Sleep Deprived and Ready to Party!

Kars is the smoothest about it. He doesn’t pounce. Oh no. He seduces. 

He gets so close you can feel his breath on your skin, and he talks about the honor of sharing blood with a creature as divine as him. 

He kisses your neck before his fangs pierce anything, one hand trailing down your back like he's playing a harp. When he finally bites? It’s slow. Deliberate. Erotic. His tongue flicks over the wound and you swear he moans into your skin. 

His blood-slick lips graze your mouth and he asks, “Do you feel it? The connection? The bond?” while he slides his hand between your legs without breaking eye contact. You’re not sure if you’re dying or climaxing but either way, he’s smiling.

Esidisi is an absolute menace. He’s the type to laugh in your face the second you offer your blood like, “You’re sure about that, human?” 

His body is hot- literally- so when he presses his lips to your neck, you feel feverish. 

He bites hard, lets out a moan that sounds borderline pornographic, and licks at the blood like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. 

He licks all the way up your throat while his other hand is already yanking your clothes off. Esidisi’s the type to fuck you while still feeding, like blood dripping from his mouth as he groans your name and says, “You’re mine now. I’ve tasted you. I own you.”

Wamuu is the gentlest but also the most intense. 

He’s oddly reverent about it, asking you several times if you’re sure. But the second you nod? He devours you. 

He lifts you in his arms like you're weightless and cradles your head as he lowers his mouth to your shoulder. His bite is firm but precise- no pain, just pleasure. You whimper and his breathing deepens, arms tightening around you like you’re the most precious offering he’s ever received. 

“Your offering will not be wasted,” he murmurs into your skin, blood glistening on his lips as he kisses your collarbone. He makes love to you after. Slow. Deep. Thorough. Every movement is worshipful, and when you come, he bites down again- and the sensation is so overwhelming, it almost sends you over the edge a second time.

Santana tilts his head, mouth parting in eerie fascination as you whisper “You can have me.” You might as well have said “Feast.” Because he does.

He moves fast- one moment he’s standing still like a statue, the next he’s on you, pinning you down with his body like you weigh nothing. His tongue is long and warm, sliding over your neck before his fangs sink in- and the sound he makes?? Low and guttural, like a growl mixed with a moan.

He doesn’t just bite- he suckles. Like he’s drinking straight from the source of life, one hand gripping your hip possessively while the other curls around your throat- not to hurt you, but to hold you still. You can feel his breath hitch, his hips grinding into yours like he doesn’t fully understand why he’s so hard, but he knows he needs to be inside you.

"You’re warm,” he mutters, touching your skin with reverence. “Soft. Mine.” Then he buries his face in your neck again, moaning into the wound like a dog with a bone, while rutting into you with overwhelming hunger.

If you let all 3 of them do it at once?

She’s pointing fun yet logical, allowing you to rant about what you did and where you possibly went wrong with each. She sat across from you, leaned forward with her elbows on her knees in full concentration. You were sat back practically melting into the furniture that didn’t despise you, moving a hand around to exaggerate your speech with the other stuffing your face with food like you haven’t eaten in weeks. Lowkey, you haven’t.

“When I talked to Hoove, being nice and supportive while telling him not to work too hard—I thought I was being sweet ya’know—“ You stuff your face and swallow.

“—but apparently NOT?? He got angry with me, when I tried backtracking and apologize which crazy by the way he said he HATED ME?!” You shout, you can feel your face heat in anger at the thought before tears well up.

“Or how I tried to speak with Daisuke—“

“Who’s that one?”

“Oh my tableware, he’s like tall about yay-high with black hair a portion of it in a bun with like dishware themed robes…I heard from others in rhe kitchen that he’s into taking things seriously” You explain with a wave of the hand.

“I actually…heh I thought that we’d get along, he likes taking care of the dishes and even tries to fix them if they crack due to me but that’s not the point I too like fixing things, I want to fix things…but I guess unlike him or fake it till you make it like Tony…I just make it worse…”

“I…I just wanted to be friends or the I don’t know? Date? The whole reason of the damn glasses.” You mutter, you push the snacks away and use a napkin to clean yourself.

Dating them, any of them wasn’t the main goal. Sure it’s interesting but realizing the things around your home have their own lives in the house was so cool!

Being a hermit, a homebody it felt like a this was a way to help you as well, to get better with being social and maybe let you learn that the outside wasn’t so scary and not everything was out to get you.

But, you messed it up—perhaps you tried too hard, pushed too much, didn’t push enough, didn’t flirt when needed to, too flirty for some, or didn’t have enough specs for the correct dialogue and it came out lame. Now, you’re both miserable in the house and out of it.

Sam was trying, really was. As you spoke she’d occasionally glance around her apartment as if the ranting was making her paranoid about her house. Sighing she runs her hand down her face. She should’ve said something about the weird black stuff in that bathroom, maybe it was the fumes getting to you, but she shook her head.

“What else happened?…”

“The breaking point?”

“Yeah, what made you take off the glasses?”She asks, you groan, slumping back and wiping away a few stray tears as you remembered.

“I was going to the Breaker Box Club, ‘cause Eddie and Volt were still nice-ish from our previous conversations—I hadn’t talked to them in a bit by then cause I was trying to salvage whatever was going on between Harper the hamper and Dirk dirty clothes. I wanted to catch up and help Eddie with some of his work like last time.” You shift in your seat uncomfortably.

“When I entered it was packed, I was happy for them that their business was getting bigger but I knew it was gonna be a lot to take on so I went to find one of them to offer help…”

“…you try and help a lot…”

“I do, it’s…the only thing I can give to them—“ you stop yourself, continuing the story of the night prior.

“But, I knew I wasn’t welcomed. Everyone avoided me, whispering around like I was back in school. Again, Volt saw me. I remember waving at him as he walked over way too quickly. We talked as he pushed me along the way I came from, when I noticed I was confused and…worried I lost another person again…” You take in a deep breath.

“I did…the gossip around the club didn’t go unnoticed by the owners he wanted to get rid of me so it didn’t disturb the customers. I tried talking to him saying that I wasn’t a bad…person…” You don’t sound convinced yourself by that statement.

“He wasn’t having it, his…skin almost turned this light blue? His hand gripped my arm to drag my away from the prying eyes, it hurt…not to make him anymore mad I let him, throw me out…” Voice trailing off, Sam looks stunned, like this was the most juiciest soap opera ever.

“You got kicked out of your own break box—“

“YES, I GOT KICK OUT” you yelled but not at Sam, yelling at the absurd thought of being thrown out of your own break box.

“Crazy…” She elongates the ‘zy’ in the word, unsure how to handle the rest of this.

“Do you think there’s a way to start over with them? All of them I mean?”

The sun was setting, making the silence seem light and comforting. You’re tired, and don’t know where to tread next, so many ideas run in your mind that you—wait…

There might be a very dubious way to get your life back to normal. The thought felt terrible, too personal and guilty, but you don’t seem to have any other option. At least not right now. So, you’ll pin the idea with Keith in the back of your mind. And let it fester or wilt as you and Sam brainstorm together.

Back at the house.

The ones that cheered for your leave are quiet, basking in the dullness of the house. Sure they can talk to one another but…that’s uneventful. The house is missing apart of itself the part of you. The human part. The fragile, unpredictable, unproductive, and lonely ways of you has gone missed.

But everyone refuses to say it out loud. They’re all still bitter and angry with how you treated them—wait…why exactly are they all mad? Some can’t remember but feel justified, although, looking back they just remember you trying. No.

No. You hurt them. They think…

…

…

Okay—well they aren’t sure…not anymore.

The lights are off because there’s no need to see, the sinks and baths don’t run because there’s no one to draw it for, the wall creaks and settles sadly, coffee pot remains unused along with the beauty products, television, books, sofa, stove—all of it. All of them are…completely bored?

