Nixiethepixie

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*21, she/her, multifandom, Tim Drake enthusiast ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

[mcybank]

Tender — Jack Abbot

pairing — jack abbot x college!reader

summary — the worst-cared-for girl in the county keeps washing up in jack’s er, and he can’t help but start paying attention.

warnings — 19.2k. large age gap (jack’s fifty/reader’s in twenties), doctor/patient dynamic initially, power imbalance (attending/nursing student, age, life experience), yearning!jack, protective!jack, jealous!jack, and literally every single word in the book, mutual pining, slow burn, he falls first, hurt/comfort, reader shows signs of adhd but it isn’t explicit, alcohol use (recurrent drunkenness, mention of alcohol poisoning, ER, and repeated intoxication played somewhat lightly), loneliness/self isolation, low self-worth, it’s very difficult for her to accept care, lack of family support/implied estrangement, financial stress and overworking, she’s also spending an unrealistic amt of time hanging out in the ed but it’s fanfic so it’s ok, jokes about financial stress, injuries (sprains, split lip, bruising, gravel burns), medical setting, blood, referenced patient death (patient dies, off-page, Jack grieves), making out/heavy kissing, suggestiveeee content (thumb-in-mouth beat, grinding) but nothing explicit. 

notes — oops sorry this fic is so so self-indulgent 🫶 i literally loved writing them tho i was thinking about them for days on end. tried to take a swing at this based on this idea i had + thank you @ker0senebunny for inspriring the shoe scene!!!! inspired by this post + my er visits where i was literally the worst patient ever

Friday and Saturday after midnight, the board filled up with the same predictable words; alcohol poisonings, bar-fight lacerations, the kids who’d taken things they couldn’t name and showed up convinced they were dying when they were mostly just twenty and having a large thought. Jack triaged it on autopilot, and he’d stopped finding any of it interesting somewhere around year seven. 

Sure, sometimes there were some cases that got a mild laugh out of him or turned his head. There was a kid who’d superglued his halloween mask on his own face for a dare. The guy who’d lost a bet and swallowed something he wouldn’t name in front of his mother, who was present and furious. The occasional genuinely strange thing the human body did that still, after all these years, made Jack think huh, that’s interesting, the small grim curiosity that was about the only part of the job the years hadn’t fully sanded down. He kept those and told them to new nurses over shitty coffee at four a.m. because he supposed that was a better story than what he could say about the Middle East. 

The first time you came in, he’d handed you over to Shen. You were a sprained wrist and a BAC that explained the wrist, sixteen other things were louder, and Shen was free then. 

He’d clocked you for half a second on his way to a GI bleed in bay nine: girl on the gurney, one heel too high on, and one somewhere in the greater metropolitan area, some little pink lace-trimmed thing sliding off one shoulder, telling Shen with enormous seriousness that she was so sorry, she didn’t usually do this, she’d had a singular margarita. Only.

Singular. He’d categorized it under the thousand other single margaritas he’d sworn to in this department and forgotten you before he’d reached the bleed. 

The second time, he didn’t take you either, but he noticed the wrist. 

Same wrist. Different night — a Saturday, three weeks in, the sort of shift where the waiting room sounded like a kennel — and he caught it sideways while he reviewed another chart. It was the same left wrist, taped this time, the nails on that one hand done in some soft pinky color gone chipped at the tips as though the week itself outlasted the manicure, somebody walking you through the discharge paperwork you clearly were ignoring. Something thought for him instead of him thinking much for it, some pattern-recognition thing buried under twenty-some years of reading bodies fast, the same instinct that made him glance twice at something almost normal. A wrist that kept coming back, he supposed. A thread snagging on a nail, there and gone. 

The third time, it was Shen, breezing past the station with his Dunkin, saying over his shoulder, “Frequent flyer’s back.” 

He shrugged, not yet placing that you were the frequent flyer, and went to bed four.

And that — somewhere between the third time and a number he stopped keeping an honest count of — was where it stopped being a chart and became some sort of thing. A bit, he’d say. The nights the bars let out and the board lit up, he’d find himself reading the incoming names a half-second longer than triage required, and feeling something wrong in his chest when yours wasn’t in them. 

Pittsburgh was notoriously interesting, Jack learned through you, in that it apparently contained an infinite supply of ways a girl could get herself in trouble. He was convinced he could’ve drawn a map of the city by your injuries. There was the ankle, of course, a recurring grievance, always the shoes, never your fault. There was one time you’d burned your hand on a curling iron getting ready tipsy and come in more upset about the makeup you’d had to redo (because of crying it off) than the blister. The night you’d gone over in a parking lot because you refused to look at the ground while walking — looking at the ground, while drunk, you informed him, was how you trip — and the time you sliced your finger open trying to shotgun a White Claw with a key because someone had bet you couldn’t. You were really proud of the last one, you’d won the bet. 

You were never the same disaster twice, he had to give you that. A little too keen on busting yourself up here and there, sure, but at least it was the wrist once, then a knee that met a curb, then a memorable evening involving a fence you’d been certain you could clear. You came in apologizing — always apologizing, to him, to the nurses, once, memorably, to the wall — and you came in sweet, which was the part that got under him, because drunk people in this ER were a lot of things and sweet was rarely one of them. 

“Mmm,” you hummed the fourth or fifth time, the second your eyes found him through the gap in the curtain, going boneless with relief like Jack was the cavalry and not the man who was meant to flash light into your eyes for thirty seconds. “The pretty one.” 

Jack let out a huff. “Thanks, doll.” 

“Doll,” you repeated, the word going gummy in your mouth. “He calls me doll.”

“Eyes open. Follow the light.” 

“You call everyone that, Dr. Abbot?” you said, his name coming out in a cluster like you were losing thread of it, the Abbot dissolving into something closer to a hum. 

“Sure do,” he lied. “Track the light.”

You looked at his mouth, then his hands, then back up, a slow uncoordinated sweep because your eyes had stopped reporting to anything in particular, much less what they had to. Pupils blown wide and lazy. He thumbed your eyelid up a fraction to get the light where he needed it; your lashes were clumped and starry with whatever mascara had survived the night. 

He held the penlight steady and waited you out. He had nowhere to be. That was the thing about the dead hours after bars closed; the bleed had been signed up to the floor, the chest pain turned out to be a panic attack and a large energy drink, and there was just you, and the saline ticking into your arm one slow drop at a time. 

“What’d you get up to tonight?” he murmured, thumb finding the pulse at your wrist, counting without meaning to.

“S’fast ‘cause you’re here,” you said, sounding very pleased with yourself.

“Sure it is. Where’d you hurt yourself tonight?”

“... stairs,” you said after a moment, like your brain had to run a few laps to get to the word. 

“Oh, yeah?” He hummed. You lifted your free hand a little off the mattress, lost track of it, and dropped it back down. “How many?” 

“Mm. Four?” You squinted at the ceiling. “Maybe three. I dunno. Not the Great Wall or somethin’. Promise.” 

“I believe you.” He nodded, then turned your forearm to the light, finding the scrape you’d come in with. It was gravel-burn, raw, the heel of your hand and a stripe up your wrist. Nothing that needed more than cleaning. You watched him do it with your head tipped against the pillow, gone quiet so the talking had run out for a second, which never lasted.

“Should I get a better first aid kit?” you asked, then clenched your jaw for a second like you felt something was wrong with it. “S’I don’t have to bother you all the time?” 

“Might be a good idea to invest,” he said. He pulled the swab through the gravel-burn slowly, and you hissed and tried to pull back the hand on reflex. “Easy.” He kept it, his grip light yet unmoving around your fingers. “Almost done. Don’t fight me.”

You hummed, like you wanted a different answer.

Jack wet his lips, shaking his head slightly. He worked the grit out of the scrape, a fleck of it catching raw skin, and he tilted your arm to the light, getting it on the second pass, and wiped it on the gauze. Your hands twitched in his, and he pressed your fingers flat to the mattress with his thumb, and they stayed.

“You’d have to do it yourself, though,” he said. “Bathroom sink at three in the morning with one hand.” He reached for fresh gauze. “You’d make a mess of it.”

You frowned at the ceiling, nodding. “Sounds a little bad.”

“It’s a lot bad.” He laid the gauze over the scrape, thumbed the tape down at the edge of your wrist slowly, smoothing it flat where it wanted to lift. His knuckle dragged once over the thin skin there, and he felt your pulse jump under it. “You’d scar, probably.” His thumb passed the chipped polish, the chunky gold ring you’d kept on, even for this. “You’ve got nice hands. Shame to wreck ‘em over the sink.”

It took you a second. “You think so?”

“Don’t wreck ‘em.” 

“You like when I come in,” you said, delighted. 

“What I’d like,” he said, flat, lifting his eyes to yours, “is you off the stairs and down to the one drink.” His thumb settled over the back of your hand again. “But if you’re set on flinging yourself down, then you come here. Deal?”

Your fingers had curled around two of his somewhere in there loosely, without you noticing. He felt them settle, and he held very still so as to not spook you. He chose to not acknowledge it or look at it.

“Deal,” you mumbled, somewhere far off, probably forgetting the front half of the terms. 

He let it go at that, taping down the last edge and turning over your wrist once more to be sure of it. Then he set your hand back on the mattress, yours still loosely hooked through his, going nowhere.

“Anyone out there to get you home?” he asked. 

“Dunno.” Your nose scrunched. “Was gonna Uber.”

He sighed through his nose. “Where’s that girl — the one you came in with last time? Why don’t you call her?” 

“That’s annoying, Dr. Abbot,” you said, almost in a whine. 

“Yeah?” He kept looking at the wall behind you. “What’s annoying about a ride home?” 

“Calling people. Making it a thing.” Your free hand flopped vaguely. “Then they gotta come get you, and they’re all — have to be nice about it, but you can tell.” Your nose scrunched. “It’s a whole production.”

He pressed his thumb flat back over your hand where your fingers were still caught in his. 

“Oh? Nothing annoying about it, sweetheart. You call, she comes. Simple as that.” He turned to face you. “But if you insist on it, I’m not signing you off until you’re good enough to go home alone. So you call your girl, or you sit right here and keep my department company till you’ve cleared enough that I’ll sign off on it.” 

Your eyes narrowed as you looked at him as though he’d spoken a different language. “Second one?”

“Obviously you pick that one,” he said. 

He pulled the stool over and sat. For a few minutes, he had nowhere to be, and now, apparently, neither did you.

It wasn’t that you simply didn’t let people help you, either. Jack had never seen anyone so committed to being simply fine. Jack had met the stoic kind before; construction guys who walked in with rebar through a forearm acting like it was a small inconvenience; old ladies who’d been having a heart attack since last Tuesday and didn’t want to be a bother. But Jack had always believed those people to be suppressing, and you were just convinced, somewhere down in the foundation, that needing anything was an imposition. 

That was also why the shoes confused him so much. 

“This is the same damn ankle,” Jack said, turning your foot in his hands, watching the swelling outside of it. 

“You don’t have to remind me. Most men buy me a drink before they get this familiar with my ankles,” you said, then groaned as you looked at his eyes going over the swelling. 

“No drink.” He pressed along the bone. “Not my fault you keep handing your ankle to me.” 

You tipped your head back against the pillow, groaning again. “Dr. Abbot, they look so bad. I feel like I’m pregnant.” 

“I can do a quick blood draw and we can rule it out.” His palm flattened on the mattress beside your feet, leaning over to meet your eyes again. “But I think it’s those heels of yours, doll.” 

Your eyes snapped to him. “Don’t be a dick, Dr. Abbot.”

He tilted his head, then pointed at the laminated paper stuck to the wall. “Aggressive behavior of any kind toward healthcare workers is a felony.” 

“Then arrest me, doctor. I’ll die on this hill — and they’re not heels.” Your lips pursed, and the corner of your mouth kicked up. “Cuffs may be a little forward for a date, but I won’t stop you.” 

“Aren’t you just so sweet,” he muttered. “What are they, then?”

“Bottega Lido Mules.”

The words meant absolutely nothing to him — could’ve been a pasta dish, a town in Italy, a wine — but they clearly did to you, so he remembered them. 

“That’s nice, doll. They’ll be the reason I see you again.” 

“Maybe, ‘cause I’ll never stop wearing them.” 

You said the words your whole face, hands coming off the mattress to make the point with a drunk theatrical conviction as you argued something that genuinely mattered to you. Jack thought, not for the first time since he’d met you, that you’d have been magnetic stone-sober at a dinner party, the kind of girl that made a table lean in. It was just that he only ever got the 3am version.

At least you had a hill you’d die on and didn’t apologize for, Jack supposed. 

“You married, Doctor?” you asked as he started icing your ankle. 

“No,” he said, holding your eyes for a second. “Why — you got a boyfriend I should know about, then?” 

He almost wished you did have one. He wished that there were somebody whose name you’d have said just now who’d be in the waiting room with his jaw tight because you’d gone and hurt yourself again. Somebody who’d take care of the ankle when you walked out of here in crutches, who took the keys when you had too many. He wished there was a person in the world whose job you were. 

And you weren’t his first patient who he’d understood to not have someone taking care of them. He knew that if he carried them all, he’d drown inside a month if he tried to be the person nobody else had been. He’d never once had it turn into a wish, standing here with an ice pack in his hand going slack in his hand because he was too busy resenting someone who didn’t exist for not being in the waiting room. 

He wondered when down the line you’d stopped letting the people in your life around you be the ones you could call, became a girl who said sorry for bleeding and had nobody, nobody, and looked at him like he was the warmest place she’d been in all week.

You laughed. “If I had a boyfriend, would I be laying it on so thick?” 

He let out a breath through his nose, despite himself. “Stop wearing the heels, doll. Not nice to not have a foot.”

The next time you came in, it was a Thursday. With some pileup of bad luck, you came in somewhere past one with a split lip and a story about a dance floor he only half got the shape of. Jack hadn’t even been assigned to you yet, he’d just seen your name on the board, and reassigned himself quietly enough that dared anyone on shift to comment. Nobody did. 

“Lip’s not bad,” he said, tilting your chin up under the light, thumb at your jaw. The split was already going fat and shining at the center of your lower lip, and he found his eyes stayed on your mouth a second past the part that was his job, on the soft unhurt swell of it under the hurt. He moved his thumb. “Doesn’t need anything. You bit it when you fell down. That’s all.”

“S’throbbing, Doctor,” you mumbled, the word coming around muffled around the split. 

“It’ll throb. You’ve got a swollen lip.” He let go of your jaw and reached for the penlight. “Eyes on me.” 

“I was so cute before this,” you said through a groan. 

The huff that came out of him was almost a laugh, dragged out against his own will, and he shared a fleeting look with Bennet — a fairly new nurse — who had tilted his head briefly and was too afraid to meet your eyes.

“Alright. Still the prettiest girl I’ve treated tonight,” Jack said when your brows had furrowed together.

“You treat other girls?” 

“It’s a hospital,” he said. “Few hundred a week.”

Your face looked wounded. “Few hundred.”

He leaned in slightly, faking a whisper. “You’re my top three.”

You were further gone than usual tonight. He’d noticed it the second he came around the curtain, the way your head was having a hard time holding itself up, the loose unmoored swim of your eyes that took longer than it should to find his finger. A piece of hair had come loose and stuck to the gloss at the corner of your mouth and you hadn’t the coordination to deal with it, and he had the unprofessional impulse to, and didn’t. 

Bennet kept working the blood pressure cuff up your arm, half an eye on you, half on his own work. 

“Track the light,” Jack murmured. “Slowly.”

“Too bright.”

“Tough.” The corner of his mouth moved up slightly. “You can bat your lashes at me when we’re done. Right now, I need ‘em open.” 

You batted them anyway, slowly and theatrically, just to be a problem about it. They were long, and the theater of it was so ridiculous, and Jack had to bite down the inside of his cheek to keep his face flat to wait you out, until you gave up and tracked the finger. Your pupils were reactive, equal, and lagging half-a-beat behind. He clicked the light off. 

“Too bright,” you said again. 

“It’s off,” he drawled, chuckling. 

Bennett thread a line into the back of your free hand, and you watched him sink it with a drowsy focus. 

“Why’s it go in the back of the hand?” you mumbled. “More nerves there. Hurts more. Why not the — inside. By the elbow.” You tilted your head slightly to let your eyes wander to the crook of your arm. “Bigger vein. The antec—antecubital,” you said carefully, sounding out each syllable, afraid of messing it up. You wet your lips and turned to face him, then Bennet. “Why’s nobody use the good one?” 

Jack pursed his lips and looked at you for a moment. 

“Saves the good one,” he said, catching up, eyes going back to your chart. “AC vein blows easily when somebody’s moving around, and you —” He tipped his head at you, raising a brow, the squirming drunk of you. “ — Are gonna move around. Back of the hand’ll hold. I’d rather you be sore than re-stuck twice ‘cause you couldn’t sit pretty for thirty seconds.” He paused as he saw your eyes glaze over. He sighed. “Ask me how I know that about you.” 

You’d gone busy, lips moving slightly like you were repeating it back to yourself so it’d stick, and Jack felt something in his chest shift a degree as he watched you do it. 

He sighed, dragging a palm over the lower half of his face. “Where’d you learn that, then?” 

“School,” you said to the ceiling, a small hint of pride taking over your voice. “M’gonna become a nurse. Gonna be good at it.”

Bennet snorted, finishing the tape. “Gonna be patching up drunk girls just like you then, huh,” he said. “Full circle.”

Jack watched the pride go out of your face slowly, like a house losing its power. Your chin dropped and your eyes slid from Bennet to the curtain as your hand fisted in your lap. 

“Yeah,” you said, almost curiously. “Guess so.” 

Jack’s jaw clenched involuntarily. It wasn’t the guy’s fault, not really. It was a nothing joke, the sort the whole department tossed off a hundred times a shift, the gallows shorthand that kept you sane at two in the morning. Jack had made worse about patients who’d never know, about drunks who wouldn’t remember, about exactly this, exactly girls like you. He’d just never had one of them go quiet before, watched the bright thing fold itself up and get tucked away. 

“Bennet, you done?” 

“Yeah, line’s good — ”

“Then go take vitals on six. I’ve got her.”

Bennet went, and it was just the two of you again. 

Jack pulled the stool over with his foot and sat — lower than he had to, level with you, taking himself out of the column of people standing over you tonight and telling you what you were — and waited until your eyes came up off the curtain and found him.

“There she is,” he said when your eyes found him. He turned your taped hand over under the light like there was still something to do with it. There wasn’t, he just wanted his hands on something of yours while he undid what the room had done. “Look at me. Nothing good on the curtain.” 

“How’s school treating you then, doll?” he asked, aiming for offhand and not steering you off whatever Bennet had knocked loose.

“Hard,” you said, but a small smile had crawled up your lips. “But I like it.” Your shoulders came up loosely.

“Yeah?” He kept his thumb moving over the back of your hand slowly, like he could press the bright thing back up to the surface where it belonged. “I think you’ll be good at it.” 

It was such a strange feeling, Jack distantly noticed, to feel this utter conviction. He was rarely sure of anything good anymore. Sure of plenty else; sure within ten seconds of a bad rhythm which way the night was going to break, sure of which of the kids wheeled in at 2 am he’d see again and which he wouldn’t, a grim accumulated certainty that had nothing in it he’d ever wanted to be right about.

The job had made him an expert on the downslope of things. He could read the exact moment a body wanted to quit better than he could read most of what people said to his face. And here you were, and he was so sure of the other direction, and he felt the same weight of it behind his sternum, except it had swung and pointed at something good for once. You were going to be excellent at this. 

It bothered him a little, how much he wanted to be there to see it, whoever you were going to be once you stopped washing up on his floor on the worst nights of your week. He’d known you, what, a handful of shifts as a frequent flyer, a bit, a name his eyes unconsciously caught on. He had no business feeling certain of anything about you, and he was, and he’d let himself feel it. 

Your eyes found him properly again. “Liar.”

He huffed out a short laugh. “Tell you what. You finish that program, you get through all that mess where they try to drown you.” His thumb smoothed over the tape. “Then you come find me here and we’ll see if we can get you here with me on nights. Clearly you’re at your finest then.” 

It was maybe something silly to say, and Gloria may have his head for it. He had no actual standing to say anything like it, even though you’d never remember it. He knew better; hope was a controlled substance in his field and he was stingy with it on purpose, because he’d seen the withdrawal.

But God, he’d love to see the part of you he could only catch glimpses of through the wreck like a light under the door. He’d love to be the one who taught you which arrogance to keep and which to let the job take away. He’d love, plainly and without anywhere to put it, to watch you become who you’d just told him you were going to be. 

It was a lot of loving for a girl who’d been in his department and wouldn’t recall his face or a word of this by tomorrow morning. He was getting sentimental, or old, or both; the years stacked up behind his eyes until he started mistaking everything for a second chance at something. 

Your lips moved. “So I can patch girls up like myself?” 

“Nah.” He kept looking at your hand. “You can patch up old bastards like me, too.” Then, he pointed his index finger of his free hand at you, mock-stern. “Gotta make sure you’re not at point three BAC, though. Will have to do that work to get you working with me.”

“Mm.” Your eyes flickered up to the ceiling, weighing it with the enormous gravity of the very drunk as though he’d posed a very real proposition to you. “Okay. For you, I’d stop.”

“For me?” he repeated, mostly to buy himself a second.

“Mm-hm.” You turned your face to him and said it with such ease, no glance away to leave yourself an exit. “You’re worth not drinkin’ over.”

Your words went in clean, the way the best and worst things do, under the ribs where he kept nothing armored because nobody ever aimed there. Jack felt the back of his neck go warm and was abruptly, intensely grateful for the light that wouldn’t display it. 

Jack huffed, having to look away at the floor then. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all year, and you’re not gonna remember it. Hell of a thing.” 

When he made himself look back up, you’d tipped your face into the pillow, watching him from the side with your eyes gone soft and heavy, the smile arriving unguarded across your mouth. The split tugged one corner of it, that small wince folded right into the sweetness, and you seemed to not feel it. 

He had the sudden, idiotic wish to have met you on a night you’d remember. To have perhaps caught you when you fell at the bar, to have been the stranger whose arm happened to be there, not the doctor it eventually routed you to. Perhaps he could’ve been a man in your night instead of a stop in it.

He shook his head. “You’re trouble, you know that, right? Saying all these nice things. What’s a man supposed to do with that?” 

He’d have liked to have been remembered, was the bottom of it. By you specifically. He’d spent decades being the man people were grateful to and glad to forget.

“What’s your name, Doctor Abbot?” you asked, drowsy.

He looked down at his badge, then back up at you. “Take a wild guess?” Then, he added, “You never looked at my badge?” 

“Sorry. Didn’t read.” 

“Don’t apologize to me. It’s Jack.”

Jack was doing his usual rounds this Friday, on a rush from a chest pain in two that turned out to be a panic attack and a kid in five who’d put a kitchen knife through the meat of his own palm trying to halve a frozen bagel when Ellis caught him by the elbow at the board.

“Heads up, Abbot,” she said, grinning. She nodded toward triage, toward the doors. “Bed three. Your, uh—” The grin tipped over, delighted with itself. “Girlfriend’s got a boyfriend.” 

It was a running thing now. Somewhere around the fourth or fifth time you’d washed up on his shift the staff had started on it — your frequent flyer, your stray, your girl’s back — and Jack had stopped bothering to deny it because that’d only feed it, and he’d learned not denying it had a way of starving the joke faster. 

He looked, and was immediately able to notice what you weren’t doing more than what you were; you weren’t grinning at the ceiling, weren’t doing that boneless sweet-relief thing. You were sitting up too straight on the bed, hands folded in your lap, and there was a guy fitted to the chair beside you with one arm slung along the back of yours and a hand resting on your knee like he’d put it there to mark the spot. He was saying something low to the side of your face, and you were nodding at it, and not looking at anybody.

Jack felt a muscle tick in his jaw, immediately not feeling anything nice about the situation. “I got it — you mind taking six for me? I’ll come in a couple minutes.” 

By the time he’d made it to you, he’d settled his face into something unbothered. You could read it, he’d realized at some point during your frequent visits, and that only meant he had to be on his better behavior around you. 

“Evening.” He pulled the curtain half-round behind him, glanced at the chart clipped to the foot of the bed, then at you. “What’d we do tonight?”

“She caught an elbow,” the guy answered. “Some asshole on the dance floor. It’s nothing — she’s fine. She’s just a lightweight, aren’t you — ” A little squeeze on your knee. “ — didn’t even really need to come in, but y’know. Better safe.” 

You weren’t a lightweight, he immediately wanted to correct. He’d seen you put away enough over the months to know your tolerance better than this guy apparently did; he knew the difference between the nights you were genuinely wrecked and the nights you came in clearer than you let on, and looking at you, tonight, you weren’t anywhere near the state implied. 

“You,” he said, tipping his chin in your direction. “Not him. Where’d it get you?” 

You lifted your hand up from your lap and touched your cheekbone, movement slow, and Jack stepped in and tipped your head up toward the light with two fingers under your chin, thumb resting just shy of the scrape. The skin had gone dark along the bone, tender, an elbow’s worth of it. Nothing that needed more than an ice and a night, but you were still holding still under his hand and not meeting his eyes, and that he didn’t like at all. 

“It’s okay,” you said. “Really. S’not even — ”

“Let me be the judge of that, sweetheart. Gettin’ paid for this.” His eyes flicked down to yours and caught, holding it there a second with a small question in the rise of a brow, before he went back to the bone, thumb tracing the edge of the bruise so light you barely felt it. A small frown pulled at the corners of his mouth at the sight. “Follow my finger. Eyes only.” 

You followed, pupils fine and equal. No concussion in it. 

“She’s fine, I told you,” the guy said from the chair, a little laugh under it like he was inviting Jack in on something. “Hardly. She bounces back.”

Jack clicked the penlight off and turned to the side. “Gonna need the room.”

“I’ll stay.” The hand went back to your knee. “I’m all good here.”

“Can’t clear a head strike with people in the room. You get it.” Jack tilted his head to the side, raising a shoulder. “Liability. Coffee machine’s down the hall. Give me two minutes with my patient.”

The easy smile on the guy’s lips went thin around the edges, looking for a thing to push against and not finding it. He stood up slow, making a show of it, squeezing your knee and letting you know he’ll be back in a minute, babe, a hand trailing your shoulder on the way past, all of it aimed less at you and more at Jack holding the curtain. Jack pressed his lips in a thin line as he met the guy’s eyes. 

The second the curtain closed behind him, a breath left you, tiny and involuntary, and your shoulders came down in the empty room. 

“Sorry, Dr. Abbot,” you murmured. “I keep being a mess at this place.” You took in a short, almost shaky breath. “Sorry.” 

“None of that,” he almost grumbled, penning your chart. “Your folks down here, sweetheart?” 

“No,” you said to your lap, picking the edge of the blanket. “Back home. A few states over.” You let out a laugh. “Just me out here. S’nice.” 

Jack forced a small smile, having to look at the ceiling while you looked down at your lap, shaking his head, more of an action for himself than for you. He pulled the stool over with his foot and sat, getting level with you. 

“What’s goin’ on with you, huh?” he asked quietly, making sure there was nothing sharp in his tone at all. “Honest. I like seeing you but not like this bruised up with a guy who talks for you.” His thumb found your wrist. “So talk to me. What’s going on?” 

“He’s fine,” you said. “Just likes being around.”

Jack tilted his head, dipping his head to meet your eyes that were still facing down. “Not the important part of the question, and you know it.” 

You sighed. “Sorry, Jack.”

“Quit it. The only thing I want from you tonight is some honesty, alright?” 

A corner of your lip kicked up, even though the dimness in your eyes held. “Your eyes look really pretty tonight.” 

“Heard that one before,” he drawled. “Had ‘em fifty years. Try a new one.” 

“Your neck’s going red,” you mumbled, fingers reaching up to press flat to the warm of his skin, right there below the jaw, like you just had to feel whether it was true.

Jack stilled. Your fingers were cold on his neck. He distantly registered his pulse was probably going under your fingertips, and you’d feel it if you held there a second longer. And then you caught yourself, hand snapping back to the blanket.

“Sorry. Sorry — I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have done that — ” you said, the words coming out in a taut string. 

“Easy,” he said, voice coming out rough. He swallowed. “Got me all flustered and now you’re gettin’ all shy?” 

You huffed a small laugh, your hand still fisted in the blanket where you’d snatched it back. “I’m not allowed to do that. I don’t think.” 

“Had no idea you knew how to behave,” he leaned a little back from the stool, crossing his arms. “Should I be worried about that guy out there?”

“Jealous, Doctor?” 

He rolled his eyes slightly, not responding. 

You sighed when you realized he wasn’t taking the bait. “He’s fine. He just likes being around.” 

He stood off the stool and reached for the discharge clipboard at the foot of the bed.

“Whatcha doing there?”

“My job.” He clicked the pen. “Clearing you. You’ve got no concussion. You’re not dying tonight.” He scrawled on the paper. “And I’m writing you a script for the bruise and a code for an Uber — ”

“No, no,” you said immediately. “Please don’t do that.” 

He raised his hand with the pen, palm open. “You never let me Uber you back when you’re alone. At least have this.” Your face scrunched up, and he could practically feel the guilt building in you. “Don’t need to use it now. Or ever. You can keep it for whenever.” He set the slip on your lap before you could push it back at him, the matter completely closed on his end. “Goes in your phone case. You can forget it exists until you need it.”

“You can’t keep handing me stuff — ”

“Department’s got a whole stack. You’re not special.” He capped the pen, though the corner of his mouth made it slightly visible that his words were false. “Don’t flatter yourself, doll.”

You looked down at the slip, your thumb worrying the edges of it. “I don’t like taking things.” 

“I noticed. A few hundred times now.” He tucked the pen back in his scrub pocket, and his voice came down a notch. “If it really makes you feel so bad, though, then maybe we can start taking care of ourselves so you don’t have to keep ending up here?”

Jack was in the middle of hand-off, Robby doing his thing before Robby left and did whatever the hell he did. They were at the board, Robby running down the floor. It was six-fifteen in the ugly hour, the in-between where the day shift was dragging itself toward the door and the night hadn’t started biting yet, the light through the ambulance doors gone gold and slanted and almost decent for once.

And then the doors slid, and you came through them. Jack’s attention peeled to you the second your shape entered the room, except this was wrong, he distantly registered. It was daylight and six in the evening and you were on your own two feet, upright and, assumedly, sober and walking in through the front like a person as opposed to a patient. You were wearing a jacket that swallowed you, and he assumed underneath it was shorts of some sort. He could see a stripe of navy cotton peeking from under the collar of your jacket as you adjusted a tote bag on your shoulder. 

You looked, frankly, like a completely different species from the one he scraped off bed four on weekends. The jacket was too big — his first thought was that it was a man’s, and his second thought, which he didn’t care for, was about whose — sleeves shoved up to your forearms, a stripe of soft navy cotton on the collar, and below it bare legs and shorts and sneakers that had likely never seen the inside of a club. Your hair was up and a little damp at the temple and your face was scrubbed clean.

You looked like somebody’s whole good day, he thought. You looked around around the waiting room with slightly widened eyes, a lost expression coating your features like you’d built up a lot of nerve to walk in here and had no idea what to do with it. 

“ — and the tox screen is still pending, so don’t let them,” Robby was saying. 

“Mhm,” Jack said, attention already halved. 

And Bennet, breezing past the triage desk with cheerful obliviousness, caught your figure and said, out loud, “Don’t tell me you’ve started day drinking. It’s barely past six, you gotta pace yourself — ” He let out a small laugh at his own joke, and kept walking, and didn’t see the way it landed. 

Your body stiffened, and you looked like a deer in headlights. Your mouth opened, some sort of flustered apology forming, he was sure. 

Jack let out a short groan, shaking his head. He set the tablet on the counter, already moving to cross the floor toward you. “Finish the hand-off with Shen. I gotta go deal with something.” 

Robby said something at his back — deal with what? — but Jack was already gone, crossing the floor slowly but somehow still eating the distance fast, and he watched you spot him coming and watched the relief crash over your face. Except you were sober now, in the daylight, and your whole face was going soft and grateful and just slightly wrecked at the sight of him.

He stopped a couple feet short of you, closer than a doctor, further than he stood to you at night. He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands — there was no chart to hold (he should’ve brought the tablet) or wrist to take or a penlight to shine — so he clasped them behind his back, and tilted his head to get a better look at you. 

“Hi,” you breathed.

“Hey,” he said, eyes doing a quick once-over to make sure you really didn’t have any new injuries.

You shifted the tote under his gaze and clutched whatever was in the bag a little tighter.

“Jack —” you started, stopped, like the name had come out wrong. “ — Dr. Abbot.” You winced, pinching your eyes shut for a second. “Jack?” you tried to say again, smaller, your eyes flicking up to check his face to check if you’d overstepped. “Sorry, I don’t know which — ”

“Jack’s great.” His mouth tugged up, despite himself. “You’ve called me a lot worse. Jack’s a step-up.” 

You let out a startled little laugh, your mouth coming over your mouth like you could catch it, as your body eased a degree. 

“I’m sorry — I don’t — God, this is so embarrassing. I’m sorry.” 

“You know how many times you’ve apologized to me? Quit it.” He rubbed a finger over his lips. “What’s got you here today, then?”

“Um, I came to see you.” He raised a brow, and you let out a short breath, then continued, “I might not remember a lot of it, but I remember you took really good care of me. And my friends who came in with me sometimes said you took really good care of me.” The words came out softer now, flowing, more earnest. “Even though I was a mess. Especially when. So I just wanted to —” You shrugged, smiling slightly. “ — come say thanks.”

Jack felt the complete warmth of you land somewhere he kept no armor. “It’s the job,” he said quickly, before he could stop himself. “You didn’t have to come down here for that. That’s — it’s what we do. Anybody on shift would’ve done the same.” 

Your expression faltered for a moment, and your eyes dropped to the tote at your side as your shoulders came in. You shook your head, a small motion, then smiled again. 

“Right. No — yeah, of course.” You chuckled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it a — I know it’s your job.” You shifted the bag, then shifted your weight from one foot to another. “Still, though. You did, so I wanted to.” 

Jack already wanted to take his words back, but he couldn’t, so he just shook his head. “Hey, you’re my problem, though. So thank you. For the thanks. We’re even.” 

Your shoulders eased and you nodded. “Well, I also have something for you.” You hauled a container out of your tote and held it out to him with both hands before you could chicken out. “It definitely doesn’t make up for all of the times you helped me.” You looked down at the container. “And I don’t know if you’re lactose intolerant, or have a peanut allergy or anything. I’m sorry if you do — I can — ”

“I’ve got a cast-iron everything. The cookies won’t kill me.” When you pushed the container further to him, he took it off your hands, eyes quickly scanning the round chocolate chip cookies, forcing a smile down. He swallowed whatever had lodged in his throat. 

“These are homemade?” He weighed the container in both hands, absurdly. You nodded. He swallowed whatever on earth had lodged in his throat at that.“Didn’t have to do all that for me.” 

“I wanted to,” you said quickly. “I wasn’t sure how the food here is, so thought it might be a nice change.” 

“Worse than you’re imagining,” he said, then tipped his head to the side as the memory crawled into his brain, uncalled for. “You’ve actually thrown a sandwich across the room.” 

Your palm came up to your mouth, and you let out a muffled, “I’m so sorry.” 

Jack snorted, shaking his head. Then, after a moment, he cleared his throat before it could get away from him. He looked back toward the board, then at you, knowing time was slipping and he’d have to go back to work and you’d have to go somewhere else, most likely. 

“You got finals or anything coming up soon?” he asked. 

Your lips curved down, and you nodded. “Yeah, in a couple weeks.” 

“Am I gonna be seeing you getting wheeled in wasted?” 

“I want to say no,” you said, smiling a little crooked. “I’m working on it. But I’ve said that before and ended up here. So.” You shrugged, lips jutting out like you were also unimpressed with yourself. “Ask me again in a couple weeks, I guess. I’d like it if you didn’t, though.” 

“Then quit doing the hard nights alone,” he said, leaning in just slightly. “You keep yourself off the stairs, and you can come bother us instead here with a textbook.” He raised a brow as he held your eyes. “We’ve got a family room that’s almost always empty at night.” 

“I couldn’t — ”

“Won’t be a bother. Trust me. You’d be silly not to use people’s help when they’ve clawed through the same exams to get the badge. You get stuck, somebody’ll know it cold.” He shrugged. “Half of ‘em are bored out of their minds some nights. You’d be doing us a favor.” 

You let out a breath, brows pinching together. “That’s — yeah.” You let out a short laugh, looking away for a second. “I’d like that. A lot. Thank you, really. As long as you don’t mind.”

“This is a teaching hospital, doll. I don’t mind, so long as you don’t mind the company. Might be nice for me, too.”

You smiled and for a moment, neither of you moved to end it. Then you shifted the tote back up your shoulder, and Jack felt the pull to keep you here one more second before he could stop himself. 

“Go home,” he said gruffly. “And I’ll be looking for you. So actually turn up, don’t make me look for nothing.” 

The whole sun of you came up at that, stunned, like you hadn’t expected to be looked for by anyone. Jack felt the ground go quietly out from under him, the vertigo of having reached for a person’s happiness on purpose and connected, of being, for once, the cause of a face doing that. He’d gotten so used to delivering news that took the light out that he’d forgotten it ran the other way, too.

“I’ll turn up. I promise.” 

He nodded, clearing his throat and turning for the board, bidding you a throaty goodbye. 

“She’s the girl that everyone on night talks about?” Robby asked immediately, falling into step beside him. 

Jack looked at him sideways, shaking his head. “You got something to say, too?”

“No,” Robby said, rubbing his palm at his chin like he was holding something in. “You like her or something?”

Jack halted for a second, pointing his index at Robby as he lowered his chin. “You shut up. She’s gonna be a nurse.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Robby laughed. “Looks like she’s gonna be your nurse, old man. You’ll need it soon enough.”

Thank god you did turn up. Jack had the sense that maybe he’d scared you off altogether by his offer, and the line he’d toed had two very alternate spectrums: you’d find a new hospital altogether to go to in the metropolitan area after your falls or poisonings, or you’d be here a lot more often, which he still wasn’t sure would’ve been often enough. 

