#like!! he left his daughter at home with the promise to be back soon - he thought he'd just be goin into work like normal

[powderpinkprincess]

Safe Haven - six [Carlos Sainz & daughter!OC]

Carlos Sainz never expected to become a single dad, but when three-year-old Isa is suddenly left in his care, he’s forced to face the truth about what she’s been through… And what kind of father he’s willing to become. A story about family, healing, and learning to parent in the fast lane. find the list of chapters here & send me a sign if you want to be added to the taglist:)

After reading the results, Carlos’s lawyer organized an emergency appointment with the psychologist he knew within two days. Julie Berger was experienced with early childhood trauma, and she was based right in Monte Carlo.

The best would’ve been if Carlos had met her without Isa, so Mrs. Berger could do the first interview as it was professionally required. But Carlos didn’t know anyone yet who could watch Isa while he wasn’t around, and he wasn’t even sure it was possible without Isa panicking.

He ended up writing Mrs. Berger a lengthy letter, attaching everything he had about Isa’s case, and they agreed that Mrs. Berger’s coworker would conduct the first interview with him while she observed Isa.

Mrs. Berger’s office was sunlit and warm. The soft wood tones and pastel pictures on the walls channelled nothing but safety. Yet as Carlos sat on the small couch with Isa beside him, her body curled tight against his side, thumb in her mouth, he couldn’t feel further from calm. This was the first time that while Isa was in Monaco with him, Carlos was going to let her out of his sight with someone else.

Mrs. Berger smiled gently at them both. “Carlos, if it’s alright, my colleague, Ms. Arnaud, is ready to speak with you. I’ll stay here with Isabel. We’ll just play a little.”

Carlos hesitated. Isa gripped his shirt instantly, her eyes sharp with panic. Her thumb popped from her mouth.

 “No.”

 “It’s just a short talk, mi amor,” he murmured. “Papá will come right back.”

 “Don’t go,” she said, frantic. “Don’t go.”

Carlos crouched in front of her, hands on her little knees. “You’re safe here. I promise. Look, Mrs. Berger has even more crayons than you do at home. And I’ll be back very soon.”

Isa’s breathing was quick and shallow now. Her eyes darted between Carlos and Mrs. Berger, trying to measure how true this could be.

When Carlos finally stood and stepped toward the door, Isa’s silence shattered. She bolted from the couch, ran after him, fists hitting his legs furiously. “NO! Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go!”

Julie Berger remained calm. She didn’t interfere, just gently stepped closer and knelt on the rug, as if simply waiting for gravity to pull Isa’s energy back down.

 “I’m right next door,” Carlos promised, crouching again. “You can show me everything you draw. You’ll be okay.”

Isa’s little body was rigid as Carlos peeled her off him. She didn’t cry; she trembled. When he left, she stood frozen in the middle of the room, her fists tight at her sides. Mrs. Berger didn’t rush. She sat cross-legged on the carpet, holding a box of small wooden animals.

 “I wonder which one lives closest to the sea,” she said softly.

Isa didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Ten minutes passed before she sat down. Another five before she touched a toy. She didn’t look at Mrs. Berger once, but she played.

Carlos reentered the room 45 minutes later, led back in by Ms. Arnaud. Isa was on the floor, legs spread out, quietly stacking some blocks now.

When she heard the door, she didn’t turn. She didn’t light up or run to him. Instead, she froze.

The blocks slipped from her hands. And then, she pushed herself up from the rug, but instead of walking up to Carlos, she hurried to the furthest corner of the room. She didn’t even look at him. Her thumb slipped into her mouth again as she stubbornly stared at her shoes, her face rigid.

Carlos blinked. “Isa?”

She didn’t answer. It was like she didn’t even hear him. Carlos knew she did.

Mrs. Berger stood as well, gently nodding to him. “It’s alright.”

Carlos crossed the room slowly. “Mi amor, it’s Papá. I’m here. I came back. I promised I would, remember?”

No answer.

When he crouched behind her and reached out to touch her arm, she suddenly turned and smacked his hand away, her eyes watering. But then almost immediately, she flung herself into his arms with force, like she’d only now registered he was real. Her arms gripped his neck tightly. Her breath was sharp, hitching.

 “Okay, okay,” Carlos whispered, swallowing hard as he held her. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere now.”

He gently lifted her and sat on the couch with her. Her thumb immediately found her mouth again, and she gripped his shirt tight in her other fist, letting out small, hiccupping breaths. Yet she didn’t look at Carlos. She kept staring at the rug in the middle of the room, her body tense as if she was waiting for something to happen.

Mrs. Berger gave them space, waiting until Isa was a bit more relaxed in his arms, then gently sat back down across from them.

 “Carlos,” she began softly. “I remember you wrote about this kind of behaviour in your email. I know it’s confusing when she clings to you and lashes out at the same time. When she hits or screams, but won’t let go of your shirt.” She offered a warm, sad smile. “But that’s not a contradiction for a child like Isa. It’s a survival instinct.”

Carlos looked up at her, brow tense, one hand stroking Isa’s hair.

 “She’s had to internalize that the people she needs most might vanish,” Mrs. Berger continued. “She learned that love can disappear overnight, literally. Her mother’s absence when she went out without her during those two or more months taught her that she can’t trust the world to stay consistent. And children that age can’t regulate that kind of fear. So now, when she’s overwhelmed, the wires in her brain kind of cross.”

 “She gets mad at me for leaving,” Carlos murmured. “Even if I’m in the next room. She does that at home, too.”

 “She panics that you’ve left for good,” Mrs. Berger said. “But she doesn’t want you to see her scared. So, she lashes out. That’s what we call disorganized attachment. When her brain senses loss, even if it’s just perceived, she goes into fight, flight, or cling, all at once. That’s why she hits you sometimes when you comfort her. Her body’s screaming don’t leave me and don’t touch me at the same time.”

Carlos looked down. Isa had fallen silent, but he felt her breathing hard through her nose, thumb still shoved in her mouth, face buried against his chest.

 “She sleeps with me,” he admitted quietly. “I tried to put her in her own bed, but it doesn’t work anymore. She used to sleep in her room before, but now she can’t. She won’t let me leave her room. I tried to stay only until she fell asleep, but she woke up screaming. She used to come and find me or call for me if she woke up, and I always came. Always. Now she has a complete meltdown if she wakes up alone before even trying to call for me.”

“She was left alone at night for a long time, Carlos,” Mrs. Berger said gently. “Her body remembers that. Even if she can’t explain it. Even if she’s not in Britain anymore. This trauma is rooted too deep to think rationally if she wakes up alone at night.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and held her tighter. His throat felt tight again. He couldn’t bear the thought of his little girl alone in that house, crying for her mother until she learned that there was no use. Her mom wouldn’t appear in her doorway, and she didn’t know where she was or when she was going to come back. If she was going to come back at all.

But Vivian sometimes gave her a cookie if she didn’t cry, as Isa said. Carlos had to swallow again to fight back the tears.

 “You’re not spoiling her by staying close,” Mrs. Berger added, sensing the hidden meaning behind his words. “You’re rebuilding her sense of safety. And she’s not manipulating you. She’s surviving. I know some people on the internet say she shouldn’t sleep in the same bed with her parent anymore, but this isn’t a setback. This is a way to cope, and it’s the best you can do for her.”

Carlos nodded slowly.

 “She’ll need therapy,” Mrs. Berger continued. “But what you’re doing now, just being there, over and over, is already healing her more than you can see. You just have to keep showing up for her.”

Carlos bit down on his lip before he opened his mouth to speak. “And Vivian…?”

He didn’t know how to ask with Isa being there in his lap, but he needed to know. He needed a sign if Mrs. Berger was going to send her back or not. Of course, Mrs. Berger understood his wordless plea. She didn’t say anything, just shook her head a little.

And with that, it was almost final. Isa won’t go back.

---

Carlos knew that Vivian got the notice from the court. And it wasn’t because Alexandre told him that she did.

A week later, Isa was down for an afternoon nap, curled in Carlos’s bed with her stuffed bunny pressed to her cheek. He’d just stepped out onto the patio, coffee in hand, when he saw her.

Right on his driveway.

Vivian was yelling before he could even open his mouth to speak. “I’m taking her home! This is ridiculous! Isa is my daughter!” She took a step forward, but she stumbled, barely steady on her feet.

She was drunk.

Carlos stayed quiet, mostly from the shock of seeing her there. He placed his mug on the windowsill, and when he turned back to Vivian, he noticed the shards of glass not far from where she was standing.

 “I’ve let you play Dad for a while, okay? But I didn’t agree to… Whatever this is. I didn’t agree to custody. I just needed a break. And now I’m ready to be her mom again. You took advantage of me not thinking straight, and now you’re using it to keep her from me? You don’t get to do that. I’m taking her home.”

 “Vivian, you need to leave. Now. You’re drunk,” Carlos stated. “If someone finds you here like this, you’ll be in trouble. If you want to see her again soon, you have to leave right now.”

 “I don’t know what you’ve said to those people- Or what Isa had said to you- She is dramatic. She always has been. I just needed a break!” She lost her balance again, leaning against the fence for a brief second.

 “Vivian…” Carlos tried again, his patience thinning. He glanced up behind his shoulder. The last thing he needed was Isa waking up to this. But Vivian just kept going.

 “And you think you’re perfect? You’re barely there with all your races. What, you’re gonna raise her in a paddock now? You don’t even know how to be a father! You never even wanted her!” she screamed. Then she picked up a huge rock from his pathway and threw it right against the windshield of his car.

Carlos’s jaw clenched. He knew he had to act fast. He didn’t want Isa to wake up and see her mother like this. He also couldn’t allow a stranger to get involved in their business by alerting the police. He had no idea how that would affect Isa’s case. He didn’t want her to lose her mom. He just wanted her to be safe.

He stepped forward, deliberately keeping himself between Vivian and the house. “Vivian, for your sake, please leave. Otherwise, I’m calling the police before someone else does.”

 “Do it!” she yelled. “Let’s see who they believe! The mother of this child or just some guy who takes her for a weekend a month?!”

Carlos had already pulled out his phone. “Last chance. Leave before you make things worse for you and Isa. If the police catch you here like this, I can’t guarantee how you are going to see her.”

Vivian took a step closer. “I’m going inside. I’m taking her right now.”

Carlos dialled the number.

Within minutes, the sirens sounded, growing louder as a patrol car turned the corner. Two officers stepped out, calm but firm. “Madam, we need you to step away from the property.”

Vivian turned, eyes burning with rage.

 “He’s kidnapping my kid!” she snarled. “And you’re all letting him!”

The officers tried to deescalate, but she was already unhinged. She was cursing, throwing rocks at Carlos’s car. When one officer moved to gently take her arm, she slapped him across the face.

That was it. She was handcuffed.

Carlos stood frozen as they guided her, still shrieking, into the backseat of the patrol car. The chaos faded down the road, but his body didn’t stop trembling.

He looked back toward the window. Isa hadn’t woken up.

Thank God.

chapter seven

lovely little pumpkins: @guacala @dreaming-starlet @freyathehuntress @smithieandy @maggiedog98 @ndiff

[paradoxgavel]

thinks about mr. fnaf cassie's dad for too long and gets really sad about him

[kingkaisen]

— ♡ — 𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒 || 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 — ♡ —

Gojo’s in the middle of an important meeting, but chatting with his wife and daughter is his only priority.

“Satoru, can you please get off of your damn phone?”

Holding up a finger to the frustrated CEO as if to say, “give me a minute,” Gojo laughed casually as he kept his phone pressed against his ear.

The thirteen sharply dressed businessmen seated at the conference table all had their eyes fixated on the chatty sorcerer, who was asked to attend a very important meeting regarding the recent appearance of a special grade curse lurking around the company’s headquarters.

“Really?” Gojo said enthusiastically, leaning back in his office chair, swerving from side to side just a bit. “And what else did you do? What’d you learn at preschool today?”

Some of the impatient men were less aggravated once they realized who he was talking to — his beloved daughter.

“You learned about the life cycle of a butterfly? Oh, that’s amazing . . . And you drew a picture of one? We’re just gonna have to hang it on the fridge then . . . Mommy packed you your favorite sandwich for lunch? Did you gobble it all up? Sounds like you had a fun day, Muffin-”

“Satoru.”

The CEO called the sorcerer’s name again, but the man ignored him, grinning as he listened to his adorable daughter ramble on and on about her exciting day.

“Daddy’s gotta hang up soon, he’s in a very important meeting right now. Can you put mommy on the phone?”

As Gojo spoke sweetly to the young girl over the phone, he glared at the CEO, who sighed in utter defeat once the white-haired man still refused to get off of his phone.

“This is ridiculous, Gojo,” the older man grumbled. “It’s rude, unprofessional, and disrespectful to do this in the middle of a meeting!”

“Yeah?” Gojo raised his eyebrows. “If my daughter calls me, I’m going to answer. And you’re crazy if you think I’m not going to speak to my wife as well.”

“But we have a serious situation that needs to be discussed-”

“No, not really. This meeting is entirely unnecessary, considering I could just kill the curse and be done with it. My kid telling me about caterpillars matters more to me than anything you have to say right now, sir.”

For a moment, as the CEO sighed heavily in frustration, the big conference room was completely silent until Gojo suddenly spoke up.

“Hi baby,” Gojo beamed at the sound of your beautiful voice in his right ear. “Did you have a good day? I miss you . . . What? The store ran out of rice? You’re right, that is ridiculous. Want me to stop at a different store on the way home? . . . I know what kind, sweetheart . . . I’ll be home before dinner, I promise . . . No, I love you more and that’s not up for debate, sorry . . . Alright, I gotta hang up too . . . Okay . . . Bye, baby.”

Once Gojo hung up, the CEO sighed once again, but this time, with relief. But, as he started to speak, Gojo instantly got up from his chair.

“Hey, where are you going?” The CEO shouted, watching as Gojo headed straight for the door, smiling causally with his hands in his pockets.

“I’m going to kill that curse so I can go home. My wife needs more rice and my daughter wants to show me her butterfly picture, so I’m not staying here for a stupid meeting.”

The CEO’s protests were cut off by Gojo shutting the door behind him as he left the conference room.

And, this was, perhaps, the quickest amount of time in which Gojo had ever killed a special grade curse. After all, he missed his beautiful family, and he’d always make it home, no matter what.

— Part II —

[unconventional-lawnchair]

Hello! Could you do a Barty Crouch Jr. x Fem! Potter! Reader.

Where they are both in Ravenclaw and get close and end up dating in secret because of the Slytherins and the marauders. But then something happens and they break up but Barty shows up at the readers house years later to warn her about Harry, James, and Lily. They rekindle (smut if you write it. Or leads to that?)

And I was thinking about two different endings.

Ending 1: The reader later finds out she’s pregnant and has to raise their child on her own until the triwizard tournament where their child meets their father?

Ending 2: The reader goes to godric hollow that night to try to help them but ends up dying and Barty finds her and holds her?

Or if you like both you can do two different Barty x reader!

Love your fics by the way and I am Hooked to the series!!

Making Mistakes

Barty Crouch Junior x Potter!RavenClaw!Reader

Summary: (See above) After a horrible break up in 7th year, Barty and you haven't spoken a word to eachother. Then, he comes barrelling back into your life begging for forgiveness, will you trust him?

Wc: 16.8k

CW: Angst Heavy. Hurt/Comfort, Barty and the reader are messssy. Sexual themes and scenes. Mom!Reader, AFAB!Reader, Dad!Barty, Non canon complacent, The first part of the fanfiction is focused on the reader- second is focused on Ophelia(your daughter).

The Potter Manor, once warm and full of life, now felt cold and empty. The high ceilings and ornate decorations that had once felt grand now only magnified the silence. The vibrant reds and golds of your family crest seemed muted, much like the life that had once filled these halls.

Your brother, James, was hiding somewhere even you couldn't name- hardly able to visit outside of special occasions. Your parents had been gone for over a year. The house was far too big, far too quiet, and far too lonely. It wasn’t just the emptiness of the space itself- it was the absence of the people who had made it a home. You’d told yourself that time would help, but the grief lingered, stubborn and heavy, refusing to fade.

Even now, curled up on the couch in the living room- the one you used to complain was too cramped- you felt the space around you stretch endlessly. With a blanket over your knees, the fireplace crackling softly, and a book resting on your lap, it should have felt cozy. Instead, it felt hollow. You ran your fingers absentmindedly over the cover of your book, your other hand drifting to the necklace around your neck, the small charm resting just above your heart- a lone magpie. 

It matched your patronus. Well, it matched what your patronus had become. Once, it had been a darling doe- calm and serene, a reflection of your regal- that's what Sirius had said. Now, it was the magpie: small, fierce, and energetic. It suited you, or at least the version of you that remained. You’d felt yourself change, slowly but surely, in the years you knew a love so dangerous it tore off parts of you that you no longer remmebered.

Your fingers traced the delicate charm as your thoughts wandered to the person who had given it to you. Barty. The weight of his name still felt the same, a complicated tangle of emotions that hadn’t untwisted no matter how much time passed. 

You could still see his face the night you’d told him you couldn’t do it anymore. The way his sharp features had frozen, the defiance and anger creeping in as soon as the words left your mouth. You’d said you couldn’t keep hiding, couldn’t keep pretending that what you had didn’t matter. You’d told him you were tired of the stolen glances, the whispered promises, and the constant fear of being caught. 

But you knew now that what had hurt him most wasn’t the ultimatum- it was the fear. Fear of admitting to the world what you meant to each other. Fear of what he might lose if he dared to love you openly. Fear that his world and yours were too different, too far apart to ever coexist. 

Now, as you sat there in the flickering firelight, your thumb brushed over the charm, the memories tugging at your chest. The book on your lap remained unopened as you stared into the flames, the ache in your heart as familiar as the necklace around your neck.

~~~

The flickering candlelight painted Barty’s sharp features in gold and shadow as he lay beside you, his bare chest rising and falling steadily. The heat of your bodies still lingered in the cool air of the room, your skin damp against the soft sheets tangled around your legs. His fingers toyed with the charm resting against your collarbone, his touch so gentle it made your heart ache.

“Crow, can we talk?” You whispered, your voice soft but firm, breaking the fragile silence that had fallen between you.

Barty’s hand froze, his fingers brushing against the charm one last time before he let it fall against your chest. His jaw tightened, his green eyes refusing to meet yours as he shifted slightly, feigning casualness. “What’s there to talk about, birdie?” He murmured, his voice smooth but unconvincing. Unsatisfied your little exercise didn't make you truly forget what you intended to talk about. “We’re here. Together. Isn’t that enough?”

You sat up slightly, leaning on your elbow as you looked at him. “No,” You said softly, the word carrying more weight than you’d intended. “It’s not.”

He finally glanced at you, his expression guarded. “You’re overthinking again,” He said lightly, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face. “Can’t we just- can’t we just enjoy this?”

“Enjoy what?” You challenged, your voice trembling slightly. “Hiding? Pretending? Barty, we can’t keep doing this.”

He groaned softly, falling back onto the pillow and running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Why do you have to ruin the moment?” He muttered, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness. “We’re happy, aren’t we? Isn’t that what matters?”

“Are we happy?” You shot back, sitting up fully now, the blanket slipping from your shoulders. “Because I don’t feel happy, Barty. I feel like I’m suffocating.”

He sat up abruptly, his eyes narrowing as he fixed you with a desperate gaze. “Don’t say that,” He snapped, his voice rising slightly. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” You said firmly, though your voice broke slightly. “I love you, Barty, but I can’t keep pretending this is enough. I need more. I need us- the real us.”

“This is the real us,” He argued, his voice frantic now. He reached for you, his hand gripping your arm as if holding onto you could stop you from slipping away. “This is how we work, birdie. This is how we survive. You think the world would let us be together? You think they’d let us have this?”

“I don’t care what the world thinks,” You snapped, your own desperation rising to meet his. “I care about us. But this- this isn’t sustainable. We’re tearing each other apart, Barty.”

“Of course you don’t care,” He spat suddenly, his grip tightening as his green eyes blazed. “You wouldn’t. You’re a Potter. You come from your perfect Potter family with your perfect, golden life. You wouldn’t understand what it’s like to have a family like mine- to be a Crouch.”

His words cut deep, the bitterness in his tone like a slap. But you didn’t flinch. Instead, you stared at him, your voice steady as you said, “Don’t you dare.”

He blinked, startled by the fierceness in your tone. “What?”

“Don’t you dare use my family as an excuse to run from what you deserve,” You said, leaning closer. “Just because my parents loved me, just because James and I grew up with something good, doesn’t mean you don’t deserve that too.”

He scoffed, the sound bitter and sharp. “I don’t deserve that. Not with who I am. Not with my name.”

“Yes, you do,” You said fiercely, your hand finding his cheek, forcing him to look at you. “You deserve love, Barty. Real love. Not this shadow of it we’re living in. But you have to believe that, or none of this will ever work.”

He stared at you, trying to read your expression, his jaw so tight you swore you could hear ticking. His grip on you was bruising, but you ached for it. You ached for his want, his desperate need, because without it- you felt like you were falling apart.

You leaned into him, your once hot skin chilling against the air of the room. On instinct, his hands slipped away from your arm and he wrapped them around your waist. Your hands found his chest and you moved all that bit closer. “Wouldn't that be a dream, Barty?” You whispered, voice strained and tears threatening to spill from your eyes. “If- if our kids,” You choked out and his eyes widened at your admittance of something solid. That was your dream. To be so true, so real, that starting a family was the obvious next step. “Our kids talk about us how I talk about my parents? That our son- our daughter- our little wix. They knew what a love like ours could do.”

Your words hit Barty like a physical blow, and for a moment, he looked utterly stunned. His hands on your waist tightened instinctively, pulling you closer as though the sheer force of your desperation could tether him to the dream you had just dared to voice. 

“Our kids,” He echoed, his voice hoarse and filled with something you couldn’t quite place- something between longing and disbelief. His wide eyes searched yours, as if trying to find the certainty he couldn’t feel within himself. “You really think… that we could have that?”

“I know we could,” You said, your voice trembling but resolute. “But only if you let us. Only if you stop running from it.”

He shook his head, his hands trembling where they gripped you. “You don’t get it, birdie,” He said, his voice breaking. “I’m not… I’m not good like you. Like your parents. I don’t know how to be that kind of person.”

“You think my parents were perfect?” You asked, your voice rising in frustration, shaking. “They weren’t saints, Barty. They argued, they made mistakes- but they never stopped trying. They never stopped fighting for what they believed in, for each other. And you can do that too.”

He let out a bitter laugh, the sound almost choking on its way out. “You don’t know what you’re asking. My family isn’t like yours, okay? My father only believes in appearances, in power. He’d never accept this- he’d never accept us. And if he found out…” He trailed off, his expression darkening as a shudder ran through him.

“I don’t care about your father,” You said fiercely, your hands cupping his face. “I care about you. And you’re not him, Barty. You’re not your father.”

His eyes closed at your words, as though they hurt to hear. “I don’t know how to believe that,” He admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to be what he wants, and even that’s not enough. I don’t know how to be anything else.”

“You don’t have to be,” You said, your thumb brushing softly against his cheek. “You just have to be you. And you have to let yourself believe you deserve more than what he’s made you think you do.”

He opened his eyes then, and for a moment, you saw the cracks in his carefully built walls- the vulnerability he worked so hard to hide. “And what if I can’t?” He whispered. “What if I ruin us?”

“Then we fight through it,” You said, your voice firm even as tears threatened to spill. “We keep trying, just like my parents did. Just like I know we can. You don’t have to be perfect, Barty. You just have to let yourself love me.”

His breath slowed, his hands sliding up your back as he pulled you into a desperate embrace. His head dipped into the crook of your neck, and you felt the wetness of his tears against your skin. “I do love you,” He said, his voice raw. “I love you so much it hurts. It scares the hell out of me, birdie.”

“I know,” You murmured, your hands threading through his hair. “I know, Barty. But love isn’t supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to be worth it.”

For a moment, you thought he might let himself believe you. His arms around you felt solid, grounding, as though he was holding on to you for dear life. But then, just as quickly, he pulled back, his eyes filled with an anguish that made your chest ache.

“I don’t know if I can give you what you deserve,” he finally muttered, his voice trembling. “And I can’t bear the thought of failing you.”

“You’re not failing me,” You said, reaching for him, but he was already pulling away, retreating back behind the walls he had built to protect himself.

“I am,” He said, his voice cracking as he shook his head. Pushing you back and getting to his feet. “I already am.”

You watched, your heart shattering as he put on his clothes, back to you. Your eyes trailed the path your nails made against his back, your silent claim on him that he always begged you for. “Barty, Barty, please.” You sobbed out and you saw how stiff he grew. “Barty, my love.”

“I hear you, Birdie.” He whispered and buttoned up his shirt. Walking back to the bed, but staying out of reach from you. “Always such a beautiful song.” He whispered before he leaned in and stole a kiss. “I'm sorry.”

“Barty-” You strained and he kissed you again. Over and over until he managed to push you back against the bed.

“I love you Birdie.”

“Barty-”

“But I'm.. I'm not who you need.”

Your heart broke with every word that fell from his lips, each one chipping away at the fragile hope you'd tried to build between you. 

“Don’t do this,” You whispered, your voice trembling as tears spilled freely down your cheeks. “Don’t say that, Barty. Don’t leave me like this.”

He closed his eyes as if shutting out the sight of you would make this easier, though you both knew it wouldn’t. “I have to,” He murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “If I stay, I’ll ruin you. I can’t do that, Birdie. I can’t be the reason you lose everything.”

“You are everything,” You choked out, grabbing his wrist in desperation as he made to pull away. “Can’t you see that? You’re what I choose, Barty. You’re what I want.”

His breath stopped at your words, and for a fleeting moment, you saw the war raging within him. His body was tense, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might shatter. But then he shook his head, his eyes meeting yours with a tortured finality.

“You deserve more,” His voice breaking as he leaned in to press one last kiss to your forehead. It lingered, soft and agonizingly final. “You deserve a love that doesn’t hurt like this.”

“I don’t care about perfect,” Your hands clutching at his shirt as though you could physically anchor him to you. “I care about you.”

He pried your hands off of him gently but firmly, his touch reverent even as it was devastating. “And I love you,” He said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But love isn’t always enough.”

You shook your head vehemently, trying to reach for him again, but he stepped back, his retreat like a knife slicing through the air between you. “Barty, please,” You begged, your voice breaking entirely now. “Please don’t do this.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, his own tears threatening to spill, but then he turned away, his movements slow and deliberate, as if each step was a battle. 

He paused at the door, his hand on the frame, his back still to you. “You’ll always be my song, Birdie,” He said quietly, the nickname a bittersweet ache on his tongue.

And then he was gone, leaving you alone in the room that still smelled of him, your heart breaking in the silence he left behind. The only sound was your sobs, muffled by the pillow you clutched to your chest, the magpie charm pressing cold against your skin- a painful reminder of what you’d just lost.

