#there is so much raw SOMETHING in his eyes when he looks at her

[sharlsworld]

⋆⭒˚.⋆ my best friends brother - 𝐂𝐋𝟏𝟔 ✴︎

（ 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 ）𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗋𝖼 𝗑 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

（ 𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒 ）𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖽𝗁𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗎𝗉 𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋

note ✫ i imagined her to be 22 idk sorry i love a good age gap also my first charles smau!!

🝮

yn

liked by pierregasly and 1,175,903 others

yn “let’s go for a ride on the boat it’ll be fun”

charles_leclerc Did you or did you not have fun?

⤷ yn you almost flung me off the boat when you had to swerve out of the way of the rock

⤷ charles_leclerc And I apologized for making you bite your tongue on accident bug can we please move past that?

⤷ yn you broke my hairbrush trying to detangle my hair

⤷ charles_leclerc And I ordered you a new hairbrush bug can we please move past that as well?

⤷ sharls_lerklerk charles calling her bug is something very dear to me

arthur_leclerc “It’s not gonna be like last time guys I’ve learned from my mistakes”

⤷ jade_dishtinguinn poor arthur got water boarded for the second this month 😭

⤷ user1634445581 i would never let my bf have a girl best friend

⤷ yn I literally introduced them??

lorenzotl Charles trying to recreate the titanic

⤷ yn always needs the attention on him 🙄 (i’ll give him attention)

♥︎ by charles_leclerc

estiebestie charles finally acknowledging y/n’s crush on him will always be my favorite thing

charles_leclerc Face card never declines

⤷ yn omg u slut 🙂‍↕️

forzacharles why is charles trying to recreate the jack and rose scene with y/n??

⤷ yn my exact thoughts like we just gon keep playing eye tag or you gonna holla at ur boy? 😤

⤷ arthur_leclerc dis gur

alex_albon wait your like kinda giving mermaid turned human vibes??

⤷ lilymhe no I see your vision

lando the money i would pay to see that boat ride

⤷ charles_leclerc You wanna go for a boat ride??? 😄 No one wants to go with me anymore…not even y/n it’s lowkey making me depressed

⤷ lando um no i kinda hope to live to see my next birthday or whatever

⤷ yn you’re such a copy cat you wanna be different so bad but you’ll never be different

⤷ lando ???

⤷ yn don’t ??? me fattie you know you hella wrong for what you did

🝮

charles_leclerc

liked by lewishamilton and 3,972,124 others

charles_leclerc I am hopelessly in love

arthur_leclerc am I tweaking

leclerc_pascale We know son ❤️

francisca.cgomes i thought you were gay for max and carlos? like aren’t you guys a throuple or something

⤷ charles_leclerc that’s common knowledge i fear

charles_leclerc NONONO I TOOK A NAP AND SHE TOOK MY PHONE

⤷ yn HAHAHAHAH

⤷ arthur_leclerc Did you send charles this picture so you could post it 😭

⤷ yn no he already had it in his camera roll

⤷ lordperceval 😦?? i need to see more

charles_leclerc IT WASNT ME GUYS I DIDNT POST THIS

charles_leclerc I AM NOT IN A THROUPLE WITH CARLOS OR MAX GUYS PLEASE BELIEVE ME

danielricciardo Damn bro that is a beautiful picture it really captures her essence

maxverstappen1 Why don’t you capture my damn essence like this?

lorenzotl How did she even get into your phone?

⤷ charles_leclerc She deleted my face from it in like 2021 and added hers

⤷ lorenzotl Why didn’t you delete it?

⤷ charles_leclerc I don’t know how

⤷ lorenzotl Why didn’t you look it up?

⤷ charles_leclerc This conversation is over

⤷ arthur_leclerc So you’ve been manually typing in your password for 4 years cause you don’t wanna delete her Face ID from your phone?

⤷ charles_leclerc This conversation is over

francolapinto raw, next question

⤷ yn 😨😰😥😏

⤷ charles_leclerc No

arthur_leclerc Guys I think I swallowed to much ocean water my stomach hurts

⤷ oscarpiastri google said you have 3 days idk

🝮

yn

liked by charles_leclerc and 1,213,856 others

yn scheming how to make my best friends brother fall madly in love with me

francisca.cgomes y/n searching up “love spells” on tik tok

arthur_leclerc y/n is probably doing some weird dance around a bunch of candles in the shape of a heart with charles leclerc edits playing on her tv and ipad rn

⤷ yn are you fucking watching me through my windows or something damn

charlotte2304 She just ordered a bag of rose quartz guys

hoeforsainzzz charles wants her so bad he’s just trying to play hard to get fr

⤷ yn bro wants to play the long game 🙂‍↕️

♥︎ by charles_leclerc

lecult_4lyfe y/n is the most loyal person ever

alex_albon Omg let me help I’ll show you stuff I did to get lily to date me

⤷ lilymhe ???

⤷ alex_albon Girl I’m a mastermind

sharls.eclair we know she ain’t lying either

oscarpiastri I wish I knew all the lore on this crush

⤷ georgerussell63 Omg I’ll make a PowerPoint

⤷ lando great you’ve brought out powerpoint george thanks a lot oscar. thanks a lot.

🝮

charles_leclerc

liked by carlossainz55 and 2,621,904 others

charles_leclerc training camp, part 2. 😘

yn no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while I gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, doggy, backwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, on the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being held against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, fist clenching, ear ringing, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling, teeth jitterbug, mind boggling, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy, moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip biting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, can't walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail scratching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, slendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tango ever bro could cause a nuclear bomb inside me and I'd still ride.

⤷ charles_leclerc i meannn….

⤷ yn you want me so bad

⤷ charles_leclerc i meannnnnn……

⤷ yn OMG HE WANTS ME SO BAD GUYS

arthur_leclerc I can’t believe i just read that

maxverstappen1 Oh my fuck I feel like I just got assaulted or something

lando i need to bathe myself in bleach

lewishamilton Wow that was freaky even for me

oscarpiastri I’m gonna call my mom and tell her I love her

🝮

yn

liked by lando and 2,237,713 others

yn guess who

charles_leclerc Wait

charles_leclerc What the fuck

charles_leclerc Are you serious

charles_leclerc Is this real

charles_leclerc Did you get hacked?

charles_leclerc Who is that

charles_leclerc Bug who is that

charles_leclerc Please stop bug

charles_leclerc Is this is a joke?

charles_leclerc STOP IS THIS REAL ARE YOU SERIOUS IS THIS AN ACTUAL DATE???????

charles_leclerc SOMEBODY ANSWER ME PLEASE

charles_leclerc WHY ARE YOU CHEATING ON ME

charles_leclerc BUG PLEASE I THOUGHT WE WERE GONNA GET MARRIED PLEASE

charles_leclerc I KNOW IVE PLAYED HARD TO GET BUT I’VE LIKED YOU SINCE YOU WERE LIKE 19 AND I KNOW THATS WEIRD CAUSE I WAS 26 BUT I COULDNT HELP IT YOU CANT FIGHT LOVE

charles_leclerc BUG PLEASE IVE LITERALLY HAD YOUR ENGAGEMENT RING HIDDEN IN MY FUCKING SOCK DRAWER FOR A YEAR PLEASE

charles_leclerc PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE YOU WERE ALWAYS GONNA BE MY WIFE

charles_leclerc AH FUCK IM GONNA DIE ALONE

charles_leclerc oh my gosh i missed my chance didn’t i?

charles_leclerc i waited to long

charles_leclerc Didn’t even get to hit that

⤷ arthur_leclerc Oh my gosh charles you sicko you’re a fuckin perv 😂😂🫵🏽

⤷ charles_leclerc shut up arthur now’s not the time

charles_leclerc Who is it I’ll kill him

charles_leclerc It’s the haircut isn’t it??? I told maman she cut it to short

charles_leclerc OHHH MY SHAYLA

charles_leclerc please bug i was gonna marry you i swear so bad i literally had it all planned out

charles_leclerc YOURE MY END AND MY BEGINNING EVEN WHEN I LOSE IM WINNING CAUSE I GIVE YOU AALLLLLLLL OF ME TO YOU

charles_leclerc I always thought Ferrari would be the reason I ended myself but it’s this

⤷ yn nooo don’t kill yourself your so sexy aha

⤷ charles_leclerc OH SO NOW YOU GOT JOKES? ARE YOU OR ARE YOU NOT CHEATING ON ME WITH SOME UGLY ASS SKANK?

⤷ lando who tf are you calling a ugly ass skank?

⤷ charles_leclerc YOU WENT A DATE WITH LANDO FUCKING NORRIS???

⤷ lando girl there ain’t no one in the world that can resist this fine ass honey mhmmmm

⤷ charles_leclerc ok gay ass go kiss on carlos or something fucking slut

⤷ yn oh my gosh charles i’ve never seen this side of you 🙂‍↕️

⤷ charles_leclerc are you or are you not cheating on me with lando fucking norris?

⤷ yn daddy chill

⤷ yn it was all apart of my plan you made it to easy

⤷ yn i’ve never seen you cuss so much

lando we just seen charles leclerc crashing out over his little brothers best friend guys this is a historical moment for us chayn shippers

⤷ arthur_leclerc This is gonna be taught in history classes in the future bro trust

charles_leclerc What the fuck I was just manipulated into confessing my crush on my little brothers best friend to the entire world

alex_albon chayn shippers rise

⤷ lando risen ☝️

⤷ georgerussell63 risen ☝️

⤷ danielricciardo risen ☝️

⤷ liamlawson30 risen ☝️

⤷ charles_leclerc This is exactly who I thought would be apart this club fucking losers

⤷ lando this is how you treat loyal fans? i’m not showing the edits we made now

⤷ charles_leclerc Show it to me pleaseeee send it to me Rachel 😔

⤷ lando why is charles leclerc lowkey turning into a pathetic little bitch boy?

⤷ charles_leclerc What the fuck did I do to you?

⤷ lando you called me a fucking ugly ass skank

⤷ charles_leclerc bruh it was a joke it was just in the heat of the moment

⤷ lando i don’t want to hear your excuses 🙄🤚

🝮

yn

liked by zendaya and 3,916,447 others

yn i’m a mastermind

francolapinto tears in my latina eyes

⤷ francolapinto oh shit wait

arthur_leclerc my favorite panther

⤷ yn 🐆🐆 (i know it’s a cheetah shut up)

francisca.cgomes i know that’s right

lilymhe I’m proud, truly

carlossainz55 Peter…how are you doing that

leclerc_pascale My prayers have been answered

pierregasly Great get married now

⤷ yn let’s have a double wedding

⤷ francisca.cgomes omg lets do it

charles_leclerc bugs school of manifestation

⤷ yn a masterclass

♥︎ by charles_leclerc

danielricciardo This is in fact a love story

alex_albon younger me is probably so shook rn

⤷ lando 21 year old me is flabbergasted rn

maxverstappen1 Damn what spells are you using

⤷ yn you’ll never know 🤫🤫

lorenzotl I’ve never seen him look so free

⤷ yn this was kinda poetic lowk

oscarpiastri I can see the future

carlossainz55 Dreams do come true ig

lewishamilton damn girl teach me your ways

sharls_lerklerk what’s 4 + 4??

estiebestie i need to know what that damn dance looked liked cause wtf

🝮

charles_leclerc

liked by tomholland2013 and 4,455,813 others

charles_leclerc she bamboozled me

yn omg you want me so bad

⤷ charles_leclerc I do want you so bad

⤷ yn my pants were JUST on i swear

♥︎ by charles_leclerc

yn 7 year old me is bouncing off walls rn

♥︎ by charles_leclerc

lando you’re welcome i was part of that plan

⤷ charles_leclerc ugly ass skank

arthur_leclerc seriously just get married you already admitted to having the ring

⤷ charles_leclerc Yeah I can’t believe I just told the whole world that

⤷ lando cause you were being pathetic you bitch

⤷ georgerussell63 Omg loving this beef let’s keep this energy in the new season ❤️

⤷ f1 Let’s not ❤️

alex_albon Cute or whateva

carlossainz55 This calls for celebration! Let’s party like there’s no tomorrow

⤷ yn damn how are things at williams?

⤷ alex_albon excuse me i’ll have you know that he was chugging down coffee and munching on all the food did they not feed him at ferrari?

⤷ f1 Let’s not ❤️

alex_albon So as president of chayn club I will be accepting a check for my undying support over the years

⤷ georgerussell63 and i as vice president

⤷ lando and i as the founder

⤷ danielricciardo and i as secretary

⤷ liamlawson30 and i as treasurer

⤷ charles_leclerc I hope your hungry…for nothing

⤷ lando girl you thought you ate that 😒 i want our checks by the end of the week or i’m never sending you our edits

⤷ charles_leclerc be expecting mail in the next few days ❤️

[miange1]

ANTHONY SWOFFORD

'you'll find, there's never any time for babes or wine'

male reader, anal sex, sexual frustration, raw dogging(ow.), cheating, slight internalized homophobia, sexual actions in the military (DON'T. do that), is it a crime to imagine myself with hair, i have dreads, these AREN'T coming off.

he slammed the white and worn out phone onto the holder of the booth. lunch was next, but he felt much to sick to even think about food right now. this was one of those moments he wish he hadn't signed that damn paper.

he wanted to be back with kris, feel her again instead of jerking himself dry to a picture of her in the stalls just for him to not leak a single drop of nothing.

he swirled the rice and chicken around in the paper bowl, his cup of water still full as he hadn't picked it up unless he received it. 'just a friend' she said. what bullshit.

deep down he knew this would happen. it happened to everyone else, so it was blind to happen to him. "..fuck." he muttered under his breath. he needed to get it together, he couldn't break down over her— not now, not like this. and definitely not here.

what was he gonna do? how could he focus this way? there was just no possible way for it to happen if this shit was nagging in the back of his brain.

he ended up throwing the food away, no longer even wanting to stare at it with this damn girl on his mind.

now he couldn't sleep, staring up at the barracks' ceiling just..thinking. what would he do when he got back and saw that guy just staring back at him. opening that door, seeing some random looking at him like he'd never seen him before.

no, no, fuck that, he'd know him. his friends were probably right saying kris had that military fetish. getting off telling that man that he was a jarhead—

"psst," his thoughts were interrupted by a whisper. was it directed towards him? he sat up, jumping a bit to see you right next to his bed. you were a friend of his he made here, a bit closer to him than anyone else. everyone described you as a sweetheart, you were real kind and caring but you got done what needed to be done whether you disliked it or not.

"i snuck these from the cafeteria," you held up two chocolate chip cookies, and it made him surprised that they even had any sort of flavor here. "you want one?" you gave that smile to him, making his heart melt. you thought of him when taking these? practically risking yourself to get something sweet.

"sure," he sat up, moving over a bit to make room for you to sit with him. he opened the wrapper, giving a hum of satisfaction at the sweet taste touching his tongue. god, this felt great.

"thinking about that white chick of yours?" he almost choked, not thinking that you could tell— but hell it was obvious. ever since the phone calls he had been spacing out, and getting angry easier.

he exhaled through his nose, but he didn't deny it. "there's this guy, charlie or charles or some shit. something with a c, i dunno." he looked down at his bruised knees, his feet planted right on the cold hard ground beneath the two of you.

"she met him at some hotel and..they seem to talk a lot apparently. but i just..i know they're boning and-" he looked over at you, seeing how your cheeks were stuffed with the cookies as you ate. he almost burst out laughing but held it in so no one else woke up. "what?" you swallowed down the rest of the food, confused as to why he was laughing.

"jesus man, im talking about my soon to be ex girlfriend be serious for a sec." you gave him a look, "i am!" your voice was still a whisper as you exclaimed, yet you couldn't help but laugh with him.

you had stopped for a moment but he still had a few chuckles. something just tempted you and you weren't too sure what it was. you always felt a bit of something towards him, but it was mostly just admiration right? yeah, he was a good soldier and you looked up to him to better yourself despite being here longer than him.

your eyes slightly hooded, your head getting a bit closer and he took notice at that. his body backed up a bit, but the two of you were still close. it hit that this must have made him uncomfortable, hint being he was giving you a weird look. he made it clear at the meet when the drill sergeant was yelling at him he most definitely wasn't gay. so what the hell were you thinking?

too ashamed to stand up and walk away, you backed off and looked down at the floor. you weren't gonna cry or anything no, you just felt shameful.

your skin felt cold, and full of goose bumps feeling his finger underneath your chin and tracing at your jaw line. it made you look over at him, the uncomfortable look replaced with longing and need. both of your heads went together again, lips connecting like magnets and moving against each other like smooth waves.

his arm rested on your hips, and your on his chest to keep yourself steady because fuck he was a real rough kisser. there wasn't much teeth, and the kiss still went amazingly but he would push against you like he absolutely needed this.

and he did, he needed it so badly because who else did he have? no one, he had no one else except for you.

"oh..tony, chill out a bit.." he was being as 'chill' as he possibly could. going at a medium pace as to keep everyone asleep, but damn no one ever told you something up there hurt like a bitch.

"trying," he said, leaning down and coming to kiss at your lips and neck. "need you so bad.." his thrusts were slowing down but still harsh and hard. he felt so good, finally feeling something around him other than his damn hand.

he himself couldn't lie that he felt a little something for you as well, even after he knew he would regret this. he might want this to keep going if he could let it happen.

"i know but, mngh.." your words cut off when he aimed at somewhere inside you specifically, making you forget everything all at once. "gosh, right there."

his heart sped up as did his movements. he couldn't help himself! he couldn't keep going so slow, it was killing him.

his hand slapped over your mouth, and feeling the vibrations of your muffled moans against his palm. the bed creaked, your legs wrapping around his waist to keep him close.

yeah, this was definitely going to be more than a one time thing.

[whatiswrongwithpeople]

I keep going over the world we knew (p.2)

a player 230/ Thanos/ Su-Bong x fem!reader fic

summary: “It had always been him and her against the world. But if you've been fighting against the world for years, how do you react when you suddenly realize that your best friend has become your world?”

warnings: none really except the usual Thanos/Squid Game stuff. Maybe slightly ooc Thanos? , Written in my notes app.

note: not gonna lie, I originally planned for this to only have 2 parts BUT I decided taking my time with it and all that gives it a nice pace.

Hope you enjoy!!!

🏷️: @l5byrinth , @wpdarlingpan , @lollipopsandstuff

Part 1 <3

The night after the second game was far too quiet for Thanos to ignore the gnawing feeling that had settled in his chest ever since coming back to the dorm. He had survived the games with a cold mix of calculated precision and blasting his brain to the moon with drugs. But neither the success , nor the growing amount of money in the ever present piggy bank was enough to drown out the nagging ache in his ribs when he thought of [Y/N].

His [Y/N].

The way she moved with a sense of confidence and purpose that was simply too authentic to be fake. The way she had shut him out so quickly, eyes never seeming to truly look at him. Gods did he long for that familiar gaze to land on him. To rediscover that warmth he had once found in it. By now it had been years since Thanos had last spoken to her—since he’d ruined everything. But the memories, the raw, untouched feelings, were still there. Unforgiven. Unwavering. Never truly gone.

And as much as he hated to admit it, he couldn’t keep pretending that this wasn’t affecting him. Not even with several of his colourful pills pumping through his system.

Thanos’ eyes drifted across the darkened room, only stopping when he had found [Y/N]’s form a few beds down from his. She was sitting there, still as stone, eyes staring straight ahead with that same unreadable expression she had been wearing ever since the first game. Not a single word had passed between them since their brief interaction during the last game. But ,despite how it might seem, Thanos wasn’t stupid. He could feel the tension in the air whenever their paths crossed.

He wasn’t used to feeling this way. Especially not when his survival instincts kicked in so loudly, demanding every ounce of his energy to focus on the prize. “Win the money , pay off your debt.” had become the silent mantra in his brain. But that was the thing with [Y/N], she had always been able to pull at the strings of something deep inside him, something far more complicated than any strategy or skill. Something deeply ,deeply personal.

“Hey do you think I could-“ Nam-Guy -or whatever his name was- popped into Thanos’ field of vision. With an annoyed sigh, the purple haired player stood up. “Not now.” He muttered, putting both of his hands on the boy’s shoulders, turning him to the bed next to his. “Talk to him instead.” Baffled Nam-Gyu looked over his shoulder, surprise in his voice as he exclaimed a “What-“. But Thanos was already halfway across the room, shoes making quiet thuds against the floor as he made his way over to [Y/N]’s cot.

“You know,” Thanos came to a halt on one of the lower steps that rested between the beds, resting his arms on [Y/N]’s mattress as he propped up his head. Thanos’ voice was calm. Almost too calm to [Y/N]’s ears, judging by the gravity of the situation they had found themselves in. “Staring at the wall isn't going to change anything."

Thanos leaned against the bed frame, his usual cocky smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he watched [Y/N]. She was sitting still as a stone with an expression colder than ice. Not once had she bothered to look at him since he had approached her bed, and that infuriated him.

“Are you really gonna sit there like you don’t know who I am?” he drawled, his voice dripping with a mixture of amusement and annoyance. “You know, I’m starting to feel like a ghost. And I’m not really the type to fade into the background, you know?”

[Y/N] fought the urge to roll her eyes, choosing to ignore the purple haired pain-in-the-ass who she had once called her best friend.

“Well, if it helps, I can try and get a little more dramatic,” Thanos said, pushing himself off the bedframe in order to lean in closer, reducing the distance between them. “Maybe I’ll do a little tap dance or something. You seem like you’d appreciate the effort.”

At that [Y/N] finally glanced at him, but only for a brief moment, before turning her gaze back to the wall. "You’re a real piece of work, Su-Bong," she muttered under her breath, but still loud enough for him to catch the venom in her words. He chuckled.

“Yeah, I know. I’m one of a kind.” His voice was playful, but there was an edge to it, a challenge in his tone. “And I’m starting to think you don’t even remember who I am anymore.” [Y/N] shot him a glance, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Oh, I remember exactly who you are, Su-Bong. And that's the problem."

The words hit him like a splash of cold water, but he refused to let it show. He leaned in closer, deliberately invading her space, his eyes gleaming with that familiar cockiness. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

She met his gaze with a fiery intensity. “It means that you left. You walked away, and I’m still here, cleaning up your mess. So yeah, I remember you. And I remember how it felt to have you pull away like I meant nothing.”

Thanos laughed, but it was dry, forced. “Jesus, you’ve got a way with words, don’t you? You know, I thought you’d be more fun to mess with, but I forgot how good you were at throwing guilt trips. Really good.”

“Guilt trips?” [Y/N] turned her body to face him fully now, her eyes flashing with a mix of fury and sheer hurt. “No, Su-Bong, this isn’t about guilt. It’s about the fact that you’re standing there, pretending like it’s all fine now, when you did leave. You disappeared, and now you expect everything to just magically go back to how it was? Is that it? You think I’ve been sitting here waiting for you to waltz back in with your pretty purple hair and expect me to just forgive you?”

Thanos smirked. “I don’t expect anything from you. But you might want to reconsider that little attitude of yours. It’s really not helping the situation.”

“You think I care about your situation?” she snapped, her voice louder. “You think I’ve been sitting here, all starry-eyed, just waiting for you to get your shit together? Newsflash: I’m done doing that. I’m done with you, Su-Bong.”

The weight of [Y/N]’s words hung heavy in the air, the tension between the estranged pair was palpable. Thanos was about to speak again, something sharp and cutting on the tip of his tongue, when the loudspeaker's monotone voice sliced through the silence, calling the players to line up for food.

Without as much as a glance, [Y/N] brushed past Thanos as though he were invisible, the force of her shoulder knocking him slightly off balance. Her gaze was firmly locked onto the middle of the room as she began walking toward the food line, every step measured, holding that unwavering confidence.

For a moment, Thanos stood there, frozen in place. The argument had been abruptly interrupted, but the sting of her words and her rejection lingered in the air like smoke. As the others began to shuffle toward the line, he realized there was nothing left to say—at least, not now. The silence between them was louder than any argument ever could be.

[strawberrychampagneglass]

Roses pt 2 - A Fragment of our Pasts

masterlist

part 1 WC: 6k

C/W: angst, pining, some fluff ig, swearing, alcohol, a man, mentions of violence, mentions of substance some sexual references but not smut, read at your own discretion but it's really not too too much I promise

A/N: SO SORRY FOR THE LATE AND VERY LONG AWAITED UPDATE I PROMISE FUTURE ONES WILL NOT BE THIS MUCH WAITING, GOOD NIGHT AND TAKE CARE YALL CUS I NEED TO SLEEP LOL I love u guys sm

October 20th, 2028

Los Angeles, California

I’m not a cheater.

The word that Paige almost spit out haunts her. The looks that her teammates gave her haunt her. 

Buried in her hotel bed with a wet towel hanging around her forehead, Azzi shivers despite the fire that has set her body ablaze. It’s nearly noon, yet she still feels sleepy; her body is worn out from the migraine that sinks its claws into her head. Her throat feels raw and her cheeks feel sticky from the dry hotel air clinging to the tears she shed last night. But, Azzi knows she isn’t allowed to feel like this. She knows it’s unfair, but she can’t help herself.

“Azzi?” Cam’s voice is muffled but lighthearted. When she opens her eyes, the blonde stands above her with a look of genuine concern across her face. “I had to bribe the receptionist for a key, but I think I overpaid. She gave me a mint too.” The amusement in Cam’s eyes loosen a shackle around Azzi’s turbulent heart. 

“Hi Cam,” she rasps. She opens her mouth again when the two stare blankly at each other. “I’m so sor-”

“She hasn’t been doing great since she heard that you were coming to LA. I put her on alcohol probation because I knew she would do something stupid if she were drunk, and thankfully, that didn’t happen.” Cam shakes her head before plastering on a pitiful look when she inspects the shivering brunette. 

“Has she been drinking a lot?” The words escape Azzi’s mouth before her brain fully processes them. The taller blonde standing before her winces but masks it with a feigned, but thoughtful look.

“Um… not really, no.” She stammers, averting her gaze from Azzi. “What happened to you though? Where’s your fiancé?” Her stormy blue eyes scan the room until they rest on her shattered phone. Azzi swallows nervously when Cam crouches next to the debris.“Oh my goodness. Azzi, where is he?” the taller woman breathes while hunched over, inspecting the remaining pieces of her phone. 

“I don’t know,” she breathes. “We got into an argument and he…he left.” 

“Azzi…”

April 17th, 2020

Arlington, Virginia

Paige has a problem. 

She’s slowly sinking into the Fudds’ sofa with one of Azzi’s books in her lap as she “subtly” looks at her best friend, admiring how she moves, how she blinks, and even how her face contorts into a scowl around her brothers as they swarm her while waving their dirty socks in her face. Unfortunately, Paige isn’t very good at stealing glances at her best friend. Her blue eyes catch Azzi’s warm, brown ones that are narrowed at her.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Azzi sighs while plopping down on the other side of the couch. Paige’s heart drops when she sees the distance at which the other girl is sitting: away from her. 

