#its just i really care about this one thing right now and i need to say it but also its kinda like mannnnnnnnnnnnnnn

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part ix)

summary: Winter rolls into Jackson once more, but things are heating up in the big, white house across the street.

a/n: 18+ MDNI smut, but are you ready for the most wholesome smut you've ever read in your life? also update -> so, heh, I'm not really great at smut per se, this one, I've really tried to capture the luuurv, the physicality of it, and I really hope I've done it justice. also, happy earth day people!

There came a time in Joel’s life when he grew so used to boring bullshit that he actually preferred it. He didn’t know if that was old age creeping up on him, dragging him toward the inevitability of doing absolutely nothing, or if he was just plain tired of a life spent running from one disaster to the next. Either way, he found himself appreciating the small mercies. His own simple pleasures.

Going to bed without whiskey clawing its way down his throat. Waking up without his head feeling like a busted canteen. Fresh, warm socks straight from the laundry. Knuckling down and figuring out how to cook something that wasn’t just oatmeal or meat cooked to leather, not because he had to, but because he wanted to get it right.

At some point, he realized he didn’t care much to keep busy anymore—except for when it came to Leela and Maya. But it was strange how a simple life could still surprise him, could still land a punch straight to the ribs with five little words:

“Why don’t you stay here?”

It had caught him mid-sip, a few days after Leela’s little weed trip, while they were eating dinner. He’d had to set his cup down and stare at her. Make sense of it for three seconds. Even though the answer had already been waiting in his gut, inevitable as sunrise, he had smiled:

“Why not, darlin’?”

And yeah, he loved the big, white house. It was Jackson's history, with old black-and-white pictures lining the walls—Leela’s parents, grandparents, ghosts of people who had walked these halls before him. And maybe, in some small way, he was stitching himself into its bones with his work, care, and name. All the little fond memories in every nook of the home. His hands had worn themselves raw winterizing the garden, keeping the fences up, and scraping, painting, hammering, and patching up Maya’s nursery when she got naughty enough to climb right out of the crib. Light fixtures, floorboards, leaky pipes—he’d wrenched his calf muscle twice trying to fix that goddamn water heater.

Now, as Joel sat at Tommy’s dining table, peeling peas like a goddamn housewife, shoulders hunched, fingers working on autopilot, he continued sneaking glances at them—stuck on them. On all the ways it wasn’t working—on all the ways it was. Why not him?

Maya was perched on Tommy’s arm, fiddling with the salt shaker like it was some great mystery waiting to be solved. Tommy, for all his grumbling about how much of a menace she was, held her tight. That kid had him wrapped around her tiny little finger, and everyone knew it. He’d drive her nuts—hide her favourite toy just to get a rise out of her, tease her until she was practically throwing hands at him—but she’d always come racing back, tossing her arms around his neck, giggling as he swung her up high.

Joel’s hands stilled into peeling the peapod.

It was impossible not to notice how Maria and Tommy moved like two parts of a well-oiled machine. He watched them in the kitchen, just weaving in and out of each other’s space without thinking. Like those buzz magnets Sarah used to stick on the fridge from the capsule toys, repelling, colliding, but always snapping back into place. A hand passed a spoon without looking, a playful bump of the hip, a shared smile that needed no words. Tommy smoothed a hand over Maria’s forehead as she ducked too close to a sharp corner, and she didn’t flinch—just trusted.

Maria smirked at him. “Baby, you hover worse than Joel.”

“Please,” Tommy scoffed, stroking up her back. “Joel’s got me beat by a mile. He’s like a damn watchdog with our kid.” He bounced Maya on his arm, glancing at Joel. “Ain’t that right, big brother?”

Joel rolled his eyes, focusing back on the peas. “She’s one. Anybody with a brain watches a toddler.”

Tommy tsked. “You hear that, Maya? Your mean ol' daddy just called me stupid.”

“I mean, if the shoe fits,” Maria teased, setting a pot on the stove.

Maya giggled, still turning the salt shaker in her hands, getting salt everywhere. “Stew-pid.”

Tommy let out a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest like he’d been wounded. “Et tu, Brute?” He kissed her cheek anyway, undeterred.

Joel shook his head, hiding a smirk. He didn’t say it, but Tommy wasn’t wrong. He was like a watchdog when it came to Maya. Couldn’t help it. That little girl had carved out a place in him that he didn’t even know was still open. His little girl. Maybe not by blood. Maybe not by title. But she was his. Just like Sarah had been. Just like Ellie was.

But maybe that’s why watching Tommy and Maria hurt in a way he wasn’t ready to admit. Because what they had—this effortless, built-in kind of love—wasn’t something he’d dreamt of. Now he wanted it.

It wasn’t even physical, not really. It was just… love. Uncomplicated. Reciprocated. A year ago, he would’ve grunted something about getting a room. Tommy would’ve shot back about owning the whole damn house. But now—

He swallowed, shifting in his chair, wondering. Did he and Leela look like that in their home?

No, hell no. No, he wasn’t the type to put effort into how they were perceived. He barely liked acknowledging it himself, how he softened around her, how he let himself be someone else—someone better—when she was near. But it happened anyway, didn’t it? Without him meaning to. Made him want things.

And ever since he wholly made his home at their big, white house, he was sinking into it.

His love for her wasn’t flashy. He didn’t know how far to go beyond small things. He wasn’t the romantic kind of man, the kind to pick flowers or whisper pretty words. He wasn’t great at it, and wasn’t sure how far to go beyond having her coffee ready by her bedside in the morning. Beyond making sure that when he washed the dishes, hers were the first ones he cleaned, every time. Beyond leaving all the hot water for her and Maya, even if it meant stepping into a freezing shower himself when the temperatures were dropping fast.

She never noticed.

Or maybe she did. Because she had her own ways.

He wasn’t proud of how stupidly fond he got over the little things. The times he’d find his old boots, the ones he refused to part with, sitting by his bed freshly polished, patched up with rubber cement like new. Or how the busted projector in the dusty TV room—the one he’d given up on fixing—suddenly worked one night, humming quietly, waiting for him to indulge in some shitty action flick. She never made a big deal out of it and never expected anything in return. She just did things, because that’s how she loved.

God, the damn dopey grin he let out every time he caught on.

But they didn’t move in sync the way Tommy and Maria did around their home. here were rituals and rhythms, but they were dominoes—Joel would pick up where she left off.

Hell, they didn’t even sleep in the same bed. There was always a line. Physical. Emotional. Always a line, a place where he had to stop, where he had to get off.

He hated that fucking line.

He thought they’d been getting somewhere. That all the careful comforts, the small reassurances, the time—that it had chipped away at whatever was keeping her so guarded. Then there was that night.

That late night played back in his mind like a bad dream.

Leela, pacing back and forth, frustrated noises slipping past her throat, her blackboards covered in endless scribbles, eyes darting too fast, too desperate. Her hands shook as she wrote, erased, and rewrote. Then, suddenly, she just… crumpled. Joel found her there like that at two in the morning. Collapsed to her knees. Silent sobs racked her whole body, hands gripping at her hair, shoulders curling inward like she was trying to disappear into herself. The kind of cry that tore her apart, that was meant to be hidden.

It was like a jagged blade to the ribs, seeing her that way, and trying to ignore it. His Leela. His tireless, self-sufficient, do-everything-alone Leela, folded in on herself like a wounded animal.

He’d been on his knees before he even thought about it, hands reaching for hers.

“Hey, baby—” He cupped her palms, kissed them, trying to soothe her out. “It’s okay, darlin’. It’ll come to you.”

And then��she shoved him away. Like he burned her. Like she couldn’t stand him being there. “You don't know anything.”

“No,” he murmured, setting his palms on his knees, “but, talk me through it. I'm right here.”

And he tried to stroke the back of her head now, just to ground her to him, but before he could touch her, she'd jostled his hand off her.

“Please just leave me alone, please,” she’d choked out, voice small, broken. Final.

She might as well have reached into his chest and crushed his heart with her bare hands. He swallowed everything he wanted to say, everything he wanted to do, and stood up, silent. Left her there like he was the one who had misstepped.

And ever since that fucking breakthrough—the discovery she had been chasing for years on end—it had been like this. Slipping. Slipping deeper into whatever obsession had taken hold of her, staring past her own life's work like there was another world hidden behind it. Like she’d solved the last goddamn piece of the puzzle but couldn’t stop staring past it, searching for something else. A prisoner to her mind, a slave to her intellect—and he had no clue how to save her from herself.

He thought a discovery meant solace. That she’d finally rest. Kick back and focus on raising her perfect kid. Instead, she was spiralling. Faster. Harder. And he was left standing there, watching her slip through his fingers.

And maybe he should just let it happen. Let her go. Let her chase whatever was in her head, let it take her, let it swallow her whole. Ignore it, let it blow up in his face, pick up the pieces, and move on. It seemed like the easier option.

Because he sure as hell wasn’t dragging her on some death trip to L.A. to get a bunch of scholars’ rubber stamp of approval. And for what? To hear a bunch of stuck-up assholes tell her what she already knew? To chase after something that might not even be there anymore, past the patrol trails that promised nothing but death?

It wasn’t happening. Not on his watch.

“Joel, can you take this out to the kids, please?” Maria’s voice cut clean through his thoughts. He blinked, glancing up just as she pushed a bowl of garlic knots toward him. “Don’t want them starving before dinner’s done.”

Kids. How the hell Leela had ended up in that category was beyond him. But she’d started hanging around Ellie and her friends more, all of them messing around with her, out of good heart or the fuck of it, he did not know. They’d even managed to rope her into their little hijinks late into the night, like right now.

He’d seen Ellie dragging her outside earlier, that same oversized stack of star charts that Leela had gifted her tucked under her arm, Dina and Jesse trailing right after her with waves, and practically buzzing with excitement. He’d heard snippets of the invitation—something about mapping the constellations, something about seeing the stars “like they used to be.” And, to his surprise, Leela had actually gone along with them.

From inside, he’d catch the sound of laughter floating through the backyard. It wasn’t much, but hell, it was a little relief, knowing she was out there, around some good spirits, instead of pacing around those goddamn blackboards like she was trying to solve the meaning of life.

He stood to take the bowl out, but before he could even make it past the table—

“Da-da.”

Joel stopped in his tracks. Maya had her hands stretched toward him, little fingers grabbing at the air, grinning mouth already open in expectation.

“Pease gimme,” she demanded.

He snorted, reaching over to pop his finger between her lips instead. “Nice try, baby girl. Dinner first.”

“Pease, pease! Aw, da-da!” she whined, brown eyes big and pleading, nearly changing his heart, wriggling against Tommy’s chest in an attempt to get to him.

He just shook his head, slipping away toward the hallway. “Gotta do better than that.”

Tommy was already distracting her with a spoonful of tomato soup that was bubbling away by the time he stepped out the back door.

Outside, the kids were alright. Dina and Jesse were off to one side by the fences, heads bent together in their own little world. Joel should’ve broken them up, should’ve told them to leave some damn space between them, but—

His eyes flicked to Ellie instead.

She was standing a few feet away, arms crossed, staring at the happy couple long and hard. And the second she felt Joel watching her, she snapped her gaze away, clearing her throat and focusing on Leela instead. He tried not to dwell on it, though his brows shot right up in question.

Leela, on the other hand—she wasn’t paying attention to any of it.

She had her head tilted up, her gaze tracking the sky, that damn star map spread open in her hands. She was muttering under her breath, tracing something invisible in the air, her brows drawn together in deep concentration. That look she got—the one where her whole world shrank down to whatever puzzle was in front of her—alive, glowing.

It was the same look she had when she worked through some problem scrawled across her blackboards. The same look she had when she was fixing something—quiet, focused, all sharp edges and restless movement, pulling things apart just to put them back together again. It was amazing how much Maya looked like her mama, she had that exact same look when she tried to decipher the chords as he played guitar.

And god help him, he loved Leela like this. Loved the way she got lost in things, the way her mind worked like a racecar engine. Loved the way she’d get so caught up in the details that she’d forget the rest of the world existed, forget to eat, forget to sleep—loved it, even when it pissed him off.

Loved her. Jesus, it was amazing how his old ass could still get hooked on a girl like this.

Ellie barely had a second to react before he shoved the bowl into her chest. “Haven’t missed the boat just yet, kiddo,” he teased.

Ellie shot him a glare. “Oh, fuck you, Joel.” She shoved a garlic knot into her mouth. “I know Leela’s only tolerating your ass.”

Joel chuckled, stepping forward.

Leela was still lost in the map, tapping a finger against her temple, muttering under her breath as her eyes darted between the lines and symbols. Joel quietly came up behind her, lowering just enough to brush his lips against her ear.

“Lookin' up at your own kind?” he murmured.

Ellie, mid-chew, made an exaggerated gagging noise.

Joel, grumbling, kicked a lazy leg in her direction. “Get outta here. Go on, git.”

Ellie rolled her eyes, snatching another garlic knot from the bowl before slinking off into the house.

Joel, though—he stayed.

Leela finally glanced up from her map, blinking at him like she’d just realized he was there. The slight furrow of her brow softened, the haze of focus giving way to a quiet, warm smile. “Hi, Joel.”

That smile. His name shaped like a hymn on her lips. Subtle. A thing most people wouldn’t catch if they weren’t looking for it. But Joel was always looking, listening. And God, he loved catching her like this. Unaware, until she wasn’t.

He smiled back, slow and knowing, waiting for her to say something else, maybe acknowledge the way he’d lowered his voice just for her, the way he’d leaned in close enough for his breath to stir a few strands of her hair—

But she didn’t. She just turned back to her damn star chart, completely disregarded his sorry attempt at flirting, as if he was nothing more than a passing shadow.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. The only thing worse than flirting with Leela was getting ignored by her.

The air had shifted before he had even noticed. Not by much—just enough that he could feel it. The barely-there stiffness in her shoulders, all the implicit everything sinking in the inches between them.

Because this was the first time he’d properly approached her in two days. He hadn't crossed past the courtesies or bare necessities, this time, he felt like it had soothed over.

The last time being her breakdown. And she was here now—outside, breathing, looking up at the sky like she hadn’t spent days holed up in that house, tangled in her own mind. Like she was okay.

But Joel knew better.

Leela clucked her tongue, rolling up the chart in frustration. “It’s like I’m wasting my potential.” A sigh, thin and frayed at the edges. “I can’t think straight. I can’t find the stupid… star. Something’s wrong with me.”

Joel nudged his shoulder into hers, trying to shake something loose. “There ain't nothin’ wrong with you. You just need to get out of the house a little more.”

She shook her head, already brushing him off. “I’m not teaching at the school, Joel. I told you, it's not for me.”

There was something automatic about the way she said it—premeditated. A flicker of irritation behind her eyes, like she’d already decided where this conversation was going before he even had the chance to take it there.

Joel just lifted a brow. “Not askin' you to.”

Leela blinked, lips parting slightly. Like maybe she’d expected an argument. But he wasn’t Tommy or Maria. He wasn’t anyone else. He wasn’t trying to fix her.

Leela ran a hand down her face, rubbing at her eyes. “I just… it’s so incomplete.” Her voice wavered slightly, barely above a whisper. “I know I’m done, I ran the numbers a hundred times, but I—” She bit her lip, frustration flickering across her face. "I can’t stand the fact that I don’t have anything else to work toward.”

Joel studied her for a long moment.

This wasn’t just about the damn star chart. She needed something. A goal, a project—something to occupy her hands, her mind, something to pour herself into. Because without it, she was stuck in her own head. Stuck waiting.

He reached out, sliding a hand to the back of her head. His fingers traced slow, absentminded strokes before his arm draped heavy around her shoulders, pulling her into his side.

“You need a break, darlin’.”

Leela let herself sink against him, nestling her nose against the worn fabric of his shirt. Her hands slipped against his sides, resting at his ribs, tentative, like she hadn’t touched him in a while and wasn’t sure if she still could.

“And do what?”

“Help me fix up that swing for Maya’s birthday.”

Joel felt the small hitch in her breath before she even lifted her head.

“Maya’s—” She gasped, cupping a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, her birthday. I completely—” Her voice broke slightly. “How did you know?”

Joel shrugged. “Did some mental math. She was barely a month old when we first met. Figure it’s comin’ up soon.”

Leela closed her eyes. “Yes. Christmas.”

“Holly jolly Christmas baby,” he said, snickering. He didn’t know if it was hard-luck or fortuitous that their baby girl’s birthday overlapped with a holiday.

Leela groaned softly, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes. “I’m a terrible mother.”

Joel made a derisive noise, picking her hands off her eyes before cupping her cold cheek. “Nah, just a scatterbrained one.”

And when she finally laughed—light, breathy, warm—it was as if he’d struck gold.

He let himself look at her then. Her long hair was a mess, spilling around her face from the loose braid, wild and tangled from where she’d been tugging at it in frustration. The stars flecked in her big, dark eyes, dim and soft, like the whole night sky had been stitched there just for him.

Christ, he loved her. It hit him in strange moments like this. Not in the middle of some grand declaration, not when they were on the brink of tragedy. Just here. Just in the way she folded against him, breathing slow, in the way she trusted him enough to let her guard down.

Joel brushed his thumb against her temple. “You’re alright, you know that?”

Leela blinked. “What?”

“You,” he murmured. “You’re doin' okay. I've got you now.”

A breath. Then she smiled—small, almost imperceptible, but there. And Joel, stupid, old fool that he was—he fucking melted.

Because he’d said nothing special. Just a handful of words, low and gruff and barely above a whisper. And yet—there was something in her eyes now, reassurance, like she needed to hear it, and she hadn’t let herself believe it until now. Until he said it. Until it came from him.

She tiptoed, her forehead leaning into his, her fingers curling lightly into his shirt. He could feel the warmth of her breath, feel the way she hesitated for just a second, like maybe she was unsure—

But then she kissed him.

Slow, soft, uncertain, and God help him, but he could’ve crushed her right into his bones. “Right now?”

“Just a little one,” she whispered against his lips.

“Killin' me.”

Because it had been too fucking long since he had her like this—since she let him have her like this. And for weeks now, ever since that weed trip of hers, he’d been holding himself back, watching her from a distance, all while within their house, twenty-four by seven, just waiting for the right moment.

His large hand found the curve of her throat, his thumb pressing gently beneath her jaw as he tilted her into his smiling lips, deepening the kiss. She tasted of him, of her, a blend of them both, and Joel wanted to drown in it.

She made a soft noise against his lips, barely there, but felt, and he was already stretching for her ass, already—

“Mama!”

Joel flinched, eyes still half-lidded, mind heady with her, with them, but—Leela broke away immediately, her head snapping toward the deck.

And there stood Maya. The little menace herself, gripping the railing for balance, two entire garlic knots stuffed in her tiny fist.

Joel sighed sharply, tilting his head back toward the sky. Just on time, the peanut-butt cockblocker.

Maya’s attention wasn’t on them, though. No, she was too focused on her real struggle—getting herself down the stairs while holding onto both knots, because apparently, letting go was out of the question.

Joel huffed, already moving. “Hey-ey—now, who the heck gave you those?”

Because Maya didn’t just find food. No, that kid knew exactly who to ask and how to ask. A little manipulator before she even hit two years old.

Maya just grinned at him, all teeth and mischief, one cheek puffed out with the stolen bread, and Joel didn’t even have to guess which poor soul had caved under that wide-eyed, baby-faced con job.

He reached for Maya's hand. “Gimme that. Didn’t I tell you no snacks before dinner?”

And because she was, without a doubt, his worst nightmare—she twisted away from him with a high-pitched squeal, shoving another bite into her mouth as she waddled to the other side of the deck.

Joel sighed. “Goddamn it, trouble.”

Behind him, Leela laughed with her daughter, already climbing up onto the deck. “Alright. C’mere, baby.”

Maya didn’t fight her. Just beamed up at her mama, eyes bright and full of adoration. Leela crouched before her, brushing at the curls on her forehead.

“Can you feed Mama one?”

And just like that—without hesitation—Maya held one out. Anything her mother said, she followed. Anything at all. It was Joel she was coming to rebel against with her little cheekiness. And Joel being completely susceptible to her charms, fell for it constantly.

Leela leaned in, mouth open, and Maya giggled before pushing the knot between her lips.

Joel shook his head, arms crossed over his chest, watching them. Leela, the master Maya manipulator, struck once more.

She hummed in approval, chewing theatrically. “Mmm, so good. One more, please?”

And Maya, delighted, shoved the other half-eaten, slobbery garlic knot into her mother’s mouth.

Joel made a noise. “Jesus.”

Leela, struggling through a laugh, wiped her mouth, grinning. “Thank you, baby.”

Maya clapped her hands together, voice piping up—“No-mo.”

Leela licked some garlic butter from her thumb, grunting as lifted Maya onto her hip. “Let’s get something real to eat before your poor dad pops a vein on his head.”

Joel scoffed, following them up the stairs, feeling every damn step in his knees. “Pop a vein—psh, yeah, you wish.”

Dinner with the Millers' was always a big thing nowadays. Joel, finally, had found himself growing used to the way the table felt a little more complete now, moored closer to one of his own.

Back in the old days—hell, even when it was just him and Tess in Boston—meals were quiet, nothing but the clink of cutlery, the scrape of bowls, the occasional grunt of acknowledgement if someone asked for the last bite. Food had been something to get through, not something to enjoy.

But here? This? It was a whole damn production.

It seemed like Leela, Maria, and Tommy were trying to outdo each other on every dinner occasion. Joel never saw them outright say it, but the evidence was all right here—plates filled to the brim with roasted vegetables and some sort of braised meat that smelled damn near decadent. There was even fresh bread, sliced and golden, butter melting into the soft notches. Warmth, everywhere—lamplight spilling golden across the table, the faint crackle of the fireplace, boots nudging against each other under the table.

And noise. So much noise.

Jesse had ducked out early, leaving Dina to make herself at home beside Ellie, and it didn’t take long for them to get into it.

“Okay, but that is not how you use a fuckin' knife,” Ellie was saying, waving her fork in Dina’s face.

Maria sighed. “There's a talking toddler at the table.”

As if on cue, Maya smacked her little hand onto the table. Ellie showed her teeth at her, sheepish. “My bad.”

Dina rolled her eyes, all dramatic. “Well, excuse me for not being a serial killer, Miss ‘Lemme Show You The Proper Stabbing Technique.’”

Joel smirked at that one, chewing on a piece of trout.

It was a different kind of comfort. Something he still wasn’t used to—this abundance after a long time.

And then there was Leela, stealing his heart, piece by piece. The way she’d always scooted her chair a little closer to his. The way her knee brushed his under the table. The way she let him rest a hand over her thigh, stroke it when he was tense like it was all his. The way she’d laugh when someone cracked a joke at his expense—which was often—squeezing his shoulder like he was some goddamn kicked puppy before turning back to her plate.

Didn’t even take long for that to happen. Joel knew Tommy had that look in his eye—that look, the one that meant he was about to open his dumbass mouth. And sure enough...

“So,” Tommy started, all innocent-like. “How's shackin’ up in the big house treatin’ ya, Mensch Miller?”

Joel wanted to put his fork through his brother’s skull. Right between the eyes. So, he barely spared him a glance. “Go to hell.”

Tommy snorted. “C’mon now, ain't no shame in it. We're all real proud of you for finally gettin’ over your fear of commitment. Folks?”

A round of agreements circled the table—Maria, Dina, even Ellie with a smirk and a nod, like they’d all been waiting for this exact moment. Joel sighed through his nose, already regretting every life choice that led him to this.

Dina leaned in, grinning. “Oh my God. Joel, did you finally put a ring on it?”

Ellie snorted. “Yeah, ‘cause there’s so many jewellery stores open these days.”

Joel shot her a flat look. “Could always carve one outta bone.”

Dina sighed with literal heart eyes. “Aww. So metal.”

Ellie recoiled instead. "Dude—what the actual fuck?"

Tommy wheezed at that one. But Leela didn’t react much at all. Just blinked at them, her expression blank, like she had no idea why the hell they were making such a big deal out of it. Then, casually, like it was the most obvious thing in the world—

“We’re partners,” she said simply, reaching up to his jaw, nails scraping at his scruff. “Right, Joel?”

Joel damn near choked on his own tongue.

Because—what the hell? She wasn’t one for casual touches, wasn’t one for public anything, really. Wasn't some joke, not a passing comment—she just said it, plain as anything. Like it was a truth she’d already made peace with.

Partners. Not a maybe. Not a half-measure. A fact. Halves. Two mates. And it knocked the wind right out of him.

Because Joel had spent so damn long waiting—waiting for her to say something, to define this thing between them, to give him even the smallest indication that she saw him as more than just a man passing through her life.

And here she was, not making a big deal out of it. Not afraid of it, simply stating the obvious. Because fuck, she was right. They were partners now. He had a partner now.

A slow sip of his drink was the only thing that kept him from making an absolute fool of himself.

Dina cackled, slapping the table. “Look at his face. I frickin' love you, Leela.”

Ellie groaned, shoving a bite of food into her mouth. “Jesus, you two deserve each other.”

Maria smirked. “So when’s the big day?”

Dina hummed. “Mm-mm, she'll have to wait, Joel promised to make the ring out of bone.”

Ellie gagged. “Oh my God, Dina—could you please stop with the bone talk?”

Tommy snickered, elbowing him. “Never thought I’d see the day. Big brother all wrangled up.”

Joel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know I got a gun, right?”

Tommy waved a hand, still grinning. “Yeah, yeah. But you ain't shootin’ me ‘cause our baby girl would be real mad at you.”

And then, of course, there was his baby girl in the midst of all this. It had become second nature by now—the back-and-forth of it all, alternating between holding Maya, fending off his teasing family, and feeding her.

Not that it was much of a competition with her. Most of the time, she quietly ended up in his lap, legs dangling over his thigh, picking curiously at the old scar on his forearm as he spooned food into her mouth.

Leela swore she’d grow out of that habit, but Joel wasn’t so sure. He’d seen that girl study the mark like it held the secrets of the universe since she was a few months old. Tiny fingers tracing the jagged edges, soft and intent, like she was mapping him.

Didn’t matter what he put in front of her—if he ate it, she ate it.

Thank God she wasn’t a picky eater like her mama. He still remembered the first few months of trying to get Leela to eat like a normal person—always picking at her food, losing her appetite, always eating just enough and nothing more.

But Maya? Shit. She was his. His perfect little girl—but nothing like him. Loud, expressive, always moving, always talking. She loved to babble, loved to laugh, loved to feed him right from his own damn plate.

“Da-da, aah.”

He moved his head away. “Nuh-uh. Sit your little butt down.”

“Dinna, da-da.”

“I can eat my own dinner, thanks.”

When her adamant whine pierced through the noise on the table, he gave up. Joel barely glanced at her, already sighing as he opened his mouth.

Sure enough, Maya balanced her pudgy feet on his lap and shoved a forkful of fish into his mouth, giggling like she’d just accomplished something huge.

Joel chewed slowly, unimpressed. “Real nice.”

And then—just to add insult to injury—she reached up and patted his forehead, all delicate and reassuring, just like her mama did to her whenever she did something right.

Ellie snorted. “She's just teaching you manners, old man.”

Dina smirked. “Yeah, ever heard of ‘em?”

He shot them both a look but swallowed the bite anyway. Maya squealed like she knew she was being funny, then reached out for his plate again.

Joel sighed, nudging her grabby fingers away. “Alright, move it, baby girl. Ain’t no way you’re finishing my plate before I do.”

The conversation rolled on around him, blending into laughter and stories. Joel drifted in and out of it, shifting his focus between indulging Maya’s antics and half-listening to Tommy and Maria trade jabs about whose turn it was to cook next.

At some point, the conversation took a turn.

“So,” Tommy started, leaning back in his chair. “What’s next, Lee? The last big thing was that lightning harvester. Then you set up the new water filtration thing.” He gestured vaguely as if the list of things she’d accomplished was casual, nothing major. “You always got somethin’ cookin’. What’s next for Jackson?”

The table quieted just a fraction, all eyes shifting toward Leela with a familiar kind of expectation.

Joel felt her stiffen beside him. She didn’t answer right away, just glanced around at them—Dina, Ellie, Maria, Tommy—all waiting for some brilliant, world-changing answer.

But only Joel knew the sleepless nights, he’d seen her try to redo the math, rework the impossible, just to feel like she had something left to solve. So all he’d been able to do was let her at it, leave her to her circles and theories, and go back to bed, waiting for her to wear herself out. He knew that math of hers had wrecked her—driven her to the edge of exhaustion, of obsession.

And now, sitting here, she looked like she wanted to vanish.

So before the silence could stretch too long before they could push her for something she wasn’t ready to say—Joel spoke for her.

“She actually solved the Riemann hypothesis,” he said, casual as anything, like he was commenting on the weather. A little smug, too.

A beat.

Dina blinked. “The—what?”

Ellie narrowed her eyes. “You just made that up.”

Joel sighed, rubbing a hand over his beard. “Nah. It’s a real thing.” He reached for his water and took a slow sip. “Some math theory. Big deal, apparently. Heck if I knew.”

Tommy, to his credit, pretended like he was just hearing about it for the first time, looking between Joel and Leela with exaggerated surprise.

Dina scoffed. “You don’t know?”

Joel gave her a look. “Do I look like someone who spends his time thinkin’ about math?”

Ellie snorted. “Okay, but you can’t just say it’s a big deal and not even try to explain it.”

Joel sighed again, this time more dramatically, because this truly was exhausting him. “Alright. Uh… somethin’ ‘bout numbers. Division. Shit, I don’t fuckin’ know.” He absently stroked Maya's curls. “S’got a lotta squiggles and letters. But little miss genius figured it out.”

Ellie’s face twisted to a shit-eating grin. “Squiggles?”

