He gives a few more thrusts to ride it out, then collapses on top of you.

“Not fair,” he pouts when he finally lifts himself up and looks at you.

“You said that on purpose ‘cause you knew it’d make me cum. I wanted to make you cum on my cock.”

How can someone sound and look so innocent while saying such filthy things?

You laugh. “Next time.”

He pulls out of you slowly, carefully.

“My girl’s gonna cum, whether it’s on my cock or on my fingers.”

This time, he spits on your pussy, even though it’s not needed—you’re already soaked from everything you’ve done. Two of his fingers find your clit again, red and puffy, moving in small circles that knock the air right out of your lungs.

Those same fingers suddenly dip down to your entrance, collecting some of the cum that’s leaking out, only to slap it onto your most sensitive spot. You gasp and clutch the sheets in your fists.

He starts rubbing again, only to slap your clit twice more. His other hand grabs your thigh firmly and presses it down against the bed, as if to force your legs open—even though there’s no need, since you’re already holding them wide for him.

“You’ve been a bad girl, making me come like that. That should’ve been my job,” he says, landing a harder slap. “Let this be a lesson so you’ll think twice next time.”

The sudden change in his behavior has your head spinning. His two fingers pinch your clit a couple of times before resuming fast, precise strokes.

“Felix—” you choke out. You want to warn him that you’re about to come, but your climax hits you too suddenly, tearing a very loud moan from your throat.

You black out for a moment, completely lost in sensation—and you’re grateful to come back to Felix kissing your neck sweetly and whispering soft praises.

You appreciate the affection he’s giving you, but you gently press your hands to his shoulders to push him back a little. “Lix, ‘m hot.”

He pulls back and lifts his head. “But I wanna cuddle,” he protests, nuzzling into the top of your chest and trying to kiss your skin there.

You sigh. “We will, but after a shower. I feel too sticky and gross right now.”

Felix nods and finally moves away. “I’ll go get the water ready,” he says, then gets up from the bed and heads to the bathroom—but not before bringing you a glass of water and some chocolate, which you accept with a kiss on the lips.

In the meantime, you finally glance down at the mess beneath you and scrunch your nose, wishing you hadn’t. You clean yourself up as best you can with the cleanest part of the towel, then grab it and make your way to the bathroom, tossing the towel into the laundry basket before joining your boyfriend.

You step into the shower together, and even though you told him you’d cuddle afterward, he spends the entire time touching and kissing you—if not on the lips, then everywhere else. His lips are soft, and his hands are gentle.

He shampoos your hair and massages your scalp delicately, and you do the same for him. His fingers slip inside you again, but this time it’s just to clean you up from his cum, as he murmurs apologies for the mess he made—not that he’s truly sorry, and you both know it.

When you get out of the shower, he lands a loud smack on your ass, making you gasp softly and slap his in return when he bends over to grab a pair of socks from the wardrobe drawer.

Once you’re both dressed and sitting on his bed, his arms wrap tightly around you, locking you in and pulling you close with no way out—not that you’d want to leave anyway.

You turn on the TV and find a comfortable position under the warm blankets.

Your back is pressed against his chest, which rises and falls slowly with his breath. One of his hands rests gently on your lower belly, stroking it softly.

“Feeling better now?”

“Yeah.” You snuggle even closer. “Much better.” You smile, resting your head on his shoulder with your face tucked into his neck. You press a small kiss to his skin before closing your eyes, soothed by his familiar, calming touch and the quiet sound of the TV still playing in the background.

You feel so loved and safe in his arms that there’s nothing to worry about when he’s with you—because you know he’ll always be there, ready to help you without judgment, staying by your side no matter what.

#lee felix x reader #lee felix fanfic #stray kids felix #felix fanfic #felix smut #felix fluff #stray kids x reader #stray kids fanfic #stray kids smut #stray kids fluff #felix x reader smut #felix x reader fluff

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bakug0uzb1thc · 19 hours ago

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saw this trend and was like ‘im going to imagine this as Katsuki’ and it hasn’t stopped bouncing between my 2 brain cells. this would NEVER happen in cannon.. but hypothetically. (I’m going to shut up.)

(You and Bakugou are both 2nd years but your younger than him just fyi.)

Katsuki Bakugou x fem! Reader

warning: teen parents, suggestive, cruising, mentions of smut themes.

────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────

It happened by accident, you were being stupid teens and made a mistake and trusted your birth control too much and ended up pregnant.

You were sixteen and petrified— but if you had the option to go back in time you would do it all over again.

Telling Katsuki was more of a ‘what the fuck do we do.’ Conversion then a ‘please don’t leave me.’

Yes you are scared to tell Katsuki but he was your best friend before anything else and you needed him the most.

When you told his parents they laid it out very simply. They were not joyed at the fact their son knocked you up but that was on you both as well as your decision on what to do.

You both agreed to keep the baby, you understood the consequences and responsibility’s of not only getting pregnant and how your parents were gonna ground you like crazy (it didn’t happen it was an empty threat that Mitski once told.) but Also having a baby and how heavy that truly was.

But it all worked out— you gave birth to a healthy baby girl that you named Sumire and it was like a light was turned on.

The first week was rough, having to wake up to crying in the middle of the night, the postpartum phase and the constant lactation.

It was default but that’s what you both signed up for. Happily. And you both got a pretty neat label at UA as the ‘one iconic couple that had a kid.’

Once she was 5 months old it truly hit you that you and Katsuki were teen parents.

“we’re fucking parents.” You were sitting on his bed, back towards his wall as you held your daughter in your lap as she played with your fingers babbling to herself as you faced Katsuki who was at his desk doing homework.

He put a hand on the back of his seat to turn his body to look at you and his daughter. “yeah it’s not news.” He admired the sight, taking a mental picture.

“How’d that happen?” You said in shock, acting like it just happened.

“We had sex and you said ‘oh don’t worry Katsuki I’m on birth control have a field day’” he laughed at himself.

“Okay you’re funny. Now do me a favor and take your daughter my thigh is going numb.” Sumire was his sidekick, that’s what he called her.

He wanted a girl so bad (would never admit it) but he pumped his fist in the air when he found out the gender.

He got up without a complaint and took the infant from your lap, and held her small hand in his own and kissed her palm.

When he did it always made her laugh and he adored it.

He gets cuteness aggression BAD.

“I’d do it again.” He spoke up between kisses. “Do what again?” You raised a brown in confusion at what he said. “Cum.” He let out devilish chuckle.

“Omg Katsuki.” You covered your flushed face at his wording.

“All jokes aside- I’m not complaining. I think it’s tits that I have a mini me.” He chewed her chubby cheek lightly, making her look at you confused but still wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Language.” You poked, acting like you didn’t just curse 5 minutes ago.

“Oh my god! Sumire do you hear your mom. Telling me to watch my language. Get a load of this.” He hugged the baby against his cheek, putting his other hand on her other cheek and squishing her face slightly.

You couldn’t take him seriously. “You’re a jerk.” You said sitting on your knees dragging him down to the bed safely watching as he was holding your daughter securely.

“Jerk you had a kid with.” He laid on your lap, holding Sumire against his chest.

“I’m aware.” You reached down to kiss him on the lips.

It wasn’t planned but it worked out and that’s all that mattered to both of you. The best thing that happed to the two of you was Sumire and she didn’t even know.

(I am convinced I’m unable to write a short fic. Thank you for reading my inner thoughts, this has to be the fic I enjoyed writing the most^_^!!)

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mintyys-blog · 1 day ago

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Please please please minty can I have angst just angst maybe slight comfort, for shiesty mark begging hands and knees any type just something that’ll make me cry ❤️‍🩹

BLOOD ON OUR HANDS | shiesty mark x reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST 2 | WARNINGS: suicide, graphic depictions of violence and death, and intense portrayals of guilt, grief, and emotional breakdown.

Do not repost, translate, or rewrite my work, whether AI-generated or otherwise, without my permission.

It started with something small.

A street gang in his neighborhood. A low-level mob boss skimming from the wrong people. Mark stepped in—brutalized the crew, tore their weapons apart with his bare hands, and left their leader in traction. You were with him that night, waiting in the car. He came back bloodied but smiling, heart racing.

“They won’t hurt anyone again,” he said, tossing his ruined gloves on the dashboard. You remember the way his knuckles looked—split open and raw. You remember the pride in his eyes. “It’s just the beginning.”

At first, you believed in him.

You saw the system fail people every day. Crooked cops. Overworked courts. Corrupt heroes who turned a blind eye to real suffering. But Mark didn’t. He saw the rot, and he refused to walk away.

You loved him for that.

When he started dismantling the mobs piece by piece, you helped. You coordinated safehouses. You passed intel. You lied for him, and you lied to yourself. They’re scum. They deserve it.

But you didn’t see the family in the back room.

Not until Chicago.

It was supposed to be a clean job—smash a drug ring, torch the warehouse, leave the survivors for the cops. You followed him inside, watching from the upper level as he tore through bodies like paper.

You’d seen him fight before. You’d even been proud, once—awed by how easily he dismantled men with guns, how he never flinched, how he moved like violence was a language only he could speak.

But this time…it was different.

There was screaming—different screaming. High-pitched. Fragile. Human.

You ran down the steps two at a time, calling out his name—but the gunfire had already stopped.

By the time you got downstairs, it was over.

Mark stood over the ringleader’s corpse, panting, fists soaked red to the wrists. His chest heaved. His jaw clenched. The man’s skull was caved in, body barely recognizable.

And behind a toppled crate, curled into himself like a wounded animal, was a boy no older than twelve. His mother’s body lay slumped across his lap, unmoving.

You saw her first—then the child beneath her—and it was like ice filled your lungs.