“Sorry,” she mutters slowly while returning to the book. She can’t focus though, the constant train of Azzi, Azzi infiltrates her brain. The brunette has been off since their plane ride back from Belarus almost 2 years ago. When she woke up in the morning, a searing pain scorched through her head and throat. Her vision was blurry and all her senses were disoriented. However, the feeling of her left hand latched onto her best friend’s waist underneath her hoodie and her right hand tangled in the mess of her best friend’s soft curls seemed to cure her hangover. She suddenly became aware of Azzi’s head resting on Paige’s chest as she snored softly, sending vibrations up her spine. 

Rather than reveling in the comforting and warm feeling provided by the other body, she detached herself in a hurry as a familiar feeling of panic surged through her veins. One that only existed when the lines of their friendship began to crack. Their conversation at breakfast and on the plane was extraordinarily uncomfortable, and the tension was palpable; it felt heavy on Paige’s shoulders when they stiffly and very hesitantly hugged goodbye after landing in Minnesota.

It was a silent and mutual agreement to ignore the “incident” and continue with their friendship even though the strict lines of their friendship were now permanently impaired. The once-familiar norms of their friendship and well-established boundaries were now blurred. Neither of them wanted to admit it though, so they pretended. They pretended everything was alright. By the time the State Fair rolled around that year, they found a sense of near normalcy. Near. Normalcy. To say that Paige wasn’t hurt by it was an understatement, but Azzi had to pretend. If she didn’t pretend, everything would crumble. 

After wishing Azzi’s family good night, the two start their unbearably slow trek to Azzi’s room. There was discord between the two girls; it became excess weight that the girls dragged along, making the usually quick journey feel strenuous and even longer than normally perceived. As she plops down on her side of the pillow barrier that had been put in place since Paige arrived in Virginia, Azzi grabs the TV remote and jams a few buttons until Frozen appears on the screen.

“Do you ever get tired of this movie? Like damn, Elsa making a castle of ice to seclude herself from everything else seems kinda emo.” Paige’s snide comment earns a punch from her best friend on the other side of the pillow wall. 

“Shut up, Paige. You’ve just never been able to put yourself in Anna’s shoes,” Azzi retorts. Paige doesn’t miss the soft chords of her laughter hidden amongst the playful banter. “Isn’t it symbolic how she goes from one love to another?”

“Bro, this shit-” Her words are cut off when Azzi sticks a finger in her face. Groaning, she slumps into her pillow and closes her eyes. After a few minutes, the obnoxiously loud music is abruptly cut off. Paige’s eyes fly open as she sits up before meeting Azzi’s eyes. Her dark eyes glow in the dark and she sees every little detail of her brown irises and dilated pupils.

“I got bored.” She states before whipping out her phone. 

“You never get bored of Frozen.”

“Well, I guess you kind of got to me.” 

“Az, what’s wrong? Talk to me, c’mon. You’ve been off this whole time that I’ve been here.” 

Azzi sighs and puts her phone down against her chest. “I don’t know. Good night, Paige. I’m gonna sleep.” Instead of a verbal response, she is smothered under a cushioned weight. “Ow, what the f-” 

“Azzi. What’s. Wrong?” Paige’s face is contorted in a scowl but her voice is soft and reassuring. The brunette picks at her fingers, refusing to meet her best friend’s gaze. 

“Nothing’s wrong.” She turns so that her back faces Paige. The air weighs down on them, heavy from the exasperated breaths that have escaped the mouths of the two girls. Paige chews on her lip as she watches the other girl scroll through a myriad of Instagram stories when she sees a particularly provocative story that makes her blood boil: a close-friends story with a picture of Azzi and a guy sitting at a cafe together with the caption “sniped.”

“Is this about the night in Belarus?” Azzi’s blood runs cold and she brings her phone to her chest before turning to Paige. She closes her eyes before letting out a silent groan. “We can’t ignore it forever. It’s causing a rift between us, and we’re gonna have to address it at one point.”

“That night was a fucking mistake.” Paige flinches and whips her head in the other direction, away from Azzi. She isn’t sure if it’s the blonde’s relentless jabs for information or her frustration that still lingers that prompts the harshness in her tone. 

“Az, I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I woke up hungover with you in my arms. Bonus, I guess.” When Azzi doesn’t laugh at Paige’s sarcastic quip, she sighs but continues. “Believe me, I was confused too. I guess we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but since then, you’ve been so fucking distant,” Paige clenches her jaw in frustration. When she receives silence as an answer, she slumps into her pillow and stares at the barrier. 

“You know, I went on a date the other day.” Azzi’s words break the uncomfortable silence. The blonde gapes at her before laughing awkwardly. However, the air from her lungs is sucked out of her body and she feels a force that doesn’t break through her skin or bones but shatters her heart. 

“That’s cool.” Her tone is dry even though her heart is hammering against her ribcage. “Um… how’d it go?” Her tone is dry, but she still asks. Because Azzi is her best friend, and that’s what best friends do, right?

“It was… fine. I haven’t talked to him since, though. I guess we didn’t hit it off, you know? Not like he was my type anyway.” Paige nods, averting her gaze to hide her relief. “Are you jealous?” Azzi teases, smirking shyly at the flustered blonde. “You don’t have to be. He was awkward and we didn’t have a good time. I would rather have spent the time with you.”

“Oh,” Paige murmurs while chewing on her upper lip, only half listening to Azzi. “I would’ve rather spent the time with you too. The date sounded boring.” The room becomes eerily silent and both of them begin to feel the weight of the tension on their shoulders.

“It’s just gonna be weird when you go to college.” Azzi finally mutters, burying her face into her pillow and releasing a heavy sigh. 

“We’ll still FaceTime every night, it’ll even be easier because we’ll be in the same time zone.” 

“You’ll have rigorous practices because you’re a student-athlete, Paige. You also have homework and I’m sure the college workload is a lot heavier than high school.” The blonde swallows and runs her hands through her messy hair. She hadn’t thought about that.

“Well…we can make it work, I mean, we always have,” she sputters, looking everywhere but at Azzi. “I won’t forget about you, I promise. You’re still my best friend, and you’ll always be.” Her voice grows quiet and she picks at her fingers. Azzi doesn’t miss the way Paige’s eyes seem a little too turbulent, even under the dim light provided by the glow of their phones. 

Instead of acknowledging their feelings, she raises an eyebrow, leaning closer. “Sure. You won’t forget me, right? I swear that after we saw each other in that one AAU tournament you ghosted me for 3 weeks.”

Paige groans, “That was one time. I was busy!”

“Right,” Azzi says, smirking. “Busy becoming an Instagram celebrity with 12 followers. Big league stuff.”

The corners of Paige’s mouth twitch as she remembers her Instagram posts that were specifically tailored for Azzi. “Thirteen now, thank you. And one of them might be a bot, but still, commitment.”

“Thirteen? Wow! That’s a whole basketball roster,” Azzi giggles, prodding at Paige’s ribcage. The blonde squirms away, swatting at Azzi’s hand with a yelp before she retaliates by darting at her toned stomach. “Hey, that’s not fair,” Azzi exclaims with a shaky voice before grabbing Paige’s wrists and flipping her over. Their tickle fight comes to an abrupt stop and Azzi swallows thickly. Oh. 

Suddenly, Paige is very mindful of Azzi’s hot breath that contrasts with the cool air that surrounds them. Each breath makes the skin on her neck prickle with anticipation, but she reluctantly pulls her body away. Instead, she reaches for Azzi’s cheek and caresses the soft skin, sending shivers down both of their bodies. 

“I’ll always be there for you, I promise. It’ll be us against the world, you know what I mean? Paige and Azzi, together.” Her voice is soft and wistful, yet her blue eyes sparkle with determination.

“Together,” Azzi breathes as she buries her head into the older girl’s neck, wrapping her arms around her waist and taking in her rosy scent. Paige’s hands find their way through her curls and everything feels perfect. 

“I’ll miss you. A lot.” 

October 20th, 2028

Los Angeles, California

401. 403. 

“That fucking motherfucker,” Paige snarls under her breath while sprinting down the hotel hallway. The pills in the nearly empty bottle of Ibuprofen rattle against the plastic that threatens to explode under Paige’s grip.

“Room 435. If y’all end up fucking, I don’t wanna hear about it.”

“Fuck you too, Cam.” 405. 407. 409. Paige nearly slams her knee into the sharp corner.

411. 413. 415. 417. 419.

“I’ll always be there for you, I promise.” The words she said 8 years ago just before their unspoken feelings unraveled themselves like a ribbon awaiting a very eager child on the morning of Christmas Day replay in her mind. 

421. 423. 425. 427. Every step adds pressure onto her raging hangover headache. She’s almost there. Almost. 

429, 431, 433. How long is this fucking hallway?

435. Paige stops and hesitates before extending a shaky hand to scan the keycard and open the door. 

April 6th, 2025

Tampa Bay, Florida

A collective and electric feeling of euphoria lightens the air of the gym as the UConn Women’s Basketball team celebrates their hard-fought win against a 1-seed team in the Final Four. Paige weaves her way between her teammates, giving an occasional hug here and there until her eyes land on her. A pair of warm, brown doe eyes stare back at her. Azzi stands in front of her with a wide grin carved across her face. The blonde lets a contented sigh leave her lips and grins, preparing to jump into her best friend’s arms…

October 20th, 2028

Los Angeles, California

In the middle of the room on a king-sized bed lies a familiar figure in her bomber jacket buried under the thick comforter. Her eyes are red and a damp towelette clings onto her forehead. 

“Cam?” An uneasy voice rasps. When the figure lifts herself off the mattress, she freezes. “Paige,” she says cooly, but there’s a hint of wistfulness. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, sorry. I’ll leave,” Paige manages to stutter out as she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, turning away and heading toward the door. “I’ll leave this for you here,” she mutters as she puts the pill bottle on the bathroom counter. “Feel better soon.”

A muffed, yet broken sob escapes Azzi’s mouth. “Stay, please. I don’t have anyone.” 

That’s all it takes for Paige to open the doors to her heart again. She cautiously walks over while refusing to meet the pair of warm brown eyes that wander over her body. The two sit in silence before it’s broken by another strangled breath that comes out of the brunette. “Shit, Az…zi,” Paige begins to panic, staring at the other woman who has broken into a frenzy of sobs. Reflexively, her hand extends, but it stops, just before reaching her face.

“I don’t get why you’re here,” Azzi chokes out between gasps of air. 

“I…I made a promise.” Paige replies curtly. Her fingers move on their own accord as they begin to caress the tears away. Inside of her head, everything is ringing, telling her that this is wrong. But Paige decides to ignore it and she hopes that this time will be different from every other time. “I’ll always be here for you. Cam told me you weren’t doing great so I came over with Ibuprofen. Paige looks around the room nervously. The alarm bells in her head have been going off for too long. “Look, I think I should go, but it was nice to-” 

To her shock, Azzi cusps her cheeks and pulls her in for a searing kiss. There’s hunger in it as they move their mouths in tandem, neither of them pulling away. Azzi lets her tongue slip as Paige lets her hands move down her torso until they reach her waist. Her fingertips dance along the smooth ridges of her skin where they etch the words “I love you.” She grips firmly, pulling the brunette off the bed and pressing her flush against her own body. “Fuck,” the younger woman moans against Paige’s lips, sending a shiver through the older woman’s body. Azzi starts to tangle her hands through Paige’s hair until-

Her eyes fly open. 

April 6th, 2025

Tampa Bay, Florida

…Until her best friend is whisked away by a mysterious man with olive skin and brown curls. Paige’s heart plummets into her stomach when his firm hand grasps Azzi’s waist. She turns away, throws herself into KK’s eager arms, and plasters a smile onto her face. 

Because it’s okay, and Paige will be okay. 

We’re not exclusive. 

October 20th, 2028

Los Angeles, California

The room is dark and empty except for the sound of familiar, anguished coughs. The pungent scent of weed smoke fills the air and Azzi stifles a gag. She lets her eyes flutter open. When she does, she catches a glimpse of shimmering blonde hair. It makes her heart beat erratically. It’s been 3 years. 3 years of separation from each other, yet she knows it’s Paige Bueckers. 

“Who the fuck are you?” The blonde whips around, startled by an unfamiliar harsh voice. 

As an olive-skinned man slides through the door of the hotel room, Paige is harshly reminded of the diamond ring that sits on her Azzi’s ring finger. “Charles.” Paige extends a hand to the man. His bloodshot eyes flicker down to her hand, devoid of any jewelry, before they meet Paige’s again. After a heartbeat, their hands clasp firmly in a brief handshake–his grip firm, too firm. Her pulse quickens, yet she refuses to flinch and meets his gaze with equal intensity. 

“Paige. Hi.”

Behind him, Paige notices three things. First, the putrid stench of weed hits her in waves. Second, she sees a pile of a white, powdery substance on the bathroom counter. Third, she sees a flushed Azzi, who lies alone in an otherwise untouched bed. The sight of Azzi in a vulnerable position sends 

Charles studies her with curiosity and a very noticeable sniffle. “Do you… need anything? Why are you here?”

Every nerve in her body begs her to stay and push the lame excuse of a man out of the way. Most of all, the only thing she wants to do is cradle the younger woman in her arms and tell her that everything will be okay. But Paige sighs and hands Charles the pill bottle before turning away. “No, Cam told me to drop this off. I’ll be heading out, but take care.” She feels a pair of brown doe eyes engraving themselves onto the back of her head, but she can’t. She walks away. 

Paige Bueckers, you’re such an idiot.

***

Three days later, Paige and the rest of her teammates are huddled around a secluded table at a local bar. It’s in a secluded part of the city, giving the team privacy despite the energy in the air. Rickea Jackson had organized the meet-up impulsively after hearing about Azzi’s plans to return to New York for the next two weeks in preparation to officially move to Los Angeles. 

The team is decently buzzed, having ordered 2 rounds of shots already. They’re ready to let loose tonight; most people had plans to visit their families in the upcoming weeks. 

As for Paige, it’s evident that she has consumed several drinks already. She needs an escape from the labyrinth of her thoughts that trap and corner her. She’s spiraling, and she doesn’t have the energy to fight against it. Cam, Rickea, and even Dearica insisted that Paige should stay sober tonight, but Paige was drowning. She was adamant about drinking after the events that occurred earlier in the week. Cam and Dearica did their best to distract her, taking her to lifts, pickup games, and even shopping after her birthday. And while it worked beautifully for a few days, the effects of the distraction were completely worn off by tonight. 

Paige sits in a secluded corner of the bar, trying to separate herself from the rest of her team. The sight of Azzi sitting across from her amplifies Paige’s heightened anxiety. Her eyes are trained on Azura Stevens, who is animatedly telling her about the children she worked with the other day while nursing a drink at the same time. Although partially disengaged, Azzi stays polite and friendly. Even if she doesn’t want to admit it, a small part of Paige’s heart flutters at the sight of Azzi assimilating well with the Sparks. 

“Paige, were you even listening to me?” Next to her, an exasperated Cam stands up and walks up to the shorter woman. Her hand rubs soothing circles on Paige’s back; a simple gesture that causes her waterline to prickle and prompts tears to form. Azzi’s eyes flicker over to Paige, noticing the dark circles around her eyes. Her blue irises have lost their luster, and her shoulders are slumped forward. The blonde glances at Azzi and offers a weak nod of acknowledgment. The friendly act sends static electricity through her body.

She doesn’t know how their relationship, or the remnants of it, got to the point where even the simplest friendly gesture seldomly happens. Azzi tries to ignore the heavy pit of if only things were different that knots itself into her stomach. But she fails and it simmers with the turbulent sea of her emotions. 

“Yo, Az!” Odyssey Sim’s booming voice catches Azzi off guard and causes her to flinch. A flicker of concern flashes over Paige’s face but it is quickly masked with a guarded scowl. It’s an emotion only Azzi can discern; the two women spent years carving themselves into each other’s skin, etching marks of unspoken promises in every crevice. They were each other’s mosaics; they spent years meticulously putting every intricate piece together. Azzi learned the meaning behind the faintest, yet most intentional quivers of Paige’s muscles from their years together. 

But now, everything about Paige seems foreign. 

If Odyssey and Paige notice how Azzi flinches at the loud voice, they ignore it. At least, Paige does. “Az, come join us,” Odyssey’s voice is softer, with tones of empathy laced under each syllable. “Truth or drink, team tradition.” Reluctantly, she hoists herself from her seat to walk over to Odyssey and the flock of basketball players passing a bottle of Devil’s Spring around. 

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Azzi mutters to Azura who laughs and ruffles her hair playfully. “Azura, I can’t play truth or drink. We’re adults, not carefree college students,” she glances at Paige who is animatedly arguing with Odyssey about getting a virgin shot. 

“Odyssey, that’s not fair. I’on even drink that much anymore,” Paige whines, throwing her hands over her head. Odyssey frowns and pours the blonde a shot of vodka, not wanting to argue with her. Paige grins triumphantly and Cam rolls her eyes from across the table. 

Azura snickers and turns to Azzi. “You’ll be fine kiddo. Team tradition.” 

Azzi groans, letting her head drop into her hands. She did not want to share too much information with her teammates, and she did not want to be completely shitfaced in front of her new teammates. After all, that’s more Paige’s fashion than hers, but not wanting to fight with her teammates, she allows Azura to pour her a shot. 

Or two.

Or three. 

Paige watches her, amused by the uncertainty painted across her face as she warily inspects the three nearly overflowing shot glasses. Azzi glances up at her, an unreadable expression flashing across her face before she turns away, her jaw tightening. Paige knows it’s unfair, but she flinches at the hostility swarming the warm brown eyes she’s grown to know and love.  

***

The bar buzzes with a faint hum of music and laughter, the kind that borders being too loud but also keeping everyone grounded in the moment. The occasional boisterous cheers after a teammate opts to throw a drink back instead of answering personal questions about their sex lives that emanate from the table earn occasional glares from bystanders.

“Alright, alright. We gotta save some questions for our princess,” Odyssey announces, cutting through the chatter as she leans forward across the table, flipping through a messy notebook full of questions. “Fudd, you’re up.” 

Azzi swallows, feeling the intense gazes of all of her teammates scouring her body as if their stares could rip all her secrets apart. She stiffens when a dark gleam enters Odyssey’s gaze as she scribbles something on a slip of paper and hands it to her. When she opens the note, she stiffens, a cold bead of sweat dribbling down her neck. 

“Have you ever ruined someone else’s relationship?” Azzi reads aloud, her voice hesitant. The table erupts with laughter and a bunch of “oohs” and “ahhs.” From across the table, Paige pretends to seem unfazed but her subtle nail-biting reveals her uneasy demeanor, but there’s a hint of a silent challenge that enters her eyes. 

“Damn, Sims. You really went for the throat for our little newbie,” Cam chuckles, earning a glare from Azzi. Azura leans back in her seat, sipping from her drink while giving Azzi an encouraging nod. 

“Team tradition,” Odyssey grins unapologetically while twirling the ballpoint pen in between her fingers. “Gotta make it memorable for our first-timer, right?” 

Azzi flips her off before glancing at the paper slip again, debating whether she should throw the shot of vodka back that sits next to her. The weight of the question settles over her like a heavy cloak. It’s not an easy one to avoid–if she drinks, her teammates will know that she’s hiding something from them. However, if she answers, she knows she will regret it tonight. Before she can let herself decide, she opens her mouth, and a single syllable rolls off her tongue.

“Yeah.” Paige’s eyebrows shoot up before furrowing as she leans forward ever so slightly. The table falls silent for a moment, a silence louder than the music and laughter in the bar. The weight of the curiosity of her teammates settles down on her, drowning and suffocating her. Cam and Paige share a knowing look with each other and cough awkwardly. 

“Well… do you regret it?” Odyssey asks, her gaze flickering knowingly between Paige and Azzi. Azzi’s fingers tighten around the shot glass, her knuckles whitening. Paige savors the way the muscles in her fingers flex for a split second before swallowing and glancing at Azzi expectantly.

“It’s complicated…” she finally mutters, desperately looking around at her teammates. Paige scoffs silently, turning away to sip from her drink. When Azzi risks a glance at Paige, guilt pools in her stomach as she notices the hurt and anger that flickers in her eyes. The tension between them is palpable, their unspoken history hanging between them like a storm cloud. 

Eventually, when it’s Paige's turn, she leans back in her chair, basking in the attention of her teammates. “Guess it’s my turn,” she mutters. 

“Alright, superstar,” Odyssey mocks while sticking her tongue out at the blonde. She scribbles down a question and slides it across the table. Paige picks it up, silently inspecting it before letting out a dry laugh. 

“What’s the biggest mistake you’ve ever made?” she reads aloud, her voice tinged with irony. The table falls into an uncomfortable silence again. Paige doesn’t hesitate and picks up her shot glass and downs the vodka in one smooth motion. Azzi traces a loose droplet that dribbles down her neck before clinging to her toned collarbone exposed by the simple tank top that frames Paige’s tall figure. The tightness in her chest grows. She knows Paige’s avoidance isn’t about the question, but more about her. The blonde slams the shot glass on the table and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes fixed on Azzi. 

“Guess you’ll never know,” Paige says with a hollow smile, her voice piercing Azzi’s skin like daggers. The game continues, but the once-exuberant laughter begins to settle down. The tension between the two basketball players lingers and the unspoken words and old wounds simmer beneath the surface. She knows the night is far from over, but she’d rather be anywhere other than her hotel room. 

***

As her teammates began to leave their seats and move to the dance floor, Azzi and Paige were involuntarily sitting next to each other. The distance between them was only several feet, but it felt like miles of separation with their unspoken past. Surprisingly, a soft and familiar voice addresses her.

“I’m sorry ‘bout the other night,” Paige murmurs hesitantly, staring at her feet. The knot in Azzi’s chest is tightened and she feels suffocated by Paige’s words, soft but genuine. The once-vibrant atmosphere of the bar feels muted, with the steady bass of the music fading into the background. Azzi doesn’t respond immediately, her fingers curling around the rim of her shot glass as if it could anchor her. The apology hangs between them, fragile yet heavy, and Azzi can only hear the erratic drumming of her own heart. 

“What are you sorry for, Paige?” her voice is quiet but laced with sharpness. Her eyes drift to the pair of blue eyes, once so lively and full of a sparkle that has dulled out and left an almost deserted shell. 

Paige flinches at her tone, but she presses on, her voice soft and cautious. “For, well, everything,” she mutters under her breath, a lonely tear sliding down her smooth cheek. Azzi instinctively reaches over to caress the tear off of her face. At first, Paige flinches at the feeling of her warm hand but leans into her touch. The blonde finally lifts her gaze, meeting the brunette’s. The expression in her eyes–equal parts regret and vulnerability–knocks the wind out of Azzi. It was once the expression that was used to unravel the thread that tied Azzi’s defenses to her heart together, but it’s now the one that feels like a knife twisting in an old wound. 

The silence stretches between them, thick and suffocating as Azzi retracts her hand, her fingers tingling with the familiar warmth of Paige’s skin. She hadn’t meant for her defenses to slip, but the sight of Paige’s tear stirred something she thought she’d buried.

“Azzi?”

“Yeah, Paige?”

“Does he treat you well?” Azzi’s eyes widen and her body stiffens before she can nurse her expressions into a feigned happiness. Paige doesn’t miss the way her body reacts and her gaze softens with a knowing expression. The question is simple with no ill intention, but Paige’s gentle gaze stays locked to hers.

“Of course, he does,” her voice too light, too practiced. Paige’s eyebrows raise slightly in suspicion, but she doesn’t say anything. 

Paige tilts her head slightly, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Good to you,” she repeats softly, almost as if she’s testing the words. There’s no accusation, only quiet observation, but it feels like she’s shining a spotlight on all of Azzi’s cracks. 

Azzi shifts in her seat. “Why do you care, Paige?” she finally asks, her voice harsher than intended. She meets Paige’s eyes, and the question lingers in the space between them; jagged, heavy, and raw. 

Paige doesn’t flinch and instead holds Azzi’s gaze, her blue eyes shimmering with raw emotion that she doesn’t bother to hide. “Because I care about you,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “And, I know you, Az. I know when you’re lying.” Azzi feels her throat tighten, and she swallows hard. The urge to protect herself flares up, but she forces it down. She stares at the amber liquid in her glass instead as if it holds the answers that she doesn’t want to face. 

When she lifts her head up, Paige leans in closer, bridging the distance between them. “You deserve better. You deserve to be happy.” Azzi’s chest aches as she opens her mouth, but no words come out. 

Just then, the bell of the bar door rings aggressively. All eyes in the bar turn to the olive-skinned man with unruly hair and red eyes standing in the doorway. 

“Azzi, where are you?” Charles slurs while scanning the area like a predator hunting for its prey. Next to Paige, Azzi’s breathing slows and her body goes rigid. She glances at Paige, panic in her eyes. “Azzi…” Before he can continue, Paige steps firmly between them. “She doesn’t want to talk to you right now,” Paige says sharply, her tone slicing through the tense air. Charles lets out a dry and humorless laugh, his lips curling into a sinister sneer. “And who the hell are you to tell me that? Her ex? Thought you’d be out of the picture by now.” When Paige’s jaw tightens, he knows he’s struck a nerve. He moves closer to her, jabbing a shaky finger into her chest. “She never fucking cared about you. Drop it.” 

Azzi sucks in a sharp breath and sinks her teeth into her upper lip as she closes her eyes. Fuck, she really didn’t want this. Paige’s jaw tightened and her hands clenched into fists by her sides. She knows she’s strong enough to take him on. “I’m someone who actually gives a damn about your fucking fiancée,” she sneers.

Charles chuckles mockingly, staggering forward until his booze-heavy breath fanned over Paige’s face. “You don’t know anything about us.”

“I know enough,” Paige snapped. Azzi’s head swam as she watched the confrontation unfold, her body frozen between the two people pulling her in opposite directions. Charles glances at the brunette, scowling. “Why don’t you back off, princess? This is gonna get messy real fast.”

Before Azzi could respond, a sickening crunch split the thick air between Charles and Paige. Startled, Azzi sits up and lets out a shriek. A silhouette of olive skin and blood stumbles and falls backward. Paige stands at the door, unscathed. Relief courses through Azzi’s veins until she notices the tears streaking down the blonde’s cheeks and her uneasy breathing. 

“Agh, fuck!” Charles screams, grabbing his nose. “Fuck, you’re a fucking maniac!” 

Azzi doesn’t know what’s going on. She’s suddenly hit by the warm, humid air of the Los Angeles night as she’s being dragged by Paige’s cool, but secure grip on her wrist. The noise of the bar fades into a distant hum, and she’s only half aware of the world around her as she’s pulled into the quiet of the night. 