Joel turned to Leela, mortified at himself, seeking some reprieve. “Tell ‘em.”

Leela, looking a little like she wanted to shrink into the floor, tucked her hair behind her ear and gave a small nod. “I um, did prove the theory. Took my family a really long time to complete.”

“Wait, actually. I've read about Riemann,” Dina went on, straightening in her seat. “That’s the whole—prime numbers thing—no one’s been able to solve that, right? And if you did, you get like a million dollars or something?”

Leela barely glanced up. “Yes, actually. Millenium Prize problem.”

Joel, watching her carefully, felt the way her fingers curled into the fabric of her pants under the table.

Ellie leaned in. “Okay, but like—now what? You can’t just—sit on that, right? Don’t you have to tell someone?”

Leela exhaled, slowly. “It’s… complicated. Our world isn't the way it was.”

Joel saw it—the way her shoulders went tight, the way her face shut down.

Dina wasn’t getting it. “How? This is, like, huge. You should—”

Maria, sensing the tension, jumped in smoothly. “What about you, honey? You got any idea on this?”

Tommy, still side-eyeing Joel, shrugged. “Nah. Not a clue.” He sipped his drink. “I was more into the rabble-rousin’ with the Fireflies. And these FEDRA shits wouldn't care about all that.”

Joel let out a tense breath.

Dina groaned dramatically, throwing herself back in her chair. “Man. Would’ve been so cool to have your name in a book. Or somewhere. Professor of Mathematics, Leela.”

Leela managed a small smile, but her gaze had gone distant.

And Joel hated it. Hated that look. That quiet, almost-accepting disappointment.

He hated that she knew this world didn’t have room for her name in a book. That she’d spent years solving a problem no one would ever see, ever care about. And that should’ve been fine, right? Should’ve been something she could accept. But it wasn’t, because despite everything, despite how much she pretended not to care, she did.

And Joel, he wished like hell there was something he could do about it. That tiny drop of hope snuffed out in her eyes. Like for half a second, she thought—maybe there was a world where what she’d done actually mattered.

And it did. Just not in a way that’d ever change a damn thing.

Joel clenched his jaw, staring down at his glass like it might hold an answer.

There weren’t any. Not for this.

Because he knew how he could help her. Knew there were people—out west, in LA—who might care, who might listen, who might actually do something with what she’d done. There were still Fireflies, still remnants of old-world thinkers, people scraping together the last bits of science that hadn’t been buried under blood and ruin.

And if he told her—if he let her know they existed—she might go.

Leave him. Leave their perfect baby girl. Leave home. And that—he couldn’t let happen.

He needed her here.

Call him selfish? Monomaniacal? Maybe. But he didn’t give a fuck.

Joel had lived his life losing. Lost Sarah, lost Tess, lost whatever scraps of himself made him good once. And now—now, he had her. Had Maya. Had a reason to come home at the end of the day that wasn’t just the routine of it. He had that little vestige of trust and faith back in him, even if the ghosts lingered. He slept knowing he was going to wake up with purpose that wasn't just behind the flare of a rifle or the scent of blood. He had love, a warm home, all this food, these people.

And if Leela left—No.

He wouldn’t think about that. Not ever. He'd give up his breath before she risked it like a fucking idiot.

So he’d keep his mouth shut. Play dumb. Let the world stay small for her, even when she was meant for something bigger. Even when he saw the ache of it in her eyes. Even when he hated himself for it. But that was fine, he'd grown used to his hate.

So he did the only thing he could do—he raised his damn glass.

“To Leela,” he said, confident, eyes warm when they landed on her. “For doin’ the impossible.”

Her head snapped toward him, eyes widening just a fraction. Under the table, her fingers curled tight around his knee, firm—don’t.

She wasn’t the type to bask in praise, wasn’t one to revel in attention. But Joel wasn’t gonna let her disappear into the silence. So instead of backing down, he just smirked, pried her hand off his knee, and brought it to his lips.

His mouth was rough, the scrape of his beard even rougher, but the way he kissed her knuckles—gentle, slow, promising. A prayer he wouldn’t say out loud.

She froze up, breath catching just enough for him to notice, just enough to make his heart slam against his ribs. This was good. She was okay.

The table had gone quiet.

Then Tommy grinned, lifting his glass. “To Lee.”

Maria followed, then Ellie and Dina, voices echoing the words, raising their drinks. “To Leela.”

And then—clap, clap, clap! Maya, grinning wide, smacked her little hands together, delighted by the sudden chorus of voices, as if she had any clue what was happening.

Joel huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You like that, baby?”

Maya just kept clapping, giggling as she looked between Joel and Leela, as if she understood this was about her mama, and that meant it was something right.

And Leela—God, she was looking at him now, like he was impossible, like she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to kiss him or kill him. Joel just held her hand tight, letting his thumb trace slow circles into her skin.

“You deserve it,” he murmured in her ear, meant just for her.

Leela let out a soft breath, almost like a sigh. Then, with barely a beat between them, she squeezed his hand right back.

X

Joel knew he had it good because the thought of reality was the only thing keeping him awake. After all, it felt like his dreams had come true.

But of course, nowadays, when Joel slept, he closed his eyes and he fell deeply, just as he did in love and loss, displaced of his path back. When he did ultimately open his eyes once more to the old patterned ceiling, tucked up in a disgustingly comfortable bed, within a house you could hear the wind slide under the eaves, the soft creak of the old floors settling, Maya’s soft little snores down the hall, the occasional rustle of sheets when Leela moved on her bed, he wasn’t sure when life had slowed down like this, when the days stopped being about surviving and started being about living.

Whatever it was, it was all Leela. She had insisted he take the biggest room when he moved in, and she wouldn’t hear a word otherwise. Stubborn as a damn mule, she’d just stared him down when he tried to argue, and—hell. It wasn’t like he minded. The room was ridiculous, the bathroom even more, with more closet space than he’d ever need, but the real saving grace was the football-field-sized bed.

Probably a thousand silky white pillows, freshly washed and dusted, stacked against a plush leather headboard, spilling over a white duvet. Bed to end all beds. Big enough to sink in between. Lonely enough when it got dark. Close enough to Maya’s nursery that when she woke in the middle of the night, whimpering softly in the dark, he was already moving, already lifting her up before she got too lonely.

Outside, winter had crept in slowly. Mornings turned from golden to white, breaths corkscrewing in steam ribbons against the cold. The sky was that sharp, steel-grey that told you snow wasn’t far behind, and Joel had started waking up to a frost-lined world, rooftops silvered, trees edged in ice.

December now, and Jackson was easing into the Christmas season and spirit—garlands strung between shop corners, lights winking from one lamppost to the next, a huge tree going up in the square, handmade ornaments showing up on doors. He had his own big efforts for Maya's first birthday and Christmas.

And then—just like the night before—it hit him.

Maya was turning one soon. The thought still knocked something loose in him. This tiny thing, this impossibly small, impossibly bright piece of his world who barely reached his knee. Who stumbled around in her little boots like she had somewhere really important to be. Who giggled like it could undo every bad thing in the world, cutting straight through the cold, through the ache in his bones, like it was nothing.

His girl. God, that was still a hard thing to wrap his head around. That she belonged to him. That he belonged to her.

He lay back against the pillows, an arm resting behind his head, and let his fingers graze the stack of Polaroids and photographs scattered across his nightstand. He flipped through each one slowly like one of Maya's bedtime stories, but only this one was real.

One of him and Ellie, captured by Leela, sprawled out on the porch swing, their boots propped up against the rail. Ellie mid-laugh, a cup of iced lemonade dangling from her fingers, frozen in time. He could almost hear her voice, thick with dry humour, and see the way her nose scrunched when she got to the best part of whatever story she was telling.

Tommy, Maria and him, once again captured by Leela, arms slung around each other at the hoedown, cowboy hats tilted over their heads, two of them tipsy and flushed. A night of music and good beer and warmth—the kind of warmth that had been rare for too long. The kind they hadn’t thought they’d find again.

And then—his fingers slowed.

One of them. Pretty sure it was Ellie who took this one. Maya, wedged between him and Leela, four little teeth showing, curls and eyes shining, a fork clutched in her fist, attention stolen by something off-camera. Leela, so beautiful under the flash, one hand curled protectively at Maya’s back, the other resting lightly on the table. And Joel, beside them both, his smile unsure, caught between trying to look natural and trying not to think too much about how unnatural it still felt—being in a picture like this.

But when he looked at it now—it looked so real. The family aspect of it.

He held the photo at arm’s length, studying it, the three of them together.

Though he looked apart from them. Incohesive. Hell, anyone would say it. The rougher, older edges of him, the shade of his skin and theirs, the texture of his hair and their black locks, the way his eyes weren’t the same big, almond eyes. Maya had Leela’s delicate features, her wide dark gaze, and her gentle intensity. And him—well, he was just there. An outsider, a man slotted into the frame, but not quite of it.

Except… that wasn’t true, was it?

Because if he looked long enough, he could see it. The shape of familiarity, how lived-in he seemed.

The way Maya leaned toward him in the picture, just slightly, even distracted as she was. The way Leela’s fingers curled gently toward his wrist, even unconsciously. The way he fit there, in the space beside them, not because he forced it, but because—somehow, without realizing it—he belonged there.

It made sense. Anyone who looked at this—anyone who knew—they’d know exactly what they were to each other.

He swallowed thickly, staring at the picture like it might shift in his hands or it might tell him something new. He wanted to keep it that way, within this frame, the three of them, until the time was up. God, how long would that be? Another few years?

A knock at his door pulled him from it, and he blinked, turning his head.

Leela pushed the door open slightly, peering inside. “Sorry. Do you have some time?”

He had his whole life for her, even if it was overkill. Joel cleared his throat, setting the Polaroids aside. “Always.”

She stepped inside, and Christ.

She was barefoot, those thin gold-chain anklets winking at him in the low light. The soft curve of her calves disappeared beneath the loose folds of that goddamn pearl-button nightdress—the one that never failed to drive him insane. It was slipping off her shoulder just enough to make his life miserable, the bare silhouette of her body teasing at the edges of his vision, itching his palms with the worst kind of temptation.

Joel sat up, rubbing a slow hand down his face, across the scruff along his jaw, suddenly feeling a hell of a lot more awake.

She didn’t hesitate, swishing the fabric under her as she perched on the edge of his bed, legs dangling off.

“I was just on the swing set before it started to snow,” she told him, her voice all wistful. “I think I might love it more than Maya does.”

Joel chuckled, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how baby girl’s gonna feel about sharing.”

It hadn’t taken him long to put together the swing set that stood proudly in the front yard—just a hell of a lot of effort, some cursing under his breath, and more muscle than he cared to admit. Sturdy wood, painted deep green, with painted pink and yellow flowers curling along the edges. The seat hung from two thick ropes, knotted tight, built to last. All safe and ready for his little girl.

Leela had helped, like she promised—though if her irritated grumbling was anything to go by, woodworking sure as hell wasn’t her calling. She hadn’t complained once about the splinters, but he caught her wincing every time she flexed her fingers, scowling down at the stubborn bits of wood lodged in her skin.

Joel, now, watched the way her gaze flicked to the photographs near his pillow, her expression shifting—soft, thoughtful. He didn’t move, just waited, letting her take her time.

Her brows furrowed slightly, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “How are your feet?”

Joel smirked, sinking back onto one elbow. “They're toasty, thanks.”

She pulled one knee up to her chest, resting her chin on it, fingers absently picking at a loose thread on her nightdress. “Mine too.” A grin flickered across her face. “I feel like my parents around you nowadays.”

That had him raising an eyebrow. “How's that now?”

Leela hesitated, her fingers stilling. Then, almost cautiously, she said, “You know… a couple. Partners. Married.” That last word barely even made the breath.

Joel stayed quiet, processing that for a moment. Shit, he couldn't. He almost blacked out.

“They were so crazy in love, Joel. Even at eighty.” A fond laugh slipped from her. “Dad would have her coffee ready every morning, help her tie her shoelaces, and open doors for her. Dance with her every night before bed. Never let her raise a finger around the home, even after the whole world came crumbling down around us.”

She smiled to herself, the memory a gentle thing.

“I’m gonna make you the happiest, fattest, laziest wifey in Jackson, sweetheart,” she recited, voice taking on a deep, playful lilt, like she was echoing her father's exact words.

Joel huffed out a laugh. “Sounds like a stand-up fella'.”

Leela nodded, then faltered, her lips parting like there was something else—something she wasn’t sure she should say. Joel waited, his fingers twitching against the blanket, patient.

Then softly, quietly, “He would've liked you.”

Joel looked away, to itch at his temple, hiding a grin. The thought of this man—the man who had made Leela feel safe, loved—looking at him and thinking he’s good enough for my little girl? No, he would've given him a hard time. Especially since no one stood to compare to Leela, much less a man like Joel, hitting sixty and greying. Her father would've come at him with his expensive shotgun.

Leela’s gaze lifted to his, eyes foolproof. She took a breath. “I feel like that with you.”

Joel's throat worked tough. His body had already moved before his mind caught up, his hand reaching out, fingers trailing along her temple, dipping into the thick waves of her hair.

“Like a fat, lazy wifey?” he murmured.

Leela let out a tiny, breathless laugh and immediately covered her face with both hands, her shoulders curling in. “Yeah. Is that bad?”

Joel’s grin pulled at his mouth, satisfaction sitting right on his bones. His thumb brushed over the curve of her cheek, a little more deliberate now, a little more his. “That’s the goal, sweetheart.”

Leela peeked at him through her fingers, then, as if gathering herself, slowly reached out and took his hand from her face. She held it in her lap, turning it over, tracing the rough lines of his palm. The callouses, the broken skin, the deep grooves time had worn into him.

She ran her thumb along the ridge of a scar, a flash of quiet passing through her expression. Not pity—Leela never looked at him like that. Just knowing. Understanding.

“Do you remember what you told me?” she murmured, still studying his hand, watching the way her fingers disappeared against the breadth of his palm. “That night after the bar?”

Joel exhaled, a deep thing, pulse hammering up his veins. “Do you?”

She squinted, like she was trying to piece a puzzle together, like it lived just at the edges of her memory.

“I don’t remember much. It's hazy.” Her voice dipped even quieter. “You told me you love me.”

Joel swallowed. His fingers flexed against hers before curling, his palm pressing lightly to her own like she might slip away if he didn’t hold onto her properly.

“And I’ll say it again,” he assured.

Leela finally looked up, meeting his gaze fully. Her fingers curled tighter around his hand, holding him there.

“I want to feel you now, Joel,” she said, soft but sure, like it was something she had already decided. “Loving all of me.”

A deep and molten flame uncoiled in him at her words, cracked something wide open.

Because she remembered. And he remembered the way she had trembled under him that night, high and reckless and desperate for something he wouldn’t give her. And he had whispered the only inevitable promise that he had ever felt—

“One day, when I’m deep inside you, I am all you're gonna be thinkin' of. Just me, loving all of you.”

And now—now Leela was here, in front of him, sober and clear-eyed and asking him for the very thing he had promised her.

Joel didn’t rush. He just reached for her, wanting and calm, his fingers trailing from her wrist, up the length of her arm, to her chin. He tilted her face toward him, waiting. Giving her the space to change her mind.

Leela stared at him, eyes, lips, eyes, lips, and it had him in agony. A prolonged soon enough, she simply lifted her lips to his like an offering.

And he took.

He kissed her like a man who had gone without for too long, hands crushing her closer to him, like a man afraid to break the very thing he craved. Worshipping her was softer than before because now he knew she wanted this. He knew she was choosing this. Choosing him. Out of all the sick, sorry bastards in this world, she picked him. Him.

“Gonna make you feel good,” he promised between kisses, hungering forward for more. “I'll make you feel like a queen, baby. I'll give you everything.”

Her fingers trailed up, skimming the scruff at his neck before splaying over his chest. The warmth of her touch shot straight through him, and he exhaled against her mouth, pressing closer. Mad, so mad for this.

Then, gently, he guided her hands to his shirt buttons.

He wasn’t in any hurry. This wasn’t about taking—this was about letting. Letting her have control, letting her set the pace, letting her know she could stop whenever she wanted.

Leela pulled away just enough to glance down at his shirt, her breath catching.

“Go on then, help me out,” he urged.

That’s when he saw it—the hesitation. The clear-cut hysteria that hadn’t been there last time, numbed to the effects of weed. With her clarity came everything else. Every dread, every old wound, every aching recollection, every scar she carried in places he couldn’t see.

Joel stayed still, barely breathing, watching the way her fingers hovered over the buttons, how they trembled as she carefully popped the first one open. Then the next and next.

She pushed the fabric from his shoulders, her hands mapping him quietly, tracing it all. She touched everything—the pale scars left by unseen blades, the sealed bullet wounds, the old burns, the places where life had carved him up and forced him to heal around the damage. Her dark gaze lingered on the fine scruff dusting his chest, palms gliding lower, following the path where dark hair thinned down his stomach before vanishing beneath his waistband.

She wasn’t just looking. She was memorizing. Good, let her. This was all hers anyway.

“Ruined,” he mumbled.

“Survived,” she corrected.

He slid the sleeves off his arms, balling his shirt up in his hands before tossing it aside. Joel leaned back against the headboard like a king waiting on a feast, his legs spreading slightly, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he breathed. His gaze was heavy-lidded, thick, deep and everything unspoken.

Then, slowly, he stroked a palm over his thigh. “Come sit, darlin’.”

Leela hesitated. He could see it in the way her fingers curled and uncurled on the duvet, like she was feeling her way through the moment. But she followed, just like he knew she would, crawling over until she was straddling him, the seam of her legs spread over his zipper, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips.

Joel felt the warmth of her, the light press of her thighs against him, the way her breath hitched when her hands came to his shoulders, fingers curling lightly over muscle and scar.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “You're just perfect, aren't you?”

She nodded. Then blinked in realization, then shook her head, sighing. “Shut up.”

“Psh. Look at you. I ain't gonna.”

His own hands found her waist, steadying her, tracing slow circles over the fabric of her nightdress. This girl was made to be loved.

Then his fingers slid up, tracing her figure, until he was right over those goddamn pearl buttons.

He wanted to take them apart with his teeth, but that wasn’t the way to do this—not tonight. So he traced the cool surface of each one before carefully slipping them free, one by one, big fingers graceless over the little buttons.

The moment the last one came undone, he leaned forward, his eyes never leaving hers, watching every flicker of emotion cross her face. The anxiety, the confusion... the curiosity way beneath it. Observing him.

And then he sank his teeth into the delicate skin on her sternum.

Leela sucked in a sharp breath, her fingers tightening on his biceps.

Joel groaned against her, dragging his lips over the mark, spreading slow, open-mouthed kisses over the same spot, soothing it, claiming it.

He let the thin sleeves slide off her shoulders, watching the way the fabric slipped down her arms, pooling at her midriff.

Joel exhaled sharply, his grip tightening just a fraction before smoothing over her skin again like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

Because Christ, how was she real? Where had that lonely, grey fart upstairs been hiding her all this time?

She was all honey-warm skin and soft, dusky curves. Her breasts rose and fell with each uneven breath, her ribs tautening, beneath the subtle dip of her waist. His gaze traced the gentle flare of her hips, the little softness at her love handles, the way her toned stomach tensed as she held herself still, waiting—watching him with those deep, knowing eyes.

“Joel?” she whispered.

“You're...” He blinked twice. “You're so beautiful.”

For a terrible lack of words, he wasn't exactly a fucking poet. He really wanted to tell her that she was the Powerball lottery in his life, that even her smartass brain was sexy, and that when she breathed, he was pretty sure a flower bloomed right under her damn feet.

But she managed a quiet laugh. “Oh-kay.”

And Joel had never believed in God much, but if there was one, he’d have to offer up a damn prayer of thanks. Only took thirty whole years.

He let his hands roam, rough fingertips skating over the curve of her waist, following the soft lines of her body. She was delicate, strong, warm, and hesitant, all at once, and beneath the tension in her shoulders, he could feel the slight tremble in her limbs.

She trusted him with this. With herself.

Joel wasn’t about to fuck that up. So he took his time.

He smoothed his palms over her ribs, feeling the way her bones flexed beneath his touch. His thumbs brushed over her perfect nipples, the peaks stiffening, drawing the softest sound from her throat—a breathy little whimper that damn near destroyed him.

His control hung by a thread as he ducked his head, finally taking her into his mouth.

His lips closed over her, hot and slow, his tongue flicking, tasting, teasing. He lavished her with attention, spreading kisses across the swell of one, then the other, loving them equally, thoroughly.

“Fuckin' don't deserve any of this,” he said through his teeth, clutched on a nipple.

“What are you...” she whispered.

He was surrounded by Leela, arching into him, encouraging his lips where she wanted him, and he didn't spare a thought to her instincts. If she wanted him, she'd have it. Her fingers trembled before they slid into his hair, sweeping back through the silver-streaked strands, holding him there like she was trying to commit the sight of him—eyes half-closed, mouth on her, glorifying her—to memory.

Then, without thinking, Joel bit down—just enough to pull a sound from her throat, her grip on his hair tightening, nails scraping against his scalp.

Didn’t think she’d like that. But she did. Nice.

“Joel,” she whispered.

His smirk was slow, lazy, drawn out against her flushed skin as he let his tongue wander over the reddening mark he’d left before sealing it with a leisurely, possessive suck.

“Shit, baby,” he muttered, voice gone husky. “If this is what you taste like here, can’t imagine what you taste like down there.”

Leela’s breath hitched hard. “Down what…?”

The way she said it—uncertain, like the thought had never fully occurred to her—lit a fire in his gut. Primal, claiming, wanting. Frantic.

She wouldn’t know. Of course, she wouldn’t.

It wasn’t like there had been time for teenage exploration when the world had gone to hell. No fumbling hands in the dark, no stolen kisses at parties, no whispered giggles between sheets. Sex was a free-for-all in QZs obviously, and he sure as hell doubted porn had been a practicality when she’d been at that wonderful age of curiosity.

Which meant this—the way she looked at him, the way her breaths stared back up when he so much as hinted at what he wanted to do—was something else entirely.

Yeah, Joel had never been more careful in his damn life.

“Christ,” he rasped, dragging his hands slowly down her back, fingers tracing the dip of her spine, the delicate lines of her body. "Well, at least a little touch. Lemme feel you.”

“Feel,” she murmured, confused.

He showed her his hand. Then two fingers. Then his thumb. Hoping that was enough for her to get the message across. “Feel.”

She hesitated for only a moment, but then—God help him—she nodded. That was all the permission he needed.

“Let's get this off you,” he muttered. “Wanna see you.”

He eased the night dress up and over her head, watching the fabric pool around her before slipping off completely. Her thick braid slapped softly against her back, and then—there she was.

All herself. Just Leela.

She sat before him in nothing but those little white linen panties, tied into thick knots at her hips—ruffled edges, sweet, soft, so goddamn cute—and his. Yeah, his. All mine.

And then his hands were on her again, slow, reverent, like he had the luxury of time. Because he did. Because this was about her, about her knowing she was safe, knowing she was loved, knowing he'd go wherever she liked him to.

His longest finger wandered closer and closer from her hips, and brushed beneath the edge of her panties, a featherlight bump against that warm, soft groove. Just to let her know.

His jaw clenched, muscles locking as he willed himself to go slow, to savour every second of this, to feel her breathe against his cheek as he did it.

Her eyes flickered up to his, eyes locking. Wide. Waiting. Knowing this wasn't over.

He held her gaze as he pushed further in between her folds, just enough to feel the heat of her, the damp silk of her against his fingertips—aching, perfect, warm.

Her lips parted. A little gasp, barely a sound.

And then her eyes fluttered shut.

He felt it the second she let go, the second she allowed herself to slip into it, to trust what he was doing to her.

His coarse fingers carefully traced, explored, and learned. A decade out of practice, but instincts were instincts. And he knew how to listen—how to really listen. The way her breaths stuttered when he circled just right with the pad of his thumb at the little bud of nerves, the way her body clenched when he curled deeper inside where he needed to. When his fingers worked her low and slow, in loving accuracy, how she completely arched into him, warm walls pressuring around his fingers.

Then, a tiny sound. Soft. Desperate. “Joel, please.”

Fuck. Every person needs to hear that once in their lifetime. Their whole other half just falling apart while clinging to your name.

His stomach tensed, heat surging through him so sudden and hard he had to close his eyes, had to bite down hard on his own restraint before he did something stupid—like buck against her like a goddamn teen and blow a load into his jeans.

Because of the way she moved into his palm, the way her hips found the rhythm like instinct, like something she’d always known but never had the chance to learn—Jesus Christ, his frail heart was going to fail him.

“I know,” he breathed, voice gruff. “I know. Goddamn it, you’re so beautiful. So perfect f'me.”

How unoriginal. Cliché as a bitch. But what the hell else was he supposed to say? Write haikus? Sing praises? He would, if he had any sanity left. She was carved from silent fire and untouchable grace, delicate and untamed, something that had no damn business ending up here, in his ruined hands.

Her fingers dug into his back, ravaged by sensation, nails sinking in, breaking the skin, drawing blood—maybe. Didn’t fucking matter. Even that was sexy. That pain was welcome, something he'd carry with him like a brand, a scar he’d look at in the mirror tomorrow with a lazy smirk and think, yeah, my girl did that.

And then—he felt it. That old familiar twitch against his fingers, the way her body tensed, breath shuddering, forehead dropping against his.

She was close.

And if she was going to come, it wasn’t going to be on his marred hands. No way in hell. He needed to feel her come on him everywhere. Needed it to hit him so deep he felt pinpricks behind his goddamn eyes.

“Baby, hang on. Fuck, honey, gimme a second,” he rasped, voice wrecked, dragging his fingers out from her, savouring the heat, the slick. He popped them into his mouth, groaning low at the taste, the perfection of her. Wasn’t about to waste a single drop.

Leela only watched him, unusual, confused. “So strange.”

He wiped his mouth. “Unreal, baby. Taste so good.”

Then, shifting back against the headboard, he pulled her closer onto his lap. His hands slid up her thighs, thumbs stroking slow circles, coaxing, calming.

He nodded at his pants. “Wanna help me out of this?”

She nodded, still flushed, and reached down. Soft, slender, long hands worked the button loose, nudged the zipper down, knuckles grazing his stomach, fingers tracing down the happy trail, lower, lower—

She sucked in a breath when she laid eyes on the good stuff that sprang free.

He saw the flicker in her eyes, and he prayed to whatever was looking over him that he was in all right proportions, that he was to her liking, that he was good enough for her. But the way she seemed to assess, hesitating... Curiosity? Oh, good—anything other than disgust.

Then she glanced up at him, brow pinched. “You’re not wearing...”

He blinked, momentarily lost in his own haze, until he realized. Oh, for fuck’s sake.

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. God bless America.”

The laugh that burst out of her was sudden, real, pure, like she hadn't expected it. She did a double-take, covering her mouth, her shoulders shaking.

“Omigod, Joel. You’ve been walking around without underwear this whole time?”

He smirked, gathering her back into his arms, hands already working at the ties of her little knotted panties. “Alright, get your judgy ass over here.”

Two tugs, and they were gone, joining the mess of discarded clothes on the floor. He gave her tight behind a nice squeeze. “Y'know, you've got the perkiest butt I've ever seen. All that lifting and stretching—you drive me crazy with those teeny little shorts.”

She twisted his ear playfully. “So that's why you're always messing up with the tools.”

“Oh, yeah. Prettiest pussy, too,” he whispered, winking.

“Joel!” she hissed.

And then—finally—she was straddling his lap, stripped, all soft thighs and tough calves, muscles flexing as she adjusted, aligned over him, and found her balance, fingers curled into the headboard for support.

A little smile tugged at her lips. And it killed him. “Hi.”

“Hi, honey,” he murmured.

She was stunning—lean, strong, effortless. A goddamn supermodel. That hair, those muscles, those striking eyes, she had him by the balls and he wasn't complaining.

He held her hips, warm, smooth skin beneath his rough palms, a thumb tracing the soft, wet seam at her legs. He pushed a testing finger in, and she shivered.

“You ready for me?” he murmured.

She exhaled softly, before her hand came down, sliding into his hair, down his ear, his cheek—thumb brushing over his lips like she was memorizing him like he was something sacred.

And then, so quiet, so sure—“I want to feel all of you.”

Jesus fucking Christ. Not fair. Not fucking fair. That should’ve given him a second, a moment to react, to curse, to do something—

But then she moved. And finally, finally, she took him inside her. Right where he’d been aching for her.

Heat. Tight. Unreal.

“Fuuuck.” A deep groan ripped out of his chest as she plunged down onto him, enveloping him in pressure so impossibly hot, impossibly incredible, that his head kicked back against the headboard.

Strain. Resistance. So much love.

Her body rebelled, not used to this stretch, this fullness, and when a sharp, quiet cry slipped from her, she buried it against his cheek. “Please.”

His breath stilled. Instinct flared hot in his veins—not desire, but protection, care, a tethered restraint that warred with the desperate need to move, to feel her completely.

His arms circled around her, strong. His lips found the edge of her eye, feeling the trail of tears, murmuring against her skin, “I'm right here, baby. You're doin’ so good. Take me so well.”

“It hurts,” she cried out sharply.

“I know, sweetheart, I know. You want to take a breath for me?”

And she did. A nice, long, deep one into his neck. The hot air ghosted around his nape. Then two more, until it felt like her breaths were finally stuttering back into her.

He kissed her eye. “That's a good girl. You got this. Eyes on me.”

She nodded shakily, holding his gaze.

“Only me, alright?”

He tightened his hold on her hips, not to force, not to move—just to be there, to keep her close as he raised up, his back protesting with a pricking ache, meeting her halfway, easing her down inch by inch, a motion as old as time, gentle, ready, his.

