#it’s the same thing she does when he says she looks good the day she confronted him 5 months earlier 😷

[cressidagrey]

Her Papa's Daughter

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Oscar never sees how similar his daughter is to him. But Felicity does. 

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

There were moments—small, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moments—when Felicity would pause, tilt her head, and think: There he is. Right there, in her.

Oscar never saw it.

He adored Bee. Worshipped her, really. 

In that soft, steady, unobtrusive way of his. He looked at their daughter like she was something he’d never stop marveling at—like her brilliance was something that had skipped him entirely, a beautiful mystery he was lucky enough to witness up close.

But what he didn’t realize—what Felicity did—was that Bee hadn’t come out of nowhere.

She was Oscar.

In so many little ways.

Most people only saw the surface. They saw the same jet black hair that she had inherited from Felicity. They didn’t see that it had a wave to it, something that came from Oscar. 

They didn’t see that yes, Bee’s eyes were brown. But they weren’t Felicity’s eyes. Weren’t that near black, ebony colour. They were Oscar’s. Brown but lighter, honeyed around the edges. 

They saw Bee’s intelligence: bright, sparkling. A mind that was as quick as Felicity’s. But they didn’t dig deeper. 

They didn’t see all the ways Bee was just like her father. 

Bee was more Piastri than Leong.

Felicity thanked the universe for that every single day.

Because the Leong side—her side—came with expectations. With pressure. With rigid ambition and cold detachment masked as achievement. The Leongs  were achievement-obsessed. Hypercritical. Polished to the point of sterility. 

The Leongs taught efficiency. Precision. Perfection.

Bee had that in her too. She did.

But the goodness, the calm,  the innate kindness that ran deep in the Piastri blood was stronger. 

Felicity had always worried—before Bee was born—what pieces of herself she’d pass on.

 What her daughter might inherit from the Leong side that had tried to sculpt Felicity into a perfect silhouette of someone she never wanted to be.

But then Bee arrived.

Tiny and fierce. All wide eyes and sharp observation.  Born curious. Born soft in a way that felt like rebellion.

Bee was a Piastri. And Felicity loved that. 

Because it meant the best parts of Oscar—his calm, his heart, his quiet goodness—would live on in a little girl who walked through the world with grease on her cheeks and stars in her eyes.

Bee was just like her father. And Felicity saw it, even when nobody else did. 

Bee was Oscar’s in all the ways Felicity loved most.

Not his fame.

Not his skill behind the wheel.

But his gentleness.

His capacity to feel deeply, and quietly. 

Felicity saw it when Bee got quiet when she was upset—not loud, not tantrum-prone like other kids her age. No, she folded in, went silent. Let the weight of the world settle on her tiny shoulders without protest. Just like Oscar did when something hurt. When he’d had a bad race. When the pressure clawed too close to his ribs.

Bee would sit at the kitchen table with her arms folded and her jaw clenched, and Felicity would see Oscar at seventeen, post-race, staring down telemetry with his whole chest aching and no words to explain it.

It was in the way Bee needed time before she spoke.

How she'd pause when someone asked her a question, like she needed to sort through a hundred tabs open in her mind before landing on the right answer. Just like Oscar, who often went quiet in meetings, brows furrowed—not confused, just calculating. When Bee blinked a little too fast, the way Oscar did when he didn’t know how to say what he was feeling.

People mistook them both for passive.

They were anything but.

Oscar observed. He waited. Let others speak. Let the noise swirl around him until he could cut through it cleanly. Bee did the same thing on playgrounds, watching from the edge, fingers twitching, eyes sharp. Quiet didn’t mean confused. Quiet meant processing.

Then there was the focus.

Bee could spend hours rebuilding the same gear assembly in her toy kart, screwing and unscrewing bolts with total precision, refusing to be interrupted even for snacks. Felicity had once watched her spend 45 minutes trying to fix a hinge on the chicken coop door. She was two.

Oscar did the exact same thing with sim data.

He didn’t like being pulled out of his zone once he was in it. He got snappy—not mean, just tense, clipped, unmoored. Felicity knew the signs: the twitch in his jaw, the soft tap of his fingers on the edge of his laptop. Bee had the same twitch, the same tapping rhythm.

And of course, the perfectionism.

Oscar never called it that. He called it “standards.” “Attention to detail.” “Preparation.”

But Felicity had seen it for what it was. The way he double-checked tyre pressure notes, the way he rehearsed press answers under his breath, the way he panicked—silently—when he made a mistake, even one no one else noticed.

Bee was the same.

If a drawing didn’t go right, if the colors didn’t match what she imagined, she would stare at the page for hours. Sometimes she’d rip it in half without saying a word. Sometimes she’d just press her little lips together and walk away, quietly devastated.

Oscar would kneel beside her, rub her back, say, “It’s okay, Bumblebee. You can start again.”

Felicity never said it, but every time he did, she wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

Because Bee got that from him.

So many things Bee loved—systems, precision, solitude—came from Felicity. But the rhythm of her quiet, the soft sadness she carried when people didn’t understand her, the way she tried so hard to do everything right? That was pure Oscar.

And he never saw it.

He thought he was just the snack-deliverer. The designated cheerleader. The safe arms she ran into when things were too loud.

He didn’t realize that Bee was him.

In the way she got quiet when something really mattered.

How the more she cared, the less she said.

Not because she didn’t feel it — but because she felt it too much.

Just like Oscar after a bad session. Silent. Shoulders tight. Needing a minute to fold the feeling small before he could put it down.

Felicity saw it in the way they both loved things quietly—with reverence, with care, with a steady kind of devotion that never demanded attention.

They were both meticulous.

Both patient in their own strange ways.

They made the same face when concentrating.

They both talked more when they were comfortable, when they felt safe.

And when they trusted someone—truly trusted them—they gave everything, all at once, like a flood.

 Bee stayed up too late sometimes, not because she was avoiding sleep, but because her brain just wouldn’t let go. She’d be lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, listing gear ratios or trying to solve the mystery of gravitational drag in her head.

Just like Oscar the night before a race, flat on his back in hotel beds, blinking at the ceiling while he rehearsed every apex in his mind.

His quiet heart. His careful mind. His silent, stubborn resilience.

Bee had inherited Oscar’s softness. His sensitivity. That quiet brilliance that didn’t need to be loud to be undeniable.

Felicity watched the two of them curled on the couch now, Bee half-asleep on his chest, Oscar absentmindedly playing with a piece of her hair while watching race replays with the volume low. His hand rested protectively against her back, and Bee’s tiny fingers were curled in his hoodie drawstring like it anchored her.

They were so alike it hurt.

Felicity reached for her phone, took a photo quietly—just for herself. Just to remember this.

And as she looked at it later, Bee dozing with the same soft frown Oscar wore when he was thinking, her lashes dark against his chest, Felicity smiled.

One day, maybe he’d see it.

One day, she’d tell him.

But for now, she’d keep watching the two halves of her heart mirror each other in quiet ways they didn’t even notice.

And love them all the more for it.

They were more than similar.

They were the same melody, just played in different keys.

And the sweetest thing?

Oscar didn’t even realize.

Felicity watched him watch Bee sometimes — that soft, stunned look he got when Bee said something too clever for her age or organized her toolbox with color-coded tabs — and he looked amazed. Like she was something brand new, unfathomable, impossible.

And all Felicity ever wanted to say was: She learned that from you. That’s your steadiness. Your stillness. Your careful mind.

But she didn’t.

She just smiled, and let him marvel.

Let him believe Bee was a little mystery he got to unravel piece by piece.

Let him love her for all the ways she was different.

Because one day, maybe he’d see it. All of it.

And when he did, he’d realize what Felicity had known all along:

That the little girl who preferred schematics to dolls and corners to crowds—

She was her Papa’s daughter.

Through and through.

[drtyelvisfantasy]

OH, BABY, BABY

CHAPTER THREE

note: I'm sorry this took so long to publish pls forgive me, but thank you for your patience. Please reblog and like🎀

warnings: emotional distress, toxic relationship, pregnancy, mentions of birth, toxic family dynamics

It’s the next morning, and even though the air still feels a little heavy, Margaret’s energy is doing a lot to lift the mood. She’s moving around the kitchen like she always does, humming softly, acting like everything’s okay. And somehow, just that—her being her—makes things feel a little less tense.

She’s always the one smoothing things over when Rafe and I butt heads. It’s like she can’t help but try to keep the peace, even when it’s not her mess to clean up. I feel guilty watching her do it, like she’s carrying the weight of keeping us all okay when she shouldn’t have to.

I wake up earlier than usual, but Rafe’s already in the kitchen, sitting there with a cup of coffee like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s always belonged there. Like nothing ever happened. 

There’s something about the way he’s so at ease that gets under my skin—not angry, just... unsettled. He’s acting like this is just another morning, like we’re just a family, like we didn’t fall apart a hundred times before this.

Rafe looks up from his coffee as I walk in, his eyes tracking me like he’s trying to read something in my face. I know I look like hell—barely slept, head still full of things I wish I’d said.

He nods, that slight smirk playing on his lips, like none of it matters. Like last night didn’t happen.

“Morning,” he says, like it’s just any other day.

The casual tone makes something tighten in my chest. He’s too comfortable, too at ease—like he can just pick up where we left off without acknowledging the wreckage between us. And somehow, that bothers me more than if he’d just come out swinging.

“Are you leaving today, right?” I ask, trying to sound casual, but it comes out softer than I meant—like the answer might matter more than I want to admit.

Rafe pauses, takes a slow sip of his coffee. His face doesn’t give much away.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Figured I’d head out later today.”

Rafe stands, setting his mug down with a quiet clink. He walks over slowly, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to do what he’s about to do. Then, without saying anything, he rests his hand gently on my bump.

He doesn’t speak right away—just stays there, still and quiet, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling. Like he knows this moment might not come again, and he’s trying to hold onto it with everything he has.

“When’s your next doctor’s appointment?” he asks finally, his voice low.

I feel the weight of his hand on my bump, and for a moment, I’m frozen—caught between wanting to pull away and needing to hold on to whatever this is. His touch is so gentle, like he's afraid of breaking something.

I glance up at him, and for a split second, his eyes meet mine—there’s something there, something I can’t quite name. It’s not anger, not regret, just… a quiet kind of knowing.

“Next week,” I answer, my voice barely above a whisper. I don’t want to say more, don’t want to explain, because I know if I do, this moment might break, and I don’t know if I’m ready for that.

He nods, his hand lingering for just a second longer before he pulls it away. The air feels heavier, like something unspoken is hanging between us, but neither of us knows how to reach for it.

“Good,” he says quietly, but there’s no relief in his voice—just that same weight that’s been between us for too long.

The door creaks open, and Margaret steps in, her face lighting up when she sees us. Her smile is bright, almost like she’s trying to will the tension out of the room. “Good morning!” she says cheerfully, her voice filled with that contagious energy of hers.

But then, as she notices the quiet between Rafe and me, something shifts. Her eyes flicker to him, and for a second, there’s that small, unmistakable sadness in her gaze—like she’s just realized what we’ve all been trying to avoid.

She hesitates for a moment, then looks back at me, offering a forced but warm smile. “Dad, you’re leaving today, aren’t you?”

Rafe doesn’t say anything, just gives her a small nod, and that’s enough to make the smile slip from her face, just a little. She doesn’t say anything more, but I can see it—the way her shoulders sag slightly, the way she holds herself back from asking the questions she’s probably too afraid to voice.

—

The rest of the morning drags on, each minute stretching out longer than the last. Margaret seems determined to fill the time, to hold onto every second she has left with Rafe. They play cards at the kitchen table, and I can hear her giggling as she teaches him a dance she learned from TikTok. Rafe actually laughs—loud and genuine, like the world outside this moment doesn’t exist.

I stay in the kitchen, pretending to be busy, but really, I’m just watching them. Watching how easily they slip into this rhythm, like nothing’s changed, like Rafe hasn’t been gone for so long, like everything’s still okay.

But then a thought creeps into my mind, uninvited and heavy: Will he show up for this one? Will he hold the baby?

It’s a question I don’t want to ask, but it’s there, sitting in the back of my mind, because I can’t shake the feeling that he might walk away again—just when things start to matter the most.

Margaret insisted on getting ice cream at the beach, her face lighting up with excitement like nothing was different. She’s ahead of us now, lost in her own world as she walks down the boardwalk.

Rafe and I trail behind, side by side but not really together. He keeps his hands in his pockets, glancing at me every so often, but neither of us says a word. The silence stretches between us, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s going to walk away again once this is all over.

“She’s growing up so fast, isn’t she?” Rafe says, his voice quieter than usual.

“Yeah, she is,” I reply, my words simple, but they carry more weight than they should.

Rafe nods, his gaze following Margaret as she walks ahead, her energy still bright, her innocence still untouched. There’s a softness in his expression as he watches her, something almost wistful, like he’s realizing how much time has passed while he’s been away.

For a moment, it feels like the world slows down, and the distance between us feels a little smaller—until the silence falls again, heavier than before.

I shift the conversation, needing to know—needing something real before he leaves.

“Um... I was wondering if you’d be able to stay for a while. When the baby’s born.”

Rafe doesn’t answer right away. He looks ahead, jaw tight, like he’s turning the question over carefully in his mind. I can see the weight of it in his silence—the idea of staying, of showing up this time.

His face stays unreadable, but when he finally speaks, there’s a hesitation in his voice that says more than the words do.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure if I can commit to that right now.”

“Rafe, please,” I say, the words catching in my throat. “At least be there. You’ve missed every doctor’s appointment so far... the least you could do is be there when the baby comes.”

My voice shakes, not out of anger—but something closer to exhaustion. To hope, maybe. I’m not asking for everything. Just that.

Rafe’s jaw tightens, and when he speaks, there’s an edge to his voice.

“Don’t start with that. I don’t have time to make every single doctor’s appointment. I have a life too, you know.”

“Yes, I know, but—”

He cuts me off, sharper this time.

“But what? You think I don’t care about this baby? That I don’t want to be there for you?”

“I didn’t say that, Rafe,” I reply quietly, but the hurt is already there—pressed between the lines of everything we didn’t say.

Rafe’s frustration boils over, his voice rising as he snaps back, more defensive now.

“But that’s what you’re implying, isn’t it? That I don’t care—just because I can’t be at every damn appointment?”

I flinch at the intensity in his voice. Whatever fragile calm we had is gone now, replaced by the same wall he always throws up when things get too real.

He looks away, jaw clenched, then calls out, louder than he needs to, “Margaret! We’re heading back!”

His tone makes it clear—this conversation is over. Whether I got the answer I needed or not doesn’t seem to matter anymore.

The silence in the car is thick, stretching between us like miles. Margaret’s soft snores drift from the back seat, the only sound breaking the tension.

I stare out the window, the landscape blurring past, but all I can feel is the weight pressing down on me—loneliness wrapping itself around my shoulders like a heavy blanket.

I want to say something, anything, but the thought of opening up to Rafe feels pointless. He’d probably just call me dramatic, brush it off like he always does. So I stay quiet, holding it all in, because it feels safer than being dismissed.

—

We finally make it back to the house. Margaret heads upstairs to her room without a word, worn out from the day.

Rafe and I step into the bedroom, the air thick with tension. He goes straight to his bag, focused, methodical—folding, zipping, organizing like it’s the only thing he has control over.

I move around him, pretending to tidy up, but really just trying to fill the silence. We don’t speak. There’s too much to say and no safe way to say it, so we let the silence speak for us—loud and aching.

I stand near the dresser, pretending to rearrange things that don’t need rearranging. My voice comes out softer than I expect.

“You’ll call her, right? Not just for birthdays?”

Rafe pauses, his hands stilling over the half-zipped bag. He doesn’t look at me right away, just stares down like he’s weighing what to say.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Of course I will.”

But something in the way he says it—too quick, too automatic—makes my chest tighten. I nod anyway, pretending to believe him, because it’s easier than pushing for more.

I nod, but it doesn’t feel like a promise—just words he thinks I want to hear.

Trying to soften the silence, I shift the weight in the room.

“I was thinking maybe… next time you visit, we could all go to Orlando or something. Take Margaret to Disney. You know, like a family trip.”

I try to keep my tone light, casual, but there’s hope tucked beneath it—thin and fragile. I don’t look at him right away. I don’t want to see his face if he’s already thinking of all the reasons it won’t happen.

Rafe lets out a short breath, his tone already edged with irritation.

“You want me to spend money on a whole trip to Disney? Do you even know how expensive that is?”

I look down, jaw tightening, the sting immediate. I wasn’t asking for luxury—just a moment. A memory. Something that might hold us together a little longer.

“I just thought it might be nice,” I say quietly, trying to keep the hurt out of my voice. “For Margaret.”

He doesn’t respond right away, and in the silence, it’s clear—I asked for too much again.

Rafe sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, his voice still edged with irritation.

“Just don’t suggest things you know we can’t afford.”

I nod slowly, swallowing the lump rising in my throat. Of course. I should’ve known better than to hope out loud.

“It wasn’t about the money,” I murmur, mostly to myself. “It was about doing something... together.”

But he’s already turned back to his bag, and I’m left standing there, feeling foolish for wanting more than he’s willing to give.

—

The moment is here, and it feels like time has slowed down. Margaret and I stand at the front door, silent, watching as Rafe hovers awkwardly in the doorway. His bags are packed, the car’s engine idling outside.

There’s something heavy in the air, something unspoken, and it hangs between us like a wall neither of us knows how to break.

Rafe shifts his weight, glancing between Margaret and me, but neither of us knows what to say. We all feel the same thing—this is it. This is the last time we’ll see him for who knows how long. And somehow, even though it’s been this way before, it feels different now.

Margaret’s the first to speak, her voice small, almost fragile. “Take care, Dad.”

Rfe looks down at Margaret, his expression both soft and pained. He responds to her goodbye with a gentle smile.

“I’ll see you later, alright little one?”

I can’t bring myself to say anything. The words feel stuck, tangled up in all the things I never got to ask. Instead, I just stand there, watching as he pulls away and walks out the door.

Rafe steps out, the door clicking shut behind him, and the silence that follows feels even heavier. I turn to Margaret, my heart aching as I take in the sadness etched across her face. It’s there in the way her shoulders slump, the quiet tremble of her lip, and the way her eyes shine with unshed tears—her brave face faltering under the weight of everything she doesn’t know how to say.

“What’s wrong, baby?” I ask softly, my voice breaking through the quiet.

She blinks, as if trying to push the tears back, but they fall anyway, one by one, and I know she’s holding onto the kind of hurt only a child feels when someone they love walks away.

“I... I don’t want him to go, Mom,” she whispers, her voice small and fragile.

“Well, he has to go, but he’ll be back before you know it,” I say, trying to sound more reassuring than I feel.

Margaret’s response is quick, her voice sharp with both annoyance and sadness.

“What, in another four months?”

I feel a pang in my chest at the bitterness in her tone.

“He has to work, sweetheart. Who else is gonna keep the lights on?” I answer, my words sounding more defensive than I intend.

She nods slowly, understanding the practicalities of his work, but her expression says everything—the disappointment is too heavy for her to just brush aside. She turns away slightly, trying to hide the way her shoulders slump.

“I know,” she mutters, but I can see the sadness still lingering in her eyes.

Margaret doesn’t say anything else. She just nods, her shoulders stiff as she turns away. Without another word, she heads for the stairs, her steps quiet but heavy, like she’s carrying something too big for her small frame.

I watch her go, the sound of her footsteps fading as she disappears upstairs. A lump forms in my throat, but I don’t chase after her. Not now. I know she needs space to process this, to make sense of what we both already feel.

The house feels emptier, quieter, and I’m left standing there, with the weight of everything left unsaid.

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Four’s A Party

Fandom: Top Gun: Maverick

Pairing: Bob Floyd x F! Reader, Billy “Fritz” Avalone x F!Reader, Mickey “Fanboy” Garcia x F!Reader

A/N: it’s a poly relationship, yall! This is honestly super indulgent bc now 3 men I’ve been obsessed with have been in the same movie so…yeah. Enjoy!

“I’m sorry, what do you mean ‘our girlfriend’?” Hangman stares at his fellow Top Gun pilots in confusion.

Fritz, Bob, and Fanboy all look at each other and then shrug, “We share a girlfriend.” Fanboy says nonchalantly.

“How does that even work? Does that mean you’re dating each other?” Rooster pipes in.

Bob fixes his glasses and speaks up, “Well, no. We’re all dating Y/N at the same time. We all have one girlfriend, but Y/N has three boyfriends. We take turns taking her out or sometimes go on a group.”

It’s Fritz’s turn to speak up, “It was a little weird and awkward at first, but we managed to make it work. Takes a lot of patience and communication-“

“And an open mind,” Bob says and Fanboy nods.

“To be fair, she was mine first and then she started hanging around all of us, got close to Bob and Fritz, and here we are.”

Hangman looks at the three men like they’ve individually grown an additional two heads, “What the fuck…so like…in the bedroom-“

“Don’t.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Nope not talking about that.”

Hangman holds out his arms, “What?! I think it’s a valid thing to question!”

“We’re not talking about our sex lives with you, man. Fuck off.” Fritz passes Hangman and shoulder checks him, Bob and Fanboy following behind him.