Her feet stumble to keep up with Paige’s determined stride, her brain still trying to process the whirlwind of emotions. The feeling of Paige’s hand around her wrist is grounding, a tether in the uncertainty of her future. They don’t stop walking until they reach the car, the cool metal clicking open. Azzi doesn’t protest; she lets herself be guided into the passenger seat where Paige’s familiar rosy scent envelopes her. 

Paige doesn’t say anything at first while she slides into the driver’s seat as they ride in an unusual silence. It’s not suffocating, but raw and uncertain. Azzi finally glances at Paige, her shoulders slumped as she grips the wheel so hard that her knuckles are white and bleeding from the encounter in the bar. 

“Why are you doing this?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

Paige glances at her, her face soft yet unreadable. “I care about you, Az. I won’t let you keep pretending everything is fine.” Azzi doesn’t respond right away as she lets the words settle in her chest. They stir up the guilt that lingers from their last encounter 3 years ago. But she lets herself relax in the quiet of the night as the city lights flicker past.

For the first time since she got to the city, Azzi lets herself breathe. 

[moonlitstoriess]

Binding Lies- Eris Vanserra x fem! reader (mini-series) Part 3

Summary: When Y/N, Azriel's secret half-sister who lives far away, and Eris Vanserra form a strategic contractual marriage to further their own agendas, what begins as a carefully crafted arrangement soon becomes more complicated. As they pretend to be a perfect couple, the lines between duty and desire blur, and neither is prepared for the consequences.

See masterlist

Previous part

Warnings: once again, none I believe

“Now, you may kiss the bride.”

The priest’s words hung in the air like a blade poised to strike. Y/N had known they were coming—had been bracing for them since the moment she stepped into the hall. And yet, the sound of them sent her stomach plummeting as though the ground beneath her had given way.

Her breath caught, the weight of the moment pressing down on her chest. Her heart thudded loudly in her ears, drowning out the murmurs of the crowd. She didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Her hands remained limp in Eris’ grasp, and for a moment, she was certain that her body would betray her—would refuse to obey, to go through with this.

But Eris didn’t hesitate.

Without a flicker of uncertainty, he turned to her, his movements fluid and confident, as though this moment was nothing more than a well-rehearsed dance. She watched, frozen, as the faintest smile curled the edges of his lips—a smile that didn’t quite reach his amber eyes. He wasn’t Eris Vanserra, the arrogant and calculating male she had come to know. No, in this moment, he was something entirely different: the charming lover, the perfect prince.

His hand shifted to her waist, strong and sure, and Y/N’s breath hitched at the sudden warmth of his touch. The layers of silk and lace did little to dull the sensation, his fingers firm yet gentle as they settled against her. Her skin prickled beneath his touch, a heat she hadn’t expected spreading through her like wildfire.

She wanted to pull away, to create distance, but her body betrayed her once more. Her muscles wouldn’t respond, wouldn’t let her move as he leaned in, the sharp scent of pine and smoke filling her senses.

Time slowed as his face came closer to hers. Y/N’s heart raced, her pulse a frantic drumbeat in her chest. She couldn’t look away from him—the sharp lines of his jaw, the golden light in his eyes, the way his expression remained calm and composed even as her world tilted on its axis.

And then his lips met hers.

The kiss was gentle, far softer than she had imagined it would be. It wasn’t rushed or forceful—it wasn’t the kind of kiss she had seen shared in grand love stories or sweeping romances. No, it was calculated, careful. Just enough pressure to make it believable, to convince the room full of watching eyes that this was real.

But to Y/N, it was so much more than that.

The warmth of his mouth sent a jolt through her, a spark of something she didn’t want to name. Her lashes fluttered closed as his lips moved against hers, light and practiced, drawing her into the moment despite herself.

Her free hand, the one not held in his grasp, twitched at her side as though it might rise of its own accord. Her thoughts blurred, the weight of the crowd’s gaze fading as she focused solely on the feel of him. It was dangerous, how easily she could lose herself in it.

And then, just as her heart began to steady, just as she felt herself leaning into the kiss—he pulled away.

Her eyes snapped open, her chest heaving as if she had forgotten to breathe. Eris lingered close for a moment longer, his face still inches from hers. His amber eyes locked onto hers, unreadable yet impossibly intense, and for a fleeting moment, she thought she saw something raw flicker in their depths. But it was gone too quickly to name.

He didn’t look like the male who had kissed her moments ago. He looked like Eris again—sharp, composed, and infuriatingly smug. And yet, there was something softer in the corners of his mouth, something that made her chest tighten.

The world around them came rushing back with the priest’s booming voice.

“May I present to you, Lord and Lady Vanserra, Prince and Princess of the Autumn Court.”

The hall erupted into applause, the sound jarring as it echoed off the grand walls. Y/N felt Eris’ hand squeeze hers again, grounding her as the weight of the moment threatened to crush her. She forced herself to smile, to turn her head toward the crowd as their cheers washed over her like a tidal wave.

Eris stepped closer, his grip firm as he guided her to face their people, his expression a mask of regal confidence. Y/N followed his lead, her movements stiff but deliberate as she reminded herself of the role she was meant to play.

The ceremonial proceedings dragged on, each step feeling more surreal than the last. They exchanged rings—a delicate band of gold and firestone sliding onto her finger—and accepted the blessings of the court’s elders, who approached one by one with words of congratulations and advice. Y/N nodded and smiled, her body moving through the motions even as her mind remained fixated on the kiss.

She could still feel the ghost of it on her lips, the lingering warmth that refused to fade no matter how hard she tried to shake it.

When the formalities were finally complete, the priest raised his hands, calling for silence once more.

“And now,” he announced, his voice rich with authority, “we invite you all to the grand celebration in honor of the newlyweds. The feast will begin in the Great Hall shortly.”

Cheers erupted again, the guests rising to their feet as the announcement marked the end of the ceremony.

Eris turned to her, his hand never leaving hers as he leaned in close. “You did well,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

Y/N glanced up at him, her eyes narrowing slightly at the faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Is that what this is to you? A performance?” she whispered back, her tone sharper than she intended.

His smile didn’t falter, but his gaze softened ever so slightly. “You’ll learn, princess,” he replied, his voice like silk. “Sometimes, a performance is the only way to survive.”

She didn’t respond.

Instead, she let him lead her down the aisle, their hands still entwined, as the crowd continued to cheer around them. The weight of her crown felt heavier than ever, the rings on her finger cold against her skin.

But nothing was heavier than the memory of his kiss—the warmth that lingered, despite everything.

The grand banquet hall of Montesere gleamed under the warm glow of chandeliers, their light refracting against the marble floors and the golden accents of the walls. Music flowed through the air, a symphony of strings and flutes that carried the celebration into every corner. Servants moved with precision, trays of wine and delicacies balanced in their hands as they weaved through the crowd of nobles and aristocrats.

But Eris Vanserra hardly noticed any of it.

He sat at the table reserved for the newlyweds, his chair positioned slightly higher than the others, marking his place as both the guest of honor and the new lord of the union. His posture was flawless, his expression unreadable as he inclined his head toward every toast, every congratulation.

Yet his thoughts were elsewhere.

Y/N sat beside him, her presence a quiet flame that demanded his attention without even trying. Her gown—a masterpiece of snowy white adorned with crystals—shimmered like starlight every time she moved, every turn of her head sending fragments of light scattering across the room. The delicate tiara atop her head, a gift from Leone herself, caught the glow of the chandeliers, adding an ethereal quality to her appearance.

She looked like she had been carved from frost and fire, impossibly beautiful, impossibly distant.

His bride.

The kiss lingered in his mind. He hadn’t thought about it when he leaned in—it was part of the ceremony, a necessity to make the union convincing. But when their lips met, when her breath had hitched ever so slightly, something unplanned had stirred in him.

She had frozen for just a second, but then she had leaned into it, her lips soft and warm against his. It wasn’t a long kiss, but it had been enough to ignite something beneath the surface. Something dangerous.

And then he had pulled away. Too quickly. Because if he hadn’t, he might have forgotten that this was all an act.

Now, as he glanced at her from the corner of his eye, he wondered if she had felt it too.

His thoughts darkened as the reality of tomorrow loomed over him. By sunrise, they would leave Montesere. They would return to Autumn. To his father.

The image of Beron’s face flashed in his mind—cold, calculating, cruel. Eris could already imagine the twisted satisfaction in his father’s smile, the mocking remarks he would make about the union. He knew exactly how Beron would assess Y/N, how he would search for any flaw, any weakness to exploit.

Eris’ jaw tightened, his hand gripping the edge of the table.

The thought of his father’s gaze on her, his poisonous words reaching her ears, made something inside Eris twist violently. A sudden, fierce protectiveness surged through him, unexpected and unwelcome.

For a moment, he considered keeping her here, in Montesere. It was far from the Autumn Court, far from his father’s reach. She would be safe here, hidden away in this beautiful, glittering palace.

But no. That wasn’t an option.

Eris forced the thought aside, his expression hardening. This wasn’t about safety or sentiment. This marriage was part of a larger plan—his plan.

He glanced around the hall, taking in the grandeur, the opulence, and the nobles who danced and laughed, oblivious to the storm brewing within him. Every step he had taken, every move he had made, had led to this moment. Marrying Y/N, creating a new identity for her, was only the beginning.

He would return to the Autumn Court. He would dismantle his father’s reign piece by piece. And when the time was right, Beron would fall.

Eris’ eyes flicked back to Y/N, his thoughts sharpening. She didn’t know the full extent of his plans. She didn’t need to. For now, she was a necessary piece on his board.

But she was more than that, wasn’t she?

“Eris.”

Her voice pulled him from his thoughts.

He turned his head to find her watching him, her expression carefully neutral. But there was something in her eyes—curiosity, maybe even concern.

“You’ve been staring at nothing for the past five minutes,” she said softly. “Is this what marriage to you is going to be like? Silent brooding?”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Would you prefer endless conversation instead? I didn’t take you for the chatty type.”

She arched a brow, a flicker of amusement crossing her face. “I can be chatty. When the company is worth it.”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to make myself worth it,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

Her laugh was soft, almost reluctant, but it eased something in his chest.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Y/N blinked, her gaze flickering to his, wary. “So do you,” she replied, a faint edge to her voice. “But this dress… it’s not me. It’s beautiful, but…” She looked down at the crystal-laden fabric, her fingers brushing against it. “It’s not who I am.”

Eris tilted his head, his amber eyes narrowing slightly. “Then who are you?”

She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, Leone's voice boomed across the hall.

“And now,” the Montesere princess announced from the stage, silencing the music and drawing every pair of eyes to her, “a special dance for our newlyweds. Prince and princess Vanserra, please join us on the floor.”

Eris froze.

For the first time that evening, he felt his mask slip.

The applause was polite but insistent, the crowd parting to clear the center of the room.

Y/N turned to him, her brow raised, her hand already extending toward his.

He forced a smile, his fingers curling around hers as he rose from his seat.

And as he led her toward the dance floor, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was all beginning to spiral out of his control.

The applause rang through the hall, polite but thunderous, a sea of expectant eyes following their every move. Y/N’s heart thudded heavily in her chest, each step toward the center of the floor feeling like an eternity.

Her hand rested in Eris’ warm grip, his palm steady against hers as he led her to the cleared space. The weight of her gown seemed heavier now, the shimmering crystals catching the light in a way that made her feel exposed, like every movement was amplified under the scrutiny of the room.

She wasn’t used to this.

Her throat tightened, her breaths quickening as they reached the center of the floor. She could feel their stares, hear the whispers that undoubtedly swirled behind the polished smiles of the Montesere nobility. They were all watching her—the princess from nowhere, now Lady Vanserra.

Panic clawed at the edges of her mind.

But then, Eris turned to face her.

“Y/N.” His voice was low, soothing, cutting through the noise in her head.

Her gaze snapped to his, her own hand tightening instinctively around his. His amber eyes burned with something she couldn’t name, a quiet intensity that made the room blur at the edges.

“Look at me,” he said, his tone firm but gentle. “Not at them. Just me.”

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to nod. The world seemed to steady, her focus narrowing to the male in front of her.

Eris’ hand slid to her waist, the touch deliberate but not overbearing, as if he was giving her a chance to pull away. When she didn’t, he drew her closer. The other hand held hers, his grip strong yet careful, as though he was afraid of breaking something fragile.

The music began, a slow and haunting melody that filled the hall. Strings and piano wove together, their notes soft but commanding, the kind of music that demanded to be felt as much as heard.

Eris led her into the first step, his movements fluid, confident. She followed instinctively, her body falling into rhythm with his. He guided her effortlessly, his hand at her waist anchoring her as they swayed and turned.

But even with his steady presence, she couldn’t shake the weight of the stares, the murmurs she imagined filling the room.

“They’re all watching,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the music.

“Let them,” Eris replied, his lips quirking in the faintest of smirks. His tone held a calm assurance, as if the attention of an entire room was nothing to him.

“It’s easy for you,” she murmured, her voice tinged with bitterness. “You’ve done this before.”

His thumb brushed lightly against her waist, a gesture so subtle she almost missed it. “And now, so have you.”

Her gaze snapped to his, startled by the quiet warmth in his words.

“You’re doing fine,” he added, his voice low enough that only she could hear. “Better than fine.”

She wanted to argue, to tell him that her heart was pounding too hard, that her steps felt clumsy compared to his flawless movements. But the way he was looking at her, like she was the only one in the room, made the words die in her throat.

His hand at her waist shifted slightly, pulling her just a fraction closer. The distance between them vanished, and for a moment, she forgot about the crowd, the banquet, the weight of her new title. All she could feel was him—his warmth, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the quiet strength in the way he held her.

“You hate this,” he said softly, his voice almost teasing.

She blinked, startled by his bluntness. “I—”

“You hate the dress, the attention, the formality,” he continued, his smirk deepening. “But you’re still here. You’re still doing it.”

Her lips parted, but she couldn’t find a reply. He was right, infuriatingly so.

The music swelled, the melody wrapping around them like a cocoon. As they turned in time with the beat, her gaze caught on the chandeliers above, their crystals glittering like stars.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted, her voice so quiet she wasn’t sure if he heard her.

But then his hand tightened ever so slightly on her waist, grounding her.

“You don’t have to,” he said, his tone softening. “Just follow my lead.”

And she did.

With each step, the tension in her chest eased. The world outside their little circle faded further, the music becoming the only thing that mattered. His hand guided her through each turn, each sway, and for the first time that evening, she felt… steady.

“You’re not terrible at this,” he said, breaking the silence between them.

She looked up at him, startled, before narrowing her eyes. “Not terrible?”

His lips twitched into something that could almost be called a smile. “Surprisingly decent.”

A reluctant laugh escaped her, light and fleeting. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re tolerating me. Progress.”

Their banter felt strangely natural, a small bubble of normalcy in the midst of the overwhelming night.

As the music reached its crescendo, she let herself relax, if only a little. She let herself follow his lead, let herself trust the strength in his hands.

When the final note rang out, the room erupted into applause, the sound crashing back into her awareness like a wave.

Eris stepped back, releasing her waist but keeping hold of her hand. His gaze lingered on her for a moment, something unspoken passing between them.

And then he turned, leading her back toward their table as the crowd began to fill the dance floor once more.

Y/N’s chest tightened as the moment ended, the weight of the evening settling back on her shoulders.

But for those few minutes, she had felt something she hadn’t expected.

Not freedom, not happiness.

But something close to peace.

The celebration had finally ended, the grand hall now quiet as the guests dispersed to their respective chambers. The night was heavy with silence, broken only by the distant echo of footsteps and the faint hum of a cool breeze slipping through the corridors. Y/N’s legs felt leaden as she trailed behind Eris, her thoughts a tangled mess of exhaustion, nerves, and disbelief.

She’d managed to navigate through the evening without completely unraveling. She’d endured the stares, the whispers, the constant scrutiny. But this… this part hadn’t even occurred to her until Eris spoke.

“You realize we’ll be staying in the same room tonight,” he said, his tone even but laced with a faint smirk.

Her steps faltered. “What?”

He glanced over his shoulder at her, his amber eyes catching the faint light from the sconces lining the hallway. “We’re a married couple now. Leone was quite insistent on appearances being maintained, even behind closed doors. No one will believe this union if we’re staying in separate rooms.”

Her stomach sank, her pulse quickening. “Oh, gods,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. “I didn’t even think about… that part.”

Eris slowed his pace, turning to face her fully. He arched a brow, amusement flickering across his face. “What part?”

“You know.” She gestured vaguely, her cheeks warming. “The… shared room part. The… other part.”

His smirk deepened, clearly relishing her discomfort. “What other part, Y/N?”

She glared at him, her face flushing further. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“Do I?” he teased, his voice low and infuriatingly smooth.

“You’re impossible,” she hissed, brushing past him.

He chuckled softly but followed her, falling back into step beside her.

When they reached the door to their chamber, Y/N hesitated. The ornate carvings on the wood seemed to mock her, their intricate designs a reminder of the life she’d just stepped into—a life filled with obligations and expectations she hadn’t fully grasped.

Eris pushed the door open and stepped inside, holding it for her. She entered cautiously, her gaze sweeping over the room. It was grand, of course, with arched windows framed by gauzy white curtains that billowed slightly in the night breeze. The walls were warm sandstone, carved with intricate geometric patterns, and the floor was adorned with vibrant rugs in deep reds and golds. A low, cushioned divan sat near a small brass table, and the scent of jasmine lingered faintly in the air, carried in from the balcony beyond. The room was bathed in the soft, silvery glow of moonlight, filtering through the latticework of the windows.

Her throat tightened as she took it all in. This was real. This was happening.

As she turned to Eris, the words tumbled out before she could stop them. “Are we… should we also…?”

His expression softened slightly, the teasing edge from earlier fading. “No,” he said firmly. “We don’t need to have sex.”

Relief flooded her, but before she could respond, he continued, his voice taking on a sharper tone. “And if anyone is dumb or desperate enough to come and listen through the door, I’ll make sure they regret it.”

Her lips parted in surprise, a faint flicker of something she couldn’t quite name stirring in her chest. Gratitude, maybe. Or something else entirely.

Before the silence could stretch too long, the door creaked open again. Two figures stepped inside—Samira and Noura, both wearing faintly amused expressions.

Eris nodded toward them. “I called them to help you undress,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “I thought you might be uncomfortable with me helping.”

Her eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by his consideration. She opened her mouth to respond, but he was already moving toward the door.

“I have some preparations to undertake before our departure tomorrow,” he said. “Take your time.”

And with that, he left, the door clicking shut behind him.

For a moment, Y/N just stood there, staring at the door. She felt oddly… touched. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it was thoughtful in a way she hadn’t expected from him. She shook her head, brushing the feeling aside.

“Well,” Samira said, breaking the silence. “That was… interesting.”

Noura smirked, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “He’s quite the gentleman, isn’t he?”

“Gentleman?” Y/N snorted, the tension in her chest easing slightly. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

Samira chuckled, stepping forward to help unfasten the intricate clasps of her gown. “Still, it’s something. Most males wouldn’t think twice about leaving their wives to fend for themselves.”

Y/N huffed, unsure how to respond. As the two women worked, their hands deftly undoing the layers of her wedding attire, she felt a small pang of regret. The gown was beautiful, but it wasn’t her.

“Don’t put me in a nightdress,” she said suddenly, her voice firm.

Samira and Noura exchanged confused glances. “What?” Noura asked.

“I don’t want a nightdress,” Y/N repeated. “Help me into something… different. Outerwear. A cloak or something.”

Samira frowned. “Why?”

“I need to see my mother,” Y/N said quietly, the words slipping out before she could second-guess them. “One last time.”

Understanding flickered in their eyes, quickly followed by sympathy.

Samira hesitated. “But… Prince Eris—”

Noura nudged her lightly, cutting her off. “Doesn’t need to know if Y/N wishes so.” She turned to Y/N, her expression softening. “Of course, sweetpea. You deserve to see her.”

A small, grateful smile tugged at Y/N’s lips. “Thank you.”

The two women set to work, dressing her in more practical clothing—a simple tunic, sturdy trousers, and a thick cloak to ward off the chill of the night. As they helped her tie the laces and adjust the cloak, their usual amused comments filled the air, lightening the mood.

When they were finished, Y/N stepped back to the mirror, her reflection a stark contrast to the bride she’d been earlier. She looked at herself for a long moment, taking in the determined set of her jaw, the fire in her eyes.

“Are you ready?” Noura asked gently.

Y/N nodded, her fingers brushing the edge of the cloak. “I am.”

And with that, she turned toward the door, her heart steady as she prepared to leave.

The night air was cool against Y/N’s skin as she slipped out of the palace, her cloak drawn tightly around her shoulders. The distant hum of the celebration still carried on the breeze, but each step she took further from the grand halls made the sound fade into a muffled echo. Her heart pounded harder with every passing second, nerves twisting in her chest. She knew the risk of sneaking away, the potential fallout if anyone discovered her absence, but she couldn’t leave without seeing her mother one last time.

Her steps quickened as she navigated the quiet streets of Montesere. The city, bathed in moonlight, looked hauntingly beautiful. The sandstone buildings, their arched windows and ornate carvings illuminated by the soft glow, felt both comforting and foreign. She passed shadowed alleys and quiet courtyards until the healer’s residence came into view—a modest but well-kept villa tucked away from the busier parts of the city.

Two healers greeted her at the entrance, their faces kind but tired. They didn’t seem surprised by her arrival, bowing slightly before one spoke. "Your Highness," the older healer said softly. "Your mother is resting now, but she will be glad to see you. She’s been asking for you."

"How is she?" Y/N asked, her voice trembling.

The healer exchanged a glance with her colleague before offering a small, reassuring smile. "She is weak, yes, but her condition has improved since she was brought here. Thanks to Princess Leone and Prince Eris, we’ve been able to provide better care, better resources. She’s stable, and we’re hopeful the treatments will bring further relief."

Y/N’s throat tightened at the mention of Eris. She nodded quickly, not trusting herself to speak, and followed as they led her down a quiet hallway lit by the warm glow of lanterns. Her heart twisted as they reached the door to her mother’s room.

When she stepped inside, the sight nearly broke her. Her mother, once so full of life and warmth, lay frail against the pillows, her skin pale, her form seeming so much smaller than Y/N remembered. But when her mother’s tired eyes opened and landed on her, they softened with a love that time and illness couldn’t diminish.

"Y/N," her mother whispered, a weak but genuine smile tugging at her lips.

Y/N rushed to her side, sinking to her knees beside the bed as she grabbed her mother’s hand. "Mother," she breathed, her voice breaking. "I’m here."

Her mother’s hand trembled as it rose to touch Y/N’s cheek. "My beautiful girl," she said softly. "I heard you’re married now."

Y/N let out a small laugh, though it was tinged with sadness. "Oh, Mother, you have no idea."

Her mother chuckled weakly, the sound fragile but comforting. "Tell me, child. Is he kind to you?"

Y/N hesitated. The memories of the evening flashed in her mind—the weight of Eris’s hand on her waist, his steadying gaze as they danced, his unexpected consideration. "He… he’s…" She trailed off, unable to find the words.

Her mother gave her a knowing look, her smile faint but teasing. "That good, hm?"

"Mother," Y/N protested lightly, her lips curving despite herself. She looked down, her grip tightening on her mother’s hand. "Please, hold on a little longer. The treatments will come. Eris gave me his word. You’ll get better, and… and then we’ll be together again."

Her mother’s gaze grew distant, a soft sigh escaping her. "Autumn," she murmured. "Never thought my baby would end up there."

Y/N’s throat tightened as tears slipped down her cheeks. "I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to go."

Her mother’s weak hand brushed over her hair, the touch comforting. "Eris is a good male."

Y/N blinked, stunned. "What?"

Her mother’s smile grew, faint but fond. "He’s been visiting me these past three days. Ensuring I’m well cared for. He even came to ask for my blessing."

Shock rippled through Y/N. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. Her mind reeled with the revelation.

Her mother chuckled softly at her expression. "Dearest, he may not show it in the way you’d expect, but he cares for you. I can see it."

Y/N shook her head, wiping at her tears. "I don’t know what to think anymore."

Her mother’s hand stilled, her gaze turning somber. "But Y/N, Azriel…"

"Will never know," Y/N said firmly, her voice breaking.

Her mother’s eyes glistened with tears as she nodded, her hand resting gently over Y/N’s. They spoke quietly after that, exchanging memories and soft reassurances until the hour grew late.

When Y/N finally stood to leave, her mother’s whispered "I love you" followed her out the door, carving itself into her heart.

The second she stepped outside, the cool night air hit her, and her knees nearly buckled beneath the weight of her emotions. She pressed herself against the nearest wall, trying to catch her breath—only to collide with something solid.

No, not something. Someone.

Her head snapped up, and her heart dropped as she found herself face-to-face with Eris. His amber eyes burned with barely contained anger, his jaw set tightly.

"Care to explain what you’re doing out here?" he said, his voice dangerously low.

Eris felt a wave of dread crash over him the moment he stepped into the chambers and found them empty. His chest tightened, panic clawing its way up his throat. He scanned the room as though she might have hidden herself in the shadows, but the truth was painfully clear: Y/N was gone.

His heart pounded as the worst scenarios flickered through his mind. She was new to Montesere’s politics, and while the court seemed secure on the surface, he knew better than to trust appearances. What if someone had taken her? What if she’d wandered into danger?

Without wasting another moment, he strode out of the room, his steps swift and purposeful. He passed through the halls, his golden-red hair unbound and messy as his growing panic simmered beneath the surface. His tone was sharp when he finally found Samira in a quiet corridor.

"Where the hell did she go?" he demanded, his voice low but tight, barely masking the protectiveness threatening to explode.

Samira looked startled, blinking up at him. "She went to see her mother," she said cautiously. "She didn’t say anything to you?"

The tension in his chest eased slightly, though the worry remained. Of course, she would go to her mother—she wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye. But the thought of her traveling alone, in the dark, even in a safe city, still ignited an irrational protectiveness he couldn’t shake.

"Alone," he muttered, more to himself than Samira, his hands balling into fists. "Of course, she’d go alone."

Without waiting for another word, he turned and left, striding toward the healer’s residence with determined speed. He didn’t bother to grab a cloak or gloves despite the chill in the night air. All he could think about was finding her, making sure she was safe.

When he saw her stepping out of the healer’s villa, relief flooded him, quickly chased by frustration. She leaned against the wall, her face pale, her shoulders trembling slightly. The sight of her vulnerability tugged at something deep within him, but his anger at her reckless choice burned just as fiercely.

He moved toward her, and when her back pressed into his chest, she flinched and spun around, her wide eyes meeting his furious ones.