~~~

You gave a low shaken sigh. Trying to still your shattering heart and gather your voice before it all became too much again. 

You looked up at the mantle above the fireplace, unable to stop the smile that curled on your lips. The photos, of your parents on their wedding day, of James’s first birthday, then yours. Then a photo of Lily and James’s wedding, of Harry’s first birthday- just three months ago. 

You stared at the photographs for a long moment, your fingers tightening around the magpie charm at your neck. The smiles in the photos were so vivid, so full of joy, that it felt almost cruel. Your parents, James, Lily, even baby Harry- they were all looping so present in the frozen moments captured by the camera. Yet here you were, alone in the vast emptiness of the manor, the weight of their absence pressing down on you.

The photo of Harry’s first birthday caught your eye. His tiny hand reaching for the cake, James’s laughing face as Lily leaned in to kiss Harry’s cheek. You could almost hear the sound of their laughter echoing in the back of your mind, a memory you clung to desperately. 

Your lips quirked into a faint smile, though it didn’t reach your eyes. “James would tell me to get up and stop being so dramatic,” You muttered to yourself, shaking your head. “He’d probably say something ridiculous like, ‘You’re a Potter, we don’t mope, we plot.’”

The thought of your brother’s mischievous grin brought a pang of longing. You missed him fiercely- his energy, his unrelenting optimism, and even the way he teased you mercilessly. James had always been your anchor, the one person who could pull you out of your darkest moments. But now he was miles away, hiding with Lily and Harry, fighting a war you couldn’t see but could feel in every corner of your being.

Your gaze drifted back to the fire, the flames dancing and crackling softly. The silence in the room felt deafening again, the weight of your solitude settling back over you. You tried to distract yourself by opening the book on your lap, but the words blurred together, meaningless against the storm of thoughts raging in your mind.

You closed the book with a frustrated sigh, setting it aside as you leaned back against the couch. Your fingers traced the magpie charm absently, your thoughts inevitably returning to him.

Barty.

His name echoed in your mind, and with it came a flood of memories- his rare, boyish smiles that he reserved just for you, the way his green eyes softened when he thought you weren’t looking, the way he held you like you were the only thing tethering him to the world. 

You closed your eyes, letting out a shaky breath as the memory of his voice played in your mind:

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it, and you quickly wiped it away. Crying wouldn’t bring him back. Crying wouldn’t change the way he’d walked out of your life, no matter how much it hurt. 

But Merlin, did it hurt. 

The knock at the door startled you from your thoughts, the sound sharp and sudden against the heavy silence of the manor. You froze for a moment, your heart leaping to your throat as dread washed over you. The wards. You reminded yourself of the countless layers of protection James and Lily had insisted upon. No one with ill intent could step foot near the manor. Still, it took you a moment to move.

Your fingers tightened around your cardigan as you approached the door, peering cautiously through the window. Relief and confusion mingled as you saw Remus standing there, holding a bundle of flowers and looking chilled down to the bone.

You couldn’t help the way your lips curved into a smile, the first genuine one in what felt like weeks. Remus always had that effect on you, with his quiet strength and steady presence. You opened the door without hesitation, the chill of the winter evening brushing against your skin as you pulled him inside.

“Remus!” You laughed, wrapping your arms around him tightly before he could say a word. The flowers in his hands crinkled against your shoulder, and he let out a low, startled chuckle.

“Hello to you too,” He murmured, his arms coming around you after a brief hesitation. His embrace was warm and grounding, and for a moment, you let yourself rest in the safety of his hold. He cradled you like you were something fragile, something he was afraid might break if he squeezed too tightly.

When you finally pulled back, his sharp eyes roamed your face, scanning for any cracks in the mask you hadn’t realized you’d been wearing. “You didn’t have to bring me flowers,” You hummed softly, trying to inject some lightness into your tone as you gestured to the bouquet.

Remus gave a sheepish smile, shrugging slightly. “I thought it might brighten your evening,” he admitted. “But if I’d known the hug was part of the deal, I might’ve come sooner.”

You let out a laugh and furrowed your brow further, unable to help how the cheeky comment brightened up your night that little bit more. “I see Sirius has gotten into you. Come in, let's go to the kitchen.” 

The kitchen glowed softly, the warm light reflecting off the polished wooden counters and copper fixtures. The steady hum of the kettle was a comforting backdrop to the quiet conversation you and Remus shared. You busied yourself preparing tea, your back to him as he leaned against the table, his long limbs relaxed but his eyes watchful.

“You’ve redecorated,” He remarked, gesturing to the new curtains hanging over the window. “I’m not sure the maroon suits the Potters, though. Sirius would call it RavenClaw overkill.”

You smirked over your shoulder, a hint of genuine amusement breaking through the lingering heaviness in your chest. “Sirius would call anything not leather or black an abomination,” you retorted, setting two mismatched mugs on the counter.

Remus chuckled, a low, pleasant sound that filled the room. “Touché. Though I do think the blue adds some warmth. This place could use it.” He glanced around, his expression softening. “It feels different without… everyone.”

You paused for a moment, letting his words hang in the air. The truth of them settled deep in your chest, an ache that had grown all too familiar. “It’s been a bit lonely,” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “I’m not used to all this space- just me.”

He nodded, his gaze heavy with understanding. “I think they’d hate to see you like this. Especially James. He’d insist on dragging you to some ridiculous Quidditch match to cheer you up.”

You smiled faintly at the thought, a flicker of warmth chasing away the cold for just a moment. “He would,” You agreed. “He’d bribe me with chocolate frogs and promise not to embarrass me in front of the team, only to shout louder than anyone else in the stands. Calling us the seeker twins.”

Remus’s lips quirked into a small smile, but there was a flicker of something else in his expression- something that felt out of place. Nostalgia, yes, but also something deeper, something almost... reverent. His fingers drumming against his cup as he sat down at the table.

“You’ve always been good at making people laugh,” He said softly, his tone different now. His gaze lingered on you in a way that made your fingers hesitate as you poured the tea.

“You give me too much credit,” You hummed lightly, though his words sent a faint blush creeping up your neck. “James is the funny one. I’m just the stubborn one.”

He tilted his head, his smile turning crooked- letting his fingers graze your wrist and fixing your cuff as you poured him his tea. “It's a Potter trait. But I think it’s more than that.”

You turned to face him fully. “What are you getting at, Remus?” You narrowed your eyes, your tone teasing but your curiosity piqued.

He took the mug, his fingers brushing yours briefly, and for a moment, he didn’t reply. He just studied you, his hazel eyes unusually intense. “You’ve always had this way of making people feel seen,” He said finally, his voice softer now. “Like they matter. Even when they don’t think they do.”

His words caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. “That’s… kind of you to say,” You managed, looking down at your tea as you tried to gather your thoughts. “I don’t think I’ve ever been particularly good at- ”

“You're selling yourself short, Birdie.” He chuckled. The nickname slipped from his lips so naturally, so casually, that it took you a moment to process. When it hit, your breath caught in your throat, and the air between you seemed to still.

You set your mug down slowly, your mind racing even as you fought to keep your expression calm. You turned back to the sink, gripping the edge tightly to ground yourself. “...What did you just call me?”

Remus stiffened, and you felt his gaze burn into your back. “What do you mean?” He mumbled, his voice suddenly cautious.

You turned around, your heart pounding- only one person called you by that name. “Why are you here?” You crossed your arms, your voice steady despite the storm building in your chest. “And don’t tell me it’s for tea.”

His expression faltered for just a second- just long enough for you to see through the carefully constructed façade. “I’m here because I wanted to see you,” His tone was measured. “To make sure you were all right.”

“No,” You scoffed, shaking your head as the pieces clicked together. “No, you know I'm not a fool.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but you didn’t let him. “Why are you here, Barty?” 

His eyes widened, and for a moment, the mask slipped entirely. The careful demeanor, the warm smiles, the familiar quirks- it all fell away, replaced by a raw, vulnerable intensity that made your breath stop.

“You always were too clever for your own good,” He muttered, leaning back in his chair with a resigned sigh. “Guess there’s no point pretending now.”

Your chest tightened as the truth settled in. You gave a disbelieving scoff before you ran your fingers through your hair. Pacing slightly before you paused, a scary truth settling over you. “How did you do it?”

Barty rolled his neck and leaned further into his seat to face you again. His expression neutral- the natural arrogant energy coming from him felt horribly wrong coming from Remus’s stolen face. “What exactly, birdie?”

“Don't play coy.” You snapped. “How did you get as piece of Remus for the potion you used to lie your way past my wards and into my home, Crouch?”

“... I hate when you call me Crouch.” Barty's response was almost petulant, his lips twisting into a pout as he sat back in the chair, fingers tapping rhythmically against the porcelain mug he had barely touched. He tilted his head to the side, his green eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you, the faintest ghost of a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“You always know how to wound me,” He continued softly, his tone a mockery of vulnerability. “But then again, you've always been too good at that, haven't you?”

Your stomach churned at the way he looked at you, like you were something to be admired and consumed all at once. It was too much, too familiar, and yet so far removed from the boy you once knew. You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, grounding yourself against the onslaught of emotions threatening to overwhelm you.

“Answer the question, Barty,” You said sharply, your voice cutting through the heavy silence of the room. “How did you do it?”

He sighed dramatically, as though the act of explaining himself was some grand inconvenience. “Remus has always been predictable,” He snarked lazily, his gaze never leaving yours. “He's a creature of habit, like clockwork. It wasn’t exactly difficult to collect what I needed.”

Your blood ran cold at the casual way he spoke about violating the trust of someone you cared for. “You stalked him. You used him,” Your voice trembling with anger. “You used him to get to me.”

He smiled then, a slow, deliberate curl of his lips that sent a shiver down your spine. “I did it for you, Birdie,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, honeyed murmur. “For us. You don’t understand how much I’ve missed you, how much I’ve needed you. Every single day without you has been... agony.”

“Agony?” You repeated incredulously, your voice rising as your anger boiled over. “You don’t get to talk to me about agony, Barty. You left. You made that choice, and now you want to waltz back in here, pretending like nothing’s changed?”

“Because nothing has!” He shot back, rising from the chair so suddenly that it scraped against the floor with a harsh screech. He moved toward you, and despite yourself, you took a step back. “You think I stopped loving you? You think I ever stopped thinking about you? Every second, every breath, it’s always been you.”

“Stop,” You said firmly, holding up a hand to keep him at a distance. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to waltz in here, steal someone’s face, and act like you’re some lovesick hero.”

“But I am lovesick,” He said, his voice trembling as he closed the space between you. “I’m sick, Birdie. Sick. You’re the only thing that makes me feel alive, the only thing that’s ever made sense. Don’t you see? I’m here because I love you.”

“Love?” You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief. “You don’t even know what love is, Barty. Love doesn’t manipulate. It doesn’t lie. It doesn’t use people. Get out.”

His expression switched to one of complete shock. As if he didn't expect to actually be sent away. You turned on your heels and walked down the hall, ignoring the stunned boy for a moment before he began to follow after you, taking a heavy breath. “Baby, birdie, don't walk away. Princess.”

Merlin, you hated to hear that coming from Remus’s mouth. It made your skin crawl.

His voice followed you like a shadow, echoing in the high ceilings of the manor. “Birdie, please,” He pleaded, a mixture of whining and anger that grated against your already frayed nerves. You didn’t turn around, your footsteps quick and determined as you ascended the stairs. “Don’t walk away from me!”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Every part of you screamed to keep moving, to put as much distance as possible between you and the man who was once everything to you. Your grip tightened on the banister as you climbed, trying to block out the sound of his voice.

“Stop ignoring me!” He shouted, his tone sharp with frustration. He was right behind you now, his steps uneven and frantic. “Do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I want to be like this?”

At that, you stopped abruptly, your heart pounding in your chest as you turned to face him. “Do I think this is easy for you?” You snapped, your voice trembling with barely contained fury. “You’ve made it abundantly clear, Barty, that you’ll do whatever you want- no matter who it hurts.”

He flinched at your words, the rawness of them cutting through his desperation. But instead of backing down, he stepped closer, his expression a twisted mixture of anguish and determination. His face flickered again, the remnants of the Polyjuice Potion struggling to hold as patches of his sandy hair and pale skin replaced Remus’s softer features.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” He said, his voice breaking. “I’m trying to fix this. To fix us.”

“There is no us,” you spat, your hands shaking as you stepped back. “There hasn’t been for a long time. And that was your choice, Barty.”

“No,” he said firmly, his green eyes blazing with an intensity that sent a chill down your spine. “You don’t get to put this all on me. You think I wanted to leave? You think I wanted to-” His voice cracked, and he clenched his fists, his body trembling with barely restrained emotion. “I didn’t have a choice, Birdie. You don’t understand-”

“You’re right,” You interrupted, your voice rising. “I don’t understand. I don’t understand how someone who claimed to love me could leave me to pick up the pieces of a life we built together. I don’t understand how you can come back now, pretending like you didn’t shatter me.”

He took another step forward, his hands outstretched as though reaching for something he couldn’t quite grasp. “Because I had to,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Don’t you see? I had to protect you. From my father, from the world we were in. I-”

“Stop,” you said sharply, holding up a hand to cut him off. “Don’t stand there and pretend you were some kind of martyr. You weren’t protecting me, Barty. You were protecting yourself.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked like he might argue. But then his shoulders slumped, and the fight seemed to drain out of him. “Maybe I was,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But it doesn’t change the fact that I love you. That I’ve always loved you.”

“Love?” You echoed bitterly, shaking your head. “You call this love? Breaking into my home, stealing someone else’s face, manipulating me into letting you in? That’s not love, Barty. That’s obsession.”

At that, something in him seemed to snap. His entire body tensed, and he closed the space between you in two long strides. “Fine,” he hissed, his voice low and trembling with barely contained anger. “Call it what you want. Call me a monster, call me obsessed- but don’t you dare tell me I don’t love you.”

Before you could respond, his knees buckled, and he sank to the stair landing at your feet, his hands clutching at your covered thighs as though it were a lifeline. His chin pressed against your skirt, looking up at you with those eyes a young girl you knew once spent hours of her time lost in. Those brilliant and calculated eyes. Here he was; Bartemius Crouch Junior, with an ego to rival the gods and the mind and skill to back it up- on his knees. Looking up at you like an obedient dog. “How can I not love you?” He whispered. “Birdie. My beautiful song bird. How?”

Your chest heaved as you looked down at him, his once-imposing figure now crumpled before you, hands gripping your skirt like you were the only tether keeping him from falling apart completely. His words, dripping with desperation, clawed at your resolve. 

“Barty,” You whispered, your voice trembling, a mixture of anger and grief thick in your throat. “You need to leave.”

His eyes shot up at your words, his green eyes wide with disbelief. He stared at you as if you’d just struck him, his lips parting slightly, searching for something to say. “No,” he said softly, his voice unsteady but growing firmer. You watched as the full potion effect dropped away. “I can’t leave. Not like this. Not when I know you still love me.”

You flinched, his words cutting deeper with his true voice, but you didn’t waver. “This isn’t about love,” you said firmly, though your voice cracked. “This is about you not knowing when to let go.”

He rose slowly, his movements deliberate, careful, like a predator trying not to spook its prey. He hovered over you now, his height casting a shadow that made the grand staircase feel suddenly small. His hand reached out, trembling as it moved toward your cheek, and you instinctively stepped back, pressing yourself against the banister.

“Don’t,” You warned, your voice sharp.

His hand froze mid-air, his fingers curling slightly before he dropped it to his side. He exhaled shakily, his breath warm as it ghosted over your skin. “Birdie, please,” He murmured, his voice barely audible, his lips forming words you couldn’t make out. His shoulders hunched as if the weight of his own need was too much to bear. “Please don’t send me away.”

You shook your head, tears threatening to spill over as you fought to keep your composure. “You don’t get to do this,” You hissed. “You don’t get to break into my home, throw yourself at my feet, and demand I fix you. You’re not my responsibility, Barty. Not anymore.”

His hands twitched at his sides, his jaw clenching as he fought some inner battle you couldn’t see. Then, in a single motion, his hands reached for you again, his movements quick but not violent, desperate but not forceful. Panic surged through you, and before you could think, your hand flew up, striking his cheek with a sharp slap.

The sound echoed in the hollow silence of the staircase. 

He staggered back slightly, his hand flying to his cheek, but instead of anger, a strange expression crossed his face. His lips curved into a slow, almost delirious smile, his chest rising and falling as if he’d just surfaced from drowning. 

“That,” He murmured, his voice rasping with something unhinged, “felt real.”

Your stomach churned, the unease twisting tighter as he stood straighter, his demeanor shifting. His hand dropped from his cheek, and he let out a low, almost relieved laugh, shaking his head. “That’s the Birdie I know,” he said softly, his tone dangerously gentle. “The one who knew what our passion meant- I miss her. Can I talk to her?”

Your chest heaved with the weight of his words, the deranged calmness in his voice sending your heart into overdrive. His smug, unhinged smile made the bile rise in your throat as your fingers curled into fists at your sides. 

“You miss her?” You snapped, your voice sharp and trembling. “The Birdie you claim to miss is the one you destroyed, Barty! She’s the one you left behind when you decided to join them!”

The smile faltered slightly, and for a fleeting moment, you saw something like regret flicker across his face. But it wasn’t enough. It could never be enough to erase what he had done. 

“You made your choice,” you continued, stepping toward him now, your fury overriding the trembling in your hands. “You chose to follow him. You chose to become a monster, to fight against everything I stand for, everything my family stands for. You don’t get to waltz back into my life and pretend none of it happened.”

“I did it for you,” His voice rising, his green eyes blazing as he stepped closer. “Every single thing I’ve done was for you, Birdie! To protect you, to keep you safe, to make sure you’d never have to know what it’s like to be weak. You think I wanted to join them? You think I wanted to-”

“Don’t you dare,” You cut him off, your voice trembling with rage. “Don’t you dare try to make this about me. You didn’t join them for me, Barty. You joined them because you’re too much of a coward to stand up to your father. You wanted power. You wanted to prove to him that you were more then him. But you didn’t care who you hurt along the way, did you?”

He flinched as though you’d struck him again, his jaw tightening as his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” He hissed through gritted teeth, his voice low and dangerous. “You don’t know what it’s like to live with the weight of that name. To have no choice but to-”

“You had a choice!” You screamed, the words tearing from your throat as tears stung your eyes. “You always had a choice, Barty! And you chose them. You chose power. You chose to stand against me, against my family. Against James!”

He froze at that, his eyes wide and his breath hitching as though you’d struck a nerve. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop now, not with everything bubbling to the surface. 

“You think I haven’t thought about you every single day?” You demanded, your voice breaking as tears began to spill freely down your cheeks. “You think I haven’t wondered if there was something I could have done, something I could have said to stop you? To save you?”

“Don’t,” He whispered, his voice trembling now, the bravado in his tone beginning to crack. “Don’t say that.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to say,” You spat, your voice trembling with a mixture of anger and heartbreak. “You don’t get to tell me anything anymore. You lost that right the moment you turned your back on me.”

He stared at you, his chest rising and falling unevenly as the weight of your words pressed down on him. And then, suddenly, he moved. 

Before you could react, he closed the distance between you in a single stride, his hands gripping your face with a desperation that took your breath away. His lips crashed into yours with a force that stole the air from your lungs, the kiss searing and frantic, as though it was the only way he could express everything he couldn’t say. 

For a moment, you froze, your mind racing as the heat of his mouth overwhelmed your senses. You wanted to shove him away, to scream at him, to remind him of all the reasons this was wrong. But then something in you broke. 

Your hands flew to his chest, not to push him away, but to pull him closer. The kiss deepened, raw and terrifying, a collision of anger, grief, and longing that neither of you could control. His hands slipped from your face to your waist, his grip bruising as he pulled you against him as if he could fuse you together.

The kiss deepened, and soon words no longer mattered. There were no more accusations, no more pleas, just the raw, unfiltered intensity of everything you’d both been holding back for far too long. It wasn’t tender or sweet- it was desperate, filled with the kind of longing and pain that made it impossible to think about anything else. His hands mapped out every inch of you as though he was trying to memorize you, to hold onto something real in a world that had been slipping away from him for years. 

