#even if the longer i look at it the more and more i hate it

[kikidoul]

── LATE BITES & LIBRARY NIGHTS.

𓍯 synopsis: You find comfort in the quiet of the campus library after dark, but you’re not the only night owl. Heeseung—mysterious, effortlessly charming, and always tucked away in the same corner—seems to be there every night. What you don’t know is that he’s a vampire who feeds on energy, and yours feels different. He keeps coming back for it, but maybe—just maybe—it’s not just your energy he’s drawn to.

ʚ(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )ɞ vampire! 이희승 x fem! reader ᥫ᭡ content university au, strangers to lovers (implied), inaccurate vampire lore, smut, resolved sexual tension, blood drinking, dom! heeseung, pussy eating, face-sitting, fingering, usage of petnames, spitting etc wc: 8982...!? masterlist

note. this took me longer than expected. i hate to admit but i had more fun writing for heeseung rather than sunghoon's... sorry pookie. this was supposed to be 10k wc but i didn't want to drag this any further, sorry

You covered your ears, a frustrated sigh leaving your lips when you heard the all-too familiar giggles from your roommate with her boyfriend, followed by the door to her room slamming shut. You quickly grabbed your headphones, putting it on and managing to blast a song just in time to prevent yourself from hearing certain…sounds that made you scrunch your nose in disgust. You increased the volume until you were satisfied and resumed working on your project. However, your peacefulness could only last for so long. 

Thud. Thud. Thud. 

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered, able to hear the revolting sounds of the bed frame hitting the wall at an equal interval. Groaning, you decided to shove your things into your bag, with your headphones still on and left your dorm. 

It was quiet outside, considering how it was already close to eight in the evening. There were some students hanging about on the campus. Some were heading home after having a productive study session in the library. Which was your current destination. Thankfully, the library was open twenty-four hours, meaning if there are anyone who’s like you: either looking for a quiet place or to grab some research materials, it’s always open for students. You headed to the third floor of the library, walking to find your usual spot. 

There were students scattered across the place. Everyone had their heads bowed, wearing either head or earphones as they typed away on their laptops, the tables filled with multiple books they had borrowed from the shelves. You made a sharp turn on your right, heading to your usual spot. 

Only for you to stop at the sight of someone occupying your seat. 

Frowning, you adjust the strap of your bag on your left shoulder. You approached the stranger, who you identified as a male as you got closer. Now standing behind him, you were able to get a clear look at his notes. You blinked when you saw that he’s majoring in Cyber Security—a course that you’ve heard to be stressful, in terms of modules and assignments. Your eyes flickered to the stranger, visibly jumping out of your skin when you made eye contact. 

He wore a plain, gray hoodie with the hood pulled up to cover his messy, black hair that curled just enough to look effortlessly perfect. His hands hovered over the keyboard of his laptop and one glance indicates he was in the midst of working on a report. You were able to see his perfect features—like he was carefully crafted from the hands of Gods and Goddess, who put their entire hearts and souls into making him to be the perfect and flawless human. His skin was a sweet, natural shade of honey that made you briefly wonder if he’ll taste just as sweet as he looks. 

Great, a handsome stranger had stolen my seat. 

The student arched an eyebrow, dropping his hands to rest on the table as he turned slightly to face you. “Uh, can I help you?”

“You’re sitting in my spot,” you blurted out, a wave of regret washing over you after you answered him. 

The poor stranger was confused, owlishly blinking his eyes, darting back and forth—between the table and your figure. “But I don’t see a name here. So that means this isn’t your spot and anyone’s allowed to sit.”

You shot him a glare, despite knowing he was right. “Well, yeah. But still, I always sit here and if I sit anywhere else, I won’t be able to focus.” 

Your response made him smirked, amused. “Sounds like a you problem.” 

Crossing your arms, you held onto your last shred of sanity before you could raise your voice in the library, “Look, could you please kindly get out and sit somewhere else?” 

“What makes you think I’ll do that? I came here first and first come first serve,” he retorted, crossing his arms. Despite his tone, you could tell he was having fun, judging from how his lips curled upwards in a smirk.

Swallowing the tempting urge to wipe it off his face, you narrowed your eyes, grip tightening on the strap of your bag. “All you need to do is to just move to another table so we’re not wasting anymore time. Then we’ll be out of one another’s way.” “I don’t know about you, but I think you’re wasting your own time, arguing with me when you can just find another spot or sit here,” he pointed out, making your left eyebrow subtly twitch. 

Not wanting to admit out loud that he was right, you stomped your way to the other side of the table—the very same table he’s seated at and loudly plopped your bag down on it. You didn’t care if the sudden noise gained startled eyes thrown your way. Pulling out the chair, you sat down and began unpacking, pulling out your required materials and switching on your laptop. You scowled when you saw the stranger’s eyes on you the entire time. 

“Done staring? You can take a picture if you want,” you sneered, snapping him out of his trance. 

“Nah, I wouldn’t want to ruin my eyesight any further. I’m just surprised you chose to sit here, out of the other available tables,” he shrugged his shoulders, pointing at the few vacant tables around him. A teasing grin stretched across his face, leaning forward slightly with his hands on the table. 

“Or maybe, you’re attracted to me, which is why you insist on sitting here,” he continued. 

“Don’t be so full of yourself. I barely know you,” you hissed, feeling unusually warm when he chuckled—the sound sending your heart fluttering. 

“Let’s change that, shall we? I’m Lee Heeseung, a second-year student majoring in Computer Science,” he introduced himself, reaching out his left hand for a handshake. 

You wanted to refuse, but you didn’t want to be rude and decided to introduce yourself as well, accepting his handshake. “I’m (Full Name), a second-year student majoring in Finance and Accounting.” 

“(Name)...” 

Heeseung said your name and somehow, it sounded pleasant coming from him—a reason you couldn’t quite put your finger on. You ignored how shivers ran down your spine and how goosebumps formed on your skin at how smooth your name sounds coming from him.

What you didn’t know was how it didn’t go unnoticed by him. He caught the way you stiffened and it made him smirked, a knowing glint in his eyes. He released his hand from yours, still able to feel your lingering warmth against his. 

“Nice to meet you, I have a feeling we’ll get along really really well,” he hums. 

~

It has been three weeks since your first encounter with Heeseung. You weren’t sure why but something about him kept pulling you back to the library. You kept telling yourself you’re doing this so you could find a quieter place to study, without having to listen to your roommate having sex with her boyfriend. But deep down, you knew otherwise.

You’re there to see him.

Heeseung had become a part of your life, unknowingly making a spot in it without asking. You weren’t sure why but you were curious to find out more about him. 

You had long forgiven him for taking your usual spot, now choosing to sit at the same table with him. It became a common sight to see him there before you, making you really curious what time he usually arrived. Sitting down, Heeseung wordlessly slid a large-sized takeaway cup towards you. You opened the lid and was immediately hit with the fragrance of a hot Vanilla Latte. Lips parting in surprise, you looked at him and he merely smiled. 

“That’s your go-to order, right? You always order a hot Large Vanilla Latte at the cafe near campus,” he said.

You opened and closed your mouth, like a gaping fish out of the sea. “I—uh, y-yea… Wait, how do you even know that? Are you stalking me?” You accusingly narrowed your eyes at him. 

Heeseung chuckled, running a hand through his hair. Your heart chose to betray you at that very moment by skipping a beat, at how such a simple action done by him was able to evoke such a feeling from you.

“I’ve seen enough to know what you always order. Consider this as a toast to our new friendship,” he replied, gesturing for you to take a sip. 

You dug your nails into the cup, awkwardly clearing your throat and taking a small, cautious sip of your drink. Your tastebuds were filled with the overly sweet taste—just the way you liked it. You almost grinned, managing to catch yourself when you realized that Heeseung had been staring at you the entire time, eyes never leaving your face. His right fist that was resting on the table, was clenched tightly, almost as if he was holding himself back. 

“What?” You asked.

Blinking rapidly, Heeseung snapped out of his trance and put on an innocent smile. “Well? Does it taste good?” 

“...Yeah, it does. Thanks for the drink,” you mumbled, eyes averted to the side. “Next time, the drink’s on me.” 

“Oh? How generous of you,” he teased, voice switching to a smooth, velvety-like tone that made something in your lower stomach stirred. 

“S-Shut up and start studying,” you retorted, internally groaning at how you stumbled over your words. Heeseung smirks and thankfully, drops the teasing as he redirects his attention to his laptop. And just like that, the both of you fall back into the usual peaceful silence that you had gotten used to. 

Today however, you stopped before an empty table. Confused, you looked around—eyes searching for him but he was nowhere to be found. Shrugging it off as Heeseung was busy, you took your seat, leaving his seat empty and continued doing your revisions. Examinations were around the corner and you couldn’t afford to slack, for the pressure of getting good grades was constantly gnawing at you, slowly eating you away. 

You couldn’t focus, eyes flicking up more than usual, doing a quick scan of your surroundings. But there was no sign of him. Sighing, you slipped on your headphones, hoping music will help you to focus better. You paused when you saw something or someone, in this case. 

There Heeseung stood, at the edge of the row, watching you. 

You blinked in surprise, body going as stiff as a statue. He didn’t move, simply standing there, half-shadowed by a tall shelf. His hood was down, revealing his abyssal-like hair. However, what caught your attention was his eyes. They were…different. They glinted unnaturally under the fluorescent lights, like they caught something the rest of the world didn’t. They weren’t the usual color—warm brown or black. No, they were red. 

Lips parting, you were tempted to say something, “Where were you? You’re late today. I saved your seat, you should be grateful.” But the words died in your throat. You couldn’t find it in yourself to speak, eyes fixated on Heeseung, who had not blinked at all. 

Something was wrong. His skin was paler than usual, almost translucent under the light. His shoulders tensed up, lips pressed tightly together, like he was forcing himself to stay still, to not move from where he stood. He looked hungry. It wasn’t the same hunger that you’d feel, like when you had skipped meals for the whole day. No, it was like Heeseung hadn’t eaten for months, like he was starving himself to death. 

And then, just like that, he blinked and the strange intensity vanished. He flashed you his signature, charming smile, approaching you with his bag hanging loosely by his shoulder and took his seat. He opened his laptop along with his notebook and began typing. It was like nothing had happened. Like he wasn’t staring at you with an intense gaze in his eyes, intense enough to make your hair stand upright. 

But you felt it—the slight shift in the air. The way your skin prickled when he stared too long. The way your pulse seemed to echo louder in your ears tonight. Tonight, something was different. And for the first time, you started to wonder just who or what, Heeseung really was. You decided to confide in your friend who has been there with you, through thick and thin and has seen you at your worst—Sim Jaeyun. 

“Jaeyun, do you know Heeseung?” You asked, voice slightly muffled due to you burying your face in your pillow. 

The two of you are in your room and much to your relief, your roommate was away, finally giving you a break from hearing her going at it with her boyfriend. Jake raised his head from where he sat; at your desk with his laptop opened, reflecting his Google Documents as he was in the midst of working on his report. 

“Yeah, we’re roommates, actually,” he replied, and you instantly lifted your head from the pillow, staring at him in disbelief. 

“What?’ 

Jake scratched the back of his neck. “What? Why are you so surprised?” 

You scrambled to push yourself up, placing the pillow on your lap. “Because you never told me!”

“Because you didn’t ask!” 

“Yeah well, this is your fault,” you pointed at him. 

He threw his hands up, an incredulous and offended look on his face. “Seriously? You didn’t ask and now it’s my fault? Women…” 

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that but moving on, have you noticed anything…weird about Heeseung?” You asked, leaning forward slightly with an unusually serious expression on your face. 

“No? Heeseungie hyung’s either spending most of his time playing games or studying his ass off,” the other shrugged his shoulders. “Why the sudden question?” 

You hesitated, unsure if you should tell him about your recent discovery before you thought against it, shaking your head. “Nothing, forget I said anything.”

Jake eyes you, obviously not buying your response. “Don’t tell me you have a crush on him.”

Your jaw dropped, eyes widening to the point they might pop out from its sockets. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“What? That’s the most logical conclusion I can come up with! You’ve never talked about any guys and then out of nowhere, you asked me about hyung!” He defended himself. 

You threw a pillow at him, eliciting a squawk when it landed right in his face, nearly smashing his glasses in the process. Jake flung it back at you and the next thing you knew, you’re engaged in a rather intense pillow fight with him. Of course, Jake emerged as the winner, as he always does and you have no choice but to surrender. You laid on the bed, panting to catch your breath and Jake sighed, running a hand through his hair. 

“Look, I love you as a friend but seriously? Out of everyone, it has to be Heeseung?” 

“It’s not like that!” 

“Sure sure, and in the few years down the road, I’ll be attending your wedding.” 

“Sim Jaeyun!”

~

You arrived at the library two days later and there Heeseung was, already at his rightful seat with his headphones on. He raised his head when you reached the table, his face lighting up at the sight of you. Pulling down his headphones, he gave you a warm smile, idly spinning his pen in his left hand. 

“I thought you won’t show up and leave me here, all alone,” he faked a disappointed sigh, hand placed on his chest. 

“Haha, very funny,” you dryly replied, taking out your things as you placed them on the table. 

It became a routine for either you or Heeseung to be buying drinks for one another. And today, it was your turn. You slid his drink towards him and you could tell he was surprised, with how he paused for a moment. “Is that for me?” 

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, who else is it for? If you don’t want it then I can drink it.” You reached for it but he was faster, snatching it away from your grip. He held it close to him, protecting it like it was his newborn child. 

“No! You bought it for me so I’m thankful,” he protested, opening the lid to take a peek at what’s inside, only for him to whistle; impressed. “How did you know what I always order? Did you stalk me?” 

“No, you idiot. I asked your roommate; Jake,” you retorted, remembering the amount of torture you had sit through when your friend couldn’t stopped teasing you. 

Heeseung made a sound of acknowledgement, taking a small sip and let out a sigh of relief, shoulders sagging. He then straightened himself when he remembered something. “Ah, speaking of Jaeyunnie, he told me something very interesting.” 

“I don’t think anything’s interesting when it’s from him.”

“Shh, let me speak,” he shushes you and you once again, rolling your eyes at his antics and he continued, a mischievous glint in his eyes. 

“He told me that a certain someone has a crush on me.”

Your heart fell and your world came crashing down. It took all of your self-restraint to not show any emotions on your face, despite how your heart was practically pounding against your chest. You moved your hands: from the table to your lap, so Heeseung couldn’t see how you had clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms. Your throat felt dry all of a sudden, like you were dehydrated. 

“And who is this certain someone?” You asked, choosing to play along. 

Heeseung’s eyes never left your face, watching you, observing you. “I think you and I both know the answer to that, (Name).” 

“I…” Your voice trailed off, squirming about in your seat as you weren’t used to being on the receiving end of his unwavering gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

You managed to reply but somehow, the words felt weird on your tongue, like you had replied in another language. Or maybe, you weren’t telling the truth and refused to confront it. Heeseung cocked his head to the side, the small movement causing his earrings to sway side to side. He studies you, not even blinking once and gods, it was hard trying to act like nothing was happening, like you were perfectly fine. 

After what felt like a decade, Heeseung lets you off the hook. “If you say so! Now, let’s work on our assignments, shall we? Our examinations are round the corners and I don’t want to flunk them.” 

You groaned at the unnecessary reminder. “Ugh, please don’t remind me.”

None of you said another word after that, each focused on your respective tasks. It was just another regular night spent at the library. Another day closer to your much-dreaded examinations. But something was wrong. You felt…weird. The first sign was you rubbing your eyes as your vision began to blur slightly, the words reflected on your laptop screen started to dance, lifting itself up and down. It hasn’t even been an hour since you arrived and you were feeling tired already. 

Your limbs felt unnaturally heavier than usual, like a slow fog was creeping into your mind. Shaking it off, you reached for your drink, stealing a glance at your fellow tablemate. To your annoyance and faint awe, he looked perfect—way too perfect, if you’re being honest. He wasn’t wearing his headphones anymore, leaving them hanging around his neck while he squinted at the screen of his laptop, still idly spinning the pen with his left hand. The sleeves of his hoodie were pushed up to his elbows, revealing a rather eye-catching pair of forearms, with veins prominent under soft skin. 

The sight of it made your cheeks flushed red. It took all of your restraint to tear your eyes away from it, not wanting to be caught red-handed. Heeseung was completely focused and unaffected, unlike you. You sighed, leaning back in your seat to stretch your legs, lightly nudging his feet underneath the table—gaining his attention. 

“I feel…tired,” you mumbled, stretching your arms above your head as you covered your mouth when you yawned. 

Heeseung looked up, eyes meeting yours almost instantly. “You okay?” His voice was gentle and soothing, but his gaze was sharper than usual. “Did you eat earlier before coming here?”

“Yeah, I did,” you mumbled. “Just… I don’t know, I feel really tired. A weird kind of tiredness.”

He merely offered a small smile. “You’ve been studying too much. You should call it a night and head back.” 

You shook your head, rubbing your eyes again but this time, more furious. “No, it’s fine. I need to go through two more topics before I’m done for the night. Or else I’ll lag behind,” you insisted.

You looked down at your notes, oblivious to Heeseung’s knowing gaze on you, like he already knew what’s happening to you. Like he was expecting this. You tried to focus, tried to solve a simple question but the letters were starting to blur again. Some were mixed together and you had misread the numbers reflected on the small screen of your calculator. Your chest felt slightly heavier, not painful, but weighted—like something invisible was slowly wrapping itself around you. 

Seated across from you, Heeseung changed his position and has now slipped on his headphones. He begins typing away on his laptop—probably having figured out what to write after spending a long time staring at the screen and searching for reliable sources on the Internet. The library was quiet as usual, allowing you to pick up a strange hum in your ears. It was faint and low, like a soft vibration. Like the air was buzzing around the both of you. 

And then, it passed. 

Suddenly, as if a switch was flipped, your body felt lighter and clearer. The fog you felt previously vanished into thin air. You blinked in surprise, taking in a sharp breath. Whatever strange feeling that was just now, it was gone and you were back to normal. You looked up and made eye contact with Heeseung again. This time however, he was quick to look away the moment your eyes met. 

His strange behavior made you narrowed your eyes, feeling suspicious of him. He looked too composed. It was as if he had finished something he didn’t want you to notice. But you did and you just didn’t know what it was. All you know however, is that you need to get to the bottom of this, no matter what. 

~

Examinations were over and as per routine, you were at Jake’s dorm, ready to have your usual movie marathon. Only this time however, there was an additional person joining: Heeseung. You were in the kitchen, struggling to grab a bowl for popcorn that was placed on the higher shelf. It was out of reach for you and you muttered a string of curses under your breath. 

And then, you felt a presence behind you. You froze on the spot when a firm chest was pressed against your back. You knew who it was without turning, his cologne filling your senses, making you feel light-headed.

“You could’ve asked for help instead of struggling by yourself,” he murmured into your ear, his hot breath grazing against your skin. 

“And who do I ask for? You?” You replied. 

A chuckle. “I’m glad to know I’m always in your mind.”

“You—!?” 

You turned, ready to give him a piece of your mind, only for your voice to die in your throat at the proximity between the two of you. He was so close that you had to tilt your head slightly to meet his eyes, so close you could feel the warmth radiating off his body. The space between you was barely a breath, making you instinctively backed up—only for your hips to bump into the edge of the kitchen counter behind you. 

You froze but Heeseung didn’t move. Instead, his teasing smile deepened to something lazy, amused and confident. His eyes glanced down briefly to your parted lips for a split second but it didn’t go unnoticed by you. If anything, it only made your cheeks flushed red and your body temperature rising, despite how cold it was, due to the air-conditioner in the living room. 

“What were you gonna say?” He asks, voice low. 

You dryly swallowed. “You’re annoying.” Much to your dismay, your words lack the bite and Heeseung chuckled, eyes glinting knowingly. Like he knew the effect he has on you and he was proud of it. 

“Annoying?” He leans in slightly, one hand bracing against the counter beside your waist. “I don’t think you’re telling the truth.” 

Your pulse picked up instantly, heart beating loudly and you could only pray he didn't hear it. Heeseung didn’t touch you—but gods, you wished he did. You want to know how his hands will feel, tracing random patterns on your skin. You want to know how his lips will feel against your skin. You want him to leave physical evidence behind—to show that you were taken. You want him to devour you whole, both physically and mentally.

Tightening your grip on the counter surface, you tried to scoff, to laugh it off but your voice was quieter than you expected. “Don’t flatter yourself, Heeseung.” 

He cocked his head to the side, the corners of his lips twitching up. “It’s too late for that.” 

Because this is Heeseung, he leans in a little more, his free hand grazing the edge of the counter behind you, fingers brushing against yours. His touch was fleeting, barely there but it was enough to make you crave for more. 

More, more, more. 

That was what the voices in your mind were chanting—like they were famished beasts, wanting to be fed. You shoved them aside, choosing to remain rational and continued playing the facade—the facade of pretending that Heeseung hasn’t already had you wrapped around his finger. 

“You gonna run?” He murmured, voice sweet and dripping with temptation. 

You shook your head, not trusting in your voice. 

“Thought so,” he smirked, leaning in until your noses brushed against one another. Your eyes flickered down, waiting with bated breath as he gets closer and closer—

“Ow!” You exclaimed, hand rubbing the now sore spot on your head. The culprit responsible merely chuckled and moved away, unaware of how your fingers twitched. tempted to pull him back in.

“I’d hurry up if I were you, or Jake’s gonna throw a fuss,” Heeseung grins, stepping out of the kitchen, leaving you standing there, heart beating at lightning speed and mind in a daze. 

When you finally recollected yourself and returned to the living room, the two roommates were already seated on the couch. To your dismay, they had left a seat for you—in the middle of Heeseung and Jake. Sighing, you placed the bowl on the coffee table as you took your seat, pointedly ignoring how Heeseung had shifted closer the moment you sat down. Jake, on the other hand, maintained a respectful amount of distance between you—something you’re grateful for. 

“What movie are we watching?” You asked, making yourself comfortable, removing your slippers and moving to sit in a cross-legged position. 

Jake shrugged his shoulders as the opening scene started to play. “Not sure but I think it’s a movie about vampires.”

You laughed, leaning forward to grab the bowl of popcorn but Heeseung was faster. He snatched the bowl away, faster than you could blinked and wasted no time in shoving a mouthful of the snack down his throat. You shot him an annoyed glare but he remained unfazed, choosing to send you an infuriating smirk instead. 

“Vampires aren’t real though. I don’t think I’ve seen one before,” you admitted, reaching over with the attempt of stealing some popcorn but Heeseung merely stretched his arm, pulling the bowl away from your grip. 

Jake paid no mind to his roommate’s antics, having gotten used to it now. His eyes were fixated on the screen as the movie started playing. “I’d like to think they’re real. What about you, hyung? What do you think?” 

Heeseung paused at his question and you took the chance to snatch the bowl back, cheering to yourself. “Vampires are real.” 

You snort, glancing at him from the corner of your eyes. “Ok Mister Smartass, then where’s your evidence to support your claim?”

He shrugged his shoulders, stretching his long legs out and your eyes flickered down to how he spread his legs, making you gulp. You were quick to look away when he glanced at your face, smirking. Your muscles instinctively tensed when your clothed shoulders and knees brushed against one another. At this rate, the movie was already in its opening scene, introducing the main character.

“Depends on what kind of evidence you’re looking for,” he replied, leaning in to whisper into your ear. You instantly shoved him away, not expecting him to do that. Your flustered reaction elicited a laugh from Heeseung. 

“Relax, I won’t bite. Unless you want me to,” he coos. 

You didn’t reply with words, choosing to fling a cushion at his face instead. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, can you two stop talking?”

~ 

You weren’t sure how much time had passed as the three of you were engrossed in the movie. You were fully aware of Heeseung shifting closer and closer until your shoulders are now properly touching. Thankfully, he couldn’t see how goosebumps formed on your skin. The bowl of popcorn is now empty, thanks to Heeseung who finished the rest of the popcorn in the span of ten minutes, much to your disbelief and annoyance. Jake had fallen asleep somewhere in the middle, leaving the two of you alone.

The scene currently playing was when the female lead had surrendered herself to the male lead—who is actually a vampire. You dug your nails into the cushion placed on your lap, unable to tear your eyes away when he sunk his pearly-white, sharp canines into her neck. Your cheeks turned red when you heard the moans from the female lead. Based on the expression she had—closed eyes, biting down on her bottom lip and hands gripping onto the other’s shoulders for dear life, you could tell she was enjoying it. 

The scene was nothing but erotic, making you clenched down on nothing but thin air. You flinched; startled, when Heeseung placed his hand on your shoulder. Your head snapped to his direction, throat going dry when you made eye contact with him. He furrowed his eyebrows, noting how you were tense underneath his palm. 

“You good? You’re tense,” he murmured, hand trailing down to rest on the cushion, fingers grazing against yours. The touch was fleeting—similar to what you experienced back in the kitchen. Where he almost kissed you. 

“Y-Yeah, I’m fine,” you stuttered and he was quick to catch on. 

Heeseung’s eyes darkened, corners of his lips tempted to twitch upwards. You tried to focus on something else. Something else that wasn’t him but it was hard. With how he was looking at you, like you were his everything. Like he’s nothing but your loyal worshipper. But then, something shifted. 

It was subtle at first—a slow wave of fatigue rolling through your body. Like your limbs were getting heavier by the second, like your mind was thickening with fog. You blinked, trying to shake it off, but it kept creeping in. You could barely focus and your breath grew shallow without reason. Heeseung stilled beside you, struck with realization with what he had done. His fingers retracted immediately and the weight vanished. 

Your head snapped towards him. “Did you—?” You paused, realizing how dizzy you felt a few seconds ago. “What was that just now?”

Heeseung didn’t answer. His jaw tightened, his eyes suddenly avoiding yours. He leaned back slightly, further than he usually would. As if creating distance would undo whatever just happened. “Nothing. You’re imagining things.”

His reply was crude and short, not giving you any room to question him. To demand him for answers. But you knew better. You knew that was the exact same feeling you felt back in the library. It was easy for you to connect the dots together—Heeseung is the reason why you’re feeling like this. You didn’t want to be left in the dark any longer. Which was why you grabbed his wrist when he stood up, attempting to retreat to the safety of his room. 

“Wait—Heeseung,” you stopped him. 

The second your fingers wrapped around his wrist, your heart dropped. That same feeling. That same quiet, invisible pull. Like the energy from your fingers was being siphoned, slow and steady, feeding something beneath his surface. Heeseung flinched, pulling away from you—like you were some kind of contagious virus that he didn’t want to be infected with. Like you were poison to him. 

“Don’t,” he said, barely above a whisper. His voice cracked—not with anger, but guilt. “Just… not right now.”

And with that, he left. You sat frozen, staring at your hand where he had been just seconds before.

Just what the hell is he? 

~

That was the last time you saw him. Two months have passed since you last saw Heeseung. You have searched and looked everywhere for him, but it was like he had disappeared without traces. You had even asked Jake but he too, was just as clueless as you are. According to him, Heeseung had packed his things and left, his room was empty—like he wasn’t there in the first place. You were frustrated. Frustrated at this wild goose chase you were pulled into. Frustrated at how you couldn’t find him. Just when you were about to give up, he randomly reappeared in your life. 

Knock knock. 

It was close to midnight when it happened. You looked up from your work, confused. Your roommate wasn’t around—having returned home to visit her family. As far as you were aware, no one in their right mind would be wandering around this late at night. Nervous, you approached the door and looked through the peephole, only to be speechless when you recognized him. You instantly flung open the door, revealing none other than Heeseung. 

You were about to bombard him with questions when you took note of his state. He stood before you, drenched in shadows, hoodie soaked from the heavy rain outside. But what really froze you was the way he looked at you—eyes wild, dark circles under them, panting like he had run miles just to get here. And he looked…pale. Unwell.

No—he wasn’t unwell. 

“Heeseung, what—are you okay?” You asked, stepping back to let him in. 

He didn’t respond right away and didn’t move from his spot. His body was tense, hands clenched tightly at his sides like he was fighting something. Eventually, he entered and you closed the door behind him, heart hammering. 

“What’s going on with you? Why did you come here?” 

He turned to you then, finally, his gaze locking with yours—and for the first time since you met him, he looked desperate. “I didn’t want to come here,” he rasped. “I tried to stay away. I really did.”

Your throat went dry. “Stay away from what?” 

Heeseung sighed—the simple sound contains so much tension. “I can’t keep pretending anymore. I’ve tried to only feed on your energy but—it’s not enough. I know you’ve suspected something by now. I’ve seen the way you looked at me.”

“You’re not human, aren’t you?” You whispered. 

“No,” he breathed, eyes flickering red for just a split second. “I’m not.”

You stared at him, your back brushing against the wall now. “Then what are you?”

“I’m a vampire,” he confessed, the word hanging heavy between the two of you. “And I’m trying so hard not to hurt you right now.”

You could see it—the way his jaw clenched, the way he kept his distance like your scent was driving him mad, insane. His whole body trembled, not with fear, but hunger. Pain. 

“I didn’t mean to feed on you,” he continued. “It just—happened. I didn’t think I’d get addicted to you.” 

You were trembling now but it wasn’t from fear. It was from the weight of truth. From how raw and broken he looked. 

“And now? What are you planning to do?” You asked quietly. 

Heeseung’s eyes glowed faintly under the lights. “Now, I need you to either kick me out, or tell me to stay.”

Your lips moved before your mind could process it. “Stay.”

He flinched. “Don’t say that. Not when you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I don’t care,” you replied, stepping closer, ignoring how your hands were shaking. “You’re in pain and you came to me. I don’t want you to suffer any longer. Let me help you, please?” 

Heeseung’s breath hitched, eyes snapping to you in disbelief. “Are you sure? Do you know what you’re offering me?”

You swallowed thickly, cocking your head to the side—exposing your unblemished, clear neck for him. Like you were surrendering yourself to him, letting him take you. “You want this, don’t you?” 

Heeseung’s eyes fluttered shut, jaw tightening like it physically hurt him to look. “Don’t tempt me,” he whispered.

“I’m not,” you said, your voice barely audible. “I trust you.”

Those words were the final straw and something in him snapped. Heeseung closed the remaining distance, one arm slipping around your waist to hold you steady as the other gently cradled the back of your head. He ducked his head, greedily inhaling your scent, nearly moaning out loud at how intoxicating your scent was. He could feel his sanity slipping away as every second passed. His lips hovered over your neck, lips shaking as his fangs grew from where it was hidden. 

“Last chance to back out,” he whispered, burying his face in the crook of your neck, allowing him to be completely engulfed in your scent. 

“I’m not backing out,” you replied, eyelids fluttering shut when he tightened his grip on your waist.

And then—you felt it. A brief, sharp sting, like the prick of a needle, followed by a flow of rush of warmth. It wasn’t painful. In fact, it was enjoyable. You briefly remembered the movie you had watched, vividly remembering how the female lead was enjoying herself while she was being fed on. And now you know why she was acting like that. You couldn’t help but let out a whimper, knees buckling and hands gripping onto his drenched, heavy hoodie. 

You could feel him trembling against you, fighting to stay gentle, controlled. He drank like someone trying not to drown in thirst, like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. And then, as quickly as it started—it stopped. Heeseung pulled away, panting softly against your shoulder, hands still gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d collapse. His lips were red, with blood—your blood on them. His eyes were back to normal, no longer red. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I tried to stop sooner. I shouldn’t have—”

You didn’t know what took over you. Maybe it was due to you being light-headed. Maybe it was due to the heat of the moment. Or maybe, just maybe, it was due to you directly comforting your feelings for him. 

Nothing you read in those cliche romance books could compare to the feeling of your lips pressed together. It feels right, like Heeseung was the final missing puzzle piece and with him, you were able to complete your puzzle. He eagerly reciprocated it, the hand previously cradling the back of your head moved to rest it against your left cheek, thumb drawing invisible lines on your skin. His other hand rested against the hem of your shirt, thumb sliding underneath to trace random patterns—sending shivers down your spine. 

The taste of metallic invades your mouth but you don't care. In fact, you find it rather arousing to be able to taste your own blood. Heeseung groaned when you obediently parted your lips, allowing him the chance of exploring your warm, wet mouth with his tongue. You choked out what sounded like a mixture of a whine and whimper when he leisurely sucked on your tongue, causing your knees to buckle. You would’ve fallen to the ground if Heeseung didn’t carry you in his arms. 

Without breaking the kiss, he brings you to your bedroom—like he has been here before. He gently placed you down on the bed and finally, broke the kiss. A trail of saliva snapped into half when he leaned his head back, drinking in the sight of your current state. To say you were breathtaking would be an understatement. Your eyes were dazed and misty. Your swollen, bruised lips were stained with your blood and some were trickling down your chin, disappearing underneath your shirt that he was tempted to rip it off you. 

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he murmured, in awe with the sight before him. Your face turned red, growing shy when he couldn’t stop staring at you. 

“Hee,” you whined, lips jutting down in a pout. “Do something, please?” 

Heeseung groaned at how you were sweetly pleading for him. He made quick work of your clothes and tossed it to the floor, not caring where it landed. He was wearing a black tank top with his sweatpants while you, on the other hand, were naked. You yelped when your vision flipped a whole three-hundred sixty degrees, resulting in you seated on his lap while Heeseung leaned against the bed frame, a lazy, arrogant smirk stretched across his handsome face. 

An involuntary gasp left your lips at how he purposely flexed his thigh, the friction against your already soaked, leaking folds made you whine, head tilting back. Heeseung chuckled, the sound seemingly loud in your room. 

“You like that?” He murmured, eyes never leaving your face. When you nodded your head, he rested his hands on your waist, drawing circles on your skin. “Yeah? How about you ride my thigh? Wanna watch you cum without me touching you.” 

You whined at his words, sending heat straight to your gut. Not wanting to disappoint him, you rested your hands on his upper thigh and began moving your hips back and forth. At first, it was awkward as Heeseung kept staring at you. But the awkwardness was replaced with pleasure once you found a steady rhythm. Besides, the delirious feeling of the fabric of his sweatpants against your cunt was getting to you, enough to make you feel light-headed. And embarrassingly, enough to make you cum, leaving a dark, wet spot behind as evidence. 

You pawed at his tank top like a desperate puppy, frustrated tears brimming in your eyes. Heeseung coos, voice dripping with faux sweetness. He reached out, resting one hand against your cheek and you were quick to lean into his touch. 

“Aw, what’s wrong, princess? Is it not enough for you?” He purrs.

You opened your mouth, wanting to reply, only to gasp when his other hand had sneakily snaked its way between your thighs. With his index and middle fingers, he parted your folds, wanting to take a look at the mess you had made. 

“Heeseung!” You cried out when he pushed two fingers in without warning. 

The vampire cursed under his breath at how tight you feel, your walls clamping onto his fingers for dear life, not wanting to let him go. His mouth waters, the temptation to taste you increases as he fingers you, pulling and pushing his fingers back in. You were practically leaking like a faucet, coating the two long, slender digits with your slick. Your ears turned red at the loud, obscene squelching sounds echoing amongst the four walls. 

You forgot how to breathe when Heeseung brought the fingers—the very same fingers that were inside you, to his lips. Without breaking eye contact, he slips them into his mouth. A pink and reddish tongue darts out, licking away at your slick. You couldn’t do anything, only sitting prettily on his lap, like you were his trophy wife, watching as the vampire gets a taste of what heaven feels like. 

“Fuck, you taste divine, sweetheart,” he groaned, pulling his now cleaned fingers out with an audible “pop”. 

Heeseung pulled you closer, pushing himself down the bed until his head was on your pillow. You knew what he wanted and to say you were excited would be an understatement. You let him manhandle you as he pleases, heat pooling in the depths of your stomach with how his strength easily overwhelms yours—something you find to be extremely attractive. Eventually, you were hovering over his face. He pulled you down until you were directly sitting on his face, not caring about breathing (Although, do vampires even need to breathe?).

The first contact of Heeseung’s tongue against your heated, damped skin nearly made you toppled over. He starts slow, gentle, warming the both of you up for the main dish to be served later. And despite how he had just started, you were already panting, breathless. You even had to grab a fistful of his hair to ground yourself. Heeseung’s tongue drags flat over your clit, purposely taking his sweet time in circling the bud peeking out with the tip of his tongue, drawing out a seamless stream of moans from you. 

“C’mon, ride my face,” he said, voice muffled with how he was burying his face deeper into your cunt. Heeseung was already addicted to your taste and for a moment, he wondered how he had managed to survive this long without tasting you. 

You tried to move but your thighs were quivering like fallen leaves, leaving him no choice but to guide your hips, moving you forward and back, in time with the stroke of his tongue, creating friction against your clit. Your mouth dropped open, forming a large ‘O’ shape as you begin moving on your own, after being provided some guidance. Heeseung was pleased, judging from how he hummed in satisfaction. 