________________

“So Jake found out about us.” Bob says as he, Fritz, and Fanboy sit at the dining table in your home.

You freeze from cooking, “What? How?”

Billy sighs, “He saw you and me together on Tuesday.”

“Then he saw us together on Thursday.” Mickey states.

“And then us the next day,” Bob adds, “He thought you were cheating on us and that we didn’t know so we had to tell him.”

“Shit,” you set the stove to low heat to turn to your boyfriends, “Should-Should we end it?”

“No!” The three of them stood with a shout in unison.

You look at them slightly startled, “I’m sorry! It’s just-I know Jake can be an ass and I’m sure he already gave you shit when he found out.”

“Asked about our bedroom activities,” Bob grumbles and you scoff, “Of course he did.”

Mickey walks over to you, “We’re not gonna end it just because Hangman’s gonna be a dick. We love you too much. We can deal with him.”

“Are you sure?” Billy shrugs, “We’ve dealt with him for this long. We can manage.”

You let out a sigh of relief, “That’s-That’s good. The idea of breaking up with one of you sucks, but all three? That’s fucking heartbreaking.”

Bob joins you at your side, “We’re here until you don’t want us anymore.” He kisses your cheek.

“But we’ll fight tooth and nail to ensure we stay together for as long as you want,” Billy nuzzles his face in your neck on the other side of you.

“So we’re good?” Mickey asks, leaning in and resting his forehead against yours.

“Yeah…we’re good,” you peck his lips and sigh, “Alright, boys. Let your girl breathe, I gotta finish cooking this before I burn everything!” You push your boyfriends away and they happily take their places back at your table.

They consider themselves lucky for finding an amazing woman like you. But you think you’re the lucky one, finding three men who love you so unconditionally.

[idiopath-fic-smile]

[more leverage ot3, as a way of saying thank you for supporting my audio drama pilot Kickstarter, which is at like 98%(?!?) thank you!]

They had a busy morning laying the foundation for some future capers, and Elliott's headache evaporated in the face of several hours' good, hard work—and okay, maybe there was a possibility the painkillers had helped too. What was this, an interrogation?

Elliott was posing as a tech bro asshole for a big operation next week against a billionaire with an above-average vetting process, and that meant laying down a convincing online presence—not just a LinkedIn page but a personal website, full socials, and even a Yelp account. Most of that shit Hardison could do in his sleep, but for reasons surpassing fucking understanding, Hardison was insisting on taking new photos.

"What does it matter," said Elliott through gritted teeth. "You've already got what you need to photoshop me building the goddamn rocket myself if you want."

"Yeah, but these days, everyone's pics are messed with," Hardison shot back. "Filters, bogus backgrounds, the haunted fever dream of Frankensteining other peoples' stolen IP we call AI—"

"Not a single evil robot in sight," Parker confirmed. "I was promised evil robots."

"By who?" said Elliott. "And why?"

"The same reason Kasparov played Deep Blue," said Hardison with a shrug. "Anyway, verisimilitude is the word of the day. How do we make your fake profile stand out? Easy, we don't fake it." He held up his camera. "Now. Show me your good side."

Instinctively, Elliott turned to the right.

"No, this is his good side," said Parker, who surely had better things to do than hanging out to Elliott's left, munching on snack mix and occasionally glancing at the building's schematics.

Hardison swooped back and forth with the camera. Click click click. "Man," he muttered, "it is just not fair that someone as grumpy as you has two good sides. Think I need to speak with God's manager."

Elliott smiled with his eyes, just to be obnoxious.

.

"What do you wanna do for lunch?" Parker asked around noon. They were on the couch—Hardison on one end, Elliott on the other, Parker stretched out between them with her feet almost in Elliott's lap. She was still eyeing the schematics, but her eyebrows had returned to their standard position, suggesting she had found several ways in and just needed to pick one.

Her toes were a little gnarled, like a dancer's toes were gnarled. Elliott had once dated a prima ballerina; foot rubs had been the currency of their relationship. He did not have a thing for feet but the arch of Parker's instep was right there, and it looked tense. He imagined coaxing away the tightness, her involuntary little sigh as the muscles relaxed under his hands.

Elliott looked away. Looked back at Hardison, who was smiling as if he'd managed to hack Elliott's mind, too, and didn't at all mind what he saw there.

"What makes you think I'm free?" said Elliott, with more bite than he intended. "It's been hours. Could've made plans."

"But did you?" said Hardison annoyingly.

"We could cook omelettes again," Parker offered, which took a lot of nerve given that her whole damn involvement last time had been retrieving and then juggling the eggshells. Elliott had rarely seen her so light-hearted.

Hardison smiled again, slow and genuine. "Wouldn't mind revisiting that morning," he said, which made Parker sit up and grin, and it was so—it was—Elliott might as well have stared directly at the sun. Heat and brightness and the promise of never seeing clearly again.

Elliott stood and dug in his jacket for his keys. "Back in an hour," he said. "Eat without me."

All the way down to the ground floor, he reminded himself why it was a bad idea to sleep with Parker and Hardison. Of course, it was a bad idea to have already done it, but Elliott was too goddamn late on that count.

Because one night a month ago, when Elliott had been about to leave, Parker had laid a hand on his arm, light as a pickpocket, and Hardison had said, "You don't have to. Go, I mean," without a trace of smugness—without any proximity to a punch line—and Elliott had thought: okay. Apparently, Parker and Hardison's bedroom life was in an experimental phase, and the upshot was that Elliott would finally have a chance to get it out of his system.

All of it, and there was a lot of "all" by that point.

Elliott had been doing just fine not knowing how either of them looked or sounded when they came, not knowing that Parker was exactly that athletic and determined in bed, not knowing that Hardison was surprisingly generous, not knowing that both of them were capable of looking at him like they'd won some kind of damn prize—

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Obviously, he needed to rise above the needling bullshit, the we know you don't have anything else going on that was apparently hilarious to them both. What the fuck else did they want from him, at this point? Couldn't it be enough that he was willing to take a hit for both of them? Did anyone really need to ask why?

The door swung open. Elliott stepped out into the sunshine, keys in hand. He'd parked two blocks away. He was just looking over at his car when, with no warning at all, it exploded.

For the wnip meme if you're still taking them - no idea if you've seen Leverage (and no worries if not, of course), but I'd live for your Ready For Love / IDOAG-style take on the Leverage OT3, no matter the plot. The snark! The noodle incidents! The yearning potential always inherent in established-het-couple-plus-life-partner! It would be great.

oh my gosh, this is an amazing prompt and i love leverage!!! my first thought was that it would actually be very funny to put Elliott in a close-to-identical spot as Cosmo in Ready For Love, and then, uh. this happened:

The irritating thing about Hardison and Parker—

Well, there were plenty of irritating things about Hardison, too many to name, and at least two about Parker. Hers were the way she ate when she was feeding herself (Elliott still wasn’t over the time he’d walked in on her sprinkling Frosted Flakes onto a piece of pizza. “What?” she’d said. “It’s fortified with vitamins and minerals”) and the way she threw herself into danger even when Elliott was right there to take the hit. But the most annoying thing about them as a couple was that they had no shame, about anything.

“Anniversary cruise next month,” Hardison announced when Elliott slunk into headquarters on Monday morning, nursing a headache he’d been assured was not a concussion. “You coming?”

“I—am I coming,” Elliott repeated. “To your anniversary cruise?”

“Of course he is,” said Parker, dropping upside down out of the ceiling. “We already hacked into his calendar, he’s free.”

Elliott pinched the bridge of his nose, temples pounding. There were many, many things he could’ve said just then, chief among them “Seriously, again?” or “What is your goddamn addiction to having a third wheel around?” or “Do you two get off on being fucking pined at?” or even just a classic “Dammit, Hardison.” For reasons that surpassed his own goddamn understanding, what he said was,

“Next month’s not your anniversary.”

Parker flipped and landed soundlessly on her feet. “Yes it is,” she said. “September 16.”

“No,” said Elliott, with way more patience than they deserved, “y’all got together in August. August 28th.”

Hardison blinked. “Dude, you memorized our anniversary?”

Shit. Elliott could’ve hit himself. He had no cover, for knowing something like that. No real explanation, except for how closely he watched them.

“Well, you weren’t gonna do it!” Elliott blustered.

“Hey now,” said Hardison, “I think—I think I resent that. How could you believe I’d forget one of the most important days of my life?”

“Because you just did!” snapped Elliott.

Parker appeared at Elliott’s side (literally appeared; he hadn’t tracked the approach at all) with a bottle of painkillers, which she shook meaningfully.

“What?” said Elliott.

“I think she means ‘for the headache you’re suffering through for no good damn reason,’” Hardison suggested.

“Taking too many isn’t good for you,” said Elliott.

“Pain also isn’t good for you,” said Parker, and wasn’t that the truth?

“Oh, for god’s sake, gimme that,” said Elliott, pouring out two pills and swallowing them dry.

Hardison shook his head. “Why do you even have to be macho about how you take your Tylenol?”

“At any rate, we’re booking tickets for September,” Parker reported. “Three tickets, unless you’re busy. Which you’re not.”

“Because I’m coming on your anniversary cruise,” said Elliott disbelievingly.

“There, I think he’s catching on!” said Hardison. He and Parker high-fived.

See? Fucking irritating.

[purpledemonlilyposting]

I know it's not going to sound like it, but I mean this in the most respectful way possible. You disliking Bonk does not give you the right to try to make it look like all of the blackgriff0n allegations are faked solely because Bonk doesn't like Claire. You insinuating that Bonk had to have been faking his suicide attempt and laughing that he got picked up by the cops is also just gross. You are doing the exact same thing that people were doing to Courtney in regards to her allegations against Lily after her crash outs, something that you still claim that you believe despite her actions. I don't like Bonk either, but I think you're taking this too far.

Hey anon this is how terrible people get enabled to keep being terrible.

After two weeks entrenched in this Black Gryph0n/Saberspark hate campaign nonsense all I'm finding is a bunch of petty, vindictive bronies with an axe to grind cause some people originally from that community became successful. I ain't even heard of Gryph0n before all this and it's easy to see what a reach it all is. You can think he's weird and gross and creepy that's fine, but you are NOT part of these peoples' lives and pretending you know their marriage better than he and his wife do is gross.

People like Bonk and KP are wildly self-important, hold petty grudges and try to retaliate any way they can. And with these two specifically that has included taking advantage of the good will of decent people to be inclined to believe allegations of sexual assault.

The word on the grapevine is Claire Corlett, Gryph0n's wife, called Bonk out for his public sexually charged roleplay as a baby pony and his opinion that drawn CP isn't reaaaaallly pedophilia if it's not realistic and so he's got hundreds of people harassing her and saying her husband groomed her. Now Bonk's the one who facilitated the dubious claims KP stapled on to her hitpiece about Saberspark and a guy he wouldn't fire on her say so.

Bonk hasn't apologized or owned up to his part in all this even once. All he had to do was say "I fucked up, this is wrong, I will no longer present myself as a safe person to bring sexual assault allegations to." He didn't even know what RAINN is. He doubled down that the best course of action was to have YouTubers be judge jury and executioners of sexual assault cases. I personally watched him continue to dodge accountability in The Opp Block's live chat.

And then he pulls the suicide baiting shit. Which he has a history of doing whenever he's in trouble. If you let a terrible person who keeps maliciously lying manipulate you with this tactic all they'll learn is that it's a good way to get you to shut up and stop scrutinizing their actions. All they'll learn is that it's a good way to get you to do what they want. It is literally an abuser's tactic.

It's funny he got picked up by cops for carefully filming a bridge railing while loudly fake crying because his reasoning for why the legal system should be avoided in cases of sexual assault was basically "but ACAB!". So maybe a few days in observation will teach him not to pull a stunt like this to avoid owning up to being wrong again.

As for Courtney it's her own damn fault she broke containment by getting involved in this when myself and many others adamantly warned her not to even as she was spitting bile at us. She has also doubled down and refused to take any responsibility in this colossal mess.

[yuh13lo]

“Fresh Out the Rollers”

Chris Sturniolo wasn’t supposed to be at this party. Not really. He had a game the next day, a pretty big one, and his coach would be on him if he showed up to practice hungover. But Chris Sturniolo didn’t really do what he was supposed to do. Not when it came to parties. Or girls. Or anything that didn’t involve hockey and vibing.

The frat house was already packed when he strolled in, wearing grey washed out jeans, a black tee that read “pirate girl” , and some Jordan’s.

Classic Chris. Always too loud, too confident, and somehow too charming for anyone to care.

Across the house, tucked between a potted plant with duct tape holding it together and a couch that had definitely seen one too many bad decisions, she stood like a pastel daydream.

Fresh curls bounced as she turned her head. Her hair looked like it had been done in rollers and let out just an hour ago. Glossy, soft. She wore a pastel yellow babydoll dress that floated around her thighs like sunlight. She didn’t belong here. At least, not in the same way everyone else did.

Chris noticed her right away. Not because she was the loudest, or the hottest—though, damn, she was stunning—but because she wasn’t trying. She wasn’t plastered to some guy’s side, wasn’t screeching at the top of her lungs with a White Claw in hand. She was sipping a soda from a red solo cup and looking around like she was trying to find the emergency exit.

He pointed to his chest, grinned at his boys, and said, “Hold my drink.”

They groaned. “Chris, don’t ruin her.”

“Ruin her?” Chris raised an eyebrow. “I’m about to discover her.”

He walked over, his Jordan’s squeaking on the sticky floor. “You look like you fell out of a 70s love song,” he said, stopping a step away from her. “In a good way. Like a—what’s it called—vintage angel or something.”

She blinked. “That’s… creative.”

Chris clutched his chest. “Ouch. You wound me.”

She smiled a little, then tilted her head. “You don’t know what I mean, do you?”

“Not a clue. But I like the way you say things.” He looked her up and down—more curious than flirty now. “You always dress like sunshine, or is today just special?”

She looked down at her dress, hands smoothing the skirt. “I just like color. Everything else feels too… grey.”

Chris nodded slowly. “Color’s good. I wear a lot of it too. Not pastel, though. This is new. I like it.”

“You don’t look like the type to like anything that isn’t in a locker room or a solo cup.”

He laughed, loud and genuine. “You got me there.”

She arched a brow. “You play something?”

“Hockey. Forward. Number 11.” He shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, even though the entire campus knew who he was.

“Of course you do.” She didn’t mean it unkindly. “You give off… I-don’t-do-my-own-laundry energy.”

Chris gasped. “Rude and accurate.”

There was a pause. She sipped her drink. He leaned against the wall.

“What’s your name?” he asked, quieter now.

She told him.

“Pretty,” he said. “Unique. Kinda like you.”

She raised a brow again, half teasing. “You practice these lines?”

“I don’t have to,” he said, smugly. “They just come to me.”

She snorted, shaking her head. Her curls bounced again. He stared at them like he’d never seen hair before.

“You’re really staring,” she said.

“Can’t help it,” he admitted. “Your hair looks like it smells like peaches or something.”

She tilted her head, almost suspicious. “It does.”

“I knew it.” He grinned, victorious.

“I’m not sleeping with you,” she said bluntly, eyes twinkling.

“I didn’t ask.” He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just… vibing.”

She laughed. “You’re really something, Chris.”

He looked at her with something unfamiliar in his usually cocky expression—something closer to curiosity than conquest. “Do you like the Beatles?” he asked suddenly, trying to impress her with something random and old-school.

She blinked. “Yes. Why?”

“I figured. You give off Beatles energy.”

She leaned in a little. “What’s your favorite song?”

Chris froze.

She waited.

“I… don’t actually know any,” he admitted.

Her jaw dropped. “You’ve never listened to the Beatles?”

“I know they’re, like… old? British?”

She stared at him, equal parts horrified and amused. “You uncultured menace.”

Chris grinned. “And yet, you’re still talking to me.”

“Because you’re weirdly charming.”

“I get that a lot.”

They talked for another hour. She told him about her vintage obsession, her part-time job at a flower shop, how she collected old records and had a cat named Bowie.

He didn’t even pretend to know who David Bowie was.

But he listened.

He really listened.

And she noticed.

When the party shifted, music getting louder and bodies starting to press too close, he leaned in and said, “Wanna get out of here?”

She eyed him. “You said you weren’t trying anything.”

“I’m not,” he said honestly. “There’s a late-night diner two blocks away. I just wanna talk more. And maybe try a milkshake.”

She hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Okay. But I’m picking the flavor.”

Chris beamed like he’d just scored the game-winning goal.

As they stepped out into the cool night, his arm bumped against hers, and he didn’t try to lace their fingers together or make a move. He just walked beside her, bright and loud in his wild shirt and ridiculous jordans, and looked at her like she was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.

Because maybe, in all his frat boy chaos and hockey glory, she was.

And she, in her sunshine dress and peach-scented curls, found herself smiling more than she had in a while.

Maybe frat boys weren’t all bad.

Maybe this one was just weird enough to be real.

⸻

[thatonesonicfanfictionwriter]

Can we have a shadow the hedgehog x reader where the reader tends to get sick a lot and shadow is finally at his wits end with them not going to the doctor. So maybe once they go through testing at the doctor (after he had to force the reader to go) they find out the reader has the same illnesses maria did. (The angstttt here woulddd be so gooddddd) and shadow pledges to heal and protect the reader even going as far to teleport them to the ark and get in contact with tails to see if he can help shadow advance gerlads old research.

“I Won’t Let you Down”

Pairing: Shadow the Hedgehog x Sick Reader

Requested: Yes (by an anon).

Description: It felt like you were sick all. The. Time. And you were sick of being sick. And so was your partner. Little did you know this doctor’s visit would change your lives. And not necessarily in a good way.

Notes: Aghhh this does have good angst potential, poor Shadow and poor [Name]. I hope you enjoy!

(Reader will be gender-neutral.)

– – – – – – – – – – – –

Shadow knew what he was getting into when he started dating you.

But damnit, it kills him to hear you sound this sick.

He’s extremely worried for you and your wellbeing.

And right now, you’re over in the other room, coughing your lungs out for the third time this hour.

Shadow goes over to your room and opens the door, seeing you take a long sip of water from your water bottle.

After you finish the sip, you move the bottle away from your lips with a sigh before noticing Shadow out of the corner of your eye.

“Hehe, hey Shadow,” you say with a small wave. “Is everything okay?”

“I should be asking you that,” Shadow states with a cross of his arms. “You sound like you’re dying.”

Dying?...Well, you guess you did sound like that sometimes.

“I’m okay Shadow, really,” you state. “Besides, this is one of my better days.”

Better days. Shadow remembers when…she would talk about that. Some of Maria’s days were better than others.

But…now that he’s thinking about it…

“[Name]. We need to take you to a doctor’s office. You can’t go through with this anymore,” Shadow says.

You scoff quietly. Not this again.

“Every time I went to the doctor as a kid they told me the same thing,” you start. “‘We don’t know what they have, we’ll see if so-and-so does.’”

“Just…please, [Name]. Trust me on this,” Shadow says.

You stare at Shadow for a moment before letting off a silent sigh followed by a slow nod.

Shadow goes over to you and helps you out of bed, putting one of your arms around his shoulder.

He pulls a Chaos Emerald out of his quills with his other hand before saying, “Chaos Control!”

The two of you arrive at a nearby doctor’s office, being able to get a visit almost immediately due to your coughing.

But…what the doctor told you left you in tears. After the tests, it…it was revealed that…

“You…have Neuro-Immuno Deficiency Syndrome, [Name],” the doctor says sadly. “I’m sorry.”

After hearing this news, Shadow thanked the doctor for their time while holding onto your hand a little bit tighter than usual.

As soon as you two left the building, Shadow Chaos-Controlled the two of you away without warning, to a location you had only heard him talk about.

The Space Colony ARK.

Granted, it was…dustier and more beat up than you expected, but…

It felt like home.

As soon as you two had stepped foot in the place, you felt…different.

Better.

Not…completely, but…

You had a feeling you would be okay.

“[Name],” Shadow starts, gently taking your hands in his, looking right into your eyes. “I promise, no matter what, I’ll cure you. You’ll be safe up here.”

“And…you’ll…be up here with me…?” you ask.

“Always. From now until the end of time,” Shadow promises. “I won’t leave your side until you’re cured.”

“I…What about our friends…?” you ask him.

“…The fox can help you,” Shadow says. “The others can visit.”

You let off a small smile before pulling Shadow into a hug, hiding your face in his neck.

“Thank you, Shadow,” you say. “I trust you.”

Shadow lets off a quick chuckle, returning the hug, before letting off a frowns.

“I love you, starlight,” Shadow states, holding onto you a bit tighter. As if he'd lose you that second.

“I love you too, my moonlight,” you say. “Now and always.”

[vanhelsingapologist]

Strahdposting (with possible spoilers so tread lightly)

One of the worst things about Strahd in our campaign is that he's not overtly forced anyone to do anything. His underlings have, sure, but never him. He just waits for us to eliminate our options all on our own, and then presents us with his way. And of course, his way is the easiest. He'll even make it easier. We keep falling into the pit because he ensures we dig it ourselves.