The first time you came in, it was well past midnight and Jack had unfortunately not been able to catch you off the bat because he was in an emergency surgery. He’d walked out of it with his blood-stained surgical gown still on to be met with the sight of you by the nurse’s station, writing something down on the back of a discharge form for Lena, with another Tupperware laying on the table. He made the guess that you’d brought the whole floor something and were three minutes from having Lena eating out of your hand. 

You’d found a corner of his department and made yourself a small soft home in it inside of ten minutes, and you were leaning in, and Jack stood there for a moment with the bad night still ringing in his ears and felt something unclench in his chest by a fraction.

“ — no, but you gotta,” you were saying to Lena in earnest as Jack approached closer. “If you put the brown sugar in while the butter’s still hot, it’s just — it’s a different cookie.”

“You taking the recipe, Lena?” Jack asked then, fully submerging into the knot you’d made with his charge nurse. 

You turned to face him, a smile forming on your lips almost immediately, and then your eyes dropped over him, to the gown, the rust-brown stain dried dark across the front of it, the set of his shoulders. 

“I am,” Lena replied. “Gonna make these for the kids.” She punctuated her sentence by holding up one of the cookies. 

“Gonna make some for us, too, then?” Jack asked, raising a brow, and settled his elbows over the table. He turned his neck to face you properly, putting on his best smile.

Lena laughed shortly. “I don’t like you enough.” She pushed off the counter with some forms in hand. “Her, maybe. You can have whatever she leaves behind.” She shot you a look that was almost warm before she went and disappeared down the hall. 

“Could be you someday,” Jack said, tilting his head in the direction of Lena’s chair. 

You shook your head, then pushed the container in his hands. “I’ve got to graduate first. And pass pharm, which is currently — ” You patted your tote bag, textbooks heavy. “ — trying to kill me.”

Jack nodded toward the family room, placing the container on the table for a second beside him. “C’mon, then, doll. Let’s see what the pharm’s doing to you.”

“You don’t have to — ” Your eyes flicked down the gown again. “You just came out of surgery. You don’t have to help me study.”

“Actin’ like I’m the one who got the surgery,” Jack muttered, chuckling slightly. He was already peeling off the gown one-handed, balling it up to toss. He started walking, and you followed behind him. “C’mon. It’s pretty empty right now.” 

It’d been pleasant that night and the few after to have five to ten minute increments of sitting with you helping you study in between doing his actual job. He’d duck in between things — a lull after discharge, the dread stretch while he waited for a CT scan, the ten minutes a trauma took to roll in once the call came — and you’d be there in the family room with your stack of cards on the couch. He’d drop on the chair across you or the couch beside you and pick up wherever you’d left off like he hadn’t left at all. Then his pager would buzz and he’d be gone, and you’d still be there an hour later when he came back, and he’d sit back down, and both of you’d pretend this was a completely normal way to study.

It’d annoyed him the first night how badly the flashcards were failing you; he’d seen you stare at the words and your eyes would glaze and slide right off it like they were greased. You’d memorized or retained nothing. And then he’d said, half to himself, a story for the why to click, and he’d watched it lock in you. 

So he’d stopped quizzing you primarily off the cards and started telling you stories instead and you’d talk it back to him, reasoning out loud, getting there in the saying of it the way you never got there on the page. 

The nights stacked up. The first week, you’d sat at a table across from him. By the second, you’d migrated to the chair beside him. Your coffee, the one by the far end of the table, was right by his elbow. Lena started leaving a second cup at the station when she saw you come in, his and yours, and never commented.

You’d stopped apologizing for taking up his time somewhere in there. He noticed when you’d started saving him the worst looking cookie on purpose because he’d once told you he liked the ugly ones. He’d noticed when you learned the rhythm of his pages; you’d go quiet and just hand him the next card when his eyes drifted to the board through the window of the door, would have it ready when he came back, like you’d kept his place for him while he was off keeping someone alive. 

He noticed that he more than looked forward to it. Somewhere in the dead middle of a bad shift, his feet would take him toward the family room before his brain could catch up on the why of it all. An empty table on a night you didn’t come in sat wrong with him, a tiny disappointment he didn’t have anything in him to figure out why.

Sometimes, like now, you’d get distracted. Jack had learned. He’d walked into the family room to see you and Ellis folded into opposite ends of the couch, the flashcards abandoned in a fanned mess on the cushion between you, both of you mid-argument and enjoying yourselves too much.

“Poaching my study hall, Ellis?” he said, finally moving in. 

Ellis pointed one stern finger in your direction as she pulled herself off the couch. “Do the crossword, not the sudoku.” 

“She’s gonna make you a worse student,” Jack said to Ellis’s back.

“She’s making me a worse doctor,” Ellis said cheerfully, already at the door. “I’ve been here twenty minutes. I have patients.” She turned to you one final time. “Crossword. You’ll thank me later.” 

She gave Jack a knowing look on her way out, one he didn’t want to read too much into, and she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her in one slow plunge. 

You watched the door settle, and the entire wattage of your attention turned to him. He hadn’t gotten used to that, and he didn’t think he ever would. “Looks like I’ll never be a nurse.” 

“Don’t say things like that.” He came around and lowered himself onto the couch beside you. “What’re you stuck on? Hit me.”

Your palm met his upper arm, a small smack. 

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Hit me all you want. You’re not getting out of this.” 

“But Jaaaack,” you drawled, tipping your head back on the couch. “Not here to study today.”

His eyes flickered over to your form briefly as he gathered the cards and squared them. “Oh, no? What’re you here for then?”

“Dunno.” You pulled your knees up to the couch. “Didn’t wanna be at mine. And work was a lot and boring.” You turned to face him then, a small smile growing on your lips. “Thought I’d bother yours instead.” 

He set the squared deck on his knee. “Lucky me.”

He’d caught it, though, how you’d folded the sad thing in the middle of the sentence where it’d draw the least attention and moved on before it could sit. He let it move on, but he kept it. The image of you on a Tuesday, work behind you, and the choice you’d made was to drive to a hospital rather than go home to your own quiet. He was getting a picture of what that quiet looked like and learned that he didn’t like it very much.

“Work was boring, huh,” he said, though he couldn’t imagine what a fun day looked like as a waitress. “You working more?”

“Mm. Saturday girl quit, so now I’m on Saturdays, too.” You picked at your sock. “S’okay. Tips are good. I learned that old guys tip better when you call them ‘sir.’” 

He huffed. “Do they?”

“Huge. It’s a cheat code.” You tilted your head at him, smiling shyly. “You’d tip well, I think. You’d overcompensate.” 

“I’m not gonna sit here and get profiled by you in the only few minutes where I can catch my breath.” He held the card up, front to himself. “And I tip twenty-five percent like every functioning adult, thank you.”

You groaned. “Where can I get tipped more than that?” 

“You don’t want me to answer that.”

“I do. I do. I’m a broke student. Point me to the money — where should I apply?” You shifted on the couch, fully facing him now, the cards apparently abandoned for the moment. “C’mon. You’ve lived a hundred years. You’ve gotta know where I can make some quick cash.” 

“You’re sweet to me, doll,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. He set the cards down and looked at you, genuinely considering it now. He tried to ignore the fact that you likely had money troubles and tried to think about how he could actually help. “Define quick.” 

“Like — by next Thursday.” 

“Legally?”

“No.” 

“Legally, you can sell plasma. Twice a week, they pay you, you sit there with a juice box.” 

Your nose scrunched. “I don’t love needles in me sober.”

“You’re gonna be a nurse.”

“In other people. That’s totally different.” You waved it off. “Next. What else?”

“Sleep studies pay you to sleep. Egg donation pays a whole lot but it’s a whole process, not a Thursday deal.” He was ticking them off on his fingers, now fully committed. “Medical research’ll pay you to test things. Phase-one trials. You take an experimental drug and they watch you for side effects.”

“That’s the one.” You sat up. “How much?”

“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head. “Absolutely not. I bring you in here to keep you from blacking out. I’m not gonna have you volunteering to get poisoned for a quick four hundred bucks.” He pointed at you. “Maybe start laying on the ‘sir’ a little too thick from now on.” 

“Sir.” You tested on him directly, dropping your voice, leaning in an inch, lashes going slow. “Could you help me out, sir? Tips have been so slow, sir.” 

He turned his face away from you, now making himself look out the window. “I’m not entertaining this.” 

“Oh, but sir.” You’d fully abandoned the cards now, scooting closer, a hand under your chin, the picture of innocence. “I’m just a girl. A poor, hardworking girl trying to be a nurse. Don’t you want to help me out, sir?”

“I am trying.” He pulled up the flashcards. “If it’ll help, I’ll bring my SWAT buddies into your place and they can run up a tab.” He waved a card in front of your face, trying to get your attention back to it. “You do this, I’ll have eight cops eating mozzarella sticks in your section by Friday, overtipping ‘cause I saved their lives. Won’t even have to call ‘em sir.” 

“Right. No, that’s — ” You let out a little laugh too quickly, eyes widening at his words, and you took the card out of his hand mostly to have something to do with yours. “You don’t have to do that. Obviously. I was kidding — ” You batted the whole thing away with a shake of your head. “God. No. I’m okay, I promise. I was kidding.”

“I’m half-kidding,” he said, raising a brow. “I do know those guys. It’s no skin off me. But it’s okay.” 

He let the offer sit like that, and he saw you pinch your eyes shut. He watched the whole thing happen on your face, the small involuntary recoil you always had when anyone offered you real kindness. You were bad at it. For a girl who lied so charmingly about how much she drank and how her night went, you had absolutely no poker face for being cared about. You had not the first idea how to hide it.

He found it unbearably endearing.

You opened your eyes and looked a little caught, a little sheepish as your thumb worried the corner of the card.

“You’re a strange girl,” he mumbled, fond, before he could stop it. “You know that?”

“Shit — Jack,” you said through a small laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t — I’m — ” You pressed your lips together and your shoulders came up almost to your ears in a stiff shrug. “Is there anything I can do for you? I can’t just accept — all your help.” 

He snorted. “What help? I give you a study room and review flash cards.”

“Let me do something. I’m a good cleaner — ”

His head went back slightly, shaking his head. “You’re really not.”

“Okay,” you continued, rallying. “A dog? Guys like you always have dogs they don’t walk ‘cause of their hours. I can walk dogs.” 

“No dog.” He raised his hand when he saw your mouth move again, stopping you. “You pay me back by passing your boards. You can pay me back plenty if you end up working here, doing good at the job.”

You went quiet for a second. “That’s just me doing my own thing. That’s not real.”

“That’s real to me.” He shrugged, like he hadn’t just made your whole future the price of his kindness. “I get a good nurse out of it someday.” He pulled himself off the couch. “And now I gotta go. Floor’s not gonna run itself.”

“Boo,” you said, pulling the entire deck on your lap now. “You’re the worst study partner. You leave constantly.”

Tonight, Jack had come into the family room after leaving you for a longer stretch of time than usual — a multi-vehicle situation that had eaten two hours and most of his patience — and found the studying had long since lost.

You’d migrated to the couch at some point. The textbook was open face-down on the cushion beside you like a small tented roof, your flashcards fanned across the middle seat, and you were folded in the corner with your knees pulled up and cheek mashed into the worn armrest, fighting your eyes and losing completely. You’d dimmed the overhead lights, lighting the lamp in the corner, the one nobody used, throwing everything low and gold.

He paused in the doorway. “You awake?” 

“Mhm. Need a cat nap, though,” you murmured.

Jack snorted, shutting the door behind him as he walked closer to you. “How far’d you get?”

“Far enough.” Then, you added, “Cat nap.”

“Sayin’ it like I’m gonna not let you have one.” 

Your eye cracked open a sliver, tracked him, then fell shut again. “Feel like you’re gonna make me do more cards.”

He toed the leg of the coffee table aside, reached down, and started clearing your mess off the cushions. He lifted the textbook and shut it around the receipt you’d jammed as a bookmark; gathered the flashcards and squared them in his palm; capped the highlighter and pocketed it. You watched the cleanup through one half-open eye, not lifting a single finger, your cheek staying flat to the armrest. 

“There. No more cards. You’re done for tonight, doll.” 

“Hooray,” you mumbled. 

He nudged your socked foot where it had crept up across the cushion. “C’mon. Budge up a second. Don’t want you wrecking your neck sleeping like that.”

You made a small sound of protest but you went, peeling your cheek off the armrest with reluctance. There was a crease pressed into your skin where the fabric seam had been and your hair was flat on one side and mushed on the other. You blinked up at him, swaying where you sat, eyes glassy and unfocused in the gold lamplight.

He sank into the space he’d cleared, the cushion dipping, tipping the two of you a fraction into each other. That was all the invitation your body apparently needed, because you folded into him without a beat of thought — too tired to second-guess it, he supposed — your temple finding the warm of his shoulder, your whole side melting against his. You drew your knees up and tucked them against his thigh. Your hand came to rest on his chest, palm flat, fingers spreading once before they went still. You exhaled after a moment, long and slowly, and burrowed your nose into his neck. 

Jack stilled. 

“Ten minutes,” you murmured, the words barely coming out as words.

He took his arm off the back of the couch and settled it around your back, broad hand spanning between your shoulder blades and drawing you that last fraction deeper into him. You went boneless with it, a small contended hum slipping out of you. 

Because he couldn’t help himself, he tipped his head down a fraction to say into your hair, “Been doin’ really well, y’know that, sweetheart?” 

You hummed, the sound of it vibrating against his throat, your fingers curling the faintest bit in his scrubs. “Thanks, Jack.”

“Gonna be a good nurse,” he murmured, thumb moving once along your shoulder. 

“Gonna work with you,” you mumbled, three-quarters gone. “You said.”

“Mhm.”

“Holdin’ you to it.” 

“Yeah, I know you are.” The corner of his mouth flicked up where you couldn’t see it. “Go to sleep. You can hold me to it in ten minutes.” 

When you didn’t answer for a second, Jack realized you were already gone. You were warm and trusting at his side, your hand slack over his heart, your breath sinking deep and even into his neck. 

Jack let his head tip back against the couch, pinching his eyes shut at the feeling of you, at the feeling you caused. His hand spread slowly across your back, feeling the breath go through you — the proof of you — and he let his thumb find the curve of your shoulder and rest there, keeping his eyes shut. He sat with the enormous fact of you, the girl he’d not seen anyone circle back for, gone soft and so pliant in his arms like she’d always belonged there, and he stopped pretending he wasn’t already lost. 

The ten minutes came and went. He let them. He’d have given you the whole night, the whole shift, the whole of whatever this was turning into. There wasn’t one place on the earth worth standing up for, and he’d known it for weeks, and only now, with your breath slow against his throat, did he let himself sit all the way inside of the knowing.

Jack came out of the OR and signed — albeit distantly, mind running a meter a minute about nothing good — what needed signing and said the things he was meant to, feeling the familiar piece of his own damn soul rotting away in the place those things went to rot. He knew the spot by now. It’d been decades of depositing them into the same place, and the place didn’t fill, exactly, but it never emptied, either. It just sat there, getting heavier, like things usually do when you keep adding to it and never take anything out.

This one would sit a while. Jack had started to sense it around the first year in this job; the ones that stayed had a weight, and you knew on the table whether you were getting one of those or whether it’d wash off by morning. This one wouldn’t.

He stripped his gloves, and somebody said something he answered without hearing, and then his feet simply walked past the board, carrying him down the hall toward the one door on the whole floor that wouldn’t have somebody else’s catastrophe behind it. 

His hand was flat on the door. He was still wearing the gown, and he looked down and registered it too late. He should’ve changed it, left the thing in the dirty bin with the rest of what the shift had taken, the way he always did before he came to you, kept the two halves of the floor separate on purpose. 

He opened the door. You were on the couch, one leg tucked under you and the other foot on the floor and a half-empty cup of coffee on the table going cold. You’d been doing something on your phone, or nothing, when the door opened, and you looked up with the easy expectant expression on your face you always had before it dropped. He watched it melt.

“Hey,” you said, making your voice soft.

“Hey.” His voice came out rough, and he almost winced as he heard it himself. 

You set your phone face-down on the cushion and unfolded yourself from the couch and stood, crossing the room to close the gap between you. You stopped in front of him and looked up, your brow doing a small worried thing, and he let himself be looked at.

“Sit down,” you said. “You look like you’re gonna fall through the floor.”

He distantly registered you walking him to the chair — your hand finding his forearm, a light touch — and he let you. He folded into the chair like the strings of his own body had been cut, his elbows finding his knees and head dropping.

He heard you move, small domestic sounds of you filling a cup, the tap somewhere down the hall turning on then shutting off. Then your socks were back in his eyeline, toes pointed to him.

“Here.” You crouched, came into his lowered field of vision, and pressed a cup into his hands — water, cold — and folded his fingers around it when they were slow to close. “Drink it all.”

He drank because that was the path of least resistance. The water caught something he hadn’t registered was bone-dry. You took the empty cup out of his hands when he was done, setting it on the table behind you, and then he felt your hands find his shoulders.

He flinched just slightly, the smallest involuntary thing, for nobody touched him like that. Nobody put their hands on him that weren’t shaking one of his or needing something from him. You settled your thumbs into the iron base of his neck and pressed slowly, working the knots the night, the days, the weeks, and probably the year had wound there.

Your thumbs were unsure of themselves — you weren’t good at it, you weren’t trying to be, you were simply trying — and that was somehow worse because it got further to him than skill would have; there was the unpracticed earnestness to it, like you’d simply decided his shoulders had been holding too much and you wanted to put your hands there to take some of it down. 

He felt his head drop lower, coming forward on its own, the tension bleeding out of his neck by degrees under your hands. Your thumbs found a place at the top of his spine that had been clenched so long that it had stopped registering as pain, and you pressed there, and a fraction let go. He felt his shoulders drop the inch they’d been holding up all night, and an uneven breath went out of him.

You kept your hands moving, your thumbs working the meat of his shoulders through the cotton, occasionally finding a knot and leaning your weight into it until it gave. 

His head tipped a little forward after a stretch of time — chasing, or simply falling — and it found the soft of your stomach. His forehead rested against the front of you, where you stood close in the gap between his knees. He hadn’t intended for it, or maybe he had, somewhere under where the intention happened, his body had chosen to stop holding its own weight and give it to the nearest thing that felt like it’d take it. His eyes were already shut, and he stayed there, hands coming up on their own to rest at the sides of your waist. His fingers anchored into the fabric of your shirt.

“Shitty job sometimes,” he mumbled after a moment.

“Yeah,” you said softly above him. “I bet it is.” 

Your fingers had found his hair, threading through the curls. Then, you added quietly, “But you’re really good at it.” 

His fingers tightened a fraction at the fabric on your waist as he let out a short huff. 

“Didn’t help him,” he said finally, the words coming out muffled behind his own mouth. “Whatever I’m good at didn’t help him.” 

“Maybe not.” Your fingers scraped carefully at his scalp. “I think you were the best shot he had.”

He breathed you in, choosing to let the words rest in his skull for a while instead of fighting them. 

“I’m — ” He heard you take in a breath and felt it go through your whole body. “I’m really grateful I met you, Jack.”

For some reason, he waited for you to take it back. There was a primally fast thing in him that told him that you’d take the words back, and he’d have understood.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you added. “I just wanted you to know. While you’re here being all — ” Your thumb moved at the back of his neck, tender and so gentle. “ — Figured it was a decent time to tell you I’m glad you exist.” 

He took in a shaky breath against you, fingers tightening again. 

“Thank you, sweet girl,” he said, and it sounded like it’d been punched out of him. “Likewise. More than you know,” he finished, his arms wrapping around the rest of your waist now, pulling you in like he could just fold himself smaller if he held hard enough.

Your fingers kept moving slowly in his hair, your other hand coming around the back of his head to hold him there. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d let anybody do this; as far as he could remember, he’d decided in some wordless permanent way that he’d carry his own weight from then on, that it was cheaper, that needing somebody was a bill that came due eventually and he’d rather not run the tab. 

“You should sit,” he said after god knows how long without letting go. “Selfish, keepin’ you standing here.”

“It’s okay.”

He hummed, thumb moving once at your waist. “Two more minutes then.”

“Whatever you need, Jack,” you said, voice quiet. “I’m not going.”

Jack’s phone lit up on the arm of the couch at 10:52, face-down, buzzing itself a quarter-inch off the leather before he caught it. 

He’d been working his way, with grim completionist patience, through an iceberg video you’d sent him three days ago with the message ‘THIS rabbit hole i need you to fall down.’ You’d followed it up by telling him, ‘do Not skip tiers!!’ He hadn’t skipped tiers. He was, in fact, ninety minutes deep and only about two-thirds down the pyramid, somewhere in the tier where a young man with a serious voice was explaining internet folklore he couldn’t believe was real. 

He was fairly sure it’d been invented by some teenager, but Jack only shrugged, distantly wondering why on earth anyone would spend the labor — the diagrams, alone — hoaxing a thing this elaborate for an audience of complete strangers. He also wondered why on earth you were so interested in this. As quickly as the thought arrived, he realized that he was working down the iceberg himself.

Working down a thing you’d handed him felt adjacent to sitting next to you, and his apartment had become the sort of quiet that made adjacent worth ninety minutes of contemporary folklore. He’d sooner have chewed glass than admitted it out loud.

It was a good apartment and an unwitnessed one. He’d realized somewhere in the past year it was untouched by any hand but his. Every object was exactly where he’d last set it down, for there was no second person to nudge the remote three inches or leave a hair tie on the counter or ask why there was a mug in the sink and no bowl. His leg was off for the night, propped against the arm of the couch, the whole standing weight from his night shift to SWAT calls finally set down somewhere it was allowed to stay.

So, the phone going off, went off loud in the silence that had become almost-permanent. Your name lit across the screen, and the picture with it (one you’d set yourself, commandeering his phone to do it). It was already strange that it was a call. You never called; you texted in floods, six messages deep before he’d gotten to the first, but the ringing meant the thing had gotten past the point where typing it out would hold. 

He looked at your laughing face buzzing on his phone for a second too long, the cold little instinct, and thumbed it green.

“Hey,” he said. “You know it’s almost eleven on my night-off. This better be good.”

You stayed silent for a second, and he could hear your breath and the hollow of a call connected in a car, the cooling engine’s tick and automotive acoustics. 

“Hey,” you said finally, and Jack felt it wrongly. The back half of the word had gone soft and unsteady at the end.

Jack was already sitting up. “Hey, yourself,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” He heard you swallow quickly. “Sorry. God, this is so dumb. You — were you asleep?” 

“I was almost through with your iceberg, if you want the truth.” 

You made a sound that tried to be a laugh but didn’t clear the runway, breaking apart halfway. “You watched it?”

“Almost.” His fingers were drumming against his prosthetic leaning by the couch now. “Are you out?”

“I’m —” You paused, then hummed like you were debating. “I’m kind of near your place, actually?” Your voice rose toward the end, like you were embarrassed or questioning it all yourself. “I know. It’s creepy. But I think I need to — talk to you.” 

“Yeah?” He tried to keep his voice light, though he could already feel something in his body start racing, panicking. “You break something?”

“No. No. Promise. It’s nothing like that.”

For some reason, that put a deeper hook in him. If it wasn’t a wrist, an ankle, or your body doing something it shouldn’t, then it was the other kind, and he had no idea how to hold something like that. He wasn’t sure what he could do with a sprain he couldn’t ice.

“Okay — ”

“Wait,” you interrupted, voice pitching higher, and he could see you were psyching yourself out. “I could just say it now, honestly. It’d probably be easier over the phone.”

Jack’s eyes widened a fraction at that. His stomach suddenly felt cold. 

“No,” he said, voice rougher than he’d intended. “I won’t make it hard. Whatever you want to say, I promise. Just — not like this, okay? Come here.” 

He listened to you breathe as you weighed it and knew, with bone-deep certainty, that he wouldn’t like what you were going to say. “Okay,” you breathed. “I’ll be there in fifteen.” 

Jack opened the door after the first knock, unembarrassed of waiting. You’d come as you were, a coat thrown open over sleep clothes, good wool hanging loose over a thin cami with lace at the collar and soft shorts and bare legs down to the sneakers you hadn’t laced properly. The second fact that registered to Jack was that you’d been crying; there was a soft ruin around your eyes, the mascara long gone, wiped with a sleeve somewhere back in the evening. Your hair was up and losing, a claw clip hanging looser than he believed it was meant to.

“Hi,” you said, eyes raising to meet his. “Thanks for letting me come by.”

Jack felt his shoulders rise to his ears just slightly at the formality. He felt like a bucket of ice had been dropped upon him because somewhere in the past few weeks, you’d stopped apologizing to him as much, which had felt like a small victory he never told you he was counting. And here it was again, your stiff little courtesy, the door swung back shut on a thing that had been open. Jack didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. 

“You don’t thank me for coming by,” he said gruffly, opening the door wider.

You came in, but only just. Before he could steer you to the warmth of his apartment, you were already reaching into the bag on your shoulder — hands shaking, he realized, with a fine tremor — and pulling out a folded piece of paper, creased hard down the middle and then again like you’d tried to bundle it up into a fist.

He unfolded it and smoothed out the edges, eyes looking for yours briefly, but you’d already looked away. Your bottom lip was between your teeth and you were looking at the ground. He forced himself to look down.

It was your pharmacology exam. Your cramped looping handwriting scattered the margins, a star drawn to one question because you starred everything. There was red pen all down the side and a number circled on the top. The number, Jack saw immediately, was not catastrophic, not a failure even. It was a low pass, the sort of grade that would’ve stung for Jack in his school days and evaporated by the next exam. He’d expected worse from the way you’d been shaking holding it. 

He looked back at you, confused more than anything. “Congratulations, you passed.” 

Your jaw tightened, and he could see your eyes go bright and wounded. “It’s a seventy-one.”

“That’s a pass.”

“Barely. Barely.” You took the paper out of his hands, folding it away like you couldn’t stand looking at it anymore. “And you helped me with this so much and I still couldn’t. I’m so tired of — ” You stopped, looking up at the ceiling as you pressed your lips flat. “It’s not about the test.”

“Okay.” He leaned back against the counter, giving you the whole floor of the room. “Talk, then.” 

You looked at him, and he watched you gather it all up, deciding, as it settled into your face, your mouth, whatever you’d come here to say.

“I don’t wanna waste your time anymore,” you said, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth as your eyes landed on the wall behind him. “I can’t — it’s not fair.” 

Jack felt the whole floor shift under him and felt his brows go up an inch as he tried to keep his face seem collected. 

“You’re you,” you continued. “You’ve got a whole life, a hard one, and I’ve been just — dumping mine on you. Making you sit there and hold my hand through studying and I’m — ” You shook your head, face going grim as you said the words. “It’s not fair to you. You’ve been carrying me for so long, and it’s not fair. None of this is yours to carry. I’m not yours to carry.” 

His nose scrunched just slightly, something like burning blooming at the center of his face. Something in his chest had cracked along the seam he had no idea was there, because he’d never had to look at it once straight on. It was easy to carry your own weight when there was no one asking to take some. It was easy to call solitude a principle when nobody had ever made the alternative real. And you had. You’d made it real for months, and here you were proposing — no, telling — to take it back, to hand him his loneliness again because of some measurement of fairness. 

The horror of how much Jack didn’t want it — how badly, how completely he didn’t want to go back to how it was before you — was the first honest look he’d taken at himself in longer than he could stand to count. 

“That so?” was all he could say, voice roughening as his brows narrowed at you. 

“Yes.” You mistook the roughness for agreement, or maybe you just needed to do so, because you kept going. “You don’t have to help me. The only thing I can think is you’re — you are a good person and I was there. And you help people, it’s what you do.” Your hand waved in the general direction of him as your voice cracked. “So help someone who’d actually make it worth it. Who won’t barely pass and keep getting too drunk and — ” You laughed slightly, and it was all wet and terrible, the sound. “I’m a bad use of you. You’re this — you are so much, Jack, and I’m a bad place to put it. So put it somewhere better.” 

Jack had to force a swallow when you ended your words with a sharp intake of breath, the pool behind your eyes slipping free slowly down your cheeks. You’d run out of anything that’d make you wipe it away now, and that undid him worse than the crying itself, that you were standing there and letting it fall, done hiding, wrung all the way out. 

“I’m sorry — ” he started.

“It’s okay,” you said immediately, shaking your head.

“For making you think that’s what it was,” he said, lowering his voice. “That’s on me, that you talked yourself into thinking this has been some sort of charity.” He cocked his head to the side then, wishing you’d look up at him. “But you’re gonna quit shaking your head for one minute, and hear the rest, ‘cause you got it wrong. All of it, backwards and upside down.”

He came off the counter and closed the space himself, until you had to lift your chin to keep his eyes. 

“I’m not a man who spends his nights on a stray out of the goodness of his heart. Ask anyone I work with what I’m like. I don’t have that lying around spare.” His jaw tightened. “So take the halo off. That’s not what this was.”

“Then why — ”

“You,” he said plainly, for he learned it cost him nothing to do so, and a lot if he didn’t. “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone. There’s nowhere else I want to put it.”

He watched everything in your face tighten at his words, the disbelief and reflex to argue all curdling underneath. 

“If you don’t want this.” Me. Me, he wanted to say. “Say it. I’ll leave you alone. You don’t owe me anything.”

“That’s not — ”

“But don’t act like it’s some favor for me.” He was closer now than he’d been. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving for my sake. That’s a lie.”

“It’s not — ”

“It’s a lie,” he said, voice going flat and so final, as he slowly nodded his head. He looked at you a second, lips coming between his teeth, then looked away as he felt something physical seize over his entire body.

Jack himself had to process the words as he said them, because he was only just realizing how much truth they held.

“You make it good.”

He forced himself to look back at you, and you had tilted your head now to look up at him, caught and still as stone, the arguing gone completely off your face now and replaced with something more frightened.

“Don’t — ” One of Jack’s shoulders came up in a half-hearted shrug. “You’re the one part of my day that doesn’t take anything out of me. Just — get that straight, sweetheart.” 

You were just looking up at him with your whole face undone, the tears gone still on it, as though his words had knocked your own clean out of you.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” you said quietly. “People don’t — that’s not a thing that happens to me, Jack. Being — ” Your sentence broke apart and your hand had come up and fisted loosely in front of his shirt without either of you deciding it should, holding on, holding him there. “I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Nothing.” His hand came up slowly and covered yours where it fisted in his shirt, holding it flat there against his chest. “It’s just true.”

You made a small, pained sound and dropped your forehead against his sternum, right where his hand held yours, and he felt the whole strung-tight weight of you gave at once and settled into him. He felt you breathe against his shirt at the same time he felt his own pulse going too fast on your knuckles; he wasn’t bothered enough to try and slow it, because there was no point now. You’d already found out. 

“Very grateful for you,” he murmured, his other hand pulled up to rest over the back of your skull. “Told you so earlier. Meant it more than you let yourself hear.”

You huffed against his shirt — half a sob, half a laugh, maybe the ruined cousin of both — and he felt it go through the cotton and land warm against his skin, felt your fingers uncurl a fraction from the fist they’d made then re-fist, like even now some part of you was checking he was still there to hold onto. 

Jack held still for it, same as you had in the family room for him. He was good at holding still, it was half the job, but this was a different kind — he supposed — where there was a plain animal willingness to be a wall for as long as you needed one and not move a muscle that might spook you out of it. 

He rested his chin at the top of your head, murmuring, “I don’t have to tutor you anymore, if that’ll help.” He swallowed, closing his eyes as he breathed in your faint perfume. “We can scrap the whole thing, if that’s what’s making you feel so bad.”

You stilled for a second, then made a small sound against him. 

Despite himself, despite it all, he let out a short chuckle. “S’okay. I’m the reason you got a seventy-one. You’re allowed to switch.” 

“You’re the reason it’s a seventy-one and not a thirty,” you said, and it came out muffled and immediate. You almost sounded cross, like you didn’t want the slander against him to stand even now.

After a moment against him, you added, “I don’t want to be just someone you help, I think. I don’t want to be somebody — I guess — that you’re just good to.”

When Jack hummed, you continued, “I don’t know what I wanna be instead. Just — a friend — or, I don’t know. Something that goes both ways.”

Jack’s chest swelled at the words. He felt that he’d have been anything you asked of him, simply because it had just become how it was. It was almost outrageous how, if you’d asked, he’d have handed it over, the whole rest of it, whatever you wanted the name to be, whatever box you needed him in.

A man his age was supposed to be past this. He was supposed to have calcified somewhere in the second decade of the job into something that didn’t reorganize himself around what someone he’d known properly only for the better part of the year had asked him.

“Consider it done,” he murmured, letting the word settle. Friend.

You breathed against him, and Jack felt himself want to remain exactly here and knew that he shouldn’t. He knew that the kind thing now was to give you somewhere to put your face that wasn’t his chest, some ordinary ground for you to set your feet back down on. 

“C’mon.” He got a hand on your shoulder and eased you off him gently, a slow, slow reclaiming of the eight inches of air between your body and his. He dipped his head to catch your eyes, which were pink-rimmed and swollen and doing their utter best to avoid his now that the worst was out of you. “Do you want me to order food?”

Your neck rolled back slightly as you met his eyes, caught slightly off-guard at the shift of tone. You blinked. “That was a lot, and now you’re asking about food?”

“It was a lot,” he agreed. He reached up and thumbed a smudge of leftover mascara from under your eye briskly, and you let him. “And now it’s done. So, food, and we can watch the stupid video you sent me before you head home.”

It had been six days since you showed up at his apartment, and Jack had embarrassingly counted every single one of them. You’d left his apartment somewhere past two with your eyes finally dry and a paper bag of his leftover Thai you’d protested and taken anyway, and he’d walked you down to your car and stood in the lot like some idiot in a movie until your taillights turned off his street, and then he’d gone back up to a quiet that felt, for the first time in years, like something had been in it.

Since then it had gone like it always had and nothing like it; you still turned up with flashcards and left a graveyard of half-drunk coffees on every surface. But he’d noticed how you started letting him sit closer now, let a compliment land without flinching off, and once, mid-story, had reached over and fixed his scrub top where it had folded under, casual as breathing. 

Friend was the word you’d settled on. Jack was thinking about that when Shen dropped into step beside Jack with a cup of fresh Dunkin sweating in his hand. 

“You know it’s not standard to let your girlfriend occupy the family room for three hours of your shift, right?” 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Jack immediately clarified. It seemed more important to do now than it was earlier, when people only knew you when you came in as an emergency. Still, it felt wrong, like a key going in the wrong hole. “And you got a problem with it?” 

Shen lifted the coffee in surrender, unbothered. “You know we’ve grown to her. She and I do the Wordle every midnight.” Then, he spread one hand. “Administratively, she’s not staff. She’s not a patient. She’s not family of a patient. Which leaves the category I’d have to call —” He tilted his head, faux thoughtfulness. “ — Abbot’s girlfriend, and I don’t think that’s in the handbook.” 

“Try again,” Jack drawled, thumbing a form he wasn’t reading that didn’t need to be read. “She’s a nursing student getting hours of free tutoring off a board-certified attending. Put that in the handbook. Teaching hospital. I’m teaching.”

Shen shook his head, letting out a small laugh. “Alright. Alright. She’s not your girlfriend. Mind if I ask her out, then?” 

Jack snorted. “If you could only be so lucky.” 

“Clearly she has a type for attendings,” he pressed, grinning. “Or is it just the ones with gray hair?”

Jack looked at him sideways. “This is getting a bit weird, even for you.” 

“I’m happy for you, man. Even if you’re gonna make us all watch you not do anything about it for the next six months.”

“Mind your own damn business.”

“Sure,” he turned, lifting a hand over his shoulder as he went. “Close the blinds anyway. There’s a window on that door. Everyone can see her making you dumb.” 

Jack looked down the hall and set the form down before going there to close the blinds — telling himself it was for the window, for Shen’s real talk — and knowing, somewhere under that, that he was really just going to you. 

He could see you through the window in the door before he reached it, which was, he supposed, exactly Shen’s point. You had a textbook open in your lap and you were chewing the end of your highlighter, brow pulled in, mouthing something to yourself, working a card over your head. You’d pulled the sleeves of one of his old sweatshirts down to your hands, the one you’d swiped from his locker two weeks ago and never given back and that he’d never once asked for, because he’d found he didn’t want it back, found he liked seeing it swallow you.

You gave him a smile when he walked in. He reached up and tipped the blinds shut on the window with two fingers, the floor outside tipping away. 

“Why’d you close them?” you asked, slightly bored.

“Apparently the whole department’s been getting a show.”

You furrowed your brows then. “A show of what? Me failing?”

“Somethin’ like that.” He let it go at that, coming around and lowering himself onto the couch beside you, the cushion dipping and tipping you toward him a degree, what it always did that neither of you ever corrected. “How’s it going? Honest.”

“Honestly?” You blew out a breath, closing the highlighter. “I’d kill for a drink.”

“Oh?” Jack settled back against the couch, his arm coming up along the top of it behind you. “Telling that to the one man who’s seen what you look like at the bottom of the bottle.”

“Jaaaack,” you said, almost in a whine. “Let’s go to a bar.”

He snorted, dragging a hand down his face. “Now I’m wondering what’s pushing you toward the edge.”

He picked the flashcard you had set on the textbook, the one you’d been studying. He read the front of it without much intention — your handwriting was cramped and looping, a star drawn next to it — and turned over and checked the back. He did the same thing he always did, the story, the image; he’d done it a hundred times by now. He could do it half-asleep, and most nights he half was. 

You thought about it for a second, your bottom lip tugged between your teeth, then walked yourself to the answer. 

“Mhm. See. Good,” he murmured. He flipped the card to the back to check you, and you’d had it. Of course you’d had it, you’d had more of this than you ever gave yourself credit for. “Tell you what. Get the next three right, and I’ll get us a drink once your exams are done.” 

Your brows narrowed. “Bribe?”

“It’s an incentive.” He held up the next card, eyes on you. “Don’t think. Just answer me.” 

You did. One, then the next, then the one after. You were quicker now that there was something on the end of it, your lip caught between your teeth as you walked yourself there each time. He noticed you worked when there was something to earn. After all three, he hummed. “See. Good girl, there you go.” 