Maybe, making your life inconvenienced and almost down right harassed in your day to day life after you stopped interacting with them wasn’t the right way to express their anger. A day turned to four then a week then two weeks.

Dorian can feel the worry in every room about when you’ll return, he huffs. Bedroom Dorian stands still, looking up at the ceiling then down to the floor, watching Florence quickly scramble around her time book with all the new complaints and meetings for Celia.

He reluctantly…steps forward. Away from his position to stand right in front of the poor woman. He rather be doing his job, the thing he thinks so highly of. However, he too is miserable more miserable than laundry room closet Dorian because what is his purpose now that the one who he open and closes for…is gone?

But he’s convinced himself that speaking with Celia will help.

Or so he hopes.

Taglist:

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Diego Brando loiters by your open room door while you pack your suitcase. he’s been standing there for nearly an hour now. however, he hasn’t said a single thing.

you watch him from the corner of your eye as you slowly empty your wardrobe. you know he’s not exactly happy about your decision but if he wants to say something to you, he should do it on his own accord—not sulk like a child and wait for you to say something first.

a few more minutes of pure silence pass by and, to your surprise, Diego walks away and out of sight. before you can even fully turn your head to see if he’s actually gone, he comes rushing back straight into your room. 

“do you really have to go?” he asks, now standing by your side, his jaw tight. his golden eyes peer down at you with badly feigned indifference.

“Johnny needs me,” you reply matter-of-factly, hands returning to work folding your undergarments.

“why does it have to be you?” his posture is stiff as his hands fiddle with one of the dresses you hadn’t gotten to folding yet. 

“he doesn’t have anyone else.” you tilt your head to look at him. you can’t lie, it hurts saying the truth out loud, as if verbalising the way Johnny’s been utterly abandoned makes it more real somehow. 

you wish Diego could understand your situation better but you know that might be asking too much from someone who doesn’t care much about the Joestars. if your positions were swapped, you would probably be almost as upset as he is.

Diego’s eyebrows are slightly furrowed and if you look hard enough, he almost looks as though he’s pouting. when your eyes finally meet, though, his sour gaze and bitter expression soften ever so slightly. 

“i don’t…” he starts before pursing his lips, like he’s physically unable to say the rest of his sentence. “i’ve gotten used to having you around.”

“me, too, Dio,” you reply with a small smile. “i wish i could stay—”

“then stay.” he grabs your upper arm firmly but not tight enough that you couldn’t break off if you wanted to. gazing down at you intently, Diego chews on his tongue, as though fighting an internal, unspoken battle.

after a second, his mouth opens and closes but, still, no words come out. clicking his tongue, he scoffs at himself before throwing caution to the wind. he leans forward and captures your lips with his own. his grip on your arm tenses when you move but relaxes the second he realises you’re not pulling away.

dropping the piece of clothing you’d been holding in your hand, you reach out to rest your palm upon his sturdy chest. he gasps softly at the impact, briefly breaking the kiss before diving back in, licking and nipping at your lips with a neediness so uncharacteristic of a man with so much pride.

you can feel his heart pounding rapidly beneath your palm and you’re sure yours is doing the exact same. his free hand travels to your neck, cradling your head with a carefulness bordering on reverence. he tilts his head a little, lips smiling against yours when you gasp from how much deeper his tongue is able to reach like this. 

“may i…” Diego mutters, words muffled by his unwillingness to fully tear his mouth away from yours; but he trails his hand down slowly, making clear what he’s asking permission for. 

you hum into the kiss, responding only by placing your hand on top of his and guiding it down further until his palm cups your breast. having never been touched in this way before, you feel your entire body erupt into a burst of flames as goosebumps ripple through your skin; from where Diego’s hand makes contact to the very tips of your fingers and toes.

by the time the sun has set, your suitcase and clothes lay scattered and abandoned on your bedroom floor. you’re panting, still, as you rest underneath your blanket, your bare, sweat-slicked skin pressed against Diego’s while he keeps you buried in his toned arms. the region between your thighs still tingles and you can’t help but wriggle a little when he begins tracing unreadable patterns into the skin of your back and the apex of your butt.

“i won’t beg,” he declares, brushing his lips against the crown of your head. “i won’t try to keep you here against your will… if you must go then so be it.” he pulls you closer and you press your face into his collarbone, eyes fluttering shut.

“i’ll keep in contact,” you mutter into his skin. “we can write to each other every few days.”

Diego hums contentedly and, eventually, his breaths even out as his hands gradually cease their ministrations. you slowly feel the lull of sleep getting to you as well but you fight to stay awake for as long as you can, to bask in the comforting warmth of being wrapped in someone else’s arms. 

the following day, Diego sees you off. he lingers, eyes locked onto the tiny aircraft you’d boarded, until it disappears entirely from sight. in his hand, he fondles the precious piece of paper you’d left him which contains the address of an old family home in Kentucky.

once it fully dawns on him that you’re gone, an overwhelming bitterness seizes at his chest, as though an unseen force is trying to tear into his ribcage to rip his heart out.

it’s in that moment that Diego Brando swears to himself that he’ll not only set out to fulfill his life-long conviction of climbing the social ladder but he’ll also demand that the world knows of his presence.

he will become such a force to be reckoned with that you’ll hear whispers of his name from all the way in America; so that next time, when you’re forced to make a choice once more, you will choose him.

he will not be left behind by you again.

hours later, when you’ve finally arrived back home, the first place you stop by is neither your family’s estate nor the hospital. instead, you make your way to the house your grandmother used to stay in until she passed. in her will, she’d left the property to your name, presenting her only granddaughter a quiet opportunity for independence, should you ever need it. 

the last time you were here, it was after your grandmother’s funeral. too wracked by grief at the time, you thought you’d never return. now, though, you’re thankful for her final gift because here is where, you’d long decided, you will stay to nurse your childhood friend back to health—a good distance away from the family that had abandoned him in his time of need. 

exploring the home a little, you do a quick clean of the place, sweeping away cakes of dust and changing bedsheets. you ensure that the water and electricity are still running and that the stove still functions. 

once everything’s in order, you drop to the ground, rapping your knuckles against the wooden planks of the floor, mimicking the movements of your grandmother from back when you were a little girl.

eventually, you find it: the hollowed out space hidden in the ground. carefully prying the loose plank off, you’re relieved to see that the treasure she’d kept a secret to everyone but yourself is still safe and sound. 

reaching into the space, you dig past several bars of gold and a tin of jewels to feel out what you’re truly looking for. once you make contact with a smooth, curved surface, you wrap your fingers around the grip and pull out a revolver pistol.

‘this,’ you think to yourself as you rummage for the box of bullets you know your grandmother always kept around, ‘is how we will survive, Johnny.’

in the evening, you pay your parents a visit. to say they were surprised by your sudden return is a severe understatement. you’d shrugged off their barrage of questions, telling them you’ll reveal everything soon, and asked for a carriage to be arranged to bring you to and from Johnny’s hospital.

”you’re bringing him here?” your father scoffed, not trying at all to hide the distaste on his face.

“worry not,” you replied, biting back the desire to snap at him for pulling such an expression, as though you were discussing housing a wild rabid animal rather than a young man in need. “i’ll be living with him at Mama’s cottage. i’ll take care of him myself. you won’t have to do anything except lend me the carriage for tonight.”

“you—” he began, voice raised, only to be cut off by a voice coming from further within the home.

“do as she says,” your brother demanded in a tone both of you were well familiar with. he’d only ever used it for pettier things such as requesting for extra dessert for the two of you, or whenever he wanted an expensive gadget to add to his collection. 

“lend her the carriage and—” James turned to address the family butler, “—arrange for the kitchen in Mama’s cottage to be restocked immediately.”

from over your father’s shoulder, across the house, he looked at you with a wobbly smile on his face—a silent ‘thank you’ for heeding his letter.

