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damneddamsy · 16 hours ago

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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.

“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.”

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.

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itzpookiepooh · 8 hours ago

Text

P-P-P-Poker Face

Based on this ask <3

Caleb spent his whole life trying to make you laugh, well the part with you in it anyway. It’s on his bucket list and he’s tried everything. He tried corny dad jokes, pranks, funny movies, nothing worked. Everything was mostly funny to you if only you got the punchline. An inside joke for you alone.

“Can you pass me the pepper?” Caleb asks as you pass it to him. His hands accidentally hits yours making it drop and puff out pepper. Caleb’s face contorts before he goes into a sneezing fit. The noise leaving his body made something tingle on your sides.

“Oh my—ACHO!” He exclaims his body jerking with every uncontrollable sneeze. You giggle at his sneezing fit, the faces sent you into a tizzy.

Caleb froze as best he could to mentally capture this moment. When he finally stopped sneezing he celebrated how he finally got you to laugh. Was it accidental? Yes however, a win is a win.

Rafayel was giving you an art lesson today. It was mostly its usual quietness with him talking your ear off. The same blank face you always have on. You were sitting on the ladder waiting for him to pass you paint when you heard clinking. He was coming over with various tools.

“I have pencils of different kinds, chalk and—WHOA!” He yelps falling over the paint cans on the floor—the tools flying into the air, falling on him. He groans as he lays on the floor.

You spit out a laugh making his head shoot up. He stares at you in shock as you laugh at him. You never laugh and the fact it’s at his pain confuses him. He doesn’t know whether to be proud or upset. He’ll take proud.

“You laughed!” He points out making you clear your throat, turning away. He begged you to laugh once more but you wouldn’t budge.

Zayne wasn’t very expensive himself and you matched that. He didn’t mind but he often found himself wondering what your laugh sounded like. He wanted to hear it much like anything else he heard from you. You guys were having casual conversation over dinner when Zayne bit into his food and his face twists up.

You try to hold back the urge to laugh. It was hard when Zayne looked like his tastebuds were assaulted. He spits the chewed food into a napkin, holding his mouth shut in disgust. He moves his fork around his food to find none other than—carrots.

“So you do know how to laugh.” He comments as you couldn’t hold in your giggles much longer.

At this point he didn’t mind being tortured by the orange menace. Your laugh was enough to wash it all away. He still sent his food back though, no way he was eating that.

Sylus rarely saw you express yourself and he didn’t mind he had enough emotion for the both of you. He was so busy today that he left you with Mephisto. You being bored made clothes for the bird. You thought he’d look cute in a sweater especially in this weather. Even though the bird doesn’t get cold.

You showed Sylus when he got back and he thought it was impressive. You told him Mephisto wouldn’t wear it and kept squawking at you so Sylus decided to make Mephisto wear it. The struggling made you giggle uncontrollably. A grown man fighting a mechanical crow brought you to tears. They both stopped to look at you laugh, it was mesmerizing. Sylus took this time to shove the sweater on the bird.

“Look at that. Red is your color Mephisto.” You giggle as you compliment the bird. Sylus hugs you from behind as you look up at him.

“And you look beautiful with a smile on your face.” Sylus adds, kissing your forehead as you giggle once more.

Xavier was pretty good at reading you but not when it came to something funny. You were pretty much poker faced when it came to a joke. Xavier tried almost everything to get you to crack a smile and laugh. Today was a total accident. You went to wake him up from his nap since he hadn’t eaten.

“Xavier, it’s time for dinner.” You shake him but he doesn’t move. You do so again and his eyes pop open but they’re cocked like pistols.

You couldn’t hold it in. You covered your mouth and turned away. He blinks a couple times before he fully sits up to rub his eyes. You giggle through your hands almost to tears. He tilts his head, confused as to why you were laughing.

“You’re laughing.” He states, astonished by you doing so. You turn to him your waterline ready to break.

“Are you hungry?” You ask through choked laughter. He does a firm nod as he begins to glow, happy that he got you to laugh naturally.

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bittertasteofhoney · 1 day ago

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Good Day Sunshine | Ch. 6

Your Lips, My Lips

Summary: The tension between you and Joel finally snaps and the two of you become tangled in more ways than one.

|| smutty smut smut, light angst, jackson!joel, jackson!joel x f!reader, unprotected sex (please do not do this), p in v, age-gap, fingering (but also not?), dirty talk, missionary, praise kink, creampie, grinding, girthy, age gap (but legal!) age gap, reader isn’t a virgin but it's her first time with joel, reader is afab ||

Notes: It’s finally happening besties!! Enjoy Joel finally giving in to his desires…

18+. Read at your own risk. You are responsible for your own media consumption. Minors DO NOT ENGAGE.

Previous Chapter.

He stood in front of you, red as a cherry and eyes so wide, you worried they would pop out of his head. “Kiss you?”

You nodded, a soft smirk crinkling your cheeks. He whispered your name and shook his head. His words came out incredulous and shockingly harsh. “I-I can’t kiss you. You’re what? Twenty-six? Twenty-seven?”

“Twenty-nine.” His face went white.

“Christ.” A hand covered his mouth as he attempted to still his breathing. “I’m too old for you. Jesus there’s twenty-seven years between us. I could be your goddam father. You don’t need to think about me kissing you and I definitely don’t-” He took a shuddering pause and attempted to collect himself again.

“You should be kissing guys your own age.”

You shook your head and pressed your lips together in annoyance. “Oh, like Roddy? Should I let him kiss me?”

His eyes turned to murderous slits. “Don’t even fucking joke like that.”

A short breath escaped your mouth before you spoke, “Is age the only reason you won’t kiss me? Is that really it?” All he did was stare at you with some combination of a glare and a plea.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, would you kiss me if age wasn’t an issue?”

He didn’t trust himself to answer you. He didn’t even fully realize the subtle nod he threw your way, not exactly in control of himself at that moment. A nervous and desperate energy buzzed through him, and he squeezed his fists together until his knuckles turned white.

“So kiss me then. I want you to.” Your voice came out in a whisper.

The two of you stood in tense silence, close but not close enough to touch. Finally, he shook his head, definitively rejecting you and looking almost scared of the alternative of letting himself say yes.

The smirk on your face fell, and you forced yourself to nod and eventually smile. “Goodnight, then, Joel. Thank you again for dinner.”

You didn’t look at his face as you stepped off the porch, nor did you look back as you walked down his path, onto the road, and around the corner back home. You couldn’t see past the tears in your eyes from the moment’s embarrassment. Rejected by a man whom you had been avoiding just a week before. The irony of it was almost too much.

Back on his porch, Joel wrestled with the morality of the situation. He was old enough to be your father, and here you were asking him to kiss you. He knew he couldn’t simply stop there if he gave in. He would completely ruin you, and it wasn’t fair to you. He paced the length of the porch, occasionally glancing at the yard to see if you would reappear, until he made up his mind. It shouldn’t have even been a question, but his brain wouldn’t move past the hopeful look in your eyes.

He moved off the porch and into the night to retrace your steps until he knocked on that splintered yellow door.

You opened it with red rimmed eyes, and his gaze immediately softened at your appearance. He was an asshole. Didn’t deserve to be here for making you cry like that. But his feet remained planted.

“I came to apologize.” You offered him a watery laugh.

“You tend to do that a lot.” He nodded.

“I reckon I have a lot to be sorry for.”

Your eyebrows creased together. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m sorry for how I acted back at the house. I shouldn’t have let you leave.” He paused and looked at his boots. “And I’m sorry for being unable to stop myself this time. So, I need you to be sure.” He took a step forward. “Do you want this? Really want this?”

You opened the door wider, nodding your head.

He shook his head quickly back and forth. “No. I need to hear you say it.” His voice was shaky. Nervous and unsure.

“I want it.” All the breath left his body as you moved to let him step inside. He turned to gently close the door and lock it before placing two hands on your hips and twisting you so your back was against the door.

He wasted no time looking at your flustered form before leaning in.

The kiss was initially slow, his lips gentle, and his mustache tickling your top lip. But then built as his desperation broke through. He tasted like coffee and lemon cake and less than honorable intentions. He pinned your hips with his and caged you in with his arms. His lips moved urgently, teeth nipping and tongue licking into your mouth. You gasped, and he froze, breaking the kiss and looking at you.

“You okay?”

You gripped his shirt, breathing heavily and nodding. “Yes, but I won’t be if that’s all you plan on doing.”

He released your name in a strangled breath. You pressed a hand against his chest, causing his eyes to lock on yours, and they stayed there as you walked him backward into your living room.

His eyes occasionally flitted to your lips, but the look on your face mesmerized him and held his attention. You pushed him onto your couch, and he fell onto the sunken cushions with a grunt. You swallowed nervously before climbing onto his lap and hovering.

You looked at him beneath you. He was watching you as if you were a goddess come to life. You blushed as he steadied you with his hands and leaned in to kiss him softly. He groaned and bit your lip, causing you to whimper and sink into it. The two of you kissed, fighting one another for dominance and after a few minutes of back and forth, Joel knocked one of his knees to the side, causing you to lose your balance and fall flush against him. You gasped, and he swallowed it with another searing kiss. Okay, I guess he won that one.

You steadied yourself on his shoulders as his hands climbed up your back, slipping his hands under the straps of your sundress and palming the skin like you would disappear in a split second. He slipped the straps off your shoulders and broke the kiss to look at you questioningly. You nodded, and he looked down entranced as he slipped the dress down your chest to your navel.

He swallowed audibly. No fucking bra. You looked at him, blushing, but he couldn’t rip his gaze away. Nervously, he slid a hand from your shoulder and gently cupped one of the breasts. You closed your eyes, and he froze, just letting the weight of it sit in his hand—another audible swallow.

“Joel.” His eyes flitted to yours, which were now open and searing. Without thinking, you brought a hand up to his and pressed it down. That was the permission he didn’t realize he was waiting for.

He inhaled and leaned forward, capturing your lips once again in a mind-dizzying tilt as he squeezed and flicked and dug his nails into you. You hissed, not from pain but shock, as he pressed a hand into your stomach, causing you to fall back. He caught you with his hands, which moved quickly to firmly press against your back.

You watched in desire-tinted fascination as he slipped one perked bud into his mouth, all the while keeping his eyes firmly set on yours. He rolled the nipple between his teeth before releasing it with a pop and moving on to the other breast, repeating the motions. You were a whimpering mess before he released both completely, looking like he could spend all day doing just that and almost pissed he was moving on.

“Joel?” His eyes were still fixed on your breasts, now covered in his saliva.

“Tell me what you want.” His voice came out gravely, almost like it was punched with holes from disuse.

You chuckled nervously. “What I want? I thought that was fairly obvious.” He shook his head with clipped movements from side to side, but then met your gaze once again. His eyes were so dark, they were nearly black.

He slid one of the hands that was still supporting you from the back around your side and down your stomach, slipping underneath the bunched-up dress at your hips and under the snap of elastic holding your underwear together. You watched with wide eyes, locked on his black ones as he swiped his fingers through your wet mess.

“Christ.” He hissed, swallowing and biting his lip like that was the only thing anchoring him. “How long?”

“Probably since you went all caveman and slammed me against the door.” Your breath was shaky and airy. His thumb swiped your clit and a whimper escaped you.