We're almost past the point where he wants to bargain with us and I'm nervous about what happens when he stops being the devil we know and becomes something else altogether.

The recent reveal that there were other parties before ours has been so shattering for us, I think, because it made us all realize that our party is an amusement until it is an inconvenience, and then we'll be insects in the garden that have overstayed our welcome. And then he'll start with the force.

[jeniffercheckwannabeme]

[starpens]

CRASH COURSE ﾉ xia caleb x female reader ៹ explicit content, unprotected sex, virginity loss, mentions of cheating (none actually happens), pet names (pipsqueak (sorry but i have to be accurate) gege, good girl), instructional sex, blowjobs, creampie, idk what this is i wrote it in 5 seconds i just needed an excuse to write caleb, not proofread :( ˓˓ WORD COUNT ᨀ 4.9k !

asking the boy you’ve known nearly your entire life to teach you how to have sex isn’t weird, right...? right?

caleb has taught you a lot of things over the years.

he taught you how to drive a car in the shopping mall’s parking lot, how to cheat at card games, how to avoid burning the house down by letting him cook for you instead, how to sneak underneath the turnstiles on the subway to avoid fees.

he’s reliable and sturdy and a little reckless, but also patient and nonjudgmental— creating the idea in your idea that he’s kind of all-knowing, that whenever you don’t know something caleb does, that whenever you need help, you turn to no one else but him. which is precisely why you’re standing outside the door of his bedroom right now, hand lifted to knock on it.

because surely, asking caleb to teach you how to give a blowjob falls somewhere underneath that category too, right?

it’s one of those rare moments when the two of you are off work at the same time. caleb, on annual leave for the next two weeks and you, taking out a handful of unused vacation days to spend time with your favorite person in the world. it’s like old times again, when you can simply walk down the hall and hear his laugh drifting from underneath the door as he plays some stupid video game with college buddies.

thinking of the old days is exactly why you’re hesitating at the door. there’s too much shared history between the two of you, too much to lose if this goes badly, if you’ve been reading him wrong all along and he doesn’t want the same thing. there’s no way you can march in there and ask the boy you were raised with teach you how to—

“door’s open, pipsqueak,” caleb calls, somehow knowing you’re there because of course he does. you used to complain that he must’ve secretly implanted a tracker in your arm because he always knows your whereabouts, which made games like hide and seek with him impossible.

knowing it’s too late to play it off, you walk inside his room, greeted by his devastatingly gorgeous grin. “hey, you. lemme guess— the fridge is empty? no? lightbulb in your room need changing again? huh… or did you just miss me?”

“uh,” you mumble, shifting your toes in the soft carpet of the rug in the middle of his room. “not exactly. i was just wondering if you had time to talk and— … you’re not wearing a shirt.”

you realize how dumb you sound as you point it out, it’s just that your brain short-circuits, turning into a syrupy mess at the sight of caleb without a shirt on, his dog tags resting against bare skin. you’ve seen him like this before, of course— but not since he up and left, gallivanting off into the world to become a hotshot military pilot.

he’s always been nice to look at when you think he isn’t paying attention, but god he’s pretty. your eyes blink almost in disbelief as you take in his broad, muscular form that did not exist while he was a cadet in basic training. your gaze can’t help but snag on the ripple of his abs, or the thatch of brown hair trailing from his navel to disappear beneath his gray sweats. he swivels in his stupid gaming chair, smiling at you with his stupid face—

“uh, yeah?” caleb laughs, forehead creasing in confusion like you shouldn’t be surprised and really, you shouldn’t. caleb is like a furnace, blood running hot even in the middle of winter. “gran’s got the heat turned up to max again. it’s like she wants to kill me.”

“yeah, right,” you shake your head, laughing skittishly. “sorry. i’ve got a fan you can borrow, if you want.”

“thanks,” he says, magenta eyes dragging over your form suspiciously, taking in the way you’re standing in the middle of his room fidgeting like a leaf in the wind, hands white-knuckling the hem of the oversized shirt you’re wearing, knees knocking together all nervous and cute. he frowns, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees to give you his full attention in that heart-stuttering way he often does.

“what’s with you? not that i’m not glad to see you, but… did something happen? did someone do something to you?”

“no, no— nothing like that,” you hurry to reassure, voice cracking on the last word as your cheeks begin to burn in embarrassment, trying to find the words to say what you need to without crashing and burning. swallowing around a lump in your throat, you glance at the paused screen of caleb’s game before blurting out—

“can you teach me how to give a blowjob?”

caleb immediately chokes.

a lesson on what not to do.

the overclocked fans on caleb’s gaming rig whirs in a soft hum, the neon lights in his room flickering crimson streaks over his handsome face in the dark. he wonders if it’s post traumatic stress or prolonged exposure to cosmic radiation in the sky forcing him to hallucinate. obviously, he’s got too many marbles in one jar and not enough in the other because there is no way he’s heard you correctly.

slowly, he removes his headset. “come again?”

“i’m awful at it, ge,” you exclaim, throwing your hands up in exasperation. in fact, you don’t know if you’re awful at it or not because you’ve never tried. you’ve been too busy waiting on the man in front of you to stop torturing you both, but caleb doesn’t need to know that. “you see, i’m dating this guy, right? and we’ve been hitting it off well. i can tell he wants to take it to the next level, but i’ve never… and you— you’re good at everything, so i just thought…”

“thought i would give you lessons,” he finishes for you, his voice deepening to a rougher edge that makes you shiver. “so you can suck your boyfriend better. do i have it right?”

“y-yeah…”

“since when do you even have a boyfriend? you didn’t tell me anything,” he says, doing nothing to mask the disappointment in his voice.

“uh, we’ve… been seeing each other for a couple of weeks?” you fumble, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably. “i didn’t want to say anything yet. in case it didn’t work out.”

“so you want to learn how to suck dick for a guy you’ve known for a couple of weeks?” he counters, a muscle in his jaw twitching. he’s got no right to feel jealousy, not when he’s wasted so much time attempting to be one thing in your life when you clearly wanted something else. he’s got no right, but the thought of you on your knees for someone else, someone that isn’t him, makes his blood boil enough that he already knows what his answer will be.

however, you’re already backing up towards the door, about to make a quick retreat. your plan was horrible, shame burning your skin like a brand. “what am i saying? oh my god, you’re right it’s stupid and wrong and gross. can we please just forget i even came in here—”

he lets you ramble for an excruciatingly long time, then he pushes out of his gaming chair and grins down at you like you just asked him to make a quick run to the convenience store. he stretches his arms above his head. “let’s do it.”

“w-what?”

you didn’t expect to get this far, honestly. you expected caleb to laugh at you, ruffle your hair, and call you ridiculous. but instead, he’s already striding to his door, thumb flicking the lock with a decisive click. when he turns, his expression makes your breath hitch— those unusual purple eyes molten, staring straight through you.

“first thing’s first, we need to lay down some ground rules, soldier,” caleb tells you playfully, stepping closer until your breasts brush against his midsection. his hand lifts, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “if you need to back out at any moment, you say so. no guy’s pleasure is worth your discomfort. and if i hear his name, whatever it is…” he pauses, eyes narrowing. “this stops. understood?”

you nod eagerly, fighting your smile as his scent envelopes you. he smells like spearmint gum, your shampoo that he’s been stealing since the two of you have been back at the house, and a hint of sweat from the stifling air in the room.

“use your words, pipsqueak.”

“y-yeah, i get it.”

his smirk is all teeth. “good girl.”

caleb guides you over to his bed, sitting down on the edge. his big hands reach for you, circling your hips and pulling you towards him until you’re standing in between his spread thighs.

“alright, my little student,” he jokes. “you wanna get him all riled up before the main event so start with something small like… a kiss,” he murmurs, eyes lifting to glance at your mouth as his finger traces the hinge of your jaw. “you do know how to kiss, don’t you?”

“of course i know how to kiss,” you grumble.

caleb nods and then curls his hand around the nape of your neck, pulling you down to his level. you lean with the pressure, slotting your hands in the junction between his neck and shoulder, sliding them up until you cup the underside of his jaw. then, you’re kissing him— kissing caleb, the boy who used to patch up your scraped knees with cute band-aids, who let you crawl into his bed after nightmares, who pretends he hasn’t thought about kissing you, about making you his, for years.

the kiss is messy, desperate and hungry, decades of pent up feelings behind it. a string of saliva keeps your mouths linked together whenever you pull back for air and when caleb’s tongue swipes across your bottom lip, you whimper and part your lips to let him in, body melting against his front until your weight’s toppling him back onto his elbows, hitching your leg over his waist to crawl on top of him.

his grip on your waist tightens, gently pushing you to stand once more. “this is feeling less like a lesson, and more like you just wanting to do this with me,” he teases, making heat flare across your cheeks.

caleb guides your hand to the waistband of his sweatpants, the heat radiating through the fabric searing your palm. breath hitching, you begin to sink to the floor in front of him but his hand shoots out to stop your descent with a breathy laugh. “no no no, c’mere. you’re gonna hurt your knees down there.”

backing up, he moves until he’s lounging against the headboard, impossibly long legs stretched out on either side of your sweet figure.

“still wanna do this?” he asks, lifting a brow. when you nod, he continues to speak, voice gravelly, “take it out then.”

your fingers fumble with the drawstring a bit, struggling to undo the military knot caleb’s tied there, but you manage eventually. peeling back the waistband of his sweatpants to free his cock.

you should’ve known it would be just as pretty as the rest of him— it’s the biggest one (the only one) you’ve seen in person. he’s thicker than he is long, flushed dusky pink with veins that make your cunt clench with the desperate need to feel them dragging along your inner walls. his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, watching you reach for it, nearly sobbing when your hand wraps around him.

“fuck—!” his hips jerk and stutter in shock, hand shoving yours away with a quickness. you frown and bite your lip, retracting your grip as if you’ve been burned.

“oh no,” you rush out, moving back to sit on top of your hands like a scolded kindergartener. “did i do something bad? did i hurt you, cal?”

caleb’s chest heaves, breath punching out of his lungs rapidly, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to slow the speed of his heart down. he’s dreamt about you touching him like this for ages, and the image of your dainty hand nervously wrapping around his cock will be seared into his brain for the rest of his life. you crawl back towards him slowly, seriously worried. “caleb?”

“i’m fine, pip,” he sucks in another breath, then opens his eyes to look at you. “didn’t mean to scare you. you didn’t do anything bad, you just surprised me. go ahead, touch me again.”

“if you’re sure,” you mumble, then hesitantly circle your fingers around caleb’s shaft again. he’s ready for it this time, hot against your palm when you give him an experimental squeeze, making caleb hiss through clenched teeth. “how’s that?”

“a bit tighter,” he instructs, palm closing over yours to adjust your grip. you squeeze him tight, and the hitch of his breath makes you squirm, stickiness gathering between your thighs at the sound. “don’t just squeeze, guys like it when you stroke. base to tip— no, don’t yank it like a fucking joystick, pip. god.”

his protest makes you burst out in giggles before caleb is shushing you with a severe look, his purple eyes narrowed. sucking your plump lower lip in between your teeth to keep from smiling, you nod at him with an exaggeratedly focused look.

“wet your palm,” he tells you, rolling his eyes at your wrinkled nose. “getting a handjob from a dry hand hurts, it’s like sandpaper.”

“are you saying i have dry hands, caleb? i moisturize daily, unlike you,” you whine out, but you listen to him anyway— you’re a good student, after all, and you don’t want to do anything that’ll make caleb want to stop. you lick your palm a few times, eyes on caleb the entire time.

the next time you touch him is with a spit-slicked grip, dragging your hand up and down his cock in an inexperienced, sloppy rub that should feel uncomfortable, but caleb eats it up— hips jerking involuntarily, pearls of watery precum already beginning to leak from the slit of his cock. your gaze is transfixed on it, a little greedy too, watching it stain your knuckles with each stroke.

it’s that same greediness that makes you lean down and brush your lips against the head of his cock, cherry tongue lolling out to tentatively taste the salt-bitter precum beading there. caleb’s hips immediately kick upward in a desperate twitch, but he forces them still, knuckles ashen where they reach down to grip the sheets.

“easy,” he rasps, voice fraying at the edges. his thumb strokes your cheek briefly. “just the tip first, okay? don’t go trying to swallow me down or anything.”

you do what he’s taught you so far; flatten your tongue, swirl it around the head— like that, fuck— press it hard against the thick, sensitive vein running along caleb��s underside, then repeat. every time, you’re rewarded with caleb brushing your hair back, murmuring soft praises, or your personal favorite— his deep, almost nasal groan, the hard planes of his abdomen flexing underneath the heady heat of your tongue.

it’s intoxicating, watching him fall apart like this— exactly what you wanted when you walked into his room. you want to pass his class with honors, please him even more, so you drop your mouth open a little more and suck him in deeper.

too deep.

the thick ridge of his head nudges against your uvula, tears springing to your eyes almost immediately. little startled chokes cough from your throat as you pull off caleb’s cock, bands of saliva stringing from his tip to your mouth in a way that should be gross, but you don’t care one bit, too busy trying to catch your breath.

“shh, shh— breathe,” caleb soothes, eyes darkening with something perilously close to reverence and pride. “through your nose, slowly. you can’t force it, that’s why you keep choking. when you’re ready, try again.”

you let caleb thumb away your tears like he’s done countless times before and when you’re ready, when you’ve had enough air to breathe, you let him guide you back onto his damp cock. eager, swollen lips bringing him in against your cheeks in a hot, branding suction that twists his insides up.

he’s supposed to be teaching you, showing you the ropes so you can please your stupid boyfriend, but you barely even need it— god, you’re so good at this without even trying. how can he focus on teaching when he’s got all of his focus pointed towards trying not to shoot his load down the back of your throat like some inconsiderate asshole?

he can barely look down at you because every time he does, your teary eyes glance up at him through thick lashes with an expression that begs for praise. he knows if you didn’t have a mouth stuffed full of his cock, you’d be asking him am i doing it right, ge?

his thighs tremble, eyes lidded as you finally find a steady pace— mouth bobbing up and down, spit bubbling at the base of his cock where you’re starting to make a mess on him.

and when your hands dip down into his sweatpants, cupping his balls in your soft hand, caleb’s vision whites out, his climax rushing to the front at a rapid pace. before he can cum, though, he takes two fingers and pushes at your forehead, hauling you off his cock with a wet slurp. his chest heaves, dripping beads of sweat that glow in the haze of the neon lighting in his room.

he looks wrecked, and you fight your triumphant smile, schooling it into something unsure and pliant, batting your eyelashes. “did i… did i do it wrong?”

“fuck, no,” his chuckle is hoarse and ruined, calloused thumbs swiping spit from your chin as he gazes up at you meaningfully with those hooded eyes. “just don’t wanna cum down your throat.”

“o-oh.”

the implication makes arousal bubble low in your belly, thighs squeezing together in need. caleb tracks the movement, nostrils flaring as he grins knowingly. “yeah, you don’t want that either, do you, pipsqueak?”

for a while, the two of you just stare at each other in disbelief. you don’t know how to tell caleb that you’d take him in any form he’s offering himself in, pining after him long enough that it’s painful. nothing you ever did got his attention, not in the way you truly wanted. he’s protective and possessive in all the right ways, but he’d never make the first move.

he’ll never come out and admit that he wants to spread you out on his bed and fuck you dumb, mark you as his so nobody else can have you. it took you coming to him to even get this far, so you might as well take matters into your own hands once more.

“teach me the rest, ge?”

the rest.

caleb releases a pained groan at your words and you think he’s going to refuse you, but then he’s flipping your positions, pushing you down onto the mattress with ease. he makes quick work of his sweatpants, shoving them down the rest of the way. then, he wrestles your panties off your hips and tosses them somewhere across the room.

“look at you,” he whispers, pushing your shirt up— his cock leaking a bead of precum at the sight of your pretty tits. he reaches forward, toying with your puffy nipples, grinning at the sound of your soft whimper.

“c-caleb.”

“you drive me fuckin’ crazy, you get that?” the confession comes out sounding suspiciously like a whine. he gazes down at you like you’re water and he’s a man lost deep in the desert, dying of thirst. “you’re the prettiest girl in the whole wide world. look at these cute tits, just begging for me to touch them. and—”

his big hands sink into the fleshy part of your upper thighs, opening them to get his first exclusive look at your pussy. his thumb parts your folds, spreading one side apart to watch the way your entrance twitches. caleb dips one finger into your cunt and could fucking cry at how warm and tight you feel. “fuck, you’re so wet. is this all ’cause of me?”

“d-don’t look at it so shamelessly, you pervert,” you scold him, squirming back and forth in his hold as you try to snap your thighs shut. “stop teasing me or i’ll hit you. this is embarrassing!”

“why not?” he tilts his head, giving you that boyish grin that makes your heart stop. “after i’m done with you, it’ll be mine anyway. my pretty pussy. my girl.”

you huff and drive your fist into his shoulder before folding your arms over your breasts, lower lip stuck out in an unhappy pout. caleb winces, though mirth still shines amongst the nebulas in his eyes. he leans down to kiss your pout away, chuckling in amusement. “okay, okay, don’t hurt me. i’ll give you what you want.”

and then, he’s wrapping a hand around the base of himself, kissing your clit with the leaking tip of his cock before rubbing it up and down your slit. he coats himself in your wetness before he finally notches against your entrance and slowly pushes.

the pressure makes air stutter out of your chest, blunt and unyielding. he immediately notices your struggle and drops forward on his elbows, caging you safely in his embrace. he kisses the corners of your eyelids, licking away stray tears.

“i hate hurting you like this,” he whispers in your ear, hips drawing back and crawling forward again. you gasp, eyes falling shut, and he shushes you once more. slides a hand down to play with your clit to distract you, which only makes you clench up around him. his jaw is clenched tight enough to shatter the bone, hand fisted in the sheets next to your head. “shh— relax and let me in. it’ll feel good in a second.”

“i-i don’t know if i can,” you say, trying to force your body to accept him, but when he sinks in those first few inches, you whimper and dig your nails into his biceps. “y-you’re so big, gege.”

“f-fuck, don’t—” caleb grunts and his fingers grip the soft sides of your belly, holding your body to his like a lifeline. “don’t call me that right now. i might cum. i’m gonna put the rest in, okay? be a good girl for me and take it. i-i can’t wait any longer.”

he draws out and presses forward all the way in, burying himself to the hilt inside your sweet pussy. his gaze drops to where you’re split obscenely around him, cunt fluttering in protest at the stretch and a ragged groan tears from his throat. it takes every ounce of willpower the military beat into him not to cream himself right then and there.

“c-caleb!”

you whine as caleb retreats slightly, only to surge back in, fucking a little deeper this time. the weight of his cock stretching you out borders on cruel, but you would die before you ask him to stop, your walls squeezing him in a vice grip. it takes a few trials and errors (“keep your hips down, pipsqueak” and “i don't know, maybe a little to the l— fuck, right there oh my god”) but eventually, caleb builds up a good rhythm, the cool metal of his dog tags pooling in the valley of your breasts as he fucks you with deep, steady strokes; bottoming out each time with a guttural groan.

“fuck— stop clenching so much i’m gonna lose my mind,” his breath scalds your neck, teeth grazing your pulse as he fucks a little faster. “so fucking good. that’s it, baby. you’re doing so good. taking every inch of me like this.”

he’s right, it is so fucking good— no, it’s better. your nails scrape against caleb’s back. shivering at the hot pleasure singeing your nerve endings each time he fucks into you. it doesn’t take long for pressure to gather in your lower belly, a band waiting to snap.

you can’t help but wriggle a hand between the two of your bodies and circle a trembling middle finger around your swollen clit. “nngh, you feel so fucking good, cal.”

“a-are you- god, that’s so hot,” he grunts, glancing down at the way you’re toying with your clit and it turns him on so much he’s speeding up, cock pistoning in and out of you, his thrusts deepening until he’s nearly kissing your cervix, he’s in so deep, your thighs slamming against his hips as you try to close your legs when the head of his cock brushes right up against your sweet spot, creating starbursts behind your eyelids.

“oh god, cal— i-i can’t!”

caleb’s grin is feral, grinding deep to press into that swollen spot inside you relentlessly. “knew i’d find it,” then his fingers joining yours and it’s so much better than your own, two digits rubbing quick circles into your sensitive clit. you’re a babbling mess at this point, the pleasure too much to keep up with. “can you cum for me? can you let me feel it? please? i’ll never ask you for another thing if you give me one right here, right now.”

what are you supposed to do, deny him? you couldn’t even if you tried, not with the heat in your belly full to bursting, needing an escape.

“’m gonna c-cum for you, ge, just for you,” you sob.

caleb has seen many versions of you over the years— grumpy and pillow-marked in the morning with syrup stains on your shirt at the breakfast table, covered in sand and sun-kissed at the beach, screaming at him to do something about the jellyfish sting on your leg, in sleek black dresses at the military balls you attended as his plus one that made all his comrades stop and stare. but you’ve never looked prettier than you do right now. his dog tags between your breasts, your creamy pussy fluttering around his cock, and your pretty face twisted in pleasure as you’re about to cum for him.

he hopes that when he dies, he’ll go out with this image in his brain.

those big doe eyes of yours roll back into your head, hands frantically pushing at his abdomen as if he’s trying to escape the overwhelming friction of his cock. you cum hard, thighs trembling, vision winking out. wet droplets of tears stream down your cheeks as white heat washes over your body, the pleasure bleeding through your limbs like wildfire.

seeing you like this, what is caleb supposed to do? not follow you? he’s been holding his own orgasm back since you barged into his room in one of his shirts, begging to be taught how to suck a cock. there’s no way he can last through seeing— through feeling— you cum around him. his rhythm fractures almost immediately and he knows he’s on thin ice, fraying at the edges.