And you let him. You let yourself forget, if only for a moment, what he’d done, what he’d become, and the mess he’d left in his wake. You let yourself feel, because Merlin knew you couldn’t stand the ache of silence anymore.  

It wasn’t long before the tension gave way to something more, something equally terrifying and exhilarating. Clothes were discarded hastily, his lips tracing paths of fire along your skin, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the silence of the manor wasn’t suffocating. It was electric.

You didn’t speak a word to each other the entire time. The only sounds being your soft gasps and his inaudible murmurs- ones that sounded more like pleas than anything else. You couldn’t give him more then that. Words would have only reminded you of the impossibility of it all, of everything you’d both lost. Words would have shattered the fragile bubble you’d created, where nothing else mattered but the two of you.  

When it was over, you lay side by side in the fading moonlight, your bodies tangled in the sheets as the world slowly came back into focus. His breathing was uneven, his hand still resting on your waist as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to let go. But you didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You stared at the ceiling instead, your mind a chaotic storm of emotions you weren’t ready to unpack.

~~~

The morning light filtered in through the heavy curtains, painting the room in soft hues of gold and grey. You stirred slightly, the ache in your body a reminder of the night before, but you kept your eyes closed, willing the world- and him- away.  

You heard him moving about, the rustle of fabric as he dressed. For a brief, fleeting moment, you thought he might leave quietly, that he might spare you the agony of facing him after everything that had happened. But then he spoke, his voice low and hesitant, as though testing the waters.  

“I’ll come back later.”  

You scoffed softly, rolling over to face the wall, your back to him. You didn’t say a word. You couldn’t trust yourself to speak without breaking, without letting the storm inside you spill out.  

“Birdie…” His voice was softer now, almost pleading, but you didn’t move. You kept your breathing even, your expression neutral, even as your heart clenched painfully in your chest.  

The air felt heavier as the silence stretched, broken only by the soft creak of the floorboards as Barty lingered by the door. His shadow loomed across the threshold, hesitant, like a ghost caught between staying and vanishing. 

“Birdie.” He whispered, his voice raw and strained, as though dragging each word out of his chest cost him a piece of himself. “One last thing.”

You didn’t respond, your body curled away from him, but he knew you were awake. He always did.

“You have to tell James.” He sighed, the words tumbling out in a quiet rush. “About his Secret Keeper.”

Your breath stopped, but you didn’t move. Every muscle in your body tensed as his words settled over you like frost, cold and unforgiving.

“Barty, what are you talking about?” You finally whispered, your voice hoarse as you turned just enough to glance over your shoulder. He looked so different in the pale morning light, the shadows on his face accentuating the cracks in his armor, the boy you once loved bleeding through the man he had become.

“Just promise me,” He cut you off, his tone suddenly sharper. “You'll.. warn him not to trust them.”

You stared at him, searching his face for answers, but all you found was that same haunted intensity you’d seen last night. He wasn’t lying- at least, not about this. But that didn’t make it any easier to believe. 

“... okay.” You muttered. “I will.”

Barty stared at you like he wanted to say a million different things at once. Instead, he turned, the door closing behind him. You hugged your knees to your chest and willed away as much of reality as possible. Begging for any sense of normalcy to return; even the painful loneliness.

But nothing truly worked.

~~~

As the days went on, the weight of Barty's absence hung over the time that followed like a storm cloud. He hadn’t come back, and you weren’t sure if you were relieved or heartbroken. The last words he’d said lingered with you, haunting your every quiet moment: Tell James. Warn him.

You’d followed through on his warning, albeit reluctantly. It had been difficult to convince James without revealing the entire truth, but the grim look in his eyes had told you he believed you, or at least enough to act. 

Nothing happened at first, but Peter was monitored. It didn't take long for everything to come to light; Peter was working against you. It all worked out. James was ready for him that night, the night he came for Harry, surprising the monster before he could act. Peter tried to run after the news came out, but a furious Sirius tracked him down for a confrontation. One with an explosive end for their former friend, nothing left of the boy but a finger.

It did take a few hours of wrestling with the Aurors, but after being proper witnesses and all of your evidence of treason- Sirius was released. Walking out of the holding cell with a smile that could blunt the sun. Lily and James were safe. Baby Harry, too. Relief and disbelief were all anyone seemed capable of, but you couldn’t bring yourself to celebrate. Not fully. Because in the same breath that the Dark Lord fell, Barty was taken to Azkaban.

You hadn’t dared to ask about the details. Not from James, not from Sirius, not from anyone. Knowing felt like it would only make it worse. But the knowledge of him locked away, cold and alone in a place that stripped people of everything, clawed at your chest in the silence of the manor.

You had lost him all over again, and this time, you knew there was no coming back. 

The days that followed felt like a blur of motion and noise, a sharp contrast to the oppressive stillness that had once consumed you. You refused to let Barty- or the ghost of him that lingered in your mind- define you any longer. He was gone, and you couldn’t afford to let his absence drag you down any further. Not when there was work to be done.

You didn’t go to his hearing. You couldn’t. The idea of sitting in that courtroom, of listening to them talk about him as though he was nothing more than a monster, was too much. It wasn’t that you disagreed. He’d made his choices, and the world would see him for what he’d become. But for you, he was still the boy who had once traced your blemishes like constellations and whispered that you were the only light in his life. 

Even now, looking back, you had always known what that young boy was capable of. The signs were there; and the raking guilt of knowing that you were possibly the only thing keeping him from becoming what he seemed so keen on being, taxed your self worth.

So, you pretended that night didn’t happen. That he didn’t exist. The magpie charm around your neck was tucked away in a drawer, along with the pieces of your heart that still ached for him. You buried it all deep, focusing on what you could control, on what you could fix.

Joining the Order to help clean up the aftermath of the war felt like a natural next step. It was what your parents would have done, what James would have done if he wasn’t busy. Saying he wanted to be a proper father to Harry and a good man to Lily. Lily still stayed close, there wasn't many healers with her talent. But James stepped down. It was what you needed to do. The world hadn’t stopped turning, and there were still Death Eaters to hunt, still innocent people to protect, still so much damage to undo.

The first few missions were grueling, physically and emotionally. You worked long hours, tracking down the last of Voldemort’s loyalists and dismantling the remnants of their operations. It was dangerous, messy work, but you thrived in it. The chaos kept you moving, kept you from lingering too long on the memories that threatened to pull you under.

You found solace in the chaos of the Order. Sirius, always protective, tried to keep a close eye on you, though he seemed to understand your need for space. Remus was steadier, offering quiet support when you needed it most, though you often pushed him away. And James- when he wasn’t with Lily and Harry- was your anchor, his unrelenting optimism a reminder of the person you used to be.

But there were moments, late at night, when the world went quiet, and you couldn’t escape the weight of it all. When you lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, and his voice echoed in your mind. When you caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of your eye that reminded you of him, and your heart clenched painfully before you forced yourself to look away.

And then there were the whispers. The Order didn’t really talk about Barty, he was just another cog in the operation, but you heard the murmurs. About his trial, about Azkaban, about how someone so young and clever could have fallen so far. You kept your head down, pretending not to hear, but the words cut deep.

The recklessness came on slowly at first, creeping into your choices like an insidious shadow. You pushed yourself harder on missions, volunteering for the riskiest tasks, throwing yourself into danger with a desperation that bordered on self-destructive. It was easier to focus on the fight, on the rush of adrenaline and the sharp edge of survival, than to confront the gaping void Barty had left behind.

Sirius and Remus noticed, of course. They weren’t blind to the way you flinched at certain names, or how you worked yourself to exhaustion. Sirius tried to laugh it off at first, making quips about how you were channeling your inner Gryffindor ‘under all that Ravenclaw’. But Remus, ever perceptive, wasn’t fooled. His hazel eyes lingered on you with quiet concern, though he said nothing outright. Not until the mission that changed everything.

It was supposed to be a straightforward raid: infiltrate a suspected Death Eater hideout, gather intel, and get out. But things rarely went as planned. The ambush was swift and brutal, spells ricocheting off walls and sending debris flying. You and Remus were in the thick of it, your wand moving instinctively as you deflected curses and fired back.

Then it happened. A flash of green light, too close, too fast. It was aimed directly at Remus, who had his back turned while shielding a fallen comrade. Without thinking, you moved. You felt the spell hit you like a freight train, knocking the air from your lungs as a searing pain ripped through your side. 

You barely registered Remus’s horrified shout as you crumpled to the ground, your vision blurring. The sounds of the battle faded into a dull roar as your consciousness slipped away, the last thing you saw being his anguished face hovering over you.

~~~

Remus paced the length of the ornate carpet, his fingers raking through his hair repeatedly as though he could scrub away the memory of what had happened. Sirius sat slumped on the sofa, uncharacteristically silent, his dark eyes fixed on the fireplace. The flickering flames did nothing to ease the tension in the room.  

Remus’s chest tightened with guilt, each second that passed driving the weight deeper. He could still see it- the flash of green light, the way you had thrown yourself in front of him without hesitation. The moment felt frozen in time, looping endlessly in his mind.  

“Moony, sit down,” Sirius huffed finally, his voice low and hoarse. It was an order, but not a harsh one.  

“I can’t,” Remus replied, his voice taut as a wire. “She- she could’ve-”  

“But she didn’t,” Sirius interrupted, his tone firm. “She’s alive, and Lily is better then any healer we have.”  

Remus halted mid-step, his jaw clenched tightly. “She shouldn’t have had to save me,” he said, his voice cracking. “She- she’s half alive, Sirius. If anything happens to her-”  

Sirius’s gaze darkened, and he stood, crossing the room in a few long strides. He placed a hand on Remus’s shoulder, squeezing it tightly. “You listen to me,” His eyes were sharp but his voice was steady. “She’s as stubborn as James, maybe more so. There’s no way she’d have stood by and done nothing, and you know it. Blaming yourself won’t change anything.”  

Remus opened his mouth to respond, but the sound of the front door opening cut him off. Both men turned toward the entrance just as James entered, his face pale and tense. Harry toddled in after him, clutching his father’s pant leg with wide, curious eyes.  

“Where is she?” James asked immediately, his voice sharp with worry.  

“She’s upstairs,” Sirius said quickly. “Lils’ with her. She hasn't come back down yet.”  

The tension in the room was suffocating, the silence broken only by the faint crackle of the fire and the occasional creak of floorboards as Remus paced. Sirius watched James carefully, noting how his hands trembled ever so slightly as he held Harry close. It was subtle, but for someone as unshakable as James Potter, it was telling.

“I need to go to her,” James said abruptly, his voice sharp and breaking the heavy stillness. He passed Harry to Sirius, who took the toddler without protest, his dark eyes wary. “She’s my sister. She shouldn’t be alone.”

“You can’t,” Sirius said firmly, standing up to meet James’s gaze. “Lily said we need to give her space. She’s working.”

“I don’t care what Lily said!” James snapped, his voice louder now, desperation seeping into his tone. “That’s my little sister lying upstairs, Sirius. If something happens- if she-” He cut himself off, swallowing hard as he fought to steady his breathing. “I can’t just sit here.”

“You think I want to?” Sirius shot back, his voice rising to match James’s. “You think Remus wants to? Merlin, Prongs, we’re all going mad down here, but Lily knows what she’s doing. She’ll call us if- when- there’s news.”

James ran a hand through his hair, his frustration palpable. He knew if anyone could understand even a fraction of what he was feeling it was Sirius- you had endeared yourself to him in a way not many people could. And those people were in this house. “She doesn’t get to keep me from her,” He muttered, his tone dangerously low now. “Not her. Not anyone.”

“James, listen to me,” Sirius snapped, stepping closer, his hand gripping James’s shoulder tightly. “You storming in there isn’t going to help her. It’s not going to help anyone.”

Before James could respond, the sound of light footsteps descending the stairs cut through the room like a knife. All three men turned toward the staircase as Lily appeared, her face pale and her expression unreadable. The sight of her made James freeze, his words dying in his throat. Sirius’s grip on Harry tightened, and Remus stopped pacing entirely.

Lily’s hands were clasped tightly in front of her, and her eyes darted between the men before finally settling on James. “Can I speak with you alone?” She asked softly, her voice calm but heavy with something that made James’s stomach churn.

“What is it?” He demanded, taking a step toward her. “Lily, just tell me-”

“Please, James,” She interrupted, her voice breaking just slightly as she glanced toward Harry, who was still nestled in Sirius’s arms. “Come with me.”

James hesitated, his body rigid with tension, but the look in Lily’s eyes left no room for argument. He turned back to Sirius and Remus, his jaw clenched tightly. “I’ll be back,” He said, though his voice wavered.

James followed Lily just a few steps into the hallway before she stopped, her back to him as she hesitated. Lily’s words were hushed and inaudible, even to Remus’s keen ears- or maybe, he just wasn't willing to know just yet.

James’s expression shifted from tension to something unreadable, his brows drawing together as he processed Lily’s quiet words. The weight of whatever she had said seemed to hit him all at once, and his jaw went slack, his eyes widening in stunned disbelief.

Sirius and Remus exchanged a quick glance, their concern growing as they watched James stagger back a half step, his hand running through his already disheveled hair. His lips moved as though forming a question, but no sound escaped. Whatever Lily had told him, it had shaken him to his core.

Sirius shifted Harry on his hip, his protective instincts flaring. “What the hell did she just say to him?” He muttered under his breath to Remus, his dark eyes narrowing.

“I don’t know,” Remus replied quietly, his voice tight with unease. James finally looked at Lily, his wide eyes searching hers for confirmation. 

James didn't hesitate after Lily's nod. He took the stairs two at a time, his worry and confusion pressing heavily on his shoulders. His hand gripped the banister tightly as he moved, the wood creaking faintly under his weight. Sirius and Remus exchanged uneasy glances from their spot by the fireplace, the tension thick enough to choke on.  

Lily lingered at the base of the stairs for a moment, watching James's retreating form before turning back to the room. She mustered a soft, reassuring smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.  

“She’s fine,” she said quietly, addressing Sirius and Remus.  

Sirius raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Fine? You call that fine?” He gestured toward the staircase with a sharp nod, where James had disappeared moments before. “Prongs looked like he was about to keel over.”  

“She is,” Lily insisted gently but firmly. “But James.. they just need to talk.”  

Remus frowned, his sharp hazel eyes darting between Lily and the stairs. “If she’s fine, why is he in such a rush? What aren’t you telling us, Lily?”  

Lily hesitated, her smile faltering slightly as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s not my place to say,” she said finally, her voice soft but resolute. “You’ll have to ask her yourselves when she’s ready.”  

Sirius let out a low growl of frustration, running a hand through his hair. “Great. Love a good mystery. Just what we need after all this.”  

Remus, however, wasn’t so easily placated. His gaze lingered on Lily, his instincts screaming that there was more to the story than she was letting on. But he didn’t press her. Not yet.  

Instead, he leaned back against the arm of the couch, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Whatever it is, it’s obviously got James in a state,” he muttered under his breath.  

Lily offered him a small, almost apologetic smile before excusing herself, taking Harry from Sirius, as she headed toward the kitchen, leaving Sirius and Remus to stew in their unease.  

~~~

James reached the door to your room, his breath coming in shallow bursts as he paused to gather himself. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find on the other side. The worry twisting in his chest was relentless, and the weight of Lily’s cryptic words only added to his unease.  

He knocked softly, his knuckles brushing the wood. “It’s me,” He called quietly, his voice trembling slightly. “Can I come in?”  

There was a moment of silence, and then your voice- weak but steady- drifted through the door. “It’s open.”  

James pushed the door open and stepped inside, his eyes immediately searching for you. You were propped up against a pile of pillows on the bed, your complexion pale but no longer deathly. A soft blanket was draped over your lap, and a steaming mug rested on the nightstand beside you.  

Relief flooded through him at the sight of you awake, but it was quickly tempered by the shadow of exhaustion that lingered in your eyes.  

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice breaking the quiet.  

You managed a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Hey, Jamie.”  

He crossed the room in a few strides, pulling the chair closer to your bedside and sinking into it. His hands fidgeted in his lap as he searched for the right words, his gaze flickering between your face and the mug on the nightstand.  

“You scared the hell out of me,” He sighed finally, his voice barely above a whisper.  

You looked down, your fingers picking at the edge of the blanket. “I know. I’m sorry.”  

James shook his head, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Don’t apologize,” He said firmly. “Just… talk to me. Please. What’s going on? Lily said you’re fine, but-”  

“Lily’s right,” You cut in gently, meeting his gaze. You were able to see all the true overbearing nature of James Potter. When you were younger his protective nature used to irritate you- he was always on, all the time, brash and loud- a proper lion. Now? You wanted nothing more than to curl up against him and cry. But that's the last thing you could allow yourself to be- weak. “I’m fine, James. Or at least, I will be.”  

He studied you for a long moment, his hazel eyes filled with a mixture of concern and doubt. “Lily said.. you needed to tell me something.”

James tilted his head slightly, his brows furrowing as he studied your expression. There was something guarded in your eyes, something that made the air between you feel heavier. His concern deepened when you let out a soft, shaky breath and slowly ran your hand over your abdomen.

The motion was small, almost absentminded, but it struck James like a thunderclap. His eyes widened, his lips parting as the realization sank in. For a moment, he was utterly still, his mind racing to catch up with what you’d just silently told him.

“No,” he breathed, the word barely audible as he leaned back in his chair, his face pale with shock. “No.”

You didn’t say anything, didn’t move, didn’t breathe. You simply held his gaze, your fingers resting lightly on your abdomen.

James swallowed hard, his voice trembling as he asked, “Bambi, when?”

The nickname, soft and familiar, broke something inside you. But you held firm, your eyes flickering away from his as you shook your head. “It doesn’t matter,” You whispered, your voice barely above a murmur.

James’s leg began to bounce, his eyes flickering from you to the door a few times before he shot up from his seat and began to pace. “When did you find out?” He demanded sharply, his voice tight with tension.  

“Tonight,” You admitted quietly, your fingers curling around the blanket on your lap.  

James stopped mid-step, spinning on his heel to face you. “Tonight?” He repeated, his voice rising slightly. “And you didn’t think to tell me immediately? Merlin’s sake!”  

You flinched as his voice raised, but you held your ground, meeting his gaze with a calmness you didn’t entirely feel. “I was a little busy almost dying, James,” You hissed, your voice firmer now.  

He opened his mouth to argue but then snapped it shut, his jaw tightening as he resumed pacing. “Fine. Fine,” He muttered, more to himself than to you. “But you’re leaving the Order.”  

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking your head. “As if they’d want me back after that stunt,” You shot back. “I’m not exactly in peak condition for fieldwork, am I?”  

James ignored your sarcasm, his hands balling into fists as he continued his relentless pacing. “Good. You shouldn’t be anywhere near this madness,” He said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. “Not now.”  

Your heart clenched at his words, the overbearing protectiveness you’d come to associate with him hitting harder than ever. But before you could respond, he stopped abruptly, his hazel eyes narrowing as a new thought seemed to strike him.  

“Who is it?” He demanded, his voice sharp and almost accusatory. “Who?”  

You swallowed hard, the weight of his question settling over you like a lead blanket. “It doesn’t matter,” You pushed, though your voice wavered slightly.  

James’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he began to pace once more. “Doesn’t matter?” He echoed incredulously, his voice rising. “It absolutely matters, Bambi. You can’t just- Merlin, you can’t drop something like this and expect me not to-” He cut himself off with a growl, shaking his head as he muttered under his breath.  

James's pacing came to an abrupt halt, his hazel eyes narrowing as the pieces began to fall into place. He turned to you, his expression shifting from confusion to a dawning realization that made your stomach drop.  

“The wards,” he said slowly, his voice low and dangerous. “The ones Lily and I put up for you- someone would’ve had to get past them. Someone who knew how to.”  

You froze, your heart pounding in your chest as his gaze locked onto yours, sharp and unrelenting.  

“Who was it, Bambi?” he demanded again, his tone deadly serious now. “Who the hell got past the wards?”  

Your throat tightened, and for a moment, you couldn’t find your voice. You looked away, your fingers gripping the blanket tightly as if it could shield you from the weight of his question.  

“Answer me!” James’s voice cracked, a mixture of desperation and anger bleeding into his tone.  

You took a shaky breath, your gaze fixed on the wall as you whispered, “You don’t want to know, James.”  

“That’s not your choice to make,” he shot back, his voice trembling. “Tell me.”  

You finally met his gaze, your eyes brimming with tears as you whispered the name that had haunted you for weeks, for months: “Barty.”  

The silence that followed was deafening, the weight of your admission hanging heavy in the air. James stared at you, his face a mixture of shock, anger, and something deeper- betrayal.  

“Barty Crouch?” He asked slowly, his voice barely above a whisper.  

You nodded, your throat too tight to speak.  

“Barty Crouch Junior?” James pushed and you gave a weak scoff.

“James- yes Junior.” You huffed, your anger boiling over.

James stared at you, his chest rising and falling with the effort of keeping his temper in check. His jaw clenched so tightly you thought it might shatter, but his eyes- those familiar, warm hazel eyes- betrayed the storm inside him. He was angry, yes, but the anger wasn’t directed at you. It wasn’t even directed at Barty. It was directed at himself.

For a moment, the room was silent, the only sound the faint beating of rain against the windows. You could see it, the way his hands trembled slightly as he tried to decide what to say. Finally, he spoke, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the silence.

“How long?” He asked, his tone controlled but strained. “How long were you seeing him?”

You swallowed hard, gripping the blanket in your lap. “James-”

“How. Long.” His voice cracked, louder this time, the control slipping for just a moment. He was trying, you knew he was trying, but the weight of everything was too much for even him to hold back.

You took a shaky breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “It started fifth year.” you admitted quietly. “It ended seventh. And he.. he showed up here. He told me about Peter.”

James’s face twisted, and he turned away, his hands dragging through his already-messy hair. He let out a low, frustrated sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a growl. “Fifth year?” he muttered to himself. “Merlin, Bambi, how did I not see it? How did I-” He cut himself off, pacing again.

You bit your lip, tears stinging your eyes. “James, please-”

“I..” He started but stopped- as if your tears alone tore apart at his flimsy heart. Closing his eyes and taking a steady breath. “So he made it past the wards. He came and told you about Peter and what? You-”

“James please just drop it. He's in Azkaban for life! It doesn't matter.”

James froze mid-step, his fists clenching tightly at his sides as his back remained turned to you. His shoulders heaved with the weight of unspoken words, his frustration palpable in the charged silence that filled the room.

"It doesn't matter?" He finally repeated, his voice low and filled with a quiet, simmering rage. "It doesn't matter?"

You flinched at his tone, gripping the blanket tighter as you tried to steady your breathing. "He's gone, James," you said softly, your voice trembling. "There's nothing left to fight over. There's no point in dragging this out."

James spun around to face you, his hazel eyes blazing with a mixture of anger, hurt, and disbelief. "No point?" He hissed, taking a step closer. "You think I’m angry because of him? Merlin, Bambi, I couldn’t give a damn about Barty Crouch. I’m angry because you didn’t tell me. You’ve been carrying this- this secret- alone, and now you’re trying to push me away again."

"I'm not pushing you away," You shot back, your voice rising slightly. "I'm trying to protect you! You have Lily, Harry- your family. You don't need to be dragged into this mess, James. It’s mine to deal with."

His expression softened for a fraction of a second, but the anger quickly returned. "You’re my family," he said fiercely, his voice breaking slightly. "You always have been. And if you think for one second that I’m going to stand here and let you face this alone, then you don’t know me at all."

You stared at him, the raw emotion in his voice cutting through your defenses like a blade. Your chest ached, torn between the desire to let him in and the fear of burdening him further. "James, I-" you began, but your voice faltered as tears welled in your eyes.