His eyebrows knitted together. “Did I hurt you?” You shook her head quickly, barely able to think as his thumb began to circle. “Good. Because I was thinkin’.” A brief pause. “I could fuck you up against that door. If that’s something you wanted.” All the breath left your body.

“And if I said no?” His thumb stopped its movements, his fingers moving down to circle your entrance. He pressed the heel of his hand against your clit, and you fell forward, your forehead meeting his.

“Well, you’d be one big fuckin’ tease, but I would be a gentleman and walk out that door.”

You swallowed and tested a roll of your hips against his hand. He hissed. “I don’t want a gentleman right now.”

“What do you want?” Another sharp intake of breath from him and another roll of your hips.

“I want you to fuck me in my bed first. Then we can talk about up against the door.” Your hips were beginning to move in a rhythm and he continued to watch like his fucking life depended on it.

He applied more pressure to his hand, still teasingly circling his fingers around your entrance. “Anyone else been in your bed?” You shook your head. “Words, darlin’. I need to hear you use your words.”

“No.” It came out strangled. You had to rip the vowels from your throat to even attempt to form the words as something bordering on blissful was beginning to crest.

“So you’re telling me I’ll be the first?” You nodded again, and he applied more pressure.

“Words, darlin’.”

“Yes.” He nodded as your hips began to lose their rhythm, and you threw your head back as the feeling started to rise. You repeated the affirmation over and over, your movements jerky, and he used his other hand to press you more flush against him by palming your ass. He softly kissed your neck and sank his teeth into the fleshy section between your shoulder and neck, causing you to hiss and his name to escape your mouth in a whimper as everything came crashing over you.

You completely lost any sense of rhythm, letting him take over, guiding your hips and groaning against you as that warm feeling in your lower belly finally snapped.

Once you began to come down from your high, he licked over his bite mark, letting you catch your breath. After a few minutes, he leaned back and admired his work. His eyes flitted from your rosy cheeks to the wet spot on your shoulder to your peaked nipples and finally, to your dress, which was still bunched around your hips.

“I’m gonna ask you one more time darlin’, and then I’ll take you upstairs. Do you want this?”

You shook your head, and he had already reconciled himself to adjusting his pants and leaving your house for good when he felt a hand pressed against his chest. “You ask me if I want this one more time and I just might have to kick your ass Joel Miller. Take me upstairs.”

He met your sharp gaze with a smirk. “Yes, ma’am.” Within an instant, your legs were wrapped around his waist, his erection pressing up against you through his jeans as he rose from your tangled position on the couch.

He grunted as he stood, and you smiled, muttering to yourself, “Old man.”

He smirked and nodded, slapping your ass with a biting sting. “Let’s see if you still think that in a few minutes.”

He took the stairs quickly as if being chased and spun around in confusion on the landing. “Bedroom?”

“To the right.” You leaned forward and pressed your lips to his neck. He groaned.

“Hands to yourself until you’re beneath me.”

You giggled. “My hands have nothing to do with this.” He barreled into your room and barely let his eyes focus on the scattered plants, yellow linen curtains and piles of paperbacks before throwing you on the bed. You yelped in surprise, bouncing from the movement. You sat up, supporting yourself on your elbows and watched dazed as he stepped up to the foot of the bed.

“Eyes on me.” You quirked an eyebrow.

“Giving me orders now, Miller?” He smirked darkly and lightly shrugged his shoulders.

“That something you like?” You bit your lip and nodded. “Good girl.” Fucking good girl?

Your eyes never left his as he kicked off his boots and socks, unbuttoned his flannel and peeled off a white t-shirt, revealing dark patches of chest hair and a soft belly. Corded planes of muscle, no doubt earned from years surviving in this harsh world, were still present but were softened by age.

You swallowed as his hands moved to his hips, unbuckling a rusty belt and sliding his denim jeans down in quick movements. He stepped out of them and watched your reaction as you fully took him in. Fucking hell.

He was a decent size, but that wasn’t what caused your throat to dry up. He was thick. “You sure you know what you’re doing with that?”

He rolled his eyes. “Never had any complaints.” You bit your lip as he slowly climbed onto the bed and crawled over you. Hands back to bracketing your form and knee between your legs, knocking them apart.

“You ever done this before?” You narrowed your eyes at him and nodded with as much sarcasm as you could emote

He met your narrowed gaze with his own. “Yes, Joel. Although I’m worried it’ll feel like the first time given how thi-”

“No need to feed my ego, darlin’. I’m already between your legs.” You laughed.

“So do something about it.” He smirked and locked his eyes on yours as he slowly slid into your entrance, giving inch by inch in an agonizing pace. Your eyes fluttered closed, and he groaned.

“Relax for me, darlin’. I can’t go any further.” Your eyes flashed open, and you saw he was only halfway in. You nodded and took a deep breath. He leaned forward and kissed you softly. You melted into it, moaning and letting him take control. Before you knew it, he bottomed out and you felt his patch of hair rubbing against your clit. You jerked at the sensation, and he smiled to himself as he continued to kiss you.

“You want it fast or slow?” You hummed as he peppered your jaw with kisses.

“Surprise me.” He shook his head.

“No. I want to give you what you want. Tell me.”

“Slow.” He nodded but paused as you brought a hand up to his chin, squeezing it and forcing him to look at you. “And hard.”

He nodded again and began to move. You gasped at the sensation of being stretched completely open. Again, how was this man still single, walking around with that between his legs?

At first, he seemed to be holding back. His movements were hard but bordering on civil. “Joel.” He groaned at the sound of your name coming out of his mouth. “Stop being so polite.” You whimpered as he circled his hips, disrupting the rhythm he set.

“How else am I supposed to fuck Little Miss Sunshine?” A sharp pump of his hips.

“Joel, please-” His thrusts immediately turned harder, almost hostile, but still maintaining a slow, sensual pace. He grunted from the effort.

“Like she’s fuckin’ burning me up?” His voice was low, almost angry, but when you met his eyes, they were intense but soft. Almost reverent. “God, baby, the way you’re squeezing me.”

You whimpered again, and he used one of his hands to press your thighs further apart. He sat back on his heels, palming the flesh of your thighs and gripping them as he continued to pump his hips.

You were a fucking mess. Not once did his tempo quicken. Every single thrust of those hips set a scattering of stars across your vision.

You’re not sure how much time passed, but somewhere between minutes and blissful hours, that familiar feeling began to build in your belly. “Joel.”

“I know, baby.” You whimpered again and bucked your hips, desperately meeting his thrust. He immediately moved one of his hands from your thighs to clamp down on your movements. You covered his hand with your own and dug your nails in.

“Please.” A breath escaped him, and he nodded, watching your hips rise to meet him thrust for thrust. The two of you quickly spiraled into oblivion, punctuated by groans, whimpers and moans. “Joel!”

“That’s it, baby.” He grunted, sounding like this pained him, but the look on his face made it clear he was enjoying every second of this. “Let go for me.” You whimpered again, so close to the edge. Noticing the tears shining at the corner of your eyes, he lifted a hand, licked his thumb and brought it to your clit to rub ferocious circles that bordered on painful. It felt like heaven.

Your eyes widened when that delicious cord snapped again, and his name tumbled from your lips as your orgasm ripped through you. He grunted from the effort and said your name in warning. “Come inside me, Joel. Please.”

That fucking did it for him. He collapsed on top of you as his own orgasm pulsed through him, and you felt the heat of him invade your every sense.

The two of you stayed like that for several minutes, the sweat drying sticky on your limbs and your breaths calming down from pants to deep inhales. When he finally rose on his forearms, he captured your lips in a tangled kiss that risked you losing all feeling in your limbs again. The man made you completely senseless.

As the kiss broke, you moved a hand to push a few sweaty curls off his brow. He grasped the hand and brought it to his lips, kissing it gently and meeting your eyes nervously. “You feelin’ okay?”

You nodded quietly at first and then smirked. “Feeling like I’m ready to be fucked against a door.” He laughed at that, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Give me a second, darlin’. I think I blacked out there for a second.”

So you did. The two of you laid there, laughing and drawing patterns on each other’s skin with him still inside you. However, it didn’t take long for a kiss or two to heat things up again and for the pair of you to end up hip to hip, frantically moving as one.

Against the door. Pinned up against your kitchen counters as he took you from behind. On the couch with you on top.

The man may have needed a few minutes between each session, but once he was ready, he became insatiable—and you were drunk on the feeling.

By the time morning light peeked between your living room windows, the sleeping forms of you and Joel barely registered as you lay tangled on the cushions. Your body rose and fell from his deep breaths, supported by his arms locked around you and covered by a threadbare blanket.

Your aching bodies, well-soothed by a night filled with orgasms, didn’t register the knocking on your door. Not until it turned into pounding.

You lifted your head groggily, clocking the sleeping Miller beneath you and smirking before the insistent banging registered. Confused, you glanced at the door and looked around for an article of clothing to cover yourself with.

Tossing the blanket over Joel, you spotted a crew neck thrown across your sitting chair and thankfully, piles of folded shorts from your recent bout of laundry. The pounding continued.

Shit. Did you miss a shift? What day was it? “One second!” You cringed to yourself when you saw Joel begin to stir. He opened his eyes and met your panicked expression. “Sorry.” He shook his head in dismissal and slowly sat up.

You ran to the door and opened it to reveal a smirking Ellie. Double shit.

“Ellie!” You said her name loudly, hoping Joel would miraculously get the cue he needed to get dressed quickly.

The young kid was smirking, immediately noticing the panicked edge to your smiling face. “Can I come in?”

Your eyes widened to saucers. “I don’t think that’s the best idea, babe. I’m pretty sure I slept in and need to be at the gardens right now and-”

She pushed past you, rather aggressively for someone her size, and laughed, saying, “It’s seven in the morning.” The laughter only lasted a full second before she shouted, “Dude! What the hell man?! Make yourself decent! There’s kids around.”

You covered your mouth to keep from laughing as you watched Joel nearly fall off the couch, clutching the blanket around his lower half. “Ellie, what the hell are you doing here?!”

Ellie looked at the ground, probably attempting to erase the image of her stand-in father shirtless from her brain. “You’re late for patrol. We were supposed to report to Tommy thirty minutes ago.”

Joel muttered a shit to himself before taking the stairs up to your bedroom two at a time. The two of you stood in silence, so awkward you could practically feel it suffocating you for a few minutes before Joel came bounding back down the stairs. He clocked you and Ellie, smirking to yourselves, and rolled his eyes before ushering his charge outside.

You expected him to just walk past you, but he paused in the doorway, watching to make sure Ellie kept walking before pinning you against the wall, an inch from the open door.

“Don’t think I didn’t see your ass sniggering.” You didn’t even have a chance to respond before his lips pressed against yours and his tongue slipped into your mouth, silencing any sort of argument you were going to attempt.

When he broke the kiss, you were breathless, and he was the one smirking as he stepped into the crisp morning air.

Next Chapter.

Tag List :) @silksepia @hello-nah817 @longlivetheloneliness @keseqna @millers-girl @treacherqus @lemonboi @spnfic85 @secretlettersfromyourlove

#bitter taste of honey #good day sunshine #joel miller #joel miller angst #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #the last of us #joel miller tlou #joel tlou #joel miller x female reader #joel miller smut #minors dni #minors do not interact #18 + content #18 + only #Spotify

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twlgholts · 1 day ago

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always kind of was, j.b.

chapter eight, hollow bones

— jacob black x f. reader

a/n: i wonder what is so important he had to leave to do hmmmm i wonder

taglist: @asillysimp @grimlinn @eneywey @shinobuily

prev. series masterlist! next.