He felt you go still beside him, and his eyes flickered up to you to see your eyes dropping to your textbook. He stayed silent a second, eyes raking over you, your thumb running the worn edge of a card back and forth. 

Jack knew better than to point out how you being flustered was almost silly when he’d said the same words many times while taping you up or shining a penlight in your eyes. He let his arm stay where it was along the couch, hand not quite touching your shoulder, and watched the side of your face.

“You wanna do some more?” he said finally, voice coming out rougher. “Or are we done for the night?”

You held up a finger, as if telling him to wait.

“Okay, then,” he mumbled, leaning back further against the couch. “Take your time.”

After a second, he turned to say something dry to break the silence. You’d turned your head, too, and were closer than he initially realized, your eyes coming up off the card and finding his, near enough that whatever he had bubbling in his throat died there immediately. 

Jack hummed involuntarily. You closed the sound by pressing your mouth to his, the feeling of the plushness so very featherlight, there and barely there, the softest press. 

He went still as stone, every system in him locking at once. His hand was still along the back of the couch and his mouth hadn’t answered yours, not because he didn’t want to — God, he did — but because the entirety of him had gone still with the disbelief of it, with the you, here, choosing this — him — and the half-second of nothing stretched into a second, too damn long. 

He’d seized on you, the fact you’d nearly walked, had stood in his kitchen finding the kindest way to disappear, and here you were, closing the last of the distance yourself.

You pulled back like you’d touched a stove, a gasp leaving your mouth, replacing where his own had been. 

“Oh god.” Your hand flew up to your mouth, your eyes going wide before pinching shut completely. “I’m sorry — I’m so sorry, Jack. I read that so, so wrong. You’ve been so nice and I — fuck, I’m sorry.”

Jack made a pained sound that was lost somewhere in your ramble, at the sight of you snatching it back. Nothing had gone wrong. Jack knew you’d read nothing wrong, and that the only thing that had happened was that he’d been too slow, too stunned, too thirty-years-rusty to catch what had been handed to him in good reflex.

His hand came off the back of the couch and he caught your jaw, thumb on your chin as he pushed slightly against your skin. He was distantly aware that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so afraid about leaning in to kiss a woman, and went in to try and give you back the second he lost, mouth finding yours the exact way every bone in his body knew he should’ve the first time. 

You made a startled sound against him before the entirety of you melted. His mouth worked against yours, thoroughly, making sure not to fumble it twice. His thumb stayed on your chin, tilting your face the half-degree he wanted it, and when your lips parted on half a breath, his entire upper body leaned in to follow it, deepening it. 

It was you who moved first. Of course, it was you, always you. You followed it, the kiss pulling you up and forward, your knee coming over his thigh, and then you were settling over him. Jack let out the throatiest of a chuckle, still intent on keeping your mouth, as your hands slid from the front of his scrubs to his jaw. 

Jack’s hands caught yours on instinct — one at your waist, one at your hip — steadying you down to him, your hips still slightly in the air like you weren’t sure you could close the last of the distance, your weight held in the suspended air in the ache of almost, thighs braced on either side of his. 

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, letting his head fall back against the back of the couch, dragging his eyes up the length of you poised over him. He blew out a short breath, the corners of his lips kicking up as his palm glided up and down on the side of your waist, catching onto your tank top on accident to show a sliver of skin at your lip — warm, soft, the band of your shorts sitting low — and he watched his own hand do it before he dragged his eyes back to your face.

“Nothing halfway with you, huh?” he said, the words practically coming out from his chest. His thumb rested against that bared sliver of you. “Climbing me at my work.”

You lowered your head, and your nose grazed against his. “You started it.”

“I did?”

“You closed the blinds.”

He let out a surprised laugh. “I can promise you I didn’t expect this when I did that.” 

Your lips ghosted over his for a second, and his chest swelled at the sight of you trying to tamp down the sweetest smile. “Problem?” 

“No.” The words came out immediately, because apparently somewhere in him, there was still something insatiable and teenage that had lurched up at the sight of you. “No. No problem.”

His hand spread flat and warm against the small of your back, fingers slipping under the hem of the top to your warm skin there, and he drew you down, finally, that last suspended inch collapsing as he settled your weight flush over him. 

He had to pinch his eyes shut a second, then open them again to take in the whole sight of you. His hand came up to your jaw. The light caught the loose hair at your temple, the bare line of your shoulder where the strap had slipped. Your mouth was full and flushed from his, parted slightly, your breath coming. The skin under his hand at your back was hot to the touch, and he spread his fingers wider against it just to feel more of it. 

You were trying not to smile. Your lip caught between your teeth, the corners pulling anyway. 

His finger perched against your jaw moved to your lips, dragging slowly across the lower one, parting it under the pad of his thumb. He watched it give, your breath warm against his skin. 

Your eyes flicked up to his as your lip closed around the first knuckle, your tongue hesitantly pressing flat against the pad, the wet heat of it catching him so completely off guard that the air went out of him in a rough exhale. His other hand fisted at the small of your back, turning over to gather the hem of your tank in his grip. 

“Oh.” His eyes had dropped to your mouth and fixed there, his jaw slack as his head cocked to the side. “Pretty.” 

His gaze was locked on the sight of his thumb disappearing past your lips, no hesitation in it, that same no-halfway boldness turned filthy and sweet all at once. The tired man in him went down all at once. 

His thumb dragged free, catching on your bottom lip and tugging it down before it slipped loose. His chest heaved harder now under the warm weight of you. 

“Where’d that come from?” he muttered gruffly, almost to himself, thumb pressing the slick of your own lip back against you. His palm moved to cradle your face, tapping your cheek softly once. “Can’t be doing things like that here, doll. I’m on call.” 

“Then don’t make it so easy.” Your lips brushed his thumb, then you moved down to press your mouth to the line of his jaw, the stubble catching your lips, then lower to the warm of his throat.

“You callin’ me easy?” he said through a chuckle, letting his head tip back. You scraped your teeth over the cord of his neck and felt the whole of him go tight underneath you, his fingers flexing hard into the bare skin of your back. 

“Alright.” His voice had dropped to stone. “You’ve had your fun.. No more of that,” he said, though made no move to stop you.

You peppered a line of pecks down his throat down to where his collar had started, your lips dragging over the jut of his collarbone through the thin cotton. He swallowed. One of your hands slid up to the back of your neck, fingers pushing into the soft gray at his nape, scratching light, and the other flattened over his chest, over the steady-then-not rhythm, fisting slow in the fabric just to feel him breathe wrong because of you.

You sat back an inch to look at him. His head was still tipped back against the couch, his throat bared where you’d left it momentarily pink and glossy, his eyes half-lidded. His hands had gone heavy and possessive at your hips, giving up pretending he wanted them anywhere else, you anywhere else.

You dragged your thumb over his bottom lip, watched it give, the same way he did to you. 

“Can I ask you something?” you asked, quietly, your hips settling more firmly into his lap. 

“Mm.” His hands spread wide, settling you down harder against him. “My social security number is — ”

You laughed. 

“Two-two-six — ”

“Jack — ” You swatted at his chest, the seriousness dissolving into something giddier. “I’m being serious. Stop.” 

“Okay, okay.” The corners of his mouth lifted up, and his hands squeezed slightly at your hips. He pulled his head up off the couch to meet your eyes properly. “Shoot. Doubt I could stop you.” 

“Are you seeing anyone?”

He let the question sit, humming. His thumbs moved idly at your hips, head tilting against the couch like the question required any real thought. “There’s a few women,” he said, lowering his voice as he looked at you, like he was letting you in on a secret. “There’s a nice lady who brings me fruit baskets.”

Your hand, on the flat of his chest, slid up slow to his throat and he kept talking like he didn’t notice.

“ — there’s this nurse on days who keeps leaving me her number at the station — ”

You leaned in and closed your teeth slightly on his earlobe. He let out a short laugh, one that was dragged out of him, his head tipped to give more of it to you without permission. 

“Alright. Okay,” he said as your nose dragged the line of his jaw. “Stop doin’ that. I don’t wanna explain teeth marks to the whole floor.” 

Your hips set firmer into his lap. “Jack,” you warned. “I can’t do this if you’re seeing fifty other women.” 

He sobered a degree, his thumb going still at your waist, his eyes coming up to actually hold yours. The joke drained out of his face as he realised the edge of seriousness you tried to tamp down, and he momentarily short-circuited at how it was even possible for you to wonder. 

“Hey.” His hand came up off your hip, pushed the hair back from your face and stayed there, cradling. “Until five minutes ago, there were zero women. Forget fifty.” 

Your only response to that was a smile and your cheek leaning further against his palm. He let his thumb move once across his cheekbone, watching the way your cheek turned into his hand. Your eyes drifted half-shut. There was a speck of dried highlighter ink on the side of your finger where it curled against his throat. The strap of your top had slid off your shoulder again; he looked at all of you and stopped bothering to pretend, even to himself, that he was looking at anything other than the only thing in the room he wanted.

“What about you? You seein’ anyone?” His thumb stayed where it was, but his voice had gone quieter. “‘Cause I’ve seen people bring you in. And I never liked one of ‘em.”

You huffed a small laugh, your nose grazing his. “Jealous, Doctor?” 

“Yeah.” He watched the laugh stall on your face at how easy he gave it up. “If there is, he should be worried. I’d like to take you on a nice date to change that.” 

“Ohhhh,” you drawled through a laugh. “There’s no one, but I won’t say no to the date.”

“Then you’ve got yourself one, doll.” He kissed you on it — short, sure, his hand still cradling your face — sealing the thing as the corner of his mouth caught yours before he pulled back. He let his forehead rest against yours for a second and breathed you in. 

Then, with a short groan, he tipped his head back off of yours. 

“I gotta get back out there.” His thumb was still moving at your jaw, clearly working against the very thing he was saying. “My work ethic’s going wrong and my residents might actually report me.” 

Then, his hands found your waist and he lifted you off, setting you off his lap and onto the cushion beside him where the entire thing had started. You landed with a small affronted sound, your hand fisting in his collar a beat longer before he had to let it go. 

You flopped back into the cushion where he’d deposited you, one hand pressed flat to your chest, the picture of wounded. “I guess it’s true what they say about old men. They use you. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.” 

He stood up and scrubbed his palm down his face like he could wipe the last ten minutes off it before he had to walk out and be a doctor again. He could still feel the heat sitting at the back of his neck and even though he’d tried to scrub your gloss off, he was sure there was a remnant somewhere the worst possible person would notice. 

“Yup, got exactly what I wanted. Thank you, ma’am.” His hand came down to rest at the top of your head and gave it a slow, condescending pat, ruffling the wreck of your hair worse than it already was. “I’m a terrible man. You’re welcome to stay here while I go be one somewhere else.” 

He made himself step back and snagged his pen off the table, the badge, the small armor of the job clipping back into place piece-by-piece. The whole time his eyes kept catching on you, sprawled and rumpled where he’d set you down, looking up at him like the night had gone exactly where it was supposed to. He’d seen this room a thousand nights. He’d never once not wanted to leave it. 

“Mm. Gotta go home. S’almost three,” you mumbled. “And you get off at seven.” 

“I do.”

“So.” You pushed yourself off the cushion, slow, gathering your hair back off your face and pushing up your strap, putting yourself back together piece by piece the same way he was, the night closing in on both ends. “I’ll go and let you be a doctor. You’ve been very neglectful.” 

“Don’t I know it,” he muttered. He watched you reach for your textbook, your highlighter, the flashcards, and sweep it all back into your bag, feeling the small stupid pull of not wanting the room to empty out. 

He stepped in before you finished, catching your jaw, tilting your face up to kiss you once more. You went still under it, the bag forgotten halfway zipped, your hand coming up to rest light on his chest. He pulled back an inch to look at you.

“Text me when you get home,” he said, thumb dragging along your jaw. 

You chuckled, brows pulling in. “It’s a ten minute drive.”

“Text me. Humor an old man, since I’m so terrible to you already.”

[sundayniche]

nothing screams girlhood more than reading fanfics late at night in bed

[deltamel]

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE, VALKO

[bigandlong]

If you see this on your dashboard, reblog this, NO MATTER WHAT and all your dreams and wishes will come true.

[jae-felidae]

Oh hey! Haven’t seen this in forever! Didn’t reblog it when it came across me before, not gonna skip it this time, I need some good vibes.

[old-melissax77]

[old-melissax77]

[sweetwhisperingangel]

Every Mark*ੈ✩‧₊˚

General Synopsis: You have given the realm six sons and every mark on your body to prove it. But insecurity is a quiet thing and during the Grand Feast of King Daeron II, it finds you all at once....

pairing: Husband!Baelor Targaryenx Wife!reader x Husband!Maekar Targaryen

word count: 12k.

Content: 18+ minors dont interact,body image issues, hurt/comfort, jealousy, scars, suggestive content, p in v, polyamory, fluff, targcest, soft ending

You stood before the mirror with your chin lifted and your shoulders back.

The dressing room had been overtaken entirely. Your ladies-in-waiting moved around you, fanning bolts of fabric out on either side. Silks and velvets and things more delicate, colors ranging from a winter sea to a red so dark it bordered on black in certain lights. They rippled and shimmered as the women moved, catching the last warm gold of the evening sun that poured through the high chamber windows and turned everything briefly ethereal.

You yourself wore only a fitting garment, loose, unfinished, existing solely to give the seamstress her markers and to give you some vague impression of how the silhouette might look.

You had not expected the fabrics that were shown to you.

From silk to georgette, from heavy damask to something so fine and light it seemed to move of its own accord in the faintest touch. Every available cloth had been sourced, folded, hung, and presented for your consideration. The arrangement alone must have cost more than most lords spent on their entire household in a year.

You grimaced.

Both your husbands had an unseemly talent for excess when it came to you, a talent you had attempted to discourage. You had told them once, that it was entirely unnecessary, that you wanted for nothing, that they would do far better directing their generosity toward the smallfolk or the sept or truly anything that was not you.

You remembered very clearly how that conversation had gone.

Baelor had looked at you with that expression of his, that gave nothing away, a small smile settled at the corner of his mouth, his chin lifted. He had let you finish.

Then he had said: "For you, there is nothing too grand. You are Princess to this realm and Queen to be. You will be adorned as such."

You had looked to Maekar, hoping for an ally.

Maekar had looked back at you, then slowly crossed his arms across his chest, and considered the matter entirely settled, gave a single nod in agreement with everything Baelor had just said.

Not one word of his own.

The fabrics had arrived the following morning. More than before, if anything, as though the conversation had somehow encouraged them.

"Turn it," you said, and the ladies rotated a deep crimson satin. It caught the light differently on the second look, richer, almost mineral, like garnet pulled fresh from the earth. You tilted your head.

That one. Bold enough to honor them both. Red enough to make a statement without having to open your mouth.

You gave a single nod and a seamstress moved around you with tape and pins in hand. Hem, shoulders, the length of your arm.

Then she reached your middle.

She paused.

Her brow furrowed and she measured again. Carefully.

"Is something the matter?"

She startled, nearly dropping a few pins from her hand. "N-No, Your Grace. I apologize." Her eyes dropped immediately to her work but not before they had flickered, just once, to the soft curve of your belly.

You watched her in the mirror.

"I am asking you to be honest with me."

The seamstress swallowed.

"Yes, Your Grace. I will need to make some readjustments around your middle. I deeply apologize."

The room did not freeze so much as empty. The murmuring of your ladies trailing off into nothing, the rustle of fabric going still. Something small and quiet inside your chest simply stopped.

Your hands moved before you thought to stop them, settling over the curve of your belly. The way you might cover something you did not want seen.

It was such a small thing. Such an ordinary, professional observation from a woman simply doing her work. She had not been cruel. She had not even been unkind. And yet the words had found something in you that more than twenty years of marriage had left entirely unguarded because your husbands had never given you reason to guard it.

Not once.

Not in the dark, when there was nothing between you and their hands, when Baelor's mouth traced your skin and Maekar's grip left marks he never apologized for.

Not in passing, in the ordinary daylight hours of a shared life. Not in any of the thousand small moments that might have invited cruelty, had they been different men.

In more than twenty years, through six children and all the ways your body had changed and shifted and marked itself with the evidence of that, not once had either of them made you feel that any part of you required an apology, so you had simply never thought about it.

And yet, as if the gods had decided that women had not suffered quite enough, that small passing professional assessment had woken something in you that had apparently been sleeping very lightly. It was a foolish thought. You had never had reason to doubt yourself. Until someone else voiced it.

"Very well," you said.

Afterwards, when the seamstress had retreated to a smaller room next door to make her adjustments, you let your ladies press jewels into your palm for approximately thirty seconds before you raised your hand.

"Leave me."

They inclined their heads and left without a word. The door clicked shut behind them.

You stood before the mirror alone.

Slowly, you reached for the knot of the garment and let it fall.

It had been some time since you had truly looked at yourself.

Your breasts were softer than they had once been, heavier, sitting lower than you remembered. Your nipples darker than they had been in your girlhood. Your belly was soft too and mapped, hip to navel, with the pale silver traces of scars that had long since faded. But those were not the only marks.

There, low on your abdomen still faint after all these years, the long curved scar from Valarr. Your first birth, the hardest of them all. Three days of labor and a maester who had fought to keep you both in the world and won, barely.

Higher, at your left hip, the tear from Aerion. Too fast, too early, the kind of birth that happened before anyone was ready.

And then there, low, just above your pubic mound, Aegon's mark. The stubbornest of all of them, and the most intimate in its placement, a thin line that had refused to silver eight years. Still faintly pink.

Eight years since Aegon. Eight years since the last of them had come into the world red-faced and angry and perfect.

Six children. Six times your body had opened itself and endured and kept going and you had never, not once, allowed yourself to think of it as anything other than duty. What mothers did. What wives did. What was simply expected and therefore required no acknowledgment.

Standing here now, alone in the quiet of your chamber, you were not sure whether to feel proud of it or grieve it.

Perhaps both. Perhaps that was the only honest answer.

You thought of yourself twenty years ago. The smoothness of that skin. The absence of scars. The body that had not yet learned what it would be asked to do, or what it would cost.

You wondered, sometimes, if that girl would even recognize you.

Your eyes moved over your reflection again, searching for something.

And then, the questions came.

Did your husbands truly see this and feel what they claimed to feel?

Was it genuine?

Or was this simply duty to them?

The thought arrived like poison. Maybe they could do it because of someone else. A younger woman living in their minds. Softer skin behind closed eyes when their hands were on yours. Maybe that was how they managed it. Maybe that was the only way they could.

Your mind fed you the thought and then fed you more and you stood there and let it.

Your proudness. Your stubbornness. Twenty years of certainty, all of it quietly dismantled by nothing more than your own reflection.

You pressed your lips together.

You could not make it make sense. The body in the mirror and the hunger in their eyes could not possibly be looking at the same thing.

The shame followed.

It washed over you in a wave you were not prepared for. The doubt, the grief for that girl in the mirror who no longer existed, the deep humiliation of standing in your own skin and finding it wanting.

You had faced childbed fever. You had faced loss. You had sat at the bedsides of sick children and held yourself together by sheer will alone.

You had not expected this to be the thing that broke through.

You bent and retrieved the garment from the floor. Pulled it around your shoulders. Hugged it close with both arms wrapped tight across your middle and held yourself.

And then, quietly, you wept.

The doors to the great hall were open, with warm light and noise spilling into the corridor. You paused there for a moment, just long enough to straighten your shoulders, lift your chin, and make yourself look composed.

Your corset was tightly laced beneath your gown, shaping your figure into something polished and proper. It didn’t quite match what you had seen in the mirror an hour ago. Still, you were grateful for it, even if that feeling didn’t sit entirely right with everything else on your mind tonight.

Then the herald's voice rang out, cutting through the noise of the hall.

"Her Royal Highness, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms. Wife to Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar of House Targaryen. Mother to six princes of the realm."

The hall shifted. People turned to look. Voices grew quieter, one table at a time, starting near the doors and spreading across the hall.

You walked in.

The great hall had been transformed. Every long table draped in cloth of gold and deep Targaryen crimson, candles burning in their hundreds along the walls and suspended in iron chandeliers above, casting everything in warm amber light that caught the jewels of the assembled lords and ladies. Fresh flowers had been brought in from the glass gardens, white and red arranged in various displays between the candelabras, and the smell of them mingled with roasting meat and spiced wine made it clear this was a celebration.

The red gown was beautiful. You knew it was beautiful and yet all you felt was the weight of being looked at. Lords inclining their heads as your eyes passed over them. Ladies assessing you, smiles that may or may not have reached their eyes. You smiled back at all of them and felt beneath the corset uncomfortable in your own skin.

You breathed in.

And then, a loud shout.

"Mother!"

Aegon had spotted you from across the room, the conversation with Aemon abandoned mid-sentence.

He was already moving, pushing through the crowd with little care for manners. Two lords had to step quickly aside, and a lady grabbed her wine cup before he knocked into her.

He hit you around the middle.

Both arms thrown around you, his face pressing directly into the soft of your belly, his small hands gripping your sides with a force that was frankly surprising for someone his size. He held on with the complete certainty of a boy who had never once questioned whether he was wanted.

You stiffened and felt the grimace cross your face before you had any hope of stopping it. You were grateful that he was buried too far into you to see it.

"My sweetling." You kept your voice warm and drew him back gently, turning him by the shoulders to face you. "Look at you."

He wore an apricot silk doublet that shimmered through various shades of gold as he moved, with deep red and black visible beneath. Dornish in its cut, but threaded with elements of House Targaryen and there, if you looked closely, traces of your own house woven in.

Over his right breast hung a three-headed dragon in silver. Queen Myriah's doing, without question.

His hair had been dressed back from his face.

It would last another hour at most and you both knew it.

"How are you enjoying the festivities?" you asked, smoothing his collar with both hands.

Aegon's expression changed drastically. "Not much. The lords keep trying to talk to me about things I do not care about and Lord Bracken's son stepped on my foot and did not even apologize."

"Did he."

"Deliberately, I think."

"I am certain it was an accident."

"Aemon says I should not hit him back because we are at grandsire's feast and it would be embarrassing." He paused. "Aemon is probably right."

"Aemon is absolutely right."

"I know." He sighed, loudly. "I would still rather be outside."

"If it would make you feel better," you said, leaning slightly toward him and keeping your voice low, "I would rather be outside too."

His face split into a grin and you smiled back at him before you could help yourself. Your sweet boy.

A beat of comfortable silence settled between you, warm and easy and then...

He went still.

The grin faded, replaced by something that had no business being on the face of a boy his age. He looked up at you and the sheer focus of it caught you off guard, those violet eyes of his moving over your face with careful attention that made the back of your neck prickle.

You had the sudden and very uncomfortable feeling of being read.

"Are you alright?"

You held his gaze for a moment.

He looked back at you and waited, with a patience that was entirely Baelor's and a stubbornness that was entirely Maekar's, and the combination of the two on that small face was almost enough to undo you completely.

Gods. You had really gone and birthed sons with the observational instincts of their fathers.

"I am perfectly well, thank you my sweet." The words came out smooth and easy, "Now go back to your brother."

Aegon's face arranged itself into a scowl. He held it for a moment, clearly weighing his options, and then turned and scurried back toward Aemon.

He looked back at you once.

Over his shoulder, those too-sharp eyes finding your face across the hall with an ease that should not have been possible at his age.

You turned your attention to the room instead and searched the rest of the hall for your sons.

Aerion was not difficult to find. He stood at the center of a small cluster of young noble ladies, all of them flushed and giggling, their eyes moving over him freely and without shame.

He was enjoying every moment of it, you could tell by the set of his shoulders, the easy smile, the way he leaned slightly toward whoever was speaking. He wore House Targaryen colors, bold black with red accents, but underneath, if you looked closely, faint lines of apricot silk caught the light.

Matarys stood not far from his brother, which was where Matarys tended to be, close enough to keep an eye on things, far enough to want no part in them. He was talking to a group of men, several of them knights by the look of them, all wearing very serious expressions. Matarys fit right in amongst them. The difference between him and Aerion not twenty feet away was so completely typical of them both that you felt a laugh leave you.

Your eyes moved on.

To the right, beside the Iron Throne, King Daeron stood with Queen Myriah, talking to a group from Tyrosh. Beside them stood Kiera and Valarr nearby, doing a poor job of pretending he had not noticed her. You watched him steal a glance at her. Watched her notice. Watched them both look away in opposite directions like two people with absolutely nothing to hide.

You pressed your lips together.

It was indeed a very good match.

Further along the hall your second eldest Daeron stood with a young lord from House Lannister.

It was a fine atmosphere. Warm and loud and glittering with everything a celebration ought to be.

And yet your eyes, traitorously, had begun to move.

The hall was full of lords, naturally. Men of every age and station filling the long tables, deep in the serious business of being seen and seeing others. But between them, beside them, were their daughters. Their sisters. Young noble ladies in gowns of every color, their skin smooth, their laughter easy, their figures untouched by the demands of duty and childbirth and years.

They moved through the hall like light through glass, effortless, bright, drawing the eye without trying.

You watched them and felt something ugly stir in the pit of your stomach.

It was shameless, the thought that followed. You knew it was shameless even as it took shape. But there it was regardless, rising up from that same dark place where the doubt had been living all evening.

Your husbands were men. Vital, powerful, striking men who commanded every room they entered. And these girls were everywhere tonight, glowing with youth that required no effort other than a beautiful gown.

What man, given the choice, would stop himself. After all even your husbands...

You stopped the thought before it finished itself.

And yet the shame sat in you like a stone at the bottom of a river and your feet did not want to carry you further into the room.

You were still standing there, caught between duty and the desire to simply not, when a hand settled at your side.

Warm. Familiar. Fingers curling against your hip like they had every right to be there . A private hello in the middle of a very public room. It pressed, just slightly, into the softness there.

You pulled away before you had consciously decided to and turned.

Baelor.

He stood close and his head dipped slightly toward your ear, his voice dropping to something low and meant only for you.

"My love. You look radiant tonight."

That voice. Even now, after everything, after all the years, the low warm of it settled deep in your belly, coiling somewhere intimate and inconvenient, and you had no control over it whatsoever.

It died as quickly as it came.

You stepped back, just slightly.

"Husband." You kept your voice light and easy. "How are you enjoying the festivities?"

There it was, that flutter in his eyes. Brief, barely there. His gaze moved over you, top to bottom and back again, slow and thorough.

You watched him pull himself together and so you looked at him properly for the first time this evening.

He was, by any honest accounting, unfairly handsome for a man his age.

His brown hair had grown into something richer with the years, peppered through with grey that caught the candlelight like silver thread, slightly longer on top and curling at the ends.

His mismatched eyes were warm tonight, full of that quiet command that he carried as naturally as other men carried swords. His beard was trimmed close and neat, framing the line of his jaw.

He was broad through the shoulder, straight-backed, carrying himself with the kind of authority that could not be taught and could not be faked.

He wore a long doublet of black so deep it drank the light, and yet the fabric itself gave off something, a deep red hue that surfaced depending on how he moved, like embers beneath coal. It fit him extraordinarily well.

He caught you staring and smiled.

It was, unfortunately, an extremely handsome smile.

And then your eyes moved past him, just for a moment and your stomach dropped.

They were looking at him.

Several of the young noble ladies you had noted earlier had their eyes fixed on your husband with an attention that could not be mistaken for anything other than exactly what it was, hungry and shameless.

The look of women who saw something they wanted and had not yet decided against reaching for it. One, in a pale gold gown, had her lips slightly parted, her gaze dragging over Baelor with a boldness that made your jaw tighten. Another leaned toward her companion and murmured something in her ear, her eyes never leaving his profile. A third young, dark haired beautiful woman was not even attempting subtlety. She was simply staring, her wine cup forgotten in her hand. She was fucking him with her eyes and she did not care who knew it.

And when they finally noticed you looking, they did not even have the decency to look ashamed. Just a small glance aside. A little smile shared between them. And then, one of them reached up and pulled her neckline just low enough to make herself perfectly clear.

The jealousy that hit you was hot and ugly and you did not care even slightly that it was, because you were fairly certain that if you opened your mouth right now not a single dignified thing would come out of it.

You turned back to your husband.

He was still looking only at you.

Which somehow made it worse.

"I am enjoying myself greatly." His voice dropped just low enough that it was only for you. "Though at present it is you I am most enjoying looking at."

You scoffed. It came out before you could dress it in something more appropriate, sharp and dismissive and you watched his smile falter at the edges.

And then something rose up in you that you had no name for and no warning of, a hot, wordless anger that had nothing reasonable at its root. You were angry at the way he looked at you. Angry at the sincerity of it. Angry, most of all, because you wanted to believe it and could not, and that felt like his fault even though it wasn't, and you knew it wasn't, and that made you angrier still.

"Must you always stand so close to me."

It came out sharper than you intended and you did not apologize for it.

Baelor stilled.

"My love—"

"I simply need room to breathe." You kept your chin up. Kept your voice even. "That is all."

He looked at you for a moment with those mismatched eyes of his, steady and careful, just observing.

It was, you thought, extremely irritating.

"Of course." He said it quietly, graciously and inclined his head at you. Not a single trace of reproach in it.

That somehow made it worse.

You turned and walked away from him, your chin high and your chest tight, and did not look back.

You moved through the hall with your head high, nodding once to Lord Tully as you passed, exchanging a small smile with one of the Tyrell women.

You lifted a goblet of wine from a passing servant's tray without breaking stride and by the time you reached the grand table and settled into your seat, you felt utterly terrible for the way you snapped at Baelor. Yet the small irrational part of you that had wanted a reaction, that had wanted to crack that composure of his just slightly, sat in your chest alongside the guilt and did not apologize for itself.

A servant appeared at your elbow almost immediately, setting down a small board arranged with care. Aged cheese, dark bread, sliced cold meat fanned out.

And in the center, nestled amongst it all—

A sugar-filled date.

You stared at it.

It was your favorite. Had been your favorite for as long as you could remember, and someone in this kitchen had thought of that tonight and the small thoughtfulness of it should have moved you and instead it did the opposite entirely. Your eyes dropped to your belly, hidden and shaped and smoothed beneath the crimson gown, and something unreasonable moved through you.

You picked the date up and set it on the plate beside you without eating it.

You looked at the rest of the food, decided against all of it, and lifted your eyes to the hall instead.

Across the room, Matarys, Aerion and Daeron had found each other in the far corner, three goblets of wine between them, heads bent together over something that had all three of them laughing, their cheeks flushed rosy with warmth and wine and each other's company. You watched them for a moment longer than you meant to. Your boys. Grown and broad-shouldered and loud with laughter and so thoroughly themselves that something in your chest pulled tight and sweet at the sight of them.

Aemon and Aegon had migrated toward a group of children from the Dornish houses, deep in what appeared to be a very serious game of hands.

You smiled to yourself.

Further down the hall you caught sight of Valarr and Kiera, half hidden from the rest of the room near the far wall. Valarr was speaking low, his whole attention on her face, and Kiera's cheeks were pink and she was leaning closer without seeming to realize she was doing it.

You looked away. That was theirs. It did not need an audience.

You were still watching the hall with your wine when a figure approached and stopped at the edge of your table. Young. Well dressed. A face you placed after a moment of thought, Lord Arryn's son. Ronnel.

He inclined his head to you.

"May I, Your Grace?" He gestured to the empty seat beside you.

You nodded.

He sat, settled himself, and turned to you with the expression of someone who had been working up to this approach for some time.

"It is a fine night tonight, Your Grace."

"It is indeed. How are you enjoying yourself, Lord Arryn?"

He smiled and opened his mouth to answer.

And then his eyes dropped to the small plate beside you, to the date sitting there untouched, and without a word he reached over and picked it up. Turned it between his fingers.

You watched his hand.

Something about it struck you as both very young and very male, and you said nothing, only watched and waited to see what he would do with it.

He set the date down and turned to you properly.

"I am enjoying myself greatly, Your Grace. Though I confess the company at my table pales considerably compared to the company I find here."

"You are kind, Lord Arryn."

"I am honest." He said it with a grin, his eyes moved over you in a way that was not subtle.

"My father speaks very highly of your family. Of you especially."

"Does he."

"He says there is no woman in the Seven Kingdoms who has given more to the realm than you have." He leaned forward slightly, his elbow finding the table, closing the distance between you. "Six sons, Your Grace. Six princes. The realm owes you a great debt."

And there it was.

Said with complete sincerity. Said as a compliment, wrapped in genuine admiration, delivered with that uncomplicated smile.

Six sons. As though that was the whole of you. As though the most remarkable thing about you was the number of times your body had successfully produced an heir.

You kept your smile exactly where it was.

"The realm is very generous in its accounting," you said pleasantly.

He laughed and his eyes dropped briefly, just briefly, to the neckline of your gown before finding your face again.

"If I may say, Your Grace." His voice dropped just slightly. "The realm rather undersells you."

"Is that so."

"Considerably." He held your gaze and did not look away, his grin shifting into something a little slower, a little more sure of itself.

"I find myself wondering how it is that two princes have managed to keep you entirely to themselves all these years without the rest of us losing our minds over it."

You reached over, picked up the date from the plate where he had set it, and placed it back in the center of your board with a small smile.

"You are very bold for a man drinking my husband's wine, Lord Arryn."

His grin widened. "Is that a complaint, Your Grace?"

"That," you said pleasantly, lifting your own goblet, "is an observation."

He laughed at that and you found yourself, despite everything, almost enjoying it.

"Then I shall take it as an invitation," he said.

"You may take it however you like, Lord Arryn. It changes nothing."

He tilted his head, still smiling, studying you. "You are not what I expected, Your Grace."

"And what did you expect?"

"Something more distant. More formal." His eyes moved over your face. "You are funnier than I expected. And..." He stopped himself.

"Go on," you said.

He looked at you steadily. "More beautiful than I expected."

The words landed warm and you were just allowing yourself to feel something good for the first time this entire evening when a voice cut through from somewhere behind your left shoulder.

"Bold of him, is it not." Light. Amused. Meant for whoever stood beside her.

"She must be grateful for the attention." A second voice, lower, with a little laugh underneath it. "Women her age do not get it so freely anymore. Not when there are younger options in the room."

A pause.

"I suppose when you have done your duty and given your husbands their heirs there is nothing left but to take compliments where you can find them."

The warmth of the moment died so completely and so quickly it was as though it had never been there at all.

You set your goblet down.

Your smile did not move. Not even slightly. Twenty years had made you very good at that.

Ronnel had heard it too, you could tell by the slight shift in his expression, the flicker of discomfort that crossed his face before he smoothed it over. To his credit he opened his mouth as though he intended to say something.

"It has been a pleasure, Lord Arryn," you said pleasantly, before he could.

"The pleasure was mine, Your Grace." He said it quietly.

He left.

You sat very still.

Around you the feast continued, the laughter, the clinking of goblets, the hundred conversations of half the realm enjoying themselves. None of it had stopped. None of it had even paused. The world had kept moving through the thirty seconds it had taken for two women behind you to dismantle what little was left of the evening and it had not noticed and it did not care.

You reached for your wine.

A shadow fell across the table and the chair beside you scraped back loudly against the stone floor and Maekar dropped into the seat that Lord Arryn had left not two minutes ago. The chair groaned under him. He stretched one leg out, reached across youand grabbed a handful of nuts from the bowl near your elbow, and sat back.

Behind you, the two women stopped talking.

You took a sip of your wine.

"This night is far too long," Maekar said, to no one and put the nuts in his mouth.

You said nothing.

He chewed. Looked out across the hall with that assessing gaze of his, taking stock of the room. You kept your eyes forward and your wine in your hand and waited for whatever.

Then you felt it.

His gaze moving from the hall, to you.

"You are not eating."

"I am aware of what I am and am not doing, thank you."

He looked at the untouched plate. Then at you. "Eat something."

"I am not hungry."

"You have not eaten anything."

"Maekar, I am not hungry."

He reached over, picked up the date from the center of your board beside and held it out.

You stared at it.

"No."

He kept holding it out.

"I said no."

He put it down directly in front of you and reached for the nuts again.

You placed the date to the side.

"Who was he," he said.

"Lord Arryn's son. He was being polite."

"He was not being polite."

"We were having a perfectly pleasant conversation—"

"I know what I saw."

"Then you saw a young lord making conversation with a princess at a feast, which is entirely unremarkable and none of your concern."

Something shifted in his jaw. "It becomes my concern when a lord sits that close to my wife."

"Oh." The laugh that came out of you was not a kind one. "Oh, so that is your concern. A lord sitting too close." You kept your voice low but there was nothing soft in it. "How interesting that you find that so troubling."

He frowned. "What is that supposed to mean."

"It means," You turned to face him fully, your hands flat on the table. "That every woman in this hall has been looking at you since the moment you walked in like they want to pull you out of that doublet and not one of them has been subtle about it." You held his gaze. "And I did not see you rushing across the room about that."

He stared at you.

"That is completely different."

"Is it."

"Yes." Flat. Certain. "Because I am not interested in them."

"And yet there they are." You gestured vaguely behind him. "Looking. And here you are, saying nothing, doing nothing, and the moment one man speaks to me for five minutes—"

"He was not just speaking to you—"

"He was a boy with too much wine, Maekar, he was harmless—"

"I did not say he was not harmless, I said he was sitting too close to my wife and I did not like it." His voice had dropped to something very quiet now, which with Maekar was always more dangerous than volume.

"Those are not the same thing."

"Then what are you saying." You matched his tone.

"Because from where I am sitting it looks very much like you trust every woman in this room with your attention but you do not trust me with a conversation."

"That is not what this is." His jaw worked.

"Then tell me what it is."

He looked at you. "I told you. He was too close."

"He was making conversation."

"He was looking at you like—" He stopped again.

"Like what." You lifted your chin.

"Like he wanted you." He said it simply, no heat in it, just fact. "And I did not like it."

"You did not like it." You stared at him. "You did not like another man finding your wife attractive."

"I did not like another man thinking he had any right to—"

"But they do." You gestured behind him again, wider this time. "All of them. Every woman who has been staring at you and Baelor all evening, undressing you both with their eyes, whispering to each other—" Your voice caught slightly. You pushed through it.

"They think they have every right. And no one says a word about that. No one storms across the room about that. But one man sits beside me and suddenly—"

"You are my wife."

"So are you mine." You said it hard and fast and meant every syllable of it.