"Care to explain what you’re doing out here in the middle of the night, alone?" His voice was sharp, but underneath it, the edge of worry was unmistakable.

Y/N sighed and pushed past him, her cloak sweeping behind her. "She’s my mother, Eris. I didn’t need to tell you."

His jaw tightened, and he turned on his heel to follow her. "You didn’t think I’d want to know you were sneaking out of the palace? That I’d want to ensure you were safe?"

"You shouldn’t have come," she shot back, her tone clipped. "I’m perfectly capable of walking across the city without a shadow trailing me."

"And yet here I am," he bit out, his long strides easily keeping pace with hers. "Because someone has to ensure you don’t get yourself killed."

She stopped abruptly and turned to face him, her expression exasperated. "Do you always have to be this insufferable?"

"Only when people I’m responsible for decide to take unnecessary risks."

Y/N scoffed, her frustration melting slightly into reluctant amusement. "Responsible for? You make it sound like I’m some stray you picked up."

Eris didn’t respond immediately, his gaze softening slightly as he looked at her. "You’re not a stray," he said quietly. "But you are my wife now. I take that responsibility seriously."

She blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the tension easing into something softer as they continued walking.

After a while, she broke the silence. "My mother told me you’ve been visiting her. That you even asked for her blessing."

Eris’s expression didn’t change, though something flickered in his eyes. "She’s your mother. It seemed… appropriate."

Y/N glanced at him, her steps slowing. "Thank you," she said softly.

He shrugged, as if it were no big deal, but the faintest hint of a smile touched his lips. "Don’t mention it."

They walked in silence again until they reached the edge of the palace grounds. Y/N suddenly stopped, turning to face him with an uncertain expression.

"What is it?" he asked, his brow furrowing.

She hesitated before saying, "Before we leave tomorrow… just… follow me."

Eris raised a brow but didn’t argue, letting her lead the way. She took him to a secluded spot just outside the palace—a small garden tucked away from the main paths. The space was simple but beautiful, with vines climbing up the walls and fragrant flowers blooming under the soft light of the stars. A stone bench sat in the center, surrounded by lush greenery.

"This is where I used to come when I needed to think," she said, her voice quiet. "It’s… my comfort place."

Eris looked around, taking in the serenity of the space. When he turned back to her, his gaze was softer, more open. "It suits you," he said simply.

They sat down together on the bench, the silence between them surprisingly comfortable.

"I’ve never left Montesere," she admitted after a moment, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t know what to expect. What if… what if your court hates me? What if your father—"

"He won’t," Eris interrupted, his tone firm. "I won’t let him. You’re under my protection now. No one will touch you, not even him."

She looked at him, her eyes searching his face for any hint of doubt. When she found none, she exhaled softly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.

"What’s it like?" she asked after a moment. "Your court?"

Eris leaned back slightly, his gaze drifting to the stars above them. "It’s… complicated. Autumn is beautiful, but it’s a harsh kind of beauty. The forests are vast, the colors vibrant, but there’s an edge to it all. It’s not like Montesere’s warmth. It’s colder, both in weather and in its people."

Y/N shivered slightly, her arms wrapping around herself. "Sounds… intimidating."

"It is," Eris admitted. "But you’ll adapt. You’re stronger than you think."

She glanced at him, her lips curving into a faint smile. "You sound so sure."

"I am," he said, his gaze steady on hers. "You’ve already proven you’re resilient. You’ll thrive, Y/N."

They fell into a companionable silence, the night wrapping around them like a blanket. For the first time since the ceremony, Y/N felt a flicker of hope, faint but steady. And as they sat under the stars, she allowed herself to believe, just for a moment, that maybe, just maybe, they could make this work.

The salty breeze of the sea caressed Y/N’s skin as she sat on a weathered wooden bench near the bustling shoreline. The rhythmic sound of waves lapping against the rocky shore below her mixed with the distant clamor of the docks, where servants and courtiers prepared for their departure. She had chosen this quiet spot a little away from the commotion, a place where she could be alone with her thoughts before stepping onto the ship that would take her away from everything she had ever known.

The waters of Montesere stretched out before her, shimmering in the early morning light. Seagulls cried overhead, and the ripples in the sea glimmered like molten silver under the sun’s touch. It was breathtaking, but Y/N couldn’t bring herself to enjoy its beauty fully. Her chest felt tight, her heart heavy with the bittersweet emotions swirling inside her.

She watched as servants loaded trunks onto the ship, their movements hurried but efficient. Autumn courtiers in their crimson and gold attire moved gracefully up the gangplank, their regal bearing a stark contrast to her own quiet melancholy. Every passing moment made it more real—she was leaving Montesere.

Her gaze drifted over the waters again, her fingers gripping the edge of the bench tightly. She had never thought she would leave this place, her home, her sanctuary. Not like this. A princess in name only, embarking on a journey to a land she didn’t belong to, playing a role she had never asked for.

Her thoughts turned to her mother, still fragile and fighting to survive. What if something happened while she was gone? Would her mother hold on long enough to see the promised treatments arrive? And then there was the fear of the unknown—Autumn, its cruel court, and the daunting presence of Eris’s father.

Her mind churned with doubts. How would this plan even end? Would it succeed, or would it all collapse, taking her and her mother down with it? Everything felt so fragile, as if one wrong move could shatter it all.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t hear the approaching footsteps until two gentle hands rested on her shoulders. Startled, Y/N turned quickly, her heart racing.

Samira and Noura stood behind her, their bittersweet smiles mirroring the emotions she felt inside.

“I knew we’d find you here,” Samira said softly, her voice warm and understanding.

Y/N’s lips trembled as she tried to find words, but they wouldn’t come. She looked between the two women—her companions these past few days, who had somehow become her only trusted friends in the whirlwind that her life had become.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Y/N began, her voice shaky, “but I’m going to miss you both so much.”

Noura’s eyes glistened as she knelt slightly and pulled Y/N into a hug. “Oh, Y/N. You’re going to be just fine,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “You are braver and stronger than you think.”

Y/N let out a shaky laugh, trying to push away the lump in her throat. “I don’t know about that.”

“You are,” Noura insisted, pulling back to look at her. “Don’t doubt yourself. You’ve come so far already.”

Y/N smiled faintly and whispered, “I’ll miss you dearly.”

Noura’s cheeks turned pink as she hesitated before responding. “I’ll miss you too,” she murmured, her tone unusually soft.

Confused, Y/N glanced at Samira, who smirked knowingly but quickly changed the subject. “You didn’t think you’d go alone, did you?” Samira said teasingly.

“What?” Y/N blinked, her confusion deepening. “What do you mean?”

Samira crossed her arms, her smirk widening. “I’m coming with you.”

Y/N’s jaw dropped. “No, no way. That’s not—”

“Princess Leone insisted,” Samira interrupted, her voice firm but kind. “She wanted someone you trust to be by your side. Someone to watch your back. Besides, prince Eris can't constantly be with you and I don't trust those Autumn ladies at all judging by the males that came with prince Eris."

Noura chimed in, a playful glint in her eyes despite the sadness there. “I’m staying, of course. The princess needs someone close to her.” Her cheeks flushed again as she added, almost shyly, “But you deserve someone too.”

Y/N frowned, her brow furrowing. “Why are you blushing?”

Samira waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about that,” she said quickly, steering the conversation back. “The point is, you’re stuck with me now.”

Y/N opened her mouth to argue, but before she could, a young servant came running toward them, his expression urgent. “Your Highness, Prince Eris and Princess Leone are aboard the ship. It’s time.”

The words hit Y/N like a final blow, sealing her fate. She took a deep, trembling breath, her gaze once more drifting to the sparkling waters of Montesere.

Turning to Samira, she tried for a smile. “At least I have you.”

“Always,” Samira said, her grin softening into something more sincere.

Together, they began the walk toward the ship, leaving the bench, the shore, and the life Y/N had always known behind.

The ship creaked beneath their feet as Y/N and Samira stepped onto the deck, the bustling sounds of final preparations ringing out around them. Sailors and servants moved with purpose, securing ropes and cargo, while the low hum of voices from the Autumn courtiers blended with the rhythmic slap of the waves against the hull. The air was thick with a mixture of salt and anticipation.

As Y/N and Samira approached the two figures standing by the railing, both Eris and Leone turned toward them in unison.

Leone’s eyes sparkled when she saw Y/N, though there was an underlying sadness to her smile. She stepped forward with a grace only a royal could possess, pulling Y/N into an embrace. “Take care of yourself, my dearest,” she murmured softly, her voice holding an edge of affection. “I am so excited for you. You have no idea how proud I am. You’re going to make such an impact. A life full of purpose awaits.”

Y/N clung to her for a moment longer, surprised by how much she would miss the woman who had shown her nothing but kindness in the last few days. “I won’t forget you,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Leone pulled back slightly, her lips curving upward. “Don’t be foolish. You’ll never have to. You’re my distant cousin now, a princess in your own right.” She leaned in, her words quiet, almost conspiratorial. “Remember, we’ve crafted a plan so brilliant that no one will ever know. Just stay calm. You’re in control of your future now.”

Y/N nodded, trying to absorb it all—the weight of what Leone was saying, the significance of her words. But Leone’s gaze softened. “You are strong, Y/N. And Samira will be by your side. You two will have to take care of one another. In that place, you’ll be all you have.”

Y/N glanced at Samira, who offered a soft, reassuring smile.

Leone’s voice turned quiet, and she sighed with a touch of bittersweetness. “I wish I could accompany you, but my place is here. My duty to Montesere is here. And someone needs to keep an eye on your mother right? Don't worry she is in safe hands now." She kissed Y/N’s cheek, her warm lips leaving a lingering mark, and then stepped back with a flourish. “Goodbye, my dear. You’re ready for this. And don’t forget, if you need anything, you always have me.”

Eris, who had remained silent, looked at Y/N for a moment, his gaze unreadable. He seemed as if he was about to speak, but his lips pressed into a tight line as if he was holding back. Something unspoken flickered between them, a tension that Y/N could sense but could not fully grasp.

Samira shot Y/N a quick glance, then raised an eyebrow in Eris’s direction. “You’ve got something to say, don’t you, Prince?”

Eris looked at her, then at Y/N, a flash of something in his eyes before he turned away, his lips twitching into a barely-there smirk. “No, not yet. Maybe later.” His tone was dry, but there was something more to it—something unreadable, a mix of frustration and something else.

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh softly, feeling a flicker of something in her chest, something both familiar and unsettling. “That’s a surprise,” she teased, crossing her arms. “Usually, you can’t stop yourself.”

His eyes flicked to hers, a challenge lingering in the air, but he didn’t respond, instead turning away with a muttered “Later,” before walking off to give orders to the captain.

Leone gave Y/N one last look, a meaningful glance that held unspoken words, before she turned and descended the gangplank, her regal figure retreating as she walked back to Montesere.

Once she was gone, Samira turned to Y/N, her smile warm but knowing. “I’ll go check on our rooms. You should take a moment before we depart.”

Y/N nodded absently, her gaze following Samira as she made her way toward the lower decks. The ship was slowly pulling away from the shore, the great vessel groaning as it shifted into motion. Y/N found herself drawn to the edge of the ship, her footsteps light as she made her way toward the railing, where the sprawling beauty of Montesere stretched out one last time before her.

She stood there for a moment, the wind tugging at her hair, the scent of saltwater filling her lungs. The sun was just beginning to rise fully, casting a warm golden glow over the waters and the land she had always known. It was so beautiful. So impossibly beautiful.

She never thought she would leave Montesere. A princess—yes, but never truly one in the eyes of her people. But as she stood there, watching the shoreline disappear into the distance, a strange feeling settled in her chest. A combination of fear, sadness, and something else—something she hadn’t quite put a name to.

Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, emotions, and questions. What if she had made the wrong decision? What if her mother couldn’t hold on? What if this plan, this new life, wasn’t what it seemed? What if she wasn’t strong enough to carry the weight of this responsibility?

But then a voice inside her whispered—you are strong enough. She had already come so far.

With a sigh, she let her eyes fall closed for a moment, letting the waves wash over her, the sounds of the world around her fading into a distant hum. The future was uncertain, but she had made her choice.

She opened her eyes, watching as the last glimpse of Montesere slipped away, the land now just a hazy silhouette on the horizon. The ship’s sails unfurled, catching the wind as it began to carry them farther, farther from everything she had ever known.

It’s over. The thought echoed in her mind, both a relief and a weighty burden. She had left her home, her life behind. But with it, she would forge something new.

As the ship sailed forward into the unknown, Y/N straightened, her heart still heavy but filled with determination. She wasn’t sure where this journey would take her, but one thing was certain—she would face whatever came next. With Samira at her side, and the plans they had carefully crafted, she was ready.

Whatever comes, I will not falter.

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

Taglist: @batboyslutt @k-godling @littowl @jaybbygrl @kissesfromnovalie @talesofadragon @tele86 @annamariereads16 @circe143

[yoursinisforgiven]

THE MONSTER’S GONE, HE’S ON THE RUN ──

pairing: isaac x reader (pickel) 

cw: child birth (not in detail), reader is referred to as "mom" and "mommy", consumption of non consumable things(?), glass breaking, mentions of the dead.

last part!

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

There’s an old saying that there should be nine people in the room when you give birth—though that number always seemed overwhelming. You, the nurse, a nurse for the baby, your physician, an OB tech to assist your physician, your mother, and your spouse. So many people, each with their own role, their own presence. You’ve heard the horror stories—mothers-in-law demanding to be in the room, hovering over every moment, offering unsolicited advice, or simply making the sacred experience feel less personal.

But for you, and for Isaac, it was different. There was no family to crowd the space, no long-lost relatives to impose their presence. No one but Isaac, holding your hand, his eyes filled with love and worry, and the medical team quietly doing their part. It felt peaceful, in a way—a rare, quiet kind of peace amidst the chaos of childbirth. It was just the two of you, and now, it would be the three of you.

Isaac, always so strong yet so tender in moments like these, stayed by your side, never leaving. His steady touch on your hand was the anchor you needed, grounding you as the pain ebbed and flowed. You could feel his quiet awe as the sound of the baby’s first cry filled the room. In that moment, everything else faded away—the sterile room, the professionals working in the background, even the distant hum of machines. It was just you, Isaac, and your newborn daughter.

There was something profoundly intimate about it—the way Isaac's eyes softened as he gazed at the tiny person you’d created together, as though the world itself had shifted just slightly, forever. He whispered her name softly, as if to seal the bond between them, and you could see how much this moment meant to him, how much it meant to both of you.

Once the nurses and doctors had left, leaving you three alone in the quiet, hospital room, a soft silence settled in. The only sounds were the steady rhythm of the baby’s little breaths—as she laid on your chest you tried to match her breathing to yours—and the faint hum of the machines monitoring your health. It was supposed to be a moment of peace, just the three of you, but it was then that you heard it—a small sniffle, so quiet you almost thought you imagined it.

You looked up, and your heart skipped a beat. Isaac was sitting beside you, his head lowered, his hand still gripping yours, but his face was streaked with tears. At first, you didn’t know what to say, the rawness of the moment catching you off guard. You’d never seen him like this—not in the years you’d known him.

Tears weren’t something Isaac often allowed himself, but here he was, completely undone. His shoulders shook with emotion, his hand trembling slightly in yours as he tried to compose himself, but the tears kept coming. It was overwhelming—the weight of everything he’d kept inside, the years of guarding his heart, of being so strong for everyone else, now pouring out in a way you hadn’t expected

You gently removed your hand from his grasp, your fingers lingering for just a moment before you brought it to his cheek. His skin was warm, damp with the tears he hadn’t allowed himself to hide. Without a word, you traced the pad of your thumb gently across his face, wiping away the evidence of the emotions he’d kept buried for so long.

Isaac didn’t flinch or pull away; instead, he closed his eyes, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. It was as though your touch, soft and unspoken, was the only thing grounding him in this overwhelming moment. He had always been the one who held everything together, the one who rarely showed his vulnerability. But now, with you and your daughter, that hard exterior seemed to melt away, and in its place was a man who was simply… a father.

“Why are you crying, Isaac?” you asked gently, your voice soft, as if speaking too loudly might break the fragile moment.

Isaac froze for a heartbeat, his hand still resting over yours, his gaze flickering between you and their sleeping daughter. His shoulders tensed, as if he hadn’t expected you to ask, hadn’t expected to be seen so fully in this moment of vulnerability. For a long moment, he didn’t speak, and you could see the battle in his eyes—the struggle between the man he was, the quiet, reserved Isaac who rarely let anyone see him crack, and the father who was overwhelmed with emotions he didn’t quite know how to process.

“I never thought it would feel like this,” Isaac whispered, his voice low and rough with the weight of everything he was feeling. His eyes met yours, and there was a rawness there, something he rarely allowed others to see. “I didn’t know I could love like this. You and her… It’s everything.”

Isaac took a deep breath, his face still warm against yours, the weight of his emotions slowly lifting as you held him there. The room felt like it had slowed to a quiet, comforting stillness, and for the first time, there was no rush, no pressure—just the moment, the three of you, together.

You smiled back, gently brushing a strand of hair from his forehead, “She has your hair,”

Isaac’s smile widened, the weight of his fears finally ebbing away as he gazed down at their daughter, now peacefully asleep in her cradle. There was a quiet pride in his eyes, a newfound certainty that even though he didn’t have all the answers, he was exactly where he was meant to be.

"She's perfect," Isaac whispered again, his voice filled with awe. You nodded, your gaze drifting to the tiny, peaceful form of your daughter.

 ──

The piercing cries of your baby echo through the vast, quiet manor, slicing through the stillness of the night. The sound is jagged, raw, and desperate, each wail like a tug on Isaac’s heartstrings. It pulls him awake in an instant, his body stiffening as he blinks into the darkness. He could feel the weight of your warm body against his, the way your presence had settled him into a protective comfort, but now the bond feels fragile, disrupted by the urgent need from the crib across the room.

You shift in the bed, the sound of your own groan soft in the stillness, your body reluctant to part from the warmth of his embrace. But as Isaac stirs, his warmth slipping away, your mind fights the call of the baby. You want him to stay. You need him to stay. The room feels colder without him next to you, the sharp cry of your daughter pulling at you, too.

“Isaac…” you whine, your voice still thick with sleep, but laced with that soft plea only a mother can express.

He doesn’t hesitate. The moment his feet hit the floor, he pulls on his shirt with a quick motion, his movements automatic, practiced—everything in him driven by that protective instinct to care for her. But he pauses, his gaze meeting yours as you sit up in bed, the covers falling from your shoulders. The vulnerability in your eyes, the hint of pleading, makes his chest tighten, his heart a little heavier.

“You’ll leak milk if you keep listening to her cry.”

His tone is gentle but firm, the kind of voice he uses when he knows you’re both weary, when the exhaustion of parenthood is weighing on you more than the weight of the world ever could. His words are a reminder, but they also carry something else—a tenderness you can’t quite ignore.

You sigh, frustration bubbling up as you slide your legs out of bed, the cool floor greeting your bare feet. “Then I’ll get her. You have a client—”

“Sleep.”

His command is soft but unwavering, and it stops you mid-motion. You know that look. It’s the one that holds the quiet strength of someone who has seen your exhaustion, your sacrifices, and is trying to carry the weight for you. The silent understanding between you both hangs thick in the air, more powerful than words.

“But–!” you protest weakly, but the look he gives you then softens, just enough to break the edges of your resistance. It’s not harsh, not a rebuke. It’s the look of a man who loves you—who knows you’re too tired, too drained, too human to keep pushing yourself like this. His eyes speak without words, urging you to rest, to trust that he’ll take care of this.

He turns, not waiting for more protest, and his steps are quiet as he moves toward the baby’s room, each footfall a reminder that he’s there, that you’re not in this alone.

The door creaks softly as he enters the nursery. The dim light from the hallway spills in, casting soft shadows across the room where your daughter’s crib waits. The sight of it—a little bed surrounded by soft blankets, the tiny stuffed animals you’d chosen together, the nightlight casting dancing shadows on the walls—brings a swell of emotion he hadn’t expected.

Isaac’s fingers find the string of the lamp beside the crib. He pulls it gently, the soft light flooding the room, illuminating the stack of books you've been so insistent on collecting. Princesses, castles, and fairytales—little worlds you’d dreamed of for her. He smiles again, a warm and knowing smile, as he picks up a book, one of the many you’d gotten for her, and flips it open, the soft rustling of the pages breaking the stillness.

He leans over her crib, the scent of baby lotion and fresh linens filling the air. His voice, gentle and low, begins to hum a tune—something soft and familiar, just for her. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it at first, the lullaby escaping him naturally, soothing her restlessness. The soft croon of his voice fills the space between them, and slowly, the tense, sharp cries begin to soften.

Isaac leans in closer, his thumb brushing over her tiny hand. His heart swells with a love so deep it feels like it might burst from his chest. He talks to her in a whisper, his words a mixture of soft reassurances and quiet affection, telling her about the world she’s just begun to explore, about how much he loves her, how much both of you love her.

And then, just as he’s about to sigh in relief, the most unexpected sound fills the room. It’s a soft, breathy laugh—a little bubble of joy, pure and innocent. Isaac freezes, his breath catching in his throat, his heart skipping a beat. For a moment, he just stares at her, wide-eyed, unsure if he’s really heard it. And then it comes again, the sound of her laughter, soft and sweet, like a tiny bell ringing in the quiet night.

Isaac’s face lights up, his heart pouring over with love. He can’t help the chuckle that escapes him, his hand gently brushing her cheek as he leans closer. “Did you just laugh?” he whispers, his voice a mix of disbelief and joy.

Another giggle, a little more pronounced this time, dances through the air. It’s a sound that’s so pure, so unexpected, that Isaac feels the weight of the entire world lift from his chest in that single moment. The heaviness of the night—the fatigue, the worry, the endless to-do list—vanishes as if it were never there. It’s as if the very air in the room has lightened, filled with an energy that only a child’s laughter can bring. For the first time that night, Isaac doesn’t feel so tired. For the first time, the silence of the manor feels warm and full of life, and all that matters is her.

He watches her with wide eyes, her little face lighting up with the giddiness of a laugh she’s just discovering. The sound is soft, breathy, like the tinkling of delicate chimes, and it stirs something deep within him. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips, but it’s her laughter—her pure, unfiltered joy—that makes his heart swell. It reminds him so much of you, the way your laughter would light up a room, the way you’d always find humor in the smallest of things. He can’t help but feel the deep connection between the two of you in that moment, as if she carries a little piece of both your hearts in her.

Without even realizing it, a soft laugh escapes him too, a deep chuckle that rises from somewhere inside. It’s a sound filled with love and wonder, the kind of laugh that comes from pure happiness, from a heart full of emotion that just can’t contain itself.

Isaac leans in closer, his gaze fixed on her as she continues to giggle, the sound growing more pronounced with each breath. He reaches out, his hand trembling slightly with the raw tenderness he feels for her. He places his finger gently on her belly, just below her ribs, and lightly taps.

She freezes for a moment, her little face scrunching up in a mix of surprise and curiosity. And then, just as he’s about to pull his hand back, she bursts into another fit of giggles, this one louder, more contagious than the last. The sound fills the room, echoing off the walls, and Isaac’s heart nearly explodes with joy.

It’s the kind of laugh that wraps itself around your soul, that makes you feel like you could do anything, be anything, as long as you get to hear that sound again. Isaac’s breath catches in his throat, and he can’t help but laugh with her, his own voice a mixture of disbelief and joy.

The baby’s laughter grows louder, more confident now, and Isaac joins in wholeheartedly. He’s not sure what’s funnier—her or the fact that he’s laughing so freely, so deeply, that for a fleeting moment, he forgets about everything else. His heart is full, overbrimming with love for this tiny person who’s already capturing his whole world.

“Look at you,” he murmurs through his laughter, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re already a little comedian, aren’t you?”

And just as the sound of her laughter fills the room once more, he realizes that this—right here, right now—this moment will stay with him forever. The first time she laughed, the first time they shared a true, unspoken bond. All the exhaustion, all the struggles of parenthood, fade away in the face of her joy.

 ──

“How many fingers on two hands? Let’s all count together!”

The nursery rhyme plays softly on the TV, its cheerful tune filling the kitchen with a sense of calm. You hum along absentmindedly, the melody familiar and comforting, almost instinctive as you rock gently to the rhythm. Your eyes flicker toward her in the high chair—your sweet little girl, her tiny hands grasping at the tray in front of her, her wide eyes focused on the screen. She’s safe. She’s content.

But then, your gaze catches something on the floor. Her pacifier—dropped again, the rubber tip slightly smudged with dust. You frown slightly, the familiar pang of concern tightening in your chest. You can’t help it, it’s just who you are. You crouch down to pick it up, silently ensuring it’s still clean enough before heading to the sink to wash it off.

The warm water runs over your hands as you scrub the pacifier, the rhythmic sound of it echoing in the quiet kitchen. There’s something soothing about the task, something that makes you feel grounded, as if the world outside this space doesn’t exist. For now, it’s just you and her. Just the two of you.

Once the pacifier is clean, you place it on the counter, taking a moment to breathe before returning to your task. The bananas on the cutting board beckon, and you begin to slice them carefully, the knife gliding through the soft fruit with ease. You move with a quiet focus, each cut a small, deliberate motion, as if you’re creating something special for her—something that will make her smile.

The bananas are soon ready, and you move toward her high chair, setting a small portion down on the tray in front of her. Her eyes light up the moment she sees the fruit, her little hands reaching for it eagerly. You smile softly, watching her take the first bite, her face lighting up with joy at the sweet taste. It’s a quiet, peaceful moment, one that fills your heart with warmth.

Without thinking, you reach for your phone, wanting to capture this small piece of her life. Isaac had been out at an event all morning, and you knew he’d want to see this moment—this fleeting, perfect moment of her joy. You snap a picture, your heart swelling as you watch her nibble on the bananas, her tiny face scrunching up in that adorable way she always does when she’s focused on something new.

But as you lower your phone, ready to go back to your tasks, something shifts. You hear a soft whimper from her, a slight shift in her body language.

You turn quickly, your heart immediately going on alert. “What’s wrong, sweetie?” you murmur, your voice full of concern, as you approach her.

Her little brows furrow, her lips trembling. Her pacifier, now forgotten, is abandoned on the tray. She looks up at you, her tiny hands clutching at the edges of the high chair as if seeking something—someone.

You lean in, trying to comfort her with soft cooing words, reaching out to pat her gently on the back, but her cry grows louder. She pushes against your touch, her tiny face screwing up in frustration. The delicate sound of her sobs fills the room, and your heart aches with the intensity of it.

“Shh, it’s okay, sweet girl,” you murmur, trying again, but this time, her reaction is different. The cry escalates, turning into something more frantic.