Since you got back, Jacob found small ways to be around again: dropping by to fix the deck light without being asked, showing up with a socket wrench like he’d just remembered your dad had mentioned the grill was busted. He was around enough that your parents started teasing you again, throwing each other knowing looks over dinner like they knew something you didn’t.

You got comfortable. Too comfortable.

Lately, the nights had started to feel off.

He bailed more. Told you he was busy. Said he was tired. You didn’t push, but you noticed. The way his eyes drifted toward the treeline more often. The way his phone would buzz and he’d get quiet. He never said it, but you knew there was something pulling him away from you—something heavy he didn’t want you to carry with him.

Jacob hadn’t texted. Not a blurry sunset picture. Not even his usual dry, late-night “you alive?” that you’d come to expect when the house was quiet and everyone else had gone to bed.

You stared at your phone too long, your thumb hovering over his contact, but you didn’t type anything. You expected the dots to pop up on your screen first, like maybe he was already thinking of you.

That weekend, you waited for him at the dock for a fishing day and a swim. You stood with your pole, glancing at your phone every few minutes. When five o’clock came and went, you sat down instead, feet dangling in the water. Then the minutes turned into nearly two hours. Five missed calls to voicemail. You weren’t sure why you kept waiting.

Jacob: I’m sorry I can’t make it

You: That’s it?

Jacob: I’m sorry

You left him on read. He eventually promised to make it up to you. Matilda and chocolate cake.

But tonight, the storm hit before he did.

You waited too long in the living room, your parents eventually giving up and kissing your head before heading to bed. You wandered into the kitchen instead, looking for something—comfort, distraction, sugar. Anything.

The storm outside was violent. Unseasonal. Like it didn’t belong in a lazy summer night. You stood at the window with a glass of water, blanket around your shoulders, the lightning making brief ghosts of the trees outside.

Then–two sharp bangs on the door.

Your heart leapt up into your throat. You opened the door, blanket still clutched, anger already stitched into your expression.

Jacob stood there, soaked. Shirtless, barefoot, hair flattened to his face, his body steaming faintly in the cold night air.

“Why the hell are you not wearing clothes, Jacob?” you snapped before you could stop yourself. “Where are your shoes? You’re gonna catch a cold—”

You dragged him inside, grabbed a towel, shoved it into his chest. “Clean your feet before my mom sees those prints and has a heart attack.”

He didn’t say anything, just quietly doing as you said.

“You bailed on me again, and now you show up like this?” You threw your blanket over his shoulders out of reflex. “What is up with you lately?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low like it hurt to say anything at all.

“Couldn’t you have texted me? Called?”

He pushed his hair back and looked at you. “Didn’t think it would come down this hard.”

“You scared the hell out of me,” you admit, quieter this time. “I thought something happened.”

“I’m okay.” He hesitated. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You hugged him–brief, sharp–and he froze before returning it, his hands settled lightly on the small of your back.

“No cake, I’m guessing?”

He looked away. Not a funny joke, you guess. “I’m not staying. I just–Just wanted to come by. Say sorry.”

Your chest tightens.

“That’s it?”

“I have to go soon.”

You studied him. The way his jaw clenched. The flicker of something in his eyes he couldn’t quite hide.

"Don’t lie to me, Jacob. Just—don’t. I’m not mad that you missed things; I’m mad you didn’t tell me you would. I’m not a stranger—you don’t need to vanish. And I’m confused. Confused why you don’t respond for hours, why you show up at one in the morning, why your clothes are missing." you let out a slight laugh at how ridiculous you sound.

“I know.”

“Then why do you keep doing it?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Yeah. That’s what people say when they don’t want to talk about things. Avoid things.”

Silence. Then a soft “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“That’s not your call.”

You didn’t realize your voice was shaking until he looked at you, his brow drawn, almost like it hurt him.

“I’m leaving soon, Jake. I only get you for the summer. Everyone else gets you the rest of the year and I hate feeling like I’m begging for scraps of time from someone who’s supposed to be my best friend.”

He winced, like that hit harder than he expected.

“Stay,” you almost beg. “Just until the storm slows.”

“I can’t.”

“Why? Is it something I did? Something I said?”

“No.” It came out sharp, too fast. “No. It’s not you, no.”

You stared at him. At the way his hands fidgeted with the edge of the towel. At how he couldn’t look you in the eyes anymore.

“You used to tell me everything,” you said.

“I still want to.”

“Then tell me why it feels like you’re not really here anymore.”

You didn’t mean for it to sound like a plea, but it did. Soft and breaking and too close to the truth. Jacob didn’t move. His eyes flickered to yours, then down to the floor again, like he couldn’t stand to meet the look in your face. Like it might burn.

You watched him breathe. His chest rose and fell too slow, like each inhale was a choice he had to make. The towel in his hands hung limp now, damp and wrung out at the edges where his fingers twisted the fabric.

He shook his head once, barely. “I can’t explain it.”

“You mean you won’t.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

Your throat tightened. “It is when you used to tell me everything.”

“I still want to.” he repeats, this time more desperate like he’s trying to get you to understand something hiding behind his words.

“Then do it.” You took a step closer. “Just be honest. Tell me whatever it is that makes you disappear. That makes you lie about why you don’t come around. That makes you look at me like you’re already halfway gone.”

You didn’t raise your voice, but something cracked under the surface—raw and hollow. He heard it. His jaw tensed. His eyes flicked to the window as thunder rolled again in the distance. For a second, he looked like he wanted to bolt. Like staying here any longer was going to ruin something.

He didn’t move, didn’t say anything, didn’t even try.

The thunder outside cracked louder this time, a low roar rolling through the floorboards. Rain lashed the windows in steady waves, but inside, the silence thickened like fog. You could feel it clinging to your skin—heavy, electric, expectant.

“Say something,” you said, quieter now. It didn’t come out angry. Just tired. Bone-deep and quiet, like you’d already given him all the fight you had.

Jacob’s lips parted, then closed again. His eyes shifted—your face, the floor, the towel in his hands—anywhere but yours. Like he was hunting for an answer that didn’t exist. Or one that wouldn’t destroy you both.

“I…” His voice cracked, barely there. This wasn’t the Jacob Black you knew and loved. He scrubbed a hand down his face, jaw tight, rainwater still dripping from the ends of his hair. “I don’t know how.”

You stared at him. This boy used to finish your sentences, used to look at you like the world made sense. Now he stood soaked and silent in your living room, unable to finish his own sentence, and he felt farther away than ever.

The rain pounded down harder as if on cue, the wind howling against the side of the house, rattling the windows like fists against glass.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

“I hate this,” you said, almost a whisper. “I hate pretending like everything’s fine when it’s not. I hate wondering if I did something wrong. If I said too much or not enough. I hate how I keep waiting for you to come back—to actually come back—but every time you show up, it’s like I’m watching you from the other side of a glass wall.”

He flinched, not visibly, not much–but you noticed. A ripple in his shoulders. A breath that caught too hard in his throat.

“I’m still me,” he said, low and shaky.

“Then why don’t you feel like you?”

Jacob swallowed hard. He turned away like he couldn’t stand being seen by you as if he would come undone if he looked at you too long.

The towel hit the floor.

“I can’t stay tonight.”

The words landed like a blow. You didn’t know what you expected—but not that. Anything but that.

You nodded slowly, lips pressed together. “Right. Of course.”

You stepped back to give him space, even though all you wanted to do was close it. Grab his hand. Shake him. Ask him what the hell he was doing—why he was running when you were right here, asking him to stay. But you didn’t because what good was holding onto someone who was already slipping away? Making the choice to do so?

He moved toward the door, slow but sure, like each step pulled him farther into a choice he didn’t want to make. The storm outside surged louder, wind curling beneath the frame like it was trying to claw its way in and keep him here.

His hand hovered over the doorknob.

You didn’t say his name.

He didn’t say yours.

The door opened with a groan and the cold rushed in. Damp and bitter. He stood there for a second, shoulders hunched again, back to you, like he might turn around. Like he wanted to. Like maybe, just maybe, he’d choose you this time over whatever secret he was hiding.

But then the door clicked shut and he was gone.

You stood there for a long time, staring at the empty space where he had just been. The towel still lay on the floor, the rain still pelted the windows, the silence stretched until it wrapped itself around your chest like a second skin.

You were alone and this time, it wasn’t an accident.

#jacob black #jacob black x reader #jacob black x y/n #jacob black x female reader #jacob black x you #jacob black fanfic #x reader #twilight x reader #twilight #jacob black fluff #jacob black fic #twilight x you #twilight fanfiction

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rafeysvenicebitch · 10 hours ago

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cowboy!rafe x babydoll!readerੈ✩‧₊˚

cw: SMUT, p in v(semi rough), cussing, fluff

summary: Rafe comes back from a long work day to surprise you…with an engagement ring

It was late, and the sky was painted in dusty pinks and sleepy purples. Fireflies blinked in the tall grass just beyond the porch, and the air was thick with the scent of summer. Honeysuckle, cedarwood, and the smoke curling lazily from Rafe’s cigarette.

You were sitting sideways in his lap on the old wooden bench out back, arms wrapped around his neck, your baby-pink sundress soft against his sweat-dampened flannel. He’d been working over at the neighbor’s ranch all day, helping mend fences and break in a wild colt. Came home with sunburnt shoulders and dust on his jeans, and still he looked at you like you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

You’d made him another dinner, despite his protests, despite your teasing when he asked for seconds. And now you were telling him stories from your shift at the diner—sweet little things he liked to pretend didn’t melt his heart. How a little girl drew you a picture with crayon hearts, how you gave a lonely old man an extra slice of pie. How a tourist couple asked if you were a doll come to life.

He laughed low in his chest, dragging gently on his smoke before flicking the ash. “They’re not wrong,” he said. “You are a doll.”

You blushed, tucked your face against his neck. “Stop it…”

He kissed your temple, held you tighter. “Don’t think you realize how much I love sittin’ like this. You, me, quiet night, nothin’ but stars and the sound of your voice.”

You hummed, content, fingers playing with the ends of his hair. “I like it too. Feels like home.”

Then it went quiet.

Too quiet.

You felt him shift beneath you. One arm stayed around your waist, the other reached into his back pocket. Before you could ask what he was doing, he was holding a small black box in his calloused hand—fingers shaking just a little.

You blinked. “Rafe…”

He opened it slow. Inside: a soft glow catching on yellow gold and a freesia-inspired hidden halo wrapped around a perfect marquise-cut lab diamond. Elegant. Delicate. So you.

“I been carryin’ this around for a while,” he said, voice low and steady. “Waitin’ for the right night. Turns out, any night with you’s the right one.”

Your breath hitched.

“You already take care of me like a wife, cook f’e, iron my clothes, give me love. Already love me better than I ever deserved. You’re it for me, babydoll. Always have been. So, let’s not waste any more time.”

His voice cracked just a bit at the end.

“Marry me.”

You stared at him, heart racing, eyes stinging, lips trembling—and then you nodded so hard you nearly lost your balance.

“Yes,” you breathed, tears spilling over your cheeks as you cupped his face. “Yes, Rafe. Of course I will.”

He slid the ring on your finger like it belonged there—like it always had—and kissed you hard, deep, forever.