“wait here,” you instruct the driver before you slide out of the vehicle to make your way into the hospital.

night has fallen, giving the place a depressingly unwelcoming air. it’s a rather run-down building situated on the outskirts of town, just out of reach of local law enforcement—certainly not an institution Johnny’s parents would allow themselves to be admitted to under any circumstances. you brush your hand against your thigh before making your way in. 

the receptionist leads you to the communal ward and, rather forebodingly, warns you to brace yourself for the smell before you open the door. after which she leaves so quickly you wonder if there’s secretly a man-eating monster hiding in wait rather than a room full of unwell patients.

still, you take a deep breath before pushing the door open and, immediately, the air that hits you feels heavier, denser—a combination no doubt created by the stench of disease, human waste and stale air all mixing together into an unbearable miasma.

you internally thank your past self for being so busy you skipped all your meals today, for if you’d eaten even a single bite, you surely would have puked it out by now. you quickly scan the dimly lit room, eyes skipping over every occupied bed until you finally find who you’ve been looking for.

Johnny’s bed is close enough to the door for you to clearly see the state he’s in without having to get any closer. he’s asleep with a deeply uncomfortable expression on his face, on a shitty mattress atop a shabby bed frame. his once fluffy blond hair lays in clumps atop of the stained pillow beneath his head. there’s bits of dried blood staining his nose and mouth and the cloth wrapped around his nether region oozes with defecation. at the last second, you notice the blood that’s being drawn from his foot into a bag. 

the entire scene makes you sick to your stomach.

“what’re you doin’ here, missy?” the greasy man, whom you assume to be the failure that is this room’s caretaker, stands up from his chair in the corner. he crosses his arms in what you think it meant to be an intimidating manner. “visitin’ hours are over.”

“i’m not a visitor. a patient’s being discharged and i’m here to pick him up,” you reply matter-of-factly, hand hovering near the revolver strapped to your thigh, hidden beneath the skirt of your dress.

“take any of ‘em,” he says with a dismissive wave, like you’re a child choosing a puppy from a greedy pet breeder. “just not the blond boy with the useless legs, Johnny Joestar or whatever his name is. he’s helpin’ me make some good money.” he bursts into a loud guffaw, clearly tickled by himself.

“that’s exactly who i’m here for.” you hiss through gritted teeth, heart pounding from an anger so strong it threatens to overwhelm your better judgement.

“then you’re gonna have to go home alone, i’m ‘fraid.” the caretaker saunters over, stopping right at the end of Johnny’s bed as he idly adjusts the contraption stealing your friend’s blood. whatever he does with it seems to nearly stir Johnny awake. “unless you do me a lil favour and make me happy—” his beady eyes scan your body up and down, “—then maybe i’ll consider letting him go.”

you draw the revolver and aim it towards his head. his expression falls.

“how about now?” your palms are sweating and your hand threatens to tremble but you maintain a facade of confidence to the best of your ability, despite your complete lack of knowledge on how to shoot a gun. you know you don’t have to be unafraid, he just needs to think you are.

a tense few seconds pass by with your barrel aimed straight at his forehead before he raises his arms in defeat and backs off.

“fine,” he spits as he haphazardly yanks the needle out of Johnny’s foot before wandering back to his chair and plopping onto it. “the smell of his shit ain’t worth the extra dollars anyway.”

you don’t thank him. instead, you rush over to Johnny’s side and comb your hair through his sweat-soaked bangs. he twitches at the contact, expression souring as he remains asleep.

“JoJo,” you murmur, scratching his scalp gently with your nails. “hey, wake up. i’m here to take you home.”

when his heavy eyelids finally flutter open, Johnny Joestar thinks he might be dreaming again. in the darkness of the dreadful room, illuminated only by the dim rays of moonlight cutting through the blinds of the barely opened window, is your face—a sight he’s long since accepted he would never see again. 

after you’d left for England, he’d sent you a letter that he isn’t sure you ever even gotten since he never received a reply. after the whole incident outside the theatre, he hasn’t gotten any news from your brother who visits him every now and then. every time Johnny asked if there was a letter for him, James’ shoulders would sink as he shook his head.

“she’s probably busy with schoolwork.” the younger boy tried comforting him once, only to accidentally let slip afterward that you spend much of your free time riding horses with the stable boy.

that had been the breaking point for Johnny. just like everyone else in his life, you’ve left him, too. 

so why do your hands feel so warm? why does the scratching of your nails against his scalp feel so good? why can he smell the familiar scent of the perfume you’ve worn ever since you were little?

“hi, JoJo,” you whisper with a small smile when you’ve noticed he’s finally woken up. you lean over to brush your lips against his sticky forehead and something hidden deep in his chest bursts open as tears pouring down his face.

“you’re real?” Johnny sniffles, tilting his head so that he can be closer to you, even by a little bit. “you’re really here?”

“yes, of course i am.” you cup his face between your hands before he reaches out to grab your shoulders, pulling you into a hug. you drop your knees to the floor in order to embrace him properly. his tears soak into the collar of your dress as he heaves and babbles incoherently, his hands grasping pitifully at whatever part of you can reach.

“come, let’s leave,” you murmur into his temple before you pull back enough to hook one arm under his armpits and the other under his knees.

Johnny’s unsure if he’s simply lost weight or if you’re just stronger than he thinks because you lift him with not as much struggle as he’d initially expected.

you carry him cautiously out of the hospital and he feels his face burn with embarrassment—had this happened prior to getting injured, he would’ve fought tooth and nail not to be carried like a baby by his female childhood friend; but he’d spent four months of actual hell in this hospital so he’s gonna take any chance he can get to leave.

the fresh night air lulls Johnny to sleep on the carriage ride home. leaning against you, he hugs your arm like a pillow and rests his head in the crook of your neck, his soft breaths brushing rhythmically against your collarbone.

by the time he stirs awake for the second time that night, he finds himself sitting in an empty bathtub—alone. panic is quick to grip at this throat when it dawns on him that he doesn’t recognise this bathroom. he attempts to lift himself out of the tub only to slam the back of his head against the tiled wall when his elbows buckle and give up on him.

the impact sends him reeling, barely able to notice you calling his name from outside, voice gradually getting closer. when you open the door, he’s rubbing the sore spot of his skull with a pout on his face. he looks, you think to yourself, amused, a little like an upset kitten.

“James had your parents send all of your clothes over earlier.” you place a bundle of pajamas on the bathroom counter, beside the sink. “do you want me to help you clean up or will you be able to do it yourself?” you ask.

Johnny’s instinctive reaction is to reject your help, unsure if he can bear the further humiliation of having his friend wash his ass for him. but then he recalls the way your nails scratched his scalp and how the simple sensation had sent a nearly overwhelming wave of comfort throughout his body. 

half an hour later, he finds himself submerged in hot bubbly water, body finally rid of the disgusting cloth which had been constantly stained by his excrement. truth be told, he felt quite bad when you had to help him remove it—it was only after he saw your face scrunch up from the stench did Johnny realise he hadn’t considered how you would feel washing your friend’s ass.

not once, however, did you complain. if anything, you go about bathing him like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Johnny cleans the parts he can reach, of course, but when to the harder-to-access spots, you scrub him down with a soapy cloth, pretending like you totally can’t see his flaccid member through the sudsy water. 

Johnny feels his face burn with embarrassment but this time, it doesn’t stem from shame, instead it comes from a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long, long time: shyness. he didn’t realise how much of his confidence had been stripped away from him after the loss of his legs—he was never really given the chance to live a life post-injury, after all.

but now, as he sits in your tub while you rinse off his hair, he’s faced with the revelation that, without his confidence—without his legs—Johnny doesn’t quite know who he is anymore. had you not shown up out of the blue, he'd still be stuck in that shitty hospital, losing his blood to a man selling it for money and being totally unable to do anything about it.

