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damneddamsy · 1 month ago

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

THE FINAL INTEGRATION—All the fragments unify into something new.

a/n: Last chapter :) :( I'm so emotional, this is awful but so spectacular - it's all coming together and it's finally over! I was sobbing so hard, tearing up, choking up - I had this idea in my head for so long, now seeing it executed... I can't believe it. Epilogue left to wrap this baby up 🌻

word count: 18,000+ (woo, mama, she's a big one)

What is home?

See, it really depends on the person you ask. To a reader, it might be a stack of books, their broken spines and the soft hum of imagination. To a child, it might be the warmth of their parents’ voice at bedtime.

Now, if you asked Joel Miller what home is, he would tell you that it is the nicest word out there. You can build a house anywhere, but a home? He was too much of a pragmatist to be poignant, but he knows exactly what it feels like to lose it, and how rare it is to find it again. And when you have lived as long as him, you know: when you find it, you do everything you can to deserve that goddamn feeling. Even if you're not sure you ever will.

Home wasn’t where Joel laid his head. It wasn’t the decorated walls and soaring ceilings of the big, white house—not in any way that mattered. Home was the physical structure where Leela could shut her eyes and not flinch when he draped his arm across her waist. Home was a second mug set out beside his, even if he was the first one up. Home was where Maya’s laughter could rise—unburdened, unguarded—without the shadow of the world chasing it down.

Home wasn’t just where they were. It was where they lived.

And still—the non-allusive home list never stopped creeping in.

A squeaky hinge on the front gate. Chipped paint on the eaves. One of the rain barrels had a slow leak, a dark stain bleeding against the siding. The back steps needed resealing before the frost set in, or Leela would lose her footing come winter.

And Maya’s bed.

It would not have been an issue if not for his little troublemaker who had figured out how to climb out of her crib a few months ago—nearly gave him a heart attack when he found her downstairs in the kitchen at two in the morning, knuckle deep in a bottle of jam, no pants on. He kept telling Leela he’d replace the crib with a real bed soon, but every time he tried, he’d end up just standing in the doorway, watching her sleep from over the rails, unable to bring himself to take it down.

Her new bed was upstairs in his workshop, still raw in places, still missing the final polish on the edges. Pinewood. Sturdy as shit. He’d hand-picked the planks while running two towns over, carrying them back on his shoulders.

He’d started carving it a year ago, just after the thaw. A simple design—square legs, clean lines, not much ornament. But on the arch of the headboard, he’d carved her name. Each letter was in cursive, meticulous grooves. M-A-Y-A. He’d traced them with his thumb afterwards, wondering how many years it would take before she outgrew it. If she knew that he'd been there, right next to her mother, when they named her.

It sat in his space. Joel’s space.

The workshop on the third storey, tucked into the far end of the house, where the bare rafters angled low and the windows stretched wide across the back wall. This was his bastion—no one else’s—just as much a part of him as Leela was. And she had established it so.

Not a man cave or a den, as much as Tommy taunted. A room that didn’t ask for much or pretend to be anything other than what it was: wood, dust, light, and Joel.

Sunlight filtered through the high, slanted windows in shifting moods—at times too sharp, at others perfectly subdued. Mornings arrived in a flood of amber, gilding the furniture and suspending dust motes in a celestial dance. By evening, it softened into burnished streaks that stretched across the floorboards. Joel often found himself staring, transfixed on those fading lines longer than he meant to.

The walls were bare but for a few scattered tools and a calendar frozen decades ago. Beneath the windows, a long wooden workbench ran the length of the room—its surface worn smooth in places, splintered in others. It was always cluttered: wood shavings, clamps, loose nails, a steel square, and a dented tin of wood glue with its lid stuck askew. A tiny, abandoned, poorly-carved figurine that Maya had insisted was a three-eyed alien sat among the disarray like a forgotten thought.

No matter how often he swept, a fine layer of sawdust clung to everything. Along the back wall, shelves sagged under half-used varnish cans, loose screws, folded rags, and off to the side sat a chair he’d reupholstered himself—too stiff for most, but just right for him.

No one came up here unless he said so. And even then, they tread lightly. Leela called it his “thinking room,” and aptly so. Some days, Joel sat there just to let his mind run amok. Other days, he came up simply to fall apart—quiet, alone, unburdened by the need to explain himself.

And in one of the little drawers—right-hand side, third down—was the ring.

It hadn’t started out that way. He’d found it all the way back in Vegas, of all places. The thing had been broken straight through the band, warped like someone’d tried to twist it off in anger. No gem. Just the ghost of where one used to sit. It looked like the kind of ring that once meant everything to someone—and then didn’t.

He’d picked it up anyway. A part of him hoped it could still mean something, given the right hands.

It took him all of five straight months once he started working on the ring, in holes and corners.

He wasn’t a jeweller. Wasn’t even an artist, not unless bullheadedness counted as talent. But he had tools, he had time, and he had a piece of oak. From the big, old tree out front—the one that’d stood through too many winters and dropped leaves in slow gold spirals every fall. Maya’s favourite playground, Leela’s greatest shade.

He’d carved the wood into a thin inlay, cradled around the repaired band like a second spine, dark against the soft gleam of restored gold, the colour of desert dusk. Filled the rupture in the metal with painstaking heat, forged the shape again, slow and exact, hammered it soft where it had gone brittle. He’d even filed the edges smooth and dared a small flourish on the oak—enamelled, rose-shaped ridges, intricate wreaths. Elegant in its own rough way.

It wasn’t flashy. No lofty gems. Only a touch of a woodworker’s pride.

If he thought about it, the ring was them—Leela, the soft blush of gold once broken now cautiously welded, gleaming with grace; Joel, the deep-grained oak that held it in a reinforced circle, weathered and stubborn the way old trees are.

And it had been ready for months now. All polished. Finished, and just sitting there.

He’d rolled it between his fingers a dozen times since, thumb brushing over the seam he’d sanded down by hand, almost invisible now unless you knew where to look—at the workbench, on the porch, tucked in his coat pocket on those quiet walks back from patrol. Always waiting for the moment that felt like it mattered enough. The right breath, the right light, the right words.

He didn’t hear the stairs creak one afternoon—Leela moved like a ghost when she wanted to—but he heard her voice, breathless and distracted.

“Joel, I—”

He startled, just enough to curse himself for it, then push the ring under an oil-stained rag. She stepped into the doorway a second later, her silhouette backlit by afternoon sun.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at him, head tilted, brow drawn.

“Sorry, did I interrupt you?” she asked, tone softened. “I should get a door fixed here soon.”

He nodded inanely, then shook his head. Swallowed. “Yeah. No. Nah, no need. Was just—workin’.”

She glanced at the bench, then back to him, a sceptical brow arching. “Alright, um. I need your hands for a sec. The tomato trellis is sagging, and baby girl swears there’s a spider the size of her face in there.”

Joel stood, brushing sawdust from his jeans. “Tell her that the spider’s paid the rent. It stays.”

Leela didn’t smile, but the corner of her mouth twitched. She turned to go.

He opened his mouth, reaching for the rag. “Honey—”

She stopped. Looked over her shoulder. Skin dewy from the heat, a little furrow between her eyes, and the light shimmered on her cheekbones and the line of her throat, where sweat had caught the sun, and she looked jewelled for a second.

And just like that—he had lost his nerve. He could’ve said it then. Could’ve pulled the ring from the shadows, could’ve made a joke about it being too stupid or too late or whatever the hell it was. He had nothing prepared. Mundane and marred by spider eviction.

So instead, Joel nudged the ring farther back beneath the rag.

“Be right there,” he muttered around his throat closing up, grabbing a pair of work gloves from the peg.

Alas, that right, light-bulb moment never quite came. Nothing ever felt big enough. Not after everything they’d already lived through. Not when the days already felt borrowed.

They had a daughter. A big house. Nights spent curled together like old trees grown toward the same sun. There wasn’t anything missing, and the people in Jackson already talked like it was done.

“Joel’s folks.”

“Joel’s girl.”

And his least favourite, “The Miller baby.”

Everyone saw them for what they were.

Still, it gnawed at him. He wanted something more than knowing. More than the comfort of habit. He wanted something in fact. Tactile. Seen. A thing that didn’t live only in gestures or glances or the way she said hi, Joel, after a long day.

He wanted to see that ring glint on her finger when she brushed the hair from Maya’s face. He wanted to feel its cool shape against his callused palm when she reached for him in the night.

On this hot afternoon—Joel sat back against the trunk of a sycamore tree just off the ridge trail, elbows on his knees, the ring between his fingers. Spinning it slow, like maybe—if he looked at it long enough—it would just tell him what to do. Like the answer might rise out of the metal, plain as daylight, if he just waited quiet and still.

The trail below was quiet, sun hammering down through the branches, the grass around them dry and crackling in the breeze. They’d cleared the area an hour ago, but Tommy had gone ahead to check the northern bend. Joel thought he had time.

He didn’t hear the bastard come back until boots crunched right behind him. Same little shit behaviour, couldn't give him a moment of peace.

Joel flinched a little—just in his eyes—then quickly pocketed the ring, like he was sixteen again and got caught smoking. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

Tommy let out a low whistle, stepping up beside him with a shit-eating grin. “Holy shit. Is that what I think it is?”

He shot him a sideways glance. “You people gotta stop sneakin’ up on me. I used to be foolproof at this shit.”

Tommy chuckled. “You’re slippin’, old man. Maybe it’s time you quit patrol.”

“I’ll show you slippin’ if you open that big hole again.”

That made him laugh harder. “You gettin’ jumped this easy? Can’t have Jackson’s best gunslinger losin’ his edge over a tiny ring.”

“Maybe I just got too much on my mind,” he mumbled.

“That ain’t a bad thing anymore, brother.”

Tommy crouched beside Joel with the easy, infuriating grace of someone who hadn’t just hiked ten miles in the heat. Pulled his canteen off his belt, took a long sip.

“So, how long have you been haulin’ that thing around?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. A while.”

Tommy sighed, shaking his head. “About goddamn time, is all.”

Joel didn’t say anything to that. Just stared forward at the empty hills. Chin resting in his hand now. Thumb stroking his lip like he could erase the expression off his own damn face.

Tommy, then said, quieter, more to the trees than to his brother, “I get it, y’know. I’m glad you want this for yourself.”

Joel didn’t respond, but it landed.

Of all the people left in the world, Tommy was the only one who could say that and mean it. Because Tommy had seen him through everything.

Before the fall. After it. In the thick of the fire and fury, when Joel had become someone hard and horrific and capable of things they didn’t talk about anymore. And now that he’d found a new purpose in the quiet hum of Jackson, in the child’s head resting on his shoulder, in the sound of her laugh.

His little brother had been there for all of it. He’d seen Joel break, and survive, and soften.

“What’d you—” Joel started, then stopped. Took a long breath, like the words weren’t shaped right in his mouth. “What’d you do for Maria?”

Tommy blinked, not expecting the question. “What d’you mean?”

Joel looked out across the clearing, squinting into the sun-glared trees like the answer might be hiding out there, just waiting to be found. “Just—when you asked her. To... marry you.”

Tommy took another sip, then leaned back beside him, stretching his legs out in the dust. Let out a low, thoughtful hum. “Not much. I just asked her.”

Joel’s brow furrowed. “That it?”

“That’s it.”

“You didn’t—plan nothin’?”

Tommy gave a lazy shrug. “Figured she already knew I was an idiot. Didn’t need to prove it with the whole song and dance.”

Joel huffed a short laugh, but there wasn’t much humour in it. More like steam escaping. His thumb worked across the ridges of the ring again. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Tommy didn’t help one bit. It just made him feel like he was doing it wrong. Maybe other men just asked and it worked out, and he was the only fool who needed to rehearse a thousand different versions of a sentence he still couldn’t quite say.

Joel swallowed hard. “S’pose I don’t ask it right,” he muttered.

Tommy crossed his arms, exasperated. “There ain’t a right way, Joel.”

And he looked at Joel then—not as the little brother, not as the man who used to pull him out of bar fights, or drag him back from the edge, or talk him off a bad decision—but as the man who’d walked with him through hell and come out the other side.

“You’ve already done the hardest shit a man can do. You made it out,” Tommy said.

He clapped a hand once on Joel’s shoulder. “So if you’re waitin’ for a sign, maybe just… stop. 'Cause she’s right there. And you already know.”

Yet, Joel kept the ring close.

Tucked it into different pockets depending on the day—his coat, the small drawer by the bed, the inner lining of his backpack when he was out for patrol. Some nights, it lived beneath his pillow. Not because he thought she’d find it, but because he liked knowing it was near. A secret between him and the future he didn’t quite believe he deserved. Like it might vibrate or shine if the right moment came.

There’d been a handful of almosts. Moments where he’d come so close he could taste the words in the back of his throat. All the permutations of a few simple words.

Please marry me. Leela, marry me. I wanna marry you, Leela.

But he’d say it how he meant it.

I want you. All the way. Every day of the week. Even when you don’t talk for three of them. Even when your brain goes fuzzy and you make me feel like I’m missing a decimal point. I still want you until I'm a dead man.

Like that time he caught her humming to Maya in the bathtub—laughing, sleeves rolled, her knees on the tile, playfully creating a shark fin out of foam and Maya's curls. Joel had stood in the hallway, just out of sight, the scent of soap and warm water drifting through the air.

Or all those nights they’d danced, slow and off-beat in the living room, barefoot on warm floorboards, Leela swaying with him while Percy Sledge rasped on about love that wouldn’t let go. She’d never once asked what he was thinking during those dances, but sometimes—especially when her forehead rested just under his chin—he thought maybe she knew.

Look, the thing is, Joel Miller didn’t ask easy. He’d loved and lost and paid for both. And though time had softened the sharper edges of his grief, it hadn’t erased it. He was a man rebuilt from wreckage—stronger in some places, brittle in others—and he’d learned the hard way not to reach too fast for anything that felt too good.

What if she said no when he popped the question?

Or worse—what if she said yes, and somewhere down the line, looked at him with that distance he’d seen in too many eyes, that what did I do kind of sorrow?

Because one night, not long ago, they’d sat on the porch together—full of warmth, of breath, of small giggles, of a peace they didn’t speak of because naming it might break the spell. The sky had been that deep western blue, just shy of dusk, the kind of shade that made shadows stretch like sleepy children. Crickets were starting up in the brush. The wind wound through Leela’s hair like an old friend.

And she’d looked at him.

Not smiling or blinking. As if she saw right through the walls, he still hadn’t realised he kept. And then she said, while the silence waited for her—soft, certain:

“You make me feel like I survived on purpose, Joel.”

The words had struck something so deep in him he hadn’t known how to hold them. Like she’d laid a gift in his lap, tender, bone-deep, and all he could do was nod. His fingers had curled into the armrest until his knuckles went white, trying to ground himself in something. Because Christ, that was a thing to be told.

Not I love you. Not I need you. That would have been a letdown.

I lived—and now I know why.

He could’ve asked her then. The ring was sitting in that drawer by the bed, tucked inside a flannel shirt he never wore. It would’ve taken less than a minute. Less than a breath. Just a few words.

But he didn’t.

Not because he didn’t want to. He’d been carrying that want around like a second heart, beating hard every time she laughed, every time she leaned into his side, every time she held their baby girl.

No—he didn’t ask because he was still Joel.

Still, that man who had learned the hard way what it cost to love something more than the world could bear. Still a man who sometimes woke up half-expecting it to all be gone. Who held joy like it might break in his hands if he wasn’t careful.

Tommy cleared his throat, suckered him back to the trail ahead, like he was winding up for something. They rode single file through the narrow trail, the horses steady beneath them, and Jackson wasn’t far now—maybe another hour if they didn’t stop.

“Tell you what,” Tommy started, giving his reins a lazy flick. “This weekend—dinner with the whole family. I’ll get the grill goin’, and I will personally make sure Ellie shows. No bullshit excuses. You ask Leela then.”

Joel shot him a look. “In front of everyone?”

Tommy shrugged, unbothered. “Nah, we’ll be watchin’ from a respectful distance. You need your emotional support system, big guy. And you take Leela aside. Do the damn thing. Then you take her home and make sweet love to your new wife.”

Joel huffed through his nose. “Jesus, Tommy. The hell is wrong with you?”

“What? She’ll say yes, ya wuss. Everybody and their mother knows it. It ain’t that deep.”

“Don’t need an audience,” Joel said, shaking his head, but Tommy wasn’t done.

“You think I’m missin’ the moment my pain-in-the-ass brother tries to get down on one knee?” He chuckled. “Not a chance. That’s goin’ in the family vault. Right next to the time you fell off the roof fixin’ the antenna. Sixteen-year-old dumbfuck.”

Joel grunted. “That wasn’t my goddamn fault. Wind kicked up, and you were rushing me.”

“Uh-huh. Just like it’ll be the wind’s fault if you chicken out again.”

His jaw worked, teeth grinding against the storm of thoughts in his head.

He could see it too clearly—the glass slipping from his fingers, the moment crumbling like dust in his mouth. Maybe he said the wrong thing. Maybe he said too much. Maybe the look on her face turned uncertain, and the silence stretched too long. Maybe she didn’t say anything at all.

He gripped the saddle horn a little tighter. The ring was still in his coat pocket. Same place it’d been for a while now.

Tommy kept talking, not helping one goddamn bit. “You overthink everything, man. Always have.”

Joel muttered, “And you never think at all.”

Tommy just laughed, like he didn’t mind being told the truth.

Although lately... lately, something had shifted. Joel clocked it the minute it arrived.

Because he wasn’t just a man grieving anymore. He was something almost foreign to him. Something he hadn’t dared to be since before the world turned to ash and bone.

He was hopeful. Making rings, planning a proposal, a whole, nice family around him. Was that the difference this time around?

Because love, for a man like Joel Miller, was never gonna be fireworks or proposals in fields of flowers. He didn’t know how to make speeches. He didn’t trust perfect moments. The world had taught him too well how things fall apart.

To him, love didn’t promise safety. If anything, it made the fall steeper. And Joel had spent too long learning how to stand back up. Because needing meant breaking, needing meant pain.

They were about forty minutes out from the gate when the bend in the trail opened up near the creek, and Joel saw movement—two figures just off the path, half in shadow, half in gold-streaked midday screening through the trees. A man stood tall, blonde, broad-shouldered, one arm raised in a friendly wave that felt just a little too staged. The woman beside him leaned against the trunk of a skinny spruce, arms folded, gaze fixed in that way that wasn’t bored or wary—just watchful.

Tommy slowed first, fingers brushing his holster in that smooth, practised way. Not drawing, not just yet. Joel mirrored him a beat later, easing the reins back, quietly. First, he just took them in.

The man was definitely ex-military or something close to it; that kind of posture didn’t just come from ranch work. He looked fit, shoulders squared, like he knew how to take a punch and stay on his feet. The woman wasn’t slack either, built like an ox—tall, maybe five-ten, and there was tension in her arms and stance, like she could bolt or strike and hadn’t decided which she preferred.

Joel didn’t like it one bit. Too calm. Too tidy. Too alert for two stragglers lost in the woods.

“Afternoon,” the man called as they approached. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t,” Tommy replied, his own tone casual but clipped. “You folks alright?”

“We’re fine,” the man said. “Just passing through. Got turned around near the pass.”

That instantly made Joel narrow his eyes. Nobody got turned around near that pass without being real damn unlucky—or real damn curious.

“Where you two headed?” Joel asked, making certain.

The man glanced sideways at the woman, then looked back. An obvious signal. Bunch of seedy pricks, that was for sure. “Nowhere in particular. Heard there’s a settlement not too far. Jackson City, right?”

There it was. Joel clocked it right then. Subtle, but unmistakable. They were looking for names.

Tommy nodded slowly. “That’s right.”

“You two from there?”

The air changed. Just a little. Just enough so Joel could feel Tommy hesitate—briefly, maybe half a second—but long enough for Joel to notice. Long enough for someone else to notice, too.

“Yeah,” Joel said, cutting in, voice even. “Been there a while.”

The woman spoke then. First time. She hadn’t moved a muscle. She was calm. Almost too even. “Have you had any Fireflies come through these parts?” A pause. “Anyone looking to settle down sometime ago?”

It was the way she said it—like it didn’t matter. Like she was asking about the weather. But her eyes were fixed, like she was listening for the snap of a tripwire in the grass.

Joel didn’t blink.

She hadn’t asked if either of them had come through. She was hunting for a breadcrumb, not the whole damn loaf.

He knew the shape of that question. He’d used it before—back when he was tracking people. Back when it was his job to find folks who didn’t want to be found. And that man beside her—he was quiet now, but his gaze was doing the same work. Sweeping over Joel and Tommy like he was looking for something to snag on. A familiar gait. A voice. A scar.

Joel kept his tone neutral. “Not for a long time, ma'am,” he said. “Pretty quiet around these parts. Nothin’ but raiders.”

But he felt the tension rise up the back of his neck, slow drips, like water rising in a well.

Then the man asked, just a touch too casually, “Place like Jackson—y’all must get travellers every now and then. Guess it’s good if someone’s lookin’ to start over.”

Start over. Joel heard it like a gun cocking under a table.

It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t even suspicious—on paper. But it was the way it layered—soft probes, neutral phrases, no names. They were trying to walk backwards into a truth without triggering the alarm. No doubt coached themselves: Don’t ask about him. Not directly. Feel it out first.

And Joel felt it, a nail pressed into his back.

He didn’t show a damn thing. But in his head, the alarm bells had already started to ring.

“What about anyone coming through from Salt Lake City?” she asked, sounding frustrated now. “A couple of years back, maybe more. They settle down here?”

It was almost nothing. Just a question. Said easily. No lean on it. Yet, it was a wire snapping tight across his chest.

Salt Lake City.

He didn’t show it. Not in his shoulders, not in his eyes. But inside, something went still. Like the silence right before a storm tears the sky open.

Salt Lake was a name no one mentioned unless they were pulling at his thread.

And the way she said it? It wasn’t vague curiosity. It wasn’t nonchalant. It was placed—premeditated, rehearsed even. She was watching him, not for the answer, but for the reaction.

Joel kept his eyes level, gave a short shrug like he had to think about it. “No one comes to mind. Quite far from here, ain’t it?”

“Lookin' for someone in particular?” Tommy asked.

“Yeah.” Again, no names, nothing.

But his pulse had already picked up, pounding hot blood behind his ribs.

Tommy shifted slightly in his saddle. Joel could feel his brother’s confusion—he didn’t know what the hell Salt Lake City meant to them, but he sure as shit knew what it meant to Joel.

The man—whatever the fuck he went by—glanced at the woman, but didn’t press. Joel could see it now—the way they stood, the way they spoke. They weren’t wandering. They were hunting. Controlled. Like folks who’d trained themselves to look normal.

Verifying intel. About what happened out west. About Salt Lake.

And Joel knew. Right then, as clear as if they’d drawn on him. They didn’t come out here by chance. They came looking for a man who disappeared off the face of the earth. A man who walked out of a hospital in Salt Lake, left a trail of gunpowder and bullet smoke, with a young girl covered in blood and never looked back.

They were looking for Joel fucking Miller.

“You got names?” he asked.

Joel didn’t hesitate. Hesitation was a crack. And cracks split wide under pressure.

“James,” he said, tapping his chest. “That’s Steve.”

He didn’t look at Tommy—just heard the dry scoff behind him, the faint shift of saddle leather. That was Tommy’s protest. Wordless, but understood. But he didn’t correct or call him out. Good.

Joel kept his eyes on the two.

“You two got names?” he asked, playing the game, keeping the rhythm casual.

The man smiled, just a twitch at the corners of his mouth, as if he had passed some test. “Manny,” he said. Nodded to the woman. “That’s Nora.”

Manny. Nora. Manny. Nora. Fucking lies. There it was—another detail that settled wrong in his gut. The names came too quickly. No pause, no glance between them to coordinate.

Four names now, none real, sitting in the air, rounds chambered with unspent bullets.

Joel didn’t say anything, but in his head, the pieces were already falling into place. They weren't just passing through. They were hunting. They were scouts, and he was the goddamn map.

“You folks wanna head down to Jackson?” Tommy offered, leaning into his saddle, tone just a hair too smooth. “Restock, rest up? Diner’s got stew on most nights, and we can have rooms ready in no time.”

It was a test. Joel knew it. Tommy was trying to see what they’d do with an invitation. A wide, open front door.

Manny smiled again—polite, just the right amount. “Thank you, but we’ll keep moving. We don’t want to impose.”

Joel held his gaze a second longer, then gave a slow nod. “Suit yourselves.”

They stepped off the trail, just enough to let the horses through. Joel guided his mount past, hand close to the rifle slung by his leg, every muscle tense and humming. He didn’t look back, not until the trees had swallowed them up behind.

They were almost out of earshot when the call came again.

“Hey!”

Joel’s horse shifted under him, hooves scraping rock. He didn’t need to look—he already felt Tommy tense beside him.

They both turned.

Manny and Nora stood in the trail, maybe thirty paces back. Manny raised a hand, easy and nonthreatening. “Just a quick question.”

Tommy didn’t move much. Just unhooked the clasp over his sidearm, fingers resting lightly on the grip. “Go on.”

“You two know of any other settlements out here?” Manny asked. “West of here, maybe north? Somewhere people might’ve passed through?”

There it was again—smooth, specific. Not where they could go. Where others might’ve gone.

Joel didn’t say a word. Just stared ahead, a warning drum in his chest.

Tommy scratched at his jaw, then gave a half-smile. “Closest is a fishing camp up near Dubois. Might be one out near Tensleep. Little place tucked in the hills. Ain’t much—some cabins, old lodge, maybe a dozen folks running traps and brewing shine. They don’t take in newcomers unless someone vouches. Real closed off.”

Joel flicked a glance toward his brother. Tensleep was real—barely a dot on the map. He’d passed through it once, a long time ago. Nothing there but dead wood and wind through the hills. No lodge. No cabins. No community.

Smart. Close enough to sound real. Far enough from Jackson to send them the wrong way. Tiring enough to consider that their deadass lead has dried up.

Manny nodded like he was tucking the information into a mental drawer. “Good to know.”

Joel watched him just a second longer. Nora hadn’t said a word. Just stood there, watching Tommy, scrutinising Joel.

“Appreciate the help,” Manny added, with that same rehearsed smile.

Tommy only nodded. “Safe travels.”

Then they turned, Joel clicked his tongue once, and the horse moved.

This time, they didn’t stop them again.

They didn’t speak until the pines closed behind them and the sound of the other pair’s footsteps had faded into the brush.

Tommy blew out a breath. “Think they bought it?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. He could feel the sweat down his spine, cold despite the sun.

“They didn’t call us on it,” he muttered. “That’s good enough.”

Tommy didn’t say a word after that—quite out of character for someone that mouthy—not until Jackson’s gates behind them clanked shut with a low metallic groan, sealing off the woods. The sound echoed for a moment, final and hollow, a lid being pressed down on something they weren’t meant to carry back in with them.

But they did. They always did.

By the time Joel made it back home, sleep had passed him over like he wasn’t even on the goddamn map. And he didn’t chase it. Just sat there for a while, elbows on his knees, the front door creaking behind him when the sky bruised into twilight. The house was waiting for him. Warm. Safe. That was the part he couldn’t get over—how safe it all felt every day.