From that night on, every time he called you his wife, it didn’t sound like a pet name anymore.

It sounded like a promise.

The ring glinted on your finger as you stepped inside, Rafe's arms wrapping around you instantly. He lifted you up, mouth crashing against yours in a deep, hungry kiss.

"You're mine now," he murmured against your lips, voice thick with emotion. "Finally, completely mine."

You hummed happily, nipping at his bottom lip before breaking away. "Always have been," you reminded him, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "But I love that it's official."

He carried you to the bedroom, setting you down gently on the bed before crawling over you. His hands framed your face as he stared down at you, eyes full of adoration.

"I love you so fucking much," he breathed, thumb brushing over your cheek. "Can't believe I get to call you my wife."

Your heart fluttered at the raw tenderness in his voice. "I love you too," you whispered back, reaching up to touch his face. "More than anything."

He kissed you then, slow and sweet, pouring all his love into it. His hands roamed your body reverently, slipping under your dress to caress your skin.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured, kissing down your neck. "My beautiful bride."

You arched into his touch, craving more. "Please, Rafe," you whimpered. "I need you."

He groaned, grinding his hips against yours. "Need to make love to you," he panted, already pulling your dress over your head. "Gonna worship this body like it deserves."

He undressed you slowly, kissing every inch of newly exposed skin. By the time he had you naked beneath him, you were writhing with desire.

"Look at you," he rasped, hand sliding down your stomach to cup your mound. "Already so wet for me. My sweet little wife."

You gasped as he circled your clit with his thumb, hips rocking into his touch. "Only for you," you promised breathlessly. "Only ever you."

He dipped his head to take one nipple into his mouth, sucking and flicking the bud with his tongue. His other hand continued its slow torment between your legs, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

"Please," you begged, hands fisting in his hair. "I need to cum, Rafe. Need it so bad."

He nodded, fingers plunging deep inside you as his thumb rubbed your clit. It only took a few pumps and curls before you were coming apart, back arching off the bed as pleasure crashed over you.

He stood to remove the rest of his clothes, freeing his thick erection. You licked your lips at the sight of it, reaching out to stroke him from base to tip.

"Fuck," he groaned, hips thrusting into your hand. "Gonna fuck you so good, baby. Gonna fuck cunt like it deserves."

He covered your body with his, lining himself up with your entrance. He pushed in slow, giving you time to adjust to his size.

"So tight," he panted, forehead resting against yours. "Fucking perfect. Made for me."

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Yes," you hissed. "All yours, Rafe. Only yours."

He set a steady pace, hips rolling into yours with deep, purposeful thrusts. His mouth found yours in a searing kiss, tongues tangling together.

"Cum with me," he urged, hand sliding between your bodies to rub your clit. "Wanna feel you on my cock."

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, body clenching around him as you cried out his name. He followed seconds later with a low groan, spurting hot and deep inside you.

Afterward, he gathered you close, peppering your face with soft kisses. "I love you," he murmured against your lips. "My sweet babydoll."

"I love you too," you replied sleepily, already feeling yourself drift off in his arms. "Forever and always."

Taglist: @memoirofasparklemuff1n @rafesbabygirlx @ilovefiction4lmen @strawberries-and-lots-of-kisses @rafeyscumangel @rafeyscumangel-recs @skel-skell @mqyra

#michelle writes ✎#babydoll!reader ┊͙ ˘͈ᵕ˘͈#cowboy!rafe ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა #rafe fluff #rafe x you #rafe fanfiction #rafe smut #rafe x reader #obx rafe cameron #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron obx #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron outer banks

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lover-from-the-past · 2 days ago

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Late Night Calls

Barou Shoei x reader

Late night calls from your long-distance bf while he’s at Blue Lock

The phone rang. Finally.

It was so much later than he normally called, he half expected you not to answer.

“Sorry for calling so late, dumbasses wouldn’t go to bed.” Barou explained gruffly, his eyes fixed on you once you answered. You were clearly in the middle of getting ready for bed, so he said, “Won’t keep you long, just wanted to see you before I went to sleep.”

God, he missed seeing you every day. Blue Lock was a lucrative opportunity, one you practically shoved him out the door for, but he’d be a liar if he said he didn’t regret coming in the late hours of the night when he had to talk to you over the phone, after his moronic teammates went to sleep, instead of being able to see you through the window and talk to you on the roof of your house.

“Don’t worry about it, baby,” you said, smiling, “How was your day?”

“Shitty. Fine.” He grumbled, pushing his damp hair back from his face, “Missed you. Our game went to shit because these donkeys wouldn’t follow my orders, and then they wouldn’t go to bed because they wanted to argue and shit. Got tired of waiting for them to shut up so I’m sitting in the damn hallway.”

He had explained to you before, the second he got his phone back from Ego, that he didn’t want anyone else here to know about you here. Soccer was shared by each person in here, but you were his, and he didn’t want any of the morons here to know anything about you. After being in close proximity to so many other guys for so long, it was a breath of fresh air to have something no one else did, or to be able to do something no one else could. He never told anyone, but one of the driving factors to him pushing himself and his team so damn hard was so he could get his phone back to call you.

“Tell me about your day.” He added, not really a request but not really a demand, either.

“I’m sorry your day wasn’t good, baby,” you said kindly before beginning a recap of your own day like he had wanted. Your day was always so much more vibrant than his was, never rooted in the routine of eat, soccer, eat, study, sleep, repeat, repeat, repeat. He loved Blue Lock, but he missed experiencing your day with you. Missed having you talk to him as he worked out, missed you studying while he practiced, missed babysitting his sisters while you made dinner and he was stuck playing dress up.

He wasn’t really listening to the drama you recounted, and he knew you knew that. He was thankful you didn’t comment on it because he wouldn’t know what to say. He was too busy watching the way your mouth moved as you told him whatever came to your mind, too busy watching the way your your necklace, the one he gave you for your one year anniversary, sparkled in the dim light of your room. The ring you had gotten him sat heavy against his skin, hidden on a simple chain under his shirt.

“You got your hair done.” He noted, his eyes drawn from your hair to the way you beamed at him, “Looks nice.”

You smiled at him, and whatever anger he had from the day left him. His frustrations from losing and his anger at his team’s arguments and stupidity evaporated from his mind and body, leaving only the burning feeling of his love for you. He never knew how to do things is halves; he was always all in or uninterested, and he was always all in for you, in all ways. God, he just wanted to be able to hold you in his arms now, not be in this cold ass facility, sitting on the floor of some hallway, likely being watched by Ego and having to half-listen for anyone coming down the hall.

He listened to you talk for another hour, content to just watch you over the phone as you washed your face and applied those fancy creams and serums to your skin and hair, acutely missing the smell of your perfume and the way it always lingered in his clothes. When your talking slowed down and your eyes drooped, he spoke quietly to you about what he’s been doing. The tricks he learned, how he’s improved his workouts, the food he got after working hard. When your breathing evened out and your face smoothed out, he smiled, just a little bit.

“Sleep well,” He murmured, “I love you, baby.”

He hung up, sitting there for a minute longer before pushing himself up and starting the trek back to his room. He rounded the corner and saw one of his teammates, looking like he was caught as he stared back at him.

Barou’s eye twitched, but he ignored the other boy and continued on his way back to their dorm room. He’d deal with that later, and if the moron knew what was good for him, he’d pretend he didn’t hear anything. It if he didn’t, Barou would make sure he knew not to say a damn thing.

———

My first post!! This was kinda rushed so sorry if it’s ooc or not great

This is based on a bot I made on c.ai (check it out on my pfp: xoxo_hugz_nd_kissez) 💕

Feel free to send requests here for stories or bots!!

#blue lock x reader #barou shoei x reader #bllk x reader #x reader #bllk #bllk x you #bllk barou #c.ai bot #blue lock #blue lock x you #x you #first post #send asks

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faghubby · 2 days ago

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Confidence

"Any guy in the world would love to have sex with you, you are gorgeous" I told Elle. She was standing in front of the full size mirror wearing granny panties and a worn out bra. Since her breasts seemed to have shrunk? ( always thought they would get bigger) after having our daughter Sara two years ago.

"Sure stretch marks and this pouch" she pinched her belly. "And my ass looks like it was hit by a metor shower" Elle said defeated.

"Let's go out" I told her. "Tomarrow night like we used to, we can leave Sara with my sister and go dancing" I told her. She frowned

"What would I wear, nothing fits" she grumbled.

"Then let's go shopping" I smiled. She rolled her eyes. After a bit I convinced her. So I packed up Sara and drove to the shopping district. We went to store after store. I had to beg her to try things on. But once she did her mood brightened.

"Try this" I told her handing her a little black form fitting dress

"OH no I am a mom now" shs laughed.

"Try it on just for me" I pleaded grabbing her ass and kissed her neck.

"Fine, she put the one I was holding back on the rack and grabbed a larger size. She winked and went to change. She came out and looked nice. But the dress should of fit tighter.

"I think you should try a smaller size" I said.

"This fine" she said but kept picking at it and adjusting. I handed her the smaller size. She made a face of annoyance but went to try it on. She looked amazing when she came out. As she moved the dress would ride up.

"I can't wear this" she told me with a worried smile. I could tell she loved the way she looked.

"Well I am buying it" I told her. She smiled and admired herself with a bit more pride.

"You're going to need shoes" I told her steering her into the shoe store next door.

"You are crazy" she told me but started looking for shoes.

"Maybe these?" I asked picking out a pair of 3 inch stilettos. She humored my and put then on. Her ass looked amazing as she walked around in them. She put them back and bought ones with a sensible heel. I bought both.

"You are crazy" she told me as we left but she was having fun.

"How about you go get yourself something from there?" I pointed to a little lingerie shop across the street. "I have to go change Sara. So buy something hot" I teased and went to change Sara. As Elle walked across the street enjoying our game. She knew I was trying to make her feel sexy again. I let her shop, playing with Sara. We where on the bench outside the store when Elle emerged.

"Did you call your sister?" She asked with a big grin.

"Yep, she is happy to watch Sara for us" I responded. We headed home after dinner and Sara was in bed I snuggled up to Sara.

"Don't try anything save it for tomarrow" she told me. Patting my leg. She got up and pulled down her sweat pants and flashed me her ass. She went to take a bath. I smiled to myself and switched on the TV.

The next morning Elle was a different person she was happy and flirty. The day was very routine till she went to get ready to go out. She had locked the bedroom, leaving my clothes she had picked for me to wear in the hall bathroom. I even went and dropped off Sara at my sister's. Only when I got back did she come out. She looked amazing she was wearing the higher heels. I smiled

"You look absolutely amazing" I told her. She smiled and took my arm as we drove to our favorite restaurant. We ate and flirted. I noticed a guy at the bar kept checking her out. I think Elle noticed to but I said nothing. After we went to a little club. Elle loved to dance. At first I danced with her. I needed a break so we found a small table. A man approached us. He was slightly older black man.

"You looked good out there" he told Elle.

"Thanks" she smiled.

"I'm Henry" he said over the music

"Elle and my husband Paul" he shook our hands.

"Would you mind?" He asked offering his hand to Elle.

"No not at all I am not the dancer" I laughed. Elle followed him to the dance floor. She was having fun. I lost track of them at one point when I found them again they where dancing very close. Elle hands where around his neck and his hands on her ass. Then the song ended and Elle made her way back to me.