He closed the distance between you, dropping into the chair beside your bed. His hand found yours, warm and steady despite the tremor in his grip. "Listen to me," he said softly, his tone losing its edge as his thumb brushed over your knuckles. "I don’t care how messy this is. I don’t care how much it hurts. I just care about you."

The dam inside you broke, and a sob escaped your lips as you clung to his hand like a lifeline. "I don’t know how to fix this," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t know how to move forward."

James squeezed your hand tightly, his gaze unwavering. "You don’t have to figure it out alone," he said firmly. "We’ll take it one step at a time, together. You hear me, Bambi? You’re not alone in this."

The weight on your chest eased ever so slightly as his words sank in, the overwhelming love and determination in his voice a balm to your fractured soul. You nodded, unable to speak as the tears streamed down your face, and James pulled you into a tight embrace.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you allowed yourself to lean on him, to let the walls you’d built around yourself crumble. And as James held you, murmuring reassurances that you would face whatever came next together, you felt the smallest flicker of hope begin to bloom in your chest.

After you recovered, you faced the daunting task of telling Sirius and Remus. Their reactions were nothing like you’d expected. After weeks of being stuffed up in that dingy room.

Sirius, ever the one to surprise you, turned softer than you’d ever seen him. It reminded you of the day Lily announced she was pregnant with Harry. He was standing in the kitchen when you told him, fiddling with a mug of tea. The moment the words left your lips, his eyes widened, and he nearly dropped the mug onto the countertop. 

For a moment, you thought he might pass out, but then his face broke into a beaming smile that almost seemed out of place for the weight of what you’d just told him. “You’re joking,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. When you shook your head, tears welling in your eyes, he stepped forward, his hands gripping your shoulders firmly. “Merlin, you’re not joking.”

“I’m sorry,” You began, your voice cracking as the apology spilled from your lips. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, I-”

“Stop,” Sirius interrupted, his tone so warm it took you aback. He let go of your shoulders and instead pulled you into the tightest hug you’d ever received. “Don’t you dare apologize,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ll be a good mum, do you hear me? A bloody brilliant one.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks as you clung to him, his words washing over you like a balm. “But Sirius,” you tried again, your voice muffled against his shoulder. “The father-”

“I don’t care,” he said firmly, pulling back to look at you. His gray eyes were intense, but not with judgment- only love and determination. “I don’t care who he is, or what he’s done. This baby is going to have the best mum in the world. And they’re going to have me too, whether they like it or not.”

You let out a shaky laugh, his unwavering support lifting some of the weight off your chest. He grinned at you then, that mischievous, boyish grin you thought you’d lost after the war. “Merlin, James is going to lose his mind when he meets them,” He said, his voice laced with humor. “But I’m going to be the favorite uncle, just you wait.”

But then there was Remus.

You found Remus later in the sitting room, a book in his lap, though he wasn’t reading it. His eyes were distant, his fingers absently tracing the edges of the pages. He looked up when you entered, and the small smile he gave you faltered slightly when he caught sight of your expression.

“Remus,” you started hesitantly, sitting down on the sofa across from him. You fidgeted with your hands, unsure of how to begin. “There’s… something I need to tell you.”

He didn’t say anything, but the corner of his mouth quirked upward ever so slightly. His gaze flickered to your stomach for a moment, then back to your face. His expression was calm, almost amused, but there was a glint of something in his hazel eyes- something knowing.

“I-” you faltered, feeling suddenly uneasy under his gaze. “It’s… it’s important.”

He hummed softly, setting the book down on the armrest. “Go on, then,” He said, his tone light but laced with curiosity. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as he studied you.

You took a deep breath, the words caught in your throat. “Remus, I-” You stopped when he lifted a finger to his nose and tapped it lightly, the gesture so quick and casual it took a moment to register.

You frowned, your heart skipping a beat as realization slowly dawned on you. “Remus,” you said again, your voice sharper this time. “You already know.”

His smirk grew slightly, the mischievous tilt of his lips catching you completely off guard. “I might,” he said nonchalantly, leaning back against the couch with an air of smugness. “Though it’s much more fun watching you squirm.”

You stared at him, your mouth opening and closing as you tried to process his words. “How?” You finally managed, your voice a mix of shock and disbelief. “How do you know?”

He shrugged, crossing one ankle over his knee. “It wasn’t hard to figure out,” he said casually, though there was a teasing lilt to his tone. “The scent changed a few days ago.”

“The scent?” You repeated, utterly baffled.

His smirk deepened, and he tapped his nose again, his hazel eyes sparkling with amusement. “Enhanced senses, remember? The subtle shifts, the hormones- it’s all there. Just like Lily. Didn’t think I’d notice?”

You stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. “You could smell that I was-?”

“Pregnant?” He finished for you, his tone softening slightly. Hearing Remus be the first to break- to finally say the word properly- it brought a smile to your face. “Yes.”

You buried your face in your hands, groaning softly as the embarrassment washed over you. “Merlin, Remus, you could’ve said something!”

“And miss this moment?” He teased, leaning forward again. “Not a chance.”

You peeked at him through your fingers, narrowing your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“Only because I care,” he quipped, his smirk turning into a warm smile. He reached out, his hand resting gently on yours. “I knew you’d tell me when you were ready.”

His words melted some of the tension in your chest, and you let out a shaky laugh. “Well, I’m telling you now,” you said softly. “I’m… I’m having a baby.”

His smile grew, the teasing glint in his eyes giving way to something softer, something warmer. “I know,” he said simply, his voice steady and reassuring. “And you’re going to be amazing.”

Tears pricked at your eyes as his words settled over you, their sincerity hitting you squarely in the chest. “Thank you, Remus,” you whispered.

~~~

Even after everything, it was as smooth as it could possibly be. James, Lily, and Harry all finally packed up from their safe house and moved back into the Potter Manor. 

Sirius and Remus finally stopped torturing everyone and confessed to their little run around of affections. 

The years passed like a dream, each one carrying its own triumphs and heartaches. The war faded into history, though its scars remained etched into the lives of those who survived it. Life moved on, not always neatly, but with a resilience that surprised you.

Sirius and Remus opened a small library nestled on the corner of Diagon Alley and a quiet cobblestone street. It was cozy, with tall shelves of books that seemed to reach the ceiling, a perpetually warm fireplace, and a small reading nook tucked into the back. The name on the window read Padfoot and Moony’s Rare Reads, though it quickly became known simply as “The Den.”

Remus spent his days writing accurate, unbiased Defense Against the Dark Arts books, ones that became staples in Hogwarts classrooms. His name grew to rival even Gilderoy Lockhart’s (though, unlike Lockhart, Remus didn’t need embellishments to sell books). Sirius, of course, claimed full credit for every ounce of their success, though he spent more time charming patrons and hosting wildly popular storytelling nights than actually working.

Your daughter, Ophelia, was the light of your life. She had her fathers eyes- but carried a quiet intensity in her gaze that reminded you of a young girl you once knew. Sirius adored her, and James, ever the doting uncle, took it upon himself to teach her everything he could about Quidditch, much to Lily’s dismay. Harry, now only 6, had taken on a brotherly role, often sneaking her chocolates or helping her catch frogs in the garden when no one was looking.

But it was Remus who seemed to understand Ophelia in ways even you sometimes struggled to. He noticed the way she retreated into her own thoughts, the questions she asked that were far too insightful for her age. He never pushed her, always waiting patiently for her to come to him with her thoughts, her worries, or her triumphs. It was Remus who first noticed how much she loved books, spending hours reading to her in that steady, soothing voice of his.

One quiet afternoon, while Ophelia played on the rug with a stack of enchanted building blocks, you stood at the counter of the library, watching Remus as he worked on editing a draft of his latest book. The sunlight streamed through the windows, catching the streaks of silver in his hair, and you couldn’t help but smile.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” You said softly, your voice breaking the comfortable silence.

Remus looked up from his notes, his hazel eyes warm and curious. “What’s on your mind?”

You stepped closer, your hands resting lightly on the counter. “I wanted to ask if you’d consider being Ophelia’s godfather.”

His expression froze for a moment, his pen hovering above the page. Then, slowly, a smile broke across his face, wide and genuine in a way that made your chest ache with affection. “Are you serious?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Dead serious,” You teased lightly, though your voice trembled with emotion. “She adores you, Remus. And so do I. There’s no one else I’d trust more.”

He set his pen down and rose from his chair, crossing the short distance between you in a few strides. He hesitated for only a moment before pulling you into a tight, warm hug. “It would be an honor,” He murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank you.”

~~~

It was late summer, and the warm golden light streaming through the windows of the Potter Manor made the room feel alive, even as you worked through the seemingly endless task of packing Ophelia’s trunk for another school year at Hogwarts. She sat nearby, perched on the edge of the armchair with her dark hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders, her head bent over her meticulously written list. 

She was elegant without trying, a quiet sort of grace that seemed inherent in her very being. Even now, as she frowned slightly at the parchment in her hands, the faintest furrow of her brow betrayed her focus; her fingers fiddling with the magpie necklace you gifted her on her eleventh birthday. You couldn’t help the soft smile that tugged at your lips as you watched her. She was so much her own person- intelligent, curious, and brimming with quiet determination- but in her moments of focus, you could see glimpses of her father in her too. It made your chest ache with a love so fierce it almost hurt.

“Mum,” She said finally, her voice gentle but tinged with that signature note of exasperation. She didn’t look up from her list as she spoke. “I told you- I need new potion vials. The ones from last year cracked.”

You folded one of her robes carefully and placed it into the trunk, glancing over at her with a soft chuckle. “And I told you, my love,” You hummed, your voice calm and warm, “that you’ll get them when we go to Diagon Alley. Harry and the Weasleys are meeting us there, remember?”

She let out a dramatic sigh, finally lifting her head to meet your gaze. Her sharp, inquisitive eyes- so much like his and yet so uniquely her own- sparkled with that combination of pride and determination that seemed to define her. “I don’t see why I can’t just go by myself,” She challenged, crossing her arms over her chest in that effortlessly regal way of hers. “I’m not a baby, you know.”

You raised an eyebrow at her, the corners of your mouth lifting into a knowing smile. “You’re thirteen,” You countered gently, pausing in your task to give her your full attention. “And while I have no doubt that you could navigate the alley on your own, I’d prefer to keep you in one piece. Humor your mother, will you?”

Ophelia rolled her eyes dramatically, but the faint smile that tugged at her lips betrayed her. “Fine,” she relented, her tone light but tinged with mock indignation. “But only because you insist.”

You laughed softly, reaching over to brush a stray strand of hair from her face. “Thank you, darling,” you murmured, your voice soft with affection. “I don’t know what I’d do without you to keep me on my toes.”

She tilted her head slightly, her expression softening as she studied you. “Probably live a very peaceful, boring life,” She sighed in faux aspiration, her words playful but her tone warm. “No dramatic letters about professors or requests for obscure potion ingredients.”

“Don’t forget the long rants about Magic Theory,” You added with a smirk, resuming your task as you carefully folded another one of her robes. “I’d be lost without those.”

Ophelia gave a delicate shrug, her lips curving into a smile that was pure mischief. “Well, someone has to keep you informed,” She said lightly, glancing back down at her list. “You’d be dreadfully out of touch without me.”

“Perish the thought,” You mused, your tone laced with mock horror. But as you reached for another item to pack, you couldn’t help the warmth that bloomed in your chest. 

Despite her pride and sharp wit- or perhaps because of it- Ophelia had a heart so full of love and passion that it left you in awe. She was your miracle, your everything, and the reason you had fought so hard to build a life worth living after everything you’d endured. And though she sometimes tested your patience, you wouldn’t trade a single moment with her for the world.

As you worked together in companionable silence, the house around you buzzed faintly with the promise of the day ahead. Soon, the Floo Network would carry her off to join Harry and the Weasleys, and you would meet James and Lily later at the Leaky Cauldron. But for now, in this moment, it was just the two of you, and the quiet love you shared was enough to fill the room with light.

“Ophelia,” You called softly, breaking the silence as you tucked the last item into her trunk. She looked up at you, her expression curious. “You know I love you, don’t you?”

Her sharp features softened instantly, and she set her list aside, crossing the small space between you to wrap her arms around your waist. “Of course I do, Mum,” She murmured, her voice quiet but sure. “And I love you too.”

You held her close, your heart swelling with a love so fierce it threatened to overwhelm you. No matter how many years passed or how independent she became, she would always be your little girl. And in that moment, as the sunlight streamed through the windows and the world felt soft and safe, you were reminded once again of just how lucky you were to have her.

~~~

The cobbled streets of Diagon Alley buzzed with life, the chatter of families mingling with the clink of cauldrons and the rustle of shopping bags. Children darted between storefronts, their excitement infectious, while parents called after them, juggling lists and parcels. But Ophelia paid the lively scene no mind. She moved with purpose, her steps elegant yet determined, weaving through the crowd with a quiet confidence that belied her thirteen years. 

“Honestly, Harry, it’s just a bookstore,” she’d said earlier, rolling her eyes at her cousin’s protests. “I’ll be fine.” Her tone, a perfect blend of exasperation and poise, had left little room for argument. She’d dismissed him with a wave of her hand, her pride unwilling to entertain the notion that she needed an escort for something so trivial.

Now, her prize- a hefty tome on advanced magical theory- was clutched tightly under her arm, its worn leather cover radiating the promise of knowledge. She moved briskly, her dark hair swaying as she navigated the bustling street, her mind already racing ahead to the countless possibilities the book would unlock. The noise of the crowd seemed to fade as she glanced down at the book, her lips curving into a satisfied smile. 

It wasn’t just the content that thrilled her- though the promise of unraveling complex magical concepts certainly did- it was the independence of it all. She’d insisted on going alone, had chosen the book herself, and now, with it safely in hand, she felt a sense of accomplishment she wouldn’t admit to anyone. 

With her head held high and a quiet pride radiating from her, Ophelia turned her steps back toward the group, determined to reunite with Harry and the others before anyone could begin another lecture on responsibility. For now, though, the world felt bright, the possibilities endless, and she relished the brief moment of freedom.

That was when she heard it.

The cheerful hum of Diagon Alley faded into the background as a sharp, panicked cry reached Ophelia's ears. She froze mid-step, her heart skipping a beat as her gaze snapped toward a shadowy alley just ahead. The sound came again, muffled but unmistakably distressed. Her fingers instinctively tightened around the book she carried, and she shifted her weight forward, craning her neck to see.

In the dimness of the alley, two figures stood locked in a tense struggle. The taller one had the smaller pinned against the brick wall, his grip tight around the other’s collar. “You've got nerve, Pettigrew.” The smaller figure’s pale hair fell in messy strands across his face as he squirmed against the hold, his voice trembling. 

“Please,” the blonde figure gasped, desperation lacing every syllable. “I’m sorry! I won’t look for you again. H-he won’t hear of your escape- not from me!”

Ophelia’s breath hitched. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she took in the scene. The smaller figure’s voice cracked with panic, his pale blue eyes wide and darting frantically. The taller figure, shrouded in shadows, stood silent and imposing, his wand raised. A faint, menacing glow illuminated the tip, the threat unmistakable.

She didn’t think. She didn’t pause. Her wand was in her hand in an instant, and she stepped into the mouth of the alley, her voice cutting through the tense air like a blade.

“Oi! Let him go!” She shouted, her tone sharp and commanding. 

Both figures froze, their heads snapping toward her. The taller man’s wand lowered slightly, his body going rigid with hesitation. The smaller figure twisted his neck, his gaze locking onto hers, and for a fleeting moment, Ophelia saw a flash of something in his pale eyes- hope? Relief?

It didn’t last. 

The blonde man’s lips parted, and before she could speak again, his body jerked unnaturally. The sound of cracking bones and tearing sinew filled the air, a grotesque symphony of transformation. Ophelia’s stomach churned as she watched the man’s form contort, shrinking and twisting. Within seconds, he was gone, replaced by a scruffy, dirt-streaked rat.

“What the- ?” The words barely escaped her lips before the rat lunged forward, its sharp teeth sinking into the taller man’s hand. 

The man let out a hiss of pain, his grip faltering just enough to allow the rat to squirm free. In a blur of motion, it darted down the alley, disappearing into the shadows with a faint, scuttling sound. 

Ophelia stood rooted to the spot, her wand trembling slightly in her grasp. Her wide eyes flicked from the spot where the rat had vanished to the man now turning toward her, his movements deliberate, his frustration radiating like heat. 

As he stepped into the dim light filtering from the street, his features came into view. Sharp, angular lines carved a face that was both striking and unsettling. His dark hair fell messily across his brow, and his green eyes burned with a mixture of irritation and something else- something far more dangerous.

Ophelia squared her shoulders, her heart thundering in her chest but her chin lifting in defiance. She clutched her wand tightly, the poised elegance of her posture belying the unease bubbling beneath the surface. Every lesson her mother had taught her about composure echoed in her mind, steeling her nerves.

“Who do you think you are?” she demanded, her voice cold and cutting. “Picking on someone smaller than you in an alley? How pathetic.”

The man’s lips quirked into something that might have been a smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He took a step closer, his tall frame casting an intimidating shadow. “And who,” he said, his voice low and measured, “do you think you are to interrupt something that doesn’t concern you?”

“I’m the girl who’s about to hex you into next week,” she shot back without missing a beat, her wand steady as she pointed it at his chest. “Back off, or you’ll find out just how much trouble a thirteen-year-old can cause.”

The man hesitated, his head tilting slightly as he studied her. His gaze dropped from her face to her neck, and his sharp eyes narrowed, honing in on the small magpie charm resting just above her collarbone. The faint light caught the delicate metal, and for a moment, his composure faltered.

“That,” he murmured, his voice strained, “isn’t yours.”

Ophelia’s brows furrowed, her hand instinctively rising to the charm. Her fingers brushed over the familiar metal as her mind raced. “What’s it to you?” she retorted, her tone sharp, her grip on her wand unwavering. “It was a gift.”

The man’s jaw tightened, and for a fleeting moment, something flickered across his face- recognition, anger, and a hint of something she couldn’t quite place. “Who gave it to you?” he demanded, his voice rougher now, almost desperate.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she straightened her spine, her wand tip glowing faintly as she met his intensity head-on. “That’s none of your business,” she said firmly. 

He took another step forward, his green eyes blazing with an intensity that made her breath hitch. “I’ll ask you again,” he growled, his voice a dangerous whisper. “Who gave you that charm?”

Ophelia didn’t flinch. Instead, she tilted her chin higher, defiance sparking in her gaze. “My mom,” she said clearly, her voice carrying an unmistakable note of pride. Her lips curved into a faint, deliberate smile as she added, “You should know her. I’m a Potter, after all.”

The man froze. His entire body stiffened, his green eyes widening ever so slightly before narrowing again. Something shifted in his expression, a mixture of shock, pain, and anger that he quickly tried to mask. He stared at her as though he were seeing a ghost.

Ophelia arched an eyebrow, her confidence swelling as she saw the cracks in his composure. “Oh,” she said lightly, her tone dripping with mock disappointment, “don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about us. That would be awfully sad- we are war heros.”

The man’s lips pressed into a thin line, his hands twitching at his sides. He took a small step back, his expression unreadable as he muttered, “A Potter.”

“That’s right,” she said evenly, her wand still raised. “And unless you’d like to explain what you’re doing lurking in alleys, I suggest you leave.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he turned sharply on his heel and disappeared into the shadows without another word, leaving Ophelia standing in the mouth of the alley, her chest heaving as she tried to steady her breath.

She glanced down at the charm again, her fingers brushing over its surface. Who was that man? she wondered, a faint chill creeping down her spine. And why did the sight of this charm seem to haunt him so?

~~~

The Leaky Cauldron buzzed with its usual chatter, the comforting scent of roasted meat and freshly baked bread drifting through the warm air. You sat at a large table with James, Lily, Sirius, and Remus, laughing at one of Sirius’s over-the-top tales from Hogwarts. The lightness in the room felt like a rare and precious gift, a momentary escape from the shadow of battles fought and sacrifices endured.

The door swung open with a sharp creak, a gust of cool air sweeping in as Harry entered with Ron, Ginny, and Ophelia. Their cheeks were flushed from the bustling streets outside, their movements slightly hurried. Your gaze instinctively fell on Ophelia. 

Something was wrong.

She lingered behind the others, her usual confident stride replaced with hesitant steps. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, as though trying to shield herself from the world. Her sharp features looked drawn, pale, and etched with unease. 

“Oi, there they are!” Sirius called out, raising a hand in greeting. “Took you long enough. Did you stop for ice cream?”

Ron mumbled something about Fred and George dragging them into Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, but his words barely registered. Your focus stayed fixed on Ophelia as she slipped into the seat beside you. She didn’t look up, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her cloak, her head bowed like she was trying to disappear.

“Ophelia, love,” you said gently, leaning closer to her. “Everything alright?”

Her shoulders tensed, and for a moment, she said nothing. She just sat there, her hand brushing against the magpie charm around her neck. It was a small, almost subconscious motion, but it spoke volumes.

“Yeah,” she murmured after a pause, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her. “I’m fine.”

You frowned, your worry deepening. She was many things- brilliant, fiery, and determined- but never this quiet. You reached into your bag, pulling out a few Galleons, and slid them toward Harry, Ron, and Ginny. “Why don’t you three grab some ice cream for real this time? My treat.”

The three exchanged uncertain glances, but Ron was the first to shrug and stand. Harry hesitated, his concerned gaze darting toward his cousin, but eventually, he and Ginny followed Ron out of the pub.

The second they were gone, you turned back to Ophelia. “You don’t look fine,” you pressed softly. “What happened?”

Across the table, James and Lily shared a look, their worry mirrored in their expressions. Sirius, his usual joviality replaced with quiet intensity, leaned back in his chair, studying Ophelia closely. Even Remus put down his cup of tea, his sharp gaze focused on her.

Ophelia’s fingers twisted together in her lap, her head ducked low. “It’s nothing,” she muttered, her voice barely audible.

“Ophelia,” you said again, your tone a little firmer this time. “You can tell me. Whatever it is, I’m here.”

For a moment, she stayed quiet, the tension in her shoulders radiating like a pulse. Then, in a gesture so small it almost went unnoticed, she leaned into you. Her head rested against your arm, her nose pressing into the fabric of your sleeve. 

You froze for half a second before wrapping an arm around her, pulling her close. She didn’t cry- Ophelia never cried- but the way she clung to you spoke louder than words.  “Mom.” She muffled against your side. As if recharging her spent bravado and bravery in your arms. “Do we know a Pettigrew?”

[bananabreads]

Dad!lads when their children have a fever.

Dad!Rafayel, Dad!Caleb, Dad!Sylus, Dad!Zayne, Dad!Xavier — the lads guys taking care of their child when they have a fever ♡⁠(⁠˃͈⁠ ⁠દ⁠ ⁠˂͈⁠ ⁠༶⁠ ⁠)

RAFAYEL —

Your usually noisy and energetic daughter, the same little girl who used to run around the halls pretending to be a royal princess, was now quietly shuffling down the hallway.

Rafayel was in the living room, lost in his strokes, painting a soft coral landscape in shades of lavender and red. when he heard the faintest sniffle. A sound so small, yet enough to pull him from his concentration.

He turned quickly, brush still in hand, just in time to see his daughter standing at the doorway. Her eyes were glassy with tears, cheeks flushed deep pink, her hair damp and sticking to her forehead. She was trembling slightly, and her tiny fists rubbed at her eyes as she took a weak step forward.

“P-Papa…” she said, reaching up for rafayel.