And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about how close he’d come to losing all of it.

He hadn’t meant to see Manny’s face again. Or Nora’s. Or that unmistakable Firefly snarl of purpose, coming at him through the woods like a storm he’d outrun for too long. Their shadows had clawed him back to Salt Lake, to Ellie, to the screaming silence of that hallway. The rifle. The red on the walls.

Tommy had found him after. Looked at Joel the way men do when they see the edge and know you’ve gone over it once already.

Just said, “You’re off rotation.”

That was it. No talk, no vote, no lecture on reliability or protocol. Just a quiet, unmovable order. It stung coming from his little brother.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” Tommy added, after a long beat. “Don’t push it. Focus on your family.”

So now Joel had to step in and say it. To tell Leela that he was too known around the continent for his grim, bloody decisions with that reluctant honesty that made his skin crawl.

He didn’t know what she’d say. He didn’t know what he wanted her to say.

He thought about it, while killing time in the barn and fixing his gear. He imagined how he might tell her. Started the sentence in his head so many times he could feel the shape of it in his throat.

Leela, there’s somethin’ you oughta know. I need to tell you what really happened with Ellie, a long time ago.

But every time, the words stuck, died on the back of his tongue. How do you tell the person you love that you killed a good future for their daughter? That you made yourself the villain in someone else's story, just so you could keep hold of one small, precious thing? How would you justify being a murderer for the sake of love?

So he didn’t say it. Figured she didn’t need that truth. Figured she already carried enough.

Still, it had to start somewhere.

Leela was at the stove when he stepped in, as quietly as he could to not alert Maya, while the home was awash with the low sizzle of onions and a spice beneath it—cumin, maybe, or fenugreek. Her sleeves were rolled, her thick braid twisted into that lazy knot, and her back was to him. She didn’t look up when he came in, just stretched a cute little smile.

“You’re late,” she noticed. “Maya waited for you all evening.”

A breezy “sorry,” was all he could respond with.

“Just fed her some leftover porridge from breakfast and put her down to bed a while ago. She might still be up.”

He stood there for a long moment, watching the way her wrist moved as she stirred.

“Darlin’, I... gotta tell you somethin’,” he started, letting his pack idle by the foyer shelves. He took off his boots, letting the warmth of the floorboards seep right into his soles.

Leela's head tilted, the way it always did when she was listening closely. But she kept stirring. “Mhm?”

He cleared his throat. Looked at the floor. “Tommy’s takin’ me off patrol.”

That made her pause. Not startled—more like she’d seen it coming before he had. She turned the flame low, let the wooden spoon rest on the lip of the pan, and finally looked over her shoulder.

Not relief, exactly—understanding. Maybe even… agreement. He couldn’t stand it.

“This ain’t how I meant to tell you,” Joel went on. “Was gonna bring it up myself, but…” He trailed off. Couldn’t say their names. Couldn’t say why Tommy had made the call. “Might be time for the young blood to take over.”

In all truth, he was starting to think maybe it was time to hang it up for good. The rifle. The shifts. The long, bone-cold rides out past the gates. Let someone younger take the reins. Let them chase shadows and walk barricade lines. He’d done more than enough of that; survival hadn't allowed for subtlety back then, but it did now.

And lately, the idea of going back to contracting—roofs, plumbing, clean, quiet work that didn’t come with blood—had started to settle into him naturally. Not a fallback, but a choice.

Leela dried her hands on a dish towel and turned to face him fully. Her eyes didn’t press, but they saw him, and that was worse in a way.

“Okay,” she said softly. “You’re home. That’s what matters.”

He felt a slow sprout of hope inside his chest, not sudden like a jolt, but gradual—like thaw. The ice that splits over a moving lake underneath. He didn’t know what to do with that grace. He didn’t feel like he’d earned it.

“I’ll pull my weight here,” he muttered, turning to the sink, letting the cold water run over his arms, washing off trail dust and dried sweat. Then leaned forward, splashed some over his face, rubbed a hand through his hair, combed the damp back with his fingers until he felt a little less like a scarecrow. He exhaled. It felt good. Real good.

He shook his head, letting the cold droplets run into his shirt. “Look, I’ll find other ways. I just—I don’t want you thinkin’ I’m quittin’ ‘cause I’m soft, or not up to it. I can still take shifts whenever—”

“Joel,” she halted.

“Baby,” he triumphed, hands on his hips.

“You didn’t make a mistake coming home. And it’d be nice to have you around more.”

With that, she turned back to the stove. Joel stood there, fists clenched, heart hollowed out and full at the same time.

He scratched the back of his neck. “You sure you can handle me hovering over your shoulder all day?”

Then she looked over at him again, a feeble smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth. “Doing it right now. Besides, I’ve survived worse.”

And Joel, for all his doubts, for all the old narratives his bones still apprised him—about battles, about failure, about who he used to be—felt valuable. Not because he could shoot straight or hold a line—but because he was him. Because Leela knew all of him, and still chose to make space. He didn't have to be a fighter anymore just to matter to his family.

He was allowed to want. Allowed to want his home, his girls. He wanted to hear Maya’s footsteps in the morning and not worry if he’d be there to tuck her in at night. With Sarah, he never had the chance. He was always working, too busy hauling drywall, always chasing another job, always just a little too late to recitals, always thinking there’d be time later.

There hadn’t been.

Now with Leela—he didn’t always know how to help her. Didn’t have the right words, but understood what was happening behind those quiet eyes of hers. He just wanted to be close. To make sure she ate. Slept. Smiled. That she knew she wasn’t alone.

And then there was goddamn Ellie. She acted like she didn’t need anybody, that she had plans, that she didn’t need Joel, but he knew better. She was still just a kid herself, scratching eighteen, discovering herself, growing up too fast. And he didn’t want her to feel like she was being shuffled off while he built his own little world alongside hers.

He’d hold space for all of it. For her. For Maya. For Leela. And maybe, finally, for himself.

Joel let out a soft huff of air—half a laugh, half disbelief. That crooked smile of hers had a way of taking the fight out of him. Or maybe it just reminded him there wasn’t anything to fight.

“You just want someone to lift the heavy gizmos for you, huh?” he joked.

“That too.” She tipped her shoulder. “But also—some of the tools need rewiring. You’re good with your hands.”

“You bet your sweet bippy.”

He reached for a dish towel, wiped the water from his face, and wandered closer. He rested his hip against the counter, eyes tracking her movements as she spooned something from the skillet into a bowl.

“Been workin’ all day?” he asked, nodding toward the food. It was really late for her to be cooking.

She pouted in chagrin. “Barely got through my chore chart. I was in the basement all afternoon after I sent Maya off with Ellie. Worked on restringing the washing line later. It... got away from me.”

This was the cost of loving a woman smarter than god and twice as stubborn, who carried the future of goddamn science on her shoulders. Who kept Jackson humming with electricity and heat, who might—if she could finish what she started—be the reason a new generation didn’t grow up thinking math was an ancient language. This was the fallout of her last meltdown, or the one before that—one of plenty.

But, especially then, was when his big white house started to feel lived-in again. That was the best part—how the space had changed, like the tide coming back. It was slow at first, but now he saw signs of her everywhere again. Her workspace was bleeding into the house.

Her notebooks started showing up again, sprawled across the arm of the couch. Inexplicably brewed, half-drunk mugs left behind, always lukewarm tea, some with faint lip prints near the rim. Grocery lists scribbled and torn off on the backs of old lecture notes. A growing pile of crumpled paper by the trash can, evidence she’d missed it more often than not. Tiny equations in the margins of Maya’s drawings. A chalkboard in the kitchen was covered in half-finished thoughts and flowery chore charts.

That was Leela, always halfway between burnout and brilliance. A human fault line. He loved every inch of that chaos. It made the house feel like her again.

But not everything came easily.

There were gaps in her knowledge—biology, for one. The molecular, microscopic stuff. Things that didn’t bend to logic the way numbers did. She’d grown up with numbers, not cell cultures. She could program a solar grid blindfolded, but had to reread the same medical journal six times before she could make sense of it or until the print blurred.

Sometimes he’d find her like that. On the floor, back against the wall. Legs folded under her like she’d meant to sit for a minute and never got up. Notebooks fanned around her like feathers, papers scattered. Eyes all red, hands fisted in her sleeves, breaths shallow. Holding too much. Trying not to break under the duress.

Joel had learned the drill by now: don’t interfere. Don’t prod or touch. Let it ride. Let her burn out on her own terms.

He never asked. He just sat down beside her. Shoulder to shoulder, but not touching. Letting her remember the world was still turning. Letting her breathe in the silence until she found her own way back.

And eventually she did. She always did. She’d have a bruised whisper for him, sometimes. “It’s too much.”

Too much pressure for one young woman. Too many pieces looking to be fixed. Too many people hoping she could save this town.

And he’d shrug. Look off, scratch his chin. “So?”

It wasn’t her responsibility. It never was. She’d done enough. Hell, more than enough. The rest was for others to carry. She just had to do what she could. Then stop.

But she never did. And he was done asking her to stop.

“You need to cool it. I told you I'd do the washing line for you,” Joel pointed out. But no, housework was Leela pacing herself. It wasn’t for him or for Maya, not entirely. She was trying to make sure she didn’t collapse before the real work was done.

She chuckled. “My hero. I've done this only my entire life.”

He made a noise of acknowledgement, but his eyes were on her hands—how precise she was, the small lift of her wrist when she plated, the way she pressed the back of a spoon to flatten the top like it mattered. Like, care still had a place in the world.

He didn’t realise he’d been staring until she turned and held out a spoonful for him to try.

Joel blinked. “What is it?”

“Just try it.”

He leaned in and let her feed it to him, lips brushing the edge of the spoon. Warm, sharp with lemon and sumac, soft from lentils cooked down until they barely held shape. He groaned low in his throat, more surprise than anything. “Daggum, girl.”

She gave a tiny nod, lips pursed in mock approval. “You’re still trainable.”

He swallowed. “Still don’t know shit about fuck, darlin’. Just know it tastes good.”

She set the spoon aside and moved to grab the second bowl, and that’s when her eyes caught on his stomach. She paused, just a beat. Let her fingers hover, then rest lightly above the line of his hipbone.

Joel stiffened—reflex, not rejection. He felt the rampant impulse to shift, to suck in, to grumble at her to get it over with, but he didn’t. Not when she was looking at him like that.

He'd put on some weight lately—nothing great, but enough to notice. Enough to feel the change when he bent to tie his boots, and his belt dug in more than it used to. It wasn’t muscle. It was a carefully crafted softness. Around his middle. In his face, in the lighter eyes. Just under the skin, the healthy colour there.

He hadn’t been gaunt per se, this outbreak had made him its robust, powerful mirror—and hell, he'd been starving more years than not—but Jackson, and her, changed that. Her cooking, especially. She fed him like he was worth feeding. Making sure he ate, he relaxed, went to bed with that deep, restful sigh from a full stomach. All those portions of spiced rice, those heavenly lamb koftas. Flatbreads brushed with oil, saffron and sumac. Warm lentil soup with lemon and garlic, pulled fresh from the garden. Things he’d never even heard of before her, let alone tasted. Now he craved them like he craved her.

“Guess I’ve been eatin’ good this year. Too much of your fattening love,” he muttered first, stroking the top of his abdomen.

Leela looked up at him then, eyes shining. “You’ve been healing,” she said simply, fingers smoothing over the soft curve at his core. “I like it. It looks good on you.”

Joel’s throat worked. She didn’t say it like it was a weakness. Like softness was something to hide, ageing into something better. He really was the luckiest son of a bitch in this damnable world, wasn't he?

“C'mere,” he murmured, a hand crowning her throat to bring her closer.

He leaned down, kissed her—with his lips first, then deeper when she didn’t pull away, one hand slipping behind her neck to draw her in. Her lips were warm, familiar, and tasted faintly of lemon and the rosemary steam curling from the pot behind her.

She was humming into his mouth, her fingers sliding up under the hem of his shirt, when he decided: fuck it all.

Joel pulled back just long enough to mutter, “Screw it.”

He dropped everything then, turned the stove off with a practised flick and dropped the dishtowel somewhere behind him. Food was already made—a late dinner would do just fine. Maya was napping like a log, world on pause.

He'd picked Leela up, right there in the kitchen—arms under her thighs, holding her up and close, chest to chest.

“Joel, shower first! You smell!” she giggled.

“Shh-ssh, shower later,” he whispered against her jaw, “gonna make my girl feel like a queen first.”

And with her still in his arms—bare skin pressed to bare skin, hearts pounding in sync—he laid her back over the cool, accommodating marble of the counter, somewhere between the herb bundles. It caught the curve of her spine perfectly. She gasped at the contact, at the contrast, and he just grinned. Shifted her gently, until she was right where he wanted her.

He hefted himself over the counter without ceremony, grunting, his flannel landing on the sink, jeans halfway down, knocking aside shit to the floor with a crashes neither of them cared about nor did dozy Maya upstairs. All he knew was her, laid out like a fever dream beneath him. Dark braid fanned out. Her warm skin. Her open mouth. Her legs parted for him like instinct.

She was familiarised with him already. She knew it all by now, welcomed him to her. It wasn’t graceful, but it was real. Raw. Desperate. Fucking ridiculous, but fun as hell.

Mouth brushing her ear, he muttered, “We really fuckin’ on the kitchen counter. Right between baby girl’s rosemary and the salt jar.”

She let out a startled laugh as she tried to bury her face in his shoulder. “Joel—no.”

“What, you shy?” he teased, grinding into her just enough to make her gasp. “Gotta say, mama… if this is how you season your food, Daddy’s been eatin’ way too polite.”

“Stop it,” she whispered, flustered and grinning, hiding her face now with both hands.

He kissed her temple, grinning like the bastard he was. “Nothin’ to be shy about. You’re the best thing I’ve ever tasted in this kitchen.”

So when their bodies came together—sweaty, slick, trembling with restraint they no longer had—it wasn’t just about want. It was about possession. About claiming. About making each other feel real in a world that kept trying to strip that away.

“You with me, sweetheart?” Something he asked without fail until she gave him a fervent, eager nod.

She gasped when he slid two testing fingers inside her, already dripping, aching for a part of him. And right on schedule, “So fuckin’ ready for me,” he muttered, and it surprised him every time, never stopped being a miracle.

He lined himself up, ran the head of his cock through the slick heat of her, once, twice, slow, and her legs twitched around his hips.

Then he thrust in. Hard, deep, all the way, bottoming out with a groan that scraped right out of his chest.

“There’s my girl,” he hissed, staying buried inside her, forehead dropping to hers, both of them shaking, just for a moment, to feel her. To let her feel him. “How the hell do you keep gettin’ better every time?”

She couldn’t answer—just held him there, her fingers clawed at his back, dragging through sweat, through the grooves of muscle and old scar tissue, her walls fluttering around him like she was already close.

He pulled back slowly, savouring the drag, that acclimated part of her, then drove in again—hard enough to rock her against the countertop, make her moan. A prayer, a curse, a benediction.

Her legs locked around him. Her heels dug into his back, urging him deeper, faster. He caught her mouth. Licked into her like he was starved. One hand on her throat—not choking, just having, feeling her pulse thrash hard against his palm. The other slid down between them, thumb finding her clit, circling, rubbing, watching her come undone with every rough snap of his hips.

She was reclaiming something—piece by piece, touch by touch—and he was just lucky enough to witness it. To be the one she trusted with that fight.

And every time she took him—deliberately, slowly, selfishly—it damn near unmade him.

She could be shy about it, yes. Whisper soft little requests into the crook of his neck. Or she could be bold, back arched, and mouth falling open as she rode him like she meant to ruin him. Either way, she kept him guessing, kept him alive in ways he hadn’t known he’d gone numb.

Some nights, she touched him like she was trying to memorise him. Ran her hand down his chest, scratching at his scruff, in her own personal worship. Kissed the inside of his wrist. Bit the tendon in his neck, just because she liked the way he twitched.

Other mornings, half-asleep, arms slack on her, and soft with warmth, she pulled him close, guided him under her nightdress with nothing more than a sigh and a roll of her hips—just to let him come inside her slowly, just for the way it made her feel full throughout the day. Safe. His.

“More—please—more, Joel,” Leela huffed again when he pumped deep—but there was no laughter, no hesitation this time.

Joel lost it. His rhythm went savage, body slamming into hers with full weight, countertop rattling, her cries going high and sharp and needy as she clung to him.

“You ask so fuckin’ sweet,” he gritted out, driving into her again.

Look, people could say it was too much sex for a man like him. Too much hunger. Too much need. That he ought to slow down before his real age caught up with him.

But they didn’t know. Didn’t know what it meant to be dying for most of your goddamn life. To go decades without an ounce of softness. Without safety. Without something—or someone—you could lose yourself in without fear.

Here he was, only making up for the lost years. The dead years. The years when nothing felt like this.

And when grabbed her ass, pulled her in so he could thrust harder—when she wrapped her legs tighter him, dragged him close with that soft little whimper in her throat—they crashed together like it was the last time, like every second mattered.

When it hit—when he finally let go—it gutted him. Buried himself as deep as she’d take him, spilled with a roar that tore right from his chest, raw, guttural, desperate. Like every last decade he’d gone without this—without her—was pouring out of him all at once.

Like it was the only way he knew how to say I’m yours.

A vow. A promise made skin to skin, breath to breath. It was two people burning at the end of the world, holding on to each other like the flames hadn’t already taken everything else.

Time was always running out.

So they met it head-on—bodies breaking and blooming with every gasp, thrust, and whisper of each other’s name—repeatedly, again and again.

“Every shot you don’t take is a miss,” Maria had told him about tonight. Yeah, well. Plenty of shots aren’t worth taking either.

Joel adjusted the collar of the coudroy shirt he’d picked out—was wearing, really, because picking something out would’ve meant making a damn decision about his appearance, which had not—fancier than anything he’d worn in months, lifted from one of Dr. Reed’s abandoned closets as if it still had a mortgage on it. Stiff at the shoulders, rich at the cuffs. He couldn’t tell if it made him look handsome or like a fool playing dress-up in another man’s memories.

He eyed himself in the mirror like the man in there might blink first. Brushed his hand along the line of his jaw, then down to the traitorous little paunch he still wasn’t used to. The salt in his beard looked defiant tonight. That slicked-back hair, too. He tugged down the front of the shirt, opened another button. Still didn’t feel right. He looked like a cleaned-up version of a man who’d already done the worst thing in his life.

Proposal. Christ, this was torture.

He hadn’t had a whiskey in over a year. Not a drop. But standing here trying to figure out how to ask the biggest question of his whole damn life, relapse was starting to look more appealing than letting those few little words tumble out of his mouth.

Why was it so fucking hard? Leela was not expecting anything. He could leave the ring in his pocket and say it another time. He could practically hear Tommy’s voice needling him: What, you gonna keep waiting ‘til Maya’s thirty?

He swallowed, straightened again. Tonight was the night. No more stalling. No more waiting for a better moment. He was doing this. Now or never.

Tommy’s place. Backyard barbecue. Beer, burgers, laughter. Nothing dramatic, they had done this hundreds of times. Yet, the thought of doing it in front of his folks—Tommy, Maria, Ellie—made his stomach twist up like barbed wire.

And he still hadn’t found the words. He wasn’t good with those. Never had been.

He sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face. “Get it together,” he told himself. He's been through worse than this.

A voice broke up his spiralling thoughts—her voice, warm and strong from downstairs. Thank fuck. “Joel! I’m sending Maya upstairs—can you please get her dressed?”

He cleared his throat, found his voice. “Yeah, I got her.” Then, in a lazy drawl, trying to joke his way back into his skin: “Hey, you wearin’ them strappy things tonight?”

Her laugh was distant, teasing. “You mean the dress? Do you want me to?”

He scratched at his neck, already hot under the collar. “…Yes.”

She didn’t answer. Or maybe she did, but he couldn’t hear it—because at that moment, there was a thunder of small feet on the stairs.

Maya burst through the door like a firework, in nothing but her nappy. Nearly three years old, a goddamn menace nowadays, but a whole comet made of giggles and sharp elbows. Today, her tangled curls were up in a complicated, tidy, intricate braid—Leela’s handiwork. A little crown on her head.

Joel barely had time to brace himself before Maya launched into his legs like she shot out of a cannon.

“Whoa—there you are. Pretty girl,” he muttered, scooping her up. She curled into him instinctively, her head finding the crook of his shoulder. At some point—maybe the moment she realised her body could launch wherever her mind went—she’d stopped asking. Now, she treated him like part of the furniture. Just another chair in the house with a heartbeat.

He could still carry her easy, but she was getting heavier. Her legs dangled lower than they used to. Her arms didn’t quite reach around his neck anymore.

“Mama did your hair so nice,” he murmured, brushing a hand over the braid, dropping a kiss there.

“’S too tight,” she whined, digging a finger into the base of her skull.

He smiled. “Yeah, well. That’s the price of royalty.”

She shoved the dress at him—an old button-down of his, faded soft, its sleeves trimmed, buttons reinforced and stitched with a little patch of flowers near the hem. Leela had turned it into a dress a year ago, when Maya decided “twirling” was essential to her identity.

“This one, wed colour,” she told him, grinning.

It hit him sometimes—out of nowhere—that she wouldn’t always fit like this, curled up against him, smelling faintly of powder and sun-warmed cotton. That one day she’d stop climbing all over him like her own tree. One day, she’d want space. Secrets. Doors closed. But right now she still thought he hung the damn moon. And he wasn’t ready to let that go.

“Alright, let’s wrangle you into this thing,” he mumbled.

Joel knelt, helping her step into it, his big, calloused hands fumbling a little on the buttons.

But noticed her attention wasn’t on him. She was turning something over in her hands, eyes focused, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth in concentration. Probably a rock. Or a bottle cap. She was always collecting junk, fidgeting with things, just like her mother.

She launched into a half-babbled story about how she went to the park with Ellie today, and one of the kids had a big dog. And that his mama had caught him a fish from the creek.

“I wanna catch one, too,” Maya declared as he tightened the bow at her shoulders. “Can we go, Daddy? I want to keep my fish. And my turtles, my starfish... ah, my seahorse!”

“We’ll see,” Joel said, which was his favourite way to buy time when she got ideas.

What got him most wasn’t just what she said—but how she said it. Like it was nothing. Ordinary. Familiar. Not some big, scary thing she had to steel herself for.

But Joel remembered what it was like at the start—how she used to cling to Leela’s leg like ivy, her little body practically welded to her mother’s side. She’d hide her face in the fabric of Leela’s coat whenever someone new walked by. Wouldn’t set foot off the porch unless one of them was holding her hand the whole way. Wouldn’t even speak above a whisper if someone other than their folks were listening. Too quiet for a child.

And then Ellie showed up, with all the subtlety of a stampede and twice the stubbornness. Who didn’t care how shy Maya was, didn’t give up when she clammed up or bawled. Who dragged her into games of tag, taught her to throw rocks in the creek, and chased her down laughing until Maya forgot to be afraid. Ellie had a way of making the world feel like a place worth running around in.

And little by little, Maya started to believe it.

Now the park wasn’t just a place they passed on the way to the market. It was a real thing. Somewhere she looked forward to—asked for. Fit it into her days like brushing her teeth or untangling her curls.

Joel knew that kind of change didn’t just happen. It took time. It took patience. Weeks of gentle coaxing, trial runs, of walking beside her until she was ready to go a little further on her own. Of letting her come home early, face buried in Leela’s neck, when the noise or the crowd got too loud. Leela called it building the muscle. Joel figured that was just her way of saying it’s okay to start small.

Now here Maya was, chattering about creek fish and some boy with a dog like it was the most normal thing in the world.

He bent forward and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, rough hand cupping the back of it, just for a moment. “You’re gettin’ real brave, baby girl.”

Maya gave a toothy grin to the shiny thing in her palms. Joel didn’t think much of it until she tried to stick whatever was in her hand right into her mouth.

“Hey—hey. No.” He reached, pried it from her death grip. “C’mere. What’d I say about eatin’ crap off the floor—”

And then he stopped.

The ring. Shit.

He turned it over in his fingers, heart sinking straight through his boots. The damn thing must’ve fallen out of his pocket. He’d checked it this morning. Hell, he always checked it. Before breakfast, after lunch, after pissing—like some kind of nervous tic.

“Where’d you get this?” he asked, voice sharper than he meant.

Maya blinked up at him, unbothered. “Stairs.” Then, proudly, she chirped, “It’s mine now.”

Joel pressed a hand to his eyes. Of course. Of course, she’d find it. Three years old, couldn’t find her socks even if they were taped to her, but put one shiny object in her line of sight and she turned into goddamn Gollum.

“It’s not yours.” He sounded a little too sharp. When her lip started to tremble, he softened. “Hey. Listen to me. This is somethin’ real important, baby, okay?”

She gasped, appalled. “Gimme my ring!”

He was already regretting everything.

It was like every ounce of careful planning had crumbled with the shake of her little fist. Joel stared down at the ring, its band smudged now, Maya’s fingerprints across the enamel on the wood. He wiped it on his sleeve, heart hammering. Was that a sign? A warning? Or just toddler chaos in action?

Maya folded her arms and jutted her lip like she meant to put a hex on him. “Finders keepers.”

“Not with this one. It ain’t yours.” He sighed, trying to sound calm. “You can not tell Mama, alright?”

“Why not?” she asked, poking at his knee.

“’Cause it’s...” He hesitated—ambushed by her honesty, her curiosity. “Her big surprise tonight. Secret... surprise?” he offered at last.

“Ohh.” Her eyes lit up. She leaned forward and tapped a finger to her lips, “Shh-ssh. I won’t tell. Sec-wet.”

Joel’s laugh was small, startled. “Yeah, sec-wet.” He nodded, a hand brushing a few stray curls back from her face. “Thanks, baby girl.”

Then he did what any man in his position would—slid the ring deep into his front pocket to stop it from jumping out and start broadcasting itself. No damn chances. Not with a three-year-old wild card.

He decided, then and there, to keep Maya close through the rest of the night. The walk to Tommy’s place, the goddamn bathroom. No unnecessary interactions with Leela—not until the moment was right. Not until her attention was somewhere else.

Later on, Tommy made that easier than expected—plucking Maya into his arms and guiding her over to the spitting grill, holding her high like a little gymnast, her hand wrapped around the spatula with exaggerated seriousness as she helped him flip patties. She loved it. The flames licked too close, and when a gust of smoke blew toward her, she made a silly face and laughed like it was a game. Took it as a challenge. His girl, through and through.

Joel kept back, one boot on the deck rail, nursing a sweating beer he barely tasted, a thumb rubbing the label raw. He couldn’t stop watching her—Leela.

That wasn’t new. It had become muscle memory by now, the way his eyes found her across any room, any field, any porch. He watched for signs. All of it. Who she was talking to. If she was smiling because she meant it or because it was easier. If she was cold, if she needed a drink, if she looked away too long at nothing.

Tonight it wasn’t just instinct. It was that in a few short hours—hell, maybe less—she might say yes. She might become his wife.