"Henry is very flirtatious" she smiled. "But don't worry I am yours"

"How flirtatious?" I asked.

"Don't be jealous" Elle frowned

"You liked dancing close to him" I asked.

"Paul you are going to ruin a perfectly lovely evening" Elle was getting annoyed. I pulled her into my lap playfully. I was rock hard. Elle moved playfully on my lap.

"Should we go?" She teased.

"Would you like to dance with Henry again?" I asked. She turned and looked at me. Then smiled

"You liked me flirting with him" she smirked "he grabbed my ass" she told me. Then got up and went to find Henry. I saw them grinding on the dance floor then lost track agsin.

"Henry wants me" Elle texted me.

"Do you want him" I responded.

"Yes, but only if you are okay with it" she texted back.

"Where are you?" I texted.

"Mens room" she shot back. Then a pic of Henry's big cock.

"I won't even touch it unless you say okay" she added.

"Yes" I responded. And rushed to the men's room. I went in not sure what I would find. The first stall I could see Elle on her knees and I assumed Henry's feet. She was sucking his cock. Right there on the dirty clubs bathroom. I kinda stood guard outside the stall as a endless line of guys came and went.

"Damn that bitch sucking some guys cock in here " some young prick said.

"Don't worry about it keep moving" I shot back at him.

"Paul that you?" Elle called out.

"Yes" I responded only to hear her go back to gagging on his cock. Then a bang and Henry moaned.

"Yes, God yes swallow it all" he continued. Then the stall opened. Elle walked over to the mirror. She had cum on the corners of her mouth and obviously drops that had run down off her chin to her dress. Her dress had also rode up a red lace thong on full display to the dozen men in the bathroom. Henry walked up behind her his big hand sliding between her legs. She spread them wide for him and moaned as he slid it back and then smacked her ass. She then turned to me. I couldn't take it any more I wanted her more then ever with out thinking I kissed her.

"How does my cock taste fag" Henry laughed and left. Elle fixed her dress.

"Want to go home now, or should I find another to fuck me" Elle asked me. But led me out of the club. We didn't talk on the ride home, but when we got home we where all over each other. I bent her over and fucked her hard. But I was so excited I didn't last long.

Elle flipped over and pulled my head between her legs, "You liked Henry's " was all she said. As I buried my face in and licked up ,y own cum. Not stopping unti, Elle came hard squeezing my head between her thighs. I knew we would be going back to the club sometime soon as I held her close.

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katnissmellarkkk · 3 days ago

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girl I'll send you emojis!!!

🧩

“That’s not where that goes,” Peeta insists, but laughs anyways at my antics as I try to shove the misfit piece into the puzzle between us.

“Well, it’s going to be,” I say with determination, half for his entertainment, pushing the piece back down as soon as it pops up again. “Ugh!”

“Katniss.” His voice is soft and warm. A tone that would typically fill me with joy but tonight fills me with dread. Because I know what he’s about to say.

As if reading my mind, his hand comes up to rest on my forearm, causing me to jolt slightly. I’m still not used to him touching me again, not since before he was hijacked, and every little contact sends a shiver or buzz straight to my core.

Maybe I’m just extremely touched starved. Or maybe I’m just starved for him. For the feel of his hands on me, the feel of him beside me in the darkness. For the feel of him and whatever used to exist between us before.

“We can finish tomorrow,” he suggests and I notice not for the first time the blue and purple circles under his eyes.

“Yeah,” I whisper, dropping the ill fitted piece into the box to my left and nodding. Trying not to look too disappointed.

Since Peeta’s been back in Twelve, we’ve had breakfast and dinner together almost daily, we’ve begun our memory book to memorialize those we’ve lost, we sometimes talk on the phone. Occasionally we even go for walks into town together and watch the shops being rebuilt.

But today was special. Today is my birthday and Peeta was the only person to remember. Which is fine by me. Because truly, he’s the only person I wanted to spend it with.

For my birthday, Peeta brought me a small cake, made with chocolate and buttercream and my name frosted in cursive across the top. It was the prettiest thing I’ve seen in months and it caused my heart to skip a beat, seeing him there in my doorway, looking so happy and holding the dessert with both hands.

But the cake could only last so long and after we were finished eating, I had to come up with another way of keeping him here in my presence.

The only issue is I had none. I had nothing of interest that could hold him here, not even on my birthday, and I soon found myself dreading the moment he would inevitably have to go.

But to my surprise, and honestly my delight, Peeta went digging through the closet in the living room where my mother stashed all our old knick knacks from when I was child. And he soon came up with an ancient green puzzle my parents must have done together decades ago.

Puzzles were never something I enjoyed doing. My father and Prim did them together when she was small, both of them having an insane amount of patience I severely lacked. And after he died, I could barely tolerate looking at the few boxes of them we had, even when Prim begged me to help her finish them.

But tonight when Peeta dug one out from the bottom of my mother’s pile I easily accepted his invite. I would have accepted just about any activity he wanted to do. Anything to spend more time in his presence.

But evidently time isn’t on my side here and I’ve prolonged our goodbyes enough. Because it’s finally time to let him go and I have nothing left here to make him want to stay.

I can’t explain know why but I have the most irrational fear of crying as I haul myself up off the ground and walk him towards the door. I feet feel like they’re made of concrete and a pit begins to grow in my stomach as he pulls on his jacket and opens the door.

“Happy birthday, Katniss,” he whispers, turning back in the threshold and staring at me for a long moment.

He hesitates, seemingly debating with himself, before finally reaching out and taking my hand in his, giving it a small squeeze.

And I want to launch myself at him then, I want to wrap my arms around his neck and hold on for dear life. I want to ask him to stay with me tonight and hold me in bed and be there should the nightmares come. Less than a year ago at this time I could have maybe said those words.

But not now. Not tonight. Maybe not ever again. Maybe things between us would never progress to that kind of intimacy again. The kind where I could ever be so vulnerable and unafraid of rejection. Where I could ask for something so exposing and expect anything but a gentle denial in return.

But he remembered my birthday, I reminded myself. He remembered my birthday and he made me a cake and he’s here in Twelve. He’s just down the road and that’s better than where he was six months ago.

“Thank you,” I murmur, probably a full minute too late. “Thank you for everything, Peeta.” I don’t know why but his name feels foreign on my tongue, the two syllables feeling strange as I speak them aloud.

He stares at me for a few more seconds, his cornflower eyes so soft and kind as he lingers in my doorway. But like everything else, this moment passes too. And then he really does have to go home.

“Goodnight, Katniss,” he says, his voice like a caress as he finally turns and goes, walking down my porch steps and then down the road, the sun setting with an orangey hue in the background.

“Goodnight, Peeta,” I whisper as I watch him walk further and further away from me. “Come back soon, please. Pretty, pretty please, come back soon.”

[send me an emoji and i’ll write a tiny micro story in honor of katniss’ belated birthday]

#thg #hunger games #everlark #my writing #Katniss’ birthday #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #lol sorry I made this depressing and also sorta baited yall probably into thinking she was gonna ask him to stay #this is her 18th birthday btw idk if anyone picked up on the fact that I’ve made every one of these a different specific birthday

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orangesaek · 1 day ago

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Hiii I hope you’re doing good. I love your writing and i was wondering if you could write something about jaemin picking his s.o from work after a tiring day and just have a chill evening like dinner and movies. Thank you so much <3

PLEASE IM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG TT^TT I hope you're still around, and thank you for requesting this :') <333

a/n: not proofread but will update if I find something off!

The office lights buzzed overhead as you gathered your things. Your limbs ached from a long day. You were mentally preparing to zombie your way home when your phone buzzed—it was a text from Jaemin.

'Outside. No arguments. Let me be your hero today UwU'

You blinked before your brows furrowed in confusion. ‘Hero???’

'Babe, I’m so tired rn my brain can’t even process your message,’ you replied. As you waited for the elevator, another text arrived.

'Cute. You’re being rescued, my princess.'

Your brows furrowed once more in confusion, and right when you were about to type in a response and ask him what he meant, the elevator arrived. You quickly put your phone back in your pocket, deciding to just respond to him once you’re home.

After what seemed like forever in the elevator, you finally got off and walked towards the exit when you noticed a familiar car outside.

‘...Jaemin?’

A smile crept across your face when your suspicions were confirmed.

There he was, leaning casually against his car, dressed in comfy neutrals with that warm smile that never failed to melt your exhaustion away.

Jaemin opened the passenger door.

“Your special carriage awaits, my gorgeous queen.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his theatrics.

“You didn’t have to—”

Jaemin interrupts, placing an index finger on his lips.

“Shhh. We both had a long day, baby. Let’s be tired together but in comfort, okay?” he said, a gentle smile on his lips. You just nod quietly.

“Good girl. Now, get in,”

You weren’t sure where you were going. Apart from asking each other how your day went and the music playing softly in his car, the ride was pretty quiet. But it was the type of silence that was comforting. It never actually mattered where Jaemin took you because you knew that as long as you were with him, everything was going to be perfectly all right anyway.

As the car finally came to a stop, a grin spread across your face when you realized where Jaemin had taken you. He smiled softly at your reaction.

“You’re that happy?” he asked, although the answer was obvious already. You nodded enthusiastically.

Jaemin chuckled before mumbling ‘cute’ as he pinched your cheek affectionately.

“Come on, princess,” he softly called as he got out and helped you out of the car. You were standing outside your favorite restaurant, a small family restaurant outside the bustling city.

It had been a long while since the last time you both were there, so the familiar smell made everything feel like a warm hug to you.

The owner greeted the two of you warmly when you came in, happy to see you back again. When you were finally seated, Jaemin ordered your usual without asking because, of course, he remembers. As he jokingly called it, your ‘I’m-too-tired-to-function’ meal.

You both just sat there with his hand holding yours across the table.

“Thank you,” you smiled softly at him.

“I love you, too,” Jaemin responds, gently rubbing his thumb on your hand with a loving smile.

While waiting for the food to arrive, both of you listened intently to what the other was saying as you talked more about what happened at work. Your eyes widened in excitement when your food finally arrived, with Jaemin giggling at how cute you looked while clapping your hands in tiny.

“I swear I almost fell asleep in the elevator earlier,” you casually said before slurping on your noodles again.

Jaemin chuckled.

“If you fall asleep mid-slurping, I’ll carry you out like a princess. No shame.”

You laughed at this response while covering your mouth to keep the food from accidentally spilling out.

“Will you tuck me in with my chopsticks then?” you playfully asked.

“No, but I’ll wrap you in these napkins like a burrito.”

The two of you laughed and talked about whatever for the rest of your dinner.

“Ready to go home, gorgeous?” Jaemin asked as he opened the passenger door for you like it’s second nature. You nodded, getting inside with Jaemin quietly saying, ‘watch your head’.

You clung onto his arm and sighed in content with Jaemin expertly driving with one hand.

“There’s this movie Xiaojun said made him question his sanity because of how absurd it was.” Jaemin suddenly said. “Do you feel like watching a dumb movie with me tonight?”

You giggled at the thought and looked up at Jaemin.

“Of course, babe. Let’s,”

As soon as you arrived, you both kicked off your shoes in a hurry. Jaemin was already changing into one of your oversized hoodies that he somehow claims was ‘ours’ now. He set up a blanket fort on the couch while you grabbed some snacks.

“All set?” Jaemin asks, and you nod, opening one of his favorite snacks for him.