“Feel like a dream, darlin’,” he whispered against her skin, voice barely holding together.

A shiver. A squeeze around him, tight and sweet, like a pulse, a welcome. This was his home.

And he felt it—this wasn’t just physical, wasn’t just something done to her, wasn’t something she was just letting happen.

She wanted every inch of him. And Joel was going to move fucking mountains to give it to her.

Joel moved with her, for her, matching the slow, hesitant rhythm she set. Each slide into her was deep, measured—he wasn’t chasing anything except her, wasn’t losing himself in the feeling of her wrapped around him, not yet. No, this was about letting her take what she needed. About making sure she knew, in her bones, that this was hers. He was hers.

“Joel, is this okay?” she panted.

He looked up at her and sighed from numb lips, “Baby, how the hell are you real?”

Because Jesus, if she wasn’t the sexiest goddamn thing he’d ever seen—the way her brows pinched, the way her pretty mouth parted, the way her breath hitched when he hit that spot.

The way her body crashed above him, her hands clung to the headboard, his shoulders, nails gripping, grounding—she was giving him everything without even realizing it. A little gasp left her lips each time he lifted his hips, rocking against hers, pushing her just a little bit further, testing the limits of what she could take.

His fingers smoothed down her spine, following the curve of her back, his lips finding her throat, the little hollow just beneath her ear.

“That's my good girl,” he encouraged, voice rough, rasping into her ear. “Feels nice, don’t it? Feels real nice.”

She shuddered, a little whimper catching at the back of her throat. Her thighs tensed around him, gripping tight around his neck, but her movements faltered. A stutter. A hesitation.

Joel slowed. Just enough to feel her, to see her, to be sure.

And that’s when he knew. That she wasn’t quite there. No matter how wet she was, how ready and tight she was around him, something in her body held back.

But it wasn’t fear or pain or shyness or any of that bullshit. It was just unfamiliar. A wariness just under her skin, something holding her back, keeping her from letting go.

And Joel understood.

His gut tightened, hurt pulling at his chest, but this—this wasn’t just about fucking. It wasn’t just about getting her to some peak, some finish line, some goal he had to chase.

It was about unlearning. It was being with her. It was about replacing whatever fucked-up pain in her, whatever taking had come before, with something soft, small and theirs.

And if she didn’t come or if she didn’t even know what that felt like—hell, that didn’t change a goddamn thing. Didn’t change the way he was making love to her, how much he loved her, loved feeling her move on top of him, for him.

It also didn’t change the fact that he was already hanging by a thread, already wound too tight, already gritting his teeth to keep himself from losing it, because she felt too good, too right, like she was made to be wrapped around him, to take him this deep.

He wasn't going to last very long, he was pushing his limit here, his prime of life was to blame for that. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold onto the moment, hold onto her—but it was too much, too perfect, too fucking good.

His hands flexed at her hips, gripping, steadying her, his own control unravelling fast.

“Jesus—Leela, I'm—!”

“Joel?” she called, concerned almost.

He wanted to wait as long as he could. Wanted to hold off, wanted to take her there with him, to let her feel all of it, but this old fucking desperate body—

But then she moved, sinking down, rolling her hips against him in just the right way, and he broke.

“Oh, shit!”

A deep, guttural sound tore from his throat, his arms snapping tight around her waist, pulling her flush against him as he spilled deep inside her, every muscle in his body seizing up. His forehead dropped to her shoulder, breath ragged, fingers flexing against her slick skin.

He stayed like that for a moment, ears ringing, buried in her, completely wrung out, slumping into her, breathing her in, feeling her heartbeat pound against his own. Oh, but he was currently in orbit, in fucking space.

And then—when his thoughts returned back to planet Earth, back to Jackson, back to this home, when the haze started to clear—he pulled back, just enough to see her.

She looked… confused. Like she'd gone wrong somewhere. Lips parted, eyes hazy, looking between them, like she was waiting for something, like she wasn’t sure if this was it.

She blinked. “I...”

Joel watched her, studied the soft rise and fall of her chest, the way her body still trembled around him, the way her fingers curled gently against his throat.

She didn’t know, of course. Didn’t realize. That she hadn’t come.

And he didn’t feel bad about it—not in the way a man might, not in the way that turned it into some failure, something to gnaw on, to carry like a weight. Shit, she'd gone as far as to relive this for him.

But still—he wanted to give that to her. Wanted her to feel it, to know what it meant to be shattered and held together all at once.

“One more try, okay?” he rasped, barely breathing it into her skin. He kissed her shoulder, collar and throat. “Gimme one more. You can do it. Just hold onto me.”

A small smile came alive on her lips. “Okay.”

Joel bore down again, gripping her hips tighter, pulling her closer, pushing deeper—trying this time, rather than feeling.

His breath came wild, strained, body shaking with the force of it, sweat splashing lazily onto her breasts, in the effort of making her feel it. His heart was hammering, his arms flexing, his thighs burning as he surged up into her, chasing that high for her, something he needed to give her.

And still—still—Leela just watched him. Soft, quiet, moving with him, letting him take her, feeling his strength beneath her, stroking his cheek, his hair, her fingertips whisper-light against his damp skin.

No gasping desperation, no frantic, uncontrolled unravelling. Just… this.

And Joel—fuck—he didn’t know what to do with that. She wasn’t pretending. Would be nice if she did. She wouldn’t know how to fake it, would she? Wouldn’t know the right way to move, the right way to sound, the right way to let a man know he was making her come undone and get this over with.

And the realization punched him in the gut. Blindsided him completely.

It wasn't about to happen. He'd just have to let go.

But Joel couldn’t stop. Not now, not when he was this close. When he was teetering on the fucking edge. When his body was demanding release with an intensity he hadn’t felt in years.

“I'm sorry,” he murmured, shaking his head. “Sorry, I can't. I can't.”

“Joel, it's okay, it's okay,” she coaxed.

So he held her down, his grip firm, desperate. Feeling so fucking selfish as he pushed and pushed harder. Broke a sweat. Gave it everything he had left in him, one last time—until his muscles locked, until heat ripped through him once more, until he spilled deep inside her again with another ragged, shuddering groan.

And Leela—sweet, accepting Leela—just cradled him through it. Breathed against his cheek, kissed his ear, smoothed her hands over his hair, and ran her fingers along the tense lines of his back, comforting him.

Because Joel had never felt more fucking helpless in his life. He buried his face in her neck, his arms locking tight around her, his body wracked with aftershocks, his chest rising and falling hard against hers.

“Joel,” she said, a softness behind his name.

His throat was tight. He swallowed. “You have to—you haven't—”

“I feel really good,” she whispered. “Really good.”

Joel breathed in deep, exhaled slow. She meant it. She felt good. It wasn’t some half-truth, some lie to spare his feelings. Leela didn’t lie to him—she didn’t know how to, not in a way that mattered.

So he let it go. Let himself believe her. However difficult and excruciating it was.

“Do you wanna lie down?” he murmured, brushing the backs of his fingers over her jaw. “Lemme clean up and hurry back to you, alright?”

“Okay.”

She nodded, watching as he rolled out of bed, buckled up his pants, and stretched his sore back with a quiet grunt. That pleasant ache in his muscles, he could get used to this. He ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, then disappeared into the bathroom.

The second he flicked on the light, he set both hands over the sink, bracing himself. His reflection stared back at him, every line on his face a little deeper, slick with sweat, his greying scruff a little rougher, hair a Leela-made mess. His body was still running hot, his ears still rung, still a little shaky in the aftermath.

But under all that? Confusion. Loathing. Every i had been dotted, every t crossed. So what the hell went wrong?

His fingers turned the tap on, ran cool water over his palms. He splashed some onto his face and neck and chest, let it dribble down to his throat, rinsed his mouth and took another breath.

“You goddamn dud,” he muttered to himself.

Maybe it was him. All those years of nothing. Years of his body belonging to no one but himself. Years of only touching for a release. A ferocious protector, sure, but it made him an incapable lover. He never knew a damn thing about the female body, how to work it, how to please her. Should've let her come on his hand when he had the chance. Stupid, greedy asshole.

With a final splash of water to his face, he scrubbed a wet hand through his hair and stepped back into the bedroom. Time to face the music.

Leela had already slipped her nightdress back on, the straps falling just slightly off her shoulder, her hair combed back a little neater. She was curled up against the pillows, drowsy, waiting for him.

Joel didn’t hesitate to slide into bed beside her, sinking into the warmth of her body like he belonged there. Like they’d been doing this forever.

She nestled in closer automatically, her breath soft against his cheek. His fingers trailed down her face with a slow, lazy kind of affection, committing the shape of her in this light to memory..

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured.

She smiled sleepily, amusement tugging at the corner of her lips. “You said that a lot.”

“Mean it every time,” he said, voice rough. “You’re my dreamgirl.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, low and teasing, but her fingers curled into his chest, holding onto him like she didn’t quite believe it.

“So I’m supposed to come, is that it?” she mused, drawing out the words.

Joel had spent most of his life keeping things simple. Straightforward. No fuss, no questions, no goddamn talking about it.

He let out a long, suffering sigh, pressing his forehead to hers. Jesus, he could just roll over and fix this. He would—happily. But for once, he didn’t want to rush, didn’t want to miss the quiet, golden stretch of time between basking in the afterglow and sleep.

“It amazes me that you don’t know that,” he muttered.

She shrugged, unbothered. “I did feel nice.”

He shook his head. “I'm sorry, I couldn't give it to you.”

Her eyes softened. She turned her face into his hand, pressing a deep, lingering kiss into his palm. He swallowed around it, around the way it made him feel—too big, too much, too good.

“Don't be. I had a lot of fun,” she admitted.

Fun. Sex had never been fun. Not for him, Not in his whole goddamn lifetime. It had been a release, a need, a way to forget or feel an ounce of freedom. But fun? Especially from someone who'd been through hell on this?

He looked at her like she’d just rewritten the entire world in front of him.

“I could get used to this with you. Just... slowly.”

His brain short-circuited. “Used to this with me?”

She nodded, pushing half her face shyly into the pillow, a single, shining brown eye peering up at him.

Jesus Christ. He really was about a pop a vein in his forehead. “Right back at you,” he managed.

Then she lifted onto her elbow, hovering over him, her fingers trailing slow, aimless patterns over the fuzz on his chest. Her touch wasn’t meant to start something—to tease or demand. It was just her, touching him because she wanted to. Because she could.

“Don’t look at me like that, darlin’,” he grumbled, already feeling the heat creep back into his body. “I can barely see straight anymore. There’s three of you in front of me.”

She grinned, leaning in so close her lips almost brushed his. “It’s usually the one in the middle.”

He let out a hoarse laugh, shaking his head. “I ain’t one of your damn machines either. If I am, well—I need big repairs. Gotta oil my gears, tighten some screws.”

She kissed his cheek with a soft giggle, once, twice—then a third time to his lips, slow and sweet. A silent promise. A quiet goodnight.

“I’ll take twenty years off you in no time,” she murmured, nuzzling her nose against his. “You’ll be living till you’re a hundred. Goodnight, Joel.”

She nestled back into the cold pillows, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, guiding him close until his face was tucked between her neck and the soft swell of her chest.

Joel breathed out, letting himself sink into her. His arms slung over her waist, pulling her close until there was nothing between them, his leg tangling with hers.

“Till I’m a hundred, my ass,” he muttered, already halfway asleep. “You keep ridin’ me like that, I’m kickin’ rocks at sixty.”

She gasped, appalled. “Joel!”

He grinned against her skin, pressing a kiss to her throat. “G'night.”

X

Joel felt that night in his bones for three days straight.

The delicious ache, the lingering burn, the way his body still hummed like it was catching up to itself—he felt every damn bit of it. Like walking about with a brand on his chest, her name in big, fat capitals, burned into his skin that wasn't ever going to fade. If he let his mind wander, he swore he could still feel the imprint of her nails on his shoulders, the scratch of her breathy moans against his throat.

It had been a long, long time since he'd felt this kind of soreness, since he'd let himself have anything that good. And now that he had—Christ, it was all he could think about.

Sure, his stamina wasn’t what it used to be. He wasn’t some young buck anymore, wasn’t out here trying to prove anything. That kind of energy belonged to a different lifetime. A life where survival meant running, fighting, bleeding, and losing.

But now?

Now, his life was slow. Lazy. Boring. And fuck, if it wasn’t the best goddamn thing in the world.

Every morning, he woke up in what he could only rightfully call the bed to end all beds—wrapped up in a too-soft duvet, which made it near impossible to leave. Sheets tangled around his legs, pillows propped just right. But the best part?

Leela. His girl. Partner. Whatever the fuck. Just call her his.

Sleeping right beside him, fingers still loosely twisted around his from sometime in the night.

He wasn’t a man prone to sentiment. But every single morning, without fail, he’d lie there for a minute, blinking slowly at the ceiling, feeling her warmth beside him, and he’d think: what the hell evil did I destroy to deserve this?

Because he didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve to wake up slow, wrapped in her warmth. Didn’t deserve the way she just let him have this—her body, her trust, her time. But she gave it anyway.

And if he was weak, if he was pathetic, well—he wasn’t strong enough to just lie there and not touch her.

So he’d roll onto his side, push his face into her shoulder, into her hair, breathe her in, feel the strength of her long legs beneath his palms. Because, deep down, some stupid, aching part of him needed to make sure she was still real. That she hadn’t just vanished into steam.

“Mornin’,” he’d murmur, voice gravelly with sleep, lips brushing over the soft skin of her neck.

And she’d hum, still mostly asleep, shifting closer without thinking, tucking herself against him like she knew. Like she knew she was his, and he was hers, and they had time—all the time in the world to wake up slow and warm in each other’s arms.

Joel didn’t know how to handle that. Didn’t know what the hell to do with the way it made him feel, all thick and too much in his chest.

So he did what he did know how to do. He kissed her. Once. Twice. Again. And again.

Unhurried and soft, against her shoulder, her arm, her cheek, wherever he could. Until she grumbled, barely audible, something along the lines of Joel, let me sleep, swatting at him half-heartedly.

He never listened. Not when he had her like this. Not when she was somewhat awake, turning over onto her back, peeking up at him with those bleary, half-lidded eyes.

“Last one before I get your coffee,” he’d lie, pressing a slow, lingering kiss behind her ear.

And it was never just one. Soon enough, Joel would drag himself up, forcing himself to leave the warmth of their bed, of her, if only for one thing.

His next favourite part of the morning.

His little girl. Maya.

The second Joel stepped into the nursery, flicking on the dim light, the world felt right. Scented in warm linens and baby powder, as the soft morning glow bled through the curtains, it painted everything in muted greens and pink.

And there she was. His baby girl curled in her little nest of blankets, fists rubbing at her groggy eyes, her dark curls sticking out every which way like she’d been fighting sleep all night.

Then she saw him. And the second she did—

“Da-da-da-da-da!”

Joel barely had time to brace before she shot straight up, balancing on the tips of her toes against the crib bars, hands clapping, a little bouncing bean of excitement.

And that damn sweetheart grin. All toothy and wide, like she’d been waiting her whole life to see him again. It got him every time, that overwhelming sense of sweet defeat. He'd take a knife in the heart for her.

He let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head at her, at the way her tiny face was all lit up with him simply showing up.

“There’s my baby girl,” he rumbled, stepping forward, and scooping her up into his arms in one smooth motion, raining kisses on her cheeks.

Maya let out a squealing little giggle, tiny hands immediately going for his face, his beard, her favourite thing to grab early in the morning. She clutched two greedy handfuls, tugging at the scruff like it was hers.

He brushed a hand down her curls. “Did you sleep well?”

“Sleeeepy,” she said around her fist.

She babbled against his shoulder—nonsense, tiny sounds he swore had some kind of meaning only she knew—her chubby little arms tightening around his neck in a hug that damn near melted him.

Then—of course—she went right back to attacking his beard, tugging with all her tiny might.

Joel winced, letting out a mock grumble, “Yeah, alright. You just want Daddy for the whiskers, huh?”

Maya let out a high-pitched giggle, and he felt her breath, warm against his neck, little fingers wandering up to pat his cheeks.

Joel, of course, pretended to eat her fingers instead, lips smacking, making exaggerated chomping sounds. Maya screeched, all wiggly and squirming, kicking in his arms with laughter so wild and free, it made his whole day before it even started.

He sighed, pressing his nose against her cheek, breathing her in. Baby powder. Warmth. His baby girl.

“Alright, trouble. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He carried her over to the little bathroom by the nursery, got her washed up, and changed into one of the tiny little sweaters that had once belonged to her mama. Maya, of course, made it an ordeal—wiggling, talking to him, playing with her own toes.

Joel took his time. Didn’t rush a damn thing.

A normal, mundane morning—waking up next to the woman he loved, starting the day with his baby girl. That was his whole rhythm now.

Some days their mornings went quick—too quick for his liking. Early in the morning, shovelling down his breakfast alone, yelling goodbye to his girls, and heading out for patrol, only to spend every second waiting until he could get back to them. Waiting for that first breath of home, that happy squeal he would hear from Maya ten yards out, that first kiss again.

The house was still half-asleep when Joel clattered his plate into the sink. Maya let out a soft whimper from her mother's arms, travelling across the kitchen, getting his attention first, and Leela—half-awake, hair mussed, sweater slipping off one shoulder—murmured, “You’re being loud.”

Joel grabbed his jacket off the chair, shoving an arm through one sleeve. “Ain’t got time to be quiet. Tommy's gonna blow a fuse.”

Leela huffed, rubbing a hand over her face. “You ever think about waking up ten minutes earlier?”

Joel snorted, already at the door. “You ever think about wakin’ up with me?”

That earned him a half-hearted glare over her shoulder. “I'm a night owl. I need the dark to think.”

Maya stirred, a tiny, bleary-eyed thing, her hands stretching toward him. Joel hesitated, foot already over the threshold.

Leela, catching the way his shoulders pulled tight, sighed. “Go, Joel.”

“Don't work yourself too hard while I'm gone,” he warned.

Leela just hummed in accord, adjusting Maya against her shoulder.

Joel hesitated. Then, before he could think twice, he ducked back in, pressing a long, deep kiss to her lips, holding her chin tight between his palm, just until he fought for breath.

She startled when he pulled away, blinking up at him. Then playfully shoved at his chest to get him out the door. “Go already.”

But some days—the best days—mornings were slow. Breakfast on the island or out on the porch, the intense scent of coffee thick in the cold air, his hand curled around the mug that curled out steaming ribbons into his face, while Leela sat beside him, legs tucked up under herself, grinning at him over the rim of her cup.

Joel tipped his mug toward his lips, letting the heat of the coffee melt into him. Watching her.

She tilted her head, nudging his thigh with her knee. “Are you always this quiet in the mornings? I never noticed.”

Joel glanced at her. “Ain’t got much to say with you around.”

She raised a brow, taking a small sip of her own coffee. “That so?”

Joel smirked, sipping slowly. “Just like listenin’ to you talk.”

Leela scoffed. “That’s funny. ‘Cause last time I checked, you like cutting me off halfway.”

Joel pursed his lips, considering. “Only when you’re talkin’ nonsense. Y'know, your little nerdspeak thing you do.”

Her mouth parted in excessive offence. “Oh, so my technicalities are nonsense?”

Joel blew into his coffee cup. “Mm.”

She gave him a slow, evaluating look, then nudged him hard enough that coffee nearly sloshed over the rim of his cup.

“Goddammit, girl.” He shot her a glare, but it was ruined by the way his lips were twitching.

The mornings when snow blanketed the whole town, and he’d bundle Maya up like a little marshmallow, watching her waddle out into the white, her excitement vibrating through every inch of her tiny body. He’d stand there on the porch, arms crossed, watching her vigilantly as she threw herself into the snow, chubby hands slapping the ground, kicking her little legs while Leela laughed beside him.

Sometimes, mornings like this used to feel like a chore. Errands. Town. A list scrawled on his palm, running through daily tasks that he used to do alone—back when it had just been him and Sarah, back when Saturday mornings meant grocery runs, when her tiny hands would have been in his, tugging him toward whatever caught her eye.

Now, it was Maya, and she was a whole different kind of trouble.

Leela had gone off to meet Maria at the dam—something about some loose wiring, an issue that she was insisting she could fix, even though Joel had very strong feelings about her doing anything that required standing near running water with electrical tools. But that left him here, alone with Maya, tackling grocery shopping.

Joel let her wander, let her explore at her own level, tiny squeaky boots padding against the wooden floorboards of the trading post, soft little oohs and ahs slipping from her lips whenever she spotted something that intrigued her. He kept one eye on the list, the other on her, reaching out every so often to keep her from knocking into someone’s knees or tugging on a coat that didn’t belong to her.

But the second she drifted too far—too quick, too small, lost too easy in the crowd—he was on her.

A sigh deep in his chest, scooping her up, tucking her under his arm while she squealed and huffed, little hands batting at him in protest. Little gremlin.

“Don't gimme that, baby girl,” he muttered, setting her down just long enough to grab the last thing on his list.

Potatoes. Should’ve been easy. Joel let go of her hand for two damn seconds to grab the bag from the shelf—and when he turned back, she was gone.

His stomach dropped.

“Christ, not again,” he muttered under his breath, shifting his basket to his hip. “Maya?”

No answer. Just the quiet squeak of her boots, quick little steps padding away.

“Maya!”

Joel pushed past people, scanning, breath already working too hard through his nose. It wasn’t panic—not exactly—but it was something close. He had to remind himself that she wasn't made of glass and this was Jackson, yet that was still his baby.

His eyes locked on her in an instant. “Fast fuckin' menace,” he muttered.

She was standing a few feet away, tiny and oblivious, playing with the tab of a can of beans, flicking it up and down with rapt fascination. Didn't even bother looking at him.

Someone was crouched in front of her, blocking her from view. “Where’s your mother, sweetheart?”

Joel already knew who it was before he even reached them.

“Eugene,” he called.

The man glanced up at him, eyes narrowing for a beat before recognition settled in, mouth stretching into a knowing grin. “Miller.” He stood with a grunt, rolling out his shoulders. “Hey, help me out here. This kid’s parent—”

“Is me,” Joel muttered, already reaching for Maya, plucking her up onto his hip like she belonged nowhere else. “C'mere, trouble,” and a firm kiss to the top of her head, his fingers pressing into her tiny back.

“You?” Eugene questioned, thrown off balance.

What, had he been living under a rock? Maya had been the talk of the town since she'd been born. Who speaking off, squealed, giggling, smacking a hand against his cheek—some little game she’d apparently decided was hilarious.

“Me,” Joel confirmed, levelling Eugene with a look. “We got a problem?”

Eugene made a low sound in his throat, eyes flicking between them, like he was sizing up a damn prize mule. Then his mouth curled up once more.

“Oh yeah, I see it,” he said, nodding. “She’s got your big-ass nose.”

“Fuck off.”

“Calmeth thy tits,” Eugene grinned, “I’m tryna be polite.”

“Don’t need it.”

Eugene raised his hands in mock surrender, chuckling under his breath. “So this is why you’ve been copping out of patrol a lot lately. Got Tommy's panties in a twist.”

He nodded toward Maya, who had now taken to tugging on Joel’s beard, testing its durability like she had every right in the world to grab at her old man’s face.

Joel sighed, prying her fingers free one by one. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Guess it is.”

“Yeah, by the looks of it, she's a handful. Cute as shit, though.”

And Eugene—he just stood there a second. Looking at Joel, smelling strongly of weed, basket in his grip, a box of food from the canteen and a bottle of whiskey sitting inside.

Joel saw it then. The difference between them. An old ghost of himself.

Eugene—the kind of man he might’ve been had it not been his instinct to quiet a baby's cries from next door. A year ago, maybe even less, he would’ve been the one with the bottle of whiskey in his cart, the one picking up meals from the canteen instead of making them. The one going home alone.

Eugene exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Huh,” he muttered. Then, a nod, a flash of grudging pride behind his eyes. “You came through. Good for you, Miller.”

Joel didn’t have the words for it. Didn’t know how to put into words what this was, what it felt like to have this, to have them—after years of nothing.

So he just cleared his throat and adjusted Maya in his arms. Eugene just chuckled, slapping a hand on his shoulder before stepping past him, humming under his breath.

Eugene didn’t walk off right away.

Joel could feel him there—still standing at his side, still weighing the words on his tongue. It set his teeth on edge, the way Eugene hesitated. Like he was debating whether to say what was already burning behind his lips.

Then, finally—

“You wanna tell me why Ellie and Dina are so interested in the Fireflies all of a sudden?”

Joel went winded. The Maya's little weight in his arms was suddenly the only thing keeping him upright, keeping him tethered. He barely blinked. Barely breathed.

His voice bit out dangerously low. “The hell are you talkin’ about?”

Eugene tightened the basket in his grip. Shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. But his eyes were sharp when they cut to Joel, measuring.

“She’s been askin’ these ex-Firefly folks like me and Tommy,” he told him. “Came to me couple nights back—askin’ if I knew anything. If I’d heard anything about ‘em regrouping.”

Joel swallowed, throat dry as dust.

His grip on Maya didn’t tighten—he made sure of that. Kept his hands gentle, careful, even as the rest of him braced. But inside—inside, he clenched up like a fist.

Ellie. Asking about the Fireflies.

It wasn’t panic curling up his spine. Worse.

Because she’d known. She’d gone back to that hospital. She’d walked through the bloodstains, the echoes of gunfire, the remnants of what he’d done. She’d seen the truth laid bare, stripped of all the justifications he’d tried to wrap around it. And she’d spent months—years—dragging herself through the wreckage, trying to make sense of it.

Trying to make peace with him.

He’d watched her try. Seen it in the way she forced herself to stay, even when the silence stretched too long between them. In the way she looked at him sometimes, like she was still searching for something, still waiting for an answer he could never give. He thought—he hoped—that with time, she’d let it rest. That the scars would settle, and they could leave that part of their lives buried where it belonged.

But now—now they were here again.

And Joel didn’t know if they could come back from it this time.

The walls of the room felt like they were creeping in closer, like if he stood still too long, he’d get swallowed whole, but Joel forced his breath steady. In. Out. In. Out. Kept his shoulders loose even as something behind his ribs coiled tight, wound like a spring.

“And?” He made his voice even, ironing out the edges. “You tell her anythin’?”

Eugene huffed, shaking his head. “Nothin’ worth tellin’. Just old stories, y’know? Old bases, old rumours, old movement. And about that research base over at Caltech. I don’t know what she’s lookin’ for, but maybe keep an eye out for your other little girl, too, yeah?”

Joel stared at nothing. His heart pounded heavy, like a fist banging against a locked door. Ellie had stopped asking a long time ago. Or at least, he’d thought she had. Maybe she’d just stopped asking him.

But why now? After all this time?

Not unless—

His mind snagged on the past few weeks. The time Ellie had been spending across the way. The quiet conversations, the way she lingered at their porch, shifting her weight like she was waiting on something. He hadn’t thought much of it at first. Leela kept to herself, and Ellie wasn’t exactly a social butterfly. Two closed-off people drifting toward each other, not expecting much in return.

But that wasn’t it.

Ellie was digging.

And Leela had handed her the shovel.

Of course she had.

Joel’s stomach twisted, that sourness settling deep. He should’ve seen it sooner. Should’ve recognized the signs.

Leela—the girl with something ripped from her before she ever had the chance to claim it. A name that couldn’t be rooted in history. A life that had been rewritten for her before she could write it herself.

Ellie had always been drawn to ghosts. The lost, the forgotten, the ones who didn’t get a choice. She saw herself in them. Clung to them. And Leela—she was another reflection in the glass.

Another kid who could’ve been something more.

Another wasted potential.

Another shot at redemption.

Joel clenched his teeth. He should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve stopped it before it got this far. Because this wasn’t just curiosity—not for Ellie. It never was. She was always looking for meaning in the wreckage. Always chasing the answers that would rip her open in the end.

And now she was looking again.

For the Fireflies. For Leela. For something she thought she’d lost. For something Joel had taken from her. Taken from them.

His chest tightened, breath coming sharp through his nose. He hadn’t just lied to Ellie all those years ago. He’d tried to close the door. To bury it, deep enough that she’d never claw it back to the surface. But maybe that was never the way it was going to go. Maybe it had just been a matter of time.

Eugene must’ve caught something in his expression, because he turned fully then, brows knitting together.

“You alright, Miller?”

Joel blinked. Swallowed. Got a hold of himself

“Yeah.” His voice was rough, scraped raw. “M’fine.”

Eugene didn’t look convinced. “You take care now.”

And maybe—for the first time in a long time—Joel wasn’t either.

But Eugene didn’t push. Just cleared his throat, nodded once, winked at Maya, and finally stepped away, boots heavy against the floorboards.

Joel stood there a second longer, the world shifting around him. It was a feeling he despised. The sensation of something slipping just beyond his grasp.

Then he looked down at Maya, small and soft in his arms, her tiny hand curled into the fabric of his coat, trusting. “Da-da, go. Go.”

The only part of his world that still made sense. He focused on that. On her warmth.

He pressed a kiss to her temple, breathing her in. “Yeah, baby. Let's go.”

Then turned, stepping toward the door, already knowing—

He needed to find Ellie. Now.