“gonna cum,” he grits out, voice mangled. “fuck, i’m gonna cum. where do you want it?”

you don’t waste a second, babbling out the answer desperately, “i-inside, ge, cum inside me. give it to me please i want it so bad i’ll do anything!”

that’s all it takes.

one more sloppy thrust and he cums right after you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you still. he breathes choppy, ruined moans into your neck as he pumps his release deep inside your cunt before he collapses against you, damp chest heaving against yours, giving a few more weak thrusts of his hips as his climax ebbs.

you don’t know how long the two of you lay there, struggling to catch your breaths. you’re satisfied and pliant as putty underneath caleb, unable to move from his heavy embrace. he’s a wall of solid muscle, one that is pressing you into the mattress. “caleb, you’re heavy.”

“gimme a minute here, pipsqueak,” caleb chuckles breathlessly against your sweaty skin, pressing a wet kiss to your neck. “i just had the best sex of my life and can’t catch my breath.”

you begin to smile in pride, but then your eyes narrow as his words register through the fucked out haze clouding your brain. “wait, you were having sex before this?” you ask, jealousy bubbling up in your chest. “was it that one sergeant? the one who kept giving you lovey dovey eyes at the DAA gala?”

“mmm, nope,” he answers almost immediately, kissing your lips quickly to placate you, making your heart swell big and bright for the boy on top of you. “chill. saved myself all this time for you.”

your heart begins racing stupidly fast at that. “sap,” you tease, before an idea pops in your head and you reach for your phone tossed haphazardly on caleb’s bedside table.

caleb’s grip on you tightens as he notices you reach for it, a dark cloud shuttering his loving expression. “what are you doing?” he demands, the venom in his tone startling you a bit. “texting him already? that eager to try out what i just taught you?”

you frown in confusion until you remember the excuse you used upon coming into caleb’s room. wow, the boy you’re in love with is an idiot. giggling, you lean up and press a sweet kiss to his cheek before opening the camera on your phone and snapping a quick selfie of the two of you.

“no, you big dummy, i’m taking a pic of us losing our virginities together so i can add it to our photo album,” you explain simply, grinning. “and there was never any boyfriend, i made him up.”

[kashverse]

uncle gogo = gojo, for those confused

career day at the sukuna household is not for the weak.

at the tender age of five, your daughter is no longer just a visitor at her father’s company. no. today, she is there for work. she arrives at the office in her best outfit—tiny blazer, tiny briefcase, tiny attitude—ready to take on the corporate world. sukuna, ever the supportive father, plays along.

"alright, kid," he says as they step into his office, adjusting the little lanyard around her neck that says junior executive (custom-made, obviously). "first day on the job. you ready?"

"mm-hmm." she nods seriously, clutching her briefcase like it holds state secrets. "good," sukuna smirks, ruffling her hair. "first order of business—don’t let the idiots boss you around."

"idiots like uncle gogo?" she asks.

"especially uncle gogo."

things go smoothly at first. your daughter sits in sukuna’s big chair, scribbling on documents (coloring books), occasionally nodding as if she understands corporate jargon. employees pop in to say hello, bringing little gifts—stickers, snacks, an absurdly large teddy bear that now sits beside her like an honorary executive.

but then, he arrives. a mid-level manager with a smile just a little too fake, eyes that linger just a little too long. your daughter, ever perceptive, immediately stiffens. the man kneels beside her chair, trying to look friendly. "and who is this little boss?" he asks, voice dripping with condescension. your daughter stares him down, face blank.

"…weird man," she declares.

the entire office goes silent. sukuna, who had been checking emails, slowly looks up.

"what?"

his daughter turns to him, completely unbothered.

"i don’t like weird man."

the manager laughs awkwardly. "kids, huh? always saying the darndest things." sukuna barely spares him a glance. "yeah. they do."

your daughter, meanwhile, has already moved on, humming as she arranges her teddy bear like it’s the new CFO. sukuna doesn’t think much of it at first. kids have weird instincts. but a few hours later—

"boss," one of his executives says, looking grim. "we have a problem." sukuna doesn’t look up from his laptop. "when don’t we?"

"it’s about him."

the name that follows is the same weird man his daughter had called out earlier. sukuna finally looks up.

"what about him?"

"he’s been embezzling funds. we just caught the discrepancies in the accounts—tens of thousands missing. and, uh..." the executive hesitates. "he’s also been at the center of multiple employee harassment complaints. HR covered it up, but—"

CRACK.

everyone in the office flinches. sukuna has broken his pen in half.

by the end of the day, weird man is ex-employee weird man. security drags him out kicking and screaming, and the company lawyers are already preparing a case. sukuna, meanwhile, sits back in his chair, arms crossed as he watches his daughter—his psychic daughter—methodically stacking staplers like it’s part of an intricate business strategy.

"so," he says, tapping his fingers against the desk. "you got anything else for me, little oracle?"

she looks up at him, blinking.

"uncle gogo steals candy from your office."

sukuna sighs. "of course he does."

[rafesangelita]

…DILF!RAFE X HOUSEBUNNY!READER AU

⋆𐙚₊˚🐰⊹♡

DILF!RAFE X HOUSEBUNNY!READER who spend their days fucking like rabbits. whether rafe had her clinging onto his bed sheets for dear life, or muffling her screams while he drilled into her poor cunt, he knew he had hit the jackpot when she was deemed useful in more ways than one. housebunny!reader who worked as a cart girl at the country club for only two days before rafe whisked her away and turned her into his pretty maid. with his kid out of the house for school, rafe enforced a strict dress code that kept her catering to him in mini skirts, thigh high stockings, heels, and maybeee a lacey bra (he preferred her to be topless most of the time). dilf!rafe who took care of absolutely everything; hair appointments, lash appointments, nail appointments, wax appointments, he made sure to always have his bunny in tip top shape, according to his liking.

DILF!RAFE X HOUSEBUNNY!READER who always get concerning glares whenever they’re out in public. here you have rafe always dressed in business casual, his clothes ironed flat without a single wrinkle in sight, courtesy of housebunny of course, and then you have the girl at his side that’s all glitz and glamour, her outfit drawing the attention of every single person in the same room. dilf!rafe who has an intense housewife + breeding kink, always telling bunny that he’s gonna keep her in the house forever while he’s balls deep inside of her. she never opposed the idea, the vision only making her warm, velvety walls clench around him even tighter. housebunny!reader who made rafe’s favorite meals, loving the way he nodded approvingly while he chewed. “you’re just too good to be true.” her heart is fluttering in her chest at his words, the praise not going unnoticed. dinner was always delicious, but dessert was even better.

DILF!RAFE X HOUSEBUNNY!READER who are sooo playful behind closed doors, rafe finds himself full on giggling before he’s masking his laughter with a serious expression so bunny doesn’t think he’s too soft. dilf!rafe who has the music taste of a frat boy in college, cursing under his breath as bunny sings along to the explicit lyrics booming throughout the house. “pretty girls don’t have filthy mouths.” he’s reminding her, smirking to himself when he see’s her sparkly lips come to a stop. housebunny!reader who does literally everything rafe asks her to do. “..sooo you want me to walk around with bunny ears, and that thing?” rafe is living for the hesitation on her face, and the fact that he knows she won’t tell him no. the following night, he manages to get the cute little bunny tail right where he wants it, housebunny!reader loving it more than she thought she would..

DILF!RAFE X HOUSEBUNNY!READER who plan bunny’s outfits for the week (it’s just an excuse for her to give him an unsolicited fashion show). “i would rather you wear nothing at all..” rafe grumbles when she comes out of his closet in an assortment of clothing. housebunny!reader who slips pink sticky notes into rafe’s pocket before going to work so he could find them throughout the day. ‘can’t wait to be your slutty lil’ bunny later ♡’ rafe is excusing himself from his meeting, sending her a text message that easily gets her needy. ‘just read your note. you‘re gonna be so fucked out by the time i’m done with you.’ she shoots him a quick ‘promiseee? ૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა’ before squealing in excitement when he reacts to her message with a thumbs up. it’s not long before rafe gets home and has her legs on top of his shoulders, her knees knocking against her chest while he’s wiping away her tears of pure unadulterated pleasure with his thumb.

DILF!RAFE X HOUSEBUNNY!READER who are equally as nervous to have rafe’s son back home, unsure of what the small boy might think. housebunny!reader who nearly cries when she overhears little ray say she looks like a princess with her ‘pink puffy dresses’. dilf!rafe who is relieved and overjoyed that his boy adores her so much, since that was all he was waiting for in order to make her his, officially at least, since he already thought of her as such. housebunny!reader who wakes up to the smell of breakfast wafting up from downstairs, her eyebrows knitting in confusion as she wraps her fluffy robe around her body. “what are you doing?” she’s taking in the view of a shirtless rafe drinking out of a coffee mug, taking her bottom lip between her teeth. “making you breakfast since you’re not just my house bunny anymore..” at his words, you smiled. “just bunny then?” he hummed, “just bunny.”

୨୧ telling rafe you didn't use his credit card ୨୧ dilf!rafe loves to make his pretty bunny squirm.. ୨୧ bunny comes home from all of her beauty appointments!

[bi-writes]

an eye for an eye | knight!ghost x f!reader

your husband bends to your will. men must learn from difficult lessons how far that bending goes.

type: a continuation of a hand for a hand, but can be read stand-alone (11.6k), AO3

cw: 1600s au, dark!ghost, reader described as curvier/plus-sized, graphic depictions of war + violence, possessive!ghost, war-criminal!ghost, inaccurate historical settings probably, unprotected piv, cumplay, breeding kink, size kink, simon "i'd do anything for my wife no matter the devasting consequences" riley (18+)

Your husband has an insatiable appetite. Such a big man he is; he towers over you, so much so that you must tip your head back always to look up at him. You had to make many arrangements in your house to accommodate his hunger–a pantry stocked full of eggs and less fabric for your skirts.

Your house isn’t like others. Neither you nor Ghost have ever lived in luxury. When he showed you your home for the first time, you had shaken your head–you didn’t believe that such a large place was supposed to be yours, and even now, sometimes you feel like a stranger, out of place when the maids ask you what you want for supper or where you’d like to take your afternoon tea. You don’t like the fuss, the asking, the women that curtsy when you come near, concentrated over the creases in your skirts or the loose thread of your sleeve or the wispy hairs that fall out of your braids. You are told all the time that you must behave like a duchess, that you must poise yourself with your new title and your new money, and you must do the things that duchesses do–but no one says the same to your husband.

He is still allowed to sleep in the barracks. Lick the blood off his gauntlets. Polish his sword in the dirt. He’s still allowed to be everything that you cannot be anymore, he still lives the life he had before.

He still kills; and he is still very, very good at it.

Your queen told you in a letter that the king is very pleased. Ever since your union, Ghost has been quite the conqueror. Bloodthirsty and very determined, your husband has been taking his men across the water. He is not any less impressive off land. Not even the pirates have tried to negotiate; they bend the knee or taste the salt water. You breathe shakily when you read your queen’s letters—her praise for your husband’s conquests, how blessed your family will be and how valuable you are to the crown, how grateful she is that Ghost is no longer a fiend in court but rather a little more polite and a little quieter.

All for your sake. Ghost’s name is now your own, and he refuses to embarrass you now that you have it.

You won’t lie; the bodies that Ghost has stacked since you’ve been wed do not scare you. He’s doing it for you. He has never said it out loud, never told you so, but you know it. He wants to show you what kind man that he is, what kind of soldier—you know he’s trying to prove himself worthy. If he killed a thousand men to have you, how many will he slaughter to keep you?

He sends you letters of his own. Not many, but he does send letters, and while Ghost seems to be ineloquent and entirely too brutish, he has quite the voice when he writes.

To my wife,

The sun falls quicker here. I’d like to come home. Tell me of your day, and I will tell you of mine. There were a fleet of ships that came to meet us at dawn. When we sank three, they begged for us to spare the rest.

I have you to think about now. So I burned them.

Simon

A poet, your beloved.

He signs his real name in his letters. Your eyes skim over most of it–you don’t even blink when he tells you what he does to them. Sometimes he writes in great detail about the screams of a hundred souls, the way burning flesh smells, the taste of dirt in a new place when you know it is finally yours. He doesn’t like having secrets. He tells you all his thoughts, even if they might scare you, because you are his wife, and he has discovered quite quickly that you have been cut from the same cloth.

Even when he is home, and he tells you these things all over again, he can’t help the way his cock hardens when you merely blink and ask him if he has added any scars to his collection.

Ravenous, naughty little duchess, and you are all his. He knows he picked well–he knows, he knows he wasn’t wrong when he saw you across the throne room hiding behind his queen, he knows now that he was right about what he saw in your eyes.

You do hate when he’s away. You’re not used to the maids helping you dress, and you secretly abhor the help. That is why when you hear the shuffle of your house early in the morning, your heart thuds in your chest knowing he’s home.

The staff get antsy when Simon is around. He is very good at keeping an estate for someone that has never had to or ever been taught to, but he leaves the responsibilities with you and only you every time he goes. He doesn’t trust anyone else to do it, and every time he comes back, he makes you sit on one big thigh as he teaches you something new that you need to remember for when he goes away. He demands much of those he employs, and they are eager to please him. Whether it is because they respect him or are afraid of him, you aren’t sure.

Perhaps it’s both.

You sit up as the bedroom door opens. You smile, big and wide and sleepy as he steps into the room. He shuts the door with his boot, slipping his hood off, and you sigh as he grips the clasp of his mask and unhooks it. He tosses it onto the floor, bare-faced, and as he makes his way towards the bed, he sheds the rest of his clothes until he’s completely naked.

You cannot stop yourself from the shaky breath you take. He is all muscle and fat, strong and entirely too scary, but it’s hard to focus on what he really is when he stands before you like this. He has fat thighs, big shoulders, carved muscle of intense labor around his middle and along his biceps. He has large hands with calloused palms and split knuckles, and your eyes meet his own as he comes closer. He’s so gorgeous, even with a face like that. He has a long scar that stretches from one brow to his lower jaw, another that cuts his nose and splits his lip, but those eyes are dark and lovely, and you can’t help the warmth that comes over you when he catches you staring at him, closer, right to his cock that hangs heavy between his legs.

Just as he begins to lower himself onto the bed, you hold out a hand, giggling.

“Simon, if you think you are getting into this bed without a proper bath, you’re mistaken!” You laugh, and he raises a brow.

“Mmm…” He smacks his lips together. “Tha’ right, my lady?” He clicks his tongue. “This is my bed. ’s oll mine. Every blanket…every pillow…” He grips your ankle from under the covers and yanks you towards him. “And every part of you.”

You giggle again, shaking your head, “Please, Simon!” You push him away with your toes. “They only changed the sheets yesterday. You’ll dirty them…” You flutter your lashes. “Will you bathe if I join you?”

He grins wide, licking over his teeth.

“Can’t refuse an offer like tha’.”

You hold out your hand for him, and he takes it gently. You watch as he brings your knuckles towards his mouth, and you bite back a smile when he decides to kiss each one, slow. He tugs finally, pulling you up, and you wrap your arms around his neck as he hoists you up into his arms. You would worry about your weight normally, but Simon holds you so easily, barely even a grunt as he wraps your legs around his middle. You don’t waste another second, cupping his cheeks in your hands and kissing him softly.

It’s never just a kiss with Simon. He slides one of his hands up your back, into your hair, and you whine as he tips your head back just enough to slip his tongue into your mouth. Simon doesn’t just kiss, he consumes. What he did to get back to you, the things he endured, the places he has seen and the bodies he has buried and burned and scattered across the places he now calls country, it’s always to get back to this place.

To you.

“How’s my boy?” He asks when you pull away. He carries you to another room, to where the tub sits, and he rings a bell by the door to call the maids in. You snatch a robe off a hook and cover him with it as he sits with you, but all he does is put a few fingers under your chin and make you look at him again. “Oi. Asked ya question, luv.”

Your lip wobbles a little, and you look away.

“I…”  You wait until the maids have gone to fetch hot water to tell him. “I bled while you were gone. I…”  You smooth your hands over the robe, distracting yourself. “I’m…I’m sorry, Simon.”

You close your eyes as he leans close, resting his forehead against yours, and you shake a little as he lets out a warm breath against your lips. He moves a warm hand over your soft stomach, cupping you there, and you lean your head back a little at the tender touch.

“It will happen,” he says finally, and your mouth opens to respond, but he sticks his thumb between your lips to shut you up. He doesn’t want to hear you blame yourself. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his, for not being here with you, for not be able to take care of you. You give in, suckling on the salt of him, and he grits his teeth as he watches you. “I know. Seen it in m’dreams.”

Simon has dreams. Lots of dreams, but he tells you that they are not dreams, they are glimpses into something that has already happened. When you asked if he was some kind of seer, the kind that the king used to have at parties, Simon doesn’t laugh.

He says the dreams are why he knows he won’t die. Why he is never afraid, because he knows somewhere behind his eyes what’s to come even if he didn’t see the entire painting of it. It is why he knew he would marry you; it is why he paid you so much attention, why he knew he would win his battles, why he always knows whose blood it is in his mouth because he has tasted their death before and relishes in the knowing of it all, in the certainty.

It’s never I think, it is always I know, and Simon is nothing if he is not the most honest man that you know.

So if he says you will have his babe, it is as good as truth. As green as the grass grows beneath his feet, as blue as his sky, and as red as the blood that is caked underneath his nails.

When the tub is filled with water, you let Simon sink into it first. You kneel beside it, picking up a glass of oil, pouring it into your palms before sinking your hands into his hair. It’s gotten longer since he left, in need of a cut, but you smile when he leans his head back into your shoulder. You can feel his content as he relaxes into you, and you admire his physique as you use the warm water and scrub the mud and grime off of him.

“I missed you, husband,” you whisper, and he only lets you massage his hair for a few more moments before he grips you by the wrist and tugs you forward, right into the bath. “Simon!” you laugh, “my night dress—oh!—it’s ruined!”

“Too far away,” he mutters, practically ripping the silk off of you as he tosses it besides the bath. “Mmm…” He cups your breasts with two big hands, smoothing his thumbs over your nipples, and you whine a little as he pulls at them just enough to make them stiffen. “Y’should be naked when I come home,” he says lowly. “I’ll soil y’r bloody gown next time, m’lady.”

You giggle, and he smiles. A real smile. As real as he’ll ever give anyone, maybe the only one that anyone has ever even seen. He has never shown his face in court, and while it angers the women and irks the men, you revel in the fact that all of this is only for you.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

You kiss him softly. The water sloshes, warm and inviting, and sometimes you forget your life used to be anything but joy. A year ago, you would not believe that you would be here, titled, wealthy, in a stone room lit by candles bathing with a blood hungry ghost.

A year ago, you trembled whenever he looked at you. You cowered when you heard his footsteps. What a stupid little girl you had been. What a fool. She had no idea what she could have, the kinds of things she could hold in her hand.

Real power wasn’t being able to command a room with your words. Real power was being able to say anything and have it be believed as truth. Real power was making someone look in one direction and have them see what you see, even if what you see isn’t real.

He lays you down in your bed afterward and eats. Your wet hair soaks the sheets, but you can’t seem to be really bothered as he fits your legs over his shoulders and bends you at the waist, his mouth suctioned to your clit as he eats you slowly. One of his hands is spread out over your tummy, the other you can hear making a squelch as he fists his own cock. It’s slow and methodical, and he slides his tongue between your folds firm, catching what dribbles from you on the tip of his tongue before he swallows it and leans in for more.

He has eaten you in nearly every room in your house. Frightened the cooks tossing you onto the dining table, given a servant a scare as he ducked under your skirts in the library, had the gardeners fleeing as he dropped you onto the grass near the lake and disappeared with a frenzy to eat your cunt during sunrise. It’s maddening, the kind of need that Simon requires, but it’s hard to refuse when you feel so warm and bubbly and happy after he’s finished. A pampered princess you are, never lifting a finger, only awake long enough when he’s home to eat until you’re full and cum until you fall asleep again.

Maybe that’s why you’re not pregnant yet. Simon likes to be here, between your thighs, mouth fixed on your wet pussy until he’s practically exhausted himself with a sore jaw and lax tongue.

He kisses you sloppy after. Licking into your mouth, practically spitting onto your tongue, wanting you to taste—tastes so good, luvvie, don’t ya see, yeah?—wanting you to know why he’s so eager to be on his knees all the time.

You sniffle, a little dizzy, shaking your head.

“’s not what I really want,” is all you whimper, and he nods, because he knows, he always knows.

“I know, luv. I know wot ya really need.”

