#yellow-embroidered-fabric

[degournay]

Are you looking for the best gold chinoiserie wallpaper in the UK? We offer the best hand-painted wallpaper at an affordable price range.

[schadenfreudich]

Okay, surprisingly the mockup fits quite nicely. I just have to put the waistline higher, which is to be expected, I am significantly shorter than most men.

I was expecting there to be more problems than shortening it by 7cm. I haven't done the sleeves yet, but that's probably quite similar.

Incredible. I somehow didn't realize the skirt part of this coat was almost an entire circle skirt until Wolfgang pointed it out because I complained about the amount of fabric. One huge part of the skirt pattern was literally laying on my bed for most of the time.

[damneddamsy]

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

RECONSTRUCTION ALGORITHM—A process begins to build from the wreckage.

summary: Birthday dinners and blues, laughter over a crowded table—and Joel, caught between the past and something new.

a/n: are you ready for your prescribed serotonin boost :) are you reading to die :) are you ready to have your heart broken :) are you ready for pain :) if yes, it's here, and it's fucking good! can you spot where exactly I had a mental breakdown? virtual bear hugs for those who get it!

Joel had faced a lot of things in his life—clickers, raiders, shit ration food, the long, merciless stretch of empty roads—but this?

This might actually do him in.

He sat on the edge of the bed, hands braced on his knees, staring at the open boxes like they might bite. Three whole boxes. Packed full of baby clothes, soft and delicate, in shades too clean for a world like this—pale yellows, powder blues, faded pinks. Those colours didn't belong in this world anymore.

He exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his beard. It was just one of those things, one of those moments where life threw something at him he wasn’t built for anymore. Throwing a punch, taking a knife, breaking his nose—those, he could handle. But picking out a damn dress for a baby?

“This ain’t my thing, baby girl,” he muttered, glancing at Maya sprawled out beside him on the bed. She kicked her legs, fists flailing like she had strong opinions on the matter. The second he walked through the door, she’d lit up, beaming that wide, gummy grin at him like his very existence was the happiest thing in her tiny world.

Joel shook his head. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. You ain’t the one stuck pickin’ through all this.”

He waved a hand at the neatly folded mass of tiny expensive dresses, bloomers, and booties, smelling faintly of time and soap. They’d been Leela’s once. That part stuck with him—the fact that these had once clothed her, when she was no bigger than Maya.

His rugged fingers hovered over the fabric, hesitant. Everything was so soft, worn down in the best way—not ragged, but loved. Clothes, to him, had always been practical. Denim, leather, sturdy boots. He’d spent years in a world where softness didn’t last, where anything delicate got torn up, dirtied, or lost. And yet, here it was. Preserved. A little piece of the past, kept safe.

He picked up a tiny white dress with a lace collar, holding it to the light. “This fancy enough for a birthday dinner?” he asked, squinting at Maya. “Hm, looks like your mama's dress, doesn't it? Just missin' those... buttons.”

She just cooed, kicking harder, wiggling like she might crawl right out of the blanket. He set it down and picked up another, something in a buttery yellow with embroidered flowers. Lighter, easier.

“This one. Like a pretty sunflower.”

Maya squealed like she agreed, flailing her arms toward him. Obviously sick of laying there, wanting to be up here with him.

He snorted. “You got strong opinions on style, huh? Don’t take after me, then. I ain’t got a clue.”

And yet, here he was. Doing this. Going through the whole process because Leela had asked him—because it mattered to her. The realization settled in, quiet and solid. He was doing this because he cared. About Maya, sure. But about Leela, too. Enough to sit here, sifting through baby clothes like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He shook his head, picking up a tiny pair of bloomers and setting them aside with the yellow dress. “Guess that’ll do. Don’t want you upstaging your mama.”

Maya gurgled in agreement, and without thinking, Joel reached over, scratching a hand over her belly, feeling the warmth of her through the fabric of her onesie. Happy, just because he was here.

And he was only here because Leela had asked this of him. After all, she was downstairs, turning the kitchen into a goddamn laboratory. She’d been at it since morning, long before he even peeled himself off the pullout in his living room. The kitchen light had been on when he woke up, spilling a soft glow onto the snow outside, and through the open window, he caught glimpses of her—stirring, measuring, dicing and slicing with careful, mathematical precision.

At one point, she’d pulled out a scale. A scale. Like she was preparing for an experiment instead of a birthday dinner. Her own birthday dinner, that is. The one Maria had specifically asked her to butt out of because then it'd be pointless. Don't think Leela caught that part.

He’d spent his morning like that—half-awake, watching her move through the kitchen with the kind of focus that made his chest ache. Maya was strapped against her in a sling, her dozing head tucked beneath Leela’s chin, and her mother’s long braid trailed past her back, swaying with every movement. She barely stopped to sit down.

And Joel—still groggy, still warm from sleep—just lay there, watching.

Watching from the outside. Watching a life that wasn’t his, but could be.

Maybe, in some version of things, he’d be sitting at that damn marble island with her, sipping coffee, watching her openly instead of from behind the glass. Maybe he’d be close enough to tease her about overcomplicating her own birthday meal, close enough that she’d smile that shy smile, but lean into him anyway, chin up for an apology kiss.

Maybe he wouldn’t have to wonder what it would be like—because he’d already know.

He exhaled sharply, shaking the thought off. Right. First things first.

He crouched down, dragging Maya closer to him over the bed, the buttery yellow dress draped over his arm. “Alright, darlin'. Let’s get this over with,” he murmured, slipping her tiny arms through the sleeves. She surprisingly went along with it without a fuss, blinking up at him, her round face curious, watching him.

Joel worked quickly, big fingers clumsy against the delicate buttons, careful not to tug too hard. “Y’know, you make this real easy,” he said to her, smoothing the fabric over her legs. “Your ma ever tell you that? Some little shits scream their heads off over this kinda thing.”

Maya just cooed, trying to catch her toes, like she knew she was being praised.

He snorted, lacing up her brown booties—useless, yet so adorable. “Don’t let it go to your head. You're still trouble.”

With a final adjustment, he lifted her, tucking her against his chest. She fit there like she always did, perfect and warm, her breath puffing against his throat. The second she was settled, her legs kicked in delight, hands curling into the collar of his shirt—habit, just like always.

Joel huffed, pressing a steadying palm against her back. “Beautiful girl,” he whispered, rocking slightly, just enough to keep her from getting squirmy. “Yeah, you are.”

Maya gurgled in response, gripping tighter, like she had any real strength to keep him there. Like she thought she needed to.

Joel didn’t move for a second, standing there, one hand spanning nearly the whole of her back, feeling the tiny rise and fall of her breaths against him. He arched his head to brush a kiss at her ear and turned toward the door.

Then he noticed it. The humungous closet doors were open.

It wasn’t like him to pry, but something about Leela always pulled at his curiosity. He glanced at Maya, as if seeking permission—she only pushed her lips into a pout—so he stepped inside.

Due to lack of better words in his dazed head: it was a rich woman’s closet. Joel had worked on plenty of houses back in the day, done high-end custom storage, and seen his fair share of luxury—but he’d never been around long enough to see it lived in.

Drawers lined one wall, sleek and built into the cabinetry. Rows of dresses, coats, scarves, bags, and belts filled another. Shoes—so many shoes—lined the shelves, some still wrapped in plastic, some broken in just enough to show which ones were loved. In the centre, a long glass table gleamed under the dim light, scattered with jewellery. Diamonds, rubies, and jade sat in their cases like they belonged behind some jeweller’s counter instead of lying out like an afterthought.

Maya made a soft, curious sound, leaning forward in fascination. Joel caught her before she could squirm right out of his arms. "Woah, kiddo."

His attention snagged on the dress draped over the table, carefully selected from the clutter.

Black. Velvet. Long-sleeved. Nothing flashy. No lace, no frills, no shimmer. Just smooth, short, heavy fabric, dark as ink, the kind that’d cling in all the right places. Understated, sure—but that only made it worse.

Joel swallowed, jaw tightening. Christ, that can't be it, can it?

But Leela didn’t dress up much. Hell, he was used to seeing her in practical things—thick holey sweaters, clean jeans, and overstretched socks. Even the night dresses she wore were simple, easy. Unbearably cute.

But this? This was intentional. This was her putting thought into it, picking something that would fit her like a fucking glove. Black so stark against her skin, those big eyes, her legs. And Joel—he needed to stop thinking about that immediately.

He shifted Maya in his arms, clearing his throat like that’d help steady him. She was still staring, as if equally entranced, her small hands flexing toward the diamonds glinting under the glass table. He sighed, pressing a kiss to her temple as he stepped back.

“Don’t even, sweetheart,” he muttered. “I ain't raisin’ no flashy tastes in you.”

She gurgled in protest, kicking her feet, and Joel took that as his cue to get the hell out of there.

Now mind you, the past two weeks had been a state of grace.

He didn’t know what else to call it—what else to call the way he found himself here more often than not, the way it felt more natural by the day. He wasn’t just some frequent visitor anymore or a guest, or that guy who'd come around to hover with his tools. If he wasn’t on patrol, he was here with them. Even after patrol, he still ended up on their porch, dropping his rifle and pack by the door before stepping inside like it was just a given.

Hell, it kind of was. A little 'honey, I'm home' moment, if he really brooded on it.

Breakfast. Dinner. Sometimes all three meals, if time allowed. And they’d sit together on the kitchen stools, him and Leela, Maya on either of their laps, silent but companionable, sharing the space like it had been carved out for them alone. They didn't talk about much, sometimes Joel would hit her with a 'back-in-the-day' spiel, or Leela would inform him what happened in her workshop, though most of it went over his head. He liked to listen hard when she spoke, especially when she gave so little. And each morning to come, each evening in leave, Joel would feel it—that want, quiet but persistent, tugging at him, already pulling him into the next day.

Even Leela was eating again. Not much, but enough. It relieved him that she hadn't entirely given up on herself. He noticed the way she still picked at her food sometimes, however delicious it was, pushing it around more than eating it, and he never said a word. Just let her be, let her do what she could. He’d take what he could get.

There were moments, though—times when she got stuck in her own head as if phantom hands had reached out, clawed in and dragged her back to whatever had put her here in the first place. He’d see it clearest when she nursed Maya, like something about it sent her spiralling inward, caught in something he couldn’t see. But he could pull her back to him. He quickly learned how.

“Hey.” His voice was always low, careful, like he was trying not to spook a horse. And then a distraction, a lifeline. “How about I get us a cut of lamb again tomorrow? Y’know, those meatballs you made last week?”

Her eyes would clear, focusing again. “Yeah. Koftas.” And that smile would come alive, trademarked in his name. “Did you like them?”

“Too much. Hits the spot.”

It helped that Leela was a stupidly good cook. It wasn’t about the skill or the recipes—though she sure as hell knew her way around those—it was the way she did it. The way she measured things down to the last goddamn granule, cut with a precision that could’ve put surgeons to shame. She had a scale drawn onto her chopping board, and every damn herb on her windowsill was labelled like she was running a test kitchen instead of a home. He thought about it sometimes and had to bite back a smile.

"Is there anything you can't do?" he'd asked her once while stuffing his face with generously salted roast potatoes he'd passionately complimented. "I dunno, deadlift three thousand kilos? Roofing? Fix a busted engine? I bet that's nothin' to you."

She'd laughed, aimlessly twirling her fork in her hands. "Hmm... I'm quite inartistic. I can't strum a guitar as well as you. I can't sing or dance either."

"I'll give you five days until you're a pro guitarist," he challenged playfully.

She tilted her head. “I don’t know, Joel. Now that I think about it, I might be a lost cause.”

He scoffed. “Bullshit. You learned how to do everything else, didn’t you?”

She shook her head, smiling. “Not everything. You make me sound like some superhero.”

Joel stabbed another potato with his fork. “Nah, I bet you’d pick it up fast.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.” He chewed, swallowed. “You got the... hands for it.”

Leela looked down at her hands, flexing her fingers like she could see what he meant. She had the prettiest fingers, long, soft, wide nails that would've graced those fancy designs once upon a time, and pale nerves coiling over lean bone. Jesus, he really was losing it.

“You say that like you’ve given it some thought,” she mumbled.

Joel just shrugged, lying through his teeth. “Not that much thought.”

Her mouth quirked, but she didn’t push. Just filled his cup with more water. “I still don’t think I could do it.”

“Why?”

She tapped the prongs of her fork against her plate. “I don’t know. I guess… it’d feel too good. And then I’d have to wonder why I spent so many years not doing it.”

Joel watched her, the way her fingers fidgeted, the way her eyes had gone elsewhere. He thought about telling her that was the whole damn point. That just because you hadn’t done something before didn’t mean you didn’t deserve to now.

Instead, he just said, “Well, if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.”

She met his eyes, and after a second, she nodded. “Yes. I do.”

And the way she stated it—gentle, effortless, like it was unmistakable—had Joel suddenly very interested in his plate again.

Then there was little Maya. His ray of sunshine. Growing like a wildflower, changing in ways he barely had time to keep up with. And he was there to see it. More than that—he was there for it.

Like that day, sprawled on the living room carpet beside her, lying flat on his back while Leela worked at the blackboard nearby, mumbling numbers under her breath at miles per hour, the scratch of chalk entwined with the dusty warble of Merle Haggard on the record player. Just another quiet moment, another stretch of time folded in between everything else.

Until Maya grabbed at his hand.

Her fingers curled tight, her little voice rising in breathy coos, calling for his attention. And then—just like that, way too ahead of schedule—she twisted, flipped herself over onto her front, and grinned at him like she’d just conquered the goddamn world. All that, in scarcely three months. The kid's going to be a genius just like her mama.

“Shit!” Joel breathed, pushing up on one elbow. “Daggum, girl. C'mere. That was really good, baby, real nice. You're just perfect, aren't you?”

She grinned wider, pleased with herself, kicking her legs against the carpet. He lifted her right off and plunged her in the air, pulling out a happy squeal. He brought her all the way down to push three deep kisses into her bunched cheeks.

Leela turned, brows raised, eyes flicking between them.

“Finally rolled over, she's been trying for weeks,” he told Leela, laughing, out of breath.

“Oh,” she mouthed. “Rolled over?”

“Oughta get a picture or somethin’,” he muttered, still looking at Maya, pride swelling in his chest in a way he hadn’t expected. He ran a hand over her downy-soft hair. “It’s a milestone. Turnin’ point, as I say.” The pun slipped out before he could stop it, and he cursed Ellie in his head.

Leela just blinked at him. Like it hadn’t even occurred to her. And maybe it hadn’t. Because, later that night, without a word, she passed him a little silver digital camera and said he spent more time with Maya than she did.

Joel had caught her elbow before she could walk away. His voice came out quieter than he meant it to as he told her, “You’re doin’ a great job at being her mom. It's not just me here.”

It didn’t help, not the way he expected to. She just nodded, scooped up Maya, and left the room.

That was the thing about Leela.

She didn’t believe it. She didn’t think she was in a position to care for another person. Like she was still caught somewhere in between—stuck in the space between whatever hell had given her Maya and the life she was trying to build around her.

She didn’t even have to say it. Joel saw it.

He saw it in the way she tried. The way she forced herself to be soft, forced herself to hold Maya just right, forced herself to soothe her, talk to her, to touch her like it was second nature instead of something she had to teach herself from scratch. It was in the way she hesitated when Maya reached for her like she wasn’t sure she deserved to be needed. It was in the way she lingered outside the nursery door some nights, just standing there, like she was working up the nerve to go inside.

It wasn’t easy for her. But she tried. Joel marvelled at that, her patience despite whatever tormented her. And yeah, progress was slow, but it was there.

Joel’s boots scuffed against the freshly washed mat at the foot of the stairs—he’d done that himself, thanks for fuckin’ noticing—as he made his way to the kitchen. Leela was crouched in front of the oven, arms wrapped around her shins, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth.

He leaned against the doorframe, smirking. “Somethin’ wrong, or you just real interested in watchin’ bread bake?”

He barely had time to brace himself before the scent hit him—sweet and sugary, with a crispness that wasn’t quite like bread or cake, something lighter, airier.

Leela still didn’t look up. Whatever was in that oven had its hooks in her.

Joel pushed off the doorframe and stepped closer, bending just enough to peer in. White. Puffy. Looked like a cloud. “The fuck is that?”

“Pavlova.” Her voice was muffled against her knees.

He squinted at it. “Uh-huh. The fuck is that?”

She exhaled, shifting just enough to glance at him. “For Eton mess.”

Joel lifted a brow. “You just sayin’ words at me now, smartass?”

She huffed a quiet laugh, but there was something in her posture—the way she kept her nose tucked between her knees, fingers lightly gripping her calves. She was nervous.

“It’s meringue,” she admitted lowly, like she didn’t want to say it too loud in case that made it collapse in the oven. “It’s delicate. Needs to set just right.”

Joel straightened, rubbing at his jaw. “So it’s just sugar?”

Her mouth twitched the closest thing to a smile she could manage while preoccupied. “And egg whites.”

“Ah, so fancy sugar.”

“Trust me, you'll love it.”

He snorted, ready to argue—but then Maya leaned in against his chest, watching them with big, curious eyes, her tiny hands reaching for the oven knobs. She was getting handsier every day.

Leela finally turned, and for the first time, she really saw Maya, and took her in—the tiny white dress, the soft embroidery, the way her dark eyes blinked down at her with nothing but unfiltered, open-mouthed joy. No fear. No hesitation. Just love for her mama, plain and easy.

And just like that, Leela’s whole face softened. Melted, almost.

“Oh, Maya,” she breathed, reaching for her. “You look so pretty. Aw, my sweetheart.”

She scooped the baby out of his arms without a second thought, cradling her close, and tucking her against her shoulder. Her fingers ran through the fine baby hair at the nape of Maya’s neck, gentle, reverent, like she was trying to memorize her.

Then, before Joel even knew what was happening, she leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Maya’s forehead.

Not him. Oh, never him. But he felt it anyway. It relaxed in his chest, warm and unwanted, curling into the space he’d been trying real damn hard to keep empty. Like a ghost of something he wasn’t allowed to want.

He forced himself to look away, exhaling through his nose, adjusting his stance like that might shake the feeling off. It didn’t. Because the truth was—he’d thought about it. Too much. Too often.

The way she tilted her chin when she looked at him, how her mouth softened when she spoke to Maya, the bare curve of her throat when she laughed—all of it had lodged itself in his head, taken up space like it belonged there. And the worst of it?

He’d imagined it. His own mouth against hers. Slow and deep, catching the breath between her words, pulling that softness into him, feeling the curve of her spine, the softness of her hair twisted into his fingers.

And it was fucking ridiculous. But it didn’t stop him from thinking about it. Didn’t stop the way his gaze snagged on the spot where her lips had just been, where his had been too—because yeah, he’d kissed that exact place on Maya’s cheek before. More than once.

That was different, though. Right? Had to be.

His hands flexed at his sides, restless, needing something to do. He settled on the island, finally taking in what was right in front of him.

And, Jesus. Five trays. At least.

Stacked and spread out across the counter, gleaming under the low kitchen lights. There was no rhyme or reason to it—roast lamb chops, some kind of stewed eggplant, rice flecked with peanuts and saffron, a whole mess of things he didn’t recognize.

Still, she was gonna lose her goddamn mind. Not because Leela had transcended her at her own game—but because she’d cooked her own birthday dinner. Like she didn’t know how to sit still, even for that, or that she couldn’t let people do for her the way she did for them.

Joel shook his head, dragging a hand down his beard. One of those things. Something about Leela that made sense and didn’t, all at once.

“I’m going to go get dressed before Maria gets here,” she said, finally pulling his attention back to her.