All it took was one mischievous curl of that skillful tongue of his, slipping past your folds and pushing in deep, and the taunt string inside snapped. You let out a high-pitched, downright pornographic moan as you cum hard on Heeseung’s tongue. You tried to pull away, not wanting to suffocate him but his grip on your hips tightened—a silent, unspoken warning. You nearly fell over, no longer having any strength but Heeseung was quick to move you off of him. 

You squeaked at how his face was dripping with your slick. Droplets of it trickled down his face, landing on your pillow and the sheets. His nose and lips were glistening underneath the light. Heeseung laughed at your flustered reaction, turning to place you on your back with him hovering over you. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, about to wipe it off on the sheets when an invisible light bulb went off in his mind. 

“Here, how about you taste yourself?” He asks, collecting your slick with two fingers and hovers near your lips. 

Your eyes flickered between his expectant face and fingers. You parted your lips and Heeseung was quick to shove it down your throat, making you gagged at the sudden intrusion. You obediently cleaned his fingers as thoroughly as possible, not wanting to leave any spot uncleaned. When he pulled them out, he crashed his lips against yours, swallowing your muffled sounds. 

“H-Hee, wan’ you,” you begged against his lips. 

“Where do you want me? Use your words and tell me,” he asks, eyes twinkling at the scowl you shot him. 

With the remains of your sanity and courage left, you wrapped your legs around his waist, using his split moment of being surprised to pull him down so his cock was directly against your sensitive cunt. You gulped when you could feel how big he was, even through his sweatpants and boxers. You didn’t know how it’ll fit in you but only time will tell. 

“Wan’ you here, please?” You pleaded, looking at him through your eyelashes. 

Heeseung groaned, hands fumbling to remove his sweatpants and boxers, revealing his cock that was proudly standing upright against his stomach. The tip had turned an angry shade of reddish-purple due to the lack of attention. You parted your legs, rearranging the pillow and slid another one underneath your hips for support. Digging your hands into the sheets, you watched in bated breath as he aligned himself against your entrance—

Only for him to not push in. 

Instead, he decides to tease you by moving his cock in slow, teasing circles around your clit. You whined, shuffling forward, trying to get him to be inside you but Heeseung moved away, drawing a sound of protest from the sudden distance. You made grabby hands, looking at him through teary eyes—attempting to plead for mercy, hoping that somewhere in him, there’s a part of him that’s weak for you. 

Luckily, Heeseung was already reaching his limit. He shoves himself in in one go, cock filling you up and hitting the right places in one, simple motion. Your back arched off the bed, head tilted back to expose your neck that has a singular bite mark left behind by him. You cried out, feeling yourself being split apart on his cock. Your legs trembled, walls pulsating as you tried to get used to his girth. 

“Shit, you’re so tight,” he cursed, pulling out until his tip was inside and moved his hips forward, drawing more angelic sounds from you. 

Determined to hear more, Heeseung started off strong, hips furiously snapping against yours with no mercy. Creaking sounds could be heard along with the bed frame hitting the wall at equal intervals. Your cries blended in with Heeseung’s moans, creating a harmonious symphony that’s music to his ears. You reached for him and he was quick to follow, leaning down to kiss you, tossing your legs over his shoulders until he was bending you in half. 

It wasn’t really a kiss, not when you were panting and whimpering against his lips. But with the close proximity, Heeseung is able to get a front-row seat for every microexpression you make. How you furrowed your eyebrows when his cock hits the same spot that made you see stars. How you bit down on your bottom lips. He reached out, thumb pressed on your bottom lip and you looked at him, already gone. 

“Open your mouth,” he demands, a twinge of satisfaction purrs at how you compiled without hesitation. Gathering as much saliva he could, he spits into your mouth, smirking at how you clenched down on his cock at his action. 

“Swallow.” 

You whined, obeying his words and he hums. 

“Good girl,” he coos, savoring the way you shuddered at the praise. He decides to tuck it aside for a later time. Right now, he wants to focus on making you cum for the third time with his cock. 

Heeseung increased his rhythm, hand now fiddling with your clit—spreading your folds apart to look at how you’re connected together. He knew you were reaching your climax, with how your muscles tightened and how your moans were getting more high-pitched, breathless “ah, ah, ah” spilling endlessly from your lips. His eyes landed on your neck, more specifically, the other side of your neck that was clean from any bite marks. 

Before he could think twice, he ducked his head, sinking his teeth into your neck, drinking your blood. That was enough to tip you over the edge. You came with you chanting his name like a prayer and Heeseung was quick to follow suit, releasing his seed deep inside you. He collapsed on top of you, earning a squawk from you as you smacked his shoulder. 

“Ew, get off! You’re sweaty!” You complained, only for your voice to be reduced to a whimper when he subtly moved. The small movement made his cock rub against your sensitive spot. 

“How cruel. Treating me like this when I just blew your back out,” he whined, burying his face in your neck, tongue darting out to lick at the new bite mark, watching as it heals with his saliva that has healing properties. 

You scrunch your nose. “Ugh, please never say that again.” 

Laughing, Heeseung slowly pulled out and you wanted to close your legs, only for him to stop you. You gulped at the evident desire in his eyes. He shifted to his elbows, face hovering dangerously near your stretched out and overly-sensitive cunt. 

“Let me clean you up, alright?” He grins and you know you’re in for a long night… 

~

The next morning, you were in the kitchen making coffee when the door was pushed open. You groaned, knowing it was your roommate who had returned from her trip. The door slammed shut as she dumped the keys on the small glass bowl she had got for the both of you. 

“Hey, you! How’ve you been?” She greeted you, embracing you in a bone-crushing hug. You would have dropped your coffee if you didn’t place it down on the counter. 

Returning the hug, you smiled and pulled away. “I’m good. How was the trip and your family?” 

Your roommate rolled her eyes. “Ugh, you won’t believe what I had to go through—”

“Baby, why didn’t you wake me up?” 

Oh great. 

The two of you turned to the new voice, to see Heeseung with half-opened eyes and messy hair. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, only in his sweatpants as he leaned against the kitchen doorway. Your roommate openly gaped, head snapping back and forth as she looks at the two of you, connecting the dots together. 

You sighed, already knowing what she’s planning to say. “Dont—”

“I was away for one month and I came back, to see you’ve gotten yourself a boyfriend!?” 

taglist: @byshens, @yourislandgirl, @cutehoons02, @nugwon, @blooqz, @elairah, @sofiafromvenus, @mi-nyeo, @m1kkso, @dreamiestay, @baedreamverse, @hoonstqr, @rustymoons, @cripplinghooman, @in-somnias-world, @firstclassjaylee, @starfallia, @isagistar (only for heeseung), @kryllea, @chaewonmyheartt, @iamliacamila, @fancypeacepersona, @ilovhoonie, @woniescheeks, @jungwonswife4life, @ikeugirly, @jakessrealwife

[levigarden999]

♡︎ levi ackerman headcanons

fluffy , sweet headcanons about our tough softie ♡⋆˙

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*

୨୧ levi loves gardening. especially after the war when the world had changed to something more peaceful, he found new ways to enjoy his retirement and momentarily forget about the traumas he had gone through. he loves to see the results when he had pulled out the weeds and planted new flowers in the ground. of course, he uses gloves and mostly works only with his healthy hand, but he has noticed how a beautiful, clean backyard somehow puts his mind at ease.

୨୧ levi has poor peripheral circulation. that is manifested by his hands being cold all the time and his skin feeling cooler. even though levi has gotten used to feeling cold most of the time, he still enjoys warmth. that's why he always dresses up in long sleeved shirts and often wears a longer jacket on his shoulders (like in the season 2) if he needs to.

୨୧ related to the previous topic, levi also loves to sleep snuggled under the blanket. i know you would probably believe that levi is sort of a hyper-sensitive and neurotic person, that he would hate the feeling of being firmly tugged under the heat of a blanket. however, i think it's the other way around. because levi probably has the fear of being attacked during the night since he had always had a lot of enemies, especially back in his youth in the underground, he enjoys the feeling of safety during his sleep. that's why the blanket swaddling his whole body brings a sense of comfort and peace to him.

୨୧ in a relationship, levi would never judge you by your appearance. in his eyes, you’d be the most beautiful person in the whole world, no fucking matter what you looked like. he is a feminist and due his negative experiences with men, he feels more natural among women/nonbinary company.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*

[no-144444]

Hello! Could I possibly request a kimi antonelli × reader. The reader is an F2 DAMS driver and she's in redbull academy and even if she had same/better results in F2 Kimi made it into F1 and she didn't and now she's like having a really hard time not being mad/clearly jealous of Kimi? They were also kinda secretly dating when they both were in F2 and they still didn't officially break up but she has bad anger issues and is either taking them out on Kimi or treating him coldly. And Kimi is trying to fix things. They also bothe still really love each other

won't change- k.antonelli

꩜summary: everyone knew that seat was yours. what happens when your kind-of-boyfriend takes it instead?

꩜pairing: andrea kimi antonelli x fem! reader

꩜a/n: series...? lmk (also THANK you to the person who sent this in i LOVE WRITING ANGST AGAGAGAGGAGAGA)

Imola rolled around quicker than you’d hoped. F2 was great, but it wasn’t F1. You worked. You fought. You raced. You were leading the championship, and it looked like nobody was going to touch you. You were going to run away with it this year, and next year was still unknown. You could end up in FE, maybe Indycar, maybe something else. Probably not F1, Toto had made that clear. Every team talked big talk about wanting you on their team, until it actually came to giving you a seat. Williams and Sauber (soon to be Audi) were offering a reserve driver position. Andretti was offering an Indycar seat. Prema was offering an Indycar reserve driver seat. Alpine was offering a World Endurance Championship seat. Mercedes were offering a GT2 seat. Arrow McLaren were offering a reserve seat. Cupra Kiko were offering a seat. Cadillac wanted to talk. RedBull wanted to talk. You had options, and great ones at that, but you wanted that stupid fucking Mercedes seat that Kimi got, because it was meant to be yours. 

“Alright?” George asked as you walked into the paddock, a bright smile on his face. “Ready for today?”

You came second last year. Gabriel won it by 7 points. You pretended it didn’t bother you. Jak joined your side in the paddock and you walked straight past George, not really caring about what he had to say. You should’ve had that fucking Mercedes seat, and everyone knew it. You were overperforming massively in a terrible team, like you always had, and you were great. 

“Everything ok?” Jak asked as you walked into the garage. “Up late with homework?” he teased. 

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Something like that, yeah.”

“How do you think you’ll do today in the Mercedes?” he asked and you felt your blood run cold. Your first chance in an F1 car. Your only chance in an F1 car, probably. 

“I think I’ll be fine,” you nodded. “Kimi drives it, how hard can it be?” 

Jak laughed at your (not-so-subtle) dig and nodded. “You’re going to be out for blood on that track, aren’t you?” 

You didn’t answer, but everyone knew that was the case. You were driving George’s car. You were up against Kimi. 

You really couldn’t give a fuck about anything other than setting the quickest lap, and showing Mercedes exactly what they missed out on. 

“Alright?” George asked as he watched you place your in-ears into your ears. You nodded and he sighed. “Don’t crash my car, please.”

“I won’t,” you nodded. “See you later.” 

You got up and into the car, sparing not a glance to the other side of the garage. But Kimi glanced. Kimi more than glanced. He’d been enchanted by you all day, considering he hadn’t seen you in months. Your hair was a little bit longer. Your face looked a little bit more… taut. You had this sullen look in your eyes that never seemed to go away. The face of a woman who was beaten down by a sport that hated her. He cringed when he noticed his father staring at him, staring at you. Long gone were the cheeky smiles and soft eyes. You barely smiled on the top of the podium anymore. 

“Ricordati. Non è una brava persona,” Remember. She isn’t good for you. he whispered, gripping the back of Kimi’s neck gently. He nodded to his father, but he knew it was a lie. You were the best thing that had ever happened to him. Those glances and touches in a crowded room, those day-long dates where he got to know everything about you, those nights spent laughing at random stupid videos, the way you kissed him and smiled against his lips after a big win, those moments before races where you reminded him that you loved him, but you’d race him like you hated him, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. He missed it, missed you. Missed everything. 

George didn’t try to strike up anymore conversation, he knew it wasn’t worth it. Basically anyone in Mercedes was dead to you, except Doriane, and even then, you barely spoke a few words to her at a time. Sometimes, it hurt. Sometimes that little hole in your chest wept when you were reminded that despite being the better driver, you still weren’t chosen. And it wasn’t even your fault. Kimi, despite being p6 in the F2 standings, was the safer bet because he was a man. He wouldn’t get the backlash. He wouldn’t get the hatred. You would. 

You were sick of it. Sick of racing, of Mercedes, of life, at that point. You raced to win, not to race. There was no passion behind your eyes beneath that helmet, just calculated moves and skill. There was no deviating from the lines you’d created in your head, just pure instinct, driving circuits you’d never driven before with perfect accuracy. It impressed everyone. You impressed everyone. People were scared of you on and off the track. People knew that you would be the first modern female F1 driver with a seat on the grid. Some people wanted you to fail. Others wanted you to succeed. 

FP1 was well underway, and you were on top of the leaderboard. Kimi came up behind you, and you cut him off. It was calculated, methodical, and completely unnecessary, but still, you continued. Again, he tried to get ahead of you, only burning up his tires behind you. Again, you stopped him. You had one chance to show every F1 team in the paddock that not only could you drive like hell, you could fight like hell too. Again, he lunged. Again you covered it. 

“Let Kimi pass please.”

“Nope,” you shot back. 

“Y/n, this is really not worth fighting for. Let Kimi pass please.”

“He should try and fight for it, fuck’s sake he’s never fought for anything in his life,” you scoffed, listening to the team orders and letting him pass. 

Top of the time sheets in practice. Skilled racecraft against Kimi. 

“What were you thinking?!” Toto demanded over the phone. You could tell he was pacing. “Everyone is going to be talking about you two now.” 

“Good,” you shrugged. “I don’t really care, Toto, and I have qualifying soon, sorry.” 

You hung up the phone without another thought. It wasn’t your problem, it was his. It was his fault. He could kick you off the Mercedes program, and you’d just join another. You knew, even if you won F2 this year, you weren’t going into F1, much less with Mercedes. 

“Y/n!” 

Every muscle stiffened at his voice. That simple, Italian accent. That tan skin, those deep brown eyes, that unruly hair. Inescapable. Unforgettable. 

And sadly, annoying persistent. 

“Hey,” he rushed up to your side as you pulled off your suit, walking into your room. He didn’t stop at the door. “How are you?” 

“Fine,” you grumbled out, pulling your firearms over your head. He swallowed, his mouth filling with saliva. He didn’t want it to go like this, but he understood your position. The seat should’ve been yours, not that he was bad, both of you knew he was great, soon to be one of the greats, but so were you. He’d known it from the moment he saw you on that karting track all those years ago. The way your passion seeped into every corner, how every victory meant the same as the first, how you looked at the track- like it was calling for you. It had made him laugh before, but it reminded him of what he should have. That passion he shouldn’t ever forget. He didn’t see it out on track today. Your moves were clinical. Your corners were precise, quick, not your own. You followed the racing line to a T, forgetting the way you used to complain about the ‘racing line’ and how it held you back. Kimi gulped again. 

“You were quick out there,” he nodded, trying to find something else to look at, other than you. It proved pretty difficult, considering his eyes usually landed on you in any room, whether he wanted them to or not.

“That’s the aim of the sport,” you answered in that sarcastic, clinical voice he’d heard so many times, only it had never been towards him. It was always for the people who pissed you off, or said dumb shit like ‘tough luck’ after a race. “Do you need something?” 

Kimi hadn’t realised he’d been staring with his mouth open until your hand reached up and closed it. The touch was familiar, too familiar. You shook it off. Kimi didn’t. “I wanted to see you,” he blurted out. “You’re not responding to my texts and you’re not in the paddock when I am-”

You shrugged, rushing around your room ‘cleaning’ it. You needed something to do with your hands so you didn’t look at him. “We race different series now, schedules don’t align,” you answered like it didn’t tear him apart. “It’s not uncommon.”

“I want to see you though,” he scratched the back of his neck. “I still-”

“Shut up Kimi, you don’t know what you’re saying,” you scoffed. “Now please get out, I have to get ready for quali.” 

“I miss you,” he grabbed your arm and your skin burnt beneath his touch. You froze as he spoke, what else were you meant to do? “And I’m sorry, I know it’s not what you want but I love you.” 

You pulled your arm out of his gasp, walked over to the door, and opened it. “Go.” 

“We need to talk about this-” he begged, but you weren’t interested. You couldn’t have a relationship with someone you were so jealous of, it’d tear you apart. He stepped closer to you. You rolled your eyes, emotion building in your throat. 

You pointed a finger against his chest, eyes brimming with tears. “You have so many people who support you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “You don’t need me too. You don’t need someone else to remind you of how brilliant you are. You don’t love me. Please leave Kimi.” 

He froze to the spot. He hated seeing you like this, eyes wide and tears falling. He hated not being able to do anything about it, because he was the reason. He knew you felt bad about your actions, he could see it in the way you didn’t totally shy away from him every time he saw you. Those small glances you sent his way gave him hope, hope that soon enough, he could get you back in his arms. He didn’t usually take offence to your outbursts, especially not in recent weeks, but denying that he was in love with you was a step too far. Anyone with eyes could see the way he bled and died for you, loved you whole-heartedly, and gave you his all. He huffed out a sigh, one of defeat. His shoulders dropped as he walked out of the room, without another word. 

You hated this. You hated feeling defeated. You hated being second. You hated Andrea Kimi Antonelli. 

That wouldn't change.

navigation for my blog :)

mercedes & williams masterlist

[meanderingwistera]

The Empress

Summary - You have prepared for years to take over your Father’s kingdom. You have studied everything from politics to mathematics to philosophy for your future role as Queen.

But when a proposal too good to pass up crosses your Father’s desk your wishes are pushed aside. You are sent off to marry a King from a larger neighbouring kingdom, despite your protests.

Now you have to navigate a new land, people and a Husband who keeps his secrets far from your reach.

Pairing - King!Satoru Gojo x Queen!Reader

Content - Angst, a tiny bit of fluff if you squint, afab!reader, arranged marriage, court politics, historical setting, depressive symptoms, mentions of death, Gojo is down bad, reader is oblivious to Gojo’s feelings, it’s just a hot mess tbh

Word Count - 4.9k

A/N - your dad sucks, sorry about that

Chapter 1 - Marriage

“You are to be married in a month.”

The heavy history book falls from your hand onto the stone floor.

It is the only sound in the quiet sanctuary of the library. The sound echoes back from the shelves as you process the words just spoken to you. Staring at the cover of the book on the floor you try to grasp what was just said to you.

“Did-“ You suck in a deep shuddering breath, “-the King approve this?”

The servant looks at you with something akin to pity in his eyes. It swirls in the edges of his face and you hate it. 

You don’t want this man’s pity. 

You want this to be a mistake.

“Yes, your Highness.” His voice is soft and apologetic.

With a wave of your hand you send him away so you can properly break down. Only when you hear his footsteps receding, do you pick up the book you were wanting to read. Holding back tears you walk back through the book shelves.

You had been raised with intention, you were raised to inherit your Father’s kingdom.

It had been an almost unspoken promise. You were the first born and already did everything a Crown Prince would. You have studied history, military tactics, politics for years hoping for the day that your father would name you heir.

He was supposed to name you heir.

But now you are getting married to a man you don’t know and don’t want to know. All of your dreams shattered on the floor next to the dropped history book. You feel the tears prick your eyes. Grief for a future you will never get bubbles in your chest hot and thick like tar.

Sitting on a plush chair in between two bookshelves. You had always felt safe here even as a child. Your mother had always read here and after her death you had taken up her habit to cope. Now you wouldn’t have access to this place anymore.

Hot tears pour down your cheeks as you look out the small window to the courtyard. The beautiful wisteria garden that covers the whole left side of the castle looks so beautiful over here. Now it seems to not look as beautiful as before. 

The edges of your vision twinge with grey at the thought of your impending wedding.

In the carriage, that feels more like a jail cell, you gaze out the window. It is a day before you walk to your new lifelong shackle. Your future husband will keep you here for the rest of your life.

The rain is most fitting, you think, for this. As the people rejoice at your upcoming wedding you hope that lightening hits your future husband multiple times so he is dead by the time you get there. That would be a thing to rejoice about.

“You are very quiet, My Lady.” Pierre, your personal guard, says. He looks sad as he watches your gloomy expression. 

“I have nothing to say.” You say with a bite you didn’t mean. But don’t see any resentment for your remark, only sorrow, which you think is worse. 

The both of you know that this is the last time you will see each other. Once you enter the palace you will be the future Queen of another kingdom and no longer tied to your homeland. So he cannot come with you. The man who has watched over you since you were five now has to watch you leave your home in rage and despair.

Far too soon the carriage comes to a stop. You breathe in deeply as the end is near.

This may not be your death but it is an end of some kind

A knock is heard at the door. Pierre opens the carriage door and you see a guard with the colors of your new home. A quiet conversation goes on between both guards as you are helped out of the carriage. It is raining lightly but you don’t mind it. You let the rain splatter on your hair, face and dress. It is cleansing in a way for you. 

Your bags, which is not much, are taken into the large castle in front of you. The architecture is beautiful, sweeping arches and towers give it character. It is bigger than your home, maybe it will be more isolated that way. 

“My Lady.” A male voice says from just up ahead.

A man walks over to you with a kind smile. His clothes suggest high status and you resist the urge to bow in greeting. Many times you met nobles with almost the same rank with respect but as the future Queen you bow to no one but the King. His long black hair is tied up in a bun at the nape of his neck. 

“Hello.” You greet him as he bows at the waist.

“I am Duke Suguru Geto, I have been ordered by the King to show you around the grounds before the wedding.” He explains with an analysing glance.

You can tell that this man is trying to decide if you are a threat or not. Whether he was sent here or not, he is checking you out first before the King. But you know this all too well from your previous dealings with nobles. They send someone of lesser status out first to test the person on how they react.

But if you are right, the King should be watching you as well. Looking up into the many windows you see a figure of a man staring down at you. He moves when you look but you see him nonetheless.

“Lead the way.” You say after returning your eyes to Geto. He just smiles pleasantly and ushers you into the castle.

Because of the sprinkle that soon turns into a downpour, Geto just shows you the inside of the castle, which is beautiful but so different then your old home. This place feels hollow, the blue and white scheme gives it a cold feel. It feels devoid of any warmth and love until your home.

You miss the vibrant gold colors of your homeland. 

Once the tour is over he leads you to the set of rooms intended to be yours. They are even barer than the rest of the castle. No tapestries or decorations of any kind.

“We wanted to let you choose how you want the Queen’s hall to look like.” Geto says to you, sensing your discontent with the blank sheet in front of you. 

“Thank you.” You utter, it is quiet and you don’t even know if you mean it.

The sound of heels clicking against marble floors gets your attention. A girl of about 18 walks over to Geto and bows to you.

“This is Riko Amanai, a personal maid for you. Once you are married you will have free reign to choose your own staff but for now she will be helping you.” Geto explains to you, the same analysing gaze in his eyes as you nod.

“Nice to meet you, Your Majesty!” She chirps cheerfully as she stands up.

You give her a small smile, “Nice to meet you as well and thank you.”

She blinks at you, confused, “There is no need to thank me! I am happy to serve you!”

“Can you show me to my room?” You say, relenting. 

She smiles and leads you to the room given to you. You both leave Geto behind but you don’t feel too bad since you have seen ever other part of this place except for where you sleep. It has been a long day and you want to relax in the comfort of your own room.

The room is fully furnished and the colors that fill it are gold and green. It reminds you of home. The room is bigger than yours at home, you could fit at least two lengths of your previous room in here and still have room. A grand fire place is on the far wall and a set of chairs and a couch surround it. 

“Is it to your liking?” Riko asks you at the door as you explore the room.

“Yes.” You say, trying to tamp down the anger rising in your gut.

It isn’t the room and she doesn’t deserve your anger. None of the staff deserve your rage at your situation so you keep your biting remarks to yourself. Your anger you will reserve for your future husband.

The day of the wedding you are woken up at 5 am to begin to get ready. You think it is ridiculous as the numerous maids fuss and fawn over you for hours. They rub lavender and rose scented oils into your skin and hair. Each of them have big smiles on their faces as they congratulate you on your wedding. But your blank expression doesn’t escape their eyes so they change their tune, telling that at least your husband will be kind to you and is handsome. 

Multiple times you send them outside so you can cry in peace. When they come back each time they don’t acknowledge your tear stained face, only give you looks of concern.

Riko is surprisingly helpful despite her young age. She commands the maids with authority and lets you have a break when you need it. You thank her multiple times for it. That seems to make her uncomfortable but you do it anyway. If you are forced to stay here for the rest of your life then you might as well have a few good people next to you.

They help you into the wedding dress, which is too much for you. It has too much fabric, four maids have to hold the train. The shape and style is beautiful but you know that if people weren’t helping you you would have been lost in trying to get it on. You feel like a child in her mother’s clothes.

When they are done you stare at your reflection in the mirror. You look like a completely different person. They have done their job well, the makeup brings out your best features and in any other situation you would marvel at it. Your hair is styled up and away from your face in an intricate style.

But the make up, hair and dress don’t hide the dread in your eyes or the deep set frown on your lips.

Walking down the long cathedral is the hardest thing you have ever done. People line the path with bright smiles. If you could you would have run back up the aisle, you would have kept running until you could breathe again.

You try to calm yourself down as you near the altar you spot your family. They have neutral expressions on their faces. For a moment you lock eyes with your Father. His eyes are cold and distant as he stares back at you. You beg him to stop this with your eyes. He could call this off and take you home. But he looks on like he never saw your expression.

All the sadness thick in your chest turns into molten rage. How dare he sell you off to a man you don’t know for a few trade routes and some coal. You can’t stand to look at him, after years of looking up to him and his silent promises to let you rule he has finally shown his true colors.

When your eyes look ahead again you are at the altar.

Your future husband stands with his hands clasped in front of him. He looks almost nervous as he watches you ascend the stairs. Even when you are at the altar you still have to look up at him. He is as handsome as the maids said. 

You have only truly met Satoru Gojo once. 

It had been at a ball years before he became King. You were only sixteen at the time. He, of course, had attracted attention with his looks and the young daughters of the nobles all vied for his attention. No matter where he went a trail of young ladies followed him. You had thought that it was hilarious to watch him try to get away from them.

Later you wanted some air and went out on one of the balconies. You saw him out there, leaning against the balcony, the moon shone on his white hair as he looked out. He looked beautiful then, not having to play the act of the flippant Crown Prince. Noticing you he turns around quickly. You watch as the mask that just a moment ago was gone returns in full force.

“Oh! I didn’t know anyone would be out here.” You said, trying to let him know that you didn’t follow him out there.

“It is alright My Lady. I am just taking a break from the festivities.” He said as you approached him. Gojo watched you carefully as you leaned on the railing and looked out.

“I am doing the same,” You admitted turning to look at him, “And don’t worry, I am not going to beg you for a dance.”

Gojo basically slumped over in relief and you giggled at him. He resumed his position a second later, leaned on the rail next to you. But this time he was staring at you. 

“Has anyone told you that it is rude to stare?” You teased him and he blinked in surprise.

“Actually, no one has before.” He admitted sheepishly.

“Well I am honoured to be the first Prince Gojo.” You said with a smile. 

You both had talked for a while about everything and nothing. Eventually you had to go but you promised him that you would help him avoid the women at the next ball. He had laughed and said that he would take you up on the offer.

Now years later you don’t know him now, well you never really knew him before. You can only just hope that he will be kind to you.

After the vows are said the festivities start. A big party is thrown to celebrate your wedding. Because both of your kingdoms are bigger than most, the ballroom is crowded with all types of people. You don’t really participate, sitting in your throne next to Gojo’s. Not many approach you, too scared off by your cold expression. It feels so isolating to see everyone laugh and talk amongst themselves as you stare from the dias. 

Gojo tries to make conversation with you a few times but each time it is cut off swiftly. You give him short, blunt answers to each question. He looks confused at your mood and that makes you even more angry than before. Of course he doesn’t understand how you feel, he has a choice in this, you didn’t. He eventually gives up and goes to mingle with the others.

At one point during the party your father walks up to the dais. It is bold for how he has treated you for the past month since he sold you. You glare down at him coldly as he bows to you. 

“My beloved daughter, how happy I am to see you on this blessed day.” He says as he stands back up.

“I am happy that you find today joyful.” You return, practically spitting out the word joyful.

He doesn’t even flinch or show any other emotion, just pure apathy. 

“Now, please remember your new status daughter. It is not one easily won.” He states the threat plain in his voice.

‘I got you this position. Don’t mess this up for me.’

“I hope you enjoy the rest of your night.” You dismiss him. There is a flicker of rage in his eyes as you dismiss him. He turns on his heel and storms away.

Halfway through the night your maids get you and get you ready for your wedding night. You feel so tired as they attend to you. The day has drained you. You just want to sleep and not think about what will happen next. You have heard about wedding nights and how hard they are. But you know that you won’t be able to avoid this.

They put you in a short blue dress and a long white robe. You wrap the robe around yourself, trying to find some semblance of warmth in the large unfamiliar room. Sitting on the bed you dismiss the maids. They look at one another with looks of pity for you. 

Over the course of the day they have grasped the situation and try to make this as easy for you emotionally as possible. You can’t thank them enough for all of their help and companionship. Back home you had preferred to do everything yourself, it was easier that way and you liked it that way. But maybe their help would not be so bad here.

The door creaks open slowly as Gojo slips into the room. His legs are a bit wobbly as he enters, most likely from the wine. Carefully he shuts the door behind him as stares at you. His blue eyes trace your face gently, almost reverently. 

“Let’s get this over with.” You say and shift so you are sitting on the bed. 

Gojo blinks at you in confusion, “What?”

You close your eyes with a sigh.

“The consummation. I am tired and want to sleep.” You say, letting the unspoken emotions slip into your voice.

“If you are tired we don’t have-“ He starts but you cut him off.

“No, you paid for this so let’s just do this so I can sleep. Unless you want me to beg for it.” You say, irritated that he wants to drag this out.

“Paid for? I didn’t pay for you.” He says with a furrow to his brows.

“The trade routes on the border between our countries, the coal and iron you gave us were the bride price or do you not remember what deal you made?” You explain to him as if you were explaining it to a child.

“I made a deal with your Father for your hand but I didn’t buy you.” Gojo says and walks closer to the bed.

“Oh really? If you didn’t buy me then why didn’t I have a say in this?” You ask him and he flinches hard.

All of the anger and frustration you had built up over the past month comes bubbling to the surface. 

“Do you know how hard it is to be told that you are going to be married to someone you hardly know? To have your whole plan for your life thrown out because your father found a man’s offer better than your own opinion?”

Tears stream down your face as you let him have all the pent up emotions you have felt for a month now.

Gojo just stares blankly at you as you rage and that only enrages you more. 

“Maybe you should take other people’s opinions into the matter instead of just yours!”

Gojo watches as you cry on the bed. He looks almost lost, like he doesn’t know where to begin with you. But you see genuine remorse and sorrow in his eyes. That hurts more than what he has done. It makes your empathy kick in and makes you want to apologise for your outburst. 

“I- I will go.” He says and rushes out of the room leaving you alone with your guilt and despair.

Satoru Gojo walks through the walls of his castle quickly. He doesn’t know where he is going but he is outrunning his suffocating guilt. The look on your face will haunt him for the rest of his days. He never wanted to do that to you. 

When he first became king he had wanted to improve the relations his country had with others. His father had been a conqueror. He had pushed the borders and boundaries of other countries and even overthrown a few. So Satoru’s goal was to attend to his people instead of trying to push outside of his borders 

And after a year he wanted to have a partner to help him with his goal. His mind kept drifting back to you and that night all those years ago. He does go back to that night a lot but even more so around that time. The way you treated him as a person and not a sparkly prop for someone’s day dream, the way you handled your subjects have always caught his eye. If he could envision anyone by his side it would be you. 

It had taken him a couple days to gather the courage to write to your Father. A response came within the week and they began talking about the bride price. Gojo had asked in his letter if you had been okay with this but your father had assured him that you were okay with it.

So when you had told him that he bought you it felt like his world was crashing down. He now sees why you were the way you were all night. He had chalked it up to you being nervous and tired but he should have known better.

Gojo opens the door to his office and walks into the dark room. Walking up to the desk he just decides to sleep here tonight so that he doesn’t bother you. He turns on the lamp with a sigh and stares at the paperwork he had put off since it was his wedding day.

“What are you doing in here?” Suguru says from the doorway, leaning in the doorway. His jacket is slightly askew and Satoru can see the wine induced flush to his cheeks. 

“She didn’t agree to the marriage.” Satoru says plainly, taking his head into his hands.

“What?” Suguru says, disbelief in his voice.

“I have trapped her into this marriage and she is miserable here.” He says. 

They sit there in silence for a while. 

“I will make sure that she doesn’t see me.” Satoru says, lifting his head up to look Suguru in the eyes. “Make sure she has anything she needs- no matter how expensive.”

The morning after no one comes to wake you up at eight so you sleep in. You curl around a pillow in the too large bed and think about last night. At first you were angry, now you feel depressed. You feel like Atlas holding the sky, you can’t get out of this bed.

Around noon a knock comes at the door. You don’t want to answer but Riko’s voice talks softly to you through the door.

“My Lady? It is almost midday and I wanted to see if you needed anything.” She says but it is muffled through the door.

When you don’t answer she opens the door and walks in. You lift your head to look at her. Riko’s face immediately turns to concern. She walks to you and puts a hand on your cheek, running a thumb under your red eyes. You lean into the touch.

“I need you to eat My Lady. Is there anything in particular you would like?” She asks you, her concerned eyes searching yours for any reason as to why you were like this.

“No.” You say and your voice is hoarse from not being used and not drinking water. She just nods and walks out to get you food. 

About half an hour later she is back with food. You only pick at it for a while, taking a small bite here and there. Riko watches you carefully, trying to gauge whether you just don’t like the dish or if it is something else.

“Is there anything else you would like, My Lady?” She says when she takes your empty plate. 

An idea comes to your mind, “Do you have a library here?”

Her face lights up.

“Yes! We have a huge library.” She says excitedly, “Would you like to go?”

“That would be wonderful Riko.” You say and get out of bed. She helps you into a dress. It feels so restrictive but you bear with it. 

The walk to the library is long but Riko’s idle conversation fills the space between you. She tells you about her life and asks you questions about yours to get you out of your shell. You tell her about the large wisteria garden that your mother helped to cultivate. She nods a bit wide eyed as you tell her how large it is.

When you get to the door Riko opens it to reveal the biggest library you have ever seen. The library back home was large but this one is two stories full of books. Large windows illuminate the space and give it a bigger feel. Riko leads you through the shelves.

You have lived most of your life in the library back home and you still miss it but this is a beautiful place. You will use this place often.

“What books do you like?” She asks as you look around. 

“Almost any. I have read books about any subject that I can get my hands on.” You tell her, some light returning to your face for a moment.

“Amazing!” Riko says with childlike enthusiasm.

The two of you walk over to the section that has history books in it.

“Well, since I live here I should know your history.” You say and reach for a history book. You also grab a few more by different authors so you get an unbiased account.

Next you walk to the romance section. A good romance book will balance out the pile of history books you have. You run your hands over the covers, relishing in the textures of the spines. Your eye catches on a smaller book with a light purple spine. There is not the regular gold lettering on the spine so it peaks your interest.

Carefully you pull it out and study the blank purple cover. Usually there is a title or something but it is completely blank. When you open the cover you see two initials on the inside left side. 

H.G.

The handwriting is elegant and loopy. You run your hand over it, trying to decipher the letters. Shutting the book you put it on the pile that you have in your arms. 

“Do you need me to hold those, My Lady?” Riko says, a bit frantic.

“I got them!” You reassure her and put a romance novel on the pile.

It looks interesting, a knight falling in love with a princess after escorting her to her betrothed. You have always been a sucker for a good love story.

Over the next week you settle in. It is easier than you had imagined. You had imagined that you would be too depressed and angry to do anything but that isn’t true.

In this last week you have studying the history and the geography of your new country. Even if you don’t want to be here you don’t want to take it out on the people. You want to do a good job in your new role.

Riko is a big help. She helps you decorate the Queen’s chambers and the hall. You both decided on bright greens and silvers for the color scheme. It makes you feel at home and Riko seems to adore the color silver so you slip some in to make her happy. 

The head maid had asked if you wanted another personal maid but you had turned her down. You were far too attached to her to have someone else take her place.

One problem is that not once this week have you seen Gojo. You want to apologise for your outburst but you haven’t heard a whisper of the man all week. It would be impressive if it wasn’t infuriating. You don’t want to ask after him in case he doesn’t want to see you.

But as the first ball of the season approaches you can’t sit idly by. 

When a Queen is not approved of by a King, rumours spread like wildfire. The people will try to discredit anything you do and for you to rule successfully you need to be able to do your job. So you need to make a truce with your Husband so that this can work.