“I must be broken,” you sob, cradling his face in your hands, and he shakes his head.

“Not broken,” Simon assures you. He speaks so surely that it’s hard not to believe him. “It wasn’t time.”

“You can’t see the future, Simon! You don’t know!” You cry, and he snarls a little, shaking his head again.

“You listen t’me,” he growls. You shake a little as he grabs your face with one hand, fixing your jaw under his grip as he holds onto you firmly. “Wot I say goes. Y’r my wife, so listen t’me, and listen t’me good. Y’r not broken. Not time. Say it back t’me.”

Your lip trembles, and he rattles your head a little.

“Say it,” he snaps, and you hiccup.

“It’s not time,” you whisper, and he plants a fat kiss onto your tear-soaked lips.

“Just need my cock, luv,” he murmurs. “Tha’s oll. Just need me t’fuck it outta ya.”

You nod, pressing your face to his, and he tuts, reaching down and spreading your legs wide to accommodate him between them as he lays over you.

“’s oll y’need,” he repeats, and you nod again.

You have to take another bath in the same morning; and this time, you weren’t able to walk there.

You like when Simon is home because it’s quiet. The only one that dotes on you here is Simon. The maids do not dress you or do your hair or moisturize your skin. It’s always Simon.

You smile at him in the mirror as you sit at your vanity. He has a brush in one hand, and he’s using it delicately to detangle your hair how you like. His hands are practiced and gentle, and when he finishes, he leans over you as he starts to part your hair to braid it. He did not have sisters, but his mother had him always do her hair after she lost the use of her hands with age. You don’t know where his mother is, but you assume she is not here anymore, because he never invites you to meet her.

He oils your skin. He slips the robe off of you, revealing your damp skin from the bath, and he slathers oil in his hands before using it to soften your skin. He takes his time, smoothing those big hands over your shoulders, down your back, along your arms. You tilt your head back when he warms your breasts, squeezing and fondling your tits. He murmurs in your ear the entire time, and he has to fuck you with his fingers to quiet you when he stops because just his hands on your tits has you wet all over again.

He dresses you, too. Helps you slip into your undergarments, fastens the cage for your skirts over your hips. He ties them skillfully, and after he layers your skirts over the farthingale, he gets you into your corset. It’s intimate as he does this. Even with your wide skirt, he comes closer, over your shoulder, and he tugs at the laces at your back, pulling it tight with firm grunts. You sigh when he buries his face into the crook of your neck, his hand skimming over your breasts as they sit nice and perky between stiff fabric and whalebone.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, unnerving…the way ya look…”

You close your eyes, “S-Simon, please…I’m already dressed…”

He chuckles, “I know. I know.”

But when he has to leave again, you nearly come with him. You fasten his armor for him, help him slip each piece of leather on and click every piece of metal into place. You tie his cloak and slip his mask on, and you try and duck your head when you flip his hood up, but he catches you, tilting your chin up.

He huffs when he sees your face. Tears sliding down your cheeks, lips wet with them, eyes all glassy and red. He draws you up onto your toes, pressing his mouth to yours through the mask, and you hold onto him tightly, digging your nails into his chest armor and threatening to not let go.

“I want to go.“

“No.”

“Simon, let me go,” You gasp, begging, gripping his hood in firm fists and not caring that his armor is cutting into your front. “Let me go with you, I can’t do this anymore, I want to go, I can do it.”

You aren’t sure if Simon underestimates you. You think it’s more that he does not want you to see him in a place where he is most true. Where he wears the least of a disguise. He does not know he wears it the least with you, and that you have already seen his blood and how it curdles under his skin. You like it that way. You like him angry…and mean…and terrible. You like him when his sword is dirty and his armor needs polishing and his mind thinks of nothing else besides war. He should know this by now. He should know that you see him and see what he is even more than his king, more than his men.

He couldn’t scare you, even if he tried.

“War is not where women go,” Simon snaps. His tone is harsh, even for you, and you stiffen when he grips you by the jaw and rattles your head a little. “Especially not one like you, my love. War would eat ya, eat ya fuckin’ whole. Look at ya…” He huffs, deep, sliding that gloved hand down your throat to slip it beneath the neckline of your dress and fondle your breast with a firm grip. “Beautiful. Meant for my lips…for these dresses…meant to be held in my hands, not bleed from stray arrows, because tha’ is surely the least of wot they would do t’ya if they knew ya were my wife. Now ya will wipe these tears, ‘n see me off, and then ya will come back inside like a good girl, ‘n you will wait for me here until I come back.”

Your bottom lip trembles, and you scowl up at him. Not indifference, but frustration, and Simon doesn’t think it suits you.

“I’m sick of waiting for you, Simon,” you spit. “It’s all I ever do, wait. Wait for you to come back, alive or dead, I never know. And don’t say you do this for country, that is a lie.” You shove him backwards, but he barely budges when your hands touch his chest, a rigid wall that does not give. “You do it because you like it. You’re a bloodthirsty dog, and all you do is bend to our king’s will.”

A lie, but you tell it anyways, because you want something, and he will not give it to you.

“That is my duty.”

“Your duty is to me,” you snap. “Kings come and go, but I will not.” Simon stills. He glares down at you from behind his mask, and perhaps this might terrify his men, but that you are not. You are his wife, and you are protected by that title alone. The only man to ever lay a hand on you would not live to see another second, himself included. “Now you will let me join you, or so help me God, Simon, I will not be here when you return.”

You do not expect the full-bellied laugh that leaves him. His armor shakes with him, and you grind your teeth, narrowing your eyes. He uses his thumb to force his mask up, and then he cups the back of your head and draws you in for a sloppy kiss. You resist at first, but when he feeds you his tongue, you melt. You kiss him back, letting him draw you closer, and you sigh as he tangles his fingers into your hair and cradles you with those big hands.

There is nothing more to say. Simon neither confirms nor denies, but you taste it in his mouth, his devotion. Not wrong, not right, but just so–he has many responsibilities, but you are the only one that will remain the same. One day, his king will die, and he will serve another, but the space you have made beside him will never change. Even when you die, because he knows you will go before him, there will never be someone else to fill it. You and you only, the woman he found and made his, the one he demanded lest he kill his own country for it, it will always be you. Soft and sweet, you are, but the Lord knew Simon could only have one woman, and he made it be you; the one spitfire enough to defy her own king because she trusted his love enough for it.

Would you commit treason to save his life? Would you watch a king die if it meant your beloved lived? 

Would he?

He thinks about what you have said when he takes his fleet across the water. He runs his tongue over his teeth behind his mask, breathing deep when he thinks about your proclamations of duty. Of change. Of what remains when other things move, of the kind of life that waits for him when he comes and goes with a king’s order. He thinks about how easily he is taken away from you, and he knows there is truth in what you feel. It is not really Simon that sacrifices, it is what he leaves behind, and that is you.

It’s never angered him before. He had accepted the fact, as early as your wedding day, that he would leave and come back, then leave again. It has always been the way of his life, come desire or not, so it bothers him that of all the things that surprised him in his life, it would be missing someone that shocked him the most.

Missing his wife. Missing the serene perfection of one woman, and the perfect place between her soft thighs. Every day that he finds himself between them is the best day of his life, he reckons, so now he feels bitter about staring at a freezing ocean amongst his men because he will go weeks without her.

Her. Her. Her.

He is bitter, yes, until he is not.

It comes in a letter from a messenger on horseback. They have been stationed in a foreign land for weeks now, watching slowly as the stone walls of a castle at their front crumples day after day from the stones filled with powder that ignite what is wood and break what is rock. The letter is sealed with wax, with the motif of a snake. It is given directly to Simon, whose name is scribbled in the letter, and when he reads it, he tastes ichor and smoke.

So the great phantom has come to seal my fate. I am not in the business of letting what is mine be taken. Even if you have brought your all, it won’t be taken from me.

I heard you have a beautiful new wife. I heard you paid for her in blood.

I shall do the same. I will hang your sword above our marriage bed.

Ghost is not someone that bends to the threats from foe he cannot look in the eye. Words are so empty. It is nothing like when he stands just a few meters apart from them, eyes fixed against one another, as they decide whether today they want to live or they want to die. The letter means nothing, but he’s surprised by the heat that bubbles under his ribs at the mention of his bride. He meant it when he said you were not meant for war, and that meant in this regard, too–nobody was allowed to talk about you, not like this, not ever.

When his king orders him home, Ghost crumples the note and tosses it into embers. He watches it burn, and then he orders his men to set to flame the ground around the stone walls.

So men like him can be goaded, it seems. His resolve is not as strong as he thought.

The weeks make you anxious. All you do is sit and collect dues and tell the maids which dress you want to wear and which you do not. It is peaceful and boring, and you wish Simon was here to make your days more exciting, but he is not.

His letters are the only things that keep you occupied, truly. He writes to you about war and loneliness, and you write to him about the mundane of domesticity and the ache he leaves behind. Sometimes, his letters come folded with pressed flowers he finds along the way, and you start to collect them, putting them away in small boxes or using them as bookmarks as you go through Simon’s library.

He has many books. His most loved books are those of war, of history, and you smooth your fingers over the pages he has dogeared and find comfort in reading the same words that he once did. You learn, as well. While in your studies as a girl, they made you learn arithmetic and the flowery bits of history and art, here in Simon’s house, you learn of strategy and weaponry and military tactic. Sometimes you disagree, and you write about these disagreements to Simon, and he writes back, pleased with your observations. He told you once that if you were a man, he would want you in that tent with him, beside him, deciding on which formations to take and when to strike. You responded saying that you could be that for him anyway. What did your sex have anything to do with whether you were right or wrong?

Simon agreed.

But I would never invite you here, dear wife. You have to understand that.

When your queen asks for your audience for dinner, you oblige easily; finally, you have something to do rather than add up numbers or sign a document on Simon’s behalf or read another fucking book.

You don’t want to wear all the costume your maids insist on, but you appease them after they repeatedly explain to you what your title means. With a drawn face, you let them tie your corset and layer your skirts, and you watch in the mirror as they braid your hair and drape large, obnoxious jewels over you. You grimace at the tiara they fit into your hair, and your elderly handmaid pinches your cheeks and tells you to put on a fair countenance, Your Grace, lest you make the Duke look ungrateful.

You bite your tongue from snapping at her. She should know that Simon would say nothing about your countenance; all he would do is fix whatever was bothering you until you smiled again.

You arrive early enough to have tea. Your queen is so excited to see you; she gushes when you meet her in the throne room, pulling you up from your curtsy so she can hug you tight, squealing. When you try to address her with a curt “Your Majesty,” she shakes her head, pressing her hands to your cheeks and giggling, “No need for formalities now. Call me Victoria.”

You hide your displeasure with a small smile. Now that you are no longer her lady-in-waiting, she allows you her name. Is it because she sees you more as equals, or because now you’re allowed to be somewhat of friends?

You must be some kind of friend. She sizes you up like you are one. She wears England’s colors this afternoon. A fire red dress adorned with gold accents, a dragon pin holding her shawl. She wears magnificent red and gold jewelry, but she’s looking at your dress, and you can see the slight twitch of her eye. You are wearing French lace, and she doesn’t like it. Or maybe she doesn’t like the color, the accents of navy blue and silver that you wear.

The skull motif that is woven into your tiara and printed on your coat and sewn into your dress. Does it insult her? That all your life, you wore nothing but browns and beiges and grays, were invisible to her, and now you represent your house, visit her as your guest, and bear an honorable name?

You were no one when you served her. Just a girl, no close family, no friends, just a distant uncle who gave you to the crown that hoped you could be of service. That was to be your duty for all your life–to serve the king’s wife until she wanted you no more or until she was gone. To cater to her every need and every wish, no matter the time of day or night.

Now you sit across her, more noble. Refined. Wearing a dress she despises, perhaps because she likes it more than her own.

Over tea, she gossips about the other ladies she has visit. You’ve heard this before, but you’ve never been included in the conversation. She talks to you, and she wants to hear your opinion, and you find yourself uneasy as you try to think of what to say. She is your queen, and you want her to like you. When you worked for her, you earned her favor by always warming up her jewels before she put them on, by making sure she had her tea ready in the morning at her bedside, by always holding the fan she so loved for when she inevitably had a hot flash. Now, as her friend, you weren’t exactly sure what to do. You suck in a soft breath and look at her, and then you purse your lips.

You think it best to agree with her. To be on her side. You might not be her direct servant any longer, but you still must fall under her favor. A queen’s favor can be just as powerful, especially if she occasionally has the ear of her husband.

“Well, that’s not very kind of her,” you say finally, and she laughs.

“No! She’s such a prude. I think her husband doesn’t sleep in her bed enough, if you know what I mean,” she winks at you. You giggle at that. “Speaking of husbands–” She pops another cake in her mouth. “How is yours?”

You reach up and tug at your necklace a bit, smiling nervously.

“Oh, uh…” You clear your throat, “He’s doing very well. I hear his latest campaign is quite the success. His majesty is very smart, heading for the east that way, I’m sure they will be victorious soon enough.”

Victoria smiles at the thought of her husband. His intelligence. She always used to talk to you about how many hours he worked, how she hated when he was away, how she wished he was home more so he could give her a son because she was so, so lonely.

“Wise words from the duchess, aye, my love?”

You jump a bit at the low voice from behind, and when you turn, you gasp, immediately standing and falling into a delicate curtsy. John Price waves his hand, coming further into the room, shaking his head.

“It’s alright,” he tells you. “Please, sit. You’re here as my guest.”

You stand and lift your head, trying to relax. You take a seat, smiling nervously, and Victoria smiles giddily at her husband. When he bends to kiss her cheek, she fawns, reaching for his hand and squeezing it before taking another piece of tart and eating it. John hums before motioning for one of the staff to fill your cup again with tea. He eyes you curiously, taking in your appearance. You sit up at that, performatively brushing off over the skull pattern on your corset. John runs his tongue over his teeth, smoothing a big palm down his wife’s long coils of hair.

“Since you’re here, I’d like a word, if that’s alright,” John says to you. His tone carries a little more authority now, and Victoria sighs, whining a little.

“John, please, she’s my friend. Can’t it wait–”

“That wasn’t a question, Victoria,” John bites. Her face falls a little. She swallows and tucks her hands into her lap. You’re reminded as you look at the slight wobble of her lip that there is no one truly above John Price, not even her. You keep your face neutral, but if you were invisible, you’d pity her.

What a shame her husband sees her as less than. How embarrassing. Your Simon would never. Your Simon waits until you finish speaking before speaking himself. Your husband kneels to take off your shoes, your husband tears your skirts to get a taste of you, your husband used his teeth to sever a man’s throat just to have your hand.

What did John Price do to get his wife? Who did John Price kill to have her hand? How many bruises did he earn around his knees on their wedding night from eating her out? As many as Simon, whose knees were black and blue by morning?

No, you suppose not. How unfortunate. How pathetic.

Victoria picks up her skirt and stands, pasting a big smile on her face. It doesn’t reach her eyes, and you can see the way her hands shake a little as she scurries off. She scowls as soon as she turns away from John, clearly annoyed.

“I’ll go check on dinner,” she says, but it is soft and unenthusiastic.

When she goes, the room falls quiet. At the nod of John’s head, the staff leave, and you keep still in your seat as John sits across from you, picking up one of the cakes in front of him and breaking off a piece to busy himself. He keeps his eyes on his task of cutting up the cake in small pieces, focused on his hands and how they work. You watch him carefully, steeling yourself.

You anticipate a conversation between man and woman, not a king and his lesser.

“Simon’s been away for some time. I bet that’s difficult for you.”

You straighten your posture, realizing what this conversation will be. By his tone, John seems to think you a bored, stupid housewife, perhaps. Uneducated. A woman, no thoughts in her head. You let your face relax, and you fold your hands in your lap. Maybe now is the time John should learn who you are and who you are not.

What you have become and what you no longer are.

“I do just fine, Your Majesty,” you say finally. You pick up a spoon and drop a cube of sugar into your tea, and you stir, picking it up to take a long sip. John is curious by your content. You have a quick tongue. “I could say the same to you, couldn’t I?”

John laughs. He narrows his eyes a bit at your clever response, taking a large bite of the cake and running a cloth over his beard. His eyes sparkle a little.

“So you know.”

“Know what, Your Majesty?”

“You know I gave Simon orders. And you know he didn’t listen to me.”

You purse your lips, but he sees the shine in your eyes. The lack of surprise. His face twitches a bit, and you shake your head. You blink slow, and it irks him to see you so calm. He is your king, and Simon answers to him, and you are his wife, so you must answer, too.

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“I could have your husband’s head cut off for treason for that, you’re aware, aren’t you?”

You tilt your head to the side. What an odd thing for John to say. What an odd thing for John to contemplate, since it would never come to pass. “Don’t be daft, my king. You wouldn’t want to do that.”

John slams his fist on the table, making the plates and cups rattle with his frustration, but you do not even flinch. You blink, stone-faced, and it makes his nostrils flare. He recognizes that glare, he knows it well. He has seen it before, stared it down many times in rooms just like this. Only now, he is not fighting for land, he fights for control of the one man that he has always been able to rely on. Simon has followed him into battles outnumbered by a thousand men, and only now he ignores an order? Only now he chooses something different?

“Now, let’s be civil, Your Majesty,” you say softly. You smile at him, leaning your head in your hand. “Is there something that you need from me? I have a feeling you might have encouraged this dinner just so you could see me in passing, so why don’t you just ask me what you wanted to ask me?”

John lets out a deep breath, leaning his elbows on the table, lowering his voice. He leans towards you, and you admire how blue his eyes are. John is quite a handsome king, but he does not captivate you. It has been a long time since John has tasted blood, and he lacks the edge that you crave dearly.

“I need him back here, is what I need,” John murmurs.

“My king, I couldn’t get him back here any more than you could, even if I wanted to.”

“Now who’s being daft?”

You scoff, leaning back in your chair. John is not a stupid man. He created a beast of a man, and he is trying not to poke it too hard. You shift, brushing down your skirts, and you let out a low breath.

“Why did he refuse?” You ask finally.

“What?”

“Why does he ignore your order to come back?” You ask again. “I can’t think of a lot of reasons why he would stay. So why did he ignore you?”

John clicks his tongue, smoothing a few of his fingers over his beard. He averts his eyes, looking out the tall windows, frowning a little at the grim weather. The weather is always grim here, but it irks him at the moment, makes him scowl a little harder.

“I was…informed that there was some sort of letter,” John explains. “Some threat.”

“I don’t follow. He gets lots of threats. And terrible letters.”

“Was about you this time, Your Grace.”

You close your eyes at that, shaking your head. Simon would never be so foolish as to be baited by baseless threats. He barely bats an eye when someone even in front of him draws his sword. He is so comforted by his ability to win, by his dreams and his visions that have not yet happened.

“That’s absurd,” you breathe. “Simon wouldn’t…”

John chuckles, but there is no humor there. “Wouldn’t he?”

“I still don’t understand what you expect me to do,” you roll your eyes, looking away. “Simon is…he’s not…he doesn’t listen. It’s why he’s good at this, isn’t it? He doesn’t really take orders, he’s…I…”

John has never complained before about the way Simon chooses to lead. Oftentimes, it is an order ignored that has made it so that he delivered another crown at John’s feet. Simon asks for forgiveness, not permission, and John has barely batted at eye at it. He sees Simon as some kind of distant son, but this refusal bothers him so?

John leans forward. “You need to understand something here, Simon is a rabid dog,” he spits. “And sometimes I let him off his lead, but this isn’t like anything I’ve had to deal with. I need you to call him back here.” He scoots closer. “England needs you to call him back here. To me.”

You narrow your eyes a little. England needs you to call him back? What kind of sick sense of patriotism is he trying to instill in you? John is stupider than he looks, to think a woman like you would show loyalty to country. You are loyal to your husband, and nothing else, because what has king and country ever really done for a woman like you except for dispose of you?

You wear Simon’s colors, not John’s, and you will wear them to your deathbed.

“If I do this for you, my king, then you owe me,” you whisper. He laughs again, no humor, and he picks up a goblet and fills it to the brim with wine. He drinks half before slamming it down onto the table, spilling it over his hand.

“Kings do not owe their subjects.”

“Quite right, Your Majesty,” you agree, picking up your napkin and dropping it onto the table. You stand, giving him a polite curtsy. “But I am not doing this as your subject.”

“Everything you do is as my subject.”

“You put your entire right to the throne on the back of one man,” you say softly. You are not accusing him, you’re reminding him of a truth. “Simon is why…he’s why your counsel still listens to you. He’s why your people are free from famine, why…why your taxes get paid on time, why your kingdom is still standing, no thanks to your father who wasted this place’s fortune on women and liquor.” You shake your head. “You have an eye for conquest, Your Majesty, but you lack the execution of any plan you conjure.”

You are not wrong, and John knows this, and it’s why he hasn’t spoken up yet or interrupted you. The man before, his own father, was a drunkard who spent all their money. He drank himself into the grave, and the only reason John stands before you now is because of Simon. A man who he fought beside, who he commanded, who once John’s duty became reality took up the mantle and finished what his father never could.

John would be in the next history book you read because of Simon, and it’s Simon’s name that will never be written. They do not bestow legacy to men who serve other men.