"That works both ways Maekar."

Silence.

He looked at you for a long moment and something moved behind his eyes.

"Something is wrong," he said quietly.

"Nothing is wrong."

"You have been acting strange since the moment you walked into this hall. This morning you were completely different." His eyes did not move from your face. "What happened."

You felt it then, that wall you had been holding up all evening, brick by brick begin to crack right down the middle.

You leaned in close. Close enough that no one around you could hear a single word of what was about to come out of your mouth.

"You want to know what happened." Your voice was low and shaking at the edges and you did not care.

"I stood in front of a mirror tonight and I looked at myself."

The ugliness rose up through your chest hot and unstoppable.

"I looked at my breasts, the way they hang now, the way they never sat the way they used to. I looked at my belly, soft and scarred from carrying six children. I looked at the marks on my hips, on my stomach—" Your jaw tightened. "All of it. Every part of me that used to be something else before I spent more than twenty years giving this family everything my body had to give."

His expression had gone completely still.

"And then I walked into this hall." Your voice dropped lower. "And I watched every young, smooth, untouched woman in this room look at my husbands like they were something worth having." Your throat burned.

"And I thought, why would they not look back. Why would you not. Why would either of you not look back and think, yes. That. Instead of — " You gestured at yourself. All of yourself. "This."

He said nothing.

You felt the tears brimming and you were on your feet before a single one of them could fall, because you would not. Not here.

You did not look at Maekar's face. You could not.

"I need air." Your voice came out wrecked and quiet and you did not wait for his answer. "Do not follow me."

You turned and walked and then you were moving faster than was dignified and you did not care even slightly. The hall blurred at the edges and from the corner of your eye you caught your sons.

Matarys, straightening. Aerion, frowning. Daeron going still mid conversation. Their faces all wearing different versions of the same expression and you looked away from all of them because if you looked at them properly right now you would fall apart completely.

A pair of Kingsguard fell into step behind you.

You turned and looked at them with an expression that stopped them where they stood. They did not follow.

You pushed through the side door and into the night and then you were running, your gown gathered in both fists, down the stone path and past the roses and the fountain and through the dark until the lemon trees rose up around you and the noise of the feast was nothing but a distant murmur.

You found a bench and sat down hard.

And you cried the way you had been holding back all evening, with your whole chest, bent forward, both hands pressed over your belly and your face crumpling and the tears falling freely into the dark with no one to see them and nothing left to hold them back.

As you sobbed you caught movement from the corner of your eye and looked up.

The lemon trees had been decorated, you had not noticed in your rush to get here, but now, with your eyes adjusting and the tears clearing slightly, you saw them properly.

Small glass Dornish suns hung from the branches, each one cradling a tiny candle that threw warm gold light across the leaves in shifting patterns.

And amongst them, tied with thin ribbon, barely larger than a child's palm,

Paintings.

You stood slowly and reached for the nearest one, your fingers closing around it carefully.

It was rough in the way of a child's work, uneven lines, colors slightly outside their edges but purposeful.

A dragon, painted in careful strokes of black and red, and beneath it a small cluster of figures. A family.

You reached for the second one.

Another dragon. Another family. Slightly different hand, Aemon's, you thought, more careful than his brother's, the lines steadier.

You stood beneath the lemon trees in the dark with a painting in each hand and felt something move through your chest.

"It was Egg's idea."

You startled slightly, turning. From the dark between the trees Baelor emerged, the soft light of the glass ornaments catching him in warm gold as he moved toward you.

"He came to me a few days ago and asked if there was something that could be done to make the gardens more beautiful for the feast." The corner of his mouth moved. "I assumed he meant flowers. More candles perhaps." He looked at the portraits in your hands. "And then he and Aemon appeared at my solar with those, and I understood."

You looked down at them again. The small uneven dragons. The little painted families beneath them.

Something in your chest pulled so tight it almost hurt.

"He wanted to show you himself, later in the evening." Baelor's voice was gentle. "It seems you found them first."

"Of course he did this." Your voice came out rough and you laughed despite yourself, small and watery.

Baelor moved closer. Not close enough to crowd you and reached into his pocket and pulled a cloth, holding it out to you without a word.

You took it. Pressed it under your eyes and took a deep breath.

"How long have you been out here," you asked quietly.

"Long enough."

"And him?" You nodded toward the far end of the garden where a second figure stood in the dark, keeping his distance. Still as a post. Watching.

Baelor glanced briefly over his shoulder.

"He followed you the moment you left the hall." He turned back to you. "I asked him to give you a moment."

You huffed at that and you felt yourself smiling.

You looked at Baelor eyes, and they were warm and full of concern.

You sat down at the bench and he waited and you nodded and he sat down next to you.

You still clutched the small portaits in your hand.

"Do you want to tell me," Baelor said, "what happened tonight."

You looked down at the paintings in your hands.

At the small painted dragons. The small painted families.

"It was a moment of weakness." You folded your fingers around the paintings carefully, not looking at him. "Do not concern yourself with me Baelor. You have far more important business to attend to tonight."

"Look at me."

You looked at him.

That careful composed layer of him entirely gone, stripped back to something underneath that he did not show many people and had always shown you freely.

He reached out and took your free hand. Slowly. Giving you every opportunity to pull away. And then he placed it flat against his chest, over his heart, and held it there with both of his.

"I am Prince of this realm," he said quietly. "Lord Hand to the King. Father to six sons." His eyes did not leave yours. "But I am your husband before any of it. We both are. And our duty to you extends far beyond anything our titles could put a name to." His hand pressed yours more firmly against his chest. "You are not a concern, you are not an obligation. You are our soul. Everything we are begins and ends with you."

Your lip trembled.

You pressed it together hard and it trembled anyway and you hated it and could not stop it.

Then you heard footsteps on the stone path.

Maekar stepped into the warm light of the glass ornaments and stopped just behind Baelor's shoulder, his eyes moving over your face. But his jaw was tight and something in his expression was raw in a way you had not seen from him in a very long time.

"My brother is right." His voice came out lower than usual. Rougher at the edges.

He stepped closer and looked at you the way he rarely let himself look at you in front of anyone.

"You are it." He said it low and certain. "You have always been it. For both of us. There is no version of any of this," he gestured between the three of them, "that exists without you at the very center of it." His throat moved. "There has only ever been you. There will only ever be you."

He held your gaze for a moment longer. Then he glanced briefly at Baelor and then he looked back at you.

And then Maekar, went to his knees in front of you.

The breath left your body.

Your face burned. Something low in your belly pulled tight and your thighs pressed together and you stared down at him with your heart hammering against your ribs.

He took both of your hands in his. His were large and rough and warm and they swallowed yours completely.

"What you said to me in that hall," He stopped. Started again. "The way you spoke about yourself. What you see when you look at yourself." His jaw tightened.

"It broke something in me, because it means we have failed you. Somewhere in all these years, we have failed you and I—" His voice dropped to almost nothing.

"I am not a man who fails at things he cares about. I do not know how to be that man. The thought that you have been carrying this—" He pressed your hands harder against his.

"Looking at yourself and seeing something lesser. Something diminished." His eyes burned up at you. "When I look at you I see the only thing in this world that has ever made me feel utterly incapable. Completely undone." A rough exhale. "You are the only thing that has ever had that power over me and you will never understand how completely I mean that."

You were breathing heavily. Both of them had their eyes only on you and the weight of it was doing things to you that had no place in a garden and every place in a bed. Your chest was tight and your face was hot and your hands were unsteady and you opened your mouth—

Voices.

All three of you straightened at once. Maekar was on his feet before you had drawn your next breath, and by the time the pair of guards rounded the corner you were all three standing at a respectable distance from one another like perfectly composed members of the royal family enjoying the evening air.

Or attempting to.

You were aware, that your eyes were red and your lips were parted and your chest was still rising and falling faster than it ought to be, and that both your husbands looked like men who had been in the middle of something they very much intended to finish.

Baelor's composure slightly frayed at the edges, Maekar's jaw set and his eyes still dark with everything he had not yet said. The picture the three of you made could be interpreted in a number of ways.

None of them entirely wrong.

The guards inclined their heads. The King was asking for both princes. Immediately, if it pleased them.

Neither of them looked pleased.

Baelor nodded once at the guards. Maekar said nothing, only held your gaze for one long charged moment that made the heat in your face travel considerably lower, and then turned and followed his brother.

You watched them go.

At the garden entrance Maekar stopped. Turned back. And with a short sharp gesture summoned the nearest Kingsguard and said something low that you could not hear. The guard nodded and posted himself at the entrance immediately, back straight, eyes forward.

For you. Without a word to you about it. Simply done.

You stood beneath the lemon trees in the warm gold light of the little glass suns, your children's painted dragons held carefully in both hands, and listened to your husbands' footsteps fade back toward the feast.

The garden settled into quiet.

You looked down at the paintings.

And Breathed.

The evening turned faster than you expected.

You did return to the hall later and somewhere between sitting down at the table and your second cup of wine the night shifted into something almost bearable.

Your sons noticed. Of course they noticed. They were their fathers' children and they had been watching you since you walked back through those doors and within minutes they had without discussion or instruction, rearranged themselves around you at the table.

Matarys on your left, talking across you to Daeron about something you did not follow but did not need to. Aerion on your right, loud, proud and gesturing too widely with his wine cup. Valarr had appeared from wherever Kiera had been keeping him, sliding into the seat across from you with a small smile that told you he knew exactly what he was doing and had decided to do it anyway.

Aemon and Aegon had simply wedged themselves in wherever there was space, elbows on the table, chins in their hands, completely unbothered by the decorum expected of princes at their grandsire's feast.

All six of them. Around you. Like they had agreed on it.

At some point during the evening you produced the two small paintnigs from the folds of your gown. You watched Aegon's face when he saw them and you pulled him toward you and kissed him on both cheeks and then his forehead and then his cheek again for good measure. He let you. Every single one.

Aemon submitted to one kiss and then pulled back with the expression of a boy who had a reputation to maintain, which made Aerion laugh so hard he spilled his wine.

You smiled more in that hour than you had in the entire evening before it.

When it ended, the room gradually emptied. You said your goodnights with warmth and kissed your sons, inclined your head to your goodfather the King and your goodmother who caught your eye and held it for just a moment with an expression that told you she saw more than she said, which was entirely characteristic of her.

You found a servant and gave quiet instructions.

The bathhouse sat apart from the main castle floors, connected by a short covered corridor that was mercifully empty at this hour. It was a small stone room, warm and low-lit, the water already heated by the smooth dark stones lining the basin, steam rising soft and slow in the candlelight.

You let the servant help you out of the gown and when you were down to nothing you told her to leave you.

She did.

You stood for a moment in the warm steam, in the candlelight, with no one's eyes on you.

Then you lowered yourself into the water slowly, let it rise around you, and closed your eyes.

You did not know how long you stayed like that. Long enough for the tension in your shoulders to begin to loosen.

Then footsteps. Two sets. Coming down the covered corridor.

You did not open your eyes. Did not say a word. Simply stayed where you were with your chin tipped back and your heart beating considerably faster than the warm water had any right to make it, and waited.

The door. The sound of fabric. A pause.

Then an almighty groan as Maekar lowered himself into the water on your left that was so deeply, startled a laugh out of you before you could stop it.

Baelor, settling in on your right, laughed too.

"Seven hells." Maekar's voice bounced off the stone walls. "Tell father next time he can kiss the arses of those lordlings himself."

"It is our duty," Baelor said mildly. "And his."

"Fuck duty sometimes."

A beat of silence.

"That," Baelor said, his voice dropping to something considerably lower, "I have to agree with. I would much rather be fucking something else entirely."

The heat that flooded your face had nothing to do with the water.

Maekar made a low sound of agreement that rumbled through the steam and settled somewhere in the base of your spine.

You opened your eyes.

Baelor was watching the candles, his expression unreadable but his eyes dark. And then Maekar's hand found the back of your neck, his thumb tracing slow along the line of your neck, following the bone of it.

Your breath caught.

Then Baelor moved.

He turned toward you in the water and stepped close, close enough that you felt him against your thighs, hard and hot and his hands found your hips beneath the surface and gripped them in a way that pulled a soft sound from somewhere in your throat that you had not given permission for.

His face was inches from yours, his mismatched eyes blown almost entirely black, the candlelight catching the water on his skin.

"More than twenty years ago," he said quietly, "you bewitched us." His thumbs traced slow circles against your hips. "The way you laugh. The way you move through a room. The way your eyes look when the sunlight catches them." His grip tightened, pulling you fractionally closer, the water shifting between you. "The way you tip your head back when the wind comes through your hair and you close your eyes and simply feel it." A pause. "There is no one. There has never been anyone. There will never be anyone."

Behind you Maekar's thumb moved from your neck to the shell of your ear, slow and deliberate, and you felt your eyes flutter.

"I remember," Baelor continued, his voice lower still, "very clearly after Aegon's birth. After you had recovered. The first night you undressed in front of us again." Something moved through his expression that was raw and entirely unmanaged. "The want I felt in that moment was beyond anything I had words for. Beyond anything I thought I was still capable of feeling after twenty years." His fingers traced upward from your hips, following the curve of you through the water. "If I could be selfish and I am telling you now that I want to be, deeply and thoroughly selfish, I would have you every moment of every day and still feel it was not enough."

His hand rose further, fingertips tracing the line of your throat, your jaw, his eyes following the path of them across your face like he was memorizing something he intended to keep.

"You have given this realm six sons," he said softly. "And the realm will remember only that. The realm will count you in heirs and duty and years of service and it will never once understand what it is actually looking at." His eyes met yours. "But we know. We have always known." His thumb traced your lower lip. "You are so much more than what you have given. So much more than what they see."

The water shifted as Maekar's hands found the underside of your thighs and gripped, pulling you back and settling you into his lap. The breath left your body. You felt him hard against you, felt the low rumble in his chest as he exhaled against your neck, and then his mouth found the skin beneath your ear and he sucked slowly, his tongue tracing the spot.

"Forgive us," Baelor said softly. "For ever making you feel otherwise."

You had no words. You had lost them somewhere between Maekar's hands on your thighs and his mouth on your neck and Baelor standing in the water before you close enough to feel the heat coming off him.

Baelor's eyes dropped.

The water sat just below your chest and your nipples peaked above the surface in the cool air of the bathhouse.

His eyes moved to Maekar.

Maekar, who was sucking a bruise into your neck with absolutely no apology for it, whose hands had spread wide and warm across your thighs beneath the water, holding you exactly where he wanted you. A soft sound left your mouth that you had no control over and then another as his teeth grazed the skin he had just marked.

Your head fell back against his shoulder.

"Please—" The word came out broken and breathless and wanting. "Please, I need—"

"We know," Maekar said against your neck. Low and rough and entirely sure of himself. "We know what you need."

Something passed between them over your shoulder, a look, brief and wordless and then Maekar's hands were on your hips and he lifted you out of the water without ceremony and set you down on the stone edge. No gentleness in it.

The stone was cool against the backs of your thighs.

He spread your legs and you felt the flush crawl from your face all the way down your chest and you opened your mouth to say something, anything and then—

Both mouths on you at once.

Baelor's tongue slow and precise, working you with that devastating patience of his, and Maekar's rougher, hungrier, no finesse in it whatsoever, just raw focused want.

Their mouths clashed against each other in the space between your thighs, neither yielding, both utterly consumed, and the sensation of it was so overwhelming that the sound that left you was nothing close to dignified.

Maekar pulled back just long enough to suck your inner thigh hard enough to mark it and then returned with even less restraint than before. Baelor's tongue moved in slow circles and then pressed flat and you nearly came off the stone edge entirely.

Your fingers tightened in Baelor's hair. Your other hand found Maekar's shoulder and gripped hard enough that he would feel it tomorrow and he made a low sound against you that vibrated through your entire body.

"Look at us." Maekar pulled back just enough to speak, his voice wrecked and rough. "Look down and look at us."

You looked down at them and the sight alone nearly undid you entirely.

Baelor's mouth on you was precise and devastating, his tongue pressing and curling and drawing out sounds from you that echoed off the stone walls, sucking everything you gave him like you were something to be savored. Your thighs shook around his shoulders.

You watched as he tenderly pressed his lips to the scar low on your mound and kissed it slowly, his eyes lifting to yours as he did it, holding your gaze, making sure you were watching, making sure you understood exactly what he was doing and why. Then his tongue, flat and warm, traced the length of it without hurry.

You made a sound that was half sob and half something else entirely.

And then he returned to your folds and you stopped being able to think about anything at all.

Maekar shouldered him aside.

Simply replaced him with that characteristic lack of patience and buried his face in you with a roughness that dragged a broken cry from your throat. Hungry, his hands locked around your hips pulling you against his mouth rather than going to meet you.

And then without warning, Maekar pulled back and grabbed Baelor by the jaw and kissed him hard, open and rough, a low groan coming from both of them as he licked the taste of you from his brother's mouth.

Baelor's hand fisted in Maekar's hair. The sound of it, the sight of it, pulled another wave of heat through you so sharply you whimpered.

They broke apart breathing hard, eyes dark, and turned to look at you at exactly the same moment.

Baelor reached for your ankles and pulled you back into the water between them and you went boneless, barely capable of standing. They pressed in from both sides, warm skin and hard bodies and hands everywhere at once and Baelor lowered his head and took your nipple into his mouth, kneading the weight of your breast in both hands while Maekar's mouth found your throat from behind, sucking and biting a path from your shoulder to your ear.

Your head fell back against Maekar's chest.

Your hands found his hair behind you and pulled and he groaned against your neck.

"Still think we do not want you," Maekar said roughly against your skin. Not a question. A statement, low and wrecked and burning. "Still think that."

You could not have formed a coherent answer if your life had depended on it.

Baelor in front, pulling you against him, his mouth finding yours in a deep kiss while his hands mapped every inch of your skin beneath the water without shame or hesitation.

And then Maekar pressed in from behind.

His hands gripped your hips and he slid inside you from behind slowly and the sound that left you was swallowed by Baelor's mouth. You grabbed at anything you could reach, one hand fisting in Baelor's hair, the other reaching back to grip Maekar's thigh behind you.

Maekar's pace built without mercy, his hands locked on your hips, the water churning around all three of you.

Baelor's hands cupped your breasts, his thumbs moving across your nipples slowly while Maekar drove into you from behind without restraint, and being pressed between them, held completely between their bodies, no space between you and either of them, was almost more than you could process.

Then Baelor lowered his lips to your ear, his voice dropping.

"Perhaps this time a daughter," he murmured. "I would not mind at all having you full with child again."

The sound that left you was shameless.

You felt Maekar shudder behind you, his grip tightening to the point of pain as he spent himself, his forehead dropping heavy against the back of your neck with a rough groan that rumbled through your entire body.

And then Baelor lifted you and pressed you back against the stone edge and slid inside you, deeper than Maekar's angle had allowed, and his pace was just as hard but slower, his mismatched eyes holding yours with an intensity that made it impossible to look away.

His hands gripped the curve of your ass, pulling you into every stroke.

Behind him Maekar watched, his dark eyes burning, and the sight of him watching you with Baelor sent you spiraling toward the edge faster than anything else could have.

Your thighs shook.

Your nails found Baelor's shoulders.

"I know," he breathed against your mouth. "Come for me."

It hit you like a wave breaking, white behind your eyes, your whole body shuddering between them, Baelor's and Maekar's name leaving your mouth as if you were praying a blessing. His grip on you was bruising and you did not care even slightly. Behind him Maekar's hand found your thigh and held it through the shaking like an anchor.

The white faded slowly.

The candlelight came back. The water. The warm stone at your back.

Baelor's forehead dropped against yours, both of you breathing hard and ragged, his chest heaving against you. His hands were still gripping your skin with an intensity that told you exactly what you would find on yourself tomorrow morning.

You did not mind it at all.

The heavy breathing eased slowly. Baelor pressed his lips to your forehead. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth. Small, soft things, entirely different from everything that had preceded them, and you felt tears prick unexpectedly at the gentleness of it.

Maekar's hand moved in slow steady strokes up your spine.

Nobody spoke.

The candles burned low around you and the water had gone still and the three of you simply breathed together in the quiet.

You looked at Baelor.

You took his face between both your hands and kissed him slowly and deeply and with everything you had not known how to say all evening. He kissed you back the same way, one hand covering yours against his cheek.

When you pulled back you were both quiet for a moment.

Then you turned and wobbled through the water toward Maekar, who had settled against the edge watching you both, and your feet slipped on the stone beneath and he caught you before you had even fully registered the fall, hands at your waist, steady and immediate, as though he had been expecting it.

"Graceful," he said.

"Hush."

The corner of his mouth moved.

You curled into him anyway, pressing your lips to his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. He exhaled slowly beneath your attention and his arms came around you and held you against his chest.

Baelor settled in beside you both, his shoulder warm against yours, and took your hand beneath the water and simply held it.

The three of you sat in the low candlelight and the still water and said nothing for a long moment.

"I love you," you said quietly.

Maekar's nose pressed into your hair.

Baelor's hand tightened around yours.

"And we love you," Baelor said softly. "Every part of you. Everything that you are and will be and you once was."

Maekar said nothing.

He just held you closer.

Later, back in your chambers, the candles burned down to nothing and your husbands were restless and entirely unwilling to let the night end, and you gave yourself over to them completely and without reservation and they took everything you gave and returned it threefold.

It was very late when it finally went quiet.

Dawn came in slowly through the high windows, pale and soft.

You were the first to surface from sleep, barely, just enough to be aware of the warmth on either side of you. Baelor's hand rested open against your stomach. Maekar had his face pressed into the curve of your neck, one arm thrown across you both, heavy and certain even in sleep, as though some part of him had decided even unconscious that he was not finished holding on.

You lay very still and looked at the pale dawn creeping across the ceiling and took a slow breath.

The uncertainties were still there. The ugly, shapeless insecurities that had swallowed you whole. You were not foolish enough to think one night had erased them entirely. It did not work that way.

But here, in the early quiet, tangled in warm sheets between two men who had given you their souls without condition or hesitation, the uncertainties were very small, nearly insignificant.

Smaller than Baelor's hand resting against your stomach.

Smaller than the sound of Maekar breathing slow and deep against your neck, holding you flush against him.

Smaller, than two little painted dragons hanging in a lemon tree. Drawn by small hands that loved you without condition or any awareness of the cost of what you had given to deserve them.

You exhaled slowly.

And closed your eyes.

For now you let yourself simply be held.

───────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────────

Thank you for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated.

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

[otakufilms]

‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀𝓸𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓾𝓯𝓲𝓵𝓶𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝔀𝓲𝓷𝓰…‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀

greedy. onyankopon.

𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count— 12.0K, original!wifeblackfemreader, husband!onyankopon, (in this au; both reader and onyankopon are 31!) dad!onyankopon, southerncoded!onyankopon, southerncoded!femreader, shy!femreader, giggly!femreader, aggressive!onyankopon, sweet!onyankopon, dominant!onyankopon, riding!, standing doggy style!, pet names, dirty talk, aggressive pet names, squirting, creaming, condomless sex, dick sucking, overstimulation, family drama, minors are not welcome! 𓊇ྀི

メモ。— in the honor of me turning 24 soon, how about some more mature, southern coded family drama? hope y’all enjoy, teehee.

THE CAJUN SPICE OF ANDOUILLE SAUSAGE WAFTS THE ENTIRE HOUSE LIKE A WARM HUG, YOUR HOPES OF IT TASTING AS GOOD AS IT SMELLED FILLING YOU WITH EXCITEMENT. This was your domain—the kitchen, as feeding a growing boy and a constantly growing man became a second job for you. One you loved, of course.

The farmhouse kitchen hums with the sizzle of cayenne and thyme clinging to the air like a promise. Outside, the Louisiana sun presses heavy against the wrap around porch, where tangled bougainvillea bleeds pink against peeling white wood. Your bare feet—toes painted a deep plum—press into worn oak floors as you stir the pot, hips swaying slightly to the hum of Need U Bad by Jazmine Sullivan bumping from the Bluetooth speaker.  

That Saints jersey of his—swallowed up by broad shoulders on game days drapes past your thighs now, the fabric still faintly carrying his cologne, something smoky and sweet. Beneath it, the lace of your black thong digs just slightly into the swell of your hips, a reminder of the softness you’ve grown into—womanly curves that he worships with his hands, his mouth, his everything. 

Heat now rolls off the stove in waves, curling the baby hairs at your nape into tight spirals, your crinkled jet black lengths parted neatly down the middle, crimped and glossy where they spill over your shoulders. You catch your reflection in the oven door—freckles stark against flushed brown cheeks, lashes brushing them like feather tips, lips glossy from the Chapstick you’d swiped on absentmindedly.  

And there it is—your wedding band glints under the pendant light, a simple gold oval he’d slid onto your finger at the courthouse when you were both too young to care what anyone thought. Back then, staying home hadn’t been the plan—but neither was the way he had gripped your waist in that ultrasound room, voice rough when he said, “…Ain’t no way I’m lettin’ you stress ‘bout shit but this baby.” 

And here you are now, sixteen years later. Your men won’t storm in for hours yet. No cleats thudding on the porch from that teenager of yours, and no deep chuckle rumbling through the screen door as your husband shakes off work. Just the quiet, the spice in the air, and the thrum of your own pulse—content, for now, in this life you’ve built. 

The back of your thumb grazes over the smooth gold of your ring, twisting it absently as memories flash like fireflies behind your eyes—those early days when Onyankopon was still more boy than man, all rough edges and sharper tongue. 

Back then, he wore his New Orleans like armor—cornrows fresh, diamond studs glinting against deep brown skin, tattoos still fresh enough to look angry. That fleur-de-lis inked high on his cheekbone was a declaration, a fuck you to anyone who thought they could box him in. You remember the way his Timberlands kicked up gravel outside your mama’s house, or how his voice dropped to honey thick "Shhh, girl", when he pulled you close behind the bleachers.  

And now?

Lord. Thirty one looks sinful on him. The same fleur-de-lis, same tattoos sprawling over corded muscle—but now they tell stories. The pelican inked over his heart for Louisiana loyalty, the NOLA ‘til I’m cold scripted down his ribs. His cornrows are neater these days, edges crisp where they taper into the nape of his neck, that low beard trimmed just right. Age settled into him like whiskey in oak—richer, deeper. The kind of man who walks into a room and the air changes.

Your son—Asaud—carries his name like a blessing. Sixteen and already built like his daddy, all long limbs and broad shoulders threatening to outgrow his jersey. Same sharp cheekbones, same slow, cocky grin when he knows he’s charmed an entire city. But where Ony’s edges stayed hard, Asaud softened— mama’s almond eyes, even your freckles dusting his nose.  

Those two? Tight as thieves. Asaud trailing Onyankopon like a shadow since he could walk—“Teach me that throw, Pops. Let me hold the drill, I got it.” 

The way your husband’s stern “Aight, show me some shit’,” could make Asaud stand taller than any trophy.  

But lately…  

Your finger stills on the ring. 

The creak of Asaud’s bedroom door—always shut now—grates against your nerves like a splinter you can’t dig out. Two weeks straight of it. No more sprawled across the couch with his cleats kicked up, no more leaning over your shoulder while you cooked just to steal a taste. Just that door locked tight as a vault, the muffled bass of his music throbbing through the wood like a pulse you weren’t invited to hear.  

He used to be yours—your baby, even when he hit six feet tall. The boy who’d press his forehead to yours after bad games and whisper, “I’m sorry, Momma,” like your disappointment cut deeper than any coach’s scream. 

Now? His “Cool,” lands like a slap when you ask about practice. His backpack stays slumped by the door, untouched since yesterday. Homework? Done. Dinner? Not hungry. 

And sleep—Lord, the sleeping. You catch him slumped over his desk sometimes when you dare to knock, cheek smushed against his physics textbook, lashes fluttering like he’s fighting to stay awake even in dreams. Other days he doesn’t stir ‘til noon, blankets twisted around his waist, phone clutched in his palm like it holds answers.  

Onyankopon misses it. Not because he doesn’t care—hell no. That man breathes for his son. But between welding shifts at the shipyard—arms streaked with soot, muscles aching from hauling steel—he comes home too exhausted to see past Asaud’s “I’m straight, Pops.” 

And you? You’re softer. Always have been. The one who smooths his edges when Ony’s tough love ain’t the fix. But lately…  

When your hand hovers over Asaud’s door? The wood feels colder than it should.

Your phone buzzes against the countertop, pulling you from your thoughts. The screen lights up with a text from Papa—your husband's contact name forever unchanged since the day he programmed it himself. 

Shipyard lettin’ us slide early. Gon’ grab some crawfish, swing by Nana’s for y’all. You want extra butter? 

A slow smile curls your lips. You’re halfway through typing your response—but that’s when the screen flashes again. Not another text.  

An incoming call.  

Principal Guidry—Bonnabel High. 

“…Hello?” 

“Hey, baby.”

Principal Guidry’s voice is honey thick Creole, the same one that used to holler at y’all for cutting class back in tenth grade. Now it’s laced with something heavy. 

“I’m real sorry to call like this—”

Your grip tightens. 

“Cherise, what’s wrong? Is Asaud—“

“He’s fine.”

She hesitates before correcting, “Physically, leastways. But…” 

A pause. The shuffle of papers. 

“My office chair ain’t never felt this heavy. Got yo’ boy sittin’ right here lookin’ like he wanna disappear into the floor. Suspended. Three days.” 

Suspended? The word doesn’t even sound right in the air.  

“Black eye and all,” she adds softly.  

Your breath catches. Asaud? Your gentle giant? Fighting? 

“What happened?” 

Cherise exhales hard, “Let him tell it. ‘Need you to come get him.” 

The kitchen suddenly feels too hot. 

"I’m on my way." 

The tires of your truck screech against cracked asphalt as you fishtail into the Bonnabel High parking lot, heart hammering against your ribs. You should text Onyankopon—should—but even thinking about it makes your stomach twist. The man would burn down the entire Eastbank if he heard his son was hurt, the welding torch still in hand, fury hotter than molten steel. No, better to handle this first.  

The school looms ahead, its faded maroon bricks and rusted Saints banners looking harsher under the afternoon sun. Then—movement. The double doors swing open, and there’s Asaud, flanked by two security guards, his broad frame hunched like he’s trying to fold into himself.  

You don’t even cut the engine before you’re out the car, bare feet slapping against hot concrete.  

“Mon bébé—oh my God, look at your face!” 

Your hands flutter over his swollen eye, fingers trembling as you trace the bruise purpling his caramel skin. It’s deep, angry—someone hit him hard. The Creole spills out of you unfiltered, a storm of “Qui t'a fait ça?!” and “Let me see, cher—” 

Asaud exhales sharply, catching your wrists with a gentleness that belies his size.  

“Chill, Momma. I’m fine.” 

One of the guards—a thick necked man with a walkie crackling at his hip—clears his throat. 

“Ma’am, ‘you gotta clear the lot.” 

The dismissal in his tone snaps something in you. 

“Clear the—do you see my child’s face? Who did this? Who—” 

“Momma.” 

Asaud’s grip firms, steering you back toward the car with a nudge. The kids pressed against the cafeteria windows don’t make it any better. He just climbs into the passenger seat without another word, jaw set.  

And so, you follow.

The air inside the truck is thick with unspoken words, the only sound is the hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of Asaud shifting in his seat. His profile is sharp against the afternoon light streaming through the window—jaw clenched, lashes lowered—a portrait of quiet defiance.  

“…Are you alright?” 

“Yeah.”

One word, clipped.  

“Does Coach know what happened?”

“Not yet.” 

That stings. Asaud loves football—loves his team, loves the way his daddy’s face lights up when he makes a play. If he’s keeping this from Coach? Something serious must’ve happened.

“Ti-Loup… are you really okay?”

Little wolf—the childhood nickname slips out before you can stop it, tender as a bruise.  

His broad shoulders slump as he leans his temple against the glass.  

“…Head hurts.” 

“Baby, if you hit your head, you can’t sleep—” 

Your hand lifts instinctively, reaching to brush his temple, check for fever—but he tilts away before you can make contact. Your fingers hover in the air for a heartbeat before dropping back to the wheel. 

The moment the truck rolls to a stop in the driveway, Asaud is already moving—door swinging open before you even cut the engine, his long legs carrying him toward the house in quick strides. You barely have time to gather your purse before he’s halfway up the porch steps.  

“Wait—" 

Your scramble after him, bare feet slapping against warm wood.  

“Ti-Loup—Asaud!” 

He slows down by a millisecond. 

“I still need to know what happened—“

“Ain’t nothin’.”

“Nothing?” 

You frown, “Look at your damn face!" 

You catch his wrist, forcing him to turn—only for him to yank free with a force that makes you stumble. 

“Why are you being like this? You don’t—you never avoid me.”

This time when he turns, his eyes aren’t just tired. They’re cold.  

“Damn, can’t I just breathe without y’all up my ass?” 

The words hit like a slap.  

For a second you just stand there, the sting of them settling deep beneath your skin. Your chest tightens—but you won’t cry. Not here. 

“Fine.” 

The word comes out quieter than you meant.  

“You can wait ‘til your father gets home to talk about it.”

His whole posture shifts—shoulders stiffening, eyes widening—like the mere mention of that man flipped a switch.  

“Momma—” 

But you’re already walking away.

The tension in the house is thick enough to slice with a butter knife—the kind of quiet that presses against your eardrums, heavy and oppressive. Asaud's bedroom door hasn't budged since you got home, not even when you knocked softly with a plate of food an hour ago. The plate is still sitting untouched outside his door, grits congealing into sad little lumps.  

This is how it always goes when Asaud knows Onyankopon is coming home to discipline him—radio silence, tense shoulders, the boy steeling himself like a soldier bracing for battle. Normally you'd bridge the gap, smooth things over with a joke or a hug. But today? The sting of his dismissal lingers like a bruise, and you can't bring yourself to force it.  

Then—keys. 

The front door swings open, and there he is.  

Dressed in a navy blue shipyard uniform, his sleeves are rolled up to reveal thick forearms corded with veins, tattoos a roadmap of ink against deep brown skin. A faded Saints cap sits low over his cornrows, shadows accentuating the sharp angles of his face—that strong jaw, all the way down to the facial hair coating his chin. The scent of saltwater and engine grease clings to him, mixing with the spicy aroma of the crawfish takeout in his hand. 

“‘Where my baby at?" 

His gaze locks onto you—your bare legs peeking out from under his jersey, your hair still crimped and wild from the kitchen heat—and his glare is all sin. 

“Goddamn,” he grunts—“You been walkin’ ‘round lookin’ like that while I’m gone? Gon’ make me come over there.” 

You huff a weak laugh despite the weight in your chest, watching him flex his fingers like they’re stiff from gripping a welding torch all day.

“Hi, Papa.” 

He grunts again—this one softer—as he stomps toward the kitchen, setting the takeout bag on the counter before peeling off his grease streaked work jacket. The muscles in his back ripple beneath his white tank as he tosses it over a chair, his voice rough but easy as he starts rambling.  

“Shit was a goddamn warzone today—‘foreman got on my nerves ‘bout some pipe measurements, then ‘them Lafitte boys tried to cut in line at Nana’s.” 

He pops the lid off the crawfish, steam billowing up as he scowls—“Like I ain’t gon’ notice they tryna’ snake my order.” 

You lean against the counter, watching him. Normally you’d interject—tease him about being territorial over seasoned crustaceans—but your mind is still tangled up in the quiet rage of your son’s dismissal.  

Onyankopon glances up, finally catching your silence. His dark brows furrow.  

“What’s wrong wit’ you?” 

You pick at the hem of the jersey.  

“‘Had… a day.” 

He murmurs, “I’m knowin’, Mama. A nigga glad to be home. ‘Been thinkin’ bout’ a shower, rubbin’ on yo’ feet—Where ‘Saud at? Lil’ nigga better be hungry ‘cause I got extra sausage just for hi—“ 

“He’s suspended.” 

The moment the words leave your lips, Onyankopon goes still—unnaturally still. Like every muscle in his body locks down at once. The air in the kitchen shifts, thickens. You can practically see the switch flip behind his eyes—the shift from husband to father, from easy laughter to cold calculation.  

“Fuck you mean suspended?”   

You exhale, folding your arms across your chest, suddenly aware of how small you feel beneath his gaze.  

“…I don't know, Ony. He wouldn't tell me."

His nostrils flare—once, twice—before his dark eyes scan your face, picking up the tension in your brow, the way your fingers clutch the jersey fabric too tight.  

“"Y'all got into it?" 

“He didn't want to talk to me." 

A muscle in his temple jumps.  

“He ain't got no choice but to talk to you."

His voice is low, final—“Ain't no option." 

For a moment, silence stretches between you—thick and loaded—before his calloused fingers hook gently under your chin, tilting your face up to his. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, gruff but tender.  

“Gimme’ yo’ mouth first." 

You exhale shakily, leaning in. His lips are warm, firm against yours—brief but grounding—before he pulls back just enough to press his forehead to yours. His breath is hot against your skin, smelling faintly of peppermint and the crawfish he'd been handling.  

And then—  

"ASAUD!" 

His roar shakes the damn house. No hesitation, no preamble. 

“Get yo’ ass out here.” 

You flinch, knowing how quickly Asaud heard him. Even through walls. Even through attitude.  

Silence.  

Then—footsteps. Slow. Reluctant. 

Asaud appears in the doorway, broad shoulders slumped just slightly, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets. His eyes flicker up—just once—to meet his father's gaze before lowering again, careful not to show outright defiance but unable to hold the intensity of that stare for long.  

Onyankopon doesn't speak at first. Just looks at him, eyes raking over the swollen skin, the purple black bruise blooming beneath his son’s eye. Then—movement. 

His hand shoots out, calloused fingers gripping Asaud’s chin with a firmness that isn’t rough but leaves no room for resistance. He tilts his face toward the light, inspecting the damage with the clinical precision of a man who’s seen—and dealt—his share of blows.  

“‘You alright?"

Asaud’s throat bobs.  

“Yes, sir." 

Onyankopon’s grip doesn’t loosen.  

“Then why ain't you tell yo’ momma what happened?" 

Asaud’s jaw flexes beneath his father’s hold, his voice barely above a murmur.  

“...Didn’t wanna talk about it, sir.” 

“What’d you say to her?" 