X

{ taglist 🫶: @darknight3904 , @guiltyasdave , @letsgobarbs , @helskemes , @jodiswiftle , @tinawantstobeadoll , @bergamote-catsandbooks , @cheekychaos28 , @randofantfic , @justagalwhowrites , @emerald-evans , @amyispxnk , @corazondebeskar-reads , @wildemaven , @tuquoquebrute , @elli3williams , @bluemusickid , @bumblepony , @legoemma , @chantelle-mh , @heartlessvirgo , @possiblyafangirl , @pedropascalsbbg , @oolongreads -> @kaseynsfws , @prose-before-hoes , @kateg88 , @laliceee , @escaping-reality8 , @mystickittytaco , @penvisions , @elliaze , @eviispunk , @lola-lola-lola , @peepawispunk , @sarahhxx03 , @julielightwood , @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi , @arten1234 , @jhiddles03 , @everinlove , @nobodycanknoww , @ashleyfilm , @rainbowcosmicchaos , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @orcasoul , @nunya7394 , @noisynightmarepoetry , @picketniffler , @ameagrice , @mojaveghst , @dinomecanico , @guelyury , @staytrueblue , @queenb-42069 , @suzysface , @btskzfav , @ali-in-w0nderland , @ashhlsstuff , @devotedlypaleluminary , @sagexsenorita , @serenadingtigers , @yourgirlcin , @henrywintersgun , @jadagirl15 , @misshoneypaper , @lunnaisjustvibing , @enchantingchildkitten , @senhoritamayblog , @isla-finke-blog , @millercontracting , @tinawantstobeadoll , @funerals-with-cake , @txlady37 , @inasunlitroom , @clya4 , @callmebyyournick-name , @axshadows , @littlemissoblivious } - thank you!! awwwww we're like a little family <3

[just-some-random-blogger]

ONCE AGAIN A VICTIM TO MY OWN INABILITY TO CONSUME MEDIA FOR GOODNESS KNOWS WHY. A TRUE SHAME I HAVEN'T READ THIS SOONER BECAUSE IT IS BOP A BANGER A SHOWSTOPPER A STUNNER AND I AM IN NEED OF A NEW SET OF PANTS

The sun crested the horizon, shades of violet, clementine, and rose, and still, Bill and the others hadn't returned from Hogwarts.

Oh my GOSHHH 😫😫😫😫😫😫😭😭😭😭😭 I say this all the time but GOSHHHH you can really tell if a fic is gonna be good from the first sentence and how they open the story. I so fucking sorry for breathing the same air are you my goddess. Am I bothering you? Also wtf bill in Hogwarts???? Did he leave his homework or smth?

The full moon lingered at the edge of the sky, obstinate in its refusal to dip below the trees. You'd begged Bill not to go out while the moon hung bloated in the sky, an unusual, ominous shade of red.

If there's one thing a man does best is the exact opposite of what you tell him to. How many stories would be rewritten so drastically, how many lives would be saved if you just listened to women 🙄🤚 choke

But he'd gone anyways. Which was fair, you supposed; he wasn't yours to order about. You weren't a couple, despite the simmering tension between you, heightened by the deep connection you’d forged through over a decade of friendship and work and suffering and joy.

Situationship headass 🙄🤚 miss me with that bullshit. NOT THE WE ARENT A COUPLE I WOULD DEADASS ASK BILL WHAT ARE WE THE MINUTE HE LAUGHED AT MY JOKES ID RATHER BE PRESUMPTUOUS THAN BRAIN DEAD *STARTS CHAINSAW*

It was Harry, Lupin, and Tonks that arrived back first, bloodied and beaten, singed by the glancing blow of curses.

WAIT I KNOW THIS i don't BATTLE AT HOGWARTS? OK WE ARE SO ON TO SOMETHING (I've seen edits HAHAAH) it's fine it's ok I don't need background I understand perfectly

Molly ran out to them, screaming for her children, but Remus was quick to assuage her.

.... I know I shouldn't be thinking this but all in thinking is 🫦🫦🫦 hi rem... How are you... Want a baby?

“We don't have a choice,” Remus said, gently nudging Tonks aside and cupping your face. You forced your eyes to focus on his forehead, his crooked nose, his scars, his eyes. “Can you do this?” Remus asked.

OMG TONKS 🫣😅 HI NOT THIRSTING OVER OUR- EH- YOUR HUSBAND also dkskskksksn IDK WHAT I HAD TO SAY BUT HOT. IM TOO BIASED. REMUS I LOVE YOU WE LIKE DIS 🤞 but also tonks 🥺 shes so mother so caring and gentle. Remus being frantic and hot in my head is clouding whatever I wanted to fucking say about this part

No one was sure if he'd been bitten. There was one wound on his right thigh that looked suspicious to Remus, but Bill was in too fragile a state for them to test anything.

... Remus so smart.... 🫦 ITS NOT MY FAULT IM SO DISTRACTED

So you waited, and waited, and waited. Four days of burning fever. Four days of changing head-to-toe bandages. Four days of ladling broth between his chapped lips. Four days of praying to anyone that would listen to spare him. To bring him back to you.

Ok but this was beautifully vivid albeit torturous for YN... Is ok... It's for the plot shhhhh *pushes finger onto lips*

You knew he'd be different, no one suffered an attack like that and remained the same, but you knew that you'd love him anyways. The scars on his skin would pale in comparison to the scars left on his psyche, and you would find whatever strength you needed to help him through it.

Embutido core. Also 🧐🧐🧐🧐🤨🤨🤨🤨 FUCK YOU MEAN ALWAYS LOVE HIM???? UR NOT TOGETHER. GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS SITUATIONSHIP TRUTHER

You'd stitch him together with your own muscle and bone if you needed to.

Oh my gosh

But now that I'm remembering the situationship context.... Cringe as fuck

“Where is she?” He bellowed.

Its giving

MARTHA WHERE IS SHE LOL. I think supes says it tho

He groaned low in his chest, nuzzling into the crook of your neck and heaving a deep breath. His knotted muscles immediately went lax, and he looped an arm around your waist, hauling you into the bed with him. You were shocked at how much strength he still had after a week of bed rest.

First of all. HOT. second of all. SITUATIONSHIP AHHH FUCKIN

“There you are,” he whispered, a throaty purr against your pulse. He drew another deep inhale, nose pressed against your jugular, and you suppressed a shiver.

SNSIIDJSJKS SNIFFING??????????????

“Don't care,” he said, his lips charting a scalding path up your neck, days of stubble scratching mercilessly against the tender skin.

WKSKKSKKKSN WHAT ^^^^^ LAST GIF X2

“It can wait,” Bill snarled, glaring at Remus over your shoulder. “Now get the fuck out.”

OH

IS IT THE WOLF JUMPING OUT OF HIM.

OH WAIT I FORGOT TO ASK COS THE TAGS IS LIKE EARLY STAGES OF WEREWOLF FOR BILL I WAS LIKE HE CANONICALLY BECOMES A WEREWOLF??????? OR IS IT A FIC THING I'm realizing as I type this it's probably a fic thing.

ANYWAY BILL BEING JEALOUS? OF REMUS 🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦 OK BUT DID YOU WRITE THIS FOR MEEEE TWIRLS HAIR SMILES LIKE SPONGEBOB WAIT ILL GET THE PIC

UHM THIS WASNT THE ONE I HAD IN MIND I WAS THINKING WITH A RAINBOW but I realized it was probably an amalgamation of a bunch of different spongebob images so yeah

Tonks caught you at the end of the hall, grabbing you by the arms. “He's asking for you, but you have to—y/n, listen to me,” she snapped, and you stilled, coiled and ready to flee. “You have to be careful—that kind of trauma…he might not be the Bill you love.”

🥺😭💔 NO CUZ IM CRYING FOR TONKS SHES SO GENTLE AND KIND AND CONCERNED AND WHAT WAS THAT LIKE TO LOVE REMUS LIKE THIS FKJDUDJDJDJ FUCKING HELL *smokes cigarette* (DONT SMOKE)

An uneasyness settled over the house. No longer a question of will he wake up, but what will wake up.

😃 nice 👍

On the seventh day, Bill woke up screaming.

POOR BOY. also I know some of these are out of order. I can't be bothered to reorder them let me slide ily

“Bill,” Remus said, hardening his voice.

🫦 he can join

You weren't sure what it meant, this sudden clinginess. If it was the trauma of almost dying, a head injury making him forget you weren't actually together, or something…else.

🙄🤚 u being hesitant is so telling of ur situationship. AT LEAST YOUR SELF AWARENESS

His family came in next, a cacophonous, emotional ordeal that made your heart ache with relief. With them, he seemed more like himself; the good-natured, charismatic man you'd fallen in love with, and some of your uncertainty ebbed.

My boy

But clearly not 🫵YOUR🫵 boy 🙄🤚

You hadn't hated the intensity from earlier though, quite the opposite, actually. You just wished you knew what caused it, and why you.

🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🤚 SITUATIONSHIP FINAL BOSS

Eventually, Bill declared that he wanted to properly shower, and everyone filed out to give him some privacy. When you stood to leave though, his hand tightened around your wrist.

BRUHHHHH SOMEONE PLAY SILVERSPINGS BY FLEETWOOD MAC. PLS SHES NOT STEVIE NICKS BILL IS 😭😭🤚 LORDIE

“Oh, I am. For probably the first fucking time,” he growled, patience wearing thin. “I’ve loved you for ten fucking years, and I almost lost you. So forgive me, darling, I will not be letting you go again.”

Ngl I'm a petty ass who's into schadenfreude and masochism I'd be like AKSHALY NO FUCK OFF 😭😭😭 (I need a lobotomy)

“Bill, we aren't…together,” you argued weakly, a rabbit negotiating the terms of its release from the jaws of a catamount.

IM SAYING WE BEEN KNEW and my gosh my gosh RABBIT ANALOGY???? INSANE WORK DAFAQ OK QUEEN SORRY FOR EVEN TRYING TO WRITE

“Something I'd like to remedy, if you'll have me.” His other hand ensnared your waist, pulling your body flush to his.

NO. EW YUCK. WHAT AM I EASY?

“Are you going to make me beg?” His breath fanned across your lips, balmy and disorienting. Headier than any hit you'd taken from a roll or a pipe.

Yes. I would make you wait and carve your heart out because you need to work for it this is happening too quickly (I SAY AS THEIR SITUATIONSHIP HAS BEEN FORGED A DECADE AGO 🙄🙄🙄🙄🤚🤚😭😭😭😭😭)

“I love you too,” you breathed, and he smiled, bumping his nose against yours before dragging it down your cheek, his hair tickling your lips.

Weak piece of shit 🫵 make him beg

“I know,” he hummed, —

POMPOUS PIECE OF—

— the hot muscle of his tongue laving over the pulse point beneath your ear. “I can smell it on you.”

— SIR IM JUST A HOLE

You gasped, arousal hitting you like a clap of thunder, your thighs squeezing together against your blooming cunt.

SUDDENLY IM NOT MAD AT HER AT ALL I AM HER. I DONT KNOW WHY IM LIKE THIS EITHER WHY AM I MAD AT HER FOR FOLDING FOR BILL SO QUICKLY WHEN I WOULD HAVE THROWN MYSELF AT HIM LIKE SNAP WHAT THE FUCK

He chuckled, the sound low and viscerally pleased. “Can smell that too, baby. Little heart’s racin’ like a rabbit.”

ITS FINE IM FINE HAHAHAH

“You're trembling again,” he said, softening a bit as he pulled back to look you in the eyes. “Are you afraid of me?”

YES I CAN'T BE ATTRACTED TO A MAN THAT DOESNT SCARE ME A LIL I WILL JUMP YOUR BONES

You shook your head. “Should I be?”

🥺 they're so gentle BUT IM OVER HERE LIKE 🫦🫦🫦🫦 BARK WOOF GRRR

“No, love. Of course not. I'm still me.” He smoothed the hair from your forehead, palming the side of your skull with his long-fingered hand. “But Remus should be if he tries to get between us again.”

🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦 REMUS MENTIONNNNNNN HE CAN JOINNN DONT BE A KILL JOYYYYYYY HAHAHHAAHA WHYS HE SO PRESSED OMG YOU WROTE THIS FOR MEEEEE DIDNT YOU YEEEEEEEEEEE WEEEEEEEEEE RAHHHHH

He leaned down, catching your laughter with a lissome press of his lips. The last of your reservation dissipated, dripping out between your thighs as the kiss deepened. His lips were pillowy, tongue tinged with iron and herbs, you leaned into his embrace, content to let him devour you whole.

BILL WEASLEY IN MY ROOM RN CHALLENGE: FAILED 😔😞😞😞😞😞😞😞😞😫💔

CONGRATS ON HITTING 1K, you deserve all the love you're getting and more <3333 for your celebration could i get a thousand stitches with bill? Your writing of him has been completely brilliant, i love the way you characterise him <333

hi my darling!!! thank you much!! I'm so grateful you're here and I hope you enjoy 🫶

1000 stitches | B.W.

feat. Bill Weasley x reader

cw: MDNI 18+, injuries and blood, near-death experience, early stages of werewolf!Bill , love confessions

1000 things prompt list (closed!) | masterlist

The sun crested the horizon, shades of violet, clementine, and rose, and still, Bill and the others hadn't returned from Hogwarts.

The full moon lingered at the edge of the sky, obstinate in its refusal to dip below the trees. You'd begged Bill not to go out while the moon hung bloated in the sky, an unusual, ominous shade of red.

But he'd gone anyways. Which was fair, you supposed; he wasn't yours to order about. You weren't a couple, despite the simmering tension between you, heightened by the deep connection you’d forged through over a decade of friendship and work and suffering and joy.

You'd loved him all your life, and he wouldn't be Bill Weasley, the man that held your heart hostage, if he didn't plunge headlong into danger, especially where his family was concerned.

Always eager for the hunt.

It was Harry, Lupin, and Tonks that arrived back first, bloodied and beaten, singed by the glancing blow of curses.

Molly ran out to them, screaming for her children, but Remus was quick to assuage her.

“They're right behind us—Molly, you must—Molly listen to me,” Remus snapped, shaking her gently. “Ron and Ginny are fine, but Bill—Greyback got a hold of him.”

You clutched the rusted porch railing of the safe house, limbs going numb as the blood drained from your brain.

“He's alive, but barely,” Remus continued, keeping Molly upright by sheer force of will. “And we don't know if he was—”

“Bitten,” you finished, your voice little more than a whimper. Remus looked up at you, nodding solemnly.

He looked like he was going to say something further, when the others suddenly apparated into the clearing. Ginny ran straight into the house, shouting for the medic assigned to the safe house. Ron and Neville held a body between them, the figure limp as a freshly killed stag and twice as bloody.

Bill.

Your ears began to ring, a monotonous, consuming sound, drowning out all of the shouting. You couldn't breathe.

Was he breathing?

You took a sip of air, lungs burning. You'd breathe for him.

Remus grabbed hold of Molly, keeping her out of the way as they carried Bill into the house. Up the stairs and towards you, five steps away, three, one—Ron caught your eye as they passed, looking for too guilty for a boy of only 18, but he quickly looked away, struggling under the weight of his much larger brother.

More members of the Order ran out to help carry him, relieving the boys of the burden, and you could only stand there, staring down at the twin smears of blood where Bill's feet had dragged across the threshold. Staining the stone forever.

Tonks was speaking to you, her hands on your shoulders, but you couldn't hear her, could only stare at the red, red, so much red. Too much red. How could he have anything left?

“We need more hands!” You heard someone call, the words filtering in through the din in your mind.

Hands, hands. You had hands, you could help.

“Tonks—”

“I don't think that's a good idea—”

“We don't have a choice,” Remus said, gently nudging Tonks aside and cupping your face. You forced your eyes to focus on his forehead, his crooked nose, his scars, his eyes. “Can you do this?” Remus asked.

“I-I can,” you affirmed, your voice sounding far away. Like someone else had spoken through your mouth.

“Good, let's go.”

It took more than five hours to stitch all of Bill's wounds. He'd been savaged, butchered, by Greyback. Almost unrecognizable under the swelling and bruising and gore.

The fact that he survived was nothing short of a miracle.

No one was sure if he'd been bitten. There was one wound on his right thigh that looked suspicious to Remus, but Bill was in too fragile a state for them to test anything.

So you waited, and waited, and waited. Four days of burning fever. Four days of changing head-to-toe bandages. Four days of ladling broth between his chapped lips. Four days of praying to anyone that would listen to spare him. To bring him back to you.

You knew he'd be different, no one suffered an attack like that and remained the same, but you knew that you'd love him anyways. The scars on his skin would pale in comparison to the scars left on his psyche, and you would find whatever strength you needed to help him through it.

You'd stitch him together with your own muscle and bone if you needed to.

On the fifth day, many of his wounds had finally healed down to pearlescent, puffy scars thanks to the medics magic. Deep gauges littered his torso and arms, creating new dips and valleys along the lean muscles of his body, a topographical map you could study for eons. The slashes across his face was healing better than anyone dared hoped, and he finally was beginning to look like Bill again.

But the wound on his thigh remained stubborn, pulpy as rotten fruit and refusing to knit together, growing more putrid the more magic that was thrown at it.

An uneasyness settled over the house. No longer a question of will he wake up, but what will wake up.

On the seventh day, Bill woke up screaming.

You were in the kitchen, helping Neville prepare the evening meal, when a roar shook the cedar bones of the old house.

You dropped the dish in your hands with a crash, roast and root vegetables exploding all over the grubby tile floor, and leapt over it, flying up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Tonks caught you at the end of the hall, grabbing you by the arms. “He's asking for you, but you have to—y/n, listen to me,” she snapped, and you stilled, coiled and ready to flee. “You have to be careful—that kind of trauma…he might not be the Bill you love.”

“I don't care.” You yanked free from her hold and dashed down the hallway. You burst into the room Bill was being kept in, a white-washed guest room on the quieter, darker end of the house, and found Ron, Arthur, and Remus desperately trying to restrain a frantic Bill on the bed.

“Where is she?” He bellowed.

You shoved Ron aside and flung your arms around Bill's neck, throwing your weight on him in the hopes of keeping him down.

“I'm here, I'm right here,” you soothed, not bothering to hold back the tears of relief streaming down your face and into his ruddy hair.

He groaned low in his chest, nuzzling into the crook of your neck and heaving a deep breath. His knotted muscles immediately went lax, and he looped an arm around your waist, hauling you into the bed with him. You were shocked at how much strength he still had after a week of bed rest.

“There you are,” he whispered, a throaty purr against your pulse. He drew another deep inhale, nose pressed against your jugular, and you suppressed a shiver.

“Are you alright? You didn't tear anything open—”

“Don't care,” he said, his lips charting a scalding path up your neck, days of stubble scratching mercilessly against the tender skin.

“Bill,” you argued, a fire sparking in your lower belly. You tried to push back a bit from his hold so you could inspect his bandages, could escape the intoxicating effect of his newfound affection. His grip tightened, bordering on painful, and a rumble resounded from the barrel of his chest. Something carnal, possessive, and you immediately dissolved back into his arms. Helpless to resist him.

“A ripped stitch isn't going to kill me,” he mumbled into the downy space behind your ear, his voice so much softer than whatever beast had been roused moments ago.

“Bill, we really need to do a full examination,” Remus interrupted gently. “What you've gone through—”

“It can wait,” Bill snarled, glaring at Remus over your shoulder. “Now get the fuck out.”

You gasped, shocked by his crude language, the aggressive edge to his voice. Bill was hardly the delicate sort, but you'd never seen him be outright hostile. Especially not towards his friends and family.

“Bill,” Remus said, hardening his voice.

“Please, just let them check you,” you whispered, stroking his cheek. “It'll give me and your family peace of mind.”

His eyes fluttered closed as you soothed him, his breathing leveling out. From bestial to docile in the span of a few heartbeats. “Only if you stay,” he answered finally, opening his eyes to look at you.

“I'm not going anywhere,” you assured, and he finally let you untangle yourself.

The medic came in first, checking all of his stitches and his vitals. Besides the wound on his leg, he was mostly healed, just some soreness and a slightly elevated temperature and heart rate.

His hand only left your body when the doctor needed it for something, otherwise he maintained contact through the entire examination.

You weren't sure what it meant, this sudden clinginess. If it was the trauma of almost dying, a head injury making him forget you weren't actually together, or something…else.

His family came in next, a cacophonous, emotional ordeal that made your heart ache with relief. With them, he seemed more like himself; the good-natured, charismatic man you'd fallen in love with, and some of your uncertainty ebbed.

You hadn't hated the intensity from earlier though, quite the opposite, actually. You just wished you knew what caused it, and why you.

Eventually, Bill declared that he wanted to properly shower, and everyone filed out to give him some privacy. When you stood to leave though, his hand tightened around your wrist.

“Don't go,” he said, drawing you back towards him. He was standing, propped against the bedframe for support.

“But you said you wanted to shower?” You blinked up at him, completely perplexed by this dramatic shift in his demeanor. Bill had never been very physical with you, besides platonic hugs and shoulder bumps.

“Help me,” he murmured, tilting your chin up.

Your heart stopped. “W-what?”

“Are you going to make me beg?” His breath fanned across your lips, balmy and disorienting. Headier than any hit you'd taken from a roll or a pipe.

“Bill, we aren't…together,” you argued weakly, a rabbit negotiating the terms of its release from the jaws of a catamount.

“Something I'd like to remedy, if you'll have me.” His other hand ensnared your waist, pulling your body flush to his.

“I'm not sure you're thinking clearly—” you tried to take a step back, but his grip turned to iron.

“Oh, I am. For probably the first fucking time,” he growled, patience wearing thin. “I’ve loved you for ten fucking years, and I almost lost you. So forgive me, darling, I will not be letting you go again.”

You liquified, muscles and bone turning to simpering goo in his arms. You didn't care if it was the pain medicine, or a head injury, or lycanthropy. All you'd ever wanted was to hear those three little words.

“I love you too,” you breathed, and he smiled, bumping his nose against yours before dragging it down your cheek, his hair tickling your lips.

“I know,” he hummed, the hot muscle of his tongue laving over the pulse point beneath your ear. “I can smell it on you.”

You gasped, arousal hitting you like a clap of thunder, your thighs squeezing together against your blooming cunt.

He chuckled, the sound low and viscerally pleased. “Can smell that too, baby. Little heart’s racin’ like a rabbit.”

Oh, fuck. You swallowed thickly, throat closing as fear pumped through your blood, mixing into a strange ichor with the ever-present desire for him.

“You're trembling again,” he said, softening a bit as he pulled back to look you in the eyes. “Are you afraid of me?”

You shook your head. “Should I be?”

“No, love. Of course not. I'm still me.” He smoothed the hair from your forehead, palming the side of your skull with his long-fingered hand. “But Remus should be if he tries to get between us again.”

A laugh bubbled up before you could stop it, inundated with both dread and delight.

He leaned down, catching your laughter with a lissome press of his lips. The last of your reservation dissipated, dripping out between your thighs as the kiss deepened. His lips were pillowy, tongue tinged with iron and herbs, you leaned into his embrace, content to let him devour you whole.

[wordsinhaled]

The things Charles touches in Hell

Everyone run and look at @qwanderer's amazing gifset of the things Charles touches in hell that inspired this meta!!!!

TL;DR Charles' journey to get Edwin is not just retracing Edwin's steps following the maps in the notebook but also on some level specifically reflects the doubts Charles holds about his own capacity to be a good person (and, extrapolating from Edwin's confession, a worthy romantic partner for Edwin in the future). Everything Charles touches in Hell (the mirror in Limbo, the bell, the lock, the claw machine + Maxine grabbing him on the stairs) is designed to sow doubt in Charles - incidentally, much like Orpheus experiences doubt on the journey out of Hell with Eurydice.

-

The mirror

The mirror shows Charles his reflection, which he hasn't been able to see since he died. Jayden said in a Cameo that when he acted in this moment he was embodying Charles giving himself a pep talk about saving Edwin - so he's thinking about whether he is different enough from his father to be able to pull off this rescue, whether he's capable of it.

The mirror also reminds him that, being corporeal in Hell, he doesn't have the capacity to mirror-hop to Edwin, which would have been the easiest way to get to him. It's a tool he'd have had as an incorporeal ghost, a tool that he lacks in Hell. The mirror highlights Charles's need to be Useful to his loved ones and the doubt that if he isn't capable of being useful (especially in rescuing/protecting them), he isn't loveable. Later he says to Edwin "Well, I'm here now," and is able to use the tools in the bag of tricks to distract the doll spider and get Edwin to safety.

And though I don't think Charles is as consciously aware of this bit, the mirror's also a bit of a metaphor for Charles' people-pleasing and how Charles effaces himself in favor of his loved ones. Charles isn't able to be seen in reflections normally, as a ghost, just as he puts the comfort and mood of others above showing his authentic feelings/frustrations, so he isn't "seen" in those relationships. In the mirror in Hell, he can see himself, for the first time in over three decades, and it echoes a fear/doubt that if he shows up fully present in a relationship, romantic or otherwise, he will take up too much space for himself, or people won't like what the see when he is visible.

The bell

The bell speaks to Charles's doubts about impulsivity and its unintended negative consequences. Charles' on-the-spot impulsive decisions are a theme throughout the show - he identifies himself as "the one who does shit like this" in the pilot when possessing Esther. And he compensates for or offsets these things really successfully with resourceful thinking (see: the enchanted jar to replace the sprites' smashed vessel, etc.), and his quick thinking is a huge strength. But the bell here is an example to Charles of a time his impulsivity hurt others, even without him realizing.

Charles and Edwin have an exchange about it: "What about the bell?" "No - it hurts them." Charles experiences direct proof that his impulsive action caused harm to others that he can't fix or soothe, and this moment leads directly into Charles slowing down to take time to process/figure out his feelings for Edwin during the staircase confession rather than impulsively saying he was in love back right away. The bell reflects his fear of how his impulsivity could be a hurdle or liability in his relationships. The bell can also represent the fear that even something that typically makes Charles an asset to Edwin, a strength or a positive, can become something harmful if Charles isn't careful. It's the doubt that Charles' quick thinking, which complements Edwin's more regimented nature and desire to always "have a proper plan in place," could have an unintended harmful shadow side if Charles allows it to, so that he can't trust himself.

Also, the ringing of the bell that is meant to summon someone, much like the mirror, also speaks to Charles' desires to take up space and be perceived by others, and ties back to his doubt that he might take up too much space in a dynamic with someone else. Charles has missed being visible and living, wished to be "seen by someone his own age who's alive." The 'attention' piece might reflect Charles' occasional showiness - which became comfortable over years with Edwin, but which while alive he probably used to associate with negative consequences for himself for taking up 'too much space' or otherwise putting himself in a position where his dad or his peers would 'cut him down to size,' so to speak.

The ringing of the bell at a counter is, in theory, used to seek attention or service from someone, which would also mean Charles knowing what he wants in order to ask for it - and, in a relationship, being able to articulate his desires and needs. It would mean Charles subverting his usual way of being where he makes sure others have everything they need, to prioritize his own wants and needs. It represents his doubt of his ability to be vulnerable in a relationship.

The lock

Irene's phrasing "manipulate for access" about the lock got me thinking about the idea of Charles being able to pick any lock, having confidence in his ability to do so, and even others having confidence in his skill at it ("Big lock" "I'm sure you can open it"). It parallels Charles being good with people, being the one who "everyone likes […] eventually" because he's a "good sort of chap" - but also makes me think it reflects a fear that others will be taken in by the façade of affability he takes care to put on for others' comfort, and make themselves vulnerable to him only for him to hurt them. The classic sort of not-wanting-to-continue-the-cycle-of-abuse type fears.

The bell also highlights Charles's differences from David (who Crystal says "must have lied to [her]" to get her to "let him in" to possess her, as Edwin put it in that same scene). Charles doesn't actually manipulate people for access to their bodies, but it calls back to the doubts he experiences in 'The Case of the Two Dead Dragons' about being compared to Crystal's ex/Brad and Hunter in how they exploited women. The lock also speaks to the doubt that once he has actually gotten someone to like him, or if he were to enter into a relationship with Edwin, they're only there because they've been 'taken in.' Charles knows how to be a "cute distraction" to others or a temporary fling, he doesn't think people should be let in to see the dark emotions at the depths of him that he suppresses. The lock is a bit tied into the claw machine, I think.

The claw machine

The claw machine is associated with grabbing prizes and reflects Charles' self-doubt in general and the ways he seeks praise. It speaks to his issues with feeling fundamentally deserving of love and the fear/doubt that he doesn't actually deserve the "prizes" he gets (being praised by others, or receiving Edwin's love without any expectations or conditions).

It's also a game, and in those types of claw games there's usually a lot of maneuvering the claw, trying over and over and failing to grab the prize, "falling short" if you will, even despite having skill at the game; the prize might slip free and be lost, etc. - much like how Charles always felt he was falling short of his dad and never reaching making him happy/proud ("no matter how nice I was, or how good at sports I was"). When it comes to Charles + games: Cricket was a game Charles excelled at and yet never quite made the mark of his father's approval no matter how many trophies he got, etc.

The claw machine can also be a metaphor for the cycle of abuse. It speaks to the idea that Charles was caught up in a sort of 'rigged game' - an endless cycle of abuse in which his abusers held physical, emotional, social, or systemic power over him and he would inevitably end up 'losing' the game with its uncertain rules and would be hurt (by his dad/his peers or by society). While alive he was playing the assimilation/likeability game with his friends for the prize of feeling belonging, only for them to turn out to be the ones to kill him.

(Notably, the way out that Edwin ended up taking was a hole smashed in the wall behind the claw machine, bypassing the game entirely - and Charles retraces the path Edwin took. This shows how Charles doesn't need to actually keep trying and failing to reach an unattainable/shifting goalpost in order to be loved unconditionally or be deserving of love. It also foreshadows he can take a different path that would break the cycle of abuse, that indeed he is already breaking it.)