“Where…Where did you learn to speak to men this way?” John scoffs. “I am your king.”

You must have hit a soft spot. John is defensive now, and men only deflect and insult when they are cornered with the truth. They don’t like being held in front of a mirror.

“You are king because my husband made it so,” you correct him gently. “And Simon is a loyal dog, and that is good for your sake, because if he had any desire for your seat, it would be his.” You come closer, your heels sounding, and John glares down at you; but you glare right back because you are protected by your name and what you can do with it. John knows this, and it angers him, but he seems to have difficulty facing the truths of his own making. “But he is not your dog anymore. He’s mine.”

Your pen on paper is aggressive. You can tell because the splotches of ink are deep, bleeding black sinking into white as you put angry word to parchment. Not even a fortnight later, you are playing cards with Victoria, and you see Simon’s silhouette standing in the doorway, hood shadowing his masked face as he observes. When you look over your shoulder where John sits, and you meet his eyes, he looks away from you with a grim understanding.

Simon answers your call. Always.

At dinner, John is in better spirits. He drinks with a big smile, eats more than one plate, and he picks Victoria up by the waist to make her dance with him when he asks for the music to be played louder. Simon sits, fidgety, gloved hands moving in and out of fists as he watches you cut into your food and eat it with a blank face. He huffs beside you, his armor stiffening as he sits up straight, and you let your fork clatter onto your plate as you turn to glare at him.

“You were thinking with your cock, Simon,” you spit. “That is how men like you get killed.”

“You ‘ave no idea how men like me get killed because there are no men like me,” Simon growls. You roll your eyes, standing, and he grips your wrist angrily, tugging you close until you fall into his lap. You sigh, shaking your head, putting your hands on his broad shoulders and making him look at you.

“Maybe,” you whisper. “But I’m not wrong. It is how you’ll lose. You know better than that, Simon. To fight someone because they taunted you in a letter, it’s playing the fool.” You cup his cheeks, keeping his eyes on yours. “You don’t need me to tell you that, and yet here we are.”

He breathes slow, closing his eyes for just a moment. He thinks he came for this, just a little. For clarity. Reason. It comes from you in waves, and it’s comforting to hear. It is something he knew, and yet it only makes sense now that you have said it.

“I know,” Simon mutters. “I know. Y’r right. I’m sorry, luv.”

You ask him to apologize when he undresses you. You ask him to apologize again when he sinks into a hot bath with you. You ask him a third time when he is in your bed, a heavy weight between your thighs as he licks and sucks at the soft skin of your tummy. He begs, lowly, let me ‘ave it, and you will, but he has to say he’s sorry again.

“‘m sorry,” he breathes, sucking on your inner thigh, and you close your thighs around his head, forcing his mouth against your cunt.

“Again, Simon,” you whisper. “I wanna hear it again.”

“‘m sorry,” he slides a rough tongue between your folds, breathing shakily when he tastes the oil that he smoothed over your skin only moments ago. You taste so good, you smell so lovely, coming off of you like fumes blinding his senses so that nothing else but you makes any sense at all. When you open your eyes, you think about where you are, and you nearly come thinking about what you have wrapped around your finger.

Not even your king tells your husband what to do. Not even your king commands his men, they won’t listen, he’s not who they turn to when things go belly-up, it’s your husband, and your husband answers to you.

You weren’t sure about it until today. Seeing him when you asked him to come, it flooded you with something that hurt. You could tell from even so far away that Simon was salivating under that mask. You knew the only thing separating his mouth from your cunt were the other people around him (and they were not privy to seeing you naked).

It is such a thing to observe. John needed a lead on Simon when he was his dog. You need no such mechanism. Simon never strays, not with you. He sits proper when you ask, and he speaks when spoken to. He tears at unwanted flesh, and he comes when you call.

John cannot give him all that he desires. Perhaps he thought what Simon truly wanted was fame and fortune. Legacy. But like most things men do, John does not observe. He takes in only what is right in front of him, and he makes assumptions. Simon is not like other men. Fame and fortune do not matter. He does not care about legacy. What matters to Simon is what he can hold in his hands. The ground under his feet. The steel in his hand. The woman underneath him, spreading her legs, inviting him in.

You love Simon. You love Simon more than anything in the entire world, but it would be a lie to say that you are not at some advantage here. Simon is all-consuming. He is the pinnacle of duty and honor and everything that a man is supposed to be, but Simon is also weak. There is something that he wanted more than anything in the world, and now that he has it, he will do anything to keep it, and that makes him vulnerable. Subject to all kinds of new things. Revenge. Retaliation. Pain.

Manipulation.

Maybe you should feel bad about it. Maybe you should feel guilty, but it’s hard to feel anything like it when there’s a big bear of a man between your thighs slobbering on your pussy like dessert. It’s hard to feel anything but bliss when he’s tracing the letters of his name into your cunt and making you see stars and fucking you into the silk sheets like it’s the last time he’ll ever have you.

It is men who govern your world, and if this is how you must move in it, then so be it. You will not feel bad. You will not be sorry for doing what anyone else would do. John thought he could keep his hand there, muzzle his mutt, but you like him this way, and you’re certain John doesn’t fuck the way you do.

He’s mine.

It isn’t John that commands an army, it’s you; or maybe your cunt, but that belongs to you, too, so it is you, isn’t it? You’re the one that lets him inside, that whispers in his ear, that tells him things you know he wants to hear to make things move in your favor, so it’s you, right?

Not John. Not Victoria. Not their counsel. You. They have stepped on you your entire life. They have made you small and inferior and sad for all of your existence, and they gave you something feral knowing it could eat you alive, and now you are the hand that feeds, and they are forgetting that if they bite too hard, you have something that will surely bite harder.

A collar would suit him, you think. He would look so pretty. He already is, the terrible beast, prettiest thing you’ve ever seen (the necklace your drape over him does just fine, a pendant with his motif that you hope reminds him of you). You don’t care if people would say his face is quite ugly. It is, very much so, but you never see him this way. Whenever that mask falls, your stomach flips. He takes your breath away. His intensity, his raw form of love, the look on his face–there is nothing else in the entire world that will love you the way he loves you.

“You came back for me?” You ask. You have a leg tangled between his, and his fingers are between your thighs, a shadow of a smirk on his face as he feels the mixture of your cum and his. He grunts a little, and you tilt your head to look up at him, your chin on his chest.

“‘f course,” Simon mutters, and you kiss his chest gently, keeping your eyes on his.

“But not for John.”

He turns his head, looking down at you more intently, and he scoffs. You know it’s true, but you want to hear it, anyways. You want to hear Simon admit, unknowingly, that you are the tether.

“John is afraid, and I don’t listen to ‘im when he’s afraid. Makes bad choices.”

It’s almost adorable that this is what Simon tells himself. That he comes back for his own sake, and not for yours, even though they are one and the same, intertwined and inseparable.

“Simon,” you say softly, and he sighs, his eyes closing briefly when you kiss him gently. “You have to listen to your king when he asks you to come back. Making a…rash decision about war strategy is one thing, but…” You cup his cheek gently. “Make things easier for me, husband. If he asks you to come back, you come back.”

This time, at least. Just this time.

Simon snarls a bit, but you swallow it when you kiss him. You maneuver yourself over him, straddling his hips, and he grunts as you sink down on him. He swells hard again very quickly, releasing a deep breath as you give a slow roll of your hips.

“Make things easy for me, my love,” you whisper, and he leans his head back, putting two big hands on your ass and moving you with ease. “Appease your king, yes? For me?”

“Can’t say no when y’r pussy squeezes me like tha’, sweet’eart,” Simon groans, and you giggle, planting your hands on his chest and starting to move a little faster. You lean your head back, your mouth falling open, and you gasp when you sink down completely, your ass touching his thick thighs as you tighten around him. “Fuckin’ Christ–”

“I hate when you go,” you whine, digging your nails into his chest. He hisses, planting his feet on the bed, and he fucks up into you with a renewed fervor. “Hate when you’re not here, Simon, I-I miss you, miss this–”

“Nghh…fuck, I know,” Simon pants. “Can feel it. Feel you.” You squeal when he grips you by the waist and turns you over. He makes it seem so easy, tossing your weight underneath him, and your arms circle around his neck as you draw him closer, hanging onto him. “Y’r so fuckin’ pretty…”

“Simon–”

He kisses to devour. His jaw hinges wide to kiss you sloppy, breathing in the moans that you can’t contain. Simon always fucks so well, stretching your thighs as wide as they will accommodate so he can make room for the goliath of himself that he is. He suffocates, in a good way, and his cock never fails to stretch you for all that you are worth. Simon holds your jaw in place as he grinds into you, relishing in the wet smack of his hips against yours. The fat of you satisfies him. It makes him growl with delight when he grabs onto wide hips, your fat arse, the body that you hold that tells him you are fed and warm and content. It draws his grin wider, and it makes him drool thinking about having you again and again and again, until you beg him for reprieve and his heir sits in your womb.

Simon fucks for sport. He wants to see how stupid he can make you. He wants to know how long you’ll cry for, how fat he can make your tears. He wants to know how loud you will cry, how many times he can make you cum before you’re incoherent, he wants to know the extent to which he can use you that you will still be awake enough to say his name just one more time. Simon is not satisfied until he pushes your limits.

It is what a Riley does. They endure, and they eat, and they consume, and they take pleasure in the all-encompassing indulgement of things they have never been allowed to have. You are a woman, so he knows this will come easy for you. So often, he knows, women are not allowed to indulge at all, so he wants you to. He wants you to cry and moan and eat, and he wants you to do it bearing his name so that no one will ever tell you no.

Simon says no to kings, and they placate, or they die. His wife will be offered the same respect, and he’ll stand behind her with a sword to make it law. When you bear his children, he will expect the same of them–to give their mother utter devotion, lest they answer to his hand. There is no one above you, not God, not country, and certainly not blood. They will know what their father did to have you, and they will spill the same amount of blood to keep it that way. They will do it for you, and then they will do it for their own lovers, and if they don’t have the same sentiments, that love is not true, and Simon will not give his blessing.

Everything else is trivial. He knows this, understands it, because history repeats itself. It is cyclical, and you are right. Kings come and go. Sons die to other sons, fathers make bad decisions, and crowns are passed to bastards and back again, until lineage is merely spectacle and power changes hands often enough to lose generational merit. There is one thing that remains, and it is what you do while you are on earth, while you are standing on the ground you were born on. Even faiths change; when men find it suitable, they change the rules, and then you worship a different God, so Simon sees no point in staying loyal to any of it.

Instead, he is true to what he knows. To what he can see and what he can feel. With John, he remembers being a young man, fighting alongside him. He follows John, to an extent, because he knows what it is like to share blood with him on a muddy hill and take an arrow for him.

With you, time stands still. He saw you in a room, and he had to have you, and he brought nations to ruin to make certain no one would bat an eye when he asked for your hand. He saw you in a dream, too–he saw you laying in his bed of furs, wearing nothing but a tiara of his making, wet between the thighs because that is how it’s meant to be. He recognized you when he saw you that first time, and he doesn’t know how, but saying no to you, really saying no, will change that vision, and he couldn’t bear that.

Your voice echoes. You’re moaning, overstimulated, but he doesn’t stop. The hair around his cock rubs your clit too many times, and when you come around him, you’re a shaking, withering thing, back bowed and nipples pebbled. Your toes curl as you cry from the starry-eyed, hot pleasure, but he keeps moving, chasing something in the distance that he can taste, so close.

Yes, Simon ignored his king. Yes, Simon did not ignore you. Yes, Simon admits, he came when you called, and he doesn’t feel bad about it, he doesn’t care how it seems. He would do it again if he had the chance. John could give him the same answer as you in every timeline, but he will only move if the command comes from you, and yes, Simon knows it makes him a liability, but crowns come with costs, and this is the one John must pay.

Simon will fight any of John’s enemies, but he won’t fight fate. He won’t fight what has already been seen, and he won’t fight what he already knows will happen.

With Simon’s cock in your mouth, you can make him deliver on promises. Sucking on the girth of him, you can make him an honest man. Taking inside of your mouth what you can swallow, you can make Simon do your bidding, and it is a hard lesson that John learns.

“Do this for me,” you slobber against the underside of his cock, and Simon relents.

“Make me happy,” you say, swirling your fingers against your puffy pussy, and Simon kneels with an open mouth.

“Just this once,” you whisper with his cum on your tongue, and Simon seals his choice with his hands on your tits and the taste of himself in his mouth.

When you make eyes with John across the low lights of the throne room, he can’t help the way he admires you. You stand beside Simon, looking the essence of nobility and reverence in another intricate silver and blue dress. The train of your skirt glitters with delicate jewels hand sewn into the fabric, and the headpiece you wear adorns a skull insignia. Your corset has been tied just right, thanks to Simon’s hand, and your own fingers are clasped between his. Your corset and jewels are of exquisite detail–one of the newest designs from Paris, structured and elegant and accentuating every curve of soft skin.

You glow in the room. His wife must be wearing a dress just as expensive, probably more, and yet his eyes (and everyone else’s) cannot help but follow you. Your own eyes won’t leave Simon; you flutter your lashes whenever he looks down at you, big smile on your face, and even when there are people curtsying and bowing to you and giving Simon their gratitude between bites of cake and glugs of wine, your attention never really strays. 

John feels inadequate in his own fortress; suddenly, red and gold sicken him, and England tastes sour in his mouth.

In a few generations, John’s house will likely fall. He will make heirs that will fail him, he knows this. In a few centuries, his family will not sit in the same place, but a Riley will remain right where they are supposed to be. Banners of blue and silver will always fly. If Simon does not make sure of that, then you will.

It’s what happens when you force women like you to their knees. When they grow up invisible, always in the shadows, forgotten and sold to the next man who will pay a higher price, it’s what you learned to do. It’s all you’ve ever known, to make the best out of something terrible.

Simon is the same, in that sense. You understand him in a way his king will never be able to. Simon has nothing, and neither do you, and Simon was stepped on and berated and tortured to the point of no return. It is why blood does not scare him and why death doesn’t come knocking. Time will be the only thing capable of killing him, and everyone that stands up to him learns that when they eat his blade.

In the quiet of the evening, Simon undresses you. He sits behind you on the bed, fingers pinching the bows at your back and unraveling them. He traces your corset, thumb circling over the skull pattern of the belt around the small of your waist, and he tastes something warm in his mouth at the sight of it. You look so beautiful–more beautiful than he’s ever seen you maybe, decorated in his colors and wearing his motif and sitting so pretty.

“You wanna know something…funny?” You ask quietly. Simon finds the ties of your skirts and starts to undo them. He grunts in reply; he might sound standoffish, but you know he’s listening. “John…John made it…he makes it seem like you don’t really listen to him. He implied that…in the face of adversity, you might only listen to me.” You put your hands on the front of your corset to keep it from falling. “Isn’t that funny?”

“Wot’s so funny?”

You swallow, looking down. Your hands fidget, and you take a closer look at the ring you wear, the delicate gold band he gave you not so long ago.

“I…”

“Mmm…might be right, innit?” Simon snickers after a moment. You feel him stand, and you look over your shoulder as he peels his mask off and grins down at you. He tilts his head to the side, and you smile back at him a little. “Do anythin’ for ya. Disobeying a king…” Simon cackles, tearing your corset off, tossing it onto the floor as he walks you backwards. “Ignoring one…” He shrugs, “Oll in a day, love.”

“He can hang you for it,” you whisper. “Cut off your head. Cut off mine.”

Simon lays you back on the bed, spreading you out, climbing over you. You blink up at him, and he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I would ‘ave seen it. I would know.”

He would have seen it in a dream. It would have come to him in a reflection in a pool of blood on the battlefield. It would have come to him, the voices in his head, he would have heard them amongst screaming, or perhaps in the void that he finds his mind in when he’s between your plush thighs.

You can’t help the smile that graces your face when Simon kisses the curve where your jaw meets your neck. It is fun, you suppose. Fun to control the tides that set the courses of history. It is fun and almost unbelievable that a king bends to the will of one man’s wife just because it solidifies his name.

You wrap your hand around the twine that dangles from Simon’s neck. It twirls around your fingers, easy, solid. Simon’s eyes are dark, and they are yours, and when you smile, so does he, because this is where you are meant to be, forever and always.

“What if I want more?” You ask. Simon hums, low from within his chest, and you run your tongue over your teeth. “Did you see that in your dreams, Simon? Hmm? Do you know what I’m asking for? What it is that I really want?”

Simon smiles. A dark one, with teeth, and you know he hears it. What more means for a duke and his duchess. What more means when you have all the money you could ever want, all the land you could ever need.

What more means when you have climbed your way to the top and still desire more. More, more, more. There are not many steps left to climb. There are not many places left to take, not much more of the world that can really be yours, but Simon looks ravenous, and Simon looks hungry, and if you fuck him now, you’ll have him right where you want him.

When you tug on what hangs around his neck, Simon bends. Simon follows.

[snail-day]

You can do this, Satoru. It’s just your wedding. Just the day you’ve been dreaming about since the moment she first smiled at you. Just the person you’re terrifyingly in love with. Who’s about to walk down the aisle and change his life forever. A day he's been dreaming since he first met you

He’s standing at the altar, trying to act normal. Cool as a cucumber. Like his knees aren’t locked and his palms aren’t sweating through his white gloves. Fidgeting with the cuffs of his dark tux every two seconds. Trying not to cry. Trying really hard not to cry.

His baby blues are not looking at the double doors. Nope. Not even glancing. He’ll cry if he does. He knows he’ll cry.

And then the music starts.

You appear.

And he’s a goner.

His breath punches out of him like someone knocked the wind from his lungs for the first time. You’re there. Radiant. Soft. Shining in a way he doesn’t even think the sun could compete with. And you’re crying. Oh god, you’re already crying.

He panics. Internally. Loudly.

Don’t cry, baby, please don’t cry, he begs in his mind, like he can will the tears away just by loving you hard enough. Your bottom lip is wobbling. Your hands are clutching the arm of your dad a little too tightly that his poor father-in-law is wincing. You freeze halfway down the aisle. Staring at him, practically on the verge of sobbing.

Satoru doesn’t hesitate.

He moves before anyone can stop him, taking long strides right to where you’re standing, wide-eyed and trembling. The officiant laughs under their breath and says something like, “Looks like the groom’s meeting the bride halfway,” but Satoru barely hears it. His entire world has narrowed down to you.

“You okay?” he murmurs, cupping your face with both hands, his thumbs rapidly brushing your tears away. You sniffle. Nod. Barely.

So, obviously, he does the only thing he knows how to do: he teases.

“Didn’t know I was marrying a crybaby today,” he whispers, smiling crookedly, voice cracking just enough to betray how close he is to sobbing.

You swat his chest, laugh-wheezing through your tears, and he swears his heart nearly gives out. He wants to kiss you so badly, but it’s not time yet. Not technically. So instead, he holds your hands and walks you the rest of the way down the aisle, like maybe if he stays close enough, your nervousness won’t win.

He doesn’t remember the vows.

He doesn't remember the rings, or if his voice shook when he said “I do.”

But he remembers you. Every second of you. The way your fingers squeezed his like you were scared and excited all at once. The small little hi you spoke during the speech about you two coming together. The way your smile finally broke through the nerves when he mouthed mine during the ceremony.

He’s pretty sure he blacked out for the kiss. All he knows is that when it happens, the world goes quiet. All that’s left is you and him and the overwhelming realization that he gets to love you for the rest of his life.

And later, when he’s holding your heels in one hand and you in the other, dancing barefoot on the reception floor under fairy lights, he’s still chanting the same thing in his head he did the moment you walked down the aisle:

Be good. Be good. Don’t cry. Be normal. You’re married now. This is real. Don’t freak her out.

But also?

Holy shit. She’s mine.

[pandapetals]

when the leaves turn

summary: As the seasons change in Jackson, so does your relationship with Joel. It starts with small things—his quiet presence outside the schoolhouse, how he keeps bringing you books for the kids, or how his gruff demeanor softens slightly when he talks to you.

pairing: jackson!joel miller x fem!teacher reader

word count: 8k

content warnings: slight reader description, y/n used once or twice, slight slow burn, fluff, some angst, maria appearance, ellie being ellie, grumpy joel but soft, kissing but at the end.

a/n: request from anon. inspired by autumn/winter months. divider by @saradika-graphics.

August

Autumn in Jackson smelled like wood smoke and damp earth, like something settling in before the frost. Maybe that was why it always felt like a fresh start. Or maybe it was because school began then, and with it, the quiet thrill of sharpening pencils, smoothing out worn pages, and watching young minds spark to life.

The air carried a crisp bite in the mornings, warming just enough by midday to make the schoolhouse feel less like a drafty old cabin and more like a place where something good could grow. You tried to hold on to that feeling as you stood in the small room, surveying the meager stack of books on the shelf. Five. That was it. Five stories to last an entire year.

Maria did what she could—she always did—but Jackson could only provide so much. Food, shelter, safety. The essentials. Books, though? Books were sacred.

The kids deserved more. They deserved to get lost in stories, hear unfamiliar words roll off the tongue, and dream beyond this town's walls. And right now, all you had were the same five dog-eared volumes that had already been read so many times the kids could recite them back to you. They needed more.