You walk down the halls of the west wing of the castle with Riko behind you. She looks nervous as you approach Gojo’s office. You give her a reassuring smile which doesn’t really work because she still fiddles with her sleeves. Knocking on the door you breathe deeply. 

“Come in!” A voice says from inside the room and you open the door.

Gojo looks startled behind his desk as you breeze into the room, the image of composed. He blinks in surprise as you approach his desk. You almost want to laugh at his dumbfounded expression but hold in your laughter.

“Husband.” You say in greeting.

If you looked closer you would have noticed the hitch in his breath as you called out to him. 

“Wife.” Gojo responds to you, looking you over.

A tense air falls over the room as the two of you stare at one another. The other people in the room seem to find the floors very interesting at the moment and you don’t blame them. Taking a deep breath you speak,

“I would like to speak to you alone.”

Gojo looks like he would be more comfortable if you set him on fire. 

He looks so wildly uncomfortable that you feel maybe you should just leave but he dismisses the other people in the room. You hear at least two sighs of relief as they exit, leaving you two alone for the first time since your wedding night.

“What would you-“ He clears his throat nervously, “-like to talk to me about?”

“The first ball of the season is coming up. I need us to put aside our differences and act like we are at least on good terms.” You explain to him, not bothering with small talk. “Your approval will be necessary for me to do my job as Queen.”

He contemplates this for a moment before nodding, “I can do that.”

“Good!” You say, happy to get that off of your mind. “I will see you in two days then.”

Gojo nods and you lose the motivation to say anything else. His quietness has all the words you wish to say die on your tongue.

“I will leave you then.” You say goodbye and walk out of the room. 

Shutting the door behind you you sigh in relief. Riko is waiting for you outside and rushes over after you begin to walk from the door. She gently asks questions about your conversation, trying to understand the situation but you keep it under wraps. 

As much as you trust and enjoy her company, you can risk putting your situation in jeopardy.

Tag list - @tenaciousavenueavenue @hyori2 @joyfulweaselbananapanda

[nightblackowlbat]

Soulmate AU Dead on MAYn 25 day 1

Trope: Ghost culture is weird

Word: Bones

Scenario: Jason meets Dany as a ghost

Dialogue: “Wait, you can see me?”

Ever since Danny’s soulmate words came in, his parents’ attitude towards ghosts had done a 180. After all, what else but a ghost would say something like “wait, you can see me?” as an introduction? And if their perfect boy’s soulmate was a ghost, then ghosts couldn’t be all that bad. Jack and Maddie were soulmates after all, and they would never dream of trying to keep their son from his fated other half. (Maddie had the question “did you just build a spirit box out of a crockpot?” along her inner arm and Jack had “Obviously!” Stamped on his forehead.)

All that’s to say that the Fentons were no longer obsessed with catching any old ghost to study. No, instead they were obsessed with catching Danny’s soulmate to add them to the family. It made things pretty awkward when the portal opened up and the Fentons chased down every ghost to introduce their son, only to find Danny gone at the last minute and Phantom appearing to chase the other ghost back into the zone.

Danny was just about ready to die again of shame when Jack brought up the possibility that Phantom was his shy yet jealous soulmate, not ready to meet him yet but hating the idea of Danny meeting any other ghost first. Luckily Jazz pointed out that since Danny’s words were “wait you can see me?” It implied that his ghostly soulmate was a much weaker, invisible ghost that would only appear outside of Amity. Danny had never appreciated his big sister so much. He carefully didn’t mention that Phantom could go invisible at will.

Alas, one cannot stop a determined Fenton couple, only redirect them. Which is why they were on this grand family road trip to visit every cemetery and graveyard in America. Or at least, have Danny visit them. Jazz once again came in clutch insisting that nobody needed their whole family hovering around as they met their soulmate and demanded the parents visit colleges with her while Danny explored graves on his own.

Danny didn’t mind really, wandering around graveyards was far from the worst way his parents could have made him spend his summer. Besides, cemeteries were peaceful, beautiful even. And meeting (and teasing) the few ghosts who actually stuck by their graves was nice. Hey, as an obsession based ghost it was his right to poke a little fun at those boring graveyard ghosts who just stuck around their bones.

“Are you seriously haunting your own grave? I’m not sure I can think of anything more cliche and that’s coming from a ghost who goes by Phantom.” Danny tossed out as his usual cheeky introduction.

The ghost whirled around with a look of shock on his face. “Wait, you can see me?”

Danny felt his soul mark burn and his jaw dropped in mirrored shock. “Well I’ll be darned!” He laughed out loud. “I guess this trip wasn’t useless after all. Nice t’meetcha soulmate! I’m Danny.”

The ghost huffed. “Oh a’course I only meet my soulmate once I’m dead. Shouldn’a ‘spected any different given my weird ass words.”

“Uhm, I’m guessing you’re Jason? Or do you have a dead name you’d rather go by?” Danny nervously asked.

“Isn’t that an oxymoron? No one wants to go by their dead name. That’s the whole point.”

“Oh! Ghost culture is weird. Dead name means something different. It’s- a ghost’s dead name is who they want to be in death rather than who they were in life? Hmm. No, that’s not quite it. It’s who they always were, just crystallized and purified from everything that tainted it in life. Like, it’s who you are without life getting in the way.”

“Then. I guess I’m Robin. He can’t take that away from me now that I’m dead, now can he?”

[ponderingmoonlight]

jjk men seeing you in a gorgeous dress for the first time

Pairings: Gojo x fem!reader; Nanami x fem!reader; Sukuna x fem!reader; Geto x fem!reader

Word Count: 3,8k

Warnings: pretty much all fluff except for Sukuna + Geto, Geto and reader are baddies in his part so be aware hehe

Gojo Satoru

“I hope I made myself clear.”

You look at yourself in the mirror, desperately fighting with that resistant zipper that refuses its service. This would be way easier with someone assisting you. After all, you’re not peeling yourself into a skin-tight dress every casual evening. Well, it’s not like you alone in this room. But asking him for help?

Absolutely, utterly and completely impossible.

“Hmm, I might need to hear that again.”

You sign to yourself while finally getting your dress all the way up without pinching your skin. Honestly, you were never the girl to wear dresses, let alone fancy gowns. Since you’re out fighting a majority of the time, pants simply suit your lifestyle way better – it’s not like all those monsters care about your clothes anyway. Well, there is one monster that definitely cares, though.

“First, don’t look at me a second too long or I’ll make sure you’ll never be able to see something with those pretty blue eyes again. Second, if you want one comment about that dress the second I step out, I’ll kill you-“

“C’mon, that’s not fair, I’m way too excited-“

“Silence.”

You can sense his pout from behind the curtain.

“I’m being serious, Gojo. One look, one comment and you’re gone in the wind.”

You force yourself to take a deep breath, taking a last look at yourself in the mirror. Why are you suddenly this nervous? You’re never nervous, especially not around that douchebag. There’s no reason to feel that prickling sensation crawling down your bare neck, right? It’s not like you see this guy every day, it’s not like you are secretly in love with him.

No.

You hate that guy.

You hate Gojo Satoru with all your heart. All of that teasing, all of his sly remarks, that dumb grin plastered onto his face when he knows he hit the right sport to annoy the hell out of you.

You couldn’t care less about his opinion, if he thinks that dress suits you, if he finds your curves appealing, if he likes what you did to your hair. None of that matters.

Right?

You step out from behind the curtain with the weight of your threat still lingering in the air before you can act like a pathetic teenage girl a second longer. Each click of your heel against the polished floor echoes like a countdown, and you don’t look at him, don’t dare to. You won’t. Not yet.

The room goes quiet - or at least it feels like it does get even more silent than it was before. You know he’s looking at you. You can feel it before you even lift your eyes, that gaze of his is like sunlight, so warm, bright, annoyingly impossible to ignore.

You brace yourself, fully expecting some smug, drawn-out whistle or a dumb nickname like “angel cake” or whatever unhinged thing he’s cooking up today.

But it doesn’t come.

No joke. No teasing.

Just silence.

Your eyes snap to him before you can stop yourself. And there he is, standing stock-still, for once not lounging or leaning or talking. Just… looking.

His lips are slightly parted like he might say something, but nothing comes out. The usual so cocky glow of his eyes is softer now - not dimmer, just quieter. Focused.

On you.

You almost miss the way his fingers flex at his sides, like he has to physically restrain himself from reaching out.

You hate him. You hate how that makes your chest tighten. You hate how just one glance into his oh so honestly amazed gaze makes your knees go weak.

“Well?” you snap, arms crossed, trying to summon your usual venom.

“Cat got your tongue?”

His expression twitches into the beginnings of a smile. Not a cocky one, at least not yet. It’s the kind of smile that only reaches the corners of his mouth, something more dangerous, realer than everything you’ve seen from him before.

“I was trying to respect your very generous warning. But it’s getting real hard.”

You narrow your eyes.

“One word, Gojo. One, and I swear I’ll walk into that event alone.”

“Then I’ll shut up,” he replies quickly, hands raised in surrender, but his eyes betray him.

It’s always in his eyes that are already speaking volumes. Hungry. Worshipful. Slightly amazed. Because of…you, because of you in that dress?

You step closer, fully intending to brush past him and leave, but he moves first. Not blocking you, but somehow forcing you to stop mid-track. Close enough that the air shifts, warm and electric. Fuck, what on earth is going on?

“You look…” he starts, then stops himself.

You catch the way his jaw tenses, how he swallows.

“Stupid? Like a pathetic clown?”

“You look like trouble. The kind I’d lose everything for.”

Your heart stutters. God, you hate him. You hate how this man makes you feel, how you can literally feel your own heart slipping away from you by those oh so sweet words.

“You’re an idiot,” you mutter, brushing past him, and you don’t miss the way his hand almost rises to touch your back.

Almost, but not quite.

As you walk away, you hear him exhale a breath like he’s been holding it since you walked out.

“Totally worth dying for,” he whispers, just quiet enough you’re almost not supposed to hear it.

Almost.

Nanami Kento

You’re still not sure how you ended up here. Since the day you’ve joined Jujutsu High, there was never something like this. Never a fancy occasion to dress up for, never more than a little chit chat with the higher ups. No, the life here was pretty chill.

Was.

“To be honest, I really don’t know how to feel about this.”

“You? I’m spending all day in a blood-soaked coat while slicing through stuff. I’m really not that into playing real-life dress up Barbie for some old farts,” Shoko replies dryly while tying her hair into a simple knot.

“Touché. But hey, do you…do you think he’ll be there as well?”

He, Kento Nanami, to be exact. It’s not a secret to anyone that he caught your eye. To be honest, it’s hard to miss him. Him with those gorgeous blonde hair, him with cheekbones sharp as knives, him with that oh so dark and tempting voice. The prospect of seeing him somewhere apart from the battlefield? More than tempting. If you’d only manage to look decent.

“You mean Nanami? If he gets paid for it, sure. Hey, what’s that look on your face, (y/n)? Don’t tell me you’re thinking you’re not good enough again.”

You can’t help but bite your cheek. Damn Shoko and her sixth sense.

“I gave up hope that he’ll love me back someday a long time ago,” you lie shamelessly.

“But still…I don’t know if this fits me right.”

Your eyes dart over your body, the sleek fabric of the dress Shoko chose for you. This isn’t something you’d normally wear. To be exact, you only wear your uniform skirt and a summer dress from time to time. Something this extravagant? Not in your wardrobe, not in your budget, not in this lifetime.

“You’re kidding, right? You look like a literal angel, (y/n). I’m sure half of that idiots won’t even recognize you.”

Heat rushes up your cheeks immediately while you start fumbling with your fingers. You hate being the centre of attention, hate the feeling of eyes scanning you up and down.

Before you can react any further, Shoko starts rubbing your shoulder gently.

“Stop being so hard on yourself, okay? We need to get going or else we’ll be there after Gojo and I can’t accept that shame.”

You chuckle to yourself and allow your friend to lead you through the empty pathways of Jujutsu High. Oh, she’s definitely right.

The venue is lit like something out of an old, expensive movie: warm chandeliers, polished floors, and way too many people trying to look important while sipping champagne like it’s not just fermented grape juice. Is this really the Jujutsu High you’ve spent most of your life in? Impossible, unbelievable.

You shift uncomfortably in your heels as you step into the main hall, your arm looped through Shoko’s for stability, both emotional and literal.

“See?” she mutters under her breath.

“We beat Gojo. Small miracles do happen.”

You barely hear her. Your eyes are too busy scanning the crowd.

Looking for him. Looking for none other than Nanami Kento.

There is no way he came too late. No, a man like him never forgets the time, would never dare to be 15 minutes too late.

And then, there he is.

Nanami Kento. Standing near a window, dressed in a classic black suit with a gold tie that somehow makes his entire presence look even more expensive. He holds a glass in his hand, untouched, fingers wrapped around it in a way that makes something inside you stir. His hair is slicked back neatly, and his posture is, of course, immaculate, his shoulders straight, head slightly turned as if he’s only half-paying attention to whoever is speaking to him.

God, he looks unfair. And out of reach for a basic woman like you.

You feel yourself shrinking automatically. Maybe this dress is too much. Maybe you look like you’re trying too hard. You should’ve just stayed quiet and wore the boring skirt, you shouldn’t have allowed Shoko to make your hair like that. What if he-

“Go.” Shoko nudges your side.

You blink. Twice, maybe way too many times.

“What?”

“He saw you. Don’t pretend he didn’t.”

Her voice lowers, amused.

“He looked like someone just sucker-punched him with a love spell.”

Your stomach flips. You glance back toward him - and you catch it.

The second your gaze meets his, he’s already staring. None other’s than Nanami’s eyes are fixed on you. Not wandering, not casually observing. Focused. Stunned, even.

Your breath hitches.

You half expect him to look away and resume his conversation, but he doesn’t. In fact, he murmurs something to the person next to him and steps away, glass abandoned on a table. And then he walks toward you. Is he…really moving your way? Not to talk to Shoko, not to scold Gojo who just arrived? No, his eyes still rest unmistakably on you.

You freeze.

This is a mistake. You should’ve worn something less tight. Should’ve pulled your hair back. Should’ve-

“Good evening,” he greets, stopping in front of you.

His voice is quieter than usual, almost... cautious. You nod, fighting the urge to look at the floor.

“Evening.”

There’s a pause. A long one, to be exact. You can practically feel Shoko smirking beside you before she melts into the crowd with a muttered, “Don’t blow it.”

Nanami’s eyes trail down your figure. Not in a way that makes you feel picked apart, but in a way that feels... sincere. Measured. Gentle.

“You look,” he comments, and there’s the smallest catch in his throat.

“...Stunning.”

You blink. He sounds almost unsure that he’s allowed to say it.

“I hope that’s not inappropriate.”

Your heart leaps into your throat. Did he really just say that. Did he really just call you stunning? Him, that force of a man who turns women’s heads on a daily basis, the sorcerer who stole your heart?

“No, it’s not” you manage, barely above a whisper.

Another pause. Did you act too awkward? Why are you not able to just talk to that man? You’re always acting like a stupid little girl around him, no logical sentence leaving your mouth when his eyes rest on yours. Maybe he thinks you’re dumb, maybe he just came here out of sorrow-

“I wasn’t planning on staying long,” he utters quietly, “but now I think I might.”

You look up at him then. Really look. And maybe it’s just the lighting, maybe it’s your imagination, but there’s something in his gaze that feels soft. Curious. Maybe even nervous. No, this man doesn’t think you’re stupid at all.

“Would you walk with me?”

You nod before your fear can stop you.

“I’ve never seen that color on you before. It suits you. Brings out… more than I should say in public.”

You blink, unable to truly process what the just said.

“More?”

There’s a slight shift in his expression, a subtle softening at the eyes, a twitch of something resembling a smile at the corner of his lips.

“It brings out your strength. Your grace. Things you probably don’t see when you’re covered in dust and blood.”

He pauses, and then adds, with something dangerously close to warmth in his voice:

“You look like something people should kneel for.”

Sukuna

“Get it going or else I’ll change my mind and kill you right on the spot.”

You roll your eyes out of instinct. What’s even worse than being held hostage by the king of curses? Right, getting forced to accompany him to some strange event. All those curses roaming around you while you’re nothing but a simple grade 1 sorcerer. Are you even able to survive this?

Certainly not in that dress. Of course, he had to choose something for you, something you can barely breathe in, covered in glitter with a neckline so low that everything might fall out if you bend one inch.

You’d never wear something like this out in public, not to any event, to be exact. Good for you than no one knows you anyway.

Apart from the curses you tried to kill, maybe.

“That’s enough.”

The sipper isn’t even halfway up when he barges into the room like he owns this place.

“Who the hell allowed you to get in here?”, you shriek, desperately hiding your exposed chest behind your palms.

“Invited? I own this place, stupid human. I don’t need your permission to enter.”

His eyes scan you up and down, seem to devour you whole with each passing second.

You grit your teeth, the zipper still caught halfway up your back. Your palms stay pressed to your chest, heat crawling up your neck as you glare at him. What the hell does he keep staring at you like this?

“Turn around, you creep.”

Sukuna doesn’t move. No, not even a single inch.

Instead, he takes another step in, that wolfish grin playing at the corners of his mouth, all fangs and sin.

“I should be insulted,” he muses, voice a lazy purr.

“You think I haven’t seen a body before? You think yours is special enough to fluster me?”

You throw him a venomous glare, but your traitorous heart stumbles in your chest at the way his eyes narrow on you, low and dangerous. Your heart shouldn’t skip a beat when he looks at you like that, your very own eyes shouldn’t wander around his body, take in the sight of that black suits pressed against his tight muscles.

“…That said,” he adds, “you should see your reflection right now.”

You scoff.

“Why? So I can die of shame?”

He huffs a dark chuckle, stepping closer – way too close for comfort - until the heat of him fills the room like smoke.

“No,” he remarks, gaze dropping to the exposed sliver of your chest you’re trying and failing to hide, “so you understand what it does to me.”

You freeze. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. You need to do something, need to shout at him, need to push him away and finally flee this place. But you do nothing. You just stand there and look up at him through thick lashes.

He reaches forward, slow and deliberate - and for a second, you think he’s going to touch you. Instead, his clawed fingers catch the zipper and pull it upward with one swift tug. You shudder at the brief contact of knuckles brushing your spine, of his body heat radiating through your dress so effortlessly.

“Better,” he mutters, though it sounds like he’s talking more to himself than you.

“I won’t have you walking beside me looking like prey.”

He circles you once, hands clasped behind his back now, expression unreadable.

“Though, you clean up better than I expected. Glitter suits you. Shame you’re not mine to keep.”

You spike, oh so eager to keep at least a spark of dignity.

“I was never yours.”

“Oh, I know. But you’re here, in my palace, in my dress, with my mark of protection. Tell me, little sorcerer-”

He leans down, lips inches from your ear, voice low enough to scrape against your bones. You feel like dying and flying at the same time, breath getting knocked out of your lungs as you stare straight into the devil’s eyes.

“-how long do you plan to keep pretending that doesn’t mean something?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Not when he’s this close. Not when your blood is roaring in your ears. Not when you can feel his breath against your skin and all you want to do is both shove him away and lean in. Not when thoughts darker than anything you’ve ever read about start to occupy your mind like parasites.

Sukuna straightens again, clearly satisfied by the way you’re stuck in place.

“Now, keep up. I want the room to see you bleed confidence.”

He pauses in the doorway, casting you one last look over his shoulder.

“And if anyone touches you?”

His voice drops, spiteful and dark.

“I’ll rip their arms off. Slowly.”

Then he’s gone, leaving you with the echo of your heartbeat pounding like war drums and the scent of danger lingering in the air.

Geto Suguru

You still don’t know how you ended up here. Was it the attitude from yesterday or that sundress you wore last week that gave the elders ideas?

Well, it doesn’t matter anymore. Because you’re already on your way to that gala, already have a clear mission in your mind:

Find Geto Suguru.

Seduce Geto Suguru.

Kill Geto Suguru.

There first two tasks? Quite easy for someone in a tight red dress and an eyeliner as sharp as a blade. But actually killing him?

That’s a whole other thing. You never met Suguru since he went berserk before you joined jujutsu high yourself. What you do know though is the chaos he leaves behind whenever he decides it’s time to kill some non-sorcerers again. What will Gojo say when he finds out?

“I’ll let you know when I’m done,” you instruct the unknown driver briefly.

You can’t afford to care about that now. Without wasting another precious minute, you enter the grand hall.

The gala is a haze of velvet, perfume, and polished threats. You glide through it all like smoke - calm, unreadable, untouchable. Just here to get your job done and go.

You catch your reflection in the glass behind the bar as you lean in. The red dress clings to every inch it should, your gaze cool beneath the razor-cut eyeliner. You raise a finger delicately to the bartender.

“Pornstar martini,” you order smoothly.

He nods and turns to prepare it. And then, without even needing to look, you feel him.

It’s like a drop in air pressure. Like the moment before lightning cracks a tree in half. The calm before the storm.

“You don’t seem like someone who needs the liquid courage,” a low voice murmurs beside you.

You turn, slow and cautious. It has to be him. There is literally no doubt in the fact that it is him, the man you’re searching for.

Geto Suguru stands next to you, dark eyes full of quiet mischief and something heavier beneath. His long black hair is half-tied, draping over his shoulder in a way that's annoyingly perfect. He’s dressed sharply, but there's something loose in his posture, like he doesn’t believe anything here could possibly matter. Including you.

Wrong.

You smile - the kind that doesn’t reach your eyes.

“It’s not for courage. It’s for taste.”

Geto leans against the bar, elbow brushing yours.

“Ah. So you have standards.”

You sip, then glance at him over the rim.

“One or two.”

“And I wonder,” he mutters, voice dropping as his gaze trails down your frame, slow enough to be insulting if it weren’t so calculated, “do those standards apply to men with a high kill count and a price on their head?”

You click your tongue thoughtfully, swirling the passionfruit garnish between your fingers.

“Only if they buy the next drink.”

He chuckles, deep and rich, and it thrums through your chest despite yourself.

“So,” he continues, stepping closer, enough that his breath touches the shell of your ear.

“What’s a woman like you doing at a party full of ghosts in suits?”

You tilt your head, letting your perfume brush against him.

“Looking for someone interesting.”

“Have you found him?”

You meet his eyes head-on, unflinching.

“Maybe.”

There’s a beat. The music fades into the background. Everything narrows down to the space between his mouth and yours, to the tension crackling in the air like an old wire about to spark. Oh, he’s definitely handsome with that smile just as charming as it is threatful.

He leans in again, this time lower, voice a whisper meant only for you.

“Tell me, darling… are you here to kill me?”

You don’t flinch. Don’t blink. Just take another slow sip. Of course he knows. A man like him doesn’t attend a grand gala assuming nobody is here to kill him.

“Would it make a difference if I said yes?”

He grins - a wolfish, indulgent thing.

“Only in whether I let you finish your drink.”

You smile, matching his energy, then set the glass down with a soft clink. Maybe you can afford your evening getting just a little more interesting.

“And if I’m not here to kill you?”

Geto’s eyes burn like lit oil. He lifts a hand, fingers grazing just above your waist, not touching, not quite. Hovering, patiently waiting for the right moment.

“Then I’ll take that dress off of you tonight.”

Another pause, your heart skips a beat.

“I hope you’re as skilled with your hands as you are with your words,” you murmur.

He laughs again, softer this time.

“Stay close and find out.”

And just like that, he offers his arm, as if this was a royal ball and not a game of knives beneath silk.

You loop yours through his without hesitation. Because you’ve already made your choice.

Find Geto Suguru. Seduce Geto Suguru. Kill Geto Suguru.

And maybe… let him try to do the same first.

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Pics from the header:

Gojo: https://de.pinterest.com/pin/159596380538985199/

Geto: https://de.pinterest.com/pin/670895675777719763/

Sukuna: https://de.pinterest.com/pin/670895675777719719/

Nanami: https://de.pinterest.com/pin/670895675777719716/

[viperify]

oneshots | ᴀꜱꜱᴀꜱꜱɪɴ!ᴛᴏᴍ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⚔︎ You Promised.

Short Summary: he is ruthless when he kills, doesn’t show an ounce of mercy. Cold and quick with it—if you are lucky. Because for most captured Order members, he likes to drag it out. Not because they are the only remaining resistance against his father. He’s stopped caring about that a long time ago. No. They took something from him. The only person he has ever truly cared about. You.

Warnings: 18+ only! angst, mentions of death, violence, murder. Tom is Voldemort’s son. dub con if you squint? brief rough sex, praise, unprotected piv, creampie

A/N: I think I bent the meaning of assassin a tiny bit. Anyway, this is my participation for week three of @acourtofchaos’ Festival of AUs!

wordcount: 3,1k

You were aware going out to hunt that one rare potion ingredient that night was a mistake. Yes, it was only available during full moon and then only for two to three hours—but you knew for a fact that you wouldn’t be the only one looking for it. And running into Snatchers really wasn’t something you wanted to risk.

But when Harry himself came asking whether you could look for them that night, you knew how urgent it was. The Order was so close to running out of healing potions, and if you denied—

You sighed and agreed.

Later that night, you and three others made your way to the Forbidden Forest, the only place nearby where you could find the rare flowers you were looking for. Not too deep into the forest, you find what you were looking for—blooming in bright purple, surrounded by fireflies.

The forest was eerily quiet at that time, except for the crunch of branches each time you took a step and the occasional screeches of birds nearby. Though, when you heard the distinctive sound of apparition somewhere not too far away, you stilled, froze. You tried to convince the others to leave, as you’d surely have enough for the month to come—yet nobody wanted to listen, there were more—just a few more—just a little further into the forest—

Until you were surrounded by the very people you warned them about before you left.

Outnumbered by at least five.

There was nothing you could do—your wand was taken faster than you could react. And without a wand—you were helpless.

—

Hours later, and you all find yourselves lined up in a basement—knees scraping against the cold, rough ground beneath you. Hands tied behind your back, scratchy cotton material secured over your head, blocking your vision.

This is it. You are going to die today.

Back when rumours spread that most killings are done by one single person, you didn’t believe them. Surely no human could muster up the strength to kill day in, day out.

Right?

Except—

No.

Tom wouldn’t.

Couldn’t have—

However, the longer you are left waiting, the more time you have to think about it all—you haven’t seen him since you left Hogwarts, since the war started. It’s been more than a year, and a lot has happened since. A lot has changed. He might have changed.

Then, your thoughts slip to just Tom.

How people, including yourself, would be afraid to even look at him—Voldemort’s son.

How he’d always be top of the class—except for that one time you were.

And the next time too.

How it would turn into a rivalry, a bitter fight over who would score higher on the next exam.

How most of your nights were spent in the library from that point on.

Tom would be there too. Never leave before you did.

How he would steal glances at you from the other side of the library.

How glances would turn into stares, stares that you noticed, that made your cheeks grow hot, that made you question whether you actually hated him as much as you told yourself you did.

And how that hatred turned into something completely different when you outscored him on a Defence Against the Dark Arts paper. His subject. The one nobody had ever even come close to him. When you smirked at him as soon as you realised, and he had this unreadable expression etched on his face.

How, as soon as that class ended and everyone had left, he pushed you against the cold stone wall of the corridor. Accused you of cheating. Accused you of Merlin knows what.

“I hate you,” he whispered, and then, just a second later—his lips crashed on yours. And it was even better than what you had imagined all these nights in the library—how your lips moved in sync with his, how eager he was to feel more of you, hands slipping under your blouse, leaving goosebumps in their wake. How you leaned into his touch as though this wasn’t the son of the most feared wizard of Great Britain, probably the entire world.

Fuck, you wanted this more than anything else.

And when you broke apart—both of you gasping for air—he would breathe a soft “Merlin, I hate you so much.”

“I hate you too.” You replied, a grin tugging at the corner of your lips.

And you’d kiss again.

How from that point on, you’d study together. You were just trying to help each other—that’s what you told anyone asking. Tom would always tell you how nobody could know.

Students started giving you strange looks. Because how could you possibly spend time with someone who seemed to care about no one and nothing except himself and his studies?

They didn’t know. It was better that way, you told yourself.

How, in free periods, he’d always come to find you. Push you into the nearest classroom, lock the door behind you. Lips on yours before you could even complain. Ripping your blouse open because he was too damn impatient to unbutton it—and you’d scold him for it every single time—and he would just do it again next time.

“There is a simple spell to repair it. There is no spell to spend more time making you feel good, sweetheart.”

And with his lips trailing kisses down your neck, sucking marks into your skin, right at the spot he knew would have your knees grow weak—any rational thought left your brain in an instant.

He’d kiss down the valley between your breasts, fingers slowly making their way underneath the lace of your panties, preparing you for him.

He treated you like you were made of glass—which even surprised you sometimes. The quiet, nerdy boy who’d have witty answers to all questions. Who’d only have to look in the direction of students nearby to silence them, make them leave.

Tom was always careful with you.

Except if you outscored him on an exam. Then, he wasn’t as careful.

You didn’t mind that, though.

It all had to stay a secret, he liked to remind you of it. That nobody could know, not even your best friend, who would pester you with questions if you came back past curfew from one of your “study sessions”. You couldn’t tell her. Nobody. Not even your parents, who didn’t know anything about the wizarding world. You wondered if it was because of that. Judging by the way the corner of his mouth twitched whenever you mentioned your muggle parents, you had your answer.

Your love was forbidden—but so, so delicious.

—

You hear the door to the basement creak open, and what you guess to be five Death Eaters approach you with heavy footsteps.

You don’t know if you are lucky or unlucky when they pass you, instead start on the other side of the line.

Make you witness the death of some of your closest friends.

Their blood-curdling screams and unheard pleas as they are left bleeding to death on the cold, wet stone floor.

Because—whoever does the killings—and you are pretty certain it is only one of them—doesn’t use their wand, but a knife.

Too many killing curses are known to have long-term effects, after all.

But with each victim more—you feel as though they do it with pleasure.

And Merlin, you weren’t ready to die that way.

You don’t have much time left to think about it before a firm hand tugs at the material over your head, tilting your head backwards.

“Last one.” An unfamiliar voice remarks somewhere to the left of you, and not even a second later, you feel the cold, unyielding metal of a knife press against your throat.

You don’t want to give whoever it is the satisfaction of any reaction—but when the sharp blade scrapes against your skin, drawing the first drops of blood—you can’t help the soft, pained whimper escaping your lips.

As if stunned, the hand holding the knife stills, and they let go of your head.

Instead, the material covering your face is cut, and you blink a few times as your eyes adjust to the different lighting—and when they focus, your heart skips a beat.

You are met with a pair of dark brown eyes you would recognize under thousands of others—his.

Tom’s.

“Fucking hell.” He mutters under his breath and doesn’t waste another second thinking. He draws his wand and turns around. Spells fly in all directions, and you duck—the room lighting up in green, red, buzzing with electricity.

Then—silence.

For just a moment.

He takes your hand in his, and the next second you apparate away, finding yourself in a small, cozy place hidden somewhere in the woods. The wound on your skin burns, but he doesn’t let you touch it.

“Let me do this.” He insists, and with just two or three spells muttered, it stops bleeding and the pain fades.

You study him for a moment. It’s really him.

“Tom.” You whisper. Silent, careful.

He finally looks at you. Not like he did back at Hogwarts. He looks different now. Sharper features, older, more mature, with a scar right above his left eyebrow. You want to ask what happened, want to trace it with your finger, want to kiss it.

Kiss him.

His eyes are cloudy now, and he’s lost the spark he used to have whenever it was just you two. And—he has become what he promised you he wouldn’t.

Just like his father.

Maybe they were right, after all.

His grip on your shoulder tightens, and you wince softly as the rough wood bites into your back.

“You told me you wouldn’t take any unnecessary risks. That you would be careful.” He raises his voice, and it almost breaks. “Merlin, you fucking promised me.”

He sounds more disappointed than angry when he says it.

He’s right. You did promise him. Right before the war, you promised each other two things. One, you’d be careful, wouldn’t take any risky tasks, would do anything to stay alive. Two, he would come back for you. Would find you after the war. Although he was aware that the chance of both of you surviving was rather slim.

You shake your head softly.

“It was always supposed to be like this, Tom. Us. Enemies. We fight for two very different things.”

He scoffs softly at that.

“You think I still care about any of this? He’s ill. He’s dying. Barely gets up nowadays.” Tom takes a step back, and you swallow. “He has been using me for— this for months. And if you think—“ his hands clench into fists as the muscles in his fingers twitch at the mere thought, and he pauses briefly. “If you think I get any better treatment than others when they don’t act according to his instructions, you are mistaken.”

You sob.

“You killed them. All of them.”

He takes your face into his hands.

“They took you from me. They let you get these ingredients when they knew how dangerous it was. You almost died at my hands. Because of them. You left me for them. I offered you a safe house, far away from here. Yet, they convinced you to stay. If you believe even for a second that I would shy away from killing them— think again.”

Tears are streaming down your face by the time he is done.

“I chose this, Tom. Nobody forced me.” You hiccup. “This was my choice, and my choice alone.”

One of his hands slips to your neck. They are cold. Not warm like they used to be when they roamed over your bare skin. You miss the warmth.

He pulls you closer again, eyes narrowing at your words.

“And fuck— a part of me wants to hurt you for this. Punish you. But I— I can’t.”

His gaze drops for a second, and his voice softens.

“I missed you. I thought of you every day, wondered whether you were doing alright. Wondered whether you were thinking of me too.”

You exhale a shaky breath, trying to find the right words. Of course you did too.

“Tom, I—“

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“You have moved on, haven’t you? Found someone else.”

Your heart aches at his words.

“No!” You gasp, shaking your head. “I didn’t. I wouldn’t—“

Then, without letting you finish your sentence, he pulls you closer to kiss you. Soft at first—giving you space to draw back—but when you don’t, he holds you close, kisses you like it’s the first time all over again.

When you separate, there is this all-too-familiar fire behind his eyes—the one he used to have. And as much as you wanted to—

“We have a lot to talk about.” You try, but he merely shakes his head.

“That can wait. Let us have this.”

Before you get to object, his lips are on yours once more, and he guides you towards the bed in the centre of the room without once breaking the kiss.

Shirt torn open, button of your pants clinking as it drops to the floor.

Old habits.

“I hate you,” you murmur against his lips, and his mouth lifts into a smirk. “I hate you so much.”

It all happens quickly after that. Moments later, you are on the bed and he’s on top of you, trailing kisses down your neck—just like he used to do.

Then, you feel him pressing against you—already hard, tip swollen and leaking. You gasp when he swipes through your folds and instinctively squirm at the contact—but Tom is quick to reposition you, pinning your hands above your head with ease.

“No. You don’t get to run from me anymore. You’ll stay right here and take it. Take it like the good girl I know you are.”

He doesn’t wait much longer. He’s been waiting too long for this, and now that he’s finally got you back—he is going to utilize every single second he would get to spend with you before he’d have to leave again.

He pushes inside with one singular thrust. Doesn’t give you time to adjust.

And God—it’s been a while. You forgot how big he is—the burn of the stretch so overwhelming that your nails dig into his back and your breath catches in your throat.

He doesn’t feel you tensing beneath him. Doesn’t spot the strained look on your face. Instead, he has already set a rhythm. Hips slamming against yours so harshly, the headboard hits the wall with each thrust.

You don’t want him to stop. You really don’t. But when he shifts his angle to reach even deeper—a strained whimper slips from your lips, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

The moment Tom hears the soft sound spilling over your lips, he lifts his head and stills inside of you.

“Am I hurting you?” he asks, concern visible in his eyes as they search yours. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have— I will stop.”

You hold onto his arm when he begins to pull away, shaking your head no.

“No. Please don’t. Please don’t stop.” You plead as his eyes scan your face. “Just don’t— I haven’t— you know.”

Tom gives you a tight nod, taking it slower with you after that. Carefully giving you inch after inch, kissing along your jaw. Praising you for how well you are doing for him.

“Forgot how amazing you feel wrapped around me like this,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as his hips stay flush against yours for a second—before he continues his slow and steady thrusts.

His hand slips between the both of you when he feels your walls flutter around him, rubbing your clit in tight circles—just how he knows you like it.

“Tom— Tom, please—“ you moan against his lips, and he rests your legs on his shoulders, allowing him deeper, brushing against that one sweet spot that has you see stars with every single thrust of his hips.

“Come for me, pretty girl. Let it all out.” He tells you, and that’s all it takes to push you over the edge. You whimper-moan as the knot in your lower abdomen snaps, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your walls pulse, clamping down tight, drawing a low groan from him.

He helps you through it, prolongs your pleasure for as long as possible—then, gently, shifts your legs to either side of him, allowing him to lean in close once more. And when he’s close, cock twitching inside of you—

“Where— where can I—“ he rasps, hot breath against your neck, and your legs lock around his waist, keeping him pressed against you.

“Inside. Inside, please.”

“Fuck— so long— been waiting so long for this— “ he drawls, and with one more rough thrust, he spills inside of you—deep, painting your walls white with his release.

His body rests on top of yours after, catching his breath. None of you talk, not until he rolls off to lie beside you, and he takes your hand in his.