Then, casually, like it was nothing, like it didn’t send something tight curling in his gut, she added, “I laid something out for you, too. If you'd like to wear something nice.”

And then she was gone, disappearing down the foyer, leaving Joel standing there, staring after her like an idiot. Like a man in deeper than he had any right to be.

X

Joel had thought long and hard about what to get Leela for her thirtieth, and it had damn near driven him mad.

He wasn’t good at gifts. He wasn’t good at a lot of things, really—at knowing what people wanted, at knowing how to give without feeling like he was handing over pieces of himself. It felt impossible.

What the hell do you give someone who already has everything—even in the goddamn apocalypse?

Leela didn’t need anything. She had a home, one of the nicer, better-built ones, passed down to her like an heirloom. She had clothes, ones she patched up herself, sewn with delicate little stitches. She had music, kept safe on a high shelf, and books stacked in neat piles by the fireplace. She had cars, she had diamonds just sitting up there in a closet, and she even had her own plants thriving.

She had all that and more. So, yeah. He’d considered it all. Clothes. Music. Books. Lights. Pictures. A cat, even. Something that meant something. Significant.

And then, out on patrol, he’d found it.

A cherry tree. Growing wild, untamed, tucked between dense brush and the gnarled twist of maple roots. Dark fruit hanging low, the weight of them bending the branches, like they were waiting for him.

At first, he’d strolled right past it. Just a tree. Just cherries.

And then he’d stopped, brows furrowed. He’d remembered the way she wove them into her life. The careful little cherry embroideries, the tiny red-painted symbols on her sugar and salt tubs, the delicate pattern etched everywhere.

She loved them. Enough to keep them close. Enough to mark them as hers. And so, like a damn fool, he’d kneeled and plucked them.

In a few hours, he'd picked the whole thicket clean. He’d stuffed them into his jacket pockets, let them fill the space in his backpack, red staining the fabric, fingers sticky and sweet with their juice.

It had felt right at the time. He'd felt so proud of himself. She was going to love the shit out of this.

Now, standing by the front door, having Tommy and Maria say that they'd managed to acquire a goddamn Polaroid camera for her—yellowed with age, probably out of photo paper but still lasting—Joel felt like a massive fucking idiot.

At least their gift had value. At least it wasn’t perishable. But, she already has a digital camera, his conscience reasoned with him. Sure, but especially to her, it was the thought that counted. She wouldn't be out here, letting Joel borrow cashmere sweaters and luxury denim on the fly.

And then Ellie had showed off her gift—another layer of shit over his confidence—a handmade journal, stitched together with patience and effort, thick pages bound in soft, timeworn leather. Thoughtful. Meaningful. Her best friend, Dina, definitely had a hand in this. Ellie didn't have the patience to craft something this considerate.

And Joel was the one to talk—well, Joel had a box of cherries. Fucking cherries. Cherries he’d spent hours picking, his fingers raw, his back aching for two days straight. Cherries he’d plucked in pairs, stems still intact, trying to mimic the little embroidered ones she stitched into her life. He’d thought he was being thoughtful. Now, how the fuck was he supposed to compete with journals and cameras?

So he did what any man with an ounce of self-preservation would do.

He pretended they didn’t exist. Let them sit out on the little porch shelf where he’d left them, where he figured he’d grab them when the time was right. Except now, the time wasn’t right. Never will be. And he’d just let them sit there forever, let the cold creep into them, let them wrinkle and rot and become another thing he never got around to.

Better to just let everyone think he was a callous, inconsiderate bastard than actually admit he’d put his heart into something. Easier that way.

As Maria and Ellie jogged upstairs, loud and chattering, off to greet the birthday girl and Maya, Joel made his way into the kitchen—only to get cornered by Tommy’s knowing look. That damn eyebrow, he got that from their dad.

Joel ignored him. Busied himself with laying foil over that one lonely tray, the rhythm of his hands methodical, grounding. It wasn’t until Tommy leaned against the counter, arms folded, voice low and amused, that he finally spoke.

“I knew you hated sappy shit, big brother, but this is a new low.”

Joel exhaled slowly, flattening the foil more aggressively than necessary. “Not now, Tommy.”

“Not now,” Tommy mimicked in a baritone, shaking his head with a chuckle. “You couldn’t even get her somethin’ small? The girl was ready to let you move in, for cryin' out loud.”

Joel didn’t answer.

“Hell, Maya, at least?”

That one stung. He didn’t know why. And somehow, the thought of that bothered him more than the idea of disappointing Leela. Maybe because he could take being an asshole to her. Could brush it off, let her think he was callous, numb. That was easy, safe.

But Maya? She was just a baby. His little girl. This tiny thing with nothing in the world except her mother, who carried all the pain and all the worry, while Joel sat on his hands and pretended like he wasn’t thinking about them more than he should.

He pressed down on the foil harder, smoothing out creases that weren’t there. He could feel Tommy watching him, expectant, waiting.

“Right,” Tommy sighed, knowing what to expect. “I’m gonna go drain the lizard.”

He scowled, finally looking up. “That's some real dignified talk. Better tone it down at dinner.”

His brother just grinned with a playful salute, disappearing down the hall.

Joel stomped his way into the dining room, fists stuffed into his pockets. Not because he knew what the hell he was even looking for, but because he had to move. The ache in his chest was getting to be too much, and if he sat with it any longer, he might actually have to acknowledge it.

Leela had transformed the shit out of this dining room, and Joel took it all in. Candles flickered across the table, their golden light pooling over the wood, catching on the edges of intricate ceramic plates, and warming the dark corners of the room. The food that Leela had slaved away to make was spread out, lavish, rich, the kind of meal that had no business existing in a world that had already ended. As if this little town, this home, was untouched by the decay beyond its walls.

The blackened, humungous yard outside those slightly gaumed French windows—he ought to get around to that this week—was paved with a clean sheet of snow, and it was clear what lay under it. A manifold garden of some sort, from the cursive-letter markers sticking out from the ice. And a pond, maybe.

It was all so soft. Painstaking. Conscious. Like everything Leela touched.

A sudden thrum of light, breathless, girlish laughter echoed from upstairs, Ellie's the most rambunctious of the lot, obviously having fun with that new camera.

“Maya, smile...” Then later, “Ha-ha, she's got no fuckin' teeth!”

It flushed a small smile of his own at the sound. He hadn’t heard that kind of laughter in years. Not since Sarah. Not since the days when she and her friends had holed up in her room, voices tumbling through the walls, their shrill giggles slipping into his evenings, melding with his exhaustion, belonging there, like a part of his house itself.

Back then, he’d barely noticed it. In fact, he'd wanted them to shut the hell up so he could focus on paperwork. He’d never thought to savour it. And now? Now it pressed against the deepest crevices in him, brittle and aching, something he couldn’t touch without it breaking apart in his hands. It still hurt like hell.

And then, as dinner time neared, the big room filled out—oh, Joel hadn't meant to look. Hadn’t meant to let his eyes linger that way. Fuck, he forgot how Leela was going to be tonight.

No. He dragged his eyes from her, yet the image remained seared into his head.

But there she was, standing at the far end of the room, completely different and exactly the same.

That velvet dress—Jesus Christ, he needed air.

He’d known it’d be trouble the second he saw it. It fit too well, soft in places he shouldn’t be noticing, snug over her hips, floating around her legs bare, smooth, unfairly right there. Her usual braid was pulled back tight, but a few strands had already come loose, slipping against her cheek, catching at her collarbone, and softening her face. A thin strand of pearls nestled at her neck—simple, understated. Like she was one of those lunching ladies in country clubs, lugging their crocodile leather bags, and clutching their pearls. Fucking adorable now that it registered, she was probably dressed like what she'd seen her mother wear back then.

And in another life, a girl like her would’ve walked right past a man like him. Would’ve mistaken him for a valet. Would’ve never even looked at him. He should be thanking his stars that the world went to shit and brought him her.

Joel clenched his jaw, forced his gaze away, and focused on the room instead. Maya, the real star of the show, was being passed off between the rest like a pack of smokes, her little chubby arms reaching, everyone cooing, fussing over her pretty, new dress.

Everywhere except. Leela...

She had drifted toward the bar cart at the edge of the room, breaking out the good stuff. He glimpsed the label—vintage Pinot Noir, knotty French scramble and expensive as hell. Didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except that somehow, without even thinking, he’d ended up standing beside her.

And when she looked up—she smiled at him. Small, a little shy, the kind of smile that said she was nervous for no reason at all.

“Hi, Joel.” Her hand smoothed down her stomach as if flattening that cute little belly bulge, fixing something that didn’t need fixing. “Do I look okay?” she murmured, hesitant. “Is it too much? It is, isn't it?”

Too much? For him, fuck yes. Fine? Fine wasn’t even in the same goddamn ballpark.

So, he opened his mouth. Closed it. Nothing.

“No.” A beat. “You…”

Nothing again. He was drawing a blank. The words dried up before they even had the chance to form, like dust in his mouth.

It wasn’t like he was trying to be poetic about it, but there was nothing in his head that felt close to good enough. No simple word, no half-mumbled compliment that could measure up to her tonight.

Leela stood in front of him, shifting slightly, looking down, constantly pressing her palm over her stomach like she was suddenly self-conscious. She was always incredible. She always knew her way around things. That wasn’t news.

But tonight, she just...—his jaw tightened. He wasn’t even gonna let himself finish that thought. His throat worked as he opened his mouth again, ready to force something out, anything—

“God, this smells fucking delicious!” Ellie’s voice tore through the moment, shattering it.

Leela startled slightly, before blinking, exhaling a soft laugh, and looking away. And just like that, the moment was gone.

The next thing he knew, everyone had settled in, chairs scraping against the wood, good wine flowing, voices overlapping, the liquor kicking in, laughter beginning. The candlelight flickered against the dishes, the soft golden glow catching on deep greens, bright reds, and the spread of food that looked like something out of a damn painting.

Joel wasn’t even sure where to start, but Ellie had no such problem. She was going to town, her plate stacked high, fork stabbing into rice and lamb and eggplant, making a goddamn mess of herself.

Maya sat in her lap, eyes wide, fists curled into her mouth, watching every movement with a sort of blank curiosity, like she was studying some unknown species.

Joel almost smirked. Baby girl had better instincts than most.

Meanwhile, Maria was not having it. She sat back in her chair, arms folded, watching Leela with something sharp in her gaze.

“Why would you cook your own birthday dinner? I told you to let me handle it.”

Leela shrugged, reaching for Joel’s plate once more. He barely had time to grab his plate back before she was scooping more roast potatoes onto it. Christ. At this rate, she was gonna have him fattened up like a prize hog by the end of the night.

“I had to say thanks to all of you somehow,” Leela murmured, matter-of-fact like it truly was that simple. Like, it wasn’t the most Leela thing in the world. “For everything you did for Maya and me. Thank you.”

Maria sighed, shaking her head, but before she could say anything, Tommy beat her to it.

“Honey, there’s no thanks between family. You just take it and be happy about it.” His laugh was muffled by a sip of his wine.

Leela, in the middle of reaching for another serving spoon, paused. And Joel saw it—the way she responded. It was subtle. Not a gasp, not anything dramatic, but something small. The way her lips parted, just slightly, like she wasn’t sure if she should smile like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to. He let his own smile grace his face as he did.

Before he could think on it too much, he caught movement from the corner of his eye—Leela, still standing, still serving, still doing everything but eating.

Joel set down his glass with purpose.

“Sit down.” His voice was low, and firm, leaving no room for argument as he grabbed the spoon from her hand and dropped it onto a tray. “Eat. They're grown-ups, they can serve themselves.”

Leela sighed and sat. Finally. “Okay.”

Joel didn’t give her much choice, pressing the chair in behind her knees, setting her plate in front of her like it was law. He caught the flicker of hesitation, the way she lingered as if she had something else to do, something else to fix. But there was nothing left. The food was hot, everyone was fed, and she was out of excuses.

He scooped a little of everything onto her plate, careful not to overdo it, careful to leave out the eggplant. He didn’t know when he’d learned that about her, just that he had. And she didn’t object, just picked at what landed in front of her, moving the food around with her fork. She didn’t eat right away, not really.

Maria, Tommy, Ellie, and Joel had a rhythm. They talked over each other, ribbed each other, passed stories back and forth like well-worn cards, easy and unthinking. They'd raised a toast to the birthday girl, Maya's new dress, this astonishing dinner, Joel smiling for once—it felt… safe. Loud, but not in a way that grated. Just lived-in.

He wasn’t sure what she thought of all this. Maybe it was too much, too loud, too different from what she was used to.

Especially when Tommy, halfway through a sip of whiskey, nearly choked and gawked at her. "Wait, wait—back up. You didn't know turnin’ thirty was a big deal?"

Leela blinked, clearly lost. "Why would it be? It’s just… a number."

Tommy clutched his chest like she’d stabbed him. "Oh, Jesus. Joel, tell her. Tell her what happens when you turn thirty."

Joel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glancing at her, smirking. "Your knees start makin’ noises you ain’t never heard before. The hangovers last three to five business days. And suddenly—" he jabbed a finger at Tommy, "—this clown starts talkin’ about cholesterol like it’s the Grim Reaper."

Tommy pointed back at him, indignant. "It is the Grim Reaper! You think I like checkin’ my blood pressure for fun?"

Leela stared between them, unimpressed. "So, you’re telling me turning thirty means getting old and miserable?"

Joel shrugged. "Pretty much."

Tommy raised his glass. "Welcome to the club, darlin’. It’s all downhill from here."

Leela huffed a small laugh, shaking her head, but Joel could feel her eyes on him. Not in an obvious way—Leela wasn’t like that. But he could tell. The way she always tucked herself into the background, listening instead of talking, watching instead of stepping in.

Like she was still trying to figure out how all of this worked. How they worked. And Ellie, for one, was having the time of her life.

She jabbed a finger at Joel, like she was about to make some grand accusation. "I swear, it’s like clockwork! Dude’s got, like, five phrases in rotation. Seriously, he's some old Western cowboy stuck in a fucking time loop. It’s insane."

Joel exhaled sharply, already tired. “The hell are you talkin’ about, girl?”

Maria smirked, leaning in like she knew exactly where this was going. “Go on, let’s hear it.”

“That one didn't count. You ready? Okay, let's go.” Ellie straightened in her chair, cleared her throat dramatically, and then—“‘Ain’t my first rodeo.’”

Tommy barked a laugh. Maria made a face that said, damn, that was actually a good one. Joel just shook his head, but he didn’t argue.

Ellie pushed on with that wicked smirk. “‘Coulda told you that one.’”

That got Maria and Tommy good, they were already in fits. Joel sighed, reaching for his glass. Meanwhile, Leela pressed her lips together to keep from smiling.

“See? See?” Ellie counted on her fingers, riding the high. “‘You ain't gonna like the answer.’ Huh, Tommy?”

Tommy wiped at his mouth, shoulders shaking. “Shit.”

Joel took a drink, resisting the urge to bang his head against the table. That one was sadly dead on.

Joel scoffed, shaking his head, but Tommy only leaned forward, grinning wide. “Oh, oh, what about ‘Never said I was a good man’?”

Ellie, inspired, went for the kill. “Right, yes! And my personal favourite, ‘Shit’s fucked,’ obviously.”

That one did it.

Maria actually turned away, full-on wheezing hard. Tommy clapped a hand on the table, throwing his head back to roar out a laugh.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, reaching for his whiskey. “Table’s turned against me.”

He flicked his gaze to Leela, watching her reaction—like maybe if she thought it was funny, it would be worth the humiliation.

She met his eyes over the rim of her glass, her expression unreadable for a beat, then—slowly, her lips curved. She took a sip of her water like she was trying to hide it, but he caught the way her eyes softened, the way she tucked her chin slightly, almost sheepish.

Leela finally spoke, her voice a soft, amused murmur. “I think they just know you too well, Joel. It's nice.”

Joel paused mid-sip, watching her as she turned back to her plate, finally taking a bite.

It was a simple thing, but the words sat with him. It wasn’t just that they were teasing him. It was the fact that she was here, part of it, taking it in, letting herself be in this moment. He realized then—that Leela had spent so much time holding herself apart, hovering at the edges of things, always wary. Not tonight.

Joel exhaled, shaking his head like he wasn’t entertained, even though the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Whole lotta talk for a bunch of ingrates,” he muttered. “Maybe I oughta keep my words to myself. See how y’all fare without my wisdom.”

“Your wisdom? Are you fucking kidding?” Maria scoffed, still wiping at her eyes. “Joel, the day we take life advice from you—”

“Will be the day the world actually ends,” Tommy finished, reaching for his drink. “Again.”

Ellie snorted, still looking way too pleased with herself. “Go on, old man. Say something profound.”

Joel didn’t dignify that with an answer, just took another sip of whiskey, glancing at Maya on Ellie's lap. That same warmth ravaged him for a moment.

But when he looked to his side again, his eyes found Leela. She wasn’t laughing like the rest of them—not outright. No sharp, teasing glances, no knee-slapping or head-shaking.

Just that same small, quiet smile, the kind that broke his fucking heart in two.

He wasn’t sure how long they looked at each other, just that he noticed how the candlelight softened her features, how her fingers smoothed over the rim of her glass absentmindedly, how her braid had loosened slightly throughout the night, one long stray wisp of hair curling by her shoulder. God, she took his breath away.

And then he noticed the table. Maria. Tommy. Even Ellie. Side-eying and smirking like damn fools.

Joel scowled, bracing himself. “What now?”

“Not a damn thing,” Tommy said, though the way he fought back a grin suggested otherwise.

Ellie waggled her brows. “Oh, no, you just—look really wise right now.”

Joel fought the urge to groan, letting his head tip back slightly. “No, really. Thank you.”

Leela shifted, clearing her throat, poking at her plate like she wanted to disappear into it.

Tommy looked like he had more to say, something locked and loaded, but before he could get it out, across the table, Maya started to fuss, her hands curling and uncurling toward the plates on the table, making that small, needy noise. Baby girl was the centre of attention, as always. She had a way of pulling eyes to her without even trying like the whole world naturally revolved around her.

But the moment Maria chimed in, her voice carrying easily over the table—“Maya, honey”—that was when it happened.

Her eyes snapped up, searching the table with a determination far too strong for someone so small. Her fingers flexed, hands opening and closing in that telltale way, reaching, waiting—and then Maria tried something else, something that shouldn’t have stood out, except—

“You wanna say hi to Joel?”

The second it left her mouth, Maya’s little head swivelled, locking onto him with that same urgency, that same expectation. Maya made a soft, almost questioning noise, like she was waiting for something, her arm stretching further, fingers still curling and uncurling.

He didn’t even think about it. Didn’t think about how much she knew him now. How his name meant something to her, how she was already learning that when she reached, he would be there.

“Ugh. But I just got you,” Ellie clucked her tongue, bouncing Maya slightly. “Can’t believe this, you're straight-up ditching me for a fogey. Breaking my heart, kid.”

“Guess she's just sick of you, kid,” Joel teased.

“Shut up.”

Maya squirmed, unsatisfied, her arm stretching further. Then came that stubborn cry, the kind Joel had long since learned to recognize—the warning before real tears, before she got herself all worked up.

And, well, he had tried to resist it before. Tried to tell himself to let her be, that she needed to settle on her own, that he wasn’t supposed to get her used to always having him right there. Didn’t matter one fucking bit. The minute those eyes got glassy, he was already reaching across the table.

"C'mere, baby girl," he muttered, hands steady as he lifted her from Ellie’s grasp. “There you go. Hi.”

She melted against him instantly, her warm little body pressing into his chest, a fist curling into the fabric of his shirt. He barely had time to adjust before she shoved both hands into her mouth, hiding that big, gummy grin like she was suddenly shy.