You’d mentioned it offhand, a passing comment to Maria or Tommy—how the kids were running out of new books to read, how their little library shelves were looking thinner by the week. You hadn’t thought much of it at the time.

Maria had brought it up to Joel once in passing, maybe while handing out patrol assignments or over dinner at the hall. Though he didn’t say much in response—just a slow nod, a quiet grunt of acknowledgment—he’d kept it tucked away.

After that, every time he rode beyond the gates, rifle slung across his back, he started looking. Not just for threats. Not just for supplies.

For books.

For the kids, at least. That’s what he told himself.

When Maria stopped by the schoolhouse, a small stack of books cradled in her arms. She set them down on your desk with a satisfied smile.

“Look what turned up,” she said, brushing the cold from her sleeves.

Your eyes widened as you reached for the top one—a hardcover copy of Charlotte’s Web, its edges worn but still intact. Beneath it, a few dog-eared paperbacks, pages yellowed with time but still readable.

“Oh, Maria,” you breathed, running a hand over the covers. “Where did you find these?”

She waved a hand. “You mentioned needing more. Figured I’d keep an eye out.”

You smiled, touched by the gesture. “Thank you.”

Maria didn’t correct you. Didn’t mention the real reason those books were here. Just shot you a knowing look before heading back out into the cool autumn breeze.

That day, you watched as the kids excitedly flipped through the pages, some still having to share, but none of them seeming to mind. Their little fingers traced over faded words, their voices rising with excitement as they pored over the “new” books. It was worth it—seeing them light up like that.

A few days later, more books appeared.

Five of them were stacked neatly on the steps outside the schoolhouse. No note. No explanation. Just left there in the quiet of the early morning.

You glanced around, expecting someone to step forward, maybe one of the townsfolk who had extras lying around. But no one lingered nearby, no one waiting to be thanked.

Possibly Maria had found more books but something about it didn’t sit right.

Then it happened again and again.

Every few days, another small pile of books—some more battered than others, their covers soft with age, spines cracked, but pages still intact. Someone was going through a lot of trouble to bring them here.

And you were determined to find out who.

____________

“Maria?” You called as you spotted her walking through town one Saturday afternoon, bundled up against the lingering chill in the air.

She turned, offering you a polite smile. “What’s up?”

You fell into step beside her, arms crossed. “How have you been finding all of these books?” Your voice was casual, but your curiosity slipped through.

Maria blinked, then let out a small chuckle. “Oh,” she shook her head, a little amused, a little knowing. “I didn’t find them.”

Your brows furrowed. “Then who—”

“Actually, Joel has—”

You stopped mid-step. “Joel?”

Maria’s smirk deepened, but she didn’t add anything else, just gave you a meaningful look before continuing on her way.

Joel.

You found him that afternoon, just as he was tying off his horse near the stables, fresh from patrol. His jacket was dusted with dried mud, his knuckles scuffed like he might’ve had to wrestle something—or someone—on the way back. And slung over his shoulder, nestled in his pack, you could just make out the edges of another book.

You crossed your arms and cleared your throat. “So… you wanna tell me why you’ve been sneaking books onto my porch like some kind of storybook bandit?”

Joel exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he unbuckled the saddle. “Ain’t sneakin’,” he muttered. “Just droppin’ ‘em off.”

You stepped closer, tilting your head. “And where exactly are you finding all of these?”

He grunted, shifting his weight like he wasn’t sure why this was even a conversation. “Out there.” A vague nod toward the gate. “Old houses. Shops. Whatever’s left.”

You studied him, trying to piece it together. Joel wasn’t the type to go out of his way for things that weren’t necessary. He took care of what needed to be done—patrols, keeping Jackson safe—but this?

This was something else.

His fingers flexed against the strap of his pack, like he was debating whether to keep holding it or shove it into your arms and walk away.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you said softly.

Joel finally looked at you then, eyes flickering with something unreadable. He swallowed, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“Kids need somethin’ to do,” he muttered. “Better than runnin’ around causin’ trouble.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “You sure it’s just for the kids?”

His gaze dropped for half a second—just long enough for you to notice.

Then he shook his head, pulling the pack from his shoulder and thrusting it toward you. “Got more in here,” he said, clearing his throat. “Figure you’ll know what to do with ‘em.”

You took it, fingers brushing his. His hand was warm, rough from years of work, and the moment lingered longer than it needed to.

“Thank you, Joel.”

His lips parted slightly, like maybe he had something to say. But instead, he just gave a short nod, stepping back, putting space between you.

As he turned to go, you could’ve sworn you saw the corner of his mouth twitch—just the slightest hint of a smile.

September

You’d slowly worked your way into Joel’s life. Not that he’d admit it—not out loud, anyway.

It had started with the books, but there had always been something about him that intrigued you. Even before that. The way he carried himself and spoke in that quiet, measured way, like he only said what was worth saying. How he seemed to be made of sharp edges but had the softest touch when it came to the people he let in.

The books had just given you an excuse to talk to him.

And once you started, you didn’t want to stop.

You made a habit of waving when you passed him in town, throwing a casual ‘Hey, Joel’ over your shoulder as you carried on with your day. At first, all you got in return was a nod. Maybe a grunt.

Then, one day, he actually said ‘Hey’ back.

After a while, he started stopping when you stopped.

He never lingered long, always busy with something—fixing the fencing near the sheep pen, hauling supplies, heading out on patrol. But he let you talk to him, and that was something.

Small talk at first—how the kids were doing, whether the new batch of patrol recruits were worth a damn, what Jackson needed more of before winter hit. Nothing special. But the more you spoke, the more he softened. You saw it in how he lingered a little longer when you crossed paths, how his gaze didn’t dart away as quickly, how his nods turned into real answers.

Like today.

“I love this time of year,” you said one afternoon, adjusting the lesson plans in your arms as you passed Joel near the hall.

Joel glanced up from where he was adjusting his pack, one brow raised. “Why’s that?”

“It’s the beginning of autumn,” you said, shifting the stack of papers against your hip. “The air gets crisp, the leaves start turning.” A small smile tugged at your lips. “Or maybe I’m biased.”

His gaze lingered for a second longer than usual. “Biased how?”

“Well…” You hummed, pretending to think. “It’s my birth month.”

Joel let out a quiet huff, shaking his head. “Yeah, see, that explains it.”

You grinned. “And what about you? What’s your favorite month?”

“Don’t have one,” he answered too quickly.

You raised a brow. “No favorite month? No favorite season?”

“They’re all the same,” he muttered, adjusting the strap of his bag. “Just depends how miserable the weather wants to be.”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, well, what about the worst month?”

“September,” Joel said immediately, shifting his pack higher on his shoulder. “It’s forgettable.”

Something about the way he said it made you pause.

Not because of the words, but because of the way his jaw tightened, the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Like the answer had been waiting there, right at the surface, ready to slip out the second you asked.

Forgettable, he’d called it.

The way he said it made your stomach twist. Like he wasn’t talking about the month at all.

You didn’t push. Just nodded, shifting the papers in your arms. “Huh.”

Something about the way he said it didn’t sit right. Like, he didn’t mean September was forgettable. Maybe he meant he was.

And that’s when it clicked.

You kept your expression neutral, storing the information away. If you were right—and you had a feeling you were—his birthday was coming up.

Joel exhaled through his nose like he was already done with the conversation. “You need help with those?”

You blinked. It was the first time he’d ever offered.

“Nah, I got it,” you said, watching as he gave a small nod and started walking away.

You let him go because even if Joel Miller hated his birthday, you already knew you weren’t going to let it pass unnoticed.

____________

You found out from Tommy that Joel’s birthday was September 26th.

He hadn’t meant to tell you—just an offhand comment, muttered between sips of coffee as he patched up a tear in his glove. But the second the words left his mouth, Tommy went stiff, like he’d said something he wasn’t supposed to.

“He don’t like to talk about it,” he warned, his voice quieter now. “Lost Sarah...”

Joel had lost his daughter that same day.

The weight of it sat heavy in your chest that night, curled up under a too-thin blanket, staring at the ceiling. You wanted to do something, but how did you celebrate a day that only brought him pain? The thought made your throat tighten, eyes burning as you buried your face in the pillow.

You couldn’t fix it. Couldn’t take away the hurt.

Maybe you could give him something that didn’t feel like a celebration, but still meant I see you.

The answer came sooner than expected.

It was a chilly afternoon when you spotted Joel walking toward you, his shoulders hunched against the wind. His usual scowl was in place, but something was different.

He was carrying something.

“Hey,” you greeted, shifting the basket in your arms as he came to a stop in front of you.

Joel exhaled through his nose, his gaze flicking away like he was already second-guessing himself. Then, without a word, he reached into his pack and pulled out a small, wrapped bundle.

Rough brown paper, tied with twine.

He held it out. “Here.”

You blinked. “What’s this?”

Joel sighed, looking somewhere over your shoulder like this whole thing was deeply inconvenient for him. “You said September was your birthday month.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

You carefully took the bundle from his hands, fingers grazing his rough, calloused hands, which were warm even in the cold. You pulled the twine loose and peeled back the paper.

A mug.

Not just any mug. Sturdy ceramic, a little chipped at the rim, but glazed in a deep, autumn gold. You could tell it was old but well-made, like the kind you’d find in a house that had once been a home.

You swallowed past the sudden lump in your throat. “Joel…”

He shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Figured you might need one,” he muttered. “See you haulin’ coffee to the school every mornin’. Thought… well. Just thought.”

Your fingers curled around the handle. It fit perfectly in your palm.

It was nothing grand. Nothing fancy, but it was thoughtful.

You looked up at him, warmth spreading through your chest. “Thank you.”

His ears tinged pink. He gave a stiff nod like he wasn’t sure what to do with your gratitude.

Your heart pounded. Now or never.

“Actually…” You hesitated. “I have something for you too.”

Joel’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing slightly. “For what?”

You bit your lip, gripping the mug a little tighter. “For your birthday.”

Something passed over his face—quick, fleeting. His jaw clenched, his fingers flexing at his sides.

He shook his head. “You don’t gotta—”

“I know,” you cut in softly. “I know you don’t like your birthday. But… I still wanted to do something for you.”

Joel went quiet.

You let the words settle between you, watching the tension in his shoulders, the way his mouth pressed into a firm line like he wanted to argue but couldn’t quite find the words.

Then, finally, he exhaled, slow and measured. “What is it?”

You smiled. “Come by my place later and find out.”

His eyes flickered with something unreadable. He hesitated. Then, after a long pause, he gave a small nod.

That evening, there was a knock at your door.

Joel stood there, arms crossed, looking like he wasn’t sure if he regretted showing up or not.

You grinned. “Come in.”

He did, stepping inside cautiously, gaze sweeping over the cozy space—books stacked in uneven piles, a blanket draped over the couch, the faint scent of something warm in the air.

You grabbed the package from the table and turned to face him. “Here.”

He stared at it. Then at you.

Slowly, he reached out and took it.

He unwrapped it carefully, calloused fingers making quick work of the twine. The paper fell away, and Joel went still.

A flannel shirt.

Dark green, lined with soft fleece on the inside. Thick enough to keep him warm on patrol, but not too heavy. Well-made, just like the one he always wore—the one you knew had been patched up more times than you could count.

His fingers smoothed over the fabric, quiet.

You shifted on your feet. “I noticed yours was getting pretty worn,” you murmured. “Thought you could use another.”

Joel swallowed, still staring at it.

For a long moment, you thought maybe you’d overstepped. That he’d shake his head, shove it back at you, mutter something about how he didn’t need it.

Instead, he surprised you.

He cleared his throat. “It’s… nice.” A pause. “Thank you.”

Your chest ached at how hesitant he sounded. Like he wasn’t used to someone thinking about him, let alone for him.

You smiled. “Happy early birthday, Joel.”

He looked at you then. He really looked, and for the first time, he didn’t seem quite so uncomfortable with its weight.

October 

October had settled into Jackson with crisp air and golden leaves crunching underfoot. The town buzzed with preparations for Maria’s fall festival: strings of lanterns hung between buildings, tables were set up with baked goods, and the faint scent of cinnamon and apples drifted through the streets.

Joel had tried to ignore the whole thing. Tried.

But then you’d mentioned it—offhand, casual.

“You’re coming, right?” You’d asked, tilting your head at him as you straightened a pile of books in the schoolhouse.

Joel had grunted, which you took as hesitation.

You just smiled. “C’mon, it wouldn’t kill you to have a little fun.”

And somehow, he’d found himself agreeing.

Now, Ellie sat across from him at the dinner table, stabbing at a slice of pie with unnecessary force, a wicked glint in her eye.

“I’m so excited for the dance,” she said, too loud, flashing Joel a knowing grin.

Joel grunted, trying to appear disinterested as he scooped up another bite of stew. “Mhm.”

Ellie’s grin widened. She was a shark who had scented blood.

“Is your girlfriend gonna be there?” she asked, dragging out the word obnoxiously.

Joel nearly choked on his food. He shot her a glare. “She ain’t my girlfriend.”

Ellie gasped dramatically, clutching her chest like she’d been personally wounded. “Wow. Harsh.”

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, setting his spoon down with a little too much force. “I ain’t havin’ this conversation with you.”

“Oh, you so are.” Ellie leaned in, elbows on the table, smirking. “You’ve been actin’ all weird lately. Like, more than usual.”

“I don’t act weird.”

“You so do.” She started counting on her fingers. “You’ve been nice to people. Like, actually talking to them instead of just grunting. You suddenly care about how you look before you leave the house—”

Joel scoffed. “The hell I do.”

Ellie ignored him, grinning wider. “And the other day? You were smiling. Like, a real, actual smile.”

Joel picked up his spoon again, pointing it at her. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

Ellie kicked her feet up on the chair next to her, completely undeterred. “Oh, but I do. You like her.”

Joel tensed, his jaw ticking. Ellie just sat there, smirking, waiting for him to deny it.

He didn’t.

Instead, he focused on his food, muttering under his breath, “Eat your damn pie.”

Ellie beamed in victory.

“Can’t wait to see you two at the dance,” she sang, hopping up from the table and grabbing her plate. “Gonna be so romantic.”

Joel groaned, rubbing a hand down his face.

What the hell had he just agreed to?

____________

The hall had been transformed. Twinkling lanterns hung from the rafters, casting everything in a warm golden glow. The tables were lined with mismatched candles, their tiny flames flickering against the cool draft from the open doors. The scent of cider and baked apples filled the space, blending with the sound of laughter and the soft strum of a guitar from the corner.

You stood near the refreshment table, hands wrapped around a warm mug, watching as couples twirled across the wooden floor. It was almost normal.

For a moment, it was easy to pretend the world wasn’t broken. That beyond Jackson’s walls, there weren’t infected lurking in the shadows, waiting to take all of this away.

You shifted on your feet, smoothing a hand over your dress—nothing fancy, just something simple, warm enough for the crisp autumn night, paired with your trusty boots. The fabric swayed gently as you moved, and you felt a little lighter, a little more… hopeful.

Then, the door swung open, and your breath caught, causing your heart to do a stupid little flutter at the sight of him.

Joel’s hair was combed back—not slicked, not perfect, just neater than usual, like maybe he’d actually put in some effort. He wore a deep green flannel, the one you’d given him for his birthday, unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. He wore jeans, boots, and his usual belt. Still very much Joel, but softened somehow.

Beside him, Ellie smirked up at him, clearly impressed.

“Damn, look at you,” she teased, elbowing him as they stepped inside. “Who knew you could clean up this nice?”

Joel shot her a look. “I ain’t cleaned up.”

Ellie snorted. “You so are.” Then, as if just noticing you, her smirk widened. ��Ohhh, I see now.”

Joel followed her gaze, his eyes landing on you. His movements slowed, just for a second.

Then he exhaled through his nose, shifting on his feet like he was suddenly self-conscious.

You smiled. “You made it.”

He grunted, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. You asked.”

Ellie gasped, loud and exaggerated. “Wait. Wait—did Joel Miller just admit he came here for you?” She turned to him, grinning. “That’s, like, the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

Joel shot her a withering look. “Go away.”

Ellie only cackled, grabbing a cup of cider from the table. “Nah, I think I’ll stick around and see how this plays out.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Be nice, Ellie.”

Ellie snorted. “I am being nice. You should’ve seen him before we left—kept grumbling about how this was a waste of time. And yet, here he is.”

Joel pinched the bridge of his nose. “I swear to God—”

You stepped closer, tilting your head up at him. “You do look nice, though.”

Joel’s hand dropped. His gaze flickered to yours, something unreadable behind it.

A slow breath. Then—so soft you almost missed it—“You too.”

A warmth spread through you, settling deep in your chest.

Ellie groaned, dramatically rolling her eyes. “Oh my God, just dance already.”

Joel scowled. “Ain’t happenin’.”

Ellie grinned. “We’ll see about that.”

You chuckled, taking a slow sip of your cider, already scheming.

Ellie, ever the troublemaker, smirked one last time before making a half-hearted excuse and disappearing into the crowd, leaving you and Joel alone.

You turned to him, offering a fresh cup of cider. “Here.”

Joel hesitated for just a second before taking it, his fingers brushing against yours—warm and rough.

“Thanks,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the floor like the damn woodgrain had something interesting to say.

You smiled, watching him. It was strange, seeing him here—out of place but present, the usual tension in his shoulders just a little looser. The lantern light flickered over his face, casting soft shadows along the sharp angles of his jaw, catching the silver in his hair.

Then, the band struck up a new tune.

Your breath hitched. That song.

An old favorite, one you hadn’t heard in years. Something soft and slow, the kind of melody that wrapped around you like a warm embrace.

You set your cider down, turning to Joel with a grin. “C’mon.”

His brow furrowed. “What?”

“Dance with me.”

Joel stiffened, shifting on his feet like you’d just asked him to recite poetry in front of the whole town. “Nah.”

You sighed dramatically. “Joel.”

“Nope.”

You took a step closer. “It’s just one dance.”

“I don’t dance.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

You arched a brow. “Not even back in the day?”

Joel huffed, eyes darting to the side like he was contemplating an escape route. “That was different.”

Your lips twitched. “Different how?”

He exhaled sharply, tilting his head back before looking at you again. “You ain’t lettin’ this go, are you?”

“Nope.”

Joel stared at you for a long moment. You could see the war in his eyes—the reluctance, the hesitation.

Then you reached for his hand, and he let you.

His palm was broad, calloused, fingers twitching slightly under yours. You squeezed gently, giving him an out if he wanted it.

He didn’t take it.

With a quiet sigh, Joel let you lead him toward the dance floor, moving stiffly at first, like his body had forgotten how this worked.

“You’re gonna be fine,” you teased softly, placing his free hand at your waist.

He swallowed. “You say that now.”

You started to sway, guiding him with slow, easy steps. After a beat, he followed.

The tension in his shoulders faded gradually, his grip firm but careful, like he wasn’t sure how much space to leave between you. You took the liberty of closing the distance just a little more, your body brushing against his as the music hummed around you.

He smelled like worn leather and cedarwood. It made you feel safe.

His hand at your waist flexed slightly. His thumb brushed absentmindedly against the fabric of your dress, barely there, but enough to make your breath hitch.

You tilted your head up to look at him. His gaze was already on you.

Something unreadable passed between you.

“You’re not bad at this,” you murmured.

Joel scoffed, shaking his head. “Not sayin’ I like it.”

You smiled. “Sure, Joel.”

He huffed, but his fingers curled a little tighter at your waist, holding you closer. His grip wasn’t hesitant anymore.

“You’re a…” He started, his voice low, rough.

You grinned. “Pain in your ass?”

Joel exhaled sharply, something close to a laugh—not quite, but enough to make your stomach flutter.

“No,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Was gonna say somethin’ else.”

You tilted your head up at him, eyes bright with mischief. “Oh? Like what?”

Joel’s jaw tightened, like he was debating whether or not to take the bait. His gaze flickered away for a brief second before landing back on you, something unreadable in those deep, hazel eyes.

“You’re persistent,” he finally said.

Joel let out a quiet grunt, but there was no real bite behind it. His thumb brushed absently along your waist just enough to send warmth curling through you.

“You always this difficult?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

You hummed, swaying a little closer. “Only with you.”

Joel’s fingers twitched against your waist. His eyes held yours, something shifting in them, something softer than before.

“I should’ve known,” he muttered, but his voice had no frustration. If anything, he sounded almost… amused.

You grinned. “You’re gettin’ used to me, though.”

He shook his head, but his lips twitched just enough for you to notice. “Don’t know ‘bout that, sweetheart.”

December

Autumn was long gone, swept away with the last of the golden leaves. Winter had settled into Jackson with an unforgiving grip—bitter winds, thick snowfall, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones no matter how many layers you wore.

Today was no different.

Snow had started falling in the early afternoon, dusting the rooftops and piling in soft drifts along the streets. By the time class ended, the steady flurries had thickened into something heavier, swirling outside the schoolhouse windows.

Most of the kids had already rushed out the door, eager to get home before the worst of it hit, but a few lingered behind, helping you straighten chairs and gather up scattered lesson papers.