”thank you,” Johnny says suddenly, his tired eyes burning with tears once again. he feels your hands pause briefly from from combing your fingers through his wet hair. “thank you for coming back for me,” he chokes out before he’s wracked by sobs for the second time that night.

you don’t give him a reply.

instead, for the rest of the night, you’re quiet as you help dry him up and put on his nightwear. you’re still gentle and careful when you handle him but even when you push a brand new wheelchair into his room, where he sits waiting on his new bed, you don’t say a word about where it’d come from. 

“are you… mad at me?” Johnny asks sheepishly, unable to bear the silence any longer. you’d just finished taking your own shower and had entered his room once more, only to quietly unpack his clothes from the box James had gotten sent over earlier.

you freeze in place, holding his beanie in your hands as his question echoes in your head.

“no,” you reply with a shake of your head, not bothering to turn around. “of course i’m not angry at you, JoJo.” the usage of the long-forgotten childhood nickname soothes his nerves tremendously. 

truth be told, you’re not sure how you feel right now but you definitely aren’t upset at him.

“i’m just tired, i think.” you throw a glance over your shoulder. “i haven’t eaten today and i think it’s finally getting to me.”

“th-the whole day?” Johnny gasps. “i’ll go get you something.” he reaches for the wheelchair.

“wait—”

a loud thud reverberates across the room when his body hits the solid wooden floor. Johnny hisses and groans whilst you drop to your knees beside him and pull his upper body into your arms. once he recovers from the shock of falling, the mild pain from the impact quickly fades away when he realises how close your face is to his as you cradle him.

“are you okay, JoJo?” you ask softly, a hand rubbing tenderly at the elbow that had hit the floor first when he slipped. his heart flutters in his chest when he catches a whiff of your shampoo. he nods and you smile in return—the sight alone knocking the wind right out of his lungs.

“you should rest,” you suggest after helping him back into bed. “i’ll go eat in a bit so don’t worry about me.” you tuck him under the blanket before pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, sending a wave of goosebumps from the crown of his head to the ends of his fingers.

a part of him wants to ask you to stay but the softness of the bed and the warmth of being beneath the thick comforter are quick to make him drowsy. he watches through heavy eyelids as you walk toward the door and in the haze of his overwhelming sleepiness, he speaks without thinking.

“i love you, (y/n).”

he sees you freeze right when you reach the threshold.

“goodnight, JoJo.” you close the door.

a year passes by without much incident—throughout which Johnny vastly improves the strength of his upper body muscles after months of disuse. he goes from barely being able to lift himself out of the tub to being strong enough to hoist his body onto the kitchen counter whenever he wants to make coffee for himself and off again back into his wheelchair.

his greater degree of independence leads him to helping more around the house, uncomfortable with the idea of possibly becoming a nuisance to you. the struggle in that aspect, however, comes from a source completely separate from his disability when he realises pretty quickly: he has no clue how to do anything. when you first catch him trying to fry an egg, he’d burnt it so badly you ended up throwing the whole pan away.

it had surprised him when, instead of being mad, you laughed so hard you cried and nearly passed out. if it had happened two years ago, his pride definitely wouldn’t have allowed you to laugh at him in such a way but now he just feels a swell of determination in his heart.

he will make it up to you no matter how embarrassing the learning process may be.

the routine you subsequently share is a fairly simple one: you’ll wake up early and prepare breakfast for the two of you before briefly checking in on him. most of the time he’s still asleep so you only really see him in the afternoon when you return from running errands. you then spend the remaining daylight practicing your riding around the field surrounding the cottage. 

on good days, Johnny watches from beneath the shade of a nearby tree and gives you tips whenever you stop for a break. on bad days, he watches from the window of his room, head slumped as he rests his chin in the crook of his folded arms propped up upon the windowsill.

at night, he helps you with dinner and washing up. if you’re not planning on studying that evening, you spend the rest of your waking hours watching television or playing cards. sometimes you just lay on his bed and talk until the both of you inevitably fall asleep.

it’s a daily routine that suits Johnny’s current lifestyle. he gets as much rest as he needs and he’s able to exercise his upper body in comfortable privacy during the few hours you spend every morning away from the house. you always return whenever he starts to feel a little too lonely and you get to come home to your best friend instead of a father who has yet another young man to introduce to you. 

these days, however, the routine has been shaken up a bit in a way that bothers Johnny to no end. oftentimes when he’s busy working out by himself, he’ll get a knock on the front door, without fail, it’s always a different man he’s never seen before.

“my apologies, is (y/n) in today?” is always the default greeting that hastily escapes the strangers’ lips whenever they’re met with a man in a wheelchair instead of an eligible young lady.

Johnny will say some variation of ‘no, you’ve got the wrong address’ or ‘who’s that?’ and if he’s particularly ticked off he might even pull a ‘that’s my fiancee’ just to really screw with them.

the men never cause trouble, always leaving with a sheepish apology—unwilling to put up a fight against someone they assume is incapable of fighting back. when you return, you’ll ask if anything interesting happened while you were gone and Johnny will shrug and say no. 

he’s fairly sure they’re suitors sent by your parents and he’d really rather not ruin your day by letting you know about them. that’s surely the only reason he lies. of course.

naturally, after a whole year of spending every day together, your friendship has been rekindled to a comfortable level. there’s a rare disagreement or two but nothing ever gets out of hand—you’re empathetic towards his situation without pitying him and he’s quick to swallow his pride if it means stopping himself from possibly upsetting you.

one thing that does disturb Johnny, though, is the frequent letters you exchange with someone you only refer to as ‘a friend’. every few days, without fail, you walk into the house with a letter in your hand and a wide grin on your face before you scurry off to your room. within an hour, you re-emerge with your own sealed envelope to drop off at the post office the next morning.

every time Johnny asks who it is, he gets the sense that you’re too shy to say. which is totally fine, of course. you can have friends that he doesn’t know about.

it doesn’t matter that sometimes, when he catches you rereading a letter, you’re biting your bottom lip and fluttering your eyelashes.

it definitely doesn’t matter that the letters occasionally come with a photograph or a pretty pressed leaf—all of which you keep hidden in a box deep in your closet.

it doesn’t matter that the handwriting on the envelope is so clearly that of a man’s.

none of it bothers Johnny Joestar at all.

what matters is that you’re here with him and nobody else. your days are spent almost exclusively with one another. it’s just the way he likes it and nothing will ever change that—

“i’m taking part in the Steel Ball Run,” you announce one day over dinner. the clinking of metal utensils against porcelain cease though the record player carries on projecting its sweet soft melody.

Johnny can feel you staring at him from across the table but he keeps his eyes glued to his half-eaten food. for a good few seconds, all he can hear is the sound of his own heavy breathing. it takes him a while to realise you’re calling his name.

“it’s a cross-country race—” you begin.

“i know what it is,” he snaps, cutting you off, the words sharper than he’d meant them to be. Johnny swallows thickly, the guilt of speaking so rudely to you already manifesting deep in his chest as a numbness that spreads outward throughout the rest of his body. “i’m sorry.” his bright blue eyes flicker upward to briefly meet yours.

”it’s okay,” you sigh with an understanding smile, “i knew it would come as a surprise.”

“what made you wanna go?” he asks, trying to keep his tone as curious as possible in hopes that the bitter sadness doesn’t seep through.

“well, i first heard about it from Di—my friend, who’s taking part, too.” you poke at a piece of steak on your plate. “the prize is 50 million dollars so i asked my parents what would they think if i won that much money?” you straighten up in your seat and lock eyes with Johnny.

he nods and waits for you to carry on.

“and they said that i probably wouldn’t need a husband anymore.” your lips twitch into a smirk. “i think they were joking but i took it seriously enough that we had a small argument.” 

Johnny swallows thickly. he knows how hard of a toll it takes on you every time you fight with your parents. he’s witnessed you coming home in tears more than enough times.