And then, in the midst of her tears, she suddenly stops—her tiny body going still, her breath hitching in that way children do when they’re about to say something new, something important.

Her eyes lock on yours, and for a brief second, it feels like time stills. And then, with a sharp, desperate cry, she screams, the sound raw and full of emotion:

“Dada!”

The word stuns you, leaving you frozen for a moment, your hands still outstretched toward her. Her tiny voice, so small and fragile, carries a weight that makes your chest tighten. You stare at her, wide-eyed, as if you’ve just witnessed the most extraordinary thing.

She says it again, this time with even more force, “Dada!” Her tiny hands reach out to the empty space, as if calling for Isaac.

The tears in her eyes, the rawness of her cry, suddenly make sense. She’s searching for him. Her first word—Dada—so full of need, of love, and of the deep connection she already shares with him.

You blink, overwhelmed by the rush of emotions flooding through you. The joy, the pride, the tenderness—it all crashes over you in waves. You lean in, your heart pounding in your chest as you gently scoop her up from the high chair, cradling her close. You can’t help but smile through the tears that prick at your eyes.

“He’s going to be so proud, sweetheart.” you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion, as you hold her tight. 

The sound of her first word lingers in the air, and for a moment, it feels like the world has shifted, like this tiny moment is somehow a promise of so much more to come. 

──

"Shit!" you curse under your breath, the sharp crash slicing through the quiet hum of the afternoon. The sound sends Isaac jolting upright from his seat on the couch, his coffee cup teetering precariously on the edge of the island counter as he hurries toward you.

"What happened?" he asks, his voice low and steady, though there's a flicker of alarm in his eyes as he takes in your tense stance.

Your brows are furrowed, and your hands tremble slightly as you point to the ground. His gaze follows, landing on the shattered remains of the elf glasses you'd both worn during your first shared Halloween together. The green frames are splintered into unrecognizable pieces, the lenses cracked like spiderwebs.

"I-I didn't mean to," you stammer, your voice tinged with guilt. "I was reaching for the cabinet, and they fell. I didn't even realize they were up there."

Isaac exhales softly, his eyes flicking to you and then to the open-concept living room, where your daughter sits on the soft play mat, happily absorbed in her toys. He knows that look on your face— the silent panic, the instinctive need to ensure her safety, even though she's far from the broken glass.

"She's fine," he assures you, stepping closer. "It didn't even come near her."

You nod, but your focus doesn't waver from the mess on the floor. "I should've been more careful," you mutter, crouching down to collect the pieces. "These glasses... I loved these. We both did. They were special."

Isaac kneels beside you, resting a hand on your arm to still you. "Hey," he says softly. "It's okay. They're just wine glasses."

"Not just glasses," you counter, your voice catching. "They were from our first Christmas together. Remember? I had decorated the house entirely, and you said—"

"The house has never looked better," he finishes with a small smile, his gaze softening. "Yeah, I remember."

You meet his eyes, a lump forming in your throat. "It's not just the glasses, Isaac. It's the memories. They meant something."

Isaac leans back slightly, his expression thoughtful. "Do they, though? Or is it us who gave them meaning? They're just things, right? The memories we made that night-they're still here." He taps your temple. "They're in us, not in the glass."

You hesitate, brushing your hands against your knees as you sit back on your heels. "But doesn't that make them important? Because we chose to give them meaning? Isn't love the same way? It's not something you can hold, but it's real because we decided it matters”

Isaac tilts his head, considering your words. “So… are you saying love is like a pair of elf wine glasses?” His teasing smile softens the tension, coaxing a reluctant laugh out of you despite the ache in your chest.

“I’m serious!” you protest, though your lips betray you, twitching upward. You sigh and glance at the shattered glass on the floor, the mess a sharp reminder of the lost memory. “I’ll grab the broom,” you mutter, turning toward the closet.

As you pull it out and start to sweep, Isaac steps in, gently taking the broom from your hands. “I’ve got it,” he says, his tone calm but firm, leaving no room for argument.

You hesitate, watching him as he moves with quiet efficiency, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration. There’s something grounding about the sight of him taking care of it without hesitation, his presence steady and reassuring. You lean back against the kitchen island, crossing your arms, the weight of the moment still pressing on you.

Then, a small tug at your shirt snaps you out of your thoughts. It’s so light, so faint, that at first, you think you’ve imagined it. But when you glance down, you see her—your daughter—gripping your shirt with her tiny hands, her bright, curious eyes looking up at you.

Startled, you let out a sharp gasp and jump slightly, your heart racing. The sudden movement causes her to wobble, her legs unsteady beneath her, and in a split second, she starts to fall.

Isaac’s free hand darts out, catching her before she even has a chance to hit the ground.

You press a trembling hand to your chest, leaning harder against the island as you try to steady your breathing. “Oh my God,” you whisper, your voice shaky. “She scared the life out of me.”

Isaac chuckles softly, holding her securely against his side. “She’s sneaky, isn’t she?” he says, his tone light but filled with affection. He looks down at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles. “Were you trying to surprise Mama, huh?”

She lets out a soft giggle, her little hand reaching for his face as if in response. The sound makes your heart swell, and despite the lingering adrenaline, you find yourself smiling.

“She’s getting braver,” you say, your voice quieter now as you watch her. “She’s growing up so fast.”

Isaac looks over at you, his expression softening. He shifts her slightly, holding her higher so she can rest her chin on his shoulder. “You okay?” he asks, his eyes scanning your face.

You nod, letting out a shaky laugh as you lower your hand from your chest. “Yeah. Just… wasn’t expecting her to sneak up on me like that.”

As if on cue, she wiggles in his arms, her chubby legs kicking slightly. Isaac sets her down carefully on the floor, keeping a close eye on her as she steadies herself. Her little hands reach out instinctively, gripping his pant leg for balance.

And then, to both your surprise, she lets go.

She stands there for a moment, wobbling slightly but determined. Her wide eyes dart between the two of you, and then, with a deep breath, she takes a step.

“Isaac,” you whisper, your voice catching in your throat.

Another step. And then another. Her movements are slow and unsteady, but she’s doing it—she’s walking.

Isaac crouches down, his arms open wide, his face lighting up with pure joy. “Come on, sweetheart,” he coaxes gently, his voice full of encouragement. “You’ve got this.”

She giggles as she toddles toward him, her tiny feet pattering against the floor. She stumbles slightly but quickly regains her footing, her determination written all over her face.

You watch, tears welling in your eyes as your heart swells with pride. She reaches Isaac and collapses into his arms with a delighted squeal, her laughter echoing through the room.

Isaac sweeps her up, holding her close as he laughs with her, his face glowing with pride. “That’s my girl,” he says softly, kissing the top of her head. He looks over at you, his eyes shining. “Did you see that?”

You nod, unable to speak as a tear slips down your cheek. You push off the island and walk over, wrapping your arms around both of them. “I love you—you both.” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. 

In that moment, surrounded by love, the broken glass on the floor feels insignificant.

──

The warm, savory aroma of pancakes, sausages, and eggs wafts through the kitchen, wrapping the room in a comforting embrace. You move with practiced ease, plating Isaac’s food with care, your ears attuned to every sound from the little one at the table. Her occasional hums of satisfaction reassure you that she’s eating without trouble, though your motherly instincts remain on high alert for any sign of choking.

Reaching for the syrup, you drizzle an extra layer over Isaac’s pancakes—something you discovered early in your time together that never fails to make him grin. It feels like a lifetime ago, those early days of fumbling to learn his preferences and quirks. Now, it’s second nature, a quiet rhythm of love woven into your daily routine.

The faint creak of a door opening upstairs catches your attention, followed by the familiar cadence of Isaac’s footsteps descending. You glance over your shoulder just as he steps into the kitchen, his presence filling the space effortlessly.

“Good morning,” you say softly, the smile on your lips widening as he leans down to kiss the top of your daughter’s head.

“Daddy!” she squeals, her little voice bursting with excitement. Her hands fly up to pat her hair, her small brow furrowing as she adjusts the blue bow nestled neatly in her freshly straightened locks. “Don’t ruin my hair!” she protests, her tone dramatic yet endearing.

You chuckle, shaking your head as you turn back to the stove, using the spatula to scramble the eggs in the pan. “She was very insistent on the bow,” you say over your shoulder, your voice warm with amusement. “It’s her crown today.”

Isaac smirks as he crouches slightly, brushing his fingers delicately over the bow. “Well, your hair looks perfect, princess,” he says, his tone playful but sincere.

The compliment earns him a beaming smile from her, and she wiggles happily in her seat. Satisfied with his daughter’s approval, Isaac moves behind you, his presence warm and solid as he wraps an arm loosely around your waist. He presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering just long enough to make you pause in your task.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, his voice low and brimming with that quiet, effortless affection that never fails to make your heart flutter.

You turn slightly, tilting your head to meet his gaze. A soft smile forms on your lips, the kind that only he can draw out of you. “Morning,” you whisper back, the moment stretching between you, delicate and unspoken, like a shared secret.

But the warmth in your chest is quickly tempered by the weight of the day ahead. “We have to drop her off today,” you say gently, your tone edged with a hint of warning. You know how difficult this is going to be for him—how much he’s been dreading it, even if he doesn’t say it outright.

Isaac’s smile falters for just a moment. His eyes flicker toward your daughter, seated at the table and happily humming to herself as she arranges her crayons in perfect rows. He exhales softly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your cheek. His hand finds yours, warm and steady, as his fingers absentmindedly fiddle with the ring on your finger.

“Does she really have to go?” he asks, his voice tinged with reluctance, almost boyish in its pleading.

The question pulls a soft laugh from you, though it’s tinged with your own bittersweet emotions. “Yes, Isaac,” you reply, your tone firm but affectionate. “She has to go. It’s time.”

He sighs, looking back at her as she picks up a crayon, holding it to the light like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. “She’s so little,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

“She’s not that little anymore,” you say softly, your eyes following his. “She’s ready. And so are we.”

He arches a brow, his lips curving into a wry smile. “Speak for yourself.”

You laugh again, nudging him gently. “She’s going to be fine, Isaac. Better than fine. She’s going to thrive.”

He stays quiet for a moment, his gaze lingering on her as she hums to herself. Then, as if sensing his eyes on her, she looks up and grins. “Daddy, look!” she exclaims, holding up a picture she’s been coloring—an uneven but vibrant rainbow surrounded by scribbled clouds.

Isaac’s face softens instantly, and he walks over to crouch beside her chair. “Wow, sweetheart,” he says, his voice full of admiration. “That’s beautiful. Did you make that for me?”

She nods eagerly, her curls bouncing with the movement. “For you and Mommy! You can keep it in your office!”

“Of course I will,” he promises, taking the paper with exaggerated care. He glances back at you, his expression a mix of pride and heartache, as if he’s already missing her and she hasn’t even left yet.

The morning passes too quickly, the routine of breakfast and getting her ready feeling like a blur. Her backpack—bright pink and covered in glittery stars—looks oversized on her small frame, and when she straps it on, Isaac mutters something about how it’s “swallowing her whole.” You laugh despite the lump in your throat, smoothing down her hair and adjusting the bow she insisted on wearing.

“Okay,” you say finally, your voice wobbling slightly as you crouch down to her level. “Are you ready for your big day?”

​​She nods, her small frame brimming with confidence as she clutches her lunchbox to her chest, like it holds all the treasures in the world, a silent promise of the adventures awaiting her. “Yep! I’m gonna make so many friends!” she declares, her voice full of that innocent excitement that only the first day of school can bring.

Isaac clears his throat, and you glance up, catching sight of him standing by the door. His posture is stiff, his shoulders taut with the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts, and his hands are shoved deep into his pockets, a sure sign of the nervous energy coursing through him. His gaze is fixed on her, like he’s trying to memorize every little detail—the way her shoes light up with each excited bounce of her feet, the way her eyes sparkle with the kind of innocence he’d give anything to protect, and the way she still leans into you instinctively when you draw near, a physical reminder that she’s still so small, so safe in your arms.

“Come here, sweet girl,” he says, his voice suddenly thick with emotion, the words barely escaping as he tries to keep his composure.

She doesn’t hesitate, running into his embrace as though she’s known nothing but warmth and love. Her tiny arms wrap around his legs in a fierce hug, and he scoops her up effortlessly, pressing her close against his chest. His lips find her temple, brushing against the soft skin with a kiss that speaks volumes of the love and the fear he’s trying to hide.

“Be good, okay?” His voice is barely above a whisper, thick with the weight of everything he’s feeling. “Listen to your teacher and have fun. But if you need us, we’re just a phone call away.”

Her small hand pats his cheek, the gesture both sweet and reassuring, but her voice is already filled with the patient excitement of a child ready to conquer the world. “I know, Daddy.” She grins, her eyes wide with the thrill of the unknown, as though there’s nothing she can’t handle.

The moment feels suspended in time, a bittersweet blend of pride and fear. You exchange a glance, and for a brief second, the heaviness of the day hits you both. But then, like a gentle push against a wind that’s too strong to resist, you step outside into the bright sunlight, and it feels almost too bright, too overwhelming.

The walk to the car feels too short, too rushed, as though the world is moving faster than you can keep up. And when you reach the school, she’s already out of the car, practically bouncing with excitement, her enthusiasm contagious. It’s like watching her grow up in a single leap, and you can’t help but smile as she turns back to wave, her little face alight with anticipation.

Isaac stays by the car, lingering in the doorway for a moment longer, his gaze locked on her as she disappears into the building. His hands are still jammed deep into his pockets, his jaw clenched tight, but you can see the silent battle waging in his chest. The weight of it all—the letting go, the trust, the fear of what’s out there waiting for her—is written all over him.

When you return to the car, he doesn’t speak, but his arms find you in an instinctive embrace, pulling you close. The hug is warm and grounding, a quiet moment of connection in the midst of the chaos. Neither of you says anything at first, but the silence between you speaks louder than words. The world feels both heavier and lighter all at once.

──

“Daddy, you’re so improper! Stick out your pinky!”

Her voice carries the kind of dramatic authority only a five-year-old in full princess mode can command. You bite back a laugh, watching the scene unfold with a mixture of amusement and adoration.

“So improper,” you echo playfully, nodding in agreement with her critique. Your eyes flick to Isaac, who sits cross-legged on the living room floor, somehow managing to look both regal and completely ridiculous. A pink, glittery tiara is perched precariously on his head, the rhinestones catching the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the window. His nails—each painted in a different, clashing color—are a masterpiece of chaos, smudges of polish extending well beyond his cuticles.

Isaac raises a brow at you, his lips twitching as he fights a smile. “Improper, huh?” he asks, holding up his teacup with exaggerated daintiness. He extends his pinky, his hand shaking comically as he tries to match the dainty elegance your daughter expects.

“Yes!” she exclaims, clapping her hands together. Her own tiny tiara tilts slightly, held in place by a tangled mess of curls. “Now you’re a proper prince!”

You press a hand to your mouth, stifling another giggle as you lean against the doorway. The sight of him—your Isaac, usually so composed and commanding, now fully surrendered to a tea party at the behest of a glitter-covered toddler—is almost too much to handle.

“Is this proper enough for you, Your Highness?” he asks, his deep voice laced with mock solemnity as he tilts his head toward her in a faux bow.

She giggles, delighted, and lifts her own teacup—plastic and adorned with cartoon princesses—for a toast. “To Daddy, the best prince ever!”

Isaac’s gaze softens as he clinks his tiny teacup against hers, the tenderness in his expression unmistakable. “To the real princess,” he says quietly, his eyes never leaving hers.

The moment makes your chest ache in the best way, the love between them so palpable it fills the room. You reach for your phone, desperate to capture the sight of the two of them: her in her frilly pink dress, him in sweatpants and a tiara, their mismatched tea set spread out between them on the coffee table.

But just as you lift the phone, Isaac looks up and catches you. “Ah, ah,” he teases, wagging a colorful finger in your direction. “No evidence.”

“Come on,” you protest, laughing as you lower the phone. “This is gold.”

“I’m already a walking glitter bomb,” he grumbles, though his smile betrays him. “I don’t need photographic proof haunting me forever.”

Almost as if on cue, the soft ding of her Easy-Bake Oven chimed, signaling that the latest culinary masterpiece from her royal kitchen was ready. It was the same oven she had pleaded for on her last birthday, her eyes wide with hope and promises of "the best treats ever." You had caved easily, and now, it had become the centerpiece of her playtime kingdom.

Straightening her tiara and clasping her hands in front of her like a practiced royal, she announced, “If you’ll excuse me, I must fetch our crumpets.” Her attempt at an English accent wobbled between words, but the determination on her face was fit for a queen.

You pressed a hand to your mouth, but the giggle escaped anyway. “Yes, Your Highness,” you replied with a playful bow. “Take your time.”

Isaac, sprawled comfortably on the couch with a plastic teacup balanced precariously on his knee, raised a brow at you with a smirk. “She gets the theatrics from you,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.

You shot him a mock glare, but your grin betrayed you. “And the perfectionism from you,” you quipped back.

Across the room, your daughter opened the tiny oven door with all the grace of a royal chef, her movements deliberate as she carefully retrieved the tray. Plastic pastries painted in gaudy, glittery colors sat atop it, their lopsided shapes a testament to her enthusiastic decorating. She examined them proudly, her little fingers adjusting the treats before she turned and made her way back.

“Your crumpets, lords and ladies,” she declared with a flourish, setting the tray down on the coffee table like it held the crown jewels.

Isaac sat up straighter, his expression one of exaggerated reverence. “Why, Your Highness, these crumpets look divine!” he exclaimed, reaching for one.

She beamed, her curls bouncing as she climbed onto the couch beside him. “I made them myself,” she said, her voice brimming with pride.

“As expected from the royal chef,” you added, picking up one of the pastries and pretending to take a bite. “Truly, the finest in all the land.”

“Mommy, take a real bite,” your daughter whines, her little hands on her hips, her expression a mix of impatience and determination. She leans closer, her big, eager eyes fixed on you as though daring you to challenge her royal decree.

You glance at Isaac, who’s watching the scene unfold with amusement etched all over his face. That sly, knowing smile deepens, and he raises an eyebrow as if to say, Well, you heard the princess.

With an exaggerated sigh, you pick up the glittery pastry from the tray. “Alright, Your Highness, as you wish,” you say, holding it up like it’s a delicacy fit for royalty.

Your daughter beams, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she claps her hands. “Yes! A real bite, Mommy!”

You bite into the pastry, your teeth sinking into the overly decorated creation. The first taste isn’t so bad—a sugary rush from the frosting—but then your teeth hit the middle, and your brows furrow as an unmistakable crunch meets your ears.

Glitter.

Not edible glitter. Craft glitter.

You chew slowly, trying to process the bizarre mix of sugar and sandpaper-like texture, your expression twisting in confusion and mild horror. Isaac bursts into laughter, the sound filling the room as he leans back on the couch, clutching his stomach.

“What... did you put in this?” you ask, your voice muffled as you try to swallow without choking on the gritty concoction.

Your daughter tilts her head, her curls bouncing. “Magic dust! From my art box!” she says proudly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Magic dust?” Isaac asks through a laugh, looking at you like this is the greatest moment of his life.

“Yes, Daddy!” she says, her little fists on her hips again. “It makes the crumpets special!”

You manage to swallow the bite, though your throat feels like it’s been through a glitter storm. “Well,” you say, clearing your throat and forcing a smile, “it’s definitely... special.”

“I told you!” she exclaims, her face lighting up with triumph.

Isaac wipes at his eyes, still chuckling as he leans forward to ruffle her curls. “Princess, I think you’ve just invented the most magical crumpets in history.”

She beams, clearly pleased with herself, and climbs onto the couch beside him. “I told Mommy to take a real bite,” she says conspiratorially, leaning into him.

“She sure did,” Isaac replies, throwing you a playful glance. “And Mommy was very brave.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the laugh that escapes. “Brave isn’t the word I’d use,” you mutter, though the warmth in your voice betrays how much you’re enjoying the moment.

As the three of you settle back into the tea party, your daughter reaches for another crumpet, and you silently vow to check her “magic dust” stash before the next royal banquet. Still, the laughter and love filling the room make it impossible to care about anything else.

In that moment, surrounded by glittery pastries, mismatched tea cups, and your family’s laughter, life feels utterly perfect—even if your teeth might sparkle for a week.

──

You sit side by side, the photo album between you both, each page turning with a quiet rustle. The faded pictures are a patchwork of generations, faces frozen in time, their expressions a mixture of joy, contemplation, and history. Your daughter’s tiny finger traces the images with reverence, her voice soft and curious as she asks, “And that?”

You glance down at the photo she’s pointing to—an old black-and-white image of a strong, stoic man with deep-set eyes and a proud posture.

"Your great-grandfather," you say, your voice steady but filled with a quiet affection.

She nods solemnly, as if absorbing the weight of the name. Then her little finger moves on, landing on another picture—a younger man, his expression warm but tired, standing beside your mother.

“And that?” she asks again, her voice full of innocent wonder.

“Your grandfather,” you answer, your heart tightening just a little as you think of him.

Her finger pauses, hovering over the next photo—a picture of Isaac, young and carefree, flashing a grin that you recognize all too well.

“And that?” she asks, her eyes lifting to meet yours, a smile already starting to play on her lips.

“Your father,” you say, the words carrying a depth of love that you can’t quite explain.

The next picture is of a woman with soft eyes and a kind smile, her hair elegantly pinned back. Her presence in the photo is calm, almost peaceful, as if she carries the wisdom of a thousand lifetimes in the tilt of her head.

“And that?” your daughter asks, her voice quieter now, softer somehow.

You smile, gently running your thumb over the photo, your thoughts drifting. “Your grandmother,” you say, the words tinged with a layer of bittersweetness.

She doesn’t speak for a moment, her gaze fixed on the image of the woman in the picture. There’s something almost reverent in the way she studies the face, her brows furrowing slightly as if trying to understand the life behind the smile.

Finally, after a long pause, she whispers, her voice barely above a breath, “She’s pretty.”

You nod, your heart swelling with pride and a hint of sadness, memories rushing to the surface like forgotten dreams. “She is,” you agree softly. “She was very beautiful.”

Your daughter’s gaze never wavers from the photo, her innocent eyes tracing the curves of the woman’s face as though she’s trying to hold onto something just beyond her reach. It’s a quiet moment, a silent understanding passing between the two of you—a connection across generations, across time, that seems to fill the room.

For a second, you almost feel as though she’s seeing more than just the woman in the photo. Maybe, just maybe, she’s seeing the strength and love that runs through your family, the bond that ties everything together in ways words can’t capture.

You shouldn’t show her this, you shouldn’t have taken it out of your hiding place at all. But here you were, sitting on the small, worn sofa, the pages of a dusty journal cradled in your lap. It wasn’t yours—not really—but in some inexplicable way, it felt like it had been passed down to you as though fate had guided your hands to it. 

Your daughter, sitting beside you on the sofa, had been absorbed in a picture book for the last few minutes. Her curious little eyes occasionally flicked up to you, as if sensing that something special was about to unfold.

You swallowed, trying to steady your nerves. This wasn’t something you had planned, but the pull of the journal was too strong to ignore. It was as if Isaac’s mother herself had guided your fingers to it. You could almost hear her voice, gentle but firm, urging you to look deeper, to understand something you hadn’t before.

“Sweetheart,” you begin, your voice soft but serious. She looks up at you, her wide eyes full of trust. “Can Mommy show you something?”

She nods, her little face expectant and innocent, unaware of the gravity of what you were about to ask.

You take a breath, glancing at the journal again, your fingers brushing over the worn leather cover. It feels both familiar and foreign, a relic of a life that had never been yours, yet somehow felt as if it had always been meant to be. “You can’t tell Daddy though, okay? It’s a secret, just between us.”

Your daughter’s eyes widen a bit, the idea of a secret thrilling her. She nods eagerly, her dark curls bouncing as she whispers, “I won’t tell him, Mommy, I promise.”

You smile at her, a bittersweet wave of love washing over you. You open the journal carefully, the pages fragile from years of being tucked away. The handwriting inside is elegant, flowing, and surprisingly familiar—Isaac’s mother’s voice, captured in ink, her thoughts spilling out onto the pages as though she were sitting right beside you.

You begin to read aloud, quietly, not sure why you are sharing this with your daughter but feeling an undeniable need to do so. 

You continue reading, your voice soft and steady as you carefully skip over some of the more poignant, deeper parts of the journal—sections that you know your daughter might not yet understand. Those were the parts that weighed heavily in your chest, moments of heartache and reflection that Isaac’s mother had left behind. You would return to them later, when your daughter was older, when she could grasp the weight of the words.

But for now, you focus on the lighter passages, the ones that tell of everyday moments—of Isaac’s childhood, of laughter and quiet joys that had been so tenderly captured in ink. As you read, you can almost feel her presence beside you, as though she were sitting on the other side of the sofa, her eyes twinkling with that same quiet wisdom she had passed on to Isaac. It’s almost as if she’s still here, guiding you, whispering the words into your ear.

Your daughter giggles suddenly, her small hands clapping in delight. The passage you’re reading is about Isaac, only five at the time, trying to bake a cake for his mother’s birthday. The way she had written it—so full of love and humor—makes you smile, and you can’t help but laugh along with her.

Isaac, the little boy in the story, had accidentally used salt instead of sugar, and his mother had gently taken his hands, smiling as she assured him that everything would be okay. The way she’d described his face, red with embarrassment, makes you laugh even more.

“Mommy, why did he use salt instead of sugar?” your daughter asks between giggles, her wide eyes full of curiosity.

You chuckle, “I think he was just a little bit too excited, sweetheart. He wanted to make the perfect cake for his mommy. But sometimes, we make mistakes when we’re trying to do something special.”

Her giggles subside into a thoughtful expression, her tiny fingers tracing the edges of the journal. “Like when I spilled my juice last week,” she says, her voice full of understanding.

“Exactly,” you say, your smile warm as you gently stroke her hair.

You continue reading, your eyes scanning the pages, and another funny moment catches your daughter’s attention. This time, it’s a story about Isaac getting his first bike, a little red one with training wheels, and how he had tried to ride it down the street but ended up crashing into a flower bed.

The way Isaac’s mother had written it, with such tenderness and humor, brings a smile to your face. You can almost hear her gentle laughter as she recalls how Isaac had gotten up, a little scraped but with that same determined look on his face.

You turn the page of the journal, your voice low and soft as you continue reading, weaving through the stories of Isaac's childhood. Your daughter’s giggles bubble up in fits and bursts, each one a reminder of the joy and innocence she still carries. But slowly, as the words on the page start to blend together, you notice the giggles begin to fade, softening into quiet murmurs.

You glance down at her, surprised to see her small head resting against your side, her little body curled up with a slight twitch of her fingers as if she were still holding onto the remnants of her laughter. The steady rise and fall of her breath in time with yours. She’d been so animated just moments ago, her bright eyes dancing with curiosity and excitement, but now, she was still, her tiny face serene as if she’d drifted into a peaceful sleep without warning.