Movie night finally begins, but just barely 20 minutes in, you were already curled up with your head on his chest, half-watching, half-snoozing.

Jaemin runs his fingers through your hair affectionately, chuckling lightly at how hard you tried to keep your eyes open but failed anyway.

“This is my favorite kind of night. Just you, me…” he sighed, smiling to himself in content. “And a dumb movie.”

“What was that...?” You mumbled in your sleep.

“I said, ‘I love you’,”

And you swear, right before drifting off, you felt him kiss the top of your head and pull the blanket a little tighter around both of you.

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unanimousgolddd · 3 days ago

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Omg I love your writing!! Can we please get part 3 to the Wesker series?? 💓💓🙏

Connection

OMG, I'm literally so happy, this is my first request/ask.

Summary: Kissing your boss was the greatest and worst idea. Now, he won't leave you alone in your mind. But, you can't be too upset.

TW: lots of kissing (but like minor making out), pre-RE1 Wesker is possibly ooc, usage of pet name (dearest), GN! Reader, work was kind of rushed/not entirely proofread and may seem incomplete.

Word Count: ~2.7k

Pt. 1 & Pt. 2

Author's note: I may just write the date sometime soon idk, (maybe even NSFW/suggestive if someone requests it). And I don't like this one too much so some events may be change (undecided though).

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

You laughed. Or rather, giggled.

It was Sunday, and you had just finished cleaning your dinner dishes and putting them back in your cupboards. It was a typical Sunday, just as yesterday had been a typical Saturday. On Saturday, you had cleaned your home, from the pictures to the book and CD shelves, putting more effort than usual into cleaning the floors and counters. It felt as if you were putting on a show or trying to seem more presentable. Today, you had the opportunity to admire your hard work by lounging around and being lazy for once. However, even when you turned on your favorite TV show before switching to a movie, you never truly paid attention. Not because you knew the scenes by heart, but because your mind was elsewhere, thinking about someone.

You’ve been giggling since Friday like a schoolgirl. It started after work, after that kiss, when you took a shower before lying on your back upon your sheets. You giggled before rolling over and kicking your legs as you smiled. You felt ridiculous, yet each time you thought about him, about his lips and hands, you couldn’t help yourself.

It felt like torture, roaming around your home as your mind pestered you with the memory of him, of his words, of his touch. You wanted to call him and go “Do you wanna go to dinner with me?” but you could never bring yourself to press the call button.

You liked to say you had patience and could keep yourself level-headed in times of stress. But when it came to him, Dr. Wesker, your boss who seemed to push past your limits, stress you out, and hook you in so much that you couldn’t leave, you could hardly say you were level-headed.

Now, like a fool, you stared at your TV. It was hopeless thinking you could ever get over what he did. He was interested in you, yet, despite your initial jumping for joy, you couldn’t believe him. It was obvious Wesker had a preference in everything, which would inevitably include partners. But you knew he never did anything without reason. He chose you for a reason, he chose to kiss you, he chose to get so close yet stay so far from you.

Your body jerks as you feverishly shake your head like a madman, trying to rid him from your thoughts. Eventually, you shut the TV off and head to your room, flopping onto your bed and sighing dramatically. As if on cue, your phone buzzes. And pathetically, you immediately move to see what the notification was, a little too excited.

But before you could type out a response, he sent another message.

I need you in the office by 7:45 sharp for an experiment.

The first message read and you already begin to feel yourself smile. You weren’t exactly crazy, anyone would be incredibly upset at having to come to work earlier than normal. You were excited as it meant you’d see him longer than usual.

Try to get some more sleep than usual, yes, dearest?

Your thumbs moved on their own, and you typed out a response faster than you would’ve liked.

Of course. I’ll see you at 7:45.

You looked away from your screen and turned off the device before forcing yourself to take a deep breath.You turned off your phone and took Wesker’s advice and went through your nightly routine. Not long after you found yourself lying in bed. You set an earlier alarm on your phone before placing it on the nearby nightstand and sighing. Sometime later, your eyes slowly fluttered closed as the background noise of whatever was playing on your TV helped you fall asleep.

༺♰༻

You woke up to the sound of your alarm with a huff and glare up at whatever your eyes fell on. You went through your morning as usual, showering and doing your hair, dressing, and eating something for breakfast before leaving the house. Traffic was easy on the way to work, given that it was earlier than you would leave the house. Getting into the labs was a breeze.

You walk quietly to your office, passing by no one except the tall and bleak walls that make up the labyrinth system of the underground labs. When you come to the office door, you grab the door handle and step inside. You give Wesker a small smile, who’s already at his desk and doing something. He doesn’t glance up at you, although you had your back turned as you unpacked your bag for the day, so you couldn’t see if he did or not.

“You’re early.” He said, flipping a page.

You look back at him over your shoulder, brows furrowing in confusion. “What do you mean? You told me to be early.” You replied as you leaned against your desk, the side of your leg pressing against the wood. His head lifts, and he doesn’t say anything momentarily.

“I said a quarter til eight. Not 7:20.”

You turn your head and look at the wall with widened eyes. Finally realizing why this morning seemed so quiet and easy, you swallowed and decided to open your laptop in silence. “I didn’t realize.” You said, typing in the password with fumbling fingers. Wesker gives a short hum before you can hear his chair rolling back on the floor. His footsteps draw nearer as he comes towards you, promptly rounding the corner of your desk and standing beside you. It wasn’t long before his hand was on the back of your chair, turning you to face him before tilting his head. Your eyes were forced away from the screen of your laptop to the shades he wore upon the bridge of his nose, the dark lenses giving you a view of your reflection. “We’ll have to find some way to pass the time, yes? I’m afraid there isn’t anything significant to do yet.” He muttered, his hand moving to the armrest of the chair.

Your heart leaps at his words, and you curtly clear your throat to at least speak clearly.

“Are you suggesting something, Wesker?” You asked.

He shrugs a little as he leans in a little closer. “Tell me what my last words were to you, please?” He requested in a low voice. “‘Remind me to do that again,’” You repeated his words quietly, and a small smirk graced his lips, displaying his satisfaction in your compliance.

“So…” He drags out the word a little as he continues to look at you, unmoving from his position in front of you. He blocked you from leaving the chair with his right hand on the armrest of the chair and his other on the surface of your desk. You momentarily looked away from the dark lenses to his outfit, taking notice of the top three open buttons of his dark blue shirt and the black slacks of his pants. “What do you think I am suggesting, dearest?” There’s that word again. That God awful word that always brought the same heart-fluttering reaction to you. What you wouldn’t do to hear him call you that constantly was very little.

“Do I have to say it?”

“I would like you to.” His hand reaches up, and he grabs your chin gently, tilting your head up to look at him once more.

You release your breath a bit forcibly and take a conscious inhale. “But what if I would rather have you show me?” You asked boldly but just as quietly as before.

“That works as well.” He hums.

In less than ten minutes, you were already kissing him again. All morning, you didn’t want to appear excited at the idea of getting to kiss him again, that would make it seem like you were desperate for him. However, you had been looking forward to another moment with him since Friday, even if you denied it.

The kisses started like the first one, tender and slow. But, not long after, his hand moved from your chin to your throat. He was gripping it as if he was trying to choke you, but instead, it was a heavy reminder of who you were with, almost like a weight of ownership over you, even if neither of you was in a committed relationship. The kisses soon turned a little rougher as his head tilted to the right to deepen the kiss. And you leaned back in your chair, letting his body cover you as he led the kiss. The only time you parted was to breathe a measly few kisses before getting kissed again.

His knee nudged your legs open so he could get closer to you before there was a knock at the door. He gave a noise of dissatisfaction and parted from you, head turning to the door. Your eyes opened, and you looked at him, eyes catching a glimpse of his red lips before he moved from you, opening the door. Soon enough, Wesker was gone from the office room as he was required for a meeting with other high-level Umbrella workers. This left you alone with tingling lips, a hot face, and your thoughts.

It was two hours until you saw Wesker and immediately once he got into the office, he ordered you to grab things for the experiments. You reminded yourself that this was a time for work, not a time for making out with your boss. So, you grabbed the needed supplies and soon met with the scientist in the testing rooms.

For God knows how long, you spent time in the testing labs, taking notes on the results and behaviors of the test subjects. You did whatever Wesker asked you, given that it was your job as his assistant and no matter how harsh or rude he sounded. After several short breaks and a lunch, you were finally released back to the office to pack your things and leave for home.

“You coming?” You asked Wesker as you neared the door. He shook his head, eyes glued to the papers in front of him. “No, I need to finish. You may leave.” He said, and you gave a short nod, grabbing the door handle and promptly leaving the testing room. You languidly moved back to your office, strolling the halls without haste. It felt odd not walking by his side, a bit awkward, but comfortable in his presence. Whatever had gone on in the meeting this morning had ruined his mood. You asked about it earlier during your lunch, but he only gave you a sharp “don’t worry about it” before going back to eating.

As outlandish as it sounds, you had no interest in leaving yet, and after reaching the office and sitting at your desk, you only waited for your coworker. Luckily, it wasn’t long before he entered the room, hand running through his slicked back hair as he sighed deeply.

“I thought you left.” He said with a low voice laced with barely masked exhaustion. “I wanted to wait for you.” You said softly, previously messing around with your phone moments prior.

You stood up as he moved over to his desk, handling his things without the same calculated and meticulous care. You studied him for a moment, catching the way his brows furrowed with the little creases in between his brows deepening for a moment. “You’re stressed.” You stated as you rounded the corner of his desk and stood at his side.

He gave a gruff hum, moving the things from atop his desk to the drawers or folders. You bring your hands to his shoulders, momentarily stilling his movements and bringing his attention to you. You dig your thumbs into the tight muscles of his shoulders, making him relax much quicker than you thought.

“You don’t need to tell me about what happened in the meeting,” you said as you massaged his shoulders, his hands letting go of the various papers and manila folders. “But can you at least tell me why you’re suddenly so stressed?” You asked quietly, gaze moving up to the dark lenses.

His hands uncharacteristically hesitate before moving to your waist, the heat of his palms seeping through the material of your shirt. “To put it simply…” He licked his lips and paused his sentence. “Things that were discussed were not to my preference.” He said as he looked at you, the weight of his gaze lingering near your eyes before moving down to your lips.

You nod to his words as you suck in a breath.

You weren’t in a relationship. You couldn’t be, not as long as you were a scientist and an assistant. However, the heavy tension between you was undeniable. You hadn’t believed it would end like this–your nights spent yearning for his presence and touch, and your days accompanied by thick tension that kept you from thinking straight during work.

But your gaze moved to his hand as it left your waist and moved to grab his sunglasses. He pulled them off his face, with your eyes connecting to his for the first time. He stared at you, his pretty deep blue eyes staring back at you. They were like how you imagined, a deep blue that drew you in, but not exactly. You expected them to have a sharper gaze, but instead, there was a hint of softness in his gaze whenever he looked at you. He reached over and placed the shades on the table.

“Is there a way I can help you, Dr. Wesker?” You asked in a quiet voice, hands stilling as they began to move upwards. The pads of your fingers trace the column of his neck, grazing his Adam’s apple before reaching the sharpness of his jaw. You hesitated before bringing your fingers up to his features, touching his face. You ran your fingers over the bridge of his nose and his cheeks before your thumb gently rubbed over the outer line of his lips.