The brush dropped from Rafayel’s hand and hit the floor with a soft clatter.

“Oh, my little guppy,” he breathed, rushing over in long strides. He knelt and gently scooped her up, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other supporting her legs. She immediately buried her face into his shoulder, her little fingers clutching at his shirt.

Her skin was burning.

“Sweetheart, you're so warm…” Rafayel murmured, concern lacing his voice as he pressed his cool hand to her cheek, then her forehead. “You’re burning up... when did this start?”

She only whimpered in reply, coughing into his chest, her small body trembling with discomfort.

Without another word, Rafayel carried her out of the living room, moving quickly but gently toward the bedroom. His usually composed expression was shaken, his brows furrowed in worry, his lips pressed tight.

You had just stepped out of the bathroom when you saw them—your daughter curled in his arms like a wilted flower, Rafayel looking at you like he was holding a star that was starting to dim.

“She’s burning up,” he said softly. “She came to me like this. She didn’t even cry out loud.”

You quickly rushed over. “She was fine earlier... She was just sleeping..”

Rafayel laid her down carefully, already peeling off her sweaty clothes and replacing them with soft, dry ones. He whispered to her the entire time, kissing her temple between every movement.

“You’re so strong, my little princess… But Mommy and Daddy’s here now. It's okay to be vulnerable...”

He applied a cooling pad to her forehead, stroked her hair back, and tucked her under a fresh blanket. Then he turned to you, voice calm but firm.

“I’ll stay with her. I’ll watch her.”

“Rafayel, you haven’t slept—”

“She came to me, like that, all alone and crying,” he said, barely above a whisper, as if it pained him to say it aloud. “I won’t let her wake up scared again.”

You knew there was no arguing with him. So you simply nodded and left to prepare some light food while Rafayel stayed by her side, softly humming a lullaby that calmed her down, that lullaby you sang to him when his sick.

Later that night, your daughter’s fever finally broke, but not before Rafayel had spent hours holding her hand, changing her cooling pads, and whispering promises of moonlight swims and star chasing when she got better.

CALEB —

Your daughter’s cheeks were flushed, her forehead far too warm against your chest as she whimpered quietly. You paced the living room, phone pressed to your ear while your little girl clutched your shirt tightly with trembling fingers.

“She’s got a fever,” you told Caleb softly, heart aching as her cries grew louder. “Can you buy some medicine on your way home? And the cooling pads she likes—the apple scented fever cooling pads..”

The line was quiet for a second. Then Caleb replied, voice already clipped with urgency, “I’m on it. I’ll be home soon.”

You didn’t know it, but he had already turned away from his work, ignoring the duties he needed to do after knowing that his daughter is sick. That alone was reason enough for him to drop everything.

Twenty five minutes later, the door opened with a soft creak and Caleb came in, slightly out of breath and arms full of bags. “Hey, hey,” he said gently as he walked over to you both. “I’m here now, baby. Daddy’s here.”

He knelt down next to you, brushing your daughter’s sweat damp hair away from her forehead. “My poor princess… You’ve been burning up, huh?”

She looked up at him with glassy eyes, barely able to muster a whimper. Caleb wasted no time, he unpacked the medicine, fever patches, and even her favorite jelly snacks. “Brought you soup, too. It’s the kind with the little bow noodles in it. Thought that might make you feel better.”

You watched as he gently cradled her, her tiny arms wrapping around his neck while he fed her medicine and whispered soothing words.

“She’s still warm,” you said quietly.

“I’ve got her,” Caleb murmured back. “You’ve been holding down the for all day. Go take a shower or lie down for a bit. I can handle her.” he said as he's still gently cradling your daughter

You asked and gently stroked your daughter's hair, “You sure?”

He looked up at you, and though his eyes were tired, they were steady. “She’s our girl. I won’t leave her side.”

So you let him take over, watching as he wrapped her back in her bright pink blanket and pressed a cool patch to her for head. He stayed awake by her side the whole night, hand gently stroking her back while he hummed softly. He wiped away her tears, held the bucket when she got nauseous, and gently swayed her in his arms when she grew restless.

Even when you tried to take over again the next day, he refused with a smile. “You already did the hard part. Let me be the one she needs right now.”

But by the second day, you noticed something was wrong.

You found Caleb leaning against the hallway wall with a towel in one hand and the thermometer in the other, his eyes half lidded and breathing uneven.

“Caleb?” you called softly.

“Mm?” He looked up, clearly dazed. “I’m just—gonna put this back on her forehead—”

You stepped forward and pressed your hand to his forehead.

He was burning.

“Caleb, you have a fever too,” you said, voice sharp with concern.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled. “I just—must’ve caught it from her, but it’s nothing serious.”

“You’re shaking,” you said, catching his arm before he could stumble. “You need to rest.”

“No, she still needs me. She wakes up crying and—”

“Caleb.” you said, not letting him continue his words.

Your voice stopped him.

“She has both of us. But right now, I need you to lie down before you collapse.”

He opened his mouth to protest but closed it again when your daughter’s weak voice called from the room, “...Mommy..? Daddy…?”

Caleb’s expression softened instantly.

“We're right here, sweetheart,” he whispered as you helped him into bed beside her.

And just like that, your once unstoppable husband curled up under the covers, his arm protectively around your daughter despite his own fever. She snuggled into his chest with a soft sigh.

You sighed too, half exasperated, half fond.

Now you were nursing two sick babies, one who is a 6 feet tall and stubborn as hell colonel and a 4 year old daughter who was exactly like her father.

SYLUS —

It started slow, your daughter didn’t have her usual energy that morning. She didn’t run to you with her stuffed crow or talk your ears off about the princess storybooks Sylus gave her. Instead, she was quiet, clinging to you with a sad, sick baby look in her eyes.

By afternoon, her forehead was burning and her cheeks were flushed. She didn’t say she was in pain, but you could tell. She always wanted to be strong like you and sylus and would try to keep up a strong front.

She never liked to be alone when she was sick, so you spent the entire day lying on the couch, your daughter resting on your chest, her tiny arms curled around your torso. Her breaths were shallow, and every now and then, a little sob would escape her throat. Not loud. Not panicked. Just tired, feverish sobs muffled by your shirt.

You stroked her back in slow circles. “I know, baby. I know it doesn’t feel nice... Just rest. Mommy’s right here.”

She had already taken her medicine. You had gently wiped her down with a damp towel earlier. The strawberry scented cooling pad she liked was pressed gently to her forehead now. But the fever hadn’t let up. And the tears hadn’t stopped either.

You didn’t have a hand free to call Sylus. You didn’t even think of it, too busy whispering gentle reassurances and trying to cool her down.

And then the front door clicked open.

You looked up.

Sylus was home.

He had just come back from work, a quick one, supposedly. His hair still slightly damp from the rain, jacket slung over his arm, expecting to see the usual chaos or laughter when he stepped inside.

Instead, he found silence… and the sight of his little girl curled on your chest, whimpering softly.

“Wait—what happened?” His voice was sharp, low, not angry—concerned. Instantly alert.

You looked up, voice quiet, “She has a fever… I didn’t get to message you. I couldn’t leave her side.”

Sylus was beside you in seconds.

“She took her medicine, I gave her water, but she still feels really bad...”

He knelt beside the couch. “Hey, sweetheart…”

At the sound of her father’s voice, your daughter stirred. Her puffy eyes fluttered open, and a tiny hand reached toward him.

“D-daddy…”

That one broken little word destroyed him.

“Oh, baby…” Sylus quickly slipped onto the couch beside you, pulling both of you into his arms like he could protect her just by holding tighter. “Daddy’s here now, okay? You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

He gently cupped her cheek with his hand, his brow furrowed as he felt the heat still lingering on her skin.

“She’s still so warm,” he murmured, kissing her temple. “You’ve been holding on this whole time, huh?”

Her little sobs came again, muffled against your chest, but this time Sylus was there too, his hands rubbing her back, voice low and soothing.

“Shhh, I know. I know it hurts. But you’re not alone anymore. We’re both here now.”

You felt her finally exhale, body sagging between you and Sylus, too tired to cry anymore. Her hands shifted slightly, now gripping both your shirts.

Sylus stayed there for hours. He didn’t even change out of his damp shirt.

You noticed the worry in his eyes, even as he stayed calm for her. He checked her temperature every thirty minutes, adjusted the cooling pad when it slipped, made sure her water was always within reach.

And every time she whimpered, even half asleep, he would immediately whisper, “I’m here. Mommy and Daddy’s not going anywhere.”

Later, when she was sleeping deeper and breathing softer, Sylus tucked the blanket tighter around her and leaned into your shoulder.

Then he looked down at her again, his baby girl, his softest weakness, and quietly said, “She’s strong… but next time, I want to be here the second she gets sick. I don’t care what work i have. You two are my first priority."

ZAYNE —

Your daughter had been unusually quiet the entire afternoon, not that she was ever loud to begin with. But this time, there was no soft humming while she drew, no gentle tug at your sleeve to ask for cuddles. Just a flushed face, drowsy eyes, and her small form curled under her blanket on the couch.

You touched her forehead and immediately felt the heat radiating from her skin.

“Oh, baby,” you murmured, brushing back her damp bangs. “You’ve got a fever…”

She only responded with the tiniest nod, eyes glassy. She just clung onto you more.

Your heart cracked seeing your daughter at this state and just gently hugged her more, wrapping her in her favorite blanket.

You called Zayne immediately. “She’s got a fever. Her temperature’s rising, she’s barely talking…”

Zayne, ever the calm doctor, only replied, “I’ll be home in twenty minutes. Don’t give her anything yet, I’ll handle it. I’ve got something for her.”

True to his word, he arrived on the dot, his coat still draped over his arm, a sleek black medical bag in one hand… and a pink paper bag with something suspiciously not medical in the other.

He knelt in front of your daughter on the couch, gently placing the back of his hand on her cheek. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said softly, his voice melting into something softer than you usually heard. “Not feeling so good today, huh?”

She shook her head wordlessly, leaning into his palm.

Zayne smiled, brushing her hair away. “Okay. Let Daddy check you over, alright? Just like last time."

He did his usual exam, efficient, gentle, precise. Checked her throat, her heartbeat, her stomach. Listened to her breathing and heart, all while murmuring things like “Doing so well” and “I know that tickles, hang on just a little”. Zayne was carrying jasmine in the kitchen, about to make her drink her medicine as you went to her bedroom to get her a new change of clothes. Then came the medicine, which he carefully measured and mixed into a tiny bit of warm juice.

But your daughter hesitated.

She hated medicine. Always had.

Zayne leaned in and whispered, almost conspiratorially, “I brought something special today.”

She blinked up at him, curious. “What is it daddy…?”

He reached into the pink paper bag behind him and, without letting you see, unwrapped a small, round mint choco candy.

“You can have this after you take your medicine. Just between us, okay?”

Her tired eyes lit up just a little, and she slowly nodded.

She reluctantly took the medicine, and Zayne quickly popped the candy into her mouth right after. She lit up with a soft, content hum.

From across the room, you raised an eyebrow. “What was that?”

Zayne cleared his throat. “Hydration… support.”

You squinted. “Was that candy?”

“She’s sick,” he said, completely unbothered. “Small boosts are clinically proven to help recovery.”

“You’re bribing her with sweets.”

He quickly defended your daughter, “She’s brave and took bitter meds. She deserves a reward.”

You crossed your arms, amused. “You’re spoiling her.”

He smiled that subtle, quiet smile of his and looked at his daughter, now curled into his side, dozing off with a faint sticky sheen of mint choco candy on her lips.

“I know,” he murmured. “And I’ll keep doing it.”

That night, he stayed by her side with quiet devotion, taking her temperature at intervals, jotting down notes like a doctor on a shift, and refilling her water cup without ever waking her.

You found another empty candy wrapper tucked behind a book on the nightstand.

He noticed you notice.

“…Don’t look at me like that,” he said calmly. “That was emotional support caramel.”

You laughed quietly as you tucked them both in. “You’re such a softie.”

Zayne didn’t deny it. He just pulled your daughter a little closer and kissed the top of her head. “Only for the two of you.”

XAVIER —

Usually, your son was the easiest sleeper in the world. You'd lay him down, tuck him in, kiss his forehead, and before you even reached the door, he'd be fast asleep, snoring like a tiny, peaceful bulldozer.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he was warm, too warm. His skin was flushed, cheeks red, body squirming under the covers as he tossed and turned. You had already given him medicine, put on the cooling patch, even tried rubbing his back and softly humming his favorite lullaby. Still, he couldn’t fall asleep.

His eyes were glossy and tired, but he just kept whimpering, rolling over every few minutes, and calling out in a weak, hoarse voice:

“...Daddy… Mommy…”

You and Xavier had been by his side the whole evening, sitting on either side of the bed. The air was heavy with worry and exhaustion. You leaned back against the headboard, gently stroking your son’s sweaty hair as he shifted restlessly in your lap. Xavier sat at the foot of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the thermometer in his hand with a furrowed brow.

“He’s still hot,” you whispered.

Xavier sighed through his nose. “I know.”

He looked down at his son, the little boy who used to cling around his parents to avoid walking was, now curled up in a nest of blankets and softly whimpering.

“Does it hurt anywhere?” Xavier asked gently, moving closer. “Your head? Tummy?”

His son sniffled and reached out his arms.

“I dunno… I feel… yucky.”

Xavier immediately scooped him into his arms, rocking him gently. “Okay. Okay, buddy. You don’t have to explain. I got you.”

You watched as your son clung to Xavier’s shirt, face buried in his father’s chest. Xavier didn’t say anything for a long while, just sat there holding him close, slowly swaying with that same quiet strength he always had.

Eventually, he murmured, “You remember the story I told you about the galaxy spaceship? The one that takes tired kids straight to dreamland?”

Your son nodded weakly.

“Well… Daddy’s got two tickets. One for you, one for Mommy. But the spaceship only moves when you close your eyes.”

His little fingers curled tighter into Xavier’s shirt.

“oke.. I’ll try…”

“You’re so brave,” Xavier whispered, kissing the top of his head. “Bravest boy I know.

Even after the fever meds kicked in, your son still couldn’t sleep for more than ten minutes at a time. You took turns holding him, wiping his forehead, humming, offering water, adjusting the cooling patch. You and Xavier looked like two sleep deprived zombies, but neither of you dared to leave the room.

At one point, past 2 a.m., you found Xavier sitting upright in bed, your son sprawled across his chest like a weighted blanket, finally dozing off for real this time.

“Don’t move,” you whispered from the doorway.

“I wasn’t planning to,” he muttered back, barely blinking. “This little guy’s finally out. It only took six storybooks, two songs, and like… seven cooling pads...”

You smiled, even through your exhaustion.

“He usually knocks out in two seconds. Now he’s burning up and crying... I hate it,” he mumbled. “If I could take this fever for him, I would in a heartbeat.

You sat beside them, gently wrapping the blanket around both of them. “He’s gonna feel better soon. Especially with you here.”

Xavier looked up at you, tired but soft. “Yeah. But I’m not sleeping till he does.”

And he didn’t.

He stayed there the whole night, his son snoring softly on his chest by dawn, his arms still protectively around him, eyes half-lidded but stubbornly open.

A dad who could hold the whole world up, just for his boy.

[piastappies]

𝜗𝜚 𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐌𝐀𝐒 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐈𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐒 𝜗𝜚

⋆ pairing. oscar piastri x wife!leclerc!reader

⋆ summary. christmas is never calm, when the piastris are involved, or one would think.

⋆ notes. another part of dad!oscar series 😁😁😁 its honestly one of my favorites ever. this is a small christmas fic, but i might write another part of christmas at the piastris 😁 not proofread (i will do that one day i promise)

BEFORE YOUR DAUGHTER WAS BORN, you and oscar never spent christmas together. it was pretty understandable, he went back to australia to see his family, while you ended up in monaco, spending the festive moments along your family and your brothers’ girlfriends. however, you’d always spend new year’s together — whether it was australia or monaco, no one could make you leave each other’s side. nevertheless, as suspected, the problems started occurring as soon chloe’s second christmas came up.

her first christmas happened just after she was born, so there was really no conversation about going anywhere with a newborn baby, while pandemic was still going crazy. christmas in the following year was putting more and more stress on top of your shoulders. you barely seen your family all year, so the need to fly home was even stronger than ever, you couldn’t though. beside his dad, oscar hasn’t seen his family much either and asking him to go see yours for holidays seemed unfair, you were not the only one, who missed the warm embraces of their mothers.

“why don’t we all just come to your place, love?” nicole, oscar’s mum, suggested on one afternoon, making the tension in your shoulders loosen a bit. “there’s no point in stressing yourself out about flying with chloe, when we can just come to you.”

it almost seemed like a plan put together beforehand, because a few hours later your mum has called you, suggesting the exact same thing. even if it was a plan, you really appreciated trying to ease your nerves about christmas.

and it became a tradition, one you held dearly to your heart.

it’s been still a few days left till the twenty-fifth, so it was only nicole, who flew to monaco, her daughters would arrive near twenty-fourth to have a day to recharge. you were bundled up in a blanket, a small girl sitting on your lap, not wanting to be away from you as her tiny fists had tightened their grip on your shirt.

“i get puppy?” chloe asked, tipping her chin upwards to have a look at you before turning her head — so fast you thought it would snap in seconds — to look between your husband and his mom. “please, please puppy?” she repeated, jutting her bottom lip and flashed her brown eyes at oscar.

you raised an eyebrow at the aussie, awaiting his response. the possibility of him cracking and accepting your daughter’s pleas was high, considering that chloe had him wrapped around her little finger, or rather around her wrist like a leash she could tug on, and at first thought her dad would do whatever she wanted him to. his gaze shifted towards you as he let out a sigh, his heart breaking as he’s about to disappoint his only daughter.

“ah, squish, but you have a dog already, don’t you?” nicole started, catching her daughter’s attention. chloe’s eyebrows knitted in confusion. she has a dog already? is he invisible? “basil and rosie are yours too, aren’t they?” she asked in a gentle tone, the four years old perking up at this revelation.

“i do!” she exclaimed happily, letting go of your shirt to clap her hands, a big beam creeping up on her lips. “basie and rosie!” she said, her head bobbing up and down ecstatically. “my doggies.”

“and leo.” you chimed in, gently rubbing your hand against chloe’s back. the mention of your brother’s daschmund made the beam falter. “you don’t like leo anymore, squish?” you asked, a bit taken aback at the sudden change.

a pout appeared on your daughter’s face, her tone slightly bashful as she tried to explain. “leo pee-ed on me.” oscar’s lips were pulled into a tight line as he tried to suppress a chuckle. “s’no funny!” she frowned at her dad’s antics.

“he was just excited to see you, baby.” you tried your best reasoning with your daughter. “leo’s still just a baby, you know? babies pee when they get excited, it means he reaaaally likes you.”

“daddy’s baby, too an’ he don’t pee on me.” she scrunched her nose, unmoved by your explanation. “daddy don’t like chloe?”

baby. that’s how you’ve been referring to oscar for as long as you could remember, making chloe think that her dad is as much of a baby as she is. in different circumstances, you’d just start laughing — some guys, your friends’ boyfriend or fathers, random people on the street, probably acted like babies towards their partners or maternal figures, but not your oscar. he was the eptiome of a great partner, friend, and a parent, despite being a bit messy and leaving socks on your bedroom floor a few times, if you wished for someone better, you’d still get your oscar, because there couldn’t be anyone better than him, not for you and your daughter.

“well… daddy loves you so, so much, squish.” he began coyly, kneeling in front of the couch, to brush his nose against chloe’s, as an act of affection. “but i’m not a doggie, am i?” he asked, and while your reasoning seemed completely off to chloe, she bought oscar’s within seconds.

“no, silly.” the four years old giggled, putting both of her hands on oscar’s cheeks, leaving a small, sloppy kiss on the tip of his nose. “you papa.” a beam stretched across her mouth. “no doggie.”

THE CHRISTMAS CAME QUICKLY, which you were profoundly content with. it was one of the rare moments, when you could spend the time with your entire family, both sides. there wasn’t enough words to describe the amount of love you held in your heart for oscar’s relatives. you spent lots of hours, talking to your in-laws on the phone, when you couldn’t see them in person. it was natural that you wanted them in your daughter’s life as much as possible.

usually, the apartment was as quiet as it could be with a preschooler, although with almost twenty people inside, it was a mess. a positive one, one you would cherish every time it happened. your mum chatting away with nicole, tim, and chris, your brothers engrossed in conversations with oscar, while you talked to alex, and oscar’s sisters as your soon to be sister-in-law played with your daughter on the carpet, leo sleeping on his usual spot on the couch.

when you all sat down to open gifts, chloe was no longer playing with charlotte as she occupied the spot on arthur’s lap, giggling quietly, when he tickled her once in a while just to pretend he didn’t as she tried to pat his hands away.

“i give gifts, too!” she suddenly spoke up, her voice filled with excitement, pointing to a dozen of tiny boxes standing neatly next to (or on top of) one another.

it was small figurines made out of modelling clay that your husband has bought for your daughter. it wasn’t much, but it made your daughter feel involved in the gift-giving tradition. of course, you helped her throughout the process, so the figurines wouldn’t be just colours mixed together with no shape.

“oh, mon étoile. did you make them yourself?” your mum asked, a warm smile stretching across her lips as she unpacked the tiny star made out of modelling clay. that’s what pascale always called chloe, étoile, which meant a star, because she was the brightest star in your mom’s universe.

chloe nodded proudly in response, puffing her chest as she unpacked arthur’s box for him. “‘s me!” she giggled in happiness, placing the figurine in her uncle’s hand. “now, you ‘ill ‘lways remember me!”

“i could never forget you, squish.” arthur whispered into her ear, though loud enough for you all to hear, making the girl laugh from the sensation of his face in such close proximity to her ear. “i’ll always have it with me, okay?”

in the end, everyone was enamoured with the small gifts made by your daughter, which made her feel super proud of herself. she got a few toys (that you’d previously accepted, because if you had one more loud toy, you’d shred yourself into pieces) and… a racing helmet.

“we are not doing a project piastri, or whatever you’d call that.” you announced, giving your older brother a judgemental look. was it a surprise that charles gifted your daughter a racing helmet? not really, as he’s been talking about taking chloe karting. “she’s four.”

“i was four, when i started too.” he argued, a bit playfully.

“look what that made you. crazy.” you shook your head, taking a glimpse of the mesmerised look in your daughter’s eyes. “she’s too small for a go-kart. you’d have to put velco strips on her back and the seat, so she wouldn’t fell out of the thing.”

“that’s doable.” the ferrari driver shrugged, as he helped chloe put on the purple helmet. “uncle charlie wouldn’t let his squishy face get hurt.” he cooed at the girl, making you roll your eyes in exasperation.

cheering and stressing over your husband’s career was a thing you could live with, but having both oscar, and your daughter racing and karting? your poor heart wouldn’t handle it.

“i drive like daddy soon?” the four years old in question said, her voice slightly muffled by the helmet. once again, she clapped her hands happily.

and somehow, after a nice meal and gift openings, you were stuck in a conversation with your brother about taking chloe karting, while she quietly asked one of your sisters in law what karting exactly was.

[rosy-hollow]

"Daddy! Why are you sad?"

Satoru chuckles, ruffling his daughter's hair affectionately, scooping her up in his large hands and situating her on his lap.

"Aw...is my pumpkin concerned for Daddy? Don't worry kiddo, Daddy isn't sad- just..." he paused, thinking of the right word. "tired."

Your daughter pouts, cerulean eyes peering up to gaze into her father's. "You should buy a pony Daddy! That way you won't be sad!"