Dr. Leela Miller. The words were absurd in his mouth.

He’d bagged a scientist, for Christ’s sake. Mind like an iron trap. Thinking in shapes and theories he didn’t have words for.

She solved things. He broke them. And yet—here they were.

He used to imagine himself ending up with someone… simpler. Maybe an older woman who let him take care of her, who liked country music and didn’t ask too many hard questions. A woman who liked the same things as him. Not someone who would outthink a room full of men in lab coats and look like that doing it.

But that was before he learned that love didn’t mean soft edges and easy silences. Sometimes it meant hard-earned peace.

And now, here he was. A battered old man, and this was the woman sharing her years with him—her best ones, if he was being honest. Years she could’ve spent anywhere, with anyone.

Just look at her. Look at his girl.

She wore that sundress tonight—the pale, crocheted fabric light against her bronze skin, clinging to her like water, delicate straps kissing her shoulders. The open back dipped low, exposing the twin ridges of her long spine and the elegant stretch of her neck in a way that should be outlawed. Her half-undone braid hung long and heavy, swaying like a dark pendulum with every movement—tick, tock, tick, tock—a countdown to the moment he still hadn’t worked up the nerve to reach.

He dragged his eyes away, tried to focus on anything else, then back again.

Those fucking legs of hers were endless. Bare to past mid-thigh, strong, and gleaming like summer itself, with whatever coconut oil she'd bartered from Maria for and insisted on using even when they were rationing rice.

The way her jaw angled when she tilted her head to listen to Maria—the gentle bow of her lips, parted in a small smile that didn’t always reach her eyes—Jesus. Jesus Christ. How the hell was she real?

How the hell did he come home to her? Some days, he still waited to wake up alone. One blink, and it was over. As if all this—her, Maya, this chance at a future—was some long con his own mind had pulled to survive.

No, this was real. And soon enough, people would see a ring on her hand and know. That woman? She was spoken for by a man like him.

And maybe they’d stare. Maybe they’d wonder what she was doing with him—what deal she’d made, what kindness she was repaying.

But he’d know better because she chose him. Had chosen him again and again, in a hundred small, quiet ways. Every worn, angry, aching part of him.

His throat went dry again when he thought of words. He still could not find a goddamn syllable, at least not until she was looking at him—not distracted, not tired, not halfway out of a conversation with someone else.

Then—

“Cheese, put the cheese, uncle!”

The spell shattered like glass underfoot. Joel blinked, pulled back to earth, and turned toward the grill. His little girl, sitting on Tommy’s hip, had latched onto his arm like a baby sloth, legs swinging, tiny fists tangled in his beard.

“Ow—Jesus, the paws on you, squirt,” Tommy grunted, trying to balance a spatula in one hand and fend her off with the other. “Ay, I gave you a bunch!”

“I want more!” she howled. “Put—put more!”

“You want more, ask your precious daddy to make you some,” Tommy shot back, far too smug for a grown man battling a toddler over shredded cheddar.

“Auntie, look!” Maya screeched, throwing a dramatic finger at his chest. “He’s bein’ mean again!”

Maria appeared with the timing of a saint—or a fed-up bartender—marching up the porch with a sloshy beer in one hand and a look of long-suffering amusement on her face. “Baby, why do you keep picking fights with her?”

Tommy raised both hands in surrender. “She starts it.”

Ellie barked out a laugh from the porch swing, legs kicked up, looking like summer mischief incarnate. “C’mere, you gremlin,” she called, arms outstretched.

Maya didn’t hesitate. She launched off Tommy’s side with alarming speed, limbs flailing, landing square on Ellie’s back with a triumphant giggle.

Joel winced. “Christ,” he muttered. “No fear, that one.”

“Ellie, cheese,” Maya stage-whispered to her.

Ellie gave a soft grunt as she straightened up, hands under Maya’s knees. “Yep. She’s gonna run this town by the time she’s six,” she said over her shoulder, carrying the kid like it was second nature.

As she passed Joel, she leaned in just enough to talk low, real casual-like, but he caught the glint in her eye.

“So,” she murmured, “I heard you’re breeding doves and shit for tonight.”

Joel didn’t have the breath to joke back. Just stiffened a little.

Ellie nudged his elbow with her shoulder. “Gonna propose, or you gonna wuss out and die of a heart attack before dessert?”

Joel exhaled through his nose, the closest thing to a laugh he could manage. “Got anything else against my ticker?”

Ellie glanced down at Maya, who was busy combing her fingers through Ellie's ponytail. “You’re probably out here thinkin’ you’re too busted up or whatever,” she said. “Just gotta ask, man.”

She turned to go, but not before tossing a last look over her shoulder. “Besides, the kid’s already calling you Dad. Might as well make it official.”

He stayed there a moment longer after Ellie disappeared inside, her words still hanging in the air like a bell just rung. You just gotta ask. Simple, as though anything about Leela ever had been.

He rubbed a thumb over the callus on his palm, eyes finding her the way they always did—unconsciously, inevitably.

She was alone now, standing at the edge of the porch where the string lights flickered like dying fireflies. Her gaze was caught—intent—by the glow that shimmered off the wires. Always watching. Always had to fix things, even if no one asked her to. Her fingers moved with quiet purpose, already unspooling one loose bulb like it had wronged her.

He knew that particular bulb had been out since the last storm. Had seen it a dozen times and let it be. But not her, she didn’t let broken things lie.

Low-hung string lights, the ones Maria had put up last winter when the dark came too early. Maya loved them—called them stars you could reach. They weren’t one bit of magic. But in Jackson, they were close enough. And in that moment, with Leela outlined in gold and dusk, they might as well have been divine.

The porch had emptied. The grill snuffed out, and the rest of them had moved inside. He watched Tommy amble past with a tray of half-charred patties, grin wide like he already knew what was about to happen. He caught Joel’s eye on the way past, gave him a wiseass grin, and a smug clap to the shoulder before disappearing through the screen door.

Joel stood for a beat longer. Then moved, no decision, only motion. How a lodestone drags metal, or the moon controls the tides.

He bent down beside the cooler, fished around till his knuckles hit glass, pulled a bottle free and popped the cap open with his canines—a barbaric, stupid little trick that always got a rise out of her.

“Can’t stay put for a second, can you?” he said as he offered her the bottle.

She glanced his way, half-distracted, fingers still curled around the base of a bulb. “Just a loose wire,” she murmured. “Ruins the whole thing.”

One last twist, and it sparked back to life, scattering warm shadows over her face. It caught in her eyes, lit the curve of her cheek. For a heartbeat, she seemed as if she were holding the blazing sun in her hands—and Joel felt, with a stiff certainty, that’s exactly what she was in his life. A bright, beautiful, terrifying thing that left everywhere else in the dusk.

“We oughta put some of these up at our place,” he said, like it was just a passing thought.

She hoisted herself onto the porch rail, all effortless and bare legs, taking a swig from the bottle before resting it on her thigh. He moved instinctively—his palm hovering behind her lower back as her safety net, just in case.

She looked at him then, that gaze that never missed a damn thing. A slantwise smile crept onto her lips, and she laughed softly, buzzing low against the rim of the bottle.

Joel’s brows ticked down. “What?”

“You look so much more human when you’re nervous. Less of a hardass,” she said, with a sweet fondness in her voice.

Joel gave a huff of a laugh and looked down at his boots. “Thought I was hidin’ that pretty well.”

“Not since you quit patrol.”

He scratched at the back of his neck, half a smile on his lips, and took a slow swig from his beer, the fizz settling behind his teeth. “’Mfine, baby. Couldn’t’ve come at a better time.”

She squinted at him, like she was weighing him against the truth—some private scale only she could read. She didn’t call him on it, only let it sit.

“Be honest. What do you want to do, Joel?” Her voice was gentle, not accusing. “I’m not asking you to get out of the house and kill those things, am I? You did enough of that for ten lives.”

Those words landed like a fist to the ribs, and he puffed out the discomfort. “I told you I’ll find somethin’. Not in a rush.”

“You don’t have to,” she said, matter-of-fact. “You could just… stay. Be here. Grow old. Get fat and lazy. Let me take care of everything else.”

Joel raised a brow, baring an amused smile. “Would you do that too?”

There was a pause. She didn’t smile this time. Her eyes tracked toward the window where the curtains billowed, letting a sliver of warm lamplight spill out onto the porch. Inside, he could hear Maya’s voice, high and bright like wind chimes.

“If L.A. didn’t happen,” she said slowly, “I might’ve. I would've let myself slow down.”

Joel caught the flicker in her voice. “But now,” she continued, eyes still on the window, “I have commitments. I have a future to protect.”

Joel followed her gaze. Maya’s silhouette spun behind the curtain, arms in the air like she was catching invisible snow.

That was the thing about Leela. She didn’t speak in dreams or wishes—she spoke in tethers. In roots. And he felt it again—that old ache, that rising tide of don’t fuck this up.

Joel watched the way her fingers fussed with the bottle. Spinning it. Wiping away condensation. Giving her hands something to do when her mouth wanted to say more than she could bear.

“Leela,” he muttered, leaning in just enough to study the shadows on her face. “What’s really on your mind?”

She rolled her lips inward, like she was biting back a smile—or a secret. Then she laid her hand flat across her forehead and gave a careless, little laugh.

“Oh, no, don’t ask me that. I’ll upset you,” she moaned.

“You could never, not ever,” he said without hesitation. And he truly meant it. If she opened her mouth and told him she was leaving him in the morning, it’d level him—but he’d still mean it.

She released her bitten lip, a scroll unravelling. And that’s when he saw it—that softening in her eyes, the complicacy that would eventually land between them.

“I know about the ring, Joel.”

His deaf ear must've definitely failed him then. Just to confirm—“What?”

She chuckled. “The ring. Was it not for me?”

Everything in him deflated: his nerves, his strength, his words. All in a slow exhale when that pinched valve inside him gave way. Like the last little bit of breath he’d been holding onto leaked right out of him.

He blinked once, then rubbed at the back of his neck like it might dislodge whatever came next. Then he sank down beside her on the porch rail, knees wide, boots scuffing the planks, elbows on thighs, eyes fixed on the space between his boots.

“How long’ve you known?” he mumbled.

The words came out unintentionally rough-edged. He wasn’t angry. It was all the thoughts in his head—Be gentle. Or don’t. But please, not this way.

Because what he wanted—what he feared—wasn’t just that she knew. It was how she knew, and why she hadn’t said anything 'til now. Because that was the part he couldn’t bear—if she'd seen the ring and walked past it. If she’d picked it up in her hand, held it, felt all his time and love, and thought no.

And still didn’t tell him. The ache of the answer already there—quiet, and kindly given, but still: no.

“A few hours,” she eventually confessed. “Found it on the stairs, then I left it there. Figured you’d come back for it.”

He let out a soft, pained sound—almost a laugh, but there was no humour in it. “Jesus. I really am slippin’.”

“It’s a beautiful ring. I know you made it, I could tell,” she offered gently, like it was something he could still be proud of.

He didn’t answer right away, only managed a quiet nod. He fished into his pocket and pulled the ring out, the wood warm from his body heat, cradling it in his palm, more than some whittled promise. It looked small there, the gold catching against his callused thumb. A simple circle of carved oak, ringed with gold. Made by hand, with time, for her.

Leela didn’t reach for it, but she was studying it—and him—from a place he couldn’t follow.

She smiled, half-lidded. “And after everything I said about marriage being obsolete. Symbolism that doesn’t serve us anymore.”

She wasn’t trying to hurt him. He knew that. That was just her—clear-eyed, clinical, stripped of sentiment when it got in the way of understanding. Like solving a math problem. Reduce it. Isolate the variable. Eliminate the excess.

The only thing was—this wasn’t excess. Not to him.

“Never said you didn’t want a ring,” he muttered, unconvinced.

She let out a soft breath of honest laughter. “No, I did not.”

He didn’t look at her. Just placed the ring carefully on the porch rail beside her thigh. His hands gripped the wood like he was bracing for the unexpected, maybe—impact, rejection, he didn’t know.

He frankly didn’t know if she’d pick it up, or walk away from it. Didn’t even know what her silence meant. All he knew was he’d laid it out now. Given it air. And it hurt like hell not to know if it’d be received.

He cleared his throat. “Baby…” His voice scratched at the edge of the words. “I ain’t got nothin’ prepared for you. No speech. No kneelin’, none of that.”

Her smile twitched again. “Joel—”

“No,” he said, quietly insistent. “Lemme get through it.”

She nodded once, solemn.

His gaze drifted past her, toward the window—lit amber from inside, the soft blur of voices and laughter filtering through the glass. Maya’s silhouette flitted across the frame, trailing something sparkly Ellie had tied around her wrist. Maria was leaning against the table, wine in hand, grinning at something Tommy was saying. Sometimes, he didn't know what to do with that kind of softness.

“I spent a long time thinkin’ I’d die alone,” Joel began. “Figured maybe that’s what I earned. For all the shit I’ve done to survive, everyone I let down. I made peace with it. Thought that was it.”

His fingers twitched where they curled around the railing.

“Then you came along,” he said, voice thickening. “And I didn’t know what to do with you. Still don’t, most days. You’re smart, and stubborn, and so damn strong it scares the hell outta me. I watch you with our baby girl, and I think… this is it. This is what the world was supposed to be. What it could have been if things had gone right, and... I saved her.”

He didn’t mean to say it. The words just dropped, like gravity had been holding them in and finally gave out. He blinked hard, the weight of it settling into his chest.

For a breath, he wasn’t on the porch anymore. He was somewhere else—long ago, yet too close. Sarah’s tinny laughter echoing down a hallway, that sunshine voice teasing him over scorched eggs or his taste in music. That drowsy, unfiltered way she used to mumble “You’re such a big softie, Dad” when she caught him watching her sleep after a late night.

He wondered, not for the first time, what she might have said if she could see him now. If she’d even see him past the anger, his bloodied hands, and consider him her father. If she’d appreciate Leela as much as him. If she’d love Maya and Ellie as her own.

He drew in a slow, uneven breath and turned his head, finally looking at Leela—she wasn’t smiling anymore. Just holding still, eyes glinting in the string lights, her hand suspended halfway between her knee and the porch rail like she didn’t trust herself to move.

And in that moment, Joel didn’t see two separate lives. Just one long, brutal road that had somehow led him here, across from a big, white house, and to this family, to her.

“I don’t have much left to offer,” he said. “Just myself. My hands. My time. Whatever years I’ve got left.”

He flicked his eyes down to the ring, then back to her.

“But they’re all yours, Leela, if you want ’em.”

Silence stretched—long, weighted, adoring—demanding nothing but holding everything inside it. The cicadas hummed low in the distance. Wind brushed against the porch screens.

And Joel waited; not like a man expecting yes or no, but like someone who’d finally unshouldered a burden he’d been carrying for miles.

And then—Leela reached for it. A decision she had made before her mind caught up, she picked up where he had left it, and nestled it in her palms, how a nest held a baby bird. Joel watched her thumb stroking over the smooth gold, the uneven grain of the oak, his own hands hanging useless by his sides.

And watched her fingers close around it, gentle as ever.

Then—quietly, with a voice that cracked and held at once—she spoke. “I never thought I’d have anyone to myself. Not where it was safe to want it.”

Her eyes lifted to search his—slow, cautious. And Joel let her look at all of it. The lines, the cracks, the history. The ugly things. The beautiful ones, too, even if he still didn’t know how to hold those proper. If she still wanted him afterwards.

Her gaze softened. “And if that’s what this ring means,” she murmured, barely more than breath, “then…”

She reached again—this time for him.

Her hand slid over his, careful not to drop the ring. She pressed her fingers to his, fitting them into the grooves of his knuckles, as though they were shaped for her.

“Then yes,” she said. “I want it all.”

Joel blinked once, slow, like maybe he’d misheard her. Like the years of grief and failure and blood had finally caught up and were playing tricks on his ears.

That word—yes—cracked him, like a floodgate giving way. Quiet, massive, unstoppable. She was saying yes to all of it.

All the worries he’d carried—how she'd flinch from the shadows of his past, how he’d never be clean enough, soft enough, good enough for her—all of it seemed ridiculous now. Foolish and small compared to the weight of her looking at him like that, like she knew him and still chose him.

He made a sound—half-gasp, half-sob—and his hand moved before he could stop it. Twitched under hers, then closed around it instinctively, like his body had been waiting for this—her—for decades.

His chest roared with nerves, but his fingers were gentle, almost trembling, as he eased the ring onto her ring finger where it would sit for another fifty years. It was nestled askew, a little too big.

“I’ll solder it later,” she said quickly, like it didn’t matter, like she was afraid he’d apologise for it.

How the hell did he get this lucky? He didn’t say a damn thing, didn’t trust his voice not to break.

Instead, Joel's hands went to her waist—and before she could say another word, he lifted her clean off the porch railing.

He laughed, a sound so old it almost startled him. It came from deep in his gut, hopeful and breathless, broken through with joy he didn’t recognise as his own at first.

Leela let out a startled little sound, her arms catching naturally around his neck. Her forehead bumped his as he spun her in a rough circle, boots scraping on the wood, the wind catching the stray wisps of hair around her cheeks.

“Put me down!” she whispered, half-laughing against his throat. “You’re gonna throw your back out.”

“Don’t care,” he muttered, still laughing.

When he set her down again, his hands didn’t move far. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t ask for permission, just leaned in and kissed every piece of her he could find. Her warm cheek. Her closed eyes, lashes damp. The corner of her mouth. Her hairline. Her jaw. Her temple. The shell of her ear.

He didn’t have the words to tell her what this meant. That he hadn’t believed he’d ever get this again—not after everything, not after Sarah, not after all the ruin he carried around like second skin.

“Leela,” he murmured, his voice roughened with more than just emotion—like it hurt to speak and feel so much all at once. He cupped the back of her head, foreheads pressed, and he stayed there, breathing her in.

“Leela Miller,” she corrected.

His brow lifted, and the corners of his mouth twitched upward despite the lump still stuck in his throat. “That right?” he rasped, gravel and wonder all tangled up. “Ain’t too late to run, y’know.”

Leela didn’t budge. “I wouldn’t get too far.”

Joel snickered, mock-considering. “I’d give you a head start. Maybe five steps.”

She hummed, eyes half-lidded, still nestled close. “Ruined it.”

“Then c'mere and fix it,” he muttered, already leaning in; the only thing left in the world was the shape of her mouth and the promise of home in her breath.

But a sharp tap-tap-tap rattled the porch window before he could catch her mouth.

They both jerked, startled.

Four faces pressed against the glass like in a stage play, barely obscured by the parted curtain. Tommy was grinning like a lunatic, one arm flung around Maria’s shoulders. Maria had her hand to her heart, visibly misty-eyed. Ellie had both fists pumped in victory, mouthing something like “Holy shit!” through the pane. And dead centre, propped up in Maria’s arms, was Maya—head tilted, brows furrowed in that serious, confused little way of hers as she squinted at the adults with the kind of scrutiny only a toddler could manage.

Tommy whooped so loud that Joel was sure someone two streets down heard it. “Fina-fuckin’-ally!”

Leela giggled—a rare, bubbling sound—and clapped a hand over her mouth like she could catch it before it escaped. She held up her left hand, fingers splayed, flashing the ring like it might answer Maya’s question.

Her eyes widened, then came her muffled squeal, “Daddy sec-wet!”

Joel rubbed the back of his neck, muttering something inaudible that might have been “Oh, Christ,” but he didn’t look away.

The door flew open, and the whole damn crew poured out.

Boots scuffed hard against wood, and then it was a mess of limbs and hollering. Joel barely had time to register the blur of motion before he was hit from both sides—Tommy barreling into him, and Ellie launching herself at Leela like a skinny linebacker.

“You fucking said yes!” Ellie hollered, clinging to Leela, nearly raising her off the floor. Joel caught a flash of her grinning face as she hooted again, and Leela staggered a little but didn’t stop laughing.

“Look at you,” Tommy barked, dragging Joel into a half-headlock, knuckles grinding affectionately into his scalp. “Didn’t think you had the stones, jackass.”

Joel grunted, wind knocked out of him, but he didn’t push him off. Couldn’t, not when his chest was a mess of noise and heartbeat and something terrifyingly close to joy. So he shook his head, still stunned.

Tommy finally let him go with a slap to his back, and he was still catching his breath when he looked up—

Leela stood a few feet away, partly circled by Maria and Ellie now, Maya cradled between them, his baby girl’s tiny face peeking out over her mother’s shoulder.

What Joel saw was his Leela, everything else out of focus. At the lines of the porch light carved into her cheekbones. At the worn braid that lay across her collarbone. At the place on her throat where her pulse ticked, constant as a metronome.

Someone—maybe Tommy—muttered something about champagne. Ellie snorted and called back, “You think we got champagne? Shit, we’ve got apple cider. Or my moonshine if you wanna blackout during the toast.”

Joel huffed a low breath of a laugh. That sounded more like home.

And what he truthfully felt wasn’t clarity or certainty. He didn’t believe in that shit anymore, not like he used to. This was...

Conviction.

This woman—this stunning woman—was the one who’d shown him there was a future left to want. Who didn’t fix him, because that was never hers to do.

And in a world where most things broke and stayed broken—she was the thing that held.

He stood there a long beat, surrounded by all the noise, the cider being passed around in mismatched mugs, Maya's delighted squeal of wanting some, Ellie already climbing up on the porch rail like she was gearing up for a ridiculous toast, one neither of them would forget—or forgive her for.

But all Joel could fucking do was stare at his wife.

Her dark eyes found his in the chaos, and she smiled, quiet and knowing, like she already understood every word he hadn’t said out loud.

He took a reflexive step toward her—then another—cutting through his folks, without a word, because words would’ve only cheapened it.

She didn’t flinch when he reached his place. She shifted Maya a little higher against her chest and tilted her face toward him, as if to say—Come home, Joel.

So touched her hand first—just a brush of fingers, his open door. Then his palm slid around her neck, callused thumb resting beneath her jaw. Maya blinked up at him, wide-eyed, her curls scattered against Leela’s collar like tiny question marks. Joel reached out again, this time to her back, a whisper of contact. Leela moved just enough, granting him space to hold his daughter.

And this was it.

This was the future now, and he was stepping through the doors—finally, entirely—with his eyes wide open.

That same night, Joel found himself dismantling Maya’s crib, the act itself deserving of his utmost reverence.

“What’s Daddy doing?” Leela whispered from the hallway.

“Fixin’,” Maya whispered back.

He didn’t rush. Each screw he loosened felt like the end of a chapter. His palms moved with care—thumb smoothing over the worn wood rail, the one Maya used to chew when she was teething. The teeth marks were still there. Tiny, crescent-shaped reminders. Part of him wanted to leave them. Another part knew he had to start the ball rolling.

The house was quiet—unnaturally so, after all those toasts to forever, the laughter, the clink of mugs—and Maya padded after him like a duckling, barefoot, two fingers picking at her lips in her nervous rut, and her eyes, big and brown like her mama’s, tracked his every move. If she blinked, she would miss something important.

And of course, Joel could see it plain as day, his baby girl was overwhelmed. Way past her bedtime, belly full of Tommy's generously cheese-ed burgers, everyone hugging her mama like they were old friends, slapping his back with words like “Congratulations!” as if she was supposed to know what that spell meant. And now, her room, her safe space, the one thing that never changed, was being taken apart right in front of her?

“She doesn’t get it,” he murmured under his breath as he passed her, ruffling her curls. “I got you, baby girl.”

Hell, Joel wasn’t sure he could wrap his head around it either. One minute, she was a newborn, featherlight, curled along his forearm, breathing those tiny sighs against his neck. Now she was watching him take apart her whole world.

But he kept working. Pulled on his gloves, toolbelt slung low on his hips, and still wearing the button-up he hadn’t changed out of since dinner, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, sweat blooming at the collar. He could’ve waited until morning and let her sleep one more night in the old crib, surrounded by what she knew. But the accomplishment about it—about today—made him press on, and made him want her to have this now. Maybe it was pride, or guilt, or the quiet ache of her having called out to him many times tonight, meaning it like a promise.

Like giving Leela that ring. Or Ellie with that guitar.

Maya deserved her own piece of the day to call her own. A gesture that said: You’re growing up, sweetheart. I see it. I’m here with you.

He dragged the new bed down from his shop, careful not to wake the house. There was absolutely no room for mistakes once he laid out the parts, sorted the screws, set every board down with care. Checked angles twice. Rugged pinewood he’d shaped himself—soft edges, low frame, solid enough to last and hold all the dreams a little girl might grow into.

She stood at the doorway the whole time, little feet planted like she was standing guard, or maybe waiting for permission to step into the future.

“I help, Daddy. See, I do,” she chirped once, already tugging a scrap of sandpaper off the floor.

He let out a soft breath, smiling despite himself. “Not this time, busybee.” Scooped her up, set her gently by the door again. “Don’t want you hurtin’ your pretty fingers.”

Twice more she tried, wandered off, then circled back. Grunting, dragging a bed slat like it weighed a hundred pounds. Each time, Joel had to stop what he was doing and guide her back with a kiss to her temple, even though all he wanted was to let her stay near.

The third time, Leela’s arms wrapped around her from behind, lifting her up.

“C’mon, Maya,” she murmured, voice soft against the crown of Maya’s curls. “Let’s go take a bath.”

Maya whined in protest, feet kicking in midair.

Joel caught her eye and winked. “Go on now. Let Mama fuss over you.”

She pouted, but she went along with Leela.

And then it was just him again.

Alone in the soft hush of the nursery, tightening every last screw with the same hands that once knew only how to break things, pull triggers and crush windpipes. Now they smoothed edges, lined up joints flush, and held things together instead of tearing them apart.

Was that not the point of raising a daughter? To rewrite your story in the margins of hers, not by erasing the past, but by refusing to pass it on.

He sanded off the splinters, double-checked every bolt, all of it a punctuation mark in an unfinished story. Hauled in the mattress from one of the empty, unused guest rooms, a little too big, but she would grow into it. He laid the blankets, pink and green to match her walls, corners tucked, one pillow fluffed and centred. Her favourite starry blanket, spread just so—faded navy with constellations stitched in silver thread.

It wasn’t just a bed for his daughter.

It was a beginning. A place for burrowing, for burying your face after a hard day. For whispered secrets beneath the covers and flashlight adventures. For hiding under when the world felt too loud. For outgrowing, eventually—but not yet. A place where Maya's big dreams could sprawl.

He stood back when it was done, undid his toolbelt and wiped the sweat from his brow. Finally over.

Then came the gallop of footsteps. A shrill squeal that yanked a smile on Joel's face. That fast Maya rhythm of joy in motion.

She came soaring down the hall, freshly pajamaed, her whole little body warm from the bath, curls still dripping. She barreled into the doorway, saw it—and stopped cold.

For half a heartbeat, she just stood there, eyes wide, blinking like she couldn’t quite believe it was real.

Then she launched herself forward, airborne for a good second.

“So biiiig!” she shrieked, arms flung out like she was leaping into the stars themselves. Her little body landed belly-first on the bed, and she kicked her legs so hard the blanket wrinkled under her.