Her arms had been wrapped around him. Protecting him. Her eyes were open, but lifeless. Her body had taken the brunt of the blast—the crushed debris, the broken beams. The boy was barely conscious, blood pouring from a wound on his temple, his ribs caved just enough to make every shallow breath a miracle.

Mark followed your gaze.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.

“Collateral,” he muttered, voice flat. Detached. Like it was a price. A number on a ledger.

Like it meant nothing.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry.

You just stared.

And something inside you cracked.

Because suddenly, you weren’t standing in a warehouse with your boyfriend.

You were standing in a mass grave, and he had put them there.

You stepped forward slowly, kneeling by the child. His small, shaking hand clung to his mother’s clothes like he could still wake her.

You touched his head gently. He didn’t pull away.

“Shh… you’re okay. You’re safe now,” you whispered, even though you weren’t sure it was true.

Mark said nothing.

He just stood there, fists still clenched, like he didn’t understand what had gone wrong.

That was when you realized something worse than the bodies.

He didn’t even see it as a mistake.

Not really.

You looked up at him through the tears rising in your throat, and for the first time—you were afraid of him.

And worse than that?

You were afraid of yourself.

Because you helped. You were there. You opened the doors, pointed at the map, said “now’s the time.”

You didn’t press him to double-check the building. You didn’t insist on surveillance. You just trusted him.

And now this child had no mother. Because of you.

You blinked away the tears and turned back to the boy, brushing blood-matted hair from his forehead. You could hear sirens approaching. Someone must’ve called the cops after the first explosion. Still, Mark didn’t move. Not until you stood. And when you did, you didn’t look at him.

Because if you did, you might’ve screamed. And you were terrified if you did… you wouldn’t be able to stop.

The apartment was quiet when you came back from the bathroom, hands still trembling from washing the boy’s blood off your palms. You hadn’t even touched him. Just knelt beside him as he cried over his dead mother, trying to whisper comfort while Mark stood in the shadows, breathing heavily like nothing was wrong.

He was in the kitchen now, peeling off his jacket like it was just another mission. Just another win.

“Tell me you didn’t know there were civilians,” you said, quietly.

He paused, mid-unzipping.

“Mark.”

He looked over his shoulder, mouth set in a tired frown. “I knew there were people in the building. Didn’t know they’d be that close.”

You flinched. “There was a family in there.”

“And the ringleader used them as shields,” he shot back, tossing his jacket aside. “That’s not on me.”

You took a breath—sharp, shallow. “We could’ve waited. Tracked him longer. Found a better time—”

“Waited?” His voice cracked, and then rose. “While he kept running drugs and selling girls through elementary schools? You wanted me to just wait?”

You didn’t back down. “I wanted you to think!”

He scoffed. “I did. I think every second of every mission, more than anyone else ever has. And guess what? That asshole’s dead. That means the next mother doesn’t have to lose her kid.”

You were shaking now. “And what about the kid who just lost his mother?”

That hit.

But not deep enough.

Mark rolled his jaw and looked away, the muscles in his neck twitching.

“You think this is easy for me?” he muttered. “You think I like hurting people?”

“I think you don’t care who you hurt as long as you can call it justice.”

Silence. He turned to face you fully now.

You went on, voice trembling. “I helped you, Mark. I believed in you. I thought we were saving people. But this—” You gestured toward the door, toward the memory of that boy’s face. “This isn’t saving anyone. We’re just another gang now, only you happen to be bulletproof.”

His expression darkened.

“So what?” he asked. “You done now? You gonna turn your back on all of it? On me?”

You blinked, stunned.

“This isn’t about loyalty,” you whispered. “This is about morality. About having a soul.”

He stepped forward. “Don’t. Don’t talk to me about soul like you’re so far above it. You were there for all of it. You helped. You planned. You watched me tear men apart and didn’t flinch until tonight.”

“Because I believed in you!” Your voice cracked like thunder. “I thought if anyone could fix this world, it was you. But you’re not fixing it, Mark. You’re burning it down and telling me we’re warm.”

He stared at you. The mask he wore in the field—the righteous smirk, the bulletproof certainty—it cracked. Just a little.

You went quiet again. Then softer, like a thread snapping.

“I can’t live like this.”

His brow furrowed. “What?”

You backed away, arms wrapped around yourself. “I can’t live with what we’ve done. What I’ve done. I look at myself and I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

He swallowed hard. “You’re just shaken. That kid—he messed you up, I get it. But we keep going. We adapt. That’s what you do. You don’t quit over one mistake—”

You shook your head slowly. “It’s not one. It’s dozens. Hundreds. And you don’t even see it.”

“I’m trying to protect people.”

“At what cost?”

He didn’t answer.

So you gave him the last truth you could muster.

“I can’t be part of this anymore. And if I stay with you…I’ll keep helping. I know I will. Because I love you, and I’m weak.”

He stepped toward you again, reaching. “Don’t say that.”

You flinched from his touch.

He paused. Frozen. Like your rejection actually stunned him more than anything else you’d said.

“I need time,” you said quietly. “Away from this. Away from you.”

“Don’t do this,” he said, voice dropping to something raw. “We can fix it. I can fix it. Just—just let me figure it out.”

You shook your head, eyes glassy. “I’m scared of what you’ll become.”

And then you left the room.

And he—he did nothing. Thought you just needed to cool off. That you’d come around. That you’d come home.

But you didn’t.

You weren’t asking him to choose between love and war.

You were asking him to stop before it killed you both.

And he never really listened.

Until he found your body.

He noticed your shoes were missing. The ones by the door. Your favorite jacket was gone too. The quiet scratched at his nerves, but he told himself you were probably just at the corner store or getting air.

Until he smelled iron.

Not sharp, fresh blood—old blood. Rusted and clinging. Metallic like regret.

It hit him low in the gut. A primal thing. Like the air had shifted in the walls themselves.

He followed it to the bathroom.

The door was ajar.

You were in the tub.

Still. Cold. Red.

The water had turned dark, opaque from blood and sorrow. It didn’t move. Not even when he stepped inside, quiet as a ghost.

His brain refused to process it at first.

You’d just—you wouldn’t.

You said you needed time, not… this.

The note was folded on the edge of the sink, sealed with a single fingerprint. His. From a night you kissed him mid-mission, smearing it across your cheek while he teased you about leaving evidence behind.

He didn’t read it right away.

Couldn’t.

He dropped to his knees so hard the tile cracked.

“Baby…?”

His voice came out hoarse. Hollow.

No answer.

He crawled forward, slipping in the water as he reached for your hand. It was already stiff.

Cold like marble.

He pulled you to his chest anyway. Held you like the warmth would come back. Like maybe he could reverse it. Squeeze hard enough and force life back into your lungs.

But you didn’t breathe.

You didn’t blink.

You didn’t come back.

His breath hitched. His mouth opened, but no words came out. Just air. Just sound. His whole body shook as he pressed his face to your neck, sobbing against your skin.

Then the screaming started.

It tore out of him like it was stuck behind his ribs. Sharp, guttural—feral. He screamed so hard his throat bled, his body convulsing as he rocked back and forth with you in his arms, still trying to convince himself you were just asleep. Just tired. Just…

“No—no, please—wake up, baby, wake up—”

His voice broke.

“You’re all I had—I did it for us—I didn’t know—you weren’t supposed to leave—”

But you did.

You left so quietly.

No fight. No grand statement. No fury or blame.

Just guilt.

Just sorrow.

Just… enough.

And the worst part? He’d ignored the signs.

When you told him it was too much—when you cried after the Chicago raid—he brushed it off. Called it weakness. Said you’d get used to it. That you’d see the bigger picture. That it was all worth it.

He never stopped to ask if you wanted to become what he was becoming.

And now you were gone.

Not because a villain killed you. Not because he failed to protect you.

Because he failed to listen.

Failed to see you drowning in guilt, in blood, in grief that clung to you tighter with each mission. And the letter? He read it only after he stopped shaking. After the sobs faded into a cold, crushing silence that filled the room like a tomb. It was short. It wasn’t angry.

It said: “I’m sorry. I wanted to believe. I wanted to be strong. But it hurts too much. I can’t live with what I helped you do. I love you. Please don’t follow me.”

He clutched it to his chest and let out one last sound—less a scream, more a howl. A noise ripped from the core of a man who finally understood he was alone.

Truly. Utterly. Alone.

Because the only good thing he had—his anchor, his light—had withered under the weight of his crusade. And for the first time, Mark realized what a villain really looked like.

It wasn’t the people he beat bloody. It was him, kneeling in their blood, holding the only good thing he’d ever had, crying like a child in the ruins he called justice.

#x reader #reader insert #x female reader #shiesty mark x reader #shiesty mark x you #shiesty mark #mark grayson x reader #mark Grayson #invincible x reader #invincible variants x reader

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whatdoeseverybodywant · 3 days ago

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Mile High (2)

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site, even if you give me credit. DO NOT REPOST MY FICS

Reblogs, comments, likes, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated ❤

All OC Characters belong to me

Josh felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. She was close. His jaw ticked. He didn’t need to turn around to confirm it, the faint scent of her vanilla and something floral that always lingered too long, like a memory refusing to fade. He wasn’t even paying attention to what Jakara was saying anymore. His full focus was on the presence of Essence.

Don’t turn around. He told himself over and over again. Don’t fucking do it.

But it was like his body didn’t trust his brain. His shoulders were tight, fingers flexing at his sides like they remembered how she used to hold onto him when no one else was looking. Like they remembered everything he was trying so hard to forget.

His breath hitched in his throat as they made eye contact. Even though she had ripped his heart out of his chest and stomped on it, she was still the one his broken heart desired. She was the one he wanted to wake up next to every morning, The one he wanted to share every win, every loss, every damn breath with. But that wasn’t what she wanted.