“so i challenged them—my father, mostly. i said if i win the Steel Ball Run, they have to stop trying to marry me off to someone. he got worked up enough to agree to the terms.” 

pride swells up in Johnny’s chest, briefly distracting him from the prior disappointment of learning that you’re soon about to leave him. ever since you were both kids, you’ve always been stubborn and strong-willed, and he adores that that part of you hasn’t changed.

it had been that part of your personality that saved him, after all.

”i think you can win,” he says casually, like one would when discussing the weather whilst outside—like there’s no doubt in his mind that you’re capable of such a feat.

your eyes widen as a big smile breaks across your face. to you, it sounds like a confirmation that he’ll be fine when you’re gone, that you won’t have to worry while you’re busy racing across America.

for Johnny, though, all he can think about is how he’s the one who just made you smile like that.

him.

‘for our last six months together, before you go,’ he thinks to himself, ‘i’ll make you smile like that as much as possible.’

He had lost you before, but here you were, back with him. In his desperate heart, he understood that it was a sign from every unknown god that this was for him after all the shit he faced; he deserved this. To see you again. A second chance of redemption. To him, this was enough: to have you in his life.

The way you brushed him off hurt, but not as much as when you two had your fallout as children. He remembered all too well how it felt and how cold the air was after you left. His face stayed completely still until you had truly departed. He stood there in his heart, hoping you'd come back, but you never did. He thought of how he licked his cracked lips as he held on to his chest. It hurt so much seeing the hatred in your eyes; it shattered his heart entirely. He had stayed there. Leaning on the tree, the one that had engraved both of your names in a heart. 

Jojo + Y/n

But there once was a time you used to smile at him like that.

And now here he was, looking at you, laughing. It had been so long since he had heard that laugh, but it wasn't at him; it was at Dio...The snobby British jockey. You hated jokes like that, at least you did.

Gyro clicked his teeth and grumbled right next to Johnny, breaking their small silence, "Can't believe she's falling so easily for him." Johnny gave a slight nod, but his eyes never left your back. 

"Y/n's stupid boyfriend." 

"He's not her boyfriend," Johnny detested finding Gyros complaining, just as annoying as seeing you with Diego. "Did you even hear him, Johnny!" Gyro waved his hands up and gestured in front of them.

"He's even making her laugh, god, I don't know why you're so soft with her, Johnny, she's a stubborn woman, the worst kind to deal with. I can't wait till this race is over." Gyro huffed and laid his head in his hand, watching you and Diego's backs, but all Johnny could think about was how much he hated your name coming from Diego's mouth.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

YOU burst out into laughter and put your hand to your mouth, muffling your laughs, as you turned your body away from Diego. But he leaned over to your side with a stupid grin on his face cocking his golden head to the side. "Stop!" you say while trying to compose yourself. "Sssssssssstop what?" Diego continued trying to put on an oblivious act to his antics.

"Fuck-haha that..was not funny!" You laughed, your cheeks beginning to hurt from their straining. "Then why are you laughing ssssssso much?" It seems your laugh has given him a sense of pride. "Because it's so dumb!" You rolled your eyes with a half smile. As much as you opposed Diego, he was quite charming when he could be.

Gyro cleared his throat loud enough for you to hear. "I have a gag of my own!" You turned your head back to see Gyro preparing to tell his joke.

"You have the floor," you say, already ready not to laugh.

"Okay, listen to this." Gyro put his hands up in exasperation. "Where do Egyptian children go to school?" – "They go to daycare!" Gyro hadn't even waited for a dramatic pause before exclaiming his answer, only to be met with confused faces all around him.

Johnny looked at Gyro with a raised brow, "Uh, Gyro, are you sure you said that right?"

"What? Yes, because nilo-ah shit!... Hold on! It doesn't translate well!" Gyro held a panicked look on his face, holding his hand up to his head, piecing together that his joke would only work in his native language. You almost let out a groan at Gyros's incompetence. For a guy who thinks so highly of himself, you'd think he'd be better at telling a joke.

Diego stretches out his arms in glee, almost hitting you as you veer away from him, "Damn, I feel good! Everything is so refreshing! Maybe it's because I have my darling y/n with me now. My body feels so light! It's too bad the sun is setting." He cooed.

Johnny, seeming done with Diego's nonsense, made his way between you and Diego, distancing him from you, before shouting out across from himself, "Get away from us, Diego Brando! We won't travel with you!" 

Diego turned his complete attention towards Johnny, pointing his finger at him, "Johnny Joestar..I applaud your performance in both the 1st and 2nd stages. I heard you got injured, but what a grand comeback this is!" He almost sounded a bit too enthusiastic as he spoke his words, then looked to you with all his ardor gone.

"I only ride with the best Y/n...You'll need to try a bit harder, darling."

You scoffed. Well, at least he wasn't that brain-damaged; he still thought he was better than everyone. Even his so-called 'darling.'

Riding between Gyro and Johnny, they formed a barrier around you, trying to get as far away from Diego as possible, toting you with them.

"We thought he was badly injured back there, but now...Are we going to be with him tonight?" Johnny's eyes were still fixed on Diego from afar, flipping back every few seconds as Diego performed his antics, such as flipping on his horse. 

"Well, even if we try to avoid the fact that there are wolves out there, it would be far too risky for the horses we need to stay in the village," Gyro said. You nodded, agreeing with Gyros' judgement. "Yeah, we should just stay here; it's not worth the risk. I'm sure Diego won't bite."

"Only if you'd desire it, my love! The wolves are still roaming around. It's safest to stay in the village." You flinched at the sudden voice. You squint your eyes to see Diego still on the same path as you, just a few feet away, staring you down. Wait...how could he even hear you!? Man, Diego was creepy. 

It was a small, old village with cracks in its old, built walls that surrounded the mountain plateau on which the villagestood. You could see the villagers from above waving at you all in one big gathering as if they were awaiting racers to arrive. One of them even yelled out your name, a little girl with a light blue frilled dress the color of the sky, waving her small hands all around to catch your attention. 

You blushed at the attention and sent a small wave her way. You could almost hear her squeal in her excitement as she ran back to her mother, tugging on her dress, pointing back at you. 

You breathed out a smile as you made your way into one of the shabby houses they'd supplied the racers. It wasn't much, but it had a stove with a few pots and pans above it and rooms seeming to stretch everywhere throughout the house.

Pushing your way through the arched doors, as Johnny was still in a frenzy over Diego, to Gyro, "Seriously, I am not sleeping in the same place as him! He's the lowest a human can become! Putting poison in the horses' food or tinkering with our harnesses is second nature to him."'

Gyro lit up the dim house with a lantern. "I know. We'll keep watch of our horses just like we do when we camp out!" Gyro said, exasperated by Johnny's incessantness about Diego. "There's a furnace in the room next door...I say it's time for dinner, Y/n, come with me, we're gonna search for some wood." 

"What? You can do that yourself." You point out to Gyro.

"Fine, stay here with Johnny then." Gyro shrugged as he walked outside. You almost let out a groan at the thought of it awkwardly staying in this house with Johnny. You take a small moment to think it over, then walk towards the arched door leading outside. 

Gyro stood there leaning on the wall as if he were waiting for you. When he saw you, he smiled knowingly, "Nyo-ho~"

"I'm not going with you." You say, raising a brow at his tone shift. He waved you off, "I did us both a favor, but we still need that wood; I'd rather go; if I stay with Johnny, he'll just ruin my mood with his whining about you," he muttered spitfully under his breath. 

You narrowed your eyes, confused by his words, "About me? What did I do?" He let out a loud laugh, "You're so clueless it's almost cute." He flicks his hat up, looking up through it, and his eyes spot something.

"Looks like you got a shadow." Gyro pointed up. The same girl who was with the crowd from before stood looking through a window, peeking from the corner. Seeing her more clearly, you could see the discoloration on one side of her dress, its straps nearly slipping down her thin shoulders. Once you catch her, she hides away again. 

You tilted your head in confusion at her sudden haste. Just as you were about to turn to go, you heard a tiny pattering of footsteps behind you.