Without another moment wasted, he leaned in and kissed you once more. Your lower back hit the edge of his desk as he pushed you against it, hands tightening around your waist. You let out a gasp, and this time, he didn't hesitate to slip his tongue inside your mouth the moment your lips parted. You didn’t know how much time had passed until you parted and gave a glance at the clock. It was past seven, and you would’ve been home by now if you hadn’t decided to stay for him.

Wesker’s gaze never left you, however, the heavy but soft gaze roaming your features as if he was seeing you in a different light. You were attractive even with your slightly out-of-place hair and flushed cheeks, even more so without the dark filter of the sunglasses.

“Would you be free Saturday night?” He asked unexpectedly, his tone serious. You looked over at him before pretending to think as you looked off to the side. “Hmm…I don’t know, I have to check with my boss about that.” You joked. His eyes narrowed, but you knew he was slightly amused.

“But, yes, I am free. Why?”

“You deserve a proper date and not just infrequent kisses. I’ll message you the details soon.”

You raised a brow before an uncontrollable smile came to your lips. You hadn’t expected that; however, you were a little glad you weren’t the one asking for a date.

“You’re something else, Wesker.” You said with a smile as you move towards your desk and begin to grab your bag and other belongings. He followed the same and soon enough, was walking out the door with his hand on the small of your back. “I hope this something else is good.” He said as you both made your ways to the elevator.

Moments later, it was the two of you walking to your cars in the parking garage in a comfortable silence. “Let’s be a little professional during working hours. I’d rather not have rumors spreading around the facility.” He suggests. Then, he gives you a goodbye kiss and walks off to his car without an ounce of shame. “Just keep your body to yourself, and we won’t have any problems, Dr,” you respond as he glances back at you. He smirks before entering the driver’s side and promptly driving away. Bastard.

Despite his asshole behavior, you were looking forward to that date.

#albert wesker #resident evil #albert wesker x reader #fluff #x black reader #black!reader #x reader

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things-arent-what-they-seem66 · 2 days ago

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Lucifer and the older kids came home, all the kids went and washed up while he went over to Adam and gave him a kiss.

Lucifer: Hey there lovely, how was your day?

Adam: Good! Mom made dinner and Em is putting the kids clothes away.

Before Lucifer could comment, there was a commotion upstairs. Cain was coming after Emily who was holding a baggie.

Cain: Aunty Em, please!

Emily: I'm sorry Cain, but you're still a child and this is harmful.

Adam and Lucifer frowned as she came over and handed them the bag. Lucifer looked in and his jaw dropped.

Lucifer: You're smoking!?

Not just cigarettes but weed too.

Adam looked and sure enough there was a small bag of weed and a pack of cigarettes.

Adam: Cain sweetie, why?

Cain slumped and folded his arms: I don't know..... I like it? Some of my friends smoke it's not a big deal.

Lucifer: Not a big deal? You know what is a big deal? Cancer. Which is what you'll get if you keep smoking this crap. You're quitting today.

He took it and went out into the garage, Lucifer looked around and hit it in his car.

He would..... Smoke that later.

He knows he told Adam that he quit but once in a while when stress is too much he has one.

Lucifer came back and set up the portable table for Adam so he could eat where he was in the living room, they had two so he could eat with him.

Cain: Am I in trouble?

Adam: Little bit.

The Morningstar's

@kittenfangirl20

Adam yawned as he woke up, it was early in the morning but he had to get up to get his and Lucifer's children up for school and the youngest ones routine to stay in place.

Rolling over he smiled at his husband who was just also waking up. Lucifer smiled at him and they shared a quick sleepy kiss, even with morning breath they loved each other's kisses.

Lucifer: Morning.

Adam: Good morning...... I want more sleep.

Lucifer chuckled: You and me both, summer vacation is over though sadly.

They got up and Lucifer went to shave as Adam went to Charlie's room to wake her up. She's the oldest of their six kids.

Cain and Abel came next, then Andrew and Lucas and lastly their youngest daughter Avery who was only three.

Adam: Charlie honey, time to get up.

Charlie groaned, she pulled a pillow over her head. She was 17 and going through that teenager angst.

Charlie: Five more minutes.

Adam sighed: You have until your father is done getting ready.

He then went to the next room where his twin boys were, they were 14 and Cain was starting with trying a new attitude. Abel stayed his sweet boy, in a marching band.

Adam then got Lucas, who was 10 and then Andrew who was 5. This was going to be his first year at school and Adam wasn't ready to only have one baby at home.

Adam: Avery my sweet girl.

He scooped her up and changed her, she was still sleepy and snuggled into her mamas chest and neck. Adam sighed and just held her as he went to the kitchen to make everyone's breakfast and put lunches together. He ended up laying Avery down in her play pen so he could do things properly.

Andrew wiped his eyes: Mama, I'm sleepy.

Adam kissed his hair: I know baby, but today is the first day of school.

Lucifer came down dressed in his work suit: Smells good love.

Adam: Call for Charlie please, she's supposed to be up by now.

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speaknowgirl3184 · 23 hours ago

Text

Threads Of A Lie

TASM! Peter Parker x female reader

“You looked me in the eye and lied.” Your trust shatters after a carefully kept secret that Peter has been keeping from you finally surfaces.

Warnings: ANGST! Mentions of gore, blood, I think death idk I can't remember. (Let me know if there is anything else).

Word Count: 3.6k

Masterlist

You never thought heartbreak could feel like this.

Not like a clean cut. Not like a single moment where everything shattered at once. No. This was slower. Heavier. The kind of pain that settles in your chest like smoke, so thick, that you forget what it feels like to breathe.

You’d imagined it before, what it might be like if Peter Parker ever broke your heart. You’d pictured loud fights, slammed doors, shouted accusations, maybe even tears. Ugly words thrown like knives with no intention of ever being retrieved.

But it wasn’t like that.

It wasn’t loud.

It was quiet. It was subtle. It was the kind of heartbreak that doesn't announce itself but seeps into your life like water through a cracked ceiling, slow, relentless, and impossible to ignore once it finally floods the floor.

It was the way his smile dimmed just slightly when he looked at you.

The way his eyes darted to the clock more often than they used to.

The way he held you at night like someone already halfway out the door.

The first shift was so small, you almost convinced yourself you imagined it. A missed text. A phone call that rang and rang with no answer. A dinner rescheduled at the last second, "Sorry, something came up." No explanation. Just the vague, careful excuse of someone trying to keep a secret without technically lying.

His hands—once always warm and steady in yours—started to show signs of a life you didn’t know. Knuckles swollen. A split lip. A gash across his brow that had barely stopped bleeding when you opened your door and saw him standing there, sheepish and tired.

“Tripped over a curb,” he’d said with a forced laugh, brushing it off like it was nothing.

Peter Parker had always been a terrible liar.

His eyes gave him away every time. That little twitch of guilt in the corner of his mouth. The way his shoulders tensed like he was preparing for a fight that hadn’t even started yet. You knew him better than anyone. Knew every tic, every habit, every tell.

But still, you didn’t press.

Because you loved him. Because trusting him was the easiest thing in the world before it became the hardest. Because you wanted to believe that if something was wrong, really wrong, he’d tell you. That he'd come to you, eyes wide and vulnerable, and say the truth with trembling hands and an apology already on his lips.

You’d lie awake at night beside him, staring at the ceiling, wondering where he really went when he said he’d “be right back.” Wondering why he kissed you like he was afraid it might be the last time. Wondering if you were crazy for thinking something was wrong, or stupid for pretending it wasn’t.

But you didn’t ask. You didn’t dig. Because some part of you was terrified of what you might find if you did.

So you waited.

And waited.

For honesty. For an answer. For Peter to look you in the eye and finally say something real.

Until tonight.

And now, everything in your chest feels like it’s caving in.

-----------

You sat at the restaurant alone, your fingers curled around the base of your water glass, cold condensation dripping down onto your skin like it could somehow ground you, hold you in place.

Your eyes flicked to the door every five minutes, sometimes less. It had become a reflex. A hopeless, automatic motion. Each time the entrance creaked open, your heart leapt and twisted itself into knots, hoping to see a mop of messy brown curls, a sheepish smile, an apology on Peter’s lips.

But it was never him.

The candle on your table had burned low, the once steady flame now a flickering stub of wax drowning in its own remnants. Your dinner sat untouched, slowly going cold. The server had come by twice to refill your water, her smile growing tighter each time, her glances more pitying. You could feel her eyes on you even when she wasn’t at your table. Like she already knew how this story would end.

You’d rehearsed what you’d say when Peter walked in, because you were so sure he would. You’d imagined the moment dozens of times while you waited. You’d greet him with a soft smile, swallow your disappointment, and say something like, “It’s okay, you’re here now,” even though it wouldn’t be true. Even though your heart would already be cracking under the weight of how late he was.

Because some part of you still wanted to believe in him.

Still wanted to believe he wouldn’t leave you waiting like this unless there was a good reason. A real reason. One that would make it okay.

But the minutes stretched. Then an hour. Then two.

The warmth in your chest faded. The hope. The excuses. The understanding. They all bled out of you like a slow wound, until there was nothing left but numbness and the cold echo of his absence.

No call. No message. No apology. Just silence.

Crushing, humiliating silence.

The server came back a third time. She didn’t ask if you were ready to order. Her voice was gentle, almost apologetic, like she was afraid you might cry right there at the table.

“Do you want to keep waiting, miss?”

You blinked up at her, trying to find the words. Your throat was tight. Your cheeks burned—not with anger, but with shame. Embarrassment, sharp and cutting, crept down your spine like ice. You hated that she was looking at you like that. Like a girl who’d been stood up. Like a girl who wasn’t worth showing up for.

You gave her a tight, trembling smile.

“No. No, I—I think I’m done.”

The words tasted like failure.

You reached for your wallet with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. Paid for both meals—even though one hadn’t been touched. Even though one plate sat across from you like a ghost of the night you were supposed to have. A night you’d waited weeks for. A night you’d put on makeup for, styled your hair for, worn the dress he said he loved once when he’d kissed your shoulder and smiled into your neck.

You paid anyway.

Because some small, desperate part of you still hoped that if he did show up, late, breathless, maybe bloodied or scraped, he’d see the food and know you’d waited. That you hadn’t given up.

As you stood to leave, you looked toward the door one last time.

Just in case.

But it stayed closed.

He didn’t show.

-----------

The air was cold. Damp.

The kind of cold that didn’t just sit on your skin—it sank deeper, crawling down into your bones until even your thoughts felt heavy. The city was unusually quiet for a Friday night, muffled by fog and the kind of hush that made everything feel suspended, waiting for something to happen.

You didn’t go home. You couldn’t.

Your feet moved aimlessly, carrying you block after block without direction, only the vague hope that walking would help you clear your head. Maybe it would make the ache in your chest easier to breathe around. Maybe you’d finally cry, really cry, and let the disappointment spill out somewhere private, somewhere Peter wouldn’t have to see the way he'd broken you.

You weren’t even sure what hurt more.

That he hadn’t shown up. Or that you’d actually believed he would.

So you walked.

Past the restaurants now closing for the night. Past the neon signs buzzing like distant thunder. Past alleyways and bus stops and places where his fingers had once laced through yours like a promise.

And then you heard them.

Sirens.

Sharp. Urgent. Wailing against the silence of the night like a scream. The kind of sound that clawed at your ribs and made your pulse skip in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with something deeper. Something instinctual.