Joel crouched beside her, a grin pulled helplessly across his face. “Like it?”

She giggled—natural, full-bellied joy—rolled over till only her eyes peeked above the blanket, dark and gleaming.

Behind him, soft footsteps trudged forward. He felt Leela before she touched him, slid an arm across his back, and her palm found the place between his shoulder blades that always ached after a long day. Now he could feel the new depression of the ring.

They stood side by side in the doorframe, married now in name and blood and every hard-won mile between.

Joel cleared his throat to tell her, “I didn’t want her feelin’ left out. What with the ring, and the fuss, and all that attention on us.” He glanced at Leela, eyes crinkling. “She’s part of this, too.”

Leela smiled. “Such a good dad.”

Joel shook his head, his heart almost leaping ahead of his body. “Tryin’ every day.”

She turned his hand over and pressed a kiss to the scarred knuckles, and he let her.

“Are you happy?” she asked, eyes suddenly worlds deep.

He did not overthink a thing. He simply nodded and pulled her close by the waist, his hand curling around the dip of her hip.

“Yeah. Piece of cake.”

Not at the least. It wasn’t the building—that part came easy, muscle memory, comfort. No, the hard part was what it implied. The bed, the dreams woven on her blanket, the way her legs already stretched longer than he remembered.

She was growing up. And there’d come a day—not too far off, but someday—when she wouldn’t need him crouched beside her like this. She wouldn’t ask or even think to.

“Daddy.”

Maya, wrapped up tight, her blanket pulled to her nose, was peeking over the edge of the pillow. She beckoned him close with one small finger.

He knelt and leaned in, brows raised, the stiffness in his knees forgotten. “What?”

She cupped her hand to his ear like she was telling a secret meant only for him.

“Stay next to me.”

He hung his head, a laugh escaping his chest. Wrecked, helpless. Then laid a kiss against her forehead. “How’m I supposed to say no to that?”

Leela did not need any other words out there. She only breathed out a sigh, pushed one last kiss to the top of his head, whispering, “Honeymoon in your Maranello later?”

“Be right there, Mrs Miller.”

She smiled—soft, crooked—and twisted her fingers briefly through his, letting them linger just a second longer than needed before she slipped away, the door shunting close behind her.

Soon, Joel kicked off his boots with a grunt, untucking his shirt, one hand steadying himself against the bed frame like an old man—because that’s what he was now, wasn’t he?—and eased himself down onto the mattress with an exaggerated sigh.

Maya giggled immediately.

She climbed over him, a tangle of knees and elbows and warm limbs, and flopped herself down right on his chest. Her head landed just over his heart, curls still damp from her bath, smelling like soap and sleeptime.

“Oof,” Joel grunted, eyes squeezed shut. “Watch them knees, darlin’. Too sharp.”

“You’re loud,” she said, poking his chest once with a tiny finger.

Joel cracked one eye open. “Yeah? What’s loud?”

She poked him again, right over his heartbeat. “This. It’s tryna come out.”

He chuckled, his hand instinctively resting on her back, palm spanning nearly the whole width of her.

Joel blinked, amused. “Is it sayin’ your name?”

“No, sayin’ d-duh, d-duh, d-duh.”

She didn’t quite understand. But maybe she did, in her own way—some simple, three-year-old truth that needed no translation.

“I catch it, Daddy,” she whispered, a promise.

He snorted softly, overwhelmed. “You gonna catch my heart?”

She nodded, solemn. “Mhm. If it falls out. I’ll keep it in my pocket. Fix it for you.”

He smiled through it, blinking past the sting in his eyes. “Don’t think even you could fix that busted old thing.”

“I can!” she insisted, frowning, her brow furrowed in that stubborn, Leela-like way. She believed it—with all the might in her small body.

He swallowed. “If you say so.”

Undeterred, she snuggled in tighter. “An’ if it really won’t start,” she added, mumbling into his shirt, “I’ll just build a shiny new one.”

Mama’s girl—whichever way he looked at it. Joel's breath hitched in his throat; his little girl had no idea what she was doing to him. The way she said it—so certain, like love alone could will a heart back to life.

“Doesn’t work that way, baby,” he murmured, threaded with old grief or maybe it was just love. At this point, he wasn’t sure there was a difference. “Hearts… they don’t come back.”

“Aw, man,” she moaned, clearly displeased with the rules of the universe. But he could feel those fast, tiny gears in her head moving—the way her body stilled, how her breath slowed, how her fingers moved slowly over the fabric of his shirt, like she was tracing the beat beneath it.

Then, gently, he spoke into her hair, the words coming slowly, like they were carved in a place deep inside him.

“You listen to me now, baby girl.”

She was quiet a moment longer, as though something in her knew this wasn’t just a bedtime talk. “Mhm?”

“This world’s gonna ask a lot of you someday,” he went on, rough-edged. “More than it ought to. And I won’t always be here to help you or Mama through it.”

His words weren’t just for her. They were for himself, for Leela, for everything he couldn’t put back the way it was. He knew he wouldn’t always be around—not forever. The thought clawed at him with indelible talons, but it didn’t scare him like it used to. Not if Maya was the one left holding what mattered.

“And Mama…” His voice drifted, caught for a second. His hand cradled her head. “Mama’s got this big, loud heart that feels everything. She feels things real deep, even when she doesn’t say so. So I need you to help me, alright?”

She stirred, just a little, but kept her cheek pressed close to him. “Okay. I help you.”

He kissed her curls. “I need you to look after Mama’s heart. Help her stay soft.”

She blinked up at him, big eyes all confused. “But I’m little.”

“I know,” Joel smiled gently, brushing her hair back. “That’s what makes you special. You see things big people miss.”

Maya thought about that for a second, humming, her nose scrunching. “Like… when she hugs me ‘cause she’s sad?”

Joel let out a soft laugh. “Exactly like that.”

Maya’s little palm slid up his chest and curled into his shirt, right over his heart, like she was trying to hold it still.

He nodded, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You guard it, baby. You be the one who sees her.”

He didn’t say the rest—not out loud. That death was inevitable. That the years would pass, fast and unkind. That he’d already wasted too many of them learning too late how to love this hard. But maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t missed his chance to leave behind what mattered.

Not if Maya remembered. Not if she held it—his heart, Leela’s, the thread between them all—with her fierce little hands.

Soft and sacred, his promise spoke one of her own.

“I will,” Maya murmured. “I see. I see you and Mama. I... take care.”

And it wasn’t just a bare sentence—it was unassailable. It was hers, his daughter's. The way she said it, Joel knew she meant it the way only a child can: with her whole self.

Joel closed his eyes, his arms wrapping fully around her now, one hand spread protectively over her back as though he could shield her from everything—even time. That instinct—the one that had been knotted for years, held in a fist so tight it forgot how to let go—finally eased.

Whatever else came next—whatever stretch he had left, however his story ended—this moment was the limit.

And before long, he let his heart rest.

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

“”

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corevibeself · 2 months ago

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Let Me Slap You In The Face (PAC)

Not literally... HAHA!

Here is the reality check reading from the recent poll I posted. Sorry, it took so long to post. I have been busy with school. Thank you for voting; hope you enjoy a slap in the face

Let me relay the message: This isn't to hurt you! I make sure my delivery is tinged with a bit of humour, but I will say, this is for people who are open to self-empowerment and won't see this as an attack, because the reality of it is, we've all got shadows; we've all got things we do that we want to change. The key is not identifying yourself with the parts you don't prefer; you are so much more than just what you see as flaws. This is never done to shame anyone; my intent is always out of the kindness of my heart and soul. If I do end up coming across that way, apologies in advance; I'm still learning how to communicate non-aggressively; I have Pluto in Scorpio in the 3rd house, HAHAHA.

I'll be using the Rebel deck for their straightforward messages and looking at some shadow aspects of my oracle cards. Enjoy the reality check, HAHA!

Pile 1

Ooooh girl, okay—"Who Says" by Selena Gomez literally started playing in my head when I read your message. Specifically, the lyric, “Who says you’re the only one that’s hurting?” Go listen to that song—seriously. I think there are more lyrics in there that might resonate with you. It’s a meaningful track because it speaks directly to those negative beliefs we carry about ourselves, the ones that hold us back.

You know—“I’m too fat to wear this,” or “I don’t think I can be as good as them.” That’s the kind of energy I’m feeling. But here’s the thing: those thoughts don’t matter. You’re not competing with anyone else. You’re only ever competing with who you are right now. The best version of you—it’s real, it’s possible, and it’s yours. But you’ve got to stop making excuses.

That doesn’t mean your feelings aren’t valid. They 100% are. But sometimes our emotions are rooted in beliefs that just aren’t true. And we don’t want those beliefs to rule our actions. Just because something feels true, doesn’t mean it is true. Every human being is worthy of love, of going after what they want, of being who they are. No exceptions. You were born on this planet as a good person. Anything negative you feel about yourself? That came from someone else. So start letting go of what isn’t truly you.

You already know who you are—because what you are feels good to you. Do you like crochet? Then you’re creative. That’s beautiful. That’s part of you. Maybe you’re sensitive and cry when you hear music—that’s a stunning trait. To connect so deeply with sound shows your open heart and your incredible receptivity. These are just examples, but what I'm trying to say is: change your perspective and see your worth, pile 1.

I do feel like there might be some victimization energy here, not because you’re weak, but because you don’t fully believe in yourself yet. It feels like you don’t think you’re capable of what others can do. But that’s not true, and that’s not the energy we want. What we want is self-empowerment. The universe isn't against you, Pile 1, and if it feels like it, shift your perspective. No, this isn't toxic positivity; we can acknowledge our sufferings and the negativity of the world, our pains and feelings, whilst still choosing to see the light. I choose to see the glass as half full, because I'd rather savor what’s there than mourn what’s missing. Do you realize that every setback or negative experience has shown you more of yourself? Yet you choose to run away from what it's shown you, from what needs healing, to hide in the comfort of what feels safer. At some point, the pain isn't even about the situation anymore; it's just self-inflicted. A shift in perspective is all it takes to change your entire worldview. If you think it will be hard, then it will be. If you think facing yourself, changing yourself, and being authentic and vulnerable is hard, ask why. You will start to see all the limitations you put on yourself.

It also feels like you might be someone who people-pleases. Maybe you hide your true feelings to avoid conflict or because you’re scared of being abandoned. I get it. But here’s the truth: you can respectfully express your feelings. It’s totally possible to communicate honestly and kindly. And if someone still walks away after you’ve been real with them? Then they weren’t meant for your honesty and vulnerability. But others will be. I promise.

Oh—and I got a specific message for someone who’s a tarot reader: if you tend to sugarcoat your readings because you’re afraid the truth will hurt someone, or they won’t want to hear it—don’t do that. You’re dishonouring your intuition and your craft. It’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to want to protect people. But when you filter your truth too much, you make it harder to be authentic—and you deprive others of the real magic of you.

Pile 2

I’m going to suggest you stay open-minded, Pile 2. I know you think you know everything down to the tea about a specific subject or situation — but babe, you don’t. And that’s totally fine. Sometimes, you need to make space for other perspectives.

And this is specifically for my chronically online babes: please, go outside and touch some grass. We are not meant to be consuming this much negativity every single day, and I feel like it’s messing with how you view the world and the people in it.

I fully believe we create our reality through our thoughts, emotions, intentions, etc. Maybe you don’t believe that, and that’s okay — but you have to admit that constantly taking in content that makes us feel like shit… dealing with people who dump their trauma on us… reading toxic comments… listening to fucked up internet stories… all of that affects you. More than you realize. It affects your brain, your thoughts, and your emotions. And yes, all of that spills into how you experience life, whether you are conscious of it or not.

And no, I’m not saying you can’t be sad, or angry, or human about things that are happening in real time in the world, or that you have to be ignorant, it's great that you care, but living in constant hypervigilance or walking on eggshells isn't fun either so there needs to be a balance.

I’d also say to bring awareness to your emotions. Are you growing from them? Or are you being suffocated by them and using them as a reason to act a certain way?

Social media creates a fear-based, warped version of reality that makes it hard to feel safe being yourself. Yes, there are dangers in the world. Yes, we should be aware and protect ourselves. But assuming the worst in everyone? That just creates a constant state of anxiety , you start to believe that’s what life is. That’s all there is.

You might even be someone who unintentionally projects that negativity onto others. One example I’m getting is like… an online debate or argument. And I’m not saying your feelings aren’t valid — they are — but make sure you’re not matching someone else’s energy if they’re coming at you sideways. It’s not worth it. Not everyone’s going to believe in what you believe in. Not everyone thinks the way you do. It sucks, but people are the way they are for a reason.

If we were all the same, we wouldn’t grow — we wouldn’t even know who we are. And yeah, that includes the “bad” people we meet. But what if you started seeing those people and situations as an opportunity to learn more about yourself, instead of trying to change them or control how they think? You’d be helping your own growth, and naturally attracting the people who do vibe with you.

Life’s not about changing others — you can’t force that. But you can become the highest version of yourself. And when you do that? You’ll inspire others just by being you. Through your kindness. Through loving yourself and forgiving others, not for them, but for you.

People hate when I say forgiving, as if I'm asking you to forgive their actions, no. I'm asking you to forgive yourself for letting their actions take a toll on you.

So yeah. Be more open-minded. Not saying you’re not, Pile 2, but on certain things… you’re kind of closed off. And when we really believe we’ve got something all figured out, we stop ourselves from growing.

I’m picking up on this mindset: “I’m thinking this way because it’s right. This is wrong. These people are wrong. I know I’m doing what’s right.” And trust me, I’m all for following your inner compass — but ask yourself:

Does it feel light? Does it drain me? Do I feel empowered?

That’s your real answer.

Pile 3

Like, literally, stop obsessing. It doesn’t matter as much as you think it does, and you’re just purposely making your life harder than it actually is because of some unhealed shit that you're aware of — but you either distract yourself or lie to yourself to make yourself feel better. When in actuality, your body and mind and heart are begging to be in sync with each other.

I think you tell yourself things to make your situation feel better than it actually is — like, not delulu in a good, empowering way — you're delulu in a way that is controlling and limits your potential as a person. You like things to be your way, which is fine, but has your way been working out for you? Or are you still dealing with the same old habits or situations, and emotions that keep popping up?

It just feels like the energy of someone who thinks they got their shit together — and you do — but it’s too much. You're not letting yourself breathe. You're not hearing your heart out. You're afraid of facing all of what you've pushed down, in fear that it will be too overwhelming to feel.

Like, please, feel your feelings and emotions instead of intellectualizing them and telling yourself that everything is fine when it's not. It's okay not to be okay. It's okay to feel like you don't want to plaster a smile, or do that assignment, or show up to work with the best energy. It's okay to not be as confident in your situation. It's okay to just be in a state of shitty emotions — because they are there to be acknowledged, not pushed down or told that there's a solution.

Your emotions don't need a solution; they need to be felt.

Find a moment, close your eyes, and feel. Where is the emotion? Is it a physical sensation — a tightness in the chest, heavy shoulders? Focus on it. Breathe in it. Let yourself be present.

I just remembered this quote, so maybe this is for you: "When we constantly think about the why — why did this happen, why, why, why — we’re trying to regain a sense of control over situations that were never meant to be controlled." This is a coping mechanism, a fear of failure, a fear of not doing enough, not being enough. BUT YOU ARE. No amount of external shit will heal the internal, NO AMOUNT. You don't have to do certain things to be seen as worthy, you don't have to have a whole load of money, or perfect confidence or whatever it is you tell yourself you need to have or the way your life needs to look. Ask yourself, when I think of my life and what I want, is it from a place of fear? of lack?

"If I don't have this, I won't be whole."

But you are whole as you are, and you struggle to see or feel that.

You need to become more comfortable with not having your shit together, because most of it comes from major anxiety issues that will impact your health, babes. Like, seriously, consider sitting with chaos a bit.

You also have great intuition, so I already know that you know you're not treating yourself the best. You're aware that you're controlling — even if just subconsciously — and I bet you can just feel how tired and exhausted your body is. So listen to that.

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FINALLY I'M SO GLAD I COULD FINISH THIS POST., Hope y'all enjoyed my hand swiping across your face in the most brutal manner possible, jkjk hehehe

#tarot reading #tarotcommunity #intuitive readings #pac reading #pick a card #pick a pile #tarot #reality check

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fromchaostocosmos · 30 days ago

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When we think of pogroms for many they might think of that scene from Fiddler on Roof.

For others they might think of the Night of the Broken Glass.

For others a multitude of different points in Jewish history might come up and come to mind.

After what happened in Amsterdam that might be what comes to thought.

When Charlottesville happened I like many Jews was very scared and worried that there would be an outbreak pogroms following.

Thank G-d there was not.

So imagine to all of our surprise that the modern day pogroms came not from right wing extremists and wannabe nazis and those chanting "Jews will not replace us" but rather from the left.

That isn't to say antisemitism on left came as surprise. No, that is something any Jew who in any left leaning, progressive, or liberal political scene is very familiar with.

I mean with familiar with all they types of antisemitism that run the whole gambit of political spectrum, from one extremism all the way to the other.

It is just that we really didn't expect it to come from the left of all places is all.

The other part is part is that I think we and I know this was the case for me expected the modern day pogrom to look like the pogroms that we saw in past.

And while that has been the case in of what happened in Amsterdam and what happened in Russia which yes I consider to be a pogrom even though there were no Jews there to be attacked. A mob gathered to attack because they thought there were Jews to attack.

But the reality is a modern pogrom is going to look different. A modern pogrom is going to act different.

Because for all that we, Jews, still tend to live grouped together it is not the same like it used to be when we lived in ghettos and shtetls. Where access to a whole lot of Jews was much easier, escape was much harder, and we had no way to warn each other or to get help. Also historically there was no real or actual punishment for pogroms historically.

In pogroms they could and did get away with taking entire Jewish villages, locking them in they synagogue, and setting it on fire.

Pulling that off in a world where there are legal repercussions, where it is much harder to break into homes, where technology exists that allows us to call to warn others and call for help, and where we can run and not be blocked by the walls of the ghetto or forest of the shtetl makes a big difference.

So then question is what does the modern pogrom look like. I think that it is yes physically attacking Jews so like I said what happened in Amsterdam and what happened in Russia.

But I would say that all these firebombings that we have been seeing over the past 19 months is the predominant way that the modern pogroms are being expressed.

We have seen a lot of them happening in Canada and Australia. There were also several in other countries too, but those two it has just been non-stop.

And now in the USA there has been a whole bunch of them with the latest being what has happened in Colorado.

This is just my personal assessment and opinion on what we have been seeing and I think that we are going to see more of them not less.

And with that will come escalation meaning that more and more people are going to hurt because with the escalation the target is going to move from building to people and the goal is going to be seeing who can injure or G-d forbid kill the most Jews.

(While I am aware that both the Russia and Amsterdam attacks were not done by leftists the point is the before either of those attacks happened there were firebombings that were done and those were done by leftists)

#leftist antisemitism #antisemitism #jumblr #pogrom #modern day pogrom

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that-weird-thing-in-the-woods · 4 months ago

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~{ Heyyyy, So not much to say just felt like making this lol }~

•Soul Watcher•

Jason was getting real sick of dealing with cults.

Ok wait let’s back up a bit, So Jason and the bats don’t have to deal with cults in Gotham all to much like only a one or two a year and when they did happened someone else could find them before the cult could really do anything.

But unluckily right now he and the bats were fighting off cultists in a warehouse while trying to get to where some other cultist are in a circle chanting, the reason for them being this late and not stopping the cult earlier is because they somehow got the bat-computer to overlook any suspicious activity from them as well as bribed some cops to get what they want.

And after 14 or so minutes with all the cultists down Jason goes over to the main guy and start to tie him up (As he can’t kill him with Bruce literally 20 steps from him) but before he can finish the guy bangs his head into the concrete floor and as result starts to bleed from his nose and yells something out but what has Jason’s attention and the rest of the bats is the Lazarus green smoke coming out of the summing circle.

Jason of course try’s to jump back, key word try’s. The smoke makes a clawed hand and grabs his ankle and pulls him into the green smoke and than everything goes black..

Jason woke up to the sound of running water and…humming?

So Jason gets up and walks towards the sounds, as he walks he looks at the black marble for the pillars and floor and how there is no sky or land just space with stars and that when he notices that the humming and running water coming from behind a thin-semi transparent fabric going from the ceiling to the floor and somewhat overlapping on itself.

Jason walks up to the fabric as quietly as possible and pushes it back a bit just enough to see what was behind it and that’s when he sees it two streams

One had pure and clean water with white pearls with a blue tint, The other one had gray water with black pearls with a green tint. the two Streams circled around each other but never touching and in the middle was what the closest thing to a nest made out of blankets and pillows.

And that’s when Jason saw the person who was in the nest thing and they saw him…Why was this reminding Jason of a book he read.

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

•Background•

The G.I.W were so dumb.

They thought that just because ghost were “Non-sentient” and “Dangerous” they decided to fucking NUKE THE GHOST ZONE.

You know which held all of the afterlife’s and made sure everything that was alive….you know exist so if the G.I.W planed actually worked everything would kinda just fall apart and cease to exist.

And it wouldn’t be possible to make a nuke that would actually work but with Government money and the Fentons work, they somehow actually made it and sent it through a portal the Fentons remade in a different location.

But of course you can’t nuke the Ghost Zone so it threw it back to the G.I.W and there world and with how much power they put into that fucker it did what it was supposed to…but with WAY worse consequences for the G.I.W and Fentons, So that world is a lost cause.

Now let’s go over to what Danny was doing.

He was with Clockwork discussing how he’s holding with Dan. After rehabilitating Dan Vlad gave him a clone body so he can walk around without a mass panic over him but after a VERY close call with the G.I.W where they got a lucky shot the clone body started to melt so Danny followed his (Ghost) Instincts and grabbed Dan core and shoved it in his gut.

And like a normal (well as normal you can be as a half-ghost) person Danny starts losing his shit like “Why the Fuck did I just do that?!?” And “Did I just technically eat Dan???” So after a panic attack or two Danny books it to Clockworks tower and tells him what happened and to just…help????

Well Danny is currently starting on panic attack number three Clockwork just grabs his shoulders and make him sit down on some very soft chair and after a minute or two Danny chills out a bit Clockwork explains what this means and that Danny’s essentially pregnant with Dan [“No Danny you did not eat Dan”].

And they now meet every other day just to talk and for Clockwork to explain more about being a ghost so something like this doesn’t happen again while they are talking about things they suddenly feel like the whole Ghost Zone just did something so Clockwork goes to check it out with Danny not far behind him.

And as they try to see what could have gone down and that when Danny sees one of the time string that look like it exploded and points it out to clockwork, And Clockwork looks at the string with surprise and turns to Danny after a moment with knowledge of what’s going to happen and tells Danny that this string was Danny’s home-world. [Now for The Panic Attack: Part four the musical]

After a couple weeks Danny’s mostly okay (He is pregnant he’s emotional and ghost are already extremely emotional beings and he has to deal with everything he’s ever known and lived is dead so leave him alone) and Clockwork gives him the job of Watcher Of Souls with his usual cryptic bullshit.

And now we’re here!

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

•Little Facts•

•The Pearls in the stream are souls of all living things.

•I headcanon that The Ghost Zone is somewhat sentient but it doesn’t have thoughts, Just Vibes

•The old Watcher just stoped caring about it and that’s how so many people got brought back from the dead and how Danny become a halfa

•Vlad is NOT a halfa, he’s just possessing his own corpse that his core is keeping looking alive but he looks very uncanny valley to humans and is very gruesome and uncomfortable for Ghost, Its half the reason Danny hated him on sight the rest is his “Rich Asshole meter” going off

•Clockwork hates the Flash family so much, He would want the Fuckers dead but he doesn’t want them to cause MORE problems for him and Danny

•Danny hangs out with Lady Gotham a lot so he knows who the bats are

•The Bat-fam are freaking the fuck out

•Danny spends a lot of time by the streams and with Dusk he wants to be comfortable so he made a nest :)

•Danny lets Jason stay in his lair until someone comes to get him

•Jason feels like he’s in one of his romance novels and he LOVES IT

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

•Appearances•

Danny’s Appearance•

~{ And that’s it! Sorry if this is a bit scatter brained I had to do stuff while making this lol so sorry about that anyway hope you gremlins like it until next time byeeeee }~

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starcurtain · 1 month ago

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3.4 Leaks

Been seeing a lot of leaks for HSR 3.4 and...

I know everyone is freaking out about this, that we'll have to fight our old friends, claiming this will be a new cycle already, but I don't think it makes sense for that to be the case--all the other cycles of Amphoreus have started in peace, with non-corrupted titans. If "restarting Amphoreus" doesn't reset the system back to the start of the cycle before the world was ending, then what would be the point of restarting it at all?

Perhaps they're going to go with "Wahhh, the restart didn't work because all the demigods are corrupted by the black tide, ohhh nooo, you have to defeat them first!" Which I guess could work, if being a bit boring...

But personally I wonder if this isn't something else: I feel like everyone is forgetting that Phainon still hasn't passed the World-Bearing Coreflame trial.

My guess is one of four things:

The World-Bearing Coreflame trial will require Phainon to face the memories of those he lost, and these forms are a reflection of what he believes is the suffering of his friends. Defeating these forms will become symbolic of freeing them from the miseries of the current, corrupted cycle in Amphoreus.

Restarting Amphoreus/completing the "Genesis" requires Phainon to use the powers of multiple coreflames, so he has to defeat manifestations of the other coreflames in order to claim their powers.

Restarting Amphoreus requires accurate memories of everyone, but Phainon's memories of his friends are now twisted by his experiences with the titans, so he needs to defeat them and bring back his "true" memories in order to produce the good end.

Maybe, MAYBE Phainon loses it in 3.4 and this is Mydei, Castorice, and Hyacine trying to stop him, but this still seems odd--how would we restart Amphoreus in order to get them into titan form, but still be the bad guys enough to provoke all three of them to attack?

Since we know that we're going to a non-destroyed version of Aedes Elysiae in 3.4, my guess is that the trial of the World-Bearer coreflame will actually be an involved process that might take most of the patch (or, alternatively, that we'll be using Oronyx's power to rewind time because there's something we can only achieve by going back to Aedes Elysiae). My guess is that the entire patch will be about exploring Phainon's past--both the past he supposedly thinks is real (Aedes Elysiae) and hints of the actual truth of what's occurring with Cyrene, Lygus, etc.

Therefore, if we're walking in Phainon's past and present, him being tormented by memories of the friends that were effectively sacrificed to get him to his current position makes perfect sense.

Frankly, I would be shocked if these bosses end up being actually Mydei, Castorice, and Hyacine, and not "It's a manifestation of the coreflames' power," "It's part of your trial to defeat these shades, Phainon," or at most "It's a corruption of the black tide" or something.

I do half expect them to combine and form Voltron to create 3.4's super boss, though.

Basically, I'm not worried lol.