Her soft curls brushed against your arm, and a small smile tugged at your lips. You carefully set the journal aside, closing it with a gentle thud that doesn’t disturb the stillness of the room. The quiet is almost sacred, a moment to savor, to hold close. You watch her for a moment, this little soul who had opened up so many stories for you today, her eyelids fluttering with the remnants of dreams that only she could understand.

You lean back on the couch slowly, your heart swelling with a quiet tenderness that you often feel around her—this overwhelming sense of love, of responsibility, of gratitude that she’s in your life. You gently adjust her position, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, careful not to wake her. Her breathing steadies, deepening as she sinks further into sleep, her little hand now resting on the fabric of your shirt, a soft clutch as if holding onto you.

The peace in this moment is almost too perfect, too fleeting. Your thoughts drift to Isaac, to how he’s out there, probably lost in the hustle of whatever errands he has to run, unaware of the simple but precious scene unfolding here. The thought brings a bittersweet smile to your face—how much he loves her, how much he has always wanted to be her protector, her guide. And in that quiet moment, you realize that love is so much more than the grand gestures, the moments that stand out in time. It’s in these quiet, unspoken moments—like the peaceful weight of your daughter’s body resting against you—that love really manifests.

You carefully adjust the blanket you had draped over her earlier, making sure it’s secure around her tiny form, and you let out a soft breath, feeling the weight of motherhood in the most comforting way. You had come to realize that these were the moments that would define her childhood—the small, tender moments of peace, the gentle laughter that lingers like the scent of a flower, the quiet closeness that you would cherish forever.

──

You watch as your daughter, in her princess-themed room, stands in front of the mirror, her small fingers tugging nervously at the hem of her dress. The pale pink fabric sways gently as she moves, the soft lace trim catching the light. She looks like a little version of you, with those same wide, searching eyes and the same soft expression when she worries. A tight knot forms in your chest—the bittersweet feeling of seeing so much of yourself in her, and knowing how much she’s grown already.

The room around her is filled with pastel-colored walls, sparkly curtains, and a small vanity where she’s tried to do her own hair, though a few stray strands fall out of place. The princess theme suits her so well, it’s almost like it was meant to be. Her eyes dart to her reflection again, and she fidgets with the bows tied around her waist, pulling at them as if to make sure everything is just right.

You push off from the doorframe, your heart swelling with affection as you walk over to her. Kneeling down beside her, your hands rest on her shoulders, giving her a gentle squeeze. You meet her gaze in the mirror, catching the uncertainty that lingers in her eyes. Your voice is soft, a reassuring whisper, “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

She doesn’t meet your gaze right away, eyes still studying her dress in the reflection. “Dunno,” she murmurs, her voice a little too small for a girl who’s normally full of energy. “What if he doesn’t like it?”

Your heart tugs, and you smile at her reflection, letting your hand brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh, sweetheart,” you begin, your voice steady and warm, “He’s going to love it.”

Her lips curl into a tiny, uncertain smile, but she still seems unsure. You can tell she’s trying to calm her nerves, but the thought of your little girl’s first daddy-daughter date is making her anxious. You’re sure Isaac is equally excited, though his usual calm demeanor might hide it a bit more.  She pulls her gaze from the mirror and looks directly at you, her small face serious, yet hopeful. “I just want to look like you,” she says, her voice a quiet plea that catches you off guard.

Your heart clenches, a strange, warm ache blooming deep within you. It’s a feeling you’ve never quite experienced before, like some piece of the puzzle of parenthood has clicked into place. In this moment, you realize that you’ve reached the peak of something—something indescribably beautiful. The love, the deep, unwavering bond between parent and child, is more than you ever imagined it would be.

You glance down at your hand, fingers brushing over the smooth contours of your engagement ring, the wedding band Isaac gave you, and finally, the smaller band—a simple promise ring Isaac gave you for her, to mark the moment she entered your lives. The weight of these rings is more than just metal; they carry the weight of love, of vows, of promises kept. They are a map of your journey with Isaac, and now with her.

A sudden, tender idea sparks in your mind. You gently slip the promise ring from your finger, the cool metal a soft reminder of the promises you’ve made. You rise from your kneeling position and move toward her jewelry box, where you know she keeps the delicate chain Isaac had given her for special occasions. 

You open the box and find the chain resting like a hidden treasure. The golden links glimmer under the soft light, and you carefully take it in your hands. As you return to her side, she watches you with wide, curious eyes.

Kneeling before her again, you take the ring, slipping it gently onto the chain. Your fingers hesitate for just a moment, before you carefully clasp the chain around her neck. The small act feels monumental, as if you’re entrusting her with a piece of your soul, your love, a quiet promise that will always be there, just like the rings you wear.

The ring rests at her collarbone, the metal cool against her skin. Her eyes widen, her hands coming up to touch the chain as she feels the weight of it.

“Now, we both wear something special,” you whisper, your voice soft but filled with emotion. “This is a part of me, just like you are. And when you wear it, know that I’ll always be with you, no matter where you go.”

Her small fingers curl around the ring, and she looks up at you, her eyes filled with a mix of wonder and love. “I’ll always wear it, Mommy.”

You smile, your heart swelling as she wraps her arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug. The weight of the moment settles in, an unspoken bond forged stronger than ever before.

You stand up together, and this time, when she looks at herself in the mirror, the uncertainty has faded. She doesn’t just see a little girl in a princess dress anymore. She sees you, the woman who’s always been by her side, and now, in a way, she carries a part of you with her, too.

With a final glance at her reflection, your daughter takes your hand, and together you make your way downstairs. The soft click of her little shoes against the wooden floor is a comforting rhythm as she walks beside you, her excitement palpable in the air. Your heart swells as you watch her, that little princess you helped raise, and you know that tonight will be a memory she’ll cherish forever.

When you reach the bottom of the stairs, Isaac is waiting by the door, his dark suit sharp and impeccably tailored. The sight of him in it sends a wave of warmth through you—it’s your favorite suit, the one he wears when he wants to look extra special, and it always makes you feel like the luckiest person in the world. His eyes light up when he sees her, his little girl, dressed in her princess dress, her delicate necklace gleaming at her throat. A proud, tender smile spreads across his face as he reaches for her.

“Look at you,” he says, his voice soft, filled with affection. He gently lifts her into his arms, and she giggles as he twirls her around, her laughter filling the space.

As he sets her down, his gaze flickers to the necklace you gave her. He looks back at you, his eyes soft with a quiet longing, his lips parted as if to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just smiles, a smile that’s full of everything he feels—love, pride, and a hint of something deeper.

You step forward, giving both of them a kiss. You press a soft kiss to your daughter’s forehead, whispering, “Have fun, sweetie. Don’t forget to give Daddy a big hug when you get there. And, here.” You gently take the lipstick from your vanity, uncapping it and applying it to her lips with a careful, loving touch, making sure she doesn’t go overboard with the color. A playful smile tugs at your lips as you finish. “Make sure Daddy looks extra special tonight for me.”

She grins and giggles, her face lighting up as she takes a moment to kiss Isaac’s cheek, leaving a big, smudged mark of lipstick. Isaac chuckles softly, amused but clearly delighted by the gesture, before wrapping his arms around her for one last hug.

As the door closes behind them, you watch them leave, your heart full. You know they’ll have a wonderful time together, and you can already picture the joy in Isaac’s eyes as he shares this special evening with their daughter.

A few hours later, the door creaks open, and you hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps, followed by an exaggerated sigh. Isaac appears first, his cheeks streaked with what can only be described as a masterpiece of lipstick kisses—smudged across his face like a work of art. He’s holding at least six bags of toys, each one bulging with stuffed animals, dolls, and games.

But it’s the comically large bouquet of flowers that steals your attention. Your daughter stands beside him, holding the enormous bouquet with both hands, her face beaming with pride. The bouquet, clearly much too big for her to carry, is almost as tall as she is, the rich colors of the flowers spilling out in every direction, some petals already beginning to fall.

Isaac walks in slowly, his movements exaggerated, like he’s been weighed down by the sheer amount of stuff he’s carrying. The bags swing in his hands, and his face is a mix of exhaustion and amusement. 

Your daughter looks up at him, eyes sparkling, as she proudly holds the bouquet out to you. “I picked them for you, Mommy! Do you like them?”

You can’t help but laugh, kneeling down to take the flowers from her. “They’re beautiful, sweetheart. Thank you.” You kiss the top of her head, your heart swelling with love for both of them.

Isaac sets the bags down with a groan, and then, after a pause, he looks at you, his lips curling into a half-smile. “She insisted on getting every single toy in the store... and then some. I didn’t even know what half of it was, but she was so sure you’d love it.”

You raise an eyebrow in mock surprise. “Did she now? You’ll have to tell me all about it later.”

Isaac shakes his head fondly, looking at you with an expression full of affection. “I think I’m going to need a nap after this... but it was worth it.”

Your daughter, still holding the bouquet, spins around with a flourish. “We had so much fun, Mommy! And Daddy let me have ice cream!”

You laugh, moving toward them both, wrapping your arms around Isaac from behind, your face resting against his back. “I’m glad you both had a good time. Now, let’s see what treasures you’ve brought home for me.”

Isaac leans back, his arms encircling you, and for a moment, the three of you stand there together—your little family, happy and content in the warmth of the moment. 

──

You glance over at the doorway, your thoughts briefly distracted by the sudden sound of footsteps. You hadn’t expected guests today, but then again, with Isaac’s decision to take Mondays off since the birth of your daughter, your routine had shifted, and things were often pleasantly unpredictable. The house had a calm, welcoming air to it—a sense of quiet contentment that only grew stronger in the presence of the two most important people in your life.

Turning your gaze toward the kitchen, your daughter is standing on a stool, carefully folding the cookie dough. Her small hands are precise as she works, her concentration evident in the furrow of her brow. She looks up at you for a moment, seeking your approval, and for a brief second, she looks so much older than she did just a few years ago. It’s subtle, the way she’s maturing, but it’s there. The little girl you used to know is now becoming someone new.

“You can add more chocolate chips if you’d like,” you offer, watching her carefully as she pauses, considering your suggestion.

She nods enthusiastically, her face lighting up. “Okay, Mom,” she says, her voice sounding a bit more grown-up with each passing day.

Your heart tugs, a gentle ache settling in your chest. She used to call you “Mommy”—a word that always made you feel like you were her whole world. But now, “Mom” had taken its place, a simple change that spoke volumes about how much she was growing, how much she was maturing. It was bittersweet, this transition, but it was also something to be proud of. Watching her evolve into her own person was both a joy and a quiet reminder of how time was slipping away, leaving you with memories that would soon be outgrown.

As she sprinkles more chocolate chips into the dough, you move closer, your arms instinctively reaching for her as you stand beside the counter. You gently brush a lock of hair from her face, your fingers lingering on her soft skin. She looks up at you, her eyes filled with curiosity, and for a moment, it’s like time slows down—just the two of you, in this small, quiet moment of togetherness.

You see the couple walk through the door, the father and Isaac deep in conversation, but it's the woman who catches your attention—Charlotte. It takes you only a moment to recognize her, and before you know it, you're rushing over to greet her. You can’t help the wide smile that spreads across your face as you lean in to give her a hug. She returns the gesture, her arms wrapping around you warmly, and for a moment, you both just stand there, smiling.

"Char, I haven’t seen you in forever!" you exclaim, pulling back slightly to look at her. "How have you been?"

Charlotte laughs softly, her hand resting on her son’s shoulder. He's standing beside her now, a bright, curious little boy with eyes that mirror his mother's, a little bundle of energy. She's glowing, though there’s a tiredness in her eyes that only comes with the late stages of motherhood, the weariness of raising a child, and the responsibilities that come with it. But even now, with the years that have passed, she still carries herself with that same quiet grace.

"I’ve been good, just keeping up with this one," she says, her voice full of affection as she ruffles her son’s hair. "It’s been busy, you know how it is, but we’re doing great."

You glance down at the boy, who’s looking up at you with wide eyes, clearly taking in the new surroundings. He seems to be the perfect mix of both his parents—his dark eyes and messy hair reminiscent of his father’s, while the soft roundness of his cheeks and his smile are pure Charlotte.

"Wow, look at you," you say, bending down to greet him. "You’ve gotten so big! Last time I saw you, you were just a little baby."

Still hiding behind Charlotte, he suddenly goes very still, his gaze locked onto something—or rather, someone—across the room. You follow his line of sight, wondering what has caught his attention. It only takes a moment for your own gaze to meet the eyes of your daughter, standing in the doorway of the living room, a curious expression on her face as she watches Noah.

For a moment, the room feels like it holds its breath. Your daughter, a little older now, with a growing sense of independence, meets Noah’s gaze with a quiet curiosity. There’s something innocent and yet very knowing in the way they look at each other—two children, each stepping into their own world, but drawn together by something unspoken.

You watch them exchange glances, a feeling of pride swelling in your chest. It’s a simple meeting, but there’s something so pure about the way they’re interacting. It’s like they’ve known each other forever, even though they’ve just met.

Charlotte, watching the interaction unfold, smiles knowingly. “Looks like they’re getting along just fine,” she observes, her voice filled with affection.

You chuckle softly, nodding. “It seems so,” 

──

"Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you..."

The words of the familiar song fill the room, their lighthearted tune weaving through the soft hum of laughter and conversation. But all you can focus on is your daughter, standing before her cake, her wide eyes reflecting the glow of the candles—the delicate pink numbers 1 and 0 flickering like tiny beacons in the dimmed light.

The years have passed so quickly, and yet, in this moment, time feels suspended. She’s not the little girl who used to fall asleep in your arms, not the toddler who clung to you with tears in her eyes. She’s ten now. Ten, with the world before her, her features softening into the young woman she’s becoming. You watch her, your heart full of pride, awe, and something else—something deeper, a quiet ache for the years that have slipped away, for the innocence she’s slowly outgrowing.

Isaac stands beside you, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder, as if grounding you in this moment. His gaze is on your daughter too, but you can feel the tenderness in the way he stands by your side. He is there, with you, in this quiet shared moment of time. Together, you’ve raised her—each of you contributing something different, yet both of you pouring every ounce of love into her.

Your daughter takes a deep breath, her little fingers twitching with excitement. She leans forward, her face illuminated by the soft, warm light of the candles, the flickering flame casting gentle shadows across her face. You can almost hear the silent wish she’s making, the unspoken thoughts running through her mind.

Isaac’s hand gently finds yours, and as you hold it, you realize something—the fleeting nature of time, how it’s both precious and inevitable. The days go by too quickly, the moments too fleeting. You remember holding her in your arms as a newborn, the way she used to curl up so small and fragile. And now here she stands, on the cusp of something bigger, something new.

She looks up at you, her gaze soft, and for a moment, it feels like the whole world slows down. "I wish..." she begins, her voice quiet, thoughtful, "that I’ll always remember this moment."

──

author's note: i hope everyone gets the title reference.

[liesonmytongues]

Virgin!Steve Harrison x GN!Reader

Synopsis- Steve's been pretending to be a top notch player for years, but the truth is, he's still a virgin. You change that.

Warnings/CWs- this is very wholesome smut, lovey dovey sex, virginity loss, dub-con if you absolutely *squint*, love sick/pussy drunk men, Steve being embarrassed and guilty about jorking it to you, descriptions of masturbation

Word count- 4,000

When he was back in Hawkins, Steve had a reputation. Full of himself. A player. Always a girl on his hip– whether or not she was his girlfriend– always bragging about his game, about his sex life.

He would tell his friends about every escapade involving a new hot chick– basing his stories off of people he saw outside. A hot blonde at the mall would turn into a ‘Filthy slut who couldn't stop begging for it’, an innocent looking brunette outside the church into ‘a crazy bitch who wanted it rough’.

Steve would try not to get too serious with girls at the school for obvious reasons– couldn’t have anyone exposing him as a liar, now could he? But every so often someone would catch his eye. It was shameful– dangerous really –the way he would get these girls head over heels for him, manipulate them in one way or another so they wouldn’t ask about what Steve really didn’t want to think about.

It was a little different with Nancy– he really did like her, much more than those other girls who were just to keep up appearances. He didn’t want to manipulate her, didn’t want to treat her like she was just another chick in the crowd– so Steve came up with a different solution. One that still didn’t include actually having sex with her. He couldn't talk the talk without the chance of someone telling her, so his stories turned more into something like ‘I can't say, Nancy’s too shy– it was a crazy night though’, and the couple of times anyone questioned him, he would intimidate them into dropping it– easy enough.

But it didn't change the fact that Steve Harrington is a virgin.

For one reason or another, he never actually got around to getting his dick wet– and, in juxtaposition to his personality, it was usually because he just…kept chickening out. He would fantasize about it– stroking himself raw with some cheap toy while he tried to imagine the feeling of a real hole– but that was where it ended for him. Sad nights alone while he got off to his next story– and for a while that was fine! For a while Steve didn't need anything other than the life he had– sports and drinking and pretty girls, that satisfied him enough without hitting third base.

Then when Eleven and the monsters showed up, he didn't have time for sex– no time for fantasizing, or jealousy, or nervousness –just surviving. And babysitting a group of kids.

Everything he’d been saying– doing –the inadequacy he felt, was completely pushed to the back of his mind for the better part of 2 years. The first time it quieted down, after they saved that poor kid and things almost seemed like they were gonna go back to normal, Steve considered trying to…regress. He wanted to feel like nothing had even happened– he wanted that control back –didn’t want to admit that everything had changed for good. It hurt to know that even if things were ok now, it would never, ever be the same. Nothing would ever be the same. That’s what consumed him until the next time the demogorgons showed up– and that, plus the constant wondering of what the fuck else was in the world made it a little hard to get it up.

Steve tried once– kissing her, rubbing her clit through her panties, fingering her while he tried, tried so hard, to just make his stupid dick cooperate– and then he realized how stupid that was. He had this beautiful, half naked, moaning girl under him– this girl he was sure he loved –and he still couldn’t push himself past his nerves for long enough to fuck her.

Nancy tried 3 more times– all ending in Steve shakily, nervously, using his hands or mouth to make her cum while he was stuck in his own head. They broke up a few weeks after the last try, and he didn’t get any more chances before that…thing took them both.

Steve's first thought was that it was another creature made by the lab– that's where he found it, that's what it had to be, right? Some other failed, murderous experiment or alternate dimensional nightmare that he had to take the brunt of, just because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

At first, that theory seemed right– the place they were taken looked just like the upside down’s version of Hawkins lab, with the same distant screaming from a demogorgon –but being shucked right off to ‘The camp’ was a good way to change his mind. There were other people there– too many for any type of hell Steve’s ever been to –and it seemed like they were ready to see him and Nance, a tall, scrawny guy greeting them with too much energy and too much understanding.

And the rest is history, right? For one reason or another, the thing known as the ‘entity’ wanted them there, along with a bunch of other ‘survivors’ and the things that have been torturing them for god knows how long.

You…make it a little more bearable. A little.

You welcomed Steve and Nancy better than a lot of the other survivors– and part of it was definitely to learn how to survive the demogorgon, you’d be stupid to pass up that opportunity –making sure they knew what was going to happen with much less frantic, frightened energy than Dwight. You were a godsend really, and Steve feels like he owes you his life– no matter how many times he’s died here.

You were just friends– that's all. Forget about the way his heart and stomach feel like they’re sinking in on themselves every time he sees you, or the way he looks forward to the end of trials because that means more time to spend together, or how everything you say seems to be funny, or smart, or mind melting– all of that is just because you're a really good friend, and this place is messing with Steve's ability to see that.

Plus, spending every day around the ex who was your first love is a surefire way to confuse your brain. That's the rational Steve gave on the nights spent trying not to jerk himself off to something you did that day; the nights where he failed miserably, stuffing his hand on his mouth to muffle the pathetic sounds he made every time he came, and one was never enough; the nights Steve felt disgusting for what he considered violating you, sticky with his own cum and still not able to get you out of his head.

No, you’re just friends. And sometimes, when friends are in bad situations, it gets a little confusing. What you don’t know can’t hurt you, can’t make you look at him at a gross freak, can’t ruin your relationship– but it can make you suspicious.

Suspicious because Steve was acting weird, and he hadn’t even realized it– hadn’t realized that he hadn’t made eye contact with you in weeks. Honestly, he was pretty confident that his sneaking–away skills were honed to perfection– it’d worked on the demogorgons, who would have thought that it wouldn’t work on a person? Nevermind the fact that demogorgons don’t actually have eyes to see him with.

Your breaking point came around the same time every single trial with Steve started ending in a sacrifice.

You’d tried talking to him about it, and when that didn’t work, you tried talking to Nancy. From what you’d gathered, she’d been pretty good at mystery solving in Hawkins, and since she knew Steve so well, it seemed like your best bet…but you got nothing. No hint at anything that could have happened, nothing shared when you weren’t around about why he was so awkward all of a sudden, not so much as a complaint– leaving you to do everything yourself.

No way in hell were you going to confront him with all the other survivors around, that would just lead to even more awkwardness, and you couldn’t handle that– not with everything else –but you did need to confront him. You couldn’t work together, your entire relationship was strained, and if you couldn’t find some sort of way to resolve this…tension, you were going to explode and make this whole issue even worse.

But maybe in hindsight, sneaking up on him in his cabin wasn't the best idea either. In your defense, you had no idea about his hopeless pining, and with your annoyance clouding your better judgment, it seemed like the only way to finally get him talking. And really, that had been your plan! The whole walk there you’d been thinking of just the right words to get across exactly what you wanted to say– stay calm, tell him how you feel, tell him what needed to change. It was your plan, until the moment you knocked on the door – and heard Steve moan your name at the same time.

It took a second to process what you heard, to be pulled –punched, really– out of the concentration and anger that had fueled this whole trip and really hear it for what it was, but by then there was a whole other reason you were distracted. Steve slammed open the door, flushed and sweaty, panting like a whore and looking at you with the widest puppy dog eyes you’ve ever seen.

“You– It’s not–! It’s not what it looks like!” Steve stumbled over his words in an attempt to get them out as fast as possible, to convince you somehow that you hadn’t heard what you just heard– convince you not to turn around and leave and never speak to him again.

“Please, please, I’m so sorry– I promise I can explain! I–”

“Inside.”

“What–”

“Inside.”

If someone asked you, it would be hard to tell them why you did what you did– shoving Steve Harrington inside his cabin was a split second decision, kissing him was another, dropping everything you’d wanted to say was a third. Maybe it was because you were so tense– it’s not easy to live like this, god knows there’s not much time for sex of all things –the rush of emotions, the shock, maybe it was because he just looked so debauched with his face red and his lips parted the way they were. Fuck, maybe it’s just because he finally looked at you again.

It didn’t really matter what it was though, did it? Not when he moaned like that, like he was starving for you, as soon as your hands were on him.

He hadn’t gotten to finish, that much was clear from how his cock was pressed twitching to your thigh– leaking a sticky patch of precum where he’d haphazardly shoved himself back into his jeans before opening the door.

“Wait– wait!” Steve pushed you back by the hips, squeezing his eyes shut and sucking in deep, sharp breaths. Even if he hadn’t said anything, it was obvious how hesitant it was.

“What–” You mirrored his confusion from earlier,

“I’ve never…done this before.” He gestured vaguely downwards, and when you followed the movements to his groin, his cock visibly throbbed.

“You’ve…never had sex? You’re a virgin?” And with that he’s right back to not looking at you– flushed even brighter than before and staring down the floorboards like they did this, like they made him hard, made you find him moaning your name, made you come inside and made him admit what he didn’t even admit to Nancy. But he feels…better. His erection has flagged a little just from the shame of the situation, but it’s not like before– when the second someone tried to have sex with him, he stopped being able to get it up at all.

“Yeah.” He breathed, loosening the grip on your waist– as if being a virgin of all things would mean you wouldn’t want him.

“Is that…all?”

“Doesn’t that bother you? I’ve only ever used my mouth, I don’t know if I’m gonna be any good…” The skin of his neck was shiny with perspiration, a droplet of sweat dripping down his jaw and fucking christ you want to lick it off–

“No? I don't care how much experience you have Steve–fuck, don't you know what you do to me?” His eyes flicked down to your groin and you could feel the shudder that passed through him–hear it too, if that quivering, breathy sigh was anything to go off. You were caught off guard when Steve suddenly yanked you forward, wrapping his arms around your waist and shoving his face into the crook of your neck–taking deep breaths, inhaling your scent while he tried to ground himself.

Less caught off guard when he pulled you in for another kiss, mashing your lips and noses together in a type of desperation that can only come from a man who's been hard for the last hour– tongue worming it's way between your lips, only pulling away long enough to breathe hot puffs of air against your face.

You didn’t protest when he pulled you back towards his bed, or when you felt him turn you around, your calves hitting the mattress only a few moment before the rest of you, falling into the old raggedy blankets and grunting when Steve climbs on top of you–because he just refuses to let go of your body for even a second, grinding his cock to your thigh in slow strokes while he tries his hardest to devour you.

“Fuck– you mean it?” He shifts to kissing your jaw–just as rough as your lips–so you can respond, murmuring variations of your name and ‘please’ and ‘say it’.

“Yeah, I mean it.” It comes out breathy and desperate, but god, there’s not a single world where you could bring yourself to care with such a pretty man looking equally as debauched above you. He gets a panicked look on his face barely a second before his hands shoot down to his jeans, ripping them open with enough force to audibly pop a thread, pulling his boxers down and gripping his cock painfully. You have half a mind to ask him what he’s doing–what was that look for? Is something wrong? Is he already done with the foreplay?–but only get about as far as parting your lips before Steve makes a pained noise, halfway between a moan and a sob, and is cumming over the front of your shirt. Thick strands accompanied by choked groans as he tries to make it stop, frantically muttering ‘no!’ under his breath again and again.

You shouldn’t be surprised–you aren’t surprised, not really–but it’s still sudden enough to make your eyes bulge a little more with every spurt. Which, of course, Steve notices immediately– flushing with shame instead of arousal and covering his eyes with the back of his free hand.

“Jesus– fuck! I’m so sorry– I didn’t mean to, I don’t know what happened–” He’s spiraling is what you distantly realize, but you’re too caught up with the fact that he just came from being told you were into him. So caught up, in fact, that the only way you can think to really calm him down is smashing his face back into yours. You have his hair between your fingers before he can utter another distraught apology, and he’s right back to melting into you.

You don’t stop him when Steve’s hands move to your pants, taking them off with much less frenzy than his own. His cock had barely softened, and when your underwear was down far enough that he finally caught a glimpse of your body, it gave a hard twitch–already raring to go a second time. God knows if it’s because it’s you or just the situation, but you can hope.