+ Maxine

Bonus, since this one touched him and not vice versa - Maxine grabbing Charles on the stairs and knocking him off-balance. In life Maxine was a stalker, an abusive person who was invasive towards and controlling towards her romantic interest. Ultimately she became physically violent and tried to kill Jenny. This has been spoken on in other metas, but much like the Devlin House reflected his fears of becoming like his dad, Charles encountering Maxine on the stairs reflects Charles' basic fears of continuing the cycle of abuse in a romantic relationship and emotionally or physically hurting his partner by being overbearing/controlling/violent. Maxine being present on the staircase during the confession also underscores this doubt in Charles.

[hereforuconnwbb]

Unexpected Halt - CHAPTER SEVEN

paige x azzi (pazzi)

au fic!

~paige plays for uconn and azzi plays for stanford~

word count: 10.2k

warning: language, drugs, alcohol

hey yall sorry i kept you guys waiting but here chapter 7 !!! i honestly dk if i like this and if this chapter even makes sense but i js wanted to get something out cs like this is my downfall 🥲 sooooooo um hopefully its ok and hopefully u guys enjoy 😽

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

A month had passed, and somehow, things between Paige and Azzi had only gotten stronger.

What started as late-night FaceTime calls and Fortnite sessions had turned into something even more effortless. They talked every day, whether through texts, calls, or the occasional voice memo when one of them was too busy to type. They had settled into a rhythm—one that felt natural, easy, and theirs.

Paige had always known she cared about Azzi, but now? It felt deeper. Stronger. More real. It wasn’t just playful teasing and stolen moments anymore—it was falling asleep on the phone together, waking up to good morning texts, and knowing that, no matter what, they were each other’s person.

Azzi felt it too. She had never been the type to open up easily, but with Paige, she didn’t have to try. Being with her felt like second nature, like something she had always been meant to do. And even though they were still apart more often than not, it never felt like distance. Because no matter where they were, they chose each other.

—------------

Paige’s phone buzzed next to her as she sat at her desk, trying to focus on some homework. She glanced at the screen, but the number was unfamiliar. The message that popped up was vague, but something about it made her stomach twist.

Unknown Number: Hey, it’s been a while.

Paige frowned, unsure who it could be. She quickly typed back,

Paige: Who is this?

The reply came almost instantly.

Unknown Number: You really don’t recognize me? You used to call me your best friend.

Paige hesitated, her mind racing as she tried to place the voice behind the message. It didn’t feel like a random number, but she couldn’t quite place it.

Paige: I’m not sure. Why are you texting me?

The person didn’t hesitate to respond, their tone increasingly familiar.

Unknown Number: You always said we’d talk again someday. I never wanted things to end like they did.

Paige’s heart skipped a beat, recognition slowly dawning on her. Her breath caught as a name bubbled to the surface of her mind.

Paige: Wait… Lexi?

There was a long pause before the response came, almost as if Lexi had been waiting for Paige to remember.

Lexi: You remember me. I’ve missed you so much. I tried to move on, but it’s been hard.

Paige’s pulse quickened, irritation bubbling up. She hadn’t heard from Lexi in months, not since their messy breakup. Lexi had never been good at letting go, and Paige had known that from the start.

Paige: Lexi, this is not okay. Why are you texting me after all this time? I’ve moved on. You need to stop.

Lexi: Move on? Who are you with now, Paige? You’re still not with that girl, right?

Paige froze. She didn’t want to give Lexi any details, but something about the way she asked made her feel uneasy. She typed back quickly.

Paige: That’s none of your business.

Lexi: Oh, I get it. You think I don’t know what’s going on in your life. You’ve always had a way of pushing people away when they get too close.

Paige’s grip on her phone tightened. The old frustration she felt with Lexi resurfaced, the constant need to control and manipulate every situation.

Paige: Stop trying to make me feel guilty. I’m in a relationship, and I’m happy. Can’t you just leave me alone?

There was a pause, the silence stretching between them. Paige could feel the weight of Lexi’s unspoken response, almost like a threat hanging in the air.

Lexi: You think you’re happy, but you’ll always come back to me, Paige. I know you better than anyone. You can’t just forget me like that.

Paige’s blood ran cold, and she couldn’t stop herself from sending a harsh reply.

Paige: You need to stop. I don’t want you in my life anymore, Lexi.

Before she could put her phone down, a new message popped up, this time more insistent and almost demanding.

Lexi: You’re mine, Paige. You always will be. Don’t pretend like you’re in control. I’m coming for you again.

Paige stared at the words, her heart pounding. Something about the way Lexi spoke sent a chill down her spine. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, but the feeling of being trapped by her past lingered.

She didn’t respond. The messages kept coming, each one more desperate, more possessive. But Paige knew she had to stop before it escalated further.

With a sigh, she tossed her phone onto her bed, standing up and pacing around her room for a few moments. The anger bubbling in her chest was still fresh, but something else gnawed at her too—a sense of dread. What if Lexi didn’t let this go? What if she started trying to come between her and Azzi?

The door to her room creaked open, and KK and Ice popped their heads inside, both of them giving her knowing smirks. “You good, P?” Ice asked, her voice teasing but with a hint of concern behind it.

Paige sighed again, running a hand through her hair. “No,” she muttered, walking over to her desk and sitting down. She could feel Ice and KK’s eyes on her, already reading the situation. Ice crossed her arms, while KK leaned against the doorframe, both of them waiting for Paige to speak.

“I got a message from Lexi,” Paige said quietly, her voice almost reluctant. She wasn’t used to talking about her past with them, but it was clear they weren’t going to leave until she opened up. “She… she’s been trying to reach me again.” She could feel the frustration rising in her chest as she spoke. “I don’t know how she even got my number. It’s like she’s been waiting for me to fall back into her trap.”

Ice raised an eyebrow. “Lexi? That’s the ex who almost fucked everything up, right?”

Paige nodded, her jaw tightening. “Yeah. She’s the one who—” She stopped herself, realizing she didn’t want to dredge up everything right now. The memories of the toxic relationship, the fights, the manipulation—it felt like opening a door she was trying to keep locked.

KK stepped into the room fully, a little more serious now. “Okay, but what’s going on with her? I thought she was out of your life for good. You’ve been pretty happy lately, with Azzi, right?” Her voice softened as she said Azzi’s name, her tone light but also understanding—especially now that she and Ice had figured out Paige and Azzi had been dating for a while now.

Paige took a deep breath, swallowing her frustration before it bubbled over. “She says she misses me. She wants to get back together, but it’s like… she doesn’t get it. I don’t feel that way anymore. I want to be with Azzi. But Lexi… she’s not just gonna let go. She’s already starting shit, making me feel like I owe her something.”

“You don’t owe her anything,” Ice interjected sharply, her eyes hardening. “I swear, Paige, if this bitch tries to pull you back in, we’ve got your back. You know that, right?”

Paige nodded, grateful for her friends’ support. “I know. But the thing is, Lexi doesn’t care about boundaries. She’s been texting me these creepy, possessive things. Telling me she knows I’m with someone else now, but she’s not letting me go. It’s like she thinks I’m hers.”

KK’s face softened with sympathy. “She’s unhinged,” she said bluntly. “And I know that’s scary, but you don’t have to deal with this alone. You’ve got us, and you’ve got Azzi. Lexi’s not gonna break you down.”

Paige chuckled bitterly, rubbing the back of her neck. “I know. But the way she’s acting… I’m worried she might try something. She’s the type to do something crazy.”

Ice’s eyes narrowed in understanding. “We’ll keep an eye on her for you,” she said. “But Paige, don’t forget—you are the one in control of this. Lexi might have messed with your head before, but you’re not the same person now. You’ve got your life with Azzi. You’ve got your own support system. You don’t have to let her worm her way back in.”

“Yeah,” Paige murmured, her chest tightening with a mix of relief and unease. “I just don’t want to cause problems for Azzi. She’s already been through enough with me, and the last thing I want is for her to get caught up in this mess.”

“I get that,” KK said, her voice softer now. “But Azzi’s not stupid. She’ll have your back. Just make sure you’re not pushing her away when you’re dealing with this. Communication is key.”

Paige nodded, the weight on her chest lessening slightly at her friends’ words. “I know. I just—she doesn’t deserve any of this. Lexi doesn’t get to just show up and ruin everything.”

A tense silence filled the room as Paige tried to steady herself, but Ice and KK didn’t push her further. They stood by her, their expressions supportive, not prying but offering comfort in the way they knew best.

“I’ll keep an eye on things,” Paige continued, her tone firm as she stood up, her mind made up. “If she crosses the line, I’ll shut it down. But I’m not letting her tear down what I have with Azzi. Not this time.”

Ice gave her a single, approving nod. “Good. You’ve got this, Paige. And if Lexi shows up anywhere near you again, you let us know. We’ll take care of it.”

Paige felt a wave of gratitude. No matter what Lexi tried, she wasn’t in this alone anymore. She had Azzi, Ice, and KK. And together, they would make sure that Lexi didn’t stand a chance.

Paige walked over to her phone, scrolling through the messages from Lexi one more time before deleting the entire thread. No more. It was time to shut that door for good.

But in the back of her mind, the unsettling feeling remained. The storm hadn’t passed yet, and Paige knew that things were about to get even more complicated.

—------------

The next day, after a restless night filled with too many thoughts, Paige finally found the time to call Azzi. Her fingers hovered over the phone screen, hesitating for just a second as she tried to decide how to bring it up. She didn’t want to drag Azzi into this mess, but she knew she couldn’t keep it from her. Not when things with Lexi were escalating.

Azzi picked up on the second ring, her voice soft but warm. “Hey, baby,” she greeted, a smile practically audible in her tone. “How’s it going?”

Paige took a deep breath, settling back into her bed as she tried to clear her head. “Hey, Azzi. I need to talk to you about something. Something’s been going on, and I don’t want to keep it from you.”

Azzi’s tone shifted immediately, the concern evident in her voice. “What’s wrong, Paige? You sound serious.”

Paige bit her lip, feeling the weight of the conversation already pressing down on her. “It’s about my ex… Lexi.”

There was a brief pause on the other end. “Your ex?” Azzi’s voice was cautious, unsure. “You don’t really talk about her much, so I’m guessing she’s not someone you want to talk about.”

Paige nodded, though Azzi couldn’t see it. “Yeah. I haven’t talked to her in a while, but recently, she started reaching out again.” She paused, trying to find the right words to explain it all without making it sound like she was trying to pull away from Azzi. “She’s… been trying to get back into my life. But it’s not just normal texting. It’s… well, it’s obsessive. She’s sending me messages, saying she misses me, saying she wants to get back together.”

Azzi’s voice softened, a note of sympathy slipping through. “That sounds… not great. But I’m guessing it’s more than just texts?”

Paige’s chest tightened as she replied, “Yeah, it is. She’s been sending weird stuff. Like, she knows I’m with someone else now, and she’s making it clear she doesn’t care. It’s like she’s trying to worm her way back in, even though I’ve made it clear I don’t want that.”

Azzi’s heart thudded in her chest. Her instinct was to protect Paige, to wrap her up in the safety of her own arms. She could hear the tension in Paige’s voice, and it made her ache for her. “I’m sorry, Paige. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have someone like that in your life, especially when you’re trying to move forward. But you’ve got me, okay? I’m here for you.”

Paige smiled faintly at the reassurance, but the nagging feeling at the back of her mind didn’t ease. “It’s just… she’s not letting go. And it’s like she doesn’t get the boundaries. I’ve blocked her number, but she somehow keeps getting through. And now she’s just… I don’t know. I’m worried she might do something stupid. She’s the type to make a scene if she doesn’t get what she wants.”

Azzi’s heart clenched at the thought of Paige being stalked or harassed. She wanted to be there for her, but this situation felt out of her control. “Have you told her to stop? Have you told her to stay away?”

“I have,” Paige said, her voice strained. “But it’s like she doesn’t care. She’s not listening. And now… now I’m worried she’s going to try something while I’m out or… or when I’m with you. I won’t let her ruin this, but I’m not sure what to do next.”

Azzi felt a rush of emotion—protectiveness, worry, even anger—and she knew in that moment that she couldn’t let Paige deal with this on her own. “You’re not alone in this, Paige. You’ve already been through enough with her. But I want you to promise me something.”

Paige raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. “What’s that?”

“Promise me that if she tries anything again, we’ll try to figure it out together. I don’t care who she is or what she wants. I’m not going to let anyone threaten us or what we’ve got.”

Paige’s chest swelled with gratitude at Azzi’s words. “I promise. And I’ll keep you in the loop, always. I don’t want to keep things from you. But I just don’t want to bring this stress into what we have. You mean so much to me, Azzi. I just want us to stay happy.”

Azzi’s heart softened at that, her voice lowering to a tender whisper. “I know, babe. And we will be happy. No one’s going to mess that up. Not Lexi, not anyone.”

Paige could feel the warmth in Azzi’s words, and for the first time that day, she felt like maybe everything would be okay. They’d face whatever came next together, no matter how complicated it got. Paige didn’t want to burden Azzi with the weight of her past, but it felt good to know that Azzi was standing by her side.

“You’re right,” Paige said, her voice steadier now. “I don’t want to let this ruin what we have. Thank you, Azzi. For everything.”

“Always, P,” Azzi replied softly. “Always.”

The call continued with a few more quiet words, both of them reassured, though the unease still lingered. Paige knew the situation with Lexi wasn’t over yet. But with Azzi by her side, it didn’t feel quite as impossible to handle. She just had to make sure that nothing—and no one—would threaten what they had together.

And that meant keeping her ex at bay. No matter the cost.

—------------

Paige had just set her phone down after hanging up with Azzi, the warmth of their conversation still lingering in her chest, when the screen lit up with a new notification. A text. Lexi.

She hesitated for a moment, staring at the name on the screen. Her thumb hovered over the message for several seconds before she finally unlocked her phone and read the text.

Lexi: “I’m still waiting for you to talk to me, Paige. I know you’re mad, but you know this isn’t over. I’m not giving up on us.”

The words hit Paige like a punch in the gut, but her fingers didn’t shake. It was like a familiar ache now, the kind she’d grown numb to over the years.

Her heart pounded in her chest, a mix of irritation and concern flooding her system. It had only been a few hours since she last dealt with Lexi’s relentless messages, and now here she was again, pushing all her buttons.

Paige didn’t want to respond, didn’t want to get sucked back into whatever chaos Lexi was creating. But the text lingered in her mind, the old patterns creeping back in.

A second message popped up almost immediately after, this one more forceful, the text bold with desperation.

Lexi: “I know you’re ignoring me, but you can’t hide forever. You need to talk to me. I miss you, and you know it. Don’t push me away, Paige. Please.”

Paige’s jaw tightened as she read it, every word making her more frustrated. Lexi was pushing her again, testing the limits, as if Paige owed her something. She didn’t. Not anymore.

But as she stared at the messages, her fingers itched to respond. She wanted to tell Lexi exactly what she thought of her, but she knew better. Lexi thrived on that chaos, on the drama. Paige had to shut it down.

With a deep breath, Paige typed out a quick, sharp reply.

Paige: “This has to stop, Lexi. Like I said before, I’m with someone else now, and you need to respect that. We’re done.”

She hit send, staring at the screen as if the words would make everything go away. But the phone buzzed again, almost immediately.

Lexi: “You think I care about that? You’re mine, Paige. You always were. And you know that.”

Paige’s stomach churned. She could feel the anger building up, the frustration of dealing with Lexi’s obsession. She knew she shouldn’t engage, knew it only gave Lexi what she wanted, but it was hard not to. She couldn’t just let this go. Not now.

Paige: “I’m telling you for the last time. Leave me alone, Lexi.”

Paige’s fingers trembled as she hit send, the message final. She locked her phone and tossed it onto the bed, running a hand through her hair as her mind raced. She hated dealing with this. It was exhausting.

But then, just as she was about to turn away, the phone buzzed again, and she couldn’t help herself. She picked it up, the familiar dread creeping up her spine.

Lexi: “You’re not going to just walk away from me, Paige. I won’t let you. You’ll regret this.”

Paige stared at the screen, her heart hammering in her chest. The words weren’t a threat, but they felt like one. And for the first time, she felt that old sense of unease creeping back, like maybe Lexi wasn’t finished yet.

Taking a deep breath, Paige shut the phone off and shoved it into the drawer. She was done. For now. But she knew that wouldn’t be the end of it.

No matter what it took.

—------------

Paige sat in her room, still feeling the lingering tension from Lexi’s messages. She had tried to push it out of her mind, but it kept coming back, haunting her like a shadow. She stared at her phone, but the screen remained off, as if it could hold the chaos at bay. But even without checking her messages again, the weight on her chest didn’t lift.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on her door.

“Ice? KK?” she called, half-expecting them.

The door creaked open, and Ice leaned in, her eyes scanning Paige’s face as if looking for something. “You good?” she asked, her voice soft but perceptive. “You’ve been kind of off today.”

KK stood behind Ice, her arms crossed, already knowing what was going on. She glanced between them, noticing Paige’s distant expression. “Lexi texted you again, huh?” she said, matter-of-factly.

Paige’s eyes shot to KK’s. She didn’t even need to ask how they knew—she had been avoiding them for the past few hours, and they were always on the lookout for when something was off.

“I’m fine,” Paige said, but even she knew it was a half-lie. She let out a heavy sigh. “It’s just… I don’t know, guys. She won’t leave me alone. It’s driving me crazy.”

Ice and KK exchanged a quick glance before Ice spoke again, her voice sympathetic. “I get it. She’s relentless. But you can’t let her get under your skin like this. She doesn’t deserve your energy.”

“I know,” Paige muttered, rubbing her temples. “I just… I don’t know how to make her stop.” She paused, meeting Ice’s gaze. “It’s like every time I think it’s over, she pulls me back in.”

KK leaned against the doorframe, her expression softening. “It’s not your fault. You’re doing your best to cut ties. You just need to let go.” She crossed her arms, her tone turning teasing as she tried to lighten the mood. “But hey, maybe we should get you out of here, clear your head. You in the mood for a little Ted’s night?”

Paige hesitated for a moment. She really didn’t want to go out, but she knew Ice and KK weren’t going to let her stew in her own thoughts. And honestly, she could use a distraction.

“I mean, I guess I could use a drink,” Paige said, trying to force a smile. “But only if I don’t have to talk about Lexi.”

“You’re not gonna have to talk about anything you don’t want to,” Ice promised, giving Paige a knowing look. “Come on, it’ll be good for you. The team’s going, and I’m sure the usual chaos will help take your mind off things.”

Paige nodded reluctantly. “Alright, fine. I’ll come.”

KK grinned. “That’s the spirit. You need a night to just be around your people and forget the drama for a bit.” She winked at Paige, her usual playful energy filling the space. “And trust me, we’ll make sure Lexi doesn’t cross your mind.”

With that, Paige stood up, following Ice and KK as they headed toward the door.

As they walked down the hall, Paige couldn’t help but feel a bit of relief. The weight of Lexi’s messages was still there, but for the first time in a while, it felt like she was taking a step away from it, even if just for the night. Maybe being at Ted’s with the team would help her forget, even if just for a few hours. She could use a break from everything.

“I’ll text Azzi when we get there,” Paige said, though she didn’t feel entirely comfortable keeping her girlfriend in the dark about what was going on. But she also didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily, especially when there wasn’t much to say yet.

KK looked at Paige with a raised eyebrow. “You sure? I mean, you can tell her if you need to.”

Paige sighed, adjusting her hoodie. “Yeah, I’ll just let her know I’m out with you guys. It’s better than overloading her right now. I’ll figure it out.”

Ice and KK exchanged another glance, but they didn’t press the issue. They could tell Paige just wanted to focus on getting her mind off things. As they made their way toward the door to leave, Ice gave Paige a gentle nudge. “Come on, Paige. Let’s just have fun tonight. No stress.”

“Yeah, no stress,” KK added, a smile on her face. “It’s Ted’s, after all.”

And with that, Paige found herself stepping out of the room, allowing herself to enjoy a brief, fleeting moment of normalcy. The night ahead wasn’t going to solve everything, but maybe, just maybe, it would help her breathe a little easier.

—------------

When Paige and the crew arrived at Ted’s, the usual buzz of noise filled the air—laughter, clinking glasses, and the soft hum of music in the background. It was the perfect place for a night of distraction, and Paige was grateful for it. She pushed the thoughts of Lexi aside for now, focusing on the familiar faces and the chaos that always came with a night at Ted’s. But as they walked in, Paige’s eyes immediately scanned the room.

There, sitting at the bar, was Lexi.

Paige’s stomach dropped, and she had to stop herself from turning around and walking right out the door. Lexi was a force—impossible to ignore, and clearly, she hadn’t gotten the memo that Paige needed space. Lexi’s striking features were just as familiar as they had been the first time Paige laid eyes on her, but now they made Paige’s heart race in a way she didn’t want it to. Her dark hair was styled into loose waves, falling perfectly over her shoulders, and she wore a tight-fitting black dress that hugged her body in all the right places. The bold red lipstick she always favored was perfectly applied, standing out against her brown skin. She looked effortlessly beautiful, but to Paige, it was a reminder of everything that had gone wrong.

Lexi’s gaze lifted from her phone as Paige’s eyes met hers. A slow, almost smirking smile spread across her lips, and Paige felt the weight of it. The realization that Lexi had been watching her, waiting for the right moment to strike, was suffocating. She couldn’t just ignore it.

“Shit,” Paige muttered under her breath, though Ice and KK were too busy talking to hear. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Paige made a beeline for the bar, pretending like she hadn’t just seen her ex. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she could feel the tightness in her throat. She hadn’t been prepared to see Lexi here, not after everything. It felt like a punch in the gut, like everything she’d worked to move on from was right in front of her again.

As she reached the bar, she tried to keep her voice steady. “Hey, can I get a drink?” she asked the bartender, trying to keep her focus on something, anything other than Lexi.

Lexi, of course, didn’t waste a second. “Paige,” she said smoothly, her voice a bit too sweet, too familiar. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Paige’s jaw tightened, but she kept her face neutral. She didn’t want to give Lexi the satisfaction of seeing how much she was rattled. “I’m fine,” she replied coolly, leaning against the bar, her eyes scanning the room to avoid any direct contact with Lexi. “I’m just here to hang with some friends.”

Lexi raised an eyebrow, her smirk never faltering. “I see that,” she said, glancing over Paige’s shoulder at Ice and KK, who were at the far end of the bar, joking around and ordering drinks. “Are they really who you need to be with right now, though? You know you could be doing so much better.”

Paige clenched her fists. The audacity of this woman never ceased to amaze her. “I’m good,” she said, her voice flat but firm. “And I’m happy with where I am.”

Lexi’s gaze flickered with something Paige couldn’t quite place—a mixture of irritation and amusement, like she knew she had Paige on edge. “We both know that’s not true,” Lexi purred. “You’re still hung up on me, I can see it in your eyes. You’re not fooling anyone.”

Paige was done with this conversation. “No,” she said sharply, her voice lower than before. “I’m not. I’m over you, Lexi. So whatever game you think you’re playing, I’m not interested. I’m with someone else now, and I’d appreciate it if you stayed out of my life.”

Lexi leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a more intimate tone. “Someone else? That’s cute. I don’t think they can handle you the way I did, Paige. You always come back to me. You know it’s true.”

Paige’s heart hammered in her chest, the familiar rush of old feelings trying to creep in, but she squashed them down with everything she had. She wasn’t going to let Lexi win. She wasn’t going to let her get to her this time.

“No,” Paige said firmly, standing up straighter. “I’m done with you, Lexi. You’ve had your chance. I’m happy now, and you’re not going to ruin that.”

For a moment, Lexi just stared at her, her expression unreadable. Then, she leaned back and smiled, her voice dripping with something dangerous. “You’ll be back. I know you will.”

Paige had heard those words too many times before. She wasn’t going to let Lexi’s words dictate her anymore. With a deep breath, Paige turned her back on Lexi and walked toward her friends, forcing her pulse to slow.

Ice and KK were already halfway through their drinks, completely unaware of the tension Paige had just experienced.

“You good?” Ice asked, catching the look on Paige’s face as she sat down.

Paige forced a smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s just have a good time tonight, alright?”

KK raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t push the issue. “If you say so.”

And for now, that’s all Paige could do. Keep pretending she was fine, even though Lexi’s presence hung in the air like a storm cloud, waiting for the right moment to break. Paige would have to be ready for whatever came next.

—------------

The tension in the air at Ted’s continued to simmer, but Paige tried to ignore it. She was already in a better mood than she had been when she first walked in—her friends were here, and the loud atmosphere of the bar made it easier to forget for a while. Still, as the night went on, Paige couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that had settled in her chest after the interaction with Lexi. She tried to focus on the conversation she was having with a random acquaintance at the bar, laughing at their jokes, trying to let the noise drown out the thoughts in her head.

However, as she shifted her attention to the person beside her, she didn’t notice Lexi slip closer, waiting for the perfect moment. In the midst of the banter, when Paige’s attention was fully on the stranger beside her, Lexi subtly leaned over and dropped a small white powder into Paige’s drink. Her eyes flickered toward Paige, watching carefully to see if she noticed. Lexi knew that if Paige had been paying attention, she would’ve caught her. But Paige was too distracted.

Once the drink was mixed and the powder dissolved, Lexi stepped back into the crowd, as though nothing had happened. Paige took a sip of her drink, completely unaware of the malicious act unfolding behind the scenes. She continued chatting, the noise of Ted’s creating the perfect cover.

As the minutes passed, Paige’s head started to feel heavier, like the weight of the world was pressing down on her. It started with a slight dizziness, then a deep, overwhelming sense of fatigue. She shook it off, thinking maybe it was just the alcohol or the long day. But soon, it became harder to keep her focus. The room seemed to sway, and she struggled to follow the conversation she was having.

Before she knew it, she felt her stomach churn. Her breath hitched as nausea crept in, and she quickly stood up, clutching her drink with shaky hands. “I need to go to the bathroom,” Paige muttered to Ice and KK, who were still lost in conversation, not noticing how off she had become. They gave her a quick nod, not thinking twice about it.

She stumbled toward the bathroom, hoping to just get a quick breather and let the sickness pass. But before she could even reach the door, she felt a soft hand on her shoulder.

“Hey, you okay?” Lexi’s voice was smooth, and it felt like it came from miles away. Paige’s vision blurred slightly, but she still recognized the familiar voice.

“Yeah… just need to throw up,” Paige mumbled, her voice sounding weaker than she intended. She felt hot, cold, and disoriented all at once. She wanted to push Lexi away, but her body felt like it wasn’t listening to her.

Lexi’s smile was as practiced as ever, and she leaned in closer, her voice low and almost soothing. “I’ll help you,” she said, her hand gently resting on Paige’s back, guiding her toward the bathroom. Paige felt too dizzy to protest and let herself be led.

Inside the bathroom, Paige felt her stomach lurch, and she quickly leaned over the toilet. Her head swam as she emptied her stomach, but all she could focus on was the fact that Lexi was still standing there, far too close. Paige’s mind struggled to keep up, trying to make sense of what was happening.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Lexi said, her voice laced with false sweetness as she rubbed Paige’s back. “Just breathe. You’ll feel better in a minute.”

Paige pushed against the sink, trying to steady herself, but the world around her felt like it was spinning out of control. “I don’t… I don’t feel right,” she muttered, her voice shaking.

Lexi took another step closer, pressing herself against Paige’s side. “I know, sweetie,” she cooed, her hand coming up to gently tuck a strand of Paige’s hair behind her ear. “You’re just a little overwhelmed, that’s all. Just relax. Let me help you.”

Paige wanted to shove her away, but the strength in her limbs felt like it had been drained. She couldn’t think straight. She didn’t know what was happening, only that something wasn’t right.

“Don’t… please,” Paige managed to say, her voice barely above a whisper. She was still trying to push Lexi off, but her movements were sluggish. “I… I don’t want to…”

“Shhh,” Lexi murmured, a wicked glint in her eyes that Paige couldn’t quite register. She was too out of it to fight, her body betraying her. Lexi smiled, as if savoring the moment. “Who’s the lucky one, Paige?” she asked, her tone sugary sweet as she stroked Paige’s cheek. “Who do you have now?”

Paige, still disoriented, blinked at Lexi, trying to clear her mind. “I—” she started to say, but her thoughts felt like they were slipping through her fingers.

And then it happened.

“Azzi,” she whispered, unable to stop herself. Her relationship with Azzi had been on her mind all night, and in her vulnerable state, the words slipped out.

Lexi’s smile turned into a smirk, her eyes lighting up with satisfaction. She’d gotten what she wanted. She quickly leaned forward, whispering in Paige’s ear, her words dripping with malice, “Azzi, huh? That’s cute. I think I can make this work.”

Paige barely registered the words, but she knew she was on the edge of passing out. Everything felt like it was slipping away, the world around her darkening.

“Give me your phone, Paige,” Lexi coaxed, her voice low. “I’ll message her for you. Let me help you. Just give me your passcode, and I’ll take care of it for you.”

Paige was so disoriented that she didn’t even question it. She fumbled for her phone, handing it over without thinking. “Just… don’t… don’t hurt her,” Paige muttered, her eyelids fluttering.

Lexi took the phone from Paige’s hand, entering the passcode quickly. “Don’t worry, darling,” she whispered. “I’ll take care of everything.”

As Paige’s vision blurred and her consciousness slipped away, she felt the last shred of awareness leaving her. Lexi’s voice faded into the background as the darkness swallowed her whole.

When Paige passed out, Lexi smiled to herself, the plan already forming in her mind. She was going to make sure this wasn’t the last time Paige would come crawling back to her.

Lexi looked down at the phone in her hands, her fingers brushing across the screen with practiced precision. Paige’s phone, now unlocked and in her possession, gave Lexi everything she needed. Her mind worked quickly, the satisfaction of control creeping up her spine as she navigated to the messages between Paige and Azzi.