You look at him when you feel the muscles in his fingers spasm.

“Cruciatus Curse? Have treated many people with the same symptoms.” You say softly, thumb easing along his index finger.

“I told you. It doesn’t matter to him.” He retorts, voice calm as though it were the most normal thing in the world.

“Oh, Tom. I am so sorry.” You whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. You rest your head on his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath you—eyelids slowly fluttering closed as his fingers brush through your hair.

It’s not long until he wakes you, though.

“I am being called,” he tells you, sitting up after placing your head on the pillow next to you, and your gaze drops to the mark on his arm. “Means they found the bodies.”

You too sit up, taking his wrist in your hand as you look up at him. “Please don’t go. I don’t want them to hurt you because of me.”

“If I don’t, they’ll be here within the next five minutes. Neither you nor I would want that. You will stay here.”

Your hand grips his tighter.

“You’ll be back?”

He gives you a nod. “Yes.”

“Promise?”

He smiles softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“I promise.”

thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3 — masterlist. | oneshots.

©2025 viperify. please do not copy, translate or claim my work as your own.

[multific]

Bound by Midnight

Vampire!Simon Riley x Reader

Summary: Simon has lived in the shadows for centuries, avoiding love, avoiding attachment, until you.

Simon had warned you.

Over and over again, his voice was always low and edged with something close to fear.

Stay away from me. Don’t get too close. I am not a man. I am a monster.

And yet, you never listened.

Perhaps it was foolishness, or maybe something deeper, a pull you couldn’t explain, an ache in your chest that told you to stay. From the moment you met him, you knew that Simon Riley wasn’t just a creature of the night; he was something more. Beneath the mask, beneath the sharp words and cold demeanour, there was a soul.

A heart that had stopped beating long ago, but still longed for something it thought it could never have.

You.

He had tried to fight it. Had pushed you away so many times that you lost count. But you saw through him. You saw how his gaze lingered, how his voice softened when he spoke your name. How, despite every warning, he never truly walked away.

Until the night it all fell apart.

The attack was swift, unexpected. One moment, you were laughing, teasing him about his brooding nature, and the next, you were on the ground, warm blood pooling beneath you.

Your vision blurred, the pain sharp and unforgiving as a rival vampire loomed over you, his fangs stained with your blood.

And then Simon was there. A whirlwind of darkness and rage, tearing the creature apart with an inhuman snarl that sent shivers down your spine even as your body grew cold. You reached for him, your fingers trembling, and the last thing you saw was his face, horrified, desperate, as he cradled you against his chest.

Then, darkness.

And then, life.

A strange, aching hunger clawed at your throat when you woke, the world feeling sharper, louder.

Your heart no longer beat, and yet, you felt more than you ever had before.

Simon was beside you, his hands still cradling you as though he was afraid you would slip away.

His mask was gone, and for the first time, you saw him as he truly was. His sharp jaw was set, his piercing eyes were filled with something you had never seen before.

Despair.

"I never wanted this for you," he whispered, voice hoarse, raw. His fingers curled into your skin, not enough to hurt, but enough to ground himself. "You don’t understand what I’ve done."

You reached up, touching his face, feeling the tension beneath your fingertips. "You saved me."

His jaw clenched, and he shook his head. "I cursed you. I’ve bound you to this life, to me. You’ll never be free of it. Never be free of me."

There it was. The truth that haunted him, the fear that had kept him at a distance for so long. He didn’t hate what he was. He hated the idea of you suffering because of it.

But he didn’t understand.

"Simon," you murmured, guiding his face to yours. "If I had to die that night, I would have died in your arms. But I’m here. And if eternity means being bound to you, then I wouldn’t have it any other way."

His breath hitched, and for the first time since you had known him, Simon Riley looked lost. As though no one had ever told him that he was worth choosing.

Worth loving.

And so you showed him.

You pulled him closer, your lips brushing against his in the softest of kisses, and he shuddered.

He kissed you back as if he was afraid of breaking you, of breaking himself. But as the night stretched on, that fear melted, and something else took its place.

As the midnight hour reached its peak, Simon led you to the centre of the dimly lit room.

Music played softly from an old record player in the corner, and though he was never one for softness, he hesitated before offering you his hand.

A slow smile spread across your lips as you took it.

The two of you danced, moving through the shadows like ghosts, yet feeling more alive than ever. His hands were steady now, his grip no longer one of fear but of something deeper.

For the first time in centuries, Simon Riley wasn’t alone.

He pulled you closer, his forehead pressing against yours as you swayed in the dark. "I don’t deserve this," he whispered.

"You do," you whispered back. "You always have."

And as he held you, as the stars outside shone down upon the two of you, Simon finally let himself believe it.

Because for the first time in his long, cursed existence, he had something worth living for.

And he would never let you go.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[athenalvss]

NOAH'S ARK ( Jason Todd!)

Summary: For Jason, it's normal that his house is like Noah's Ark, he even loves some of the little animals his girlfriend brings.

pairing: Jason todd x animals lover! reader

a/n: I'm watching Young Justice and I really want to write things related to them, I have an idea for a Dick Masterpiece post

open request — Jason todd masterlist

Jason was already more than used to you coming home with any animal you found there, or bringing home animals from the vet where you worked, finding a stray cat, an injured pigeon or even a raccoon in the bathtub was nothing strange, and when he walked through the door the first thing he would hear from you was an justification.

"Don't ask, Jason. It was raining and he looked at me with those little eyes."

"I just hope you have that compassion for me when you get angry."

But Jason had his limits, although it was hard for him to say no, he had a black list of animals.

No roosters, once after a long night of patrol he had barely been able to close his eyes to sleep when he woke up to the loud crowing of the rooster at 5 a.m.

“Are you kidding me?” he growled, his face buried in the pillow.

You, standing in the doorway with a cup of coffee and the bird tucked under your arm like a baby, simply replied, “It was cold. Besides, it’s singing because it’s happy to be alive.”

Jason mumbled something about how he'd be happy if he could sleep, too, but didn't argue further. The next day, though, the rooster "miraculously" disappeared. You still swear Jason left it on the rooftop on purpose so it would fly away.

The second no come thanks to a goat you found tied up in a vacant lot and, for some reason, you thought it would be a good idea to bring it back to the apartment "just for one night."

She ended up eating his boots, a gun magazine, and urinating on the hallway rug.

“This thing is the devil” Jason said as the goat stared at him from the couch.

“Don’t call her that! Her name is Daisy.”

“Well, Daisy kicked me!”

“Just because you scared her with your presence!”

Despite everything, Jason has a soft spot. And that's dogs. Especially the big, old ones with sad eyes. They reminded him of a dog he once had. Once, you came home with a huge, dirty mastiff with a torn ear.

“I couldn’t leave him there, he was drooling like you do when you sleep.”

Jason became so attached to him that he ended up buying him a new collar and taking him out for walks with a face that said, "I have to," while talking to him as if he were a child:

“Come on, Bobby, don’t bite the mailman… again.”

Plus he likes the look of the dog, no one would go near you with that big dog by your side, that is until they realized Bobby has the personality of a dachshund.

Despite secretly caring for them, there were times when he truly hated them. They broke things, interrupted intimate moments, and constantly reminded them that they were no longer alone there.

One night, after a long day, Jason held you quietly while you were washing the dishes. It was one of those rare moments of calm: his arms around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder, his raspy voice murmuring something like, “I could get used to this.”

You were about to turn around to kiss him when a high-pitched bark echoed from the hallway. "What's up with Bobby now?" you sighed.

Jason shrugged, still holding your waist. "Maybe he saw his reflection again."

Bobby burst into the kitchen as if he'd detected a national threat, skidding across the floor with his massive paws. He planted himself between the two of you with a soft growl, his head pushing between Jason's legs as if to separate you.

"Seriously, Bobby?" Jason looked at him in disbelief. "Are we doing this now, mate?"

The dog responded by sitting right between you, staring at you, and leaving a pair of Jason's socks with holes in them as an offering.

Sometimes your rescues would sneak in right in the middle of their missions. One night, Jason showed up covered in blood, his helmet tucked under his arm, his expression utterly exhausted, like every night, but he didn't come in alone this time.

“Is that… a cat?” you asked, looking at the backpack that was unzipping from the inside.

“He followed me. He kept meowing. He was giving me away where he was.”

“And you brought him home?”

Jason shrugged. “He has eyes just like yours, okay?”

They called him Ghost, because he was so stealthy. Although he did knock over a television once, so the nickname is still debated.

Even though Jason complains… he also spoils them. You've seen him carrying the three legged dog like a baby, or talking softly to some parrots playing in the kitchen. He'd never admit it, but he has secret names for all of them.

Although what he likes most is coming home knowing that there is someone waiting for him.

Sometimes he comes through the balcony window, silent as a shadow, and from there you can already see the scene: warm lights, a half-empty cup of tea on the table, and you, asleep on the sofa with a book on your chest and Bobby curled up next to you.

Other times you're awake, sitting on the carpet with a blanket over your shoulders, surrounded by creatures like an urban version of Snow White. As soon as they see him walk in, everyone reacts as if they've seen the Messiah.

As soon as they see him cross the window frame, the invasion begins: the dogs jump happily, the parrot screams his name, and you wake up with a smile that he feels is more his than anything else in the world.

"Hey, you're back," you whisper as you walk over to hug him.

Jason grunts something unintelligible, drops his helmet, and holds you close as if he could become one with you. In your arms, surrounded by animals he now considers family, he feels something he never had.

Peace.

"I'm home," he mumbles, more to himself than to you.

And in that moment, Jason remembers why he always comes back.

[katiemccabeswife]

Different?

Alexia Putellas x Reader (Platonic) || You're different from your teammates and different in a different way from your friends. You're different.

Oh.....hey 🙃 This year's been tough, I drifted from woso but I'm coming back and venting through a fic because how else does one get over anything!

TW: internalised homophobia? This is very much a personal experience, while yes, there are stereotypes, it is based on what I was surrounded by growing up/my mindset when i was younger x

You didn't know what was wrong with you. Everyone you knew, knew from a very early age, and for those around them, it was obvious. They wore boys’ clothes, played only with boys, and while they weren’t interested in boys the way most girls were, no one questioned it.

You were different. You’d always loved wearing skirts and dresses, gossiping with your girl friends about boys. You’d never looked at any of your friends as anything more than that. You’d never thought of any girl as anything other than a potential friend.

And you didn’t know when, or why, that started to change.

In training, the girls would talk openly about their girlfriends and wives, and no one would bat an eye, why would they? But back at uni, your so-called friends would wrinkle their noses at couples of the same gender and laugh at those who dressed androgynous or in the clothes of the opposite gender. You never joined in, but you never spoke up either. You're glad you've gone completely online for your lessons.

Still, the question sat heavy on your chest.

You knew you liked boys, seeing actors take off their shirts to reveal sweaty, tanned, washboard abs always made you blush in a way your friends could relate to, but nowadays you felt the same jolt when you saw a girl with big arms and an eyebrow piercing.

Out on the field, running drills with Alexia, the sun relentless above you, she caught the tight pinch in your brow. She thought you were probably just focused. Or maybe squinting against the light. She didn’t ask, you would come to her.

An hour or two later, you sat at your normal spot with the likes of Vicky, Jana, Salma and a few others. But, try as you might, everyone seemed to be chewing with their mouths open or talking with food in their mouths, or someone is laughing too hard at a joke that you missed because you can't stop thinking about—

"¿Estás bien?" A warm hand lay on your shoulder, and the room seemed to quieten down, though you soon realised your brain had been overcompensating the sounds. You'd like to think it was attempting to give you refuge from your intruding thoughts.

The soft eyes of Jana beamed at you from her spot, a glisme of worry deep in her gaze. "Estoy bien."

You forced a smile, hoping it reached your eyes. It must have been convincing enough, because Jana gave your shoulder a little squeeze before leaning back into the conversation. The noise of the table seemed to swell again, though this time you knew it wasn’t the room, it was you.

Your brain wouldn’t shut up.

Because you weren’t fine. You hadn’t been for weeks. Maybe longer. You were starting to realise it had always been there, somewhere quiet and half-formed, hiding under crushes on celebrity heartthrobs and late-night group chats dissecting which boys had the hair. You never gave it permission to grow roots. But now it was taking up space in your chest, in your head, pulling at you every time a girl smiled at you, or a stranger with a sharp jaw and tattooed arms passed by.

You stabbed at the limp lettuce in your bowl, not really hungry anymore.

“Hey.” This time it was Vicky, sliding into the seat beside you. “You sure you're good? You’ve been kinda… quiet. Even for you.”

You hated how good your friends were at this, at noticing. You hated it because you didn’t have a name for what you were feeling, and until you did, you didn’t want anyone poking around in it.

“I’m just tired,” you said, offering the easy lie, one they wouldn’t question.

Vicky didn’t look convinced, but she let it go.

You dragged in a breath.

You didn’t know what was wrong with you.

And you weren’t sure if you wanted to find out.

But then, Alexia’s voice cut through the noise as she approached the tabel and took a seat. Not sharp, not commanding, just steady, calm in a way that made you instinctively look up.

“Alright, enough,” she said, but she was smiling. “You lot are going to choke if you don’t stop talking with your mouths full.” She had noticed both interactions and unlike the younger girls, noticed your false smiles and knew you weren’t ‘fine’.

A chorus of groans and half-hearted protests followed, but the tension at the table eased. Jana leaned into Salma, Vicky threw a crumpled napkin at Alexia, and for a second, it felt like the world clicked back into its usual rhythm.

Alexia caught your gaze across the table and raised an eyebrow, a wordless check-in. You gave her a small nod, and this time, it wasn’t entirely a lie.

Because it was different with Alexia. She wasn’t like the others. She’d always been steady. The kind of person who remembered how you took your coffee before a morning match, who let you sit in silence after a bad game without asking what was wrong. She was a captain in every sense of the word, not just on the field, but in the quiet ways that mattered.

If you ever told anyone, it would probably be her.

Maybe.

The thought sat with you for a while, somewhere between comforting and terrifying.

Eventually, the team started clearing their plates, conversations breaking off into smaller groups. Vicky was already on her phone, trying to convince Salma to do some Tiktok dance with her. Jana gave your hand a quick squeeze before catching up to the girls to head back to the gym.

You lingered a little too long at the table, pretending to check your messages.

Alexia was the last to leave, brushing past you with a hand to your shoulder. “Walk with me?”

It wasn’t a question.

You fell into step beside her as she made for the side entrance, not the way to the gym, out toward the empty stretch of field where the bright Barcelona sun shone demandingly.

She didn’t say anything for a while, which you were grateful for. You could feel your pulse in your throat, the ache in your chest rising like it always did when you got too close to it, whatever it was.

After a few minutes, Alexia spoke. “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on,” she said, eyes fixed on the horizon. “But you’re not alone. Whatever it is, okay? You’re not the first to carry something around like it’s yours to deal with alone.”

You swallowed. Hard.

“I don’t even know what it is,” you admitted, voice so small it barely made a sound.

Alexia gave a dry little laugh, shaking her head. “That’s usually how it starts.”

And somehow, those words, simple as they were, loosened something in you.

As you both kept walking, the sounds of the dining hall and the others faded behind you, until it was just your footsteps in the grass and the distant hum of traffic beyond the field. From across the pitch you saw Mapi place a chaste kiss on Ingrids cheek before taking her hand in her own.

And then, without meaning to, your chest tightened again. That awful pressure you’d been carrying for weeks, months, maybe years, pushed up against your ribs so hard it made your throat sting.

Alexia noticed. Of course she did.

She slowed her steps, turning to face you fully now, brow furrowed but not with impatience or pity. Just concern.

“Hey,” she said, quietly. “Talk to me.”

You shook your head before you even thought about it, your eyes already stinging, your voice caught somewhere between your heart and your mouth.

“I-I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you croaked, your voice cracking so sharply it hurt. You hadn’t meant to say it out loud. You weren’t ready. But the words were out now, and the air felt thinner for it.

Alexia didn’t interrupt.

“I thought I was… I thought I knew who I was,” you went on, the words tumbling out faster now, like a dam cracking. “I like boys, I always have. I’m not… I’m not like them, the girls who knew. I never looked at my friends like that. I liked dresses. I liked painting my nails. And now I-I can’t stop looking. At girls. At their arms. Their piercings. The way they laugh. The way they look at each other like they belong, like they’ve known forever. And I don’t know what it means. And I feel like-like I missed a memo or a deadline or something and now I’m broken.”

Your voice cracked on the last word. A hot, ugly sob tore up your throat before you could swallow it down, and you turned away, covering your face with both hands, embarrassed by the sound, by how raw it felt.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you whispered again, barely audible, spoken to the sky.

Alexia didn’t hesitate. She stepped in, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in so your forehead hit her collarbone. She didn’t shush you or tell you it was okay, she just held you, steady and warm, one hand bracing the back of your head.

And something about that made it worse.

Because no one had done that before. Not like this. Not when you needed it.

So you cried.

You cried in a way you hadn’t let yourself in years, with ugly, gasping sounds and shaking shoulders, and Alexia just held on, like she could anchor you to the earth if you started floating away.

When your sobs finally softened, when your chest ached from it in a different way, she spoke.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” she said, voice steady in that way only she could manage. “Nothing. You hear me?”

You nodded against her shoulder, but it was a lie.

She sighed and gently peeled you back enough to look at you, her hand on either side of your face. “I don’t care if you can’t name it right now. I don’t care if you never want to put a label on it. You get to be confused. You get to feel whatever you feel. And anyone who makes you believe you have to have that figured out before you’re ready, pueden ir al infierno.”

A watery, broken laugh escaped you, surprising even yourself.

Alexia smiled, wiping a tear from your cheek with her thumb. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” she repeated, softer now. “I promise.”

And for the first time in a while, your heart felt lighter, more whole. You could take your time, and Alexia would be there, and it would be okay.

[ninisdollie]

heated - byun euijoo ⋆｡𖦹°‧

𓏲˚ ۪ ❤︎⊹

“In which a hot, comfy summer morning turns into something a little filthier”

content: +18MDNI fem! reader x ej, established relationship, unprotected sex, soft dom! ej, morning sex, sweat like lots of sweat, just a messy sex session in a hot summer morning, dirty talk, fingering, oral (f. rec) riding, overstimulated ej, creampie.

hate comments will be deleted and blocked, likes and reblogs are appreciated !!

The heat had already seeped into your skin by the time you woke up.

It was the kind of suffocating warmth that clung to everything—heavy and wet, sticking to your thighs, beading along your chest, collecting at the bend of your knees. The ceiling fan turned lazily above you, useless and slow, pushing stale air around the room like a tease. Light filtered in through the thin curtains, spreading golden strips across the floor, across the bed, across his bare chest beside you.

Your parents’ beach house was beautiful but ancient, perched just a few streets off the coast. Every summer it became a sanctuary for your family, wide open windows, salt in the air, sunscreen on your skin, laughter echoing up the wooden staircases. But in this heat, the house felt more like a furnace. No AC. Just stillness and fans and the hope of an occasional ocean breeze that never really came.

You were in a pair of really small shorts, and even with that, the heat was almost unbareable. Your throat dry. Sweat dampened your tank top and soaked into the sheets. You shifted, peeling yourself away from the warmth of Euijoo’s sleeping body, careful not to wake him. He barely stirred, just mumbled something incoherent, his brow furrowing before his arm fell back over your empty space on the bed.

You padded out of the room barefoot, the old wooden floor warm under your feet as you moved toward the kitchen. The house was silent—no movement, no voices. Everyone else was still asleep. Even the waves outside sounded soft, lazy, half-awake.

You poured yourself a glass of water and leaned against the counter as you drank, letting the coolness of the glass ease the heat from your palm. The water wasn’t exactly cold, but it was refreshing all the same, grounding you in the quiet hum of morning. It was a moment you could’ve stayed in longer, but something tugged at you—gentle and warm, like gravity pulling you back down the hallway.

Back to him.

When you pushed open the bedroom door, sunlight had already flooded the space completely, spilling golden light across the tangled sheets. It looked like a painting, warm and still and intimate.

Euijoo was awake now, sprawled across the bed like he had melted into it, hair damp against his forehead, one arm bent beneath his head. The sheet was low on his hips, boxers riding even lower, clinging slightly to the sweat-slick skin of his pelvis. His eyes found you immediately, heavy-lidded and soft.

“Come back to bed,” he rasped, voice thick with sleep. “It’s too hot to be up.”

You leaned against the doorframe, your glass still in hand, and watched him for a long, quiet second. His chest rose and fell slowly, sheen catching the light, gorgeous and golden and completely unrushed.

“You look like you’re melting,” you said, voice barely above a murmur.

He gave a breathy laugh and threw an arm over his face.

“I am melting, but i need you here with me.”

You smiled faintly and set the glass down on the nightstand as you walked toward him. He reached for you without hesitation, large hand slipping into yours, fingers warm and damp, grounding you instantly.

“I missed you,” he said, pulling you back under the covers, back into the heat.

It was too hot for this. Too hot to be tangled together like this. But there was no place else you’d rather be.

You barely had time to settle before his arms wrapped around you again, pulling you back into his chest like he needed the contact to breathe. The sheets beneath you were already damp with sweat, clinging to your skin, sticking between your thighs. The heat pressed in from all sides—thick, relentless, like it had settled into the walls themselves.

His body was just as warm, maybe more.

Euijoo’s skin was slick against yours, every inch of contact making you feel like you were melting into him. His chest rose and fell at your back, shallow and uneven. You could feel the way his breath caught when his hand slid beneath your tank top again, palm flattening against your stomach.

His hand was warm. Too warm. His skin stuck to yours as he moved slowly—up, down, dragging just enough to leave a trail of heat in his wake. The fan above barely helped. All it did was stir the thick, sun-soaked air around the room like steam in a sauna.

His mouth brushed against your shoulder again, lips slightly parted. His damp hair tickled your skin, and you felt the heat of his breath, heavy and shaky.

“You’re so hot,” he whispered against your skin, voice ruined by sleep and need. “So soft. I can’t—fuck—I can’t stop.”

You felt him shift behind you, hips moving just enough to press his hardness against the curve of your ass, slow and unintentional like he hadn’t meant to, but he had. The low sound that escaped him made your thighs clench.

“Seriously?” you breathed, voice low, teasing. “It’s way too hot for this.”

“I know,” he groaned, pressing his forehead into the back of your neck. His hair was soaked, sticky where it touched you, and when he pulled his hand back to run it down your waist, you felt how damp his palm was. “I’m sweating like crazy. It’s disgusting.”

You turned your head just enough to glance at him over your shoulder. His hair was sticking to his forehead, cheeks flushed a deep red, lips wet and parted like he couldn’t catch his breath. His eyes were glassy, heavy-lidded with need.

“You look like you’re dying,” you said softly.

“I am,” he muttered. “You were gone for two minutes and now I’m like—burning up.”

His hand slid lower now, fingers skimming just under the waistband of your panties, not touching you where you needed yet, just teasing, just brushing. And when you inhaled sharply, he whimpered. Actually whimpered. His body was tense behind you, barely holding himself back.

“I woke up hard, and then you left,” he said, voice broken and ragged. “And then you came back all sweaty and flushed and sleepy—and now I can’t think. I need you.”

You could feel his cock now, thick and straining against his boxers, pressed tight to the curve of your ass. He rolled his hips forward just once—slow, controlled—and the sound he made this time was deeper, rawer, buried against your skin like he couldn’t let it out fully.

His hand slid up again, under your top this time, cupping your breast gently, thumb swiping across your nipple, which had already hardened from the heat, or from him, you couldn’t tell anymore.

“You’re so warm,” he breathed. “So perfect. I could stay like this all day.”

“Too hot,” you mumbled again, but this time it came out weaker, breathier, because now his teeth were grazing the side of your neck and you were arching into him despite yourself.

“You’re not stopping me,” he murmured with a soft, smug smile you could feel against your throat. “You want it too.”

You did. God, you did. The heat had soaked into everything now, into your skin, into your bones, into the throb building between your legs. You could feel sweat gathering between your breasts, down your spine, where your thighs were pressed together. His palm was slick as he slid it back down your body, slow and reverent, every movement worshipping the way you squirmed under his touch.

“You feel that?” he whispered, rutted against you again, harder this time. “What you do to me?”

You nodded, eyes fluttering shut.

And when he kissed your shoulder again—open-mouthed and wet, tongue slipping out just a little—you knew you weren’t getting out of bed anytime soon.

His fingers slid slowly down your stomach, each movement deliberate, like he was savoring the way you twitched beneath his touch. The air was thick with heat and silence. Outside the window, the morning sun spilled golden light across the room, but inside, everything was soft and slow and dangerous.

You swallowed hard.

“Euijoo,” you whispered, barely a breath.

“I know,” he murmured into your skin, his voice wrecked and quiet. “I know. Just let me.”

His hand dipped beneath the waistband of your panties at last, and you shivered at the contact, his fingers warm and damp with sweat, the pads sliding low, low, lower, until they found the heat between your legs. He groaned when he felt how wet you already were, his breath stuttering against your shoulder.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “You’re soaked.”

You bit your bottom lip, hard, forcing your body to stay still. You couldn’t trust your voice. Couldn’t trust the soft whimper curling in your throat, desperate to get out. You could hear the quiet creak of the house settling, the distant hum of waves beyond the open windows, but no other voices, no footsteps.

Your family was still asleep. Still just down the hall.

And he was touching you like it was only the two of you in the world.

You didn’t answer, you couldn’t. Not when his hand was already down your panties, slick fingers teasing you so gently it made your thighs tense. His palm was wet against your stomach, the drag of sweat and heat making everything feel electric, raw, overwhelming.

You whimpered softly, biting your lip.

His cock was pressed against you again, hard and hot through his boxers, and when he rutted forward—just a little, just enough—it felt sticky, like even that was messy in this heat. You felt a droplet of sweat roll down the side of your face and onto the pillow, soaking into the cotton beside your cheek.

“You’re making such a mess,” he whispered into your neck, his voice wrecked. “Sweating all over me, baby. You feel how wet you are?”

You nodded, a breathy sound escaping before you could swallow it back.

“Shhh,” he whispered gently. “You gotta be quiet. Everyone’s still asleep.”

And still, his fingers moved. Slow circles over your clit now, slick from both your arousal and the sweat between your thighs. Every touch was so gentle, so restrained, like he knew how close you were to unraveling and he wanted to keep you there, hovering just on the edge.

His body was trembling behind you, hips barely moving, muscles tight from holding himself back.

“I’m losing my mind,” he groaned quietly. “You’re so soft, and you smell like sleep and sweat and sex—I can’t stop touching you.”

You felt his forehead press to your shoulder again, skin hot, damp, sticking there. His breath came fast now, shallow, like he was the one getting touched. Like he was falling apart just from feeling you squirm in his arms.

Another droplet rolled down your chest, slipping between your breasts. You were soaked. You both were. Your bodies were wrapped up in each other like there was no air between them, like you were the only place he wanted to be, no matter how stifling it got.

And then his fingers dipped lower again, sliding through your folds with a slow, slick sound, the kind that made your whole body tense and your teeth clamp down on the pillow to stop the gasp rising in your throat.

“You’re dripping,” he whispered. “I haven’t even fucked you yet and you’re already dripping, baby.”

You tried to breathe through it, through the pressure building and the heat and his voice in your ear and the sweat that just wouldn’t stop beading at your temple.

“I wanna taste you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Wanna get between your thighs and feel how wet you are on my tongue, but I don’t think I can wait that long.”

You whimpered again, muffled, your thighs shaking slightly as his fingers circled your clit again, firmer this time. The air was thick with your shared breath, the sound of skin on skin, and the stifled moans you couldn’t quite keep down.

And still, your family was asleep just down the hall.

You were burning, shaking, soaking through your underwear with him whispering filth into your ear and touching you like it was the last thing he’d ever get to do.

Euijoo’s hand moved with a kind of frantic slowness — like he wanted to take his time, but his body wouldn’t let him. His fingers kept sliding through your folds, sticky with sweat and slick, smearing the mess across your skin with every stroke. The heat in the room was unbearable now, a pressure pressing down on both of you, thick and wet, turning every breath into steam.

You were barely holding on.

His forehead pressed into your shoulder again, damp hair sticking to your skin, his lips dragging open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck, wet and hungry. Every part of him was sweating, his chest against your back, his hand between your legs, his cock twitching against the curve of your ass, leaving a dark patch of precum on his boxers.

“God, you’re so fucking wet,” he whispered, voice hoarse and desperate. “I can’t—fuck, I need you.”

His fingers slipped a little as he circled your clit again, too slick to stay steady, and he let out a frustrated breath, then did it again, slower, more deliberate. You could feel his palm now, hot and damp, pressing messily into you with every movement.

“You’re driving me insane,” he breathed. “You feel so good, baby. So soft, so wet. I can’t stop touching you. I can’t stop.”

You whimpered again, and he groaned into your neck, like just the sound of your breath was enough to ruin him.

Your body jerked slightly when he slid two fingers inside, the stretch slow but so slippery it made your thighs shake. The slick sound of it filled the quiet room, obscene and impossible to ignore. You bit down hard on your bottom lip, eyes squeezed shut as he curled his fingers inside you, searching for that spot with clumsy, desperate precision.

“Fuck—feel that?” he muttered. “You’re sucking me in. So tight. So wet. I can’t believe I’m not inside you yet.”

His hand trembled slightly—actually trembled—and when he pulled back just to push in again, deeper this time, his wrist knocked against your thigh with a wet smack. You knew your inner thighs were slick now, not just from arousal but from sweat, from the heat, from him grinding against you like he couldn’t help it.

You could hear him now—panting, breathless and needy behind you, every sound a low whimper or half-bitten moan, like he was the one getting touched.

“I’m so fucking hard,” he choked out, rutting against you again. “I don’t—fuck, I don’t think I can last if I don’t get inside you soon.”

You barely managed a whisper.

“Euijoo…” before he groaned again and kissed the side of your neck, messy and hot, dragging his tongue over a bead of sweat that had rolled down to your collarbone.

His pace picked up, fingers thrusting into you a little harder now, the angle desperate and rough, but still wrapped in the slow rhythm of someone who didn’t want it to end.

“You feel that?” he murmured again, his voice wrecked. “Feel how wet you’ve made me?”

You could. His boxers were soaked, sticking to your ass every time he rolled his hips, and his chest was pressed tight to your back, so hot and slick that your bodies felt like one melting, heaving thing.

And still, his fingers moved. Soaking in the heat and the mess and the need. Desperate. Sloppy.

His fingers slowed inside you, dragging out slowly with a wet sound that made your cheeks burn. Your thighs instinctively clenched, chasing the friction, but Euijoo only groaned under his breath and kissed your shoulder again, lazy and wet, lips sticking to your sweat-slicked skin.

You were still panting, your chest rising and falling with the weight of the heat and the ache he’d left behind. Your body was trembling, sticky with sweat, clinging to his.

Then you felt it.

His hand moved, fingers gliding up your stomach, smearing slick and sweat across your skin until he reached your lips. You opened your eyes just as he pressed the pads of his fingers to your mouth—shiny, soaked in you, warm from your heat and his.

“Open,” he whispered, voice rough and low and so close to breaking. “Taste how sweet you are.”

You hesitated for only a breath before parting your lips, letting him press the fingers past them, slow and deliberate. The taste hit your tongue immediately—salty and musky and yours—and the second your lips closed around him, Euijoo shuddered behind you.

“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes fluttering half shut. “That’s so hot. You’re so fucking hot.”

His other hand gripped your waist tighter, sweat-slick palm sliding just slightly on your skin. You sucked gently, slowly, letting your tongue swirl over his fingers, savoring the way he groaned into your neck, breath shaky and uneven.

“Just like that,” he said softly. “You’re perfect, doll. So good for me.”

You pulled back with a quiet pop, and his fingers slipped from your mouth, glistening now with a mix of your slick and your spit. He stared down at you, wrecked and flushed, hair wet and sticking to his forehead, chest heaving against your back.

You barely had a second to catch your breath before Euijoo was moving again, pulling his hand from between your thighs, dragging it up your body, over your stomach, across the slick curve of your ribs.

Then his fingers hooked into the hem of your tank top.

“Lift your arms, baby,” he murmured, voice low and full of want. “Let me see you.”

You obeyed, dazed and flushed, and he tugged the thin fabric up, slow and unhurried, baring more of your damp skin inch by inch. Your top clung where the sweat had soaked through, peeling off with a soft, sticky sound. When it was finally over your head and tossed to the side, the humid air hit your bare chest, making your nipples tighten instantly.

Euijoo groaned—actually groaned—at the sight.

“Fuck. Look at you,” he breathed. His eyes roamed across your chest like he didn’t know where to touch first. “You’re dripping. You’re so sweaty, baby. I love it.”

And then he devoured you.

His mouth found your breast, hot and open and hungry, lips closing around your nipple with a wet, desperate moan. He sucked hard, tongue swirling over the sensitive bud, and the noise you made was barely a whisper, but your hips bucked.

You were soaked, sweat and arousal mixing between your thighs, your skin slippery everywhere he touched. His hands gripped your waist, trying to steady himself, but they kept sliding, palms wet, fingers trembling from need.

He moved to your other breast, nipping gently, then kissing away the sting. His breath was ragged, shaky, like he couldn’t breathe properly unless his mouth was on your skin.

“You taste like sweat,” he panted, tongue dragging down your chest, “and summer and you.”

You whimpered under him, your hands sliding into his hair, fingers threading through the damp strands at the nape of his neck. He was soaked—his forehead, his temples, the back of his neck—and his mouth was everywhere, kissing a path down your body like he was worshipping the heat that clung to you.

Then he shifted, kissed your stomach, licked a bead of sweat that had trailed down your navel. His hands slid lower, hooked under your thighs, and then—

He settled between your legs.

He pushed your legs apart slowly, reverently, groaning when he saw the mess between them. Your panties were damp, nearly see-through from sweat and slick, and he pressed a hot kiss to the inside of your thigh before speaking again, voice low, gravelly, wrecked.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good,” he whispered, nuzzling closer, tongue dragging along your inner thigh. “I don’t care how sweaty you are. I want it. I want all of you.”

And when he licked you through your underwear—slow, filthy, and needy—you nearly cried out, biting your hand to keep quiet.

Your breath caught as Euijoo mouthed over the damp fabric of your panties again, hot, open-mouthed, wet. He groaned into you, tongue dragging slow and heavy over the soaked spot, and you felt the sound vibrate through your core.

“Fuck, princess” he whispered, almost to himself. “I can feel you through these—can taste you.”

His fingers curled around the waistband, and you lifted your hips for him, body trembling. He peeled your panties down slow, reverent, sticky from how soaked they were. They clung to your folds before slipping free, and he let them drop somewhere off the side of the bed without even looking.

And then he looked at you.

Not at your face, at your cunt.

Eyes dark, lips parted, sweat shining on his flushed skin, and when he exhaled, it was a shaky, wrecked breath.

“God,” he said, almost reverently. “You’re perfect.”

Then he dived in.

No teasing. No hesitation. Just tongue — hot, slick, eager — flattening against you, licking one long, slow stripe through your folds before circling your clit in slow, shaking strokes. He moaned when he tasted you properly, grinding his hips into the mattress below like he couldn’t take it.

You threw a hand over your mouth, eyes wide, body locking up at the sheer intensity of it.

He was soaking now, his hair stuck to his forehead, temples slick, sweat dripping from his jaw onto the inside of your thigh. His hands gripped your legs tighter, sliding slightly from the heat and mess, but he held you open, anchored to you like this was the only place he ever wanted to be.

His tongue moved slow, then fast, then slower, drawing tight circles around your clit, then flicking it gently, rhythm messy and needy like he couldn’t decide what would make you fall apart faster.

Every few seconds he pulled back to catch his breath, panting hard, cheeks flushed red. Then he’d dive right back in, groaning, licking, devouring you like the taste of you was everything he’d ever needed.

You felt his voice more than you heard it, low vibrations against your soaked skin.

“So sweet,” he murmured. “I could stay here all day.”

And he meant it.

Your thighs trembled around his head, your body arching up, sweat slicking every inch of skin between you. You felt him press messy kisses to your clit, slow and open-mouthed, hands roaming your hips with desperate reverence, like he needed every part of you under his palms.

When his tongue slipped lower—down to your entrance, inside—you almost sobbed into your fist, the noise muffled but your body giving you away.

“You taste so good like this,” he whispered, licking back up through your folds, “so messy and hot and mine.”

Your hand was still pressed over your mouth, but your hips gave you away — twitching, bucking, grinding helplessly into Euijoo’s face as his mouth worked you over like he was starving. And maybe he was. The way he moaned into your pussy, low, wrecked sounds that vibrated through your whole body, made it feel like he needed this more than air.

His tongue was everywhere. Messy, relentless, greedy. Licking through your folds like he couldn’t get enough, sucking your clit with wet, filthy noises that had your eyes rolling back.

You couldn’t keep your thighs still. Couldn’t keep quiet either, every time his tongue slipped a little lower or he moaned into your heat, something soft and helpless escaped your lips, half-strangled into your palm.