Satoru laughs in surprise. "A pony, huh? Maybe I will...but I don't think Mommy will let us."

"Mommy won't let you do what?" you say, coming up from behind the couch and lean over the back to see the situation, eyebrow raised in suspicion. "Satoru, what propaganda are you teaching our child?"

"Daddy said you wouldn't let us buy a pony!" your daughter chirps and you stare at him incredulously.

"Absolutely not."

"But Mommy!"

"No!"

"C'mon sweetheart-"

"Stop enabling her!"

If he could, Satoru would have that memory tattooed to the inside of his brain, memorizing the way you laughed, your daughter's giddy face, the fuzzy domestic feeling in his heart, everything. If he could, Satoru would do anything in his power to feel that feeling again.

But he couldn't.

Because yet again, Satoru Gojo experiences one of the feelings he thought he left behind, all those years ago.

Grief.

It was during the war, when Satoru comes home late from a battle, only to find you lying on the cold tiled floor, in a pool of your own blood. In your arms, your 6 year old daughter, unconscious with a serious head injury.

A curse had come into your home in the middle on the night, and attacked you while he was gone. And Satoru wasn't there to protect you.

You didn't survive the encounter. You had lost far too much blood for the doctors to nurse you back to health, and your body was damaged beyond repair.

Your daughter was spared however. She was able to recover with extensive treatment, but her head injury gave her severe and permanent amnesia. She had no idea who you or Satoru were.

His own daughter- just…gone.

After that, Satoru just...broke.

He quit his teaching job at Jujutsu High, and left jujutsu society without a trace.

Satoru wasn't a stranger to hiding his true emotions, always masking any negative feelings behind the mask he'd worn for so many years.

But when you died, Satoru had died with you.

The Satoru Gojo of the physical world was nothing more than a hollow body with an empty heart, pain caused it to wither into nothing, as if it was never there.

"Why are you sad Daddy?" He could almost hear her say.

He's tired, he would say, like always.

But never why.

He was tired of watching his daughter grow up from afar, tired of not living a life with you at his side. Tired of waking up in a cold bed, in an empty house, far too big and lonely for him to live in by himself. Tired of being alone at night, consumed by nightmares and the suffocating feeling of grief and depression that overwhelmed him so much it hurt to breathe. Tired of not waking up to your kisses, your love, tired of not waking up to you, falling asleep with you, tired of not being with you.

How could he live without you? You the love of his life, his sweetheart, his everything. How could he live without you by his side, without the life you had made together? How could he watch his daughter grow up without you there to grow old with by his side?

The truth is- he couldn’t.

And Satoru knew that.

Soon, he promised himself. Soon, he'd be able to reunite with you again.

"You told me to buy a pony but all I wanted was you..." - Hidden in the Sand, Tally Hall.

A/N: sad sad sad reposts...

[httpsxarien]

imagine being the eldest daughter of king bruce wayne of sparta.

your birth was a celebration—born in the capital of sparta, gotham. a celestial event marked by meteors streaking across the night sky, the temple oracles claiming aphrodite herself had kissed your forehead. the people of gotham called you the beauty of sparta, the jewel of the kingdom, beloved and adored. wherever you walked, petals followed. your voice could calm storms, your laughter brought crops to bloom.

they said you were the most beautiful woman in all the known world. not just for your face, but for your soul.

you were crowned young—not queen, but heir. gifted silks from the east, bathed in oils from the west, your flower crown delicate, hand-woven, adorned daily eventually turned into the very crest of your line: golden, regal, with wings shaped like a bat’s.

your father, bruce, once the mightiest of warriors, was no longer just a king, he was a member of the justice league, a sacred order of the greatest kings and queens from far-flung kingdoms: queen diana of themyscira, king arthur of the seas, king clark of krypton.

and so, when war threatened the world of men, your father left.

his duty, he said.

his vow, he whispered to you, with hands rough from battle gently cupping your face.

he kissed your forehead and left his crown in your hands.

you were eighteen. and alone.

your brothers were far from home. dick, your eldest, married off to queen koriand’r of tamaran, ruling beside her as prince consort, his heart gentle, his strength unmatched. tim, off to claim the lands his mother’s bloodline had left behind, sharp as steel and silent as shadow.

and then there was damian.

your baby brother. your sun. only three, then. a prince born from war, too young to know pain, too precious to be left behind. his mother talia, led another kingdom far from sparta, closest to the underworld with her father, the catalyst of it all, a diplomatic mission ended in an affair creating your little brother.

so you became his world. mother. sister. queen. all in one breath. raising him to become a good man, to be a warrior of the mind, to become a future king that would lead this kingdom, so that when there’s a problem, he’d know the answer.

you ruled. you taught. you smiled when the suitors came knocking, their hands heavy with gold and promises.

but your heart was never theirs to take.

because it already belonged to a boy named jason.

jason todd. born of nothing. son of no name.

he was a street thief when your father first saw him. no older than seven, wrenching iron from the king’s own carriage. and instead of condemning him, your father knelt and offered him bread.

a few days turned into years.

and suddenly jason was training beside your brothers.

a commoner raised among royalty.

he was rough-edged, wild-eyed. but with you? he was quiet. soft.

you shared your books with him. your secret garden. your laughter.

and slowly, without ever saying it aloud, he became yours.

your sworn knight. your protector. your secret love.

when war came calling, jason answered it, like your father. like your brothers.

he left you with a ring. his mother’s. a simple iron band tied to a chain.

“i’ll come back to you,” he said. “as soon as the war’s won.”

and so, you ruled the kingdom alone.

with alfred by your side—loyal, aged, kind and damian growing stronger by the day, sparta stood firm under your hand.

you were a just queen. a fair ruler. your people loved you.

but love… love brought danger, too.

adonis. a name that once meant nothing, a boy you and jason once called friend.

he came from foreign lands, noble-born, clever, charming… at first. he arrived in your nation in hopes that your father would take him under his wing & was deeply upset when he favored jason over him. and so, resentment grew as he is stuck in a nation he wasn’t familiar with.

and obsession wears many masks.

you noticed it slowly. the way he watched you. the way he lingered. the way he hated jason, though he never said it aloud.

and when you rejected every suitor, when your hand remained untouched by any other… he snapped.

as the years have gone by, you grew older, and so whispers started..

so you issued a challenge.

if any man wished to marry the queen, he would first have to survive your father’s training.

the very same trials he put his sons through. brutal. legendary.

they all tried.

and they all failed.

and still, they whispered. schemed. turned bitter.

until one night.. under cover of darkness, they took you.

adonis and his men.

your guards slaughtered. your room desecrated.

your crown stolen. your song silenced.

you vanished. like helen took paris. taken from your homeland.

you were stolen.

your brother, damian, who went on a diplomatic to his mother, returned to find the palace desecrated, sacked like troy. the throne room bloodstained and cold.

your crown lay shattered at the foot of the dais.

alfred trembled.

the wind itself seemed to scream your name.

your family came home.

imagine the way the skies darken the moment they return, like the gods themselves turn their eyes toward the house of Wayne.

lightning cracks across the heavens as bruce wayne, king of sparta, steps foot onto the marble steps of his palace—no longer pristine white, but blackened with soot, dusted with blood. his eyes are hollower than they were ten years ago, but something sparks behind them once he sees the flowers on your windowsill wilted and untouched. your crown missing from its shrine. your song no longer sung.

his hands curl into fists. the silence is deafening.

and then alfred speaks. voice brittle, spine bowed, like a pillar finally cracking under the weight of guilt.

“they took her, sire.”

imagine damian, only thirteen, but already with fury in his blood and shadows in his step. they call him the prince of blades, forged by grief, raised by a sister he called mother, queen, home. he stares at the blood trail left on the throne room floor, jaw clenched, sword unsheathed.

“i will kill them,” he says, not for the first time.

tim looks at him, older now, calm but coiled like a storm. the quietest of the brothers, always watching. but it’s always tim who pieces together the web, who finds the threads and tightens the noose.

dick says nothing. not at first. not until he places a hand on damian’s shoulder and kneels beside the throne. the place where you sat. the place where you ruled in his absence. his little sister — now the memory of silk gowns and flower crowns, gone.

“we will bring her home.”

imagine jason.

he does not speak when he returns. not until he sees your favorite garden torn apart. not until he finds the necklace he gave you, your engagement ring, abandoned, cracked, lying atop a shattered vase.

he picks it up with shaking hands.

and then the fire returns. the same fire he had when he was a street boy, teeth bared to the world. the same fire you soothed with soft words and pressed palms.

but you’re not here to calm him now.

“give me a name,” he says.

“adonis,” alfred tells him. “adonis of corinth.”

a prince-turned-madman. jason remembers him. remembers the way he lingered too long near your presence. the way you always brushed off his stares, turning instead to jason with that smile of yours.

and now—

he sharpens his blades. dons his armor. not the polished steel of royalty, but the blood-red of vengeance. every inch of him screams wrath. he was born in fire. raised in battle. and now the world will burn for you.

imagine the house of wayne. scorned, grief-stricken, angry.

bruce, summoning the remnants of the justice league, now fractured and tired but still loyal to him. old gods rising from the ashes of old wars.

dick and tim, uniting their kingdoms. tamaran’s fire and the drake family’s might, standing behind the black banners of gotham.

damian, leading the war scouts, sending ravens to the underworld if he must.

and jason, who doesn’t speak of what you were to him, only acts. only kills. only carves his promise into the battlefield, etched with every enemy slain.

while you, the queen in chains, sat on a throne not yours, in a palace that did not know your name as they try to break you. you do not break. you did not scream. you did not weep. you waited.

because you knew that your family will come back for you with fire & blood.

history is laid out right in front of us to never repeat, we have seen this tale before. a beauty taken. a kingdom defiled. a thousand ships launched. a city, burning. but we, humans, remain blind - our pride louder than our memory.

we forget. or worse—believe we can rewrite fate.

and the gods flip a coin to see how this tale will end this time.

(inspired by the iliad, greek mythology & epic the musical so i bought the song of achilles & it brought me back to my greek myth/epic the musical hyperfixation. aaa this has been in my mind for months now & only got to finalize it this time after multiple drafts 😭 anywayss i’m gonna sleep now school’s back tomorrow, hope u enjoyed <3)

[ozzgin]

Omg i love your Yandere serial killer with a split persona so much 😭😭, can you do more headcanon about him?? Like does he aware of his other persona seeing reader kinda scared to talk to him normally thank u

Yandere! Serial Killer Scenarios

Featuring the kind, quiet man who has no idea why you look at him with terror in your eyes. This time with an official character design!

Content: female reader, mentions of murder, obsessive behavior, horror, dubious/non-consent

[Main Story] | [More original works]

You only attempted to escape once.

His frequent warnings had begun to wear off, and your mind dared to wander towards hope. One day, during his evening walk, you ran to your bedroom and pulled out a train ticket you'd hidden earlier inside a drawer. The small piece of paper weighed heavy in your hand. Come, now, you scolded yourself. It was weeks of careful planning: anticipating his schedule, erasing your tracks, preparing the essentials. You could already smell the worn leather seats, and hear the jarring whistle of departure. Then you'd be far away from this maniac, all but a terrible memory to be locked away.

There was no time for hesitation. You grabbed a small bag and sped towards the station, frequently looking over your shoulder, muttering silent prayers. Once you made it to your compartment, you exhaled in relief. A relief you hadn't felt in months, washing over your body and relaxing your tense muscles. You climbed the stairs, and searched for your seat. Has someone misread their ticket? You found your spot occupied by a stranger.

"What did I tell you about running away?" his deep voice echoed across the empty hall.

The walk back home was silent. You were convinced this was your end. You'd arrive at the house, and he'd cut you into pieces. Your lips curled in a horrified grimace, mind flooded with foreign feelings: your nails plucked apart with pliers, a burning sting after each detachment. The roots of your teeth grinding and screeching within the bone of your jaw, until all that's left is a fleshy, gaping wound. Plop, plop, as each little souvenir falls into the jar.

He slammed the door shut and stared you down. You looked at the floor, but all you could see were the grimy ID cards of all the women who never made it out of this damned house. You were next.

His large hand ruffled your hair, and you glanced up in disbelief.

"This stays between us. Mother better not hear that her soon-to-be daughter in law tried to run away. Especially now that she's warmed up to you. Are we clear?"

You nodded desperately. God, how pathetic of you. But being trapped was better than rotting underground like the rest of them. You just wanted to live.

You can always tell whether it's him, or him. It's the silence. Or lack of, for that matter. He likes the quietness, the muffled ticking of the clock, the busy rattling in the kitchen, your laughs, your chatter. You'll sit together and listen to the rain, or read your books across from each other. There's no need for words, you know you can be at peace.

He likes music. When you hear the record player, you know it's your cue to perform. You exit your room - it's better if he doesn't call you down himself - and descend to the main area. The stairs creak louder, the wallpaper begins to yellow. It's almost as if the house ages with the music, and you tumble back in time.

He's been waiting for you, naturally. How's a man meant to spend his evenings, if not with his adored wife? He'll reach out for your hand, and invite you to a slow dance. Those are the worst moments. The tight, suffocating hold, his deranged stare drilling into your very soul, the whispered promises: that you're forever his, and you'll never find happiness anywhere else. He knows it. It's the same for him, really. Everything he's ever needed lies within your embrace.

Some days, the charade doesn't last long. You simply won't be in the mood to be kissed, to be stripped naked and fondled by his murderous hands. So you'll just pout and gaze ahead. It angers him terribly.

"Wretched whore. Do I look like a beggar?"

He'll shove you aside and make his way out, taking his tools with him. He hates asking for your affection and would rather take his anger out somewhere else. You know he won't hurt you, or force himself on you, which means someone else will have to pay for your disrespect. And yet, it's the only freedom you have around him - the privilege of refusing him and living to see the next day. The rest aren't as lucky. You'd rather not think too deeply about it.

My honey, I know With the dawn that you will be gone But tonight, you belong to me Just to little old me.

What a bizarre thing, to harbor such hatred towards the one you love. You've never met anyone kinder. He's thoughtful, patient, caring. He knows everything about you and lives to serve you. He's your best friend and your lover. He's the one you want to marry one day. But he's also...well...him. And you can't have one without the other.

"No, Mother, it isn't tacky," he barks at the shattered mirror, adjusting your necklace. "And you know what? It's up to (Y/N) to decide if she wants to wear your wedding jewelry."

"It's nice", you respond curtly. You look into the empty reflection and nod. He likes it when you take his side in front of Mother.

"I knew you'd agree. We're a match made in Heaven, aren't we?" he smiles and zips up the old dress. You shiver: wearing a dead woman's gown was not part of your wedding plans. The corset is tightened, and you gasp. His hands are tense.

"I know he proposed to you. And what a stupid grin you had on your face when it happened! You never act like that around me."

He doesn't call me a bitch, for starters, you think to yourself. You shuffle on the bed, trying to loosen up the garment, but he swiftly pins you down onto the mattress.

"Not that it matters. Would you like to know why?" he inquires with a familiar glimmer of jealousy in his dilated pupils. "Because I'll always be your first. You know it, I know it. He never will.

At the end of the day, you belong to me."

To compete with oneself. Nonsense. Utter madness, all of it. The house; the drawer filled with gory trophies; the nightly talks with Mother dearest, whose bones have most likely turned to dust by now; the bloodied scalpels; the embrace of a man who fills you with warmth and terror.

You're part of it now.

[rafeovermorals]

dbf!joel lets you ride his thigh.

joel was in charge of babysitting you for the weekend.

your dad was on a business trip. normally, it wouldn’t be an issue for you to just stay home by yourself— but after being recently grounded— he didn’t trust you to be left alone.

he probably thought you would invite over a boy from school. you had been sneaking around and giggling at your phone more than usual, but whenever he’d ask you’d say “it’s just a friend, dad..”

it wasn’t just a friend. it was joel.

you pretended to groan and complain, fussing about how it’s “not fair” and you’re “not a little girl anymore!”

but your dad didn’t falter, not realizing that’s exactly what you wanted.

joel on the other hand was trying everything he could to get out of it.

he knew your tricks all too well— you were acting out on purpose so that he would have no choice but to get someone to watch you. and that someone was joel.

the truth was that you were preying on joel.

it started a few weeks ago. he wasn’t sure what it was, or why, but you had become a fucking minx. he couldn’t keep you away, and god he tried.

you would show up at his door in the middle of the night without being invited over, leaving him no choice to let you in because it was too dark walk back— at least that’s what he told himself.

you also liked to send him seductive pictures in your tiny bikinis, tits practically spilling out of the halter.

you: [2 attachments] how does this color look on me?

joel: it washes you out. cover up.

even though he would secretly save it to his camera roll and jerk his cock to them later— pumping milky white ropes onto his phone screen and smearing it in to the photo.

but joel had his boundaries, and he wouldn’t cross those with you. you were his daughters age, it was downright filthy that he was even allowing himself to think of you in that way.

he distanced himself as much as he could, until he owed your dad a favor— promising to keep an eye on you while he was away.

now he was at your house, leaving the two of you alone for the next 48 hours. he ordered in chinese food for dinner, which you ate together until you pranced off to your room soon after. surprisingly, you were being good. suspiciously so.

joel was manspread on the couch, halfway to dozing off when you walked into the living room in your pajamas. you were wearing a cropped tank top and some frilly cotton shorts, leaving nothing to the imagination. well, fuck.

“t‘s late, you should be in bed.” he grumbled, his voice low and thick with a sleepy drawl.

“why don’t you come up there with me? tuck me into bed.”you offered, standing across from him with a smirk.

he sighed, too tired to amuse your behavior, “not happenin’, darlin’.”

“why not?”

“cause i said so.”

you bit your lip, your eyes shifting down to his lap. he hadn’t bothered to change clothes yet, still wearing his jeans. his hand was lingering between his legs— like he was covering something.

“fine, i’ll just stay down here with you.”

you sat down next to him, so close that he could smell your sweet vanilla lotion and coconut shampoo. his shoulders tensed, attempting to scoot over which only made you move closer.

he couldn’t help but stare at you a beat too long. your tummy was on display, showing off your dangling belly ring. the fabric of your pjs was so thin he could see through it, your nipples hardening from the cool air conditioning.

“y’need to stop this, doll. you’re gonna get us both in trouble.”

“i don’t care.” you whined like a child, “he’s not here. i want you so bad.”

you pushed his hand aside, replacing it with your own as you began to palm him through the material. his brown eyes had turned black, holding in a groan as he allowed you to continue.

“we can’t do this, ‘s not right.” he contradicted himself.

“but it feels right to me.” you referred to his erection, which couldn’t help but agree with you.

what was he supposed to do? a pretty girl throwing himself at him, desperate for his cock and he was supposed to deny her of it?

fuck this.

“get on my thigh.”

you paused for a moment, “really?”

“only telling you once.”

you crawled into his lap, straddling yourself on his left thigh. you went to unbuckle his belt when he stopped you, “nuh uh.”

“but—“

“no. you’re gonna sit here and ride my thigh until you cum, that’s all you’re gettin’.”

he grabbed your hips, pressing you down as he swayed you back and forth. the feeling was foreign, unsure how this alone was supposed to satisfy you, but then it clicks.

the friction of your clothes starts to heat up as you grind against him— the pleasure going straight to your core. he guided you slow and deliberately, rocking you up and down while he stared at you.

“feels good, don’t it darlin’?”

you whimper in response, mouth hung open. the denim of his jeans was rough against the fabric of your shorts, but you didn’t care, if anything it made you go faster.

your arousal was seeping through your panties, the cloth sticking to you as it wedged into your cunt from the motion.

he was enjoying every minute of it too. you were falling apart on top of him, eyes screwed shut and clit throbbing as you rubbed it with each movement.

“n-need more, please.”

“don’t be greedy. learn how to work for it.”

you whined, almost in agony at this point. you grabbed his bicep for support, chasing the climax that was building in your core. you were drenched at this point, a wet patch forming on his thigh where you sat.

he chuckled, urging you to look down as he mocked you, “see that? you’re makin’ a mess, doll.”

you blush in shame, sweat forming on your brow. he brought a hand to the strap of your top, pulling it down to release your tits. he pinched at the sensitive bud before putting it into his mouth, flicking his tongue and sucking on it greedily while his beard prickled at your skin

you were moaning uncontrollably, losing your rhythm in pace as the knot in your stomach was tightening. you threw your head back, bucking your hips as you use his leg like a toy.

“i’m so close, mr. miller. i- fuck. help me.”

joel grunted at your words, giving in to your request. he lifted you off just slightly, enough to loosen his belt and unbutton his pants to quickly pull them to his knees. he brought you back down, this time with your panties shoved to the side.

your smooth, bare cunt was sliding along his muscled, hairy thigh. your mind became cloudy, unable to talk or even think as he made you touch him skin to skin.

“all that damn begging and teasing you’ve been doin’, sluttin yourself out for me. better make it worth it.”

the sensation was enough to send you over the edge, nails digging into his arm as the coil in your belly snapped. you cried out, shaking and pulsating against him when you reached the peak of your orgasm. you fell into the crook of his neck with heavy, staggered breaths.

he held you there, kissing your shoulder before mumbling in your ear,

“ride it out, baby, i’ve got you now.”

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Can you please do a George!dad where his baby is sick and stays home to look after her.

Small fever

The morning started just like any other. George woke up early, stretching with a yawn before turning to see his six-month-old daughter, Yn, still peacefully sleeping in her crib next to the bed. Carmen had left for work earlier, pressing a soft kiss on both their foreheads before heading out.

He smiled as he watched Yn, her tiny chest rising and falling steadily. But as he reached out to gently stroke her cheek, his smile quickly faded. Her skin was warmer than usual, too warm. Frowning, he pressed his hand against her forehead, confirming his suspicion. She had a fever.

"Oh, baby girl," he murmured, worry creeping into his voice.

Yn stirred, letting out a soft whimper as she opened her sleepy eyes. The usual bright sparkle was missing, replaced by glassy exhaustion. She let out a small, distressed cry, her tiny hands reaching out for comfort. George immediately scooped her up, pressing her close to his chest.

"Shh, Daddy's got you," he soothed, rubbing slow circles on her back. "It's okay, love. We'll make you feel better."

He carried her downstairs, trying to rock her gently as he walked, but nothing seemed to calm her down completely. Her cries were soft yet insistent, as if she was uncomfortable but didn’t know how to tell him why. George pressed a kiss to her damp forehead, his heart aching at the sight of his little girl not feeling well.

He knew she needed something to bring her temperature down, so he quickly set up a warm milk bath in the bathroom. Holding her securely in one arm, he tested the water with his other hand, making sure it was just the right temperature before lowering her gently into the tub.

Yn squirmed at first, fussing slightly, but as soon as the warm water enveloped her, her cries quieted. George let out a small sigh of relief, keeping one hand securely on her tiny body while using the other to wash her carefully.

"That’s better, isn’t it, sweetheart?" he murmured, watching as her little hands relaxed in the water.

He made sure to be extra gentle, speaking softly to her the entire time.

"You scared Daddy for a moment there," he admitted, running a washcloth gently over her chubby arms. "But we'll get you all better. Promise."

Once she was clean and calm, George lifted her out of the bath, wrapping her in a fluffy towel and pressing a kiss to her damp curls. He carried her back to the nursery, dressing her in a soft onesie and wrapping her up in a cozy blanket. He placed her in her high crib and wheeled it into his home office, determined to keep her close while he worked.

Yn dozed off for a little while, the bath clearly having helped, but when she woke up again, her fussiness returned. George tried feeding her, but after just a few bites, she refused to eat, turning her head and letting out a whimper.

"Not hungry, love?" he asked, brushing his fingers gently over her cheek.