She knew how much Azzi meant to Paige. She could use that. If she could plant seeds of doubt, if she could make Azzi question things, the crack in their relationship would widen. Lexi smirked as her fingers hovered over the keyboard, the words forming in her mind.

Paige had been too trusting, and now she would pay the price.

She started typing, knowing that Azzi would believe it was Paige on the other end of the conversation. The situation was too perfect—Paige had already been distant, distracted, and now with the drugged haze still clouding her mind, she wouldn’t notice the difference between the texts and the way she usually spoke.

Paige: “Azzi, I’ve been thinking… I don’t know if I can keep doing this. You’re great and everything, but lately, I just feel like I’m not as into this as I was before. You’ve been so busy, and I’m feeling kind of neglected.”

Lexi sat back, a cruel smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she hit send. She watched the message go through, knowing that Azzi would receive it and react just as she’d anticipated. She wasn’t done yet. She had a lot more to say.

She quickly typed again.

Paige: “I don’t know if this is going to work. I mean, maybe we should just take a break or something. I’ve been talking to Lexi a lot more since I saw her at the bar tonight, and she’s been a lot more… understanding. She gets me in ways that you don’t, and maybe I need that right now.”

Lexi read the words before sending them, savoring the delicious satisfaction of knowing how Azzi would react to them. It was a slow burn, and Azzi would feel every inch of the distance growing between her and Paige. She would question everything. All Lexi had to do was make her doubt Paige’s feelings.

She waited for a moment, watching the little dots appear on the screen as Azzi typed. Then her phone buzzed with a new message.

Azzi: “What the hell? Paige, what do you mean you’re not ‘into this’ anymore? You know this isn’t like you. We’ve been through so much, and now you’re just going to throw it all away?”

Lexi felt a rush of satisfaction. Azzi was already reacting the way she expected—hurt, confused, defensive. But she wasn’t done yet. She needed Azzi to feel even more unsteady.

Paige: “I just… I don’t know. Things have changed. I feel like you don’t really care anymore. Maybe you just got too busy with your own life to notice.”

Lexi paused before sending the next message, reading it over and ensuring it would hit hard.

Paige: “Honestly, I don’t want to keep pretending everything’s okay when I’m feeling like this. Maybe I just need someone who can actually be there for me, someone who actually gets it. Lexi does.”

She sent it. The reaction was immediate.

Azzi: “What the hell are you talking about? You want someone who ‘gets you’? You’ve been with me this whole time, and you’ve never acted like this before. Don’t you dare tell me you’re going to throw everything we have away for someone else.”

Lexi smiled wickedly as she read Azzi’s message. She knew exactly what to say next. She was planting the seeds of doubt deep in Azzi’s mind, and she wasn’t going to stop until the damage was done.

Paige: “I just can’t do this anymore, Azzi. You’re not the same person I fell for. I think you’ve changed, and maybe I’ve changed too.”

Lexi sat back, waiting for Azzi’s response, fully aware of the anger and frustration that was about to flood the messages. It wouldn’t be long before Azzi started questioning everything, her insecurities flaring up.

The phone buzzed again.

Azzi: “You’re seriously going to sit here and tell me that after everything we’ve been through? After everything we’ve built, you’re just going to throw it away over something that doesn’t even make sense?”

Azzi: “You’re acting like we don’t talk about our issues. You’re acting like I’m some kind of stranger to you. Is that what you really think? That I don’t care? That you don’t care?”

Lexi let out a soft laugh, watching the messages come through. Azzi’s anger was palpable, and the tension was thick in the air, even through the phone. She was good at this—making someone doubt themselves, making them feel like they weren’t enough.

Paige: “Maybe it’s just easier to let it go. Maybe we were just a fling. Maybe I’m just tired of fighting for something that’s not even there anymore.”

The message was a sharp jab, and Lexi knew it would hurt Azzi, even more than the last one. She was playing her part perfectly, pretending to be Paige, feigning frustration and doubt.

Azzi: “Are you seriously this delusional? You’re acting like we don’t have something real here. What the hell happened to you? This isn’t you, Paige. This isn’t what we had.”

Lexi’s fingers danced across the screen one last time, sending a final blow to the conversation.

Paige: “Maybe it never was. Maybe I was just seeing things that weren’t there, and you were too caught up to notice. I don’t know what I want anymore.”

Paige’s phone buzzed with another message, but Lexi didn’t need to see it. She knew she had done enough to get inside Azzi’s head.

Paige wouldn’t even remember this conversation when she woke up, but Azzi would. And that was the part that mattered most.

Lexi smirked as she turned away, her plan already taking shape. The damage was done.

Paige lay on the floor beside her, unconscious, her body slumped against the toilet, her breathing shallow but steady. Lexi smirked at the success of her deception, knowing the damage was already done.

She was so caught up in her victory that she didn’t hear the bathroom door open. The sound of soft footsteps echoed against the tiled floor before a voice startled her.

“Hey, you okay in here?”

Lexi spun around, eyes narrowing, a flash of irritation crossing her face. A random girl stood in the doorway, her hand on the doorknob, looking at Paige’s unconscious form with raised eyebrows. She looked confused and hesitant.

“Is she okay?” the girl asked, her tone laced with suspicion.

“She’s fine,” Lexi replied quickly, attempting to mask the unease in her voice. “She just drank too much, and she’s out cold for a bit. I’m just waiting for her to wake up.”

The girl stared at Lexi for a moment, clearly unconvinced. She glanced at Paige, then back at Lexi, clearly processing something. “Are you sure? She doesn’t look okay.”

Lexi’s grip tightened on Paige’s phone, her fingers brushing across the screen as if she were holding onto the last bit of control. She offered the girl a forced smile. “Yeah, she’ll be fine. I’m her friend. Don’t worry about it.”

The girl looked skeptical but didn’t press further. She gave Paige one last glance, her brow furrowed in concern, before she shrugged and walked past Lexi, disappearing into one of the bathroom stalls. Lexi sighed in relief, but the momentary unease still lingered.

With Paige still unconscious on the floor, Lexi turned her attention back to the phone. She tapped her fingers on the screen before she saw that Azzi had replied to the last message. Her lips curled into a smug smile as she read Azzi’s response.

Azzi: “What do you mean??? Are you seriously telling me that after everything we’ve been through? Are you trying to push me away, Paige?”

Lexi’s fingers moved quickly, her mind working faster than her conscience. She had to keep the illusion up—had to make Azzi feel even more insecure.

Paige: “I don’t know what I want anymore. Maybe I’ve just been lying to myself, thinking that we could be something more than we are.”

She hit send and sat back, waiting to see Azzi’s reaction.

Azzi’s message popped up almost immediately. Lexi could practically hear the frustration and hurt in Azzi’s words as she read them.

Azzi: “Are you seriously doing this right now? I’m not going to sit here and let you talk like this. I don’t care what’s going on with you, but don’t ever make me feel like I don’t matter to you.”

Lexi smiled. She knew exactly how to push Azzi’s buttons. This was just the beginning. She would make sure that when Paige finally woke up, she would have no memory of what had happened—but Azzi? Azzi would be left wondering if she had done something wrong. She would question everything.

But Lexi wasn’t finished yet.

She glanced at Paige’s body on the floor, the sense of control growing more intoxicating by the second. There was still more to come. But for now, she let the phone sit in her hands, knowing Azzi would continue to argue with “Paige.”

She checked the time on her phone, ensuring that she had a solid window of time to execute her next steps before Paige woke up. Then, she turned her attention back to Azzi’s new message.

Azzi: “You can’t just give up on us like this, Paige. I know there’s more to us. You’re not even giving us a chance to fix it. We’ve always been able to talk through our problems before. Don’t push me away like this.”

Lexi’s smirk deepened. This was going perfectly. She was in control now, and no one—least of all Paige—would know what had happened until it was too late.

The stall door creaked open again, and the same girl stepped out, pausing as she saw Paige still slumped against the wall. Her eyes flickered from Paige’s unmoving form to Lexi, still crouched beside her, holding her phone a little too tightly.

“Are you sure she’s good?” the girl asked again, her voice more firm this time.

Lexi gave a tight-lipped smile, barely holding back her irritation. “Yeah. Like I said, she’s fine. Just had too much to drink. I’ve got it under control.”

The girl hesitated for a second, glancing at Paige again before sighing. “Alright…” she muttered, but her tone wasn’t convinced. She shook her head and walked out, letting the door swing shut behind her.

Lexi exhaled, rolling her eyes. “Nosy bitch,” she mumbled under her breath before turning her attention back to Paige, still unconscious.

And then, an idea struck her.

Her fingers tightened around Paige’s phone as she smirked to herself.

Slowly, she leaned in, tilting Paige’s chin up with her fingers before pressing her lips against hers. The kiss was long enough for what she needed—to make it convincing. Then, with one hand still gripping Paige’s phone, she snapped a picture. The dim lighting of the bathroom cast shadows across the screen, but it was clear enough. Paige’s unconscious form, Lexi’s lips pressed against hers.

Perfect.

She opened Azzi’s chat and attached the image, her smirk deepening as she typed.

Paige: Maybe this is what I really wanted all along.

And with that, she hit send.

A few moments passed before the screen lit up with a response.

Azzi: Are you serious right now? What the fuck is this?

Another message followed almost instantly.

Azzi: I don’t even know what to say to you. You really had me thinking we were building something real, but I guess I was just stupid for believing that.

Lexi bit her lip, trying to contain her satisfaction. The damage was done. Paige wouldn’t even have a chance to explain.

And just in time, because Paige was starting to stir.

A low groan escaped her lips as her fingers twitched against the cold tile. Her breathing hitched as she slowly blinked her eyes open, trying to regain her bearings.

It took her a second to process what was happening—where she was, why she felt like the room was spinning. But the second she registered the feeling of lips on hers, her entire body jerked back.

“What the fuck?” she slurred, her voice groggy, her mind still hazy from whatever was in her system. Her hands instinctively shoved against Lexi’s shoulders, pushing her back.

Lexi let out a small laugh, unfazed. “Finally awake, huh?”

Paige’s head was pounding, her stomach twisting uncomfortably. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear the fog in her brain. “Why the fuck were you kissing me while I was out? Are you crazy?” Her voice was hoarse, but the anger in it was unmistakable. “I’m in a happy relationship right now. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Lexi tilted her head, feigning innocence. “Well… not anymore.”

Paige’s stomach dropped. “What the fuck does that mean?” she demanded, her voice cracking as she saw Lexi still gripping her phone. Her heart pounded as realization hit her. “What did you do?”

Lexi twirled the phone in her fingers, looking far too pleased with herself. “Just helping you out,” she said smoothly.

Paige’s blood ran cold. “Lexi,” she ground out, her voice dangerously low. “What. The fuck. Did you do?”

Lexi’s expression darkened, her possessiveness bleeding through. “I reminded her that she’s not the only one who’s ever had your attention.”

Paige’s hands shook as she reached for her phone, but Lexi yanked it back.

“I fucking swear, give me my phone,” Paige snapped, her chest tightening with panic.

Lexi smirked, but before she could say anything, the bathroom door swung open again.

The same girl from earlier stepped inside, looking around before her eyes landed on the sink. “Shit, I forgot my phone—” She trailed off as she took in the scene again. Paige now conscious, looking frantic. Lexi standing too close, gripping her phone like a lifeline.

The girl’s eyes narrowed, suspicion growing tenfold.

Paige, taking the moment of distraction, lunged for her phone, snatching it out of Lexi’s hands. She stumbled back, gripping it tightly as she immediately went to her messages.

Her stomach sank the second she saw Azzi’s name wasn’t at the top anymore.

Her fingers shook as she searched her name, only to be met with the dreaded You can’t send messages to this number.

Blocked.

“No,” Paige whispered, her breath hitching. “No, no, no, no—”

Her heart pounded painfully in her chest, her vision blurring with tears. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening.

She looked up at Lexi, her expression a mix of fury and devastation. “What the fuck did you do?” she choked out.

Lexi just shrugged. “Guess she didn’t take it too well.”

Paige could barely breathe. This was her worst fucking nightmare. She felt like she was suffocating, the walls of the bathroom closing in on her. She had to fix this. She had to fix this now.

Without another word, she stormed out, gripping her phone so tightly her knuckles turned white. She barely even registered Lexi calling after her.

Her legs carried her toward the bar, searching frantically until she spotted KK and Ice still sitting there.

“I wanna leave,” she blurted out, her voice shaky, desperate.

They turned to her instantly, eyes widening as they took in her disheveled appearance.

“Paige, what happened?” Ice asked, concern heavy in her voice.

“I just—” Paige swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady, but the lump in her throat was suffocating. “I just need to go. Please.”

KK and Ice exchanged a look, silently agreeing.

“We’re leaving with you,” KK said firmly, standing up. “Let’s go.”

Paige didn’t argue. She let them guide her out, her mind spinning, her heart breaking.

She had to fix this.

But she had no idea if she even could.

—------------

Azzi sat on her bed, her hands shaking as she stared at her phone screen. The image was burned into her memory: a picture of Paige, her lips pressed against someone else’s, the smirk on the woman’s face who she seemed to figured it being maybe Lexi, telling her everything she needed to know. The words that accompanied the photo from Paige were cutting. Maybe this is what I really wanted all along.

Her heart felt like it was in a vice, tightening with every passing second. How had things gone so wrong so quickly? What had happened to the person she had fallen for, the one who had said sweet things to her during their late night calls and promised they were in this together?

The sting of betrayal was so sharp it almost hurt to breathe. Her eyes blurred with tears, but she wiped them away angrily. She couldn’t let herself break down. Not now. Not because of her.

But the tears came anyway, and before she could stop them, they were falling, warm and steady down her cheeks. Azzi buried her face in her hands, letting out a sob before sniffling and taking a deep breath.

That was when she heard the door creak open.

“Azzi?” Caroline’s voice was soft, cautious. “Are you okay?”

Azzi didn’t even need to look up to know it was Caroline. The way she entered the room, the hesitant steps, the way her presence seemed to fill up the space with a quiet understanding.

Azzi shook her head, but her voice cracked when she spoke. “I… I don’t know.” She looked up at Caroline, her expression pained, and held her phone out. “Look at this.”

Caroline sat next to her, leaning over to glance at the screen. Her eyes went from the messages to the photo, the last few words that had come from Paige’s number.

Caroline’s lips pressed into a thin line, her jaw setting with silent fury as she glanced back at Azzi. “What the fuck is this, Azzi?” she muttered, clearly pissed. “This… this isn’t like her.”

Azzi shook her head. “I don’t know… I don’t know what happened, Car.” She wiped away more tears, her voice thick with emotion. “Why would she send me this? I thought we were fine. She said we were fine. And now, she’s sending me this.”

Caroline’s eyes lingered on the photo again, narrowing slightly as she thought. Something in her expression seemed off, like she wasn’t entirely convinced by the situation. But she didn’t say anything. She just wrapped an arm around Azzi’s shoulders, pulling her into a comforting hug.

“I’m so sorry, Azzi,” Caroline whispered, her voice soft, yet laced with frustration. “This is fucking messed up. But you don’t deserve this. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Azzi nodded numbly, the comfort of Caroline’s embrace a stark contrast to the cold, angry ache in her chest.

A few moments of silence passed before Caroline pulled away slightly, her tone shifting. “Do you want me to message her? Find out what the hell is going on?”

Azzi shook her head immediately. “No,” she said, her voice firm despite the tears still clinging to her eyes. “I don’t want to hear from her right now. I need space. I don’t even know if I want to talk to her anymore.”

Caroline nodded, her eyes softer now, but still full of concern. “Okay. But if you change your mind, I’ll be here. I’m not going to leave you alone with this, alright?”

Azzi took a shaky breath and nodded again, glancing down at her phone. She was still in shock, still reeling from the words she’d read.

She had blocked Paige’s number. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but she didn’t think it would feel like this. Her fingers hovered over the phone screen again, wondering if she’d made the right choice. She thought she had been protecting herself, but now she wasn’t so sure.

“I just… I don’t know what happened,” Azzi murmured. “I thought we were getting somewhere. But now this. I feel like I don’t even know her anymore, Caroline.”

Caroline gave her a sympathetic smile, but it was laced with anger. “You deserve better than this, Azzi. Don’t forget that. You’ll figure this out, okay?”

Azzi nodded again, trying to hold herself together. But the more she thought about the picture, the more her stomach twisted. The pain of it was still raw.

Caroline squeezed her shoulder before standing up. “If you need anything, let me know. But I think it’s best to give it some time. She’ll have to come to you if she wants to fix this.”

Azzi watched her leave, her mind still spinning. She knew Caroline was right. But right now, all she could do was try to breathe through the hurt and confusion.

She had to step away, but it didn’t make the pain any easier to bear.

—------------

Paige sat on the edge of her bed, her head still spinning. The room felt too warm, the air too thick. Her body was heavy, her movements sluggish, and there was this tight, sick feeling in her stomach that wouldn’t go away. Ice and KK had come with her to the room, both of them insisting she sit down while they tried to piece together what had happened. But every time she tried to explain, she felt more lost.

“Paige, what the hell happened?” Ice’s voice was soft, but there was an edge to it that made Paige glance up. Ice looked worried—hell, they both did.

“I don’t… I don’t know,” Paige muttered, rubbing her temples. Her head was pounding, and everything felt blurry. “I just… I was at the bar, and I was talking to people, you know, trying to relax after everything. I wasn’t paying attention to my drink—then I felt off. Real off. And then I remember feeling dizzy, and the next thing I know, I woke up in the bathroom with Lexi all over me.”

KK narrowed her eyes. “Wait. Lexi? She was there?” She seemed to already know where this was going, but Paige didn’t know how to explain it.

Paige nodded, the room swaying a little as she shifted. “Yeah… And I didn’t even know what was happening. I don’t even know how long I was out for, but when I woke up, she was kissing me.”

Ice’s jaw clenched. “Jesus. So you’re telling me, while you were out of it, Lexi just… took advantage of you?”

Paige swallowed hard, nodding. She could still feel the nauseous weight of it all pressing against her chest. “Yeah. And then she… I don’t even know how to explain it. She went on my phone and pretended to be me. She messaged Azzi. She sent her a picture of us kissing. Kissing, Ice. And then, after I got my phone back, I tried to message Azzi, but…” Paige trailed off, her throat tightening. “She blocked me.”

The words hit her like a ton of bricks, making her stomach churn all over again. Azzi had blocked her. How was she supposed to fix this when Azzi had blocked her out?

KK and Ice exchanged a look. KK spoke first, her voice carefully measured. “Do you want me to message Azzi for you? Tell her what happened? Maybe she’ll understand if you explain.”

Paige shook her head, her eyes filling with frustrated tears. “No… I don’t want to do that.” She wiped them away, feeling embarrassed. “I don’t want to hurt her more. I don’t even know how to explain all of this. Azzi’s probably pissed at me, and I don’t blame her. I… I’ve fucked up so badly, KK.”

Paige’s chest tightened again, the pain of not being able to reach Azzi eating away at her.

“Okay,” KK said, her tone softening. “I get it. If you need space, we can give you that. But you need to talk to her, Paige. She deserves to know what really happened. Just… take a breath, yeah?”

Paige exhaled shakily, nodding. “I know. I know I need to fix it, but I don’t even know where to start. I just…” She stopped herself, glancing down at her hands. “I’m scared, okay? I’m scared she won’t want to hear from me. That she’ll just… write me off for good.”

“You’ve been through a lot, Paige,” Ice said, her voice firm but full of compassion. “But don’t let Lexi screw this up for you. You two are good together. You just have to make it right.”

Paige let out a breath, trying to calm the swirling emotions in her head. “I want to make it right. But I can’t force it, you know? I need to give her space. I have to let her come to me when she’s ready.”

KK nodded, understanding. “Alright. But don’t wait too long, Paige. If you care about her, you need to fight for her. Don’t let Lexi win.”

Paige gave them both a small, tired smile. “I’m not gonna let Lexi win. I just need time to figure this out and for her to figure this out as well. The last thing I want is to lose her for good.”

KK and Ice exchanged one last glance before both of them gave Paige a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “You got this,” Ice said quietly, before they both left the room, leaving Paige alone with her thoughts.

But as they left, Paige couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling in her gut. She had no idea how to fix this. She had no idea what she was even supposed to do next. But one thing was certain: she wasn’t going to let Lexi’s games destroy everything she had with Azzi.

She just hoped Azzi would still give her the chance to prove it.

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

[liberty-barnes]

to the girls made of glass

Arthur Leclerc x Female!Reader

Part 2 to you will not always want to shatter

Summary: The next day. (In hindsight, he doesn't know why he told his family anything) 

Warnings: mostly fluff but also this turned out sadder than i expected it to? but happy ending dw, lorenzo has eldest child syndrome, mentions of masculinity and its expectations in our patriarchal world, mentions of the media being dicks (specifically about a child being born out of wedlock)

Word Count: 2.5k words + however many are in the texts

Estimated Reading Time: 16 minutes

A/N: i don't know how but i ended up making a part two so. enjoy, i suppose! don't forget to add yourself to my taglist if you wanna be notified in the future <3

the purse mentioned in this fic is the Multitaker Bag in Blush by Poppy and Peonies aka my dream bag (and the essentials is indeed all of my essentials...might have a problem)

Title from Shelby Leigh's book girl made of glass

Masterlists | Formula One RI Masterlist | Taglist

Arthur took a deep breath, shaking his hands at his side, trying to shake off his nervousness as well. 

07:58.

He rang the doorbell.

There was some shuffling on the other side of the door before it opened and he was face to face with her again.

(Y/n).

“Hi, love, come on in, I’ve just gotta get my purse, which is… somewhere, surely.”

Embarrassingly, he was frozen in place. 

“Arthur?”

“You look really pretty.”

He could feel his cheeks heat up as soon as those words made it out of his mouth. That was supposed to be an inside thought. Was it too much to ask for the ground to swallow him whole?

She smiled at him, eyes going all soft and shiny and… wow. Just wow.

“You’re cute.”

She grabbed the front of his sweater and dragged him inside. He really should try to care more about her manhandling him. Surely, normal people would feel disgruntled by it, right?

Meh, who cares? Not him.

A loud skidding sound made him snap his head to the ground, right before Circe collided with his shins.

“Oh, hello there.”

She made a sound which he could only described as an impatient scream, rubbing herself all over every part of him she could reach, stretching her paws as high as they could go. He crouched down to pet her, although frankly, it felt a lot more like she was the one headbutting his hand hard enough that he feared there would be bruises.

“Yeah, fun fact, she’s actually an absolute menace and she missed you a lot. She tends to scream if we don’t immediately give her attention.”

He frowned.

“But she was so calm yesterday.”

(Y/n) only cackled loudly, clipping on her earrings. 

“Yeah, cause she was on her absolute best behaviour until she was sure you were infatuated with her. That’s gone out the window now, I’m afraid.”

She looked around her, huffing loudly.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, where did I put that damned purse? I swear my things always decide to disappear the moment I need them.”

Arthur looked up from Circe’s very soft fur to where (Y/n) was standing right in front of him, hands on her hips.

Huh. Nice view.

Shut up, Arthur.

“What does it look like? I’ll help you find it.”

“It’s a blush pink bag from Poppy and Peonies, it’s got black edges, and creases on the sides from the amount of times I’ve managed to overload it.”

He nodded and got up, moving along with her while looking for the bag. There was a bag on her kitchen counter. Pink. black edges. Creases on the sides. “Um, is this… is this the bag?”

He pointed at it, and (Y/n) looked up from her spot near the couch in the living room.

“Yes! You found it! Thank you so much, angel, can you bring it to me?”

He lifted it up, surprised at the weight of it. She walked over and took it from him effortlessly.

“Um… Are you sure you’re gonna need all that?”

She nodded, putting on her shoes.

“Of course, it’s only the essentials.”

He blinked at her. His essentials were his phone, wallet, and keys. Those fit in his pockets.

“Essentials?”

“Yeah, you know. Phone, keys, wallet–”

Okay, so, much the same.

“A small first aid kit, small water bottle, chapstick–”

That was understandable.

“Phone charger, a bag of period essentials, pen, tiny notepad, chewing gum–”

Right, it was starting to sound like a bit much for a trip to the bakery.

“Makeup wipes, tissues, hard candies for if my sugar drops, a pill organiser with all the tablets needed in case of an emergency, headphones–”

She was still going?

“Sunglasses, mirror, portable toothbrush and paste, tiny makeup bag with my essentials, mini deodorant, mini perfume, mini hand lotion, mini sunscreen–”

Arthur didn’t even know so many miniatures existed.

“Nail file, fidget toy, and a Swiss army knife. The essentials.”

Arthur thought back to his mother and the giant purse she carried everywhere. And how Charlotte and Alexandra always had an extra ‘big’ purse that they left in the car when going out in addition to their ‘small’ purse that they took outside with them. Wisely, he decided it was best not to comment.

“Makes sense.”

The smile he got in return was definitely worth his silence.

“Alright, let’s go then.”

She grabbed his hand and dragged him out of the flat, leaving a disgruntled Circe behind.

He couldn’t find it in himself to do anything but smile about it.

—

The bakery was really nice. (Y/n) ordered a hot chocolate, despite the weather being nowhere near cold enough to warrant it. They sat outside, on a little two-person couch, facing the water.

It was nice. Peaceful. Comfortable.

He brought the cappuccino he ordered to his mouth.

“So, what did you tell your family about me?”

His guardian angel must have been watching over him because he narrowly avoided choking on his sip of coffee.

He looked at her, wide-eyed.

“How did you know I told my family about you?”

She smirked mischievously and he felt a chill go down his spine.

“I didn’t.”

He blinked at her.

“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but I expected you to. So, what did they say?”

She ‘expected him to’? 

Maybe his mom and sisters-in-law were right when they said she knew how pathetic he was.

“Well, Lorenzo’s convinced you’re secretly an axe murderer.”

She laughed loudly, eyes crinkling shut.

“Fortunately, he’s alone in that thought. Everyone else was just happy I met someone…”

He hesitated, deciding to keep the rest to himself, but something must have shown on his face because she suddenly turned to him.

“There’s something else.”

He avoided her eyes.

“Come on then, out with it. There’s nothing you can say that I’ll take offence to.”

“Well, um… They just said that uh… They kinda… forgot? That your dad had an older daughter. Since you didn’t go to races a lot, but your siblings showed up every now and then when Kimi was still racing.”

It felt awkward to say. Uncomfortable. But she surprised him yet again by not appearing the slightest bit offended, only smiling in a bittersweet way.

“Yeah. Dad learned early on that it was safer for me to stay out of the public eye. I went to races almost all the time, actually, people just never saw me cause I stayed out of the way.”

“But your siblings–”

“Were born of a happy, loving marriage. Whenever they’re mentioned, the media just focuses on how well-raised they are, and how sweet it is to see them support their father. As for me… It didn’t quite work the same way. Whenever people were reminded of my existence, they just wanted to see how bad of a fuck-up Kimi Räikkönen’s bastard daughter would grow up to be. Dad didn’t want people talking about me that way, so he made sure they never talked about me at all.”

She stared out at the horizon, only a small hint of sadness present in her voice.

“That must have been hard.”

She pursed her lips.

“It was, at first. It took me a while to understand why I couldn’t be in the garage with everyone else, watching the race, hugging him for good luck before he went out. But the older I got, the more I came to appreciate it. Even though he couldn’t show it to the world, I never doubted that Dad loved me. I didn’t get to be my father’s daughter in the way my siblings do, but I got to be myself in a way they likely never will. I got to grow up without cameras in my face, without people gasping whenever they heard my name. I could go out with my friends and make mistakes without fear of the consequences. I got to choose what I wanted to do with my life without the general public’s opinions clouding my judgment. That’s a luxury people like me don’t often get.”

He couldn’t help but imagine a little (Y/n) in the Ferrari garage, wanting to wish her Dad good luck but being unable to because of the cameras around.

“You’re very strong, you know? I don’t know if I could be as understanding about it if I’d been in your shoes.”

She shrugged.

“It is what it is. No point in crying about it.”

She looked back at him with an easy smile on her face.

“What about now, though? Do you still have to hide?”

She tilted her head to the side.

“I mean, I don’t have to, I just don’t have a reason to change. The media would probably focus on all the wrong things in my life, only thing they’d care about is that I don’t have a job that makes money.”

“How so?”

“I got a Bachelor’s in business and comp sci, but I never wanted to just work for a greedy capitalistic company. It’s just not me. I’m lucky that my dad has more than enough money to provide for our family for generations to come, so I wanted to give back, in a way. I work as a web manager for a few charities around the globe, all non-profit, and do a ton of volunteering in my free time. But that means that my only source of income is my trust fund and the money my dad sends me.”

He looked at her with barely concealed awe in his eyes.

“(Y/n), fuck… That’s amazing, that you’re doing all this.”

She shrugged.

“I like it. And Dad supports me wholeheartedly. But if the media knew–”

“They would just paint you as another spoiled nepo baby who refuses to get a job.”

“Exactly.”

He felt–

Honestly, he couldn’t fully describe what he felt. Anger. Sadness. Righteous fury. The sudden and overwhelming urge to wrap himself around her like an octopus and shield her from the media’s eyes.

“Are you done with your drink and food?”

He blinked at her.

“Um… Yes?”

She smiled mischievously again, like the previous conversation had never happened.

“Good. Because we have reservations in thirty minutes.”

“Wait, what?”

“What is this place?”

He looked around in wonder. Everything was so colourful, so big. He could practically feel his body buzzing with energy.

“Trampoline park. Usually it’s full of people, but on a Tuesday at half nine in the morning? I’d be surprised if we weren’t the only ones here.”