“F-fuck, Euijoo—” you breathed, barely audible, like your lungs couldn’t hold enough air. “You’re—gonna make me—”

“Do it,” he panted against you, his voice cracked and drunk and gone. “Come for me. Please. Please, baby, come on my mouth, I need it—”

He sounded wrecked.

His face was soaked, chin slick, lips shiny, hair stuck to his forehead in damp strands. Sweat dripped down his neck, tracing his spine, and his hips rutted softly into the mattress like he couldn’t help it.

His tongue didn’t stop.

He sucked your clit again, rough and slow and needy, then licked back down, deeper, dragging the flat of his tongue over your entrance before slipping inside. He moaned as you clenched around him — a full-body, fucked-out moan like he was tasting heaven.

“Can’t stop,” he mumbled, slurring the words into your skin. “You’re so good—fuck—you taste so fucking good, baby—”

You were sweating, panting, toes curling into the sheets. The heat, the pressure, the way his hands gripped your thighs to keep you still — it was all too much. Your whole body was trembling, wet and sticky and his, as he devoured you like a man possessed.

When his thumb reached up and circled your clit in time with his tongue inside you, you broke.

Your back arched, body locking tight, your cry muffled against your hand as you came — hard, and hot, and wet — against his mouth.

And Euijoo didn’t let go.

He groaned, drinking it in, messy and unashamed, like your orgasm was something sacred. His tongue kept moving, slower now, gentler, but still so greedy — licking you clean, moaning through it, lips slick and swollen.

When you finally sagged into the mattress, chest heaving and thighs twitching, he pulled back just enough to kiss your thigh — slow and sloppy — before resting his cheek against it.

His face was soaked.

Hair a mess. Lips swollen. Eyes glassy.

And when he looked up at you, breathless and flushed, he smiled like he was drunk.

“Best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he whispered, voice rough with heat and love and lust.

Euijoo rested his cheek on your thigh for a moment, still panting, still dazed. His lips were swollen and shiny, and when he blinked up at you, it was like he wasn’t even fully back in his body yet.

Then he moved — slow, heavy, like every inch of him was weighted with heat and hunger. He crawled up over you, dragging his damp body along yours, the sweat between you making your skin stick together. You could feel the heat radiating off him — from his chest, his stomach, the hard length of him pressing hot against your hip.

He leaned in to kiss you, and you let him. Let him press his mouth to yours, slow and deep, tongue sliding against yours so you could taste the salt and the slick he’d just pulled from you. You moaned softly, hips twitching up into his, and he shuddered.

“I need you,” he breathed, voice rough, lips brushing yours. “Need you on top of me, baby. Wanna feel all of you. Slow, messy… I don’t care how hot it is.”

Your thighs were still trembling, but the second you shifted beneath him, wrapping your arms around his back, rolling your hips up, he groaned like he was in pain.

“You’re so hard,” you whispered against his mouth, and he nodded, frantic, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Been hard for you since you walked back into the room,” he confessed, breath shaking. “Sweaty and flushed and mine—I couldn’t think straight.”

You kissed his temple, your fingers running through his hair — soaked now, the strands clinging to your palm, and then you pushed gently at his chest. He rolled onto his back, breath catching when you straddled his hips.

His hands gripped your thighs, sliding up slowly, shakily, fingers slipping on your damp skin. You were soaked, hot, aching, and when you reached down to wrap your hand around him — thick and twitching and leaking against your fingers — he choked out a sound that made your stomach clench.

“Fuck—baby—”

You sank down slowly, both of you gasping as the heat between your bodies surged, sticky and slick and unbearable. The stretch made you whimper, and Euijoo’s hands flew to your hips, holding you like you’d disappear if he let go.

“Oh my god,” he groaned, head falling back against the pillow, sweat trickling down his neck. “You feel—fuck, you feel too good.”

You started to move, slow, rolling grinds of your hips, your thighs sticking to his, the sheets beneath you completely soaked now. The sun had climbed higher through the window, light spilling over both of you in gold, and the air felt thick, like it had weight, like even breathing was heavy.

And still—he looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

“Ride me, baby,” he pleaded, voice hoarse. “Take your time. Make me feel all of it.”

You leaned down, kissed the sweat off his jaw, your bodies sticking and sliding together, and started to move again — slow and deep, letting him feel every second of it.

His moans were breathless, high and shaky, fingers digging into your hips, dragging you down harder, messier, needier every time.

“I’m not gonna last,” he gasped, eyes fluttering. “You’re so wet—so hot—fuck, I’m gonna come just like this—”

You moved slowly, hips rolling with the rhythm of your breath, your slick skin dragging across his with every grind. The sweat made everything slippery — your thighs, his stomach, the sheets underneath you already soaked through. The room felt unbearably hot, air heavy and thick, and the only sounds were your ragged breathing, the wet slap of your hips meeting his, and the occasional soft moan you couldn’t keep in.

Euijoo was ruined.

His eyes fluttered every time you sank down on him, mouth open, chest rising and falling too fast. His hair was damp against the pillow, strands sticking to his temples, and his cheeks were flushed bright pink, sweat dripping down the curve of his jaw.

“God—fuck—baby—” he gasped, head tipping back as you grinded down harder, slower, keeping him deep.

He was so deep inside you. Every inch, every pulse, right there, and the more you moved, the more wrecked he got. His fingers flexed around your hips, trying not to grip too hard, but he couldn’t help it. He was shaking.

“Can’t—can’t hold it,” he panted, brows scrunched, eyes locked on where your bodies met. “You feel so good, fuck”

You leaned down to kiss him, swallowing his moan, your hands sliding through his damp hair. You moved again, slow and deliberate, grinding until you felt him twitch inside you.

And he whined.

High and breathless, like he was about to fall apart.

His body jerked, his hips lifting helplessly as he gasped your name like he was drowning. His release spilled deep inside you, thick and hot and endless, his arms wrapping around you so tightly it felt like he was trying to melt into you. His thighs trembled under yours, his whole body tense and trembling.

But you didn’t stop.

You kept moving — slow and steady, grinding through it, pulling more from him even as he whimpered against your shoulder.

“F-fuck—baby, I—oh my god”

His hips still lifted, just barely, like even overwhelmed and overstimulated, he needed more. Needed all of you.

But he didn’t slow down.

Even as he twitched through it, gasping into your skin, he kept moving — dragging your hips against his, slow but forceful, refusing to let you pull away. His cock was still buried inside you, still hard, overstimulated and throbbing, but his hands only gripped you tighter.

“Don’t get off me,” he muttered, voice dark and breathless against your shoulder. “Not yet. You’re gonna come like this.”

“Euijoo—” you gasped, back arching. “You just came—”

“I don’t care,” he cut you off, a groan breaking through his teeth. “Need to feel you come. Need to feel you lose it on my cock.”

He sat up a little, chest to chest now, sweat slick between your bodies. His palms slid up your back, firm and hot, one hand tangling in your hair while the other gripped your ass, guiding your movements as he rocked you over him.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re gripping me so good—fuck, baby, come on.”

You whimpered, your thighs shaking around him, every nerve in your body lit up from the heat and the pressure and the way he owned your pace now. He rolled his hips up into you, matching your rhythm, dragging you down to meet every thrust, each one just a little rougher.

Every time you tried to slow down, catch your breath, he pushed you back into it — harder, deeper, his breath hitting your mouth in hot, heavy pants.

“You feel this?” he rasped, eyes locked on yours. “Feel how wet you are? How full you are?”

You nodded, barely able to think, your head spinning.

“That’s mine,” he growled softly, jaw clenched, one hand sliding down to rub tight circles over your clit. “That’s all mine. Now give it to me. Come for me, baby—come now.”

The pressure hit you like fire.

You cried out, lips parting in a silent gasp, your whole body locking down as the orgasm tore through you. You clenched around him hard, shaking in his lap, and Euijoo groaned — low and possessed, like the feel of you coming on him was the only thing keeping his soul in his body.

“F-fuck, there it is,” he gasped, hips jerking up into you, helpless. “Good girl. Good fucking girl—ride it out—”

You collapsed against his chest, gasping into the space between his neck and shoulder, trembling through the comedown. His arms wrapped tight around you, holding you close, not letting you go — not even when your bodies stopped moving.

Just the two of you, skin to skin, panting in the quiet morning heat. His cock still inside you, his hands still roaming over your back, like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you.

You didn’t know how long you laid there after — still straddling him at first, his chest rising and falling under yours, both of you slick with sweat and breathless. Your thighs were trembling, your skin damp and sticky against his, but the weight of him still inside you, the way his arms were wrapped around your waist like you might disappear — it was perfect.

Eventually, he shifted, slow and gentle, rolling with you until your back hit the mattress and he settled beside you. Not far , never far. His leg was slung over yours, one arm under your head, the other stretched across your belly, palm warm and heavy.

The sheets stuck to your skin, and the pillowcase under your cheek was damp, but Euijoo didn’t seem to mind. His eyes were soft when he looked at you, that warm, half-drunk kind of dazed, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

Then he leaned in and pressed his mouth to your shoulder. A kiss — slow, lingering — followed by another. And another. Then lower, to the edge of your collarbone, then down between your breasts, each one softer than the last.

“I’m sweaty,” you whispered, teasing. “Disgusting.”

“You’re perfect,” he corrected instantly, kissing the swell of your breast, then the side of your ribs. “Could stay right here forever.”

His lips traveled across your chest — warm, open-mouthed kisses on every inch he could reach. He nuzzled his face against your skin like a cat, humming softly, his voice all sweet and sleep-slurred.

“I can’t stop touching you,” he confessed, lifting his head just enough to look at you, his expression soft and full of wonder. “Like I’ll wake up and this’ll all be a dream if I let go.”

You turned to kiss him — slow, lazy, your lips just barely moving over his. His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. He kissed you like he had all day, like there was no rush at all, like he’d still be kissing you long after the sun had set.

The air was still thick with heat, your skin still buzzing, but with Euijoo curled around you like that — clinging to you, kissing every inch, whispering soft, sleepy praise against your chest.

It felt like summer.

It felt like him.

[circeyoru]

Ranking Means Nothing = Requested

The Request

[E-Rank!Sung Jinwoo x S-Rank Summoner!Reader]

“Sung Jinwoo!”

The man flinched as his head robotically turned to the entrance of his hospital room. He chuckled and waved you hi while calling your name out shyly. Meanwhile, you had been stomping over to his bedside with a small white dragon perched on your shoulder and a wolf balancing a basket of fruits on top of its head and there was even a bag of takeouts in its mouth.

“You left for another raid again!” You scolded him with a frown and harsh glare, “And without at least one- no, two of my summons!”

“I don’t want to bother you…” Jinwoo looked away with a guilty look. “Maintaining summons takes a lot of mana, energy, and concentration. The farther it gets from you, the more it requires. You know that… And I can’t burden you with it.”

You maintained your stern look, this time crossing your arms over your chest. “It’s fine. You know I can manage it. I’m the best summoner there is.” You sighed and dropped it, “You’re lucky they’re attached to you too.” A black snake slithered from under your coat sleeve, flicking its forked tongue at Jinwoo and hissed. “If this little guy didn’t take the hit for you, you’d definitely be a goner and I wouldn’t be here yelling at you. I’d probably be crying over your d-” You shook your head and looked away from him, unable to bear the thought, “Never mind.”

Your dragon cooed and nuzzled your cheek, your wolf whimpered and looked up at you, and even your snake tightened its grip on your arm. All your summons comforted you as best they could.

“I’m sorry and thank you.” Jinwoo took your hands in his. You looked up at him, that bittersweet smile he carried more often than he should and that look of helplessness. “I know you mean well. I know…”

With a huff, you eyed your little dragon and nodded in Jinwoo’s direction. The dragon flapped its wings and moved from your shoulder to hug Jinwoo’s head from the back. It roared cutely before a glow of mana covered Jinwoo’s entire form like a light show. The wounds under the various layers of bandages all faded away and Jinwoo’s complexion looked better. When its job was done, the dragon nuzzled at Jinwoo as well, even biting onto his longer hair strands.

Both of you giggled.

“Jinwoo, remember. I told you this before. I do not regret ever being yours and I do not regret you wanting to be mine.” You smiled at him with sincerity. 

The young man smiled back, “I do not regret it too, just… Sometimes it gets to me.”

You didn’t say anything more. You understood Jinwoo and his lack of confidence. As cruel as it was, it was normal, common even, to hear him say that more and more after he was awakened as an E-Rank Hunter.

Going back. It was a day like any other that you two met. 

You were annoyed by reporters here and there, unable to even enjoy some time to relax and rewind after completing a raid with your guildmates. Wherever you went, you were gushed over by your prowess as an S-Rank Hunter. You were like an idol or some famous whatever. You hated all that attention. You weren’t you and you weren’t just the amazing and strong S-Rank Hunter. It was even worse when barely any was around, so all eyes were on you.

It irked you to no end.

So you ran. 

Without looking at where you were running towards.

Your body collided straight into another. Your quicker reflexes let you stabilized and you realized your fault without missing a beat. Your arm reached out and held the other by the shoulder, well, you were aiming for the wrist but it turns out you two were closer than expected. “Sorry.”

“No, no, I wasn’t looking where I was going.” A soft voice spoke apologetically.

You wanted to explain it was your fault, but your ears twitched when the obsessive crowd was nearing you. You twirled the person to stand behind you, “Sorry, no time to explain. Just hold on!”

“Hold on?!”

“Summon! Come forth, my dragon!” You activated your summoning with an opened palm in front of you, your other hand covering for the person behind you. The giant magic circle appeared below your feet and glowed as a creature started to rise from the ground up.

“Ahh!” 

You felt your form hugged from behind by the waist, but you didn’t care. You two were already mounted on the back of your summon, “Take to the skies!”

A roar was let out before its wings opened and flapped; with a few more, all three of you were airborne. You kept your hands on the spiky neck to prevent your falling over, since it also meant the person behind you would fall to their death as well. Speaking of…

“Sorry about this, I was running away from some annoying pest.” You chuckled, “I’ll give you a lift home as compensation, would that do?”

“What?!” You felt the shaking form very close to you, “Did you say something?”

Ah, the wind. You patted twice on the dragon for it to slow down and it did. Then you repeated, “The fault was mine, I was busy running from some paparazzi and bumped into you. Can I offer you a ride home?”

“Oh, you don’t have to. I can just train the subway.”

You hummed, “Hey, this might be rude… But… You’re a guy, right?” 

You felt a flinch that followed with speedy blabbering. “What?! Of course I’m a guy! Do- Do I look like a girl?!”

“I thought you were a flat-chested young lady…” You answered honestly. “Your figure was… misleading…”

There were a few moments of silence apart from the sounds of flapping wings and the winds.

“So about that ride home?”

And that was how you met Jinwoo. First you bumped into him, practically kidnapped him into the skies, mistook him for a girl, and then you sent him home. Yeah… It was quite the day. At least meeting his family wasn’t too bad, apart from explaining why you brought Jinwoo home.

Contrary to your fears, you were treated well. None of them were overbearing and they were pretty tamed. Though it probably made sense cause their father, Sung Il-Hwan, was an S-Rank himself. He was formerly a firefighter and awakened as an S-Rank. He offered to train you in some combat in case you were in danger. Saying that you couldn’t just rely on your summons. You grudgingly agreed to it and have been meeting up with the Sung family more often than not.

Jinwoo’s head appeared in your view of the wonderful ceiling with an awkward smile, “Resting?”

“Your father’s a menace.” You cursed with a glare. “Mages like me don’t do fighting. We have tankers and fighters to do that for us.”

All Jinwoo could do was chuckle and pass you a bottle of cool water to hydrate yourself after your sparring training. You sat up and gulped down half of the bottle before you released a satisfied sigh. You stole peeks at Jinwoo while he went around cleaning the dojo, a place close to his home and a place his father frequented to train. 

“What are you staring at?”

“Gahh!” You immediately sprung up to your feet and raised your hands.

Il-Hwan gave you a once-over before nodding, “Good, your reaction time improved. But if I were a dungeon monster, you’re dead.”

You groaned and relaxed yourself, “Is everything a lesson with you, Teacher? Can’t I even rest in peace?”

“Hunters constantly face life or death. It is better to be trained than not.” Il-Hwan lectured. He did catch your eye rolling while crossing your arms. He smiled with a huff, “So, my son?”

You blushed. “What?! No! I didn’t feel for- I mean fell- I mean fall for him! At all! I swear!”

At that, he chuckled, “Hey, I didn’t say anything. Yet.” He grinned at you, “I say you exposed yourself entirely.”

“I see where Jinwoo gets his cheekiness…” You fanned your face. “If… I do… You know, pop the question… Will you and Mrs. Sung let us?”

“The choice is up to my son.” Il-Hwan looked over to his child with a fond and relaxed gaze. You shared the same gaze as Jinwoo played around with a few of your weaker summons you placed on the Sung family for protection. They were weak in comparison to your main summons, but they weren’t to be underestimated all the same. Your attention shifted when your mentor spoke again, “My family is everything, I’ll do anything to keep them safe. That said. Though, if you were to get together with my son or not, I’d like to ask for a favour.”

You hummed, signalling him to continue and that you were giving him your full attention.

“If anything ever happens to me in a dungeon, please look after my family. I’ll do the same to yours if the situation were reversed.” Il-Hwan spoke with such unwavering seriousness that you couldn’t help but admire it.

As much as you wanted to deny it would ever happen to him or you, it was a fool’s wish. Anything could happen in a dungeon and to anyone. None are truly safe. Even with the highest rank, the most powerful skills, the most impenetrable shield, or the most formidable armour. A human is just a human at the end of the day.

You smiled, “Don’t worry, I already consider you all to be my family. Even if you didn’t ask,” Your summons appeared behind you, “I’ll protect and care for you all as one of my own without question.”

Note: This is a short one, but I do plan to make another upload soon. As a series confirmation of its continuation: {Inhumans Among Humans}, the teaser is officially the prologue now and will continue as a series with massive updates each time. The relationship is romantic between Jinwoo and Reader, and the plot will stop before the events of the Jeju Island. Hope you guys look forward to that.

Enough about that series. How do you like this one? Short but fluff. Hehe.

𝕮𝖎𝖗𝖈𝖊 𝖄.

My Works: MASTERLIST *(regarding requests, check the Masterlist to see if it’s opened or not and other info related before sending one. Thanks.)

Taglist: @rozuburedo @ariseverdark @skylar896 @o-qi-shisme @stoats-a-dork @daiyanomochi @snowy-violet @sleepyamaya @thetruepair @aixaingela

[cillianate]

style - john walker

pairing: john walker x fem!reader

summary: on the car ride home following a mission-induced fight, john and his mission partner find themselves embraced by chance and taylor swift!

tags: fem!reader, use of she/her, implied no olivia, john is working on himself, taylor swift, corny, song fic, two idiots in love, john walker needs a hug, fluff, fight with happy ending

word count: 1.2k

authors note: this is entirely self service. i love this man so bad. goodnight. also if theres a mistake in the tense im sorry i originally wrote this in second person

“Just cut it out, John! I’m not a child and you’re not the boss of me!” She shouted to the man trailing the pavement behind her.

“I’m not trying to control you, I just want to keep you safe,” said the man, his eyes pleading, unknown to her, practically stomping toward his beaten up pick-up truck.

"Whatever, I can keep myself safe," she said, as she stepped onto the wedge of the truck, opening the door and pulling herself in. The several occasions on which she'd reassured John of her well-trained skills came to mind, and she couldn't help but be frustrated with his lack of understanding for her desire of individuality.

Dejectedly, John walked around to the drivers side of the truck, climbed in, and turned the key in the ignition before he stole another glance at her. Now settled into her seat, her eyes blazed forward. More than ever, John wished he hadn't blown up at her, or undermined what he knew she was capable of.

Through a break in the hair hanging over her face, she saw him steal a desperate glance her way, but in this moment, she wasn't ready to talk.

Nevertheless, there she sat side by side on the bench seat of his car, the faint hum of some 2000s song playing from the radio, still on the same station she'd left it on earlier. She knew he wouldn't change it, but god, did she wish he would. She wished he'd give her something to hate him for.

John looked as though he'd say something, maybe apologize. It was clear that he didn't think it was the proper time, though, because he hastily buckled his seatbelt and shifted the pickup into drive.

This was going to be an awkward ride. That was all John could think as he was exceeding the assumed limit of 65 on the freeway. In that moment all he wanted to do was pull his truck onto the shoulder, step into the street, and just stand there.

He figured anything could be better than the look she was giving him and the abundance of disappointment rolling out of her in waves and seeping into his pores.

He knew he was wrong for doubting her. Its something he caught himself doing often. Sure, he was working on it. Ever since Lemar died, and ever since he'd found his family in the Thunderbolts, he knew something had to change. His attitude before had been too sharp, and too trying. But her, sweet, beautiful, gracious her, had seen something in him that even he hadn't. She saw the kind and gentle man he was now seeing himself become.

To waste the chance she'd taken on him would be the biggest regret of his life.

John was rudely awakened from his thoughts as the radio sputtered to a commercial break in between its rampant frequency of 2010's white girl pop. It was all he found himself listening to nowadays. It was her favorite.

The broadcasters voice faded out as an all too familiar one faded in. Taylor Swift, he realized early on, was her tried-and-true. On countless nights he had caught her swirling about the kitchen with the singer's earlier albums soundtracking her activities.

And every once in a while, he'd join her, twirling her in his grasp and laughing alongside her, shackling the memories tightly to the front of his brain, sure to stay there for a lifetime and longer.

He noted the familiar tune, the chorus playing in his mind in place of the title, which he wasn't sure of.

But as he replayed this tune in his head, with nothing better to do, he noticed a faint humming. A humming that wasn't in the aspects of the song that he remembered after listening to it with her on so many late nights.

Slyly, he glanced out of the corner of his eye toward her.

No, her mouth wasn't moving, but there was a secondly present hum of the melody. One that John thought was beautiful.

Before he could process what the hell he was doing, John was reaching forward for the volume level with a smile on his face.

The way to a girl's heart is Taylor Swift. That was something she'd had told him on several occasions. And while her music wasn't exactly his thing (him much preferring the smooth tone of Springsteen), he'd listen to an eternity of Taylor Swift if it meant cheering her up and weaseling his way back into her heart. Hell, he'd even sing what half he knew of the lyrics and make up the others just to hear that laugh of hers.

And thats exactly what he did.

As the pre-chorus came, John sang as confidently as he could, louder than he intended, but sang, to say the least.

"You got that long hair, slicked back, white t-shirt, and I got that— I dont know any of the words—" he sang-spoke.

And finally, a laugh of sorts emerged from between her lips, her eyes holding the weight of both shock and love.

"What are you doing?!" She shouted over the music, which rested at three-fourths of the way to its max. A giggle still intertwined itself with her voice.

Any anger from earlier was completely forgotten, stored away for a later conversation. For now, she was just side by side with the man she found herself growing to love, who just didn't know it yet.

"I'm singing! Come on, you love this song. You know you want to," He said, his eyes on nothing but her. Probably not a wise choice, but he wasn't sure he cared. All he could focus on was the smile that finally reached her eyes, the flush of her cheeks, and the joy now seeping out of her and into him.

She sent a cheeky smile his way for the final time, before screaming along to the ever-repeating lyrics of the chorus alongside him.

"Just take me home

Yeah, just take me home

Cause we never go out of style,"

Her window, which had been rolled down prior, now casted her in the scene of some rom-com. The orangey lights of the highway tunnel fixed themselves perfectly across her face and across John's, too.

As they screamed the lyrics together, she felt inclined to stare at him.

He stared back, with what seemed like love.

She didn't want to think about what would happen when they got back to the tower.

She didn't want to think of the way she'd been mad at him just moments before now.

All she was content to do was sit and scream here with him.

So, no, he wasn't hers.

No, she wasn't sure if he ever would be. She'd yet to work up the nerve for that.

Maybe a red light would wreck this moment and bring them back to reality.

But maybe it wouldn't. Maybe the lights would make themselves green and open up the world for them.

But if all she could get from him was a few late nights like this, blanketed in bliss and hoping for more, then fuck all the fights and fuck anyone who had anything to say about it.

In that moment, John was hers, and she couldn't help but think that he always would be.

okay hope y'all enjoyed bai!

@hiddlestuns on twitter

[damneddamsy]

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

HEURISTIC BLOOM—Intuition blossoms where logic fails.

summary: What is a chore chart but structure in the Miller family that was falling out of line?

a/n: this turned into such a Daddy Joel chapter, so much fluff and angst, I think I just miss my dad so much these days, and this new episode was so difficult to watch. also, this is the daddiest that Joel has dad-ied in this entire series. I love every second of it; Maya and Joel just wreck my sanity. I hope you love it, too :)

word count: 13,000+

Time was the one thing Joel always hoped he’d have more of.

Not in the poetic sense, or to chase silly dreams or put things right. Back then, it was time he’d wanted only so he could spend it hating himself a little longer—then die. Quick, quiet, out of the way, forgotten. That was all he figured he deserved. One more day to survive. One more step closer to nothing.

Only now did time reveal its discretions. Each ageing moment handed to him like a sovereign of gold—finite, dear, and impossible to reclaim once lost.

Mornings came with the sweet dread of culminating, that soon waned by the closure of evenings, and so the circuit went. When everything felt too still, too good to be real. It was as if he’d wandered into someone else’s dream by mistake—some softer version of the world where the coffee stayed warm and the silence wasn’t empty. And he'd be jolted awake to cold floors and open doors any second now.

But the days kept coming. They folded into months, and somehow, a whole year had passed.

A year of birthdays, of sprinting forward, and arguments and mended fences. Of holidays cobbled together with whatever they could find—new twinkling lights held up by fishing wire, cakes made from rationed sugar and fruits born in their backyard. A year of reasons to celebrate. A year of dinners that rarely started on time because Maya needed to show everyone around the table her crayon-covered invention.

A whole year of learning what a family can be—awkward, noisy, unfinished—even when it was messy.

It was a lopsided tapestry that you stitched together with mismatched thread and too-thin patience, patched over with stubborn love and quiet apologies that never quite reached the lips. But it held, even when it creaked under the grief, betrayal, or someone slamming the door too hard.

One thread on that tapestry spiralled forward.

His baby girl, Maya, had turned two over the winter, all curls and wild energy, her tiny voice echoing through the house like birdsong—bright, persistent, impossible to overlook. She ran now—fucking bolted, really—zigzagging through the halls with the chaos of a wind-up toy, often with a sock missing, making him exhausted in ways he never wanted to recover from.

Leela cycled little chores for her on that chore chart that was pinned on the refrigerator, with pretty butterflies and yellow-red-green boxes, all of which were mostly ceremonial, but Maya took to them with solemn, almost comical seriousness. Joel had rolled his eyes then at how excessive it seemed, but these days? He saw what it did and meant.

Structure. Ownership. A sense that Maya belonged here and that this home worked because she helped it.

Setting the table for dinner became a ritual: “One for Daddy, one for me,” she’d whisper in account, carefully placing each plate and all the cutlery with two hands, and god help you if you moved one out of place. She watered a particular rosemary bush in the garden more than the rest, peering into its green leaves like it might talk back. She’d pluck weeds with exaggerated grunts of “Gotcha,” and announced with great urgency to him when the firewood pile looked “low-ish. You gotta make more.”

He’d smile and roll up his sleeves. “Yes, ma’am.”

And when he'd come down right after his shower—steam still curling in the upstairs hallway, wood floors cool under his bare feet, shirt sticking to his back as he came down the stairs, fingers combing through hair that was still wet at the nape—and there she’d be, every damn time.

On the little step-stool in front of the fridge, staring solemnly at her chore chart like it might change if she concentrated hard enough. Her brows were furrowed, sleep-crushed and intent. One hand clutching her stuffed horse, the other hovering near the velcro stars like she was solving a military strategy.

She tapped a box with her finger. “Gaw-den day.”

“Gaw-den. Close enough,” Joel murmured, halfway to the counter.

Maya whipped her head around.

He turned just in time to catch the full force of her grin. Just joy in its rawest, brightest form.

Still in that too-small pyjama set with the little stitched deer on the knees, one sleeve riding up her forearm and the other twisted under her arm where she’d probably slept on it. Her hair hung wild and crooked around her face, half-out of the two ponytails he’d wrestled in the night before, looking like she’d fought a windstorm in her dreams and won.

“Mornin’, daddy,” she chirped, teeth flashing, brown eyes scrunching into perfect little half-moons.

Joel quirked up a smile, like he always did. Like her voice stunned something in him still—every single morning.

Still not rolling her Rs properly, and goddamn if that Texas drawl didn’t hit him straight in the heart every time. That was him in there, bleeding out in the twang of her vowels. She was picking it all up—his dumb phrases, his slow way of leaning against a wall when he got tired, his dry little “hmm”s when he didn’t feel like answering a question. She was mirroring it all, not on purpose—just by being around him too often.

Joel was rubbing off on her. And it was cute as hell. Terrifying, too, in the way love always was when you had something to lose.

“Hi, darlin’,” he triumphed. “Workin’ hard or hardly working’?”

She focused back on her chart again. “Mhm.”

“Hey, where's your mama?”

“Mmmm-downstairs.”

He sighed. “As usual.”

She nodded seriously. “Okay. I gotta count firepile, too. 'Cause I didn’t yestah-day. Was busy.”

“Oh yeah?” He leaned on the counter beside her, letting one hand drop down to rub her back. “Real busy yestah-day, huh?”

Maya nodded again. “Uh-huh. I was eatin’ jam-toast. I coloured.”

Joel chuckled low in his throat. “Well. That’s mighty important.”

“Hmph. I know,” she whispered, already hopping down from the stool. “Shoes, shoes, shoes...”

“Alright, busybee, you come right back and wash your stinky tush,” Joel informed, watching her leave with her horse bouncing under one arm and determination in every stomp of her feet.

Her giggles faded out the door. “Ee, daddy, not my toosh!”

And it was the same way when she fought with Tommy. Even now.

Not the kicking, screaming kind anymore—those had been toddler tantrums. These were verbal scraps now. Loud as hell, sure, but laced with theatricality and the kind of absurd logic that only a two-year-old could weaponise. Always over something stupid, too. A missing biscuit. A cheating accusation in Go Fish. Once, Tommy bragged he’d launched a rock clean over the river, claiming it had “cleared the bend, swear to God.” Maya narrowed her eyes, tiny fists balled on her hips.

“Uncle, you liar,” she declared at the table.

Tommy, ever the instigator, leaned into it with the earnest of a man falsely accused. “Now hold up. Who you callin’ a liar?”

“’S too far... throw.”

“Maybe you just got short arms, squirt.”

Her eyes went wide, affronted. “Not squirt!” she yelped. “Ma-ya. Maa-yaa.”

“Whatever, squirt.”

Then came the stomp—always the stomp—little boot heels pounding off to file a formal complaint with Maria, who didn’t intervene unless something got broken, or someone cried.

Joel just watched it all unfold with quiet amusement, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. That was his kid, through and through. Fire in her chest, loyalty to a fault, bullshit radar honed to lethal precision. He couldn’t decide if he was proud or worried. Probably both.

Maria handled it better than he did. She had a knack for plucking Maya up mid-meltdown, nestling her against a hip, and talking her down with soft logic and firm affection. No nonsense. No coddling.

Maya, all indignant, fists balled at her sides, came up to her. “He did it again! You gotta beat him, auntie—just pow, pow. Go.”

“Strong-armed by a munchkin,” Tommy mumbled to Joel.

Maria crouched, scooping Maya into her arms with a practised sigh. “Even wild things gotta learn when to walk away, baby.”

There was this maternal gravity there that Maya orbited around without quite realising it. Joel watched the way Maya always crept to Maria’s side when they walked together, or how she listened to her in that unusually still, owl-eyed way she reserved for her mother.

Ellie, on the other hand, was chaos incarnate.

Despite all her grumbling—I’m not babysitting, Joel, I got shit to do—she’d somehow slipped into the role of older sister with barely a stutter. Maya idolised her. Trailed after her like a shadow. Happily took to her when she gave her piggybacks every other evening. Ellie taught her how to whistle through her fingers, and how to spit (which Joel outlawed immediately), and how to sneak treats from the back of the pantry without anyone knowing, especially as Joel, the sucker he was, always fell for those delighting Bambi-eyes routine of hers.

“You distract Joel,” Ellie would whisper, squatted low like they were plotting a heist. “I’ll go for the loot.”

Sometimes Maya clung to her like ivy, curling up beside her on the porch while Ellie fiddled with her switchblade, asking questions about patrol, or hummed tunelessly on her guitar. Other times, she’d give Ellie the boot with all the ceremony of a royal dismissal.

“You go home now,” she’d say, small hand making a shooing gesture toward the door. “You go. Go back.”

Ellie never took it personally. Just smirked and ruffled her curls. “Fine, little shit. I’ll tell Dina you said no to those crayons you wanted so bad.”

Maya would hesitate. Glare. Cross her arms. “Fine.”

It was all ridiculous. It was all perfect. She was perfect.

And Joel couldn’t help but marvel at how she navigated them all—Tommy’s loudmouth energy, Maria’s constant warmth, Ellie’s storm-bright orbit. She was learning how to hold her own. How to give and take. How to love.

And through it all, Joel was utterly wrapped around her finger, watching his little girl fold herself into the arms of a world he used to think was too broken to offer her anything good. She could get away with just about anything if she smiled at him just right, even now.

He pretended to be stern, sure—“Put that back, trouble,” he’d grumble, trying not to grin his face off as she paraded around the house in his muddy boots, dragging his big-ass guitar behind her by the tuning pegs, impersonating him—“That ain’t a toy.”

“My guitar!” she’d giggle, shooting off.

And that would be that. Even Maya knew the truth: she had him beat.

Nowadays, he never really played that damn guitar for himself anymore. Not in the way he once had, back when music was the only place he could put his grief without it looking him in the face. These days, the strings still held sorrow, sure, but it wasn’t a wound he was nursing in secret. It was a tether.

These days, the strings answered to her. To Maya.

And most evenings, without fail, she’d find him out on the porch. Joel would settle there with a quiet grunt, sinking into the porch swing, guitar propped across his knee.

And she’d come, right on schedule—like a moth to the low twang of a G chord.

He’d barely get through tuning when he’d hear the soft little thump-thump-thump of bare feet coming up behind him.

And there she’d be. All two-foot-nothing of her. Wearing that flannel dress that was cut from his old shirts, a nappy that probably needed changing, curls stuck to her forehead, big, brown eyes shining, and she’d let out a huffy sigh, like she was bone-tired from a long day of being two years old.

“Play f’me,” she’d demand simply, climbing onto the swing with zero grace and a lot of conviction.

Joel would glance down at her. One of the shoulder-bows to the dress undone, one sock rolled halfway off, fingers idly picking at a tear on his jeans.

“Am I your jukebox now?” he’d ask, squinting at her with mock suspicion.

She’d giggle a 'hee-hee' sound, not even looking at him. She tapped her chest twice with a little closed fist. “Daddy, my song. Sing Maya song.”

“You ain’t got no song,” he said—always said, every time, even though he already knew what was coming.

“Comma comma song,” she insisted, nodding so hard her curls bounced. “My song.”

The same fucking Handyman song.

He'd lost count of how many times he’d played it—possibly near a thousand by now, judging by the muscle memory in his fingers. But it never got old, not once, not even when he was tired. Not even when his hands ached. Not even on days when he’d spent the morning scrubbing infected blood from under his nails or patching up a busted wall in the town’s greenhouse.

He exhaled, long-suffering, and booped her nose. “Fine. Only ‘cause you’re so damn cute.”

“Cute,” she echoed with a proud little nod, like it was her idea.

Sometimes, on good days—on golden ones like this—he’d plop her into his lap, seating the big, old guitar across both of them. She’d giggle every time like it was a surprise that it was so heavy, the guitar’s body practically swallowed her, tiny legs kicking out with the effort of balancing it. Joel would guide her tiny hand to the strings, his own fingers still holding the chords steady on the frets.

“Easy, baby girl,” he’d murmur, soft at her ear. “Right there. Ready?”

She bounced a little on his leg. “Th-wee-too-one,” she whispered.

And then she’d strum with those baby fingertips, turning red. A phantom pain radiated from his own at the sight.

The tune was always offbeat, too hard or too soft, a mess of squeaky rhythm and muddled chords—but she sang. Loud and proud. Off-key. Adorable. It didn’t matter if she got the words wrong; if she forgot them halfway through, then she made up new ones.

He'd sing with her, a smile in his voice. “Here is the main thing that I wanna say, I'm busy 24 hours a day—”

“Come-a, come-a, come-a, come-a, come, come!” she squealed, kicking her heels.

“Goin’ way too fast,” Joel laughed under his breath, trying not to lose rhythm. “You’re worse than your uncle.”

“I good,” she insisted, pushing her little hands against the strings with all the wrong pressure.

“You loud.”

“Comma, me-hee-ee!” she shouted.