#honkai star rail #hsr leaks #hsr spoilers #3.4 leaks #3.4 spoilers #spoilers #phainon

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thainovels · 1 year ago

Text

All the novels on the drive (this list will be updated):

❗i found most of these online, so i can't guarantee they are correct ❗

google drive

bl - pdf x epub

non thai novels

MEGA - another place where you can find the novels and download them

updated list of the novels - in one word document

requests and suggestions - document where you can add the novels you're looking for and check if someone already asked about them, you should be able to edit there

[email protected] - my mail where you can send anything you want to share

advice for new readers

hopefully all the links are working right, let me know if there's a problem.

if you have any requests or maybe you have some novels and want to share you can always send me a message. if i don't reply to you, i'm not ignoring you, i just wasn't able to find what you're looking for so i keep the asks unanswered so i don't forget and check later and can update you when i find it.

individual novels under the cut:

BL 1:

2 Worlds, One Heart

2gether

A Tale Of A Thousand Stars

Bad Buddy

Bad Guy, My Boss

Be My Favorite

Because we are (still) a couple (2gether 2)

Bed Friend

Big Dragon

Blue Kiss

Boss And A Babe

Boys in Love A New Term begins… Hearts Learning to Love

Boys In Love

Cooking Crush

Counter Attack

Cutie Pie

Cutie Pie Extras

Dangerous Romance

Dare You To Death

Diagnosis

Fahlanruk

Fish Upon The Sky

For The Love Of Us

Fourever You (all novels)

Goddess bless you from death

He's coming to me

Hemp Rope (Between Us)

Hidden Agenda

KinnPorsche

Knock Out - Dawin

Knock Out Engineering

Khemjira

Kidnap

Lately, It’s Winter Season

Links

Live In Love

Love Defection

Love Director 1, 2

Love In The Air: Sky

Love In The Air Special Novel

Love Mechanics 1, 2

Love Sand

Love Sea

Love Sick

Love Sky

Love Storm

Love Syndrome 1, 2, 3, 4

Love Syndrome Nan and Mac 1, 2

Love Upon A Time

Lovely Writer

Make It Right

Me and Thee

Memoir of Rati

Manner Of Death

Me and Who

Middleman's Love

Mr. Fanboy

My Beast

My Golden Blood

My Moon

My Only 12%

My School President 1

My School President 2

My Stubborn 1, 2

My Sweetheart Jom

Naughty Babe

Never Let Me Go

Nitrogen

Not Me

Not The Best But Still Good (Duang With You)

Only Boo

Only Friends

Owner of the North

Oxygen

Perfect 10 Liners (Arc x Arm; Faifah x Wine; Yotha x Gun)

Pit Babe 1, 2

R Society - Until You - CEO

Real Love

Rebirth of a Movie Star

Reset

Revamp The Undead Story

Sotus 1

Sotus 2

Spare Me Your Mercy

Star In My Mind

Sunset Vibes

Sweet Tooth, Good Dentist

ThamePo: Heart That Skips A Beat

TharnType 1, 2, 3

The Boy Next World

The Eclipse

The Effect

The Ex-Morning

The Gap Between Us (My Engineer)

The Heart Killers

The Hunt Lay Low

The Last Twilight

The Owner Of Northern Land-Jayden-Dannuea

The Next Prince

The Sign

Theory of Love

TimeTayTem A Love So Cruel, in The End is Not Love

This Cold Month

Together With Me

Tonhon Chonlatee

Triage

True Moon

Try Me 1, 2

Two Moons

Unforgotten Night

Unknown Lover

Until We Meet Again

VegasPete

Vice Versa 1

Vice Versa 2

We Are... - wattpad

Wish Me Luck

Wandee Goodday

Why R U?

Your Sky

GL:

7YEARS

23.5

911

A Shadow Underneath The Moon

About Galaxy

Adore Khun Jae Like Crazy

Affair

Apple

Arpo

Ashes Of Our Hearts

Bad Sugar

BAKE LOVE (FEELINGS)

Be My Baby

Be My Boo

Be My Sugar

Belongs To Porprima

Bitter Sweet Toxic

Blank

Bloody Mary

Built In Love

Buy My Boss

Chain

Chain Baby (special)

Chanel No5

CHASING LOVE

Chloe

CLAIREBELL

Cranium

Crush

Dream

Enemies With Benefits

Evil Enemy Defeats Love

For Her

Formidable Eyes

FWB With My Boss

GAP 1

GAP 2

GOD 1

GOD 2

Harmony Secret

Harmony Secret Special

Heart Villain

Heiress Fall And Unexpected Love

Hello Neighbor

Hello! How Are You (pdf)

Her Baby Is In My Belly

Her Wife Is A Hollywood Star

Heras Divorce

I See You

I’m Your Moon

If I Stop Being Stubborn, Will You Love Me

In's Love

Irresistible

Just Friend

Lies Between Us

LIKE A PALLETE

Linda When Will Your Heart Be Mine

Little Bit Little More

Love and Persuasion

Love Begins With A Terrible Kiss

Love From Afar

Love Prologue

Love Senior

Love That Won’t Lose

Lucky One

LUV IS JUST.. LOVE

Lyrics

Mafia’s Doctor Lover

Mafia’s Sugar Baby

Mate

Melt My Heart

Midnight Flight

Mirror

More and More

My Brother’s Wife

My Only Sunshine

My Pink Love

Obsessed

One Night Stand

Papa Mafia

Petrichor 1, 2

PLAYER

Pluto

Poisonous Love

Predict

Professor With Benefits

Promises In The Illusion

Puff Love

Queendom

Rain and Rice

REMAIN Vol 01, 02

Reverse 4 You

Reverse With Me

Rhythm 1, 2

Rin Will Never Love (Denied Love)

Rin Will Never Love (Denied Love) Special - Endless

Rolling In Love

Secret Affair

Shape of Status

Sister

Smile My Tutor

Somewhere Somehow 1

Somewhere Somehow 2

Special Edge Of The Universe

STOP BEING EVIL (TO YOUR LOVER)

STOP YOUR HEART (FOR ME)

Stuck With Me

Sunflower Silk

The Air (4Elements)

The Chef’s Favorite

The Dragon

The Earth (4ELEMENTS)

The Fire (4ELEMENTS)

The Loyal Pin 1

The Loyal Pin 2

The Moon likes Your Smile

The Secret Of Us (TSOU)

The Tiger

The Water (4Elements)

The Whale Store xoxo

The Widow’s Maid

Uncertainty

WARM EYES

When Love Conquers

Non Thai Novels:

Addicted 1

Addicted 2

Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation 1-5

Professional Body Double (My stand In) - online

We Best Love 1

We Best Love 2

#gmmtv #gmmtv series #thai drama #thai series #thai bl #thai gl #thai novels #thai novel

1K notes · View notes

plaidos · 6 months ago

Note

How would you legally prove to people that you aren't a trans women if they are already attacking you?

And if it is about describing systems of oppression how can it be attributed to individual people? Like if you aren't a transwomen but are mistaken as one in all aspects of life how is that different than the oppression a transwoman faces? Even in situations like doctors offices if you've changed your gender markers, had surgeries, or you are intersex I'm not sure correcting a doctor and telling them that will negate the way they choose to treat you based on initial assumptions.

again, what you’re describing interpersonal transmisogyny. anybody can experience the negative effects of how institutional transmisogyny has wormed its way into every aspect of culture, but that doesn’t mean you experience the full reality of institutional transmisogyny. and gender markers aren’t even just the start of the miriad of ways TME people can exempt themselves from institutional transmisogyny.

like, a white person who looks like they might be non-white can experience the effects of interpersonal racism, they can be refused service or treated in bigoted ways…. but that doesn’t mean they don’t still have white privilege, because white privilege isn’t Just not receiving racial harassment/etc, it’s a million other often unquantifiable things.

the same is true for straight men experiencing homophobia, right? like sure straight men who “look” gay are harassed and treated poorly for it… but they still benefit from heterosexual privilege in a gazillion other ways

like, i’m sorry, being attacked because somebody thinks you are a trans woman is not the same thing as having to be an actual real life trans woman in a transmisogynistic world. it’s very telling that you ignored the example of v-coding!

and also stop fucking saying “transwomen” you sound like a terf. it has a space. it’s “trans women”. you know… because we’re women! when you say it without a space it makes it sound like you don’t actually think we’re women? 🤔 like calling black women “blackwomen” very very dehumanising language.

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kaiser1ns · 1 year ago

Text

𝗺𝗶𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗲𝗹 𝗸𝗮𝗶𝘀𝗲𝗿 𝘅 𝗳𝗲𝗺!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

╹synopsis :: you hated him from the moment he showed up at the bastard munchen tryouts — you can't stand him, it's impossible, or so you thought.

╹contents :: 8.9 k words aka word vomit, fluff and two kind of suggestive scenes,mostly pre-timeskip kaiser, reader is football fanatic, kaiser loves to annoy her(he is just in love with her), just one teenager denying their feelings while the other is clearly in love, mentions of her parents - to clarify they are not dead !, mentions of real players from the actual club bayern munchen, i don't know if I can put this in the slow burn section? she hates him but she loves him.

╹notes :: 100 followers special i gave my blood, sweat and tears for this, please spare me. sorry for any grammar mistakes, hope you enjoy! for my one and only, and big thanks to @kooriou 🤍

You hated Michael Kaiser from the first moment he stepped into Bastard München Academy, an instant wave of annoyance washed over you. His arrogance and presence got on your nerves, making it impossible to even look at him. But you had to — that was your job as a future assistant coach for the best team in Germany, and who knows maybe you can snatch your uncle's position as manager.

As the tryouts unfolded, you observed him closely, jotting down notes on his skills and trying to give him some initial stats, which to your dismay were either tier A or S. Despite the irritation, there was no point in lying, he was outstanding and he knew what he was doing - or rather, he knew what he wanted. You saw as he teamed up with the boy who wore the jersey with number 20. They made up a pretty good duo, and with Ness's passes and Kaiser's fast attacks, no one could stop them.

Perhaps beneath the thorny exterior, Michael Kaiser was the player Bastard München looked for—someone who could elevate them to new heights. As the final whistle blew, you already knew the outcome that they would both be accepted into the team, and you'd have to get used to seeing his face almost every day. You got up and walked over to your uncle as all the recruits were lined up, looking at them, as your eyes landed on the striker with with long blonde hair, blue eyes, and a blue rose tattoo on his neck. You stared at him, furrowing your eyebrows and with squinted eyes, a silent expression of displeasure etching across your face.

In that subtle gesture, frustration found a physical form; it was a language spoken without words, a non-verbal protest to whatever disturbance had disrupted your peace — and the one who caused it starred back at you, smirking smugly at you, but he turned back to listen to the coach's speech.

"And with that, we welcome you in Bastard Munchen. We hope you will meet and exceed our expectations, and now I will give the word to my niece Y/N who will also work with all of you youngsters." You were still lost in the staring contest with the boy who paid you no mind, and now everyone looked at you, some were getting scared seeing you so oppressed by something; were they that bad that the coach had to ask his niece about another opinion?

Your uncle cleared his throat, making you come back to the real world, a little taken back from the sudden shift of focus. "Ah, yes, of course." as you stood there with all of your glory and pride like you were the president and everyone waited for your long waited speech "As the future of Bastard Munchen, you will be the ones to continue the legacy set by the club's legendary players. Work hard so you can achieve your goals, as you should always believe in yourself. Make every impossibility a reality."

Your words echoed through the training grounds, making the boys happy to hear something from a beautiful girl - in one way or another, something had to keep them going. As you finished your speech, you caught his eye again, but this time, there was a glimmer of amusement. Was there anything wrong with the things you said? You tried your best to sound like every coach who talks to their team with all the "work hard and give your best shot" stuff. You hope you won't become like that in the future.

Your uncle nodded approvingly, signaling the end of the meeting. The boys started leaving one by one, but the blue-eyed genius stayed, approaching you with confidence.

”Impressive speech, Little Miss, but actions speak louder than words, don't they?" he remarked with a smirk, leaving you with a mix of irritation. You haven't even known each other for a day and you already want to gouge out his eyes. "Talk about yourself, Mister. Show results, and then talk to me again."

Kaiser chuckled, his smile growing wider as he came closer to you, rising a hand as he delicately slid his fingers under your chin, lifting it ever so slightly, your breath hitched from the sudden move.

"We share some similar goals, I will give you that. Be sure to watch me making the impossible your new reality." he walked away, leaving you standing there like a statue - a blushing statue at that.

You definitely hate him.

WEEK 2 AFTER THE TRYOUTS:

In the following weeks, as training sessions progressed and the team started bonding, you couldn't deny that Michael's skills were exceptional. Despite his arrogant attitude, there was a reason why he wore that smug expression. The team was carried by his influence, and you found yourself unfortunately acknowledging his impact. Kaiser Impact, huh? That’s one way to call it.

He approached you, the smirk replaced by a genuine smile. "Not bad, right? I noticed the way you looked only at me," he said, as you rolled your eyes, trying to maintain your composure as you handed him a water bottle "Don't get too comfortable now. This doesn't mean you're off the hook. There's still a long way to go."

The blonde boy chuckled, seemingly unfazed, taking the bottle from your hand, making your fingers briefly touch as he kept eye contact. "I wouldn't want it any other way, Prinzessin. Now what are my stats? I’m sure they went higher." You shot him a skeptical glance, unimpressed by his playfulness. "Stats? Do you mean your nonexistence score? Like in a video game or something," you retorted, crossing your arms over your chest.

He laughed at your comment. "Maybe not a game, but God's challenge, and I'm here to be the best of the best and eventually surpass Noel Noa," he replied with a cocky grin.

Rolling your eyes once more, you couldn't deny the feeling you had when talking back at him. "Fine, let's humor your challenge sent from above for a moment. Strength: still lacking, form: needs improvement, and humility: nonexistent," you assessed, ticking off imaginary boxes in the air. "But hey, you did manage to catch my attention for being the most annoying person I have ever met, so I'll give you that."

Kaiser raised his eyebrows, took a sip from the water bottle, and said, "Well, Prinzessin, catching your attention is just another bonus for me." You scoffed, "Smooth talker, aren't you? But like you said actions speak louder than words, so do me a favor and leave me alone, you are not the only one who has to work hard."

His eyes gleamed with a mischievous glint as he took a step closer, narrowing the distance between you. "Oh, I plan on proving myself in more ways than one. Consider this just the beginning." With that, he went back to the others, leaving you to wonder whether he was genuinely committed to improving or just enjoying getting under your skin.

Deciding to continue your work – which for now was to arrange the water and the towels ready for the players – paying no mind to the world around you, until you felt a hand on your shoulder, thinking it was Kaiser again, but it was your uncle - the head coach. His touch was firm yet comforting, a familiar presence amidst the chaos made by the young athletes.

You turned around, a mixture of surprise and relief coloring your expression. Your uncle, Franz Bauer, wore a knowing smile that hinted comfort “How are you doing so far, Y/N? Is something or rather someone bothering you?” He spoke in a low, reassuring tone. You took a moment to collect your thoughts, grateful for your uncle's concern, but you found it strange how he always knows and notices when you have trouble.

"I'm managing, Uncle Franz," you replied, a faint smile on your lips. "Just the usual, dealing with boys my age. Nothing that I can't handle."

His gaze held a depth of understanding, and as he nodded at you. "I appreciate the help. You know, you remind me of my younger self because I too was an errand kid."

He wanted something from you, and you knew it by the way he started to talk about how much you were like him as a child. He always does it. "Just get to the point. Is there anything specific you want me to do?"

Franz laughed slightly ”You do catch up quickly,” his voice dropping to a confidential tone. "I've been observing you, and I can't help but notice the way you look at the team, wanting to comment on the formations, the positions, and the players themselves. I've been thinking about expanding your role in the team, perhaps as an assistant coach."

The proposition caught you off guard, and your eyes widened in surprise. "Assistant coach? Uncle, I appreciate the offer, but I'm not sure I have the experience for that."

He placed a hand on your shoulder again, a reassuring squeeze. "Well, you will be an assistant coach in training. Experience is gained through opportunities, Y/N. I see potential in you, a natural talent." your eyes widen suddenly “So, for the rest of the training session, you will be the boss.”

“But I-” he cut you off by standing behind you and pushing you forward “No objections, or I'll call your parents to pick you up. You don’t want that, right?” having no time to answer, you were next to the other coaching staff as your uncle gave a thumbs up from the benches with water and towels. That old bastard Well, you better be here training some naive and arrogant footballers, than being home studying economics.

Taking a deep breath, you accepted the challenge, even if you didn't want to. As you stepped onto the field, the weight of the whistle in your hand felt foreign, yet empowering. The players eyed you curiously, some exchanging glances, unsure of what to make of this sudden change. Gathering the team you began to give orders. "You will go against the first team and clash with amazing players like Noel Noa, Thomas Muller, Manuel Neuer and Joshua Kimich. But let go of the thoughts about the big bad wolves chasing you - you shall become the chaser." Your uncle watched from the sidelines as if he knew something you didn't. "So for starters, we are changing the formation to 4-2-3-1 as Kaiser will be the top of the attack, Ness you will be the attacking midfielder so you gotta keep an eye on blondie over here, but also beware of your rivals. "

The players exchanged glances again, as Kaiser and Ness shared a look - shocked at your words. Is this even going to work? Is she for real? You took a moment to gauge their reactions before continuing. "Remember, this is a training session, and mistakes are welcomed. Now, destroy them."

As the training progressed, the intensity of the practice match increased, with each player giving their best to impress you. As the team executed the adjusted formation, you observed them. Kaiser made strategic moves upfront, Ness showcased skillful ball control, and the defense held its ground against the opponents.

In a surprising turn of events, the U-20 team began to dominate the match. GOAL, As you blew the final whistle after Kaiser scored the 5th and final goal of the game, ending practice. He looked at you, and again with that smile - full of self-confidence. You wanted to throw the whistle at his stupid-looking face. The sidelines erupted in cheers from the staff as your uncle gave you an approving nod, acknowledging the success of your "coaching debut", approaching you with a proud smile. "See, Y/N? You have it in you. You made them believe in the impossible about beating the old dogs, and they did it."

After the game, the players gathered around for a brief post-match discussion. The atmosphere was a mix of exhaustion and triumph. Kaiser, still riding the high of his decisive goal, approached you with a smirk.

"Well, well, well, Y/N. I never thought I'd see the day when you'd make me the star of the show," he said putting his arm on your shoulder.

You rolled your eyes, trying not to let his teasing get to you. "This was just a practice match. Let's see if you can replicate this performance in a real game."

He chuckled, "Oh, I plan on it. Just watch, Y/N."

Ness, who had been listening to the conversation, chimed in, "I have to admit, I didn't think this would work, but it did. Maybe you're not as clueless as I thought."

You shot him a glare, "Yeah, thanks Ness." The purple-haired grinned, "No problem. Just keeping you on your toes."

As the midfielder went away, sensing that his partner wanted alone time with you, Kaiser lingered for a moment, a more genuine expression on his face. "You know, Y/N, for a moment there, I almost thought you enjoyed it. Admit it being in charge, making your own choices..."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Kaiser. This was just one game. We'll see how things go in an actual game."

Kaiser looked at you, his grip tightening. "Fair enough. But, if you ever need to test some tactics, you know where to find me~."

You scoffed, removing his hand from your shoulder, "I'm not going to Hell, thank you." he continued to look at you in a way unknown to you, making you feel kinda strange "Well, maybe just a quick visit. You might find it surprisingly pleasant." You rolled your eyes again, but there was something in your chest that you were very unfamiliar with. "I'll consider it, but this doesn't mean I like you or anything."

The boy chuckled, a teasing sound coming from his lips. "Oh, I'm not expecting you to confess your undying love for me just yet, Y/N. But I have to admit, that was flattering." You shot him a skeptical look, feeling a little hot for some unknown reason. Are you getting sick? No, that shouldn’t be it, maybe is the adrenaline, yeah that’s it.

"Is that your idea of a compliment?" He shrugged, noticing how your checks started to turn red "Take it however you want. Just remember, I'm always up for a challenge, especially if it involves the impossible of winning you over, Erdbeere(Strawberry)."

You raised an eyebrow at the unexpected nickname, playing on your face. "Erdbeere? Really?"

Kaiser grinned, undeterred by your reaction. "It suits you. Sweet, but with a bit of a bite. Plus, it's fun to see that tough exterior of yours crack a little."

You sighed, realizing that arguing with him would only fuel his teasing. "Whatever. Just focus on keeping up with the same performance as today"

He winked playfully, "Oh, I'll keep up, Erdbeere. Count on it."

as Kaiser turned to leave, his gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary. The teasing smile on his face softened, revealing a hint of something more genuine. "See you tomorrow, Y/N," he said, his tone unexpectedly earnest.

You watched him go, and as the distance between you and him grew, you felt something. It was a feeling you couldn't quite describe, leaving you to question it.

Alone with your thoughts, you couldn't help but replay the conversation and the teasing remarks in your mind. Kaiser's parting words echoed, and the unexpected nickname he made up for you.

"Erdbeere," you whispered to yourself, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Whether you wanted to admit it or not, you liked the sound of it - just maybe, you will let it slide this time.

WEEK 4 AFTER THE TRYOUTS:

After the whole fiasco with the practice match and the “Strawberry incident”, as you liked to call it, the work in the facility was getting harder - running left and right to do tasks, printing documents, ordering equipment, dealing with the teasing remarks of this annoyingly tall boy with long gold locks and light blue eyes deep as the ocean you will let him drown. If he was on fire and you had a bottle of water - you'd drink it in front of him. Yet, amid the chaos, Michael Kaiser always managed to appear, like a haunting ghost, ready to jumpscare you in the most unexpected time.

One day, rushing to deliver some documents to the medical unit, he appeared beside you. His smirk was infuriatingly present, and his voice dripped with playful arrogance.

"Running again, Y/N? You should consider joining the team as a midfielder with all that sprinting you're doing." You shot him a warning look "Maybe if you spent less time making comments and more time working, we'd get things done faster."

Kaiser chuckled, unbothered. "Ah, but where's the fun in that? I'm just trying to lighten the mood, you are always so stressed."

"Your idea of 'fun' is questionable." you said, trying to ignore the strange flutter in your stomach that his teasing somehow managed to evoke.

As you reached the department of the medical unit, you thought you finally got rid of him. However, fate had other plans. On your way back, he appeared again, blocking your way. His tall frame casted a shadow over you, and his mischievous smile widened.

"Michael, move." you demanded with the use of his first name, trying to sound stern, but he merely leaned against the wall, crossing his arms.

"What's the rush, Y/N? Can't I talk to my amazing assistant coach?" he retorted, his eyes never leaving yours.

Annoyed, you attempted to sidestep him, but he effortlessly mirrored your movements. It became a silent dance, a game of cat and mouse in the narrow corridor. Every step you took, he countered, maintaining his blockade.

"Are you always this stubborn, or is it just for me?" he teased, a playful smile playing on his lips.

"Seriously, Kaiser, this isn't funny," you protested, feeling the irritation building up.

But he remained still, his teasing facade never fading. "Come on, now, Don't lie to yourself, you secretly enjoy our little meetings. The way your eyes light up when you see me says it all."

You scoffed, sticking out your tongue, "In your dreams." Deciding you'd had enough, you abruptly turned on your heel and started walking in the opposite direction. To your dismay, he followed, like a persistent shadow. The facility's corridors echoed with the sound of your hurried footsteps and his leisurely ones behind you until the two of you found yourselves in an empty, dimly lit room.

"Honestly what's your deal? Are you stalking me now? You like stalking girls? That's disgusting." you accused, narrowing your eyes.

He chuckled, leaning his back to the wall once again, while you were in the center of the room. "Stalking is such a harsh word. Let's call it... coincidental alignment of paths."

You groaned, turning to leave. However, in your haste, you tripped over your own feet and stumbled forward. In a split second, Kaiser went off the wall as he reached out his hands attempting to catch you mid-fall. Despite his efforts, fate had its way again, and you both fell, as you landed on top of him. Your arms were at the sides of his head, and your legs wrapped around his torso.

Time seemed to freeze for a moment, your eyes widened in surprise, your face millimeters from his, your lips slightly parting as you felt your whole body burning as your heart raced to the rhythm of an unspoken melody. Seeing his features closer, he was beautiful, and now you are the one drowning in the deep blue ocean that his eyes painted. You didn't know what was going on — you didn't know what emotions you were going through, as Kaiser's arms instinctively wrapped around your waist, an unfamiliar but very welcomed warmth spread over your body.

"I-I didn't mean to—this wasn't what I—"

"I've heard of falling for someone, but this is taking it quite literally," He teased, breaking the silence with his flirting, snapping you out of your trance.

You struggled to maintain your composure as you shuttered, attempting to push yourself off him. "G-get off me," your heart continued its upbeat dance, and you couldn't shake off the vivid image of his blue eyes that seemed to have cast a spell on you.

"Technically, you are on top of me, Prinzessin" blushing furiously as Kaiser's teasing smirk only fueled your embarrassment, making you wish the ground would swallow you whole. The room felt like it had turned into a sauna, the tension thick enough to be cut off with a knife.

Just as the bickering reached its peak, the door swung open, and Ness, the ever-curious magician, stood in the doorway. His eyes widened at the scene before him, feeling a little confused at the sight.

"Oh sorry, am I interrupting something?" Ness quirked an eyebrow, his gaze shifting between Y/N and Kaiser. The two of you exchanged a quick, panicked glance, unsure of how to respond. "Yes/No!," Kaiser and you blurted out, your faces turning even redder. Kaiser, unfazed by the interruption, grinned, while you desperately tried to stay calm as possible.

Ness raised an eyebrow, a sly smile on his lips. "Really? Because it looks like I walked in on a very romantic moment of your little play. Do I need to put on some slowed music?" He walked into the room, closing the door behind him as he continued to stare at the two of you. "I had no idea I was walking into a romantic drama." You shot a glare at Kaiser, who only winked in response. Trying to divert the attention, you stammered, "N-no, Ness, it's not what you think. We were just..." Your voice trailed off as you struggled to come up with a plausible excuse.

He, on the other hand, couldn't resist. "Well, it depends on your definition of interrupting." Ness chuckled, sensing the tension in the air. "Alright, alright, I'll leave you two to your... whatever this is." The room fell into an uneasy silence, broken only by your attempts to get up from Kaiser. "We were just, uh, having a disagreement," you finally managed to say, avoiding eye contact with both Ness and Kaiser.

Kaiser, ever the charmer, grinned at Ness. "Disagreements can be quite physical, apparently." Ness shook his head, still grinning. "Well, carry on, then. I'll just pretend I didn't see anything." As he left the room, he couldn't resist adding, "But next time, maybe lock the door." As the door closed behind Ness, you let out a breath you didn't realize were holding. Kaiser, however, couldn't help but laugh. "Quite the entrance, huh? Maybe we should argue more often."

Rolling your eyes at Kaiser's comment, you finally managed to free yourself from his grasp as you stood up in the fastest way possible, and he also rose from the ground. "Arguing more often? I think once is more than enough," you retorted, shooting him a disapproving look. Kaiser, still grinning, stretched lazily and got up from the floor. Ness's interruption had shifted the atmosphere in the room, and you couldn't shake off the embarrassment that lingered. "Thanks a lot for that," you muttered, shooting Kaiser another glare.