She walked over to the reception desk, leaving Arthur to look around in wonder. There was a foam pit, rope ladders, and was that a climbing wall?

“Come on, pretty boy, leave your stuff in the locker and take off your shoes, time to have some fun.”

He felt his cheeks heat up at the nickname. He practically tripped over himself to get ready.

“Off we go.”

She took his hand and started to run in the direction of the trampolines.

He looked at the smile on her face and had the sudden thought that, so as long as she kept smiling at him like that, he’d follow her to hell and back.

—-—

Arthur was asleep on her couch. After two hours spent at the trampoline park and a hearty meal of lasagna and steamed broccoli, he seemed to have fallen into a coma, head pillowed on her thighs and arms hugging Circe to his chest.

She ran her fingers through his scalp absentmindedly. She’d changed the channel as soon as he’d fallen asleep, continuing her rewatch of Bones. There was no work to be done today, so she could afford to relax.

Her eyes were starting to get heavy when her phone beeped with a notification.

By the time she put the phone down and looked back at Arthur, he was awake and staring at her with sleep-filled eyes.

“Hey, baby boy. How you feeling?”

He hummed, nuzzling into her hand.

“Still tired?”

He nodded, eyes fluttering close when she hit a spot on his scalp that practically made him purr.

“Hey, (Y/n)?”

His voice sounded hoarse from sleep, but oh so adorable.

“Yeah, love?”

“Why do you do that?”

She furrowed her brows.

“Do what?”

It seemed to take an eternity for him to voice out what he was thinking.

“The nice things. You made me food, and paid for our breakfast, and you drove and opened the door for me. Why?”

She shrugged minutely.

“I don’t know. I guess I just enjoy taking care of you. Do you not like it?”

“No, I do!”

He looked like he was afraid she’d stop if he didn’t get the words out fast enough. To be honest, it was quite sweet.

“It feels nice…”

She traced the blush on his cheeks with the pads of her fingers, feeling her carefully guarded heart want to burst out of her chest and hand itself over to Arthur.

“Well, good. You deserve to be taken care of.”

He kept looking at her while she gently ran her fingers all over his face, feather-light, tracing constellations in the barely-there freckles.

“I wanna date you. But I don’t think we should.”

She fought against her every instinct to bristle and lash out. It felt awfully familiar to be told she “shouldn’t” date someone. But what was it this time? Was it the money? The fame? The media?

Or was one day enough for Arthur to realise she was simply not good enough? 

That no matter how hard she tried, she was still nothing more than a bastard child, abandoned by her mother, abandoned by the world, never deserving of anything more than she was already lucky enough to have?

“If you date me you’ll be back in the public eye. People are gonna take pictures of us everywhere. And they’ll tear you apart just for being with me. But you’ve worked too hard to create a safe life. I’m not worth you giving that up.”

She locked eyes with him.

“You should not be trusted to make decisions if you’re gonna be self-deprecating about them.”

“It’s true though, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” she ran her thumbs under the dark circles that still stained his eyes. “But shouldn’t that be my choice to make?”

“You’re too good for me anyway.”

She laughed ruefully, heart starting to beat a bit faster.

“Many people would disagree.”

“Many people would be wrong.”

“I disagree.”

“Then you’re wrong.”

He said it with such conviction, such absolute certainty, like he was shattering years upon years of her feelings of inadequacy.

“Where did you even come from?”

He blinked innocently up at her.

“My mother’s vagina.”

She pushed him off the couch.

translations for the finnish (which i got off google so pls forgive any mistakes)

I love you, dad

I love you too, snowflake

tadaaa! hope you guys enjoyed that! before you ask, no, i do not have any plans to make a part 3 to this for two reasons: first is because idk what i would write, and second is because the quote that these fics were named after (to the girls made of glass / you will not always want to shatter) was a two-part one and i don't know what i'd name the third. so it will stay as a duology.

Don't forgot to comment and reblog, asks and DMs are always open!

-Love, Miah <3

For the people that wanted part 2:

@aykxz98 @camelliaflow3r @sarah-thatstings-ann @sinofwriting @mountainshuman

[pneumaticshift]

so first of all i REALLY love your batlantern fics. i love both bruce and hal's voices so much and think that their interactions are INCREDIBLY funny

second of all i have a request for you! hal gets injured protecting dickbin. (maybe dick snuck into an invasion when he was told to stay behind. maybe he and bruce got separated.) however it happens hal saves his life but gets very injured in the process. dickbin feels guilty about this and hasn't left his bedside since. meanwhile hal going to such lengths for his ward has awoken Feelings ™ in bruce

Heyyy, sorry this took so long. I've been unhealthly playing DC Dark Legion and it's ruining my creativity. I am aware of the problem and have done nothing to fix it. This was surprisingly hard to write. I had so much I wanted to add, but I didn't want to make too long for a Tumblr oneshot. Thank you for the prompt 💚💚 Hope you like it! ———

Dick disobeyed, so now Bruce ran. 

The Watchtower had never felt all that big to him. He designed it specifically to be easily traversable. Function over grandeur, strategy over spectacle. There had been a few choice comments from the others in the Spartan decor, but every hallway had its purpose and every chamber was an answer to a problem that needed to be solved. 

The path from the transport hub to the infirmary was especially built to be the shortest path on the station. It was direct and unbroken, just a simple corridor without indulgence or opportunity for confusion. Bruce had walked it enough times to know exactly how many steps it took to get there. Eighty-three at full stride, seventy-four if he was running. Right now, he was running.

By now, in the aftermath of days on the field, he should have been back at the manor. He should have been in the cave, reviewing all the footage and data extrapolated from the mission so he could cross-reference data, log the variables, and review the structural damage to the cities they’d saved. Every detail, no matter how insignificant, meant that more lives could be saved next time. Because there had been — casualties, that is. Names he didn’t know. Faces he hadn’t seen. Deaths that didn’t belong to him.

And after all that, he should have been dealing with Dick the day he always did. Quiet conversations that never really said what he meant, despite how hard he tried. He would’ve justified himself in a way that left no room for argument, like a guardian was supposed to do when they were protecting their ward. It wasn’t your fight, I needed you in Gotham, it was too dangerous. 

Leaving him behind had been the right thing to do. The mission had outstripped caution in the first ten minutes. An Omega-level threat, with casualties stacking up before the League had even breached the city. Dick may have been forced to grow up far too soon, but he was still just a child. Reckless, brilliant, irreplaceable. Bruce wasn’t about to risk the best thing in his life. 

But now there was blood on the Zeta-pad.

Just a smear. Half-wiped, like someone had tried to clean it up with the toe of their shoe before giving up. It trailed into the corridor, then into nothing. Usually, Bruce wasn’t one to make assumptions. He was far too clever a man to let postulation guide him in any matter, but logic always had its limits, and fear didn’t care about them. Not when his ward — when his son was on the line. 

He hadn’t known that Dick was on the field. He had, perhaps naïvely, thought that Dick would have actually adhered to Bruce’s warnings this time. It was so, so dangerous, and no amount of late nights fighting street-level crime in Gotham could change the fact that he wasn’t ready. 

Word had come over the comms. J’onn and Kal were relaying relevant data from air support while Bruce had been leading the debrief with Diana for the ground team. He had been half-listening, consolidating data absently as background noise. 

It was J’onn who said it. “We intercepted an unidentified minor trying to help. Young, caped. His mind is unusually strong…” he said. “Injuries unknown. I was compelled to transfer him to the infirmary. He was quite distressed—”

That was lal Bruce needed to hear. He cut himself off mid-sentence and immediately turned to literally run to the nearest Zeta-Tube. Diana had called out to him in confusion, but he barely heard her. Though, her confusion probably made sense. He’d been with the League for two years now, and the only thing anyone actually knew about him was his dedication to the cause. To see him leave the aftermath to sort out itself probably would raise questions he’d definitely avoid later. 

Dick was almost thirteen now. He’d been by Bruce’s side for almost four years, had been Robin for three, and even though he was the cleverest, most wonderful tween Bruce had ever known, he was still an entirely unknown entity to the League. Bruce had no intention of changing that. 

Which brought him to the here and now, coming up to the infirmary with his heart in his throat and his pulse rocketing a little too quickly for his tastes. 

The doors hissed open and he didn’t wait. He pushed through before they’d finished parting completely, shoulder-checking the frame on his way in. He barely registered it, fully expecting to see his little boy all laid up. And, incidentally, fully preparing to never forgive himself for letting it happen.

But it didn’t happen. 

Dick was there, certainly, but he wasn’t the invalid Bruce had been half-ready for. Instead, he was slumped forward in a plastiform chair with his elbows resting on his knees and his little head bowed like the weight of the world was keeping him down. He was still in his suit, even though Bruce had locked it up when he left him behind in Gotham. It was torn at the shoulder and streaked with soot.

“Robin,” Bruce called. His voice was lower and far more curt than he intended. He was never good at expressing himself, so the relief fell somewhere behind the tight press of his lips and the furrow of his brow. 

It was hard to catch Dick off guard, but he startled at the noise. His shoulders jumped and he snapped his head up fast enough to make the chair creak. He turned abruptly towards Bruce, half-standing at attention without pulling himself out of his chair, and he looked at him with eyes wide beneath his askew mask. 

His mouth opened slightly, but nothing came out at first. He looked…wrong. Upset, like those first few months in the manor, or the time around the anniversary of the Flying Graysons’ final performance. His cheeks were flushed and blotchy and his nose was half-running like he’d been crying. 

“B,” he said in a broken voice. 

Instead of rushing towards his child with his arms outstretched like he was supposed to, Bruce stood frozen at the door to automatically take in the scene. Relief had flooded him enough to reboot him back to his factory settings, and he was suddenly thinking about how hasty he’d been to get here. 

But even though he should head on back and finish the debrief like he was supposed to, he stayed exactly where he was in a weird purgatory of emotion. 

Dick was curled in on himself like he didn’t know how to proceed. Ash was still smudged across his jaw and there was a thin line of blood beneath his ear. His mouth was trembling slightly, like he was still trying to be brave. He was good at that. Being brave. Better than Bruce had ever been.

That was when Bruce noticed Hal. He probably should’ve noticed him far sooner, given his condition. 

The Lantern lay unconscious on the medical berth. His chest was bandaged up and his face pale under the sicky cast of the overhead lights, but his ring was pulsing faintly. Whatever the medical staff had done to keep him stabilised had nothing on the energy channeling into the weave of healing fields wrapped around him. 

Bruce let himself be concerned for half a second. The monitors were stable and Hal was alive. Not in the best condition Bruce had ever seen him in, but not the worst either. Right now, he had more pressing matters to attend to. 

Dick was as close to the bedside as the chair allowed, which was strange. He’d never been formally introduced to the League. In fact, the only person who actually knew about his existence was Kal, and that was just because the man had pushed his nose into Gotham’s business and Dick was a fan. (A few threats and promises later, and Kal had assured Bruce that he wouldn’t tell anyone — he had, however, tried to convince Bruce to at least tell Diana. Bruce was considering it.)

For as much as he was slowly beginning to trust the League, Hal was the person Bruce had the least rapport with. It was a matter of simple incompatibility and Bruce wasn’t exactly inclined to do anything to remedy it. Some people just didn’t get along, and he couldn’t foresee himself ever doing so with Hal Jordan. 

It didn’t mean he wanted to see the Lantern hurt, but it was undeniably weird that Dick, after all the rants he’d heard when Bruce was particularly pissed off with Hal’s general existence, would set up camp by his bedside. His knees were bumping the frame and one hand hung loosely over the edge, like it had started to reach for Hal at some point and just stopped midway.

Yes, it was weird, but Bruce was always good at connecting the dots. He could see it now in the way Dick wouldn’t look at Hal directly. He just kept glancing over at him, furtive and quiet and just a hint of shame. He could see it in the way his lips pressed together to keep them from trembling and the way his feet hadn’t moved but his leg was bouncing nervously. 

Whatever had happened that made Dick like this, it probably meant that Bruce had to thank Hal. 

Now that he knew Dick was safe, Bruce’s instinctive reaction was to order a report. It would be easier to depersonalise the situation if he framed it like another mission, and Bruce was usually very, very good at separating his complicated personal feelings from the here and now. But, every now and again, very rarely so, Bruce actually knew when not to put The Mission first. 

He let out a slow, grounding breath, and came up beside Dick. “Talk to me,” he said as softly as he could. Which wasn’t very soft at all, but Dick had been with him long enough now to be able to tell the difference. 

“I didn’t—” Dick swallowed hard and curled his fingers into the edge of Hal’s bed. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Are you hurt?”

Dick shook his head. “No. I mean— I’m scuffed, I guess. Elbow. Nothing bad.” His voice was tight. His gaze flicked sideways toward Bruce, then back to Hal, then down at his own boots like he was ashamed of all three. “I shouldn’t have come,” he added, even softer now. “You told me not to, and he— Green Lantern, he—”

“We’ll talk about that,” Bruce said. “Later.” Not a dismissal, not forgiveness. Just…later. He looked back at Hal. “Tell me what happened, chum.”

He never wanted Dick to be nervous around him, but something visibly unfurled around the boy when the term of endearment slipped out. Dick sniffed and went to wipe his eyes. He was still wearing his domino and the mask displaced even more when he tried to rub away the moisture beginning to brim. Bruce couldn’t see the tears, not behind the mask. He knew they were there, though. 

“I thought I could help,” Dick muttered. “I tracked the signal. I saw you were on the ground team, and when the alerts came in, the ones from the orbital relay—” He broke off, shaking his head like the words were too heavy to push out. “I knew it was big. But I thought if I just— if I was careful, then I’d—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. His hand stayed near Hal’s arm, fingers hovering just above the blanket like he didn’t know if he was allowed to hold on.

“I didn’t know he was gonna—” Another pause. Another broken thread of sound. “I didn’t think it’d go that wrong.”

This was a learning experience for him, Bruce thought. He hated that it was one of the first things that came to mind, especially when his kid was looking so vulnerable and when one of his coworkers was unconscious. 

“He saved you,” he said rather than asked. 

Dick nodded and Bruce looked at him a little longer before turning to look at Hal. Really looked at him, for perhaps the first time since they met. He made himself stop calculating vitals and injury ratio, and he stopped parsing the rhythm of the machines for signs of decline of recovery. He hadn’t even realised he had been doing all of that until he forced himself to stop.

Even though he never thought much of Hal, he also knew — had always known — that he would’ve done anything to save a kid. And clearly he had. No ring could fake that level of duty. No construct could fabricate what Bruce saw now in the aftermath: a Lantern lying half-broken, unconscious and quiet for once, because he had chosen to step in when Bruce couldn’t. And the fact that it was his kid, his Dickie…

Oh, that was a problem. Bruce felt something brand new twist hard in his chest. Something with sharp edges and raw heat, something that crawled under his ribs and tried to claw its way out through bone. Gratitude didn’t come easy to him. Guilt did. Both were now crashing into him in silent tandem, buried deep where no one could see. 

There was something a little more too, just the sparks of something even harder to name. Not affection, not exactly, but something annoyingly near it. It felt complicated and raw, tangled up in this image of Hal, broken and still, and Dick sitting beside him like he was the most important person here. 

Bruce acknowledged it, then ignored it. He set it down in the place in his mind where he buried everything else that threatened to make him feel too much, too fast. Later, when Hal woke up, he would thank him properly. Dick would want to, too. Probably as Dick, and not as Robin. That was something to think about later, though. 

“What did the medical staff say?” he asked.

Dick sniffed once and rubbed the heel of his palm against his nose like he used to when he first came to the manor. “They said he stabilised fast,” he replied. “The ring did most of the work before we even got here. They— uh…I had to give them your access code so they’d let me stay. They tried to kick me out ‘cause I don’t have clearance. Um. Sorry…”

Another thing to worry about later, but not Bruce’s immediate concern. He gave Dick his access codes for a reason. Something like this was always going to happen. “They think he’ll wake up soon?”

“Yeah…’cause the ring, and all.” Dick shifted in the chair, arms pulled in tight to his chest, like he was trying to make himself smaller. “Can I stay, B? Just for a little while?”

It was against protocol, Bruce thought, but…well…

“Move over,” Bruce said. Dick blinked for a moment, then scrambled out of the chair like he was responding to an order on the field. He hovered for a second, uncertain, until Bruce sat down in his place. The kid didn’t need another invitation. 

He climbed into Bruce's lap like he had a hundred times before — back when he was smaller, younger, and it was less embarrassing for a kid to seek comfort. Back when his limbs didn’t dangle awkwardly over the sides, when he could curl up tight and disappear into the fold of the cape like it was a hidey-hole.

Lately, he'd been pulling away from those kinds of childish interactions as best he could. He was coming up on his teen years. Trying to be taller than he was. Braver. Older. He didn’t lean on Bruce the way he used to. Not in public, at least. Not even at home unless he was half-asleep or had forgotten he wasn’t supposed to need it anymore.

Now, he pulled the cape around himself, tucked his head beneath Bruce’s chin, and sighed out one long, shaky breath. 

Bruce didn’t know how long they sat there, but it was long enough for the ring to finish its preliminaries. He had sent a message to Alfred at some point, brief but clear: We’re safe. I’ll explain soon. He knew the old man would read between the lines, hear everything that wasn’t written.

He had also dropped a locked ping on the League comms, redirecting anyone trying to enter the infirmary. No visitors. Not right now. Which was probably a dick move.

Oliver and Barry would’ve come by. Maybe even some of the other Lanterns, if they managed to get wind of what happened. Hal had friends. People who gave a damn. People better than Bruce who would want to see him and make sure he was still breathing.

But Bruce didn’t want anyone else in this room, not while Dick was still sleeping and not while Bruce was still figuring out what he was supposed to do when Hal woke up. 

And he did eventually wake up. The combination of the ring’s healing propities, coupled with the medical staff’s expertise meant that injuries of this nature didn’t keep a man down for long. Bruce was also half-certain that the ring was starting to affect Hal’s actual nervous system, so he always healed a little quicker than most. 

The infirmary lights had dimmed into their night cycle at some point, so Bruce didn’t catch the exact moment Hal woke up. One second, the room was still. The next, he caught movement — barely a twitch from the bed, then a sharp intake of breath.

“Goddamn,” Hal muttered from the bed. “Either I died and you're here to collect, or this is some kind of fever dream.”

“Lantern,” Bruce greeted. “Stay down.”

“Screw that, I’m fine.” 

Hal immediately tried to sit up, because he was one of the most stubborn bastards Bruce had ever met. The attempt lasted all of two seconds before he winced hard and flopped back down like the bed had sucker punched him .Bruce didn’t move to stop him.

Partly because he knew Hal was too stubborn to listen anyway, but mostly because Dick was still bundled under the cape, tucked close to Bruce’s chest, dead asleep. The kid didn’t even stir at the commotion. He just mumbled something unintelligible and curled in tighter, frowning slightly in his sleep.

Hal caught the movement and froze.

“Batman…what are you doing under your cape right now?”

Bruce gave him the flattest look. Without a word, he lifted the edge of the cape.

“Oh my god,” Hal breathed. Dick was out cold, his cheek pressed against Bruce’s chest, one hand still clinging loosely to the edge of the cape like he thought someone might try to take it from him. “Nobody’s ever gonna believe me.”

Huffing out something that may have resembled a laugh if Hal looked too deep into it, Bruce let the cape drop and readjusted his grip around his son. 

“Robin,” Bruce said simply. 

“...I’m gonna assume that’s his name and not just you being all cryptic and weird.” Hal flopped his head back on the pillow and glared at Bruce. “That your kid?”

“Hm.”

“The hell was he doing in the field, Batman?” 

Bruce didn’t respond to that. He didn’t owe Hal anything. Or, maybe he did. After what happened, after what Hal had done without even knowing who he was protecting, maybe Bruce did owe him a few answers. Maybe more than a few. But Bruce was still Bruce, and words, real ones, always failed him when they didn’t involve strategy, contingencies, or command.

Hal let out a soft breath that turned into a wince. “My bad. Should’ve known you were too much of a douche to actually willingly give out information,” he said. It was an out Bruce was going to take. “He alright?”

“He will be.”

And Hal, flat on his back with half his ribs taped together and a ring flickering dimly at his side, managed a crooked smile. “Good,” he said. “’Cause I don’t think I’ve got another one of those in me.”

“He—” Bruce paused and Hal glanced at him again. “He wanted to wait for you to wake up.”

Hal blinked. Then he looked down, toward the edge of the cape still drawn over Bruce’s front, where the faint rise and fall of breath gave away the shape of a small form nestled beneath. He couldn’t see Dick from his angle, just the dark ripple of fabric and the way Bruce’s arm curled almost imperceptibly around something fragile.

So instead, Hal watched Bruce. And that, Bruce realized, was strange. People didn’t watch him like that. Not when he was still. Not when he wasn’t speaking. They watched for his movements, for orders, for the turn of his head that meant something was about to happen, But Hal looked at him now like he was trying to figure him out.

Bruce didn’t shift under it. Didn’t avert his gaze or curl the cape tighter around him like he wanted to. He simply let the moment stretch between them, unspoken and unguarded, which was even stranger. It was almost disarming.

Then, Hal snorted. “Of course he did. I’m the Green Lantern,” he said. “Kid’s got taste.”

The expected thing to do now would be to engage in conversation. He was supposed to thank Hal, promise to treat him better in the future, and acknowledge that his opinion on him had recently gone up more than Bruce was strictly comfortable with. 

It would’ve been easy to stay. Just another hour. Just until Hal drifted off again. But Dick needed real rest in a real bed. He wouldn’t get that in the Watchtower, no matter how long he clung to Bruce’s side.

So Bruce figured he’d overstayed his welcome. Slowly, he gathered the boy closer and stood, the cape keeping Dick cocooned in shadow and warmth. Dick barely stirred, just buried his face instinctively against Bruce’s chest with a small sound of protest before settling again.

He could feel Hal watching him. “Bring him by again sometime,” he said, voice softer now. “Maybe when I’m not half-dead.”

Bruce paused at the door, glanced back. No real promises and no answer. Just a quiet nod. And then he was gone, with a whole new problem brewing in his chest. 

[deezee112]

The good ending : Not Ready to Be a Parent

The worst ending 27 | Special ending

Yandere!Twisted Wonderland x GN!Reader

A/N : Everyone! I never thought we’d make it to this ending. Thank you all so much for following along until now I really appreciate it!

Right now, I’m planning a special episode ( which explores what would happen if we didn’t die ) for all the characters!

I’m also working on the storyline for Season 2. It shouldn’t take too long, but the special ending will probably be much longer than usual. This chapter might be a bit short, but I think it turned out really well!

Tags :

@iris-arcadia @yuu-twisted

If you want me to tag you please tell me.

English is not my first language.

You stared at the doll, now seated upright on your couch, its unsettlingly realistic features illuminated by the soft morning light filtering through your apartment’s curtains. It was a child almost somewhere between eight and twelve years old, with smooth skin, delicate features, and glassy eyes that seemed far too lifelike.

Your fingers drummed against your arm as you stood there, watching it. The clothes it wore were plain, just a simple shirt and pants, but they somehow made it seem even more human. Like a real child sitting there, waiting for you to say something.

You exhaled sharply. “ What the hell am I supposed to do with you? ”

Of course, the doll didn’t answer.

You turned away and headed for the kitchen, needing coffee before you could deal with this mess. The rich, bitter scent filled the air as you poured yourself a cup, taking a slow sip while trying to think logically. Crowley had given you next to no instructions beyond take care of it, as if that were a simple task.

Feed it. Talk to it. Treat it like a real child.

You scoffed, shaking your head. “ Right. Because raising a kid is so easy. ”

The longer you stood there, the more your mind started running through the realities of what Crowley was asking of you. Raising a child even an artificial one meant responsibility. And responsibility meant time, effort, and most importantly…money.

You glanced at the doll again, still sitting motionless on your couch.

“ Alright.. ” you muttered, walking over and sitting across from it. “ Let’s break this down. ”

You weren’t exactly wealthy. Your job covered your rent, bills, and food, but it wasn’t like you had stacks of cash lying around for extra mouths to feed especially not ones that came with unknown costs.

Would this thing need clothes? Medical care? Did it get sick? Did it grow?

You frowned, rubbing your temple. “ God, this is a nightmare. ”

You’d never even considered having kids before. Not because you hated them, but because they were expensive, time consuming, and required more patience than you had. And now you were being expected to raise this?

Your gaze drifted toward the grocery list stuck to your fridge, the numbers scribbled on the side reminding you of how carefully you already had to budget. If you took this thing in, that list would get longer. Food, water, maybe even extra furniture.

And what about emergencies? What if something happened to it? Could it get injured? Would you be responsible for repairs, doctor visits whatever it required?

You sighed, resting your forehead against your hand.

“ I think I should return it. ”

The words slipped out before you could fully process them, but once they were spoken, they made sense. The longer you thought about it, the more you realized just how unprepared you were for something like this.

Crowley could pretend this was some simple task, but it wasn’t. Raising a child even an artificial one wasn’t just about giving them food and shelter. It was about being ready to take care of someone else’s life, to be responsible for their well being.

And you weren’t ready.

Not financially. Not emotionally. Not in any way that mattered.

You let out a slow breath and looked at the doll again. It hadn’t moved, hadn’t reacted, but something about its presence still weighed on you.

Maybe, if things were different if you had more time, more money, more experience you might have considered it. But this wasn’t some stray animal you could feed for a few weeks and then decide if you wanted to keep. It was a child.

And children deserved more than someone who took them in on a whim.

Decision made, you grabbed your phone and texted Crowley.

" We need to talk. "

It only took him a few minutes to respond.

" Ah, wonderful! How is the little one doing? "

You exhaled sharply, already irritated. He always had this way of dodging real conversations.

" Come pick it up. I’m not the right person for this. "

This time, there was a long pause before a reply came.

" Are you certain? This is quite the opportunity, you know! A chance to raise a child, shape a young mind, be part of something truly groundbreaking! "

You scowled. Opportunity? Was that how he saw it?

" I’m not ready for this, Crowley. It needs someone with experience, someone who knows what they’re doing. Give it to them. "

Silence.

Then, finally

" Well, if you’re absolutely sure…I’ll make the arrangements. "

You put your phone down and sighed, running a hand through your hair. The weight on your chest loosened slightly.

It was the right choice.

Raising a child real or not wasn’t something you could do just because someone told you to. It required commitment. And if you weren’t ready for that, then the best thing you could do was step aside and let someone else take care of it.

You looked at the doll one last time.

“ Guess this is goodbye, huh? ”

It blinked slowly.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “ You probably don’t even understand what’s happening. ”

Maybe that was for the best.

When Crowley finally arrived, he was all smiles, acting as if this was just another minor inconvenience in his day. You didn’t bother explaining yourself again. You’d made your decision, and that was all that mattered.

As he carried the doll away, you watched from your doorstep, a strange sense of relief settling in your chest.

It wasn’t your responsibility anymore.

And that was okay.

But the last thing you saw was that doll staring at you one final time before it disappeared.

[gamesetattach]

Don't Look Back

Jannik Sinner x Reader A little blurb where reader and Jannik are new exes and are due for their first run in at the start of the tennis season. It'll be chill though. It has to be. Read Jannik's POV here

---

The breakup hadn’t been ugly. And sometimes you felt like it might have been easier if it had been.

There was no shouting, no betrayal. No earth-shattering fallout.

Just a quiet conversation in a hotel room somewhere between one tournament and the next. Jannik had sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped, voice steady in that careful way of his.

"I can’t do both right now," he’d said. "You and tennis. I need to give everything to this."

And you—ever so proud, holding it together even though you felt like bursting at your seams—had nodded, even smiled. You told him you understood. That you wanted him to do what was best.

He’d kissed your forehead, and you’d wished it was your lips instead. Or at least that it lingered against your skin a little longer than it did.

But it was over before you knew it. All of it—done.

You left with grace. Patient and civil, and unperturbed. At least, that’s what Jannik thought. What you wanted him to think.

The truth was quieter, messy. Unbearably painful.

You got through the airport by sheer muscle memory. You stared out of the plane window for the entire nine hours and still didn’t remember a second of the flight. And when you unlocked the door to your apartment and dropped your bags on the floor, the silence inside pressed against your ribs so hard you almost couldn’t breathe.

You didn’t cry right away. You unpacked instead. Found a hoodie of his in your suitcase and smelled it for a long moment before folding it that way he would have. Moved the things he had left in his last visit into a shoebox. 

Nothing really seemed to register until you unlocked your phone to call him as you unwound for bed, the way you had every night you were apart in the six months you were together. You wanted nothing more than to call him, to hear his voice… But that wasn’t the way things were going to be any more. And, realizing that? That’s when something inside cracked. 

For two weeks after, your phone felt heavier than normal. You hovered around it at every second, kept expecting a message. Even though he’d said all he needed to. Even though you knew better. 

Still, you didn’t let yourself text first. Not once. 

You couldn’t. No matter how badly you wanted to.

So you trained. Hard. You practiced more. Slept less. Talked less. Your team noticed, but didn’t push. You let your game consume all the space and time he had left behind.

That was months ago.

Now, the Australian Open hummed around you—sunlight on blue courts, the thump of racquets in the warm-up fields, the familiar churn of adrenaline and heat and nerves. Your season had started clean so far. Focused. You’d worked hard to be ready—for tennis, for the new beginning. For the absence of him.

But of course, even with the new year starting up, it was only a matter of time before the past reared its head…

And you were anticipating that—him.

You’d thought about the moment too many times. Rehearsed it on flights, in locker rooms, walking through empty hotel hallways with your headphones in. What you’d say. How you’d say it. How you’d keep your face easy, your voice steady, your guard up. You’d scripted it all, from the lead up to your get away.

Still, your stomach dipped the moment you saw him.