Then, the door creaked open, and a burst of cold air followed Joel Miller inside.

He stomped the snow from his boots, shaking his head as he pulled the scarf from around his neck. A familiar worn satchel was slung over his shoulder, and he made his way toward your desk, setting a small stack of books down with a quiet thump.

“Found these on patrol,” he muttered, glancing at you before shifting his weight like he wasn’t sure if he should linger.

You brushed your hands off on your skirt and stepped closer, fingertips trailing over the covers. “You’re making a habit of this,” you mused, looking up at him.

Joel grunted, rubbing a hand over his beard. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

You smirked with an expression that read—Sure, Joel.

Before you could tease him further, the wind outside howled, rattling the old windowpanes. One of the kids—Lucy, a bright-eyed girl no older than seven—paused in the middle of stacking the bookshelves.

“Sounds bad out there,” she murmured.

Another gust of wind shrieked against the schoolhouse walls. The fire in the woodstove crackled, but a draft crept in beneath the door, chilling the air. You frowned, moving to peek outside.

Your stomach dipped.

The gentle snowfall from earlier had turned into a full-blown storm. White-out conditions. The streets had already disappeared under a thick, shifting blanket of snow, and the wind howled through town, sharp and biting.

Joel came up behind you, close enough that you felt his warmth. “Storm’s settin’ in fast,” he muttered, voice low.

You turned to the kids, trying to keep your voice calm. “Alright, looks like we’re stayin’ put for a bit.”

Lucy’s little brother, Daniel, fidgeted. “For how long?”

Joel crossed his arms. “’Til it clears up enough to walk home safe.”

The words weren’t unkind, but Daniel’s face still fell. His lip trembled, and he blinked up at Joel, eyes wide. “But what if it doesn’t stop?”

Joel sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. You could see the exact moment he caved, the hard lines in his expression softening just slightly.

Kneeling down, he met Daniel’s worried gaze head-on. “Ain’t the first storm I’ve seen, kid,” he said, voice gentler now. “Won’t be the last. Nothin’ to do but wait it out. We’re safe here.”

Daniel sniffled but nodded.

You hid a smile, glancing at Joel as he stood back up. He caught you looking and huffed. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said innocently.

He narrowed his eyes, but before he could press, another voice piped up.

“What do we do now?” Lucy asked, shifting on her feet.

Joel glanced at you. You both knew the worst thing to do was let the kids sit in silence, stewing in worry.

You clapped your hands together. “We make the best of it.”

A few skeptical looks.

“Ever had a snowstorm sleepover?”

Lucy perked up. “Like… camping?”

“Exactly like camping,” you said brightly. “Except warmer.”

Joel snorted. “Debatable.”

You ignored him. “We’ve got books, a warm fire, and if we’re lucky…” You shot a glance at Joel. “Maybe some stories?”

Joel sighed, already shaking his head. “I ain’t—”

“C’mon, Joel,” Ellie’s voice suddenly called from the doorway.

You turned just in time to see her waltz in, brushing snow from her shoulders. “Oh, hell yeah,” she grinned, glancing around at the kids. “We havin’ a storm party in here?”

“You shouldn’t be out in this,” Joel muttered, but there was no real heat behind it.

Ellie shrugged, flopping onto a chair. “Relax, old man. I barely had to walk a block.”

She turned to the kids, nodding toward Joel. “Y’know, he’s real good at tellin’ stories. Bet if you bug him enough, he’ll spill a good one.”

Joel scowled. “Ellie.”

Ellie grinned, leaning back. “What? Just sayin’.”

You smirked, crossing your arms. “Guess it’s unanimous, then. Looks like you’re up, Miller.”

Joel exhaled sharply, glaring at Ellie before looking back at you. For a second, he seemed like he might refuse. Might grumble something about how this was your problem, not his, but then Daniel looked up at him again, eyes still a little wary, searching for reassurance.

Joel sighed, shaking his head. “Fine.”

Cheers erupted from the kids. Ellie whooped, shooting you a smug look.

You smiled, settling in as Joel pulled up a chair.

He leaned back, arms crossed, eyes scanning the small group in front of him like he was still debating whether this was worth his time. But then Lucy wiggled forward eagerly, Daniel tucked himself into the corner of the worn-out couch, and even Ellie leaned in slightly, clearly expecting a show.

Joel sighed, like he was already regretting this, and then—he started talking.

You leaned against your desk, watching him. Hanging onto every word.

At first, you were just listening, like everyone else. But then, your focus started to shift—not just to what he was saying, but how he was saying it.

The way his deep, low voice wrapped around the words, rich and slow, his Texan drawl stretching certain syllables, dragging out vowels in a way that sent a shiver up your spine.

How had you never noticed it before?

His voice wasn’t just rough—it was warm, like whiskey on a cold night, settling deep into your bones. There was a cadence to how he spoke, how his gravelly tone smoothed over certain words and sharpened on others.

The fire flickered beside him, its glow catching the silver in his hair, casting deep shadows along the strong cut of his jaw. He wasn’t a performer, wasn’t trying to be—but he had the room in the palm of his hand, his voice steady, sure, filling the space between the crackling woodstove and the howling wind outside.

You swallowed, fingers gripping the edge of your desk.

Shit.

This was bad.

You’d always liked Joel. Always found him intriguing in that quiet, rough-around-the-edges way. Now it was something deeper, dangerous. 

You had it bad.

The worst part? You weren’t even sure when it had happened. Maybe it was the books or the way he always looked out for the kids. Maybe it was the rare, reluctant smirks he sent your way or how his hands lingered just a second too long when he handed you something.

Or maybe it was just him.

Joel Miller. A man made of sharp edges and quiet kindness, of steady hands and a voice that had somehow curled itself around your heart without you realizing it.

“You listenin’ or just starin’?”

Your eyes snapped up.

Joel was looking right at you, brow raised, mouth twitching at the corners like he already knew the answer.

Heat rushed to your face. “I—I’m listening.”

Joel hummed, unconvinced. His gaze flickered down—just for a second—before returning to yours. His fingers tapped against the armrest of his chair.

“Y’look real deep in thought over there,” he mused. “Somethin’ you wanna share with the class?”

Ellie perked up immediately. “Ohhh, yeah, what were you thinkin’ about?” She shot you a wicked grin. “Wait—were you staring at him?”

Joel groaned. “Jesus Christ.”

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. “I was not staring.”

Ellie snickered. “Sure.”

Joel just shook his head, exhaling sharply. “You gonna let me finish this story or what?”

“By all means,” you said, biting back a smile.

Joel held your gaze for a second longer, something unreadable flickering behind those deep brown eyes. He leaned back again, clearing his throat.

But this time, when he kept talking, you noticed something different.

His voice dipped a little lower, his fingers curled slightly tighter around the chair. His eyes found yours between sentences, like maybe he was thinking about you, too.

____________

The snow finally stopped after two long hours, the sky clearing just enough for the late afternoon sun to peek through the heavy clouds. Its weak rays glinted off the thick blanket of white outside, already softening at the edges, turning to slush where footprints had trampled paths.

Joel stood near the door, arms crossed, watching as Lucy and Daniel rushed past him, their boots thudding against the wooden floor. Ellie was right behind them, already packing a handful of snow.

“Last one outside’s a rotten egg!” she called, shoving her way through the door with a laugh.

The kids shrieked, disappearing into the bright afternoon, their voices echoing down the street.

Joel sighed, shaking his head. “Told ‘em I’d walk ‘em home.”

You smirked, stepping beside him, watching the kids tumble into the fresh snow. “Think they’ll be okay without you?”

Joel scoffed. “Barely.”

You chuckled, shifting slightly—and that’s when you realized.

It was just the two of you now.

The schoolhouse was quiet. The fire in the stove had died down to embers, casting a dim, flickering glow against the walls. Outside, Jackson stirred back to life after the storm, but in here, it felt like time had slowed.

Joel hadn’t moved. He still stood beside you, close enough that his warmth reached you, despite the cold creeping through the gaps in the door.

You cleared your throat, turning toward him. “Guess that means you don’t have an excuse to run off now.”

Joel arched a brow. “Wasn’t plannin’ on runnin’.”

Your lips quirked. “That so?”

His gaze flickered to yours, steady, unreadable. Then, so subtly you almost didn’t catch it, his fingers twitched at his side, like he’d thought about reaching for something but thought better of it.

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of every little thing. The way his hand hovered just inches from yours. The roughness of his knuckles, the calloused pads of his fingertips, how easy it would be to close the space and—

You shook the thought away.

Joel shifted, glancing toward the table where the stack of books he’d brought still sat. “Y’gonna take those home?”

“Probably.” You moved past him to gather them up, but the moment your fingers brushed the top book, another hand beat you to it.

Joel’s.

Your breath hitched.

For a second, neither of you moved. His hand had settled over yours, warm, solid fingers barely curling against your skin. A beat passed. Then another.

You glanced up.

Joel didn’t pull away.

His gaze met yours, something flickering behind those deep brown eyes—something unreadable, something waiting. The air felt different, heavier, like the storm had never really left.

Then, he cleared his throat and pulled back, grabbing half the stack and tucking it under his arm like nothing had happened.

“C’mon,” he muttered, heading for the door. “Ain’t lettin’ you haul all these by yourself.”

You blinked, heart still racing, then let out a breathless laugh. “Wow. Chivalry isn’t dead after all.”

Joel rolled his eyes, holding the door open for you. “Don’t make me regret it.”

You grinned, brushing past him, close enough that your shoulder bumped his. “Too late.”

Joel huffed. But as you stepped outside, boots crunching in the fresh snow, you caught it—that small, almost imperceptible tug at the corner of his mouth.

And you knew.

He wasn’t regretting it at all.

February 

“Alright, make sure not to eat the glue sticks,” you warned, hands on your hips, though you couldn’t keep the laughter out of your voice.

A few giggles erupted around the classroom.

“I wasn’t gonna,” Daniel muttered, even though you had caught him eyeing one earlier.

You shook your head fondly, surveying the scene in front of you. The classroom was a mess of red and pink paper scraps, doilies, and way too much glitter. Some of the kids took their time, carefully writing heartfelt messages in their Valentine’s Day cards, while others scribbled their names in messy, oversized letters before immediately running off to cause trouble.

Still, it was sweet.

Seeing them like this—carefree, just being kids—it made all the chaos worth it.

Once the last of the glue had dried, you clapped your hands. “Alright! Time to exchange.”

Excited chatter filled the air as the kids hopped up from their seats, running around the room to deliver their cards. Daniel handed Lucy one, grinning as he presented his with a dramatic flourish. Ellie, having appointed herself The Valentine’s Day Critic, judged everyone’s artistic abilities, much to the other kids’ annoyance.

Lucy—sweet, thoughtful Lucy—clutched a card in her hands, biting her lip in concentration.

Then, with a determined nod, she slipped it into her coat pocket and bolted out the door.

Joel had just finished up at the stables when he heard his name being called.

“Mr. Joel! Wait!”

He barely had time to turn before Lucy skidded to a stop in front of him, red-faced from the cold, her scarf trailing behind her.

Joel blinked down at her. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“Nope!” she beamed. Then, without another word, she shoved a handmade Valentine into his hands.

Joel frowned, glancing down at it. The card was lopsided, the edges trimmed with uneven bits of lace. A few hearts were drawn in the corners, scribbled in crayon, and right in the center, in big, careful letters—

Happy Valentine’s Day, Joel!

And at the bottom—Love, (Y/N)

Joel’s entire body locked up.

Lucy rocked on her heels, beaming at him like she’d just handed him gold.

He stared at the card. His grip tightened slightly. Then loosened.

“What is this?” he asked, voice gruff.

“A Valentine,” Lucy chirped, looking far too pleased with herself. “Miss (L/N) made it for you.”

Joel blinked. “She… what?”

Lucy nodded eagerly, her braids bouncing. “She must really like you. She worked really hard on it.”

Joel opened his mouth. Closed it. Shifted his weight.

He could count on one hand the number of times in his life he’d been genuinely caught off guard. This was one of them.

“Uh—”

“Well, see ya later, Mr. Joel!” Lucy chirped, already spinning on her heel and dashing off.

Joel watched her go, still frozen in place, still holding the damn Valentine like it was a live grenade.

His heart thudded once, heavy in his chest. You had made this? For him?

He glanced at the card again before his feet carried him towards the school.

____________

You had just stepped out of the schoolhouse, wrapping your scarf tighter around your neck as the cold breeze nipped at your cheeks. The day was already starting to fade, the sun slipping lower behind the rooftops, casting long, golden shadows over the snow-covered streets.

As you locked up the door, you heard footsteps crunching in the frost behind you.

You sighed, already turning. “Did you forget someth—”

The words caught in your throat. It wasn’t one of the kids.

It was Joel.

He was holding a familiar lopsided Valentine's card in one hand, gripping it like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.

Your stomach flipped.

Joel shifted, his jaw working like he was debating something. His other hand was stuffed deep in his jacket pocket, his shoulders tense like he’d rather be anywhere else—but his feet weren’t moving.

You frowned. “Joel?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, lifting the card slightly. “You, uh… you make this?”

Your eyes flickered to the crumpled Valentine, the sight of your own name scrawled at the bottom in a handwriting that definitely wasn’t yours.

It took all of two seconds to piece it together.

Your lips parted in realization. Lucy. That little menace.

The laugh bubbled up before you could stop it, slipping past your lips, a warm contrast against the chilly air. “Oh, Joel.” You shook your head, biting back a grin.

Joel’s frown deepened. “That a yes or a no?”

You grinned, arms crossing. “It’s a no. But I know who did.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Lucy.”

“Bingo.”

He let out a heavy sigh, raking a hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ.”

You laughed again, watching as he stared down at the card like it had personally offended him.

“She told me you made it,” he muttered, like he still wasn’t sure if he was being messed with.

“Yeah, sounds like Lucy,” you mused, shaking your head. “She’s got a bit of a matchmaking streak.”

Joel grunted. “Figured that out real quick.”

You smirked. “So. What’d you think?”

He blinked. “What?”

“The card,” you teased. “You seemed pretty torn up about it. For a second, I thought you wanted me to make you one.”

Joel scoffed, but the tips of his ears had gone pink.

“I wasn’t torn up about nothin’,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders like he could physically shake off the flustered energy clinging to him.

You just tilted your head, watching him.

He huffed, stuffing the card back into his pocket like it was evidence of something, like he needed to get rid of it but couldn’t quite bring himself to toss it.

That warmth curled low in your stomach again. Because for all his grumbling, for all his attempts to brush this off, there was one simple fact he wasn’t acknowledging.

He’d come all the way here to ask you.

Just to be sure.

The thought made your heart skip.

You stepped a little closer, voice softer now. “Well… if you wanted one, you could’ve just asked.”

Joel’s breath hitched, just barely. His fingers flexed at his sides, like he was stopping himself from doing something—stepping back, stepping closer.

You bit your lip, smiling. “Next year, maybe I’ll make you a real one.”

Joel swallowed, the muscle in his jaw ticking. Then, after a long beat—

“Yeah,” he muttered, barely audible. “Maybe.”

Then, before you could say anything else, he turned, muttering something under his breath as he stomped off into the snow.

You watched him go, his broad frame cutting through the snow, shoulders tense like he was trying to shake off something that had crawled under his skin.

Maybe that was the problem because you didn’t want him to shake it off.

Not this time.

“Joel.”

He didn’t stop.

You took a step forward, heart pounding. “Wait.”

His pace quickened, boots crunching against the frozen ground, as if putting more space between you would make this whole thing disappear.

Your stomach twisted. “Joel!”

He let out a sharp breath and finally stopped, turning on his heel so fast you nearly ran into him.

“What?” His voice was gruff, a little too sharp, like he was already regretting stopping.

The look on his face made you hesitate—jaw tight, lips pressed into a firm line, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. But you swallowed past the lump in your throat, forcing yourself to speak.

“Why… why are you upset?”

Joel scoffed, rubbing the back of his neck, his breath curling into the cold air. “Because a damn kid embarrassed me.”

You frowned. “No, I mean—”

“And because you think it’s funny.”

“I—Joel, that’s not—”

“And because—”

“Will you just shut up for a second?”

The words snapped out before you could stop them, your voice louder than intended.

Joel blinked. His mouth shut, brow furrowing as he stared at you, caught off guard.

Your heart pounded, breath shaky, but you had already started. No going back now.

“I’m not laughing at you,” you said, your voice steadier now. “I’m frustrated because you’re too damn stubborn to see what’s right in front of you.”

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

So you pressed on.

“I like you, Joel.” The words tumbled out before you could second-guess them. “I have for a while. And maybe Lucy saw it before you did, but hell—I see it too. In the way you look at me. The way you show up for me. The way you’re standing here, right now, instead of walking away like I know you want to.”

A long, heavy, unbearable silence hung in the air. 

Joel stepped forward.

It was slow and hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he was making the right move, but he was. He always had been.

His hand lifted, rough fingers brushing against your cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The touch was warm, careful, lingering longer than it needed to.

His voice was quieter when he spoke. “You ain’t wrong.”

Your breath hitched.

Joel exhaled sharply, looking down for a moment before lifting his gaze back to yours. “I—” He stopped, shook his head slightly, as if the words wouldn’t come out right. But then, finally—“I like you too.”

The words were gruff and unpolished but true.

Something cracked open inside you, something warm that had been waiting for this exact moment.

You barely had time to process before Joel was closing the last bit of space between you, his hands framing your face, his lips pressing against yours.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was steady.

Like him.

Like something solid and certain, something that had been there all along, waiting for the right moment to fall into place.

God, you melted into it, your hands grasping at the front of his jacket, pulling him impossibly closer.

Joel let out a quiet breath against your lips, his fingers tightening slightly like he’d been holding himself back for too long and wasn’t sure how to stop anymore.

Neither of you pulled away.

When you finally did, Joel’s forehead rested against yours, his breath warm in the freezing air.

“Guess Lucy was onto somethin’,” you murmured.

Joel huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Little troublemaker.”

You grinned. “Mm. Remind you of anyone?”

His lips brushed against yours, just barely, before he murmured—

“Not a chance, darlin’.”

And then, he kissed you again.

[magicalpuppet]

"Are you new here? I’m new too." What if the one she met wasn't Frank at all?

If somebody is interested in the madness “theory”, I'll put it right under here.

Keep in mind before continuing: this is straight up just a theory/headcanon, I'm gonna share it without any other purpose than having fun theorizing. I put some points you can follow, I am sorry this is gonna be long and crazy.

So, I believe the puppet Julie met could be...Wally.

This whole madness was caused by Julie's story in the video "regard forgetfulness silence"...

The memory The way Julie is speaking seems off to me, as well as the way she recounts her first meeting with Frank.

She "think" that's how she met him, isn't it strange she can't recall precisely how she met the dearest puppet to her?

We know Julie have difficulties with her memory, but she seems to remember stuff that happened when hanging out with Frank, why the most important moment is so unclear to her?

This could mean that she can't remember the interaction correctly and that her memories are being heavily corrupted by something or that the whole thing is made up by someone.

The encounter

Even the encounter is iffy, the puppet she met doesn't seems to speak like Frank Does.

"Are you new here? I'm new too. My name is Frank"

This speech pattern sound more similar to Wally to me.

And after that, she says that he made a corny joke and she laughed at it, we know that Frank is not really the one who tells jokes. Heck, he is not even good at telling them.

You could argue about Wally and jokes too, he's not very skilled at telling them after all, but I can imagine two scenarios: -Him speaking normally and not realizing he is saying something funny to her. (this could apply to Frank too)

-His best friend love to tell jokes and we know that Barnaby encourage Wally to chat and tell jokes to the Neighbors, it could be that noticing she was scared he tried to tell a joke to her.

The fruit basket

Okay now I am really looking into stuff, I know, but why would Frank bring a big fruit basket around? Julie says it's because he was going to say hi to her but we know the friendliest neighbor in the whole place is Wally itself. Wouldn't it make more sense for him to be the one going to say hi?

The fruit basket could also just be related to Wally going out into the woods to paint a still life since he is a painter.

“Was he mad?”

She was worried that "Frank" was mad at her when they met.

Strange, because Frank emotions are very easy to read, he's a very expressive puppet. We also know that when he feel a very strong emotion (like being mad) his head spins. Why she would question it? If it was Wally, his emotions are more difficult to read and it could be that she didn't understood his intentions immediately.

Wally itself

The fact she bring up Wally while recalling Frank's meeting is strange too. She says she met Wally the same day, why not meeting the whole neighborhood then? Maybe it was just them at the beginning and it would make sense in that case.

But Wally comes up at the end of the audio asking "Did all that really happen, Julie?" like he is asking her like all of that was made up or straight up incorrect.

Aaand I'm done! I'm not even sure any of this makes sense to anyone else, but it was stuck with me since the update and I wanted to draw it and share it.

Maybe it was Frank, maybe it was really Wally, maybe it never happened in the first place but... Everything sound too strange to be as the story says.

And don't get me wrong with all of this! I love Frank and Julie relationship a lot, I am not going against them in any way. I like to go deep inside the stories I am following and I speculate a lot about stuff! (Also I wanna apologize if my english is not the best, it's not my first language)