Seemingly unbothered, he placed a hand on his chest in mock offense. "Me? I didn't do anything. Ness just has unpredictable timing." He winked again, causing you to shake your head in disbelief. "Unpredictable timing, my foot. When will you stop with all of this? I can’t even have one peaceful day without you talking to me and saying all these things that you probably don’t even mean. Does it feel nice to play with someone’s feelings?"

Kaiser's smile faltered for a moment, his lively expression fading away as he saw yours. "Maybe I overdo it sometimes, but that doesn't mean I don't care."

You studied him for a moment, unsure whether to believe his sincerity or dismiss it as another one of his tricks. "Actions speak louder than words, Kaiser. If you genuinely care, maybe try showing it in a way that doesn't involve constant teasing and sarcasm."

The tension between you and him lingered as you both stared into each other's eyes trying to find answers locked in the depth of your souls. Finally, you decided it was time to leave "I'm going to go find Ness and make sure he doesn't go spreading any rumors," you announced, turning to leave the room. As you walked away, your mind was a swirling mess of emotions—something you couldn’t tell. He was still vivid in your thoughts, causing a knot to tighten in your stomach. As you looked behind, he was still there dusting off his clothes.

You furrowed your brows, awaiting the unknown territory of your own feelings. The warmth creeping into your cheeks and the soft tears started to paint over your face like rain. It was an unfamiliar sense, leaving you questioning the source. Was it just fire or something deeper that can get you burned?

1 WEEK LATER:

As the days passed, you found yourself avoiding him, unsure of what to think or feel. Everything was so messed up, that you barely slept or ate - when you were not helping your uncle in the faculty, you were at school, where suddenly your grades dropped, and you made excuses for your teachers and friends that you were busy with work - which is partly not a lie but not the whole truth either. Everyone sensed that something was troubling you, even so, you'd rather not tell a single living soul about it all. You couldn't escape the memories of that day, replaying the moment in your mind like a broken record.

Lost in thought, you didn’t realize that someone was next to you as you continued to pour water into the already full bottle that was overflowing over the sink until the person in question shook you by the shoulders. Without much reaction you turned around, your gaze clearly showing the sadness and lifelessness all over your face, you were tired of thinking about him. Your focus returned, the person in front of you was your uncle who was visibly worried about you. "What's going on, my dear? You know you can share everything with your old man" he said, the pain in his eyes to see his niece so down for the past week “It’s nothing … I am just trying to manage school and work.” Another lie left your lips.

Uncle Franz placed a gentle smile on his face. "I've known you since you were a kid. I can see through that facade. Something's eating you inside, and it's more than just school and work. Talk to me." You sighed, the weight of the past week bearing down on you. "It's just complicated, Uncle. I don't know how to put it into words."

He guided you to sit down at the bench near the sink, "Try me. I might be old, but I've been around the block a few times. I am sure it’s a boy problem. Because your mother was the same when she met your dad.”

How does he know it’s about a boy? Honestly, that was shocking to hear. Does he know about the strange situationship between you and Kaiser? Well, you hope he doesn't. Taking a deep breath, you began, "There's this boy, that I met not long ago, and let's say some things happened, and now I'm stuck in this mess. I can't escape it, and it's tearing me apart."

Your uncle listened intently, his eyes reflecting genuine concern. "Love can be a tricky thing, my dear. But keeping it all bottled up inside won't help. Who is this guy, and what happened?" Is that what they call love? Feeling this way because it's terrible not knowing what you want from yourself—you hesitated to answer, unsure if you want to share the details. "It's just someone, not a big deal."

“It’s Michael, isn’t it?” Your eyes widened upon your uncle’s question, and your eyes started to water, as you tried your best not to cry again. Starting to have a thing for someone is a hell of a ride, so you are going to play dumb "I don't know a person by that name." Not that dumb.

Uncle Franz leaned back. "You can deny it all you want, my dear, but your eyes just told me everything I needed to know." Feeling a mix of embarrassment, you laughed nervously, “I think you should go and get your eyes checked, you are starting to see things.” he looked at you with raised eyebrows, apparently he didn't believe you - no one would in those circumstances.

"Okay, maybe it is Michael. But it's complicated. He's so confusing, and I don't even know what he wants."

Uncle Franz patted your head ruffling your hair, "You don't know because you haven't tried talking to him. You should not be scared; just do what your heart wants.” and maybe he was right, he was always right. You just smiled at him, whipping your tears, letting him know you would try - someday eventually. “But if he hurts you one more time, we will have serious problems.” You laughed nervously, should you be scared or just revealed - guess there's one way to find out.

He stood up from the bench looking at you once more "Now cheer up and come with me, there is something I need to tell everyone on the team” and you also went with him, going into the field where they practiced.

A whistle signaled it was time for a break. Everyone gathered around the benches as you stayed closely behind your uncle, who clapped his hands, turning everyone's attention onto him, except for the boy with the blond hair who was looking at you. He took a good look at you - first at your lips, which were stuck together like a solid line, then your eyes, they shimmered with traces of sadness, yet beneath the surface, something else lingered, revealing your soul. Each glance reflected the emotions within your heart. Have you been crying? Is it because of me? He couldn't shake the feeling that he was probably the reason for your sorrow. As the others chatted, he found himself unable to look away, his attention remained fixed on you, trying to ignore the questions swirling in his mind.

“Even if it’s a friendly game with Dortmund’s U-20, we should give our best, okay? Make sure to get enough sleep and don’t skip your meals, it’s important to have your body and mind in top shape.” your uncle's voice spoke once more as the rest of the team could be heard agreeing on the upcoming friendly game with the club's biggest rival “And Kaiser you better be excellent, no missing targets, no missing shots, no mistakes. I want you to be focused next week, on the maximum output, got it?” then the coach addressed him specifically, and for the first time, Kaiser was somewhat frightened by his look, which held something very personal against him. “Yes, sir. I will do my best” he replied, masking his uneasiness with confidence. “Good, now the training is over. You can go to your dorms and rest.”

And with that, everyone scattered, leaving just the two of you, feeling his gaze still lingering on. His blue eyes seemed to be looking into your soul, he knew what was wrong with you and that he was the reason behind it all. He wanted to apologize to you, he really did, but something was stopping him and he didn't know what exactly. Come on, say something. Alas nothing came out from his mouth, and you just turned and left without saying a word, even if you wanted to talk to him too — you didn't, leaving him with his feeling of guilt.

A FEW DAYS LATER:

The day for the team to leave for Dortmund came, as there were no problems with the flight, but now you were at the hotel, where a big misunderstanding occurred. Being part of the female staff, you had to share a room with one of them, but the hotel receptionist thought you were part of the boy’s team, being a teenager. While everyone was settled, you stayed in the lobby as your uncle talked with the hotel staff, and Ness and Kaiser stood across from you on the sofa. The two of them were talking, and you were lost in thoughts about whether a room would be found for you.

Your uncle returned from the reception "The problem is solved," he said as you were more than happy to go to your room and enjoy some alone time, "But you will have a room tomorrow, because some of the guests will be leaving then," and your smile faded away, faster than it appeared.

At that moment, Ness nudged Kaiser's shoulder signaling him to act, "I can share my room with you." the striker offered, the keys hanging from his hand with a slight smile on his face. Your eyes widened when you heard the offer. “Absolutely no-”

"Fine, but no funny business." your uncle cut you off, as you looked at him with the most shocked face, your gaze met Kaiser's who had been staring at you this whole time. They can't be serious, you thought, Uncle Franz can't be serious. You mentally facepalmed yourself, having enough headaches, this was just the icing on the cake.

Of all people of course it was him. What did you do in your past life to end up in such situations? Did you murder someone, poison a royalty, or haven’t paid your debt — well you sure are paying it now.

You got up and took the keys from his hand, eyeing him suspiciously, as you got your luggage and went to the elevator before telling him not to bother you. Well, that wasn't the conversation Kaiser hoped to have with you, but it's still something. He turned to look at your uncle, now that you were not here. “Coach, are you sure this is going to work?”

Franz chuckled, patting Kaiser on the shoulder. "Sometimes, putting people in unexpected situations helps them see things differently. Who knows, maybe sharing a room will sort the things between you two."

The boy sighed, unsure about how this would play out, as Ness patted him on the back "I just hope she doesn't make this more difficult than it already is."

“And I hope you won’t do anything more than talking. Like I said earlier, no funny business.” Kaiser just nodded “I promise."

Meanwhile, you were in the elevator, still processing the fact that you had to share a room with Kaiser, good thing you won’t sleep on the same bed. As the elevator arrived at your floor you took a deep breath and walked down the corridor, finding the room that matched the key. Opening the door, you were greeted with a very beautiful interior, a nice view of the lively night in Dortmund and ... one bed. Great, things can’t get any worse, can they?

Placing your suitcase by the bed, opening it and pulling out your pajamas. You started to undress when you heard the door open, seeing wisps of blonde hair. Panicking you raised your voice to him not to enter the room as you were still in your underwear. God, how many awkward situations are there to overcome.

Kaiser froze at the door, his hand still on the handle, as he realized the awkward situation he had just walked into. "Sorry" he quickly averted his gaze. "I didn't know you were... I'll just wait outside.” He said, closing the tiny gap he left open.

You put on your pajamas faster than Usain Bolt can run. Once you were ready you took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself down as you went to open the door to let him enter. It was his room after all, you can't keep him outside even if you wanted to.

As you opened the door, Kaiser stood there, his cheeks slightly flushed with embarrassment, so were yours "I'm sorry about that," he apologized again "I should have knocked, or... I don't know, you should have locked the door. You know, it could have been some stranger.”

Well he was right, you should have locked the door and kept him outside to sleep on the carpet in the hallway. You didn't say anything, you just went and sat on the bed picking up the phone to check the time [22:22] well better make a wish. You ignored him as he sat on the other side of the bed so you were back to back.

Kaiser cleared his throat, breaking the silence, “I brought you this” he said, handing you a bar of chocolate, still faced with his back. As you took the chocolate you couldn't help but notice the warmth that was forming in your heart, despite the awkwardness. "Thanks," you muttered, feeling a bit guilty for your initial reaction earlier "I'm sorry too," you finally spoke up, turning slightly to face him. "I didn't mean to be rude to you. Well, maybe I did because you deserved it.”

He turned to face you, a small smile on his lips. "It's alright,Y/N” he said softly, turning around as his eyes met yours. You agreed, offering him a smile too. "So, uh, I'll just go get changed in the bathroom, and then we can go to sleep." You nodded your head again watching as he got up from the bed and made his way to the bathroom. As the door closed behind him, you let out a big sigh, silence enveloping you again. You decided to start making the bed while he was getting changed. Putting the extra pillows between the mattress, marking the ‘territory’ as you lay down and curled up under the covers of your part.

You heard the door open and then his footsteps approaching, looking up from the barricade he wore a plain white shirt that was more loose, revealing more of his blue rose tattoo, it was a beautiful design you can't lie, and a pair of black shorts. He too looked at the pillowed wall, then at you with raised brows. “If you don't want to share a bed, I can sleep on the couch.”

“Not that I don't want to, but the couch is too small and neither you nor I can sleep comfortably on it. So that's why I put pillows in the middle, you have your part, and I have mine.” you explained, leaving him a little bit hurt because of this separation, but whatever you are comfortable with, of course. “Well, sure”

He got under his covers, trying to get cozy but the wall next to him was something he wanted to remove. How much longer are you going to hide from him? Did you hate him so much that you didn't want to see him, in the room where you both were? Guess he will talk to you tomorrow.

No, fuck that. He isn't a scaredy cat anymore, he is not the mentally weak person who constantly gave up on things he believed to be impossible. Because the chance to make it up with you is now — it's not tomorrow, it's not the next day, week, month or year. It's now.

He sat up and removed the one pillow that was separating you from seeing your faces. Catching you, closing your eyes, observing your expression how you tried to keep this innocent sleeping face, and how your chest raised with every breath. You were a good assistant and 'architect', but not a good actress.

“Y/N, I know you are not sleeping,” he whispered your name, his voice soft and full of emotion. You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze, well he got you no point of pretending now. “Let's discuss everything that has happened so far. We are all alone here, no one to interrupt us.”

You sat up too,leaning back on the wooden frame, hugging your knees beneath the fluffy cover. He reached out to gently brush a strand of hair away from your face, his touch gentle and warm. He noticed your nervousness, and he reassured you, with a smile "It's okay, You can tell me anything." His voice was soothing, making you calm down.

You took a deep breath, struggling to form the words you had been holding back for so long. Your heart raced as you finally found the courage to speak, “I... I've been wanting to say... that I... I..." your voice trailed off, the words catching in your throat as you fought against your fear, this was meant to be an easy task, just to talk it out and end of story. But love is no easy task, it's a challenge that you either take and win or leave with the feeling of despair after the loss. You met his gaze, seeing nothing but love reflected back at you.

“I like you,” you finally confessed “And I didn't know what to do after all the bickering we had, you left me questioning my entire existence. Making me feel all giddy and nervous, making me confused about your own intentions.” you felt a weight lift off your chest, he listened absorbing every word you uttered.

The soft smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he reached out to cup your cheek, his touch sending shivers down your spine. "I like you too," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying a weight of sincerity that warmed your heart. "More than you can imagine."

You leaned into his touch, savoring the warmth and comfort he offered. "I'm sorry for everything," he murmured, his gaze filled with remorse and affection. "I never meant to hurt you. I didn't know how to approach you properly, and I wanted you to notice me. I wanted you to have eyes only for me and no one else, to think only of me. The only impossible challenge was to make you fall in love with me, but I don’t think I have to worry anymore ."

You shook your head gently, reaching out to intertwine your fingers with his, feeling the warmth of his hand. You hesitated when your lips brushed against his own. You froze. What were you doing, kissing Michael Kaiser? You weren’t even sure if all the hatred you used to hold for him was now gone. He breathed in deeply. “Can I?" You took a moment of thought before you nodded, his hands now cupping your cheeks. His hands were so gentle, but the way he kissed you was not so much. It was like he was starving for you, the kiss sloppy, his tongue licking your lips, trying to taste all of you.

By the time he stopped, you forgot how to breathe, taking in a deep breath, and so did he. Despite how hot and hungry that kiss was—perhaps even able to fulfill a person's hunger for another—he was still starved for more. His lips brushed against yours once more, this time, there was no hesitation on your part. You leaned into the kiss, letting yourself get lost as you felt him smile.

His hands trailed down your arms as they settled on your waist, pulling you closer to him. The world around you faded away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped up in each other's embrace. As the kiss deepened, passion flared between you, igniting a fire that burned brighter with each passing moment. His tongue danced with yours, exploring every inch of your mouth as if trying to memorize the taste of you.

Time seemed not to exist anymore, as all that mattered was the feel of Kaiserl's lips against yours and the way his touch set your skin ablaze with desire. When the kiss finally ended, you were left breathless, your heart pounding in your chest as you struggled to catch your breath. And as you stared into each other's eyes and as they say, eyes are windows to the soul, you knew one thing for sure — he will forever be yours, and you will be forever his.

The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, making you arise from your deep slumber, slowly opening your eyes, trying to remember where you were. You had a very strange dream where you got to share a room with Kaiser and you two kissed. It was a nice dream indeed but things like this happened only in the romantic movies.

You wanted to go to the bathroom, but something stopped you from standing up. Confusion was encountered because why was there anything stopping you from getting up. As you took in your surroundings, the details of the dream flooded back to you—the shared room, the confession, and most importantly the unexpected kiss. It felt so vivid, so real, that it left you questioning whether was it really a dream. Looking down to see the force that kept you in a place came not from anyone - but from Kaiser himself. Wait a damn minute, Kaiser!?, you thought to yourself panicking in the process.

Reaching out and touching Kaiser's shoulder, half expecting him to vanish like a fragment of your imagination, but be was very much real , as his soft breathing and light snores reassured you that he was peacefully asleep. He turned around, pulling you down again, your back leaning against his chest, as the warmth of his embrace enveloped you like a comforting blanket. It wasn't a dream. You were indeed lying beside Michael Kaiser.

Wait, so the kiss is real? No, it can't be... right? A million questions ran through your head as you felt him rest his head on the crook of your neck. You suddenly went numb, but tried to see his face one more time, and to your suprise he blinked, trying to open his eyes, with a smile so angelic, for a person with such devilish persona.

"Good morning, Meine Liebe" he said, his voice husky and raspy. You couldn't help but blush at they way these words came out from him, "Good morning," you managed to reply, your own voice contracts to his was soft, barely above a whisper.

His arms tightened around you, pulling you even closer as he pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek. "About last night..." he started, trailing off as if searching for the right words.

"Yeah?" you gulped, suddenly feeling scared about what he might say next. "I meant every word ," he confessed, his gaze locking with yours. "And I meant that kiss too." Your heart skipped a beat, realizing that everything didn't happened in dreamland. It was real, just like the feelings between the both of you.

"I... I don't know what to say," you admitted, feeling overwhelmed by his intense but loving gaze. "You don't have to," he assured you, moving the hand that rested behind your head to pinch the check he kissed you not a moment ago. "Just know that we are together from now on.”

As you absorbed his words, a mixture of disbelief and joy washed over you.

"Together, huh?" you echoed, seeking confirmation in his eyes. Kaiser nodded, his expression serious yet filled with a warmth that melted your worries away. "Yes, together. Me and you, like a couple."

A wide smile broke across your face, and you couldn't contain the happiness within you. "I like the sound of it.” you replied, as he smiled back at you. "Glad to hear that, Erdbeere." As you settled back into the warmth of his embrace, a comfortable silence wrapped around both of you.

"My uncle will kill you tho." Kaiser chuckled, as he played with your hair. "Don't worry about it, he won't."

Somewhere in the hotel restaurant, Uncle Franz was on the verge of killing the first thing he saw because Kaiser was late for breakfast, and so were you. “I am going to kill that boy.”

1 MONTH LATER:

Kaiser touched the strands of his overgrown and messy hair as he stared at his reflection in the mirror, "I need a change," he said to Ness, who was glad to do anything for his friend.

“Like a new hairstyle?” The magician asked, wondering what was wrong with his long hair. “Yeah, Y/N said that it was getting in the way, when we cuddled. And also tying it up while playing every second bothers me.”

“Well, I am willing to help, we should have scissors in the cupboards. Go sit while I find them.” the striker sat down in the chair in front of the mirror when his friend returned with the scissors.

With tentative snips and Ness transformed Kaiser's lion mane into a stylish cut, an improvised mullet you can say. As the blonde boy was looking at himself in the big bathroom mirror, and Ness admiring his final product a knock was heard from the door. You entered with a plastic bag full of snacks — it was their day off, so you thought you’d spoil them a little but.

Proudly, he turned to you, his girlfriend of one month, to hear your opinion. "Yes, definitely! And why not add something more? How about dying the mullet blue? It will match with your tattoo."

“Sounds nice, but we don't have blue dye right now.” Kaiser said, knowing that he will have to ask Ness to go to the store to buy one, “Don't worry, I do.”

“Liebe, why do you carry hair dye in your bag?” he asked, surprised by the fact you had the item in your backpack “Well, I thought you would need one, intuition I guess.” No, it wasn't an intuition, he just talked everyday about wanting to dye his hair blue and you decided to carry a blue dye, just in case.

Women's intuition is a scary thing, he will know from now on not to mess up anything, because either way, you'll find out. But that was a worry for another day, now Kaiser was very happy with the end results. And it's the Michael Kaiser you will see from now on.

7 YEARS LATER:

Inside a very beautiful and cozy home, you tried to catch your energetic daughter, Mikaela, who was bubbling with excitement as the day of her dad’s arrival from the football tournament marked on the calendar finally came. Her giggles filled the air as she darted around the house, her tiny feet pattering against the floor, as you yelled while holding your 9-month-old son Matteo in your arms, who was laughing and clapping his hands at the sight, as you attempted to catch the energetic 4-year-old girl. “Mika, please stop running around, or you will hurt yourself.”

“Mama, I can't hear you!” How can she take so much from him, but not me? Just as you attempt to hold onto her tiny hand, the doorbell chimes. "It's Daddy!" Mikaela rushes to the door tip-toeing to reach the handle of the metal and swings it open, revealing your husband standing there, a wide grin on his face at the sight of his daughter.

Kaiser's heart swells with joy at the sight of his daughter waiting for him at the door. He bends down to scoop her up in his arms, lifting her as she squeals with delight. "Hey there, my little princess!" he exclaims, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

As Mikaela showers him with hugs and kisses, Kaiser spots Matteo nestled in his wife's arms, a smile spreading across the baby's face as he reaches out his chubby arms towards his father. With a chuckle, Kaiser takes Matteo from you, exchanging a loving glance before enveloping you in a warm embrace, holding you close as he presses a gentle kiss to your lips.

But their tender moment is interrupted by Mikaela's voice piping up, "Daddy, what about me?" she pouts, her arms outstretched towards her father. Kaiser laughs heartily, balancing Matteo in one arm as he bends down to scoop Mikaela up into his arms once more. He showers her with kisses, making her giggle as he sets her down, as she eagerly reaches out for the brightly wrapped present he’s been hiding behind his back, giving you some time to see each other up close, and not from the small telephone screen.

But before Mikaela can even fully enjoy her new toy, Matteo starts wriggling in his arms. "My little boy missed me too, right?" he coos, as the baby starts laughing from happiness, kicking his little feet, "See Y/N, I told you he is a future football star. Look at that kick!"

As Kaiser holds Matteo, you wrap your arms around him again. "Welcome home, my love," you whisper, giving his lips a little peck. Kaiser returns the embrace, holding you close as he breathes in the familiar scent of home. Just when you think the moment couldn’t get any sweeter, Mikaela pipes up, tugging at Kaiser’s sleeve. "Daddy, what about me? I want more kisses too!" she exclaims, puckering her lips in exaggerated anticipation.

Kaiser chuckles warmly, bending down to scoop Mikaela up once again. "Of course, sweetheart," he says, planting a flurry of kisses on her cheeks as she laughs at her father's teasing and you watch with a smile on your face your small loving family, and how you can't ask for more because you have him and you love him more than anything.

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baphometsss · 6 months ago

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I've had these feelings about how the ancient elves really saw spirits for a while and I'm pretty sure, after finishing datv, that it wasn't too different to how most modern Thedosians see spirits i.e. not as people, but half-people or sub-people at best.

We know that the ancient elves were originally spirits, but even Mythal, 'the best of them', sees herself as being better than spirits. She herself says that she is the best of both worlds after building her body out of lyrium.

The thing that really sells it to me though is Solas's choice of the word 'creature' when he lambasts the Inquisitor for drinking from the Well of Sorrows. He says that they have given up a part of themselves. They are no longer fully the person they believe they are because a. they've given up some of their free will and b. they've given it to Mythal, who did this to him and others, so she could use them for her own ends--at the expense of their free will. They are her 'creature' because that is how Mythal will see them now. She will use them without even their knowledge. They are not a person, but a tool, a pet, an attack dog, a body to posess. He knows this because she did it to him and who knows how many others.

We know that Solas, regardless of the things he did later, fundamentally disagreed with this element of Elvhen society or at least the way the Evanuris saw spirits. Yes, they referred to spirits as their 'brethren of the sky' and had much more cordial relationships with them than modern Thedosians do, at least in the beginning. Yet it still seems like they lost this at some point (probably because they began to follow the Evanuris' example) and took slaves--of flesh, but also probably of spirit too. Felassan's line about them needing to be 'better than that' when Solas sacrifices the spirits is especially revealing of how the Elvhen had begun to see spirits at this point, as not much better than modern Thedosians do. Solas's willingness to sacrifice them represented the beginning his own descent to their level--towards his own corruption, the very thing he feared. In some ways, what the Elvhen did with spirits is worse because they actually know the truth of what spirits are.

The moment the Evanuris declared themselves gods, they were intentionally creating an unbalanced social hierarchy that flew in the face of all Solas believed in (which at this point can best be described as the elven equivalent of basic human rights for all intelligent and even semi-intelligent creatures). As Wisdom, he would've understood that as soon as you create that kind of imbalance, it is a slippery slope for all kinds of abuse. When he calls the Inquisitor Mythal's 'creature', he is referring to them in the way he knew Mythal and many of the Elvhen would've viewed them--no longer a person, but a tool that has been enslaved and bound to her will. Slavery, in the real world context (or at least the context of the legal framework that supports it), hinges on dehumanisation. There are a lot of books on monster theory etc that go into how this plays into various forms of oppression too. So in order for the Elvhen to take slaves of any kind, they would've had to fundamentally stop viewing them as people, as equals.

Cole's 'it's not abuse if I ask' and Solas's 'not always true' really becomes very poignant in this context. Just because the Inquisitor chose to drink from the Well, it doesn't make whatever Mythal does to them next non-abusive. The other problem is that, if you make a choice like that, you have to consider the context that it's made in. I'm reminded of Dorian's justification of slavery in DAI--that a poor person selling themselves into slavery is the preferable alternative to living in the streets. What he fails to realise at this point is that you can't justify a choice made in an impossible situation because if the choice is between your survival and living in bondage, it's not really a choice at all. It's become a necessity that shouldn't exist in a society that claims to be civilised.

There's this dialogue from King's Rising (Book Three of the Captive Prince trilogy by C.S. Pacat, that deals with sexual abuse/slavery in a historical fantasy context) that kind of explains this better than I do:

'‘When I argued the case for slavery in Arles you didn’t try to change my mind.’ ‘It is not a subject for an exchange of ideas. There is nothing to say.’ ‘There will be slaves in Akielos. We are a slave culture.’ ‘I know that.’ Damen said, 'Are pets and their contracts so different? Did Nicaise have a choice? 'He had the choice of the poor with no other way to survive, the choice of a child powerless to his elders, the choice of a man when his King gives him an order, which is no choice at all, yet still more than is afforded to a slave.'

For added context, 'pets' in Vere are slightly different to 'slaves' in that they serve pretty much exclusively as bed-slaves to specific nobles. It's described as being slightly better than general slavery because there are contracts involved, but in practice it's not much different because of the inherent power imbalance. Nicaise is also a child of about 14 or 15.

In other words, you always have to consider the context that this decision is made in. If the circumstances that led to someone making that choice are that desperate, it means that something else--the actions of others--are fostering it, and that is the root of the issue. The Evanuris forced countless spirits and elves into making these kind of impossible choices, because by Solas's own admission, Elvhenan was a deeply corrupt place, no better than Tevinter. This is why he rebelled, and in lambasting the Inquisitor for drinking from the Well, he is expressing his own frustration in seeing the same thing happen yet again. The Inquisitor drank because they faced an enemy who had just demonstrated an alarming level of power and willingness to commit evil and they were running out of options to defeat him. The entire world, not just them, was threatened. Thus, they lose their personhood, because in order to survive they must accept that survival in its most basic form--at the expense of a life truly lived as it should be, as their nature compels them to live it. Thus, in losing their personhood, the prerequisite for slavery has been met. This is when Mythal helps them--not before.