He chucked her chin. "Happy now?"

Maya let out a tiny giggle, then dropped her head forward against his shoulder, burrowing in, pressing her face into his collar like she wanted to disappear inside him.

"Yeah, that tracks," Ellie said, smirking. "Guess she just likes dinosaurs."

Joel only fed the fire. "I think it's my rugged good looks."

That drew out a few annoyed groans around him.

Ellie snickered. "Not that she’s got much to compare to, though.”

It was a silly joke. A throwaway line. She didn't know any better.

But Joel felt it shift the air at the table, quiet but undeniable, like the slow pull of a storm rolling in.

Leela’s grip on her fork tightened, her knuckles paling around the metal. It was barely a reaction. Just the barest pause. A slow blink, calculated and measured, like she was pushing something down, pressing it deep, locking it behind her ribs before it could surface.

But Joel caught it. He wasn’t sure what it was—not exactly. He only knew the way it felt. The way a sharp sense of awareness dug into the back of his skull, the way his chest clenched, like something inside him had just brushed against a wound he hadn’t known was there.

Maria noticed, too. She shot Ellie a look. Just a quick, subtle thing, but full of meaning.

Ellie’s chewing slowed, the realization dawning. "Shit. Sorry," she muttered, suddenly fascinated with her plate. “I'm so sorry, Leela. I wasn’t trying to—”

Leela’s voice was too even, barely managing the dismissive smile. “It’s alright, Ellie. It's nothing.”

It wasn’t. She was practically forcing this lie out of her mouth.

She pushed her chair back. “I’ll go... um, be right back.”

Joel caught the way she moved—not hurried, not frantic, just a little too controlled, like she was forcing herself not to make it obvious that she needed to get out of there.

He should’ve stood. Should’ve gone after her, said something, done something.

Maria was already moving. “Let me check on her,” she said softly, chair scraping against the floor as she followed Leela through the kitchen doors.

Joel exhaled, slow through his nose.

The warmth of the meal, the easy hum of conversation—it all dissipated like heat off an open plate, leaving only the scrape of utensils, the occasional clink of glass. The space Leela left behind stretched thin, like a too-wide gap in a picket fence.

Ellie exhaled, pressing the heel of her palm against her forehead. “I really wasn’t trying to… god, I have such a big fucking—”

Joel adjusted Maya in his arms who was busy combing fleece off the expensive cashmere on his chest. “Ain’t your fault, kid. 'S’all right. Just a touchy subject.”

He didn’t look at her when he said it. Just kept his eyes on the rim of his whiskey glass, watching the candlelight slice through the amber liquid.

Because it was the truth. It wasn’t Ellie’s fault. That didn’t mean he wasn’t wishing he could take back that moment, wipe it clean. Like smudging out a scuff on a wood floor—pretending it had never been there at all.

Ellie nodded, but her fork just scraped uselessly at the plate, pushing food around in slow, absent-minded circles. She curled in on herself, shoulders drawn tight.

Tommy cleared his throat, voice pushing for something lighter. “Think it’s time we brought out dessert, huh? Said it was some trifle or somethin’.”

The words hovered, waiting for someone to catch onto them, and keep the momentum going. But no one did.

Joel didn’t answer either. He just tipped his whiskey back, letting the burn roll slow down his throat.

“Ah, what the hell,” Tommy muttered, scratching at his jaw.

Joel barely registered it. His mind wasn’t here. It was behind that door, past the threshold of the kitchen, where Maria had gone.

He should’ve been the one to follow. But Maria knew better. Knew when to step in, when to let someone walk away without pressing.

And Joel—Joel just sat there, gripping his glass too tight, holding Maya closer, listening to the faint rattle of silverware, the flicker of candlelight, the distant creak of the floorboards in the kitchen.

The moment had died out. They just hadn’t called it yet.

X

Maya's nursery looked different now.

It used to be dim and quiet, a place half-lived in, half-abandoned—just a room with a crib shoved into it, like it didn’t belong there. Like she didn’t belong there.

Now, it felt like a home. A place meant for a child to grow. Soft, muted green stretched across the walls, warm in the glow of the low bedside lamp. Shelves lined with neatly folded onesies and tiny socks, stuffed animals tucked into corners like silent sentries. The window bench had been cleared of dust and laid out with a fresh quilt, facing the snowy street below—facing his house.

Joel rocked on his heels, shifting Maya higher in his arms as the low murmur of voices drifted up from downstairs. Goodbyes being said. Chairs scraping back. The door cracking open to the cool night air.

He should go. He knew that.

But hell, it was barely ten. He never left before Leela fell asleep—not until he was sure she was actually going to sleep. And that wasn’t for another couple of hours, at least.

Not that he was leaving anytime soon. Not unless he figured out a way to pry this little troublemaker off him.

Maya wasn’t having it.

He’d tried everything—rocking, pacing, humming low in his throat—but she refused to close those pretty eyes, just kept watching him, Her fingers patted at his chest, curling into his shirt. Then she'd reach up, clumsy and determined, fingers smushing against his nose, his cheek, his scruff.

Joel exhaled, shifting her slightly in his arms. "What's the matter, sweetheart?"

Maya blinked up at him, all big, dark eyes and stubborn little fists. He knew how much she loved conversing with him, even if it seemed deranged to talk to a fucking infant.

"You gonna let me put you down, or you plannin’ to keep me hostage all night?"

Maya made a breathy 'o' up at him, mouth parting in a wide, drooly grin. Like that would get her off the hook.

Joel snorted. "Yeah, that so?"

Another coo, this one higher-pitched, like she had a whole argument ready.

He shook his head, tired but amused. "Mhm. I'm convinced."

Joel sighed, lifting her up so they were at eye level, holding her by the armpits. Her legs kicked in the air, her chubby fists went straight to her mouth, and she tilted her head back, distracted by the warm glow of the nursery lights.

Too big. She was growing too damn fast.

He felt it in the way she relaxed against him now, her body stretching longer, heavier. Felt it in the way her head fit differently in the crook of his neck, in the way her fingers, once barely able to grasp his thumb, now had a grip strong enough to tug at his shirt.

It was frustrating. Fucking unfair. She'd only been in the world for a few weeks, and just when she was starting to fit perfectly in his arms, she was already growing out of them.

Joel swallowed thickly, staring at the soft roundness of her cheeks, the dark lashes fluttering against her skin. His fingers traced the slope of her back, feeling the tiny, steady rise and fall of her breath. How can you miss something that was not yet lost?

A lump pressed against his throat.

“You know I love you so goddamn much, right?”

It wasn’t much more than a whisper. A thought barely forced out past his lips. And yet—it felt so final. How long until he heard it back from her? Another year? Two years? Would he still be around when she said it to him?

Joel clenched his jaw, sighing. Hard as hell, saying it out loud. Felt damn near impossible, like something fragile, like something that wasn’t his to admit. Like if he said it too much, too often, he might have to face what it really meant. That he’d already taken responsibility for her, or if anything were to happen to her—

Maya let out a breathy giggle, legs kicking, fingers smacking against his cheek.

Joel blinked, barely catching himself before he smiled.

When he pulled her closer, she wriggled against him, pressing her small, warm face to his, her tiny palms patting at his chin, his nose, his temple. Soft puffs of air landed against his skin, clumsy, open-mouthed, like her own sloppy, little version of a kiss.

He let out a slow breath, shaking his head. This was really all he needed in whatever was left of his life. It seemed too easy to make it enough.

“Fine, you win this time,” he muttered, voice rough, thick.

Maya gurgled against his cheek, cooing, like she understood his plight.

He descended the stairs slowly, careful not to jostle Maya too much, hoping the rhythm might finally lull her to sleep. Her head lolled against his shoulder, tiny fingers curled into his collar again, but she was still awake, just blinking wide-eyed at the world.

Joel paused at the landing when he caught voices near the door—Ellie and Leela, still lingering. A strange sight, to be honest.

“Look, I really messed up back there and—” Ellie started, arms tight around herself, like she was bracing for impact.

Leela didn’t let her finish. Instead, she pressed something into Ellie’s palm—a tightly rolled set of charts. “Joel told me you love astronomy,” she said simply. “These belonged to my mother once. She was like you, too.” A beat. “They should go to someone who’ll actually use them.”

Joel shifted against the railing, watching as Ellie unrolled the top just enough to glimpse the faded celestial maps inside—one for each month, constellations inked in delicate, ghostly lines.

Her breath hitched. “Holy shit.”

Leela blinked. “Is that a good 'holy shit' or—”

Ellie nearly lunged forward—almost, but not quite. She caught herself, scratching the back of her head instead, a grin breaking through like she couldn’t hold it back. “Best fucking holy shit. Thank you.”

For a moment, she just held the maps, careful, reverent, like something fragile. Then she exhaled, shaking her head with a laugh—the kid really couldn’t believe her luck. “This is so sick. I’m gonna—I don’t even know, but it’s gonna be fucking awesome.” She clutched the charts to her chest, voice lighter than it had been all night. “Thanks, Leela. Really.”

Leela gave a slow nod, like she wasn’t quite sure what to do with the gratitude. She hesitated, then tested out a cautious, “Um. Have... fun.”

Ellie barely caught any of that. She whooped into the night as she left, the charts still hugged close. Oh, Joel was definitely not going to hear the end of this for at least a month.

Leela lingered in the doorway, lips parted, watching Ellie disappear down the street. Then, almost like she didn’t quite believe what had just happened, she slowly shut the door, pressing her back against it. Her hands lifted, covering her face, fingers threading through her hair. A breathy laugh escaped her—soft, disbelieving.

Joel caught the tail end of it, the faint curve of her smile before she tucked it away. Small. Quiet. Like she didn’t quite know what to do with it.

And hell, if that didn’t do something to him.

“I take it you enjoyed dinner then,” he said, his voice rough with amusement.

Leela startled slightly and hadn’t realized he was still there. Her eyes flicked first to Maya, softening instinctively before settling on him. The edges of that smile lingered—that wasn’t quite ready to leave yet.

She stepped closer, hand brushing over Maya’s back. “Little troublemaker fighting sleep again?”

Maya let out a big, sleepy yawn, eyes drooping but still resisting, gripping the fabric of Joel’s shirt like she could anchor herself awake. Stubborn baby girl.

Joel huffed, shifting his hold on her. “Like she doesn’t even need it.”

Leela hummed, tracing slow, absentminded circles against the baby’s onesie. Joel expected her to say something, but when he glanced up, he found her watching him—something different in her gaze. A glint, teasing but warm, something playful in a way he hadn’t seen before. It softened him in places he wasn’t prepared for.

Then she took a step back, and before he could think too much about it, she reached above the shoe rack, retrieving something small and wooden. A box.

Joel tensed the second he saw it. Goddamnit. Should've buried that thing in the snow.

She bit back a smile, shaking the box near her ear. “So, um… Tommy found this on the porch shelf,” she mused. “Told me you went through a lot of trouble to get it.”

Joel clenched his jaw, exhaling hard through his nose. He knew exactly what Tommy had done—ran his mouth just enough to make sure Joel would have to sit through this whole damn thing.

Leela tipped her head, all exaggerated curiosity. “I wonder what it is.”

“Yeah, real mystery,” Joel muttered, walking past her like he could simply exit this situation.

Instead, he focused on Maya, carefully easing her onto the soft padding of the playmat. The thing was space-themed—little planets and stars dangling overhead, catching the dim glow of the living room. Her tiny fingers curled around a plush moon, legs kicking as she let out a gurgled sound of delight.

Joel let out a quiet breath. This was fine. He could watch her do that. Much easier than watching Leela.

But there was no avoiding it, not really. Not when she was already lowering herself onto the couch, patting the cushion beside her. “Come, sit.”

He hesitated, looking away. He could’ve bif goodnight, walked out the door, and left her to open the damn thing by herself. He could’ve avoided this whole moment, let it pass, let it go.

With a great, defeated sigh, he sank down beside her, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Leela carefully slid the lid open, and the ruby cherries sat there, dark and glistening, their juices staining every inch of the wood. The smell of them hit the air—ripe, sweet, unmistakable.

She sucked in a breath, quiet but sharp.

Joel pressed his lips together, fighting the urge to explain himself. That it was dumb. That it didn’t mean anything. That it was silly. That he’d done it because—hell, because. Because he wanted to see her smile for him. Because he wanted to leave some sort of a mark on her special day.

But he didn’t say any of that.

Instead, he cleared his throat. “Thought you liked ‘em. It's not much, but...” yeah, it was from his heart. And he went on with a gruff, “Happy birthday.”

Leela nodded with a gentle laugh, but she didn’t say anything at first. Just reached in, plucking one between her fingers, rolling it like she wanted to feel every dip and curve of it before finally slipping it past her lips.

Joel tried not to watch too closely. The way her lips curved around the fruit, the divots on that pillow-soft skin stretching, before her tongue darted out to catch the juice. His throat bobbed with a dry swallow. God, he was going to lose it.

“Mm,” she moaned, shaking her head. “This is wonderful, Joel. Thank you.” She held up a sudden finger as if lit up by an idea. “How about a blackforest cake?”

He winked. “Right on, darlin'.”

He reached for one, too, grinning, chewing in sync with her.

Then he caught the way she twirled the stem between her fingers, that amused little gleam returning in her eyes, and he knew exactly what she was about to do. Oh, come on. Right now?

Leela quickly popped the stem into her mouth, brows furrowed in concentration.

Joel smirked despite himself. Fine. They were doing this then.

He followed suit, slipping the stem between his lips, tongue working it in practised motions—an old skill, long-buried, but still easy enough to find. A long time ago, he’d done this a hundred times over, showing off for Sarah, besting Tommy every damn time.

Sure enough, when he held the knotted cherry stem between his teeth, he arched a brow, only slightly smug. “How ‘bout that?”

Leela let out a muffled laugh, sticking her tongue out to reveal hers. Looser, messier, but still knotted. “You’re way better.”

Joel huffed a small, satisfied sound, settling back against the couch. “Oh, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Wait for it.”

She cocked her head, intrigued, and he felt it then—her undivided attention settling warm against him. That expectant little gleam in her eye.

Well, hell. No turning back now. He worked his tongue around the stem again, shifting it between his teeth, coaxing it into another trick—one a little tougher, one he hadn’t pulled off in years. One wrong move, and he'd choke.

It took longer, and she was watching him too damn close, like she was trying to map every movement, every small shift in his jaw.

Then, finally, when he held it back out—the knot was gone.

Leela gasped, surprised, hands flying to her mouth. “How?”

Joel smirked, slow and deep, feeling a ridiculous amount of satisfaction at her reaction. He tapped his fingers against his knee. “Sworn to secrecy.” Then, just because he could, he added, “It’s a Miller thing.”

She laughed, warm and unguarded, shaking her head. “So dumb.”

Joel chuckled along with her, feeling ten pounds lighter at that sweet sound.

Leela, still grinning, tossed another cherry into her mouth. And then another. And another. Until her cheeks puffed up like a damn chipmunk, lips barely able to contain the burst of juice dribbling at the corner of her mouth.

Joel snickered at her, shaking his head. “Jesus, girl,” he muttered, reaching out without thinking. His thumb swiped slowly and easily at the corner of her lip, gathering the stray stain. “Slow down. It’s all yours.”

And that should’ve been it. The moment she pushed him away. But.

Leela didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just watched him. Not startled, not uncomfortable, not embarrassed. Just… watching. Chewing. Observing. Curious.

Her lips, still slick with juice, parted the smallest bit, like she might say something, but she didn’t. And neither did he.

But instead of pulling back—God help him—his gaze flickered down, just for a second, tracking the spot where his thumb had been. And before he even fully processed what he was doing, he brought it to his mouth, pressing the tip between his lips, tasting the cherry juice there.

A big fucking mistake.

Because it wasn’t just the cherry. It was her. All Leela and sweetness. He'd imagined moments like this for hours on end in his lonesome.

It was the heat of her skin, the warmth lingering on his fingertip. A trace of something softer beneath the tartness of the fruit. Something that made his breath go tight in his chest.

Leela inhaled, shallow and quiet.

See, Joel should’ve drawn off her. Should’ve laughed it off or said something—anything—to keep this from tipping too far. He shouldn’t have let it get this far.

Because for a second, just a second, he allowed himself to imagine it—let himself fucking want it. Joel wasn’t a man who let himself have much. Wasn’t the kind who asked for more than what was given, especially when life loved to take so much away from him. Sarah, his softness, his humanity.

But this? This, he wanted. He wanted it so bad.

Not just in passing, not just in a way he could ignore, but in a way that curled deep in his gut, low and slow. In a way that had him tilting forward before he could stop himself, his breath hitching ever so slightly, just as any man would attempting to her, his hands grounding against his knee like that might steady him, like that might make this less surreal.

Because she was right there. Close enough that he could see the flicker of amber light in her eyes, the crease between her eyes, the way her breath had changed, softened, like she’d been expecting this.

Maybe she had. And maybe that should’ve been enough to make him stop. Because, Jesus Christ, what the hell was he doing? What was he hoping to accomplish? Kiss her? Laugh? Maybe for once not leave this home feeling like a drop-in?

Leela was younger, cleverer, and healing. She was light, and he was nothing but a warm, dark, empty void pressing down on her, on this moment, on the air between them, threatened to swallow any hope of life.

She wasn’t flinching. Wasn’t moving away. But God, she should’ve.

She should've punched him square in the jaw, woken him up from whatever dream he was walking. She should’ve recoiled at the smell of whiskey on his breath, should’ve been weirded out that he’d even dared to lean in, that some old, beat-up man thought he had any goddamn right to touch something as brilliant as her.

Because that’s all he was, wasn’t he? Worthless. Worn down. Hands stained in more blood than he cared to admit. A hardass heart that refused to stop beating.

And she? She wasn’t for him. She was for someone who could meet her in the daylight, who didn’t have to carry every sin, every regret, every ounce of grief in their bones. Someone who hadn’t done the things he’d done.

Yet, something pushed him on. Told him to take that chance.

His breath came rough, unsteady. The space between them felt impossibly small, thinning with every heartbeat, every second, every goddamn pull of the air between them—

Except—just then—

Leela’s shoulders dropped with a slow, measured breath, and instead of leaning in, closing the last bit of space, she leaned away.

Her voice was a sigh, not scolding, not sharp. Just beaten. “Joel.”

It settled somewhere in his ribs, dull and heavy. The truth of it. That this had been a mistake. That she was kind enough, maybe even foolish enough, to let him down gently.

He didn’t pull back fast—he had a little more dignity than that. But he did pull back, gritting his jaw, clearing his throat, nodding once like that had been nothing, like he hadn’t just let himself be stupid, let himself slip into the foolish idea that he could have this, even for a second.

Because he wasn’t that man. He never had been.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and brittle. Joel could hear the soft tick of the clock in the next room, and the low hum of the wind against the windowpane, Maya's soft, sleepy puffs from the playmat. He could hear his own breathing, slower now, measured, because he had to make it so.

Leela stared down at her lap, at the way her hands twisted against each other. Her shoulders had drawn in, tightening like she was trying to make herself smaller, and he hated that—hated that he’d put that look on her face, that he’d made her feel like this.

He tried to work his voice, to apologize, tell her that he'd leave and never look her way again. Nothing came out. Because, ultimately, in doing so, he knew he stood to lose Maya, too. And he just couldn't let that happen.

But, when she finally spoke, her voice wasn’t accusing. It wasn’t sharp or angry. It was just… hollow. Blank. Terrifying.

“I’m rotting inside, Joel.” Her fingers curled, nails pressing into her palm. “I can’t do anything to stop it.”

Joel frowned, something uneasy stirring in his chest. He waited, but she didn’t look at him. Just kept staring at her hands like they held something, some mark or stain, only she could see.