She only let out a small whine and reached up toward him with grabby hands. He didn’t hesitate for a second, lifting her into his arms. The moment she was pressed against his chest, she nuzzled into him, letting out a tiny sigh.

"Oh, I see how it is. You just want cuddles," he chuckled softly, rubbing slow circles on her back. "That’s okay, sweetheart. Daddy can cuddle you all day."

He sat down on the couch, holding her close as he FaceTimed Carmen.

The call connected quickly, and Carmen’s face appeared on the screen, her eyes immediately filling with concern.

"Hey, love. How’s our little angel?" she asked, noting the way Yn was snuggled against George.

"She’s got a fever," George sighed, shifting Yn slightly to press another kiss to her forehead. "She’s been fussy all morning. I gave her a warm bath, and she’s been napping on and off, but she just wants to be held."

Carmen’s expression softened. "Oh, my poor baby girl. Are you taking care of yourself too?"

George smiled tiredly. "I’m fine, love. Just focused on getting her comfortable."

Yn let out a soft sound, stirring slightly at the sound of her mother's voice. Her tiny fingers curled into George’s shirt, her breathing still uneven from the fever.

"Hey, my love," Carmen cooed through the phone. "Mommy’s coming home soon, okay? You be strong for Daddy, yeah?"

Yn made a tiny noise, eyes fluttering shut again. George chuckled. "I think she just likes hearing your voice."

Carmen smiled. "She’s such a Daddy’s girl, though. You’re doing an amazing job, George."

"I’d do anything for her," he murmured, holding Yn even closer. "Nothing matters more."

They stayed on the call for a while longer, Carmen offering words of reassurance while George continued to soothe their daughter. No matter what, he would always be there to take care of his baby girl.

And as Yn slept soundly in his arms, her fever slowly going down, George knew that was all that mattered.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-🩷🎀

[22ayla21]

Time That Cannot Be Returned

On rare occasions, Eric always wondered if he had been there for his son when he needed support. But now that his granddaughter was born, he was glad that he might have a second chance.

Eric sat in a comfortable chair, holding a tiny bundle in his arms. His granddaughter was peacefully snoring, occasionally making funny faces in her sleep. He chuckled softly, gently stroking her tiny palm with his large, callused finger.

- You have no idea how lucky you are, baby, - he murmured, looking at her with a tenderness he had rarely allowed himself to look at anyone before.

On the other side of the room, his son was cooking something in the kitchen, and his daughter-in-law was putting things in the closet. It was an ordinary day, filled with the warmth of home, but for Eric it meant much more.

He remembered how he raised his son himself, how he tried to give him the best. He provided him with a good education, security, privileges that he himself could only dream of as a child. But there were also moments that gnawed at his heart. How many times had he left for filming, promising that he would return soon? How many times had he said, "Dad's working, but we'll catch up later," only to come back too tired to keep his promise?

Of course, the son grew up to be a decent man, a good husband and father. But sometimes Eric caught his thoughtful look, in which a slight sadness could be read. Perhaps these were the moments when the boy needed a father, and not just his name on posters.

But now everything is different.

Now he has the opportunity not to repeat past mistakes. Now he will be there.

The baby stirred, and Eric hugged her a little tighter, as if protecting her from the whole world.

- You just grow up healthy and happy, and grandpa will take care of everything, - he promised.

His son looked out of the kitchen, throwing a warm, but slightly sly look at his father.

- It seems like you’ll spoil her completely, - he noted.

- Of course, - Eric grinned. - This time I won’t miss a single moment.

The son said nothing, just smiled, and Eric again looked down at his granddaughter, secretly glad that now he had a second chance to be there.

[jellesreid]

Father’s Day

In which Spencer and his daughter have a daddy daughter date at the thrift shop before going home to reader!mom for Father’s Day fun. (Fluff!)

masterlist

tags: Father’s day, dad!spencer, mom!reader, thrift shop, thrifting, clothes shopping, cafe date, daddy/daughter day, cuddling, gift recieving, tea party.

warnings: None! super fluffy for Father’s day

Note: Sorry that I’m not writing as frequently I promise I’ll be writing more soon, thank you for the love on all my fan fics it’s very much appreciated!

—————————💘————————-

The first unusual thing about today was that you had a lay-in, something you hadn’t had since giving birth to your and Spencer’s daughter just shy of four years ago. The second unusual thing was that the side of your bed that was occupied by your husband was empty and cold. That was something that happened occasionally due to his job; however, in his place was always your curly-haired princess, but not this time. 

You rubbed your eyes a little confused and saw the notification on the phone saying Spencer had left home around an hour ago. 

You sat up and turned to the side spotting a handwritten note next to a, now, cold cup of coffee. 

Good morning Sweetheart, 

I made you coffee in case you’re up soon. Don’t worry when you see Delilah and I aren’t home, I’ve taken her out to get a blueberry croissant and to the thrift shop. She can model her clothes when we are home. 

I love you, sleep well.

Spencer Reid. 

You giggled at him signing off this letter with his full name but your heart warmed at the relationship he had with your child. That’s when you remember what day it was, Father’s day. 

———————————————————

Across town, Spencer was driving to the thrift store with his favourite person in the world besides you in the back of the car munching on a blueberry croissant allowing all the flaky pieces of pastry to fall to the floor. 

“Are you enjoying that honey?” Spencer asked, looking into the rearview mirror. 

“Mhm,” Delilah managed back as her mouth was stuffed full. 

Spencer pulled into the car park not too far from the door and waited for Delilah to finish eating.

“Do you think Mommy is awake?” She asked still chewing her food.

“Maybe, are you done?” 

“Yep,” She put the pastry bag on the seat next to her, “What do we look for here Daddy?” She asked while Spencer unclipped the seat belt for her car seat. 

“We can look for anything in here, hopefully, there will be some pretty clothes for you.”

Delilah took hold of Spencer’s hand as they walked across the car park and inside the door of the thrift store. 

“Oh, it’s very big, wow!” She said taking in her surroundings. 

“It is,” he smiled down at her as they walked to the children’s section in the thrift. 

“Should we call mommy?” 

“I think we should surprise her with the pretty outfits we find for you, honey.”

“But she might feel left out,” Delilah pouted. 

“She’ll be fine darling, you can show her everything when we get home,” Spencer said as he picked up a pair of baggy jeans with a flower on the back pocket that had been designed with pink gems, “Do you like these?” 

“Uh huh, pretty flower and PINK!” 

“Do you want to help me look?” Spencer ruffled his daughter's curly hair.

She scrunched her nose and nodded before going to the next clothing rail grabbing the hem of each item to look through the clothes as she was too small to reach the coat hangers. 

“DADA! They have Hello Kitty!!” A small yell echoed across the aisles not long after she’d gone to explore. 

Spencer made his way to Delilah carrying a few pieces of clothing he had found for her, “Show me, honey.”

Delilah pointed to the t-shirt, letting her dad take it from the rail. The top was long sleeved with a small hello kitty on the front.

“Would you like that one sweetheart?” 

Delilah nodded her head quickly, “Yes please.”

After a little more shopping Spencer and Delilah had compiled enough clothes to call the thrift shop successful and head home. 

———————————————————

Upon opening the door Spencer heard the sound of the TV coming from their bedroom and as soon as the sound hit Delilah’s ears too her face lit up with a big smile squirming for Spencer to put her down. 

She took off toward the bedroom while Spencer carried the bags of clothes into the house and up to the bedroom where he caught sight of you and your daughter cuddling on the bed. 

“Well aren’t you both gorgeous,” He smiled widely, his heart exploding.

“Yes I am,” Delilah answered proudly which earned a laugh from you and Spencer. 

“What have you both been up to then?” You asked. 

“We got clothes!” Delilah answered. 

“Did you? Were there lots of nice things?” 

The curly-haired girl nodded and looked at Spencer.

“Oh yes there were lots of pinks and flowers and Hello Kitty pieces,” Spencer added after Delilah’s prompt.

“Would you like to show me, Lilah?” You asked brushing down her curls that had gone fluffy since she dived onto the bed moments ago.

“Uh-huh! Like, try on?” 

“If you’d like to sweetie, I’m sure Daddy wouldn’t mind helping you.”

You sat up in bed and waited for Spencer and Delilah to come back through to model her outfits. 

The brunette girl walked into the bedroom with her hands on her hips in a summer dress covered in pink hibiscus flowers. 

“Oh beautiful honey,” You smiled. 

“Love?” Delilah asked, posing for you. 

“Yes, I love it.”

“Okay, next!” Delilah scurried out of the bedroom and back to her room to change into the next outfit. 

The next time she came back she was wearing the jeans Spencer first picked up along with the Hello Kitty shirt she had found herself.

“Oh honey, you look adorable,” You spoke with adoration. 

“Isn’t she just?” Spencer said walking in after her. 

“I’m adorable because you made me Mommy,” Delilah scrunched her nose with a giggle. 

You laugh and Spencer nods, “I agree with her actually.”

After a few more outfits had been tried on Delilah flopped onto the bed as if she were exhausted. 

“Sweetheart, don’t you have something for Daddy?” 

Delilah gasped and whispered, “Is today Daddy’s day?!”

You nodded and watched as she slid off the bed and rushed out of the room. Spencer sat beside you on the bed, wrapping an arm around you. 

“Happy Father’s Day babe,” You said, snuggling closer to him and leaning up to kiss his cheek.

“Thank you for making me a father,” Spencer said hugging you tighter.

Delilah rushed back through with the card she had made Spencer at school, “Daddy, daddy, daddy!” She jumped onto the bed, passing the card over to him. 

The card was decorated with blue glitter and lots of hearts and her best drawing of herself, Spencer and you. Inside the card, she had tried to write in her best handwriting, ‘To Daddy,

Happy Father’s Day. Lots of love Lilah’ but a few of the words had been misspelt. 

“Thank you sweetheart, I love you lots too,” He said pulling her closer with his spare arm and kissing her head. 

“I was thinking,” Delilah looked up at Spencer, “For your Daddy’s Day present we could have a tea party?” Her mannerisms gave the impression that she was shy to ask with the way she tried to bury her face into him and only look up at him when she was trying to use her puppy dog eyes but they were simply exaggerated. She knew she would always get what she wanted with Spencer, he could never say no to her.

So, his Father’s Day was clearly going to be spent having a tea party with the best thing that ever happened to him besides you. 

[adore-laur]

hiii lovely i don’t know if you take requests but if you do please can we have an angsty piece for dadrry, like i know we had the christmas fight but like maybe h says something super mean to yn during an argument or he’s been super busy with work and he ends up being neglectful and stuff, and like i wanna see the groveling!!! it’s just a request if you don’t do angst i get it, but i would really love to see it !! no pressure tho xx

NEED YOU NOW

——

The time was 7:55 p.m., nearly three hours past when Harry had promised to be home. The plate of food you had made him sat cold on the countertop. It’d been his to make, but when you heard that he was staying late at the restaurant, you threw a quick meal together that was subpar even by your standards.

Truthfully, you were livid. Harry's paid paternity leave expired a week ago, and he was already breaking promises. I will always be home for dinner, he had vowed when you began to dread the day he put his white chef coat back on and left you to parent alone. Remarkably, he had upheld it thus far. You just didn't think he would let it collapse so soon.

You stewed over it in bed while trying—and failing—to put your four-month-old daughter down to sleep. It was the first time you had to do it by yourself, and to say it was shaping up to be a colossal catastrophe was an understatement. You didn't possess Harry's deep, soothing voice that was practically a lullaby of its own, nor did you possess his natural, rhythmic hip sway while rocking her to sleep. So, yes, there was a tiny kernel of resentment building pressure inside of you because of your shortcomings as a parent, and it could explode any second now. Because missing dinner was one thing, but missing the baby's bedtime? Outrageous.

Restless cries rattled around the room as her body squirmed in the bedside bassinet. The probability of you joining in on her meltdown was soaring higher as the sky darkened. Nothing you were doing was successful in calming her conniption—not nursing, ocean air, white noise, or even her trusty pacifier could settle those high-pitched wails that simultaneously broke your heart and frazzled your nervous system beyond its regular state. You were determined to remedy the situation as a perfectly capable mother, but in your heart of hearts, you knew that sometimes you weren't the needed parent. Tonight, Harry was the desired nurturer. And he wasn't here.

With clammy palms, you surrendered your pride and unlocked your phone to call Harry. The last text he had sent was at 4:37. It read: I won't be home until late tonight. Don't know what time. I'm sorry. Out of frustration, you had left him with no response.

The ringing tone droned, and you held no hope that he'd answer. Realistically, there was no open opportunity to take a phone call in a fast-paced restaurant kitchen. The cogs needed to be moving at all times—otherwise, the wheel would splinter. You had accepted it years ago.

When you first started dating Harry, it had been strenuous finding time for each other. On a lucky day, you'd talk to him during his lunch break. Weekends bestowed the moments that made the relationship flourish. It should have gotten more manageable after many years, but as a new mother, it wasn't something you could handle like a champ anymore.

Therein lay the problem: You had become too comfortable with having Harry home for twelve weeks. Calibrating to the changes that parenthood presented was much easier with a dedicated husband ready to face them with you. It had been a luxury to be a team from sunrise to sunset and every nocturnal hour that you both spent devoid of energy. Your steadfast lover, now far away from you.

"Hello?"

You jolted, surprised to hear Harry's voice. It caused relief and rage to clash within you—not a pleasurable combination. "How much longer are you working?"

His sigh was smothered by scattered voices speaking in the background and kitchenware clanging noisily. "I don't know. We're finishing the dinner rush, and there's still loads of cleaning to do. Trust me, I've been trying to make an exit for the past two hours, but the orders keep coming."

"I need you here, Harry," you said shakily. "I can't do this by myself."

"Do what by yourself? What's going on?"

Rage won the internal battle and staked its claim over your sensibility. "Seriously? I have a baby that won't stop crying, a husband that has been missing in action for the past three hours, and I'm on the verge of a mental breakdown."

"You never texted me back," Harry said, sounding like his focus was split half on the conversation and half on whatever task he was doing. "Have you tried walking her around outside? Maybe some fresh air will help."

You stood and started pacing around the room. "I tried that. I need your help. She wants nothing to do with me."

"Honey, I... I can't right now. I have to be here."

"Please," you begged, panic crawling up your throat. Could he even hear the baby crying on your end? How could he possibly understand your crisis through a muddled phone call? "I'm telling you I need you now."

"And I'm telling you I have a kitchen to run," he replied firmly. His tone softened when he added, "If I could leave right now, I would. It's just not viable when it's been this busy."

You stayed silent, chewing on his weak explanation. All your pent-up exasperation was simmering and had nowhere to go, so you infused your next words with it. "You're being neglectful."

"What?" Harry said. You could picture him with that cute little divot between his eyebrows, except the reasoning behind it wasn't so cute this time. "Wait, hold on, hold on. Say that again? Shit, I can't focus." A loud clattering of metal punctuated his rambling.

There was no fight left in you. Numbly, you walked over to the bay window and watched the ocean tide swell under the moon. "Never mind. Go finish what's clearly more important."

"Listen, it's hard to hear you in here. Can I call you back in... um, I don't know, fifteen minutes?" He didn't seem angry and didn't sense the urgency you were conveying. He just seemed distracted, and it felt like a bruising kick while you were already down.

"Bye, Harry." You hung up, not regretting your stubbornness. His communication during the day had been meager. He should have known to keep you in the loop after three hours of waiting for him to come home. You had hung on by a thread and wondered if this would become the norm. You thought he was done with his old tendencies of being a yes-man.

What mattered to you the most was that Harry knew when to put family first, and tonight, you and your daughter were put on the back burner.

With two tears slipping down your cheeks, you succumbed to the feeling of utter helplessness.

——

Harry unlocked the front door, trying to recall the last time he had come home at nine-thirty at night. Surely months ago, when you were heavily pregnant and couldn't sleep. He used to take you for slow drives around the neighborhood and play with your hair in hopes of lulling you into a deep slumber. Worked like a charm every time.

God, he knew you were pissed at him. He was in the doghouse for good reason. Usually, you'd greet him at the door, happy to see him. Now, the quiet bounced off the walls uncannily.

He had barely been able to concentrate on anything while in the thick of dinner service. Too many stressors flew around the kitchen like bullets. It had been the absolute worst moment to respond to your panicked phone call. Why had he said yes to staying late? The agreement was to work from seven to five, Tuesday through Friday. He failed you today, and it killed him.

Ever since the baby was born, Harry had turned into a homebody. He loved seeing every room hold signs of his little girl. Milk bottles in the refrigerator; tiny onesies in the washer; storybooks on the nursery's rocking chair; the tummy time mat on the living room carpet; the foldable bathtub in the kitchen sink (he planned to research if adults could use baby shampoo since the smell was irresistible). He had gotten so attached to the routine that it came as no surprise: his first week back at work had been hell. He had messed up several times, struggling to get back in the groove. His hands moved slower, his mind on overload as he played catch-up with the twelve weeks he missed. Everything there felt foreign, and it sparked a realization that nothing came as close to feeling natural as being a dad did.

Harry shook his head to clear the tornado whirling around his brain and turned on the kitchen light. He immediately spotted his plate of dinner waiting for him, a depressing reminder of his broken vow.

An awful feeling sank like a stone in his stomach. This was all wrong. It was supposed to go like this: Harry, ravenous and in dire need of affection, would arrive home at five, the sun still shining. He would kiss you in the foyer as you passed over his daughter. She would coo happily, the weight of her in his arms a precious comfort. He'd then carry her and entertain her with silly voices and other theatrical dad antics before getting started on cooking dinner. Then the night would slowly progress, and as everyone's eyes grew heavy with sleep, he'd wait until you were done nursing before burping a full-bellied baby and setting her in the bassinet.

And who was to blame for blowing that beautiful sequence to smithereens? This guy.

When Harry reached the hallway, he shivered. Was the window open? There was a chilly draft floating around, and when he peeked his head past the bedroom doorway, his assumptions were proven correct. There you were on the cushioned windowsill seat, the glittering moonlight illuminating your sleeping frame as you held his baby girl against your chest. She was asleep as well, with her limbs tucked all cozily in your motherly embrace. Harry just stood and watched for a minute, the day's stress cascading off his shoulders. Home. This was what remained the most paramount part of his life. He needed to apologize before you formed a grudge.

He didn't want to wake you or the baby, especially considering the overwhelming night you had helmed, so he hopped in the shower to contemplate the best way to handle... whatever had occurred over the phone. Harry knew that the postpartum phase was treating you roughly—your anxiety was a tight rubber band ready to snap at any moment. He hadn't fully grasped the reality of you doing the bedtime routine alone. How hard it probably had been with a baby experiencing major sleep regression. He'd thought your using the word neglectful was harsh, but it was fair.

With a cleansed body and mind, Harry exited the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. The breeze blowing in from the open window was too brisk for his liking, so he walked over and reached past you to close it. It squeaked, and he winced when you stirred awake. He stalled his movements as you came into consciousness, slowly and with weariness.

How motherhood looked on you was a thing of beauty. Even in the most ordinary moments, you were radiant, emanating warmth and solace. You were this family's guiding light.

Eventually, you swung your legs over the edge of the windowsill seat and stared at him blankly. Guilt struck Harry speechless, and all he could do was sink to his knees and press his face into your shin, like Stephan Sinding's Adoration. "Please forgive me, baby," he murmured, kissing your almond-scented skin. "I'm so sorry. There's no excuse."

When you remained silent, Harry lifted his face and looked at you. The sight of your expression crumpling and tears welling in your eyes shattered his heart. He got up to sit beside you, pulling you and your daughter into a remorseful hug. "I've made you cry. I'm awful, aren't I?"

You sniffled. "No, you're not. I just don't understand."

"Can I try to explain?" he asked.

You nodded and let your head fall limply on his shoulder. Harry was grateful you weren't shunning him. After pressing a soft kiss to your temple, he said, "You needed me tonight, and I fell short as your husband and as her father." He stroked his baby girl's back, his palm nearly covering the entirety of it. "It was an unexpectedly chaotic day at work, and I... I don't know, it's like I forgot how to hold the reins. All my skill retention just vanished. It was bizarre, and I'm sure it has to do with being sleep-deprived, but it shouldn't have pushed me to stay late. I should've put our family first, and I'm sorry you felt neglected. That wounds me to hear that." He grabbed your hand and held it against his heart, leaning down to kiss your knuckles tenderly. "So, from now on, I will be home for dinner. I will be here for bedtime. I will be here when you need me, for whatever reason. Because when you hurt, I hurt. And I don't ever want to make you feel like that again. Don't want you to doubt starting a family with me."

You were crying against his neck, and Harry couldn't tell if it was a good or bad sign. Every word he had said was honest. Poured straight from his soul. It was a vow to be better and to learn from his mistakes. The adjustment from a blissful four months experiencing fatherhood at home to transitioning right into a forty-hour workweek had been messy, and it still would be in the weeks to come, so he hoped you understood that he was trying. It would all balance out soon enough. It just took time.

"Talk to me, sweetheart," Harry whispered to you. His daughter was making whiny noises now, so he carefully took her from your arms and cuddled her close. It felt like his vital purpose.

Meanwhile, you inhaled a few deep breaths to collect yourself. Your hand gripped the towel around his waist, and you gasped before saying, "This whole time, I thought you were naked."

He laughed, thankful for the brief levity. "I think you're still dreaming, sleepyhead." A small smile lifted your lips, and he had no choice but to kiss them. He'd been gone for far too long today.

"I forgive you," you said quietly. "I trust that you won't let this become a habit. I think there were heightened emotions from both of us, for valid reasons, and I found it hard to communicate exactly what I needed."

"You needed me," Harry replied, feeling guilt creep its way back into his mind.

"I know, but I can't always expect you to drop everything when you're needed elsewhere. That's not fair."

He nodded. "Still, you're my partner. It's my responsibility to make you feel adored, and since I blundered that today, how about if I take all the night shift duties this weekend?"

Your eyes fluttered shut, relief softening your facial features. "That would make me feel very adored."

"Yeah?" He kissed your forehead. "And since tomorrow's Saturday, I think I'll treat you to breakfast in bed."

You hummed, pleased as punch. "Tell me more."

"We'll sit on the porch swing and drink coffee," he continued, the domestic visualization sending a rush of heat through him. "Watch the sunrise and listen to the mourning doves."

"No, I meant tell me more about treating me to things in bed."

"Oh, my sincerest apologies," Harry said with an amused laugh. "Are we talking about innocent bed activities, or...?"

You were in a reverie, no doubt thinking of not-so-innocent activities. "Remember our wedding night when we tried using that—" A sudden and sharp wail sliced through your sentence, and in Harry's mind, he caught a brief flash of the memory: you, perched seductively on the living room sofa in the newly purchased beach house, more breathtaking than the ocean view in the distance. Harry, unable to believe he had found you and got to treasure your love for life. And yeah... he couldn't possibly forget that ridiculous toy he'd been gifted with at his bachelor party. Moving on.

"Let's all get some sleep so we can act alive tomorrow," Harry said. When he stood to start rocking the baby, the loosened towel dropped to the floor, leaving him stark naked in the moonlight. You giggled, and the sound was like a shot of bliss straight into his veins. He laughed too, drowsiness finally hitting him. It would be a long night ahead, and although he would likely rack up a measly four hours of sleep, knowing he’ll wake up beside you and have only dad-related obligations for the next three days made it sound peachy.

For the first time that day, a sense of calmness washed over him. Home, sweet home.