“I ain’t say nothin’." 

“Tch." 

A sharp click of his tongue.  

“Tête levée quand tu m'parles." 

Head up when you talk to me. 

The Creole rolls off his tongue sharply, and Asaud’s chin lifts almost immediately—eyes snapping to meet his father. The apology spills out before he can stop it—  

“Désolé, Pops—"

“Whatchu’ apologizin’ for if you ain’t say nothin’?"  

The silence in the kitchen turns electric, thick enough to choke on. Onyankopon’s grip loosens just enough to turn Asaud’s face toward you—not rough, but insistent. 

“‘What he say to you?" 

“He said—" Your voice wavers, but you force it steady. “'Damn, can I breathe without y’all being up my ass?'"  

Onyankopon looks back to Asaud. 

“So we ‘up yo’ ass’ now?"  

He steps into his son's space, forcing his head up again with a rough tap of two fingers beneath his chin.  

"’You think you grown enough to talk to yo’ momma like that?”

Asaud’s lips part—but no sound comes out.  

“I asked you a question." 

“No, sir," Asaud mutters, jaw tight.  

“Nah, see—you acted like it."

 Onyankopon’s voice sharpens, cutting like a blade—“You got one mother. One. The woman who carried yo’ big headed ass for nine months, who still make yo’ plate first even when yo’ dumbass bein’ ungrateful. And ‘this how you talkin’ to her?" 

The words land like bricks.  

"Look at her." 

Asaud’s eyes flicker to you once, then darting away again.  

“Soft as fuck wit’ you," Onyankopon continues—“Always been. ‘You sick? She up all night. ‘You hungry? She cookin’ before you even ask. You ain’t just disrespectin’ yo momma—you disrespecting’ my wife.” 

Asaud swallows hard, his shoulders tightening like he’s bracing for impact. Onyankopon doesn’t let up though, drilling into him with a stare that could crack concrete.  

“Apologize." 

“I’m sorry, Momma." 

Your chest tightens. 

“I’m not upset, baby," you murmur, “It just hurt my feelings—I wanna know what’s going on, okay? That’s all.” 

Finally, Asaud exhales, defeated.  

"...I fought Jamal." 

That catches both of you off guard. Jamal? His wide receiver—his best friend? 

Onyankopon’s brows shoot up, "The hell for?” 

“...Cheer team girl." 

The silence that follows Asaud's confession is deafening. 

“So you gon’ fuck up yo’ throwin’ hand—lose yo’ scholarship—over some girl?” 

The words come out low, measured, but they hit like a sledgehammer. You step forward, hands lifting slightly—  

“Hey, let’s just—" 

”Who the girl?" 

Asaud shifts uncomfortably, shoulders rolling back like he’s preparing for war.  

"Sabine." 

“She ‘bad like yo’ momma?" 

“Onyankopon!” 

He doesn’t even glance your way, his glare still locked onto Asaud.  

“Why you callin’ my name?" ’His voice drops dangerously—“That gotta’ be the reason. Otherwise, I  need yo’ son to explain why he fuckin’ up all his opportunities over some bullshit."

“It ain’t bullshit!" Asaud’s voice booms, raw and defensive—“She’s different.” 

Onyankopon doesn’t laugh—doesn’t even smirk. His expression stays stone-cold as he steps forward, closing the gap between them with a single stride.  

“That’s what you thinkin’ right now,” he growls, “But I promise—she ain’t. You thinkin’ bout some pussy, and that ain’t gon’ get you in the NFL or keep yo’ wide receiver." 

He jabs a thick finger against Asaud’s chest—hard. 

“Yo’ head loose, and I ain’t raisin’ no kids outside of you." 

Asaud’s chest heaves, his nostrils flaring as his temper flares hotter. Then—  

“You were younger than me when you knocked Momma up.” 

The moment those words leave Asaud’s mouth—sharp, deliberate, meant to cut—your stomach drops. Your lips part in quiet disbelief, brows knitting together as hurt flashes hot behind your ribs.  

“Asaud!" 

But Onyankopon is already moving—fast, too fast—his massive hand snatching the front of Asaud’s hoodie, yanking him forward until their faces are inches apart. Asaud’s breath comes ragged, shoulders rising and falling under the strain of his father’s grip, but he doesn’t fight it.  

"You right." 

A pause—sharp, loaded.  

“Here I am sixteen years later—still bustin’ my ass for you the moment I ‘knocked’ yo’ momma up."

His fingers tighten in the fabric, knuckles whitening—" I don’t ever regret havin’ you, and if I can prevent you from goin’ through the same shit me and yo’ momma handled? That’s what Imma’ do." 

Asaud swallows hard, his throat bobbing.  

"Ion’ give a fuck ‘bout no lil’ ass girl," Onyankopon rasps, “Or yo’ feelings just ‘cause you on some puppy love shit. Football. School. That’s yo’ priorities." 

Your fingers curl into Onyankopon’s sleeve, tugging gently—“Baby… let him go." 

Asaud’s voice cracks as he mutters, “Pops—" 

"Pop’s nothin’." 

Onyankopon shoves him back—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to make his point. He spits something in Creole—low, guttural—before jerking his chin toward the kitchen.  

“Go eat the food yo’ momma cooked." 

The moment Onyankopon issued that command, Asaud's shoulders slumped—defeated but still simmering with that same stubborn fire his father carried in his bones. His jaw clenched tight, eyes flashing with frustration before he turned on his heel, storming down the hallway. The slam of his bedroom door echoed through the house like a gunshot, rattling the frames on the walls.  

Onyankopon didn’t even flinch.  

“Don’t be slammin’ no doors in this bitch you can’t pay to fix.” 

And all you could do was sigh, pressing your fingertips to your forehead as the weight of the afternoon settled over you like a heavy blanket.  

Hours later, the house was eerily quiet, the kind of stillness that only comes when two prideful men refuse to be the first to break. Nightfall crept in, painting the walls in long shadows as you moved through the dimly lit kitchen, plating a heaping serving of shrimp and grits—still warm, just the way he liked it.  

But Onyankopon was nowhere to be found.  

Not in the living room, not in the bedroom—so you already knew where he was.  

Stepping onto the porch, the humid Louisiana air wrapped around you like a second skin. The cicadas sang their nightly chorus, the scent of magnolias thick in the breeze. And there he was—shirtless, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips as his massive frame crouched near the steps.  

The metal bowl in his hands rattled impatiently as he shook it, muttering under his breath.  

“‘What you doin’, Papa?” 

He didn’t even glance up, his deep voice gruff with irritation.  

“…Tryna’ feed this damn cat ‘Saud be so worried about.” 

A soft mrrow sounded from the bushes, and a scruffy orange tabby slinked out, eyeing Onyankopon warily before darting forward to swipe at the bowl.  

Of course he was out here—still pissed, still stubborn—but making sure his son’s stray was fed.  

Some things never changed.

The stray cat—scruffy, wide-eyed, and perpetually suspicious—padded cautiously along the porch railing, its tail flicking with a mix of curiosity and defiance. It sniffed the air, nostrils twitching as it scented Onyankopon instead of Asaud’s familiar presence. With a deliberate hmph, it turned its head away from the bowl, pretending disinterest even as its stomach growled loud enough for you both to hear.  

You couldn’t help the giggle that slipped past your lips.  

"You’re mean to him too—that’s why he won’t eat." 

Onyankopon scowled, shaking the bowl harder, the dry kibble rattling like a warning.  

“Yeah? I take care of his ungrateful ass too." 

You sighed dramatically, leaning against the doorframe as you murmured—“The Tin Man does have a heart, it seems."

Onyankopon shot you a look before gruffly calling out, "Aight, Tiger—come get this damn food."

“His name is Tango.” 

“Same shit."  

Finally the cat hopped down, sauntering over with an air of reluctant grace. It rubbed its entire body along Onyankopon’s bare calf, purring loud enough to vibrate the porch boards beneath him.  

“Yeah, yeah," he grumbled, nudging the bowl closer with his foot—“Gon’ head." 

You stepped forward then, bringing the plate of shrimp and grits closer, the rich aroma mixing with the warm night air.  

“You need to eat too, baby.” 

Onyankopon’s fingers then curl gently around your throat—not tight, but there, possessive and grounding. He dropped a series of rough, smacking kisses against your lips, each one firm and fleeting before he finally took the plate with his free hand.  

“Aight," he muttered, settling onto the wooden stairs.  

The cat ate. Your husband ate. Now, you could have the real conversation you’d been holding off on.

You settle onto the wooden steps behind him, the worn planks creaking softly under your weight as you wrap your legs around his waist, molding your body against the warm expanse of his back. He’s hot to the touch—always running like a furnace—and you bury your face between his shoulder blades, inhaling the faint lingering scent of his cologne as he eats. 

"Did you check on your son?" 

The fork scrapes against the plate as he chews, his shoulders lifting in a half-shrug.

“Nah. But I know you did." 

A gruff pause, “‘He still alive? Limbs all attached?"

You hum, fingers trailing lazily through the neat rows of his cornrows, tracing the patterns like you’ve done a thousand times before.

 “Funny. He’s asleep.” 

Silence stretches between you, thick with unsaid things. Then, softly—  

“You do know you were wrong, right?" 

“Which part? ‘Cause I ain’t wrong about a lot of shit."  

You exhale through your nose, leaning into his shoulder as you murmur, “Ti tèt di."

 Stubborn man.

He doesn’t respond, just keeps eating—his jaw working methodically, the muscles in his back flexing beneath your touch. You press a kiss to the nape of his neck before continuing—  

”Remember when we found out I was pregnant? How scared you were?"

Silence.  

You then whisper, “He’s got an amazing head on his shoulders, Papa. Just like you. Maybe...he’s serious about this girl." 

“He’s sixteen.” 

“And we were fifteen—sneakin’ into my momma’s house when she went to sleep, havin’ unprotected sex, and then what happened?” 

He leans back into you with a rough huff, his head tilting just enough to bump against yours.

“You tryna be funny.” 

“I’m not."

 Your fingers trail down to his jaw, tracing the line of his beard as you say—“Our parents kicked us out, and we’ve been on our own since then."

The silence between you grows heavier, thick with the weight of memories neither of you ever really talk about—nights spent sleeping in his beat up Chevy, the way his voice had cracked when his own father slammed the door in his face, the quiet tears you'd wiped away when your mama called you a disgrace.  

You press a kiss to his shoulder, soft as a prayer. 

"But we knew our little wolf was special, didn’t we?”  

A beat. 

“Yeah." 

You smile against his skin, “Asaud is yours, but he’s not you. He’s not gonna make the mistakes we did—and shuttin’ him down like our parents did to us? It’d be unfair.”  

Onyankopon exhales—long, slow—his head tipping back against your shoulder.

Your voice is barely above a whisper, soft yet carrying the weight of years as you murmur, "Give him the grace we never got." 

Your husband goes quiet. The cicadas hum in the thick night air, the stray cat now curled on the porch railing, licking its paws as if amused by the whole scene.  

Then—  

“‘Guess I ain't have to yank his ass up like that." 

The admission comes out gruff, and you can't help the faint smile that tugs at your lips. With a playful flick to the side of his head, you tease, "Don’t be puttin’ hands on my baby no more." 

Before you can blink, his massive arm hooks behind you, tugging you effortlessly onto his lap. You let out a surprised squeak of laughter, instantly melting into the familiar warmth of his hold—his thick thighs beneath you, the hard plane of his chest pressed flush against your back. His heat engulfs you, his scent wrapping around your senses like a second skin.  

You nuzzle into the crook of his neck, fingers tracing the shell of his ear as you murmur, "But hey… we didn’t do so bad, did we?" 

His arms tighten around your waist, lips brushing your temple—"Nah. We did better.”  

You giggle as he kisses you, slow at first, then deeper, hotter—your tongue stroking his with a suddenly filthy, practiced familiarity. You pull back just enough to whisper against his lips, “‘Wore your jersey just for you…" 

His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone as he groans, half-amused, half-exasperated. 

“You know I’ll never say no—but a nigga tired as hell." 

You gasp in mock offense, pulling back to squint at him.

 “Oh, so you can yoke up my child— but no dick for me?" 

That deep, rich chuckle vibrates against your ribs as he leans back against the porch railing, pulling you tighter against him.

“Daddy ain’t Superman. One city at a time."

You blow out an exaggerated huff, lips pursed in playful frustration as you mutter, “You're annoying." 

“And you horny." 

You cross your arms over your chest but sink deeper into his embrace anyway, the steady thump of his heartbeat against your back. After a beat, you nudge him with your elbow, voice softening.

 “...You love me?" 

For a moment he says nothing—just holds you there in the quiet, southern night humming around you both. 

Then, sweet as molasses—“When don't I?" 

And yeah. That was your answer.  

The next morning, Asaud wakes up early—his body already braced for a day of grueling chores and another lecture still hanging heavy in the air. He tiptoes down the hallway, bare feet quiet against the hardwood, expecting silence. Instead? The rich, savory scent of butter, garlic, and smoked sausage hits him the moment he steps near the kitchen.  

He pauses. Frowns.  

Spread across the countertop is a full Louisiana-style breakfast—crispy-edged fried eggs, golden-brown grits swimming in cheese, spicy Cajun hash, and fluffy buttermilk biscuits still steaming from the oven. His favorite. 

Confusion knits his brows as he steps further inside, only to freeze at the sight of you and Onyankopon standing near the stove.  

Onyankopon's massive frame is leaned into yours, his head tilted slightly as your fingers glide through his cornrows, re-braiding the edges with careful precision. You're both talking—voices low, words unintelligible from where he stands—but the ease between you is undeniable.  

Then you glance up, spotting him lingering in the doorway.

 "Mornin’, baby," you greet, smiling—“How’d you sleep?" 

Asaud shifts awkwardly, eyes flicking between the food and his father's impassive face. 

“...Good," he mutters—“What's all this?"

“Yo’ momma insisted on makin’ yo’ favorite breakfast," Onyankopon grumbles, voice rough with morning fatigue.  

You flick his ear. 

He then huffs, “Aight, I told her to." 

You’re then crossing the kitchen toward Asaud, your bare feet padding softly against the tile. His eyes flicker with wariness, still bruised from yesterday’s heated exchange—though the mark looks lighter now, less angry. You reach up, fingers ghosting over the spot as you murmur, “Want momma to ice it for you?"  

Asaud ducks his head slightly, but shakes it—“No ma’am, I’m aight." 

You smile, nudging him toward the table where his plate waits. 

“Eat ‘fore it gets cold." 

Hesitant, he sinks into his chair, poking at the food before glancing between you both suspiciously. 

“…Y’all poisoned my food or sum’?" 

"Ain’t I tell you he was finna’ think that?"

“Hush, Ony.”

Your voice softens then as you turn back to Asaud. 

“We had a…revelation last night... and we just want you to know—we love you. All of you. Every stubborn, hardheaded, beautiful part." 

The kitchen falls silent—save for the sizzle of grease in the skillet, the hum of the ceiling fan.  

You take a deep breath, clasping your hands together excitedly. The morning sunlight spills across the kitchen table as you announce, “Me and Daddy have been feeling a little disconnected from you lately, so we came up with an idea—Family Date! Yes Edition.” 

Asaud blinks, fork hovering mid air over his grits.

“…Yes Edition?”

You beam, “Whatever you want to do today—no matter what—we have to say yes to!" 

Asaud's frown deepens, but there's a flicker of something mischievous in his gaze now. 

“Whatever I want?"

You nod enthusiastically. On the other hand, Onyankopon rubs his temple as he mutters, “My damn wallet achin’ already." 

“The sky is the limit, baby. What’d you wanna do?" 

For a long moment, Asaud chews thoughtfully, brow furrowed as he considers his options. Then? It hits him all at once. 

“Aight, bet.” 

He sits up straighter as he lists off, “First—we hittin’ up Bayou Guns for some target practice. Then, monster truck rally tickets—front row. After that, ’whole rack of ribs from Big Mike’s Smokehouse, extra spicy. And,”—he pauses dramatically, eyes flicking to his father—“Pops, you gotta let me drive the truck today." 

Onyankopon almost chokes on his coffee. 

“Hell nah I’m not!" 

You level the look at Onyankopon—the one that makes his jaw twitch because he knows he’s already lost. His dark eyes flick from you to Asaud’s hopeful expression before he exhales sharply through his nose, resigned.  

“It’s yo’ day, Papa. Gon’ head." 

Asaud’s grin is immediate, lighting up his entire face like a kid on Christmas morning.

 This was gonna be an adventure. 

The day starts with everyone scrambling to get ready—you weren’t exactly thrilled about spending hours immersed in testosterone fueled chaos, but the thought of just being with your boys? Had you smiling despite yourself.  

Onyankopon emerges looking stupidly fine—his black long sleeve clinging to every defined ridge of muscle, the ink snaking down his arms and neck peeking out from beneath the fabric. Camo pants hang low on his hips, black Dunks laced tight on his feet, and those damn chains glinting against his chest like he stepped straight out of some high end streetwear ad. His face—God—those sharp tattoos along his cheekbones contrasting his deep brown skin, that signature don’t fuck with me glare permanently etched into his expression.  

You keep poking at it as you all get ready, making him swat your hand away with a grunt.  

Asaud mirrors his energy effortlessly—hoodie layered over his own fitted tee, shoes swapped for something sleeker, but the same vibe radiating off him. Like father, like son.  

You press kisses to both their cheeks before stepping back, smoothing down the backless top and capris hugging your curves—classy enough to turn heads, erotic enough to have Onyankopon’s fingers twitching. His dark gaze drops to your chest where your nipples press visibly against the fabric.  

“‘You cold?” he rumbles, dragging a single fingertip over one peaked bud.  

You pout, swatting his hand away—“It’s just chilly!" 

Now, here was the card ride. Pure chaos as you’d imagined—Onyankopon gripping the passenger side handle like he was seconds from yanking the wheel himself every time Asaud hit the gas too hard or took a turn a little too sharp.

“Nigga, I swear—if you don’t slow down, Imma’ have you pull over right here and make you ride in the back like the toddler you actin’ like." 

Asaud just smirked, glancing at you in the rearview before purposefully tapping the accelerator again—just to watch his father’s eye twitch.  

The gun range parking lot was packed, buzzing with the low hum of engines and the occasional pop of gunfire in the distance. Stepping out of the truck, you immediately felt that familiar dread creep in—not from the firearms, but from the eyes. The looks. The inevitable moment when someone would glance between you, Onyankopon, and Asaud, their brows furrowing as they tried to piece together your dynamic.  

Were you his older siblings? Friends?  

Then—the shock when they realized—Oh. You were his mother. 

Being a parent had never forced you to dress older than you were, never dulled your vibrancy to fit some matronly mold. Even now, trailing behind Onyankopon and Asaud—both towering over you, broad shouldered and imposing—you looked every bit the effortlessly sensual, youthful woman you were. Your deep merlot Coach purse swung at your hip, charms jingling with each step, your jet black curls bouncing against your back. Meanwhile, Onyankopon moved like he owned the ground beneath him, all quiet power and simmering dominance—a kingpin with his diamond in tow. 

The inside smelled like gunpowder, leather, and faintly of the fried catfish wafting from the snack bar in the corner. The air was thick with humidity, clinging to your skin as soon as you stepped inside—sharp cracks of gunfire echoed off the concrete walls, making your shoulders tense involuntarily. Each shot sounded like a miniature explosion—too loud, too sudden—and you instinctively pressed closer to Onyankopon's side, fingers tightening around his hand as if anchoring yourself to him.

The man behind the register gruffly asked, “What’chu wanna shoot with today?” 

Asaud’s eyes flickered toward the glass case displaying an array of firearms—some sleek and modern, others heavy and intimidating. His gaze lingered on the biggest one—a monstrous, black tactical shotgun that looked like it could knock a grown man flat on his back.  

Onyankopon didn’t even blink, “That one."

Asaud's eyes widened, “Forreal’?"

“Yo’ day, right?"

You retreated to the far back of the room, perched on a worn leather bench like a reluctant cheerleader. Your knees pressed together, hands folded in your lap as you watched them gear up—ear protection, gloves, safety glasses.  

Onyankopon looked illegal—his black sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, tattooed forearms as he handled the firearm with the kind of casual expertise that made your stomach flip. The range owner walked him through the basics—not that he needed it—but Onyankopon nodded along anyway, his deep voice rumbling something low in response.  

The sight before you had your lips parting slightly—Onyankopon lifting that heavy shotgun like it weighed nothing, his massive frame balanced with effortless precision. The first BOOM of his test shot rattled through the private room, the recoil absorbed effortlessly by his broad shoulders. Smoke curled from the barrel as he exhaled, lowering the gun and turning to Asaud with that same unreadable expression—except you knew him, knew the subtle pride in the tilt of his chin, the patience in his stance as he prepared to teach his son the way his own father had taught him.  

“Regarde,” he murmured, shifting fluidly between English and Creole as he adjusted Asaud’s grip. 

“Firme, yeah? Shoulder tight—non, like this.” 

His large hands guided Asaud's calloused fingers, pressing the younger man’s palm flush against the stock.

“You feel that? That’s control. ‘You nervous, ‘that gun know.” 

And just like that—Asaud shifted. His spine straightened, shoulders squaring under his father’s approval. The next shot he took wasn’t perfect—but it was strong, the kickback barely rocking him as the target downrange splintered at the edge.  

“Decent,” Onyankopon conceded, “For yo’ first try.” 

Your hands shot up in excited applause, curls tumbling over your freckled cheeks as you cheered, “Yay!”—you then blew a stubborn strand out of your face with a playful huff, watching as Asaud wandered over to stand beside you, wiping his palms on his hoodie.  

"Gon’ head, Pops," he called out, nodding toward the range.  

Onyankopon stepped up, and suddenly, the gun in his hands wasn’t just a weapon. It was an extension of him. Each shot boomed like thunder, paper targets shredding into confetti under his relentless precision. He moved like liquid—fluid, deadly—twisting the gun with an assassin’s grace, reloading without breaking rhythm. The sheer power radiating off him had your pulse thrumming in your throat.  

Asaud whistled low under his breath.  

“Aight, Sergeant! ‘Where you learn that from?" 

“He wanted to be one, actually.” 

Asaud turned to you, brow arched. 

"Pops wanted to be in the army?”   

Your gaze lingered on your husband, watching the way his shoulders flexed as he fired off another perfect shot—the way his focus never wavered, even now.  

"Higher up in the Navy, actually," you murmured. “‘Wanted to follow in his father’s path… before I got pregnant with you." 

A beat of silence. Then—  

“What happened?" 

Your fingers toyed with the charms on your purse, but your eyes stayed on Onyankopon. You exhale, “He disowned him. Hasn’t spoken to his father since I was in my first trimester." 

The words hung heavy between you.  

“He would’ve found a way to go overseas," you continued softly—"But he didn’t want to leave me. Or you. ‘Wanted to watch you grow up." 

Asaud’s voice was quieter now, “So…he never went for what he really wanted?” 

You turned to him then, smiling—really smiling—despite the ache in your chest.  

“You became our first priority the moment I held you in my arms, baby.”

Your voice dipped into honeyed warmth, "And you cried, cried, cried.” 

A dreamy little smile tugged at your lips, the memory of tiny fists gripping your finger, Onyankopon's unreadable mask cracking just once as he pressed his lips to your sweaty forehead in that delivery room.  

You blinked back to the present, tilting your head toward Asaud. 

“Your father can be…difficult," you admitted, “But know this—he loves you more than anything in this world. Everything he does, every hard lesson...it's because he wants everything for you." 

Asaud scuffed his shoe against the concrete floor, "I know that, Momma.” 

Just then, Onyankopon's shadow fell over you both, smelling like gunpowder and that stupidly expensive cologne he only wore on special occasions. 

“Y’all talkin’ ‘bout me?" he rumbled, slinging an arm around your shoulders.  

You batted your lashes up at him innocently—“Just tellin’ our son where he gets his handsome features from." 

Onyankopon's nostrils flared, “Don’t be flirtin’ with me in front of our child, girl," he muttered, the heat in his low voice betraying him.  

Your giggle spilled freely as you leaned even more into him, “Too late." 

“Aight, Aight,”  Asaud groaned, “Y’all weird. Monster trucks next—before y’start kissin’ or sum’." 

And just like that? You were onto the next.

The monster truck show was deafening, and entirely too boyish for your liking. You spent most of it grimacing, and hiding behind Onyankopon’s shoulder each time you thought you were gonna witness a crime scene explosion. From the activities today? You were sure to be rewarded by this meal. 

The scent of hickory smoke and sizzling meat hits you the moment you step into Big Mike’s Smokehouse—a cacophony of laughter, clinking glasses, and bluesy guitar riffs pouring from the jukebox in the corner. The worn wooden booth creaks as you slide in beside Onyankopon, your thighs pressing together beneath the checkered tablecloth. Across from you, Asaud taps his fingers against the menu, though all three of you already know what you’re ordering—extra spicy ribs, collard greens swimming in pot liquor, and cornbread so buttery it melts on contact.  

Your fingers trace idle circles over Onyankopon’s knuckles where his hand rests in your lap, his rough skin warm against your touch. You take a breath, leaning into his shoulder before murmuring, “Did you enjoy yourself today, baby?" 

Asaud nods, a rare softness in his expression. 

“I did. ‘Preciate y’all." 

You smile, cheeks flushing—but then you straighten slightly, catching Onyankopon’s eye. 

“Well—now that we’ve played—let’s have a serious conversation, yeah?" 

Asaud’s shoulders tense almost imperceptibly, but he nods.

“Yes, ma’am." 

“Jamal," Onyankopon starts, “What really happened between y’all?" 

Asaud exhales through his nose, dragging a hand over his locs.

 "I…always liked Sabine. Jamal knew that. ‘Still tried to get at her." 

You hum, tilting your head.

 “I don’t doubt she’d like you, baby. But—“ You choose your words carefully, "Did she seem…responsive to your feelings? Or does she actually like Jamal?" 

Asaud’s jaw works before he mutters, “She do like me. ‘Told me my dreads was cool last week." 

Onyankopon blinks. Slowly. 

Then turns to you, one brow arched—“‘That’s how the lil’ girls get niggas’ attention?"

Your shoulders lift in a helpless shrug, “I guess?” 

Asaud frowns, “Why y’all actin’ like confused old people right now?” 

You bite your lip, exhaling through your nose—“I’m sorry, baby. Y’all’s generation is just…different in courting each other. The only way you know how is to—” 

Then—it hits you. Like a freight train.  

Your spine stiffens. Eyes widening, you lean halfway across the table, gripping Asaud’s hands tight enough to make him blink.  

“Asaud?” 

He freezes.

 “Lawd, Momma. You scarin’ me. What’s wrong?” 

“This…Sabine girl…you haven’t…?” 

“Haven’t what?”  

Onyankopon leans back, raising a brow. 

Asaud’s gaze darts between you both before he huffs, “Contrary to stereotypes with bein’ quarterback—yes, Momma—I’m still a virgin. Damn.” 

The breath you’d been holding whooshes out of you. Your head drops forward, curls spilling over your shoulders as you clutch your chest. 

“Thank God! Okay, I just…whew,” You fan yourself dramatically, “I almost fainted.” 

Asaud shifts in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck before he drops the bombshell. 

“Despite y’all thinkin’ my head is loose, I plan on waitin’ ‘til marriage." 

“Mon chéri!” you squeal in Creole, launching yourself forward as you kiss his forehead no less than three times as he groans, trying to duck away.

“Mwen si fiè de ou! Oh, mon bébé!” 

Oh, my baby!

Onyankopon watches, amusement lacing his voice as he mutters, “She finna’ start speakin’ in tongues—don’t say shit else, boy."

You're still catching your breath from the emotional high when you lean forward, smoothing Asaud’s shirt before saying with earnest warmth, “Okay—well, although that’s amazing to hear—don’t be afraid to ask questions, baby. I know sex education isn’t the best in schools, so…anything in that aspect, you know you can always come to us, right?" 

Onyankopon clears his throat, "I think you gotta leave that conversation for me, shawty—" 

You wave a hand dismissively, “We’re supposed to be bonding! Don’t leave me out of it.” 

Onyankopon exhales through his nose. He then says,  “‘You right. Yo’ pops an open book, ‘Saud.”

Asaud’s gaze darts between you both, hesitating. 

Then? 

“Does the pull out method really work?" 

Your mouth drops. Of all the questions—  

Heat floods your cheeks as your brain short-circuits. Before you can even think of a diplomatic answer, Onyankopon leans back, arms crossed, and says completely deadpan—

“Ion’ know. I nut in yo’ momma everytime—" 

“OHMYGOD—“

 You shriek in Creole,  “Pouki ou fè sa nan piblik?!”

Really, in public?

“So how come ion’ got a sibling?”

You’re so disturbed by Onyankopon who nonchalantly begins eating his food, taking a moment to process Asaud’s other question. You take a slow breath, fingers tightening around your napkin. 

"I got my tubes tied after I had you, baby. You’re my lifeline—but it was a horrible pregnancy."

 Your hand drifts unconsciously to your lower stomach, remembering the months of bed rest, the way your ankles swelled like overripe fruit.  

Then, shooting Onyankopon a look, you point a stern finger at Asaud—“Had your father answered educationally, you would’ve known why we can have unprotected sex—but you should not! Condoms. Every. Time."

Onyankopon interjects, "Unless y’all in love. Then? ‘Make yo’ wife a twinkie’.” 

Your fingers clutch desperately at the diner table as you squeak, “Let’s move on!”—voice pitching high like a deflating balloon. You clear your throat, smoothing a hand over your top as you force yourself back into Mom Mode. 

“What do you really like about this girl?”

Asaud pauses, staring down at his half-eaten ribs as if the bones might spell out the answer for him. For a moment, there’s nothing but the clatter of silverware and Big Mike’s raspy laugh booming from the kitchen. 

“She got this…quiet way ’bout her," he starts, voice lower than usual. 

“Like, she don’t gotta laugh loud to be heard. And when she do smile—" He shakes his head, a faint grin tugging at his lips—“Man, it’s like she savin’ it just for you. Makes you feel…special, I guess."

You reach across the table, squeezing his wrist. 

“That’s sweet, baby. Real sweet. But…" You hesitate, exchanging a glance with Onyankopon before continuing gently, “Are you willing to pursue this girl and lose your best friend over it?"

Asaud’s jaw hardens, “Jamal clearly ain’t my friend." 

Onyankopon shakes his head, “Nah. He’s a boy on some puppy love shit—just like you.”

You now rub at Asaud’s knuckles.

“Baby, think about it. Jamal stayed at our house more nights than you did sometimes. Went to your cousins cookouts, helped your daddy fix up the car—" 

“Even came to yo’ grandma’s funeral," Onyankopon cuts in, dead serious—“That’s family shit." 

Your voice softens, “A real friend would’ve stepped back the moment he knew how you felt. But love makes people act stupid—especially at y’all’s age. You sure this girl worth torching that bridge?" 

Asaud’s throat bobs.

The diner’s chatter fades into a dull hum as Asaud sits back, shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his thoughts. His fingers fiddle with the condensation on his sweet tea glass, tracing idle circles as he chews on his bottom lip—the same nervous habit he’s had since he was a toddler.  

Then, finally, he exhales sharply through his nose.  

“A girl ain’t finna’ have me lose my wide receiver," he mutters, shaking his head. 

“But that ‘don’t mean I ain’t got feelin’s, Momma."

He thinks on his words for a moment. 

Asaud’s voice then drops lower, “A lot of my friends’ parents don’t get along—divorced, fightin’, separated, only cordial ‘cause they made a mistake back in the day. I know I clown on y’all’s gushiness…” he continues, waving a hand at the way you’re still practically draped over Onyankopon’s arm, “But…I’m glad I got parents that love each other. And I just—" He hesitates, eyes flickering down before meeting yours again—“I want somethin’ like that. Somethin’ real." 

A whimpery giggle escapes you as tears well in your eyes—hot, stinging—before spilling over.  

“Shit, here ‘she go," Onyankopon mutters, already rubbing at your hip affectionately.

Your heart swells so big it feels like it might burst right out of your chest. You slide out of the booth in one fluid motion, your hands cupping your son's face—rough stubble scratching your palms, his locs soft against your forearms.

“Do you know how much we love you, sweet boy?" 

He rolls his eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it.  

“I’m knowin’, Momma."  

Then, quieter—“Look…I’m sorry for bein’ mean to you yesterday. And…"

He glances at Onyankopon who’s watching with his usual stoic expression, though his dark eyes hold a warmth only you and Asaud ever really see—“Sorry to you too, Pops." 

That’s all it takes.  

You squeak, pulling him into a crushing embrace, smothering his face in kisses—his forehead, his cheeks, the tip of his nose—while rapid-fire Creole endearments spill from your lips like a prayer.  

“Mon petit roi! Mon cœur! Bondye beni ou, mwen renmen ou tout bagay!" 

My little king ! God bless you, I love you with all my heart !

Asaud groans, half-heartedly trying to squirm away—"Damn, Momma—I said I was sorry—" 

“Non, non! Mwen pa fini ak ou!" 

I’m not done with you! 

Onyankopon watches, shaking his head—but when Asaud shoots him a pleading look, he just smirks and shrugs.  

“Take yo’ medicine, boy."

Your bottom lip juts out in an exaggerated pout as you turn pleading eyes toward Onyankopon, fingers still tangled in Asaud's locs.  

"Be sweet, Papa!" you urge, batting your lashes dramatically—“Tell your son you love him—none of that manly grunting stuff!" 

Onyankopon exhales through his nose, but after a beat, his deep voice rumbles—low, rough, but undeniably fond—  

“I love you, ‘Saud. Even when you actin’ dumb."

Asaud snorts, but the corner of his mouth lifts as he mutters back, “Love you too, Pops." 

You sigh happily, finally releasing Asaud—only to immediately eye his half-finished ribs. 

“Baby, lemme get a bite of—" 

“Nuh uh!" Asaud yanks his plate away, nodding toward Onyankopon. 

“You better ask yo’ husband!" 

Onyankopon slides his own plate toward you without a word, smirk smug as you stick your tongue out at Asaud.  

“Haters," you mumble around a mouthful of smoky, tender meat.  

Later, you’re curled into Onyankopon’s side on the couch, his heartbeat steady beneath your palm as some old cartoon flickers across the TV. The peace is shattered by Asaud’s bedroom door creaking open. He steps out fully dressed—hoodie, sneakers laced tight—and your head lifts from Onyankopon’s chest.  

“You okay, baby?" 

Asaud shifts on his feet, avoiding eye contact.

“I’m straight. Uh…Jamal finna’ be here in a couple minutes." 

You and Onyankopon exchange frowns—just as a knock echoes through the house.  

Jamal now stands on the threshold when Asaud opens the door, hands shoved in his pockets, head slightly bowed. 

“Evenin’, Mr. and Mrs. Osei.”

You blink, glancing between him and Asaud—who’s now lurking awkwardly by the foyer.  

“Uh…are y’all…okay now?"

“We talked. It's straight," Asaud mutters, shifting his weight as he glances between you and Jamal.  

Your eyes narrow slightly.  

“So that's it? Y’all ain’t fighting over this girl no more?" 

“This my ‘quarterback, Momma—“ Jamal chuckles, “Beta to his alpha—even though we both run shit, you know how it go."

“Language, ‘Mal." 

Jamal dips his head immediately at Onyankopon’s voice—“My fault, Mr. Osei." 

You exhale, shaking your head as you sink back against Onyankopon’s side.  

“You men are so strange." 

Then, glancing back at Jamal with a small smile, you add, “Well—are you staying to hang out, Jamal?" 

Before Jamal can answer, Asaud slips in smoothly—too smoothly—“Nah, we headed to a party." 

Onyankopon’s arm tenses beneath you, his jaw tightening. 

“Did you ask if you could go to a party?"

You press your palm gently against Onyankopon’s chest, “Ony, c’mon.” 

He exhales through his nose. 

“Curfew at eleven. Not a minute later. And both of y’all better answer yo’ phones when I call.” 

Asaud nods quickly, relief flashing in his eyes—“Got it." 

"We out, then. Love y’all!” 

You wave them off with a smile, “Be safe!" 

Your lashes flutter slightly as you watch Onyankopon’s sharp side profile an hour after they leave—the strong line of his jaw, the way braids shape out his face, his deep set eyes locked onto the TV screen like he’s studying every frame. You trace idle circles over his chest with your fingertips, admiring the way the dim lamplight catches the faint sheen of his skin.  

"What you starin’ at, girl?" 

You grin, pressing a kiss just above his heart.  

“My amazing husband." 

“Mmm”, he rumbles, “You just love flirtin’ with a nigga.”

You murmur, “Maybe," in a playful tone—then, with a gentle tug at his chin, you guide his face toward yours.

“You haven’t kissed your wife all day."

“Damn,” he grips at your waist, “A nigga finna’ get locked up, huh?" 

You giggle close to his lips, “Life with no parole." 

And then his mouth crashes into yours—full, warm, tasting like sweet tea and the lingering smokiness of barbecue. His kiss is slow at first, until you smoothly climb onto his lap, knees pressing into the couch cushions on either side of his hips. Your fingers tangle at the nape of his neck as you deepen the kiss, your tongue teasing his bottom lip until a rough grunt vibrates against your mouth.  

“Why you feenin’?” 

You don’t answer—too busy loosening his belt with practiced ease, your lips trailing down his neck as you palm him through his pants, earning another gravelly curse through your husband's mouth. 

“Saud’ could walk back in this house at any moment, girl—" 

Your laughter spills against his collarbone in breathy giggles, warm and honeyed, as your fingers hook into the waistband of his pants—finally freeing him into your grip. The moment his tip springs free, your breath catches—a sharp, needy whine escaping your throat as your eyes drink in the sight of him—thick, flushed, veins straining against heated skin, the tip already glistening with his impatience.  

“‘M hungry, Papa. Can I?” 

You mewl these words so desperately, lips brushing the twitching head as you gaze up at him through fluttering lashes.  

Onyankopon’s grip tightens in your curls—not pulling, just holding—as he rasps, “Goddamn. Aight.” 