Steve looks back and forth between your hole and your stained shirt for a moment, before with two fingers, he scoops his own cum off your shirt, pressing them inside your hole achingly slowly–like he’s scared that giving them to you how you want will break you. He seems mesmerized by the way each knuckle sinks deeper, spreading you open on his fingers while his spend pushes back–oozing out before he shoves it back in again.

“Fuck– you’re so tight, so warm…” The way he's looking at you is near–reverent, huffing out a breath every time you squeeze and practically moaning when he can’t go any deeper.

“Don’t you wanna feel that–hah–around your cock? Give your body what it wants?” You were panting as much as Steve at this point, sighing and moaning softly every time he found just the right spot to focus on.

“Don't say that kind of thing!” He whined, breaking eye contact for a second so he could lean over and open his mouth, letting some spit dribble onto your hole to aid the way while his fingers sped up–trying to spread you open faster so his poor, angry looking cock could get some relief. Real relief–not just cumming in his pants like a…y'know, like a virgin.

Still bent over, Steve used his free arm to cage you underneath him–forcing your legs up and around his waist at the same time so he could keep up the rhythm. You could feel your body starting to ease open, just barely loose enough for him to put in a third finger and spread them inside you. It felt fantastic, but you could almost be fooled into thinking that he was the one feeling it–almost as noisy from just the sensation of your walls around his thick, rough fingers.

It wasn’t quite enough to make you cum, not without any other stimulation, but his enthusiasm turned you on like nothing else. He gave a few more thrusts, fingers spread out as much as possible in a last ditch attempt to prep you before he lost it.

“I’m sorry- I need it, you have no idea-”

“It’s fine, I’m fine, just put it in, please.” A mix of Steve’s pre and cum and spit eased the way as he gripped his cock at the base and finally started pushing it forward–squeezing tight to try and keep himself from coming any faster than he already would. He only managed to get the tip inside before he had to pause, shutting his eyes with a desperate, shuddering moan–nuzzling his face into your chest while his free hand glided away from its death-grip on the sheets, opting instead for holding your head, threading your hair over his palm until he had enough to tug.

You could feel his fat, leaky cockhead throb–the vibration of another moan spreading through your chest before his hips jerked enough to force another couple of inches inside you. And it hurt, it did, that same string and stretch that always came with having something new inside you, but he was just so perfect that you couldn’t focus on it. You’d noticed before how pretty he was below the belt–and it really showed now.

God, maybe you really have just gone that long without getting laid, but Steve’s dick filled you better than you can ever remember being filled. Better than your fingers, better than any toy for the sheer amount of emotion and connection, better than the vague snippets of your last fucks from years ago now.

Steve pulled himself off of your chest after a minute, taking deep breaths and scrunching up his face in concentration–then another minute before he manages to let go of his shaft and push the rest of the way inside. The moan he gives you is borderline pornographic when he bottoms out, hot enough to–along with the feeling of his stomach pressing against your groin–have you moaning with him.

His thrusts have no real rhythm, no actual skill, just the sloppiness that shows exactly how inexperienced he really is–and equally how desperate he is for you. There’s no rhyme or reason to how he chases the feeling, but somehow he still manages to tease your orgasm–to rut his sensitive cock in all the right places to make it feel good instead of annoying.

“I’m not gonna- hah, oh god- not gonna last. Christ you feel so good- you’re so perfect, you’re perfect- I love you.” Your attention was immediately snapped away from his hips up to his face, where he was staring at you with those big brown eyes–again the puppy analogy comes to mind–and the most of an emotion besides fear you’ve seen in a long time.

“Can I- ngh -cum on your stomach? Please?” It's hard to tell if he even realizes that he just said he loves you, and he's not giving you any time to process it with the way his thrusts are speeding up–just barely able to keep his cock from slipping out through his frantic movements. And it was so lewd, so wet and slick and loud–blocking out everything else except the moaning right in front of your face.

Steve was putting everything into making you feel good–fighting back his orgasm while whispering harsh ‘please, please, please’ under his breath, along with a slurred approximation of your name and those frankly beautiful, desperate hitches of breath. Your body fought to accommodate the way he sped up, battering your walls in a way that juxtaposed his confession a minute ago.

“Yes, yes cum on me, cum on me baby- fuck-” You barely managed to finish your sentence before Steve was pulling out, curling his body over you and trembling while his cock throbbed against your stomach–followed by another moan that could only be described as burning, aching, and the first shot of hot, sticky fluid on your skin, cumming so hard it managed to reach your collar, sticking to his own chest in the process and dripping down onto the sheets. His noises didn’t stop for nearly a full minute, whimpering and whining while you murmured sweet words, trying to ease him down from his high.

That’s all you expected from him–as sweet as he could be, he’s still a man from the 80’s–which is why you were surprised when he didn’t just slump over and leave you to deal with the painful way your arousal licked at your stomach, begging for relief.

You weren’t sure what to think of the way Steve climbed down the bed–until he latched his mouth to your groin, sucking and licking and taking you into his mouth, as much as he could fit at once. It took him a second, but he turned his eyes up to you, lidded and high from endorphins, giving him a lovesick, fucked out look that only served to turn you on more. And the way he kept moaning, groaning and scrunching his face up like he was the one feeling it–like you were the one fucking him with your mouth, desperate to make him cum.

And it was desperate–not a thought inside his head, only driven by the feral need to make you feel as good as he did. How could you ever not comply?

It barely took another minute of the sloppy, needy working of his tongue before you were cumming too, and Steve lapped up everything, like everything you were giving him was a gift that he needed to take, refusing to let even a drop go to waste. Distantly, in the middle of feeling like your vision was going to white out, you could feel another few drops leak out of his twitching cock, milking himself dry just from the taste of you.

He wrapped his arms around your thigh when you pried his head away, resting his face on your hip so he could keep pressing soft kisses to your skin. It was pretty obvious he wasn’t in his right mind–tired and euphoric and fucked stupid–but you let him stay, wiping his messy hair away from his forehead and petting at his nape.

“Was it…good?” He murmured, glancing up at you again.

“Christ, do you really have to ask?” He kept looking at you, blinking slowly–waiting. “Yeah. It was really good.” And he nods, sighing against your skin–then a choking sound when you followed it up with ‘I love you too’.

[dreameyess11]

𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆

Nicholas Chavez x Reader

You hadn’t expected to see him again.

It was one of those evenings where the city hummed with the noise of too many conversations and the clinking of glasses. The gallery was crowded, the air thick with pretension and the faint smell of paint, but you’d come because your friend needed support for her exhibit. You hadn’t expected him to walk through the door, but there he was. Nicholas Chavez, in all his maddening glory, wearing that lopsided smirk that you hated so much.

Or maybe you hated how it still made your heart race.

“Hey, stranger,” he said, his voice low and casual as he approached you. Too casual, considering how you’d left things.

You glanced up from your drink, letting your gaze rest on him for only a second before looking away. “Nicholas,” you said flatly. No smile, no warmth.

The last time you’d seen him had been months ago. That so-called “adventure,” as he had so flippantly called it later. For you, it had been chaos—intense, thrilling, and ultimately devastating. You’d fallen for his charm, his wit, the way he seemed to turn every moment into a movie scene. He had swept you up into a whirlwind of late nights and stolen glances, leaving you breathless and raw.

And then he’d left.

No explanation, no warning—just gone. A cryptic text weeks later had offered little closure: *It was fun while it lasted, huh?*

You’d hated him ever since.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, keeping your tone sharp.

“Supporting the arts,” he said, feigning innocence. He picked up a wine glass from a passing tray and leaned against the wall, as if the room existed solely for his benefit. “And maybe hoping to run into someone.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

He chuckled softly, the sound like a dagger to your chest. “Come on, don’t be like that. You can’t tell me you didn’t miss me. Even a little?”

You wanted to tell him exactly how much you hadn’t missed him. How his absence had been like a relief, a weight lifted. But the words stuck in your throat because, if you were honest, there had been moments—late at night, when the city was quiet and your thoughts ran wild—when you’d wondered if he’d think of you. If he’d regret leaving.

And now, here he was, with that infuriating smile and those dark eyes that saw through you too easily.

“I didn’t,” you lied.

He tilted his head, studying you. “Liar.”

You stepped closer, your voice low and cutting. “Do you know how much I hate you, Nicholas?”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. Instead, he leaned in, so close you could smell the faint trace of his cologne. “If that’s true,” he murmured, “then why are you still standing here?”

Your breath caught, your heart betraying you with its rapid beat. You wanted to slap him, to walk away and never look back. But part of you stayed rooted, drawn to him in ways you couldn’t explain or justify.

“I don’t owe you anything,” you said finally, stepping back. “Not my time, not my attention, not even my anger.”

He looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then he nodded, the smirk fading. “Fair enough.”

And just like that, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, your chest tight and your mind reeling.

You hated him.

You hated that part of you still didn’t want him to leave.

[pandorascripts]

Familiar thy by side part 2!!! 🙌 🥺

a/n: welpppp i supposeeeee (this was sitting in my drafts for a while and I forgot it was done). sorry for the inconsistency everyone, I've been busy busy busy with competitions for my clubs and I my term two ended just last week. Can't promise a better upload schedule until schools out :(

pairing: agatha/rio/reader

NOTE: this is set in salem time periods, they will speak as such. too lazy to actually check for spelling errors, so apologies!

The next time you’re able to remember current events, you’re laid down on a dock, in nothing but your wet undergarments. With a loud gasp, you shoot up, chest rapidly rising and falling. Everything is overwhelming, the noise of the lake, the splashing and laughter, the bristle of trees’ leaves, the creaking of the dock — too much, everything is too much. You can’t recognize anything, your whereabouts completely unknown as the cold sinks into your achy bones and shaky fingers. 

Finally, you see someone just barely familiar. Nicholas, laughing and splashing his Mother just twenty feet off to your side in the shallow waters. With a hard breath, you look around and try to focus on regaining your senses. Previously dirty skin is shining clean again, your hands brushing over it in confusion. Agatha… had bathed you? The thought of being unconscious and vulnerable makes your spine shiver, gaze hardening at Agatha. The moment you fully look at her — really recognize her, you have such a hard time hating her. The smile plastered on her raw face, laughter so hard she’s forced to wheeze and turn her back from her boy — she looks human to you for the first time in… well, however long you’ve been with them. 

Nicky is the first to notice you, his smile still wide as he waves to you. Agatha snaps her head to your direction, icy blue eyes running along your posture for a good read. There’s a subconscious relent in Agatha when she realizes how scared you are right now. There’s so much familiarity in that showcase of fear for her, that she’s slightly taken aback by the memories of nights when she was younger and afraid. A low growl dies down into a clearing of her throat, Agatha turning away. 

“Nicholas, you’ll get frozen if we’re here any longer,” she states, but Nicky knows it’s a demand. 

He pouts but doesn’t argue with his mom, waddling out of the water that Agatha easily cruises through. Her outfit matches yours — nothing but undergarments, and it’s clear that they had been playing in the water for quite some time. A weird thought festers in your mind, happy that despite being apathetic to everything, Agatha knows that her son is but a boy and deserves to have fun. 

By the time Agatha and Nicholas are fully dressed in their slightly damp clothes — ones you haven’t seen before, so you realize they must’ve been stolen during your lights-out phase – the embarrassment settles in. You feel even more vulnerable now, the only one absolutely indecent enough for viewing. Agatha lets Nicholas head back to their makeshift camp just some odd feet out, her journey steering to open a medium-sized leather pouch, and take out some clothes. Silently, Agatha walks down the doc to toss them in your lap. 

“What did you do to me?” is the first thing that comes out of your mouth — more so questioning how she managed to subdue you so easily. 

“Bathed you. Nothing more nothing less.” 

The sharpness of her tone makes you realize she believes you to be questioning something else — a small flinch on your face. 

“Not that, that I understand well. The time — I was awake, we were fighting, and then…” 

“Then I came to the smart conclusion you were too shambled to make such a journey and made it so you did not kill Nicky, nor I,” she answers, still on the defensive. 

You don’t argue back with her. Neither do you even try to dry off with anything, immediately trying to put on your clothes. 

“Wait.”

You stop at her words, convinced it was her magick rather than your obedience. “What?” 

Agatha walks off the dock, leaving you confused on whether or not you should continue. She turns her back to you again a couple seconds later, heading down the platform before tossing you a damp rag. 

“To dry. These clothes will be yours next few days, nothing wet against your skin will be comfortable enough for our journey. We leave tonight again.” 

You wet your lips, holding the rag before looking up at Agatha. Seeing her this close, it’s no wonder she was able to lure in many with a beguiling feeling of comfort. Agatha is motherly in many of her actions, even when she’s killing witches, surprisingly enough. Motherly or not completely monstrously, you’re not sure. 

“Thank you, Agatha,” you say softly, her name foreign on your tongue. 

“Make haste, the sun will set in a few hours time.” 

A simple nod from you has Agatha walking over to her son, your hands working to dry off your body with the rag. It’s slightly rugged, a little ripped and the edges are frayed. Although, you can’t be too picky, you suppose. Agatha almost gave you nothing. You’re not sure why she didn’t, why she let you dry off. It truly wouldn’t have been that uncomfortable for you, walking all that distance would’ve heated your body up and in turn the clothes would’ve probably helped cool you down. You turn around on the dock to run the rag over your chest, Agatha’s mean eyes running along your back. 

In her own mind, Agatha is beating herself up over giving you that rag. Why did she care if you were comfortable? If anything, Agatha only wants you to be uncomfortable around her — to be scared around her. It’s much easier that way, for you to be terrorized into obedience. She’s not sure, but maybe after being in your mind during the week in Salem she saw one too many correlations between you and Her. Agatha clenches her jaw, refusing to believe that after six years clean she’s genuinely letting herself feel the things she long ago buried about Rio. The name sends shivers down her spine, eyes running to find her boy. He’s nestled against a tree, fixing his hair into a braid. The facial expression she finds on him is way too similar to Rio — mouth open in concentration, nose tilted up. Agatha comes to the realization that she can never get away from the sound of the woman that loves her, and it haunts her. Rio’s voice in the mornings, her small touch throughout the day, the sweet laugh she let out at Agatha’s off-colored jokes – everything that was and is Rio stays within Agatha. Her eyes fall down to her hands, balling them up tightly before she lets go of them with a sigh. 

You walk down the dock, fully dressed and mainly dry. Wet against your neck is your hair, but you simply scrunch it up and keep it behind your shoulders. Agatha is moving Nicky up, sitting behind him as she starts softly speaking to him and doing his hair for him. The braid wasn’t the best, so Agatha simply undoes it and starts over. He doesn’t seme to mind, lost in the conversation as he drags a stick through the dirt to spell out his name. The scene is a little too vulnerable and familial for you to want to engage in, even if you’re more calm than when you first woke. There’s some slight gratitude you feel for Agatha, considering that she didn’t completely undress you when bathing you. Despite the slight awkward dampness of the materials against your skin, it’s something to be thankful for. 

You’re too caught up in trying to figure out everything that happened – stubbornly refusing to ask Agatha – that you don’t notice her sit next to you. Of course, there’s still a couple feet of distance from the two of you, but you’re unsure why she wouldn’t sit by Nicholas. Until you realize he’s not here. 

“Where is the boy?” you ask, your body more unsettled without him. This makes no sense, and you know it, but you swear Agatha is almost human around him. Despite that she’s killed in front of the boy, openly explained that she kills witches to him, and still speaks down to you around him – it just feels safer when he’s around. 

“Off to harvest some berries past that brush,” she replies, and you’re almost surprised she actually does. 

You just stay quiet, a slight nod of your head as your eyes lock on the fire. 

“Salem was just fine, in case you were wondering,” mumbles Agatha, sniffling after as if to cover up everything she just said. 

“Have they still been killling witches?” 

There’s a small laugh from Agatha, her head shaking slightly. “Oh, please, we were much too clever to be killed during then. Those women were married to the worst of the worst, and killed simply so their husband could marry younger or justify his continuous infidelity.” 

“We?” you ask, head turning to stare at Agatha. You weren’t aware that she was living in Salem during those times, but then again, you’re not sure how old Agatha actually is. “Yes, we. Womanhood came to me after spending my youth in that town. I left soon after.” Agatha’s tone at the end, her licking her lips and turning her head too, tells you that there’s something there – a story, no doubt, but you don’t question. 

“Must have been quite fearful, I’d imagine.” 

“They couldn’t catch us, dear, only a few were ever caught.” 

The fire is crackling, your hands reaching out to warm up over the flames. Agatha watches, the way your hair falls off your shoulder and over, her eyes running along your clothes. You’re maybe in your early twenties, or older - it’s hard to tell with witches. Her body is way to relaxed with you so near, but she doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s because she’s sure you’re magic isn’t as strong or because she’s sure you’re not skilled at all. Either way, Agatha doesn’t like it. 

You don’t react to the word “dear” slipping from her mouth, certain its’ just another way to degrade you and poke fun. It doesn’t bother you. You don’t let it. 

“Man has never been smart, have they?’ you chuckle out, flashing her a small smile. 

Agatha responds with a shake of her head, pursing her lips. “Not much, no.” 

Silence absorbs the both of you for a couple minutes, up until Nicholas stumbles through the brush. He’s brushing off some burs with a distasteful look. 

“They’re so sharp,” he mumbles, very displeased with his clothes being covered in spikey balls. There’s a small smile from you, your hand lifting up to drop down. Just as the action is completed, all the burs fall from his clothes, his head snapping up to look at his mother. 

“Thank you, mama.” “Don’t look at me, boy, that had nothing to do with me,” she chuckles slightly. “Would’ve been quite entertaining watching you flounder about a bit longer.” 

Nicholas laughs slightly at his mom’s teasing, his eyes turning to you. “You then? Thank you.” 

Turning back to the fire, you remain quiet as Agatha and her son converse together, the sun starting to fall. You still aren’t clear how long had passed since you last remember anything, but you’re too nervous to talk. Wringing out your hands, glaring at the fire only to occasionally look at the duo before you, you can’t find a good enough time to interject. 

There’s a small huff from Agatha, her annoyed look turning to face you. “You’re loud.” 

“Excuse me?” you ask out, a little bewildered at her statement.

“Your mind that is, you’re insufferable. What is it you need?”

Closing your gaping mouth, you blink a bunch before relenting. “How long… was I – how long did you have control over me?” 

Agatha wets her lips, turning back to the fire. “Maybe around eight days, including a portion of today.” 

Eight days. It had been eight whole days. You swallow thickly, looking down to stare at the dirt below. She had been in your mind, controlling you, full access to everything for eight whole days. You feel perturbed at this information, wetting your lips down as you struggle to come to terms with that. What had she done in there? What had she seen? What had she messed up? What had she learned? It feels like a violation to you, your head turned away from her. 

Apathetic to your discomfort, Agatha goes back to talking with Nicky about his day and what he found in the forest. 

The next few days are spent silently for you, simply walking alongside Agatha. You wish you could’ve been behind her, away from her, but she insisted you go next to her to negate any chance of betrayal from you. Far too tired to argue and far too worried she’d overwhelm your mind again, you just gave in. During this journey, you didn’t care to ask her where you all were going, you just walked. And walked. And walked.

[virtueofsanityx]

reggie's already half asleep when he feels the movement, and though a low little moan in his chest slips out as he feels dmitri press inside of him again, he doesn't move much, feeling limbless and spent, tired in a way he's never sure he's felt before, all the while dmitri's low, warm voice drips like honey over him, soothing him more, letting him fall into sleep that only rouses momentarily here and there before taking him under again. it feels like bliss, a warm, safe, perfect bliss, and all thoughts of what's going to happen in the morning are scrubbed from his mind and not at all a worry or concern. he's simply happy.

as the sleep starts to fade, however, his body protests against much movement at all, groaning and complaining about any little shift, as his hips and legs twist and move, his arms press against the cush bed under him to push him upright, and his eyes slowly open to face the cold grey light of the room.

dmitri isn't beside him anymore, and every inch of him feels cold, but before he can even scan the room, he hears the words and stops short. blinks. it's all rushing back, a sudden wave, a moment of true joy before it's ripped out of him again. dmitri's across the room before reggie has a moment to even think and the more the other man talks, to more it's like icy little stabs to that place inside of him that had been so warm and content just a moment before.

I never wanted this to happen.

it's that stab that twists the hardest in his gut, and something so cold crawls up his stomach that he's afraid he might be sick if he keeps looking at the regret written all over dmitri's face. he's the stupid one, here, the desperate, horny slut who spread his legs for a man he knew couldn't feel the same way about him that he felt. his heart still aches, remembering whispered words from the night before. mine, need you, promises made in a throw of passion that mean absolutely nothing now that the light of day is shining on them. he felt hope, maybe too much of it, even with all of the warning he had before, and now that it's being ripped away from him so soon after bliss...

reggie just blows out a breath and shakes his head. "forget it." words cold, colder than he's ever been with dmitri before, and his body is moving in the exact opposite direction of where the other man is knelt by the bed, like he's praying forgiveness to some god that might not even exist. eyes scan the floor for any sign of his haphazardly discarded clothes, suddenly feeling too exposed and too raw and needing out. some part of him is screaming that he needs to shower, to wash away any hint of dmitri on his body (a task he knows will be impossible for at least a few days, as he can feel pulsing points of skin bruised with claiming bites and marks all over), but even the idea of that makes him sick.

he can't be here, being rejected to his face, being told he's dmitri's best friend and that's all he wants when all reggie can think about is how good last night felt. he finds his pants and tosses them on, hanging low on his hips as he stands and stretches, still searching for his shirt. "i told abuela that i'd help her fix that creaky step on her porch before i have to be back to the firestation for my next stretch of on calls, so i should just--" he sucks at his teeth, stopping himself from saying more as he feels the hurt and anger dripping in his tone. he has plenty of time before he needs to leave, he planned vacation days around this, being here with his friend, but right now--

right now, running feels safer than his heart breaking more.

finally, his shirt is in his hand and he's tossing it on, mind already doing the checklist, where are his keys, where's his wallet, where is his phone. what music is he gonna put on his shitty truck stereo while he drives the hell away from here to completely drown out the voices in his head saying 'i told you so' over and over.

"i don't regret it, by the way." it comes out of him before he can stop it, eyes firmly planted on the door now, the escape, but feet rooted seemingly to the floor. "i'm sorry that you do, but it was--" perfect. wonderful. "-- i don't regret it. but i won't bring it up again. we're best friends. that's it. that's all."

Dmitri feels the steady, soothing glide of Reggie’s palm down the back of his scalp. It’s careful, grounding, but not enough to make him drowsy------ not after one round. Pffftchh, please. But his mind's still whirring from the most powerful orgasm that he's had in... fuck, who cares. Dmitri doesn't remember those other faceless lovers, doesn't want to even call anyone else his lover except for... Yeah, it's all sinking in now, though not in a way that cools that ever-burning flame in the pit of his gut. His need for Reggie snaps and snarls like a vicious and violent stray thing, that doesn't know how to stop wanting more. That hunger... well, nothing else in Dmitri’s life has ever felt quite this all-encompassing, this strong, outside of his burning ambition to become the greatest MMA Champion in the world. Fighting and fucking are the highest of highs, but Reggie? Promises everlasting desire and paradise and it's----- it's colossal, bone-deep love drenched in ravenous lust. Of course Dmitri's addicted beyond reason and pure sanity------ he's never wanted anything, anyone this unbearably before!

And so, the moment his even breathing returns to him (and he can tell Reggie's gone all tired and limp against his sweat-slick muscles,) Dmitri rolls onto his side, into the bed soaked in the mess that they made, and pulls Reggie into a protective embrace. From there, it's a lot of cuddling, squeezing, whispered words of obsessive passion, "You're mine." "Need you so much." "Belong to me." Shit that he's absolutely gonna pretend he never said in the morning, but for right now, he's possessed by some stronger force that only thinks, breathes, practically salivates over Reggie. And in between him lulling Reggie to sleep, comforting him, pulling some of the furs up to drape them both in that tranquil warmth... he's pressing his cock against the swell of Reggie's ass, slipping his pulsating girth back inside that impossibly tight hug of gushy walls and heat. Dmitri fucks into Reggie with slow, needy, but no less pleasurable pumps of his heavy cock, sometimes hard enough to stir Reggie into greater awareness----- but then Dmitri just reaches around to grasp Reggie's throat (firm but gentle, always that hypnotizing balance when his baby's half asleep) and purrs at him to take it, that he's doing so good, that he's Master's good little bitch, his slut, his fucking everything. Dmitri wants Reggie to be his everything, because it already feels like he is, as he's chasing wave after wave of pleasure, lost in an endless pursuit of carnal ecstasy and leaving Reggie dripping sloppy wet throughout the night. That hole had to be so fucking wrecked and puffy that he'd absolutely be sore and tender by tomorrow, more than likely unable to even sit down for prolonged periods.

Dmitri doesn’t know when he finally exhausts himself enough to fall asleep, and he’s lost count of how many times he’s given Reggie hot steamy load after load, but eventually, sleep claims him. Reggie stays nestled close against his chest, and outside, the winter clouds block out any hint of sunlight, allowing them to remain undisturbed in this sensual dreamworld. ...But Dmitri inevitably wakes first, surfacing from the fog of sleep with a jolt. Brown eyes snap open, wild and unfocused, his nose buried in the curve of Reggie’s neck as if he’d been unconsciously seeking his pulse throughout the night. And, with the realizations about last night swiftly crashing down upon him, his heart feels terrible. Crushed. He's going to be fucking sick.

Not at Reggie, but at himself.

What did he do? What the fuck did he just do? His breaths quicken------- short, panicked gasps that feel alien to him. It’s a sensation he’s only familiar with in the ring or after pushing his body to its limits during an intense conditioning routine. This was... so fucking bad------- in the matter of one night he destroyed his best friendship, his heart, and probably his happiness. All because he couldn’t resist something that felt incredible in the moment, but was the final blow to any stable and platonic future between him and Reg.

Chest trembling, breaths uneven, Dmitri moves cautiously to slip out of bed, determined not to wake Reggie, not yet, not when he’s not ready to meet those big doe eyes head on. He dashes toward the expansive cabin bathroom, desperate for a moment of solitude. A freestanding tub rests invitingly in one corner, but Dmitri heads straight for the shower, cranking the water on and stepping under the spray. The cold hits first, crawling across his skin until the heat finally takes over. As the water cascades down, he’s unable to escape the memory of Reggie’s touch------- the press of his teeth against Dmitri’s throat, the soft sweep of his lips over his collarbone. Worse still, he keeps hearing Reggie's goddamn voice------ making his body react, his lower half tense with an arrow of heat straight to his cock. Making him need again.

Belong to you. Dmitri. Sir.