Joel looked down at her—at that messy head, those little shoulders leaning back against the chest she’d lived all her life—this was the same girl who, not that long ago, couldn’t even sit up on her own. The wobbly little thing who used to clap wildly just because he’d hit a clean chord, laughing like it was magic. Now she wanted to sing with him. Be part of his music, even if her sweet songbird voice cracked mid-line because she got distracted by the callouses on his knuckles or the breeze.

His baby was growing up. Too soon for his liking, but so beautifully, too.

Although Joel thought he knew her. He knew everything about his little girl. Knew how she liked her toast slathered with jam, which socks were the “slide-y” ones, the exact pitch her voice hit when she was about to cry, or lie. He knew her world like a worn trail—knew how to keep her on her feet, fed, clean, and loved.

But some things she did still knocked the wind out of him.

It was late one evening, the fire burning low on the hearth, dinner cleaned up, when Joel had settled into the armchair with Maya curled up in his lap, the way she always did, back pressed to his chest, her fingers idly tracing that old scar on his forearm. He picked up the same book they’d been reading for weeks—The Three Pigs—half asleep himself, his voice a gravelly drone more than anything else.

But Maya pushed it aside.

“No,” she declared, already sliding off his lap. She padded across the rug, tugged at the bookshelf with both hands, and wrestled out a hardcover that had seen better days—corners frayed, spine puffed out from water damage.

She carried it over like it weighed five pounds and dropped it with a proud thud in his lap.

“This one,” she huffed.

Joel managed a quiet laugh. “Feelin’ turtles tonight, huh?” he muttered, shifting as she climbed back up his lap, settling in between like a cat.

He reached for the book—One Tiny Turtle—but she didn’t hand it over.

Instead, she squinted at the cover, nose scrunching in that comically serious toddler way. Then she looked up at him, one hand on the book, the other already halfway to his face.

“Daddy, glasses,” she said, tapping his neck like she was reminding him of something important. “I need ‘em. Gimme.”

Joel blinked, caught off guard—and then smiled. It wasn’t the first time she’d asked. Ever since he’d started needing the damn things—fixing small screws had turned into a guessing match more than a skill—Ellie and Dina had teased him mercilessly. Maya, on the other hand, had become fascinated. She treated the glasses like mystical antiques, often pulling them from his shirt pocket with the solemnity of a librarian.

“You wanna wear ‘em?” he asked, playing along. “Ain’t gonna help you. Your pretty eyes are fine.”

“Gimme ‘em,” she insisted, already snatching them up and jamming them on her tiny face, where they slipped halfway down her nose, looking exactly like an overworked professor three grades deep into bedtime.

“Wow,” she gasped. “I see you. I see turtles now!”

Joel bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Goddamn if she wasn’t the most adorable thing he’d ever seen. “Alright, careful with those,” he warned, settling his hands around her middle again to keep her from toppling off his leg.

She cracked the book open herself. Thumbed through a few pages with the consideration of someone handling sacred text. Then stopped. Planted a tiny finger on the first line.

And she started reading. Not guessing. Not parroting back his voice.

Maya was reading out loud.

“The moon was hi-guh... and the... wa-wa-ter was cold. But the ly-tuh-lee... little... tur-tuh-le... turtle... swam fah-st. Fast... lick-ee the ti-dee.”

Her voice was light, soft and lilting—like the story was a secret she was sharing with herself first, him second.

Joel stared at her, heart thudding like someone had snuck up on him.

Maya turned the page, tracing the next words carefully. Eyes squinting. “...pa-st the fish. And fa-w, fa-w aw-ay.”

Then she looked up, glasses sliding down, all earnest pride, like she expected to be graded. “I read’d it, Daddy.”

And for a second, Joel couldn’t find his breath because all he could think was: what in the everloving fuck?

He’d thought she was just memorizing the damn thing—he’d read it enough times to her, he’d been the one to guide Maya’s little finger across sentences these past months after all. But this wasn’t that. She was making sense of letters. Decoding. Connecting shapes to sound, sound to story. Stringing together syllables. Her lips moved just slightly before each word, like she was solving a fucking puzzle on the fly.

She wasn’t even three. And somehow—she was reading.

He didn’t show it. His face didn’t know how to do that kind of surprise anymore, not without breaking something open. Instead, he cleared his throat and gave her a quiet nod.

“You sure as hell did, sweetheart,” he said, low, a little hoarse. “You’re my little miracle, aren’t you?”

Maya lit up, her whole body beaming, and turned back to the book with purpose, flipping the page with the flourish of a person on a mission.

“Yeah. I read more for you. See. I named this turtle Marco, Marco Turtle...”

He only watched her, one arm wrapped loosely around her, the other hand resting at the edge of the paper, not quite knowing what to do with it. Her teeny heartbeat raced against his ribs.

And his mind was rushing ahead.

He should’ve been overjoyed. And in some ways, he was. But beneath the pride—deep in the gut, where old instincts still lived—a darker, ancient feeling bloomed. Fear. The same kind that gripped him when Leela stayed up too late with equations in the margins of tear-stained notebooks.

Because Maya was clever. Leela-clever. That quiet, effortless sort of brilliance that didn’t ask permission to exist.

And he knew what being brilliant cost. He’d seen it grind Leela down, chewed through her sleep, her peace, her joy. Seen how the world didn’t know what the hell to do with someone like her. How it tried to shrink her, dull her, use her up.

His Maya... she was still so little. She was supposed to have more time. She was supposed to play in the dirt, throw tantrums, and mispronounce things until she was five or six. Not sit here with a picture book and read like the words had always belonged in her little mouth.

A new grief in him began, a grief for a childhood barely started, already being outpaced by her mind.

And that was when the other things—the more obvious things, the ones he’d been too honeyed by daily bliss to see clearly—began to needle at him.

The future was closing in faster than he thought it would.

Their non-literal home was beautiful. A little too beautiful. Big, white, built from the creation of what once had been someone’s dream—stained glass in the sidelites and transom, a clawfoot tub in their oceanic bedroom, floorboards worn soft in the middle. It had charm. Soul.

But to Joel, nowadays, it had also started to feel like a keep.

Because Leela didn’t leave it until absolutely necessary. She stepped out onto the porch now and then, took Maya to the berry brambles, and walked to Tommy's occasionally. But she never involved herself. Not in the way Maria did, with her council meetings and community firepit nights. Not like Ellie, loud and cursing with her mess of teenage friends at the bar counter.

No 'friends.' No card games. No loitering on porches just to gossip. She was polite, moved through the town like a ghost too gentle to haunt, present when she had to be—but Jackson never really got to know her beyond her genius.

And in the beginning, Joel hadn’t pushed it. He’d respect that, protect her space with the quiet, dogged devotion he always had.

Trauma didn’t heal like a cut for his girl. It festered. Seeped into the walls. Made a home in the bones. He, of all people, knew what it was to be gutted by life and left walking around in your own ruin. Leela needed the quiet, needed to rebuild the walls around herself brick by careful brick, and if she’d found peace inside the four corners of their home, who was he to challenge that?

But then came Maya. Changing everything by just growing.

And with it came the slow, unsettling realisation that Leela’s fear was becoming an inheritance.

It hit him hardest one bright afternoon when Maya, who tagged along with him to run a quick errand—sticking to his leg like a barnacle—flat-out shrieked at the entrance of the general store.

“No, no. We go back, Daddy,” she'd begun from the street.

She’d been unusually clingy that day, and instead of nudging her to stay behind with Leela, he’d bundled her up and brought her along. Figured it’d be like before, when she used to ride tucked under his arm or babble at him from his hip. These days, she was brave. Intelligent. She liked counting fruit, pointing out colours, proudly telling him which apples were “juicy.”

But the second they stepped inside, she broke down. She wanted the fuck out of there.

She’d sobbed it over and over, tears wetting her little dungarees and boots, fists balled to her face, breath hitching, while Joel knelt beside her, stunned. His girl never reacted like this. Not to stores. Not to anything. So why now?

“Maya, hey, hey—look at me,” he’d tried to talk her down softly, rubbing her tiny arms, “we’re just getting fruit. Then we’ll go back, baby girl. You like apples, don’t you?”

But she’d kept wailing. Deep, frantic. Panicked. Like something invisible had reached into her and flipped a switch labelled hazard.

Joel could feel the eyes now. People watching from behind shelves and crates, faces folding into awkward sympathy, some barely disguising the discomfort. He barely registered any of it.

All he could think was—Goddamn, my baby's scared. Not because the prospect of the store was frightening, but because home was all she knew. Because her world had been drawn in close, little, familiar, tight, and any step outside of it was an immediate danger.

Still in a daze, he took Maya home soon enough. Held her, fed her favourite berries while she calmed down. Didn't say anything to a blank-faced Leela, not then. Just watched the way Maya wrapped herself around her mother’s neck and didn’t let go. Like they were still one body, one breath.

“I like here, Mama,” Maya had whispered to her.

“Then we stay here, okay? As long as you want,” Leela had assured, stroking Maya's hair.

And Joel lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling with a bitter pill stuck in his throat. A knot he couldn’t swallow down.

It wasn’t Leela’s fault. It wasn’t. But it wasn’t fair either—not to Maya. She deserved to hear laughter from kids near her age, sing rhymes with her friends, and go on playdates.

Because he’d seen these kids now. The world had made a lot of them—survivors, ghosts, raised in silence and scarcity, oriented by conditions that safety meant solitude. That hiding meant living.

He didn’t want that for his little girl. Didn’t want Maya to inherit the isolation. The fear. The belief that outside meant trouble and inside meant control.

So Joel started trying. Small things. Subtle at first.

Long, frequent walks to the grocery store with Maya. More dinners at the barbecue restaurant with Tommy and Maria. He’d sidle up to the couples gathered near the café, folks trading gossip and laughter, and being the stone-faced bastard he was, he would grumble something half-funny, trying to wedge himself—and by extension, Leela—into the rhythm of the town. It wasn’t natural for him—this mingling shit, but he he did it for his family.

And Leela came, most times, only for Maya.

At the playground, where the older kids laughed too loudly in a game of tag, he would squat beside Maya, pointing out. “You wanna play with them? Go on, baby girl. Say hi. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with trying.”

But every time, he’d see the same thing.

The exact moment Leela would freeze beside him, hands tightening around the strap of the canvas grocery bag she carried like armour. The subtle tension in her jaw, her mouth a thin line, standing there in hurt.

And Maya, watching her mama, would duck behind Leela’s legs like clockwork. Her caution. Her withdrawal. A mimicry that cut Joel deeper than any outburst could.

“I want home,” she’d parrot, deadpan, robotic. Already backing up.

Joel felt it like a slap.

And later, in the kitchen, he’d let it out. Not yelling, he didn’t yell much anymore, but his voice would scrape low, pressure building in the seams. Snaps over nothing. A dish not rinsed. A cabinet left open. Laundry left out on the clothesline. The wrong kind of silence. Long nights standing in their bedroom corridor, arguing too quietly for Maya to overhear.

“She’s starting to copy you,” he’d say, jaw working.

“She’s two,” Leela would shoot back.

“Exactly, darlin’. She needs to know the world ain’t all gonna hurt her.”

“The hell it isn’t. She’s with her mother. She feels safe. What’s wrong with that?”

He’d go still. Always did, at that line. Because he understood it, on a level few others would. But that didn’t make it right.

He’d exhale through his nose, run a hand through his hair like it could scrub the ache out of his scalp, fighting the impulse to strike the wall. He fucking hated this.

“She’s brave because her mother is braver,” Joel would mutter finally, eyes on the floor. “She’s gotta know there’s more than just closed doors—”

“How do you know, Joel!” she interrupted with a hiss.

He shut his eyes on instinct, “—and being safe. There’s living, Leela. Not just staying alive.”

Leela would go quiet then, in sorrow. Quiet, aching sorrow leaking shame, and didn’t ask for forgiveness because it didn’t believe it deserved it.

And sometimes—rarely—Leela would cry, just a little. He’d see it in the shimmer at the edge of her lashes, the way she turned away to hide her face in the crook of her arm. And he would stand there, fists clenched uselessly at his sides, hating the way his love kept crashing into her fear. Hated himself for adding to it, even as he knew he had to.

Joel knew it wouldn’t be quick or easy. Fear never lets go without a fight. But he also knew this: he loved Leela and Maya too much to let them stay inside forever.

In that quiet, stubborn tapestry Joel kept tucked away in the back of his mind—the one stitched from all the things he didn’t say aloud—plenty of threads held it together.

Two stretched, bounding forward: Maya, Ellie, both new, young and wide-eyed, full of questions and sunlight, weaving joy into every corner of the future he still dared to imagine.

The other ran deeper, coloured red as blood: Leela—tired, brilliant, proud. Fraying at the edges, pulled too tight in places, but still threaded through every part of him. She was the pattern he couldn’t unpick, no matter how much it hurt. Woven into the very fabric of him, even as she came undone.

But things between Joel and Leela lately have been... rocky. Worse than that.

And if you’ve followed it this far, you probably know by now—Leela was never really around to know what was happening, and she never really forgave Joel. Not for that.

Even though he told himself he did it for her—for them—the price he paid was her trust, and once broken, it didn’t come back easily. He couldn't even blame her.

Because he’d done this. He’d done the one thing she couldn’t forgive—not yet.

Took her work, the mammoth of a legacy she built with trembling hands, in the dark, decimal by decimal, proof by proof, pouring herself into it like it was the only piece of hers that mattered. And he took it, slipped out in the middle of the night like a goddamn thief with her notebook stuffed into his pack and headed south without a word.

Caltech. The Fireflies. Fucking death of good.

He went thinking he was doing it for her, for all of them, trying to scrape some meaning out of this wreck of a world, trying to give her back the future that had been stolen. But in the end, what he gave her was another theft.

He hadn’t trusted her enough to tell her. Hadn’t believed she could survive the heartbreak of hope, not after everything.

But she’d survived worse, hadn’t she?

And now—she was surviving him.

She didn’t scream or accuse him. No, that wasn’t her way. Just looked at him afterwards like he was a stranger with her blood on his hands. And in some way, he was.

She withdrew, inch by silent inch, until the space between them felt like a raging ocean. Her life shrank down to two absolutes: the work and Maya. And Joel went past it, a bad, breathing memory.

At first, it was small. She missed family dinners to entertain her workshop, tolerated his touches, his little kisses, his stupid jokes, his try-hard conversations at night before they fell asleep. She still kissed him goodnight—light brushes of the mouth, like habit, like politeness. He tried to meet her there, tried harder than he had in months.

But something in her had already begun to turn inward. Soon, she stopped laughing. Stopped touching back. And the kisses stopped, too. Not abruptly—just faded, like colour bleeding from cloth.

She began to stay up late, diving headfirst into that goddamned hard drive, pouring over its files until her eyes were red and raw from the blue light.

One night, after he had put Maya to bed and the house fell into its accustomed hush, Joel found Leela in the kitchen, hunched over her notebook at the island, bathed in the amber lights above the stove. Her pencil moved in relentless bursts—fast, jittery, like it was chasing her thoughts before they escaped.

Joel lingered at the doorway for a second, cracking his knuckles nervously, just watching her. Then he padded in quietly and slid behind her chair. He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knots he knew so well.

She stiffened for half a second worth of instinct—then relaxed, but only just. Her pen didn’t stop. Her eyes didn’t leave the page.

“You eat anything yet?” he asked, his voice barely more than a murmur against the crown of her head.

“Mhm,” she hummed, not really answering.

“What was it?”

“Um. Bread.” A shrug. A scratch at her nape. “Leftovers, I think. Bread.”

He didn't know whether to laugh or yell at her.

He dipped lower, pressing a kiss to her temple. Another at the corner of her jaw. “Been thinkin’,” he murmured, “tomorrow, maybe we take a walk. Just us. Creek trail’s thawed out. Might even find some of those frogs Maya keeps talkin’ about.”

She nodded absently, shifting forward so his lips barely brushed her skin. “Mhm. We’ll see.”

Joel lingered. He let his hand trail from her shoulder down her arm, fingers curling around her wrist. Then, almost shyly, he leaned in again, tried for her mouth, the edge then the soft bow of it—a gentle, building kiss, just enough to say I miss you. Come upstairs with me.

But she barely turned her head when his fingers traced down her chin and throat. Her lips caught the edge of his, then returned to her notes like nothing had happened.

“Joel,” she refused quietly, nearly apologetic. “I’m... I need to get this down before I lose my train of thought.”

Joel pulled back. Swallowed. “Got it,” he said.

His hand drifted off her wrist.

Sooner than later, the bed went cold. Her pillow stayed smooth. Her scent disappeared from the sheets. No creak of the mattress at midnight. No rustle of her turning toward him, murmuring, half-asleep. He waited a week. Then three months. Told himself she was just tired. Overworked. He even left the light on for her on most nights. But her side stayed untouched for weeks. And then it wasn’t her side anymore. Just empty space.

She made no scenes, but she made no room either. Joel became a fixture—like the porch railing, the boots by the door. Something that used to belong but now just takes up space. Just empty space.

Because he knew he deserved it. Knew it wasn’t just one thing, or one mistake. It was the thousand small betrayals: the silences, the avoidance, the cowardice of a man who thought keeping the truth buried would keep the peace. And now there was this quiet, unbearable nothing between them. A stillness too loud to ignore.

Back to square one, he guessed. Back to being the man who didn’t know how to fix a goddamn thing he loved without wrecking it first.

Even Maria had started to notice, asking questions with too-soft eyes when Leela's silence crossed into the summer. The quiet between them was too loud not to.

“She’s not talking to you,” she had stated to him earlier, before he left for patrol, her tone too casual on the surface.

Joel shook his head. “Ain’t her fault. Just let her be.”

“You’re not talkin’ either.”

He gave a humourless exhale, more through his nose than his mouth. “Not much left to say.”

Maria was quiet for a beat, then added, softer, “That’s not true. You just think it’ll hurt more if you say it.”

Joel finally looked at her, eyes shadowed under the brim of his hat. “What do you want to hear, Maria? That I fucked up? That I’d give my goddamn right hand to take it back?”

Maria didn’t blink. “I want you to stop pretending everything’s fine.”

He looked away again, the line of his shoulders rigid, like holding back a landslide. That one landed hard.

“I just… I don't know how to fix it without breakin’ more of her. Or losin’ what I have.”

Maria sighed. “You lived too long, Joel,” she said. “You think that makes you harder, but really… it just made you scared.”

Yes, she was right, but damn if he knew what else to do when every word he spoke just seemed to push her further away.

So, Joel didn’t bother explaining. How could he? How could he put into words the way he'd tried to buy redemption with silence? How could he justify betraying the one woman who had ever truly seen him—not just the survivor, not the killer—but the father, the man?

So he didn’t. He just tried like a goddamn fool, and wedge himself back into the corners of her world.

He started learning to cook on his own, fumbling through her spice rack like a man disarming a bomb, holding tiny jars of sumac, baharat and saffron. He burned rice more than he cared to admit, sliced his knuckle on a dull knife trying to dice onions the way she did, and measured out cumin in those labelled spoons. All of it for the smallest chance that maybe—she’d sit beside him again. That she’d taste what he made and remember the man she used to love.

Most nights, he got nothing more than a nod. Other nights, not even that.

He started taking early patrols, slipping out before the sun had even begun to crack over the mountains—just so he could be back in time for dinner, hoping that his presence might feel less like a shadow. He tried being quieter, helpful than usual, and patient. Cleaned up after Maya’s tantrums without a word, patched the leaky faucet no one had asked him to touch, restocked the pantry with the dried apricots that Leela loved. He’d traded two .44s and a good knife for them. Worth every bullet.

One long, back-breaking afternoon, he planted sunflowers beneath the kitchen window—tall, defiant things, yellow like August heat—so they’d be the first thing she saw when she came down for her morning coffee.

The next day, he stood leaning against the counter when she ambled in, silent as always. She poured her tea like it was a chore, staring out the window.

He tried again. “Sunflowers’re yours,” he said, voice quiet, encouraging. “Figured they’d like it there. Morning light looks good on them, right?”

She didn’t look at him or say a thing. Just took her cup and left.

He stayed where he was for a while, jaw working, hand flexing against the edge of the counter like he could squeeze the silence into something that didn’t feel like regret.

Still, it wasn’t enough. And he blamed every bit of himself. He did this, now he had to face the music.

Another promising evening, he stood by the stove with his heart in his throat, ladling out bowls of a chickpea stew he knew she couldn't go a week without. It smelled right—he was sure of it. That same sweet earthiness she used to hum over. He had Maya set a plate for her and sat her on his hip, fresh out of a nap and giggling, pointing at the pot and declaring it “orange soup.”

When Leela emerged from the hallway, hair hanging in knots, picking dirt off her fingernails, he looked up too quickly. Hope gave him away every time.

“Hey. I made us an early dinner,” he said, soft, stupid and hopeful. “Figured you'd get hungry soon. Come, sit.”

She paused, eyes drifting from the table to his hand, then to him.

“Thank you,” she said, and took the bowl from his hands without sitting down. Bent over and kissed Maya’s temple, her voice dipping into a gentle whisper for their daughter. “Maybe give her a bath tonight. Wash her hair, too.”

“Yeah, thought as much,” he hummed.

Maya was the only glue, a scared hope that all wasn't lost, and the one place Leela hadn’t drawn a line in the sand. She didn’t keep Maya from him or poison her against him. The one harness in this well-oiled rope he balanced on.

Then Leela turned, bowl still in hand, and headed straight for the basement door.

Joel stood there, hand still hovering over the back of her empty chair, feeling like he’d just been left out in the cold.

“Leela,” he tried, just once, not loud. “You don’t have to eat down there.”

She didn’t look back, just kept walking. And the door closed behind her.

He sank into the chair anyway, across from the spot she'd left bare, with all that love bottled inside him, rattling like a storm in a glass jar, praying for a crack. A fissure. Anything.

He hadn’t expected a goddamn earthquake to bring it all down.

Not a fight. Not another bout of silence. Not even the slow, invisible corrosion that had been eating away at their days, their hours, the quiet spaces between words.

It happened deep into August, nearly three months since they last spoke to each other past monosyllables, on a night so thick with heat it felt like the world itself was holding its breath. No wind, no clouds, no moon. Just stillness. Then, from beneath the floorboards, a low, aching groan—ancient, half-buried stirring in its grave.

Joel heard the first crash a moment later—metallic, jagged, unnerving. Then another. And then a sound he felt in his spine more than his ears: a raw, feral wail echoing up from the workshop. Hers.

He stilled where he sat, his back against the headboard, Maya's small body rising and falling steadily on his chest. She didn’t wake. Just sighed in her sleep, lips parted, her tiny fist knotted in his shirt.

He held still, listening, hoping it would pass. He lay perfectly still, willing it to be nothing. He definitely imagined it. Maybe a cabinet door slamming in the draft. But he knew better; the house didn’t make sounds like that on its own.

The noise came again—sharper this time, something being slammed into oblivion, beaten past recognition.

Joel exhaled and moved gently, untangling himself from Maya’s grip. He laid her into the centre of the bed and ringed her with pillows, a soft, uneven wall meant to keep her safe in the night.

Maya stirred, a little sigh hitching, eyes fluttering open with a blink.

He rubbed her back gently, managing a smile for her. “Hi. Go back to sleep,” he murmured.

But she didn’t. Instead, she looked up at him, her lashes damp, her voice tiny and confused. “Mama’s mad ‛gain.”

Joel couldn't even hide his dejection anymore, he simply let it run rampant on his face as she watched. He soothed a hand over her curls, pressing a kiss to her crown. “Mama doesn’t mean to be. Her heart’s real loud sometimes, that’s all.”

Maya flinched when another crash echoed. Joel felt it through her whole little body.

“Scary mama,” she whispered.

“Oh, baby girl,” he sighed, stroking her tiny cheek, swallowing hard. “Just close your eyes, okay? Daddy’s gonna help her out, and I'll be right back.”

She reached out to him blearily, tiny palm patting at the slope of his nose before she returned the fist beneath her head. Her eyes drooped shut, and she was snoring away in moments.

For a moment, he just stood there, watching her, making sure. Listening.

Another crash came from below.

What the fuck was this twisted part of his good life? He rubbed a hand over his face and turned toward the door, limbs heavy with sleep—or maybe it was dread. Probably both. He moved barefoot down the stairs, each step dragging him toward something he already knew he couldn’t fix.

The basement light glared beneath the doorframe, a thin blade of gold effusing onto the floor from a room already burning. He opened the door with a huff and descended the stairs, the wood creaking beneath.

The stale air hit him first—dense, electric, scorched, metallic. Burned circuits, hot solder, and beneath all that: the sour, unmistakable scent of grief when it’s been left to smoulder too long.

And then he saw her.

Leela was surrounded by wreckage—tools flung wide, cracked motherboards strewn across the concrete like broken bones. He counted at least three, maybe more. One was still beneath her boot, the delicate circuitry crunching under the force of her heel. Her hands were trembling. Her cheeks streaked with silent, unrelenting tears she hadn’t wiped away—like her body was crying without permission, leaking sorrow that had nowhere else to go.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t even acknowledge the sound of the door or his footfalls.

Joel stood there, rooted. For a moment, he didn’t know whether to speak or retreat. His mind scrambled for anything useful to say, but everything in him stilled as he watched her unravel.

It wasn’t the outburst that gutted him. It was the restraint.

This wasn’t rage. Deeper. Exhausted. A woman clawing at the walls of her own brilliance, trying to outrun the weight of everything she knew and everything she couldn’t fix. Trying to make sense of a world that refused to make sense back then. Performing an autopsy on their own dreams.

She brought her boot down again. Another snap. Another grunt. Another piece of her pursuit fractured beyond repair.

He had come down here expecting a storm. But what he found was the wreckage left in its wake.

Joel cleared his throat softly, the sound awkward in the charged silence. “Leela, honey.”

She didn’t look up. Just stood there, staring at the crushed remnants of the board beneath her foot. Her shoulders were tight, her breathing uneven—quiet, little gasps like someone trying to stay underwater.

Then finally—she grunted. “What do you want?”

It wasn’t a challenge. Or even anger.

Just... hollow.

Joel stood there, caught on the threshold, hands clenched at his sides like restraint might anchor him. The question hit harder than any destruction. He hated how she said it—like he was an interruption. A ghost. A reminder.

“What do I want?” he echoed. He stepped inside the room fully. “I want you to be done with this shit. Christ, baby. Look at yourself.”

She didn’t answer. Just swiped the back of her wrist across her face. The tears smeared into skin already marked by sleeplessness, a black bruise of exhaustion under each eye. Her lip trembled—not rage, but from how close she was to shattering. She was holding herself together with splinters.

“This ain’t just about bein’ tired. Or obsessed,” he said, low and hoarse. “This is—you’re gone. I don’t know where you went.”

The silence after that was like stepping into a vacuum. Thick, suffocating, vast. She didn’t argue. Just turned to a statue mid-collapse, crumbling from the inside out.

Joel scanned the room—the half-burned schematics, the warped breadboards, the soldering station with a fresh burn mark across its edge. This wasn’t tinkering anymore. This wasn’t research. This was a crash-out. A gradual collapse with no bottom.

And then he said it. The thing he’d been building toward for days.

“You’re gonna pack all this up,” he gestured at the blown circuits, the melted boards, the scribbled chalk math on the blackboards and ruin, “and give it to the folks at the dam who know what the hell to do with it. Then you’re comin’ home. You’re gonna focus on—us. On our family.”

Her head turned, slowly, like rusted hinges catching. That word—family—cracked her open. Her eyes, rimmed in red, shadowed and hollow, fixed on him like a dagger pressed to skin.

“And that’s all I am to you now?” she asked, brittle. “Maya’s mom?”

Joel’s jaw clenched. “Don’t be twistin’ what I said.”

She let out a sound—a laugh, but it bent at the edges, twisted bitter, hollow.

“I’m a dead loss with what I want, so now I've got to be your pretty little wife?” Her voice sharpened, cracked. “Raise a kid, cook dinner, smile at the table, be grateful you stayed?”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Joel’s voice rose before he could stop it. “I’ve been patient with you. You won’t talk to me. You won’t let me close. And every day I keep thinking—maybe today’s the day she comes back to me. And every day, I get a little more scared that you won’t. Because I've been holdin’ this goddamn house together with sweat and prayer for months, Leela. It’s almost a year, know that? A whole fuckin’—and I’ve been raising your daughter—”

“Oh, she’s mine now?” she snapped, hot and fast.

Joel put his hands on his hips, defeated. “Look, I ain’t doin’ this with you. Let’s go.”

“Then what are we doing? What is this?”

“Just come upstairs,” he pleaded. “You need sleep. You need a bath. You need somethin’ besides this... fuckin’ hole.”

That should’ve been the simplest thing. An ask. A mercy.

But her stare didn’t budge. She looked at him like she didn’t recognise him anymore. And then, breathing hard from exertion, she lashed out:

“She is mine, Joel. You’re not even her dad. So, stop trying.”

It hit like a punch. No—worse. Like a betrayal he hadn’t earned but somehow always feared. He stood there, breath gone, the echo of her words stretching long and cruel between them. Because she’d reached for the thing that would cut deepest, and used it.

He swallowed. His jaw clenched. Leela didn’t push, and good call on her part.

So he stepped forward, one step, daring. “Say it again.”

She looked at him, eyes wet but infuriated. “Why? So you can tell me how much you’ve lost? How you stayed? How you tried? How my daughter loves some bitter, traitorous nobody more than she loves her own mother?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t rise to the bait, however painful it seemed. “This is where you apologise.”

Leela scoffed, a sharp, bitter sound scraping from the back of her throat. “Go to hell.”

Joel didn’t budge. “I’m still here, Leela. Enough.”

Her head jerked up, eyes flashing. “For what!” Her voice splintered and rebounded off the walls.

Joel ran a hand down his face. He didn’t even know where to put the pain anymore, even his heart began to hurt from pounding for him.

He sighed, and the words slipped out, even if he didn't mean a word. “I can't fuckin’ stand you sometimes, you know that? Because you're so hung up on this idea of some crazy mended future, and you can't even see what it's becoming anymore.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “My crazy future. So why are you still here?”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. I still love you. Hurt me, and I still love you so much.

She sniffled. “I don't have to need you either. Get out.”

Joel’s eyes flicked to the floor, the ruined circuit boards, the mess of her mind made physical. Her body, thin and drawn, stood there like she was being held together by stubbornness and string.

“No,” he stated. “I’ll do whatever the hell I want.”

Her face twisted like that hurt more than anything he’d said.

“What do you want from me, Joel?” she asked again, quieter this time. But it wasn’t resignation—it was panic. Like she’d realised she didn’t have anything left to give. Her voice frayed at the edges, folding in on itself.

“I can’t even breathe in here. You do everything. You try for me. You wait outside the basement like that’s gonna fix something. But it won’t. None of this will.”

Joel took a step forward. Hands half-raised, like he wanted to touch her but didn’t know how. Didn’t know if he was allowed anymore.

“I don’t know what else to do, Leela,” he said. His voice cracked, thick with helplessness. “I feel like I’m losing you every goddamn day.”

She sobbed—sharp and sudden—and turned away like the sound embarrassed her. Her head dipped, and she laughed. Or maybe cried. It came out strangled, twisted. Like both, like neither.

“I look at you,” Joel said, quieter now, like the words had been sitting in his chest too long, wearing grooves in his ribs, “and I see everything I failed. And everything I want back.”

For a moment, nothing moved. And then a sound cracked from her—ugly, half-choked, something between a laugh and a sob that scraped up from too deep to name. She shook her head with a sharp, miserable little twist, like she already knew how this ended. It had ended before it began.

“This ain’t home without you, Leela.”

Her hands clawed into her hair, fingers curling tight like she wanted to rip it out by the roots. Like she could shed the skin of who she’d become—strip it away until there was nothing left but bone and breath and silence. Something that didn’t feel like a complete failure.

He watched her like a man witnessing an earthquake from the inside out.

“I’ll keep sayin’ sorry, or whatever you want to hear,” Joel said, thick-voiced. “I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll say it quiet, I��ll say it loud. You don’t owe me a damn thing, baby. But I’m still here.”

He didn't want to, but he did. He saw her fall.

Her knees buckled. No grace in it, no dignity. She just crumpled like her body finally gave up the lie of holding it all together. Her spine curved, arms wrapped around her stomach like she was trying to hold in everything that had been spilling out for months—grief, frustration, exhaustion. Rage she never let herself feel because there wasn’t time. Because someone had to keep going.

Joel crouched but didn’t reach for her. He knew better. Knew how to read this language. Knew what pain looked like when it didn’t want an audience. He simply knelt there, watching. Helpless. Waiting. The woman he loved, the mother of his child, was falling apart, and all he could do was bear witness. He hated every nerve in his body that stayed up.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, barely more than a breath. “I’m sorry, Joel. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

He shifted, careful not to crowd her, just enough so his knee brushed against hers—a tether, a promise. He didn’t dare reach out. Not yet.

Her face was a mess—blotched, red, tears carving lines through grime and sweat, her hair damp with sweat or maybe the shower, maybe the storm inside her. His girl looked like she’d fought through hell and come out burned.

“I’m not like this,” she rasped. “I’m not. I’m good. I didn’t mean it—I didn’t—”

He shook his head. “I know, baby. It’s okay.”

She made a noise, somewhere between disbelief and pain. Her hands lifted again, trembling, gesturing weakly at the walls around them. At the chaos. The notes, the sketches, the scrawled equations bleeding across paper like veins, all bent and burned and ruined. Months of work, ruined in a flash of fury. Her own hand, the one that had once traced formulas, had torn it down.

“I just—” Her voice cracked again. “It’s so loud. I don’t know where to start. Every time I try, something else falls apart. I can’t get one thing right. There’s so much... I can’t do it.”

Joel’s eyes followed hers. The room was wrecked. But more than that—she was. She had been holding too much for too long, and he hadn’t seen it. Not the way he should’ve.

And now he saw it all.

She wasn’t just trying to solve some goddamn problem.

She was trying to stitch back a world that didn’t exist anymore. Trying to take her guilt and her grief and her brilliance and turn it into salvation. Trying to prove she was still worth something. That what she carried still mattered.

Alone.

And he'd let her.

He’d been here in body, sure. Since Jackson. Since he crawled back into her life with guilt in his throat and calloused hands holding sorry after sorry. But he hadn’t been here. Not the way she’d needed. Not in the way a man shows up for someone he calls his wife. The kind of presence that steadies and shoulders some of the burden without being asked.

Penitent rather than a partner.

Joel looked around the room. At the wreckage. At the math and madness scribbled across the boards and torn pages like she’d tried to write her way out of grief.

Honestly, what had this world ever done for her? Fuck all. So, why was she killing herself to save it anyway?

And suddenly, he hated every second he hadn’t noticed. Hated how long she must’ve been screaming in silence while he’d been too careful, too sceptical, too wrapped up in his own guilt to see hers unravelling.

Trying to hold up the whole damn sky on her own—had been doing it so long, so quietly, he’d convinced himself she could. And she was failing. Of course, she was failing. Because no one could do what she was trying to do, not alone.

She needed help, and she didn’t know how to ask for it. And he—a goddamn idiot—had waited for her to say it instead of just stepping in.

Joel reached, then, slowly, intentionally, and touched her hand. Just enough to let her feel him—his warmth, his presence, the endurance in his callused palm.

She didn’t flinch.

He didn’t move for a beat and let the moment breathe.

Soon, gently—like easing a spooked animal out of hiding—he curled his hand around hers, not rushing to fix anything. Her skin was cold, fingers limp and damp with tears, and trembling just beneath the surface.

He eventually moved, pulling—guiding. “C’mon. I got you.”

One hand to her elbow, the other soft against her back, bracing her like a beam might brace a house half-fallen in. She didn’t resist. Her body rose with his, hesitantly, hovering, breathing as if testing the air after too long underground.

She stood as if she were shaking off rubble.

Joel balanced her the whole way. No words, only the grounding pressure of touch.

“There you go, you’re okay,” he murmured.

He led her carefully out of the wreckage—out of the tangle of torn-up notes and shredded pages, burnt edges curling like dead leaves, formulas smeared with ash and ink and tears. The broken pieces of her mind lay bare.

He brushed her hair behind her ears and eased her down onto the bench, where the tubelight came through, flickering, pale and overcast, gentle on her skin. She looked so little there. Infinitesimal enough to vanish with the atoms.

Joel crouched back down again, joints complaining. He was too old for this shit, but he wasn’t leaving the floor until she could sit still without falling apart.

He reached for the circuit board—the one she’d spent so many nights with. It was cracked down the centre, the soldering that had once been meticulous now dangled loose and broken, thin as veins, blackened at the ends.

He turned it over in his hands. Felt the story in it—weeks of effort, nights of silence, calculations done under flickering lamplight while the world slept around her. And still, she kept chasing the answer, even when it broke her.

His thumb ran along the fracture like he was tracing a scar.

Then he looked at her.

Her cheeks were blotched, streaked with tears. Her lip was trembling, bitten raw. Her dark eyes met his—wide, watery, tired—and she didn’t look through him.