You froze.

Then followed.

The lights came first, red, white, and blue splashing against the wet pavement in pulsing waves, casting the street in chaotic color. They turned the buildings into a warzone of shadows and emergency glare. People were gathering up ahead, the way they always did when something terrible happened. A fire engine roared past you, its horn rattling the street. Then another.

You rounded the corner.

Smoke billowed from the rooftop of an apartment complex, thick and black against the cloudy sky. The fire glowed like an open wound above the city. Flames licked hungrily at the air, devouring shingles and windows like it had a vendetta.

People were murmuring, pointing, phones raised.

That’s when you saw him.

Swinging.

Effortless and unreal. A blur of red and blue cutting through the smoke-stained sky, slinging webs from building to building like something out of a movie. Spider-Man. Up close, in real time. The vigilante who had become New York’s unofficial guardian angel.

He moved like wind. Like lightning. Fast, fluid, inhuman.

And then—

He faltered.

Mid-swing, he jerked, just slightly, but it was enough. His grip on the web slackened. His body twisted in the air. A sharp grunt of pain cut through the chaos like a blade. He crashed onto a lower rooftop, tumbling hard, his landing messy and uncontrolled. You heard the thud echo through the street as gasps rippled through the crowd.

You stepped forward instinctively, heart jumping into your throat.

He rolled to a stop, tried to rise, and stumbled again.

He was hurt. Badly.

No one else could see from this angle, but you had crossed the street, slipping away from the crowd and around the side of the building, your breath frozen in your chest. You could see everything now. The way he clutched his ribs. The crimson stain blooming across his side. His leg dragging slightly behind him as he tried to climb onto another ledge.

And then, his mask tore.

Just a fraction. A rip along the side of his face where a burning piece of debris had grazed him. The crowd couldn’t see it. But you could.

And what you saw made your knees buckle.

Because it wasn’t just anyone.

It was him.

Peter.

You saw the shape of his mouth. The line of his jaw. The faint, faded scar just above his left brow, the one from when he was ten and tried to ride his bike down the stairs. You’d patched him up in your kitchen, hands shaking, trying not to cry harder than he was. He’d sniffled, smiled through his tears, and told you, “You’d make a great nurse someday, y’know.” Then he kissed your cheek with his chipped tooth and giggled like nothing had ever hurt him.

You had loved that boy every day since.

And now, he was bleeding in a superhero suit.

Your Peter. The boy who kissed you slowly and held you like you were fragile. The boy who lied to your face every day and told you everything was fine. The boy who had stood you up just hours ago because he had to chase down another emergency as the city’s masked hero.

He had lied.

He had looked you in the eye and lied.

About the bruises. The exhaustion. The secrets. The way he’d flinch when you touched certain parts of him, wounds that hadn’t come from tripping over curbs.

He had crafted a careful world of half-truths and pretty excuses, and you had believed all of them.

Because you loved him.

Because you trusted him.

And now that trust felt like glass in your throat, jagged, bloody, impossible to swallow.

You stood frozen, trembling, watching the boy you loved disappear across the rooftops, a streak of red trailing behind him in the night. You didn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Because everything, everything, had just changed.

-----------

You didn’t remember walking home.

The city passed by in a blur, blinking traffic lights, faded streetlamps, the sound of sirens still echoing in your ears like ghosts refusing to let go. The world moved around you, oblivious, and you felt like you were floating somewhere outside your own body.

Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You kept clenching them, digging your nails into your palms until little crescent moons bloomed red against your skin, but it didn’t help. The tremble had rooted itself deeper than your bones, it lived in your chest now, in your breath, in every shaky exhale that fogged in the cold night air.

Every step felt like dragging lead weights behind you. Your limbs ached, heavy with exhaustion and disbelief. You couldn’t stop replaying it. His mask tearing. The look on his face. The way your world tilted and cracked in real time.

Peter Parker was Spider-Man.

You didn’t cry. Not yet.

You wanted to. God, you wanted to scream, punch a wall, throw your phone against the floor and watch it shatter into a thousand useless pieces. You wanted to yell at him, wherever he was now, ask him why. Why he didn’t trust you? Why he let you drown in doubt while he bled alone?

But when you finally walked through your front door, you didn’t do any of that.

You just collapsed onto the floor.

Right there in the entryway. Back against the door you’d just shut behind you, knees drawn up, jacket still on. You didn’t even turn the lights on. The darkness suited the silence. That horrible kind of silence that presses on your chest like a weight, suffocating and endless.

The apartment was too quiet.

No hum of the heater. No faint buzz of the fridge. Just the sound of your own breath catching every few seconds, like your lungs couldn’t figure out how to work anymore.

Your eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. But you weren’t really seeing anything.

Because all you could think, over and over, looping like a broken record, was that Peter had lied to you.

The boy who missed every dinner. The boy who ghosted you when you cried and never gave a reason. The boy who held you like you were his whole world and still slipped through your fingers like sand.

He wasn’t distant because he didn’t love you.

He was distant because he was bleeding for the city behind your back.

Because while you sat at home, worrying, waiting, wondering what you’d done wrong, he was out there. Battling criminals, saving strangers, throwing himself in front of danger night after night while you begged him to just talk to you.

And he hadn’t. Not once.

Not when you asked why he came home limping. Not when you cried and told him you felt like you were losing him. Not when you told him it felt like you weren’t enough to make him stay.

He let you think that.

He let you carry the weight of his silence like it was your fault. Like you weren’t doing enough. Like you were the reason he pulled away.

He let you blame yourself.

And that was the part that shattered you.

Not the fact that he was Spider-Man. Not even the fact that he hadn’t told you.

But the fact that, day after day, he let you believe the distance between you was because of something you lacked. Something you failed to be.

When all along, he had been lying through his teeth with a soft voice and gentle hands.

That quiet betrayal echoed louder than any fight ever could.

And now, sitting there in the dark with the truth pressed like a blade to your ribs, you didn’t feel like screaming anymore.

You just felt hollow.

-----------

The fire escape creaked at 2:13 a.m.

Like clockwork.

You didn’t move.

You sat curled on the couch in the dark, knees pulled tight to your chest, wrapped in the kind of silence that felt suffocating. You had cried for hours. The kind of crying that left your face raw, your throat aching, your body limp like something hollowed you out from the inside.

Your chest still burned.

Like someone had reached into your ribcage and torn your heart out with their bare hands, and left the wound open to fester.

The window creaked open behind you.

A sound you used to find comforting. Familiar. Like a rhythm in a song only you and Peter knew.

His voice followed.

“Y/N?”

Soft. Hopeful. Naive.

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t even flinch.

You just stared at the blank TV screen across from you, eyes rimmed red, face pale under the glow of the streetlights leaking in through the blinds.

He climbed inside like he always did, quiet, careful. The movements of someone used to sneaking into your space like it was his second home. As if this was just another night where you’d greet him with a tired smile and open arms.

But then he saw you.

And everything about him stilled.

You were sitting stiff and unmoving, curled in on yourself like you were trying to disappear. Your eyes locked on him. Cold. Unforgiving. Cracked wide open by the truth.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You’re up…”

His voice cracked slightly at the end.

You didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

He took a tentative step closer. “I—I meant to text you. I got caught up with Dr. Connors. The project’s getting kind of crazy—”

“Don’t.” Your voice was flat. Lifeless.

He faltered. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t lie to me.”

He stilled, the color draining from his face.

“I’m not—” he tried.

You looked at him, and your voice came out barely above a whisper. “I saw you. On the rooftop.”

Silence fell like a guillotine.

You could see the way his throat worked around a swallow. The way his hands curled at his sides. The subtle tremor that gave away the storm rising inside him.

“I followed the sirens,” you continued, your voice quieter now, but sharper. “I saw Spider-Man. And when he fell, I saw you.”

Peter went still. Bone-deep still.

“I saw your face,” you said, the words shaking loose from your throat like glass.

His mouth opened, then closed again. Useless. His lips trembled. His eyes were wide. Panicked.

“Y/N, I—”

“You looked me in the eye,” you whispered, “and lied.”

The silence that followed could’ve buried you both.

You didn’t yell. You didn’t have to. The devastation in your voice hit harder than screaming ever could. And Peter looked like he’d just been gutted. Like the words physically knocked the air out of his lungs.

You stood slowly, legs stiff, tears brimming again despite how many had already fallen.

“Every night you didn’t come home,” you said quietly, “I thought it was me. I thought I wasn’t enough. I stayed up worrying, waiting, wondering what I did wrong.”

“Don’t say that—” he stepped forward, reaching, pleading.

“I begged you to let me in,” your voice cracked, raw and hoarse, “and you made me feel crazy for asking questions. You gaslit me with half-truths and pretty excuses. You let me blame myself while you bled in alleys and came home covered in lies.”

“I was trying to protect you—”

“No,” you snapped, sudden and sharp. “You were protecting yourself. Because telling the truth would’ve meant admitting what you really are. And you couldn’t handle what that would do to us.”

He looked like he was unraveling.

“I didn’t want you to be afraid of me,” he whispered, desperate. “I didn’t want to ruin what we had.”

“I’ve been afraid for months, Peter!” you shouted, finally letting your voice rise. “Afraid of losing you. Afraid of not knowing what I did wrong. Afraid that you didn’t love me anymore, and now I find out it was all a lie?”

His face crumpled.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he choked. “I was scared. I didn’t want you to look at me differently. I didn’t want to lose you—”

“I’m not scared of Spider-Man,” you whispered, your voice razor-edged. “I’m scared of you. Of the boy who could look me in the eye every single day and still decide I didn’t deserve the truth.”

He looked at you like his world was crumbling beneath his feet.

And maybe it was.

“I love you,” Peter said, broken, voice full of cracks and heartbreak. “I love you so much—”

You shook your head slowly. Your chest twisted.

“Then you should’ve told me,” you whispered, tears slipping down your cheeks, “before I had to see you bleeding in the street like some stranger.”

He moved forward, hands outstretched. “Y/N—please—”

“Get out.”

He froze. “What?”

“Get out, Peter.” Your voice was ice now. “I can’t even look at you right now.”

His breathing grew uneven. “I didn’t want this to happen—”

“Neither did I,” you whispered. “But you made the choice for both of us.”

He didn’t argue.

He just looked at you. Really looked. Like this was the last time he ever would.

Eyes glassy. Shoulders sinking. Chest rising and falling too fast.

Then he turned.

And just like that, he climbed back out the window. Vanished into the night like he was never there. Like a ghost. Like the version of him you thought you loved.

And you stood there.

In the dark.

Alone.

Tears on your cheeks. Anger in your bones. Grief curling around your ribs like something alive and clawing and relentless.

Because Peter wasn’t just Spider-Man.

He was a liar.

And the worst part?

You still loved him. You still loved him.

Even as it tore you apart.

You slid down the wall to the floor, the sobs finally breaking free, shaking, gut-wrenching, uncontrollable.

And in that moment, you weren’t sure which part of you hurt more:

The one that hated him for lying. Or the one that still wanted him to come back.

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

An: I think this might be longest fic I've published so far. I know its kind of similar to the other TASM! Peter fic I've made but I still really like this one and I hope you do too!!

#angst #fluff #masterlist #spider man #spiderman x reader #tasm peter parker #tasm!peter parker angst #andrew garfield #the amazing spider man #spider man fanfic #peter parker angst #peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n

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