“It’s a good thing Maya needs you more. I'm glad she has you.” She let out a small, breathless laugh—except it wasn’t really a laugh at all. “She's better off with you than me. You're good for her.”

A fit of unexpected anger rose in him—not at her, never at her. He wanted to tell he she was wrong. That Maya was hers. That no matter what she thought, no matter how deep she believed the 'rot' had gone, she wasn’t something Maya needed to be protected from.

“Any longer, and I’ll sicken her with me. She’s so small and pure… the softest part of me. And I can’t bear to even touch her. To feed her. To just be with her. I'm so afraid...” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, and then, quieter: “I think I might really kill her, Joel.”

Joel froze.

The words hit him like a stab to the abdomen, like a goddamn gunshot, something he wasn’t ready for but should’ve seen coming. He’d heard her say those words before, hadn’t he?

That night—Maya’s first bout of colic. He’d rushed up to her nursery, rubbing at her back, murmuring low nothings just to calm her down. The screaming had gone on for hours, splitting apart the thin walls, rattling through the house like something relentless and starving. When he'd hatefully asked her to pull herself together, blamed her for knowing nothing.

And Leela had been standing at the threshold, watching. Her hands limp at her sides. Hollowed out. She had whispered it then, too. I think I might kill her.

And back then, he had thought it was the average… exhaustion. Fear. That helpless kind of inadequacy that came with first-time mothers.

But that wasn’t it at all, was it?

No, this wasn’t about being unsure.

This was agony. That bitter edge, that raw, bleeding thing inside her. That feeling of being left to die in her own body. And she was still living in it, with that numbness within.

Joel swallowed hard, his pulse beating thick in his ears. “Leela,” he managed, rough and uneven. It was the first time he had ever said her name out loud, and it landed heavier than he knew how to carry.

She sniffled, fingers curling tighter into her palms.

“I disgust me,” she whispered. “I stain everything, I know this. I’d never forgive myself if I did it to you.”

He exhaled, slow and steady, because if he didn’t keep himself calm, if he didn’t keep himself grounded in this moment, he didn’t know what he’d do. What he’d say. He didn't trust his instincts anymore.

And Leela was still looking down, fingers twitching in her lap, like she could feel something crawling under her skin. If she dug her nails in deep enough, if she pressed hard enough, maybe she could carve out whatever filth she thought was still inside her.

Joel knew that feeling. The itch of it. The glare from his mind's eye.

He’d stood in front of a mirror after things he could never undo, scrubbing his hands raw, watching the way the clear blood seemed to seep deeper between his nailbed and fingertips, no matter how much water ran down the drain. But no, this wasn’t the same. Not even remotely.

Joel had earned his stains.

Leela had been made to bear hers.

The thought clawed at him, made his ribs feel too tight, his breath too shallow. Because she wasn’t talking in metaphors. Not really. Not the way he might have, not the way he sometimes felt it, an unbearable burden in his gut, an ache in his chest.

She was talking about it like it was real, like it was something rotting inside her body right now. Like it was fouling her up, stinking only to her.

Because it was. Because someone had done that to her.

He clenched his jaw, heat rising behind his ribs. He didn’t know how. Didn’t know when. Didn’t know the details, and Jesus, did he even want to? He'd lose his shit.

A part of him did. A part of him wanted to be the man he used to be, the man who wouldn’t ask questions, who would just take his rifle and hunt down whoever had put this look on her face, this disgust in her voice, this strife in her bones. If that was what she wanted...

He could still kill for her. He absolutely would, without hesitation. If she said it, he'd walk right out that door and make for the front gates. He could wipe those motherfuckers off the face of the earth, make them suffer, bleed, scream, and beg before he pulled the trigger. He'd done it before, to less violent people. Why not now? What were a few more bodies to him? Nothing but newer ghosts.

But really, what would that do for Leela? What would that change?

She had to wake up every morning in the body they left her with, haunted, festering. And worse—she had to live in the mind, unable to outrun the moments between the others, the life they had shattered.

She had to look at Maya every day and wonder if she was capable of being her mother. Wonder if she was capable of loving her, if she was capable of keeping her safe. How could she when couldn't even protect herself?

Joel wanted to tell her that she could. That she already did. But that wasn’t something his words would fix. Especially not his.

So he didn’t say it.

Didn’t say anything for a long time, just watched her, just took in the way her shoulders hunched, the way she trembled like the truth had broken something loose inside her, and now she couldn’t shove it back down.

His fingers twitched.

He wanted to touch her, wanted to ground her, but he knew better than to startle her. He was stupid, just not a fucking idiot. He knew the way the past could reach through time, could grab hold of you even when you were safe, even when you were far away from where it happened. And fuck, she was drowning in it, wasn’t she?

Drowning in memories she hadn’t spoken aloud.

He didn’t need to hear them to see them.

Because her eyes—those dark, gripping, hollowed-out eyes—were far away, looking at something else. Someone else.

A room. A face. Hands. A warning. A little help.

The moment he thought it, bile rose in his throat. He couldn’t know, not really. But he could imagine. And it made him fucking sick.

He knew, somehow, that she had spent months alone, trying to live past this, trying to bury it under silence, under time, under the thousand little ways she kept people at arm’s length.

Leela sniffled sharply, yanking herself back to the present, but she didn’t meet his gaze. Just wiped her nose with the back of her hand, her fingers curling inward again like she wanted to disappear into herself. Like she deserved to.

Joel wouldn’t let her.

Carefully—slowly—he reached forward, brushing the tips of his fingers against the back of her hand.

She flinched. A slight tremor. A barely-there shake in her breath. Fuck, it hurt him, too. That some part of her—some deep, instinctual part—still thought she had to brace herself for what might come next.

But she didn’t pull away.

He worked at her fingers, gentle, patient, until she let him unfold her hand from the tight, white-knuckled fist she had made. Her palm was damp, warm from being clenched for too long. There were crescent moon indents where her nails had pressed into her skin.

Without thinking, without hesitating, he laid his own hand over hers. Mangled beyond repair, scarred, spoiled, lost to time.

Leela finally looked up at him. Finally, he let him see her.

Her face was blotchy, her dark eyes rimmed red, lashes wet, and God, she had never looked more exhausted. More fragile. This girl, who could accomplish anything and everything, looked helpless.

And she didn’t believe him. Not a single thing he’d just said. Yeah, she was right not to.

Maybe he was stained. Maybe he was rotting, too. Maybe it was too late for him, too late for a man who had done what he’d done, lost what he’d lost, to be anything else.

But not for her. Never for her.

He brought her fingers to his lips, brushing them softly against her knuckles.

She made a noise—small, unsure and confused. But she didn’t pull away. God, she didn't pull away.

His grip tightened just slightly, cradling her hand in both of his now to brush another kiss, like it was a lifeline, like it was the only thing tethering him to this moment, to her. He let his forehead rest gently against hers, breathing slow, trying to keep himself from gripping too tight, from pulling too close.

"There's nothin’ left to stain or rot in me," he admitted. "Just a lot of space left for the two of you."

The words landed soft, like he hadn’t meant to say them aloud, like maybe he was trying to convince her that they were true.

And Joel—he knew what that felt like. To be left alone with it. To drown in it. To have no one there to pull you out of it. So he didn’t try to stop her. Didn’t try to fix what couldn’t be fixed. This time, he wasn't heading for the door.

All he did was stay.

Leela sucked in a breath, sharp and shallow, like she was trying to hold herself together, but Joel could already see it—she was already falling.

And he wasn’t about to let her hit the ground alone.

His fingers curled tighter around hers, his other hand coming up to the back of her head, his thumb brushing just barely along her hairline. He felt her shudder beneath his touch, felt the way her breath came uneven, quick and unsure.

Close enough that he could feel every tremor in her body, every sharp, shallow breath she took. But he didn’t shush her. Didn’t tell her to breathe. Didn’t whisper that it would be okay.

Because he wasn’t a goddamn liar.

And because this—this agony, this slow, rotting thing inside her—wasn’t something words could untangle. It wasn’t something she could be reassured out of, something she could be reasoned or comforted or willed away from.

It was in her bones. In her blood. It lived there, like a sickness that had no cure.

So what the hell could he say? What good would empty do?

All he had—all he could offer—was this. His hands around hers. His touch, light, present. The slow press of his forehead against hers, grounding, real, unmoving.

And he held her. Not tightly, not desperately—just enough.

Enough for her to know. Enough for her to feel, just for a second, what it was to be held and not taken.

To be seen and not used.

To be broken and not discarded.

Joel breathed out slowly, before pulling back just enough to see her. Leela didn’t move or speak, just watched him quietly. Hoping for something from him.

His palm lifted to touch her cheek. Not enough to startle, just enough to remind her he was still here. That he would be.

“Alright then, birthday girl,” he murmured. “I’ll put Maya to bed. See you in the morning.”

No reluctance. No more questions. No trying to make sense of whatever had just passed between them.

Because nothing had changed. And that was the point. Whatever had been said, whatever had happened—he wasn’t going anywhere.

Leela didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to. He caught the way her fingers curled into her palm gently like she was holding onto the warmth he’d left behind. There was a little curve that rested on the edge of her lips.

Joel didn’t look back as he left the room, didn’t linger in the doorway like he sometimes did. He just walked upstairs to Maya's quiet little corner of the world, enduring, sure, carrying her small weight against his chest.

Carefully, he lowered her into the crib, unfurling her fists from his collar. She stirred, a breathy sigh escaping her lips as she calmed into a deeper sleep.

Joel sighed, pressing his hands against the crib’s edge, but he didn’t move. He just stood there, staring down at her, at the impossible being that she was.

Warm, breathing, real. A perfect thing born from ruin.

Joel swallowed against the knot tightening in his throat. How the hell did something like her come from so much pain? From something that had swallowed her mother whole?

He didn’t know how it had happened. Didn’t know when he had stopped just watching from the outside and stepped into the mess of it. Didn’t know how someone like him—someone as stained, someone as wrecked—had ended up here, standing over something so goddamn perfect.

Nothing mattered because the truth was—he wouldn’t undo it. Wouldn’t take back a single second of this.

His breath ached with that same old, familiar twist as he reached down, brushing his fingers over Maya’s impossibly small hand.

She twitched, her lips parting slightly in sleep, and goddamn it—he felt it everywhere. Joel let a small grin pull at his lips as he curled his fingers around hers, feeling the faintest squeeze in return. Yeah, she was all his.

He sighed, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. Once. Then again. Then a third time, lingering, his lips brushing over her fine, downy hair, drinking in the warmth of her, the scent of her, the sheer, impossible realness of her.

No, nothing had changed.

But somehow, everything had.

X

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[jeraliey]

I found a pair of pants at a thrift store which really caught my eye, but had a giant hole in them...which turned out to be value-added, of course. So I filled it in with a big yellow scotch-darning patch:

And I was going to leave it with the big yellow blotch because I didn't really have the right colors in my thread box to match the fabric palette for embroidering......but then I was up way too late last night and decided that it would be fine if I just approximated them by using threads of two different colors.....

And I think it turned out pretty well!

Distance shot:

Yay for freehand embroidery practice! The more I do of these, the braver I'm getting!

[fairestwriting]

Azul, Ruggie, and Lilia seeing their crush sleeping with a plush that looks like them! (An octopus plush, hyena doll, and a bat!)

𐙚 Azul Ashengrotto

When he tries to think of a sea creature that could make for a good design for a plush toy, octopi definitely aren’t the first to come to mind. It’s not like he’s never seen an octopus plush before. He just can’t bring himself to think they look cute and cuddly enough, they read more like a marketing mistake to him— or that’s what he would want others to believe, at least.

He actually has a bit of a soft spot for plush toys. They’re not much of a thing back home, where fabric usage is restricted only to things that can survive the harshness of the salt water. The plushies he’s seen for sale there aren’t as cute looking as the ones he’s seen on land, he’s firmly decided, then kept it to himself because the thought of having opinions on “children’s toys” at his age feels too embarrassing.

Azul maybe had a passing thought about you owning an octopus plush before, but dismissed it as him being kind of desperate. After all, even landmade octopus plushes aren’t really that cute, are they… you’d probably prefer something that’s easier to hold. And that’s if you even like that kind of stuff at all— He honestly thinks of you so highly sometimes, the idea of you owning plush toys feels unrealistic. Even if that thought itself doesn’t make that much sense.

You maybe had invited him over to study, the day he walks in and sees you with that plush, and it almost made him trip on nothing when he did. ”Ah, I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d be asleep! Would you prefer I come back some other time?” He says in a flustered rush, it’s really a trial for him to get his thoughts back together if you, on top of everything else, ask him to stay. Inside his mind, the scene is crystallized like a crucial memory, and he feels flustered all over again when he comes back to it. If you two did study that day, he didn’t memorize a single word.

𐙚 Ruggie Bucchi

He’s seen little plush hyenas on storefronts back home, there’s been periods where they were trendy in his neighborhood too. Maybe he’s even mended one of the toys before, or purchased one or two to give out as a gift. They’re all far from being high quality, probably even a little wonky looking, he never thought too much about them.

If you ever expressed an interest in plushies, he’s definitely made you a little something as a gift. Maybe a plush keychain, since sewing a doll by hand would require an amount of time he sadly doesn’t have. It may have been a hyena or not, when doing this his first thought is to go for whatever your favorite animal is, and hyenas aren’t exactly the most popular, right? The association of the gift with himself doesn’t really come to mind at first.

Then, one day, he comes over to your dorm room to check up on you — it’s just a thing he likes doing from time to time — and he sees you asleep with the plushie in your arms. Ruggie’s heart melts, it immediately reminds him of home, he can’t resist taking a sneaky picture to keep to himself. “Shishi, I didn’t know you missed me so much while I was busy”, he lovingly teases you when you wake up. He’ll be curious about where you got it, wanting to know more about the “little guy”, as he calls it.

The whole thing makes him feel really proud of himself. He takes a little break to hang out with you and just relax for a moment, so you ”don’t have to feel lonely” when he leaves for his Lounge shift. One day, you come back to your bedroom to find out that a yellow bandana was tied around your doll’s neck, a tiny, embroidered thing made to look like the one Ruggie wears with his dorm uniform.

𐙚 Lilia Vanrouge

There’s no surprises here, because he 100% bought the plushie and gifted it to you himself. You couldn’t possibly beat him to it when he’s so often thinking about how endearing you are doing this or that. He walked by the store, the idea popped up in his mind, and so he executed his plan. It was only a matter of time until he would get to see you being cute with it.

Lilia’s very straightforward about it. “I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t be too sad whenever I’m away,” He tells you when he hands over the gift, smiling wide. The plushie has an oddly really specific look, being bigger than what you’d imagine for a bat, with bead eyes that were almost the exact same color as his own. He may or may not have had it slightly altered. He was really a man on a mission with this one.

He already seems to linger around your dorm way too often, straight up inviting himself is a line he won’t cross, but he sure manages to find a lot of excuses to be around. Since giving you the plushie, it gets even more frequent. You hear lots of cheeky excuses, things about how he decided to try out Malleus’ exploration hobby, or supposed dorm vice leader duties that definitely don't exist. And he knows you don’t believe any of it too, he’s just being coy. It’s basically just one of the many ways he flirts with you.

When he shows up, Lilia tiptoes the line between your nightly free time and the moment you go to bed. He knows he could probably just watch you from outside the window, but where’s the fun in that? He wants to actually be allowed to get as close as he can, instead of just staring at a distant image through a glass pan. The night he finally sees it, he can’t stop smiling to himself. How silly, for an old man like him to get so giddy over something so small, he thinks while he giggles. You wake up to a single, slightly cryptic feeling text saying he’s happy you enjoyed his gift so much.

if you like my work you can support me by commissioning me or tipping me on ko-fi ── ᵎᵎ ✦

[hrrtshape]

hi emma!!!! i loved reading all your historical drs, have you ever considered being a writer omg!!! i was wondering if you could do one of ancient china or ancient korea! i’ve been setting up a nobility dr for each!

also, i started burning incense while i take baths, and omg if that’s even kind of like what it was in babylon im so thrilled for you. i feel like a princess.

a guide on how to survive in ancient china.

hello, intrepid time traveler. i'm emma, your self-appointed shifting guidée and general lifeline as you hurl yourself into the vast, intricate, and utterly fascinating world of ancient china. this is not for the faint of heart, OK??? you are stepping into a civilisation spanning thousands of years, shifting (pun not intended) dynasties, and mind-bending customs. you need to be prepared. the great wall won't save you, and confucius won't be there to give you a pep talk. so i will.

your survival depends on understanding the nuances of daily life, from the silk-clad heights of imperial courts to the dusty roads of peasant villages. let's get into it. how to dress, eat, navigate society, and, most importantly, how to not offend the wrong noble and end up in a very unfortunate situation (and by that, i mean executed).

꒰ 𝐝ynastic context . . .where are you in time?

ancient china isn't just a single moment in history but thousands of years of shifting rulers, laws, and customs. each period has its own political and cultural landscape, so research where you're landing. here's a quick guide to some of the major time periods you might find yourself in.

shang dynasty ( 1600 – 1046 bce ) : the bronze age, oracle bones, and human sacrifices. if you're here, be careful. early china was intense.

zhou dynasty ( 1046 – 256 bce ) : the age of confucius, the mandate of heaven, and the rise of philosophy.

qin dynasty ( 221 – 206 bce ) : the first emperor, legalist rule, and the construction of the great wall. harsh punishments, so keep your head down.

han dynasty  ( 206 bce – 220 ) : the golden age of china. silk road trade, confucian ideals, and thriving arts and sciences.

tang dynasty ( 618 – 907 ) : the height of chinese cultural brilliance. poetry, tea, and flourishing trade. if you're here, congratulations. you've landed in one of the best times.

song dynasty ( 960 – 1279 ) : economic prosperity, gunpowder, and great advancements in technology. just watch out for the mongols.

 　　　　　 　　　　　 　　　　　┊

꒰ 𝐰hat to wear.

fabric and style : if you're nobility, you'll be wearing silk robes with intricate embroidery. if you're a commoner, it's hemp or cotton tunics and pants. men and women both wear hanfu, the traditional robe-like attire with wide sleeves and layered skirts. hair : hair is a BIG deal. long, neatly styled hair is a sign of respectability. women will have their hair pinned up with elaborate ornaments, while men tie theirs in a topknot or wear hats. colours : certain colours indicate status. yellow is reserved for the emperor, so do not wear it unless you want serious trouble. shoes : cloth or leather shoes for commoners, embroidered silk shoes for the wealthy. lotus shoes (for bound feet) exist but are not universal.

❛ pro tip from your travel guide ! clothes often reflect rank, so don't dress above your station unless you want to get called out.

 　　　　　 　　　　　 　　　　　┊

꒰ 𝐡ygiene and personal care.

bathing : hot baths were a thing, especially for the wealthy, but commoners bathed in rivers or public bathhouses. soap existed, but herbal infusions were more common.

teeth cleaning : chew sticks made of aromatic wood or herbal pastes.

perfume and skincare : scented powders and oils made from flowers and herbs were common, especially among noblewomen.

toilets : public latrines existed, often near marketplaces. rich households had chamber pots.

 　　　　　 　　　　　 　　　　　┊

꒰ 𝐟ood and what you'll be eating.

staple foods : rice (southern china), millet and wheat (northern china), vegetables, and tofu.

meat or fish : pork was the most common, followed by chicken and duck. beef was rare due to buddhist influence.

street food : dumplings, noodles, and grilled skewers were available in bustling markets.

tea : a must-have, especially in later dynasties. if you're in tang or song china, tea culture is booming.

chopsticks : learn how to use them. forks are not an option.

 　　　　　 　　　　　 　　　　　┊

꒰ 𝐦oney and shopping.

ancient china used copper coins with square holes in the centre, strung together for convenience. paper money appears in the song dynasty.

everything from silk to fresh produce to exotic spices can be found in bustling markets. bargaining is expected, so don't accept the first price.

trade : silk, porcelain, and tea are major commodities. if you want to make money, consider trading luxury goods.

 　　　　　 　　　　　 　　　　　┊

꒰ 𝐬ocial class.

emperors or nobility : untouchable. bow deeply, avoid direct eye contact, and NEVER question them. scholars and officials : the ruling class of confucian-trained bureaucrats. respect them. merchants : despite their wealth, merchants were looked down upon as lower-class (confucian ideals valued scholars over businessmen). peasants and labourers : the majority of the population, hardworking and tied to their land. if you're asking what were women's roles, it varies by dynasty, but generally, women are expected to be modest, obedient, and skilled in household arts.

❛ pro tip from your travel guide ! bowing is essential. use honourifics, speak respectfully, and never address a superior informally.

 　　　　　 　　　　　 　　　　　┊

꒰ 𝐩ersonal safety.

crime and punishment : punishments are often brutal, especially under legalist rule (think qin dynasty). avoid breaking the law.

superstitions : witchcraft accusations or defying social norms can be dangerous, especially for women.

if you're travelling, roads are dangerous, with bandits common in rural areas. if possible, travel with an armed escort.

military : avoid battles unless you're a trained warrior. war is frequent between dynasties and neighbouring states.

 　　　　　 　　　　　 　　　　　┊

꒰ 𝐟inal tips for a successful integration.

please.....learn basic mandarin (or classical chinese). speaking the language is key. written chinese changes over time, so be aware of your era.

adopt confucian values, such as respect for elders, duty, and harmony are essential cultural pillars.

stay in your lane, because blending in is survival. don't attract unnecessary attention.

rituals, festivals, and ancestral worship are vital parts of daily life. follow traditions.

if all else fails, claim to be a wandering scholar or lost noble (but tread carefully).

congratulations!!!! you now have the basic knowledge needed to navigate ancient china without causing a diplomatic incident. or worse, getting yourself executed. step lightly, speak wisely, and drink your tea politely. happy shifting, time traveler!!!!!

( p.s., the pretty dividers were inspired by the ever-so-lovely @solanasreality and i think @elysian-fawn 's beautiful creativity possessed as i edited this. so. )

[gatheringbones]

[“Magnificence in clothes was considered a prerogative of the nobles, who should be identifiable by modes of dress forbidden to others. In the effort to establish this principle as law and prevent “outrageous and excessive apparel of divers people against their estate and degree,” sumptuary laws were repeatedly announced, attempting to fix what kinds of clothes people might wear and how much they might spend.

Proclaimed by criers in the county courts and public assemblies, exact gradations of fabric, color, fur trimming, ornaments, and jewels were laid down for every rank and income level. Bourgeois might be forbidden to own a carriage or wear ermine, and peasants to wear any color but black or brown. Florence allowed doctors and magistrates to share the nobles’ privilege of ermine, but ruled out for merchants’ wives multicolored, striped, and checked gowns, brocades, figured velvets, and fabrics embroidered in silver and gold. In France territorial lords and their ladies with incomes of 6,000 livres or more could order four costumes a year; knights and bannerets with incomes of 3,000 could have three a year, one of which had to be for summer. Boys could have only one a year, and no demoiselle who was not the châtelaine of a castle or did not have an income of 2,000 livres could order more than one costume a year. In England, according to a law of 1363, a merchant worth £1,000 was entitled to the same dress and meals as a knight worth £500, and a merchant worth £200 the same as a knight worth £100. Double wealth in this case equaled nobility.

Efforts were also made to regulate how many dishes could be served at meals, what garments and linens could be accumulated for a trousseau, how many minstrels at a wedding party. In the passion for fixing and stabilizing identity, prostitutes were required to wear stripes, or garments turned inside out. Servants who imitated the long pointed shoes and hanging sleeves of their betters were severely disapproved, more because of their pretensions than because their sleeves slopped into the broth when they waited on table and their fur-trimmed hems trailed in the dirt. “There was so much pride amongst the common people,” wrote the English chronicler Henry Knighton, “in vying with one another in dress and ornaments that it was scarce possible to distinguish the poor from the rich, the servant from the master, or a priest from other men.”

Expenditure of money by commoners pained the nobles not least because they saw it benefiting the merchant class rather than themselves. The clergy considered that this expenditure drained money from the Church, and so condemned it on the moral ground that extravagance and luxury were in themselves wicked and harmful to virtue. In general, the sumptuary laws were favored as a means of curbing extravagance and promoting thrift, in the belief that if people could be made to save money, the King could obtain it when necessary. Economic thinking did not embrace the idea of spending spending as a stimulus to the economy.

The sumptuary laws proved unenforceable; the prerogative of adornment, like the drinking of liquor in a later century, defied prohibition. When Florentine city officials pursued women in the streets to examine their gowns, and entered houses to search their wardrobes, their findings were often spectacular: cloth of white marbled silk embroidered with vine leaves and red grapes, a coat with white and red roses on a pale yellow ground, another coat of “blue cloth with white lilies and white and red stars and compasses and white and yellow stripes across it, lined with red striped cloth,” which almost seemed as if the owner were trying to see how far defiance could go.”]

barbara w. tuchman, from a distant mirror: the calamitous 14th century, 1987

[shortnotsweet]

This technically applies to my Stepmother AU in which Alicent is around six years older than Rhaenyra, and occupies a wicked stepmother role as opposed to ex ‘friends-to-first loves-to-enemies’. Despite lacking the foundation of shared girlhood, both find simultaneous comfort and rivalry in one another, and undergo a gravitational pull. A young Rhaenyra’s eagerness to participate in swordplay and political affairs at a young is accommodated for, and she grows up with a sword in one hand and the weight of experience in another, which further helps pave her way to the throne.

Alicent’s Costuming

Alicent’s clothing is almost entirely bottle, emerald, or forest green. While there is layering present in her skirts and jackets, the accent should always be a darker green than the base color. The fabric is deep, rich, and retains an undeniably high-quality luster. Look to velvets and silks. Gold embroidery lingers around her sleeves, neck, and hemline to elevate the coloring.

Metallic embellishments should be almost military-like, and appear heavy. Contribute to the imagery of chains or shackles in addition to her status

Draws inspiration from historically accurate stiffness and Victorian shapes, with a tapered waist, imposing, puffy sleeves, and a high neckline. Despite inaccuracies, this shape is evocative of someone elegantly and conservatively feminine, repressed, and capable of exerting power over others. Reference a classic, trussed hourglass shape. Skirts should be notably heavy and full; may make noise in movement

The coloring and shapes remain relatively consistent but lack variation; this is to demonstrate a lack of freedom and exploration, as well as an adherence to conventional feminine roles

Despite these limitations, her costuming should always be put-together, coordinated, and unquestionably fashionable. Tight sleeve cuffs may be accompanied by a more traditionally medieval fan sleeve

Shoes should stick mostly to slippers, or flat designs

In this AU, her hair leans more towards a dark brown instead of auburn, as her show counterpart. This is mostly due to faux-book accuracy and to simplify the sketch process, since keeping her hair darker in comparison to Rhaenyra’s lighter hair translates more easily in uncolored renderings.

Keep her hair either in a tidy bun or pulled back and loose; avoid too many intricate shapes, braids, or styles. Occasionally, the hair will hang loose. Lean into medieval or royal headpieces, clips, coverings, etc.

Rhaenyra’s Costuming

Rhaenyra’s clothes are primarily black and red, occasionally accented or substituted with neutrals such as beige, white, or gray. Exceptions may include blue or yellow, but she generally stays in this color palette.

Strong focus is drawn to her shoulders and neckline, sometimes with embroidered or embellished detailing. She often has strong, angular shoulders in her dresses or jackets, occasionally theatrically pointed. Off-the shoulder necklines emphasize her collarbones and a certain broadness.

There should be decent variety in her clothing; there is a hypothetical outfit for every occasion and more (for battle, for riding, everyday, formal, feasts, everyday, etc.), and most should be composed of multiple pieces and utilize generous layering. This includes under-fabric, belts and corsets, jackets and doublets, draped fabric for aesthetic purpose, and even functional capes.

Most of her clothes should provide visual aid for movement; additional fabric to her skirts, for example. Her clothes should be highly stylized but still easy to move in. In riding and battle gear, it is presumed that she wears pants and boots under her skirts, even if they are not visible.

Shoes lean more into boot cuts, still practical but should have a sleek and uniform quality to them. When she walks, she should make some kind of noise. Shoes should usually be black or potentially red, the latter for decorative purposes.

Overall her style should be more contemporary and lean into the fantasy element. She’s not opposed to oriental details or showing skin, and her costumes should reflect both couture-height drama and period-reliant aspects. Longer lines and diagonal hems mean she is not as devoted to an hourglass shape, and her high collars should always be decorative in some respect.

Keep her hair long and mostly loose, sometimes pulled back. Small braids should be implied as incorporated. Occasional hairstyles feature complicated braids. With the exception of highly decorative braided styles, simple buns should be avoided unless accompanied with very high necklines.

Avoid headpieces that are not either a) her crown or b) ceremonial.

[interstellarflare]

A Cinderella Story || Anthony Bridgerton

-PART THREE-

Summary: Have courage, and be kind. Words that you tried to live by ever since the passing of your parents. Though your step-mother and step-sisters did everything in their power to hide you and your status away from the rest of the Ton, you never expected to catch the eye of Viscount Anthony Bridgerton himself.

Authors Note: This is my first Bridgerton series! I had an absolute ball writing this, and I hope you enjoy it! There is a tag list open if anyone wishes to be kept updated for future parts. Gif by @greengableslover

|PART ONE| |PART TWO|

The house was in shambles.

Mary had thrown almost every single dress she had bought on her bedroom floor, crying loudly that she ‘simply had nothing to wear’. Though you tried to reassure her that she in fact did, and that she would eventually find something that would make her stand out amongst the other debutants tonight, she didn’t believe you.

“This is all so hopeless!” She shouted sadly, tears streaming down her cheeks as she threw a deep purple dress across the room, the embroidered fabric smacking you in the face in its flight path to her dresser. You grimaced, shaking your head and brushing your hair from your face as you sighed lightly. “It’s not hopeless, I promise…” you tried to soothe as Mary continued to ball her eyes out “what about that light blue one you tried in earlier? That was very beautiful?”

“No! I cannot wear that! I hear Eloise Bridgerton is wearing a similar colour, and I will not be compared to her…” Mary squealed in protest, throwing another expensive dress across the room, a flash of yellow and gold “I am far better, and prettier!”.

Your shoulders slumped in defeat, your patience wearing thin as you picked up the numerous clumps of fabric scattered around the room. There was really nothing you could do except try to comfort her during her meltdown, whilst trying to keep your own head. As you began to lay the dresses out on Mary’s bed once more one by one, there was a faint knock at her bedroom door.

You lifted your head, spying Elizabeth standing in the doorway shyly as she fiddled with her hands in front of her. “If you aren’t too busy, I require some help in choosing a dress as well” She spoke softly, before disappearing back down the hallway just as quickly as she appeared. Pressing your lips together in a thin line, you hummed a short reply, turning your gaze back to Mary who once again descended into hysterics.

“Go! Leave me alone, I shall die of embarrassment now that I have nothing but these rags to choose from!” She exclaimed, dramatically collapsing onto her side and covering herself with her bed covers, beginning to sob loudly as she buried her head into her pillow. You glowered down at her, a small sense of jealousy and envy forming in your chest. Had your situation been different, you would have loved to have such a selection of beautiful clothes. Your father always bought you some of the nicest things on his travels abroad, whether they be small trinkets or delicately made clothes.

A sense of sadness and guilt replaced that feeling of jealousy and envy. You missed your father terribly, but you felt guilty for feeling this way. You weren’t entirely sure why, but as you left Mary’s room and made your way to Elizabeth’s, you decided that you could reminisce about your family later.

Upon entering Elizabeth’s bedroom, you almost gasped audibly in relief. Her room was completely tidy, unlike the previous monstrosity you had just left. There were three dresses splayed out on her bed. The one on the left was a pale light green, adorned completely in a delicate floral lace pattern that descended all the way to the floor with matching white satin gloves. The one in the middle was a deep royal blue satin, completely unadorned except for a white bejewelled belt underneath the bust. And the one on the right was a beautiful light pink, adorned in a delicate white floral lace which fanned out slightly below the end of the dress. Parts of the lace were adorned in small white pearls, which no doubt would have made the dress incredibly valuable…and eye-wateringly expensive.

Elizabeth looked up at you shyly, brushing her auburn hair from her shoulder as she sighed heavily. “I…I need your help deciding what one I should wear…” She spoke softly, her eyes falling back to the bed as she stuttered “I don’t want to look too desperate…but I also want to look pretty enough to attract his attention away from the others…”

You raised an eyebrow questioningly as you closed the door behind you, leaning against the white panel with a confused expression. “Who are you trying to impress?” You asked kindly, tilting your head to the side as you waited for her response. Elizabeth’s gaze met yours, and a bright blush formed on her cheeks as she shifted her position on her bed. “I…it’s Lord Burton. We met late last season, before it’s end actually. He was incredibly sweet, he took interest in my writings, and we have a shared passion for theatre…but his attention was drawn to one of the Lady Featherington’s daughters…”

You could see the sadness forming on her face as she began to idly pick at her bedsheets, sighing nervously as she breathed deeply. “After embarrassing myself before Lord Bridgerton, I realised that I am truly an ignorant person…and I don’t wish to be that anymore. So I ask you, will you help me choose a dress for Lady Danbury’s ball tonight? It would…mean a lot to me if you did.”

Your head straightened and your eyes widened, a strange feeling of acceptance forming in your chest. Neither of your stepsisters had ever acted this kindly towards you before, least of all actually apologised for their behaviour. Yet here Elizabeth was, a guilty look on her face as she waited for your answer.

“If you don’t I completely understand, I haven’t exactly been the most welcoming step-sister to you-“

“The pink one” you blurted out, pushing off the door and making your way over to her side. Your reply surprised you. You should feel annoyed, furious even. After everything she and Mary had done to you, should you really have been so quick to help her? You picked up the dress and held it up before you, examining every intricate detail of the lace and the fabric. Your gaze turned back to Elizabeth, her sadness now replaced with happiness…and gratitude.

“It’s really beautiful. If Lord Burton doesn’t notice you in this…then he is a fool” You spoke kindly, extending the dress towards her as a gesture of forgiveness. Elizabeth’s eyes softened as she gently took the dress from you, smiling kindly as she spoke “I know I haven’t been the best sister, nor really a good person towards you…but thank you. Though I do have to ask, why are you always so kind? Especially to my sister and my mother?”

You shrugged your shoulders, “Have courage, and be kind. It was something that my mother taught me before she passed. It means that you must always have courage to do the things you want, and to be kind to everyone you meet, no matter their treatment of you…kindness goes a long way.”

With those parting words, you left Elizabeth’s room and returned to the attic for a moment of peace. You would be back downstairs in an hour or so to Lady Worthington and her daughters get dressed, but you allowed a small smile to cross your face at Elizabeth’s kindness.

“You have been awfully distracted since you returned home, dear brother. Tell me, what is on your mind?” Benedict asked somewhat teasingly, collapsing onto the lounge beside him with a loud huff of effort.

Anthony didn’t reply. He was consumed in thought, his mind mulling over something Eloise had said after the two of them had made their escape from Lady Worthington and her daughters.

“Anthony, you truly are blind. If you look closer at someone, like really look, and see past their dress, then perhaps you will see the truth behind a well-crafted-“

“A ‘well-crafted’ what, Eloise? What are you insinuating about Lady Worthington? Perhaps, she supposedly keeping a huge secret from the ton? One that would cause scandal and outrage should news get out?”

“Well…I didn’t say it…”

She had said those words with such sarcasm and malice, that it had stuck with him for the remainder of the afternoon. Eloise hadn’t looked at him since their return home. It was so unlike her, she wouldn’t speak to anyone except Colin. Surely this entire situation didn’t have anything to do with you…did it?

“Hello? Anthony…are you there?”

“Hm?” The Viscount asked, eyes blown wide as he eventually realised that he was not alone in the parlour room. Benedict laughed, lightly punching his brother’s shoulder as he rolled his eyes.

“What is going on with you? You’ve been very quiet since your return home, and Eloise is in a right mood-“

“If you’re here to bother me, it’s working” Anthony grumbled, shifting his position to rest his chin in the palm of his hand. He heard Benedict chuckle loudly, the sound echoing across the room.

“No, I would never do that!” Benedict mused offendedly, leaning closer to his brother and speaking in a more hushed tone. “Buuut…what happened between the two of you? I don’t think I’ve ever seen the two of you this mad at each other-“

“It’s really none of your concern…” Anthony snapped, now turning to face his brother with a stern glare “…I’m not really sure if I know if it’s any of my concern”.

“Right, I won’t ask. But I suggest you make amends, otherwise the ball tonight will go very poorly…” Benedict mused informatively before an amused chuckled escaped him “…well, it will go poorly for you. I myself will enjoy your misfortune-“

“You’re such a child” Anthony scowled, becoming more annoyed by his brother’s presence by the second.

Benedict smiled sarcastically, “I know”.

Tag List:

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@misscaller06 @slayqueenizzy @everythingmarveltopgun @idek-what-to-put

@everythingbagel00 @thecraziestcrayon @bollzinurmouth @reejero

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@craziblondi @moonbird1507 @mintydump @inutheangel @formula1-motogpfan

[the-fiction-witch]

As Do I P3

Media - EPIC The Musical Saga Character - Prince Telemachus Of Ithaca Couple - Telemachus X Reader Reader - Princess Y/n of Zakynthos Rating - 15 (Mentions of tragedy and the gods being... Gods.) Word Count - 1559

Requests -

dorkyfangirl24 - I’m ✨waiting✨ for part 2 lol, I know u just wrote this and I don’t want pressure you but please tell me this will be a full story. However long u want it to be but like more parts at least?!!! This is so good! I’m waiting for the next part lol histtoricbittch - With all due respect, hoW DARE YOU TO LEVE IT LIKE THAT 😔💕 damn, can't wait for more

Tags - (If you would like to be tagged in this series do just let me know) @sunshinewhosketches

Art By Gigi

Writers Notes - *Spoiler* There is a small song in this, that I did write, I know it's not the best, but I just thought it was super cute! I tried to make it so it kinda... goes in time with songs in EPIC.

Telemachus wandered through the expansive palace gardens, his sandals softly crunching against the grass and scattered pebbles beneath his feet. He moved purposefully among the vibrant blooms, their colours a riot of reds, yellows, and purples, while the tall trees swayed gently in the warm breeze. Sweetly adorned statues of gods and goddesses stood watch, their stone features weathered but graceful, and he glanced at each in hopeful anticipation of finding Y/n. Each time, however, he was met with disappointment, the empty spaces around the statues only deepened his sense of defeat.

As the sun sank lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the manicured lawns, a knot of worry tightened in his chest. What if she hadn't come at all? Anger flared within him at the thought that her brother might have interfered, thwarting their long-awaited meeting. Just as frustration threatened to overwhelm him, a hauntingly beautiful siren's song drifted through the air, wrapping around him like a warm embrace. The melody stirred something deep within his heart, instantly melting his rage and igniting a flicker of hope that perhaps, just perhaps…

Telemachus turned the corner, and a wave of emotion washed over him, causing his eyes to glisten with unshed tears.

Before him, at the very edge of the palace gardens, stood a stone gazebo, its elegantly carved roof resembling the delicate patterns of ancient lace. The six textured columns, each uniquely detailed, rose majestically from the ground. Surrounding the gazebo were dense clusters of lush red and white roses, their petals trembling gently in the warm breeze, releasing a sweet, intoxicating fragrance that filled the air. Above, the sky transformed into an enchanting canvas of red, gold, purple, and white, the colours swirling and mingling like a sunset painting that stretched all the way to the horizon, where it kissed the gentle waves of the ocean below.

In the center of this serene setting, sat Y/n, perched elegantly on a stone bench. She wore a floor-length white gown, its flowing fabric intricately embroidered with delicate purple floral patterns along the hems and softly cascading down her shoulders. A shimmering silver necklace hung low against her chest, adding a touch of elegance to her presence. Her curls cascaded around her, framing her face and creating a veil that shrouded her in mystery as she sang, her voice a haunting melody that echoed softly through the gardens,

“As the waves, Wash the shore, And the stone turns to sand, I’m left wondering and waiting where I stand. Hoping now for something more, Am I to bare all that I am, On the words of another, Life a cursed by an elder man, And now the mercy of my brother, How many times but I apologize, For words said before my time, How many tears must pass my eyes, For another’s crime, But you have made me this, And now I beg you mercy, So I may have a single peace. And hope that for love, I am worthy.”

“That… that was beautiful.” he cooed,

Y/n gasped as she turned to see him, “Forgive me, My prince. I- I didn’t hear you,”

“There is nothing to forgive, my darling,” He stepped closer closing the gap between them, “May I?”

She nodded softly, forcing away a smile,

Telemachus sat at her side careful not to sit on her dress offering her his hand,

Slowly she slid her hand into his own, and let their fingers intertwine, “I- I didn’t know you were listening,”

“Did you not want me to listen?” he asked, “I am afraid I can no more unhear such beauty than I can un-see you.”

“I suppose that is true,”

“You’re song… it was so… captivating and yet so tragic.” he beams, “I think I can guess, to what it ode’s too.” His spare hand rose to her face pushing away her hair to reveal her face, his chuckles tracing her cheekbone his eyes squarely on her own, “There you are, my darling,”

“Forgive me, you need not-” she began trying to move away,

“I told you before, all of you is beautiful to me, utterly and completely every inch that exists.” he reaffirmed, “Your eye is beautiful, for it is part of you.”

“Thank you, Telemachus,” she blushed,

“You are very welcome,” he said, “I had a … pleasant meeting with your brother today,”

“How delightful for you,” she joked, “He did mention it to me,””

“Did he now?” He smirked a little, “I suppose he told you, you are forbidden from going anywhere near that damned prince of Ithaca,”

“Something to the sound, yes.” She nodded,

“And yet,” He shuffled closer, “You are here with me,”

She blushed harder, “Yes, I wanted to… I wanted to see you.”

“As did I,” He cooed,

“He doesn’t know I’m gone,”

“Humm quiet the sneaky, little princess.” he joked, “I am very lucky, you would choose to sneak out to see me.”

“As am I.” she cooed,

“But I must ask, whom do you apologize to in your song?”

“…it is complicated,”

“Forgive me, You need not tell me.”

“No. I should.” she nodded her eyes falling briefly to the grass, “You should know,”

“Know what, my darling?” He asked picking her chin up to meet his eyes once more,

“My father Pellantos… desired a large family.” She said sadly, “He built his palace with a hundred rooms and wanted them all to be filled with the songs and sounds of his kin. When my mother grew up with my brother, he built a whole fleet in his honour before he was even born. Said he would give him all the world, and make the gods bend the knee to my brother.”

“Explains his… audacity.” Telemachus jokes,

“I suppose so,” she chuckled,

“And you?”

“…When my mother grew pregnant with me, a priestess of Leto told them I would be their first daughter and that I would be beautiful beyond measure.”

“I believe them,” He smiled, “Truly I do,”

She blushed again before she turned her face to the water. “But…”

“But?”

“But, the day after I was born, my father presented me to our people… and declared to all who would listen.” she began, “He said, ‘My Daughter, Y/n Princess of Zakynthos, is the most beautiful creature ever to walk this earth, the sweetest child ever to grace this realm, wars will be fought for her words, kingdoms will burn for her gaze, for she is even more beautiful than Aphrodite.’”

Telemachus gasped,

“And as you can imagine… Aphrodite was not flattered.”

“I- I can’t imagine she was,” he nodded,

“She was enraged. A fire sparked in her temple. People on the island grew sick. And… meer nights later, while I lay sleeping in my crib, a dove came to the window. My father thought it a sign of peace from Aphrodite, but it was not.” She met Telemachus’ eye pulling back her hair to reveal all of her face and every inch of the scar that ran across it.

“The- Th- No.” he gasped shaking his head in fear,

She nodded, “The dove’s talons clawed my eye.”

“Y/n… My darling…”

“It would have blinded me or killed me. If my mother had not traded her life to the goddess to protect me." She explained, “My father blames me for taking away the only woman he will ever love, the people of the island say I cursed them all, and my brother… thinks I’m a monster.”

“Y/n,” Telemachus cooed, “You are not a monster, you are not a curse, you cannot be blamed in any way for the words of a joyful father at the birth of his first little girl, you were but a babe and that you carry any- ANYTHING! Of this, guilt, scar or trauma breaks me in two my darling.” He explained tearfully, “I swear this, on every god in this world. I will never, ever make you feel like anything that has happened, is your fault.” he said resting his forehead on hers,

“You mean it?” She cried,

“I do,” he nodded, “With all my heart, my darling.”

“Thank you,” she smiled nuzzling her head into his neck,

Without even hesitating for a mere second, Telemachus wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her tight and safe into his chest.

“I will keep you safe if you’ll let me keep you in my arms.”

She nodded silently,

“Say you’ll stay with me, and I will never have you cry a single tear again, My darling.” He told her, “I want you to stay with me, safe and sound, be my wife, have my children, be my queen, I never want you to leave me. I want you, I want you to stay here.”

“As do I.” she whispered, “I want to stay here with you,” she picked her head up to meet his eyes,

Telemachus began to cry small tears of joy as he batted her nose with his own, “Say you love me, and you never have to leave.”

She hesitated for a fleeting moment, a flutter of uncertainty dancing in her chest. The warmth of his presence enveloped her, casting aside her doubts. With a deep breath, she closed the distance between them. As their lips finally met, a soft and beautiful kiss that spoke magnitudes, ignited a spark that lingered in the air around them. Time seemed to pause as they shared that moment, surrounded by a world that faded into nothing.

[sweetlyfez]

As I promised @elodieunderglass (ty for the reminder), pictures of my finished (ish) crazy quilted notebook covers.

If you haven't previously heard of crazy quilting, it was a HUGE craze among housewives in the late 19th century, which revolved around patchworking and appliqueing together irregularly shaped fabric scraps and then embellishing the shit out of them.

I embarked on this project because after filing away the idea of crazy quilts from a coffee table book my spouse picked up in a charity shop a year or so ago, I saw a couple of people on youtube sharing their work; and because I needed covers for my next junk journal.

I cleaved pretty close to the base principles of the style - using precious scraps, making as much of them as possible, and creating a canvas for lots of embroidered embellishment. These two 5x7ish pieces barely used up any volume of my accumulated scraps so there will be more crazy quilting in my future, once I think of ways to make use of it.

I'm very pleased with how the compositions came together, and it was lots of fun picking the embroidery thread colours to speak to all the different patches. Actually the whole things was stupid fun and I worked on barely any other projects or, in fact, chores while Iw as working on it. Next time I will probably match the weight of my fabrics more closely (mostly bc the velvets have made things lumpier than I'd have liked), and I'll prewash the old bits retrieved from my nan's sewing box bc when I rinsed the embroidery pen out from the wild rose piece the pink bled and I was quite lucky it was mostly synthetic patches around it.

Under the cut for an inventory of scraps used (all out of stash)

"love" embroidery, from a magazine kit released ca 2018/19

orange & pink flower print, velvets, floral corduroy, ribbon, and pink twill all from my Nan's sewing box

Pink silk leftover from my wedding dress, flower print and the translucent silk the spider is mounted on from a scrap bag - all from Beckford silks (they don't carry the scrap bags on their website but they're well worth a visit in person if you're in the neighbourhood)

The other printed silk was a tunic of mine which stood up poorly to wear

Blotchy yellow and rust silk from a natural printing demo

Green corduroy and black flower print viscose from Will's sewing projects

Blue and fuchsia check from my old pjs

planets print quilting cotton bought for a hat band from the remnants bin of the friendly local fabric shop

green leaf ribbon leftover from an Audrey ii costume

[degournay]

St. Laurent is one of our most visually rich Chinoiserie designs, depicting an oriental garden in full, vibrant bloom. Inspired by antique panels once owned by Yves Saint Laurent and Pierre Bergé, de Gournay’s interpretation preserves the original’s dramatic scale and grandeur. The design is distinguished by its intricate depictions of elaborate peacocks and doves among exotic flowers like Peony, Prunus, Camellia, and Chrysanthemum—species that were highly regarded as exotic during the era.

[nanamincreampie]

Flower Crown King

Heian Era!Sukuna Ryomen x Black plus size Reader

The sun-kissed the gardens of Sukuna’s estate, casting golden light over the carefully cultivated blooms. You wandered barefoot through the soft grass, humming a cheerful tune. Your lavender yukata, embroidered with delicate flowers, hugged the fullness of your curves, the obi cinching your waist perfectly. The fabric brushed gently against your soft hips as you moved, sunlight illuminating the warm undertones of your deep, radiant skin.

Your natural curls framed your face in a crown of soft coils, free and untamed, each springy curl seemingly alive with its own personality. No matter how many times you tucked them back, a few stubborn strands fell across your cheeks and into your eyes, but you didn’t mind. A small, mischievous smile played on your full lips as your fingers worked deftly to weave together a crown of flowers. The vibrant yellow marigolds, soft pink camellias, and snowy white chrysanthemums were artfully intertwined, each petal chosen carefully.

Nearby, Sukuna sat beneath a sprawling cherry blossom tree, his massive figure clad in a rich crimson kimono with black patterns swirling across the fabric like smoke. His four arms rested in his lap or crossed over his chest, his sharp crimson eyes fixed on the horizon as though contemplating something dark and profound. His presence radiated authority, power, and danger—enough to strike fear into anyone who dared to approach him.

Anyone except you.

His Beautiful wife

You skipped over to him, flower crown in hand, your curls bouncing with each step. Sukuna’s gaze flicked toward you, and his expression darkened immediately.

“What now?” he grumbled, his voice low and rough, like a distant storm.

You ignored his tone and held up the flower crown. “I made this for you, my lord,” you teased, your eye unwavering, the mischievous glint in your eye.

His crimson eyes narrowed as he regarded the delicate creation. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Wear it,” you said simply, stepping closer. “It’ll look good on you.”

Sukuna leaned back slightly, exhaling an irritated sigh. “You’re insufferable,” he muttered.

“And yet, you married me,” you shot back with a grin, reaching up to place the crown atop his head.

He froze, his sharp gaze fixed on you as the petals brushed against his scalp. You adjusted the crown with care, tilting your head to appraise your handiwork. “There,” you said, stepping back with a satisfied nod. “Perfect.”

Sukuna growled low in his throat, his sharp teeth flashing. “Do you have any idea how ridiculous this is?”

You laughed, the sound rich and warm like honey. “You’re wearing it, though,” you pointed out, your smile softening as your gaze met his.

He let out another grumble but didn’t remove the crown. “You’re lucky you’re my wife,” he muttered, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Later that day

Sukuna strode into the grand throne room of his estate. The room was a masterpiece of Heian architecture, with polished wooden floors, high ceilings adorned with intricate carvings, and shoji screens that allowed soft light to filter through. His servants and subjects had already gathered, kneeling respectfully on the tatami mats as they awaited his arrival.

The moment he entered, confusion and disbelief spread through the room. Sukuna’s towering figure commanded the usual awe and fear, but today, perched atop his head, was the flower crown you had made. The vibrant blossoms were a startling contrast to his fearsome appearance, and yet there it sat, crooked but unmistakably intact.

His crimson eyes scanned the room, daring anyone to comment. Not a single soul uttered a word, though some of the braver servants couldn’t help the tiny smiles tugging at their lips.

Sukuna settled onto his grand wooden throne, the massive seat befitting his imposing stature. His arms rested casually on the armrests, but his presence was anything but relaxed. When one of the peasants approached, trembling slightly as they presented their petition, Sukuna listened with his usual brooding intensity.

But from the shadows of the throne room, you watched the entire scene unfold, struggling to suppress your laughter. Seeing Sukuna the fearsome King of Curses, the terror sitting on his throne with a flower crown perched atop his head, addressing his subjects as though everything was completely normal, was almost too much to bear.

At one point, his gaze shifted slightly, and his crimson eyes locked onto yours. He raised an eyebrow, his expression a mix of irritation and amusement as if daring you to say something. You simply grinned and gave him a small wave, your curls bouncing as you did.

Later, when the throne room was empty and Sukuna returned to your side, he loomed over you, his arms crossed.

“You enjoyed that far too much,” he said, his voice low but laced with a hint of amusement.

“Of course I did,” you replied, stepping closer to adjust the now-slightly-tilted crown on his head. “You looked amazing.”

“Tch. Foolish woman,” he muttered, but he didn’t push you away. Instead, one of his lower arms reached out, pulling you against him with surprising gentleness.

And as you stood there, your cheek resting against his chest, the flower crown still sitting proudly atop his head, you knew that beneath all his gruffness and brooding, Sukuna adored you in his own quiet, begrudging way.

[lovelytsunoda]

club tropicana | lando norris

summary: on an all inclusive holiday in ibiza, y/n finds herself falling head over feet for the charming british barman

pairing: bartender!lando norris x female! reader

warnings: reader has some crappy former friends, please do not get into a car with a barman at a shitty three star spanish resort (lowkey inspired by my 'benidorm' rewatch), cameos from carlos and fernando, im so sorry that this took me literally a month and a half to write.

club tropicana drinks are free / fun and sunshine, its enough for everyone all that's missing is the sea / but don't you worry, you can suntan

the sun beat down on the resort-goers, reflecting off the chlorinated water in the swimming pool. sunbeds were arranged around the large body of water. swimmers in the pool sat on mosaic stools underwater to order drinks at the swim up bar.

she was supposed to be on this trip with her friends. well, some friends they were. ending a friendship over text with about six weeks left in her second-to-last university semester before graduation.

and so she had gone alone, to the most affordable three-and-a-half star resort in ibiza. truth be told, she hadn't wanted to go to the party island in the first place. if she didn't leave the resort, it wouldn't even matter.

bookmarking her page, she sat her copy of dark sacred night down on the sunbed and strode towards the pool. the pool was crowded, but the swim-up seats at the bar were, unfortunately, the easiest way to get a drink at the resort.

she took a deep breath and ducked below the water, swimming over to where the bar was. she liked being underwater. all her senses were dulled, and the noise of the real world seemed to fade away.

"one vodka orange, please." her voice was quieter than intended when she sat down at the bar, and for a moment she worried that the barman couldn't hear her.

"coming right up, love." the barman was british, with a mop of curly hair and a pale yellow resort shirt that had the name 'lando' embroidered over the heart. he winked at her as he got the vodka down from a shelf behind the bar and began to mix her drink.

lando wasn't oblivious to the understated beauty of the girl in front of him, water running down her soft skin and dipping into the curve between her breasts. her wide, gentle eyes. the way the orange fabric of her swimsuit hugged her curves.

she was wearing a one-piece, a rarity in ibiza.

"so," he asks, setting the drink down in front of her. "what brings you to spain"?

he always asks, even if he doesn't care. but one thing he's noticed since he started working behind the bar is that everybody has something to say, and sometimes they just need a stranger to say it too.

kind of like the characters in that old billy joel song, the one about the piano and the man at the bar making love to his tonic and gin.

and she doesn't know what it is about lando that put her so at ease, but suddenly shes talking and talking and can't make it stop and now he knows all about the three years of friendships she forged at university and how all she had to show for it were two refunded ryanair flights and a text message saying that they 'needed space' and 'our friendship will not be continuing at this time' with no explanation of what she had done to push them away in the first place.

funny that.

"does that sound ridiculous?" she cringed. "it sounds really silly now that i've said it out loud."

"people come to ibiza for dumber reasons. i worked in benidorm for two years, and you should see the train wrecks that come through there." lando laughed, leaning against the tiled bar. "you're better off without them, if you ask me. they sound very catty."

"catty is saying it nicely." she laughed along, sipping her vodka orange.

talking with lando was easy. more so, it seemed like he genuinely cared, and that he wanted to listen. it had been a long time since she had felt like anyone wanted to listen to her. even still, the voices in her head were getting harsher and harsher.

"what are your plans for later?" lando asked, head cocked to the side. "i've got this friend, he owns a party boat company."

"lando, i'm not getting on a spanish party boat with a man i hardly know." she cringed, stomach flip-flopping. had she gotten the total wrong idea about him? he seemed like the kind of guy who would know just about everybody in ibiza, and probably half of benidorm as well. "does anything that i've just told you make you think that i would literally at all be interested?

lando raised his eyebrows. "you didn't let me finish, love. he also does nighttime stargazing tours. that far out on the water, there's nothing in the way of you, the sky and the stars. i thought that was much more up your alley. i could take you tonight if you wanted to."

she felt a pit in her stomach and cursed herself for jumping to conclusions. for a moment, the barman had looked genuinely hurt, right now, though, he looked at her with puppy-dog eyes, and expression that inevitably made her cave.

after all, she was on vacation.

and here she was, waiting in the lobby of the hotel in a low cut black halter dress. she'd done her makeup, which was a rarity. she was tempted to turn her location tracker on, but wondered who she would share it with. she could always tell the woman working reception to call her at a set time, and then the police if she didn't answer, she supposed.

lando pulled up outside in a little fiat 500, looking dapper in a collared shirt. his hair was visibly caked in gel, and he smelled like expensive cologne.

far more expensive than a barman should have been able to afford.

"are you ready for the night of your life, milady?"

she fought the blush, looking at his extended arm. no doubt he wanted her to link her arm through his. and they said that romance was dead.

"take it away, bartender."

the fiat should have felt cramped, but instead felt cozy. spanish synthpop music played on the radio, something uplifting and calming as lando drove through the cobbled ibiza streets. she looked out the window in wonder, eyes wide as the city nightlife passed them by.

all too soon, they had arrived at the dock, and lando was speaking rapid-fire spanish to another man who was leaning through the window. they laughed, and the spaniard clapped lando on the shoulder before taking a small handful of bills from him.

the barman stepped out of the fiat, crossing around the car to open her door and help her out of the little hatchback car.

"your carriage awaits." he grinned, cocking his head in the direction of the boat. "come on, i got us the best seats."

on the boat, an older dj was playing a wham! record, 'club tropicana' blaring out over the sound system.

"when does the bar open?" she asked quietly. "i'm craving something."

"in about twenty minutes, as soon as we leave port." lando replied, resting his hands on her waist. "in the meantime, can i tempt you to a dance?"

ah, why the hell not?

"hey, fernando," lando started before rattling off something in spanish. the dj nodded once before changing the record on his turntable.

spanish synthpop.

lando took her hands in his, pulling her closer for a spirited dance, his hips swinging back and forth with abandon. she fought the urge to burst out laughing as she let him pull her close. the sun was dipping low over the horizon, and down at the dock the deckhands were getting ready to leave port.

but with lando's hands burning into her skin as he lead her in something that might have vaguely resembled the tango, she had forgotten all about the fact that she was on a stargazing cruise, not a latin dance boat.

she only realized the song was over when the audience that had gathered around her and lando had started to clap. red faced and blushing, she dropped lando's hands and shyly pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

"i think im ready for that drink now."

lando beamed, resting his hand in the small of her back. "of course, sweetheart. vodka orange?"

"you know me so well."

lando effortlessly slid behind the bar, hands flying as he grabbed glasses and bottles and shakers. she leaned against the bar, chin in her hand as she watched him work, muscles rippling in his forearms underneath the rolled-up sleeves of his white shirt.

he winked at her as he passed her the glass. by now, the sun had fully dipped below the horizon, and if one craned their neck up, they would be able to see a glimmering landscape of stars, uninterrupted by the muted lights on the boat.

lando came to stand behind her, his hands resting on her waist, protectively holding her body to his.

"so, be honest, this just made your trip a whole lot better, didn't it?"

despite herself, she laughed, relaxing into his touch. "yeah, it really did. thank you, lando."

"wait," he started, hand moving to her chin. "my job isn't quite done yet."

"what are you-"

she didn't get a chance to finish as the barman touched his lips to hers. they were soft. way softer than any barman's lips should be, well taken care of like the rest of the brit in front of her. she fell, no, tumbled into the kiss, feeling herself falling faster with every second that they spent lip-locked.

and she knew that there was no way that barman wasn't coming home with her. who needs return flights anyways? maybe she could just stay in ibiza and snog him for the rest of her her working life.

for now, though, she'd just settle with getting him into her hotel room.

[daemonbrain]

Little Viper

Prologue | Chapter 1

(Daemon Targaryen x Dornish!Reader)

Summary: The sun could not reach you here, not in this city of rain and stink. (Un)fortunately, you found yourself at the mercy of a dragon's fire.

You've missed the heat, you supposed.

3k, CW: arranged marriage, canon divergent, canon-typical violence, canon-typical misogyny, reader is homesick, smut, little bit angsty, will update as I post.

a/n: if your new the prologue isn't necessary to read, just some extra insights. tbh i like the writing on this better bc its nice and angsty 🥰 comments are always extra appreciated, happy reading!!

100 A.C.

It was too hot here.

You allowed the maids who had come into your washing chambers to scrub at your skin vigorously. The one to your right rubbing your arm near raw, it did not matter.

It felt healing to sink into the sweltering hot water, the humidity almost unbearable with the lack of circulation. The room was full of maids brought from Dorne tasked with tending to you hand and foot, to have you the very image of a Princess on your special day.

You dared not utter a word; you feared what you did not know. With your volatile state of mind, you did not know what would come out of your mouth. There was no feeling. Just the scrubbing, the heat, the incessant tugging at your hair.

…

The hours of diligent work upon your appearance made the sight you were. Your white gown embroidered with great care to detail, suns speckled about harmoniously with the textures of the fabric. The corset drawn so tight you could feign fainting halfway up the aisle.

As you stood outside of the great wooden doors to the throne room, the cloak of yellow and orange lay heavy on your shoulders. The burden of peace thrust to you and for the love you bore your people you would do your duty.

“Princess,” A voice interrupted. Shaking yourself from your stupor, you turn to heed the man’s words. “Are you ready?”

Nodding, you willed your quaking body to arrest the futile show of fear.

The absence of both your father Prince Mors and brother Prince Qoren left you lacking accompaniment to the altar where your promised would stand.

May the gods grant you many a more moons, father. Reap the harvest of peace sown through your abandonment.

Imprisoned in your brooding, it is unclear to know anything beyond that of your own body. The sound of the heavy doors being pushed, your title being heralded resonating through the room. Your body moving faster than your mind, possessing you to move forward.

May they grant your future reign stillness and calm, beloved brother. May they bless you with the choice of a joyful union when the time comes, built upon this peace.

In spite of the pace your heart raced, the in-style shoes popular among ladies of the capital forced a slow walk. You would not be fearful, not of a Targaryen. A Martell does not stoop their head down to the blood of the dragon. To be as stubborn as a mule was not to let the tears prickle at your eyes, nor allow the fury which claws at your throat like a bound beast rise to the surface.

Step after step, every noise previously present went quiet at the approaching bride.

Raising your head, you are met with a sight which triggers your urges to turn heel and run south until you felt the grainy sand of the Dornish desert beneath your feet again.

He was beautiful.

Your gaze is met with his own violet one. His mouth an unashamed and harsh line, as if there was nothing he loathed more than standing at the end of this oh so blessed procession. Like two furious crashing waves in a storm tossed sea, your own discontentment intensified as you pushed forward.

It felt like your lifetime had passed you by when you took your place in front of the silver-haired Prince. Though his imposing frame carried a noble bearing, his stance was loose, his garb and hair revealing a hurried dressing.

Did he too fight such a deplorable match?

Briefly bowing your head to the septon, he returns the gesture and makes a subtle motion at the yellow and orange cloak which rests on your shoulders. It was meant to be Qoren walking down with you, him to remove the symbolism of your house’s protection and surrendered to Targaryen mercy.

But Qoren was not here. Nor your sickly father

Just a Prince with an expression of fiery wrath, chilling your bones. Refusing to acknowledge the humiliation that came with a lack of kin to give you away, you would help yourself.

So be it you relented. Taking the fabric between your fingers you tug it off in a swift motion and allow it to drop to the floor. Though your dress was befitting of a winter bride, covering every bit of your scented and oiled skin, you had never felt so vulnerable before.

“You may cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

Daemon’s anger was temporarily subdued as a hint of unhidden pleasure came over him. He basked in the moment with twisted satisfaction, sensing your delicacy to the act. Taking the cloak of his house- a black and red fabric- and placing it over your shoulders. Keeping his eyes on yours at the tense and silent refusal to look away. Though all he could see was a Princess draped in the colours of his own noble house, surely.

So wicked it felt as though the Stranger itself had cloaked you.

Praise the strength of your near-wobbling legs for not giving out as Daemon stepped back.

“Father,” Your father idles, sick and feeble in Sunspear or mayhaps just too cowardly to see the cost of his peace.

“Mother,” Your mother lay in the ground, gods rest her soul.

“Warrior,” May he grant you courage to face this fate without fear.

“Maiden, Crone, Stranger,”

The room faded as you looked to Daemon who remained unmoving, continuing to leer. The gesture caused you discomfort, your already delicate insides ready to spill themselves. How could one so ethereal debase himself to such lack of grace.

Beauty touched by the gods they say of dragon's blood… It is a shame the statement carries weight.

“Bear witness to their vows.” The septon gestures to Prince Daemon. With an irate expression Daemon casts a glance to his right, tearing his eyes away from you to look to his father, Crown-Prince Baelon. You caught what was unsaid between the two, brief as it was. His stare is one of finality, not dissimilar to your own father’s as he threw you on to the sea bound for King’s Landing.

With a roughness certainly not unnoticed by the crowd, Prince Daemon hastily grabs your hand into his own. Calloused against your softer skin that causes a shiver to creep down your spine. As if sensing… relating with the feeling, his hand gives an involuntary squeeze. The septon ties your joint had together and bids Daemon to repeat after him.

“I am yours,” His teeth practically almost shattered from the way he gritted through his words, his heart having no truth in his words. “And you are mine. Whatever may come.” Daemon glowered as if he wanted to rip you to shreds himself.

His breath stunk of wine.

You had a duty. You had a duty and for all that you held dear you would do it. You had a duty… surely…

Surely the gods would grant mercy unto your soul for such a willing act of forfeit?

“Hurry up.” Daemon pigheadedly interrupted.

Coming back to your current affairs, you see that the septon was in fact waiting for you to repeat the vows back.

Taking a deep breath in, your mouth opened yet no words emerged. The revulsion seated deep within your soul infecting the rest of your body with denial. You withhold the want to pull away, You are sure your betrothed would not stop you if you ran. He held you just as he was expected, the now loosened grip preparing to separate already.

“We all have duties to uphold.” The great Prince Mors -your father’s- voice echoed.

Paying no mind to the judging stares, you force your feelings aside. “I am yours, and you are mine… Whatever may come.” Your eyes round and brimming with the emotion which swirls behind them.

…

The feast was just as miserable of an affair. Daemon had left you almost immediately, seeking refuge in a bottle paired with idle talk with his brother and a Lord whose name you did not know or care for, rather than be by your side. Not that you had any objections. You ripped the cloak of black and red off the moment your vows had been done feeling as suffocated as one could be, and to the surprise of none. Had you been paying closer attention you would have noticed the exasperated expression that dawned on Daemon's face.

A sorry sight you were. The Princess of Dorne atop the royal dais, unshed tears and anger held solely by your pride. As the few of your fathers advisors here on his behalf engaged in small talks with the King’s courtiers, you were left to fend for your own. After all, no one else dares approach the viper on such a high pedestal.

Looking on at the festivities, the music being played grows louder in your ears while courtiers spun about. All dutifully ignoring the ever present tension within the room as their Prince sinks into his cups with a loose tongue dripping of bravado on one side of the room, and the foreigner sulking in the other.

You gripped your cup tighter as you observed your betrotheds- your husband’s hands grab at yet another yet another goblet of wine -one of many he’s had upon arrival- there is a slight sway to his stance. With luck, perhaps he will choke on his own stomach contents in a drunken stupor by the end of the night.

Even so, fortune's favor never does seem to smile upon you. You found no favor when you were subjugated to this.

The familiar figure of Princess Aemma approaches, ending your isolation. Sitting up straight, you nod your head to the Arryn.

“Princess Aemma. I trust you are enjoying your evening.” With a mouth pressed far too tight and eyes widened a bit too wide to hide the weariness which tingled with every blink. “Princess.” She gestures to the chair next to your own.

“You may sit wherever you please. I am hardly in any position to refuse company.” It was the moment you heard the chair shuffle closer that you found the cutlery far more interesting.

“It would be audacious to presume I may sit anywhere… I would not want to make my good-sister uncomfortable.” You gulped at the word “sister”, maintaining a steadfast gaze forward. You were sure she meant it in good spirits. No matter the intention, the stabbing feeling to your aching heart remained.

With a bitter chuckle you return your focus to the woman seated beside you. “You are most gracious Princess.”

Biting your lip you lock on to the sight behind her. Daemon’s eyes unnervingly on yours while his father takes hold of his arm, leaning close to speak discreet words. His brother Viserys to his right, a blissfully ignorant expression listening to the lecture.

Aemma notices the Prince’s withering gaze. Gently smiling she moves her head to the side, blocking your sightline.

“I must say em- I am certain you’ve heard a plethora of congratulations, I wished to give you mine. May the gods bless you with a joyous and fruitful union.”

“Many congratulations, though I am not sure as to why the sentiment for this plain day.” She afforded you kindness, but your mood was too far soured to repay it in full. You’ve no need for a sister, you have a brother already. Perhaps. It is unclear whether his abandonment of you while you waited on the shores of the Blackwater Bay for his arrival was his way of wiping his hands clean of you.

All the same, you were no longer of his house.

The Princess moved to continue, but was quickly interrupted by the heavy footfalls and subsequent hand landing roughly on your shoulder. Your body jolted away from the touch instinctually, only eliciting a loud and mirthless laugh from the figure behind you. Pivoting your body towards the brazen soul, dreading what you surmised. For there is only one in this hall who could presume to lay hold of you in such a way.

Grasping for your wrist, Daemon’s hand clenched around like a wolf’s maw to its prey. “It seems my father grows displeased at your solitude, Princess.” Using his leverage he begins to pull you in his direction. “You can cease your dawdling and spare me your excuses.”

Reeling your shock at his blatant handling, you firmly planted yourself into your chair. Digging your heels in as you look at him incredulously. “I am quite fine as I am Prince Daemon.”

His eyes narrowed with ire, the mark of his vexation stretching his mouth into a frown as he attempted another stronger tug. “I’ve no patience for your refusal, join me-”

Abruptly, Aemma interjects Daemon’s demands, “You need not worry Daemon. She is far from lonely, I am here with her. Viserys busies himself with others so i’ve no intention on leaving for some time.”

Fixing his attention to Aemma, Daemon’s expression is one of apathy as he finally manages to bring you stumbling to your feet. “A shame you are not the one she is meant to cling to then.”

You barely had the time to recompose yourself before you are whisked away. “Easy!” You hissed while dragged by Daemon’s persistent hand, long strides forcing you further and further from the table you resigned yourself to acceptingly moments ago.

With a chuckle, he continues on to the dance floor. “I’m to spend time with you wife. I’m to dance with my bride on such an evening, my father says.” His words drenched with resentment as his fingers dig harder into the fabric of your sleeves. Too far gone from your secluded (and missed) seat, you are helpless but to let Daemon weave you through the crowd. People part way for the Prince as he centers himself.

“You offer such kindness allowing me to ‘cling’ to you!”

Prying free from his clutches, the two of you stopped in the middle of the throng. He prowled about your dress-clad form. The thunder outside clapped as if it tried to help his unwelcomed scare tactics. Tracking the movement with your eyes, you respond.

“But how disappointing, here I thought my dear husband wished to parade me around this grand hall of his own volition.”

He scoffed as the tempo of the music quickened. He grabs onto your hand with an iron-like-hold, forcing you to follow his (sloppy) lead. “Ah, so I married a fool. Many things i‘ve heard of your family, but stupid? Did I get the rotten apple from the poisonous tree?”

Married or made to marry you wanted to quip. Though, it was unwise to speak plainly to a man whose side you would be made to stay by for the foreseeable future.

“I’m glad you have heard so much of my family then, my prince.” You must avoid disgrace when in the company of these unknown people however much it pains you to treat the man who forcefully whirls your body about like a sack of potatoes.

The moment the words left your mouth you regretted it. Daemon’s mouth quirked up into a sneer when he leans in far too close to your indifferent facade. If you turned your face your nose would brush against his, more prone to the dangerous glint which sparked within him.

“I’ve heard a great deal… Dorne seems to be such an interesting place, yes?”

Yank after yank after yank you look less that you are being danced with and more of a likeness to the training dummies you used to watch the house guard jostle in practice.

“Dorne boasts a great many things not found North of its border.” You grit. Your brain clanged around your skull from the movement as you attempted to find your footing. All the while, you spot the blurred faces of the onlookers this “dance” attracts.

Digging your fingers into Daemon’s forearm, he either does not acknowledge or understand the silent request to seize his brusque movements. His purposeful embarrassment garnering murmurs of those who witness it.

Snickering, he attempts -and somewhat fails- to lower his voice. “More free. Is it true? Do I have a wicked woman to tame?” Daemon’s breath hot on your cheek compared to your blood which runs cold at the accusation.

What else would you expect from a vulgar young prince to imagine of your reputation besides rumors meant to make Dornish less “refined” than the other kingdoms. Not pious as a Hightower, nor familial like a Tully. Lustful like a scoundrel.

Your cold countenance formed like steel, a knight's shield around your displeasure. “I assure you I am as unspoilt as any other maiden.” Your voice sounded prickly as you finally managed to rip your hands away from Daemon’s. Rolling his eyes he makes another attempt to grab at you, stating some unpleasantness of the song not being finished. Moving your arm farther out of his reach you send a glare that would ward off your most persistent suitors, “I’ve no wish to dance anymore Prince Daemon.”

Before any other protests could come out, you fled. Slipping through the crowds, your ears caught the murmurs which rippled by. Your cheeks flooded with the heat indignity. Each time you braved a glance upwards you were met with eerily hollow glances.

You believed yourself to be much more skilled at concealing your true feelings of Daemon. After all, you did not begin weeping the moment he opened his depraved mouth like you wished to. In spite of what you thought to be a masterful act, the odd glances cast your way seemed to say otherwise.

Sick you made out.

The cascade of whispers continued as you pushed through, noticing a few of the Dornish courtiers present with the same bereaved visage.

In sleep you managed to catch.

As the seconds passed by, you found yourself more closely surrounded. Bombarded by small frowns and pitying gazes. Turning your head back you see the head of silver-hair bounding closer again.

You did not feel the closeness Daemon imposed when he made his way to the back you. He did not notice the way your face went slack, stripped of the will to move. It was not your union they looked on with pity for.

He took your silence as trepidation. “That was quite rude Princess… you should learn to use a more revering tone with me. It may do you some good, you know.” He took your silence for trepidation as he smirked, looming over you. He was mistaken.

The ground felt as if it crumbled beneath you. Your breath coming in short huffs as the overwhelming grief threatens to crush you under its weight.

Prince Mors dead

Had Daemon not been behind you, your body would have collapsed onto the cold stone of the floor.

[stargirlygirl]

downpour

bakugou katsuki x fem!reader ⋆｡°✩ — medieval fantasy!au, size difference kink, age gap (he's mid-thirties, she's late teens early twenties), nsfw, smut, p in v, oral sex fem!receiving, dubcon? (she's known him since she was a kid), unprotected sex (don't be like them!), 4.8k words

a/n: despite what i've said here, he's not the best thing that's ever happened to you ladies

You groan, hearing the thunder roar from the pouring heavens above. The cold rain soaks into your most modest dress, making the embroidered pale yellow fabric cling to your skin. Your hair sticks to your forehead, wild like a bird’s nest. But wet. Your bones ache with the chilly dampness, and your toes squelch in your boots.

As lightning blankets the sky, you ask yourself why tonight had to be like this — the night before you’re supposed to get married. You look behind you with wide eyes, positive that you’ve lost the guards chasing you. Their princess.

You slow to a walk and tighten your grip on the heavy fabric of your dress, hiking it up to your ankles (wench). You’re breathing erratically from running and from your fear of being caught. You already miss the warmth of the castle and the comfortable life you led with your parents and siblings.

“Get it together, y/n,” you whisper. The thunder screeches over your pathetic attempt at self-motivation. With a huff, you look up from your mud-covered boots and gaze at your surroundings. You’ve been wandering through this forest for a long time now. You’re cold, wet, and tired. You need a rest. You whine, seeing the pitch-black forest all around you. At least no animals would try to attack you, right?

You trudge on for a little longer, grumbling to yourself about how maybe you should have just sucked it up and stayed in the castle. But when you think of your betrothed, you remind yourself that this is a good decision. For the first time in your life, you’re choosing your future happiness and freedom. And that’s exciting. It would be even more exciting if you weren’t shivering and sniffling and stumbling every ten feet.

There’s one thing you need right now — well, not just one, but the main one — shelter. You need somewhere to rest for the night. You gaze up, analysing the dense trees and shrubbery. In the distance, you can see the faintest light. With renewed energy, you set off in that direction. As you draw nearer, the light becomes brighter. It’s warm, golden-orange like egg yolks. Like fire.

Feeling both hungry and invigorated, you walk faster. Ducking beneath a tree branch, you see that the light is emanating from a cabin. It’s more like a shack, really, with how small it is. But it looks sturdy, safe, and, most importantly, dry inside.

You run the last few steps to the cabin, panting as you reach the door. You knock on the door loudly, hoping that whoever is inside will show you mercy. No response. You knock again, louder. Still, no response. Growing impatient, you turn the door knob and press your body against it to push it open.

As you stumble inside, you call out, “Hello. Hello! Sorry for intruding, um—” It’s empty. You slam the door shut and rest against it as you gaze around the cabin. A fire burns in the fireplace. The scolding tongues lick the base of a heavy pot hanging above it, casting shadows on the walls and across the furniture. You rush over to it with your hands out, eager to feel the fire’s heat. You sigh as it tickles your skin.

You close your eyes, allowing the warmth to seep into your soul. Your dress soon becomes hot yet damp, a most uncomfortable combination. You kick off your boots and place them by the door before reaching for the back of your dress. You pull at the lacings, loosening them and shimmying your dress down to your ankles. You bend down and grab it, grimacing at the mud splattered on the hem and the deep golden colour of the gown from how wet it is. Draping it over the arm of a nearby chair, you hear the door rattle.

You stand there, paralysed by fear, as the door swings open, revealing a huge, shadowy figure. You scream as the lightning cracks and the figure stalks in. Your hands cover your mouth as you stare at the brute of a man in front of you. The cloak he’s draped in doesn’t conceal his muscular frame, and he carries a pile of wood on his back. Sharp red eyes glare at you, and his full lips are twisted into a scowl.

He growls, “WHAT’RE YOU DOIN’ HERE?!” Your mouth is dry as he comes over to you. His shadow casts your frame in darkness as he drops the wood on the ground. You flinch at the thud, stepping back slightly. Your heart thumps in your chest so hard and loud you feel like it’s about to burst.

You stutter, avoiding his harsh gaze, “I-I’m sorry I-I had nowhere else t-to go. I-I saw your cabin, and I—”

“Made yourself at home, huh?” He grunts. You nod frantically as you watch him untie the heap of wood and throw a few into the fire lazily. The flames crack and pop at the new addition, dimming and then brightening.

“Get out of my cabin!” He grumbles, staring daggers into you. Suddenly, you feel so bare beneath his gaze. You realise that you’re only wearing your undergarments. No proper way for a princess to dress, especially around a man who wasn’t her husband. But you don’t care as you invade his personal space and cling to his arm.

You plead for him to let you stay the night, but he pushes you off and yells at you to leave. Shaking your head, you drop to your knees. You stare up at him with big eyes and quivering lips as you beg, “Please! Please! Don’t make me go back out there, please! I’ll do anything! I’ll be good. I promise. I won’t get in your way. You won’t even know that I’m here. Just let me stay the night! Please!”

He gazes down at you with raised brows and a slackened jaw, unsure of what to make of your sudden outburst. He gulps and looks away from you. Tch. You sniffle as he walks over to the door, expecting him to throw it wide open and force you out.

Instead, he shrugs off his cloak and hangs it on a hook next to the door. Holy moly— Your eyes rake over his toned back. The shadows illuminate his juicy muscles, and you can feel the saliva pooling in your mouth as he turns around.

He grunts, “Only for tonight.” You nod enthusiastically as you try to tear your eyes away from his godly frame. Even the scars marring his skin look heavenly. You wanna take a bite of those biceps with the way they flex and—

“STOP LOOKING AT ME, WOMAN!” He yells. You hum and avert your eyes, getting off the floor. As a princess, you’ve never had to beg anyone for anything before. And you hope that you don’t have to ever again. You shift to standing in front of the fireplace, sighing as the heat sinks into your pores.

He grumbles, “Could you move?” You gaze up at him, confused, as he looms beside you. Nodding, you shift to the side. You hope he thinks the redness of your face is from the fire and not your embarrassment. He takes this opportunity to stir the stew, filling the pot. You watch with curious eyes as he slurps from the spoon.

He orders you to sit down, and you do as you’re told, planting yourself down on the same chair your dress is drying on. You’re delighted to watch his delicious muscles at work as he takes the pot off the fire and dishes out the stew for you to eat.

He hands you a bowl and spoon, which you take, thanking him. He sits on the chair beside you and starts downing his soup at an alarming rate. You stir the hearty goodness, identifying some veggies and meat of some sort. You slurp a mouthful and moan in delight.

The spiky blond stares at you, his cheeks full of stew. You can hear the blood rushing in your veins, somehow flowing more to your face as you gaze at your bowl.

You mutter, “It’s really good.”

“It’s just stew,” he grunts. You hum as you resume eating your dinner in silence. Once he’s finished, he starts cleaning up the dishes. Your cheeks are aflame as your eyes roam his body, content to gaze at him doing domestic chores.

With a deep breath in, you ask, “So, what’s your name?

He grumbles, “What’s it to you?” You shrug, blowing on a spoonful of stew.

His back is to you, washing his bowl as you say, “Can’t I know the name of the man who’s letting me stay in his cabin on such a dreary night?” He’s quiet for the next few minutes, so you assume that he’s not going to tell you.

As he wipes the cooking pot dry, he mutters, “Katsuki.” You hum, your mouth full of stew. That name… There was something familiar about it. Shaking your head, you push the feeling aside. That’s ridiculous, you think. Of course, you don’t know him, right? How could you forget someone so… handsome rough?

You swallow before chirping, “It’s nice to meet you, Katsuki. I’m y/n.” His eyes flicker to you before darting back to the pot. When you’re finished, he stalks over to you and grabs your empty bowls. He avoids your gaze, seeing something he hasn’t seen in a long time.

He’s about to step away from you when he grabs the neckline of your dress. You gaze at him with a crease in your brow until it clicks. You snatch the damp gown from him, but it’s too late. He stares at you with wide eyes as he asks, “Why do you bear the royal crest?” You shake your head.

“It’s nothing, really.”

He grunts, “Don’t lie to me.” He grabs your dress and yanks it out of your hands, dragging you to the edge of the plush chair.

He spits out each word harshly, saying, “Why do you bear the royal crest? Are you from the castle?” You’re screaming at yourself internally to lie despite how awful you are at it.

You ramble, “It’s not what you think it is! I’m-I’m a maid. A maid for the royal family!”

He scoffs, “A maid? Only the royal family is permitted to wear the royal crest.” He discards the dress and bowl on the floor and steps the slightest bit closer, positioning himself between your legs. He palms the armrests as he leans over your quivering frame, glaring at you.

“So, cough it up, woman. You’re either a dirty thief or a runaway royal. So, which is it?” You gulp as you avert your eyes from literally anything other than his perfect body hovering so close to yours.

He grunts, “Said your name was y/n?” His large hand falls to your knee and pushes up the sheer fabric coating your thighs.

“What’re you doing?” You exclaim with wide eyes. He clicks his tongue at you as his rough fingers run across your soft skin. His thumb traces your birthmark from memory. The look in his eyes is soft, reminiscent as he captures yours.

He smirks, “S’been a long time, your highness.” You gulp. What?

He chuckles, “I don’t expect cha to remember me. You were a tiny thing back then.” You blink at him in confusion. Those red eyes, that lopsided grin, and deep voice. A sense of deja vu.

“Sir Bakugou!” You blurt out, staring up at him in disbelief. He eases off, removing his warm palm from your thigh. He nods as he rises to his full height, towering over you. You stand up as he steps back, cautious but excited.

“I can’t believe it’s you! I could barely recognise you with all this,” you say, pointing to his scars and buff physique. “The last time I saw you, I was what… ten?” He hums lowly, his eyes trailing over your matured figure.

He grins, “You’re all grown up now, eh?” You giggle and slap his bare chest playfully, earning you a scowl.

“What was that for?!” He says, his chest rumbling. You laugh, unable to hold yourself back. It’s been so long since you’ve seen each other. So long since you could just be yourself around someone else.

Calming down, you breathe out, “It hasn’t been the same since you left.” He hums and picks up your empty bowl, walking over to the kitchen area.

You follow him, saying, “Everything’s gone downhill since then. Father is always stressing over the constant conflicts between lords, and Mother won’t speak to him most days. And he keeps marrying off my sisters to foreign princes, trying to establish political ties. But how can you try to ally yourself with other countries when yours is falling apart?”

Katsuki grumbles, “S’that why you ran away?” You hum, watching him rinse the suds off the bowl and then dry it off.

You mumble, “I can’t marry someone I don’t even know, Sir—”

“You don’t have to call me that anymore, yea?” He grunts. You’re stunned for a moment before humming in agreement.

He continues, “N’ I’m not just talkin’ about getting married off. Looks like yer finally using that brain of yours.” You scowl at him, earning you a hearty bellow. He puts the bowl away and guides you to one of the two rooms at the back of the cabin. He opens the door and ushers you inside.

In the corner sits a large barrel bathtub, and there’s a stone sink jutting out from the wall. You gulp as you turn around to face the blond.

He mutters, “Water’s already hot. I’ll get you something to put on after, alright?” You nod and hum.

As he turns to leave, you reach out and grab his forearm. You don’t know what compelled you to do something so inappropriate, but you can’t help yourself as you gaze at him.

You say quietly, “I missed you, Katsuki. I miss my favourite guard protecting me and taking care of me. It’s… I wish you didn’t leave.” Your gaze falls from his eyes to his arm and finally rests on your hands wrapped around him. He can’t take his eyes off of your pouty lips.

He grumbles, “I had to leave—”

“But why?” You cry out. “I thought you liked being my guard—”

“’Course I liked being your guard, doll. S’not about that,” he sighs.

“Then—”

He grunts, tugging his arm from your grasp, “I don’t wanna talk about it. Just bathe, for fuck’s sake, will ya?” He stalks out of the room, leaving you all alone. You obey, stripping out of your undergarments and soaking in the water. True to his word, it’s hot. The perfect temperature, actually. The heat penetrates your clammy skin, warming up your bones and muscles.

You sigh, relaxing in the bath. Moments of the past fill your mind. Your days were spent learning how to fence, running around and playing in the gardens, and having picnics by the nearest river. All with your head guard, Sir Bakugou.

You chuckle softly as you remember the day you told Katsuki about your birthmark. You had just learnt what it was from your mother and skipped off to show your favourite knight. You remember how warmly he laughed at you and patted your head when you showed it to him. And how you pestered him about any birthmarks he had.

Feeling too hot, you rise and climb out of the barrel. You wrap a thin linen towel around yourself and dry off. When you’re done, you open the door and peek your head out. Katsuki notices you immediately and comes over to you, thrusting one of his long shirts in your hand. You thank him as you take it from him and shut the door.

After you get changed, you walk out of the bathroom into the main area where bedding has been laid out. Your eyes rove over the glistening waves of a fur blanket; your heart rate picks up. You gasp as callous palms cup your shoulders and gently squeeze them. You gaze back at the man behind you.

He mutters, “You take the bed. I’ll sleep out ‘ere tonight.” You shake your head.

“No, it’s okay. I can—”

“M’not letting my princess sleep on the floor,” he grunts.

You start, “But—”

“Quit being such a brat. Do as yer told n’ go to bed,” he growls. Against your better judgment, you shake your head again. He groans as you turn around. Your bodies are close. Too close for comfort. It’s like lightning strikes between you two with the way your chests ghost each other.

You gulp, your heartbeat growing to be as loud as the thunderstorm overhead. You utter his name, earning a gruff “What?” in response.

“Can I… do something a bit improper?” You ask tentatively. He chuckles lowly, red eyes drifting to the bed before looking back at you.

He smirks, “When do you not?” You hold your tongue, hesitant to ruin the tension between you two. You shuffle that much closer to him, your hands flat against his pecs. He shivers at the feeling of your delicate skin on his.

Katsuki grunts, “You done yet?” You shake your head before tilting your chin up. You gaze at him with big eyes, puffing at your lips ever so slightly. Your hands trail down his abs before roaming up his chest and to the back of his neck.

He groans, “The fuck you want, doll?” You draw the side of your lip between your teeth as you pull him down to you.

You’re on your tiptoes, your lips brushing his ear lobe as you whisper, “You.” His hands are on you in an instant, pulling you into his solid torso. He grabs your chin, forcing you to gaze into his eyes before he kisses you.

You moan into his mouth, thrilled that this is finally happening. That your fantasy is becoming a reality. You tug at his locks as he kisses you roughly, teeth-gnashing and tongues swirling. He groans as he explores every corner of your mouth, his hands roughly grabbing your hips.

He pulls back, both of you panting hard. You grin as you catch your breath, staring at him awestruck.

You whisper, “I can’t believe this is happening.” He rolls his eyes at you.

“Don’t fucking start,” he huffs. He’s kissing you again, much more sweetly this time. His grip on you loosens as he strokes up and down your back, feeling every curve and dip beneath the fabric separating your bodies.

You sigh into his lips, enjoying this change in pace. This time, he sucks on your bottom lip, making you gasp before he nips at it. He gently walks you back until you’re stepping on the makeshift bed, the fur luxuriously soft between your toes. You mumble his name, encouraging a groan from him.

Your bodies part for a moment as you both sit on the fur blanket. One of his hands wraps around your knee while the other grasps your cheek. He pulls you into him and lays you down. Your hands grip his shoulders as he kisses down your jaw and neck. You squeeze the muscle there as he gently bites your soft flesh, gasps falling from your lips.

You whimper, “Kat-suki. I’ve been in love with you since—”

“Shut up,” he grunts into your skin, nipping at your flesh harder. You moan, and he pulls back.

He shifts up, his lips brushing yours as he grumbles, “I don’t wanna hear it. Want you to show me, princess. Think you can do that, f’me?” You whine, nodding furiously.

He chuckles, “Good.” He returns to kissing your neck. You moan loudly as he nips at your collarbones and shoulder. Your hands tangle in his spiky locks, massaging and tugging and then massaging again.

You whine as he sits back and peels his shirt off you, leaving you bare beneath him. He groans at the sight of you, his hands wrapped around your wrists and pulling them down to your sides before you can even attempt to cover yourself up.

“Suki!” You gasp as he grabs both of your breasts, one in each hand, and squeezes them. He smirks all cocky as his eyes drink you in. He lowers himself back down, tongue licking the fat of your tit. You bite your lip as he pinches your nipples, rolling them between his fingers deliciously.

Letting go of one, he replaces his fingers with his mouth and sucks on it. You moan, pulling at his roots. Once satisfied, he moves onto your other breast, licking and sucking on it until you’re whimpering and whining his name mindlessly.

Smirking, he kisses your ribcage, your tummy, hips, and stretch marks. He then grabs your wrists one at a time and kisses them before working up your arms with his lips. Even your ankles, calves, and thighs receive his tender affection.

By the time his head dips between your thighs, you feel utterly worshipped from head to toe. You moan his name as his tongue rolls over your clit, your back arching delightfully as he sucks it. His tongue works wonders between your folds, making you feel like no man ever has.

You cry out as his fingers brush your clit and gently rub circles over it while his tongue laps inside of you. With slick-coated fingers, he eases one into your hole, making you gasp and call out his name.

He returns to sucking on your clit; his mouth is so fucking hot, like the heat of the flames prickling your skin, as he fingers you slowly. He curls his finger when he’s deep inside, making you moan even louder.

His other hand grabs yours and intertwines your fingers. He gives you a gentle squeeze, his eyes watching your every gasp and whimper. Your head falls back as he curls a second finger inside of you, hitting that perfect spot.

You moan, “K-Kat-suki. Please, baby. Please.” He hums against your cunt, the vibrations making you buck your hips against his skilful tongue. He pulls off your sopping pussy, keen to hear more.

He groans, voice hoarse from how well he was just eating you out, “What is it, princess?” You mewl as his fingers press into your gummy walls.

You pant, “Need you, Suki. In me-please fuck!” He slowly pulls his fingers out of you, admiring your syrup dripping down his wrist in the firelight.

He chuckles, “Fuck, you really do need me, huh?” You nod enthusiastically.

“Please, baby,” you whine. He shushes you and shifts to pull off his shorts and underwear. You push yourself up on your elbows; legs spread wide lewdly as you watch his huge cock spring free. Just the sight of it, you moan as even more slick gushes from your pussy.

He comes back to you, large hands pushing you back down and grabbing the back of your thighs. He grumbles at you to wait while he grabs a pillow and places it beneath your hips. He then brings your calves over his lower back, his cock running through your folds. Your back arches as his tip slides over your clit, making you moan.

He coats himself in your arousal, his pre-cum mixing with it before he finally slides in. He goes slow, letting you stretch to accommodate his girth. Your arms tighten around his neck as you pull him down to you, your head resting in the crook of his neck. You whine as he pushes in further.

“Fuck, baby,” you whimper into his skin.

He gently kisses your forehead, whispering into your hairline, “S’okay, baby girl. You can take it.” You cry out as his balls press against your ass, his cock so fucking deep inside of you.

You murmur, “You’re so big. Just give me a minute, kay?” He hums into your forehead, sweetly kissing it and working down to your lips. You sigh into his kiss, your noses brushing as he pulls back. His eyes find yours, mesmerised by the warm glow of your skin from the fireplace, that rosy flush.

He mutters, “You ready now?” You hum, nodding. He pecks the tip of your nose before drawing himself out and rocking back into you slowly. You both moan at the feeling, the stretch of your hole wrapping around him. Your eyes gaze at the point where he’s lost inside of you. You look back up, finding him already staring at you.

He fucks you so tenderly you’re uncertain if that term can be used to describe what’s happening right now. The sounds of your sex rival that of the downpour outside. You squeeze his hand as he hits that pleasurable spot, your eyes rolling back from how good it feels.

He lets go of your hand to tilt your head back to him, needing to see that open-mouthed, lust-hazed look on your face. You sigh in pleasure as the light and shadows dance across your bodies, painting your love-making on the cabin walls. You whimper his name pathetically.

He presses a soft kiss to your lips, groaning, “I know, princess.” He draws out of you completely, earning a whine from you. He tuts at you and manoeuvres your bodies so that you’re sitting on his lap.

You lean down and kiss him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. You moan into the kiss, stretching up as he aligns himself with your entrance. You slowly lower down onto him, whimpering into his lips while he groans.

You bounce up and down at him at a leisurely pace, taking your time to feel every inch of his length. You sigh as his cock twitches, pre-cum spilling into you. Katsuki cups your cheek in one hand while the other tightens around your waist.

He grunts, “Doin’ so good f’me, baby.” You moan, fists clenching as more pre-cum leaks into you.

“I’m so glad-I found you, Suki,” you mewl. He groans lowly against your jaw, leaving tender kisses there. You drop your hips a little harder, a little faster than before.

“Fuck,” he growls in your ear. Your tits bounce as you do, the most beautiful sight your knight has ever seen. He grabs a handful of one of your breasts and sucks on your nipple before moving both hands to your hips and helping you ride him.

“I-I m-missed you,” you whimper. Your back arches as you feel those tingles gathering in your cunt, your orgasm building every single time your clit slaps his scarred skin as you bounce on his cock.

You cry out, “Katsuki! Fuck, Katsuki! Baby, I’m gonna cum-fuck!” He pulls off your nipple and pulls you into a passionate kiss. You mewl into his lips loudly, squirming in his hold as you feel the knot in your stomach tighten.

Pulling away, you scream out as you orgasm. Your back arches so deeply you know you’re gonna feel it in the morning, but you don’t care. The pleasure shuddering through your body is unlike any other. And it’s only heightened as your love groans loudly, his hot seed shooting into you. It coats your walls thickly, forming a ring around your hole from him fucking his cream into you.

You’re panting hard as you sink down on his cock. Your forehead presses against his as you both catch your breath, trying to process what the fuck just happened.

After a few minutes, you chuckle lazily before kissing Katsuki sloppily. His saliva dribbles down your chin when you part, red eyes full of so many emotions (surely mirroring your own). You call his name softly, but he shakes his head and presses another soft kiss to your lips.

He lays you two down and holds you close, pulling the warm blankets up to your chin. You sigh into his side, so happy you could purr from just being with him. From experiencing such intimacy with the man, you’ve been yearning for for a long time.

You murmur, “Suki, I love you. Please, don’t leave me.” Your hold on his torso tightens, and you nuzzle the side of his pec with your nose. He laughs lightly, the sound reverberating warmly in his chest.

“M’not going anywhere, alright? N’ neither are you. You’re all mine now,” he mutters. You hum into him, soaking up his heat and affection and the knowledge that you’re all his.

He chuckles lowly, “Let’s take five, yea?” You nod, peppering his skin with sweet kisses. You close your eyes; no other words or actions are necessary at this moment. You ease your body into him, shifting slightly and getting comfortable.

Running out into a storm was not your best decision, but the man it led you to is.