There's also some interesting discourse about how Solas's refusal to let go of his identity as a spirit and become more of a person possibly played a part in Mythal's (and the Evanuris') view of him. He's referred to as a lap dog, a dread wolf. An animal. Not a person. The way Mythal placates him is not simply that of a mother and child but of a master and their dog. So at some point, he decided that wasn't going to simply serve her as Wisdom anymore, because it was keeping him enslaved. He let go of the spirithood he loved and wanted to gain personhood, a choice he should never have had to make if it weren't for the actions of others. He chose to become a version of himself he hated because it was the only way he could stop the same thing happening to others.

Worse still, he wakes up after uthenera to see a world that has, in his mind, degraded even further from what it was--at his own hand. People are even further away from understanding what he wanted them to understand. Slavery still exists. Mages are confined to Circles while Templars hunt them down. Spirits are still mistreated. Personhood is still a matter of debate. His sacrifices and Mythal's death have had no positive long term effect. It was all for nothing. The world continues to be terrible, because nothing within it can stay fixed.

#the parallels of solas and the inquisitor just get endlessly more tragic #solas #dragon age

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see-arcane · 6 months ago

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You can’t make people ship ships the way you want to ship them though. People can ship Orlok and Ellen in any way and under any lenses they really want to. Also judging by how interviews of cast and crew go they also wanted people to ship these characters and don’t view Ellen as abuse victim or CSA victim. It’s indeed kissy kissy vampire movie in a way as Ellen literally kisses Orlok on the lips and they have quite sensual vampire sex. I understand you can have frustration with some shipping or shippers and you are free to vent but you can’t change that people ship things or how they view and ship these things or how they view movies. People don’t look at movies and world with your eyes nor should they.

Don't want this to turn into a Thing, so I'd like to cap the topic off here.

I do not have a problem with people shipping Ellen and Orlok, or Thomas and Orlok, or Ellen and Thomas, or any combination thereof. Same goes for the actors/director who clearly wanted an element of attraction happening in the dynamic(s). It is gothic horror centering around the amorous and fucked up triangle these characters make. Ship happens.

What aggravates me is not just the bleaching and rose-colored glasses phenomenon with some folk's very literal non-joking interpretation of Orlok's attentions as purely ribald-romantic, but how it locks into a much longer, much more headache-inducing tradition that keeps getting grafted onto a very Specific kind of relationship in stories like this.

Red Riding Hood and the Wolf. Persephone and Hades. The last living wife standing and Bluebeard. Mina Harker and fucking Dracula.

Every time. Every single time that there is a Girl and an Aggressive Admirer/Predator involved in an original telling, it gets garroted, dragged through a Valentine Card printing press, and spat out the other side, either in genre-blind reinterpretations of every violent act or full-on spinoffs as Beauty and the Beast-flavored naughty xxx romance 😜 (Don't worry, she totally wanted it, she was just playing hard to get uwu)

When the girl is hunted. When the girl is imprisoned. When the girl is raped. When the girl has her life and the lives of loved ones threatened in order to make her compliant with what her attacker wants. No matter how much slaughter or entrapment or physical or psychological abuse is branded into the mythology or book or film, the rosy romantic revamp keeps happening.

I'm not going to sit down and go full hack psychology about the mechanics of forbidden fruit/desire/escapist kink involved in people's enjoyment of these stories. I love those stories! Can't get enough of the fucked uppery involved with narratives that take something like Love or Desire--traditionally upheld solely as Virtues reserved for curing a villain of their evil or firing in a glittery beam from some magical high schooler's wand--turned into something dangerous, maddening, and horrific. I eat that shit up.

What annoys and worries me is the lack of comprehension, or else outright ignoring, of the bare minimum of reality within a story in favor of sanitizing and filigreeing it into 'Just a naughty ;) romance~' wherein the Aggressor was definitely for real just a misunderstood suitor the Girl wanted all along..! as long as we ignore all the bodies and the repeated assaults and the bodily chucking her when she said a thing he didn't like and the point blank gaslighting and the attacking and entrapping her as a teenager as she screamed and went into the first of many many seizures and the fact that she was willing to die in order to kill him

Obviously I can't stop people from seeing what they want to see or thinking what they want to think. Imagination Land has no borders and folks can do whatever. I'm not going around with hardcover editions of Dracula, pummeling errant shippers for their transgressions.

I am just venting. Because venting and languishing and praying for actual critical thinking to make a comeback in media literacy is all I can do in the face of so many people reinventing the Coppola Wheel and stapling it over a work that is itself hammering the audience over the head with a plot about coercion and twisted relationships and murders committed en masse to make a girl put out for her stalker

Give it five years, we'll see Nosferatu: A Love Tale in theaters, directed by Luc Besson, in which the tragic Prince Orlok pines for the time displaced period piece goth girl, Ellen Murray, who is so very sick and tired of her boring boorish throwaway fiance, Thomas Hutter and longs for Orlok's leather clad embrace.

#I'm tired man #let me be fucking tired #nosferatu #nosferatu 2024

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nozhdyved · 1 month ago

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actually craving more vamp!artrick

-bambi

hellooo bambi my love !! sorry this took so long i got super busy but yes ofc the world is your oyster <3 (but bear w me bc i know jack shit abt vampires)

taglist: @girliism, @imperishablereverie, @faiztsheap, @musingsofheaven, @yardofbrunettes

tw: gore, death, violence

patrick hasn't seen art in two weeks. every day, he waits by the corner to walk with art, yet the blonde never shows. he knows art is alive, they still text, but he hasn't seen his friend's face in ages. eventually, he knows he has to confront him, stepping to the front door and knocking three times.

"who is it?" art's voice can be heard, muffled by the door in between them. he sounds.. okay. maybe a little nervous or frantic, but he doesnt sound lile he's dying.

patrick leans his head against the door, knocking his forehead against it. "me. open the door, art."

there's a wet schlck from the inside of the house. "busy! text you later!" he definitely sounds frantic, his words coming out whimpery and rushed.

patrick sighs, knocking again. "art, let me in," he insists, fingers digging into his pockets to wrap around the cold metal key that art had given him months ago- probably didnt even remember patrick had them.

"i said im busy!"

patrick rolls his eyes and digs the key into the lock, twisting it until he hears a click. "im coming in, asshole," he calls out, opening the door to see-

art.

his golden halo of curls spattered with crimson, hands stained red. his face is covered in tears, creating clear rivulets through the blood that was stuck between his lashes. on the floor was a body, mangled from the neck up, just torn up flesh hanging onto gristled bone.

art's hands are shaking, nailbeds crusted with blood. "...i didnt know you had a key," he whispers, new tears forming in his eyes.

patrick's in shock- his sweet, docile, lamb of a friend, covered head to toe in blood, kneeling over a body that patrick could only assume art had killed. "i made a copy four months ago," he rasps out, taking a careful step closer. he can see art's canines- sharp and deadly, gleaming between the plush pink of his lips. "are you- okay?"

it all spills out of art then- the way he'd been attacked a few weeks prior, punched and beaten in the park until someone's teeth had sunk into his neck. he's changed since then, he explains tearfully to patrick, grimy hands gripping onto patrick's shoulders, a crazed look in his eyes.

"i don't know whats wrong with me," he whimpered, fearful gaze flitting to the body on the floor. "i just- i swear i-i blacked out, and when i came to- nana- nana-" he sobs, and patrick sees it now- light grey curls, matted together with blood. his stomach twists, and he has to force back bile.

"dude..." it's shitty. patrick isn't sure what exactly to say. not only are vampires real, but his best friend is one now. doomed to live forever. "...bite me."

it comes out without him meaning to. but as the words sink in, patrick realizes thats exactly what he wants, to live alongside art for life. eternally with his other half, his one true love.

art looks up at him, still wiping at his nose and leaving red streaks. "what-?"

"bite me," patrick repeats, pulling art close and tilting his head, exposing the spanse of flesh. art can hear the blood pumping underneath the skin, patrick's heart thumping loudly. "do it, art."

"pat- i- i don't- i can't-" art's frantic, tears spilling down non-stop.

patrick pulls art forward, wedging his mouth open by shoving his fingers past his lips, exposing his sharp canines. he leans his neck against the point, waiting for art to sink his teeth in.

the blonde can't help it, the tempt of flesh beneath him driving him insane, overshadowing his need for anything else- he bites down. hard.

patrick screams, and art screams along for him.

they've become whole now.

#charlie's writing #charlie's asks #art donaldson #patrick zweig #artrick #vampire au #vampire!artrick #challengers #challengers writing #challengers au #ask reqs

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exquisink · 9 months ago

Text

Beneath You - Geto Suguru X Fem!Reader

CW // manipulation, coercion, geto is a pining mess, reader's not a jujutsu sorcerer, cunnilingus, face sitting, body worship, geto is a walking red flag but the reader has no idea for a long time, geto's got a big dick, lactation kink, reader is inexperienced

Word Count: ~10K

Summary: There’s a twist of disgust inside of him as he to compare himself to a human, but he doesn’t consider you so low. Not at all. Far from it. If anything, he may go as far as to declare with full conviction that he’s the one beneath you. Yet here you are, blessing him with that ‘common decency’ he doesn’t deserve, even still. Because that’s the kind of person you are. People like you are rare finds, and he is sworn to protect rare breeds of human like you who belong to his new world order.

AO3

Another mission takes Geto to a remote village where grade 1 curses have wreaked havoc amongst its residents. He doesn’t intend to stay for long—grade 1s are not too much of an issue for someone like him—but upon arriving, he’s stunned to already see some locals hard at work given what little tools they have to survive. While true, the existence of curses isn’t completely a secret to the general public, he’s still shocked to find a select few of these villagers have begun to fight back.

Those non-sorcerers are not as primitive as he has been led to believe…

One particular villager leaves an impression on him. You are that villager. You’re not even a sorcerer, yet you attend to those afflicted or attacked by curses at a moment’s notice.

You’re the first person he meets, on the train ride there. He’s glancing at his ticket lost in thought over everything that’s transpired since the incident with Riko, and notices you peering at the thin slip of paper, before you lock gazes with his.

“What’re you going to my next stop for?” you inquire with a smile. “It’s probably not a good idea right now. There’s been reports of mass murders by an unknown cause and I’ve been called to treat any surviving victims.”

Geto hums, a flash of irritation in his eyes because he’s not one for small talk—especially given what he’s witnessed in the past few months.

“I’m there to stop the problem myself,” he responds, his tone a bit short but you don’t seem bothered by it. “Worry not, I’m sure it’ll be over after I take care of everything.”

“Wow, you sure got it all figured out, eh?” you remark, tone laden with curiosity for him, your grin widening. Geto stares at you for a moment. Why do you remind him of someone…? “That’s good to know. It’s nice that there’s still people like that out there. I’m glad you’re here to help out that village. We can always use true heroes like you.”

Geto perks an eyebrow at that last statement, averting his gaze to the nearly empty train. The train is about to slow, meaning they are close to their stop.

“…You call me a hero and yet you’ve just met me,” he murmurs, more to himself.

Ah. He’s beginning to see who you remind him of now.

“Aw, well, let’s just say I have a knack for understanding someone’s real character,” you answer with a wink. “Since we’re going to be working together for a while, what’s your name?”

“Suguru Geto,” he answers, a bit too quickly for his own liking. Why’s that? Why is he suddenly so intrigued by you…? Why can’t he just ignore this sort of thing like he always does? He does sense something a bit unique about you, though. Perhaps it’s to sate his curiosity. Nothing more. He can forget about this mission and you by extension when this is over.

“Nice to meet you,” and you respond with your name. It rolls off his tongue nicely when he addresses it, and when you giggle, it’s the most pleasant of sounds to him. Unlike with most humans, who sound discordant and annoying, yours is light, beautiful, ringing like cathedral bells…

…Why is he pulling the cart before the horse here?

The train slows even more. Then comes to a complete stop. You both leave the train side by side, but you appear to be in a rush. He doesn’t mind. He’s probably going to run into again sooner than he wants to…

…And lo and behold, he’s correct to make that assumption as by the next morning, he’s found you at the front lines, securing any remaining victims and keeping them secured in a safe house protected by a veil a weaker sorcerer from the village has managed to cast themselves with the aide of a cursed scroll. That’s what you explain to him. So now he discovers you’re aware of sorcerers and what people like him do. He finds himself impressed by the effort from these villagers—they do seem to be a little more progressive here—but he learns that he’s called to this village because there are no sorcerers here who can compete with grade 1 curses. All of those who have tried, have died in combat, as you explain to him between treating victims.

And these villagers…don’t look opposed to the existence of sorcerers or curses. Or at least, it doesn’t seem so. Not necessarily. They don’t appear alarmed by them…as if this is a normal occurrence.

So much unlike the ones he’s encountered in the past.

He observes you like a deer caught in headlights, dumbfounded, as he scans rows upon rows of wounded villagers on the floor. Some are unconscious, some are barely breathing. Some are cut up terribly, blood seeping through their bandages. The stench of bitter metal, vomit, and shit hits his nose and his lips curl as he grimaces; it’s so foul he can’t breathe, fearing he may vomit himself…

And yet her you are, undeterred by the horrors which have befallen this village, the only one saving them all. As if they’re worth something more than a scrape of metal or a speck of dirt.

It’s awe-inspiring…yet confounding all the same.

He almost wants to scoff at how futile your efforts are, to save such scummy people who may sooner feed you to the wolves than thank you, but he finds himself drawn to how focused you are on healing them. You have no reverse cursed technique, only relying on traditional medications and the few incantations the living weaker sorcerers have learned. Humans, in general, can’t use reverse cursed techniques, so there’s no other option for them. This all likely won’t be enough, he figures, and it’s not like he can contact Shoko because she’s not meant to be fighting.

But maybe he doesn’t need to call Shoko because you’re already making a huge difference by actively trying to make changes. That’s so much unlike the behavior he’s seen in humans before.

What a conundrum he’s faced with now… he must accept that his own feelings aren’t all that pure. His morals aren’t as unshakable as he once believed.

He’s so trapped in his own inner conflicts that he doesn’t realize you approach him to dispose of the blood and vomit soiled gloves protecting your hands and retrieving new ones after disinfecting your hands. While you adjust them, he catches your eye.

“Geto, can we rely on you to exorcise those damned curse spirits? We can’t afford anymore casualties. The population of this village is already next to null, and we’re going to lose all of our villagers at this rate. It’s good you came to help us when you did.”

He nods, expression grim as he makes his way to the exit of the safe house, but not before turning back to announce: “I’ll make sure the barrier technique remains intact as well. You’ll be safe in here.”

“Thank you, Geto—you really are a hero,” you praise him before you run to your nearest victim who’s moaning in agony from a broken arm and a leg that’s been sliced cleanly off. He watches you, immobilized by how intrigued he is of you and the few residents in this village before he takes action to completely eradicate the cause.

The curse spirits are more than even he bargains for, but he manages to eradicate a few that night. Preventing further casualties or more injured villagers.

When he returns, some victims have been nursed back to adequate health in a rapid amount of time. He’s impressed by your efforts. Just watching you as you give them their herbal treatments and clean up their wounds. He does get injured a few times himself while he’s out there exorcising the spirits, and as you stop once you completed cleaning up another victim’s wounds, you signal him to come over.

“Let’s take care of you, Geto. You’re a godsend,” you praise him yet again with so much genuineness and a strong hint of reverence, that your words catch Geto a bit off-guard. He’s staring again, immobilized for a few moments once more before he ambles to your side and settles in the cushion before you. You pick up a fresh damp cloth with some medication to help disinfect the wounds. His body is scratched, slice and diced, and bruised all over, and you shake your head at the condition of his body. Nothing you haven’t seen before, at least he thinks, and yet…

“This might sting,” you warn him while he removes his top, and as you rest the damp cloth on a particularly large gash on his shoulder, he flinches and grunts out loud. “Man, you sorcerers…you really are full of heart. All of you. Sticking your neck outs for people like us who can’t do much for ourselves due to our lack of cursed energy. Many of these villagers can’t even perceive what attacked them.”

Geto hums absently. “It’s no glamorous lifestyle—that much I can assure you.”

You let out a dry laugh at that, while apologizing to him under your breath when you go over some tender parts of his skin from his many wounds and gashes.

“I’m a medicine woman, a healer, yet I’m sure I haven’t seen stuff more gruesome than you must’ve,” you comment, working to stitch the gash up after you clean and disinfect the area. He probably doesn’t know that you’ve noticed how frail he looks, like he’s neglected his own health in favor of his role as a sorcerer.

He manages a wry grin at that. “You have no idea.”

He freezes when he realizes how close your face is to his, and his cheeks burn as he flits his gaze elsewhere, to the door, to the sealed windows, to the moaning and groaning victims. Anything to avoid getting lost in those eyes that are so full of kindness that he doesn’t deserve, not with the sort of thoughts that have plagued his mind for months now since Riko’s death.

Once you’re done stitching up that large gash, you move to clean up the smaller cuts and bruises around his body. You sponge him gently with a fresh cloth, and he’s caught in another daze again as he observes you.

“You’re not scared of me,” he realizes out loud. “Or the curses.”

“Of course not,” you almost snicker at the absurdity of his statement, which has him furrow his brows at your behavior. Are you not aware of how rare sorcerers are in this world? “We have had a few sorcerers in this village who have since perished when these attacks began, protecting villagers who don’t understand what attacked them in the first place. I’ve had sorcerers in my family, but they’re all gone, fighting these curses that are too powerful for them.”

Ah. So she’s got a fair idea of the world for sorcerers, then.

“I’m sorry,” he replies, tone solemn. He knows too well losing those close to him to things like this. You manage a smile.

“We all have to go one day,” you reply with a deep sigh, moving to sponge his lower back. “I just wish I had more time with them. We’ll be together in the next life.”

“You believe in the afterlife?” he mutters, as you move to continue to clean the dirt and grime off of him.

“We have to believe in something to keep going,” you counter with a curt nod. “And for me, it’s to be with my family again. That’s enough for me.”

“I see,” he states. Once you’re done patching him up, you pat his unwounded shoulder.

“There you go! All fixed up…mostly.” You throw him a thumbs up while using a fresh cloth to wipe your neck glistening with sweat down. “You have to give your shoulder some time to heal, obviously.”

“We have a doctor back at the organization I work for who can help me with that,” he replies with a smile. “Thank you. Your kindness is most appreciated.”

“I like to think of it as common decency!” you retort under your breath with a playful wink. “Just doing what’s right.”

“Most people don’t think that way,” he points out, and his eyes catch you rubbing your arms and shivering a bit. It is a bit chilly tonight, he remembers, and the thermostat in this safe house doesn’t work.

Quirking an eyebrow, he picks up a nearby blanket in a basket by your tool kit that appears freshly washed, wrapping it around you in a gentle motion. He catches himself in the act, warring with himself over why he’s suddenly concerned for you. He usually does not allow himself to get too close anymore—especially after Riko.

“You should rest. The barrier won’t break, so nothing will get to you and the other villagers, for now. Don’t you have others working with you?”

“Thank you, Geto. You’ve got an eye for practicality,” you reply with a winning grin in spite of how exhausted you appear to him. His brows furrow—why do you risk your life for these people who don’t matter? “But unfortunately, no. This is my post—there’s only one person and they’re out of commission themselves.”

“Is there anything else I can do to help?” He doesn’t understand why he’s asking, but given there are more curses that aren’t showing themselves at the moment that he still has yet to exorcise…he’s going to be here with you for longer than he initially expected.

“Well, uh, I guess you could, with giving them their nightly medicine,” you murmur through a yawn. Geto looks at you with concern etched across his face, resting his hands on your shoulders.

“Rest,” he insists, frowning. “I can keep watch, and I can give the medicine. It’s this one, right?”

He gestures to the vials by your feet in a basket.

“Yeah,” you answer through another yawn, covering your mouth. “They need to be given the entire vial…taken orally, obviously, and the taste isn’t great so…give them some water if they ask for it. If they’re strong enough to ask for it. Let me watch you take care of one villager before I really pass out.”

“Sure,” he replies, and he does as you instruct him. Feeding a villager the entire vial and offering water, which the villager thanks him for profusely before desperately gulping it down to wash away the taste. As he turns around to seek your approval, you flash him a quick, tired grin before you settle into your chair and attempt to rest.

He’s never seen anyone like you…and all he can do is try his best to return your efforts.

The next morning, he’s waiting for you when you wake up. You complain of a dull throbbing in your head, clutching the side of it as you reorient yourself.

“The rest of the curse spirits have been exorcised,” he explains to you. Before you open your mouth to speak, he continues to clarify for you: “You were knocked out cold for a while. You’ve been neglecting yourself to help the villagers. Everyone is safe now. The problem is gone. My work here is finished, but I wish to stay to help you nurse the villagers back to perfect health.”

It’s against his character, and frankly, he still doesn’t understand why he’s offering to help out when he does have the freedom to return to Jujutsu Tech.

Something about you compels him to stay. His lips press into a grim line as he wars himself over his own aged inner conflict.

Why help those pathetic monkeys who can’t even fend for themselves?

It’s because of you, and he loathes this fact. He loathes that you stain him with your futile ideals. How you can still see humanity as worth protecting when they have taken your sorcerer family members away.

Everything about you—everything about you shatters his conviction about non-sorcerers. This whole conundrum…perhaps he must accept that there shall always be a gray area no matter how much he wishes to adhere to the belief that people like you are the reason he suffers, are the reason his comrades die.

But now he’s come to view you as a comrade. Someone to protect from harm’s way.

“I can’t ask that of you,” you finally answer him after a period of reflection. “You have your duties, and I have mine here, and mine don’t stop at this village. You must have more waiting for you, do you not?”

“You’re not asking this of me. I’m offering you,” he retaliates as he rests his hands on your knees, squeezing them gently. “Let me stay and help. The people I work for already know I’ve been gone longer than anticipated, so what’s another day or so?”

You snort at that. “You sorcerers really stick your neck outs for us, huh, Geto? Alright. I’ll let you help—for one more day. But then you have your own life to return to, alright?”

His heart skips a beat at that. “Of course.”

And he does stay and help as much as he can for that one more day. Once the remaining villagers can more or less leave the safe house, you offer him your place to stay for the night and offer to cook him some things to regain his strength before he leaves.

You prepare him a hearty stew along with other family favorites, splayed out all over a low wooden table.

“It’s the least I can do for you,” you announce after setting up the table and offering him some piping hot jasmine tea to accompany his meal. “Please, eat. I’ll prepare you some more meals for you to take back with you too.”

“That’s kind of you,” he mumbles as his eyes scan the colorful array of food. He’s moved by your kindness—more than he cares to admit to himself as he brings the bowl of stew to his lips, blowing on it gently before taking a sip and humming at how delicious it tastes. Rosemary, basil, and thyme hit his nostrils, and the soft potatoes are so chockful of flavor.

“It’s a gift,” you tease with a little smirk playing on your lips. “I may not be a fancy shmancy sorcerer like you, but I can cook a mean meal that can win anyone’s heart!”

“I believe it,” he admits openly, downing the rest of that stew with a bit of gusto before attacking some of the finger sandwiches you prepared. You grin at him with a little twinkle in your eyes.

“Now you just eat up, relax, and you can stay the night,” you reply, “This is the bare minimum of what I can do for you after you protected this village. This is what’s left of my home. But, ah, it’s not like I get to stay here as long as I want to anymore. I tend to hop from village to village taking care of people.”

“So, you’re a nomadic medicine woman?” he inquires, mid-sipping on the stew.

“Something like that,” you declare as you rest your clenched fists on your hips. “I try to stay within the more remote villages since they don’t have as much access to modern medication. They don’t care enough to upgrade or fund these areas, so us countryfolk are left to fend for ourselves a lot of the time.”

Fucking monkeys, he finds himself thinking, but more about those who don’t want to progress than those who wish to help themselves, like you do, and by extension, clearly your family.

“Eh, it is what it is, I guess!” you go on as you whip around to return to the kitchen. “Now I have a big ole’ mess to clean up so you just sit back and relax, okay?”

“Are you sure you don’t need any—” he starts, but you interject before he can finish.

“—no, finish your meal and then rest up! You’ve helped me more than enough!” you call back to him with a dismissive wave over your shoulder as you disappear into the kitchen.

You don’t get to see it, but he’s smiling more genuinely than he has in the last few months, digging into the rest of the dishes you prepared for him. He might have some disdain toward non-sorcerers as a general rule, but he supposes there are some outliers, like you, who happen to come from a family with sorcerers and non-sorcerers. Someone like you, who can understand the horrors of the world yet still wear a smile through it.

It’s refreshing, indeed.

When he leaves the village the next day, you follow through on your promise and offer him some extra meals for him to take back with him. A little something to remember you by, you joke, to which he responds saying he can’t forget a kind soul like you. You remind him that there is still true good in this world, and you only shrug it off, calling him an idiot in jest.

“I’m just doing what’s right,” you remind him as you wave him goodbye. “Now go on before you miss your train ride back home! You stay strong now, ya hear?”

He doesn’t miss his train back to Jujutsu Tech. And then not too long after he returns, he learns of Haibara’s death through Nanami and Gojo has taken up the mission. He’s then sent on another mission shortly thereafter, in a village not too far away from the village you resided in, and maybe he should have expected to, but he doesn’t at the time this happens.

He finds two helpless twin girls caged by the villagers, threatening to execute them due to their ability to use cursed energy and see spirits. Even with your words echoing in his head—‘I’m just doing what’s right’—‘I think of it as common decency’—he’s scoffing at those notions. A deep scowl on his face as he scrutinizes the village for damning two innocent little girls.

Even now. These monkeys have none. No decency whatsoever. Not like you. They’re not understanding like you. They’re not full of heart like you. You’re not blind like these monkeys are to the true, unshakable reality that they are nothing but scum for putting these girls in danger over something they can’t help or change about themselves. They’re not like you, who understand the horrors sorcerers face trying to protect scum like these…filthy fucking monkeys who refuse to understand something bigger than them exists.

These people are beneath him, beneath you. They don’t deserve mercy.

“Excuse me, why don’t we all step outside for a moment?” he finds himself suggesting, and securing the girls, he goes out somewhere he can’t be witnessed committing the atrocity he’s about to do.

That village burns to the ground at his hand. Cursing them all to Hell like they all fucking deserve, these fucking monkeys who don’t understand the burdens sorcerers bear swearing to protect their weak asses. None of them deserve respite. None of them deserve safety. They have proven to him time and time again that they don’t understand the suffering, the struggling he endures again and again and again at their hands. Unknowingly or not, such monkeys are a plague to society and are best wiped from existence.

Even with your influence, he can’t wholly change his mind, and maybe he’s still plagued by the guilt of not telling you the whole truth of the matter, by that but not by very much. He hopes you’ll understand him one day. That you’ll see him beyond his actions and for his own truth—that these people, these monkeys, don’t deserve to live for the horrors they impose on sorcerers like him.

Smirking in triumph, his eyes scan the area, smirk widening with pleasure from the growing number of dead corpses of non-sorcerer scum before he ventures into the buildings. The stench of rotting corpses fills the air.

As he searches through the village for any survivors, he freezes when he finds you amid the rubble and cobblestone, unconscious, arm splayed over your heart cradling medication and herbal remedies, and he pales upon recognizing your face.