She made her way down, running up to you, out of breath. Her cheeks flushed a bright pink as she twiddled with her fingers nervously, standing in front of you. You looked around, a little startled, and showed a faint smile. "Hi..." You say softer than you meant to.

"Um...my...my name is Ivory! Miss y/n!" She practically shouted at you when she spoke.

"That's a pretty name," you say earnestly. It wasn't just because you didn't know what to say; children were always just an effort to talk to.

"...I'm a big fan! I wanna be just like you when I grow up!" she exclaimed loudly. Your eyes soften at her, as your heart aches at her sentiment.

This girl wanted to be like you, one of the few women in the race. 

An example, a role model for young girls to prove themselves better than any man who says otherwise. You could almost hear all the women who fought for women's rights, the few you do have, scream from the heavens. 

"And find my true love in a race! Just like you did!" Your smile falters at her idea.

"What!?" 

"You and Gyro! Your lovers! I wanna find the love of my life just like you did!" She held up a cut-out piece of the newspaper you once held hours ago, turning it to see a picture of you and Gyro resting together; they'd edited all the blood and pain off your faces. It almost seemed real except you were there and fighting for your damn life, and they made it seem like it was two lovers resting upon each other. 

Your whole image of her wanting to be a strong, independent woman like you, or so you thought, crumbles like the paper you held in your hand.

"It is true, isn't it? My mother said it wasn't, but...I wanna believe it is!" She exclaimed hopefully. You stiffened as you regretfully handed the paper back to her. Gyro unexpectedly comes from behind you and wraps his arm around your neck, holding you like a lover would.

"I was just about to ask her the same thing." He looked down towards you.

"So, Y/n?" You deterred your gaze and gritted your teeth in anger.

Almost pushing him off, but you couldn't help but feel the little girl's gaze on you, her eyes shifting back and forth from you both and the paper she held tightly in her hands. 

"...Yes, it's true." You look at her with a strained smile, patting Gyro forcefully on his chest. "Love of my life...right here!" You couldn't bear to be the one who breaks her heart. No, not you; maybe a teenage boy when she's older, but not today. Let her believe, just like you did. The young girl, Ivory, lets out a giggle and joyfully runs off. As soon as she's out of sight, you push Gyro off you. 

"Touch me again, and I'll knock those grills out of your teeth." 

He raised his hands in defense and walked back, facing you, with a smirk

on his face, "Wouldn't want to upset you, Dolcezza." 

"Why the hell are you even here? Go collect the wood!" you shooed him off with gritted teeth. He laughed as he turned around the spurs on his boots, clicking as he walked off. 

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

AFTER settling down your things in a random storage room you found, you made your way through the kitchen, seeing Johnny resting on the counter with a can in his hand. You try to make your way past him, but he sees you and calls out, "Oh, Y/n! I thought you were with Gyro?" Your lips tighten into a line. "Yeah...I decided he would get the wood himself." Johnny nods and gestures to the can he holds in his hand. 

"Oh, okay...um, there was a can of hot cocoa powder in the cabinets."

"Oh yeah?" You say, curiously walking closer to him, leaning on the counter. "Um, I just thought that we could make it again, like when we were younger." He heastinately suggests.

"Mhm, I remember it now." You had a small smile on your face as you took the can of brown powder in your hands, observing it closely. 

"You called it your 'specialty drink, '" he quotes. You sighed out a laugh, putting the bag down. Sliding it back on the countertop. "Well, it is." A curious blush formed on your face just thinking about it.

"So do you want some?" Seeing the sweet smile on his face, you withdrew. "Uh, no, I'm not really in the mood for hot chocolate." You steadfastly prevent your gaze from falling onto him and his offer.

"Okay, just in case you change your mind, it'll be here." He nodded understandingly and turned back.

You shut the door of the room you found close by after you left Johnny alone in the kitchen. It was as dreadful as any other part of the place, not much there but wooden crates. Sitting on a crate that is lined up against the wall. You let out a sigh, leaning forward with your arms on your knees.

Johnny had lied to you for all those years; your whole relationship was based on a lie that he'd hope to make up in a few days? It felt nice to talk with him again.

It felt normal for once. But you couldn't shake the feeling of the things you two hadn't hashed out yet. You knew you had to, but it felt too soon, too much; you didn't want to ruin what little leverage you had, not yet. 

You dug in your pocket and looked at the rosary in your hand, craddling it. You noticed how foreign the rosary felt in your hand. You hadn't needed it in a while. One of your earliest memories is of you resting on your mother's lap, as she ran her fingers along your baby hairs, laying them back. 'To see your pretty face, ' she used to say. You smiled, thinking about it.

"What's that?" You pivoted to see someone peaking through the door. 

Diego stealthily slips inside the room, inhuman-like, how quiet he was; you didn't even notice he was watching you. You scoot back, shocked as he sits on the crate that was placed beside you. 

"It's nothing...just something my momma gave me." You coughed out and awkwardly fell on the back of the crate. Diego's gaze continued on your face. "I see." 

The clutch on the rosary stood still as you rubbed it in your hand.

"Ha, she always used to make me pray with her. I never understood why. But I see now she was trying for my sake." You sighed a smile. You didn't even know how you were telling him this. All of the thoughts piled up in your head just spilled from your mouth. His silence made you tense. Was it awkward that you shared so much? Damn, He probably thinks you're a loser. You cringed, "Sorry, I didn't mean to overshare."

He shakes his head, "No, not at all, I'm glad you're comfortable enough to share this with me. It seems both of our mothers were quite the saints." He said, apparently mentioning his own mother.

You raise your brows at his mention, "Ah, let me guess, your family is filthy rich and your mother gave you everything you want?" To think about it, someone like Diego would be some kind of spoiled brat, much like Johnny was at that age.

"Quite the opposite, I lived on a farm as a poor child worker, my father left me and my mother to die." You almost choke on your spit hearing his past. Diego didn't come from a wealthy family, not at all; he came from poverty, the depths of it. 

You didn't know what to say after that, you simply looked down, "Sorry..." you choke out.

"It is quite all right, I am glad you don't think of me as someone with a poverty-stricken background." Your lips form a sealed line. Could this conversation be any more humiliating? You'd misjudged his character this whole time. Thinking he was some aristocratic boy who had known no struggle in his life. You take a deep breath. Attempting to erase any sympathy you had for him.

"Plus, I thought the same about you. I mean, I had to buy your horse, well, our horse," he added boastfully.

You laughed as you nodded, "Right 'ours'." You put your fingers up in quotations, you both looked at each other, then laughed. It was odd how good it felt to talk with Diego. It seemed you two shared more in common than you'd like to admit.

"So, what else do you have up your sleeve, Diego? Are you gonna kill us all?" you mused, but in actuality, you were quitecurious about him and his plan in this race.

"I'm not that cold-hearted, not for you."

"Really? Well, I heard I'm not your only 'darling'. What about that rumor with your wife?" You smile smugly. You truly had been wondering what he did to an old woman; what would he do to you? At the thought of it. He'd probably drop you in a ditch somewhere after he got his perfect offspring or whatever he wanted from you.

"I'm not going to make up some sob story and say I didn't marry her for money; I gave her happiness with my presence in her last few days on this earth. She was a lonely old woman that's all." Diego's voice leaked no trace of the pretentiousness he had when you'd first met.

Hearing his words, you knew he wasn't lying; he didn't kill her. You bit your tongue as you looked towards the bleak floor. For the first time in a long time, you actually felt a desire to keep chatting with someone. Even if that someone was Diego.

"You know that whole charming act you put on. You don't have to do that with me," you expressed.

"As long as you turn off that 'scary country persona' with me." He tilted his head at you as he spoke. Diego had seen right through you. You hummed a small laugh. Seeing this earnest side of him once again was like a light switch that turned the room dark and bright.

"Might I say I'm glad you hit your head?" You lean forward more comfortably, looking into his eyes. "I mean, I was 2 seconds away from shooting you back there."