——

[xoxomilesteller]

it’s not such a bad thing

stepdad!beau arlen x reader | MDNI

cw: stepdad x stepdaughter, mentions of a toxic mom, big ole age gap, cheating, slight manipulation, sub!beau? (KINDA? maybe at least at first?), oral (m receiving), pet names (hon), fingering, mutual masturbation, unprotected p in v (no balloon no goon), cursing, praising

def has grammar mistakes!

wc: 4.1k

your mom got a new boyfriend when you were fifteen. you didn’t really care, as long as he didn’t become too much of an authority figure in your life. he has a daughter, not too much younger than you, about 5 years apart. again it didn’t really bother you because as soon as you graduated high school, you were leaving montana.

beau is actually really sweet. you didn’t interact with him much back when he first moved in but the few times you did, he was such a sweet man.

so why was he with your mom?

unfortunately for you, your mom has always been a better girlfriend/wife than a mother. she didn’t necessarily abuse or mistreat you, but there are little jabs and clear evidence on where her priorities lie. men.

your father left her when you were a toddler, left you physically, but was always a call away.

but of course you didn’t know that since your mom told you he left both of you.

didn’t find out until she accidentally told on herself when she got too drunk.

he left because he couldn’t handle her toxicity, in your eyes, she was a decent mother when she didn’t act up.

in his eyes, she was jealous of you. jealous that he paid more attention to you than her.

you didn’t actually notice this until beau moved in with his daughter, emily. your mother glared at her whenever beau would say at the dinner table that he’d sleep in emily’s room since she was scared.

beau never noticed though. your mother is subtle about it. she knows that if she were to ever make emily feel uncomfortable, she’d lose beau.

you weren’t blind though, obviously beau is cute, but that’s really it. he has short hair, freckles scattered over his nose and cheeks, green eyes, and a short stubble. he was retired and was simply looking for a woman. he called you hun and had a subtle southern accent but would become thick whenever he’s tired or stressed.

sure you developed a small little crush on him. it was hard not to. he is the man that stepped up: taught you how to drive, fixed your car when it wouldn’t start, taught you how to pump your tire, showed you how to shoot a gun, made you a burger on your birthday because he knew you didn’t like sweets so much.

but things didn’t go as planned.

your dream college out in california rejected you. but your best friend cheered you up. you both moved into a small apartment together after graduation, since you were both eighteen, and attended the local community college and then would transfer to a four year.

however, the transfer would mean that you’d have to move back in with your mom since you can’t pay for your university fees and rent. but you really value your education, so that’s exactly what you did when your final semester was over.

within the two years that have passed, you distanced yourself from your mom, which included emily and beau. your mom was slightly upset that her twenty year old daughter is moving back in, but you promised her you’d be out before she knew it.

your mom cooked up some pasta and chicken, you, her, and emily. no beau. not yet. he’s coming home late from the station.

he comes in with a gentle opening of the door, no rush, as you guys are halfway through your meal. your mom stands up to go make him his plate.

”sorry, traffic was insane,” he chuckles as he takes off his boots. he walks over to kiss your mom.

and your jaw drops.

he looks unbelievably different. older. he’s grown out his beard and hair, that’s it.

but it makes all the difference in the world.

emily giggles, “i know i’m still not used to his new caveman look too”

”uh huh,” is all you say as you stare at him, feelings from when you were younger resurfacing.

”you two talkin’ crap ‘bout me?” he laughs and walks over to the table, “hey em,” he places a kiss on the top of her head, “hi hon”

you blink at him, “hi”

his freckles have faded away a bit, there are more wrinkles present on his face, specifically by the corners of his eyes.

he rubs his beard with his hand, “c’mon,” he smiles at you, “it can’t be too bad”

you shake your head, “just new”

new and hot.

your mom sits down, setting beau’s plate out in front of him and you suddenly forget how to eat. in fear of choking on your food, you pick at the pasta and chicken, moving the pieces of pasta and chicken around on your plate with the fork. you zone out on beau’s deep voice, him talking about how there’s a new case and he can’t really give too much details but it’s looking very dangerous.

his voice is deeper, the years of smoking cigarettes catching up to him. you are the only one who knows about that habit. you caught him outside one time when you were sneaking out.

you guys made a deal, you told him where you were going, who, what, why and shared your location with him, you wouldn’t bring it up, just forget like it ever happened.

you weren’t going to regardless, but you got caught sneaking out, he’d tell your mom.

so you agreed on that deal.

and the way he speaks now too, you don’t know if it’s new or if it’s you noticing something you never noticed before, but he’s so confident when he speaks. he uses his hands, takes pauses so everyone can follow with him, speaks softly but with an authoritative tone, acknowledges people.

acknowledges you.

”hon,” he breaks you out of your thoughts, “you done eatin’?”

“um,” you look up at him, who has his head tilted and eyes flickering over your face, “yes i am done”

you’ve never been a good sleeper.

neither has beau.

you lay in your bed, texting your best friend and watching netflix. you sit up, adjusting the straps of your silk nightgown to head out into the kitchen for a glass of water.

or maybe just a shot of tequila to help you sleep.

but as you open your door, you see colored light coming from a room, specifically beau’s office.

you and beau had always ran into each other in the night. or well, you ran into beau. after emily fell asleep, he’d go into his office to work on his case, like a true workaholic.

you’d listen to him talk to himself, sitting beside the open door so he couldn’t see you as he tried to figure out time frames or why someone would do something, since his voice brought you peace.

of course, beau knew this. he heard you every time. he didn’t know why or even tried to figure out why, but you didn’t disturb him, you didn’t disturb anyone. so if you just wanted to sit out by his door, he wouldn’t care.

he just wanted to make sure that you felt safe and if you needed anything, you’d come to him.

but tonight you did not have a reason to go to bed. so you creep up, peeking at him.

he has files in one hand and the other hand is near his mouth, thumb playing with the hairs of his beard just below his lower lip.

”how much trouble would someone be in if they had a shot of tequila and were underage?”

he looks up at you, giving you a are you joking look and returns his focus to the files in front of him

”if you wanna sleep i’d suggest some melatonin, not underage drinkin’”

you look around in his office, ”may i come in?”

”are you gonna keep askin’ questions ‘bout crimes you wanna commit?”

”i can give you a nice shoulder massage,” you grin

he brings his gaze back onto you, “you jus’ wanna read my files,” he chuckles, the warmth and trust reflecting in the soft sound.

he has no idea about your crush on him.

you dramatically gasp and widen your eyes, “God no,” you cross your arms, “that’s an invasion of privacy. can’t believe you think i’d ever do that”

he sighs, “c’mere,” he says playfully defeated

you tip toe in, looking around at the paintings and the new plus rearranged furniture that got here since you moved out. you tread carefully in front of his desk.

”do not read my files hon,” he looks at you through his eyebrows, wrinkles forming on his forehead

”have some more trust in me beau”

he cocks a brow, “i can’t,” he smiles, “i know how nosy you and your mother are”

you don’t like being put on the same boat as your mom, but how would beau know? your mom puts on an amazing front.

so you ignore it and walk behind his chair, placing your small palms on his broad shoulders.

”speaking of, why are you not sleeping in her bed at this moment? i mean like, you haven’t even changed out of your work clothes”

he leans back into your touch, “findin’ someone’s missin’ daughter is more important than sleep”

”well if i had a missing daughter i’d want the sheriff in charge of her case to be fully aware of what’s going on,” you mumble

“‘m’aware,” he grumbles

he’s everything but aware. he’s unaware of your crush on him. he’s unaware of your mother’s jealousy on both you and emily, his own daughter.

but your mother hasn’t said or done anything to emily, so you keep quiet.

you start moving your fingers in soft circular motions, ”well did you notice that on your sticky note you wrote 5:69 PM?”

he furrows his brows and leans in, you follow, keeping your hands on his shoulders, to the yellow sticky note he placed on the corner of his computer

“well i’ll be damned,” he pokes his cheek with his tongue and runs a hand through his long locks, “guess you are right”

taken by the way his hair behaves and falls into the right places, you also run your hand through his hair.

beau is a bit shocked, but he lets it happen. since he grew it out, he’s known a lot of people that have grown very fond of his hair and want to touch it all the time.

he likes the fact that he’s built a safe enough space around you that you’re comfortable around him.

but what fully catches him by surprise is when you move your thumbs to the nape of his neck, applying pressure in short up and down motions that follow your four other fingers that scratch the bottom of his head, where his long hair ends.

he stifles a groan by biting down on his inner lip. you don’t know this, but head scratches are his weakness. he involuntarily lets his head rest forward, fluttering his eyes shut.

”why do you like my mother beau?”

his eyes shoot open at the question, but he keeps his head dangling forward, “she’sagreatwomanhon,” he mumbles, “treatsmeright, emright.”

you huff at his response

he lifts his head up at the sound, “there some’ i should know ‘bout?”

”no, nothing.”

beau turns on his office chair to face you, taking his big and calloused hands and wrapping them around your wrists, but keeping them near his shoulders.

”uh uh,” he shakes his head, “don’ gimme that, talk,” he raises his brows

“it’s not that important, if you think she’s a good woman then okay,” you shrug and make an attempt to remove your wrists but his grip doesn’t allow it.

”tell me” he demands

you don’t know if it’s the way he’s manspreading or how he’s holding onto your wrists, but you settle down on his left thigh.

he loosens his grip on your wrists, green eyes widening, “hon- what-“

your fingers scratch his head joined with the small gentle massages at the back of his neck that make him melt, head tipping forward.

”she treats you and em right, right?” you whisper softly

”hon,”

”right?”

he grips onto the edge of his desk, knuckles turning white, “correct,” he exhales

you hum, “she ever tell you why my dad left?”

he shakes his head, slowly picking it back up to look at the open door of his office, “never had to, heard a man left his family, stopped her right there, didn’t need to hear more”

you move your hand, so one of them is cupping his bearded jaw, making him look at you instead through his hooded eyes, “probably for the best, she woulda told you a lie”

”what d’you mean?”

his lips stay parted

you lean in, closing your lips around his.

his keeps his parted, eyes widening again, “hon we shouldn’t,” he whispers

”why not?”

”’cause i’m with your mother, i’m your stepfather”

”she lied, lies, to you beau,” he turns his head, getting a better look at you, “she’s jealous of your own daughter, she’s jealous of me because my dad gave me more attention than her”

“why didn’t you tell me this before?”

”’cause she never hurt emily. if she did, i would’ve told you the second it happened.”

he nods, “that doesn’t make this, what you’re tryna do okay”

”then take me off of your lap,” you glide both hands down to his shoulders, resting them there

”how has she hurt you? tell me,” he pleads, placing his hands on your waist

you hesitantly kiss his lips again, which he gives into slightly, “do you want me to get off of your lap?” you ask for clarity

he looks into your eyes, confused, “stay”

your hands tangle up in his hair at the back of his neck, pulling him into a soft and gentle kiss.

beau hasn’t fully given in. he knows this is wrong. so wrong. his lips stay still, just letting you kiss him.

which you notice.

so you remove your mouth from his, bracing yourself on his shoulders to get up.

he quickly tightens his hold on your waist, ”woah why’re y’leavin’?”

you tilt your head, confused, “well you’re not kissing me back, so you don’t wanna do this which is fine”

his hands go down to your thighs, spreading them to adjust you so you’re fully sitting on his lap. then he places one hand, cupping your cheek, “do whatever you want, but you’re tellin’ me how she hurt you”

”whatever i want?”

”whatever you want,” he reassures

you places your mouth over his, his lips still staying still but after a few seconds, they move in sync with yours. his hands move up and down your back gently.

your hips start rocking back and forth, slowly to test the waters, over the growing bulge in his khaki pants, earning a soft groan from his mouth that makes the ache between your legs grow. your hands are on either side of his jaw, feeling it move with each kiss he feeds you and tracing circles with your thumbs on his beard.

you pull away gently, dragging one of his lips between yours, “she told me my dad left us,” your hands go to the buttons of his shirt, while your mouth kisses and nibbles the skin of his neck but careful to not leave marks, “made me think he stopped loving us”

beau moves his hands to the lace trim of your nightgown, still hesitating.

his mind is racing. he’s your stepdad. he knows this is wrong. but with the way you’re kissing his neck, soft, delicate, hands exploring his shoulders and what you’re telling him?

he couldn’t care if it’s true or not, his mind is clouded by how wrong this is, but he cannot help it. he wants you. he never did before, never looked at you in this way.

he’s worried about himself, worried why he wants this to happen.

he’s so caught up in his mind that he doesn’t realize you unzipped his pants. he doesn’t realize until you run your thumb over the rid tip, tracing a circle that snaps him out of his thoughts.

he shakily exhales. you get off of his lap, lowering yourself on your knees, in between his legs, “you’re stuck in your head”

”can you blame me hon?”

you keep tracing circles over his sensitive tip, collecting the pre cum, “she makes jokes that aren’t funny as a way to make me feel bad,” you lick his tip and one of his hands find your hair, stifling a moan, “doesn’t work”

you lean back, admiring his cock, the girthiness of him, the vein running straight down and another few weaving around the organ.

you’re afraid you’re going to get lockjaw.

but beau’s definitely worth the risk.

you look up at him, noticing how his head is tipped back and he has one hand over his forehead, thumb and index pressed over his eyes. he’s stressed.

and his beard is so well kept.

you keep your eyes on the under side of his jaw as you inch closer, taking in the head of his dick into your mouth. he twitches and his grip on your hair gets tighter.

”..hon..,” he whispers, not making eye contact with you

you swirl your tongue over his sensitive tip, lapping up the salty pre cum you spread with your thumb and take him further into your mouth.

beau bites down on his lip, to the point he tastes blood, to limit the amount of noise he wants to make. his entire body is scrunched up. brows furrowed, eyes squeezed tight, his entire body is rigid, to the point he feels like his hamstring is about to cramp.

his mind can’t focus on anything besides staying quiet and your mouth sucking on him in the most perfect way ever.

his stepdaughter’s mouth around him.

and he hates that he’s enjoying it. he hates that he cannot tell you to stop because he wants this just as bad.

but God, it’s a sight for you.

and you want to hear him.

so your hands go to his balls.

he moans. loud.

your thighs press together.

before beau can get too lost in the pleasure, he leans over, abdomen pushing your head down him slightly, and he rearranges things on his desk, clearing out a space.

then he places both hands in your hair, letting you bob your head a few times more before tapping you, signaling you to stop. he rubs his hand on the back of your head and takes the hem of his button up to wipe your face clean.

”there we go sweet thing,” he coos, “all cleaned up now, yeah?”

he watches your lips move with every drag of the cotton. he slips off his shirt, discarding it somewhere and he lifts you up, placing you on his desk

he groans when his still hard cock grazes the hem of your dress, so he slides his hands under and removes it, wasting no time in attaching his warm mouth around your hardened nipple.

you arch your back into his mouth, lips parting at the feel of him sucking and flicking his tongue around your nipple.

his hands reach the waistband of your panties, peeling them off of you while his mouth moves up to your neck. they slide all the way down, falling onto the floor.

with his index and middle finger, he spreads your puffy, wet lips, “you’re s’wet,” he mumbles. once his fingers are coated in you, he slips them in, quietly groaning at your tightness.

you gasp, hands flying to his shoulders, digging into them, as his fat fingers thrust in and out of your tight pussy, hitting the exact spot that makes your toes curl; the sound of your wetness and stifled moans filling the room. the heel of his palm bumping into your clit at each calculated thrust.

beau steps closer to you and embraces you with his left arm, pulling you into his chest to muffle the sounds you can’t hold back. his hand presses your head into his skin, feeling the sheer coat of sweat building up on him.

”you’re doin’ amazin’ hon,” he kisses the top of your head

you tilt yours down, noticing how his cock is throbbing.

you slide your hands down his body, making him sigh, and wrap your hands around him. his mouth falls open on your hair and you start giving him slow stokes. he thrusts his fingers in timing of your strokes, still holding you as close as he can.

”slow? that’s how you want it?” he whispers

”yes,” you half moan

he presses his mouth into your scalp to not make any loud sounds and he lets you have your fun, stroking him slowly while his fingers thrust in you.

each time your hand reaches the tip of his dick, you run your thumb over the slit, earning a sharper thrust of his fingers each time you do that.

then beau scissors his fingers.

you yelp and grip his cock tighter.

”shh,” he drags his lips down your head, nosing some of your hair out of the way, “i know hon, just give me a sec, gotta stretch you out f’me”

you nod, placing your hands on his chest to brace yourself. he twists his wrist with each scissoring motion to ensure you’re well prepped.

”lay down hon,”

you lay flat against the hard wood of his desk, a few papers sticking onto your back. beau places his hand under your right knee, taking that leg and pining it to his desk, your other leg hooks around him.

he hovers over you, using his free hand to grab your wrist, “gotta stay quiet, right?” he places your palm over his mouth and then places his hand over yours and slides into your wet channel.

both of you moan painfully loud.

your hand almost falls from his mouth, but he takes his teeth, biting into your skin, then he releases it.

”you’re s’tight,” he groans before burying his face in the crook of your neck

he stills, letting you adjust to his thick size

he starts rolling his hips, slow, yet hard, making you moan loudly regardless of being muffled.

beau removes his hand from your mouth and gives you a hard thrust, tip hitting your g spot and before you can even moan, he sticks two fingers inside your mouth.

he opens his mouth against your warm skin, beard nipping at it, ”i know hon, s’hard bein’ quiet,” his voice is strained, “bite down on ‘em, door’s still open,” his eyes flicker to his open office door.

his heart rate quickens, he doesn’t know if it’s because of the door being open or just being inside of you, but his thrusts remain slow and hard.

he also bites down on you, his teeth sink into the soft flesh of your clavicle to keep himself quiet.

everything is so overwhelming to you, having to stay quiet, door open, having your stepdad inside of you.

but he feels amazing.

his cock stretches you to a point you didn’t think was possible, his tip hits that spot that knocks the air out of your lungs, his hand thats on your leg is gripping onto you tight that there will be bruises.

it all adds to the knot in your belly that keeps getting tighter and tighter.

the only sounds audible in the house are the fans running in your mom and Emily’s room, the sound of beau’s cock thrusting inside of you, and muffled moans from both of you.

your walls start clenching around him, so beau starts sinking his teeth down further. your mind is too focused on how good he’s making you feel that the small pain quickly turns into pleasure.

beau starts rubbing your clit in rapid circles, completely different from the pace of his hips, but it tips you over.

tears well up in your eyes and your walls hug his cock as tight as they can as you cum all over his cock. your body spasms, hips arching off his desk and nails digging into your own skin.

he follows shortly after with a grunt that gets stuck in his throat, hips stuttering, the feeling of you cumming practically milking him dry.

he rides out both of your orgasms, chests heaving and heavy breathing, “there we go sweet thing,” he pants, “feelin’ good?” his voice is thick

it takes you a minute to respond, “yeah”

”good girl,” he lazily smiles, “good girl,” he repeats, much softer this time and places a kiss on your forehead.

AN: can’t say much besides i myself am bouncing off the walls at what i’ve just written here!

wavy banner by: @anitalenia

straight line banner by: @elleisdesigning

tags: @redhairedgardenfairy

[lillymmb]

-"How old is she?" RAFE CAMERON X READER

(open requests)

part 2!

paring: rafe cameron x reader

warning: none

summary: you and rafe were friends since birth, you two fell in love but he cheated on you and you went away and never went to outer banks but your mother died and you went to her funeral but you didn't knew rafe and his family would be there.

Going back to Outer Banks was not a good idea and i knew it, but with my mother's death I knew I had to go, my father was in pieces so was I. I look at my one year old daughter sleeping in the back of my car, "I hope I don't see him" i think.

Me and Rafe were childhood friends since ever and 4 years ago when we started dating I knew he was the love of my life, but I was wrong, I can still remember Sofia kissing him and he hugging her:

1 year ago I was going to tell him about the pregnancy but when I saw them my heart broke and I just left Outer Banks without looking back. Had Charlotte in New York, my parents knew but I made them promise to don't talk about her to anyone.

I was not alone, I had friends in New York, I had a job at my dad's company, but the most important thing I had Charlotte. She is just like him, her strong blue eyes, her blonde hair just as soft as his, she had a strong personality just like him, it was his copy, my little chunk of my love with him.

When I got home, everything looked the same, nothing had ever changed. My father wasn't home and I soon went into my old room, I saw polaroids of Rafe and me on the wall, the presents he had given me, it looked like I had never left, everything was clean and the bed was as messy as the day I decided to leave the city behind with a baby.

Charlotte looked at the room with precision for a 1 year old baby, this year on her first birthday we came here at night to have dinner with my parents and we left early in the morning so there was no risk of Rafe knowing I had been there.

"Mama" She pointed to a teddy bear that I had gotten from Rafe on our second anniversary. I gave the bear to her, watching her reaction. My little girl hugged the bear and started laughing.

"How are you so cute" I started tickling her belly, her laughter filled the room with joy.

"Here are my girls" I looked back and my dad was leaning against the door frame with a smile despite his tired looking eyes.

"Bubu" she ran towards him and hugged his leg tightly, my father picked her up with a sad smile on his face "Hello my love" he said to her.

"The burial will be tomorrow morning" he said with a soft voice.

I nodded in agreement and we soon went to dinner.

In my dream, Rafe laughed with me in my room, "If we have a daughter, her name will be Charlotte." He said looking at my eyes

"Why that name?"

"I don't know, love, I just like it." And he hugged me softly.

I woke up confused with my daughter in the crib next to me.

The route to the funeral was silent, I just thought about how I wished my mother was here. She was very sick and cancer took her from us, my father said that at least he had ended her suffering and pain during those years.

I got out of the car with Charlotte and her teddy bear by my side, her dress was black with a big bow on her side and I was with the same dress. There were few people at the funeral but since my mother was a pogue there were many of her pogue friends and I saw John B's group right at the top of the stairs JJ looked at me and smiled. The day was beautiful but it seemed unfair because my mother had died but I knew that the weather was a message from her telling me that she was okay.

My father picked Charlotte up and they went in first and I was just working up the courage to go in while praying not to see him. The crowd had already left and I started to enter the house near the beach where my mother's funeral would be.

Until someone bumped into me, I knew that scent but I didn't want to believe it, there it was. Rafe was wearing a black suit, his eyes got bigger when he saw me and he seemed to want to say something but he couldn't, he was in complete shock to see me after 1 year without news.

"Um-oh hi-" he was interrupted by my daughter screaming mommy when she saw me, Charlotte asked to be held by me and I picked her up. Rafe looked at her holding the teddy bear with confusion, his head turned to the side and so did my daughter's, they looked at each other as if in a mirror.

"Mama" my daughter tried to go to rafe's lap who was in complete shock.

"Charlotte no baby you can't" when he heard his name rafe he felt like he was going to faint

"Charlotte? wh-who is this?"

I had thought about this conversation for a long time but nothing came out of my mouth, I always thought that I could call Rafe and tell him everything and we could become a happy family like we dreamed of but I couldn't say anything.

"Rafe, c'mon your sister is asking about you-oh hi" There she was, Sofia look at me with disgust and confusion, but when she saw the baby in my arms she just looked at Rafe looking for some answer as to who that was.

"How old is she?" Rafe asked with a weak voice and tears in his eyes, I could tell he knew the answer but wanted to hear it from me. Before I could answer, my father appeared in the hall and understood what was happening.

"Where were you, let's go is going to start" My father grabbed my hand and took me while I was in complete shock and Charlotte was crying wanting to go to Rafe's arms.

I just walked away and left a confused Rafe with his eyes closed as if he was holding himself back from crying.

"Fuck" was the only thing that crossed my mind.

part 2? I had this idea on the subway on the way to school and i had to write it! let me know if you guys want pt 2💞