He doesn’t expect you to be here, but he should have considered the possibility before burning it all and calling it quits on the stupid rules the world of jujutsu imposed on him. He’s done playing games with the higher-ups and jujutsu society.

Thinking nothing of it—what you don’t know won’t kill you, and he’ll nurse you back to health—he scoops your body into his arms and tosses you over his shoulder, taking you along with the girls away from that wretched village.

There are no remaining survivors aside from you and the girls, and you are not a local. You don’t count in this equation. You just happen to be in a place where shouldn’t have, but you have your own duties to fulfill, he reminds himself as a disgusted frown graces his features, gaze flitting down at your unconscious, battered form in pity, don’t you?

He returns you to the cult he’s now taken over after he expelled himself from Jujutsu Tech. Like he’s reminded himself, what you don’t know won’t hurt you. He doubts you’ll have the means of discovering what he’s done to that village any time soon, anyway.

You’re slowly recovering from the incident. The guilt does gnaw at his stone cold heart, seeing you being thrown in the crossfire when someone like you doesn’t deserve it. Someone so kind, so genuine. So true to your character. Unshakable.

You may be the only one who almost made him change his mind about stupid, simple humans, but not quite. Not everyone deserves to be saved.

Frankly, not even he deserves to be saved. He’s told Satoru himself: if Satoru’s going to kill him, then he should be the one to kill him. There’s a point to it, at least.

There is a point in keeping you safe, though. He believes in that. Wholeheartedly.

He’s drawing idle patterns along your collarbone as your eyes flutter open, taking in the surroundings that you’re still adjusting to since he brought you here. You are barely conscious through most of your time here, but you’ve already been in the temple for quite some time now.

He calls your name, and you stare at him, a bit out of it. You don’t remember where you are, naturally, since you’ve been constantly drifting in and out of consciousness.

“Geto?” you murmur upon recognizing his face as a dull pounding comes on in your head, clutching it tight as you sit up against the headboard of the bed.

“Hey,” he greets with a little smile, happy to see you’re fully conscious this time. The most you have done since he’s brought you here is drift in and out. You seem more alert this time.

“I had a mission…” you trail off, then your eyes widen, and you gasp upon realization. “Geto, how did you find me? What happened to that village? And where am I?”

“Everything’s fine,” he lies through his teeth through that plastic smile of his. “The problem there has been exorcised. I found you there unconscious, so I took you here to heal you. I’m afraid it might be wise not to leave just yet, because you’ve taken quite a blow. What were you doing there?”

“I told you—I had a job there too!” you counter, “The girls…the ones who are sorcerers from that village, are they alright?”

“Yes,” he assures you as his smile brightens his entire face. Of course, he can rely on you to worry about what truly matters in the long run—the safety of those two innocent girls. “They’re here, safe and sound. You need to focus on your recovery. At least this way, I can repay you for the kindness you’ve given me. Though I doubt there’s much I can do in comparison.”

“You’ve done more than you could possibly imagine for me,” you breathe, reaching to rest your hand on his cheek. He leans into your touch, before resting his hand over yours. “You look…strong. Healthy. Since I saw you.”

“Do I?” he chuckles as he intertwines his fingers with yours; when you don’t seem taken aback by the gesture, he relaxes his body a bit more from its more rigid posture. “I’m glad to hear it. I’ve been feeling much better. And it’s in part because of you, you know. I’ve come to realize that you and I, we’re not so different, right?”

There’s a twist of disgust inside of him as he to compare himself to a human, but he doesn’t consider you so low. Not at all. Far from it. If anything, he may go as far as to declare with full conviction that he’s the one beneath you.

Yet here you are, blessing him with that ‘common decency’ he doesn’t deserve, even still. Because that’s the kind of person you are. People like you are rare finds, and he is sworn to protect rare breeds of human like you who belong to his new world order.

You grin wide, and his breath catches in his throat; how are you so effortlessly beautiful? Yet you aren’t aware of your own. How…perplexing.

“Of course. Like I said, I may not be a fancy pants like you, Mr. Sorcerer, but I can help where applicable—I call myself a medicine woman since I use some tricks my sorcerer mom taught me!”

“Do you feel good enough to get out of bed?” Geto asks, “If you’d like, I’d love to give you the tour of my temple.”

You blink at him owlishly, eyes flitting to every area of the room, awed by how huge and spacious it all is. “Wait…this is yours? I knew you were fancy! I could tell by those pretty bangs of yours, but not this fancy!”

He chuckles, his tone bright and rich, at your remark about his bangs—he usually gets the opposite reaction—and smiles as you take in your new home, if he can help it. You look more than thrilled for him, and he can’t help his heart swelling with pride from earning yet another pat on the back from you. It just reminds him of how good-natured of a person you are.

“So how’s that huge gash on your shoulder? Did that doctor friend of yours help?” you find yourself asking as your gaze lands back on him. He freezes for a moment at the mention of Shoko before grunting.

“Yes, it’s much better now,” he replies, smiling. “Thank you. For everything back there. You really are an extraordinary girl, you know that?”

You rub the back of your head, wincing a bit from the mild throbbing still. “Aw, shucks, it’s like I tell ya, I’m just doing what’s right.”

He hums, and while a bold move, he moves to press a soft kiss to your forehead. You freeze, gazing up at him with those shimmering, timid eyes as you realize what he’s just done.

“What’s that for?” you whisper, eyes flitting down to his lips in spite of yourself. His lips curve into a smirk when he catches that little action of yours and merely shrugs.

“You’ve done a lot for me,” he answers in a smooth tone. “It’s just a little token of appreciation. And I find you’re a wonderful girl.”

Your cheeks burn from the flattery, and you laugh nervously. “That’s awfully nice of you to say, Geto! But I’m nothing special.”

“Don’t be silly,” he insists, brushing his fingers along your cheek. “I won’t rush you, of course. You’re still recovering. But I’d like to know you better.”

Now it’s your breath that catches in your throat when he says that, and you’re smiling even bigger, before wincing again as the dull throbbing in your head makes another wave. “I’d love that more than you know, Geto.”

“Suguru,” he corrects, still smiling. This time it reaches his brilliant sparkling purple eyes. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

You beam at him, your gorgeous eyes twinkling. “Uh-huh, we sure are—owww!”

You clutch your head again, wincing, another wave of throbbing pain...

“You should take it easy,” he reprimands you with a frown. “Treat my home as yours. You can stay for as long as you need.”

“You’re far too kind, Suguru,” you reply, still beaming through the pain. “But hey, I can power through it! Just might need to be knocked out cold for another week or something though…”

Geto can’t help chuckling at that. “I’ll have some of our servants bring you food and medication. You can just relax as long as you need to, and I’m here for you.”

“Mr. Geto!!!!” A loud voice calls before a young blonde girl runs up to him. “We’re hungry!!!! Is she awake and is she okay???”

“Keep your voice down, Nanako,” he chides, before flashing you an apologetic smile. “She’s fine, but you need to use your inside voice around her.”

“Inside voice,” Nanako replies, lowering her tone to a low whisper. “Okay! But we’re huuuuuungry! Does she want to join us for lunch?”

“It’s noon?” you groan at him with an exasperated look. He stares back at you, apologetic.

“Well, would you like to? None of us would be opposed to lunch in bed,” he teases.

Nanako pumps her fists in the air.

“Yeah!!! And we can play Pokemon!”

“Nanako,” he chides again. “Inside voice! And she’ll need her space.”

You grin at Nanako’s antics, not minding in the slightest. “I’m really glad the twins are alright. Those people treated them so harshly.”

“They are,” he promises, then turns back to Nanako while scratching her head affectionately. “Order some food and bring Mimiko here. We’ll have lunch together, alright?”

Nanako nods and runs off.

“If I wasn’t feeling like shit, I’d cook for you again,” you offer, “It clearly looks like I’ll be out of commission for a bit longer than I want to, but if it means I get to spend more time with you, then I’m not complainin’!”

“There’s no need for that,” he replies, flattered by your comment as his heart swells with more pride. Your approval is all he cares about right now—because you don’t yet know the truth of the situation you have found yourself in; the guilt from lying to you is still weighing heavy on his heart. But you understand the real priorities—those humans are scum, which reassures him to a certain extent. “We’re happy with the pleasure of your company.”

“Man, stop buttering me up!” you whack him on the chest playfully. “I’m just little old me, not a big shot like you, Suguru.”

“Nonsense,” he retorts, “You’re plenty special.”

“And you’re still smooth talking!” you huff, before spluttering with laughter. “But alright! I’m seriously down for lots of rest and lots of food!”

“I’ll let Nanako know what to order for you. What would you like?”

You list out your typical go-tos, and he takes it all into account. He’s putting in his very best efforts to bring you the utmost comfort, and you don’t have to tell him you’re grateful for his hospitality. It’s safe to say he’s obviously not the type to offer something like this so openly.

Once you fully recover, he lets you go so you can fulfill your duties—much to his own reluctance. He’s become too attached to you—far more than he wants to admit to himself or to you.

Keeping you from doing what you believe is right is selfish of him, though he fears that you may not cross paths with him for a while.

“Aw, don’t fret, Suguru! I can come back, you know!” you assure him with an actual pat on his back.

“I’d love for you to,” Geto replies, his stare bordering on longing and tender. But of course, you don’t take it that way. You’re already turning your back, waving over your shoulder. “Take care.”

It’s at that moment he realizes he should have told you more, that he should have told you what happened, but he doesn’t want you to be afraid of him.

You do follow through on your promise, like you always do. Your character always proves to be unshakable. You’re a woman of your word, and he takes great pleasure in the fact.

For the last four or so years, you have returned in between your duties to spend time with him and the twins, who are more than thrilled to have you spend more time with them. They remember your kindness even before he burned it all to the ground.

Though you still have yet to learn the truth of what happened, he wants to maintain the illusion that everything’s still fine between you.

You make Geto more alive than he’s had since that dreaded day. Since he’s made that decision to stray from the conservative ways of jujutsu society. Full of fools who don’t understand the burdens they’ve forced upon people like him.

He strives for progress; he strives for harmony; he strives for peace. The only way to get that peace is to eliminate the cause of everyone’s suffering.

Geto just knows he’s clinging onto something from you he knows won’t last, but damn it, he can’t change what his heart wants. And it’s you. By his side. Through Hell or high water. There’s a point in protecting you, even if you aren’t traditionally what he accepts. He can’t bring himself to allow a good person like you die—there’s already so few of you out there.

He does wonder if you’ve caught onto the subtle changes in him. Well, it’s not too subtle to those close to him, or who have once been close to him—to them, it’s like he’s made a complete 180—but he wishes for things to reman more or less the same with you. You still view him through rose-colored lenses, and he would hate to shatter your perspective with the crushing reality that he’s not the hero you praise him to be, that he’s a monster.

Even if he kills that village for the safety of those girls, it doesn’t change that he doesn’t regret what he did, that he prefers that non-sorcerers be evicted from society…permanently.

“Are you going to keep staring into space, Suguru? Because those veggies ain’t gonna chop themselves,” you call out to him as you read along in your family recipe book while working with multiple pans and pots. Your culinary genius never fails to impress him, but that doesn’t mean you don’t appreciate a helping hand every now and then and he’s offered to numerous times.

He pulls himself out of his thoughts, picking up the large, sharpened premium chef’s knife and deftly chops the cucumbers, dices the onions, shallots, and bell peppers…

“You guys are so lucky I don’t charge you for all of this cookin’ I do for your conferences,” you snort, switching off some areas of the stove once those dishes are complete. “So how many members are we even feeding? This could feed entire villages, you know!”

“We have accumulated a staggering number of devotees and members,” Geto chuckles as he tosses the variety of veggies into a large ceramic bowl before handing it to you. He tries to ignore the softness of your skin as your fingers brush against his. He can’t lose sight of the reality—he’s a liar, and he has yet to come clean about his actions. He can’t entertain his feelings right now.

Maybe he shouldn’t bring it up while you’re in an environment with knives present.

“I really do appreciate everything you do here. The girls have really come to love you. Even some other members of the family have praised you, and that’s a rare thing, given how guarded all of them are,” Geto tells you with a winning smile on his face.

He doesn’t appear as worn and torn as he had all those years ago—well, four years is not that long but it’s enough to drastically change a person—and he can tell you’ve noticed. He may have found comfort in troubling ideals, but there’s a part of him that believes that you still see goodness in him, that he’s striving for the greater good, ultimately.

“Here you go again buttering me up like I’m about to these veggies,” you snicker as you toss them into the pot before twisting around to face him. “I think we’re all good to go here. Thanks for your help, Suguru! These dishes should be done right on time.”

Geto flashes you a smile before taking one of your free hands into his, kissing gently along your knuckles.

“Thank you,” he praises, violet eyes flitting upward to meet yours. “You have no idea how grateful we are for you.”

You roll your eyes as you retract your hand. “Alright, you. Enough of that. Leave me to the kitchen now. Actually, wait—!” you start while scooping a bit of stew from a large ceramic pot with a ladle, before presenting the piping hot sample to his lips. “—Taste test?”

You tip the ladle into his mouth, and he hums, smacking his lips as he judges the flavors. He then makes a pleased sound, sipping the rest of the sample with gusto, a little bit of the stew spraying on your hand.

Ah. An open opportunity. He lowers his lips to the area of your hand that still had some leftover stew, pressing his lips to the inflicted area and lightly slurping the leftovers up before pulling away with a little grin.

You make a mock displeased face before wiping your hand clean. “Ya nasty. Okay, now you can leave me to my devices.”

He does just that—frankly because he doesn’t want to test your patience while you’re in the cooking zone—and retires to the common area where Nanako and Mimiko are playing some dumb mobile game that’s completely taken up their free time between training sessions. Geto isn’t going to be one to rob them of their youth like those villagers were going to, so he tries his best not to be too strict with his rules about particularly electronics.

Especially considering Nanako’s cursed technique…

The meeting runs smoothly. You do stay behind to greet some of the members of the family you have met in the past. Even Miguel seems pleased to see you, which is a rarity for him, but it’s likely because they both share a love for the culinary arts. Regardless of the reasons, Geto is just happy to see you finding a place here—a home away from your home, where you had everything from you taken away just like he did.

Once the meeting concludes, Geto insists you stay over for a few nights. You at first try to decline, reminding him that you can’t exactly leave people in the more rural areas of Japan unattended, but he swears to make it worth your while.

An offer you can’t refuse, mainly because you’ve grown attached to him too.

“I’m afraid I haven’t been fully honest with you,” he brings up one evening, as you’re assisting him with some household work in his temple. You offer to in spite of the numerous times he refuses. You just like to be of service where you can. “About what happened in that village.”

“Why bring that up now? It’s been years,” you answer as you wipe off a bead of sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist.

“Because what I’m going to tell you might change everything between us. I’ve been selfish.”

“Suguru, you’re scaring me,” you remark, “What happened out there? I was out cold for most of it.”

“I know,” he replies, expression grim as he wipes his hands with a cloth. “I think it’s best if you take a seat for this.”

He leads you to the common area and sits you down on one of the couches there. He begins telling you that the villagers aren’t as open to the existence of sorcerers as your village was, that they threatened to execute the girls believing that they were the cause of their misfortune. He braces himself for the icy cold sting of rejection as he admits that because of that, he massacred the entire village and took you, and the girls, with him out of there to safety.

But instead of a backhanded slap across the face, or a lot of shouting or yelling, he meets your gaze to find your expression blank. Like you’re grappling with everything he’s just spilled to you—something he’s kept from you for all these years because he’s selfish and he can’t help that side to himself.

“I don’t blame you if this means you don’t want to see me again. I’ve done terrible things, and I will continue to do terrible things…” Geto can’t bear to look at your blank expression anymore and he flits his gaze elsewhere, resting his hands on your knees. “Sometimes we must do the things we mustn’t…for the greater good. For the protection of those who deserve protection. F….for those who truly matter in this world. You deserve protection. The girls deserve protection. But that village…they’re nothing but scum better off erased. I don’t regret a single thing I’ve done.”

Deciding it best to face the music, he meets your eyes again. Blank. Expressionless. Void.

Like him.

“But I don’t regret meeting you,” he goes on, eyes softening as he feels his heart drop to his stomach when you’re unresponsive, likely from shock. He squeezes your knees gently. “I don’t regret saving you, protecting you. I know I should have told you the truth sooner, but I didn’t want things between us to change.” He rests his head on your lap, voice strained. “I didn’t want to lose what we had. I didn’t want to lose you.”

The silence hangs in the air between them, constricting him like invisible chains around his neck and torso. He buries his face into his lap, awaiting your ultimate judgment—because he’s accepted a long time ago that he is indeed beneath someone as pure and as kind as you are. He’s not once deserved your kindness or this ‘common decency’ you so often preached because that’s the kind of person you are. He’s admired you for your character. He hasn’t stopped admiring you for your character.

His lips begin to quiver, and he feels a wetness down his cheeks, and, stunned, he raises his hand to find they’ve been stained with tears. You haven’t said a word since he confessed his sins. He doesn’t regret those sins.

“They were people too,” you mumble, digging your fingers into the fabric of your pants. “You…you really killed them? All of them? I-I know I’ve heard reports of a natural disaster taking the village, but all this time…that was to cover up your crime?”

“Yes,” he confirms, bloodshot eyes meeting your dead ones. “As you know, the existence of sorcerers is rare, and thus when such occurrences happen, and they do—perhaps not to such a degree like my own crimes—they have to cover it up to the general public. So they declared the village was overtaken by an earthquake. But the reality is I cursed them all to death.”

“You…” You hug your knees to your chest, shivering. “You—you…why?”

“Not everyone is like you. Not everyone is understanding and kind like you. They were going to kill two innocent girls!” He wants you to understand that particular detail—if he plays a bit more on your empathetic nature, does that mean he has a shot at keeping you in spite of the sins he’s committed? “You do understand where I’m coming from, don’t you? Those villagers you tried to protect in your village, your family died protecting them!”

“Yes,” you breathe, remembering your lost loved ones, your eyes now shimmering from sadness at their memories. “They were heroes. They did what they believed was right.”

“And I did what I believed was right,” he insists, desperation evident in his tone as he squeezes your knees too tight, to the point his veins begin to pop. “I saved you and the girls from those wretched, vile people.”

“You did save us,” you mumble, “That’s true. But the villagers, they didn’t all deserve to die…”

“I know you must be conflicted, but please understand where I’m coming from,” he bites back a whimper. “I don’t want to lose you. You’ve become dear to me and to the girls.”

“Suguru…” you trail off, but then you’re taken aback as his hands move up to cup your cheeks, wiping away the tears pricking at the corners of your stunning eyes.

“A man does what he mustn’t to protect those who matter to him most,” he whispers as he draws his face closer to yours, until his lips are barely against yours. “For her. To be worthy of her. Do you believe me?”

“I want to,” you whisper back, your eyes dropping to his lips then back to meet his eyes. Your breath hitches as you force down a sob. “I want to, but this is—Suguru, this is…a lot…”

“Then try to believe me. Try to trust me. That’s all I ask of you. I know I don’t deserve it,” he says, his lips teasing yours, hovering so close yet not quite meeting. His warm breath fans over your lips.

“But I am nothing without you,” he finishes, his words coming out in a low, raw whisper—he sounds so jaded from the horrors he’s witnessed all of his life. His eyes unravels so much to you, a man who has known too much violence and too much tragedy, and in this moment, a need for you to accept him as he is—hero or not, criminal or not.

Finally, his lips meet yours. His softness takes you aback, no urgency in the kiss just yet. His moves move languidly against your own, coaxing soft sounds out of you. He can tell you’re hesitating, frozen by the action, but his persistence encourages you; he’s frightened, that this is the only chance he might ever have with you. You shyly return the kiss, uncertain. You’re breathless when he pulls back, his entire expression softening.

“Wh-what was that for?” you murmur, your fingers brushing absently over your lips, still tingling from the kiss.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he confesses, his voice lowering an octave as he reaches out, brushing his fingers through your bangs. “I love you.”

“Suguru, I…” you stammer, your body still trembling, a war of unfamiliar emotions rushing through your mind.

“Shh,” he whispers, drawing his lips closer to yours once more. “There’s so much I want to try with you. Can you try to trust me?”

You gulp, averting your gaze as your heart races. You find it difficult to breathe. “I…”

“Do speak up,” he purrs, as a teasing smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“I don’t know if I can wait.” The playful edge to his tone catches him off-guard, but he frames his words to make it seem like you don’t have a real choice on the matter. Trust is no longer something you can withhold from him, even if you want to, and maybe that’s selfish of him, but he’s come to accept that he’s no virtuous hero a long time ago.

“O-okay,” you squeak, the sound of your (reluctant) submission charges something within him. An all too eager Geto scoops you up effortlessly into his arms, carrying you princess style as his lips trail kisses all over your face and forehead. The tension in his body melts off of him as he whisks you away to his bedroom.

“I’ll prove to you that I’m still the man you know,” he murmurs into your skin as he rests you on the feathery mattress. “I’m not a hero, I’m afraid,” he adds softly, speaking to himself more than to you. “No, not a hero…I’m far too selfish for that.”

He rests a hand on your cheek, a calloused thumb brushing along your soft skin with a reverence that catches you off-guard. He leans in, his hovering over yours, your breaths mixing.

“But I can still be the man for you,” he murmurs between heated kisses along your jaw. “The man you deserve.” His voice dips in a rawer way.

“Suguru…” Your hands instinctively reach up to grip his shoulders.

“I’ve…never done this before…” you confess, your voice barely a whisper, laden with nerves.

He pauses, a low hum vibrating in his throat as he kisses you once more, dragging his lips along the edge of your mouth before pulling back with a low, fervent growl. The intensity in his gaze is far too much.

“Then I’ll be gentle, my dear,” he vows, his voice a low rasp as he presses his forehead against yours. I’m yours to use as much as you like.”

He moves to unbutton your top, revealing your delicious figure. There’s a tremble in his hands as he explores your body. He traces the swells of your breasts before pulling them out from your bra, grinding his teeth against a nipple before sucking it into his mouth with a loud slurp.

You gasp, another flush blooming across your features. “Wait, Suguru—!”

He ignores you as he suckles a bit on the nipple, eyebrows furrowing as some milk splatters on his tongue. He hums at the exquisite taste before jis bewildered eyes meet yours, removing your nipple from his mouth with a pop to speak.

“How are you lactating?” he asks, not doing much to hide how giddy he is from this new discovery. He definitely plans on taking advantage of this for more than one occasion.

“Um…partially diet and uh…herbal medicine stuff…” you flush, covering your face from embarrassment. “S-some new mothers face difficulties with nursing so some remedies I created help with that…and I have to test them on myself, so…”

“I see,” he groans as he laves his tongue around your nipple, flicking off leftover droplets of milk. “Fascinating.”

He closes his mouth over your perky nipple and suctions hard, groaning at the taste. More flavorful than any meal you have ever cooked for him, and he can’t get enough of the pitchy moans you’re working so hard to bite down.

One of his hands fondles your unattended breasts, and he coos at how soft your mounds are, flicking his finger over your nipple as he greedily drinks from the other one.

“Fuck,” he moans into your skin. “Don’t hold back on those beautiful noises. You should enjoy it.”

“Suguru…it’s just…embarrassing…” you admit through a pitched voice. He laughs a bit at that, not to mock you (shockingly), but because he wants to ravish you.

He parts the nipple he assaulted with a kiss before switching, suckling on one nipple while a finger toys with the opposite. He prays that he will be the only one who gets to have you like this, and he intends to see that through. He doesn’t like the idea of you being with anyone else. The thought makes his blood burble beneath his skin.

He shifts gears, flipping you over so that now you’re on top of him. You yelp from shock, but it’s muffled as his lips plunge against yours, his tongue invading your mouth and gliding along the edges of your teeth. His hands snake down your waist and hips, stopping at the hem of your pants where he tucks his fingers inside and pulls them off along with your panties (which he definitely plans to keep to himself).

He purrs your name, and you let out a low whimper.

“I meant what I said before,” he murmurs against your lips before pulling away, sliding you up until your cunt is hovering over his face. “I’m yours to use.”

“I-I don’t know what to, um, exactly do…Suguru…” Your face is beet red.

He chuckles at that, sliding his tongue up your folds. “In that case, I’ll guide you. Worry not.”

He shoves your cunt into his tongue, twisting it between your folds and a shaky gasp leaves your lips. He digs his fingers into your ass cheeks, close to your crack as his tongue laves over your sensitive skin, your own slick already building from the slightest treatment. He hums, tongue flicking over your clit as his eyes never leave yours, admiring your flushed face, your rosy, parted lips as more breathy moans escape them.

From his focal point, you truly are a goddess, a true beauty—further proof that he’s truly beneath you in every conceivable way.

“Suguru…” Oh, his name rolling off your lips sounds so good, so sweet.

“Don’t be shy,” he purrs, his breath fanning over your folds before plunging the wet muscle into your fluttering entrance, making you choke on another gasp as you grasp for something—you reach for the top of the headboard to maintain a semblance of balance as his tongue fucks repeatedly into your spongy walls.

His grip on your ass cheeks tighten as his tongue ravishes you, and he growls when he feels your gummy walls clenching around him. You’re coming, and you throw your head back as you do, shouting as you’re unfamiliar with the sensation.

“Thank you for blessing me with such a beautiful sight,” he praises, tone full of reverence as he pinches one of your ass cheeks, making you squeak again. “My mouth isn’t the only thing free for your use, my love.”

He guides you back down to his lap, where his growing erection through his robe is evident. He grinds up into your pussy, still drenched from your arousal. “My cock, my fingers, anything. They’re all yours.”

He grabs one of your hands and rests it on his clothed erection. He groans your name. “Do you feel what you do to me? What more can I do to show you—that I am the man for you?”

“I…I don’t know,” you admit, tone wistful. “Suguru, I told you. I’ve…never done this before.”

He adjusts your positions, taking a moment to completely disrobe and reveal his bare body to you. He moves to cup your face, brushing his thumb along your lips.

“I’ll make this worth it for you,” he purrs, as he grinds the tip of his cock against your pussy. You bite back a moan in spite of yourself. “Can you trust me? I understand it’s too much to ask—”

“—Yes,” you murmur, and as he presses a kiss to your lips, he pushes the tip of his cock inside, experimentally. Sensing any discomfort from you before he rests his back against the headboard, guiding you up and down his girthy cock. His lips trail down your jaw and neck, growling into your skin as he keeps a gentle, but far from slow pace. Trying to get you used to the sensation, to the feeling of being filled to the hilt by his impressive size. He doesn’t want to hurt you. His fingers sink into your waist, as he purrs your name over and over.

“I’m yours,” he vows as his intense gaze never leaves yours. “I’m yours, my love. That much is true.”

He shouts as he comes, and you soon follow after and he’s moaning throughout as your walls clench around his girth. You slowly come down from the hot flash in ragged breaths, yours syncing with his.

“I’m yours,” he repeats, nuzzling his nose against yours. You glance down at him, chest still heaving as you catch your breath.

“I know,” you say, as his hands intertwine with yours. “I’m yours too.”

#geto x you #suguru geto x you #geto x reader #suguru geto x reader #suguru geto x y/n #geto x y/n #geto smut #suguru geto smut #erixtales

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