Oh, it's fucking over. He's supposed to try to act normal after that? The things he did... the nasty shit that he said, that he called Reggie----- the fact that he knows he could take it a step further, but that it'll be all out of lust, out of treating Reggie as more of a slut than a best friend because he doesn't know how to properly love. Wouldn't know what to do with someone else's heart, not even if Reggie just placed his right into Dmitri's destructive hands, trusting him implicitly with it. Oh---- oh god, he just broke his own fucking heart, and possibly Reggie's right along with it.

No, no. It's just some pre-orgasm pining, Reggie wanting a taste for something he's never had before. Dmitri can't break Reggie's heart, because no one as good as Reggie would ever actually be in love with the likes of him.

A shaky hand hovers over the water dial, turning it with slow precision. Afterwards, Dmitri steps out, body revving into overdrive while his mind lingers in a distant fog. His eyes appear blurred and far-off as he reaches for a towel, drying himself absentmindedly. Only when he’s back in the other room, slipping into a fresh pair of boxers and black lounge pants, does he hear the sound of movement on the bed that jolts his spine straight. A wave of dread floods his veins. For what feels like an eternity, Dmitri stands motionless, dead silent, watching as Reggie stirs awake, rubbing the sleep from his eyes------- still beautiful, still covered in Dmitri’s marks, his dried seed. Goddammit.

"I'm so sorry," it just comes out, pained and worried and full of unavoidable regret. He hates that he did what he did, even though he knows his inner monster, fueled by lust, is grinning and panting for more. "I'm so fucking sorry, I------ don't know what came over me." A few long-legged strides carry him to the bed, where Dmitri drops down on his knees against the side of it, hands setting on top of fur covers----- close to Reggie's but too uneasy to touch. "I fucked up, so, so bad. I never wanted this to happen."

And he doesn't realize how hurtful that probably sounds, because he's overcome with emotion his damn self, and he just wants to convey sincerity but he's never slept with someone so dear to him before. It was wrong to take advantage of Reggie's confession and trust like that.

"You're----- you're my best friend," his voice aches. Reggie's his best friend, and he betrayed him. "That's it, that's all I want from you. You gotta believe me." And he has to clamp his mouth shut and swallow deep to stop himself from uttering baby, please.

[paranormaljones]

the way that season one Carmy looks at Syd like she's his entire future. someone needs to lock me in solitary confinement.

[tender-rosiey]

yoo rose I started following you a little while ago and I really liked you. I saw that your requests are open and I would like to ask for a scenario where Nanami arrives drunk and his wife takes care of him while he talks about how he loves her I liked all your stories with my businessman <3

unsteady love — nanami kento x f!reader

a/n: so glad that you do, love! <33 hope you like this one too 🫶🫶

kento stumbles slightly into your house, catching himself against the wall before you steady him, “kento… you’re drunk.”

he blinks down at you, the usually serious expression on his face replaced by something softer, more relaxed. there’s a faint flush coloring his cheeks, and he lets out a low, rumbling chuckle.

“I am not drunk,” he declares, his voice slurred just enough to betray him. “I’m... just—” he waves his hand vaguely in the air, searching for the right word. “...enlightened.”

you suppress a smile and guide him to the couch, sitting him down gently. “sure, ‘enlightened.’” you shake your head, amused. “stay put, I’ll get you some water.”

as you move to the kitchen, you hear him muttering to himself. “can’t believe I’m drunk,” he grumbles, almost like he’s scolding himself, “what kind of a husband does that?”

when you return, cup in hand, he’s sitting with his head leaned back against the couch, his eyes half-closed. but when you approach, he perks up immediately, watching you with a soft, slightly dazed look.

“you’re so beautiful,” he says. his voice is quieter, more sincere, and it catches you off guard for a second. nanami isn’t exactly shy about how he feels, but this is a side of him you don’t see often.

“drink,” you instruct, handing him the water to avoid the sudden rush of emotions his words bring. he takes the glass without complaint, but even as he drinks, his eyes never leave you.

after a few sips, he sets the glass down on the table and leans back again, sighing contentedly. “you take such good care of me,” he says softly, almost to himself, “I don’t deserve you.”

you chuckle at the sudden sentimental turn. “kento, you’re acting like I’ve just saved your life. you had a few drinks. you will be okay.”

he shakes his head, looking at you with those hazy, half-lidded eyes. “it is serious. you’re always here for me. always... my constant. my…” he trails off, struggling for the right words in his drunken haze, “you make everything better. I love you.”

his words are raw, unfiltered by the usual restraint he keeps on his emotions. there’s a vulnerability in the way he says it that makes your heart tighten.

“I love you too,” you reply, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “now, let’s get you cleaned up.”

but before you can pull away, he grabs your wrist gently, pulling you closer. “no, you don’t get it.” he’s more insistent now, his eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that’s surprising given his state. “I really love you. I think about it all the time, all—the time.”

you laugh softly, though his words tug at something deep inside you. “you can tell me all about it when you’re sober.”

he doesn’t let go, though, his grip still gentle but firm. “I mean it. you make the worst days worth it. you... you’re everything.”

a soft laugh escapes you, touched by his sincerity but also aware of how much the alcohol is loosening his tongue. “I know, kento. you’ve told me before.”

nanami pouts—a rare expression that looks so out of place on his usually stoic face. “but I don’t say it enough. you deserve to hear it.”

he blinks sloppily as he stares at you before murmuring, "I need to marry you."

you let out a soft laugh and kiss his cheek, "we are married, you silly man."

in a once in a lifetime incident, your husband stares at you, eyes wide, face reddening by the second. he looks down at his feet for a few moments, then you see him hum, "that's nice."

his seriousness is almost comical given the state he’s in, and you can’t help but tease him a little. “y'know, you’re awfully chatty for someone who insisted they weren’t drunk.”

he lets out a sigh, leaning his head back again and releasing your wrist, “fine, fine. maybe I’m a little drunk. but it doesn’t change the fact that I—”

before he can finish, he shifts too quickly and almost topples off the couch. you rush to catch him, but you fall with him, and he blinks, disoriented, before breaking into a lopsided smile. “maybe a lot drunk.”

“yeah, maybe,” you say with a laugh, helping him sit back up. “come on, let’s get you to bed.”

as you help him to his feet, he leans heavily against you, his arm draped over your shoulder. you guide him down the hallway, his weight familiar but the situation still amusingly foreign.

normally, he’s the one doing the taking care of—you can’t help but relish this rare moment where the roles are reversed.

once you’ve managed to get him into bed, he pulls you down next to him, refusing to let go of your hand. his eyes, though heavy with sleep, remain fixed on you with that same soft, adoring look.

“you’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he mumbles, his voice thick with exhaustion and sincerity, “we have to go to malaysia together.”

“sure,” you smile, brushing your fingers through his hair as his eyes finally flutter shut. “goodnight, kento.”

just as you’re about to pull away, his hand tightens around yours once more, and he whispers, half-asleep, “I love you.”

his words are softer now, less dramatic than before but still brimming with emotion.

you watch him for a moment, his features relaxed in the dim light, and feel a warmth spread through your chest. this side of him—unguarded, affectionate, and a little silly—is one you cherish just as much as his usual seriousness.

as he drifts off, you press a gentle kiss to his forehead, letting his words linger in the air, “I love you too.”

taglist: @magenta-cat-drawingss@pompompurin1028@scul-pted@requiem626k@nameless-shrimp@sonder-paradise@jessbeinme15s-notebook @todorokichills @ginneko @missrown @shrynkk @simplyxsinned @beautiful-is-boring @starlostlaiba @izukus-gf @irethepotato @thekaylahub @dazaisbloodybandages @aeanya @sweetcloudsimp @moon-catto @the-midnightskies@pianopuppygirl @gojosblackqueen @kryscent @kunikida-simp @whoami-72 @mx-0-child @fiona782 @kisakitwister @imjustasimpxd @psychopotatomeme @dreamcastgirl99 @watyousayin @doobiebochana @laylasbunbunny @hojicha-expresso @4sat0ruu @nineooooo @chuuyasboots @alekssashka7 @rieejjyubi02 @satoryaa @nothisispatrick300 @fallencrescentmoon @etheviese @ho34gojo @the-mom-friend-dot-com @the-weeping-author

@libbyistired @anon1412@maehemthemisfit @satorustar @b4nka1@sad-darksoul@ko-fi-heart@pumpkindudeishere@suyaaachin@babyqueen17@chaosguy352@murakami-kotone@sukun4ryomen@yumieis@hearts4itoshi@sleepyxxhead@dunixxd@sleepycrybbylaiah @imjustaduckwholikesbread @emilyyyy-08@spacebaby1@arabellatreaty@viscade @washeduphasbeen @janbannan @sugurubabe @enidths @mwtsxri @peppersapro @uranosbaaee @lifeisadumpie @guacam011y @kurooandkenmasslut @callmemirro @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @dindjarins1ut @candy-s72

copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize

check out my buy me a coffee!

[rafecameronssl4t]

Saving Grace || CEO!Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary: When Rafe Cameron’s infamous temper threatens to derail the entire office, his wife is called in as the only person who can bring him back to earth.

Warnings: none!

Word count: 2,051

MASTERLIST

Rafe Cameron could be described in many ways: arrogant, sharp-tongued, perpetually stone-faced, and infamously hot-headed. His temper was a ticking time bomb, always moments away from detonation. It didn’t take much to set him off—a missed detail, an oversight, or even the wrong tone of voice—and once his mood soured, it had a ripple effect on everyone within his orbit.

If Rafe was in a foul mood, the entire office braced itself for the storm, knowing they’d bear the brunt of his frustration. Productivity stalled, morale plummeted, and an oppressive tension hung heavy in the air. No one dared to ask if he was okay or offer to fix the issue—it was simply understood that his temper had to run its course.

But there was one person who had mastered the art of disarming the bomb: his assistant, Rachael. If anyone in the office had something to say about Rachael, it was that she knew Rafe Cameron far too well. She had an uncanny ability to read his moods and an arsenal of strategies for defusing them. Most importantly, she understood the one surefire way to calm Rafe down: his wife.

The woman who he worshipped the ground she walked on, mother to his children, and the only person Rafe Cameron seemed to hold above all else. No matter how irritable or unapproachable he became, the mere mention of her name was enough to shift the atmosphere. So when Rachael watched one of her coworkers stumble out of Rafe’s office, barely holding back tears, she knew it was time to intervene.

Her sharp eyes scanned the room, noting the nervous glances exchanged between staff members who were all too aware of the storm brewing behind Rafe’s closed door. Without missing a beat, Rachael grabbed her phone, dialling a number she had memorised long ago. As the call connected, her tone softened—a stark contrast to the sharp efficiency she displayed in the office.

“Hi, Mrs. Cameron,” she began, her voice carrying a mixture of urgency and familiarity. “I hate to bother you, but it’s one of those days. If you’re free, I think a quick word with Rafe might do the trick.” She paused, listening intently before smiling to herself. Rachael didn’t need to explain much; Mrs. Cameron always seemed to know exactly how to handle her husband.

And while the office might dread Rafe’s infamous outbursts, Rachael found comfort in knowing there was someone who could bring the man back down to earth. She let out a small sigh of relief when she heard your calm, reassuring voice on the other end of the line. “I’ll be right there,” you said, your tone steady but with a hint of warmth that was reserved for conversations about your husband.

Without hesitation, you grabbed your car keys, slipping on a pair of heels as you prepared to leave. It wasn’t the first time you’d been called in to play peacemaker, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. Rafe’s temper was legendary, but you knew how to navigate it better than anyone else. You’d seen him at his worst, the raw edges of his frustration and anger, but you also knew the softer side of him—the part that melted when you walked into a room, the man who looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

As you slid into the driver’s seat, your thoughts briefly flickered to your children, safely at home with the nanny. You didn’t want to leave them, but you also understood that Rafe needed you. He might not admit it outright, especially not in front of his staff, but the subtle ways he sought you out after a rough day spoke volumes.

~

As you walked toward your husband’s office, the energy in the space shifted noticeably. Heads turned, relief washing over faces that had been tense just moments before. Hushed whispers followed in your wake, employees murmuring their gratitude for the one person who could tame the storm that was Rafe Cameron. Even without uttering a word, your presence commanded respect—graceful yet undeniably authoritative.

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you, Mrs. Cameron,” Rachael said as she stood from her desk, her tone filled with a mixture of hope and exhaustion. “He’s in his office, and he’s miserable in there.” You glanced through the glass wall into Rafe’s office. Rachael hadn’t exaggerated—his frustration was palpable. The furrow of his brow, the tight set of his jaw, and the restless movements of his hands screamed of a man on the verge of losing his patience entirely.

You offered Rachael a small, reassuring smile before making your way to the door, your heels clicking softly against the polished floor. You didn’t bother knocking—Rafe hated formalities when it came to you. The heavy sigh he let out at the sound of the door opening was immediate. His eyes remained locked on the papers scattered across his desk, his tone sharp and cold.

“I thought I said I didn’t want to be disturbed.” A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you stepped inside. “Does that include me?” you asked, your voice sweet and smooth, cutting through the tension. Rafe’s head snapped up at the sound of your voice, his piercing blue eyes meeting yours. Instantly, his rigid posture softened, and the weight on his shoulders seemed to lift.

The frustration etched into his features melted away, replaced by a look that could only be described as unguarded affection. Just your presence had the power to undo him. Without a word, Rafe reached behind his desk and flicked a switch, causing the glass walls of his office to turn frosted, granting the two of you privacy. His voice softened, tinged with genuine curiosity and concern.

“What are you doing here, baby?" You walked around his desk, your movements fluid and deliberate, and Rafe turned in his chair to face you fully. Standing in front of him, you saw the shift in his expression—the hard edges of his day crumbling as he looked up at you. And there it was, the look that never failed to steal your breath.

No matter how difficult or frustrating his day had been, Rafe always looked at you like you were his entire world, as though you hung the moon and stars just for him. In his eyes, there was nothing but pure, unfiltered love—a stark contrast to the icy exterior he showed everyone else. You leaned down, your fingers brushing lightly against his jaw as you pressed a gentle kiss to his lips.

His shoulders visibly relaxed at the familiar touch, the tension from his day dissolving. “You’re scaring your employees,” you teased softly, your words accompanied by a light chuckle as you straightened up. Rafe let out a dramatic sigh, leaning back in his chair and rolling his eyes. “They’re ridiculous,” he muttered, his tone laced with both irritation and amusement.

“They’re terrified,” you corrected, folding your arms and raising a brow at him. “I saw one of them practically in tears.” Rafe groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not my fault they can’t handle a little pressure.” You gave him a knowing look, stepping closer and resting your hands on the armrests of his chair, effectively boxing him in. “Rafe, you can be a little… intense,” you said gently, your eyes locking with his. “And by ‘a little,’ I mean a lot.”

His lips quirked into a smirk, his hands instinctively finding your waist. “You don’t seem scared of me,” he said, his voice dropping into a softer, almost teasing tone. “That’s because I know the real you,” you replied, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. “The one who spoils me, reads bedtime stories to the kids, and eats all the burnt pancakes I make without complaining.”

He let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling from his chest. “You know I love those burnt pancakes,” he murmured, tugging you closer until you were practically sitting on his lap. “Hmm,” you hummed playfully, trailing your fingers along the lapel of his blazer. “Maybe I should remind your staff that under all that brooding, you’re just a big softie.”

“Don’t you dare,” he warned, though his smirk betrayed the emptiness of his threat. You laughed softly, pressing another kiss to his lips before pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. “Then maybe try to be a little nicer? For me?” He sighed, feigning reluctance, but the way his hands tightened on your waist betrayed his surrender. “Fine,” he said, his tone mockingly begrudging. “But only because you asked so nicely.”

“That’s all I needed to hear,” you said with a satisfied smile, brushing your thumb against his cheek. “Now, why don’t you take a break? Let me help you relax before you scare anyone else.” Rafe’s smirk softened into a genuine smile, the love in his eyes shining brighter than ever. “You really are my saving grace,” he murmured, his voice low and sincere.

[pureshoney]

dylan takes a moment to just look up at him; her heart aches as she watches his face, understanding flooding through her at his raw admission about merely surviving before her. the girl who'd run from him a week ago seemed like a stranger now - she couldn't imagine running from this vulnerability, this trust he was showing her. he'd existed only to hunt, survive, and cross names off a list - until she walked into his bar and changed everything. "then let me see it all. the surviving, the names, everything that brought you to me," her fingers traced along his jaw. "i want to understand what made you into the man i fell in love with." she could feel the weight of his past in his words, how he'd been more machine than man before her. the week apart had taught her something vital - that loving him meant accepting every dark step that had led him to her door. "you're not just going through motions anymore." her voice carried absolute certainty, "and neither am i." own eyes can't help but roll at how he prefers to be hovering over her instead of down on one knee. still, there's absolutely no malice behind the act. "well, let's save the proposal for another time if you're enjoying this so much more," picks her head up to lay a kiss against his lips. "good, that's all i can ask for," sure they were still relatively early on in their relationship to be talking about relationships but who cares? dylan already knew that keenan was the first man she's ever truly loved and that he would be the last. knew that she would marry him, and when she says something more extravagant than palming her tits, blonde doesn't mean flying to fucking aruba or something. just wants to see and feel the thought that he cares enough to try and make her happy, which he already did that ten times over. "they do have good sides … they're just a little overshadowed!" could acknowledge that her friends were bitchy sometimes and elitist, but they meant well. sometimes. "they just get jealous of the bruises you leave. them and their fuckin' vanilla boyfriends, but you're right. only person you should care about is me," remarks with a giggle, hands once again reaching for his pants and undoing them just enough to slid her hand inside his boxers and wrapping her palm around his thick shaft, ends of her fingertips barely touching as she begins stroking him. "so hard, daddy … it's only been a week," taunts with a sly grin, hypocritical of her considering she's sure her cunt was about to soak through thin panties any second now. promise doesn't fall on deaf ears, can feel arousal pooling out of her at the idea of keenan just ramming his cock inside of her even if he could hardly fit. "stop being such a fucking tease," can't help but whine before lesser juts out into a pout, gyrating her hips against his hand trying to get more from him. dylan gives his dick a few firm tugs before swirling thumb over his slit, "can't fuck me if you don't take these pants off me, don't you wanna fuck me so badly?"

up until the moment he met dylan his life had been ugly. a journey he wouldn't wish on anyone aside from those scribbled on his list. "there's nothing but ugly parts", homme admits with a laugh, "until i met you it was about surviving, getting to another day and scratching off another name." it had been his sole purpose, to see each sunrise and be fuelled by the knowledge that the day was another chance to progress, to work on finishing off that list and being able to move on — now he had dylan, a love that he never imagined he could have for himself. "it's fuckin' corny as hell, but you made me realise that i didn't have a damn life at all, princess. i was just going through the motions, dead inside." might as well been a machine, programmed for a specific purpose and nothing else — then she'd sauntered in to his bar and rewired him. "if you want it to be, baby. i would get down on one knee but i like this position better", remarks with a grin, unable to stop the rolling of his eyes at her words. "don't worry princess, when i propose i'll make sure it's the most romantic thing you've ever seen or experienced." his girl deserves the best of everything, even if keenan could never compete financially with her past partners or flings he'd still try his best and give her that damn proposal and ring. marriage was inevitable for the pair, that much was obvious to him. there was no going back, not once she'd knocked on his front door. shaving a little off the bar's profits wouldn't be noticed, not if he was smart and patient enough, getting a diamond on her ring finger was his biggest priority. hands paw and claim the beautiful blonde lying on his bed, hues devouring her as she writhes and sighs for him. a week wasn't technically that long, yet it had felt like a lifetime to keenan. "do they have good sides?" homme teases, leaning down to steal a kiss from those plush lips. "princess, they ain't gonna like me ... maybe tolerate me, but not like — especially when they see the bruises i'm gonna leave on your body." watching his girl play with herself is mesmerising, those perfect tits and hardened buds that beg for his attention. "i'm your man, baby. if they don't like me i don't give a shit. all i care about is you." hips shift forward as her hand moves, his own delving beneath her trousers to palm her cunt, rubbing roughly against the slickness that coats his skin. "yeah? so fuckin' tight for daddy, aren't you?" hand dips lower, a bulge against her trousers as he circles her clit with his thumb. "don't worry princess, i'm gonna make it fit." he should pull down her trousers, strip his pretty girl naked so he can be inside of her as soon as possible — but there was a dark sweetness in taking it slow, in getting himself familiar with her body again, in making dylan beg and plead for it.

[theorist-fox]

Simon has feelings he doesn't acknowledge, until he does.

Word Count: 800

CW: sweet smut

Masterlist 🦊

If anyone were to ask—yes, Simon’s as heavy as he looks. And all those muscles and bulk are now folding you in half, knees next to your ears and back dipped into the mattress.

You’d like to elaborate further on how the hell the two of you had gotten here, but Simon’s already fucked you on his desk. Picked you up, pressed you backwards, and made sure the paperwork he'd been slaving over for the whole afternoon would stick to your spine as he screwed your brains out.

If you peeked above his shoulders, you’d see them still there, on the polished wood of his desk. Which consequently means that there is nothing in your skull right now, just shreds of your brain absorbing the resounding slaps of his skin to yours, and bits and pieces of your consciousness floating in a fog of bliss. 

Simon has never been particularly talkative during sex, only yielding sparse grunts or stuttered pants. Minimal sounds, really, especially when compared to the gentle croons you breathe in his ear, or the lovingly placed kisses at the hinge of his jaw.

However, in spite of the obvious imbalance, you never push for more.

The last thing you want is for him to step even farther out of his comfort zone. The lack of clothes and balaclava is already a great show of trust. The way he's pressing down on you, nose to nose, is a testament to the safety he feels in your presence—and it's enough for you.

But.

...It's just sex, isn't it?

He says it every time, ensuring you get it through your skull by adding a firm look to the sentence—one of those that curdle the blood of novices and enemies alike.

It's just sex, he says, but the more this whole unlabeled thing goes on, the slower he fucks you. Less and less are the times in which he takes you from behind, favouring the sight of your face instead.

It's just sex, but then he always kisses you when he cums, huffing heavily from his nose to catch his breath because his mouth is busy tasting something softer, and he doesn't seem eager to move away.

It's just sex, or whatever he tells himself, but he always insists you stay over, because not even the barracks are safe to walk alone at night—he's a soldier, knows what it means to see a bird like you, uniform or not, on her own at night. He's wary and distrustful of the likes of him.

It's just sex, and yet now he's grabbing you ever so gently by the jaw, redirecting your focus to his eyes. His mouth puffs warmly directly onto yours—humid breath you taste on your tongue and down your throat. His hips jerk downwards, meeting your sex in long, deep thrusts that have his cheeks turn pink and his eyes glossy.

He burns holes in your irises until you're forced to blink your eyes a little wider—enough to give him the same (unexpected) attention he's giving you.

His eye twitches.

"Fuck, you're beautiful," he croaks in one breath, so harshly you think he's had to wrench it out of his chest.

Your heart stops. You're not quite sure, and he doesn't even give you the time to register it that he says it again.

"You're beautiful," he breathes to your mouth, shoulders hunching over as if he's surrendered to his own statement.

He's buried in so deep, pelvis flush to where you're still achingly sensitive and blissfully raw, that you're not sure whether his words are the ones snatching the breath from your lungs, or if it's the relentless way he plunges back in each time he draws back.

Simon shifts so that your legs can slowly fall down the rigid angles of his hips. You sigh as the ache in your hamstrings abates, and wrap your thighs more comfortably around his softer waist.

He studies, uncharacteristically captivated, each fine line he can find on your face, each wrinkle and dotted scar, each freckle and mole blending in your skin. Pitch-dark eyes trace your features as if he's never seen them before, as if it's the first time he does.

"Fuckin' hell," he croaks, sounding much softer, giving in.

And his hands come to cradle the back of your head, lifting it up from the plush of the pillow. He nestles in closer, and slots his lips with yours, guiding your bodies to slide against one another.

"You're beautiful."

It's just sex, he says, but then he kisses you as you cum, and he follows soon after, whispering praises you've never heard from him before, but ones that feel familiar all the same.

And he calls you beautiful, over and over, with the velvet brush of his lips on yours.

You're beautiful, he tells you—for the rest of the night, and the ones to come.

[yawnderu]

Simon’s gut clenched, the pure heartbreak in your eyes lashing at his heart like whips. He choked back tears, swallowing the thick lump in his throat to keep himself from falling at your feet and begging to be forgiven. Deep inside, he knows it’s selfish to keep you with him. 

“‘M sorry.” His first confession is nearly muted by the traumatized, war-hardened soldier deep within his soul. 

“I’m so sorry. I asked for the leave, but bloody Makarov just…” He pauses, realizing that no matter how many excuses he comes up with, his mistake will never be forgiven. It doesn’t deserve any forgiveness, and that’s something he’s fully aware of, gnawing at his conscience from within. 

“I love you. I love both of you. I promise— no, I swear, that I won’t ever leave.” His gaze drifts down to the newborn baby in your arms. A tiny sweet girl, her big brown eyes looking at him with so much curiosity and love. For a second, it takes every ounce of strength for him not to reach out and hold her. 

Simon clenches his fists tightly, as if holding back the tide of emotions surging within him. The last thing he wanted was to be like his father— an absent bloody cunt, yet it seems like the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree no matter how much he tries.

The sight of the tears rolling down your cheeks feels like daggers straight to his soul, and yet a part of him thinks he’s not allowed to feel pain. Not when he let you be alone and scared in the delivery room, surrounded by nurses sporting expressions of pure pity for you. A first-time mother who kept insisting her husband was going to show up this one time. 

“I was so scared, Simon.” The first words you’ve told him the entire night hurt more than any bullet he’s ever taken. 

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so fucking sorry.” He swallows the thick lump in his throat, hesitantly reaching out to brush the tears from your cheeks, his hands shaky. His dark eyes fix on your face, soaking you in, wanting to remember even the smallest detail. As exhausted as you are, you’re still the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on. 

“Let me make it right. I promise I’ll do everything to make up for it.” A grim part of his soul knows that this is just one of the many cracks in your marriage that will never be repaired. Still, the sincerity in his voice echoes in the room as he leans forward, pressing your foreheads together. 

“I can’t imagine how you felt, baby. How scared you must’ve been…” He whispers, his chest constricting. His gaze drifts down to your beautiful girl, tears brimming his eyes the moment her tiny hand reaches out to hold one of the straps from his gear. 

“I’m here now. I’ll never leave, I promise.” If finally hanging it up is what it takes to amend your marriage, he’ll do it. A small smile pulls at the corners of his lips, picturing being able to see his little girl grow up with the chances he never had, and despite knowing that he deserves the rawness of the moment, Simon makes it a life goal to be with you at all times. To fix everything he once broke.

From the ex-husband Simon series.