You spotted him coming toward you from the opposite direction, just beyond the edge of the warm-up courts. There wasn’t a clean way to reroute. Not without making it obvious. And when his eyes lifted and met yours—steady and friendly, he wore the collected expression you hoped you had on—you knew he’d seen you too.

There was never a flicker of doubt, where either of you contemplated not saying anything. Where either of you debated making a hard turn away, or just looking past eachother. Because that wasn’t who Jannik was, he was too kind, too polite. Too unfazed. 

And that was what you had to be. Whether or not you felt that way. 

So you slowed, as did he, meeting in the middle with a few feet and a vague air of stiffness between you.

"Hey," he said, casual with a neutral smile, hands slipping into the pockets of his warmup jacket.

You smiled, easy and practiced. "Hey."

A beat. Then he stepped forward, deciding to lift his arms for an obligatory hug. It was quick, and too familiar, but brief and efficient. Just friendly enough.

"How’s training going?" you asked, as soon as you pulled back.

"Good. Busy," he said, nodding down at you. "You?"

"Yeah, same here." You hoped your cheery tone covered for you stunted answer, not that his was especially elaborate either.

You looked past him for a second, like you were scanning for someone. You weren’t.

"I should probably get back to it," you said, already shifting your weight. "First match tomorrow."

"Yeah. I saw. Good draw."

You nodded, smiled again, and took a step back.

"Good to see you, Jannik. Take care." You walked around him to continue in your direction from before, turning to give him one last look at your easy smile. 

"You too." He nodded before turning away.

And you turned away too. You kept your shoulders relaxed. Your chin up. You didn’t falter, forcing your pace to be casual.But every step felt heavier than the last, because, god, it took everything in you not to look back.

---

If you haven't already, read Jannik's POV here!!!

Easy break ups equal the worst break ups, because then why even break up then. Jk. Because maybe thats toxic to think, whoops.

The Casual Ex-run-in is an artform that many try and fail to perfect. Those who succeed ascend into enlightenment. Or at least that's what I hear.

Short and not-so-sweet one, but I think I want to do a more full blown break up plop in the future. But would want to differentiate from "It's Never Just Coffee", thoughts? Thanks! xx

[chrkrose]

Just wanted to say that I completely agreed with your Sunrise take. It's almost as though you plucked it out of my brain and put it in words.

Its a shame that the Maysilee/Haymitch ship has been struck down so explicitly. I can't see the ship being popular now without fans claiming that we've 'missed the whole point'.

I also agreed with your take about Lenore: to me, she's far too similar to Lucy Gray for me to care about her in her own right and that's a shame.

I'm interested to see if you have any other thoughts since I enjoyed your first post a lot.

More thoughts on SOTR, Maysilee and Maysilee/ Haymitch.

I mean… I have issues with several aspects of Sunrise on the Reaping (SOTR), honestly. Like, the way the book handles its themes is just so on the nose. It lacks the subtlety Suzanne used to have. One of the biggest appeals of the original trilogy was that Katniss wasn’t a chosen one—she wasn’t special, she wasn’t trying to be a rebel, she was just surviving. And now suddenly we’re rewriting that entire foundation to make her destiny feel preordained? Add in all the fan service, which felt so Marvel-level with its cameos and callbacks, and yeah… I struggled with a lot of it.

The Maysilee stuff—and the Maysilee/Haymitch potential—is just one example in a list of things that didn’t work for me, but it’s a great one to highlight what went wrong.

First off, my gripe with Maysilee and Haymitch isn’t even just that they weren’t romantic. Sure, I do think a romantic storyline would’ve added more depth and been more compelling, but what really bugs me is the way people jump to that “not every relationship needs to be romantic!!” discourse like it’s some mic drop moment. And like—yeah, of course not every bond has to be romantic. The series already gives us beautiful platonic relationships, so what are you truly saying here? I always feel like that argument has a bit of a misogynistic edge, like romance automatically weakens a story or a character. That it’s less serious or important just because it’s “girly” or emotional. It’s the reverse of the people who think romance is the only thing that matters—it’s still minimizing, just from another angle.

Personally, I think a romantic connection between Maysilee and Haymitch could have added a lot to the story. Not because romance is inherently better, but because it would’ve allowed us to actually see the relationship develop. Imagine Haymitch having to confront and dismantle his class prejudices toward her. Imagine the layers that would add to his trauma, to his choices, to the person he becomes. That arc would’ve felt way more grounded than suddenly introducing Lenore Dove—a character who feels like a Lucy Gray copy-paste—and expecting us to accept her as the Great Love of Haymitch’s life.

And look, I’m a sucker for a good love story. I would have eaten it up so fast if this was a good one. But it simply wasn’t. There was no tension, no buildup, no spark. Just symbolism on top of symbolism, and a girl who was written to be “quirky” and “different” and important, but never felt real. She was too mythical, too much, too “main girl who haunts the narrative” without earning that weight. At least Lucy Gray had quirks and nuance. Lenore just felt like Suzanne ticking boxes: rebel, covey, singer, poet attached to her name, dead too soon. And I’m sorry, but having Haymitch still pining for his 16-year-old girlfriend decades later, when we barely get to see him reflect on his family or his fellow tributes? At least give space to his mother and brother, to the tributes he bonded with, to all the people he lost along the way.

And that’s what really bothers me. Suzanne always trusted her readers to come to their own conclusions. She showed us dynamics—Katniss and Peeta, Finnick and Katniss, Johanna and Peeta, even Katniss and Gale—and let us interpret. She never had to spell out who these people were to each other. But it seems like she didn’t trust that when it comes to Maysilee and Haymitch, and to Lenore and Haymitch as well. Suddenly we were told what to feel, how to perceive every relationship. And that just doesn’t land for me. It actually undermines the emotional weight because it feels like she didn’t trust the story to stand on its own.

And if the whole idea was to subvert expectations and say “Surprise! Everything you thought you knew about Haymitch’s Games is actually propaganda,” then… I don’t know. That twist didn’t work for me either. It didn’t enhance the themes, it just made me feel, again, like I wasn’t capable enough to reach conclusions on my own. For a book who speaks of propaganda, she sure tried to determine how we would interact with it without room for anything else.

Now, about Maysilee herself—she would’ve worked so much better as the ghost in Haymitch’s narrative. Platonic or romantic, an ambiguous bond between her and Haymitch had more potential than what we got. The Capitol downplaying her role would’ve tied beautifully with Haymitch’s later manipulation of the Katniss/Peeta narrative. She mirrors both of them in ways Lenore doesn’t: she’s a merchant girl like Peeta, she’s got Katniss’ fire, and her pin—her pin—becomes the ultimate symbol of rebellion. She painted the final poster. Not to mention the quiet tragedy of him having to see her twin sister around town for the rest of his life. That’s the kind of subtle, haunting storytelling that would’ve worked.

But instead, they stripped all that from her to give it to Lenore, and in the process, even Katniss’ story gets hurt. Because now, Katniss isn’t just a girl who stumbled into something bigger than herself—now she’s been chosen since the beginning. Which removes one of the most powerful things about her arc: the idea that regular people, caught in the right place at the right time, can change the world.

Lucy Gray worked as a ghost in Snow’s story. Maysilee should’ve been that for Haymitch. But unfortunately, all that depth, all that symbolism, was handed to a character who didn’t earn it and who honestly just didn’t deliver the emotional payoff Suzanne thought she would.

[azonewithu]

Im too much gor the kind of loser who cant tske one shot. Ot 100 for that matter. No one deserves reslrct on earth so why eould anyone be dumb enough to expect.. only spoiled fuked up hated and deslused by everyone assholes expect respect all the time. And thry titn themselves into beadt ls to get it. Thats not respect or even fear. Its a pathetic attitude that expects perfection. There isbt any je. Youve rver met who can fight ne in any way Jenba. Yeah youte like Emma you like done of thise giys ehen i like you giys snd despise allnof tgem do get like ne nit lije them or you. If God singkes you out youre better thsn allnthose guys dont big them up. The okder ines uiur buddy rudd there didnt fo a fuckn thing to prevent the abuse in that industry i did eith my troops sfter recieving a complaint. If you cane here dtom somewhere rlse font feel bad you didnt create this shit and fuck eith my oeopke. If i get the fucon complaint yourpeopke die or treated horribly in droves. Even the inoocent. Im not honna csll for everyone removsl ot deportation like domr asshole. Ill just brutalize you right here n now. I can do way worsecthan those people but with most of the useless shit they do either. No ones better than anyone here. But i get calls i go to work gor ne frw people i care about. Its not a religions its a divine government that one doesnt have to belong to any religion to be a part of. You just cant be a total loss as a human being. Most of you dont qualify. Uour trapped oin your own bodies and lives just like anyone else here. If ur really happy i gotta say youre really ivnirant in this day n age. Ignorant and Gid wouldnt have you at his table. Maybe you need a lil tragedy in your life to wake you ip. I recoomend to anykbe be like me and Michael. Dint look up. Llok in the eyes. Thats you youre lookn at not done God no matter what the fool has dine thry sint no God. Dint call uour significant othervyour God thats the worst blasphemy of all your money sint God. I am

Jenna Ortega

[yeonjune]

Yeonjun about the strain he felt while preparing for his debut solo project ✙ "GGUM" MAKING FILM

[bacchuschucklefuck]

love thinking kipperlilly spends her afterlife looking for lucy in a familiar forest

[rafesbbyy]

I am barking right now. Screaming. Crying. Throwing up. This is going to be very long because I cannot stop about how much I love this.

Your favorite flowers sit in a vase on the marble countertop. A book you once mentioned offhandedly rests on the nightstand in the master bedroom. A closet full of designer dresses in your size hangs neatly beside rows of shoes and handbags.

HELLO?? This is actually insane. You know how I said Rafe didn't really care about her or something?? Well I take it back because this man clearly listens to her!! I was expecting him to want things to be his way even in this new house of theirs. But I'm so glad to see him recognizing some level of individuality in reader. To be seen is to be heard, or how ever the quote goes. Like it's literally so sweet of him to remember her fav flowers and book?? (maybe the bar is on the floor but this is the same man who was a lil cold and uncaring just a few chapters before!!) Also, the closet full of designer clothes?? MEOWWWW. Can I pls live readers life??? Rafe could tell me to bark and I would if it meant I'd be getting a closet full of rich shit.

The words are shaky, written in a child's uneven scrawl. They tell a story of loneliness, of always being second place.

Can you hear me crying??? You did not have to break my heart like that babe 💔💔💔

"She’s not naive," Rafe says, his voice even but firm. His arm drapes over the back of your chair, a casual but unmistakable show of possession. "She just grew up with people who never listened to her."

I have never been more turned on in my life. I have to keep reminding myself that this man isn't real. I'm so glad he stood up for her like as he should honestly!! Fucking finally!! Its the way he was exerting dominance in this scene tho—like yes pop off king!! Him saying what needed to be said in one simple sentence—OOOFFF I AM DYING. We love a protective man💗💗Lets hope now his ass can also stand up to his friends smh.

For once, someone stood up for you.

I am CRYING. She's way too sweet for Rafe🥺. I feel soooo bad for her honestly, like poor baby🥺🥺Rafe better treat her right or else I hope reader drowns him (she probably won't cuz poor thing has no other option but to be his lmaoo)

Your father exhales, shifting in his seat. Your mother fidgets with her bracelet. Your brother watches you, expression unreadable. "If you can’t accept that," you continue, "then don’t bother coming."

Oh her family is annoying annoying. Like, why are they all acting so clueless?? First they isolate her, make her feel dumb and all, and then make fun of her right in front of her future husband? Istg, I'm so glad reader put them in their places!! She's learning (from Rafe, I'm afraid).

"Shh, angel." His palm presses against your core through your dress, the heat of him seeping into you. "I like seeing you like that. Strong. Knowing what’s yours." Your thighs clench, a soft whimper escaping before you can stop it. "You know what else is yours?" His voice is low, teasing, as his fingers slip beneath the fabric, barely brushing where you need him most. You bite your lip, your pulse thrumming. "What?" Rafe tilts his head, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Me." And just like that, any tension from the night melts away—replaced by something else entirely.

I just came in my pants. I think this is his first time acknowledging her as a person? Like acknowledging her individuality and actually appreciating it. I'm afraid all the bad things I said about him have to be taken back because he's actually so hot. Like so hot I wanna stay on my knees forever for him. Also, love the contrast from the previous chapters, where she's always 'his' but now he's "hers". Ahhh they're both so cute n hot together.

(Also, this might be super weird but for some reason the way you wrote Rafe sometimes would remind me of Mads Mikkelsen?? Maybe I'm dumb or reaching, but Rafe just gives me Mads Mikkelsen vibes, especially the coldness, the sugar daddy vibe.)

Anyways, I love how you've written something so electric and beautiful!! If Rafe was real, I'd be running away from him (and maybe towards him) but you write him in such an electric charming way that I just can't help but fall in love with him despite him being an asshole lol. I've also been daydreaming about sugar daddies so I blame you, no one else for making me this way 💔💔 Love this chapter like always 💗💗

SUGAR-COATED CHAINS — CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

WARNINGS — controlling behaviors, possessiveness, family problems, light smut mdni

You weren’t expecting a detour.

Rafe had told you you’d be meeting your family for dinner, but instead of heading straight there, the car turned onto a long, tree-lined driveway, leading to an estate tucked away from the city.

Your brows knit together as you glance at him. "Where are we?"

Rafe doesn’t answer immediately. He simply steps out of the car and comes around to open your door. There’s something unreadable in his expression as he takes your hand, guiding you up the front steps.

The house is massive—far bigger than your penthouse, though just as sleek and expensive. But when you step inside, it’s different. You expect something cold and unfamiliar, but instead, the space already feels… lived in.

Your favorite flowers sit in a vase on the marble countertop. A book you once mentioned offhandedly rests on the nightstand in the master bedroom. A closet full of designer dresses in your size hangs neatly beside rows of shoes and handbags.

"You like it?" Rafe’s voice is casual, but there’s an edge of expectation beneath it.

You swallow. "This is… ours?"

"It’s ours," he confirms. "We’re moving in after the wedding."

You open your mouth to protest—to at least discuss this—but then something catches your eye. A door, slightly ajar, at the end of the hall.

Something about it makes your stomach twist.

You step forward hesitantly, your fingers trembling as you push it open.

The room is immaculate. Soft pastels, delicate lace curtains, a bassinet already in place. A nursery.

Your breath catches in your throat.

"Rafe."

He hums behind you, his hands settling on your waist. "Go ahead. Take a look."

Your heart pounds as you step inside, the air suddenly too thick. It’s not just a house. It’s a future. One you never planned.

"Rafe, I—"

His grip tightens, his breath warm against your ear. "This is ours, angel. You knew this was coming."

You swallow hard, a strange weight settling in your chest. It’s not like you hadn’t thought about it before, but seeing it—physically standing in the life he’s building around you—makes it real in a way you weren’t prepared for.

"You’re mine," he murmurs, turning you in his arms. His gaze is steady, unwavering. "We’re done pretending otherwise."

You’re not sure whether it’s comfort or control, but either way, it sinks in.

Because maybe you never really had a choice at all.

—

The drive to your parents’ house is even quieter now.

You stare out the window, fingers clenched in your lap.

Rafe notices. He always does.

"You nervous, angel?" he asks.

You shake your head. "No."

A lie.

He hums, unconvinced.

When you arrive, your mother greets you with a polite kiss on the cheek. Your father barely looks up from his phone.

It’s your brother who makes the biggest show of it—grinning as he pulls you into a one-armed hug, ruffling your hair.

"Look who it is!" he teases. "Still the baby of the family, huh?"

You laugh lightly, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

You tug Rafe’s hand. "Come on. I’ll show you my room before dinner."

Your childhood bedroom is smaller than you remember.

Pink sheets still hug the bed. Books still line the shelves.

"Didn’t change much, huh?" Rafe muses.

"Guess not."

You kneel by the dresser, rummaging through an old jewelry box. You don’t notice the way Rafe moves, fingers grazing along your desk—pausing on a small, worn book.

Your diary.

He flips it open.

It only takes a few seconds for him to understand.

The words are shaky, written in a child's uneven scrawl. They tell a story of loneliness, of always being second place.

Of feeling forgotten.

His jaw clenches.

Rafe has always known you were his. But seeing this—seeing how long you’ve felt unwanted—does something to him.

He tucks the diary back into place just as you turn around.

"Found it," you say, holding up a trinket.

Rafe nods, gaze unreadable. "We should head down."*

You don’t notice how he holds you just a little tighter than before.

As predicted dinner is tense.

Your parents are polite, but distant, treating you like a guest rather than their daughter. Your brother, on the other hand, can’t resist slipping in jabs—mostly harmless, but enough to make you squirm.

"You remember how she used to follow me and my friends around?" he chuckles. "Swore she was one of us."

You laugh lightly, even though the memory stings. You were always on the outside, trying to fit in, never quite enough.

Your mother smiles dismissively. "She always was a bit… naive."

That’s when Rafe puts down his fork.

It’s subtle, but it makes the whole table pause.

"She’s not naive," Rafe says, his voice even but firm. His arm drapes over the back of your chair, a casual but unmistakable show of possession. "She just grew up with people who never listened to her."

Silence.

Your father clears his throat. Your mother gives a nervous chuckle, brushing off his words, but your brother looks like he’s actually considering them.

Rafe picks up his fork again, like nothing happened. But beneath the table, his hand slides to your thigh, squeezing gently.

You don’t say anything, but something warm blooms in your chest.

For once, someone stood up for you.

After dinner, as everyone lingers in the living room, you take a slow breath before turning to Rafe.

"Can you wait in the car for a minute?"

His brows furrow slightly, but he nods, pressing a kiss to your forehead before stepping outside.

Your family looks at you expectantly.

You hesitate for only a second before speaking. "I want you all at the wedding."

Your mother’s lips press together. "Sweetheart, of course we’ll be there—"

"But not if you’re going to treat me like a child." Your voice is steady, surprising even yourself. "I get it. I was always the little sister. The quiet one. The baby of the family. But that’s not who I am anymore."

Your father exhales, shifting in his seat. Your mother fidgets with her bracelet. Your brother watches you, expression unreadable.

"If you can’t accept that," you continue, "then don’t bother coming."

Silence stretches between you all. It’s terrifying, but liberating.

Your mother is the first to speak, softer this time. "We’ll be there."

You don’t wait for more. You just turn and walk out the door.

—

The car ride home is quiet at first. You stare out the window, letting the weight of the night settle in.

Then, you feel it—Rafe’s fingers tracing slow circles on your bare thigh.

"You did good back there," he murmurs.

Your breath catches. His hand slides higher.

"Rafe," you whisper.

"Shh, angel." His palm presses against your core through your dress, the heat of him seeping into you. "I like seeing you like that. Strong. Knowing what’s yours."

Your thighs clench, a soft whimper escaping before you can stop it.

"You know what else is yours?" His voice is low, teasing, as his fingers slip beneath the fabric, barely brushing where you need him most.

You bite your lip, your pulse thrumming. "What?"

Rafe tilts his head, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"Me."

And just like that, any tension from the night melts away—replaced by something else entirely.

[earthmixsclowderofcats]

[cassiesdevblog]

ok i was gonna be brief but nvm it's full speed ahead autism infodump time. I'm gonna break this into Categories

1: Intimacy (teehee)

minecraft normally takes great care to create a deep and intimate relationship between you and your surroundings. climbing a mountain, getting down from a mountain, boating through a river, crossing an ocean, navigating a forest, and traversing between end islands are all examples of traversal that Feels crunchy and unique. I find that I develop an intimate relationship with my worlds in large part through these different flavors of traversal within them, which are full of their own little micro traversal puzzles, inconveniences, and small dangers. conversely, whenever I open creative mode, I'm kind of struck by how sterile and lifeless it makes a world feel, and a large part of that is because all the above flavors of traversal and more are flattened down into one universal "fly over it" solution. I think this is a large part of what players are talking about when they say elytra are OP (well, really elytra + rockets). I have a little pet theory that they may be a large contributor to the "two week Minecraft phase." elytra flight is really exciting on its own, but I find it absolutely decimates the intimacy I've built up with my world and leaves it feeling cold and sterile, despite how fun the flight is. happy ghast flight doesn't even seem to have the fun factor of elytra...! no sense of gravity, no speed, no big swoops, no resource management, not even the tiny risk of maybe running into something too fast and getting hurt. seemingly the only reason not to use the happy ghast over ground-based transport is that it's kinda slow (though it'll make up for some of that lack of speed via the ability to fly directly toward a destination without needing to curve around things or climb over them, which adds to the travel time)

2: Building

building in survival is normally textured by a million tiny puzzles and their solutions. a common example being building up your walls underneath yourself so you can walk on top of them as you raise them up, solving the problem of not being able to build them up very high from the ground. scaffolding is one approach to many of these problems that comes with its own crunchy micro-puzzles. building your scaffolding in a way that accommodates their horizontal distance limits, building it in a way that won't get in the way of building, aiming your cursor through the holes in the hitbox to place things, building it to avoid losing any of it via pieces landing on top of parts of your build when you break it down, the resource management of the scaffolding itself depending on how much you brought (and planning ahead to judge how much you should bring!). the happy ghast is seemingly just creative mode flight but slower, solving almost every building micro-puzzle in the same way, though I will say it might be occasionally interesting to need to accommodate the size of it. building up high, though, normally has the deepest and most interesting micro-puzzles, but I guess not anymore if you have one of these

(also, speaking of transport, I love making paths and bridges and tunnels and such to get around my worlds more easily, but doing so feels meaningless once I can fly. though maybe in practice it will be slow enough that infrastructure would still feel meaningful... we'll see!)

3: Emotional Ambiguity

imo, emotional ambiguity is vital to minecraft's tone. I have so many reasons for this that I'll just break it into bullet points

Intrigue: vague, unclear, or conflicting emotions make things interesting and mysterious. the normal ghast is actually a perfect example, expressing a confusing mix of sorrow, indifference, rage, and even a hint of contentment in some of its sounds. it'll scream and shoot at the player and then just wander off. it'll fly into lava and catch on fire and not seem to care. is it crying right now or are those dried tear trails? does it care that I'm here or not? why is it crying? why does it sound kind of content? by expressing an ambiguous blend of emotions, it raises interesting questions and deepens the intrigue and mystery of the game's world, which is a vital aspect of minecraft's appeal imo!! it also leads to...

Interpretation: ambiguous emotions invite players to interpret things in various ways, both consciously and unconsciously. not only does this empower players to invent their own lore by raising open questions, it's honestly an elegant solution to the problem of needing to make living creatures in one of the most dynamic games in the world react believably to any situation. is the happy ghast still gonna smile if you're attacking it? or will they make a unique "upset" texture for that situation? what if you kill other ghasts in front of it? will it just keep smiling? no matter what, there will always be situations where it seems completely wrong for it to express what it's expressing, making its joy come off as meaningless and thus making the player's relationship with it feel hollow. I think, over time, players will start to see the happy ghasts themselves as sterile. best case scenario this makes them unsettling in an interesting way, worst case it pokes at the fourth wall and breaks the fantasy. I think this is the first mob in all of Minecraft to smile, but they could have added at least a little ambiguity by turning the eyebrows down to make it more of a "bittersweet" smile, or maybe even removing the brows entirely...?

Hamfistedness: "grimstone" was the original name for deepslate, and I'm very glad they changed it. "grimstone" got too close to telling the player how they should feel about it, rather than creating a grim vibe and letting the player experience it organically. I think names like that tend to feel kind of cheap and hacky, like a halloween decoration. it's antithetical to the mystery and intrigue of minecraft, and it feels almost condescending?? the name "happy ghast" feels so hamfisted and insincere that I hate even typing it out hsgshsgsgs. at least call it the mellow ghast so we can start calling them marshmallows...

Also, nitpicks!!!

what's up with the giant steampunk goggles? I don't mind if they want to put a dash of steampunk in the game, but it feels very tropey and straightforward the way it's done here. jarringly out of place. also, at the risk of sounding like cinemasins, why would it wear them only when a player rides it? does it not need to keep the wind out of its eyes at other times...? does it even need to worry about that considering it's so slow? knowing that it's to let players on the ground know whether someone's riding it just makes it feel contrived for the player's benefit, a feeling Minecraft usually avoids

similarly, why did they say it's "tempted" to come toward you if you hold the harness? what is "tempting" about the harness? framing it that way makes it feel like the mob's desires are nonsensical and just contrived for the player's convenience, making it feel hollow. though hopefully in context it feels more like a pet loyally coming to its owner when it's wanted or something like that?

also... are they gonna update the original ghast's texture to match the strangely high resolution of this one?

I mean, the pixel density compared to the size and simplicity of the model looks kinda nasty, like a hi-res texture pack that looks uncanny because it tries to fake too much depth and detail on too simple a model. the lo-res texture of the normal ghast already felt kinda wonky if you got up close, but I think upping the texture size without also upping the model complexity in some way kinda makes it worse?? they've painted themselves into a corner here by making a ghast you're supposed to get close to, I think

the texture is also kinda nasty cause the eyes and mouth like, seem to be trying to still invoke the pixel size and shape of the normal ghast, but then, up next to the curve of the harness's cloth, it looks like inconsistent pixel sizing even though it isn't. if they're gonna change the texture, they should probably just go all in, cause doing a half measure like this looks horrible next to the harness texture

overall, I just think minecraft is designed much more interestingly and creatively than this. this mob feels very uninspired in the same game that added the strider when players were suggesting obsidian boats. a flying mount could have been really cool and interesting!! riding ghasts is one of those obvious ideas that I'm sure a lot of players have thought of, but I'm not convinced it'll be good for the game at all (we'll see...!)

lord I wrote a lot wtf

yeah lol idk. I'm a big modern minecraft enjoyer! even when I'm not sure about a new feature, thinking about it more deeply tends to make me appreciate it more and eventually love it. but I've kinda experienced the opposite with this mob. thinking about it feels like a rabbit hole

I probably come across as nitpicky and overly negative, but I do really like thinking through all these small things! it's fun! and it helps me better understand and appreciate what I do love about this game and its design. hopefully when this feature comes out it turns out to avoid some of the issues I mentioned above, maybe with some mechanics we don't know about yet!

actually hang on I'm not done

Some rework ideas...

-its mere presence attracts a unique flying mob (or just phantoms) at night, adding a little danger to spice up long trips. you'd also have to be careful where you leave your ghast or else you'll be swarmed. airborne combat could be pretty cool! could be some hellish (or angel-like? allay-like?) entity trying to bring them back to the nether. maybe they could actually succeed in teleporting you both to the nether, and you'd end up at the equivalent coordinates, adjusted to drop you off somewhere reasonable, similar to how nether portals work

-when flying over larger bodies of water, it will sometimes spontaneously drop out of the sky to go for a quick dip, dumping you in the middle of the ocean til it decides it's done swimming. maybe it does this when you fly over squids cause it wants to visit them. tentacle gang

-they dry out over time and will do something like sink to the ground, start taking damage, or maybe straight up drop players. or turn back into the dry ghast block, which could have gravity like falling sand! they can be rehydrated with snowballs, water buckets, water bottles -- all things with limited stack sizes, so you need to stop to replenish frequently. or maybe you could just park it in water for a bit. maybe it sponges up the water til it's full

-maybe it just wanders off if you don't pen it in, and it can't be attached to a lead, so you have to build big pens for it wherever you want to leave it behind

-normal ghasts are hostile to it, freaked out by its unusually chill demeanor. they aim for its large hitbox rather than your tiny one

-maybe it has a really volatile temperament and will act like a normal ghast if it feels threatened, shaking off riders and shooting at them... or it could just do the shaking them off part. some possible fears: hostile mobs, the night, confined spaces, fire, lava, torches, pigs and piglins (implying maybe piglins hunt ghasts in the nether?), cats (it's trendy to be afraid of cats in minecraft. oh I guess ghasts are also voiced by a cat...! spicy irony), being over the end void for too long, deserts (too dry!), being in the nether at all, pale forests, the deep dark, or phantoms (careful making long journeys!). giving it some irrational fears could also make it seem kind of emotionally unpredictable, which could mayyybe make its inevitable unfitting reactions to other things feel less weird?

-your dogs and golems don't trust it and will attack it on sight. passive mobs run away from it, maybe even leaping over fences lol

-thunder really likes striking it if there's a storm. maybe god is angry

-maybe, after a while of ferrying players around, it has repaid its debt of gratitude, ascends to a higher plane, and is never seen again

close enough, welcome back pink wither

[lecliss]

The choice from Sunday is kinda weird cuz the options are build a cage in the house for the bird or build a nest where it fell and one leads to the bird growing up but dying once its set free and the other one probably leads to it dying much sooner. They both feel like the same option and even tho obviously the most kind, caring, morally right thing to do is keep it inside so at least it lives longer even if it's in a cage. But like to me both options suck and are basically nothing cuz I'm sorry if I look like a bad person for this, but I'm not sorry, but I'm not fuckin touching a wild animal. Even if I knew it was there even if I bothered to check out the sound to find a bird, which I wouldn't, I'm not touching it. I'm not even getting close enough to find out it's too young to fly yet. Whatever happens to it happens man and I'll never know what happens to it cuz I'm not even gonna look at it. Like, where's the 'you seem like an asshole but really it's quite a normal choice' in this whole trial thing??? That's usually an option you can pick. Sunday!!! Sunday, listen!!! There are more than two choices!!! You don't have to always do something!!!! You can just walk away!!! You don't have to try to do something for everyone all the time!!! Think about yourself sometimes!!! It's not selfish I promise!!! SUNDAY!!! OH MY GOD HIS WINGS ARE COVERING HIS EARS HE CANT HEAR US!!!!