Your tongue then darts out, tracing the swollen ridge beneath his crown, relishing the salt-sweet taste of him before dipping into his slit. His hips jerk—hard—knocking a choke from your lungs, but you don’t relent. Instead, you press open-mouthed kisses along his shaft, nuzzling into the thatch of coarse hair at the base before swirling your tongue around the tip again.  

“Hollon’, Mama—” he grits out, fingers flexing in your hair, but you’re already sinking down, taking him halfway with a blissful whimper. The stretch burns sweetly, your lips sealing around him as hollowed cheeks suck him deeper. His thighs tremble beneath you, a ragged, “Fuck—” tearing from his chest as your tongue swirls along his length on the upstroke.  

You pull off with a lewd pop, running your tongue viciously against your puffy lips at the way his stomach muscles clench. 

“Missed this,” you purr, licking a stripe from root to tip before swallowing him down again—deeper this time—until your nose brushes his skin. His groan is filthy, echoing through the living room as his head thuds back against the couch.  

“Gon’ make me act up,” he warns, voice dark with promise—but you just whimper again around him, eyes fluttering shut as you bob faster, hungrier. The wet sounds of your mouth on him mix with his ragged breaths, the cartoon still playing forgotten in the background. 

Your lips stretch obscenely, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth as you take him all the way down—nose pressed into his pelvis, throat fluttering wildly around the intrusion. Your eyes roll back slightly at the stretch, tears pricking at the corners as you whimper around his girth again— needy, gagging sound that vibrates against his skin and makes his hips jerk instinctively.  

“Fuck—look at you," Onyankopon growls, fingers tightening in your curls, yanking just enough to make you mmph—air rushing into your lungs before you dive back down, hollowing your cheeks shamelessly.  

You pull off with another wet pop, spit slick lips swollen and glistening as you pant—only to spit directly onto his dick, the glob of saliva trailing thickly down his shaft before you smear it with your mouth. You then smack his length against your tongue, giggling breathlessly.

“Goddamn," he snarls heavier, voice dripping with lust—a vein popping in his neck as he glares down at you like he wants to eat you alive.  

You swirl your tongue around his tip, lapping at the precum beading there before sinking back down—deeper, messier—your throat working in desperate swallows around him. Drool drips down your chin, your brows knitting together in a mix of pleasure and strain as you gag prettily around him—the sounds leaving your mouth absolutely disgusting. 

“Ain’t no way you suckin’ dick this good and actin’ all innocent at the dinner table," he grunts, thrusting shallowly into your throat, his grip on your hair bordering on painful—“Fuckin’ glutton—can’t even breathe right and you still tryna’ swallow my shit whole.” 

You give a desperate moan in response—half-protest, half-agreement—your fingers digging into his thighs as you bob faster, sloppier, spit and precum fully smearing across your lips. His hips buck up violently, forcing himself deeper as he curses under his breath—“Gon’ make this bitch nut all over yo’ pretty ass face.” 

You're drunk off him—every suck, every gag, every slurp of your lips dragging up his shaft leaving you dizzy with greed. Your tongue lolls obscenely along the underside of his cock, spit-slick and desperate, drool dripping in thick strands onto his heavy balls, making them glisten under the dim light. The mess coats your chin, smears across your cheeks—ruins you beautifully—but you don’t care, too lost in the taste of him, the weight of him on your tongue.  

You usually ask—Papa, can I?—but right now, you don’t want permission. You want everything. 

So with an aroused impatience you climb fully into his lap, knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of his thighs. One hand grips his shoulder for balance as you yank your capris with the other, exposing bare skin—no panties, never panties when you knew he’d be home. His tip slaps wetly against your folds, already soaked just from sucking him off, and you whimper—high and broken—as his thumb ruthlessly circles your clit, sending sparks up your spine.  

His mouth crashes into yours, tongues tangling sloppily, spit mixing between you as he grunts against your lips—  

“I ain’t movin’. Put that bitch in.” 

Your fingers knot in the hair at the nape of his neck as you sink down—slowly, so slowly—stretching around him inch by torturous inch. And the burn? It’s delicious. White-hot and overwhelming, your walls fluttering wildly as you take him deeper. Your eyes even begin to water, lashes sticking together as tears spill over, your mouth trembling against his in a silent sob.  

Then—squelch—a wet, gushing sound punches from your pussy as you bottom out, his hips fully flush against your ass. The obscene noise—like air forced from a tight space—makes you shudder, your thighs shaking violently around him.  

“Fuck—” Onyankopon snarls into your mouth, his grip on your waist bruising, “Tight-ass pussy always tryna act brand new.”

You whimper—pitiful, unable to do nothing else.

His palms cradle the plush underside of your thighs—calloused fingertips digging into soft flesh as he lifts you effortlessly, your body hovering above him for one breathless moment before he drops you back down.  

The descent is slow—agonizing—every inch of him dragging against your walls until you’re whimpering nonsensically, Creole curses and praise tumbling from your lips in a slurred mess—  

“Ah—Mon Dieu—Papa, li two cho—!”

Then—smack—your ass lands heavy against his thighs, skin sticking wetly before peeling apart with a lewd clap that ricochets through the living room. Your vision whites out for a second, mouth falling slack as pleasure crackles up your spine—  

“Shit.”

Your voice fractures, knees trembling where they bracket his hips. His grip tightens—lifting you again—only to drop you back onto him, the force punching the air from your lungs.  

“Fuck,” you sob, nails raking down his chest, “P—Papa, li two gwo—!” 

You’re too big. 

“Talk that shit now,” he taunts, “Thought you was hungry?” 

“O—O bondye—P-Papa—!” 

I can’t.

The fabric of your top crumples violently in Onyankopon’s fists—fingers twisting, yanking the material taut as he uses it like reins to drive you down onto him. Every bounce wrenches a gasp from your lips, your body jolting with each punishing thrust, his dick spearing into you with a relentless, bruising rhythm. Your face crumples, pouting down at him—eyes glazed, lips swollen and trembling—as he growls up at you in thick, guttural Creole.

"Ou vle sa, mm? Ou vle Papa kraze ou?" 

You want me to break yo’ shit, huh?

You nod frantically, a pathetic, shuddering “Mm-hmm—!" hiccuping from your throat as your cream spills obscenely down his shaft, pooling at the base where his balls glisten with your slick.  

“I—I’m gonna’ cum—!" you mewl, voice breaking, thighs quivering as your walls flutter wildly around him.  

But Onyankopon doesn’t speed up—doesn’t slow down—just keeps grinding you onto him at that same, devastating pace, letting you feel every inch as your orgasm crests. Your back arches, a silent scream tearing through you as your pussy gushes—hot, wet pulses of arousal soaking his lap, dripping down his abdomen in sticky rivulets.  

“Regarde ça," Look at that, he mutters, voice rough with lust as he watches you squirt all over him—“Fais un gros désordre, mm?" 

’Made a big fuckin’ mess.

Onyankopon’s grip shifts—his hands cinching around your waist as he stands in one fluid motion, twisting you midair before slamming your back flush against his chest. Your breath hitches, fingers scrambling at his forearms as he bends you forward in the same motion, your spine arching obscenely as he crowds over you.

“Ain’t took my pussy like this inna’ minute. Let a nigga feel you.” 

This position—back arched deep, ass tilted up, your body folded in half—was never one you could handle. He knew it. You knew it. Years of marriage, and he only pulled it out on two occasions: when you’d pissed him off just enough to deserve it—or when he wanted to ruin you so thoroughly you’d forget your own name.  

His dick sinks back into you—slow, sadistic—the stretch bordering on pain as your walls flutter wildly around him. A petulant whimper claws from your throat, your face tucking into your own shoulder as you try to steady yourself.  

Too deep. Too much. 

Before you can adjust, his palm wraps around your throat from behind—his fingers splayed possessively as he jerks his hips forward, bottoming out with a force that makes your vision blur.   

Your cry is muffled against your own skin, tears pricking at your lashes as he starts moving—no build-up, no mercy—just deep, piston-like thrusts that punch the air from your lungs with every snap of his hips.  

“Always actin’ brand new,” he grits out, “Like I ain’t had this pussy a thousand times.” 

Onyankopon yanks your head back as he starts fucking you with those long, slow, punishing strokes, burying himself to the hilt each time with a rough grunt. Your entire body shudders in shock, fingers clawing at your own ankles as you struggle to stay grounded, but there’s no escape—just the relentless drag of him stretching you open, over and over, the obscene squelch of your soaked pussy echoing in the air between you.  

A dumb, pleasure-drunk frown twists your face—eyebrows knitted, lips parted in a silent gasp—before your voice finally shatters into whiny, hiccupping sobs.  

“Ohh my god. Shit. Ughn, fuck—!" 

Your thighs tremble violently, your back bowing even more as pleasure coils tighter in your gut—each thrust dragging you closer to the edge. But he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. Just keeps stroking into you—rough, unhurried, perfect—until your mind whites out completely.

The next shift happens like lightning—his arms wrapping around you, hauling you flush against his chest as he lifts you just enough that your toes barely skim the floor, his strength suspending you effortlessly between his body and the air. His palm presses flat against your throat again—his lips dragging hot against the shell of your ear as his thrusts turn uneven, deeper, desperate. 

“Missed this shit... missed you…” 

You’re too far gone to answer—just weakly nodding, your head lolling back against his shoulder as pleasure crackles through every nerve. Onyankopon’s thrusts turn frantic, his breath ragged against your neck, his voice breaking every snap of his hips—  

“Shit—fuck—gon’ make me—" 

Your body aches—muscles trembling, thighs slick with sweat—but you force yourself to roll your hips back against him anyway, meeting each deep thrust with a weak but determined grind. Your voice is nothing but a breathless whimper, barely audible over the filthy slap of skin, but you need him to hear your words.   

“I love you—love you so much—“ 

Your words dissolve into a gasp as he rams into you again, the force of it making your toes curl against the floor. You tilt your head back, pressing your temple against his, lips brushing his jaw as you whisper—  

“Such a good...good father... takin’ care of us.” 

Onyankopon groans—low, raw—the sound vibrating against your skin as his fingers flex possessively around your throat. 

"Fuck—" he grits out, voice strained—almost shy—as if he’s not used to being unraveled like this.  

You reach back blindly, fingers tangling in his braids, tugging just enough to make him growl.  

“Sound so pretty,” you slur.

He curses again, biting at your shoulder as if you contain his own pleasure. 

“Chill.”

His warning rumbles against your lips, but it's unsteady—almost shaking—his usual arrogance stripped bare as his breath hitches. You don’t listen. Instead, you crash your mouth against his in a sloppy, desperate kiss, swallowing his next groan whole as he thrusts up into you—harder, deeper—his hips pistoning in a rhythm that has you both practically singing into each other’s mouths.  

His moan becomes muffled against your lips—“Oooh, shit—“ low and graveled, his forehead pressing against yours as his pace turns erratic. You nod frantically, whimpering in agreement, your own sounds just as broken as his, your nails scraping down his chest as you begin begging him. 

“Fill me up, baby.” 

And that’s all it takes.  

Onyankopon cums with a ragged groan, his entire body tensing as he spills into you in thick, pulsing waves—hot, endless, like he’s been holding back for weeks. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise as he rides it out, fucking his release even deeper inside you.  

You giggle—weak, breathless, but elated—the sensation of him twitching inside you sending little aftershocks of pleasure through your own trembling body. 

Onyankopon’s chest heaves against your back, his lips still hovering over yours as he mutters—“Goddamn." 

“Mmm,” you arch farther into his touch, “Would’ve gotten that last night if you weren’t so tired…" 

His lips drag slowly along the curve of your ear—hot breath making you shiver as he murmurs, “Patience builds tension, girl.” 

He grinds deep one last time, lazily rocking into you just to feel your walls flutter weakly around him.  

Your fingers tighten around his forearm, a pathetic little “‘M tired now, Papa…" slipping from your lips—weak, whiny, still buzzing from pleasure.  

“Oh, ‘you tired now?”

You twist in his arms, draping yourself fully against him—your arms looping around his neck, forehead pressing to his as you sigh, “C’monn, let's go shower."  

“Aight. We hunchin’ again?" 

“No, boy! I wanna go to bed. It's nearly twelve." 

He smacks his lips, eyes flicking past you to the clock on the wall—then freezes. 

“It's what time?" 

You blink up at him, suddenly aware of the shift in his tone—that dangerous edge creeping in. 

“Um…fifteen minutes to twelve?" you offer hesitantly.  

Onyankopon exhales sharply through his nose, jaw tightening as he looks down at you with narrowed eyes. 

“Imma' kill yo' son." 

Your hands fly up in protest, gripping his shoulders—“Well hold on!—He's a little over curfew, it's fine!”

“So now I'm doin' too much?” He smacks his lips, pulling back just enough to level you with a look—mockingly pitching his voice higher, mimicking your earlier whimpers— “’You’re such a good father’—what happened to allat’, huh?" 

You squeak, cheeks flushing hot as you slap a hand over his mouth, cutting off his teasing. 

“Stop it!” 

He licks your palm—nasty—making you yelp and yank your hand back as he grins, triumphant. 

“So you gon’ need the belt after him, huh?” 

You scrunch your nose.

“No. And you’re grumpy.” 

A chuckle rumbles deep in his chest, but he doesn’t pull away—just tilts his head, pressing his forehead a little harder against yours in that way he does when he’s softening, letting you know he’s conceding.  

“Imma’ let up, aight?" 

Your shoulders relax, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you exhale, melting into him.  

“'…’Kay.” 

His lips brush your temple before he murmurs, “Lemme’ just call and check on ‘em—after that? Imma’ rub on yo’ feet and knock the fuck out."

You exhale as he finally pulls away, shaking your head with a quiet laugh. Always unable to let go of that protective dad instinct, even when he was supposed to be letting up—but that was just him. Overbearing, stubborn, yours.  

The moment settles into something tender as you watch him grab his phone off the coffee table, his heavy silhouette outlined by the dim light of the living room.  

“I love you," you murmur, the words slipping out sweet and easy—like they always did.  

He pauses mid-step, glancing back at you over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth tilting up in that rare, real smile—the one reserved just for you.  

“’Love you more, girl.” 

And just like that—the day ends, wrapped in warmth, in home, in family.

[neshatriumphs]

Juneteenth is about Black people who were officially technically supposed to be freed from enslavement. Nobody else. Nothing else. It's not a POC day. It's not a "freedom for all" day. It's Black folk, Black culture, Black emancipation, SPECIFICALLY. Any other observation for Juneteenth is gentrification.

[neshatriumphs]

Your Juneteenth reminder that just because they made it a "national holiday," it's still not. It's for the celebration of Black Americans being freed from slavery, finally.

It's from Texas. We been welcoming other descendants of the enslaved. But we close the gate and draw the line with "everybody."

[neshatriumphs]

Bringing this back on Juneteenth because making Black observations a national holiday didn't and doesn't end racism and the nonblacks are more insufferable than they have been in my lifetime about Black American people and our things.

Happy Juneteenth to those whose lives would not be actively free without the day happening. See the rest of you tomorrow.

[lacquerheadd]

when i’m in a humongous honkers competition and these two show up

[angel--cassie]

[ribbonedgh0st]

Me

[krys4h]

𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐦𝐚,

౨ৎ                             𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫.        

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬◞﹒୧ . Your life changed overnight, and now you find yourself taking care of a child you didn't want. Despite your insomnia and anxiety, you're unable to see a therapist or doctor to talk about what happened; you prefer to relax with weed in the evenings, when your baby is asleep. It's better than nothing. Healing isn't linear and isn't the same for everyone. That's what you tell yourself every Saturday when you get into Eren's car to buy what you need. Eren isn't stupid; he knows you're the kind of client who's running away from something. He avoids getting attached to broken people; they always bring trouble. But through a few glances and a few silences, over the months, perhaps the barrier between you has been lifted to give rise to a unique relationship, which heals you more than any therapy could.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬◞﹒୧ . 21.1k words, black!fem!reader, plus!size!reader, reader has curly hair, plug!eren, stoner!eren, implied rape, sexual trauma, ptsd, depression, single!mother!reader, difficulty with motherhood, they are both traumatized, angst, hurt/comfort, romance, falling in love, love, mutual pining, friends to lovers, tattoo!artist!eren, affectionate!eren, provider!eren, avoidant!eren, eren has a mustache and a goatee, tattooed!eren, fear of commitment, grief, friends with benefits, situationship, unconventional relationship, male friendships, intimacy, vulnerability, healing, therapy, pregnancy, wedding, smut, emotional sex, gentle sex, pet name (baby), dry humping, lots of kisses, cunnilingus, oral sex, fingering, standing sex, unprotected sex, sobs during sex, riding, cowgirl, hair pulling, angsty sex.

𝐤𝐫𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬◞﹒୧ . [repost] yall wanted this classic back, mama did it for you !

౨ৎ one week with you ౨ৎ

Crying, crying, and more crying.

Sitting on the floor, staring at your kitchen cupboards, your back against the oven, you looked as if you were dead, your body still and your eyes vacant. But you were so alive, having given life just a week ago. It was strange how something as extraordinary as creating life was synonymous with death for you.

Crying, crying, and more crying.

Your daughter was crying so hard it was giving you a headache. Your gaze drifted down to the knife drawer. No. You weren't a murderer. But it was so tempting to imagine killing the source of your suffering and exhaustion.

You got up from the floor to open the drawer and take out the sharpest knife. With slow steps, you made your way to her bedroom where your daughter was struggling to sleep. As soon as the infant came into view, your hand holding the weapon trembled.

She had the same skin color as him. You could feel his hands on your body, taking away your control, your freedom, your voice. The thrusts that took more from you than they gave. Your chest tightened, and your stomach churned—your whole body reacted to the human consequence of that tragic night.

The baby's cries seemed to subside when she realized she wasn't alone anymore. As if an inexplicable bond connected you to that tiny being. Mother to child. If you could, you would sever the thread that entangled you.

When you gave birth, you thought you would feel that love all mothers talked about, that raw emotion that gripped the heart and delivered promises of protection. Yet you felt nothing. No hatred, no anger. Just an abyssal void. With empty eyes, you stared at the baby in your arms, wondering if you were lucky enough to have her die prematurely.

You pressed the tip of the knife into your daughter's belly, the chubby flesh creating a dip. She was so cute in her pink onesie, the scent of the special baby oil emanating from her making you sick. Becoming a mother meant sacrificing a part of your life for a vulnerable being who didn't know how to navigate the world without you, and you weren't sure you had the instruction manual to be the best guide.

You hadn't eaten or slept since her birth. What mother who couldn't take care of herself could possibly take care of her family?

The more you looked at her, the more hesitant your grip on the knife became. The more you focused on her toothless mouth, her tiny nose, and the few black hairs she had, the more you felt his weight on you. Your breathing quickened, the panic of being trapped beneath a man overwhelming you. You dropped the knife in her crib and rushed back to the kitchen, sitting on the floor with your arms around your knees as you rocked back and forth.

The crying started again, and you were about to lose it. She was too noisy, reminded you too much of him, gave you a stomachache, and then—it was your turn to cry. The bond between mother and daughter. What do you do in this kind of situation? When you had dreams, goals in life that were shattered by the arrival of a baby?  When you were little and you cried, who did you run to for comfort?

Onyankopon. Your brother. Your best friend.

But it's been months since you last spoke, ever since you left college and distanced yourself from your family. He's still friends with the traitor. He doesn't know what happened. You took your phone out of your pocket and stared at Ony's number. He wasn't going to answer. You pressed the call button, waiting with your heart pounding for him to reply.

“˚ʚ♡ɞ˚?” he awoke the call, his voice surprised.

You missed his voice, your heart felt lighter when you heard it.

“Hi Ony.”

“Why are you crying?” The bond between brother and sister. He knew just from your voice. He didn't ask why you hadn't spoken to him in so long, why you decided to go through your pregnancy alone. He just wants to know why his best friend is suffering.

“The baby.”

That’s all you tell him. He doesn’t need to know that you were contemplating killing your daughter, that you were depressed and suffering from panic attacks.

Ony sighed, empathy filling his voice.

“It must be hard being a single mother, I understand. Do you need money? Do you need anything? Tell me, I’ll give you anything you need.”

Your best friend. 

“No. I…”

Your eyes rested on the knife drawer.

“I need something to relax me. Especially at night. She sleeps during the day, but at night she cries so much it makes me anxious.”.

“Why don’t you go see a doctor for anti-anxiety medication?”

You drew your lips into a thin line. You hadn't even been able to talk to your brother about your trauma, how were you doing talking to someone you barely knew?

“˚ʚ♡ɞ˚?”

“I can't,” you whispered.

Ony remained silent on the other end of the phone line for a few seconds. There was so much he didn't know about you right now, so many questions. He felt like he'd lost his sister, and he was grateful that you were talking to him again even if you weren't giving him any answers.

“I have an idea, but I don't know if you'll like it. Smoke some weed. It might help you fall asleep.”

“Okay.”

“You changed,” he chuckled. It was true that you weren't the type of girl who did that kind of stuff. When you were in college, you were so focused on your studies that you never went to frat parties. Not because you were the "innocent good girl" type, but because you were ambitious. You dreamed of being a writer, and your creative writing major was the perfect degree for you. You loved spending hours analyzing texts, reading classics, and debating in class. Too bad now you couldn't write.

"I've lost myself."

"Don't say that. It's just weed, it's not a big deal. Everyone smokes weed."

"No, Ony. I've really lost myself. I'm this close to taking cocaine to feel better."

"Stay on the green side, never something artificial like coke, ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚. I don't know what you're going through, but know that I'm here when you're ready to talk."

Was it true? Would he really believe you if you told him?

"Thank you, Ony." 

“I’m gonna send you a friend’s number. His shit is the best.” 

A shiver ran down your spine. You hoped it wasn’t one of his friends  you’d spent your teenage years and college years with. You received the screenshot of the guy’s contact and your body relaxed when you saw that the name “Eren” was unfamiliar.

────────

Ony had said that Eren often woke up late, so he would travel for any request in the middle of the night. Under the moonlight, you left your building wearing a vest that was becoming too small for you. Since you weren't eating, instead of losing weight, your body was storing every little thing you ingested. But you were too depressed to care about your appearance. A black car was parked in front of the building, its windows down, and music was playing. As you approached the vehicle, you recognized Future's voice and the song "PLUTOSKI." You crouched down in front of it, getting to the level of the window.

A man who looked to be about your age had his eyes glued to his phone. His mid-length brown hair framed his face, while his hand held a cigarette outside the car window. His black hoodie blended well with his tattooed skin; you could see ink designs on his neck and hands. His angular features, his mustache and goatee—he was a very masculine man.

“Hi,” you said shyly, resting your elbow on the windowsill. Alerted by your voice, he looked up. Emerald eyes met your brown ones, and you observed each other for a few seconds. Eren’s eyes narrowed on you, noticing that your eyes were puffy.

Ony had warned him that his sister would ask for his services, and he asked him to be gentle with you because motherhood was rough on you. Eren was used to having all sorts of different clients, so selling weed to a single mother wasn’t unfamiliar to him. He was already planning to make you an offer since you were his friend’s sister, but seeing your red eyes, he knew it would make you feel better. He turned down the music on his phone and leaned over to the passenger window.

“Yo.” He inclined his head. “You good?”

“Yeah, sorry. Rough day.” You tried to smile, but it came across as a grimace.

“It’s okay, come in.”

You opened the car door and sat in the passenger seat.

“What’s your budget?” You fidgeted your hands on your thighs, glancing at your building. You thought about your baby crying while you were outside with a drug dealer. What a terrible mother you were. The traitor had ruined your life and your child’s in his wake.

“I only have $30.”

He let out a low chuckle.

“You made me come all this way for $30?”

“Sorry.” You swallowed hard. “I haven’t had many tips at my job lately.”

He brought his cigarette to his mouth for a drag and exhaled.

“It’s all good. No need to explain.”

Eren didn’t care about his clients’ private lives, but you were his friend’s sister; he was at least going to treat you with respect and empathy.

“A bit more than half an eighth is enough for you?” He rummaged in his glove box for 2-gram bags of weed.

“I don’t know what that means.”

His lips curved into an amused smile.

“Your brother is a heavy user, though.”

You looked away; he was a stranger. He didn’t need to know that you had cut ties with your brother for months after your rape. Eren noticed your distant expression, but he didn’t press the issue. He checked his notifications on his phone to see where his clients needed him. It could take him 5 minutes to roll the blunts for you, since you were a beginner. In the dim light of the car, he looked even more attractive, and that made you sad. Sad because you wished you could have fun with a man like him, like you used to do in the rare moments when you weren't studying. Sad because he seemed friendly; you could at least joke with him, but the fact that he was so masculine scared you, reminding you of the traitor.

“It's a grinder,” he explained, showing the cylinder on the dashboard that he had taken out of its glove box. “You put the buds inside, and by twisting it, it makes little pieces. I can give it to you; I have loads at home.”

Your heart swelled at his gift, and you relaxed as you listened to him.

He showed you how to roll a blunt, depositing the greenery onto the paper.

“You need a filter, but a rolled-up piece of cardboard will do.” He showed you the small white piece and placed it inside the paper. He rolled it between his fingers and then brought it to his lips to lick the sticky part.

“Try it.” He handed you one of the small papers for blunts and cigarettes.

You managed to get a little greenery to fill the paper, but when you rolled the paper up to close the blunt, you dropped the filter in the car.

“Six out of ten. You're average,” he teased you, but his tone wasn't unkind. 

You didn't know how, but spending time learning to roll had soothed the unease that consumed you and led you to open the knife drawer. When you gave him your money to pay, you were overcome with the need to stay longer. People were touch-starved, but you were deprived of attention. Like a desert explorer who had spent hours without water, you felt reborn to have a little social interaction after spending your pregnancy alone.

“Do you want to smoke with me?” you asked in a small voice as he started the car.

He paused. “Don’t you have a baby to take care of?”

“Right.”

You flinched and looked down. His gaze softened.

“Avoid showing that kind of expression to other dealers; some of them might take advantage of your distress,” he said, his voice serious.

“I know…”

“And don’t trust dealers who consume the merchandise reserved for their clients. These motherfuckers have no discipline and are probably stupid.”

“You don’t smoke?” 

“Of course I do,” he chuckled. “Not just the weed for my clients.” He received a notification on his phone, and he glanced down. “I have other drops to make.” 

You placed your hand on the car door handle, but he nudged you, offering his fist.

You bumped your fist with his, making a handshake that took you back to your college days with your brother's group of friends.

“Don't change your plug, I get jealous easily.” Your lips quirked up, and for the first time that evening, you had a semblance of a positive expression on your face.

“Don't worry, have a good night,” you got out of the car and walked to your building, your heart lighter than before.

Once home, you breastfed your daughter, your eyes devoid of emotion as you watched the baby in your arms. Your breasts had grown to accommodate the milk needed to nourish her, but your heart didn't have the space to accept it. You rocked her to sleep, and once she was asleep in her crib, you lay down on your bed to smoke the blunts you had rolled. After a few minutes, a state of bliss, free from doubts and anxieties, took hold of you, and you fell asleep, an image of Eren's hand tattoos as he showed you how to roll a joint in your mind.

────────

౨ৎ two months with you ౨ৎ

“Luther” by Kendrick Lamar and SZA played in the living room as Ony, Eren, Connie and Armin smoked together on the couch.

“I tell you the best movie director is Barry Jenkins,” Ony shook his head, his voice dismissive.

“You’re out of your mind,” Connie mumbled. “Have you seen ‘do the right thing’ by Spike Lee?”

“Eren tells this dumbass that Moonlight is the best movie ever made,” Ony nudged Eren, who was barely responsive. Head resting on the backseat, his eyes red-rimmed and half-lidded, he glanced at Ony with a frown.

“Fuck off, man. You know I don’t watch movies.”

“Are you even literate?” Connie chuckled.

Eren glared at him. “What's even the correlation between your question and the topic, dickhead?”

“Eren is more like a music nerd.” Armin said, passing the blunt to Connie. “If you guys had movies about music, he'd watch them.”

Ony side-eyesed Armin. “Here comes the bromance. Leave that dick out of your mouth, man.”

Eren's phone rang. He glanced at the notification. It was a message from you.

“The usual, please. I had a rough day. Can I keep you company while you do your drops?”

“Ony?” he asked. 

Ony stopped bickering with Armin to focus on Eren. “Yeah?”

“Why is your sister so lonely?”

Ony scratched the back of his head, wincing. He was asking himself the same question. “She cut ties with everyone about a year ago, for no reason. She doesn't want to see me, but we talk from time to time.”

Eren's eyes narrowed. “And… You're okay with that? I mean, she has a baby. I've been providing for her for two months now, and every time I see her, she looks like she's been crying.”

“What do you think I am, Eren?” Ony's face hardened. “She is my best friend. I've tried to understand her, but try helping someone who's moving without giving their address to anyone. I'm just going to wait until she's ready to talk about it.”

“She seems to need someone to force their way in.”

“Why don't you want to be her friend?” Ony tried. “She has issues with her family. Maybe someone from the outside would help her.”

“Do I look like a good friend?” Eren sighed, leaned over to rest his elbows on his thighs. He stared at his sneakers. It wasn't that Eren lacked confidence; it was just that he'd never been good at emotional comfort. So trying to improve the mood of a depressed single mother was beyond his capabilities.

“You're a good friend, 'Ren,” Connie reassured him.

Eren rolled his eyes, not believing any of this.

“It's true,” Armin added.

“Oh, we know you like him, man,” Ony laughed quietly.

The boys' laughter filled the room as Eren remained silent, staring at your message.

Eren didn't like broken people. They destroyed everything in their path and were so needy that they stole other people's freedom. Eren needed to be in control of his life. It was thanks to this determination that he had saved his family and lifted them out of poverty. A lot of pressure on the shoulders of a little boy. He was devastated to lose his father, but now, as the only boy in the family, he had to find solutions quickly. He had started dealing drugs for a gang at 15. Being a low-ranking member of a criminal organization was tough because he was the one who had to do the risky work that no one else wanted. But he didn't care; his mother was no longer working due to grief-induced depression, and they had to find money.

He had done everything to ensure his family lacked nothing. He paid for his mother's therapy, paid for his sister Mikasa's ballet lessons, and supported her passion for gothic style. Eren was a fighter. So how could he help a woman who had nothing and couldn't even find the motivation to raise her child? What did he have to teach her?

“Anyway, I don't care about her. She’s your sister, not mine. I have nothing to gain by being her friend,” he lied, but he got up anyway and grabbed his car keys from the coffee table.

“Be gentle with her or I will kill you,” Ony warned him.

“You can’t even take care of her and you’re acting like you’re protecting her,” he sneered, shaking hands with all his best friends before leaving Ony’s home.

────────

“You good?” Eren asked, observing how puffy your eyes were.

Sitting in the passenger seat of his car, you stared at your trembling hands. “Yeah.”

“You don’t seem well.”

“Is this any different from usual?” you grumbled.

“Watch your tone.” Eren started the car and connected his phone via Bluetooth to play his playlist. Bodies by Drowing Pool played in the car, and you watched him curiously as the metal music enveloped you.

“I don’t understand your taste in music. Last Saturday it was rap, today it’s rock.”

“Nu metal, not rock,” he corrected with an amused smile. “I just like music. Why choose a genre when I can appreciate everyone’s art?”

“It’s been months since I listened to music. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be a fan of someone’s discography.”

“Why?” He turned the steering wheel with one hand while his other hand was outside the window, holding a cigarette.

You pressed your back against the seat, your gaze lost on the road. Eren was no longer a stranger. You had shared laughs and some eye contact. But he was your plug, not your friend. How could you talk to him about your trauma, your anxieties, your flashbacks, the fear of losing your brother if you confessed that one of his friends had raped you? He was a man. Men didn't care about women's suffering.

“I guess I can't connect with my emotions anymore. So I can't appreciate art.”

“Like depression?”

“Something like that…”

“When you have these kinds of problems, you always have to talk to someone, otherwise your loved ones will suffer with you.”

“The drug dealer is pro-therapy?” 

He glanced sideways at you. “I said watch your tone.” 

As usual when you talked with Eren, he managed to make you smile and lighten your heart. You let out a soft sigh, tilting your head as you watched him drive. When your eyes landed on Eren, you missed a part of yourself. The part that wasn't afraid of men. The part that flirted with them confidently. The part that knew how to hold a conversation without trauma dumping. Today, only the ashes of a shattered identity remained. Maybe if Eren were ugly, you'd be able to stop being nostalgic for your old self.

“Your hair's grown,” you said softly.

“Yeah, I know, I need to cut it.”

“Wait—No! You look good like that.”

“My bad, if my favorite depressed girl said I was looking good, I should trust her.” 

Your quiet laugh filled the car. 

Eren brought his cigarette to his lips to take a drag, and as he exhaled the smoke, he glanced at you. “You're pretty when you smile.”

“I'm ugly when I'm not smiling?”

“I swear I don't understand women.”

“Thank you, Eren, I was joking.”

A pleasant silence hung in the car. Eren stopped at various buildings to supply his clients with weed. He seemed so comfortable in his job that you wondered why he'd ended up doing this kind of work. He must be financially comfortable, much more so than with your job as a barmaid.

“Are you going to tell me about it or not?” His deep voice pulled you from your thoughts.

“Talk about what?”

“Why do you need to spend time with me? Why did you want to come with me to my drops? Why do you look like you’ve been crying every time you get in my car?”

You didn’t want to talk about that. He wouldn’t understand. No one would. Your pain was your best-kept secret. Suffering is precious. Especially when it shapes your identity. You wanted to be more than a rape victim, more than just the label of a woman whose “no” wasn’t heard, but it felt like your life had stopped that night. You didn’t recognize yourself anymore.

“I’ve lost myself,” you repeated what you’d told Ony two months earlier. Hoping he’d understand without asking too many questions.

“And why don’t you go to therapy to find yourself again?”

“They’ll never understand.” How could you explain that you had the option of an abortion but you were too depressed to even leave your house? People will laugh at you, tell you it was your choice, that you can't complain now.

“That's what my mother used to say before I forced her ass to see a therapist. Now, she's doing much better.”

“My problem isn't something that can be fixed with therapy; I need to go back in time and prevent the event from happening.”

“You're not special, you know.” He turned his head to look at you, his eyes serious. “Everyone lives—”

You shot him a cold glare. “You don't know anything about me, so shut up before you compare my traumas to someone else's.”

His jaw tightened. “I'm not your friend, so don't look at me like that before I put shady stuff in the shit you're buying from me.” He threw his cigarette out the window. He gestured with his fingers to indicate the space between you. “The distance between us, you're the one creating it. I could become your best friend in no time if you'd stop acting all mysterious.”

“Who said I wanted to be your friend?”

“You're literally beggin’ for my attention.”

It was awfully true. You had nothing to say against it, so you drew your lips into a thin line and stared at the road.

“You're not special either,” you finally said after a minute of silence. “I don't see anyone besides my daughter, so of course I'm going to get attached to the first person who speaks to me.” 

Get attached to him? You'd lost your mind. Eren didn't do serious relationships. Imagine if he started a family with someone only to suddenly die like his father and leave his wife depressed? No, Eren wasn't going to repeat what had broken his family.

“That's your first mistake. Don't get attached to me.”

His voice was harsher than expected, but it was a defense mechanism.

Your heart sank. You didn't like his tone, what he was trying to say, and you felt stupid because he was just your plug, so why did it hurt so much to hear it? He drove silently to your building. Once there, he stopped the car and stood there without speaking for a few minutes. He glanced in your direction and his heart ached at your downcast expression. He had to make apologies. He wasn't a bad guy, just awkward with his emotions.

“Your brother wants me to take care of you. I'm not good at emotional support; I'm more efficient when it comes to making money. So sorry if I say the wrong things.”

His softer voice soothed the wound his words had created. You didn't reply until you opened the car door. He grabbed your arm before you could let go.

“Call me if you want to come with me on my drops.”

You paused. “So you can tell me I’m not special and that everyone has traumas?”

“Maybe if you talked to me more, I’d stop staying stupid shit like this.”

“So you admit it’s stupid.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I’m going to avoid talking to you since I’m not allowed to get attached to you.”

His grip on your arm tightened. “I can be a close friend, but don’t ask me to be more than that.”

“I never asked for more than that. I’m not ready for that either,” you whispered before getting out of the car and walking to your building.

For the first time, Eren didn’t leave immediately and stared thoughtfully at the ghostly image of your silhouette in the street.

────────

౨ৎ four months with you ౨ৎ

Rap blasting in his headphones, Eren focused on his workout on the gym's free weight machines, working his arms with precision, slowing down to feel the burn. Eren didn't have a massive body; he had a sleeper build. Looking at him, you'd think he was just thin, but once he was naked, the definition of his muscles was impressive. He was progressing toward a more muscular physique, like Ony, who was very muscular.

“Your ass is rounder than me, lucky bastard,” Ony nudged him as Eren got up from the weight machine to clean up where he'd sat. A soft chuckle escaped Eren's mouth.

“Stop looking at my ass and find yourself a woman.”

“I have plenty of women. You're the one who needs affection, ‘Ren.”

“I'm perfectly fine.”

“Why don't you sleep with my sister?” 

Eren dropped his towel, which fell to the floor, and his eyes widened. “The fuck?”

“I admit that sounds weird.”

“It’s downright weird, man.”

“I meant, why don’t you try to have a relationship with her?”

Eren frowned. “Why the hell are you forcing me to be close to her?”

“You’re the only one she talks to regularly. She barely replies to my messages. I wish she had a friend or a boyfriend, I don’t care. Just someone to talk to.”

His frown deepened. “Isn’t it a little late to be worrying about this? She went through her pregnancy alone.”

“Ren, you don’t know my sister. She just shuts down even more when you force her to talk. I prefer to give her the space she needs. She’ll come see me whenever she wants. But that doesn’t stop me from trying to help her in my own way.”

Eren picked up his towel from the floor and headed towards the locker room, followed by Ony. “‘Ren, please.’”

“I don’t understand why it’s up to me to heal your sister. It’s not my role. I’m not a therapist.”

“Okay, man, I get that. But it’s almost her birthday, and aside from you and me, she doesn’t talk to anyone anymore.”

“Not even her parents?”

“They reacted badly when she dropped out of college.”

He undressed in one of the changing room stalls and continued talking to Ony.