"Perhaps it changed me for the better." He had his own grin forming on his lips.

You smile, then notice something odd on his cheek; his skin begins to crack around the bandage, barely hanging on to his skin. You reach for the bandage to secure it, but he catches your hand quickly and leans closer to you. Your faces were inches away from each other. 

"Dieg-

"You truly don't remember me, do you?" His eyes beseeched for any sign of recognition within your own. You didn't move as his eyes searched all around like a dog.

It was as if his whole demeanor suddenly changed, returning to a more hunched appearance. "You know...I've been watching you closely. I must say, I am truly captivated by your singing. Did your mother teach you that song?" Your eyes widened, and questions filled your head. What did he mean he'd been watching you? Being here with him, you lost your whole sense of urgency. Forgetting everything Johnny had warned you about.

Then it finally occurs to you. The person who made you laugh and smile this whole time was Diego. Yet something seemed so off. But that didn't matter now; all that mattered was you were alone with him. Your heart began to speed, urging you to run. You stood up, but his body followed and stood in your way from leaving the room.

"Leave those pricks behind and come with me, I'll give you everything you want, anything your heart desires, just nod that pretty head of yours." You see the look in his eyes. It wasn't like anything you'd seen before; it looked like what only one could call animalistic. 

His eyes trace down your chest and pick up on the scar that was left on your shoulder. He inspected it more closely, sliding the collar of your shirt to the side.

You think he's about to pick at it, but his fingers only trace its stitch gently. "I leave you with those two, and you've already been hurt?" His eyes narrowed. Before you could speak or do anything at the moment, the corner of his mouth twitched, and he said,"...I've decided now." Diego then turns and leaves the room, leaving the wooden door wide open.

What the fuck just happened? You breathe heavily, touching the scar where he'd left his trace on it. 

Abruptly, you hear Johnny scream out Diego's name. You rush into the kitchen to see Johnny's angry face and Diego leaning against the countertop. Diego turns his head strangely, then he sees you, and smirks an oddly wide one.

"Y/n, just in time." Diego suddenly bolted over to you, grabbed your wrist, and pulled you towards him.

The knock came just past twilight.

It wasn’t loud. Not hurried. Just a slow, steady knock that carried through the little cottage like a memory—low and deliberate, the kind of sound that made your fingertips still on the rim of your tea cup. The warmth of the drink bled into your palms, but the rest of you felt cold.

You had known this day would come. You just didn’t know it would feel like this.

“Mama?” a small voice called behind you. Your daughter, half-covered in flour, peeked around the kitchen door. “Someone’s here.”

“I know, sweetheart,” you replied softly.

The second knock was quieter, as if unsure whether it deserved to disturb your peace. You rose slowly, smoothing the linen draped over your arms. Your sleeves always reached the wrist. Your neck remained covered. Only your hands and face were left bare—soft places untouched by the aftermath.

You stepped across the wooden floor, the creak of each board grounding you. You could feel your daughter’s presence behind you, tiny feet trailing, one hand clinging to the edge of your shawl.

You opened the door.

And the world stopped.

There he stood. Elder Faerie Cookie. Your husband—by name, if not by presence. Crownless. Cloak slightly frayed at the edges. Eyes the same, but older somehow. Tired in a way you had never seen before. As though time had finally begun to take from him what it had long taken from you.

He looked at you like he had seen a ghost.

Your voice was steady, if not kind. “You look thinner.”

“You look…” He faltered. His gaze swept over you, not with desire, not even nostalgia—but reverence, like a man facing a relic he was not worthy to touch. “You look alive.”

A pause.

Behind your skirts, your daughter peeked up with wide eyes.

His breath caught. He dropped to one knee almost instinctively. “Is this—?”

“She’s ours,” you said simply. “Three and a half.”

The child tilted her head, thumb in her mouth before pulling it out with a wet pop. “Tha’s… my daddy?” she asked, blinking up at him, voice round and uncertain. “He’s real?”

Elder Faerie Cookie swallowed. “I...,” he said, voice cracking. “I am...” He looked back at you, awkward, uncertain.

You didn’t smile. You stepped forward just enough to shield your daughter with your hand, then met his gaze.

“You came all this way,” you murmured. “What do you want?”

He stood slowly. No grandeur. No plea.

“You,” he said. “And her. If you’ll have me.”

You blinked once. Then turned.

“Put your shoes on,” you called softly to the girl. “We’re going for a walk.”

The child squealed and scampered away on clumsy feet, already forgetting the man at the door. You didn’t move right away. You stood in the open frame for a breath too long, letting the chill of dusk settle over your skin.

“I didn’t expect you,” you said without looking at him.

“I didn’t expect to be welcome.”

“You’re not,” you said simply. “But I’m not cruel.”

Then you turned and disappeared inside.

He remained where he was, fingers twitching at his sides like they were trying to remember how to hold something delicate. The same hands that once lifted your veil. The same hands that didn’t hold you when you cried through a winter night, alone and in labor.

A few minutes later, the door opened again.

Your daughter rushed out first, her shoes mismatched and her hair wild, a little cloak slipping from her shoulder. She looked up at him, wide-eyed and fearless. Then back to you, who stepped out with a steady, unreadable expression and a scarf drawn gently around your neck.

You said nothing. You only nodded once—sharp, quiet—and began to walk.

He followed.

They walked a little ahead of you.

His long steps slowed to match the unpredictable hops of a child chasing sunlight between leaves, her tiny fists full of squished flowers and broken petals she declared “spells.” Her laughter bubbled up like springwater—bright, free, untouched by the weight between you.

You walked behind. Hands folded in front of you, gaze low, breath steady. You could have walked beside them. You didn’t want to.

“I didn’t think you’d still be alive,” he said finally, eyes never leaving the child.

You smiled, barely. “Neither did I.”

He faltered.

You gestured at the scar-dotted trees ahead. “The birth almost killed me. It was winter. Deep glades. No healers. Just me, the wind, and time.”

Silence stretched between you. Your daughter squatted in the dirt, plucked a crooked feather, and held it up.

“Fevver!” she announced. “Fevver for flyin’ like faewies!”

“I screamed so loud I thought the stars would fall,” you continued. “There was so much blood. I passed out before I even knew she was breathing.”

He tried to speak, but the words didn’t form.

You looked at your daughter—muddy cheeks, proud little puffed chest. “She saved me. I kept going because I had to. Because no one else was going to.”

…You were alone?”

“I left alone.”

“You didn’t have to—”

You turned your head just slightly. “Didn’t I?”

He went quiet again.

You reached a bend in the trail, and crouched to brush dirt from your daughter’s skin. She leaned in, wrapping sticky arms around your neck, then held up a mashed flower with her thumb bent awkwardly behind it.

“Fo’ you, Mama,” she said, soft and breathy. “Is pwetty. Like you face.”

You laughed softly—barely a sound—and kissed her forehead. “Thank you, blossom.”

He watched you. Watched the way the child flourished under your hands, watched the scars peek out from your sleeve. Watched you smile—reserved, radiant—and realized he had never seen that smile before. Not when you were young. Not when you wore a crown.

When your daughter toddled ahead again, he spoke low. “You’ve changed.”

“I had to. The queen you left behind died giving birth. I buried her myself.”

You didn’t say it cruelly. Just truthfully.

“I’m not angry with you,” you added, after a pause.

That, somehow, made him wince.

“I just don’t think I ever knew how to be loved unless it hurt. And I don’t think you ever knew how to love me unless I was small.”

He reached for your hand.

You drew it away—gently.

“Don’t say you still love me,” you murmured. “You loved a version of me that I can’t be anymore.”

He stood there, aching. “Then let me learn this version.”

You looked down at your sleeve. At your body. At the parts of you you always kept hidden now.

“You say that,” you whispered, “but do you really want a wife who flinches at her own reflection? Who dreams she’s still bleeding, screaming in the dark for someone who doesn’t come?”