He clenched his jaw as he gave her a tight nod and turned his attention back to Jakara. His heart was hammering in his chest. The broken look on her face would be permanently scarred into his brain.

She didn’t want you.

He had to keep reminding himself. This was what she wanted.

“You doing anything after the show?” Jakara asked him and he heard Essence suck in a deep breath, The sound of her heels echoing in the hallway as she all but ran away from them.

Josh didn’t even realize he was walking away until he was already doing it.

Jakara called his name behind him, confusion in her voice. He didn’t stop, he had already made up his mind. He rounded the corner just in time to see the dressing room door close behind her.

His stomach was in knots as he knocked on the door. “Essence.” He called out softly. He closed his eyes, resting his hand flat against the wood. “I know you hear me.”

Inside, Essence stood just a few feet away, frozen. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, her back to the door, as if distance could shield her from the weight of his voice. But it didn’t. “I’m not here to fight,” Josh said, his words more like a confession than a plea. “I just… please open the door.”

Essence stayed still, her mind running wild. She wanted to ignore him. She wanted to scream at him to go away, to go back to Jakara, but she couldn’t; instead, she found herself turning towards the door and unlocking it. She cracked the door open just enough so that their eyes met.

His heart stuttered in his chest as he got a good look at her for the first time in three weeks. He wasn’t over her. He had told himself he was. Josh didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, eyes locked with hers through the narrow space of the open door.

Her eyes were swollen and puffy from crying. For a second, neither of them spoke. The air between them was dense with everything left unsaid. They stared at each other before Essence quietly opened the door wider. Josh cleared his throat and walked into the empty dressing room. Josh stood inside the dressing room, the door clicking shut behind him. Essence didn’t move, didn’t speak. She just watched him.

“I shouldn’t have come,” he muttered, almost to himself, but didn’t move. He couldn’t. Not when she was looking at him like that.

Essence nodded, leaning her back against the closed door. “Then why did you?”

Josh let out a slow, shaky breath. His eyes didn’t leave hers.

“Because no matter how many times I try to hate you,” he said, his voice low, “I can’t.”

Essence’s lips parted, but no words came out. Her throat was tight, her chest rising and falling like she’d just run a mile. She didn’t know how to respond to that. Instead, she took the easy route.

“I saw you…” She started, her eyes trained on the floor. “With Jakara. You looked… happy.” She shrugged, and Josh scoffed.

“I mean, this whatchu’ wanted right?” He asked, his voice full of emotions that he was trying to keep at bay.

Essence flinched at the bite in his tone, but she didn’t argue. Because she couldn’t, he was doing exactly what she thought she wanted.

“I thought…” she started, then shook her head, blinking fast. “I thought it would be easier for you. If I stepped away before I became just another thing you had to carry.”

Josh stared at her like she’d just slapped him. “Easier?” he repeated, his voice low, incredulous. “Do I look like I’ve had it easy these past three weeks? I’ve been miserable, E.”

“I didn’t know what else to do, Joshua!” She finally snapped. “I was scared. Everything between us was starting to feel real, and it scared me.”

“You think I wasn’t scared, too?” he asked, eyes searching hers. “You think I knew what to do with how I felt about you? Hell, I still don’t. But the difference is, I stayed. I wanted to stay. I wanted to work out this love thing with you.

“Josh…” Essence trailed off, tears now falling down her cheeks. “Each one of my relationships ended with me getting my heart broken.” Her voice cracked, and she took a shaky breath, arms wrapping tighter around herself like she was trying to hold the pieces in. “I just… I thought if I ended it first, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much this time. Maybe I could control it—stop it before it got bad. But I was wrong. It still hurt. God, it still hurts.”

“You don’t get it, man,” Josh said softly, shaking his head. “You don’t get how much I fucking cared about you, How you were the only person on my mind.” Josh took a step closer, his voice trembling now, no longer sharp with anger but heavy with hurt. “You were it for me, Essence. Like… the one. Not some fling. Not some secret. I was ready to give you all of me, flaws and all, because I thought—” he swallowed hard, “I thought you wanted me, too.” Josh closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I was never going to leave you, Essence. I loved you.”

Essence’s breath caught. She looked up at him sharply, eyes wide with disbelief. “Loved?”

Josh held her gaze, his own eyes swimming with unshed emotion. “I don’t know what I feel anymore,” he said honestly. “Part of me still loves you. Part of me hates what you did. And part of me’s just tired of hurting every time I think about you.”

“I’m sorry.” Essence whispered. “I was just trying to protect myself, but I ended up destroying the one thing that felt real.”

Josh didn’t move. He tilted his head to the side as he gazed at her. “I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Essence whispered. “But I needed you to know the truth. That it wasn’t about you not being enough. It was me not knowing how to handle someone who actually loved me like I mattered.”

Josh looked down, then back up, like he was trying to hold himself together with threads that were already fraying. “So what now, E? What are we doing here?” His voice was tired. “Because I can’t go through this again unless it’s real. Unless you’re in it for real this time.”

Essence stared at him, the gravity in his voice anchoring her in place. For a moment, she didn’t breathe. She wanted to run. Her first instinct was always to run. But she stayed in the same spot, eyes locked onto his. “I want you. I want everything.”

Josh’s expression didn’t change right away. He just stared at her, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, like he was afraid she’d take the words back if he blinked too hard.

“You want me now,” he said quietly, the weight of doubt heavy in his voice. “But what about when it gets hard again? What happens when you start to feel too much? When it gets real again?”

Essence took a step forward. Just one. Her voice was still soft, but her eyes were steady now.

“Then I stay,” she said. “Even if I’m scared. Even if I don’t know how to do it perfectly. I stay. I show up. I try.”

A tear slid down Josh’s cheek, and he didn’t bother wiping it away. His throat bobbed as he swallowed the lump threatening to choke him.

“You broke me, E,” he whispered, pain etched in every syllable. “You tossed me to the side like I meant nothing.”

“I’m sorry, Josh. I’m so fucking sorry.” She whispered, moving closer to him. Essence's voice was barely audible when she spoke again. “I didn’t know how to love you the way you deserved. But I know now.” She stepped even closer, the space between them shrinking until there was nothing but their shared breath. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make it right.”

Essence could feel the heat of Josh’s body against hers, the steady thrum of his heartbeat matching the frantic pace of her own. She wasn’t sure who moved first, but the next thing she knew, Josh was leaning down, his lips brushing against hers with a softness that took her by surprise.

It wasn’t a forceful kiss, nor was it rushed. It was slow, deliberate—like they were both savoring the moment, testing the waters, unsure if it was real.

Essence’s fingers found the back of Josh’s neck, pulling him closer, and he responded in kind, his hands settling on her waist, guiding her closer as if he couldn’t bear to be apart from her any longer. The kiss deepened, the tension from weeks of silence and hurt melting away, leaving only the rawness of their connection.

"I missed you," Essence whispered against his lips, her voice trembling with emotion. "Every single day."

“I missed you, too,” Josh muttered back as he broke the kiss and rested his forehead against hers. “Me and you.” He said, staring deep into her eyes. “Me and you, Essence. No more pushing me away, no more running.”

“No more running,” She promised. Josh’s grip tightened slightly around her waist, pulling her even closer. The way he held her felt different—stronger, as though he was anchoring them both in the moment, ensuring neither of them could slip away again.

Essence met his gaze, her heart racing in her chest. She had always ran, always pulled away when things got too real. But now? Now, she wasn’t sure she had the strength to walk away again. Not when everything she wanted was standing right in front of her.

Soooo... what yall think? Worth the wait or I could've kept this shit lmao? 🤣,

Reblogs, comments, likes, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated ❤

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writingsforfandoms-multi · 24 hours ago

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post night shift | michael robinavitch x nurse! reader

summary: robby comforts his gf after her first and last night shift

warnings: mention of patient deaths

a.n: this is the first thing i’ve written in over 4 years thank you dr robby for the inspiration

“She lost three patients today” abbot gives robby the heads up over the phone after he walks you out of the hospital.

Robby’s heart drops, he knows you take losing a patient very hard, he can’t imagine how you’ll be after losing three. He wasn’t expecting you to walk into your shared apartment pissed.

“What the fuck is night shift?!” you exclaimed as you walked in the door and took off your shoes by the entryway, setting your bag on the hook. Michael came to meet you near the entryway, “I knew I wasn’t made for night shift and this just confirmed it,” you rambled. “The staff was great and I love working with abbot but my god I’m never covering one of those shifts again, that was horr-horrible” your voice shakes as tears well up in your eyes and then the next thing you know you’re crying in robby’s arms.

You weren’t even supposed to be there. You were doing a favor for the night shift charge nurse when she called to see if you were willing to come in since they were so short staffed. You remembered abbot mentioning how much smoother night shift would run with more nurses since they were usually always short staffed anyway, so you figured you would help out by coming in.

You loved being a nurse, you truly did, but it was shifts like these that made it so hard. Yes, you helped many patients today, but it was hard not to focus on the ones who died.

Robby doesn't ask you any questions, he knows you’ll talk to him when you're ready, and he also knows that right now you just need to cry it all out, allow the grief to leave your body. It still breaks his heart listening to your sobs, but all he can do is rub your back to try to comfort you.

“I lost three patients today” you hiccuped out through your crying as you lifted your head to look up at robby.

He takes your face in his palms as his eyes soften, “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I know it’s hard”

“One was just a kid, 8 years old” you cry a little harder and his thumbs lightly brush your cheeks. He brings your head back against his chest, and after a few moments your cries quiet down, and you finally look back up at him, “today was so fucking hard michael” you whisper

“I know baby, I know” he says as he leads you to the couch and you immediately crawl into his lap and take your place against him.

You paused for a moment, “did abbot call you?” you asked

He nods, “yeah, he was worried about you”

“I need to apologize to him,” you sighed, “I may or may not have snapped at him after losing my second patient” you grimaced, remembering how harsh you were with him

“You know he didn't take it personally” he says, softly rubbing your back and you just nod in response.

After a few moments of just enjoying his company you say, “I’m gonna head to bed, I need to get my sleep schedule back on track to flip back to days for the next shift” you kiss his cheek, feeling like the heavy weight of grief on your chest lessened when you cried it out. This was a rule you and robby made for yourselves when you first started dating: you would cry out all the emotions you needed to, take as much time as you needed to go through the motions of the day, and then let it go.

“Then let’s go to bed” he says, and you look at him confused, didn’t he just wake up? “I took a very short nap after my shift and woke up around 3 so I could wait up and take a nap with you when you got back” he explains, a bit sheepishly even

You let out a small smile, “you’re so cute” and give him a kiss, “how did I get so lucky?” you lean back in his lap to look at him. He can feel a soft blush taking over his face when he notices how you’re looking at him, all these months together and you still make him blush.

“I’m the lucky one, sweetheart, I can’t believe you still put up with me” he says softly, thinking of how you put up with him and all the emotional baggage he was dealing with in the beginning of your relationship, and how incredibly thankful he was that you stayed.

“Always” you said

#dr robby x reader #michael robinavich x reader #robby robinavitch x reader #the pitt fic #robby x reader

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mia-can-yap-too · 2 days ago

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We're Married. Please Take It Seriously.

synopsis :- Accidental marriage in Vegas. He's already planning your honeymoon. You're Googling annulment in the hotel bathroom.

warnings:- accidental marriage au, fluff, crack, sfw, mentions of drinking, mentions of making officiants cry, an anora reference

a/n:- there are no actual laws stating that you have to wait a certain period of time before annulling an invalid (done while intoxicated) marriage, but this is MY fic, and i decide whats real also even though no one would ever want it, pls dont steal my pngs

You wake up with the unmistakable feeling that you've made a very big mistake.

Your head is pounding. Your mouth tastes of regret and red 40 from an artificially flavored slushie. You're not even sure if the clothes you're wearing are even yours.

The blackout curtains are drawn tight, but a faint glow still manages to seep through. And from somewhere nearby, you can hear humming.

Not just any humming.

His humming.

Gojo Satoru's humming. Your sometimes-teamate, full-time menace, part-time flirt.

Groaning, you crack open an eye to see him lounging beside you, lying down facing you with his head propped up on his arm, adorned in a silk robe (which you are 90% sure is yours) and sunglasses that say 'I DO (what i want)'.

He grins widely when he notices you're awake.

"Good morning, Mrs. Gojo~," he says, in the singsong voice of someone who has never given a fuck about consequences.

You rub your eyes. "Satoru, what are you wearing— wait... What did you just call me?!"

You bolt upright, eyes wide as if you've just been told you grew a second head.

Instead of answering, he pulls his phone out, which has a 'Married in Vegas!!' sticker on the case, and turns it around to show you a selfie. Specifically, a selfie of the two of you standing in front of a neon sign that reads,

'JUST GOT MARRIED!'

You're grinning like an idiot while he's kissing your cheek like his life depends on it. You appear to be holding a slushie in one hand and his face in the other.

"No. No way. That's photoshopped. That can't be me. I am not that reckless... right?"

"Aw, I knew you'd say that," he starts swiping, "But! Not to worry, I have video evidence. You proposed to me, by the way."

The screen lights up again: you standing up on a makeshift altar, still holding the red-40-slushie and his face. He's looking at you as if you hung the stars. Who's recording? Someone nice enough to return the phone.

"Listen," Drunk You slurs, "This man has six eyes or something, a limitless bank account, and he called me pretty three times in ten minutes. I am not letting that go."

The officiant wipes a tear. "So beautiful..."

You both take turns putting Ring Pops on each others fingers.

"With the power of those creepy-ass blue eyes and your god-like thighs, I take you to be my husband," you say before kissing him.

The crowd (???) cheers. Someone off camera asks where the bathroom is. The video ends.

Speechless, you just stare at the dark screen in shock.

Satoru, however, is still smiling like he got crowned king. "See? It was so heartwarming. You called me your 'limitless little meow meow' after. I think I giggled a little."

"NO!"

"Yes! Also," he continues, "you filed out the paperwork perfectly. I was impressed. Sober enough to read legal text, drunk enough to put a heart over your 'i' in your signature. This must be true love."

You cover your face with your hands, hoping it would protect you from the humiliation. "I don't love you!"

"Yes, you do! You said so, yesterday!"

"I loved you for what, 3.5 tequila shots?"

He nods earnestly. "If you married me in 3.5, imagine what you would have done if you had 5."

You flop back onto bed and scream into a pillow.

He, of course, is totally digging the dramatics. He thinks he chose perfectly, his 'freak' matched and all.

He pokes your shoulder. "Okay, so, pancakes or crepes?"

You lift your head slowly. "What."

"For brunch," he says, beaming. "We're newlyweds. We have to do brunch."

"Gojo, we have bigger problems than brunch here."

You find yourself in the hotel bathroom. You've been hogging it for a suspicious amount of time.

You cradle your phone in your hands, eyes tearing up from im-so-done-with-this-shit tears.

You've been Googling annulment, but the results are, unfortunately, too cheerful to help.

A reddit link reads, 'r/vegas married! i got married to a twink in vegas but its okay cuz thats how i met the loml!'

Yeah, not helping.

A knock on the door pulls you out of your thoughts.

"Are you okay in there, my legally wedded darling?"

"Do not call me that," you hiss.

"Wait," he gasps dramatically. "You're not Googling annulments in there, are you?!"

Silence.

"...I can hear you typing. It's kinda cute."

You run a hand down your face. "Leave me alone, Satoru."

"No can do. Husbandly duties. Vows and all."

"There were no vows."

"We made them up! You said you'd fight God, the higher-ups, and fate if it meant keeping me." A pause. "Honestly, I swooned a little."

You groan once more and rest your head against the bathroom door. "This isn't real. This can't be real."

"I know it probably sounds so impossible to you that you managed to bag the strongest, awesome-est and most handsome sorcerer ever, but I assure you, this is legal AF."

You crack the door open to peak at him. He's lounging on the bed as if he owns it. He's still wearing the shitty sunglasses and your robe (which you're making a mental note to take back), but he still looks so... ethereal, somehow. The sunlight hits him in a way that has to have some divine intervention.

"I was drunk."

"We were determined."

"I'm annulling this."

He chuckles a little. "You cute little dummy, you need to wait at least 6 months to do that!"

"...what."

He nods his head like he's trying to reassure a child. "Yeah... marriage laws are crazy. Guess you're stuck with me."

You sink on the bed, head in your hands and all.

Satoru wraps his arms around you and rests his head on your shoulder, which you'll admit, kind of gave you butterflies.

"Don't worry, I'm not that bad! And besides, I've already changed your contact name to 'My Wife <3' and ordered us matching hoodies."

You look at him questionably.

"Relax, they're completely normal, I think. Mine says 'Husband of the Century' and yours says 'Mrs Gojo' so no one gets confused."

You stare. He stares back, utterly unserious.

"So... brunch?"

You sigh, wondering who the fuck you just married. "Fine."

"Okie!! I'm telling Ijichi to book us a table."

"Wait—What?! He knows?"

"Everyone knows. I already posted on the 'gram. Anyways, you don't need to worry, Ijichi is great at brunch reservations. He's got talent bestowed from God. You're gonna love it."

"Fine. But you're paying." You get up to get ready.

He smirks, not hiding the way he's checking you out even in your messy-just-got-out-of-bed-and-simultaneously-found-out-im-married look.

"I'm your husband. I'll always pay."

Ah Shit! Here We Go Again Masterlist

#in print #ah shit! here we go again — series #gojo satoru x reader #gojo jjk #gojou satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen gojo #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #gojo x reader #satoru gojo x reader #jujutsu gojo #gojo fluff #jjk gojo #jjk x you #jjk #jjk x reader #jujustu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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saddershades · 3 days ago

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My Love, You Are My Everything

Pairings: (Bucky Barnes x Fem reader)

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Word count: 654

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Summary: Bucky wakes from nightmares and you comfort him. This is just a short little fic, full of sweet comforting fluff.

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As my eyes fluttered open feeling a cold absence. I roll to my right to look for my red lit clock, 3:47am I rubbed my eyes feeling the bed next to me and didn't feel your husband in your king-sized bed. I smeared my face with my hand and looked up at the sound of the sink and my heart sank, God how I wish he would get some steady and peaceful sleep.

“Buck?” I whispered as I pushed the door open from being half closed; I walked sleepily into the dim lit bathroom from a night light, “are you okay babe?” I asked as I was met with Bucky leaning over the sink, he had splashed his face with water and breathing heavily. My hand met his back with a tender touch and slowly rubbed circles as he nodded.

I wore his old T shirt, the neck cut off exposing one of my bare shoulders. It hung mid-thigh covering my flower tattoo, I looked down at my bare legs and feet, only wearing his shirt and panties. The evening before this was so much fun, you both went out to dinner and came back spending quality time together. But no matter how good a day was or not, the nightmares always remained for him.

My head cocked to the side and the front of my brows furrowed up sadly, as I gave a sweet but sorrowful smile up at him. “Come back to bed babe, I’m here” I reassured to him as I grab his arm gently and guided him back to our shared bed.

He sat back against the headboard propped by pillows, I turn on the lap that was on the dresser and rounded the bed to my side, getting under the covers sitting crisscrossed facing Bucky. “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask as I tuck my hair behind my ears. He slowly shook his head “no” he responded in his low soft tone.

I reached forward and held his large hand in mine, my thumb caressing his softly, “that’s alright dear” I smiled just being there for him.

After awhile of sitting in silence he spoke up, “I had nightmares again.” He started; it was just as I assumed. He sighed heavily not even able to start talking about it. He put a hand over his face wiping it, I couldn’t tell if he was crying or not. My expression dropped further and I slowly scoot closer, wiggling in at the back of him, holding him from behind.

“You don’t need to talk about it, my love.” I cooed in his ear softly and rocked back and forth slightly, my hands running down both his shoulders, my attention on his metal arm as I ran my hand down it. I could slowly feel his muscles throughout his body relax and I kissed his hairline at the nape of his neck. Bucky hummed softly and slowly leaned his head back placing it against my shoulder. Reaching up, I pushed his hair back, resting my palm gently on his forehead.

“Y/N, you make everything so much better” he whispered, a tear slipping slowly from his closed eyes. I took my thumb and wiped it away, “Bucky I love you and if just holding you is all I can do to comfort you then I must” my voice rung in a mothering and soothing way, giving him chills slightly.

Bucky slowly rolled over laying on his stomach looking up at me. I reached down cupping his face in my small hands. He leaned up and placed a tender kiss on my lips, laying his head back down on my chest, closing his eyes. I rubbed his back a bit and played wish his hair softly humming a quiet tune.

Bucky sighed with comfort, “my love you are my everything” slipped from his lips before we both drifted off to sleep.

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Authors notes: Thank you all so much for the read I know this is short but it was a little piece i have done while trying to overcome writers block lol. I’ll have more Bucky fic's to come! Have a great day/ night my loves <3

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #winter soldier #comfort #james buchanan barnes #marvel #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x y/n

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witchslove · 1 day ago

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Imagine Mother’s Day with Wanda…

You wake up before her, sneaking out of bed to make her breakfast and surprise her with flowers, getting her gifts out of the closet and setting them up on the kitchen counter for her to see.

A few of the gifts are from you - a beautiful Tiffany necklace, a mug that says something clever about being a mom, and a new coffee maker she’s been wanting for a while - and a few of them are from the boys, who made her cards with their own drawings on them and pitched in their allowance to get her a ticket to the local spa.

When Wanda wakes up, it’s to the smell of pancakes and bacon wafting from the kitchen. You enter your shared bedroom with two full plates, ready to serve her breakfast in bed as she rubs the sleep out of her eyes confusedly.

“Happy Mother’s Day beautiful,” you say softly, leaning in to kiss her as the boys run into the room to say it too.

Wanda had forgotten it was Mother’s Day. She honestly didn’t think much of it, never really having had a day to celebrate herself before. Her birthdays growing up weren’t anything special, given the fact that her country was at war, and the only time she’d ever really felt special was after she started dating you. This was technically her first Mother’s Day, seeing as the boys had grown from babies to toddlers to ten-year-olds in less than a week. The simple act of breakfast in bed and the warm greeting from her family was enough to bring tears to her eyes.

“Thank you, my loves,” she responds, her voice almost cracking with emotion. You notice the watering of her eyes and decide to bring it up later, not wanting to ruin such a sweet moment.

The boys jump into the bed and hug their mom, making a tear fall down her face. She quickly wipes it away so they won’t see her crying and reciprocates their hugs. You rest a hand on her shoulder almost as if to say “I know, I get it, and I’m here for you” and she rests her own hand atop yours in response, her way of saying “thank you.”

“Mom, when you’re done with breakfast come to the kitchen!” Billy says excitedly, eager to see her open her gifts, before the boys leave the room to go eat their own breakfast.

“I’ll be there soon!” She shouts after them, a soft smile gracing her features.

When the two of you are alone, you speak. “You okay?” You ask, leaning in closer and brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Yes, more than okay detka,” she whispers, looking up at you with nothing but love and adoration in her eyes.

When she finally makes her way to the kitchen, she sees the gifts and decorations and nearly cries again, her chest tightening at the unconditional love she feels from her family. She hugs all of you before she opens her gifts, beaming at each one and feeling lucky to be so loved by the people she holds close to her heart.

The four of you spend the day together, watching Wanda’s favorite sitcoms with her and later taking her out for a nice dinner at her favorite restaurant.

Wanda cries more than once, never having experienced this kind of appreciation before, and you hold her hand every time you notice tears welling up in her eyes, letting her know she’s not alone even in those moments where she’s trying not to break down.

By the end of the day, Wanda can’t stop smiling and you feel accomplished, having shown the woman you love most just how cherished she is.

Late that night, after the boys are sound asleep, you show your appreciation for her in a different way, kissing all over Wanda’s face as you bring her to climax over and over. You’re gentle with her, wiping her tears and kissing her tenderly, murmuring “I love you” against her lips every chance you get.

It’s safe to say that Wanda will never forget this day, nor will she ever take for granted what she has. She falls asleep that night with you in her arms, her head on your shoulder, and a content smile on her lips.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff smut #wanda maximoff fluff #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x y/n #mother’s day #alexa writes

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moongirlcleo · 10 hours ago

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Waxing Tides

❤︎ tags and content: aphrodisiac wine, dub-con, drinking, oral sex m!receiving, riding, emotional sex, GoT Myth, Rafayel x f!Reader, sub Raf ❤︎ author note: check out all my fics by searching #moongirlcleo or on AO3

It started with a visit. A quiet night, a little too much wine, and words that were never meant to be spoken aloud. Now the tide’s turned, and nothing between you feels quite still. He remembers more than he should. You give more than you planned. And somewhere between worship and ruin, something ancient wakes.

You find him exactly where you hoped you wouldn’t.

Mo Art Studio lies open, the heavy oak door unlatched just enough for sea breeze to curl inside and scatter red pigment dust across the wooden floor like blood powdered fine. The evening fog outside rolls in off Whitesand Bay, thick and silver-blue, brushing past your ankles as you step over the threshold. Somewhere in the distance, gulls cry into the dusk, but the sound barely touches this place.

He doesn’t hear you enter.

Rafayel sits cross-legged on the paint-stained floor, shirtless, spine slumped against a half-finished canvas as if it had caught him mid-collapse and decided to cradle him there. His dusky hair falls across one eye in loose waves, damp at the temples. A wine bottle—cheap, dark, already half gone—rests beside him, tipped at an angle like even it’s given up.

He hums something off-key, the kind of fragile melody that sounds like it once had words but lost them to saltwater long ago. His lips are stained dark, almost bruised-looking, and you can see the flush that rises from the hollow of his throat all the way to his cheekbones. He’s not fully drunk, but close enough to have drowned whatever self-control he usually wears like a second skin.

The room smells like him. Not just paint and ocean salt, but something older, something wilder: a storm that never reached land, a memory of copper and coral and candle wax. You don’t call his name. Not yet. You just watch, breath held, because something about this version of him feels unguarded in a way he never lets you see.

His hand moves lazily across the canvas behind him, fingers dragging lines of red that are more vein than brushstroke. The image is too abstract to place, all angles and aching color, but you recognize something in it. The curve of a jawline, the slant of your mouth. He’s painting you again. He always does this when he thinks you're not looking.

Then, without turning, he speaks.

"You came back."

The words are slurred around the edges, but soft, too. Not accusatory. Not surprised. Just tired. Maybe relieved. Maybe not.

"I wasn’t sure if you would. I left the door open in case."

You step closer, each movement swallowed by the thick silence inside the studio. His gaze flicks toward you then, slow, bleary, but unmistakably focused. Eyes blue and pale rose that catches the low light like glass.

"I was trying to get your mouth right," he says, tapping a smudge of red across the canvas, then bringing that same finger to his own lips like he’s testing something. "But it kept looking like it wanted to lie to me."

He smiles then, a crooked thing, vulnerable in a way that makes your ribs ache.

"Do you want a drink?" he asks, and when he reaches for the bottle, he nearly knocks it over entirely. His reflexes are slow but not gone- he catches it just in time, giggling softly as though the whole world has turned ridiculous around him and you’re the only real thing in the room.

"Sit with me," he says, patting the floor next to his thigh, palm still stained with pigment. "I promise not to bite unless you ask."

You sink to the floor beside him, your knees grazing the hem of a drop cloth that’s already soaked with forgotten pigments and old wine stains, the fabric stiff in places where his genius spilled out too fast for his brushes to catch. Rafayel watches you with that dreamy half-lidded stare, like he's not sure if you’re really here or just another vision bleeding out from the fumes of coral dust and alcohol and too many memories he refuses to paint in full.

You pick up the bottle he nearly spilled and hold it to the light, swirling the dregs like you’re appraising something rare and tragic.

"Raf, are you drinking the good stuff or just raiding the bargain shelf again?" you murmur, tilting the bottle toward him as though it contains answers he doesn't want to give. "Because if this is the same garbage you used to clean brushes last week, I should probably call a priest."

He gives a lazy grin, the kind that normally has just enough mischief to set your pulse skipping, but tonight it slips too easily into something softer, almost like a boy who’s been caught playing at being a man.

"Only the finest poison," he says, reaching up to steal the bottle from your hands, but you pull it just out of reach and raise an eyebrow, daring him to try harder.

He slumps back dramatically, one hand over his heart, the other flung to the side as if overcome with grief. "Cruel muse," he groans, the words slurred just enough to make the melodrama stick. "You come into my temple, interrupt my divine creation, and now you deny me communion. What’s next? Will you shatter my brushes, too?"

"You’d just paint with your fingers like a feral little sea goblin," you shoot back, nudging his thigh with your knee. "Don’t act like you’re not used to making a mess with your hands."

That lands. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and the grin that curls at the edge of his mouth this time is slower, darker, like the undertow tugging just beneath the surface.

"I only get messy when I’m inspired," he murmurs, voice dipping lower, the kind of tone that drips honey and danger in equal measure.

You hum thoughtfully, pretending to consider that like you haven’t already memorized the weight of his gaze when it gets like this.

"That so?" you ask, leaning in just enough that he can smell the salt still clinging to your skin, the citrus of whatever perfume you wore when you weren’t planning on being seen. "Because all I see right now is a drunken man-child covered in coral powder and regret."

His hand ghosts toward yours, not quite touching, fingers hovering close like he’s waiting for permission or maybe just trying to remember what it felt like the last time you reached for him first.

"And yet," he breathes, almost too softly, eyes fluttering to your mouth, "you’re still here."

You smile then, letting the silence between you stretch out, thick with things unsaid and undone.

"Maybe I’m just curious what a sea god looks like when he begs."

***

He blinks at your words like you struck a match too close to oil, the grin slipping just slightly, enough for you to see the tremble underneath, the way his breath catches in his throat like it’s snagged on something sharp and half-buried. For a moment, he just stares, lips parted, flush high on his cheekbones, eyes glinting with something far more dangerous than wine.

You don’t move. You’ve learned how this works. Rafayel’s truths are creatures that surface only when you hold still and let the tide bring them in on its own.

His mouth opens, closes. His hand curls against his chest, not dramatically this time, but with a kind of restless panic, like he’s trying to quiet the drumbeat behind his ribs.

"You used to hum," he says suddenly, the words tumbling out all at once with no filter and no pretense. "You used to sit at the edge of the tide pools and hum that stupid little song to keep the crabs away."

He laughs, breathless and hoarse, but the sound is cracked at the edges, bleeding memory.

"I remember the way you smelled. Like sunlight in cold water. I remember your hair in my hands. I remember what it felt like to die with your name on my tongue, even though you hadn’t been born yet."

Your heart lurches. You’ve heard this before, in dreams that tasted of salt and summer wind, in nightmares where the sea wept through broken temples and your lungs ached with the weight of water and grief.

He shouldn’t remember that. You shouldn’t remember it either. But you do. Both of you do.

"I wasn’t supposed to say that," Rafayel mutters, blinking fast like he’s waking up, like he’s realizing the dam’s already broken and the ocean is swallowing the studio whole. "You weren’t..."

He trails off and looks at you then. Truly looks. And something inside him folds, just like that. The wine is still in his system, but clarity strikes him like lightning. Swift and raw.

"Fuck."

It’s not anger. It’s surrender.

He pulls at his shirt, already half undone and stained with pigment, clinging to the sweat along his collarbone. He shrugs it off without grace. The fabric falls away like it offends him, as if skin-to-skin is the only way to be real now.

"I can’t wear lies anymore," he says, dragging his fingers down his own chest like he’s trying to wipe away the centuries he spent pretending he didn’t remember you. His voice drops to a whisper. His eyes are fever-bright, fixed on yours. "If you remember too, then I don’t have to be gentle anymore, do I?"

Your breath hitches. The room goes quiet except for the wind dragging its fingers across the windows, and the slow, deliberate sound of Rafayel unbuckling the belt at his waist, silver clinking softly like a ritual bell.

"Tell me you remember," he murmurs. He kneels in front of you now, hands trembling not with hesitation but hunger. The kind born from waiting too long. "Tell me you know who you are to me. Tell me so I don’t have to pretend anymore."

You do not speak at first. You let the moment stretch and bend between you, heavy with salt-thick air and the scent of paint still wet on canvas. The low hum of the sea outside the studio windows rolls like breath through an open mouth, and Rafayel waits, kneeling before you with his belt halfway undone and his pulse visible at the base of his throat.

He is shaking, not with fear but with something else, something older than desire, something hungrier than touch.

“I shouldn’t be like this,” he whispers, voice rough and splintered with something too close to shame. “I should be quiet. Gentle. Grateful just to be near you again.”

His hands fall to his lap, and he stares at them like they are stained with things you cannot see. Slowly, he pulls at the belt until the leather slithers loose in his hands and drops to the floor. The buckle hits the wood with a dull metallic sound, final and low, like a heartbeat held underwater too long.

“I bought that wine from a man in N109,” he continues, eyes unfocused as he speaks. “Said it was a blend for inspiration. Something to loosen the spirit. Didn’t mention it would make me want to fuck the stars out of the sky.”

You blink, startled by the bluntness of it, but his expression is far from crude. If anything, he looks reverent. His breath trembles on the way out of his lungs, and he leans forward on his hands, the movement slow and unsteady, like gravity itself has grown heavier with each passing second.

“It’s your fault,” he says, eyes lifting again to find yours. There is no mask this time, no playful smirk, no sly tilt of his mouth that hides what he truly feels. “You walked in and the wine pulled at everything I’ve buried. Every ache. Every memory. Every need.”

His fingers reach for the buttons at his waistband, slow and unsure. Not seductive. Not coy. Just desperate to feel less like a lie. The tension in his body rises with every inch of skin revealed, as if each layer shed brings him closer to some irreversible edge.

“I remember what your voice sounded like underwater,” he says softly, not looking at you now but at some phantom image just beyond your shoulder, something ancient and sacred and probably not real. “You sang to me once. Not here.. Somewhere deeper. I think I watched you die with that sound still in my ears.”

He swallows hard, his throat working around the weight of emotion thickening with every breath. His pants hang loose now at his hips, the sharp lines of his abdomen catching what little light filters in from the studio’s narrow windows.

“You’re warm,” he says, reaching out as though you are the only thing that can tether him to this moment. His palm hovers just above your knee. He does not touch you yet. “The world is always cold without you in it.”

You can see the strain in him now, not just the tension of arousal but the ache of restraint. The wine has taken root beneath his skin, blooming through his veins like heat rising from a volcanic trench, and he’s trying to hold it back out of respect, out of fear, out of reverence.

“I would never hurt you,” he says, voice barely a breath now, lips parted as though already tasting something forbidden. “But I am not entirely myself tonight. I want too much. I feel too much. I remember too clearly. And you look like you did the day I lost you.”

He presses the heel of his hand to his forehead, panting now, sweat clinging to his hairline, his body trembling with restraint. His hips shift subtly forward and his half-undone trousers betray just how badly the wine has kindled something he cannot smother.

“If I touch you,” he whispers, raw and reverent, “I won’t be able to stop.”

You reach for the bottle.

Not to soothe or to tease. You do it slowly, deliberately, letting your fingers curl around the neck of the dark glass. His eyes track the motion, and though he doesn't speak, something in his posture tightens as if the air around you has grown heavier, charged with a promise neither of you has dared to say aloud yet.

The wine is still warm from where his lips touched it. You can feel the heat, faint and lingering, like the echo of a kiss passed from glass to mouth. You tip it back, unbothered by the taste, which is bitter and strange and slightly metallic, as if it has been steeped in crushed petals and seawater and some unnamed thing that should not burn as gently as it does.

You drink, slow and unflinching, letting the liquid roll over your tongue and coat your throat, and when you lower the bottle again, you do not smile. You only look at him, and the silence that settles between you now feels different, no longer cautious or hesitant, but waiting.

Rafayel’s pupils dilate. You see it happen. The faint shimmer of pink and blue swallowed by widening black, hunger made visible behind his gaze. The tremble in his hands intensifies, not just from arousal, though that pulses visibly beneath the surface, but from the gravity of what your gesture means.

You want this. You want him.

He exhales, and it comes out like a moan cut short, strangled by disbelief and lust and centuries of restraint snapping thread by thread.

"You're sure," he says, and it isn't a question, not really. It is awe made sound. It is worship.

You nod, still silent, because there is no need to answer with words when the wine on your lips already speaks for you.

He rises onto his knees, unsteady, a low sound building in his throat as though something inside him is being loosed, something wild and sacred that has waited far too long in the dark. He strips the rest of the way in near silence, every movement reverent, as though shedding the last of his clothing is not for seduction but for honesty. When he finally bares himself almost completely, save for his trousers, he does not preen or pose. He simply kneels there, exposed and trembling, the sharp lines of his body bathed in moonlight diffused through fog and glass.

His skin is flushed and radiant, marred only by streaks of red pigment where his fingers had once wandered in distraction, and his chest rises and falls with shallow, uneven breaths.

"You don't know what you're inviting," he says softly, though the words lack conviction, as if he wants you to disagree. As if he wants you to pull him under.

"I would break myself to make you remember," he whispers, the wine thickening his voice into honey. "But if you're here now, if you’re really mine, I won’t have to be so dramatic."

His hand reaches for yours, tentative, the barest brush of skin to skin. And when you do not flinch, when you let your fingers slip between his, his whole body trembles like the sea finally being allowed to crash against the shore.

The moment your fingers slip between his, something in him fractures.

It is not a clean break. It is the cracking of an old cathedral window that has held too long against the pressure of time and storm, the splintering of something sacred that cannot bear to be quiet anymore. Rafayel exhales with a sound that is almost a sob, a sharp, gasping breath punched from deep in his chest, and then he is moving before you can think, before you can even process the way his hand tightens around yours like he’s terrified you might disappear again.

He surges forward, not graceful, not poised, all that practiced elegance abandoned in favor of pure need, and when his mouth finds yours, it is not soft or careful. It is hungry. Desperate. Starved in the way only something immortal could be, something that has waited through lifetimes for a single moment of contact and now cannot be asked to wait a second more.

His lips crush against yours with a fevered urgency, mouth already parting to taste the remnants of wine on your tongue, and his moan is raw, nearly pained, like your kiss physically hurts him in the best possible way. His body presses close, skin burning hot and slick with heat, and you feel the full weight of him shudder against you, every muscle drawn tight with restraint he is no longer trying to keep.

"You feel the same," he breathes against your mouth, voice ragged and reverent. "Exactly the same. Gods, your mouth... your soul..."

He cannot stop touching you. His hands move as if possessed, sliding over your arms, your back, your waist, fingers curling and clutching and learning every contour like he is memorizing you through his skin alone. His lips break from yours only long enough to trail down the line of your jaw, to your throat, where he lingers with an open-mouthed kiss that borders on a bite, breath shuddering against your skin.

"You have no idea what you've done," he mutters, voice hoarse, lips brushing the hollow of your throat with each word. "You touched me and now I can't think. I can't stop. I need... I need—"

He breaks off with another sound, this one lower, rougher, buried in the space between your collarbones as he kisses down the slope of your shoulder with frantic devotion, hands now gripping your hips like you are the only real thing left in a world made of smoke and memory.

There is nothing theatrical left in him now. No poetry. No smirking charm. Just a man, trembling and burning and undone beneath the weight of his own longing.

His kisses grow sloppier. Less precise. The kind of open-mouthed worship that says I remember you and I need you and I would drown in you all at once. His hips shift forward against yours without rhythm, without grace, just a slow grind of fevered pressure and shuddering tension, as if some part of him believes that friction alone might be enough to unravel this ache that has lived in him for lifetimes.

You thread your fingers into his hair, not to control him, not even to guide him, but simply to feel the tremble that travels through his entire body when you do. His breath catches again, stutters against your collarbone, and when he pulls back, just enough to meet your eyes, he looks absolutely ruined.

Blushed from chest to cheekbones. Lips red. Eyes blown wide and glassy with heat.

"Please," he whispers. The word cracks, not from shame but from how badly he means it. "I need you to... I need—"

He does not finish the sentence. He does not have to.

Instead, with hands that shake only slightly, Rafayel takes yours and brings them down, lower, pressing your palms over the heated flush of his abdomen. Then lower still.

You feel it immediately. The press of him, or rather, the press of both, firm and flushed and twitching beneath the weight of your touch, barely concealed by the loosened fabric of his pants. He’s not asking anymore. He’s offering himself up like a sacrifice. Like a secret he’s been dying to show you and never had the courage to name.

His breath shudders out of him in a broken sound, half-gasp and half-prayer, and his fingers tighten over yours, holding you there.

"You don’t know what it’s like," he chokes, voice barely a whisper now, thick with wine and want. "Having this... needing this, and not being allowed to ask. Always pretending I’m whole without you. Always pretending I can wait."

You apply the faintest pressure and he bucks forward without thinking, a soft cry escaping him like it was pulled from the deepest part of his chest. He is already hard, already leaking, the heat of him seeping through the thin fabric as if he is trying to brand the shape of his desperation into your skin.

“I dream about your hands,” he murmurs, lashes fluttering as his head tips forward, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “On me. Holding me. Telling me I’m still yours.”

He is panting now, hips twitching in tiny, involuntary movements beneath your touch, as if the need is too much to contain and the act of restraint is physically hurting him. He tries to speak again, but the words falter, lost to another moan, high and broken and helpless.

“If you tell me to stop, I will,” he whispers, still holding your hands in place like a man caught between obedience and ruin. “But if you don’t... I will beg. I will fall apart in your hands and thank you for every second of it.”

You do not speak at first. You only shift your palms slightly, dragging them lower with unbearable care, the movement slow enough to make him gasp. Your thumbs brush across the fabric that barely hides him, the thin linen damp with the evidence of his arousal, and both of them twitch beneath your touch in a way that steals the last of his composure.

He whines. Truly whines. A soft, breathy sound that slips past his lips like he is ashamed of it, but too far gone to care. His hips jerk, a shiver rippling down his spine, and he nearly collapses forward, pressing his forehead to your shoulder as if your steadiness might anchor him through the trembling quake of his body.

"You’re not even doing anything," he breathes, voice thin and wrecked and sweet. "You’re just... touching me."

You smile, slow and cruel and fond, and let your fingers trace one of the rigid lengths beneath his pants, just once, just enough to make him moan into your neck like he is trying to bite it back and failing. He is panting again, hips caught between stillness and the desperate urge to thrust up into your hand like a starving thing, and it only makes your next words come quieter, softer, more dangerous for their calm.

"Take them off."

He freezes.

Your hands still, but do not pull away, still cradling him through the fabric, still reminding him who holds the moment now. He lifts his head, barely, enough to look up at you through strands of hair clinging to his forehead, flushed all the way down to his collarbones, mouth parted in awe.

"What?" he asks, even though he heard you.

Your fingers curl a little tighter, not enough to hurt, only enough to remind him how good your touch already feels through layers he no longer deserves to wear.

"You heard me," you say, quiet and clear. "If you want me to keep touching you, Rafayel... then take them off."

He sucks in a breath like it hurts, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he rocks forward again, his body instinctively chasing friction even now. He looks overwhelmed. He looks ruined. But most of all, he looks obedient.

He rises to his feet slowly, every movement unsteady with arousal and tension, and his hands go to the waistband of his pants. You do not help him. You only sit there and watch.

First one side slides down, then the other, and he peels them off with a kind of reverence, not looking away from you as he bares himself fully. There is no shame in it. Only devotion. He is not trying to impress you. He is not even trying to seduce you. He is simply showing you what already belongs to you.

His body is lean and pale and flushed, the same pigments from his fingers streaked faintly across his thighs, and when the last of his clothing falls to the floor, he steps forward, breath shaking in his chest.

Both of them are stiff and leaking, the sheer size of him made more overwhelming by the doubled arousal, twitching with every heartbeat, helpless in their response to your gaze alone. Rafayel stands there, naked and needy, and you watch the way his hands twitch at his sides like he wants to cover himself but knows better.

��Is this what you wanted?” he asks, not because he doubts it, but because he needs to hear it from your lips. “Is it enough?”

You look up at him slowly, and you smile.

You rise onto your knees in front of him, the floor beneath you rough with the scattered traces of his art, the air between you thick with heat and breath and something older than lust, something shaped like worship. Rafayel stares down at you with a look that borders on disbelief, lips parted, cheeks flushed, hands trembling faintly at his sides like he does not know where to put them, or if he’s allowed to touch at all.

You reach out and curl your fingers around both of them, warm and rigid and slick at the tips, and his knees nearly buckle at the first contact. He makes a sound high in his throat, like a choked moan that never finished forming, his hips jerking forward instinctively before he catches himself and stands perfectly still, panting like he has run miles through memory to find you here at the end of it.

"Gods," he breathes, his voice nothing more than air and ache. "You’re really... you’re touching me, you’re..."

You look up at him, slow and steady, and your voice comes low, honey-thick with everything you’ve never had the chance to say until now.

"I’ve wanted this for so long," you murmur, your grip tightening just slightly, just enough to make him gasp. "You don’t even know how many nights I’ve thought about this. About you. About having you like this. In my hands, begging me without even realizing it."

His eyes flutter shut, jaw slack, a moan spilling out of him unbidden as you stroke along the length of both shafts in tandem, adjusting your grip until the movements are fluid and deliberate, letting your thumbs tease just beneath the heads until his hips twitch with every pass.

"You think I didn’t dream of this too?" you continue, leaning in now, your mouth brushing against one of them without quite taking it in. "You think I didn’t lie awake remembering the way you looked at me like I was already yours, even before you ever touched me?"

Rafayel sobs out something that might be your name, or might be a curse, or might be a prayer, and then your lips part and you take the first one into your mouth, slow and indulgent, just enough to feel the way he shakes beneath the weight of that pleasure.

He gasps sharply, hands fisting at his sides as he tries not to move, tries not to thrust, his body locked in place by the effort it takes to behave, but his legs are already trembling and his breath is nothing but broken little sounds spilling into the charged air between you.

"Please," he whispers, voice wrecked, eyes wide and wet when he dares to look down at you. "I can’t... I’m trying to stay still but it feels so good, you feel so..."

You hum around him, slow and deep, the vibration making him cry out again, high and needy and helpless, and when you pull back just slightly, you keep stroking both shafts with a grip that borders on cruel, teasing the edge but never giving him enough to fall.

"I don’t want you to stay still," you murmur, voice low and sultry against the heat of him. "I want you to fall apart for me. I want to see what you look like when you let go."

His knees give just a little, his thighs shaking as he grabs for your shoulder, not to guide, not to control, but simply to ground himself in the fact that you are real and this is happening and he is allowed to be loved like this.

"You’re going to break me," he says, barely audible, eyes wild and glassy and full of you.

You take him deeper this time, the second shaft pulsing hot in your hand while the first slides past your lips, slick with the taste of him, your tongue curling just right along the underside until his whole body jolts like a wave has crashed through him from the inside out. He is gasping now, truly gasping, chest heaving with every breath, his fingers gripping your shoulder tight enough to bruise, though he does not pull you closer, does not force a thing.

He wouldn’t dare.

You hum again, slow and indulgent, letting him feel the shape of your mouth and the patience of your pace, letting him know that you want this, that this isn’t about breaking him quickly, it’s about savoring the way he falls. The hand working his second cock doesn’t falter, matching the rhythm of your mouth with a steady tempo that keeps him trembling, keeps him teetering right on the edge of losing himself.

His head tips back and he groans, loud and needy, a sound dragged from somewhere deep and raw and aching. His thighs quiver beneath your touch and he is barely holding himself up now, sweat slick along his chest, his belly tight with restraint he is seconds away from losing.

"You’re gonna kill me," he pants, voice shaking, cracking right down the middle. "You’re gonna make me come like this and I haven’t even... I haven’t felt you yet, I haven’t been inside you, please–"

You suck him deeper again, slow and smooth, and his moan turns into a high, broken whimper that splits open into something almost desperate.

"Please," he gasps, voice raw and thin, like he’s trying not to cry. "Please, I need to feel you, I need to, I can't–"

He bucks forward slightly, barely a twitch of his hips, but it betrays everything he’s trying to hold back. The ache in him is no longer just arousal. It’s longing. It's the need to be as close to you as a body can allow, to sink into you and forget where he ends and you begin, to feel you wrapped around him in a way that says you are mine and I am yours and nothing else matters.

"Let me," he pleads, his voice dissolving into breath and heat. "Please let me fuck you. Please, I need to be inside you, I need to feel you, I need–"

He breaks off with a whimper, his forehead pressed to the top of your head, his whole body shaking under your hands, cock twitching in your mouth as you keep your rhythm steady, still patient, still deliberate.

"Please," he whispers again, softer now, like a final prayer. "I’ll be good. I swear. I’ll be so good. Just let me feel you. Please."

You release him with a soft breath, the drag of your mouth leaving him shuddering, and his hands hover like he wants to reach for you, but still doesn’t dare. The wine has made him pliant, has loosened the cage of his control, but not even that is enough to make him touch you without permission. He is waiting for it. Needing it. And you give it to him, not with pity, not with gentleness, but with something far more intimate.

With yes.

"Lie back," you say, your voice low and certain, and the way he obeys, the way he immediately shifts to the floor with his back against the cool wood and his limbs trembling beneath him, makes something hot and possessive bloom in your chest. You rise to your feet slowly, letting him watch, letting him see every movement, every breath, every shift of fabric as you begin to undress in front of him.

His eyes follow your hands like he’s being hypnotized. His lips are parted, flushed and wet, and there’s something wild in his gaze now, something animal and reverent and barely contained.

"You wanted to feel me?" you murmur as you tug your shirt over your head, letting it drop to the floor beside you. "You begged for it. On your knees. Like you’ve been dreaming of this moment longer than I’ve been alive."

"I have," he breathes, his voice cracked and reverent, eyes wide as you peel off your last layer of clothing and step over him, bare and glowing in the half-light. "I have dreamed of you like this for centuries. You have no idea what it’s done to me."

"You’re going to show me," you tell him, sinking to straddle his hips in one fluid motion, your knees pressing to the floor on either side of his trembling thighs, your hands bracing against his chest where his heart thunders like something wild caught in a cage. "You’re going to feel me now, Rafayel. No more pretending. No more waiting. I’m done watching you fall apart next to me when you could be falling apart underneath me."

He moans, a high, fragile sound that shudders out of him as your heat presses down against both of him at once, his cocks slipping between your folds as you grind down slowly, deliberately, not taking him in yet, just letting him feel your warmth, your wetness, the unbearable closeness of what he’s been aching for.

"You feel that?" you whisper, leaning down to kiss along his jaw, your mouth brushing over skin that’s flushed and damp with sweat. "That’s what you’ve been begging for. That’s what you cried over. And now you’re going to earn every inch of it."

He arches up into you, panting, nearly sobbing now, one hand finally rising to cradle your waist, the other clenching into the floor as if it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

"Please," he whimpers, voice barely more than a breath. "Please, I can’t... I need to be inside you. I need you to take me. I need to feel all of you."

You smile against his skin, your voice a low hum as you press your lips to the curve of his ear.

"Then stop begging," you murmur. "And start worshiping."

You lift your hips just enough to guide him in, the angle slow and deliberate, your hand wrapped around the base of one of his cocks to line him up, and the moment the first thick head slips inside, Rafayel loses the last thread of his restraint.

He surges upward with a strangled groan, his hips bucking up into you before you can even take him fully, his second shaft grinding helplessly along your folds, slick and hot and throbbing with the pulse of someone whose control has completely fractured. The stretch is intense, sudden, but you’re ready for it, soaked from the teasing, open from the wanting, your body aching to be filled and taken and devoured.

"Fuck," he gasps, his voice ragged and high, both hands suddenly clutching your waist like you’re the only thing tethering him to the earth. "You feel, oh gods, you feel too good, I can’t, I can’t go slow."

"Then don’t," you breathe, teeth grazing your bottom lip as you sink the rest of the way onto him, both shafts pressed deep inside you, stretching you open in a way that feels impossible, overwhelming, perfect. "Don’t hold back, Rafayel. Fuck me like you’ve wanted to since Lemuria drowned."

And that’s all it takes.

He loses it.

Rafayel bucks into you with a force that rattles the air between you, a loud cry ripping from his throat as his back arches off the floor, sweat streaking down his chest, muscles tense with the strength of his thrusts. Your thighs burn as you ride him, grinding down with every bounce, meeting him halfway as the studio echoes with the wet slap of skin on skin and the breathless litany of moans pouring from his lips.

There is no rhythm now, not really. Just the frantic, desperate collision of two bodies trying to erase centuries of distance in a single moment. Every time he thrusts up into you, you cry out, your nails raking down his chest, and he loves it, his head thrown back, teeth clenched, eyes squeezed shut like the pleasure is too much to bear.

"You’re mine," he gasps, his voice barely a whisper under the strain. "You’ve always been mine. You were made for me. Fuck, made to ride me like this, to take both of me, to feel me come inside you, I can’t, I need—"

You slam down onto him harder, grinding your hips as you do, and he lets out a sound that is almost a scream, his cock twitching violently inside you as his hands fly to your hips, dragging you down onto him again and again, harder, faster, his pace growing erratic as the pleasure mounts.

Your head falls back, mouth open, every nerve lit with fire as his cocks pound into you, filling you so completely it feels like you might split in two, and yet you never want it to stop, you want more, you want him to break you.

"Raf," you gasp, voice hoarse and wrecked, "You feel so fucking good, you’re so deep, I can feel you everywhere."

"I’m gonna come," he chokes, his entire body trembling beneath you, thrusts turning wild, out of rhythm, driven by need and nothing else. "I’m gonna come inside you and you’re gonna take it, you’re gonna feel all of me, I can’t stop, I can’t—"

You lean forward and press your forehead to his, sweat mixing with sweat, your breath tangled in his, your bodies locked together in this spiral of heat and chaos and overwhelming release.

"Then give it to me," you whisper. "Come for me. Come in me."

And he does.

Rafayel’s cry breaks the silence like a storm, a sobbing, shuddering sound that echoes through the studio as he thrusts up into you one final time, hips jerking violently as both cocks spasm inside you, hot and thick and overwhelming. You feel him fill you, pulse after pulse, the heat of his release spreading deep and fast as he clutches you against him like he’s afraid you’ll vanish mid-climax.

His body trembles, eyes wet, mouth open in a silent moan as he rides the wave, and you hold him through it, grinding against him as your own orgasm crests and crashes, your walls clenching tight around him, dragging every last drop from his trembling frame.

He breathes your name like a prayer, over and over, lost, desperate, worshiping.

***

For a long moment, the only sound in the studio is your breathing, loud and uneven and tangled with his, like the two of you are still trying to remember how to exist as separate bodies after the collision. Rafayel is slack beneath you, every muscle in his body trembling with the aftermath, his chest rising and falling fast beneath your hands as you rest against him, both of you flushed and sticky and soaked in sweat.

His arms are around you now, not gripping, just holding, loose and reverent, as if he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he touches you too hard, or maybe as if he’s the one who might fall apart if you pull away too soon.

"Fuck," he whispers, voice hoarse and barely there, like the breath was stolen from his lungs and hasn’t quite found its way back. "I’ve never come like that before. I didn’t even know I could."

You laugh, quiet and breathless, forehead pressed to his shoulder, your skin still humming with the aftershocks of what you’ve both done, the way he filled you, the way he came undone, the way your bodies moved like they had always known how.

"Of course you didn’t," you murmur, lips brushing his collarbone. "You’ve never had me before."

That earns you a soft groan, part embarrassment and part disbelief, and he shifts beneath you, his hips jerking slightly as you’re reminded, quite suddenly, that he’s still buried inside you. Both of him. Still hard, or nearly so, still twitching, still impossibly sensitive.

He whimpers, hands tightening just a little at your waist as the movement sends a ripple of overstimulation up his spine.

"Please," he breathes, voice cracking. "Don’t move yet. I don’t think I can handle it."

You smile against his skin, wicked and warm, and you shift your hips just slightly anyway, just enough to feel him gasp and twitch inside you, his whole body flinching as the sensation courses through him like lightning.

"You’re still hard," you whisper, teasing now, your voice like velvet and smoke as you nuzzle into the side of his neck. "You came like a man possessed and you’re still hard. I think your body’s trying to tell me something."

He lets out a strangled sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob, his face buried in your hair, and you feel the shudder that rolls through him from head to toe.

"It’s the wine," he mutters, barely intelligible. "That damned N109 wine. I can’t think. I just feel you everywhere. Inside, around me, on me. I can’t—"

You clench around him, slow and deliberate, and he gasps, eyes flying open, lips parting as another helpless sound escapes him.

"Then feel me," you whisper, rocking your hips once, slow and smooth, grinding down against him as his fingers dig into your waist and his head thumps gently against the floorboards.

"I don’t think I can come again so soon," he says, almost laughing, breathless and trembling. "But if you keep doing that, I’ll try."

You shift again, rolling your hips once more, and he chokes on a moan, already ready again, already shaking beneath you.

"Good," you whisper, mouth brushing the edge of his jaw. "Because I’m not done with you yet."

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #lads rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #lnds rafayel #rafayel x reader #rafayel smut #qi yu smut #qi yu #moongirlcleo

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