“So your sister went through something pretty traumatic to drop out of college, stop talking to you, and choose to go through her pregnancy alone, and you think a drug dealer like me is the solution to your problems.”

“Everyone loves you, Eren.”

“And as it should be.” A quiet laugh escaped Ony’s mouth. They showered in silence in individual shower stalls, sharing a toning shower gel.

“What do you want to do for her birthday?” Eren asked, walking beside Ony as they left the gym after changing into clean clothes. “She doesn’t seem to be in the mood for parties. And she has a baby.”

“She told me she works at a bar. I wanted to surprise her by picking her up for drinks at my place with my friends. Just Connie and Armin, not my college friends. She’s been ignoring them for a year now.”

“I know where she works. She’s asked me to come over after her shift.”

Ony smiled. “You’re doing a good job, thank you.”

“Fuck you. It’s not like that.”

“It is like that. She told me that at least three times a week, she comes with you when you’re doing your drops.”

“She’s all alone,” Eren stated, as if that alone explained why he was spending so much time with you. 

“Since when do you care about lonely women?”

“It’s hard not to sympathize with someone you see crying every week. It’s not that deep.” 

Ony raised questions Eren didn’t want to think about. Everything was fine. He was just your friend, your plug, and you went with him to do his drops. Sometimes you laughed, sometimes you argued, but it always ended in softer voices. Although it was fragile, there was definitely a connection. But it was up to Eren to figure out if it meant more than that. The weeks flew by. He felt like ever since he met you, his whole life revolved around you. He looked forward to spending time with you—something he couldn’t explain himself. He cared. He really cared. And he didn’t even know when it had happened during those four months.

────────

“Is Ony’s sister hot?” Connie asked enthusiastically, but he calmed down immediately when his eyes met Eren’s cold glare. “What? I’m just asking—”

“You didn’t even bag Sasha, you want the unattainable,” Eren mocked him.

“Ouch.” Connie pretended to be heartbroken.

Sitting in Eren’s car, Connie in the front, Armin and Ony in the back, they waited for you to finish your shift.

“I’m going to put on some Sexy Redd to make her feel comfortable.” Connie connected his phone to the car to play “Mad at Me.” Eren pinched the bridge of his nose and changed the music to “Go Gina” by SZA.

“That’s not her kind of music, stop your bullshit.”

At that moment, you stepped out of the bar where you worked. Eren honked the horn, and you jumped. He almost felt guilty. Recognizing Eren's car, you approached cautiously, not understanding why he was there.

Eren rolled down the car window and poked his head out to talk to you.

“Happy birthday.”

“W-What?” you stammered, your eyes widening as you saw your brother in the car. 

What day was it? Damn, that's right. It was your birthday. You'd completely forgotten.

But the real question was, why was Eren there for you?

“Bring your ass over here.” He gestured toward the backseat with his thumb.

“I can't…” You stared at the tiny space that remained in the backseat, between Ony and Armin. Just imagining yourself squeezed between men made your stomach churn.

“Why can't you?” Eren asked, his voice soft.

You struggled to verbalize your anguish, the words dying on your tongue. Eren stared at you for a few seconds before turning to Connie.

“Leave the car.”

“The fuck?!”.

Eren ignored him and turned to the backseat.

“Everyone out of the car, you’re going to take the subway.”

Disappointed exclamations echoed through the vehicle, but Eren didn’t care and insisted until all his friends left. Once the trio had walked away to catch the subway, he nodded for you to come to the passenger side. Once seated in the car, you cleared your throat.

“Thank you.”

Eren didn’t reply and started the car. He really cared and he hated it.

────────

Eren was late arriving at Ony's place because he had to pick up your daughter from daycare. While he was driving, he couldn't help but steal curious glances at the baby in your arms. He was itching to ask about the father, but he didn't say anything because something in his head told him that your child's father was probably the cause of all your problems. During the evening, something didn't sit right with him. It was your birthday, yet you remained silent. Connie was trying to make it fun by playing "guess the song" videos on the TV. He was making an effort because you were his best friend's sister. But you barely reacted. You didn't touch any of the food Armin had prepared on the coffee table. He'd seen you smile and laugh before; he knew you were capable of it.

Fuck, he couldn't even focus on anything else. You flooded his thoughts. Was the baby the problem? Were you having trouble getting out of "mom mode"? He was about to do something crazy. After spending the evening watching you while sitting on the couch smoking a blunt, he got up to sit next to you and nudged your arm.

“Give me the baby.”

You looked at him like he had multiple heads.

"Give me the baby," he repeated, his voice gruff, barely responsive because of the weed. "Go have fun with Connie."

"I don't want to have fun—"

"Too bad, I want you to."

He leaned over to wrap his arms around your daughter, and reluctantly you let him hold her. He struggled for a few moments to figure out how to wrap his arms around the baby, but once he was secure against her, he watched her in silence. She had large, curious brown eyes that seemed to react to every sudden movement, so he had to touch her gently. He raised one hand to rub his index finger against her cheek. She smiled, and Eren fought the urge not to smile too, faced with the bundle of tenderness in his arms.

He looked up, and as usual, his eyes always landed on the same person who had occupied his thoughts these past few months—you. You were playfully bickering with Connie because he was deliberately talking so you wouldn't hear the music playing to guess the name. You radiated so much energy; it was a joy to see. Eren tried not to think about the uncomfortable feeling that threatened to ruin the moment and overwhelm him. He knew he was doing something pretty special for a girl he didn't know well enough to do that.

But he felt like he knew you. He could tell when you were anxious, what might make you laugh, what might annoy you. He knew what creates a cute pout on your lips or a glare. He really cared. He hoped this day would be a good memory for you.

────────

౨ৎ six months with you ౨ৎ

The months flew by, and you needed to buy bigger clothes for your daughter. You worked harder and harder to cover your expenses, but the more exhausted you became, the harder it was to control your anxiety. Your fear of men was complex. Normally, you could never have had such a special relationship with Eren because he was a man. A very masculine man, at that. It was only because he was your plug that you had managed to overcome your fear. 

But while you were working, it was difficult not to panic when older men hit on you. Your rape hadn't just destroyed your trust in your loved ones; it had also destroyed your trust in all of humanity. So any man could be a threat. You needed to improve your coping mechanisms because they weren't working anymore. Every time you took a step toward healing, you took twenty steps back.

Your birthday had been amazing. You hadn't laughed that much in a long time. But after that day, your daily grind had resumed with even more intensity. The baby's crying, the diaper changes, the breastfeeding. All that work for a baby you didn't even want.

“Hurry up, there are a lot of customers!!” your boss clapped his hands, and you rushed to grab the trays of beer and bring them to the order tables.

You had to pull yourself together. This month, you'd had six panic attacks in front of customers, and your boss had said you were fired the next time. You handed out beers to each table, forcing yourself to smile to get tips. But you were barely taking care of yourself these days; your clothes were simple and not the kind of revealing outfits men liked.

“Oh, huh! It's been a while.”

You froze at the voice beside you. When you slowly turned your head, your face crumpled as you saw the college friends you'd been running from for over a year because they were all friends with the traitor.

“Hi… I…” Your grip on the tray of empty glasses became increasingly hesitant as your hands trembled. Your mind flashed through images of the party where everything had gone wrong, and you could no longer focus on the real world.

“˚ʚ♡ɞ˚! Order for table 5.”

You were unable to move, paralyzed. You could feel your hands on you, on your mouth, your weight pressing you against the mattress.

“˚ʚ♡ɞ˚, are you okay?”

You took a few steps, but your mind was still on that grim night. You didn't notice you bumped into a customer, glasses shattering on the floor. Your boss yelled at you, but you stared at the broken glass, a stark reminder of your current life.

────────

“If you want a car ride while you cry, I can do that if you want.” Eren offered in an unusually gentle voice.

He wasn't always sure how to handle the situation; usually, when you came to see him, you were done crying. But the second you sat down in the passenger seat that night, you burst into tears. He didn't say anything for a few minutes, letting you express your feelings uninterrupted.

“I'm so sorry.”

“I don't mind.”

“I feel like I'm a burden to everyone and worrying everyone for nothing. I always make the wrong choices. I can't stand ruining my life anymore.”

“You're doing your best—”

“Eren, I got fired today. I deliberately took a job at that bar because it was far from the university I was at,” you sniffled. “Now I have to find a job quickly—”

“How much money do you need?” He cut in. “How much and how long?”

You were frowned upon, confused, but thought quickly. “Eren, I don’t want to deal drugs!”

“The fuck are you talking about?” he chuckled darkly. “You’re too fragile to do that. I wanted to pay your bills.”

This time, you paused. “W-What?”

“It’s not a big deal.” He started the car and focused on the road as if he wasn’t saying crazy things.

“Did you snort cocaine?!”

His lips curved into an amused smile. “Nah, not into that. Only the greenery.”

“Eren—”

“You’re a depressed single mother and my friend’s sister. I’m not going to leave you in the lurch.”

The truth was, Eren didn’t know any other way. His entire adolescence had been put on hold to help his mother, so your situation mirrored his own childhood. You didn't argue about how well you could manage on your own because you knew it would be stupid to refuse such an offer. You lowered your head, swallowing hard.

“Thank you, but…”

“But what?” he sighed.

“I don't really understand the relationship we have.”

“Me neither.”

Neither of you spoke for a few moments before you brought up the subject of your job again.

“I want to work from home, I don't want to go out anymore.”

“Why?” 

You couldn't tell him. You could only tell him that now that you'd run into his friends, there was a possibility of…

“I'm scared,” you said simply.

“Okay.” He tilted his head. “My mother had something similar when my father died. She wanted to stay constantly in the house that had sheltered her husband and was unable to leave it, even to go shopping. I was the one who did it.”

“It must have been a heavy responsibility to bear, no matter your age.” 

His eyebrows knitted. He didn't like receiving pity.

“Sometimes our loved ones need us, and that's what community is all about.”

“Pro-therapy, pro-community, I think I've got the first ethical plug right here.”

“Don't mock me,” he side-eyed you.

“I'm just joking, ‘Ren.”

He liked the sound of his nickname on your tongue.

“What kind of job do you want back home?”

“I've always wanted to be a writer.” Your dreamy eyes stared at the road as he drove. “I've always preferred novels to movies. Every time I finished a good movie, I was sad that there weren't any novels adapted because I want to know what the characters are thinking. I feel like I'm part of the story. So, ever since I learned to hold a pencil, I've been writing stories. But since my depression, I haven't been able to write anymore.”

“Why don’t you write a memoir about your life as a mother with depression?” 

You burst into incredulous laughter. “No one will want to read that.”

“I will.”

“Please. I’m not even thirty yet; I’m not going to write a memoir at my age.”

“Or write poetry if a novel is too difficult.”

“I only want to write about these sad subjects right now.”

“It’s okay. Sometimes that’s what you feel like doing.”

“Why do I get the impression you’re speaking as an artist?”

He turned his head to look at you, a deep crease between his eyes.

“What? A drug dealer isn’t allowed to be interested in art?”

“You know damn well I don’t judge you like that.”

“I hope so.” His features softened.

“What do you do outside of your job?” 

“Gym and drawing.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I always wanted to be a tattoo artist.”

Eren rarely talked about himself, so you enjoyed learning more about him; it was like a special gift he was giving you.

“And why don’t you pursue your dreams?”

“It’s hard to leave illegality when you get a taste of money.”

“You don’t pursue your dreams because you want money?” You repeated, judgment in your voice.

“I thought you wouldn’t judge me?” He smiled.

“It’s just that I’d kill to be in your situation. You have the ability to achieve your dream, but you’re holding yourself back for purely capitalist reasons.”

“Grow up poor and frustrated from having nothing, and you’ll see how hard it is to leave abundance once you’ve experienced it.” 

“Right, I… I don’t know what it’s like… But Eren, one day, you’ll have to make this dream come true.”

“I will when you publish your first novel.”

You glared at him. “You’re not fair.”

“Never, never, baby.”

Your mouth opened slightly when he called you “baby” in his deep voice. You deliberately ignored the fluttering heat in your stomach.

Like every time you talked to Eren, you felt better. You weren’t so worried about the future anymore.

Was that really a good thing? Could you really trust this man? Hadn’t you forgotten how traumatized you were by the traitor’s betrayal? What if Eren was being nice to you on purpose, only to rape you when he got the chance, just like the traitor? Your heart pounding, you watched Eren drive, unsure whether to shield yourself from his kindness or welcome him with open arms.

────────

“Sorry about the mess,” you shyly apologized, letting Eren—who was carrying your grocery bags—go ahead.

“I don’t mind.” He shook his head, but surprise flashed across his face at the amount of plastic waste on the living room floor. “Well…”

“Yeah…” Ashamed, you stared at your shoes.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were having trouble cleaning?”

“Why would I tell you? You’re not going to help me clean up…”

“Of course I will, go and rest, I’ll take care of it.” He placed the shopping bags in the open-plan kitchen/living room. 

You wanted to refuse, but you’d had another sleepless night because of your daughter’s crying. You desperately needed a nap—your eyes were so heavy. You lay down on the sofa and watched him pick up all the trash before drifting off to sleep. When you woke up, Eren was no longer in the living room, and he had put away the groceries he’d bought. You stretched and looked for him in the apartment. Thinking he’d left, you went to your daughter’s room, where she was crying. Eren was standing there, trying to rock her. 

“She’s hungry,” you explained, taking him from your arms. You carried her to the living room and sat on the sofa while Eren was following you. You pulled your right breast out of your t-shirt to breastfeed the baby. The soft sucking sounds filled the room.

"Why are your eyes so empty when you look at your daughter?" He sat next to you.

His question unsettled you. You'd never noticed before.

"What do you mean?"

"Was the pregnancy planned?"

You tensed. Was this the moment to acknowledge the elephant in the room?

"Not really..."

"Do you love her?"

Eren wasn't trying to be mean or intrusive; he genuinely wanted to know about your relationship with your daughter.

“I… I'm just doing what I have to do as a mother to meet all her needs,” you managed to say, despite the slight tremor in your voice. You would never admit to him that you had considered killing her.

Eren's voice grew serious. “You take care of her physical needs, okay, but if you don't love her, she'll know it.”

“How is that supposed to help me?” you replied defensively.

“If you don't love her,” he stared at the infant in your arms, “you can give her to a family who will love her more than you do.” 

You tightened your embrace around your baby. “I've thought about that. But I'm afraid I'll regret it. Even if I hate her now, maybe I'll love her later.”

You couldn't understand what you felt for this child. You hated her; she represented your trauma. Every time you saw her, you were reminded of your rape, but at the same time… There was a kind of protectiveness, hard to explain, that prevented you from abandoning this child. Because this baby was innocent and hadn't asked for any of this.

“So you admit you hate her.”

“Yeah.”

He let out a heavy breath. “I don't understand why you don't want to get help from a therapist. You don't have to go through this alone.”

You looked away, your face tense.

“Look at me,” Eren said softly, brushing a lock of curly locks away from your face.

“You can't understand.”

“I pay your bills, baby.”

“And what?” Your voice grew hoarse.

“It means that I’m part of your life, yes or no, so I have the capacity to understand what you’re feeling.”

“You’re the one who told me not to get attached to you, and now you want me to let you in more and more.”

“I said I would take care of you, not be your boyfriend.”

You looked up at him, your jaw clenched.

“You’re doing everything a boyfriend does.”

“Except for one thing.” His intense gaze landed on your parted lips before moving up to lock with yours. “I’ve been a good boy, right? I didn’t fuck with you when you were so needy and lonely.”

He couldn’t imagine how his words hurt you. He was talking crudely about intimacy between you, without knowing that it was your greatest fear right now. The truth was, Eren had never been in a serious relationship, so he didn't realize how harsh his words had been. That's how he talked to women he wanted to sleep with; he'd never really been with anyone he cared about before you.

“You're mean.” Your eyes stung. “Don't ever talk about me that way again.”

“I can't cuss with you, baby?” He cocked his head to one side. “Tell me what else I shouldn't do. There must be things I need to learn about you.” 

He said “you,” but you both knew he meant “body.” He was flirting with you awkwardly, and you didn't know how to react. The way he spoke hurt, but you couldn't deny the effect his deep voice had on you, and the cologne enveloping you made you feel like you were bathing in his essence.

The situation was strange because you had one breast exposed, but his eyes weren't on it; they were fixed on your mouth.

“The fact that you didn't take advantage of my vulnerability is the bare minimum. Anyway, I would never have let you touch me.”

“Are you sure about that?” He moved even closer. “Maybe because you were so lonely, you asked me to keep your body warm.”

You focused on your baby so as not to meet his gaze and not to weaken under the pressure of the sensual atmosphere that had been created.

“Absolutely not.”

“I think you're mistaken.”

How could you tell him that you were terrified of intimacy without revealing your secret?

“I'm not that kind of girl, Eren.”

“I hope you'll show me what kind of girl you are one day.”

You sank back into the sofa, biting the inside of your cheek. Anxiety mixed with shyness, and you didn't know what to say.

“Since when do you see me like this?”

“Now. I'm an impulsive man.”

“I think you should find some women to have fun with. I don't want to be used.”

“Why do you have such a negative view of sex? I want to please you.”

The flashbacks flooded back. Your eyes watered. You were pathetic. You spent all your time crying and being a burden to Eren.

“Listen, Eren, it's very kind of you to do the grocery shopping and cleaning, but I'd like you to go home.”

“Did I make you uncomfortable?”

“No, it's just…” you sniffled.

Tell him. Tell Ony. File a complaint. Do something. Don't be pathetic.

“I think it would be better if we stopped talking.”

Eren flinched. That wasn't what he wanted to hear. Absolutely not.

“You’re tired, you should rest a little longer.” He patted your arm.

“No, Eren, I’m lucid. I bring you nothing. I give you nothing. I only take, take, and take. I’m not ready to heal, I’m not doing anything to get better, I’m only bringing you down. A friendship is supposed to be beneficial for both of us.”

“It is beneficial for me. I have fun when we talk. I love taking care of you. You’re my friend.”

“We aren’t friends, you want to fuck me.”

“Friends with benefits.”

“You’ll never have my benefits.”

His lips quirked up. “Don’t challenge me.”

“And in any case, our relationship isn’t healthy. You feel useful helping me because you have a savior complex.”

“That’s just how I was raised. I’m the man who takes care of his family, the man who provides, the man who protects. When my father died, the responsibility fell on me.”

“I’m not your family, Eren. And that’s a misogynistic way of thinking.”

“I know, but I don’t want to be cared for. I want to be useful to my loved ones. That’s how I operate.” He played with one of your curly locks.

“I want to love you too,” you whispered.

“I told you, ‘Don’t get attached to me.’ I don’t want your love.”

“So I should accept all your care without giving you anything in return?”

“Yeah, princess treatment. You don’t have to do anything.” 

Your heart was pounding. You desperately wanted to believe it, but scenarios of him betraying you flooded your mind.

“I don't know, ‘Ren… I—”

“Just try it for a few months, and if you don't like it, I'm out of your life.”

Your daughter started coughing, showing she'd had enough milk, and you tucked your breast into your top.

“Okay.” You tried to smile.

“I'll try to find you a therapist who makes sessions at your place.” Eren stood up and put his hands in the pockets of his baggy navy jeans.

“I don't—”

“Shut your mouth.” 

Your gazes challenged each other for a few seconds before you turned your head away, and Eren smirked.

“Have a good night,” he said before leaving the apartment.

What was this feeling of hope that all was not lost? Was this how you fall in love? But was it healthy? The relationship was so unbalanced. Did you have the right?

────────

౨ৎ eight months with you ౨ৎ

You and Eren had found a routine. Every Saturday, when Eren came to give you your weed, he'd run errands and clean while you took a nap. Every time you woke up, Eren had Neusa in his arms, and it gave you a strange feeling in your stomach. You avoided talking about the fact that he treated her like she was his daughter. The rest of the week, he made his drops, drew, and spent time with his friends. You texted a lot. You made an effort to ask as many questions as possible about Eren's life, since you were the center of your relationship with him. Eren had found a therapist who came every Wednesday for therapy sessions. Their name was Hange; they were a bit eccentric, but they didn't press the issue when you didn't want to talk about the root of your problems. The therapy focused on how to manage your anxiety.

There was so much to work on within yourself, but you weren't ready yet. Maybe you never will. Eren said it was okay if you never spoke, and you tried to believe him. You were brainstorming your novels when there was a knock at the door. You left your desk to open it and found Eren, his eyes red and his hands in his hoodie pockets. You might have thought he'd been smoking, but his eyes weren't half-closed, and the puffiness told you he'd been crying. It was a rare moment of vulnerability for him.

"Yo," he greeted you, his voice gruff.

"It's not Saturday." You let him into the apartment.

"Do I need a specific day to see my favorite girl?" Butterflies fluttered in your stomach the way he was referring to his favorite girl.

"Where is my second favorite girl?" He looked around the living room.

 “She’s asleep, leave her alone. You carry her more than I do.”

He let out a quiet laugh, then flopped onto the couch, spreading his legs. He patted his thighs with a look that said he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. You sat on your lap and he wrapped his arms around you, enveloping you in his warmth, then rested your head in the crook of your neck. A heavy breath escaped his mouth, as if he was holding back all his sorrows before crossing the threshold and could finally let them out.

“Why do you look like you’ve been crying?”

“Rough day,” he simply replied. You ran your hand through his hair, untangling a few strands, and he closed his eyes at your touch.

“I couldn’t go see my friends. The last time they saw me cry, I heard about it for years.”

Your body shook from your giggle, and he glared at you.

“So I figured I could go see the certified CEO of tears; at least you wouldn’t judge me.”

“It’s true that I cry a lot,” you admitted, your voice guilty.

“It means you have a lot of emotions to express, which is healthy. I feel a lot too, but it manifests in my anger. It’s no fun.”

You silently stroked his hair for a few moments before he spoke.

“It’s my dad’s birthday.”

Oh. Everything made sense.

You cupped his face in your hands to get a better look. With his bright eyes and sad expression, he looked like a little puppy deserving all the attention in the world.

“It’s ridiculous. I’m fine all year, and then there are days like this, when I feel like the world has collapsed.” 

“Hange told me the body remembers the date of the trauma.”

“I’m not traumatized. You are.”

You pouted. “It sounds like you’re talking about an illness.”

“Yeah, so if you could avoid infecting me, thanks.”

You mock-punched him, and his lips curved into a small smile.

“You look pretty when you pout. I might intentionally reproduce that expression on your face in the future.”

“I thought I was prettier when I smiled.”

“You’re the prettiest anyway, no debate.”

He nuzzled your neck, inhaling your comforting scent.

“You want to talk about your father?”

“Nah.”

“Are you sure?”

“Just being with you makes me feel good.”

That was enough to soothe your worried heart. You stayed cuddling for a while before Neusa woke up crying. You flinched, her cries triggering you as always, but Eren kissed you on the temple.

“I’ll take care of it.”

He got up to go to Neusa's room, and you took the opportunity to change into your pajamas and turn off all the lights in the apartment. Sitting on your bed, you waited for Eren, rolling blunts. He finally knocked on the door, his hands in his jeans pockets, his gaze fixed on the floor; he almost looked shy.

"I'm sorry to ask, but can I sleep over tonight? I don't really want to be alone." 

You patted the spot next to you without saying anything.

He sat up and looked at your blunts strangely.

"Why are they so fat?"

"It hit faster," you teased.

"Right, right, now you're an expert. Don't forget you always dropped the filter first." 

You scoffed before giving him a blunt. With a lighter, he lit it and took a few drags before lying down to stare at the ceiling where the smoke from his mouth rose.

“Imagine you build a family with someone and then you die, and it’s your first child who has to deal with what you left behind. Everything you worked so hard for—gone.”

“I think I’ll be very sad but very proud of my child in the afterlife.” 

A bitter smile formed on his lips.

“I doubt my father is proud of me. He was a doctor. Now I sell addictions to people.”

“I think the end justifies the means.”

“Me too.” He passed you the blunt so you could take a drag. “That’s why I can’t start a family.”

“Are you afraid of abandoning them when you die?”

“I guess so.” 

“What if you die of old age? You’ll be able to see your grandchildren and everyone will be happy?”

“It’s precisely because I can’t choose that I prefer to avoid disaster.” He glanced at you. “And you, what’s your greatest fear?”

Being betrayed again. You looked away, your eyes shifting.

“Okay, okay.” He rolled his eyes, but there was no malice in his voice. “At least tell Hange.”

“No, I want to tell you, but…”

“But what?”

“Eren, if I told someone what happened, it would be admitting I’m an idiot.”

“Connie is an idiot, and he’s perfectly fine with it.”

“Not an idiot like him. An idiot like… a victim.”

His eyes narrowed. “And what’s so idiotic about being a victim?”

“There’s no value in being on the side of those who didn’t fight.” 

He pulled your arm so you fell onto his chest. Your curly hair brushed against his face, and he gazed into your eyes.

“˚ʚ♡ɞ˚.”

“Yeah?” you replied shyly.

“No matter what happened to you, you shouldn’t be ashamed or think you’re worthless just because you couldn’t defend yourself. Fight or flight response, Hange didn’t you talk about that?”

“Just because you explain it rationally doesn’t change how I feel.” Your upper lip quivered.

“Do you want to cry?”

“I’m not pathetic, stop seeing me like that.” Your eyes welled up in spite of yourself.

He cupped your face, pulling it close until your noses touched.

“Cry, I’ll drink them in.”

You chuckled, your shoulders shaking. “You’re so embarrassing, oh my god.”

A tear fell into the space between his nose and lips, and he stuck out his tongue to lick it. You stared at him, dumbfounded.

“See?”

“That was very corny, Eren. Totally unsexy.”

“Because you usually find me sexy?” Heat rushed to your cheeks, but you tried to keep a normal, unflustered expression.

“No.”

“Liar.”

He licked your lips. Your eyes widened, a heat crackling in your lower abdomen.

“Eren…”

“Hm?”

“You’re weird.”

“I want you.”

He looked into your eyes, deadass. This was the day you'd been dreading. The day he'd confess the desire between you, the day you'd be forced to refuse him because of your fears, even though you were dying to discover who he was in an intimate setting. If you'd known him for two years right away, you would have undressed for him in a single glance. But you weren't the same person you used to be. Or at least, that's what you thought.

"I already told you I wasn't that kind of girl."

"Just a kiss, baby. I've been a good boy lately." 

You stared down at his plump lips, your mouth watering at the thought of kissing him passionately. What was stopping you? It was just a kiss. Nothing more. You didn't have to be afraid of Eren. You were safe. Your lips brushed for a few seconds before you pressed them against his. Just a kiss. He traced your upper lip with the edge of his tongue before slithering it into your mouth, sliding it onto yours. Just a kiss. He groaned into the kiss as your tongues tangled together. Just a kiss. So focused on feeling him make out with you, you forgot to breathe, so when he pulled away, you took a deep breath.

You looked at each other in silence for a moment, panting, before devouring each other's mouths again. His hands slipped under your t-shirt, caressing your sides, digging into the generous padding, kneading the pillowy flesh.

"So cute," he murmured against you. He liked having something to grab; he'd already noticed your ample curves before and was thrilled to finally be able to touch you. His rough hands on your soft skin made you shiver, and you missed what it felt like to be touched by someone. Missed what it felt like to be desired, to be seen as the most beautiful person on earth for a moment. Your brain on autopilot, your lips moved in sync, his tongue playing with yours as he gripped your thick waist. 

Not satisfied with the position, he rolled you onto your back to lie on top of you, his right hand on the headboard, his left elbow beside your ear. He ground his hips against yours to make you feel his erection, the friction fanning a fire in the pit of your stomach.  You were nothing but sweat, heat, and desire as you wrapped your legs around his waist and rocked your lower body against his. He pulled away to run hot, open-mouthed kisses over your skin, tickling you, and he smiled against your skin. The kiss had pressed a button in your brain, releasing fragments of your former self, a confident girl who knew how to enjoy herself with boys.

It wasn't until he pulled off your t-shirt, until the cold air hit your skin, that you snapped out of your trance, and your defenses reformed with lightning speed. As if regaining consciousness, your gaze lost its fiery glint, your body began to tremble, and you avoided his gaze, covering your chest with your hands. He lifted his head from your neck. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” he whispered, “what’s bothering you?” 

Your words died on your tongue. He tilted his head, his eyes gentle. He wanted to choose the right words. He had connected the dots, and he had a pretty good idea what had happened. You’d have to be blind not to understand.

“You know, can you tell me anything?” 

You nodded, still not meeting his eyes. “

You know I would never hurt you?” 

In the fog that was the inside of your head, Eren’s deep voice brought you back to reality. It grounded you.

You timidly raised your head toward him and nodded again. He pulled off your pajama shorts, taking your panties with them. He leaned down to trail kisses from your neck to your stomach, taking care to suck on your brown nipples, goosebumps erupting with every lick and press of his lips. Reaching your hips, he tried to spread your legs, but they were firmly closed.

“Please, baby, I will make you feel so good.” He kissed your thighs, waiting for you. You slowly opened your legs, Eren nibbled the inside of your thighs, and moved up to your tight heat to part your lips with his fingers. In front of your tender cunt, he was almost in love; she was so pretty, she needed his care.

His tongue caressed your wet folds, fanning the flames that threatened to consume your entire being. Placing your thighs on his shoulders for better positioning, he sank his tongue inside, twisting around at a slow pace, always gently, as if your most intimate parts were sacred. He collected your arousal in his mouth, his eyes rolling back with the sweet taste. There was something intimate about having your taste in his mouth, your scent enveloping his face.

You were so withdrawn, keeping your precious secrets hidden in your heart, safe from others. He wanted you to let go, to savor this moment without your inner demons making you doubt whether you deserved this pleasure or not. He pushed his tongue further, touching you in hidden recesses deep inside. You stared at the ceiling, your heart pounding. You were with a man, in your bed, doing things you never thought you'd do again because of your fears. Everything was okay; you could allow yourself to enjoy yourself. It was okay if your legs trembled; Eren seemed not to mind. You got this.

He explored every inch of your pussy, slurping the slick leaking from your slit. He knew he was good at this, but he didn't know if you liked what was happening because you were still. Often, eating out was a passionate act with the giver devouring his partner and the woman frantically rocking her hips in their face. But your body was inert; you made no sound. He pulled his mouth away from you to raise his head.

“You good?” he murmured.

You propped yourself up on your elbows to look at him. “I can’t cum, Eren.”

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean you can’t cum?”

Everyone can cum, right? Why can’t you?

“I… Something happened.”

Her eyes saddened. “Baby, who hurt you so badly? There’s nothing you can do.”

The feeling of being a burden, a useless and broken woman, washed over you again. The urge to cry returned, but you were tired of being a crybaby. It was embarrassing. You wanted to be strong, someone Eren could be proud to have around, not the broken girl he helped because he’d been raised with a savior complex.

“I’m sorry, Eren, you can leave if—”

“Hell no.” The tips of her fingers teased your entrance. “It’s okay if you don’t reach your peak, we can still have a good time. The most important thing is to share something.” 

This was a bit unfamiliar to Eren. When he slept with women, the goal was for both of them to orgasm, and then it was over. He'd never truly shared anything as intense as this, where he had to take care of someone and simply enjoy the moment without performing. Enjoy the present moment. He'd never really done that before. His life was a constant race for money; he didn't have time to rest. He plunged two fingers into your glistening flesh, the palms of his hands facing the ceiling so he could curl them inside and reach your sweet spot. You tensed at the sensation of a foreign object penetrating you, a flashback to when the traitor had thrust his fingers inside you, ignoring your distress and your "no."

Eren noticed your panicked eyes and slowed the pace of his thrusting. He lowered his head to slide his tongue over your clit, wrapping his lips around the sluice bud to suck it. A soft fire snaked through you, awakening every fiber of your being. You closed your eyes tightly, your body heating up. You arched your back, your breath becoming ragged at the divine sensation of his tongue on your sensitive flesh and his fingers pumping in and out of you. It wasn't pointless. Even if something inside you was broken, it wasn't useless. There was meaning in doing this.

“That's an expression I've never seen,” he whispered, his warm breath on your cunt, “what do I have to do to make you keep it forever?” The thrusts of his fingers became more intense, the squelch of pussy filling the room. A moan tore from your lips. “Tell me, baby. What's your favorite sex position?”

“Currently or when I was normal?”

“You’re normal to me. The best kind.”

“I think…” Your eyebrows furrowed as you tried to remember a time when fear wasn’t your primary emotion. “I liked when my legs were on a man’s shoulders.” Eren pulled away from you and removed his t-shirt, revealing a body covered in black ink, the contours of his bulging muscles making your mouth water. The rest of his clothes fell to the floor, and once he stood naked before you, like a Greek god, you bent your knees and spread your legs a little wider. Eren followed your movement with his eyes, his lips curving into a smirk.

“You want me?” His voice dropped a few octaves, becoming husky.

How could you tell him you found him sexy with his burning green eyes contrasting with the darkness of his hair and neck tattoos? That he so masculine next to you that it made you long for a better relationship with your femininity? You stared at him, your gaze shy, hoping he would figure it out on his own. He grabbed one of your calves to pull your ass to the edge of the bed, then slid his hands down to your hips to lift your lower body, bringing it closer to his erection. Lying down, the position allowed you to glimpse his pink tip nudging your entrance, his imposing size, and your heart gripped with terror. What if Eren were to transform into a monster? Shatter your trust? Betray you? Fuck you without regard for your boundaries and fears? Ignore your "no" and your "stop"?

"I'm not him," he reassured you, feeling the tremors in your body. "You're safe and cared for. I'll stop if you're uncomfortable." He took your legs, placing your heels on his shoulders, and turned his head to kiss one of your calves. “Do you trust me?”

You wanted to say yes, that he was the only man who made your heart beat since your rape, but the words wouldn't come. Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, and you rushed to dry them because you didn't want to be a crybaby.

“Stop that shit,” he gritted out, “you know you can cry with me. I won't judge.” He wanted to bend down to kiss you and whisper sweet nothings in your ear, to make love to you missionary-style to reassure you, but he was afraid his weight on you would trigger you. 

He didn't know what he was doing. He had never slept with a woman who had been raped. He had never been very gentle in bed, especially with one-night stands that didn't require emotional intimacy. But you, you needed all his attention and affection. He felt that if he held you wrong, you'd collapse, and in a way, he was waiting for you to do that so you'd see he was capable of catching you.

"Let it out," he continued, "if you can't enjoy sex, at least use this moment as an outlet." He placed his hand on one of your thick thighs pressed against his sculpted abdomen. "I'll start, is that okay with you, baby?"

Consent is sexy, consent is godly, so why do you feel miserable? Eren was definitely rough in bed. It suited his vibe. You didn't like him making an effort for you; it made you feel fragile when you wanted to be a strong woman. You gave him a slow nod. He moved his hips forward, burying the tip inside, cursing under his breath because you were so tight, he hadn't prepared you enough. He looked so beautiful like this, his gaze focused, brows furrowed, his body tense with the feeling that he couldn't go any deeper now. You wanted to devour him. He pulled out, a guilty expression on his face.

"I didn't do enough foreplay—"

"You can fuck me, Eren." You sniffled. "I want you."

"Promise me you won't tell this to another man." With the slow drag of his dick, he penetrated you, stretching you to his size. He closed his eyes and sighed at the sensation of the damp, tight heat enveloping him. “Keep saying shit like this. Just for me.”

As the roll of his hips fed into you, you whispered praise about him, how sexy you found him, how you wanted him to take you, how good it felt to feel him inside you. His ego swelled, and his lips quirked up, but he remained silent, flooded with your verbal desire. Tears streamed down your cheeks, flashbacks flooding your mind, but talking to him kept you grounded in the moment. He didn't tell you to stop crying, that you were ruining the mood, that you were weak. He accepted vulnerability, making it his own.

Every thrust of his hips filled you, spreading a warmth throughout your being that cradled you. The slick spilling from your cunt added a new sound atmosphere as the wet noises of your union filled the room. After a while, you were no longer able to speak, the hot coil in your lower belly winding tighter and tighter, like an insatiable hunger devouring your body. Your lips parted, you panted, your ample chest rising and falling, your breathy moans mingling with his groans. The green of his eyes was stormy with desire as he took of the sight of your sweaty body being taken by him. Everything was so right, everything was so good.

“Touch yourself,” he commanded, his voice rapsy.

“I can’t cum, it’s no use.”

“I don’t think I asked for your opinion. Touch yourself.”

Your hand, which was clinging to the sheets, descended to the feverish warmth of your inner thighs, so that your fingers made circles on your throbbing bud. His gaze darkened and he picked up the pace—his movements still gentle.

“Touch your chest.”

Your other hand began to knead one of your breasts. “L-Like this?”

He bit his lower lip, staring at you. The sight made his cock twitch inside you. “I’m going to finish soon if you keep teasing me like this.”

You chuckled. “I’m doing what you want me to do…”

“Don’t laugh at me before I fuck you like a slut.”

Fear flashed across your face and he smirked.

“Awwww,” he teased, “sorry, baby.”

You moved your foot to try and kick him in the face, but he kissed your toes. He angled his hips deeper, and a gasp escaped your mouth at how full of him you were. An electric urgency coursed beneath his skin, awakening every crease, every hollow, urging him to fuck you faster. “E-Eren, wait,” you breathed out as his thrusts quickened, your sobs intensifying.

“I’m not him,” he rasped, rocking his hips, his insides igniting with a gentle fire. “You feel it? How good I fill you? How good I fuck you? I can feel your pussy pulsing around me.”

“I’m scared…”

“Of what? Where’s the danger?”

“I don’t know,” you sobbed, “I don’t feel good.”

Eren stopped abruptly. He released your hips and looked at you with concern as you curled up on the bed, your hands covering your face. Everything wasn’t right, everything wasn’t good. Eren ran a hand through his hair. What should he do? Letting you cry because you needed to, or trying to comfort you? But what could he say to erase such a violent fear? He got dressed and left the room. From cleaning your place so often, he knew where most of your things were. He took out a glass, filled it with juice, grabbed a packet of candy, and went back into the bedroom. He sat down next to you and stroked your back.

“I’m so sorry,” you sobbed.

“I don’t see anyone offended in the room.”