…Yes,” he said.

You stared at him.

“Yes,” he repeated. “I want the woman who survived. Who raised our child with nothing. Who still stands straight, even when she’s shaking.”

You exhaled, unsteady.

“Dat’s a bug!” your little one squealed, pointing at a passing beetle. “Issa fat bug wif teef, Daddy!”

She giggled herself into a stumble, flopping into the grass and kicking her legs as she laughed.

You looked at her. “She calls you ‘Daddy’ like it was always true.”

“It could be.”

You said nothing.

But this time, you walked beside him. Not touching. Not forgiving. But not alone. ...

The visit stretched longer than either of you expected.

He didn’t leave that night. Or the next. Your daughter had insisted—tugging at his cloak with flour-sticky fingers and declaring, with wobbling certainty, “Daddy stay now. Mama say 'kay.”

You hadn’t said okay.

But you hadn’t said no, either.

So he stayed. Not inside, but nearby—in the grove just past the garden, where roots curled like fingers over soft moss and fireflies blinked lazily in the underbrush. He slept lightly. Dreamlessly. When morning came, he helped feed the hens. Your daughter handed him a wooden spoon and ordered, “Stir da oat goop, Daddy,” and he blinked and obeyed like she had cast a spell.

You didn’t talk about what you were doing. Not yet.

But the wind had begun to whisper.

He could feel it even here. The murmurs drifting from the Faerie Kingdom: the throne standing too long untouched, the moon dimming, magic thinning like morning mist. The crown had no heir. Balance trembled.

And he—once radiant, once certain—stood at the edge of losing more than a kingdom.

It came to a head one evening, while your daughter painted crooked, muddy glyphs onto the fence with a stick. She hummed nonsense as she worked.

“I need her seen,” he said quietly. “Not hidden.”

You didn’t look up. You were kneeling in the garden bed, coaxing chamomile into new soil with careful fingers.

“She’s not a symbol,” you said. “She’s a child.”

“She’s a faerie child.”

“She’s our child,” you snapped, sharper than you meant. Sharp enough.

He fell silent.

You rose slowly, brushing your palms off on your skirts.

“I was a queen,” you said. “And your people watched me unravel. Not one of them followed. Not one of them asked. They don’t want her. They want a parade. A clean white dress. A name to chant and forget.”

“She doesn’t have to be that,” he said.

“She would be,” you whispered. “She’d learn to smile through pain before she learns to tie her shoes. I won’t do that to her.”

As if summoned, your daughter came barreling around the corner, cheeks red, curls wild, face dusted with pollen.

“Mamaaaa!” she cried, skidding to a stop. “He did magics! Real magics! Like spark-spark! Bzzz!” She threw her arms wide with a whoosh. “I go up like floaties?!”

You turned to her, startled.

“She wanted to fly,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t lift her far. Just a little.”

“More 'gain, Daddy! Fly-fly!” she chirped, hopping wildly. “Go up sky! I flap, see!”

She flapped her arms so hard she almost toppled. He caught her just in time, lifting her high. She squealed, delighted, and clung to him like she’d done it every day of her life.

You didn’t speak. You only stood there, watching. One hand curled tight over your sleeve.

Your scars ached beneath the linen.

“She’s the best thing we ever did,” you said quietly.

He looked at you, arms still full of laughter and not-yet wings.

“She is,” he agreed.

Your eyes shimmered. Not with tears. With something older.

“And she’s the one thing I’m most afraid to lose.” You didn’t say anything after that. The wind shifted, and the fire crackled in the hearth behind you. Your daughter stirred, then wandered back toward you—arms outstretched, clumsy with sleep. You scooped her up without effort, balancing her against your hip like you’d done a thousand times before putting her to bed.

The fire had burned low.

You could hear it crackling softly inside, behind shuttered windows and thick walls. The hush of the grove was deeper than usual tonight—no crickets, no wind, just the distant breathing of your daughter, fast asleep beneath her quilt, her hand still curled around her scrap-fabric faerie doll.

You sat on the wide flat stone just beyond the garden, shoulders bare for the first time in seasons. The shawl had slipped from your arms and lay forgotten at your side. You didn’t reach for it.

He found you like that.

He said nothing at first, only approached slowly until the moss quieted his steps. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t need to. You could feel the weight of his gaze settle on your skin like dew.

The scars were unmistakable.

They curled across your back like fine cracks in porcelain—some spidering beneath your ribs, others etched near your spine, all of them soft now with time, but never truly faded. He had never seen them. He hadn’t been there to.

You didn’t hide them.

You didn’t speak.

And still, he stayed.

Finally, your voice broke the quiet.

“I thought dying in childbirth would be easier than living knowing I wasn’t enough.”

His breath caught. You felt the sound more than heard it.

He knelt beside you.

“You were never not enough,” he said, voice rough with something too old to name. “I was too blind to see the garden I planted before chasing a flower that was never mine.”

You flinched—not because of his words, but because they were too soft. Too kind. You didn’t know what to do with softness anymore.

“I used to beg the stars to take me,” you whispered. “Not because I wanted to die, but because I didn’t want to live if this was what it felt like. To be forgotten. To scream alone. To bleed and hope someone notices before it’s too late.”

He reached for you—just barely, a hand against your wrist.

“Don’t,” you said, not sharply. Just small.

He let go.

Your eyes stung, but you didn’t weep like royalty. Not like queens do. You cried like someone who had spent too many nights burying her sobs into linen. You cried without sound, tears slipping quietly down your face and vanishing into the dark.

“I hated you,” you said. “I hated how much I still loved you. I hate that I still do.”

He bowed his head, forehead nearly brushing your shoulder.

“I should’ve come back.”

“You should’ve never left.”

“I know.”

You closed your eyes.

He moved slowly—offering no pressure, no weight—and wrapped his arms around you from behind. Gently. As though you might shatter if held too tightly. You let him. You let yourself lean back just a little.

His face pressed against your shoulder, just above the oldest scar.

“I want to be better,” he murmured.

You didn’t answer.

A long silence passed between you, stretched thin with all the things he still hadn’t said. Then your voice came, low and tired.

“Even if I love you,” you said, “I don’t trust the way you loved me.”

He didn’t respond.

But he didn’t let go. ... He doesn’t beg. He doesn’t plead. He never asks you to come back to the place that broke you.

Instead, he begins to visit. Often. Not as king. Not as consort. Not as the bearer of a crown heavy with regret.

He comes as a father. As a guest in the world you made without him.

Some days, he arrives before dawn, lifting your daughter into the sky before she’s fully awake—her laughter bright and hiccuping in the morning fog. Other times, he shows up with fruit you can’t find nearby, or with books she pretends to read and makes him act out instead.

You don’t always speak. But when you do, it’s softer now. Honest.

He learns how to mend the fence she breaks when chasing frogs. Learns how she likes her porridge lumpy, her braids uneven. He stumbles over lullabies you once sang alone.

One afternoon, while the meadow hums around you and your daughter dances barefoot through dandelions, you bring him tea.

You don’t speak. You just hand it to him.

And he takes it—both hands, reverent. No throne between you. No past pushing forward. Just the quiet clink of ceramic and the rustle of your skirt as you sit beside him.

“She loves you,” you say.

“I love her,” he answers. Then, slower: “And I never stopped loving you.”

You don’t answer that. But you don’t walk away either.

“She’ll need more than wings,” you murmur after a long silence. “She’ll need roots. A life not written for her by anyone but herself.”

He nods, gaze steady. “Then I’ll start with the soil.”

Your daughter squeals with delight, waving a crown of wildflowers. She plops one onto your head with sticky fingers. Then another onto his.

He looks ridiculous. So do you. She grins like it’s the greatest ceremony in the world.

You smile. Not as queen. Not as a symbol.

Just you.

And for once, it feels like enough.

No promises are spoken. No futures carved. But something begins again—slow and careful, like a seed cracking open in spring.