“You don’t need to prove anything,” he said quietly. His voice was low, rasping from disuse. “Not to me. Not to the goddamn world.”

She turned her face away, jaw clenched. But she didn’t stop crying.

Good. Let her cry. Let it out, all of it. He’d take it if she couldn’t anymore.

He gathered another piece of the circuit board. Laid it next to the first.

“You’re not a machine,” he murmured. “You ain’t some miracle factory. You’re a human being. And I’ve been sittin’ back… watchin’ you wear yourself raw, tryin’ to fix what the whole world broke. And I let you.”

His voice cracked, rough at the edges. He swallowed it down.

“I should’ve seen it. I should’ve known. Done something.”

He picked up a scorched page of calculations, the edges curling inward like a dying leaf. Rubbed a thumb over a still-visible string of symbols. Her handwriting. Her mind.

“You wanna know the truth, Leela?” he said. “I didn’t leave you back then ‘cause I didn’t care about what you thought. I left ‘cause I couldn’t stand the way you looked at me. Like I was supposed to be strong enough to carry what you were carrying. I wanted to prove I was.”

He placed the page gently beside the board.

“That ain’t your fault. That’s mine, I was a fuckin’ idiot. I should’ve stayed anyway.”

He looked at her again, this time not hiding the hurt in his eyes. When the silence stretched, there was a shift—pain passing between bodies like breath.

“I don’t know the first thing about this stuff. These numbers. Science. But I know what it’s doin’ to you.”

He held up one of the broken pieces. The metal glinted faintly in the light.

“I know the woman who built this. And I know she doesn’t deserve to be carrying this weight with no one in her corner.”

He looked at her again. Straight on.

“I’m here now. I ain’t goin’ anywhere. And I don’t give a fuck if all I can do is sweep up the mess and sit there while you do your thinkin’. If that’s what help looks like—I’ll do it.” His voice dropped, full of quiet conviction. “Every damn day.”

Again, Leela stayed quiet, but her breath caught—just once—like something had snagged inside her chest, when the ache had gone too deep to speak.

Her shoulders eased, fraction by fraction, like a muscle learning it didn’t have to brace anymore.

And in her eyes, there was an immense fragility—believing and flickering and terribly human. An apostate remembering the taste of faith.

Instead of reaching back for her, Joel kept gathering her work, careful as a man piecing back the bones of something once living and sacred. As if, by putting it all back together, he could stitch her back together too.

He finished stacking the last of her notebooks, aligning the bent corners, smoothing the wrinkled pages. He reached for a pencil that had rolled to the floor—held it in his palm like it was something precious.

Leela moved, quiet as a mouse, stepped forward and folded herself into him—arms around his shoulders, forehead tucked into the crook of his neck as if she were collapsing into the only shelter left in the world.

Joel let it happen, felt her chest heave once, twice—then the sobs came. Raw, desperate things that shattered out of her like she'd been holding her breath for months and finally let go.

“I'm failing everyone,” she cried, “I can't do it.”

Her fingers fisted in the back of his shirt, pulling him closer. She clung to him, trembling, too small, as if the second she let go, she’d come apart entirely.

Joel gathered her in because he really was made to do it.

“Shh,” he whispered, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other rubbing slow circles along her spine. “No, you're not. I got you, baby. You’re good.”

And Joel finally made up his mind: he'd hate every unreliable finer feeling of his that had prompted him to wait for her to speak first, to break, and to ask for help. When all she needed was to hold the line when she could not, to stay and witness her break without turning away.

Because if she was going to fall again, then he’d be the one beneath her.

X

“Wait, what the heck am I looking at?”

Leela’s voice cut through the quiet like a scalpel—sharp, precise, more bewildered than anything. Tired, wary, somewhere between mildly offended and uncertain if this was a joke she was supposed to laugh at.

Joel didn’t answer right away. Just kept blowing on his coffee, like it might scald him if he tried too hard to drink it.

He had learned quickly how to deal with Leela, a long time ago: don’t rush her, don’t explain too much, and definitely don’t pretend you had it all figured out. She hated that most of all—when people acted like her confusion was an inconvenience. When they filled the silence with noise instead of letting her sit with the unknown.

She moved across the kitchen—slow, stiff—and stopped short in front of the fridge. He didn’t have to look. He knew what she was staring at. Had stood there late last night, hunched over the table with a ruler and a stub of pencil, scratching things out and rewriting them again, until it looked more like a high school science project than an act of love.

Under Maya's bright little chore chart, there, crooked, solemn and idiotic, pinned under two rusty Eiffel Tower magnets, was another chore chart. Handwritten. Across the top in Joel’s blunt, slanted handwriting: “LEELA’S WEEKLY—” something; it was smudged. He’d started with “Schedule,” crossed it out, and written “Plan.” And added in block letters, “/BATTLE STRATEGY.” The paper hung a little too long at the bottom—he’d used lined notebook paper and scotch tape to extend the grid—and one corner curled like it was already losing patience with the idea.

And under “Wednesday,” in Joel’s square, uneven handwriting again, the words: “Eat lunch (real food). Take a nap. Go outside. No work after 10pm.” Under that, in tiny script: “NON-NEGOTIABLE.”

Joel sipped his coffee.

Leela squinted. “Are these colour-coded?”

He shrugged. “Tried to make it easy to read.”

She pointed at a particularly crowded column. “You wrote ‘Eat lunch’ three times.”

“One’s for emphasis.”

She kept scanning, her movements more cautious now, like this whole thing might be a trap.

“‘No work after 10pm,’” she read aloud. She turned toward him, arms folding across her chest with that trademark expression he’d come to know: equal parts disbelief and interrogation.

“You seriously put that under the ‘Basic Humaning’ column?”

He met her gaze square-on. “Sure did.”

Her eyebrows twitched upward. She looked back at the paper. “‘Sanity hygiene’? ‘Minimum viable joy’? What does that even mean?”

Joel cleared his throat. “That’s the Maria column. Kicked me for calling it ‘mental maintenance.’”

Leela’s brows knit. “This one says ‘fun thing on purpose.’ As an actual task.”

“People do that,” Joel said. “Fun. For fun. Apparently.”

She didn’t reply right away. Only kept reading. Slower now. Her voice dipped, softer, touched with suspicion—less ‘you idiot’ and more ‘what are you doing? What the hell are you up to?’

Then her finger slid to the bottom row. “‘Sleep with Joel’, ‘hug Joel’, incentive column,” she read aloud.

There was a pause. She turned to him again, arms still folded, head tilted—not quite menacing, but enough to imply a threat. “Open to debate.”

“Open and shut.”

She shook her head, amused. “I don’t see your name anywhere in these boxes.”

“Wasn’t writin’ it for me.”

Her lips twitched. Just a flicker of a smile in incredulity, like something forgotten trying to remember itself. “You made me a sticker chart.”

Joel took another slow sip, felt the heat on his tongue. “Sticker chart’s comin’ next week. Gold stars for consistent dinner and makin’ it to bed before midnight.”

Leela stared at the sheet like it was an alien relic. An artefact dug up from some long-dead civilisation. Structure. Routine. Care. Absurd.

“Joel…” Her voice was quieter. Not mocking now—dampened, like she was trying not to wring it out too fast. She looked at the chart again. The attempt. “Do you really think this is gonna work?”

Instead, he set the mug down gently, both palms pressing flat against the counter. His back ached. His knees popped when he shifted. His jaw felt raw from a night of clenching—his whole body a roadmap of sleepless desperation, of wanting to fix something with his hands when it had never been about his hands at all.

“I think you’ll ignore half of it,” he said quietly. “And I’ll spend every day reminding you not to.”

He paused. Swallowed. “I think I should've done this months ago. Shoulda pushed harder. Or softer. I dunno. But I sat on my ass for too long waiting for things to fix themselves.”

A silence fell, full of old grief and new beginnings.

He scratched his jaw. “So I’m tryin’ different.”

Leela stood still. Her arms had dropped. Her posture wasn’t so tight now, her shoulders less guarded. She was staring at the chart like it might disappear if she blinked. Or like it had teeth and she couldn’t decide whether to pet it or run.

Joel followed her gaze. The damn thing was crooked. One of the magnets had slipped. The ink was too dark in some places, almost illegible in others. He’d written “Tuesday” twice.

But it was tangible. A stupid little map of care and the system. His way of saying I see you without breaking open and bleeding all over the floor.

The truth was, he hadn’t made it just for her.

He’d made it for them. For mornings that felt too long and nights that never really ended. A shape to help her stay upright when the days got too abstract to touch.

Because Joel didn’t have the words for what he wanted to say—but he knew how to build things. Structure was the only language he trusted when words didn’t cut it.

And sometimes, Joel's love looked like a dumb, dorky timetable on printer paper.

She reached up slowly, fingers brushing the paper, and tapped the Wednesday box. “Guess I'd better find some real lunch.”

Joel nodded, watching her. Heart caught somewhere between relief and disbelief. “And sleep with Joel.”

She turned to him, that crooked smile threatening again. “You know if you wanted to get me into bed, you could’ve just said so. This is a lot of paperwork.”

Joel snorted. “Shit. All this trouble for nothin’.”

Her lips finally gave in, curling into something half-amused, half-amazed, like she couldn’t quite believe he’d done this. That he’d thought this far ahead.

“I mean, you wrote ‘kiss Daddy’ in two places, every day. Were you hoping I’d never kiss you past twice a day?”

He clucked his tongue. “Daddy ain’t above beggin’ if it gets him lucky.”

Leela let out a breath—almost a laugh. Joel didn’t say anything, just reached for his mug again like it was the only way to keep from doing something dumb, like touching her.

Instead, she leaned in. Just enough for her lips to brush the curve of his shoulder. “Sticker chart seduction,” she murmured. “Real subtle.”

Then, softly: “Even cowboys need structure now, hm?”

Joel exhaled, half-laugh, half-sigh. “Damn right.”

The sight of her up close was too much and not enough at once, especially after all this time. And when he finally did move, it wasn’t rushed—it was devout. One hand rising to her face, the rough pad of his thumb brushing the hollow beneath her eye.

“You don’t have to fix anything for me,” she told him, certain. Her eyes were on the chart still. Like she couldn’t look at him. “I know that’s what this is. You see a loose hinge, you grab a hammer.”

“It’s not a hammer,” he said. “It’s a piece of paper and a few dumb rules.”

Her hand brushed his chest, then stilled, curled into the fabric of his shirt. “So,” she sighed, barely above a whisper, “nothing has changed, right?”

A second passed. Maybe two.

He leaned in, dipped his head, and caught her lips between his. No warning, no easing. There was nothing neat left to care about.

It was a low, breaking thing—his mouth against hers with months of silence behind it. Months of sleeping back-to-back. Of not reaching. Of pretending not to care when he was drowning. Of hurtful words, hissed arguments. Enough of all that.

And he needed her now—hungry, desperate, clumsy. Been too fucking long.

His palm slid to her soft nape, drawing her in, anchoring her there like he’d never let her drift again. His other hand found her hip, then her waist, then lower still, grabbing a fistful of her ass to pull her flush against him. He groaned into her mouth when she didn't resist, when she pressed back with the same aching urgency, and it was as if she’d been drowning in the same quiet.

She tasted like sleep-deprived mornings and bitter coffee, and made a soft sound—half-shocked, half-something deeper—as Joel swallowed it down.

His kiss deepened, jaw flexing, tongue brushing hers. He wasn’t thinking anymore. It was instinct, need, hers. All of it. The years in his hands, the apology in his grip. The want.

And it would’ve gone further. Would’ve tipped into something messier, deeper—right there in the kitchen, barefoot and half-dressed—if not for—

Smack.

A tiny palm struck the back of Joel’s knee. Right below the old joint that always stiffened in the mornings.

“Ha!” Maya squealed, triumphant. “Too slow!”

He jerked ike he’d been hit with a cattle prod, buckled, slammed his hand against the counter for balance, breaking the kiss with a grunt. Leela let out a startled breath, stumbled back, eyes wide, lips kiss-bitten.

Joel spun around, dazed and blinking, to face the pint-sized homewrecker now grinning up at him. She’d just won a game of ambush tag today, a stupid fucking idea he knew would bite him in the ass eventually.

“Maya—Jesus, baby girl—terrible timing—”

“Eee, you’re kissin’ Mama!” she announced, gleeful and scandalised, jabbing a finger toward him. “Onna mouf!”

Leela moaned, buried her face in her hands, looking like a teenager caught necking behind the school gym, red-eared and stupid with guilt.

Joel, though, had it in himself to roll up his sleeves with exaggerated slowness, already grinning down at the little terror despite himself. “That’s it, trouble. You’re gonna get it now. C'mere.”

Leela had just enough sense to step aside as Joel lunged, catching nothing but Maya’s gleeful squeal as she darted around the kitchen island. He made a slow, clumsy swipe—missed her on purpose.

“Missed me!”

Joel leaned back against the counter with a sigh of theatrical defeat. “To fast for your old man.”

Unfazed, Maya rounded back and dragged the wooden stool across the kitchen with the stubborn determination of a forklift.

“Y'all wee-d,” she declared, puffing as she pushed.

“You're wee-d,” Joel grumbled.

“I check my chores now.”

Maya climbed up like she was scaling Everest, grunted once with effort, and slapped her chubby hand against the chart taped to the fridge. She studied it with a serious frown before she noticed the bigger, uglier chart that hung above hers.

“This one,” she muttered, pointing to the new addition.

Joel nodded, still trying to calm the leftover heat pounding in his chest. “Mama's chart. You like it?”

Maya’s eyes widened, scandalised all over again. “Mama has chores?”

Leela exhaled, shoulders slowly dropping from her ears. “Apparently.”

Maya tilted her head, squinting at the columns as if trying to decode their secret adult language. Then, thoughtfully, she asked, “Do I get stahs for kissin’ Mama, too?”

Leela made a choking sound—not quite a laugh, not quite a protest. Joel grinned, crooked, and shot her a look over Maya’s head.

“Y’know,” he drawled, “that depends.”

Leela narrowed her eyes. “On what?”

Joel leaned a hand on the counter, going all casual. “On whether the kiss has a happy ending.”

Leela made a strangled noise, and with the stiff dignity of someone backing away from a live grenade, she turned to the sink and pretended to be very invested in rinsing out a clean mug.

“Oh, Joel,” she murmured under her breath, restraining laughter, without looking at him.

But he just picked his coffee back up for a sip, smug as shit.

Maya, meanwhile, was undeterred. “I can do a big kiss with a happy end,” she announced. “I can kiss Mama wight onna mouf!”

Joel coughed a laugh.

Leela gave him a warning glare, but it was ruined by the way she was biting her lip to keep from smiling.

“I think Mama’s gonna need a new reward system,” Joel murmured for her ears only. “Stahs, kisses onna mouf, maybe somethin’ extra for makin’ Daddy real happy.”

Leela turned just enough to look at him sidelong. Her mouth twitched. “Careful,” she said softly, “Daddy’s dangerously close to incarceration.”

Joel leaned in until his lips brushed the shell of Leela’s ear, his breath warm and ragged.

“Kinky,” he said.

And just like that, they were toeing the line again—right there in the kitchen, and before Leela could answer—before she could react to the slow-burn hellfire that was Joel’s mouth near her ear—there was a clatter behind them.

Maya had knocked over the stool.

She stood it, blinking innocently, hands still mid-air like she hadn’t decided whether to be surprised or proud. Then she calmly declared—

“Shit.”

X

Safe to say, the shitty chore chart actually worked.

Joel wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Maybe another few weeks of silence. A slow thaw, if they were lucky. A note left somewhere in her tight, efficient handwriting, letting him know Leela was still breathing, still eating, still surviving—but nothing more. He wasn’t prepared for this.

He closed Maya’s bedroom door quietly behind him, catching the latch with his thumb so it wouldn’t click, walking out of there more like a man escaping a sweltering sauna—shirt damp at the collar, temples sweating, back sore from leaning over her crib for too long. Her little body was finally limp with sleep after a thirty-minute campaign of bribery, back rubs, and whispered negotiations that made hostage diplomacy look easy.

Earlier, she’d kicked the blanket off for the third time and rolled over with a defiant grunt. “Not sleepy. Turtle time. Westin’ my eyes.”

Joel had sighed, rubbing her back in slow circles. “Westin’ them? That’s what people say before they start sno-win’.”

She giggled, a hand over her eye. “You snore, Daddy.”

Joel paused. “No comment.”

That earned him another sleepy giggle. She yawned right after, one of those full-body ones that made her fists curl and her toes point, and he knew he had her.

“Westin’,” she sniffed, “my...”

He kept patting, kissing her palms, both her eyes, her tummy, humming nonsense—old country songs, half-remembered ballads—until her breathing evened out and her fist crept toward her mouth, an old habit she pretended she’d outgrown.

Now, on the other side of the door, he stood in the hallway and let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. His knees cracked when he straightened fully. Christ. The things he did for that kid.

But when he stepped into the bedroom, every quiet ache evaporated.

Leela was there.

Not just drifting in and out to grab fresh clothes or the bathroom. She was in bed. Seeing her there, in their bed, the bed that had been so empty without her, it knocked a gear loose in his chest.

Her back rested against the headboard, duvet tucked around her like a neat envelope, knees tented, lamp casting a warm golden pool across her lap. Her long, thick braid was falling apart, little wisps of hair framing her face, and she was bent forward over a small embroidery hoop, working her needle through one of Maya’s little shirts—some new animal she had taken a shine to, if he had to guess. Turtles, definitely turtles.

Her nightstand—the one he still stocked with water every evening out of sheer habit—held her voice recorder and a few stray hair ribbons. For a moment, he just stood there like a dumb fuck who had forgotten how doors worked, caught somewhere between stunned and stunned stupid.

Then she looked up.

And smiled. “Hi, Joel.”

That single smile cracked across her face like sunlight breaking through the overcast sky, and he felt the ridiculous urge to cover his face just to keep from weeping like some idiot.

His peace and home had staggered back to him in that stretch. It wasn’t fair, the way he obsequiously ached for her even now. After all they’d been through. After the walls, the silence, the weeks she’d spent sleeping in the guest room, or nodding off at her desk, avoiding the bed like it burned.

He’d lived with the distance for a vicious while—so, the sight of her again, curled into the space they used to share, made him want to drop to his knees and thank whatever cruel world they lived in for giving her back.

“Huh?” she said, holding up the little alarm clock on her nightstand. “No work after ten?” Her voice had a tease to it. “Check.”

Joel blinked, then scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

“Chore chart actually works,” she murmured his exact thoughts, almost to herself, with a half-smile.

He huffed a breath through his nose and stepped inside slowly, the way you would approach a miracle. If he moved too fast, it might vanish.

Something about the way she said it—it should’ve felt easy, but it landed heavy in his chest. She hadn’t slept next to him in months, and the few times she did, she stayed curled on the far edge, as if gravity pulled her toward the wall instead of him.

And now here she was—like this wasn’t strange at all. Like she didn’t feel the difference in his bones.

He sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting on his knees, wooden. “Good to know it helps.”

She must’ve sensed it, too, because her hands slowed. She held the shirt loosely, the thread caught mid-pull. She finished her stitch eventually, snipped the thread, and set the shirt and hoop aside on the nightstand.

“I’ve been a difficult mess,” she said. Quiet. Unapologetic. Not defensive, not dramatic—just… true. “I haven’t been fair to you either.”

He rubbed at his jaw. His default. That old, worn-out gesture for when he didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t good at this kind of talk. Not the naming of feelings. Not the raw stuff. He could fight for her, kill for her, track every goddamn change in her breathing—but when it came to this kind of truth, he always faltered.

So instead, he shrugged. “Nah. You were gettin’ through it. However you had to.”

Her eyes flickered, her gaze drifting sideways. “I wasn’t with you,” she said. “I was in the same house, and it might as well have been a whole other continent.”

Joel breathed in through his nose, slow, as if that might anchor something inside him. He wasn’t angry. God, how could he be? He was just tired. Tired of the ache that came from not being able to fix it. From hearing her cry and standing on the other side of the door with his fists clenched and heart breaking.

“Look,” he mumbled. “I ain’t interested in tallyin’ up who gave what when. You needed space. I gave it. It happened, we move on.”

“I know,” she said, so painfully soft. Almost shy. “Sorry, Joel.”

“Don't have to say it,” he sighed.

“Alright. Sorry.”

“Jesus.”

Leela’s lips suddenly curled as her eyes slid back to him, and there it was—that spark. Mischief, restrained and warm. The part of her that used to tease him in the mornings just to see if she could make him smile before coffee. The part he hadn’t seen in weeks.

“I believe one of the incentives,” she began lightly, “was... ‘sleep with Joel’ today.”

He stared.

Not out of lust—though his body certainly answered with a long, slow, hardening ache—but out of disbelief. Wonder. The cautious kind. Like seeing a wild animal approach the palm of your hand. She hadn’t touched him in weeks. Months. He’d gone to sleep with a ghost every night. And now she was here, playful and real and warm.

Still her. Still bruised around the edges. But her.

“You keepin' track of that bullshit?”

She tilted her head, braid sliding off her shoulder. “Maybe?”

“And you checkin’ it off?” he asked, rougher than he meant to.

She leaned in slightly, voice a little huskier now. “Depends. Are you still available for incentive-based tasks?”

His heart gave a full, aching thump. He let a slow grin tug at the corners of his mouth. “Hell,” he said, “I’ll fill out the whole damn chart if it gets you in this bed again.”

She huffed a laugh. “I starve you too much. Never realised how important... it is.”

He turned toward her, one knee pressing deeper into the mattress. She smelled like soap, clean cotton, hot showers, and something that might’ve been bergamot. Just all woman. She slid her legs toward him, tentative, and he leaned in, bringing his hand up to fold the hair from her face.

“Beautiful girl,” he muttered.

She leaned into his palm, kissing it, hand finding his wrist, slender, sure. She touched him like she remembered everything about him—like she hadn’t forgotten a single inch. The way his pulse jumped when she got too close. The way his mouth parted slightly when she brushed the base of his hand.

“I missed this. You, all of you. Even when I couldn’t say it,” she confessed.

Joel felt a crack, right there in the middle of his chest. Like someone had reached in and twisted the muscle until it remembered how to hurt.

He bent forward, careful, his forehead touched hers, and he closed his eyes.

“I’m right here,” he murmured. “Ain’t going anywhere.”

Her breath caught faintly—and then she leaned in, nose stroking his, dark eyes fluttering shut. The distance between them collapsed without ceremony. A quiet fall back into place.

“Do you wanna sleep with me?”

Joel leaned back half an inch, eyes finding hers in the low light. “Gonna have to be more specific, darlin’.”

Leela huffed softly through her nose, and her eyes—God, her eyes—held that glimmer of mischief again. “Just lie down, Joel.”

He let out a breath that was half a laugh, half surrender. He eased back into the bed, boots off, shirt shed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he slid beside her.

“Alright, get in here,” he grunted, opening his arms for her. “Mother and daughter, all the same. Y’all only want Daddy when the night comes creepin’.”

Her snicker was muffled into him. “Would be wrong if she weren't.”

His arm curled around her waist, pulling her in until she was well-accommodated against him, her back to his chest, his large hand splayed against her belly, thumb sweeping slow arcs under the hem of her shirt.

Later, much later, the house lay in silence, only the soft ticking of the old clock in the hall marked time, and moonlight filtered through the bedroom window in silver strokes.

Joel stayed awake long after her breathing softened. Her body stayed in his warmth, bare skin wrapped in linen and Joel, and her cheek pressed into his bicep like she’d always belonged there.

“Beautiful girl,” he whispered again. She really was, he really meant it. She was the prettiest girl out there, someone who definitely would have hung off a billionaire's arm on the cover of gossip mags had it not been for the hand of fate.

He hadn’t learned how much he missed Leela until she was this close, and still not close enough.

His hand drifted slowly, tucking a loose strand of hair back into her braid. Then the tip of his finger traced the soft line of her nose, down to the curve of her lips. They parted with her breath, unguarded in sleep.

He swallowed down a laugh when he realised that someday, Maya would grow into this face. He saw it now—the angular set of her dusky jaw when she got adamant, the exact shape of her scowl, the way her lashes swept her cheek when she napped against his chest. It was all Leela. She’d been stamped onto their girl like an echo.

He touched her hand next—her pretty hand, bare on the pillow beside her, half-curled in sleep, how it looked so much smaller when she wasn’t holding a pen.

Long, lonely fingers. Wide, neat nails. The faintest veins surfacing under honey-brown skin. He counted the lean tendons, the way they ridged delicately over the bones. And there—a small scar just above her knuckle, the origin of which she’d never explained. He ran his thumb over it, like smoothing an old memory.

How they were always doing—fussing with Maya’s collar, knotting her own braid, attempting to patch up his worn boots again—and yet, they slept empty now.

His eyes caught on the curve of her ring finger. Bare. Waiting.

He imagined it full. A gold band resting, maybe a tiny diamond tucked into the metal like a secret, a ring that maybe had his name engraved on the inside, hidden against her skin, a ring she never had to take off, even to shower. And when they walked through town together, it would glint in the sun, and people would know.

That was Joel Miller’s wife.

That was Joel—with his home, his someplace where a warm hand waited for his.

He kissed that very knuckle, then laid their joined hands between them on the sheets, her fingers still lax in sleep, but his closed tight, as if to hold what he'd almost let slip away.

Not again. Not ever.

X

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[ceyanabbiolo]

CONTRACT // C.S [18]

Summary: Christopher Sturniolo, a 26-year-old billionaire CEO, agrees to a strategic marriage with Aurora Devereaux, the 21-year-old daughter of his rival, to save his company during a crisis. Raised in a cold, arrogant environment, Chris is used to control and detachment. Aurora, a final-year fashion student, is forced into the arrangement by her powerful father and struggles with the fear of losing herself. As the two navigate their unexpected marriage, they begin to confront emotional walls and develop a connection that challenges everything they thought they knew about love and trust. But with their families’ influence looming, will their bond be strong enough to survive—or will it fall apart?

Warnings: drunk driving. mourning. pure angst

wc: 6281

Chapter 18: Right Where You Left Me

It had been almost a month. 

Four weeks of waking up in a place that didn’t feel like home anymore. A place that used to be filled with warmth, with life, with her, but now felt like a hollow museum of everything I’d lost.

The penthouse was spotless. Too spotless. The kitchen was back to how it had been before she moved in—cold, minimal, functional.

No more pastel mugs in the sink. 

No trail of flour on the counter from when she’d try to bake muffins and forget the damn timer. The fridge was organized again. 

No more mint coffee creamer sitting on the middle shelf—the one she always reached for first thing in the morning, even before speaking. She used to hum softly while she poured it into her mug, like she was still half-dreaming. 

The bagels she used to toast? Always untouched now. Back to sitting in the breadbox until they went stale.

Even her clutter was gone. 

No more random sweaters thrown over the back of the dining chairs. No bobby pins on the coffee table. No sketchbooks left open with messy notes in the margins and fabric swatches tucked between the pages.

It was all… sterile again. Back to having no life, the way I kept before she moved in. 

Everywhere I looked, she was there. 

The spot on the kitchen counter where she used to sit cross-legged, sipping her coffee while talking about colors and lighting, and which scarf pattern worked better in the fall. 

The window she used to stand by in the morning, the light catching the auburn strands in her hair like fire. 

The damn hallway where I caught her once twirling in one of her dresses, laughing when she realized I was watching her.

It wasn’t just a memory. It was haunting.

I couldn’t walk three feet without feeling like I was walking through a ghost. Her ghost.

I had been sleeping in her bed every night.

It started with one bad night, then became a habit I couldn’t break. I told myself it was because her mattress was softer. That was a lie. I just wanted to be where she was last. To bury my face in her pillow. To pretend I could still smell that soft, rosy scent she always wore, even though it had long faded. 

Now there was nothing left but air. Cold, clean, unforgiving air.

I had been drinking more. Not enough to forget her—nothing could do that—but just enough to make the nights pass quicker. To make the silence bearable.

I hadn’t smoked, though; I hadn’t touched a cigarette since the day she left. Not once, because she hated it.

Even if she wasn’t here to wrinkle her nose or steal the pack from my jacket and toss it in the trash, the idea of doing something she loathed felt like a betrayal. Like I was failing her again.

Even when the urge clawed at me, I couldn’t do it, because she hated it. Said it would ruin me before anything else ever could. She used to steal my packs, toss them in the trash, scold me like I was a damn teenager.  I’d just smirk at her, kiss her cheek, and promise I’d try harder.

Now?

Lighting a cigarette felt like betrayal. Like if I did it, it would mean she really wasn’t coming back. Like I’d given up on her completely.

Either way, she was gone.

Everywhere I turned, I saw the absence of her. In the couch that no longer had her curled up in it. In the mirror, that didn’t reflect her arms sliding around my waist from behind. In the bed that was too big. Too quiet.

And all I could think, all I could feel, was that I’d let her go. I let her walk away.

Now all I had left was silence and the sound of my own damn heart breaking over and over again.

The office had kept me later than usual.

Lately, I stayed until the city went quiet, until the halls emptied, and even the cleaning staff turned in for the night. It was easier that way—drowning in work than facing this place alone.

The penthouse was dim when I walked in. Just the soft hum of the fridge, the echo of my keys hitting the kitchen counter. I didn’t bother turning the lights on. I didn’t need to. Every step, I could navigate blindfolded—because she used to fill this place with so much light, I still remembered how it looked when she was in it.

I peeled off my jacket, tossed it carelessly over a chair. The silence wrapped around me like a noose.

A quick shower and walked over to the living room. 

I drank a few. I felt like I had to consume something bitter every night. I let it burn. I wanted it to burn.

Then I stumbled down the hallway toward her room. My body moved on autopilot. Like it did every night now. I wasn’t even thinking—just trying to catch some trace of her. A perfume, a blanket, a memory.

But when I opened the door… I stopped cold.

The room was empty.

Fully empty.

The soft pink sheets were gone. Her pillows, her bedside books, the scarf she used to hang from the lamp—everything… gone. The closet doors were slightly ajar, and even in the low light, I could see the hangers swinging quietly.

Everything that was left, gone.

It looked like a guest suite again. Sterile. Vacant. Like she’d never lived here at all.

My stomach twisted.

Panic clawed at my chest as I turned and made my way to her studio, my steps uneven, breath tightening with every second.

But when I pushed the door open—

It was worse.

The mannequins were gone. What was left of her fabrics…gone.

The room had been stripped of her.

All that was left was the large table she used to cut fabric on, her sewing machine pushed into a corner, and a mirror leaning against the wall, crooked, like someone moved it in a rush.

I stood in the middle of the room, not moving, not breathing. I couldn’t even blink.

The alcohol buzz had long faded. What was left was this hollow, dizzy ache spiraling through me, sinking in deep like a second skin.

She was really gone.

Not just emotionally. Not just from our bed. Gone.

I stumbled out into the hallway, desperate for answers. For a reason. That’s when I saw Ana, the housekeeper, standing near the laundry room, folding towels like it was just another night in this broken universe.

“Ana,” I said, my voice hoarse.

She looked up, startled. “Yes?”

I didn’t care how wrecked I looked. “What happened to her room?”

Her face softened instantly, the corners of her mouth twitching in sympathy. She placed the towels down slowly.

“She came by earlier this evening,” Ana said gently. “Around six. She had a car waiting. Took the rest of her things. Said she wouldn’t be long.”

I couldn’t speak.

“She didn’t leave a note,” Ana added, almost hesitating. “But she… she looked sad.” 

My throat felt like it was closing.

“I didn’t know she hadn’t told you.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t, because whatever was holding me up inside snapped right then, quietly, violently. 

I couldn’t stand being in that place any longer. The silence was pressing in again, thick and suffocating. Every room felt like a memory I didn’t want to face.

I pulled out my phone and scrolled to Matt’s name.

Chris: Where are you at? It took a moment before the typing dots appeared.

Matt: Noah’s. Why? Chris: I’m coming over. Matt: alright

I just grabbed my keys, shrugged on the first jacket I could find, and headed to the elevator. My head was spinning a little—I had poured myself more than a few drinks tonight.

Still, I got behind the wheel.

I knew Noah’s place like the back of my hand. He was closer to Matt than he was to me and Nick, but we’d always still been tight. My family had stepped in a lot after he lost his parents, and ever since high school, his place had been our usual crash spot. Back when life was simpler, and girls weren’t something that could tear me apart. 

I didn’t know what I was going there for, maybe just to forget for a while. Or maybe I just didn’t want to be alone.

The ride over was a blur—red lights, green lights, honking cars. I don’t remember parking or locking the car behind me. All I remember is the cold night air against my skin and the dull buzz in my head as I stumbled up the steps to Noah’s place.

I knocked once. Loud.

The door swung open a few seconds later.

Noah stood there, eyebrows furrowed, the second he saw me. “Chris?”

His voice was low, cautious.

I shoved my hands into my pockets, rocking slightly on my heels. “What, you're not gonna invite me in?”

Noah blinked, eyes scanning me from head to toe—rumpled jacket, messy hair, tired eyes, and the scent of whatever I’d poured into my glass a few hours ago still clinging to me. “Are you… drunk?” 

I didn’t answer.

Before he could say anything else, Matt appeared behind him. His expression shifted from curiosity to immediate concern.

“Dude,” Matt said, stepping around Noah. “What the hell—Chris, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fucking great,” I muttered sarcastically, brushing past them both as I walked inside.

Nick’s voice followed a second later. “Man, you look like shit.”

I turned around slowly to face them, unbothered by their stares. 

“Thanks, Nick.” I glared at him.

Noah shut the door behind us, his jaw tight. “You shouldn’t be driving like this.”

I shrugged off my jacket and let it fall to the floor. “Didn’t realize I had anyone left to disappoint.”

The room went quiet. Thick with tension.

Matt stepped forward. “Chris… what’s going on?”

I didn’t answer right away. I just stared at the floor, like maybe if I focused hard enough, it would swallow me whole.

“She’s gone,” I finally said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Man, we know that…It's been a while,” Matt said, dragging me over to the couch. 

For the first time in a long time, I felt it crack through me—grief, guilt, and something worse.

“She came back and took the last of her stuff tonight,” I added, throat tightening. “Even her scent is gone.”

Matt looked at Nick, who looked at Noah, all of them exchanging silent glances. Like they didn’t know what to say. Like they’d never seen me like this before. 

That was because they hadn’t.

I rubbed my eyes, feeling the sting of exhaustion and something heavier clawing at me. “You got any drinks here?” I asked, voice rough, barely steady. 

Noah glanced toward the kitchen. “We don’t have any booze, Chris.”

I caught a glimpse of cans stacked by the fridge and smirked bitterly. “Come on, I see those. Just one, please.”

Matt stepped forward, eyes hard. “Fuck no. You need to stop before you become a damn addict.”

Nick crossed his arms, voice low but sharp. “You need to stop Chris.. Drinking won’t fix a damn thing.”

I shook my head, frustration bubbling up like poison. “You don’t get it. It’s not about fixing anything.”

Matt’s jaw clenched. “That’s exactly the problem. You’re letting this shit ruin you.”

My vision started to blur, the edges of the room melting as the weight of everything pressed down harder. Through the haze, I saw a brunette slip past us into the kitchen.

I blinked, trying to focus. “Who was that?” I slurred, nodding toward the kitchen.

Noah glanced over, then shook his head. “My sister. She moved in a few months ago.”

I let out a quiet chuckle, the faintest smile tugging at my lips. “Right…I forgot.”

I looked over at Matt, I saw his gaze follow her over to the kitchen. When he looked back, we made eye contact—I knew about him and Noah’s sister, or whatever was going on between them. Noah, however, was clueless and would probably kill Matt if he found out. Meh…that was Matt's problem.  

Nick’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and unfiltered. “Chris, seven months ago you’d laugh in your face if you saw the mess you are now,” he said, shaking his head. “Ruined over a girl and drowning in booze like some sad drunk. That’s not the guy we know.”

I swallowed hard, the words hitting deeper than I wanted to admit. Nick was right. The man I was now barely felt like me anymore. 

If we never speak again… the silence might bury me. It won’t be anger or guilt that lingers—it’ll be the ache of everything unsaid. Everything I should’ve done differently. She wasn’t just a passing chapter. She was the calm in all my noise, the rare moment when I felt understood without needing to explain a thing. Losing that...it feels like losing the only part of myself that ever felt real.

One day, someone else might get to sit across from her at breakfast. He’ll get to hear her laugh, see her half-asleep in the morning light, hold her hand like it’s nothing, and brush strands of her beautiful ginger hair, and I’ll be forever envious of that man. I’ll want to spend the rest of my life hating him, wanting to kill him, for getting the version of her I destroyed. He won’t know the weight she carried or how much it took for her to let someone in. 

He’ll just get the result of everything I ruined. Then I’ll be stuck here, haunted by the memory of what I couldn’t hold on to. 

I’ll be stuck thinking about that hallway at the police station. 

Right where she left me.

AURORA

It had been a month.

A month since everything fell apart.

I only stayed with Jen for a few days after it happened—long enough to remember how to breathe again, long enough to cry myself dry. She wanted me to stay longer, but I couldn’t. I needed to be somewhere that felt like home. So I packed up what little I had brought and went back to my mother’s house.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was safe. She had welcomed me without question—just pulled me into a hug and let me fall apart in her arms. She made space for me in the guest room. My old room had been turned into a file room by my father. I couldn’t bring myself to fully settle in, though. 

I remember being so upset to move out of this house, but now I felt so foreign inside it. 

We’d been working on the divorce paperwork together. Quiet afternoons filled with legal forms and old bank statements. She tried to hide how nervous she was, but I could see it in the way her hands trembled when she signed her name. My father had left more than just hurt behind—he left a mess. A fortune tainted by control and manipulation.

Once it was finalized, everything that was left of him would be hers.

We didn't talk much about him—only when necessary. I think she knew I was grieving, in my own way. Not just the end of an engagement… but the collapse of so many illusions. Of the father I thought I had. The man I hoped Chris could be.

I submitted my fashion catalog last week. The runway show was just two weeks away now. My name was printed in bold on the announcement flyer along with some other graduates. “Aurora Devereaux – Closing Designer.”

It should’ve felt like a dream come true. Instead, it just felt like a reminder of how much had changed.

The past two weeks had felt like hell. I kept moving so I wouldn’t think. I filled every hour with sketches, with fittings, with long walks that made my feet ache and my chest a little quieter. I told myself I was okay. I told myself I was surviving.

Last night…I went back.

To the penthouse.

Just to take the last of my things.

It was late when I arrived. The place was dark, quiet. Chris wasn’t there. I didn’t know if I hoped he would be.

My studio… It was already halfway dismantled. Like a ghost town version of everything I had built. I packed up the last few things quietly: a bundle of sketches, a few unused fabrics, a silver pin cushion shaped like a cat that Chris once teased me for buying. 

I had never seen it so empty, only the full colorful version I saw when Chris first gifted it to me. 

Ana found me as I was zipping the final suitcase.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at me the way someone looks at a fading photograph.

Then, finally, she spoke.

“You’ll be alright, hunny,” she said softly. Her voice was warm, steady. “You are stronger than you think. He knows it, too.”

I blinked, holding her gaze. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

“It never does. Not until you’re on the other side of it.”

I hugged her before I left. I didn’t know if I’d ever come back. But that night, as I stood outside waiting for my Uber, I realized something.

The ache was still there. The grief, the guilt, the loss of something that could’ve been beautiful.

I was still breathing, though. Still moving. I was going to be okay. Eventually. I hope so, at least.  

I hadn’t planned on going out tonight.

The catalog was done. The show was two weeks away. My mother was slowly piecing together the remnants of a broken marriage while I kept myself busy in silence, pretending I didn’t still wake up reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

It had been over a month since everything fell apart. Since the night I walked out of that penthouse and left behind the version of myself who still believed love was enough.

I didn’t want to see anyone. I didn’t want to talk. But when Jen called and said, “You need to get out of the house before you start collecting dust, Rory. I’m picking you up in twenty minutes. No arguments,” I didn’t fight her.

She always had a way of knowing when I was sinking.

I chose a short denim skirt, and paired it with a fitted black Skims short-sleeved top. I slipped on my black heeled boots, the ones that clicked with every step. My hair was down, straightened smooth, and tucked behind one ear, and I slung a simple black shoulder bag over my arm. A jacket because the outside still had a slight chill to it. 

The sound of a car horn outside broke the quiet hum of my thoughts. I took one last glance in the mirror — the short denim skirt hugging my hips, the black Skims tee fitting snug against my frame, my straightened hair falling sleek past my shoulders. The heeled boots added just enough height to feel like armor.

I took a breath and grabbed my little shoulder bag, locking the door behind me. 

Jen’s car was already parked by the curb, headlights slicing through the dusk. I opened the passenger door and slid in quickly, the leather cool against the backs of my legs.

She blinked at me. And then again, slowly, like she was trying to recalibrate what she was seeing.

“Oh my...Rory?” she said, nearly dropping her phone in her lap. “Okay, what did you do with my shy little best friend?”

I glanced at her, half amused and half self-conscious. “Too much?”

Jen’s jaw was still somewhere near the floor. “No! You look—like, damn, girl. I’m just not used to seeing you like this. I was expecting...still something you’d wear to a gala.”

I laughed, soft and unsure. “I wasn’t gonna wear a Celine dress, Jen.”

Jen put the car in drive, eyes still flicking to me with admiration. “Whatever it is? Let it stay. Tonight, we’re having fun. If any guy tries to talk to you—”

“I’m not interested,” I cut in quickly.

She grinned. “I know. But still. You deserve to feel good again. No wrong in talking to someone. Or you can take my route and kiss them and take them home for the night.”

“Jen,” I shot her a playful look. I loved her freakiness. 

As we pulled into the city, lights beginning to shimmer against the windshield, I let myself rest back in the seat.

The lounge was already buzzing — warm lights, low music, clusters of bodies weaving in and out of each other like they were all part of some shared, unspoken rhythm. Jen disappeared into a hug with a group of friends near the entrance, leaving me to navigate toward the bar on my own.

I didn’t belong here. Not really. Not with the heavy ache still living under my ribs like a second heartbeat.

I slid onto a stool at the bar, trying to look comfortable as I tucked my hair behind one ear.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked, flashing a polite smile over the counter.

“Just a Sprite,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t question it. The glass was cold in my hands a moment later, condensation slipping across my fingers as I brought it to my lips.

I sipped slowly.

The music faded into the background as my mind wandered. Back to the party, months ago. When Chris was in Milan. 

The night I saw Mason after a while, the night I met Chris’s ex-fling or whatever. 

Then Chris…

I hadn’t even known he was watching me back then. That just one photo of me at that party made him get on a flight from Milan. The possessiveness in that act used to make me feel chosen. Wanted. Protected.

Now? Now it just felt ironic.

That the same man who once flew halfway across the world at the thought of me with someone else… was the one who treated me like I was disposable. Like I was a burden. Like caring for me had been too much for him to carry.

I stared into my drink, my throat tightening.

People said you only understood someone’s true character after the high wore off. Maybe that’s what this was. Maybe Chris had just worn a mask better than most.

Or maybe…Maybe I had just been too easy to fool.

“Are you here alone?”

The voice came again, closer now, more persistent than the music thudding through the bar. I turned just slightly, catching sight of a guy standing beside me. Tall. Buzzed hair. Clean jawline. He wasn’t bad looking, and he knew it by the way he smiled.

“No,” I said calmly, taking another sip of Sprite.

He nodded, undeterred. “Can I get you a drink?”

I lifted my glass just slightly. “I’ve already got one.”

He peered at it, confused. “Sprite?”

“I don’t drink,” I said, not offering anything more.

That caught him off guard, but only for a second. He shrugged and leaned his elbow against the bar. “Fair enough. You don’t look like the typical crowd here anyway.”

I didn’t know what that meant, and I didn’t care to ask.

“What do you do?” he asked casually, clearly fishing for something interesting.

I stared ahead at the shelf of dusty liquor bottles behind the bar, debating if I even wanted to answer. But politeness was second nature.

“I’m a fashion design student,” I said simply.

He perked up, like I had said, I worked for NASA. “Oh really? That’s pretty cool. Like, you design clothes and stuff?”

“Yes,” I said, giving him a glance. “I have a show in two weeks.”

“No way. You must be really good, then.”

I didn’t respond to that.

He tried again. “So what’s a designer like you doing here alone, sipping Sprite?”

I turned slightly on the stool, facing him now, but keeping my distance. “Just getting out of the house.”

He chuckled. “Rough week?”

“Rough month,” I said before I could stop myself.

He nodded slowly, like he understood something deep. “Heartbreak?”

I didn’t answer. But my silence was loud enough.

“Yeah,” he said, offering a small, knowing smile. “That’ll do it.”

I didn’t know this man, and I didn’t care to know him—but I found myself slightly grateful he wasn’t pushing too far. Not yet, anyway.

“Look,” he said, suddenly reaching for his wallet, “I know you said no, but—just let me get you a drink. Doesn’t have to be alcohol. You’ve had a long month, right? Least I can do.”

“I’m fine,” I replied, still calm but firmer this time. “Thanks, though.”

There was a moment of quiet tension—just a second too long.

Then he raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Just trying to be nice.”

Just as I turned back to my drink, I felt his presence settle beside me again. Persistent.

“I’m Darren, by the way.” His voice was smoother now, like he was trying harder. Trying to be charming. I glanced at him briefly, offering a faint nod. “Aurora.”

“Aurora,” he repeated with a slow smile, like he was tasting the name. “Pretty name. Matches you.”

I gave a polite smile, said nothing. I was used to that kind of flattery. It didn’t reach me anymore.

There was a pause before he leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice like we were suddenly sharing something private. “So, Aurora…” he started, “you seem cool. Quiet. But I gotta ask…” His eyes flicked down to my legs and then back up, something about his grin turning cocky. “You in the mood to have a little fun tonight?”

I froze for a second—not shocked, but disappointed. Of course, that’s where this was going.

I turned to face him fully, my voice calm but sharp enough to cut through the music. “I don’t do hookups.”

His eyebrows shot up, like he didn’t expect that to be said so directly. 

“No judgment,” he said quickly, hands raised in innocence.

A few minutes passed. I thought Darren was gone for good, but then he circled back.

“Hey,” he said, a little softer this time. “Listen—sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to come off like a creep.”

I turned slightly, meeting his eyes. He looked a bit embarrassed now, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, leaning against the counter like he was trying to dial it back.

“It’s fine,” I said simply. “Just…not my thing.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he nodded quickly. “I get it. I just—I don’t usually see girls like you alone at parties.”

I lifted a brow. “Girls like me?”

He grinned, but it was less cocky now. “The quiet ones. The ones who don’t drink. The ones who look like they’ve got a hundred better places to be.”

I couldn’t help it—I smiled a little. “That’s… oddly accurate.”

Darren took that as encouragement and leaned in slightly again, but without the earlier edge. “So, if you’re not here to hook up or drink, what are you into?”

“Fashion,” I said, pausing for a beat. “Work, mostly.” 

“You mentioned you had a show soon>?” His tone perked up. “That seems dope.”

I shook my head. “I’m showcasing my collection in two weeks.”

His eyebrows raised. “Like, a legit show?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Catalog’s done. Final show’s being prepped.”

He gave a low whistle. “Alright, then. You’re impressive.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.

There was a little silence before he asked, almost shyly this time, “So… would you wanna maybe go out sometime?”

I blinked, surprised he was still trying.

“I’m…kinda busy,” I said, a little apologetic.

He nodded, clearly trying not to look too disappointed. “Ah. Right. That makes sense.”

I thought that was the end of it—until he added, “I mean, I could come to your show. You know, support you. Cheer you on or whatever.”

That caught me off guard.

“You want to come to a fashion show?” I asked, unsure if he was being serious or just trying to impress me.

He shrugged, grinning again. “Why not? Might be cool. And who knows? Maybe seeing your world helps me get to know you.”

I looked at him for a long moment, unsure of what to say. Part of me wanted to shut it down, keep the wall up.

But another part… the tired, curious part of me… wanted to see what would happen if I let someone new in—even just a little.

“Fine,” I said, sipping my Sprite. “If you actually show up, I’ll be impressed.”

Darren laughed. “Challenge accepted.”

I turned back to the bar, still not sure if I meant it. But for now, it didn’t matter. 

Darren glanced toward the back door, where a few people were going in and out. Beyond it, I saw the faint glow of string lights draped over a small patio and a few benches lined up near the fence. People were out there too—talking, laughing, smoking—but it was calmer. Less chaotic than the music and bass vibrating through the walls inside.

“You wanna maybe step outside for a bit?” Darren asked, voice raised slightly over the music. “It’s loud as hell in here.”

I hesitated. Not because I was nervous, but because I kind of did want to get out of the noise. The party was starting to wear on me. The crowd. The energy. The smell of alcohol on people’s breath.

“Just to talk,” he added quickly, sensing my pause. “There are people around. I’m not shady.”

That made me smirk a little. “Okay. Sure.”

I grabbed my bag and followed him out the back door. The air hit my skin like a breath of relief. Cooler. Cleaner. The buzz of voices was still there, but it didn’t feel suffocating like it did inside.

We sat on the bench closest to the string lights. The wood was worn, the metal frame creaking slightly when we settled in. I folded my arms, my gaze flicking between the people nearby and the gravel under my boots.

“You good?” Darren asked, watching me.

I nodded slowly. “Just… not a party girl. Never have been.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I kinda picked up on that. But you came anyway.”

“My friend made me,” I said, half-smiling. “Said I needed to get out of the house.”

“Guess I should thank her, then,” he said. “I wouldn’t have met you otherwise.”

I didn’t respond right away. My fingers brushed the edge of my denim skirt, the fabric unfamiliar, bolder than what I’d usually wear.

“So…is your fashion show in Boston?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yeah. Local showcase.”

“That’s sick,” he said genuinely. “Can I be honest? You look like you have your life together.”

That made me let out a soft, dry laugh. “That’s funny. Because it feels like it’s falling apart.”

He glanced at me, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”

I didn’t elaborate. I just stared out at the fence, letting the breeze lift the ends of my straightened hair. I wasn’t about to unload everything onto some guy I barely knew. But for now, sitting here, out of the noise, sipping Sprite, talking to a stranger who didn’t know who I was or what I was going through—it didn’t feel so heavy.

It didn’t feel like Chris.

Maybe that was why I stayed.

I let the silence hang for a moment, watching a couple across the patio share a cigarette and talk like the world had slowed just for them. My cup of Sprite sat between my palms, the condensation trailing down my fingers.

Out of courtesy more than curiosity, I glanced at Darren and asked, “What about you? What do you do?”

He shifted, stretching his arms out along the back of the bench casually. “Tech stuff. Kinda boring, honestly. I work for a startup downtown—software solutions, all that jazz.”

“Sounds smarter than it is?” I teased gently.

He laughed. “Exactly. It’s mostly emails and pretending I know what I’m doing during meetings.”

That made me smile faintly. It was easy to talk to him. Easy in the kind of way that didn’t mean anything but didn’t demand anything either. He didn’t know my name was Aurora Devereaux or what that meant. He didn’t look at me like he already knew me.

It was… strangely nice.

“I’m guessing fashion’s always been your thing?” he asked, his tone lighter now.

I nodded slowly. “Yeah. Since I was a kid. I used to sketch dresses on napkins and ruin my mom’s tablecloths trying to sew.”

Darren grinned. “That’s kind of adorable.”

I rolled my eyes playfully, then looked down at my drink. 

The night lingered like a slow-burning candle—dim, comfortable, almost too calm for a party. Darren and I sat on the bench outside for what felt like hours, talking about the most random things.

Music tastes, favourite movies, and embarrassing childhood stories. I didn’t expect to laugh as much as I did, and even though I wasn’t fully present, I appreciated the way he kept the conversation light.

“…and then I tripped over my skateboard and knocked out my two front teeth in front of half the school,” Darren said, chuckling, rubbing the back of his neck.

I laughed softly. “You might’ve peaked in high school with that one.”

“Hey, I survived the humiliation. That’s character development,” he said with a grin.

A breeze swept through, cool against my bare legs, and I crossed them, hugging my drink in my hands. The music from inside was still booming, but out here, it was just muffled enough to feel distant.

Darren leaned his head back against the bench, eyes half-lidded. “You know, you smell like roses.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Oh?”

He turned to look at me again, smiling. “Yeah… I don’t know. It’s subtle, but it’s there. You kind of remind me of a rose. A little mysterious. Pretty, obviously, but also sharp. Like if someone got too close too fast, they might get hurt.”

I laughed, but it came out a bit breathless.

Rose.

That word did something to me.

I remembered the way Chris used to pull me close after long days, his nose nuzzling against my neck, telling me how I smelled like roses, cherries, and clean warmth. As he once said, I reminded him of a rose garden in bloom—elegant, but guarded.

It also reminded me of the rose necklace I no longer own. 

My smile faded just a bit, but I forced it to stay.

“Thanks,” I said, my voice soft.

He didn’t know the weight of what he’d said. Obviously, but I felt it was heavy. 

My phone buzzed in my shoulder bag, the faint vibration pulling me out of the moment. I reached in and saw Jen’s name flash across the screen.

Jen: Hey, I’m ready to dip soon—u good?

I glanced at the time. It was later than I thought. The party had blurred into something muted and slow, and suddenly, I felt the weight of exhaustion pressing on my shoulders.

I looked up at Darren, offering a small, polite smile. “I should head out. My friend’s wrapping up.”

He nodded, sitting up straighter. “Yeah, of course. It was cool talking to you.”

“Yeah, it was,” I said honestly. For a random conversation at a party I hadn’t even wanted to be at, it hadn’t been terrible. He’d been…decent. Not pushy. Kind of funny. He’s just not someone else, though. 

He hesitated, then pulled his phone from his pocket. “Would it be okay if we exchanged numbers? I mean, if you ever wanted to talk again—or if you want someone to hype you up at that fashion show.”

I let out a small laugh, already unlocking my phone. “Sure. Just…no creepy texts at 2 a.m.”

He grinned. “No promises.”

We exchanged numbers quickly, his name showing up on my screen: Darren from the party.

I put my bag over my shoulder and stood, brushing my skirt down. “Have a good night, Darren.”

“You too, Aurora.”

As I walked back into the noise to find Jen, I could still feel his words trailing behind me.

You smell like roses.

But all I could think about was the last person who said that, and how much it still hurt.

It started as a contract—just ink on paper, expectations, and roles we were meant to play. I told myself it didn’t matter, that none of it was real. But somewhere in the middle of pretending, I started meaning it. I chose him. I wanted to stay. I let it become something real, something I was willing to fight for.

For him, though, it always felt temporary. Like he was already halfway out the door, even when he said all the right things. I wonder if it ever meant anything to him at all, or if I was just a convenient pause in a life too full for someone like me.

Maybe he’ll even meet someone. No contract, no force, just his own choice. Maybe he’ll fall for her. He’ll say the things he once said to me, only this time, he’ll mean them. She’ll get the version of him I only ever dreamed of—the one who stays.

Now I’m stuck mourning something he probably never saw the same way. Haunted by the memory of his cold stare in that police station. 

Right where he left me.

READ ALL RELEASED CHAPTERS HERE!

[a/n: I know you guys don't like cliffhangers, but I'm writing chapter 19 and it's looking like were getting a cliffhanger. like and reblog!] – Ceyana

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[mediumgayitalian]

Nico should, probably, be more familiar with the route to Mount Sinai. That's eighty percent of his client base, after all.

But he isn't.

Or, maybe: he doesn't want to be.

It takes him time to walk there. He is stalling, a little, but he does not have to; he does not recognize the route, or the bodegas along each side of the road. He does not frequent Queens or the several back alleys Cecil directed him through, which he does not take, because his suit is Armani and he is not stupid. Not that avoiding the back alleys helps. He can feel the stares on him, appraising him, up and down, gauging how well he will defend himself. If he will at all.

He must look as rotten as he feels, because no one bothers.

He makes it finally to the hospital and slips through the first doors he sees, not bothering to ask further directions. Hospitals have signs and only fools get lost. He makes his way to the third floor, shuddering through the chill in the ICU, through the heavy air of quiet hopelessness. There is a nurse's station, in the dead center of the wing, and this he approaches, clearing his throat.

"Hiya," says a nurse, orange hair dyed a bright, awful green and clinking pony-bead necklaces going up and down her arms. "What can I do you for?"

"I'm, uh." Nico clears his throat, fiddling with his tie. "I'm looking for Will?"

Too late he realizes he should have included a last name. Too late he realizes he doesn't know it.

"Oh!" says the nurse, brightening. "Will! Yeah, he's with his brother. You a friend?"

Nico pushes past the dryness of his mouth. "Something -- like that."

"Aw, good you're comin' to sit with him, then. He gets real lonely sometimes I think. And bored. Lordie does he get bored. But that's always kind of nice, because when he gets bored he comes and does paperwork for us." The nurse grimaces, glancing back. "But, uh, don't tell anyone I said that."

Nico bites back a small, sad smile. Another crime. Another good reason.

"My lips are sealed."

The nurse -- K-dog, if her nametag is to be so believed -- stops at the last door of the hallway, blue and rusted where the metal edge meets the floor. A yellowing piece of paper is taped to the one window, reading 'Lee' in rushed, crooked handwriting. Nico recognizes the tiny counter of the 'e's and swallows hard.

"He's in there," says the nurse, hushed. She peers through the edges of window, but there isn't much to see with the paper in the way. "There's no music, though. Tread light."

She squeezes Nico's shoulder and walks off, humming. Nico stands there, facing the door, breathing, for longer than he would like to admit -- he hates hospitals, has always hated hospitals, since he was 9 years old and sliding to his knees in the floor of one, life shattering in front of him. But he is not unique in that, he supposes. Not even unique between the two of them.

He pushes the door open, forcing himself in and closing the heavy door behind him.

Will is on the bed.

Well -- balanced on the bed would be the better term; there is another man, hooked to countless machines, who is actually in the bed, but there is Will, to his left, dirty converse perched precariously on the bending edge of the mattress, tongue poked out of his mouth, paint marker held in delicate fingers, drawing, in smooth, confident strokes, a stylized yellow sun in the corner of the room, surrounded by circle stars, shining on the man's -- Lee's -- lifeless face.

"Well," says Nico, drily, "I'm beginning to see where half these bills are coming from."

Will shrieks, paint marker going flying, and tips right over: he lands, nearly, splat on the narrow smidge of tile floor between the wall and the bed, taking an array of machines with him; Nico manages to catch him, barely, damn near stumbling himself under the sudden weight but steadying himself in the last moment. They breathe in heavy tandem.

"You're gonna get charged for vandalism, dumbass."

In seconds Will has pulled away, scrambling, wide eyed, to put space between them.

"Nico." He breathes out. "Oh."

It does not escape Nico's notice that he stands between him and his injured brother.

It does feel like shit.

There is tension, clear and foreign in the line of his broad shoulders, there is a rigidity in his spine almost completely alien to the softness of his features. His lips, too, are pulled in, bitten white by his worrying teeth.

Nico steps back, beating back the ache of his own chest. He sits down in the lone, ancient chair and waits.

It takes a minute. Will sits down, eventually, doodled-on jeans making contact with the light, scratchy hospital blanket. He folds his shaking hands under his thighs and chews on his lip, eyes never leaving Nico's face for a second. They breathe. The machines beep, and beep, and beep.

"I'm sorry," Nico says, finally. His shoulders slump, and a balances, barely, elbows to knees. "I made a mistake."

There is a sharp inhale from across the room. Nico does not have the bravery to look up, but Will says, eventually, hesitantly: "I, uh. I did technically funnel several thousand dollars from your company. You were not exactly in the wrong."

Nico shakes his head. "I mean more than that." He stops, swallowing hard. "I did not treat you well."

"...You don't treat anyone well."

"You're different."

"I'm different?"

"Yes."

Nico pauses, staring out the window. He can feel Will's eyes on him, still, wide and blue, blue, blue, and it makes him twitch, makes him sweat.

"I took advantage of you, I think."

Will doesn't answer. He stares, still, eyes burning, eyes guarded, until Nico looks back, finally, and he has his hand, brushing over Lee's arm. Absentmindedly, by habit pulling up his covers and brushing back his hair. He doesn't flinch away once.

Nico says, softly: "I think you are a carer."

Will's breathing upticks.

"A carer, most of all. You care for people. And you came to my company and I was in this dark space, that I have been in most of my life. I was used to it." He stops, closing his eyes. He thinks of hospitals and dark rooms. Of his father's grip on his shoulders. He blinks and continues. "And then you came in with your brightness and your heat. I clung to you, even as I scorned you. And it's -- it's the light after Plato's cave, you know? You were honest and it stung and I was sullen and hesitant but God, for the first time everything lit up."

Nico stops, again. Stares at the ridges of his knuckles.

"And that just wasn't...that's not fair to you, I guess. I never thought about what you needed. You're a person, not a bright thing. And I'm sorry for that."

He meets Will's eyes again. He follows the bob of his scarred throat, as he swallows.

"Well, I was, like. You're hired assistant." He squirms, picking at a loose thread in his jeans. "And, honestly, you kind of...helped me. Too."

Nico shakes his head. "You're friend." His voice is hoarse, lined with guilt. He doesn't bother clearing it. "He says you were a doctor."

Will nods. "Almost."

"A doctor, Will. I didn't even know."

"Well, I don't talk about it."

Will avoids his gaze. There is a beeping from Lee's monitor, so he stands and fiddles with the machine with practiced ease, pressing the buttons until the screen flashes and quiets. Nico watches his shaking fingers still as they adjust his saline, like it is nothing.

"I don't know -- how," Will says, softly. "My brother won't talk to me. Lee is -- dead, functionally."

He chokes as he says it, brushing the sides of his fingers over his brother's forehead.

"I relied on my brothers every day of my life and then I woke up one day and didn't recognize myself in the mirror and my two favorite people in the world were -- gone. I was adrift."

Will shrugs.

"I quit my program. I -- couldn't do it anyway, I guess, can't cut someone open with shaking hands. I just cried most days and struggled and the debt kept getting worse and I wanted to -- well."

He doesn't say it but Nico gets it, suddenly and horrifically -- Will fiddles with the bandage always wrapped around his wrist and Nico realizes what it hides, what Will tried to do. He tastes acid.

"I convinced myself I didn't have a purpose, Nico. I was so sure of it."

He looks to Nico and his eyes are so dark in the setting sun. Nico can't breathe.

"But you gave me something, again. I mean, you were a piece of work and I went home and complained to you to anyone -- and I mean anyone -- who would listen --" He grins, and Nico huffs a laugh, not doubting it -- "but fuck, Neeks. For the first time in too long I was me again. There was someone I could help. And, well. Not a bad someone either."

He looks down and there is a curl to his shoulders that is almost shy. Nico stares at it, at the curve of his throat, and his mouth goes dry.

"You're funny, even when you're being a jackass. And you care about people and you get things done and you aren't bothered by my attitude."

"I like it," Nico admits, heart pounding. Will looks at him and he flushes but pushes forward, still, forces the words out of his mouth. "I like it when you push back at me. It makes me feel like a -- human, again. Like someone who can be wrong instead of an untouchable entity."

Will snorts. "Well I can most certainly promise you that you are wrong often."

Nico quirks his lips. "I know. I know." He breathes out, smile dropping. "And I was hugely wrong, Will, in casting you away." The foam of the arm rest creas under his fingers. "I -- want you back, if you want to come back."

Will exhales, fingers tracing the swirls of Lee's bedsheets. Nico's heart sinks, and he knows what Will is going to say before he says it.

"I don't think I can work for you anymore," he confirms. He bites his lip. "I -- it was a lot, Nico."

Nico nods, chest tight. "I know. I totally under--"

"Plus, there's something of a conflict of interest."

Nico whips his head up. "What?"

Will avoids his eyes, breathing quick and shallow, shoulders up to his ears. "I'm. I think it's frowned upon, when the PA wants to sleep with the boss." His fingers twitch. "Whole trope and everything."

Nico feels his heart stutter. He meets Will's guarded, careful eyes with his own wide ones, and stares, one minute, two, until the barely-there hope in Will's eyes starts to fade, until he nods to himself.

"I hope you'll still write me a reference letter," Will jokes lightly. "I meaning, I don't see a lot of PAing in my future, but --"

"I'm in love with you," Nico blurts. "Marry me."

Will freezes. "Uh."

"I mean! I mean, fuck, I'm sorry, I --" Nico is bright red and he feels it, and Will's nervous little giggle makes it worse, fuck, what is he doing.

He exhales, long and slow. He balls his fists and lets go of the tension, like Jason taught him. He meet's Will's eyes again, but this time his voice is steady.

"Not yet," he says firmly. "Don't marry me -- yet. But." He breathes out again. "Try, with me." He swallows. "If you want to."

"I want to," Will says, softly.

"We can get you back to med school, if you want. Something other than surgery. People need doctors, Will, you can always --"

"I want to."

"-- any school you want, if you still need school -- do you still need school? -- I'll pay for it, I can --"

"I want to."

"-- I promise I am not hurting for money and that's what this whole organization is, isn't it, making the medical field more accessible, and --"

"Nico."

Nico freezes, gulping in a huge breath. Will sets his brother's hand lovingly down and moves until he is crouching in front of Nico's hyperventilating form, both hands gently squeezing his.

"Deep breathes, Nico. Follow me."

Nico does, inhaling when he breathes in, huge and exaggerated, and exhaling when he breathes out. Will keeps breathing with him until the shake in his chest steadies, until the bounce of his leg slows to nothing.

"I'll marry you, Nico," he says quietly. "If you still want to marry me."

Nico nods frantically. "I do. I do. God, Will." He places a hand on Will's scarred cheek, and Will leans into it, tired but soft, hesitant but believing. "I do."

"Long engagement," Will says. He smiles wryly. "It'll take you two years at least to make up for all the shit you've thrown at me."

Nico laughs, pulling him close. "As long as you need," he promises. "We'll do it your way, for this. We tend to anyways."

Will scoffs. "As fuckin if --!"

But Nico leans in, and kisses him. And he rolls his eyes, kiss fracturing as he smiles, and slides his shaking hands up Nico's side, resting on his chest. Nico reaches down to meet them, hands gentle, thumb tracing the ridges of his grafts, of his dotted-aborted freckles, until he sighs, and leans in. And kisses Nico back, gentle and willing and trusting.

"You're way," Nico vows, murmured against his lips. "Whatever you need, Will. However I can take care of you."

"Okay," Will whispers, breath shuddering. His hands twist the silk of Nico's dress shirt. He doesn't care, in the slightest. "Okay, okay, okay."

-- -- --

Epilogue

-- -- --

His last patient of the day is very young, very sick, and has very, very, long hair; Will removes his ring, knowing better than to assume the stone won't get caught, with his luck, and pushes into the exam room, waiting for the mother's waving hand before coming in all the way.

"Hey, Gracie," he says, keeping his voice low. He shoots her a sympathetic smile. "Long time, no see."

"I don't want to see you again," the young girl grouches, butting her head into her mother's stomach. Her mother snorts. "Your office makes me sick."

"...Is it the office that makes you sick, kiddo."

"Yes."

Will snorts at her vehemence, knowing better than to argue. Grumpy sick people, Will has noticed, are more stubborn than a mule. Especially grown men who know better, but that's neither here nor there.

"If you say so."

"I do," she mutters, but it is muffled in her mother's shirt, and she quiets when Will approaches with the stethoscope. Her heartbeat if fine, if a little higher than usual, and as her mother holds the light for him, he can see that her ears are stuffed. Her throat, too, is swollen. "I'm thinking strep," he says apologetically. "I'm sorry, sweetheart."

She groans -- this is the third time this year, and it is only June. He makes eye contact with her mother, knowing that if it happens again, they'll have to discuss further options.

"Pray for us," says her mother, quietly. "I can't -- the surgery is --"

Expensive. Upwards of $4000, in New York; higher, if Gracie goes somewhere where she can be comfortable as she is six and sick and scared.

Will knows that the cheapest option is too much.

"Let get you in touch with my husband," he says, squeezing her hand. "Well, his secretary, actually, but Rachel is probably a better bet. Nico is a grouchy person." He meets Gracie's peeked-open green eyes and grins. "He handles high bills like that, here. You won't see a cent of charge."

His patient hesitates. Will cannot blame her -- this family is a new transfer, to this office, and Will does not doubt that she has heard the same promise before.

But Will means it. And he has the funds backing it to prove it, so he finishes Gracie's check-up, lets her pick a lollipop (she picks two, Will turns a blind eye) and guides them back to the front desk, quickly scrawling some last notes in Gracie's file. Kayla has gone home already -- last minute Saturday appointment, and Will knows she has band -- so he gets the papers himself, scrawling the company's number on legal paper and tucking it in with her prescription. Gracie's mother takes one gratefully, one hesitantly.

"He'll help," Will promises. "Else he's sleeping on the couch, so."

The woman laughs. Finally, the tension in her shoulders seems to ease, and Gracie, clever girl that she is, relaxes too, pressing her sticky fingers to the desk to enjoy the smudge they make.

"That's a threat I recognize," she teases, eyes sparkling. She rans a hand over her daughter's braids. "Lets hope it doesn't come to that, though, huh, Gracie-girl."

Gracie gives a sleepy nod and lets her mother lift her. Will walks them to the door, waving as they make their way to the bus stop, and ducks back inside, quickly gathering his things. It takes some shoving, but his messenger bag has taken him this far and it will take him farther. He makes it to the curb only nineteen minutes late -- a near-record for him, honestly -- and grins at Jules-Albert's exasperated eyeroll.

"Hi," he says, placing his hands angelically under his chin, and the chauffeur visibly softens. "Interview over already?"

Jules-Albert nods.

"Aw."

He doesn't say it, but Will has grown fluent in raised eyebrows and judgmental stares. Nico doesn't speak for a full hour and a half after waking up. He will down four espressos before his office coffee before uttering a word. It is hilarious.

"It's not my fault! I got a call. I brough another case for the company, anyway. That'll perk His Highness up. It puts us above Octavian and his crew, I think."

Jules-Albert doesn't say anything, but he switches to a more upbeat radio station. Will smiles triumphantly. Score.

Now, obviously the goal is to help people. Always.

But it does not hurt to rub it in Octavian's thieving face that they're better at helping people, so. Plus, well.

Nico gets handsy when he's winning.

They pull up to the office quickly. Will blows Jules-Albert a kiss, snickering at his hidden smile, and bounds up to his husband's floor, blowing by security. They wave as he passes, jovial, and he waves back. Nervous excitement churns his stomach, and he pauses in the bullpen, fiddling with his -- aw, fuck, he forgot to leave his coat at work.

"Damn." Jason strolls over, making a show of checking his watch. "Only thirty-two minutes late…you're practically early."

"Lotsa traffic," Will lies. Jason sees through him easily and rolls his eyes. Will grins. "Did he make it?"

"Go see for yourself," the man says, but he's grinning, and Will cheers, dropping his bag -- his laptop will be fine probably -- where he stands and sprinting for Nico's office. Rachel pretends to trip him on his way in but he notices last second and jumps over her foot, which unfortunately makes him ram into the half-open door, but he takes that one as a win. Both parties inside have seen him do dumber.

"Dr. Brunner!!!"

They could hear him in the Bronx, probably, but Will can't bring himself to care. In the dead centers of the sunlight spilling from the Palladian windows sits his old teacher, in the flesh: his favorite professor, his professor who visited him, when he was injured and disoriented, who came banging on his door the day he quit.

"Will," he says, smiling broadly. "It is grand to see you again, child."

Will rushes to crush him in a hug, beaming. "I am thirty-two!"

"Almost through toddler, then."

Will snorts, sinking into the embrace: the smell, of pen ink and hand sanitizer, the feel of tweed and scruffy beard tickling his ear. It has been a good year since he has seen his mentor -- not since the wedding -- and he has missed him. Before that, even, visits were sporadic. A pointedly cleared throat ruins the moment.

"Am I chopped liver."

"I see you every day, you needy loser."

"Well, Dr. Brunner, since you're not trying to seduce me, I'll go ahead and advise you not to speak to me like that during your employment."

"Oh, is that how it happened."

But Will is flushing, and Dr. Brunner is laughing, and he pulls away, giving Will the space to pinch his husband or at least try to.

"It's not," Will says darkly, "but there is a spray bottle in my old desk if you need to train some manners back into him."

That shuts Nico right up. Will smiles triumphantly and tangles their hands together, holding them up in his victory. Nico sighs as if this is such a big inconvenience but curls into the space it makes at Will's side, bringing heir joined hands back down so his arm is around Will's hips, fingers still clasped so that Will can feel the shape of his ring.

"…You still have that, huh."

"Well, unless you found the hiding spot."

He didn't. Will knows he didn't. Will meets Dr. Brunner's sparkling eyes, wordlessly promising to reveal it to him. Nico notices and scowls.

"What is the deal with MDs and torturing me," he grumbles. "Didn't you guys take an oath or something."

Will snorts and kisses his grumbling away. He softens, against him, and when he pulls away again he is smiling.

"We're happy to have you on board," he addresses Dr. Brunner, extending his hand. Dr. Brunner shakes it. Will thinks of his own tumultuous onboarding and bites back a grin. Nico must be thinking the same, because he sighs. "I have been in need of a PA for a time, but it has been a process trying to find someone as competent as my last."

Dr. Brunner feigns ignorance, stroking his beard.

"Ah," he says, "I have heard the rumors. Your last assistant must have been quite the person to soften the notorious di Angelo's frigid heart."

Nico squeezes Will's hip. Will glows.

"One of a kind," Nico says, softly. There is no mistaking the love in his voice, and he makes it so.

"Well, then," says Dr. Brunner, suddenly just as serious as gentle. "I will have some large shoes to fill."