He put the glass and candy on the floor before pulling you back close to his chest. His erection was aching, but reassuring you was more important. You were probably thinking you were a burden, a miserable woman. You needed to hear that you weren’t any of that. He kissed the top of your head. 

“You’re not broken, just a bit damaged.”

“It’s been two years, and I’m still the same.”

“People suffer from their trauma for decades and decades, ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚. You’re at the very beginning of your healing.”

You sniffled, snuggling against his chest. “But I have a baby, I can’t continue to be such a mess.”

“You didn’t even want the baby, how do you expect to be okay?”

“I should have had an abortion,” you murmured.

He didn’t judge you; he took your pain and held it close. “You can still put her in an orphanage.”

“No.” You nuzzled his chest. “Imagine her being abused by a family…”

“You say you hate her, but you’re very protective.”

“I don’t want to talk about her. Just hold me.”

“Okay.” 

In the following weeks, Eren slept with you every Saturday. It wasn’t easy. You had to find positions that wouldn't trigger you, and he had to manage to stay aroused even if you were crying against him. But he was making an effort for you; he knew you needed that space to express yourself. You didn't really talk about being a couple, even though your relationship was particularly ambiguous. Sleeping with Eren had unlocked something within you, and for the first time in your life, you had dared to talk to Hange about your rape. The healing process was only just beginning.

────────

౨ৎ ten months with you ౨ৎ

“What if he rapes me now that he has access to my body?” The tremor in your voice didn't go unnoticed. Hange adjusted her glasses and leaned over the table, crossing her arms, her eyes serious.

“What if everything happened and you'd met a charming man who loved you? Did you consider that possibility before you first thought of the catastrophe?”

“Eren doesn't love me. He's just used to taking care of his mother and sister, so he's incapable of leaving a woman alone in distress. He's got an ego. He likes to be in control of my life.”

“It's true that your relationship is unbalanced right now, but there's no guarantee that won't change with time.”

You looked down, sniffing. “I’d like to have a relationship with him once I’ve regained my personality. Once I have something to offer him. I’m just a shadow of my former self these days.”

The worst thing about trauma is that the day the incident happens, everything collapses for you, but the world keeps turning. You’ve lost a part of yourself, but it’s just another random Monday for everyone else. You continue to sink, but capitalist society wants you to remain productive; you don’t have time to wallow in self-pity. And God forbid, PTSD takes control of your entire personality; you’ll be seen as annoying.

“I’m trying to write right now, but I’m struggling. All the writing advice I get tells me it’s wrong to write trauma-defined characters and that they need to have a lovable side personality so the reader connects with them, but… What if the trauma makes you weak, miserable, detestable? The only times trauma completely transforms a person is often with the villains in fiction.” You raised your head, a passionate glint in your eyes like every time you talked about writing. “I want to write a character like me.” 

Hange’s eyes softened. ‘L$D’ by A$AP ROCKY played in your kitchen, the dreamy soft song filling the room. Hange always played music to make her patients feel comfortable.

“Why don’t you write a memoir? Write everything you feel in a journal, and once you think you’ve made peace with your past, write a memoir.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever make peace with my past…”

“You never thought you’d sleep with a man again, but look at you now. Getting slutted out every week.” 

Blood rushed to your cheeks as your flustered expression made Hange laugh.

The rest of the therapy session went smoothly. A few minutes after Hange left your apartment, Eren knocked on the door.

“Sup.” He was standing there, hands in the pockets of his baggy navy jeans, his bicep tattoos standing out even more against his white t-shirt. You’d let him kiss you against the door if you could.

“Hey,” you smiled softly. “You need something? It’s not Saturday.”

“I’ve been thinking about something. I think it would do you good to have some friends. You don’t see anyone all week except me, it’s not healthy.” 

“But I’m afraid to leave the house…”

“That’s why I’ll come with you. You won’t be alone,” he promised, nodding his chin, “go get dressed and take Neusa with you.” 

You went to do as he asked, ignoring the butterflies fluttering in your stomach and the fact that he wanted to improve your social life.

────────

Eren's car stopped in front of a mysterious building, its architecture modern and its windows large. Eren took Neusa in his arms and walked you to the entrance without giving you any information. Once inside, while Eren spoke to the receptionist, you observed the multitude of posters on the walls, and a flash of understanding crossed your face as you read their contents. It was an association for women who were victims of sexual abuse. All types of sexual abuse, whether incest, prostitution, or marital rape. The association opened its doors to any woman whose "no" had been ignored, to any woman who had been pressured into saying "yes," or to any woman who thought it was normal to sleep with someone older while still a minor.

You stared at Eren's back, biting your lower lip. What had you done to deserve this? All you did was cry and be needy. As if he could hear your thoughts, he turned around.

“They have support groups and a social media group for those who need to talk more. There’s one starting in five minutes in the door on the left. I’ll wait for you in the waiting room.”

“Eren, why are you doing all this? I’m not even—”

“Shut up, you’re going to ruin my mood.”

Eren ignored you and went to sit down and play with Neusa. There was something comical about watching this muscular, tattooed man play with a little baby. You could hear your daughter’s soft coos, and your heart swelled.

The support group session lasted a good hour. There were all kinds of women in a small group of 15. Prostitutes, teenagers, mothers. Some had completely fallen apart after their rape, just like you; some had become addicted to sex; others hadn't realized the gravity of the situation until years later; and still others had been abused at a young age and confused love with sex, especially when the perpetrator was a family member. You remained silent for the entire hour, but you listened attentively to what they said. Sometimes it resonated with your own feelings; sometimes you gained a new perspective on the trauma that you hadn't considered. It was comforting to be surrounded by people who admitted to being deeply affected by the same event as you.

You no longer felt weak or alone. These women were strong, and it would be foolish to exclude you, thinking you were the exception, the one who would never heal. Perhaps you will be left with lasting effects, but you will learn to live with them because everyone has a degree of resilience within them. You exchanged numbers with the other mothers; at least you'd get some parenting advice, and you could talk to them about your mixed feelings about your daughter. Eren looked up as you left the room.

“I thought you'd come back crying,” he teased, getting up from his chair to join you.

“I feel strangely good. It did me good.”

“Good.”

The car ride was quick, but instead of going to your apartment, it stopped at Ony's.

“Eren—”

“You need to make up with your brother.” 

A shadow fell over your face.

“I don't want to talk to someone who's friends with my rapist.” 

“But he doesn’t know anything, ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚. He can’t guess. He’s not with you as often as I am, so I figured out what happened.”

 You stared silently at your daughter.

“Talk to him, please,” he insisted, “you’re doing everything right, things will start getting better for you, I promise.”

When Ony opened the door and saw you and Eren, with your daughter in your arms, his radiant smile made your heart ache.

“I’ll leave you two alone.” Eren took Neusa and went into the house, leaving you alone with Ony. Ony closed the door and pressed his back against it, crossing his muscular arms over his chest.

“So…” he began.

“How’s it going with university?”

His eyes lit up.

“It’s so great, the master’s program is much more interesting than the bachelor’s. I love studying architecture so much that I think I’ll continue all the way to a doctorate.”

You gave him a small smile. Ony had always been a very intelligent and ambitious man. Ever since he was little, he’d always wanted to build houses; Lego was his favorite toy when he was a kid. So when, after finishing high school, he said he wanted to have his own architecture firm, everyone knew he was going to be successful.

“It makes me happy to see you thriving.”

“And you? Have you been writing your novels?”

You made a face. “I stopped writing after my pregnancy, but I’ve started again recently. I’m just afraid people won’t like them.” 

“Why? You're talented, you've always written since you were little. I was so surprised when I found your Wattpad account when you were 13. You were freaky as hell on here.”

A quiet laugh escaped you. “Yeah, I know… It's just that I want to write about what happened to me, but I feel like all the writing advice tells me my way is wrong.”

“Who gives a fuck? It's your story, you know what you went through, so you write it however you want.”

Tell him.

“Ony, I…” Your throat tightened, the words stuck in your mouth.

“Yeah?”

“Are you still friends with… Floch?” Saying his name made you feel nauseous.

“Of course I am, he wants to do a PhD with me. It's cool to have a friend with the same ambitions as you.”

“R-Right…”

“Are you okay?” He placed a hand on your shoulder, worried by the tears welling in your eyes.

“Ony, Floch hurt me really badly… I… I would like you to stop talking to him.”

Surprise flashed across his face. “He hurt you?”

“He’s Neusa’s father.” 

A deep crease formed between his eyebrows as he considered what you were trying to say before his face hardened.

“You… you slept together? And he didn’t take responsibility for the baby?”

“It’s so much worse than that, Ony. Don’t make me say it out loud.” 

Fury ignited in his eyes as he realized what had happened.

“Fuck, ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚! Why didn’t you tell me sooner? You spent your whole pregnancy alone with this on your mind, damn it!”

“I-It’s okay, Ony, it’s okay. I needed this time alone; I wasn’t ready to talk to anyone about it.”

“No, this isn’t okay, you have to file a complaint! I’m going to kill him the moment I see him at college, I swear to God—”

“Ony, I’m the victim, so I get to decide what happens to my rape,” you cut in, your voice harsh, “I don’t want to go to the police, and I don’t want to cause any trouble. So you’re not going to do anything to him. I just want you to stop being his friend so I feel safe with you.”

His face softened, his gaze turned guilty. “Okay, sorry. You’re right, it’s your trauma. It’s just… It’s so unfair. I wasn’t there when you needed me.”

You wrapped your arms around him, holding him tight. He inhaled your scent, which he had missed during the months you had cut ties with him.

“I'm glad I sent Eren to be your friend; he brought my sister back to me.”

“Hm, we're more than friends…”

“No way, he loves you like that?”

“I don't think he really loves me—” 

The door opened, the baby's cries interrupting your conversation.

“I think she's hungry,” Eren stated, rocking the baby in his arms.

“Okay, let's go home, then,” you suggested and glanced at Ony. “Don't you see me differently?”

He huffed. “The fuck you're talking about? It's not your fault. It's him I see differently now.” Ony kissed your cheeks goodbye before giving you one last hug. The care ride to your apartment was short, and after you breastfed your daughter, Eren rocked her to sleep.

Once you were alone, Eren lay down on your bed and sat you on his lap. His hands came to rest on your ass, and he kneaded your ample flesh, his eyes closed.

“Eren?”

“Hm?”

“What do you like about me?”

His eyes fluttered open. He stared at you, lingering on your pouty lips. “Everything.”

“I am more nothing than everything, Eren.”

“That’s not true.” He sat up on the bed and pulled you against his chest. “I love your smile. You never smile, so I go crazy when I manage to get a happy expression on your face. It’s like winning a gold medal. You’re a bit like a cat; it takes a long time for you to give your trust. It’s rewarding to be with you. I like working for your trust.”

His words sent a wave of heat through your entire body.

“Eren…”

“I love it when you talk to me about your novels. You have such a vivid imagination; I could listen to you for hours. I hope to read them someday.”

“I don’t know when I’ll finally finish my projects…”

“But you will, I’m sure of it.” His hands cupped your face, and he pressed his lips to yours. You wrapped your arms around his neck and deepened the kiss. “I like being here for you. It makes me useful, I love taking care of you,” he whispered against you.

You flinched. “This isn’t healthy, Eren. A good relationship should be balanced; I should give you as much as you give me. This is toxic between us. It’s your ego wanting to be useful and control everything.”

His hands slipped under your t-shirt to caress your soft stomach, his erection hardening at the feel of your pillowy flesh that he loved to touch. “What if this is how our relationship should be? I’ll be the one who provides, and you just focus on healing.”

“It’s toxic—”

“Who gives a shit? Let’s be toxic together.” He lifted your t-shirt and you raised your arms for him to take it off. “Let’s be unconventional, let’s be abnormal.”

Thirty minutes later, the sound of your pants filled the room as you rode Eren on his lap, his hands gripping your ass as if it were his most precious possession. He ravished your mouth, making out with you passionately, his kisses desperate as he wanted you to accept the unbalanced nature of their relationship, to accept his care and his love language. Your eyes were closed, while his remained wide open, feverish, in love.

“Eren?”

“Hm?”

He tugged at your hair to make you lift your chin and traced his mouth down your neck, leaving a wet trail behind him. Your mind was in a daze, you were bathed in his affection, enveloped by him, his scent all around you. Like on a cloud, your heart swelled, almost bursting with the love you felt for him.

“I think I really love you,” you murmured.

His grip on your hair tightened, and he paused, his warm breath on your skin.

“Don't say stupid shit like this.”

“I know, we shouldn't, we aren't healthy, but—”

A heavy breath escaped his lips. “That's not the problem, baby. You know damn well what the real problem is.”

“Eren, you can't control death. It's not your fault if you die and your family is left without you.”

His hands gripped your hips, guiding you to ride him faster. A veil of shadow crossed his face.

“Shut up, you can't understand. You don't know me.” 

“I can’t understand? I don’t know you?” You huffed. “That’s why you came to me when you were crying for your father?”

 He stretched his back on the bed and pressed the heels of his feet into the floor to lift his hips and thrust harder into you. Your hands fell onto his shoulders as you bounced on his dick, the ball of heat in your belly threatening to explode at any moment.

“Don’t talk about that when I fuck you,” he muttered.

“So when are we going to talk about this?”

“When I’m ready, for fuck’s sake. I’ve been patient with you, right? Are you the only one allowed to be traumatized or what?” he snarled, pounding into you. You wanted to contradict him, tell him you understood his pain, but you wanted him all to yourself so badly that you were frustrated with the situation, but the pleasure took over. Your pants turned into breathy moans as he rutted into your pulsing hole. He made you ride him, making your whole body jiggle, making you feel alive and so turned on. His eyes half-lidded, his mouth watered at the sight of your tits bouncing around.

You tried to cover your mouth to avoid waking your daughter, but he yanked your arm away and wrapped his arms around your waist, pressing your sweaty chest against his. He shivered at your whines next to his ears, his ragged breathing beside you making your cunt clench. Bending his knees, he raised his hips even higher so his downward strokes would deepen, hitting your spongy spot inside you. The embers in the hollow of your body ignited, awakening all your senses, every inch of skin.

“E-Eren, I think I'm gonna….” Your mouth agape, waves of pleasure rising from your core and stretching through your body, making you tremble as your drenched heat tightened around Eren.

“Cum for me, baby,” he whispered in your ear as his thumb slipped between your thighs to slide onto your clit. “Give me that shit.”

The combination of his finger on your throbbing bud and his deep voice in your ears made your eyes roll back as you let yourself succumb to the ecstasy that was washing over you. Eren hissed, your cunt spasming around him, biting his lower lip to keep from coming inside you just yet. Once you came down from your high, breathless, you looked at Eren, shocked. He smirked, an arrogant glint in his eye.

“I-I came!”

“Damn, this dick is really that good.”

“Eren!” 

He resumed the rhythm of his thrusts, slower now.

“I think it’s because you weren’t thinking about your rape. You were so busy trying to change my mind that your body gave out.”

Your eyes watered, moved by the progress you had made.

He chuckled. “Crybaby.” He pressed his lips against yours.

He continued making love to you, hoping you would forget the little argument you'd had, focusing on how good he was in bed with you.

────────

౨ৎ one year with you ౨ৎ

“Papa?” Eren was giving Neusa a bath when she uttered her first word. It wasn’t a word for her mother, but a word for him. He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening. He tried to ignore how his heart swelled with affection, how much he wanted those words to hold him in his heart for the rest of his life.

“Y-Yes?” 

Neusa smiled and raised her arms to hug him, a joyful glint in her brown eyes. He leaned into the tub to give her what she wanted, even though she wet his t-shirt. She snuggled against him, her chubby body contrasting with the hardness of his muscles, but it was mostly his scent that made her want to be close to him. His hands trembled behind her back; he didn’t know what to do with the emotions fluttering like butterflies within him.

She thought he was her father. Was he ready for this? Damn it, what the hell was he doing taking care of a baby that wasn't even his? He finished bathing and dressing Neusa in silence, his mind racing. He put her in the playpen he'd bought for her and slipped on his shoes. He had to get out of here as fast as he could. He was just doing stupid things, things he'd sworn he'd never do. Before leaving the apartment, he glanced at you sleeping on the sofa. Was this love? Something that confronted your fears and made you miserable for someone? He didn't need that, damn it.

He drove like a maniac, frustrated by all the people in front of him who were preventing him from quickly meeting up with his friends. Once he arrived at Ony's, when he opened the door, Eren barely greeted him and entered the house. In the living room, Connie was playing Final Fantasy VII on the PS4, being Cloud Strife while Armin studied his biology. Eren slumped on the sofa and leaned over to rummage through the coffee table drawers for the weed Ony always kept there.

“Ren, you’re not at home, you could at least say hello, you asshole,” Ony muttered, giving Eren a light tap on the head.

“Fuck off, I’m in a bad mood.”

“That single mother pussy is no longer good?” Connie teased.

“Say one more thing like that about her, and I’ll fuck Sasha and send you the video.”

“You’ll never do that, you’re too in love with that other depressive.”

“Yeah, that’s the fucking problem,” Eren muttered. Armin glanced at Connie as if to say, "Stop, this seems serious," and Connie rolled his eyes.

"What happened with my sister?" Ony sat down next to Eren.

"You're going to laugh at me."

"Is this any different from usual?" Connie chuckled.

Armin threw a pillow at his face. "You can speak to us, we're your best friends," he reassured him in a soft voice.

"Dickrider," Connie huffed.

Eren took a drag on his blunt and exhaled the smoke, leaning back against the sofa.

"I think I'm in love and it's scaring the shit out of me."

"Awwwww," Connie cooed.

"Finally," Ony shook his head, "I knew your avoidant ass would fall in love one day." 

Eren glared at his friends. "You don't even understand the problem, you idiots. I can't. I really can't."

"Don't ever think of leaving my sister, it will destroy her."

Eren looked away.

"Eren." Ony's gaze hardened. "Don't even think about it."

"His daughter takes me for her father. I have reached my limit."

"And whose fault is that?" Connie sneered. "You always take care of his baby like it's your own."

Armin, who had been silently observing the situation, dropped his biology textbooks and cleared his throat.

"Is it because of your father, Eren?"

"What else do you think it's because of, you moron?" Eren shot daggers at Armin. 

“That’s not how you deal with your dickrider, Eren,” Connie joked.

“I don’t know why I came to see you, you’re useless. I’m getting out of here.” Eren got up from the couch, but Ony grabbed his arm.

“Man, you need us. Stop your bullshit.” 

Eren stared at the wall without looking at his friend, his jaw clenched. Of course he needed them, but how could he express the fear he felt? He felt like he was becoming that lost teenager again, forced to take on the role of father in his family. A pressure that wouldn’t leave him, and one he didn’t want to intensify. The vivid memory of having to be more authoritative with his sister and being his mother's emotional support when he was only 15 brought tears to his eyes, and he lowered his head to avoid Ony noticing, but it was too late because Ony stroked his back.

“Connie, turn off the PS4,” Ony ordered.

“Damn, I was gonna see Tifa.” Connie turned off the game console and focused on Eren, whose gaze was shifty. “You know what you need? A good car ride while you trauma dump your miserable life.”

“My life isn’t miserable,” Eren said defensively.

“You’re literally a drug dealer, man.”

“I bet your girl buys it from me.”

“Okay, that’s enough. Everyone out,” Ony commanded. The group of men left the house and gathered in Eren’s car. It was Connie driving, and Eren pressed his temple against the passenger window. He watched the scenery go by, while his friends put on their favorite music in the car.

He was thinking about you. You had made so much progress. You smiled much more, didn't cry during sex anymore, went out to run errands, and had even made friends at the association. He hadn't forgotten the time you asked him not to come over one Saturday because you were going out to a bar with your friends. He was so proud of you. What would happen if he drifted away from you? You'd find a man who didn't have to do all the work Eren had done to be by your side. It would be so easy for him. Neusa would forget Eren quickly, and you would be a happy family. Everything would be right, everything would be good. He felt like throwing up just thinking about it. Eren was selfish. He wanted you all to himself, like that PnB Rock song.

“What if I take the plunge?” Eren began, his voice unsure. “I mean… I’m more likely to end up in prison than to die suddenly like my father, right?”

“Yeah, your destiny is prison.” 

Eren shot a cold glare at Connie.

“If your father had died of a hereditary disease, your fear would be valid. But it’s just your trauma talking because there’s no guarantee you’ll have the same life as your father,” Armin argued, which soothed Eren’s fears.

“I think you should go to therapy,” Ony suggested. “Imagine if you run away at every baby milestone, you’ll traumatize her.” 

He had forced his mother to talk to someone so much that he had forgotten he, too, was affected by his father’s death. Eren’s phone rang in his pocket. It was you.

‘You didn’t close the baby playpen, she was playing with knives!!’ 

His fingers slid across the keypad. 

'Since when have you been worried about her?'

'That's not the point. You'd make a terrible father.' 

The amused smile he'd been wearing vanished.

'Don't say stuff like that ever again.' 

He ignored your other messages and put his phone back in his pocket.

“We can go home,” he announced.

Armin had a bad feeling. “What are you going to do?”

“What I'm the best at.”

────────

Eren ignored you for three weeks. No calls, no messages, no visits. Nothing. It broke your heart, and you struggled to imagine your story was over.

“You’re way too pretty to be crying over that bastard.” Ymir grabbed your phone, which you were staring at, stupidly waiting for a notification from Eren.

“Don’t call him that, he’s—”

“He’s an asshole, ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚,” Historia cut in, and you knew when she used cuss words, she meant it. Ymir and Historia were both women in the association. After a lot of abuse from men, when they found each other, it felt like destiny.

“You know what you need? What do we do when we need a break, Historia?” 

Historia blushed, playing with her blonde hair as she tried to form her answer. “You sleep with someone.”

“Hell no,” you protested, but Ymir pushed you into the bar against your will.

“You already have the outfit for it,” Historia argued, following you.

“Thanks for making me wear this dress,” you grumbled, smoothing the creased fabric of the red mini-dress that was attracting the attention of every man in the bar. “You know very well that this isn’t like me.”

“Yes, when you’re sober.” Ymir smiled wickedly.

You looked up in exasperation, deciding you would just go along with it for the night, to take your mind off things. The rest of the night passed in a daze as the alcohol transformed you into this sociable, smiling woman. You met a man, Jean, who made you laugh while Eren made you cry, so it was only natural that you brought him home, encouraged by Ymir's thumbs-up. You didn't even remember his hands on your body or his mouth on your skin. The only thing on your mind when you woke up was that Eren still hadn't contacted you.

────────

౨ৎ one year and three months with you౨ৎ

“After spending your childhood shouldering responsibilities that weren’t suited to your age, you avoid any situation that demands too much of you?” Eren’s therapist still had that cold, nonchalant voice as he spoke truths Eren wasn’t ready to accept. Mr. Ackerman was a pain in the ass.

“That’s not what I said,” Eren muttered, glaring at him.

“What have you done these past few weeks to confirm something else?”

“We don’t care about that.”

“Ah.” Levi’s lips quirked up (but never more than that). “So you want me to be a hypocrite, Yeager?”

“I’m just saying—”

“You’re weak. Very weak. Weaker than her. She didn’t run away from you when she was scared.” 

Eren's heart tightened painfully, and he jumped up from his chair, his eyes blazing fury.

"Fuck you." Eren stormed out of the therapist's office.

"See you next Wednesday," Levi managed to say before Eren slammed the door.

Once outside, Eren frantically searched for a cigarette and cursed under his breath, realizing he was out. He bought some at a nearby tobacco shop before the pack slipped from his hands as his eyes fell on you, just a few meters away. Dressed in a floral dress with ruffles, you radiated light, the sun's rays illuminating your hair and brown eyes. You were leaving the convenience store with shopping bags while a man with chestnut hair held Neusa. He said something that made you laugh, and Eren felt like committing a terrorist act. His feet walked on their own toward you as his hand crushed the pack of cigarettes.

“What the hell are you doing?”

You stopped dead in your tracks, your smile fading before the angry man in front of you.

“Eren?”

“I work on myself, and what are you doing? Sleeping with the whole town?”

“Papa!” Neusa reached out toward Eren, a confused glint in her eyes, as if she remembered him and no longer wanted the man holding her.

You flinched. “Don’t talk like that in front of my child.”

“Don’t bring strangers around in front of my daughter, then.”

“Your daughter?!” you repeated, incredulous.

“Yeah, my daughter,” he replied, his voice harsh.

“Is he Neusa’s father?” Jean asked, a superior look on his face because he was the one you had chosen at that moment. 

You tightened the straps on your bags. “You could say that.”

“Give me that fucking baby,” Eren ordered Jean, who was staring at him in surprise.

Eren didn't wait and basically yanked Neusa away from him before driving off with her. You rushed after him, yelling, leaving a sheepish Jean behind.

“You can't come back into my life after ignoring me for three months!”

“Put your ass in the car and shut the fuck up.”

Eren sat Neusa in the child seat in the back seat, and your heart swelled at the fact that he hadn't thrown her out. Maybe he'd planned to come back all along?

You put the groceries in his trunk and ignored the voice in your head telling you that you had no backbone. You sat on the passenger side and while he drove, you refused to look at him.

“You give your body to any idiot who gives you attention now?”

“You quickly forget how you got me into your bed.”

“I worked for that. He doesn’t even know your deepest wound.”

“It felt good to spend time with him,” you confessed sincerely. “I didn’t constantly feel weak and miserable like I did with you. I finally felt like something, like I was more than just a raped girl.”

Eren stared at the road, his eyes dark and his grip on the steering wheel tight. He didn’t like that conversation at all.

“What does that even mean?”

“Nothing, just that life is still worth living when you’re not here.” 

Why did it hurt him so much that you weren’t broken by his absence? He wanted to be indispensable to those close to him. That was the purpose of his existence.

“I guess it’s good that you’re not depressed anymore,” he grumbled.

“You… guess?”

“Do you want me to be honest for a moment?” He glanced at you, his gaze hard. “I wanted you to be at your lowest point when I came back.” 

You blinked several times, no emotion on your face because you knew very well what kind of man Eren was.

“I wanted to start taking care of you again, to be indispensable to you, and it would flatter my ego to be the reason you were still standing,” he continued. “But I forgot that the woman I fell in love with is stronger than me. You find light in the darkest corners and you always get back up from the hardest blows, while I'm a coward who can't face my feelings.” 

Neusa chirped, raising her arms, clearly very happy to see Eren again. You were very happy to see him too; you had missed him. His words healed a part of you, and you nibbled at the inside of your cheek. 

“I’m glad you admit your mistakes, but that won’t undo the damage you’ve done. Just because I was with another man doesn’t mean I didn’t suffer.”

Eren remained silent the entire way home. He was helping you put away the groceries, and his heart tightened when he realized Neusa could walk now. He’d missed her first steps. She stayed close to Eren, hugging his calf and looking up at him with a radiant smile. He stroked her curly hair, touched by her. He grabbed a trash bag and threw all of Jean’s things that were lying around on the couch, and you rolled your eyes but said nothing. Jean was kind, but the love of your life was Eren. The one who was there for you through your worst moments, no matter how unhealthy your relationship was.

Once you were seated on the couch, Neusa playing with Eren’s sneaker laces, he broke the silence. “I’m going to buy you a house.”

Your lips parted in surprise. “What?”

“Neusa needs a garden to play in.”

“We aren’t a couple, Eren. You rejected me when—”

His jaw clenched. “That was months ago. I started therapy two months ago. I’ve made some progress on that.”

“Eren, you don’t become a new person in two months of therapy—”

“I love you.”

“No, you don’t!” you protested. “You just want to save a broken girl.”

“What can I do to prove it to you?”

“Be there for me even when I’m doing well. Don’t disappear when I’m doing better.”

“I promise you I will always be there for you.”

“I want action, Eren.”

“I want to buy a whole fucking house for you.”

You stood up from the couch, smoothing out your dress.

“We’ll see once I get there.”

Eren was truly your lapdog. He thought he was in control, but it was you. His dick hardened at the thought. He really met his match.

────────

౨ৎ one year and six months with you ౨ৎ

Eren had stopped dealing drugs. He had chosen to pursue his greatest ambition: to become a tattoo artist. As an apprentice in a tattoo parlor, he was slowly getting used to earning a normal salary, not the astronomical sums he'd made before when he was operating illegally. He was driven by the desire to realize his dream, but above all, he had changed careers to be a good father to Neusa. His greatest fear was abandoning his family. What would he do if he ended up in prison and you were left alone with Neusa? He couldn't bear to get out of prison and see you with someone else.

“Papa!” Neusa cried happily when she saw Eren come home from work. She ran to his feet and held out her arms for him to hug her. Eren smiled and bent down to pick up his daughter—yes, his—and kissed her cheek.

“Where is Mama?” Neusa pointed toward the bathroom. He took a few steps to the room. He frowned as he tried to open the door, then knocked. Sniffles came from inside.

“You good?” 

You opened the door slowly, looking at your feet. His eyes narrowed on your trembling hand holding a positive pregnancy test. Eren had used a good portion of his savings to buy a house in the countryside. The cottage was surrounded by a large garden, whose abundant flowers bloomed in the spring. Neusa loved tending the flowers with her mother; there was love throughout the house. And a lot of love between you and Eren. You hadn't talked about being a couple yet; you still needed time to fully trust Eren after he abandoned you for three months. Since he'd started therapy with Levi, he'd been more honest about his feelings. You were a somewhat unconventional couple, but it worked for you.

You were on the birth control pill, but there were always mistakes.

“You know you can have an abortion, I don't mind,” he whispered, wiping away your tears.

“No, I want the baby. I want a baby born of love.”

His eyes softened. “Then, why are you crying?”

“I had memories of my pregnancy when I was alone.”

“That's in the past now. You're not defined by that.” He leaned down to kiss your forehead. “We're going to build a good family together, right?”

You nodded, sniffing. You stared down at the pregnancy test. 

Maybe there was light even in the darkest path.

────────

౨ৎ four years and six months with you ౨ৎ

“Mommy doesn’t love me,” Neusa stated, as Eren helped her get dressed for school. He froze, his hands resting on her tiny shoulders.

“Don’t say things like that, sweetheart.”

“But it’s true.” Her sparkling brown eyes watered. “She prefers Naya to me. She’s always hugging and kissing her, never me.” 

Eren was at a loss for words because he couldn’t argue with the truth. How could he explain to a four-year-old that her mother saw her rapist when she looked at her? How could he explain that she preferred the baby she had with the man she loved? He walked her to school, then came home. Once he got back, you were making yourself a coffee in the kitchen. Your face lit up when you saw Eren. “I finally finished my novel yesterday; it's 120,000 words. I think it'll take me about three months to see my second draft. I'm so happy.”

“Cool,” Eren muttered, his jaw tense.

Your smile faded at his serious tone.

“Are you okay…?”

“We need to talk about something.” 

How could he tell you that you weren't a good mother? How could he tell you that you were hurting your daughter without making you feel guilty about something that wasn't your fault?

“Neusa thinks you don't love her,” he began. “She's noticed that you're more affectionate with her little sister.” 

You drew a thin line from your lips. The conversation made you feel uncomfortable, and you avoided Eren's gaze.

“Look at me when I'm talking to you.”

You looked up. “I… She ruined my life, Eren.”

“Floch ruined it,” he corrected. “She’s innocent. It’s not her fault. You…” He took a deep breath before saying what he was about to say. “You can’t blame your trauma when you now have responsibilities. You should have had an abortion if you didn’t want her.” 

Your coffee cup slipped from your hands and crashed to the floor.

“Are you serious?” you asked, hurt in your voice. “You know damn well I was too depressed to even leave my house at that time.”

“I know, I—”

“You don’t know anything!” you shouted, your voice breaking. “I should have gone to a gynecologist after the incident because I had vaginal lesions! I didn’t do anything! I was unable to leave my house!”

“˚ʚ♡ɞ˚… I'm just saying—”

“Yes, I don't love her! So what?!” you yelled. “She looks just like him.”

His heart ached because it was his own daughter you were talking about.

“Talk about her with respect, please.”

“She's mine, Eren. I don't know who you think you are.”

“Oh,” he moved closer to you, “so I'm not her father anymore when it suits you?” 

You locked your gaze with him. “Yes—”

“You know what I think?” he cut in, lowering his head toward you. “I think you love her.”

“I-I don’t, Eren.”

“You love her. That’s why you never wanted to give her up. You had every opportunity to place her in an orphanage, but you never did. I even remember you saying you were afraid she’d be abused in another family. You’re afraid to admit it to yourself because loving her means accepting a part of your rapist.” 

You pushed Eren away violently, but he grabbed your arm and pulled you back to him. Tears welled up in your brown eyes, and in that moment you looked so much like your daughter that it hurt him to see you two so far apart.

“That’s not true.”

“If you can’t love her for herself, love her for me.” He kissed away your tears. “Floch isn’t here anymore, it’s just us. You’re so strong, you know that? I know you can do it.”

“But I have flashbacks when I look at her…”

“It’s because of your PTSD. Maybe Hange isn’t effective enough. We need to find a therapist who specializes in trauma.”

“I don’t want to tell a stranger what happened again.”

“Or…” He stroked your cheeks. “We’ll do Yeager-style therapy.”

You chuckled, sniffing. “What’s this nonsense you’re spouting now?”

“You learn to love your daughter by getting to know her. You spend time with her, you play games with her. You try to create a bond that goes beyond the fact that she’s a rape baby.”

“I don’t think I can—”

“You will.” He kissed you, wrapping his arms around your waist. “You will do it because you want a happy family. Loving her will never be loving Floch, baby. Loving her will always be between you and me.” He hugged your trembling body, promising you sunny days and calm nights, assuring you that everything would be okay.

────────

In the following months, Eren bought a multitude of games for you to play with children and adults so you could spend time with Neusa. During this time, you realized you knew nothing about your daughter. She was a cheerful girl, well-behaved, and very advanced for her age. Her favorite colors were purple and burgundy because her favorite Winx was Stormy. She loved to draw, just like Eren, especially the flowers around your house. Everyone at school liked her. So why was it so hard for you to love her? You forced yourself to remember that she was Eren's child. You had to get Floch out of your mind. That was the only way you could feel any affection for her.

The more weeks passed, the more you found similarities between her and Eren. Her habit of having her hot chocolate in the morning while Eren drank his coffee, the fact that she preferred baggy clothes to girly outfits, her stubborn personality that held onto an idea once she was convinced of something—just like Eren. She was his daughter. It had taken you a while to see it, but now it was clear. Neusa was thrilled to spend so much time with her mother and never again complained about not being loved enough. A happy family.

But something was missing for Eren to be completely happy. He proposed to you one day while your daughters were playing in a park. He thought it would be more symbolic in a natural setting, while you smiled at your children, rather than some cliché dinner at a restaurant. He let you choose the wedding decorations but made you hurry because he was waiting for the chance to call you his wife like never before. Neusa was overjoyed; she thought she'd transform into a princess once the wedding took place. In her childlike mind, you were the queen and Eren the king.

In a way, it was true. You had created a kingdom together. A happy family. Nothing could tear you apart now.

────────

౨ৎ a life with you ౨ৎ

‘Who wants that perfect love story anyway, anyway?

Cliché, cliché, cliché, cliché

Who wants that hero love that saves the day anyway?

Cliché, cliché, cliché, cliché

What about the bad guy goes good, yeah?

An innocent love I'm misunderstood, yeah?

Black hour glass, our glass

Toast to clichés in a dark past

Toast to clichés in a dark past’

Accompanied by Beyoncé's voice, your father held your arm as you walked toward the man who would be your husband in a few minutes.

Eren almost never cried, only for his father. So you didn't expect to see a tearful gaze when you looked up at him.

A gentle look on your face, you smiled at him.

“You're the crybaby now.”

“Shut up,” he grumbled, his eyes filled with so much love.

Normally, he would have made a lewd comment about your outfit, saying he couldn't wait to take your dress off tonight, but he was so awestruck by your beauty that nothing came out. He could only admire you.

When it was time to exchange your wedding vows, Connie giggled at how sappy his friend sounded before Ony stepped on his foot to silence him. 

“This ceremony should have taken place at least 3 months earlier. But some asshole preferred to run away than be there for the woman he loved.” He locked his gaze with yours. “From now on, that's it, no more bullshit. I won't be scared anymore. I want your heart, your soul, your pain, to make it mine. I want you to be able to look into my eyes one day if you ever wonder what love is. I don't care if I sound arrogant, but love will always start with me. I will be your beginning and your end. And in the middle, there will be our daughters. A happy family, that's what I always promised you, and I intend to keep my word.”

You tried to hold back your tears but it was difficult.

“You told me one day we were toxic, that I didn't love you. Is that still how you see us? When I come home from work and you're asleep, when I'm making your favorite meal, you don't feel my love? What about when you talk to me about your novels and I can't get enough of hearing you say the same thing over and over? What about when I quit my fucking job for you? If I have to set myself on fire to prove I love you, I will. Don't tempt me, you've never seen a guy madly in love in action.” 

Laughter rippled through the reception room. 

“So… I don't know how to end this.” He took your hands in his. “I just want to know I'm ready. Ready to be the best husband you've ever seen, ready to be an even better father. Ready to fight against all of my fears and yours, and I guarantee I'll come out on top.” He lowered his head to kiss your knuckles.

“The kiss comes later, Eren,” Connie shouted.

Eren turned his head to glare at his friend.

“It’s my wedding, and I’ve decided I’ll kiss her now.” 

Before you could react, he grabbed your waist and crushed his lips against yours. You smiled against him, returning his kiss. 

Lulled by the applause and the cheers of your daughters, you thought about what he had said. 

Love really started with him and ended with him.

──────── ✃- - - - - - - - - - - you liked it ? please support fics you liked with a reblog or a comment ! writers never know how we impact you if you don't say anything <3 ── .✦

[samirasystole]

ahhh so you're shown to be capable of recognising that people's trauma can make them act irrationally and unpleasantly! you recognised it in the white man! can you also recognise it in the brown woman? no? she's mean and bitchy and uncaring? i see

[femsolid]

Another MRA got ratioed today.

[quezartt]

Hace mucho que no subo nada por aquí 😅

Espero que sea de tu agrado esto!!;)

Más activo en Ig: @quezo_pp

[braziliangirlthings]

How I felt after finally learning how to use AO3: