#get it. on the fence about making this. on the fence

[bluerosefox]

Deaged/or reborn Danny. Dad!Jason. Tiny Ghost King Danny.

What if Jason found a infant Danny one day and adopts him? What if he doesn't tell the Batfam at first cause he's still on the fence/mending his relationship and by the time he feels he might just be able to tell them he is unsure how to. He had plans but still isn't sure how.

He has no choice when his son is summoned one night.

It started when a cult sets up shop in Gotham. The Bats scramble trying to find out leads and what they are planning. But they are good at hiding and staying low.

Things get bad when suddenly Red Hood goes missing and all clues lead to the cult taking him for some reason.

When they find him, he's legit about to be sacrificed because he's 'Connected to the Realms' and the connection is powerful enough to summon the 'Ghost King into their realm.

The Bats do what they can to try to stop them but the ritual happens anyways when even the tiniest bit of Jason's blood spills onto the summoning circle.

And the Ghost King is summoned. Like all spooky and dark and all the bells and whistles of creepy evil thing coming.

Only suddenly it stops. And in front of everyone is a tiny little figure that slowly rises from the floor, and they hear a yawn.

On the floor, rubbing a eye and waking up from their nap, is a tiny white haired, elf eared, tiny fanged, kinda glowing with star like freckles, wearing an outfit fit for a prince complete with an aurora and ice crown floating above their head and a blanket that looked like it had plucked the very stars from a galaxy toddler.

The tiny thing looks around in a dazed hazed of just waking up and stops when it spots Jason. He blinks before slowly stumbling up and makes his way to him, dragging the galaxy blanket with him before he plops himself in Jason's lap, snuggles as best as he can as he can and mutters sleepily "Hi Daddy." Before falling asleep again.

....

....

What the hell-?!

[fear-is-truth]

POST-GAME! life with the surviving players AU — fix-it headcanons

ft. nam-gyu ‧ thanos ‧ cho hyun-ju ‧ kim jun-hee contains. mention of substance abuse/violence note. very self indulgent. we deserve happiness

NAM-GYU (남규) / PLAYER 124

after the games, nam-gyu goes fully hedonistic mode. uses his winnings to burn through every vice he couldn’t afford before.

he nearly dies in a club in itaewon—found in a bathroom stall foaming at the mouth. once he’s discharged from the psych hold, you tell him you’ve booked a recovery resort for the both of you in gangwon-do. you promise gourmet food, swimming pools, minibars; a private getaway to give your relationship one last shot.

except it’s not a resort. it’s a luxury rehab centre with armed medical staff.

they take his phone and put him through detox. they call you emergency contact when he threatens to claw out his IV with a fork.

nam-gyu gets one phonecall, and he uses it to call you a manipulative cunt.

you say: “if i don’t make you live through this, then what the fuck was the point.”

three weeks in, you visit during the allotted hour. he nearly lunges at you. staff pull him back by the shirt.

he screams in your face, “you know i hate you for this, right? you fucking psychotic manipulative cunt?” you tell calmly him, “i know. but i’d rather you hate me than die of overdose.”

he doesn’t talk to you for the next month.

two months in, you get another phone call.

“i don’t hate you anymore. still think about strangling you in your sleep, but. less often.”

you drive up the same weekend and bring him some of his old clothes, junk food he likes and copies of dogeared murakami paperbacks that you’re not sure if he actually reads.

six months later, he mails you a polaroid of himself eating soba and flipping off the camera. on the back: “clean. bored. now get me out of this place.”

CHOI SU-BONG (최수봉) / PLAYER 230

so he disappeared for a full week during squid game. no staff contact, no sightings, no updates. rumors swirl—dead, arrested, fled the country most likely.

he finally reappears at a press event for his label, sunglasses on indoors, chewing on his hoodie string. when asked where he’s been:

“self-medicating,” thanos says with a dazzling smile. “creative reset.”

three months later, he drops the comeback album. every track hits global charts: two go platinum in korea. billboard ranks it top album of the year. fans call it “his magnum opus.”

track 8 is just titled “230.” nobody knows what it means. only you do. that song dominated melon, bugs, genie, itunes, spotify—all of it—for 14 weeks straight.

thanos starts soft launching you on his instagram stories: a dinner table—two sets of chopsticks, one plate, your hands blurry in motion pouring soju.

internet comments go feral and his PR team has an aneurysm. but he doesn’t care.

he refers to you in interviews vaguely: “my partner,” “the reason i didn’t die that hellish week.”

CHO HYUN-JU (조현주) / PLAYER 120

first things first: hyun-ju is already the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. always has been—pre-op, mid-transition, but after the surgery, she glows.

during her recovery, you live together in bangkok for a while, five-star-hotels. days spent in silk robes, nights with mango sticky rice and rooftop cocktails. she loved the infinity pool and breakfast buffets.

when she’s strong enough to walk without pain, you both go dancing. in high heels.

every morning/evening she (shyly) asks you to take her photo by the window, natural light on her face, no filter.

a year later, you buy a pink bougainvillea near hua hin. it has white-tiled floors, tall windows that opened to sea air. breezy balconies, palm trees tangled over the fence line.

you get married barefoot in your own backyard, her veil pinned with seashells.

she calls you her wife every chance she gets.

“i waited my whole life to be me,” she says, resting her head on your shoulder. “and now i get to be yours, too.”

little does she know, you were hers in the beginning.

KIM JUN-HEE (김준희)/ PLAYER 222

after the games, you and jun-hee split the prize money. she tries to argue—insists she won’t take more than half—but you don’t budge. after all, she has a baby girl to take care of.

you relocate somewhere safe: a mid-rise, two-bedroom apartment with a 24-hour doorman. sunlight floods every room in the morning.

she spends her share of money on diapers, powdered formula, and baby clothes: soft pastel onesies, duck-shaped slippers, and a growing army of jellycats on the couch. you find them charming.

shyly, jun-hee asks if it’s okay to list you as her emergency contact.

eventually, you invest in a small online business together: handmade floral wreaths, pressed flower bookmarks. then grows into a physical space: a tiny but aesthetically pleasing storefront, minimal signage.

goes without saying that you’re the baby’s godmother.

 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑-𝐈𝐒-𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇 2025 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content. ꕀ

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Three Pointer 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, power imbalance, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: When you go down to see your brother at the basketball courts, you find yourself drawn into a game you don't quite understand.

Characters: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes

Note: I meant this to be one part but it should only be 2 or 3 at most. My mind is a bit addled. Without having to go into the pain, I lost someone dear to me.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Photo Sources: #1 #2

The bounce of rubber on pavement greets your approach. You come to the chain link fence and peer through, searching among the courts for one person in particular. Your brother is there with his usual crowd; three-on-three. 

Your anxiety twists in your gut. There’s always so many people down here. So many strangers. 

You enter through the gate, the hinges whining high, and you pass by the benches of those waiting for their go or watching. As you keep your head low, a whoosh blows past your nose. You step back and look up as the ball bounces off fence behind the benches. 

You glance over as a man catches it. You blanches show your palms. ‘Sorry’, you mouth, your voice trapped up inside your chest. 

He echoes you out loud. “You okay?” 

You stare at him. His dark aviators reflect the sunlight and his sleeves are rolled up over his sweaty shoulders. You finally find the sense to nod. You should pay attention.  

You slowly sidle past him. He backs up and watches you before slowly turning around. He tosses the ball to another man. He catches it and flips it into the net with no effort at all.  

You trip as you notice the other man’s arm. At first you think it’s tattoos but they shine like that. It’s metal. You can see a hint of the scarring where it meets his flesh, just beneath the black cotton of his tank top. 

You turn and put your head down again. It isn’t nice to stare. You know you don’t like when people do. 

Your brother, Carter, is in the next court. As you glance up, he’s squinting at you. You frown. What did you do now? 

You stop at the corner as Trevor calls his name. Carter sneers and turns to grab the ball out of the air. He aims and shoots. It bounces off the backboard and Hakeem catches it with a chirp, “Looking sharp.” 

“Whatever,” Carter puffs. “I need water.” 

He flicks his fingers in frustration and stomps toward you. He wipes his forehead with his arm. He ignores you as he grabs his worn-out gatorade bottle. 

“Chu doin’ here?” He growls before he squirts a stream into his mouth. 

“You said come get you around seven.” 

He swallows loudly, his eyes darting behind you. “Did I?” 

“I thought--” 

“Why were you bugging those guys?” He asks. 

You peek back. The man in the sunglasses makes a three-pointer. You shake your head as you face your brother. 

“I wasn’t--” 

“You needa go home. You don’t even like basketball,” he accuses. “No one needs you in the way. ‘Specially not them.” 

“You never ask me to play,” you shrug. 

“And who wants to play with you?” He rolls his eyes. 

You pout and nod. You wouldn’t be very good, would you? 

“Well, it’s seven. I just came to say so like you wanted.” 

“Sure. If Tonya shows, just send her here.” He spits. 

“Right.” 

You don’t like how he treats you like his time-keeper and his messenger. You don’t like Tonya either. Or many of his friends for that matter. They’re like him. You only live together because you got no choice. You can’t afford your own place. 

You spin and head back for the gate. Before you can reach it, the same man as before approaches you. He uses his shirt to wipe his face. Your eyes stray for just a moment, cheeks tinging at the sight of his muscled stomach. 

“Hey,” he tugs the hem down. “You wanna sub in? I needa sit.” 

“Huh?” You stop short and look at him. “Me?” 

“Sure. If you don’t mind? My buddy hates to wait on me,” he points over his shoulder with his thumb. 

“Well I... I don’t play much. Just come down to watch my brother,” you explain. 

“Oh, well, my buddy isn’t very good either,” he chuckles. “Just for two minutes.” 

You look at him. His beard is damp with sweat and a trickle runs down his temple. You look at the other man dribbling, watching you. 

“Okay.” You don’t like to argue. Carter always wants to and you’re over it. 

“Steve, by the way,” he introduces himself as he grabs his water bottle and sits. 

You give your name before you crane to see across the court. You turn and near the other man, waving shyly. “Uh, hi.” 

“He’s sending in a ringer,” the other man bounces the ball then catches it. “What’s your name, doll?” 

You repeat it again. 

“Bucky,” he replies. You blink as something in your mind tweaks. That’s familiar. “You start.” 

He bounces the ball and you barely get your hands around it. He bends his knees and gets into a guard position. You stare at him. You don’t know what you’re doing. 

You dribble, clumsily, and try to angle around him. He moves easily with you. You try to divert but only get your foot under the ball. It veers off and hurtles into next court. 

Bucky chases it as you scrunch up your hand and press it to your chin. He scoops up the ball and Carter turns. He says something but you can’t make it up. Bucky barely acknowledges and turns, giving a somewhat flummoxed face. 

“I’m sorry,” you eke out. 

Your eyes linger beyond him. Carter watches you with a scowl. He gestures, somewhere between disbelief and agitation. 

“Don’t be sorry,” Bucky says. “Gotta start somewhere. How about we go over the basics before you wipe the floor with me?” 

“I’m not very good,” you mumble. 

“Come on, I’ll show you.” He looks you up and down. “Stand here.” 

He taps the ground with the toe of his sneaker. You shuffle around to stand at the peak of the curved line. He takes the ball and stands parallel to you.  

“Watch my hands,” he directs. 

You do. You try not to gape at his metal knuckles as the plates contract with his movements. 

“Hold like this, then flick your wrist.” He makes the shot easy and the ball pings back to him. “Look at that square above the hoop. That’ll help.” 

He hands over the ball. You hesitate but take it, fingers brushing his. You take a breath and focus on the box on the backboard. 

This is going to be so bad. You were never good in gym class but you liked trying for fun. With all these people around, watching, it’s not so fun. 

You try. That’s all you can do. It hits the backboard, then the hoop, then once more goes to the side. Bucky hurries to catch it. He bounces it as he turns to you again. 

“Close.” 

“I’m taking up your time,” you stand on your toes and teeter. 

“Nah, I don’t mind.” He holds out the ball. Once more, you accept it and resign yourself to failure. He steps back. “Take your time.” 

You do, take your time. You stare, contemplating space and time and all the odds against you. You should’ve just gone home like Carter said. 

You flick your wrist. You look down at the pavement before the ball can deflect. You hear it hit and the net swooshes. 

“Yeah,” Bucky claps. “Good one.” 

You flinch and lift your chin, “it went in?” 

“Sure did,” he grabs the ball. “You’re a natural.” 

“Good job,” Steve praises as he approaches. 

“Oh, um, he showed me how.” You sway. “Thanks uh... for letting me try, but... I’ll leave ya be.” 

“What? You’re just getting started. Come on, I’ll show you a layup,” Steve insists. 

“Well, I don’t know...” you say. 

You hear a snort. You peek over your shoulder. Carter is watching. Bucky twists around to see too. Your brother shies away and smiles at the man. He only gets a shake of the head in return. 

“That one your brother?” Steve nudges you gently. 

“Er, yeah, Carter,” you answer. 

“Why doesn’t he let you play with him?” Bucky asks. 

You chew your lip. “Like I said, I’m not very good.” 

“Not having practice doesn’t mean not good,” Steve says. “Besides, it’s not the NBA. It’s fun.” He takes the ball. “Now let’s work on your layup.” 

🏀

You dribble and stop. You can sense Steve and Bucky coming in from both sides. You hurl the ball up with only the intent to deter them. It spins high into the sky and arcs back down. To your surprise, is drops right through the net. 

“Ha,” Steve stops it between his hands, “got us again.” 

“You don’t have to let me win,” you say. 

“Let you? Nah, we wouldn’t do that.” Bucky says. 

“Even if we are, means we get to buy you celebratory drink, right?” 

“What?” You laugh, “no, you don’t have to--” 

“Hey, sis,” Carter interrupts. “Headed home. You coming?” 

You slowly turn. Really? 

“We can get her home,” Bucky rebuffs. “We’re just wrapping up.” 

“Oh, sure, Barnes,” your brother laughs nervously. “Just didn’t want her walking home alone.” 

Your cheek pinches. Since when was he so concerned? Something else needles in your brain... 

“We can get her home,” Steve intones. 

You glance at him, then Bucky. It dawns on you. You turn to your brother. 

“I’ll be home soon,” you say. 

His face falls, “oh, sure. Just... be safe, sis.” 

“Okay,” you utter. 

He lingers, waiting, and when no one stops him, he goes. You watch him until he’s gone then turn to Bucky. He looks back at you calmly. 

“I know who you are,” you say. “Both of you.” 

“Figured it was obvious,” Bucky laughs. 

“Maybe, but... unexpected.” 

“We’ve been coming to this court since it opened in 1936.” Steve says. 

“Uh, of course,” you cringe. “I only meant... I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Steve chides. “We’ve been away, we know all the best places around, so why don’t we take you for the best drink in the borrough?” 

“That’s... nice. I don’t drink though. Never tried it, to be honest.” 

“How about ice cream, then? Alcohol doesn’t do too much for us. Not with our biology.” Bucky suggests. 

“I... alright.” 

“I know, not much fun hanging out with old men,” Steve snickers. 

“No, I don’t mean...” 

“Kidding,” Steve says. “It’s just around the corner. I’m sure you know the place.” 

Steve keeps the ball and grabs his water bottle from the bench. Bucky takes his bottle too and they walk on either side of you across the courts. As you come out to the street, the evening begins to set in. 

You head north then just around the corner. You’ve been to the ice cream bar before. It’s a bit too expensive for you so you usually get one scoop in a cup, no toppings. 

Steve holds the door. You enter ahead of both of them. You stop and browse the menu. You should try something new. 

“Know what you want?” Bucky asks. “This guy always gets vanilla.” 

“Can’t go wrong with a classic.” Steve says. 

“Nah, just gets boring,” Bucky snorts. “I’m thinking caramel brittle. Sounds interesting.” 

You nod and think. It goes silent as the shop employee awkwardly pretends to stack cups behind the counter. You shift and clear your throat. 

“Strawberries and cream?” You say as you reach into your pocket. 

“Our treat,” Steve insists. “Sprinkles? Waffle cone?” 

“Just a cup is good,” you assure him. 

“Got it. Buck, find a seat.” Steve hands over his water bottle. 

“Come on, doll.” Bucky gestures you away. 

You go back out to the patio area and find a table. Bucky sits across from you and put the bottles on the table. You hook one foot behind the other and lean your elbows on the wood. 

“You live around here?” Bucky asks. You nod and rein in your wandering eyes. “Used to,” he says as he combs back his dark hair. The patch of grey in his beard catches the receding sunlight. “It’s rougher than it was.” 

“It’s not too bad,” you say. You just double check the locks and get home before dark. 

“Things are different for pretty girls. Can never be too careful.” 

Your brows pop up. He means you? 

“Oh, thanks, but... I’m fine, you know?” 

“I’m sure you can take care of yourself,” he grins. 

The door chimes as someone comes out. Steve sits beside you and doles out the ice creams. He got yours in a waffle bowl. That’s the most expensive. 

“Good game,” Steve says. 

“Yeah, fun,” you agree as you poke the ice cream with a spoon. “Thanks for letting me play.” 

“We should do it again. You know, this guy, he’s a bit dull. It’s nice having a buffer.” 

“Me?” Steve exclaims. “Whatever.” 

They both laugh as you can only offer a smile. You like them. Even if you feel like an outsider, it’s not because of them. You just always feel that way. 

🏀

Bucky and Steve walk you home. Another pang of guilt pulls at your chest but you’re happy they came with you. It’s dark. Things are both quiet and too noisy. You swear you can hear other footsteps. 

You stop just at the edge of the overgrown lawn. Carter was supposed to mow it but you’ll probably end up doing it again. You don’t need another notice from the landlord. 

At least it’s dark. They can’t see how cruddy the house really is. You sway. 

“Um, good night, then.” 

“We’ll walk you to the door. It’s only right.” Steve says. 

“We’re old-fashioned like that.” Bucky adds. 

“Oh, alright.” 

You wait a moment then head up the walk. They follow. The front stairs groan under your weight, then theirs. You get to the top and turn around. 

“Thanks again.” You say. “I had a good night.” 

“We did too,” Bucky assures. 

“Sure di--” 

The door behind you opens. Yellow light pores out and casts Carter’s shadow over you. You cringe. 

“About time, sis. You left dishes in the sink—oh, you’re here.” He nearly chokes as he notices the men on the porch with you. 

“You’re not very nice, are you?” Bucky hisses. 

“What? No. I was reminding her. It’s her turn.” He pushes the screen door out and you move out of the way. “You guys wanna come in. I got beer.” 

“You could do the dishes,” Steve growls. 

“Huh? She said--” 

“Please,” you pipe up. “Really, it’s not a big deal. You two should head home. It’s late. Carter, I’ll do the dishes.” 

“They your dishes or his?” Bucky challenges. 

You blanch and shake your head. 

“Um, well, just dishes,” you answer. 

“No way to treat family.” Bucky mutters. 

“No, it’s not,” Steve agrees. 

“I’ll do em,” Carter’s voice squeaks. “It’s no big deal. Come on, sis. You’re right, it’s late--” 

“No. No. She’s not going inside.” Bucky says. 

“What? Really, it’s... fine.” You argue. 

“She’s coming with us. Shouldn’t be living in a place like this,” Steve exhales. 

“It’s--” 

“Not with him.” Bucky snarls. 

“But--” You begin. 

“Doll, you just settle down. This is what we do. We save people.” Bucky drawls. 

“And we know what it looks like when someone needs saving,” Steve puts in. “You come with us.” 

“And you,” Bucky jabs a finger at your brother. “Better not see you again.” 

“Me? She’s my sister--” 

“Nah,” Bucky grabs your arm. “She’s not yours anymore.” 

[billysgirllol]

“i’d ask ‘em to play games with me, because i think that’d be a fun way to engage. make sure we have a party.” lucy gray grins, thinking she’s got it ALL figured out. “billy bonney, how am i supposed to be takin’ this conversation seriously without laughing,” as she’s already doing in between her words, “when you say fart filled sleepin’ bag.” another laugh, head tilting back as it does when she’s just filled with too much giddiness. “but yeah…” actually, that’ll DO it, reminded of pat’s vile trick today. “that makes me feel weird, knowin’ now how innocent he played it off too— it’s really like he can convince you he wasn’t doing it, billy,” her voice takes on a serious tone now, a hint of fear even curling around the soft way she speaks. “and it’s overall gross thinkin’ on it.” he was putting his hands on her body intentionally. makes her heart drop in her stomach but then anger settles in it, a fire starts to grow then revenge rears it’s head— what could she do? mind gets to pondering furiously. a snake, she bets. she bets she could find a harmless one and stick it DOWN his fart filled sleeping bag early in the morning… she ain’t one to just let things go after an injustice has been served. “wish we had the camper all to ourselves.” lucy gray frowns, wishing none of the smelly guys were there and they could have the rv or a rv all to their selves. “i’d love that a million times over, you could be him, but— you also can’t. cause then i’d be mad, if i can’t be your ariel.” doe eyes roll at just thinking of some girl other than her acting along aside HER prince eric. “best night?” brows lift, eyes softening in surprise, heart doing more flips as their eyes meet.

“yeah,” her eyes drop back to his shoulders, the cool metal of her B necklace laying back against her chest when she raises up a little making her realize it’s there, wishing she could do all kinds of crazy things to his shoulders, “those are some good lookin’ shoulders.” she blurts, then laughs to herself because she’s embarrassed. cheeks becoming inflamed at even THINKING of said crazy things… which causes her to scrub his head faster when alerted to how heated her down below feels, swirling all around until every inch of his head has been covered. what a crime, to continually fantasize about your best guy friend. she silently scolds herself because WHY does she always end up doing that? but then again… dreamy eyes drifting to the starry sky, right hand scrubbing his hair at a slower pace now, left hand touching the necklace on her chest, how can she refrain? when he irritates her and makes her mad, but he also makes her mad… he’s the love of her life since he saved her on his fence, every time he looks at her with his sweet and beautiful eyes, when his hand randomly comes up and strokes her cheek, when he’s a taylor swift song and she’s wearing his initial around her neck, when he’s crazily protective of her, all of that makes her insanely in love with him and she can’t help it just travels in between her legs. it’s so romantic, the way emotions and feelings are crafted to fuel a desire to make love to someone. if this isn’t all just a heat of a moment thing, a plan that her body is just trying to trick her just to reproduce, and she still wakes up tomorrow wanting to trust in him again because right now she trusts in neither— one day she is gonna marry him and drag him back to a moonlit lake, but actually act on kissing him.

“mhm, sure will. i think a late night talk show would be fun.” lucy gray responds, feeling like a hairstylist having chitchat with her client. “they are, they definitely are, i agree. a group of girls is vastly different than a group of guys. which is funny, how that all came to be.” she muses, laughing that billy notices it too. girls feel safer and more peaceful and better smelling to be around and then guys are less inviting feeling, smell bad and can’t really have an overall pleasant time because there’s too much testosterone and always someone is either flirting or being a dog in some other kind of way. “course i like them a lot, i love them. and remember? little ole me always said you were a prince, because of your curls. first thing i noticed about you.” she reminisces, retelling her favorite story for the hundredth time to him. but she doesn’t mind, she loves any chance getting to tell it over again. “why? you havin’ fun?” playing innocent, shyly dipping down some more when he turns around. her heart exploding like fireworks when his affectionate hand reaches up to stroke her cheek, it’s so darling and so sweet. nothin’ is more swoon inducing than that. it’s like he’s trying to make her fall into his arms and start attacking him in kisses… well, he’s certainly not makin’ it easy for her. a laugh sounds from her at him saying he’s getting BAPTIZED, lucy gray plugging his ears for him when he goes under before letting go once he comes back up. “alright, great job.” she grabs her shampoo next, loading her palm with some blend of coconut and vanilla organic curly hair oriented shampoo then taking both palms and spreading it over his locks. fingers scrubbing deep into his roots, moving from the top of his head to the sides.

[cremeful]

thinkin about dadbf!smoke and brat!reader while listening to maneater by nelly furtado. — pt 2 here.

you had no business being with a man half your age but it was something about that man that pulled you in. His demeaner had you hooked, the way he carried himself, the way he spoke.

He told you multiple times " you got no business foolin around wit me, go get a boy your age. " he had zero intentions of pursuing you knowing how your ages would be controversial but yet he never really stopped you from coming around.

you had been invited to a 4th of july cookout throwin by stack, smokes younger twin brother which you knew it was a horrible idea attending givin the fact that last time you spoke to smoke you exchanged a few words to him that left a sore spot in whatever your relationship was considered.

you were dressed in a cute outfit that you were sure that would have smoke and others looking at you. you needed smoke to see you for you and not your age, you wanted him and no one else.

"look what the wind blew in!" a familiar rang out, it was stack. you were rounding the house and in front of the metal fence. He was wearing a white wifebeater and black jeans, he looked good.

"yea yea yea" you waved your hand dismissing his joke. once you reached him you gave him a side hug, "where ya been girl? havent seen you in foreva!" you laughed at his tone, "you know, i just been busy is all." he kisses his teeth and mutters "mann, you not to busy too call."

which he's right, no matter how busy you got, you always made time to call or come around, there was another reason why you haven't been around; smoke and his new "girlfriend"

you offer stack an apology, telling him that you will come around more again regardless of how pack your schedule is, he just nodded and told you that everyone else has yet to arrive but annie , mary and sammie are inside getting things together.

what he failed to mention is that so is smoke and his so called girlfriend and when you called through the backdoor sweetly yelling "hi familyyy!" sammie and annie whom where finishing up setting the coolers with ice, smiled and both let out a "OH MY GOD, ♡ !"

you laughed at their excitement, annie was the first one to pull you into a bone crushing hug. "where have you been girl, i missed ya so much" you can tell you absence cause her sadness, you can only offer her your time to make up for it.

once you two pull away sammie is standing next to you, he compliments your outfit, then offers you a side hug, you asked where mary was and the two exchanged knowing looks, "what y'all?" you let out a laugh of confusion. Sammie clears his throat "she's in the livingroom with smoke." he pauses before continuing "and sierra."

you said nothing, just smiling a bit. the pair can see the glint in your eye, like you are planning something you shouldn't be. they know you too well, they knew how bad smoke hurt you when he showed up a month ago with the girl beside like she belonged there.

"i know that look in your eye, don't get under that mans skin today, ♡" annie all but pleads but she knew you already had your mind made up. "im just gonna go say hi annie, i promise i'll be nice" she just shook her head.

once you stepped out of the kitchen and into the living room you saw mary setting in the armchair with her back facing you with smoke and his girlfriend sitting on the loveseat next to her.

smoke saw you before anyone else, his eyes were dark and heavy. once you fully stepped into the room mary sees you and jumps up to hug you, offering the same compliments as sammie did.

smoke still hasn't said anything and being the defiant girl that you are, you turned to him, batting your eyelashes and your glossed lips sweetly said "hi, elijah." head titled and all. he knew what you were doing, you were doing what you do best and that is act out.

a/n: i will post pt2 in da morning plsss dnt hate meee

[therogueflame]

Me Rehúso

hi lmfao,

here is my first ever joaquín torres x reader i have been wanting to write him for such a long time and lowkey knew i was never gonna get a request for him and like idk i just love him and i love danny ramirez like so much okay bye this is so long and i actually edited it before posting and me rehuso has been on repeat i dont speak a lick of spanish i did my best i love you all sm sm sm sm sm

edit (7/7/25): i have seen a few people complain that this made them cry/sad and i’m telling you that wasn’t intentional!! it was supposed to be hopeful!!! like!!! yes the hotel door closed but the metaphorical door didn’t close and it never will!!!

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WC: 8.0k

Summary: It was just a drink. Just catching up. Just a little too late to call it nothing.

Warnings: 18+, soft smut, sex (p in v), oral (f!recieving, bc danny joaquín is a munch) hurt/comfort, angst, yearning, exes to something, unresolved tension, literally who can resist a man in uniform especially when he looks like THAT?

Joaquín Torres x Fem!Reader

It’s been a while since you were back in D.C., long enough that the city feels both familiar and hollow. The air still clings the same way in summer, heavy and wet and full of car exhaust and carryout, and your body still remembers how to move through it without thinking. Your favorite coffee place is now a nail salon. Your old apartment has new curtains in the window. Everything’s a little different, just enough to remind you that you’re not supposed to be here.

You told yourself it was just a work trip. Nothing more. The kind of thing that comes with a company-paid hotel and a packed schedule and no time for nostalgia. In and out. A few handshakes, a few slide decks, then gone. That was the plan. But then Carla texted. Just a backyard thing, she said. Nothing fancy. Some old friends, some new ones, grill’s at six. You almost said no. You typed out the whole excuse before deleting it. Then you said sure. Maybe. Let me see how I feel.

You didn’t ask who’d be there. You didn’t have to.

Now the sun’s starting to dip and you’re still standing in front of the mirror in your hotel bathroom, brushing your fingers through your hair like it’ll make a difference. You’ve changed twice. You’re not dressed up, not really, but you still keep looking at yourself like you’re trying to find a version of you that won’t care if he shows up.

It ended quietly, the two of you. No real goodbye. Just a slow fade, a handful of unanswered texts, and too much space that neither of you tried hard enough to close. Maybe you were scared. Maybe he was. Maybe you thought you were doing him a favor. You told yourself if you let it go, he’d be free to move on. You told yourself it was kind.

But then the wrong song comes on in an Uber, or someone laughs like he used to, and the kindness feels like a lie. You still think about texting him sometimes. Just to see. Just to know.

You don’t know if he’ll be there tonight. You’re not sure what you’ll do if he is.

The Uber drops you two houses too early and you walk the rest of the way just to shake off the nerves. You tell yourself it’s because you need the steps, that you want to smell the jasmine creeping up the fences, not because your stomach’s doing that thing where it folds in on itself every time you think about seeing him again.

Carla’s backyard is already alive when you push open the side gate. Laughter spilling over the fence. A bluetooth speaker tucked into the windowsill playing something rhythmic and low. You step in and it’s like falling into an old dream—plastic cups, half-melted ice in coolers, the smoke of something charred and probably edible curling up into the trees. You recognize a few faces. You smile like it’s easy.

Carla pulls you into a hug almost immediately, smelling like sunscreen and perfume, a drink in one hand and her phone in the other. She says you look good. Says she missed you. Says she’s glad you came. She doesn’t mention Joaquín, which means she’s definitely thinking about it. You don’t ask. You just smile and say thanks and let yourself be folded into the scene.

Someone hands you a drink. Someone else asks where you’ve been hiding. You give vague answers. Keep it light. You stay by the edge of things, near the folding table with the snacks and the half-full bottle of tequila. You sip slowly and pretend you’re not listening for his voice. You’re fine. You’re just here for a little while. You’re not hoping for anything.

It’s easy to pretend when he isn’t there.

For now, you settle into the kind of easy conversation that doesn’t ask too much. You laugh when someone tells a bad joke. You flip through the playlist on your phone when the music hiccups. You don’t check the gate. You don’t look toward the street. You’re not waiting.

Except you are. Obviously you are.

You hear him before you see him.

Just a burst of conversation over the music, his voice cutting through in that same warm, slightly-too-loud way. There’s a laugh, too, familiar and unfiltered, like nothing’s changed, like he’s still the kind of person who laughs with his whole chest and doesn’t care who hears it.

Your spine locks. You don’t even think—just set your cup down and slip through the sliding door into the house like you’re looking for something, like you had any reason to be inside at all.

You find the bathroom at the end of the hall and close the door behind you, pressing your palms to the sink. The light overhead hums a little. The faucet drips once. Twice. Your reflection doesn’t look panicked, but your chest feels tight in that old way it used to, back when things were still fragile and good and you kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You don’t know what you thought would happen. That he wouldn’t come? That you could handle it if he did? You breathe in. Out. Again.

There’s a little window cracked above the mirror, and the sounds of the party filter in through the screen—muffled chatter, a cheer over something, the tail end of a beat you half-recognize. You think you hear his voice again, but it’s hard to tell. You don’t know what he looks like right now. You don’t know if he’s alone. You don’t know if he’s happy.

You press your fingertips to your lips. They’re dry. You should leave. You should walk out the front door and call another ride and go back to your hotel and tell Carla you weren’t feeling well. That it was nice to see everyone. That it had nothing to do with him. But you don’t.

Instead, you run cold water over your hands. You shake them off. You adjust yourself in the mirror, like that’s going to fix anything. You open the bathroom door and step back into the hallway, heartbeat loud in your ears. The house is empty, quiet in that way people’s homes get when everyone’s outside. You linger by the kitchen counter for a second, pretending to look for a napkin or something else stupid and delaying. Your hands feel weird. Too cold. Too warm. You’re not thinking, just moving.

The sliding door is half-open when you return to the backyard. You step through without looking, eyes on the ground, on the uneven concrete, on anything but what’s ahead of you. The sounds of the party rush back in all at once—music, laughter, someone yelling about overcooked burgers. You take one deep breath, steady and careful, and look up.

And he’s right there. Close. Too close. You barely register it before your shoulder brushes his chest and you jolt back a step, instinctively.

“Shit—sorry,” you say.

He blinks, startled. Then his eyes focus on you, and something flickers across his face. Recognition. Surprise. Something else behind it that you can’t name.

You haven’t seen him in six months but it still hits you like a punch how easy it is to remember everything about him in half a second. His curls are longer. He’s tanner. His shirt fits like it always did, too well. And his eyes—those eyes—are still just as warm and dangerous and annoyingly kind.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. He beats you to it.

“Hey,” he says, soft. Careful.

There’s a plastic cup in his hand and a backwards snapback on his head and he looks so much like the last summer you spent together it makes your stomach twist.

You nod once, shallow. “Hey.”

A beat passes. Then another. He doesn’t smile like he used to.  You step aside to let him through. He steps in the same direction. You both pause.

You laugh under your breath. It’s not funny.

“Sorry,” you say again, quieter.

He just shakes his head. “You don’t have to be.”

But you are. Not just for bumping into him. For all of it. 

You move to step around him again but he doesn’t quite move and you both end up doing that dumb side-to-side shuffle that makes you want to crawl into the grass and disappear. His hand brushes your arm and he pulls it back like it burned him.

“Wow,” he says. “We’re still great at this.”

You huff out something that might be a laugh. “Some things never change.”

He nods, a little too eagerly. “Yeah. Like my ability to embarrass myself instantly.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Pretty sure that was me.”

He makes a face like he’s weighing it out. “Okay, yeah, but I leaned into it with the whole—” He gestures vaguely, reenacting the world’s worst sidestep. “You know. That.”

You almost smile. He looks the same and not the same, older in a way you can’t quite define. Tired around the edges. But his voice is still warm and clumsy in the way you remember, like every word came out just a little faster than he meant it to.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” you say finally.

“Yeah, me neither. Carla sent me like three texts with a lot of emojis. Felt like a trap but I came anyway.” He takes a sip from his cup, then adds, “Did not realize I was walking into a... potential ex reunion arc.”

You glance down at your shoes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says too quickly. “It’s cool. I mean, I— I’m cool. Are you cool? You look... like you’re doing good.”

You look up. He’s watching you too closely, but when you meet his eyes, he glances away like he got caught.

“I’m fine,” you say. “You?”

He shrugs. “Still breathing. Still bad at parties. Still get sunburned even if I wear SPF 50, which feels like a personal attack from the sun. So. Yeah. Nothing new.”

You snort, and his eyes flick back to yours like he wants to hold onto the sound.

Another beat passes. He shifts his weight. You can tell he doesn’t know whether to keep talking or bail.

“So,” he says, tilting his cup a little. “You just visiting?”

You nod. “Work thing.”

“Ah.” He nods too, like that’s a safe word. “Short trip?”

“Four days.”

“That’s... not long.”

“Nope.”

Silence again. Not cold, just full.

He taps the side of his cup. “Cool. Well. I’ll, uh—” He gestures vaguely toward the grill. “Go stand somewhere else and say more dumb things over there now.”

You nod, but don’t move.

He takes a step back, then pauses. “It’s good to see you, by the way.”

You open your mouth, but he’s already turning.

You stay where you are for a minute after he walks away, half-wondering if you imagined the whole thing. Your hand finds your drink again. The condensation soaks into your palm and gives you something to focus on. He’s good at that, still — coming in like a wave and leaving you standing in the shallows, blinking at the water in your lungs.

The party goes on. Carla brings out skewers and people cheer like she just cured a disease. The music skips to something poppy and too fast. You sink into a patch of lawn chair conversation about travel plans and bad dates, your laugh coming a beat late every time. It’s not that you’re not present. It’s just that you know exactly where he is.

You don’t look for him, not really. But your eyes still flick to the side yard when the wind shifts. You still notice when someone tosses a beer in his direction. You still feel it when he laughs again across the lawn — quieter this time, like he’s trying not to be obvious.

He doesn’t come back over, but he doesn’t stay far either. At one point, he ends up helping someone carry drinks from the kitchen and passes right behind you. You feel the shape of him before you see him, tall and warm and barely there. You don’t turn, but your skin lights up anyway.

A while later, Carla corners you with her signature third-drink grin and a plastic cup of mystery juice.

“I’m so glad you came,” she says, and it sounds a little too loaded.

You raise an eyebrow. “It’s nice. Really.”

She hums, unconvinced. “You doing okay?”

“I’m fine.”

She glances across the yard. You don’t follow her gaze.

“Right,” she says. “Well. If you’re not fine later, extra tequila’s under the table.”

Someone pulls her away before she can say anything else. You take a sip of your drink and immediately regret it. It tastes like melted candy and mistakes.

The sun sinks a little lower. The bugs start to swarm the citronella candles. There’s a soft hum of maybe-it’s-time-to-go from a few corners of the yard, but no one’s actually moving. You think about leaving. You also think about staying. You think about the way he looked at you like he didn’t know whether to smile or break. You think about that little pause before he walked away.

You don’t notice the memory at first. It just edges in under your skin, like heat from the sun you didn’t realize was still there. It’s the smell of the grill and citronella, the sound of someone laughing in a way that’s too full, too familiar, too much like then. You blink, and you’re not in Carla’s backyard anymore.

You’re back in his apartment. The lights are off except for the one over the stove, casting this soft yellow wash across the living room. It’s too warm, too quiet. The kind of quiet that’s only possible when you know someone down to their breathing.

He’s on the floor, leaning back against the couch with his legs stretched out and a bowl of half-eaten popcorn next to him. You’re stretched out behind him, sideways on the couch, one leg draped over his shoulder, the other tucked under you. He’s warm against your thigh and keeps muttering that your toes are freezing.

“You look cozy,” he said, with that dopey half-smile that made you want to hit him and kiss him at the same time.

“This is my tired hoodie.”

“You should be tired more often, then.”

He reached up and grabbed your ankle, pulling it into his lap like it belonged there. Like you belonged there.

You remember that something was playing on the tv, but not what it was. You remember his fingers absentmindedly tracing the bone of your shin while he half-watched it, more focused on whatever quiet thought was drifting through his head. You remember the shape of his knuckles, the scratch of his callus when he ran his hand along the top of your foot. You remember not needing to fill the silence.

He said, “Don’t go next weekend,” voice soft, a little joking, like it wasn’t a request.

You said, “I have to,” like it didn’t cost you anything.

He nodded. Didn’t argue. Didn’t try to guilt you or convince you or say anything dramatic. Just tilted his head back against your leg, looking up at you upside down, hair flopped over his forehead, cheeks pink from whatever he was drinking.

You said, “It’s just a trip.”

He said, “Right.”

Then he pulled your foot into his chest, pressed a kiss to your ankle like it was a habit, like it was nothing. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. But he hadn’t. That was the first time.

You remember feeling it in your throat. That awful, beautiful ache. Like if you opened your mouth, something would spill out you couldn’t take back. But you didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

Later, you’d press your face into his neck, and he’d whisper something that wasn’t quite Spanish, wasn’t quite words, and you’d fall asleep wondering if maybe it could be this easy forever. But it wasn’t.

The next weekend, you got on the plane. You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. But that was the last night that felt simple. That was the last time you let him hold you without guilt.

The memory lingers longer than it should. You feel it settle like heat behind your ribs. When you blink again, you’re back at the cookout, standing off to the side while someone fiddles with the speaker and two people argue about salsa. You’ve been staring at your drink for too long.

Across the yard, Joaquín’s still perched on the edge of the deck. He’s talking to someone but not really looking at them, like his brain’s somewhere else entirely. Like maybe it’s still in that apartment too.

He glances up. Your eyes meet.  Neither of you looks away this time.

It happens gradually. The party thins out—people trickle off in twos and threes, hugging Carla goodbye, grabbing last slices of watermelon or half-frozen drinks from the cooler. The sky fades into that soft blue-gray that means the streetlights will flicker on soon. Someone starts collecting trash bags, and someone else is curled up in a chair scrolling through their phone with the dazed expression of someone who’s emotionally tapped out.

You drift toward the steps of the deck at some point without thinking. The music’s low now, something mellow. Joaquín’s nearby again, close enough to feel, but he doesn’t say anything.. Just stands beside you in a kind of companionable silence, the two of you watching someone struggle to relight a citronella candle like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

Eventually, he speaks. Quietly. “I forgot how weird parties get when they start ending.”

You hum. “Everything smells like charcoal and sweat and regret.”

“That’s the real summer scent,” he says, grinning. “Should bottle it.”

You finally look at him. His hair’s a little messier now. There’s a smudge of something—maybe dirt, maybe barbecue sauce—near the collar of his shirt. His cup’s empty. He’s rolling it between his palms like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

You tilt your head. “You always this awkward or is it just me?”

He laughs under his breath. “Oh, I’m always awkward. You’re just the one I can’t pretend around.”

You don’t answer right away. He shifts beside you, then gestures vaguely toward the house.

“You heading out soon?” he asks. “Or...?”

You shrug. “Hotel’s not far. I’ll probably order bad room service and pass out.”

“Solid plan.”

You glance at him. “You?”

He shrugs too. “Thought about going home. Then I remembered I live alone and my fridge is sad.”

You smile, tired but real. “So what’re you gonna do instead?”

He hesitates, just a second too long. Then—

“I mean... if you wanted...” He clears his throat. Starts again. “We could grab a drink or something. Like... like old friends catching up. No pressure.”

You raise an eyebrow. “At ten thirty at night?”

He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “The best friend catch-up hour. You know. When the truth comes out and everything tastes like cheap whiskey.”

You study him, and he looks nervous in that familiar way he used to get right before saying something too honest. You can tell he’s trying to play it off like nothing. You can also tell it isn’t nothing. You take a breath.

“I’m at the Selwyn,” you say.

He perks up, like he didn’t expect that to work. “Oh, they have a bar, right?”

You nod. “Until midnight.”

He smiles, bright and crooked. “Plenty of time for bad decisions.”

You roll your eyes. “We’re just catching up.”

“Right,” he says, bumping your shoulder gently as you both turn toward the gate. “That’s exactly what I meant.”

“I’ll drive you,” he says before you can even open the app. Like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t used to sit in his passenger seat with your bare feet on the dash, arguing over playlists and sharing fries out of a greasy paper bag. His keys are already in his hand.

You hesitate, just a second too long. “Sure,” you say.

He grins, trying to play it cool. “Besides, I cleaned my car recently. Well. I threw out the empty protein bar wrappers. Same difference.”

You follow him down the driveway. His car is exactly the same—black Honda, scuffed on the side, faintly dented from something he once swore wasn’t his fault. You slide into the passenger seat and feel your body instinctively relax into old muscle memory. The door shuts. The quiet settles in.

Then he starts the engine. And the universe laughs in your face.

The first few notes hit—clean, unmistakable, loud enough to be cruel.

Me Rehúso.

Your heart jumps into your throat. His hand freezes halfway to the volume knob. His thumb hovers like he’s going to skip it. He doesn’t. You stare out the window.

“I swear I wasn’t trying to be dramatic,” he mumbles.

You keep your voice even. “Didn’t say you were.”

The song keeps playing. You don’t speak. Neither of you move to turn it off.

That chorus hits like a sucker punch. ”Me rehúso a darte un último beso,” I refuse to give you one last kiss... The kind of lyric that would’ve made you both laugh six months ago. Now it just sits there in the air, crackling. He drums his fingers against the wheel, trying to be casual. You sit stiff in your seat and wonder if he feels it too—that pull in your chest like something snapping back into place and tearing a little as it does. You wonder if he skipped this song on purpose for weeks after you left.

By the time it fades, neither of you has said a word. But it’s louder than anything either of you could’ve said out loud. Joaquín clears his throat, glancing sideways like he wants to break the silence.

“Well,” he says, aiming for levity. “That wasn’t emotionally catastrophic or anything.”

You breathe out a quiet laugh. “Your playlist’s still ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but it slaps, unfortunately.”

You fall into silence again. This one is easier. Not light, but... familiar. Like slipping back into clothes you’d left behind, still warm from the last time you wore them. The drive isn’t long, but it feels like a hundred miles and no time at all. When he pulls into the parking lot of your hotel, he parks without asking. Turns the key. Lets the quiet settle again.

“You sure you’re up for this?” you ask, your hand on the door handle.

He shrugs. “Only panicking a little.”

You look at him. He looks at you. That same crooked grin.

“Let’s go,” you say.

He nods. “Catching up. Strictly platonic.”

“Totally.”

The Selwyn’s lobby is quiet, sleek in that generic boutique hotel way. Modern art you don’t understand on the walls. A bowl of apples no one’s touched. The bar’s tucked just off to the right, low-lit and mostly empty, a few couples nursing nightcaps and a lone businessman half-asleep over a bourbon. You lead the way without speaking.

He follows, hands shoved in his pockets, doing that nervous scan of the room like he’s checking for exits but not planning to use them. You pick a booth near the back. Leather seat, warm lamp overhead. It’s too intimate to be neutral. Neither of you moves to sit across from the other. You both slide into the same side, a little too close. Neither of you comments on it.

The bartender comes over, eyes flicking between you both like he’s trying to figure out what kind of night this is.

“Two whiskeys,” Joaquín says, before you can answer. Then he glances at you. “That okay?”

You nod. “Perfect.”

The moment he walks away, Joaquín exhales like he’s been holding it in since the car. “Well. Here we are.”

You smile. “Just two old friends. At a hotel. At eleven o’clock at night.”

He grins. “Nothing suspicious about that.”

You both look straight ahead for a second, not speaking. The tension has shifted—it’s quieter now. Less sharp. More like gravity.

“I missed this,” he says eventually.

You turn to him. “What part?”

He shrugs. “All of it. You. Talking. Sitting next to you and saying dumb shit until you laugh.”

You look down at your hands. “I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me again.”

“I didn’t either.”

You glance up.

“I was pissed,” he says, not hiding it. “You just disappeared. No warning. Just—gone. I didn’t know if I did something or if it was just easier that way for you.”

“It wasn’t easy,” you say. “I just didn’t know how to say goodbye.”

He nods. “Yeah. Well. Guess we’re both great at that.”

The drinks arrive. You each take one, clink glasses without ceremony.

“To bad decisions,” he says.

You raise your eyebrows. “This is a bad decision?”

He smirks. “I think it might be.”

You both drink.

The whiskey burns a little. Just enough.

You settle into the silence again, but this one’s warmer. You can feel the heat of his thigh pressed against yours. He hasn’t moved. Neither have you.

“I thought about texting you,” he says, voice lower now.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to be a maybe.”

That lands. It sinks in and sits heavy in your stomach. You set your glass down. Turn toward him fully.

“We were never a maybe.”

He looks at you then, really looks, and something shifts in his expression. Like he’s trying not to hope and failing miserably at it. “Okay,” he says softly. “So what are we now?”

You don’t answer. Instead, your knee bumps his, and you leave it there.

He glances at your mouth, just for a second. It’s quick, but you both notice.

The second drink comes faster than the first. Neither of you says anything, but the meaning is clear. Just one more. Just an excuse to keep sitting here a little longer.

The bar’s quiet around you, some indie playlist humming overhead, glasses clinking behind the counter, but none of it really registers. It’s just the booth, the shared warmth between you, and the way the whiskey makes your skin feel too soft for your bones.

You’re both leaned in now, legs angled toward each other. His arm is stretched behind you across the booth, not quite touching you but close enough to feel. His knee keeps bumping yours. It’s not accidental anymore.

He’s talking with his hands. Always has. One of them knocks his glass a little too hard and he mutters a low “shit” before catching it. You laugh and he grins, sheepish.

“Okay, so maybe I’m a little drunk,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Little?”

“Tipsy,” he corrects, lifting his hand in mock defense. “Buzzed. Whiskey-charmed. Still within the range of plausible deniability.”

You tip your glass toward him. “Sure.”

“You?”

You sip. “Comfortably reckless.”

He laughs, and it’s that real laugh, the one that fills his chest. The one you haven’t heard in too long. He tips his head back, curls falling over his forehead, and for a second you forget how to breathe.

“You always did drink whiskey too fast,” you say.

“You always stole mine when you thought I wasn’t looking.”

“I wasn’t trying to hide it.”

The words slip out before you can stop them. He goes quiet, eyes settling on you with a different kind of focus now. He’s still smiling, but it’s softer, smaller.

“I remember that,” he says. “All of it.”

You don’t move. The air between you is tight.

“You used to do this thing,” he continues, “where you’d swirl the ice in my glass with your finger and act like it wasn’t the most distracting thing in the world.”

“I don’t remember doing that.”

“You definitely did. And it worked. Every time.”

You lean in a little, just enough to make him feel it. “You’re easy to distract.”

“I was in love with you,” he says, too fast, too loose.

It lands between you like a dropped glass.

He blinks. “Shit. That sounded cooler in my head.”

You swallow. “Was?”

He opens his mouth, closes it. Looks down at the table. When he speaks again, it’s quieter. “You didn’t give me a lot of space to keep saying it.”

You look at him, really look. He’s flushed from the whiskey, eyes a little glassy, but his expression is wide open. Honest in the way only tipsy people get when they’ve been waiting too long to say something. You don’t reach for your glass this time. You reach for his hand. You brush your fingers over the back of it, slow. Gentle. He doesn’t pull away.

“You know,” you say, “I still think about that night. The one before I left.”

His eyes flick to yours. “The peanut butter dinner?”

“The one where you kissed my ankle like it meant something.”

“It did.”

“I know.”

The silence now is thick. Not awkward. Not empty. Just full. He turns his hand over beneath yours, lets your fingers slide together. His palm is warm and steady.

“So,” he says, barely above a whisper. “What are we doing right now?”

You shake your head, half-laughing, half-something else. “Catching up, remember?”

He leans in, slow and careful. His shoulder brushes yours. His voice is right at your ear now.

“This doesn’t feel like catching up.”

You don’t pull away. You press your leg against his under the table. You feel his breath stutter.

“It’s not,” you say.

He shifts toward you, hand tightening in yours. There’s a question in his eyes. You could stop this. You could pull back.

You’re so close you can feel the moment tipping forward. One more second and his mouth will be on yours. You know exactly how it’ll feel — warm and familiar, a little clumsy, a little desperate. You want it. God, you want it. But it’s too much, too fast, too easy to fall back into something that once shattered you so quietly it didn’t even make a sound.

You pull your hand away. Slow. Gentle.

He freezes. You don’t look at him right away. You take a breath instead. Your voice is soft when it comes.

“I can’t.”

It’s not sharp. It’s not final. It’s just honest.

His face shifts — not hurt, exactly. Just something quieter. A flicker of understanding. Maybe disappointment. Maybe relief. Maybe both.

He nods, slowly. “Okay.”

You glance around the bar like you’ve just remembered where you are. The lights feel too low. The space too small.

“I should go up,” you say.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

You stand, and he follows without question. Neither of you says much as you cross the lobby. You’re sobering up, not from the drinks but from the tension, from the weight of how close you came to doing something you wouldn’t be able to take back.

The elevator ride is quiet. The kind of quiet that hums under your skin, thick with all the things you didn’t say downstairs and the weight of the moment you pulled away. He didn’t argue. He didn’t push. He just nodded, like he understood. But you can feel him beside you now — his body still turned slightly toward yours, hands in his pockets like they’re keeping him grounded.

You reach your floor and step into the hallway, carpet soft under your shoes, air humming faintly with recycled chill. You walk ahead, both of you a little unsteady, a little too aware of each other. He stays close but doesn’t touch you. Not once.

When you stop outside your door, you turn toward him and smile, barely.

“You didn’t have to walk me all the way.”

“Old habits,” he says.

There’s a pause. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. You know that move. You remember him doing it when he wasn’t sure if he should kiss you that first time. He looked just like this. Nervous. Hopeful. A little in over his head.

And still, you don’t move.

“I should go in,” you say softly.

“Yeah,” he says. “You probably should.”

You look at him.

He looks at you.

It’s nothing and everything all at once. That ache that’s been stretching all night tightens until you can’t take it anymore.

And then you kiss him. You don’t think. You just lean in and grab the front of his jacket and pull him down to you and his mouth meets yours like it’s still been waiting this whole time. It’s not soft. It’s not neat. It’s relief. All heat and breath and too much all at once, like if you stop it’ll disappear again. His hands find your waist and you stumble back into the door. He laughs against your mouth, breathless.

“You said you couldn’t.”

“I lied,” you murmur, kissing him again.

It’s messy. Familiar. A little dizzying. His thumb traces the edge of your jaw like he forgot what your skin felt like. Your hands are in his hair before you realize it, tugging him closer, closer.

He breaks the kiss long enough to whisper, “Tell me to go.”

You don’t. You just kiss him harder.

He makes this low sound against your mouth that you remember too well, and suddenly you're fumbling with the keycard, trying to get the door open while he's still kissing you, his hands braced against the wall on either side of your head. The card reader beeps angrily. You try again, breathless, and he's laughing into your neck.

"You're shaking," he says, not teasing. Just noticing.

"Shut up," you breathe, and the door finally gives.

You stumble backward into the room, pulling him with you. The door swings shut behind him with a soft click that sounds too loud in the sudden quiet. The only light comes from the city through the window, casting everything in amber and shadow. You can see his face now, flushed and a little stunned, like he can't quite believe this is happening either.

"Are you sure?" he asks, voice rough.

You don't answer with words. Instead, you step closer, close enough that your chest brushes his, and reach up to trace the line of his jaw with your fingertip. His eyes flutter closed at the touch.

"I missed you," you whisper. "I missed this."

He opens his eyes, searching your face in the dim light. "I never stopped missing you."

This time when you kiss him, it's slower. Deeper. Like you're both trying to memorize something you lost. His hands slide up your back, pulling you against him, and you can feel his heartbeat through his shirt. Fast. Unsteady. Like yours.

You walk him backward toward the bed, lips still locked, hands roaming over familiar territory that feels both foreign and like coming home. When the backs of his knees hit the mattress, he sits down hard, pulling you with him so you're straddling his lap, your dress riding up your thighs. His hands find your hips, steadying you, and you can feel the heat of his palms through the thin fabric.

"God," he breathes, looking up at you like he's seeing something he thought he'd lost forever. "You're so beautiful."

You lean down to kiss him again, slower this time, savoring the taste of whiskey on his tongue and the way his breath catches when you bite his lower lip gently. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs tracing the curve of your ribs, and you arch into his touch.

His fingers find the zipper at the back of your dress, hovering there in silent question. You nod against his mouth, and he slowly pulls it down, the sound cutting through the quiet room. The cool air hits your skin, raising goosebumps along your spine. You shiver, and he pulls back to look at you, his eyes dark and serious.

"We don't have to—"

You press your finger to his lips. "I want to."

The words hang between you, heavy with meaning beyond this moment. You're not just talking about tonight. You both know it.

He kisses your fingertip, then your palm, then your wrist, his eyes never leaving yours. You feel something unravel inside you—that tight knot of regret and longing you've been carrying for months.

Your dress slips from your shoulders, and his breath catches. His hands are reverent as they trace your skin, like he's relearning a map he once knew by heart. You tug at his shirt, impatient now, and he helps you pull it over his head. His chest is familiar—that same constellation of freckles, that same scar near his collarbone from when he fell off his bike at twelve. You touch it, remembering the story he told you once, laughing in bed on a Sunday morning.

"You remember?" he asks, watching your fingers.

"Everything," you whisper.

He pulls you closer, his mouth finding the hollow of your throat, and you close your eyes against the rush of sensation. It's too much and not enough all at once. His hands slide up your back, unhooking your bra with practiced ease, and you laugh softly against his hair.

"Still got it," he murmurs, grinning against your skin.

"Some skills never fade," you whisper back, and then his mouth is on your breast and you can't think anymore, just feel—his tongue, his teeth, the scrape of his stubble against your sensitive skin. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groans against you.

You rock against him, feeling him hard beneath you, and his hands tighten on your hips. There's an urgency building between you now, months of distance collapsing into this single point of contact. He flips you suddenly, pressing you into the mattress, his weight a welcome anchor. His lips trace a path down your stomach, and you arch up, wanting more, wanting everything.

"Joaquín," you breathe, and he looks up at you, eyes dark and hungry.

"Otra vez," he whispers.

You say his name once more, quieter this time, like a secret you’re not ready to share with the world. His eyes fall shut as though he’s holding the sound within himself, letting it resonate in the hollow spaces where loneliness used to cling. As his hands find their way to the waistband of your underwear, they tremble, a delicate dance of anticipation and reverence. You lift your hips slightly, a silent invitation for him to continue, to explore uncharted territories that still remember the map of his touch. The fabric is gone in a heartbeat, lost somewhere in the chaos of desire that swirls around you both.

His lips trace a slow pilgrimage along your skin, starting at the curve of your hip bone before journeying inward to the sensitive haven of your inner thigh. Each kiss is deliberate, an act of devotion that speaks volumes louder than words ever could. You’re quivering beneath him now, every nerve alive with sensation, and your hands clutch the hotel sheets as though grounding yourself against an oncoming storm.

When his mouth finally finds its destination, it’s like a homecoming. You arch off the bed with a breathy gasp that breaks through the room’s stillness and wraps itself around you both. He moves with an intimate knowledge of you, every motion recalling memories of nights past when only the moon bore witness to passion unfolding between whispered promises and dreams half-spoken.

The rhythm he adopts is one learned long ago but never forgotten, seamless in its execution as though no time has passed since last he worshipped at this altar. His touch is gentle yet insistent—the perfect paradox—exactly as you need it. Your fingers entwine into his hair once more for anchor and connection both; he hums against you—a low sound that vibrates through your core and ignites every part of you all over again.

The sense of nearing completion builds inside you rapidly—too rapidly—as if months apart have condensed into this singular moment of intensity threatening to spill over without warning. Waves crest within your belly, hot and urgent in their sweep toward release.

"Wait," you breathe out urgently, yet soft enough not to break what threads hold this tapestry together just yet. Tugging at his shoulders slightly with desperate urgency tinged by longing unspoken but always present there beneath everything else clouding these precious moments shared tonight after too long apart. "Come here."

He kisses his way back up your body, mouth finding yours again. You can taste yourself on his lips, and it makes you dizzy with want. Your hands fumble with his belt, and he helps you, kicking off his jeans until there's nothing between you but skin and heat and six months of longing. He hovers above you, braced on his forearms, looking down at your face like he's searching for something.

"You okay?" he whispers.

You nod, reaching up to brush his hair from his forehead. "More than okay."

In the soft shadows of the room, he enters you, and you both exhale sharply, as though surfacing from the depths of an ocean where breath had been a distant memory. The sensation is one of rediscovery, a familiar yet long-forgotten dance. Stillness enfolds you as he pauses, his forehead resting gently against yours. You can feel the ragged ebb and flow of his breath matching your own. This dance—this intimate choreography—is etched into your bodies, even if time and distance tried to erase it from your minds.

Wrapping your legs around his waist, you draw him deeper into the space that feels both foreign and unmistakably home. His groan reverberates through the stillness, your name a sacred chant murmured against the warmth of your neck. His movements begin in slow, deliberate strokes, each one held with the weight of potential farewells lingering in unspoken words. It’s cautious yet intense—a savoring of moments that feel fleeting.

Your fingers dig into the solid expanse of his shoulders, an encouragement driven by urgency that pulses under your skin. As he hones his rhythm, it transforms gradually—a measured tempo building to something more urgent and alive. The room captures the symphony created by your intermingled breaths and soft exclamations of pleasure; tender whispers punctuate every shared heartbeat.

“Mírame.” he murmurs softly, and you oblige by opening your eyes. What you find in his gaze transcends physical intimacy—a vulnerability laid bare beneath the depth of those dark irises. There’s something exchanged between you in that shared look; a silent acknowledgment binding hearts entwined not just by touch but by something deeper—a promise unspoken yet understood.

As he moves within you with growing intensity, everything coalesces into a crescendo orchestrated by longing rekindled after months apart. This moment stretches beyond time—each motion weaving threads back together until they form one seamless tapestry, rich with color and meaning.

You unravel beneath him then, as pleasure overwhelms your senses like waves crashing upon the shore—leaving you trembling in its aftermath—a mosaic remade anew with each crescendo reached. It's only heartbeats later that he too succumbs; whispers woven with devotion spill from his lips—your name uttered like prayerful benediction—as he collapses against you under comforting weight rather than burdened heaviness reminding once distant souls they are home again.

For a long time, neither of you speaks. The only sound is your breathing gradually slowing, his heart pounding against yours. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your shoulder, and you press your face into his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him—soap and something distinctly warm that you could never quite name but always recognized. 

The sheets are tangled beneath you and one of your legs is still hooked loosely around his, the weight of him grounding you in a way nothing else ever really has. He shifts just enough to ease some of the pressure from your ribs, but he doesn’t pull away. He just rests his forehead against your temple and exhales, long and shaky.

You could fall asleep like this. You think maybe you will. His fingers keep moving, slow and aimless, brushing the slope of your shoulder like he’s memorizing it all over again. Your name leaves his lips again, softer now, like it doesn’t have to be anything more than sound.

You whisper, “You okay?”

He nods. Doesn’t speak for a moment. Then, “Yeah. I just… missed this.”

You close your eyes. That ache settles in your chest again, but it’s quieter now. Less sharp. He missed you. You missed him. Maybe that’s enough for tonight.

You shift just enough to look at him. His eyes are already on you, sleep-soft and open in that way only Joaquín can be when he’s let his guard down completely. You brush his hair back from his forehead. He leans into the touch without thinking.

“I don’t want to leave,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to.”

That’s it. No big promises. No next steps.

He nods again, relief flickering through his features so fast it almost doesn’t register. Then he dips his head and presses a kiss to your collarbone—slow, tender, like punctuation. He pulls the blanket up over both of you and shifts to lie beside you properly, one arm curling beneath your neck, the other resting across your stomach. You curl into him like you never left.

Outside, the city keeps humming, but in here it’s still.

Eventually, his breathing evens out. You listen to it until yours matches. He’s heavy against you, solid and warm, and you feel the weight of everything that just passed between you start to settle. You let your eyes fall shut, just for a moment.

Sleep takes you slowly. Quietly. With him still holding you.

You wake before the sun’s fully up, the room washed in a soft, blue-grey hush. For a second, you don’t know what stirred you—until Joaquín shifts beside you, mumbling something half-asleep into the pillow. His leg slides against yours, warm and lazy, and he tucks his face into the curve of your neck like he never left it.

You smile before you can stop yourself.

“Your hair’s in my mouth,” he mumbles, voice gravelly and ridiculous.

You laugh, quiet and raspy. “You drooled on my arm.”

He lifts his head, barely squinting at you with a slow, stupid grin. “Worth it.”

You hum, brushing your fingertips along his side. His skin is warm, soft in places and still humming with leftover heat. You could stay like this for hours, wrapped up in his breath and that dopey smile, but he glances at the clock and winces.

“I have to go soon,” he says, voice soft. “Work.”

You nod, even though you want to pretend this room doesn’t exist outside of this moment. He leans in and kisses your shoulder. Then your jaw. Then your mouth—slow, unhurried, like he’s still not ready to leave either.

When he finally pulls back, he gives you this look. Gentle. Unspoken.

He doesn’t say thank you, or I’ll call you, or what happens now?

He just says, “You made last night feel like home again.”

And somehow, that’s the thing that gets you. You swallow around the ache building in your throat and try to smile. He kisses you one more time, then slips out of bed and pulls his shirt back on in the grey morning light. You stay where you are, curled in warm sheets, watching him tie his shoes with one knee on the floor like he’s done this in a hundred quiet mornings—only he hasn’t. Not like this. Not since you left.

He glances over his shoulder before opening the door. “Sleep a little more,” he says. “I’ll see you.”

You nod. He doesn’t push it further. He just gives you one last, crooked smile and slips out into the hallway. The door clicks shut behind him. And you’re left sitting up in bed, hair a mess, covers pooled around your waist, staring at the door like it might open again.

You don’t know what happens next. But for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t scare you.

[revelboo]

May I have the next part 👉👈

Sure!

Coin-Operated Boy Pt 11

Steve and Vehicons x Reader

• Watching your elderly neighbor frowning at you from her porch, you really hope that his windows are tinted enough for her to not notice that there was nobody in Steve’s driver seat. Except, if you get out of the passenger side and no one gets out of the driver’s side, it’ll still be sketchy looking. Like the dozens of identical cars parked on your lawn. That more than likely have been moving around with no drivers. Staring blankly at his dash, you swallow a groan. “I need a fence,” you mutter. Because the nosy old lady was out there judging you nonstop before your house became hotel alien.

• A fence? That’s doable. And he’s shuddering on his shocks when you squirm over his center console to get over into his driver’s seat with a breathless ‘I’m so sorry.’ Unable to move, much less formulate a response when you open the door and let yourself out, going around to fumble with his trunk with soft fingers until he pops it for you so you can get your groceries out. What was that?

• He’s making a funny noise, almost a revving whine as you grab as much as you can and head for the house, not daring to look to see if your neighbor’s watching as you fumble to get the door unlocked without dropping anything. Trying to convince yourself that she probably didn’t see anything. Those lenses on her glasses look like glass coke bottles, you’d seen them when she’d wandered over to stand over you and complain about young people having no decency when you’d tried to lay out in the yard in a chair and tan. Apparently your shorts and tank top too risqué for her tastes. She can’t possibly see that well.

• You’re coming back to get the rest of your things from his trunk and you lean down. “Are you okay? You’re making a weird sound?” You whisper and he manages a growl in answer. Because you’d slid yourself over him, your body rubbing against him as you’d squirmed over into the driver’s side and it had been a shock. And you’re heading back into your house as he stares after you. Was that flirting? Did you just flirt with him? Has no idea. Isn’t about to ask, either. Sinking lower on his shocks, he’s aware of his brothers watching him curiously. Needing to distract himself from whatever that was and you’d asked for a fence.

• You hide in the house after you put your groceries up. At one point peeking out the window to try and get a count of how many Vehicons you’re apparently hosting and you stop counting at twenty. Your yard completely covered now with more parked on the road. What’s so fascinating about you and your house? Maybe they’re like stray cats. You were kind to one of them and now they’re all coming around wanting attention. Any more and the old lady will definitely call the cops on you and you have no idea how to explain all the cars. Can’t believe she’s not called already. She’d called the minute you’d turned on the stereo last time you had friends over for a backyard barbecue.

Previous

[wendichester]

hiiiii i love ur writing sm!! i just read your older!sister reader drabble (not on my watch) and im obsessed, i cant stop thinking about it. i love that it makes Dean a middle child it honestly really works. I was wondering if you'd be open to continuing it, maybe flipping it and older sister!reader gets hurt this time, or maybe she and the boys make fun of each other when they flirt or get flirted with on the job? or literally any other ideas you have about older sister!reader. thank you ily <3

⋆.˚ not on my watch²,

summary.your boys are always looking for trouble and you always come to the rescue.

pairing. sam + dean winchester x older sis!reader  genre.fluff

wordcount. 888

notes / warnings. injury mention, blood, protective sibling dynamics, language, emotional vulnerability, banter, stitching up wounds, angst with softness, big sister energy

ᯓᡣ𐭩 read part 1

You don’t knock this time either.

But you stumble.

The door creaks open slower than usual. Dean barely looks up from where he’s eating out of a takeout box with one hand and flipping through some lore book with the other. Sam’s at the table with a laptop, half a sandwich untouched beside him. The second they see your face, though—everything stops.

You’re clutching your side. There’s blood. A lot of it. And you’re white as a sheet.

“Whoa—what the hell?” Dean’s already up. Sam’s grabbing the first aid kit like muscle memory.

You wave them off as you stagger in. “It’s not deep. I tripped running from a hellhound. Got friendly with a fence post.”

Dean’s eyes widen. “You ran into a fence?”

“Steel. Spiky. We’re dating now.”

Sam huffs, trying to hide his panic with a joke. “Did you at least buy it dinner first?”

You groan as you lower yourself into the motel chair. “I was gonna, but she ghosted me.”

“You’re bleeding through your shirt,” Dean says flatly.

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I’m sitting down instead of doing cartwheels, Dean.”

Dean’s already got scissors in hand, kneeling in front of you. He glances up once. “Can I?”

You nod. He cuts the fabric away, slow and careful. Sam opens antiseptic and sets out the gauze. They’re moving like a machine—like they’ve done this dance a thousand times. And they have.

But it’s different when it’s you.

“You could’ve called,” Sam says, softer now. “We would've come.”

“I was handling it.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, clearly.”

You glare down at him. “It was going fine until the invisible dog from hell played linebacker.”

He starts cleaning the wound, but you don’t miss the twitch of his jaw. He’s pissed. Not at you, not really. But pissed that you got hurt when he wasn’t there. That someone got close enough to break your skin.

“How bad is it?” you ask, wincing.

“Needs stitches,” Dean mutters. “Four, maybe five. You want whiskey or just to scream through it?”

“I’ll scream. Let the neighbors think we’re even more bat shit crazy.”

Sam sits on the bed across from you, watching, arms crossed. “You scared the crap out of us, you know.”

You glance at him. “Now you know how it feels.”

They both freeze. Even Dean’s hand hesitates mid-clean.

“Turnabout’s fair play,” you murmur, voice going tight. “How many times have you two come back half-dead? How many times have I had to stitch you up while trying not to puke?”

Dean sets the needle down for a second. He meets your eyes, and for once, there’s no sarcasm there. Just guilt. Deep and real.

“You always hold it together,” he says. “Didn’t realize it was this bad on your end.”

You laugh without humor. “That’s because I make it look easy. That’s my job, right? Big sister. The glue. The medic. The adult in the room.”

Sam’s gaze softens. “You don’t have to be that all the time.”

You roll your eyes. “If I’m not, who is? You two? Please.”

Dean chuckles under his breath. “She’s got a point.”

He goes back to stitching. You hiss at the first prick, then clench your teeth.

It’s quiet for a moment—just your sharp breaths and Dean’s focused hands. Then Sam tilts his head with a grin.

“Hey, by the way—Garth says a deputy in that last town was hitting on you.”

Dean snorts. “Oh, right. The one with the big truck and the bigger forehead?”

“Shut up,” you mutter. “He was nice.”

“Nice and blind, apparently,” Dean mutters. “Didn’t even clock the bloody machete in your duffel.”

“He asked me to grab a drink.”

Sam raises a brow. “Did you?”

“No,” you scoff. “I told him I had to go wash brain matter out of my hair.”

Dean cackles. “Romantic.”

You smile despite yourself, chest aching—not just from the wound. From them. These boys you’ve practically raised, bandaged, dragged through Hell and back. They get older, but they never stop being yours.

Dean finishes the stitches and tapes a clean bandage over the gash. Then he stands and leans against the table, arms crossed.

“You need anything else?”

You raise a brow. “Yeah. A nap, a week off, and maybe a boyfriend who’s not a demon.”

Dean shrugs. “Two outta three ain’t bad.”

Sam smirks. “Depends on the demon.”

“No!” you and Dean say at the same time.

You all laugh.

It’s not perfect. The motel’s still musty, and your side still throbs. But for a second, the weight lifts.

You lie back with a sigh, stretching carefully across the bed. “If either of you picks up a hunt before I can stand without blacking out, I swear to God I’m gluing your weapons shut.”

Dean grins. “Superglue or hot glue?”

“Hot glue. On your eyelashes.”

He whistles. “She’s serious.”

Sam pats your foot. “We’ll wait. Scout’s honor.”

You eye them both. “Neither of you were ever scouts.”

Dean shrugs. “Still counts.”

You’re asleep within minutes, pain meds kicking in and exhaustion finally winning.

And when Sam turns off the lamp and Dean pulls the blanket higher over your sleeping form, neither of them says it.

But they both think it.

They wouldn’t have made it this far without you.

And they sure as hell aren’t going anywhere now.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles; compatibility readings; support my work .ᐟ

[ira-hydrangea]

Got another idea! I kinda imagine that Yuu is the biological daughter of Bruce Wayne aka Batman that got sent by accident into Twisted Wonderland so the story goes like this....

Yuu, the magicless human. They look like some normal humans with very big disadvantages, right? Wrong

NRC is in for a surprise because HOW THE HECK IS SHE THAT PERFECT?!

Her grade even for the magic class is perfect for theory

Her PE class? She learns martial arts and even knows fencing?! (They know this after the duel using swords between Yuu and Sebek)

Her art? She is so good at drawing that she can par up to the professional at that. (She said something about usually bonding with her little brother by drawing together)

Her knowledge about technology? She know how to code or create some technology (Idia needs to reset his security when Yuu just walks inside his room without his permission, how do they do it? By decoding)

Horse Riding? Check that please (Riddle are extremely surprised at that)

Dancing? What type? You just ask her and she knows most of the dance (Saying about how her family usually gets invited for some big event)

Her beauty? (It up to your standart)

With so many more talent, NRC students raise a question about who is she in her world. But she managed to take herself as some normal student with a normal family in her world. Sensible with money too and sometimes act a little stinky but the plus point is she is actually very good at entrepreneurial type of things. (Yuu said that it was a gene from her father)

Yeah, with all of that no one complained when she was called the princess of NRC. She is perfect that even her magicam also gains a very significant amount of fans.

So, imagine their surprise when the portal between their two worlds is managed to be connected and they can travel up between two worlds.

When Yuu invited them (The Overblot students and her friends) to come and meet her family, they were in shock (most of them) because WHY THE HECK YOUR HOUSE IS A MANSION?!

I want to make it into a series... But I didn't know what this should be called? Any ideas?

[pushspacetocontinue]

"Then I'd be happy to do that with you," Bill says, "Who knows, maybe I'll learn something new too. I may be old, but I'm sure I can still be taught some new tricks."

Bill seemed just as pleased that Willow was willing to give fencing a try with him.

"And I'll be happy to do that with you too," Bill added, "And I'm sure Leofric wouldn't mind doing it either."

"It would help me to practice with my sword," Leofric agreed. But he would leave the choice up to Willow, "I just hope I can provide some kind of a challenge."

"That is true," Simon said, "And maybe there is one with cats in it that isn't as sad, you're right, and maybe they have better names as well. Heh, when Truman first told me those names, I just laughed my ass off. I thought he was kidding at first."

"Heh heh, m-maybe not, I, I guess that's, that's true," Russell said, as his cheeks turned pink again, "But I, I will make sure you, you won't have to, and if, if you, if you want to learn, I'll, I'll gladly, I'll gladly show you."

And he was here to do that.

"Heh, we're not so different," Bill said, "And hey, that determination meant I got to enjoy a frozen treat too. I'll have to thank him next time I see him. Hey, maybe I could throw some ideas against the wall and see what sticks."

Antonio nodded.

"I think that would be nice," Antonio said, "It was yet another thing that I wasn't allowed to watch when it was popular. I only got to see it on rare occasions, so I think it would be another good thing to catch up on. Heh, I would be honoured to, Rook."

"Ah, of course. Smokey needs to be included too," Leofric agreed.

"Well that settles it, we might like a bit daft but screw it," Bill said, "As soon as we get our bowls, we toast to each other, to all those we care about that aren't here, and to our future adventures, and of course, the peace and quiet when we want it."

"I'll drink to to that, dude, or in this case, eat ice cream," Travis said with a grin, "And it looks like we're about to get all ours, so I'll be ready when you are."

"Y-yeah, me, me too," Russell said.

Erica smiled at the offer. "Yes! I could use more shadow practice!"

Variety was important. Learning from multiple people would definitely help her come up with new tricks as well as have a fun time.

The elf's excitement was, as usual, opposed to Willow's more quiet reactions. The cyborg gave a small nod upon hearing her suggestion had been accepted.

"Very well." She was glad they had something of an agreement in place. There was a good chance Rook would also appreciate her attempts at socializing.

"Yeah. But there's plenty of musicals out there! I bet Fae knows of something else with cats that isn't so depressing." Erica replied. She clearly had no trouble talking to Simon through the drone, being more than used to chatting with Willow through speakers or other devices.

Rook spared Lucien a glance when he finally emerged from behind the menu.

"Well, I'm sure one of us wouldn't mind catching you in that position." she began, "But I'd love to learn."

Especially after seeing how popular those rolls apparently were. Cooking was one of the few normal activities Rook enjoyed and doing it for others made it even better.

Besides, it was a great way to keep busy and avoid thinking about what might have been. They could not have been able to sit there talking about buns. Russell could have been dead. Lucien could have thrown all the work he had done away to seek revenge. She could have lost her magic and become a shadow of herself.

It was best not to think about it. She reached to flick some of the feathers on her helmet.

"He's smart and very determined. You can't really tell Edmund he can't do something because he'll take it as a challenge and not just when it's about booze." Rook explained, "Maybe it's about time he makes some more flavors."

Something more tropical would have been nice to have. Those few ghosts who ventured out here might appreciate some more variety.

"I'm always up for a rewatch. We could make it a stable thing." Rook said, before turning to Antonio, "It'd be fun if you joined too. It's one more thing that won't make mum worry and who knows, maybe I'll also let you use my grill."

Well, there was a non zero chance of it happening at least. Being allowed to manage an open flame and cooking at the same time was the perfect activity for Rook.

"Well, we can give it a try." It was going to look silly. But Rook couldn't really care.

"Yeah! Let's make a place for everybody!" Erica cheered, before reaching into her pocket, "Hey! Can I have an extra cup?"

The reason for that became clear immediately as Smokey was placed on the table. The kitten stretched after a nice long nap like he hadn't had in a while, then started looking around the new place Erica had taken him to. It didn't take much to figure it out as the first of the ice cream started being served.

[ac1dmeow]

we need to talk about the fact that Jinx is probably an adrenaline junkie

yes tf she is and i stand by it. this can all go for both arcane and modern!au.

it’s a mix of that chase of adrenaline, and undeniable recklessness that jinx has that makes her have little to no fear. she’s risking getting caught by the law just so she can commit petty and ridiculous crimes such as graffiti/defacing, trespassing, vandalism… arson. all of which she would 100% do if she hates you. if you make her mad enough, she’ll sneak onto your property and deface the whole front of the house with crude drawings and words. and you’d know for certain it’s her when you catch the habitual abstract monkey face left behind in the very middle of her self proclaimed masterpiece.

she trespasses into abandoned places as well. whether it’s a house, a building or a park.

she loves the amusement parks.

she always brushes off the idea of getting caught by authorities because, “no comes around here anyway.” “it’s ‘abandoned’, remember? what use do they have wasting their time coming out here?” as she’s hopping the fence. and with all the time she has and the lack of public eyes to tattletale, she’ll do whatever the hell she wants and reek all the havoc she desires. she’ll fiddle with one of the ride’s machinery with those mechanical skills of hers just to make it work again so you can ride it over and over until you vomit.

whenever i see those people who do parkour across buildings, or climb up the massive cranes in their cities at night, i’m reminded of jinx and how she’d 1000% do the same. she’s fast and agile, she can sneak up a construction sight or get to the rooftop of a building and mange to stay hidden in the shadows as sneaky as a black back.

she just loves being high up! that wavering unsteady feeling she gets in her bones as she looks down at the view below, and sees just how small everything is from afar. all of the tiny moving dots of people and traveling vehicles out and about on their day lost in their own worlds. she thrives off of that.

don’t give the girl fireworks, she abuses that shit so bad. she’ll set off so many at once that it’ll alarm the next city over. it’s the loud explosive sounds and bright colourful lights that get her veins pumping with exuberance. lighting the ridiculously dangerous ones where you have to immediately run away and hide gives her a thrill like no other. and she always hopes to see homemade ones “malfunction” and explode at ground level before zooming up in the air while turning the sky back to daylight. you hear the girl cackling with a wicked smile on her face while hiding in a little corner, sparks flying everywhere like a war of fire broke out.

i feel like even more could be said and elaborated on but this is all i got for now. peace y’all ✌️

[phantomcomet]

There's a youtube channel I watch called "I Did A Thing" which can best be described as chaotic evil mechanical engineering. The dude makes the most absurd and dangerous shit just to see if he can. (He attempts to fly using pressure washers and makes a gaint beyblade that can kill a man. Wild shit. Very entertaining.)

Anyway- modern day au where Anakin is out there using his engineering degree for evil. Like he does work full time as a normal engineer (mostly focusing on robotics/prosethics) but on the weekends he likes to fuck around and find out. He posts his shit to youtube and is remarkably sour about the fact he makes more money from that than his actual job. All is well and good until Obi-Wan finds out about his dangerous passtime.

There's two verisons of this idea: Obi-Wan moves in with Anakin (and possibly the twins, as I'm in the mood for domestic chaos) and then walks in mid-video to see Anakin barefooted and welding together a literal minature tank that he's planning on testing in an abandoned parking lot.

"What on earth are you doing?"

Anakin, looking like a deer in the headlights, "There's no law saying I can't build a tank, I checked!"

Cue Obi-Wan finding out about his youtube channel, which spans all the way back to his early teen years. It's full of remarkable fleets of engineering and dumbassery. Anakin is brilliant with machines but is wishywashy about safety procedures. Obi-Wan has a connipition fit.

Stuffy professor Obi-Wan being a regular on the channel after that becauses he's acting as Anakin's safety inspector. This is now an OSHA compliant workshop. (He defintely gives Anakin several ridiculous ideas. They're two of a kind, Obi-Wan just is better at hiding it his wild streak.)

Alt verison- Obi-Wan is Anakin's neighbor and is slowly losing his mind because Anakin is choas incarnate. Anakin is working in his garage, grinding down metal at 3. A.M. because he was struck by a sudden bout of inspiration. Obi-Wan is reading on his back patio when there's a series of small explosions followed by smoke billowing over the shared fence. Obi-Wan has friends over one evening for dinner and hears crashes coming from next door and what sounds like someone getting murdered.

That's the last straw and Obi-Wan immediately goes over to (politely) tell him off. He walks in to the open garage to find Anakin trying to wrangle a small murderbot he's been working on. (It's R2 but with more knives.)

Obi-Wan takes one look at his neighbor, hair pulled back in a messy bun, looking sheepish and embrassed and goes, "I'm going to fuck him over his workbench."

Meanwhile his dinner guests are on the porch waiting to easedrop on a full blown Kenobi tongue lashing and see the garage door slowly close. They debate on if he's murdered his neighbor or not. (It's Quinlan and Ventress. They finish dinner and the wine without him and give Obi-Wan shit when he returns an hour later, very disheveled and looking stupidly besotted by his annoying neighbor.)

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @i-doutt-it @beth-isnt-home @darylandbethfanforever9 @brianna-merlim @pumpkinkpieandtomato @smashleywow @imadisneyprincessiswear @clementineslawyer @pandaofsilentdeath @dixonsbridexx @deerdaryl @imadisneyprincessiswear @staley83 @zombayyyyy @death-in-a-tar0t-card @straw--b3rry @capricxnt @dixonsstinkysock

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

TW: cussing, Merle is well ... Merle, fluff, walkers (Zombies) the Governor, Angstttttt so much angst.

A/N: it's gonna hurt

Part 21

Between Brothers - Part 22

The night air was thick with humidity and the ever-present stench of decay that seemed to cling to everything these days. Merle sat perched on the guard tower, his prosthetic resting on a rifle while his good hand worked at whittling another piece of wood—not another deer this time, but something simpler, just to keep his fingers busy. The metal of his prosthetic caught the moonlight, a constant reminder of what this world had cost him.

Below in the yard, a few walkers pressed against the fence, their low moans creating a symphony of death that had become as familiar as breathing. Merle barely glanced at them anymore—they were just background noise, like crickets used to be before the world went to hell.

"Ugly sons of bitches, ain't they?" Merle called down to where Daryl was making his rounds, crossbow slung across his shoulder. "That one there looks like my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Henderson. Always knew that bitch was dead inside."

Daryl's boots crunched on the gravel as he approached the base of the tower. "Yeah, well, least she can't give ya detention now," he muttered, his voice carrying that familiar rasp that came from years of cigarettes and not enough talking.

"Hell, baby brother, way I see it, we're all in detention now. Life sentence in the shittiest school ever built." Merle's laugh was rough, like gravel in a blender. "But hey, at least the cafeteria food can't get any worse."

Daryl started climbing the ladder, his movements careful and practiced. When he reached the top, he settled himself against the opposite wall, far enough to give Merle space but close enough to talk without raising their voices. The brothers had learned to read each other's moods over the years, and tonight felt different somehow.

"Quiet tonight," Daryl observed, adjusting his crossbow across his knees.

"Yeah, well, enjoy it while it lasts. You know how this shit goes—quiet now means we're gonna be knee-deep in walker guts tomorrow." Merle's knife worked steadily at the wood, carving away thin slivers. "Speakin' of which, you remember that time we went huntin' up near Dawsonville and you got your ass stuck in that bog?"

"Wasn't stuck," Daryl grumbled, but there was the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "Jus'... takin' a'break."

"Takin' a break, my ass. You were sinkin' like a stone, cryin' like a little girl. 'Merle, help me! Merle, I'm gonna die!' Christ, you were maybe twelve years old, all knees and elbows and pure panic."

"I was ten," Daryl corrected, his drawl thick with memory. "An' I wasn't cryin'. Was just... concerned 'bout the situation."

"Concerned about the situation," Merle repeated, his voice mockingly refined. "Well, ain't you just the philosopher. Point is, I hauled your scrawny ass outta there, didn't I? Got myself covered in that nasty-ass swamp water and probably caught three different diseases, but I got you out."

The memory hung between them for a moment, one of the few good ones from a childhood full of bad memories. Daryl picked at the wood planking with his thumbnail, a nervous habit he'd never quite shaken.

"'Member what I told ya that day?" Merle continued, his voice losing some of its usual edge. "After we got ya cleaned up and back to solid ground?"

"Mmm," Daryl said quietly, looking through his hair.

"No matter what kind of shit storm we're in, no matter how deep the bog gets, we watch each other's backs. That ain't changed, baby brother. Not ever."

Daryl nodded, but something in Merle's tone made him look up sharply. There was an intensity there, a weight to the words that went beyond simple brotherly bonding.

"'Course it ain't," Daryl said carefully. "W'you talkin' 'bout?"

Merle was quiet for a moment, his knife pausing in its work. Down in the yard, one of the walkers let out a particularly pitiful moan, and somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted—one of the few sounds from the old world that remained unchanged.

"Just thinkin' about things, is all. About how things can change real quick in this world. One minute you're here, next minute you're walker chow." He resumed his carving, not looking at Daryl. "Makes a man think about what he's leavin' behind."

"Y'ain't goin' nowhere," Daryl said firmly.

"We got a good thing here, don't get me wrong. But it ain't gonna last forever. Nothin' good ever does, not for people like us." Merle's laugh was bitter now.

"Dixons. We're survivors, baby brother, but we ain't lucky. Never have been. We fight and we scrape and we make it through by the skin of our teeth, but eventually..." Merle shrugged. "Eventually everybody's number comes up."

Daryl was quiet for a long moment, processing the unusual melancholy in his brother's voice. Merle wasn't typically one for philosophical discussions, especially not about mortality.

Usually, he covered any serious thoughts with crude jokes or unnecessary violence.

"S'what's this really about?" Daryl asked. "You bit ?"

"Nah, I'm fine as frog's hair. Just... thinkin' about the future is all. About what happens if one of us don't make it." Merle's prosthetic clicked against the rifle as he adjusted his position. "You know that lil doe of ours?"

Daryl's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "W'about her?"

"She's good people, ain't she? Sweet little thing, always tryin' to help everybody, always got a kind word even for a piece of shit like me." Merle's voice had gone soft, almost reverent. "Reminds me of them deer we used to see up in the mountains. You know the ones—all graceful and careful, but strong as hell underneath."

Daryl nodded chewing on his lower lip. He'd made the same comparison himself, though he'd never said it out loud.

"Girlie's got too much faith in people, too much trust. That's gonna get her killed someday if she ain't careful." Merle's knife had stopped moving entirely now, his attention focused entirely on his baby brother. "She needs somebody who understands how ugly this world can get, somebody who can keep her safe without breakin' that light inside her."

"Merle—"

"I'm just sayin', if somethin' were to happen to me, you'd make sure she was okay, right? You'd watch out for her?"

There it was—the real question, wrapped up in hypotheticals and careful phrasing. Daryl felt something cold settle in his stomach, something he couldn't quite name.

"'Course," he said slowly. "Nothin's gonna happen to ya. W'both gonna watch out for her."

"Yeah, well, humor me. Say somethin' did happen. Say I got bit, or took a bullet, or just had a really bad day. You'd make sure she was okay? You'd make sure she knew that... that she mattered?"

Daryl studied his brother's profile in the moonlight. Merle's jaw was set, his eyes fixed on the horizon, but there was something vulnerable in his posture that Daryl recognized from childhood—the way Merle used to look when their father was on a particularly bad bender and they were trying to figure out how to avoid the worst of it.

"She'd matter to you," Daryl said, not quite a question.

"She matters to everybody. Hell, even Carol's taken a shine to her, and you know how picky that woman is about who she lets into her circle." Merle's laugh was forced. "Just... if somethin' happened, you'd make sure she didn't blame herself, right? Make sure she knew it wasn't her fault?"

"Why would she blame herself?"

"People do that, especially people like her. They think if they'd just been better, or faster, or smarter, they could've saved everybody. Could've made the difference." Merle's voice was rough now, heavy with something that might have been regret. "Don't want her carryin' that weight around. Girl's got enough to worry about."

Daryl was quiet for a long moment, listening to the night sounds—the distant moans of walkers, the creak of the fence, the whisper of wind through the trees. Finally, he spoke.

"Y'plannin' somethin' stupid?"

"When am I not plannin' on doin' somethin' stupid?" Merle's grin was sharp in the moonlight. "But nah, baby brother. Just want to know that if the worst happens, you got my back. That you'll take care of the people who matter."

"I got you" Daryl said simply. "Always"

"Good. That's... that's good." Merle resumed his carving, but his movements were less steady now. "You know, she asked me about my carvin' the other day. Said she liked the little deer I made."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Said it reminded her of somethin' from home, before all this shit started. Some story her grandmother used to tell her about forest spirits or some such nonsense." Merle's smile was genuine this time. "Got this look in her eyes when she talked about it, all soft and far away. Made me think maybe there's still some magic left in this world after all."

"Maybe."

"Maybe." Merle was quiet for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Anyway, you just remember what I said. About lookin' after her. About makin' sure she knows she matters."

Daryl made a noise low in his throat, one Merle knew was a agreement, not a dismissal.

"Good. Now, you want to hear about the time I convinced Bobby Jenkins that his woman was cheatin' on him with a scarecrow?"

And just like that, the moment passed. Merle launched into another outrageous story, his voice carrying across the night air with its usual crude enthusiasm.

But Daryl continued to watch his brother's face, noting the careful way Merle avoided his eyes, the slight tremor in his good hand as he worked at the wood.

The pre-dawn darkness wrapped around the prison like a shroud, thick and heavy with the promise of another scorching Georgia day. In the quiet of the prison, most everyone was still lost in whatever dreams they could manage in this hellish world.

But Merle Dixon couldn't sleep—hadn't been able to for days now, you were curled up beside him on the thin mattress, your face pressed against his chest, fitting against him like you'd been made for this exact spot.

The blanket—his blanket, the one he'd quietly made sure you had the warmest of—was pulled up to your chin, and your breathing was soft and even in that space between sleep and waking.

Look at her, Merle thought, his good hand resting carefully on your hip, feeling the gentle rise and fall of your breathing. Prettiest damn thing in this whole godforsaken world, and she's here with me. How the hell did I get so lucky?

Your hair was mussed from sleep, catching what little light filtered through the barred window, and there was a peaceful expression on your face that made something in Merle's chest tighten painfully.

He'd memorized every detail of your face over the months—the way your nose wrinkled when you laughed, how your eyes crinkled at the corners when you smiled, the little scar from some childhood accident you'd told him about.

"Mmm," you murmured, still mostly asleep, pressing against him slightly. "You're warm."

"Always am, sugar," Merle replied softly, his voice carrying none of its usual harsh edge. "Like a damn furnace, ain't I?"

You made a small sound of agreement, your hand finding his where it rested on your hip, fingers intertwining with his. The gesture was so natural, so trusting, that Merle felt his throat tighten.

After everything, after all the shit I've done, all the ways I've fucked up, she still trusts me enough to sleep next to me.

"Can't sleep again?" you asked, your voice thick with drowsiness but tinged with concern. You always worried when he couldn't sleep, always tried to help in your gentle way.

"Nah, just enjoyin' the view," Merle said, attempting his usual crude humor. "Got me a real nice piece of ass pressed up against me. What red-blooded American male would waste time sleepin'?"

You scoffed softly, the sound he'd grown to love more than any music. "You're incorrigible."

"That's a mighty big word for this time of mornin', sugar. You sure you ain't still dreamin'?"

"Positive. Unfortunately, I'm stuck with you." But there was affection in your voice, the kind of fond exasperation that came from months of putting up with his particular brand of charm.

Merle's chest rumbled with quiet laughter. "Lucky you. Most girlies would kill for the privilege of wakin' up next to all this." He gestured to himself with his prosthetic, the metal catching a glint of moonlight.

"Most girls have better sense than I do, apparently."

"Damn right they do. You got terrible taste in men, lil doe. Absolutely terrible."

The nickname rolled off his tongue like honey, sweet and deliberate. He'd started calling you that months ago, back when you were still skittish around walkers, still jumped every time they came close. Now it felt like a prayer, something sacred between just the two of you.

My little doe, he thought, pressing his face into your hair and breathing in the scent of the cheap shampoo you'd found on the last supply run. My beautiful, perfect, too-good-for-this-world little doe.

"You know," you said quietly, your voice growing more serious, "I never properly thanked you."

"Thanked me? For what, sugar? My sparkling personality? My devastatingly good looks? My charming way with words?"

"For Atlanta. For the rooftop." Your voice was barely above a whisper now. "For not letting me jump."

The words hit Merle like a physical blow. Atlanta. The rooftop. The day he'd lost his hand but gained something infinitely more precious—the knowledge that you'd risk everything to save him. The day he'd realized that maybe, just maybe, there was still something worth fighting for in this world.

Hell, lil-doe you saved me, he thought, the memory playing out in his mind like a film reel. Could've run, could've saved herself, but she stayed. But she got me outta there when any sane person would've left me to rot.

"Hell, You're the one who saved my worthless ass." he said, his voice rougher than usual.

"We saved each other," you corrected, your fingers tightening around his. "That's what we do."

What we do. The words echoed in his mind, and Merle felt something break inside his chest. Because after today ... after today, you'd be safe, and Daryl would take care of you the way Merle never could.

The silence stretched between you, comfortable and warm, and Merle felt the weight of everything he'd never said pressing down on him. All the words he'd swallowed, all the feelings he'd buried under crude jokes and casual cruelty.

He'd spent so long being afraid—afraid of rejection, afraid of tainting you, afraid of admitting that a Dixon man was capable of love.

But time was running out, and some things needed to be said, even if you'd never fully remember them.

"You know what I love about you?" he murmured, his voice so soft it was barely audible.

"My stunning intelligence? My wit?" you teased sleepily, but there was something in your tone that suggested you knew this was different, that something had shifted in the air between you.

"Your heart," he said simply. "Your big, beautiful, stupid heart that still believes in good things. Still believes in people, even when they don't deserve it."

His good hand moved from your hip to your face, fingers tracing the line of your jaw with reverent gentleness. You made a soft sound, leaning into his touch, and Merle felt his resolve crumble a little more.

Look at her, he thought desperately. Look how she trusts me. How she lets me touch her like this. How did I get so goddamn lucky?

"Merle, you being wer-" you whispered, and his name on your lips sounded like absolution.

"Shh," he murmured cutting you off, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. "Just let me... let me look at you for a minute."

In the dim light, your face was perfect—soft and peaceful and so beautiful it hurt to look at. Merle traced every feature with his fingertips, memorizing the feel of your skin, the way you sighed when he touched you. His thumb ghosted over your lips.

She's half asleep, he told himself. She won't remember this tomorrow. Won't remember how pathetic I'm bein', how weak.

But even as he thought it, he knew it was a lie. This wasn't weakness—this was the strongest thing he'd ever done. This was love, pure and simple, and it was killing him.

"You know what else I love about you?" he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "The way you hum when you're workin'. The way you scrunch up your nose when you're concentratin'. The way you always save the best bits of food for everybody else. The way you look at me like I'm worth somethin'."

Your eyes flicked open, for less then a few seconds, meeting his in the darkness. They were soft and unfocused with sleep, but there was something there—a question, maybe, or a recognition that this moment was different from all the others.

"What's wrong?" you slurred, your voice thick as sleep pulled you under again.

"Nothin's wrong, lil doe. Everything's perfect. You're perfect." His hand cupped your face, thumb stroking across your cheek. "I just... I need you to know somethin'."

"Mmm." You hummed noncommittally.

For a moment, he couldn't speak. The words were there, burning in his throat, but they felt too big, too important. How do you tell someone that they saved your soul? How do you explain that you'd burn down the world to keep them safe?

Just say it you pussy, he told himself. Just once, say it like you mean it.

"I love you," he whispered, the words barely audible but carrying the weight of everything he'd never been able to say.

I love you so goddamn much it scares me. Love the way you laugh, love the way you cry over dead flowers, love the way you make me want to be better than I am. Love you more than I ever thought possible, he thought watching your chest rise and fall peacefully.

You nodded slightly, and for a moment, Merle thought you might be fully awake, might remember this. But then you sank back into that dreamy half-sleep, a small smile playing at your lips.

"Mmm, Yea Love you too, you big sook" you murmured, the words slurred with drowsiness.

She loves me, Merle thought, his heart breaking and soaring at the same time. Maybe not the same way, but it's enough, more then I deserve.

He leaned down then, pressing his lips to yours in the softest kiss he'd ever given. It was gentle and reverent, a goodbye disguised as a caress. You sighed into his mouth, and for a moment, Merle let himself believe that this moment could last forever.

When he pulled back, your eyes were still closed, that peaceful expression on your face. He watched you for a long moment, drinking in every detail, trying to burn this image into his memory.

This is it, he thought. This is as close to heaven as a Dixon'll ever get.

Slowly, carefully, he began to untangle himself from you. Your face scrunched up in protest as he moved away, and you made a small sound of complaint that nearly broke his resolve.

"Shh," he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Just gotta get up, lil-doe. You go back to sleep for me."

He eased himself off the mattress, his movements careful and quiet. From his pocket, he pulled out the small wooden carving he'd finished the night before—not a deer this time, but a small heart, smooth and perfect.

She'll understand, he told himself as he placed it on the small table beside the bed where you'd see it when you woke up.

Maybe not right away, but eventually.

Eventually she'll understand why.

He stood there for a moment, looking down at you, memorizing this last image of peace. Your hair spread across the pillow, one hand reaching out to where he'd been lying, searching for him even in sleep.

I'm sorry, he thought, the words he couldn't say aloud. I'm sorry I can't be the man you deserve. I'm sorry I can't stay. I'm sorry I'm too much of a coward to tell you the truth when you're awake.

But even as he thought it, he knew it wasn't about cowardice. It was about love—the kind of love that put someone else's safety above your own happiness. The kind of love that made the hard choices, even when they destroyed you.

She'll be safe, he told himself as he turned away from the bed. Daryl will take care of her. He's a good man, better than me. He'll give her the life she deserves.

The thought should have comforted him, but instead, it felt like a knife twisting in his chest. He paused at the door, looking back one last time at the girl who'd saved him in every way that mattered.

"Goodbye, lil doe," he whispered, so quietly that even he barely heard it. "I love you. I love you so goddamn much."

Then he was gone, slipping through the prison corridors like a ghost, leaving behind the only good thing he'd ever found in this world. Behind him, you stirred slightly in your sleep, your hand closing around empty air where he'd been, and somewhere in your dreams, you whispered his name.

The wooden heart sat on the table, a silent testament to a love that would never be, and in the growing light of dawn, it cast a shadow that looked almost like two people embracing, holding each other tight against the darkness of the world.

[joelalorian]

The Dog Days of Starting Over - Part Three

Joel Miller x f!reader | WC: 2295 |18+ MDNI | masterlist

Summary: Joel is hit with the loneliness of an empty nest when Sarah goes overseas for college. Her solution? Adopt a dog. That may just change Joel's life.

Series Tags/Warnings: 18+ mdni. Empty nester Joel. Loneliness and sadness. Humor. Cursing. Dog park shenanigans. Awkward flirting. Socialization for dog and human. Probably more to come. Slow burn to start.

Series Masterlist

Part Two

Part Three

Joel pulled into the gravel parking lot by the town’s dog park, Central Bark, just as the afternoon sun dipped behind the trees. Walter sat upright in the passenger seat, eyes narrowed, his tail giving a single contemplative thump. Joel leaned forward, his arms draped over the steering wheel as he eyed the fenced-in green space through the windshield.

The dog park looked deceptively peaceful at first glance. A wide expanse of greenery spread out before them, dotted with trees, benches, three canopy-covered picnic tables, and people who all looked like they belonged to some unwritten club that involved collapsible water bowls and Chuck-its.

Why did he suddenly feel like he was about to walk onto a battlefield he hadn’t trained for?

“Alright, bud,” he muttered after watching that deceptive peace turn into the true chaos unfolding inside the boundaries of that chain-link fence. “Looks like we got a golden retriever over there peeing on every surface that can’t move, a poodle in a stroller – what the fuck? – and several lab mixes doing parkour off the benches.”

Walter turned his head to meet Joel’s gaze and uttered an unimpressed huff.

“And the humans…” Joel squinted at them, brows drawing together as he observed the interesting characters he could make out near the front of the park. One woman carried a baby on one hip and yelled at any dog that tried to jump up to sniff the child. A dude in joggers and a man bun was doing fucking yoga on a shady spot of grass with his dog. A few men stood in a circle, chatting and tossing tennis balls for their dogs to fetch. And scattered along the benches and picnic tables were a few people making conversation or reading.

Was he ready for this?

Not really.

Walter didn’t look ready either.

They sat there another minute, the engine humming quietly. Joel’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, and his mind ran in circles. This was stupid. He didn’t belong here. Not with these dog yoga people. Not with their perfect lives and matching water bottles. What could he possibly have in common with any of them?

But Sarah told him he needed to ‘get out there’. She’d said it with that voice that he always found it hard to say no to. She usually paired it with those big puppy dog eyes. He’d do anything for that girl.

Joel killed the engine and reached for the leash with a sigh. “Let’s just walk the perimeter. In and out. Call it recon, if you will. No mingling. We don’t even have to make eye contact.”

Walter let out a dramatic huff and slowly stood, giving a full-body shake like he was preparing for combat. As Joel clipped the leash to his collar, he caught the dog giving him an encouraging side eye.

“If anyone tries to talk to me about gluten-free dog biscuits or goin’ vegan, I’m throwin’ you in the car and we’re goin’ for steak tacos.”

Walter snorted.

Together, they stepped out of the truck and made their way to the entrance. Walter trotted toward the gate with surprising enthusiasm, tail wagging with interest as they slipped through the first gate of the entryway. Before Joel could unhook the lead and open the second gate, dogs rushed toward them, barking and whining, eager to meet the fresh meat.

Walter looked up at Joel doubtfully.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Joel grumbled. “This wasn’t my idea. I was perfectly fine not being barked at by strangers.”

The beagle yawned, snapping his jaws closed impatiently.

“This is gonna suck.” Joel eased the gate open, pushing the pack of dogs back to allow Walter and him in. Walter trotted in like he owned the place, silently snarling at any dog that tried to sniff his butt without his permission. When he reached the first patch of grass, he lifted his leg and peed on one of the dog’s heads when it refused to stop its butt sniffing. The other dogs skittered off, as if they were reconsidering their life choices.

“Thatta boy,” Joel said approvingly with a low chuckle. “Keep that same energy.”

An older woman doused in too much perfume and a bedazzled visor marched over, the tiny dog tucked under one arm resembling a furry baguette. “Excuse me! Is your dog fixed? Does he have all his shots?”

Joel blinked. “Is he what now?”

“Neutered. Altered. Snipped. Vaccines. You know, things responsible dog owners do for their dogs?”

Walter picked that moment to dramatically flop onto the grass and roll onto his back, as if to show the impertinent woman his lack of balls. Joel didn’t bother hiding a chuckle.

“Yeah,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s all squared away. See for yourself.” He pointed down to Walter’s demonstration and turned to walk away.

“Good,” the woman nodded curtly. “Some of us actually care about maintaining the vibe.”

Vibe? It was on the tip of his tongue to ask questions, but judging by the woman’s outfit, Joel didn’t want any part of it. He continued walking, Walter quickly following.

“Don’t pay any mind to Ruth,” a sweet-sounding voice caught his attention as he and Walter headed toward the fence line. He turned to find a pair of pretty eyes and a kind smile focused on him. “She’s a bit of a handful, but she means well.”

“Handful is right. Not sure she should be part of the welcoming committee. Her demeanor is off puttin’’.” That earned a little burst of laughter from you.

“Yeah, probably not,” you concurred.

Joel’s eyes flicked over you, then away before he was caught. He liked your style – jeans, a tee shirt, and hiking boots. Simple, real. Pretty and kind. It caught him off guard, finding someone like that in a place with so many… interesting characters. Before he could think of anything remotely charming or witty to say, salvation came in the form of a buzz from his phone.

“’Scuse me, ma’am.” You flashed another smile as he stepped back toward the fence and answered the phone.

“Hi, Babygirl.”

“Cheers, Dad,” Sarah greeted, her voice chipper. “Are you at the dog park, or did you chicken out and take Walter to the pub instead?”

He snorted. “If I had a choice, I’d be three beers deep by now. But someone didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“Oi, don’t be a numpty. Walter needs to mingle. You both do.”

“What the hell’s a numpty?”

Sarah laughed fondly. “It’s a term they use on this side of the pond, mate. It means a stupid or silly person. I learned it from my roommate.”

“Mate? Numpty? Cheers? You forget how to speak American already?” Joel teased. He loved hearing the happiness in her voice, even when she was giving her old man a hard time. “We’re mingling. Real social. We’ve already judged, and been judged by, no less than three people and six dogs, thank you very much.”

She laughed. “Sounds like you’re both thriving.”

He hesitated, then sighed. “It’s… a little weird. Everyone here’s got these weird ass routines. There’s this dog wearing booties, and another one with a bandana that says ‘Plant-Based Pup.’ What the hell does that even mean?”

“Probably that their owners are insufferable,” Sarah replied dryly. “You’ll get the hang of it, Dad. Just keep going. And maybe wear something that doesn’t scream, ‘I hate fun’.”

Joel looked down at his dark gray t-shirt, jeans, and work boots. “This is my happy outfit.”

“Sure. More like jeans and work boots are your armor.” There was such fondness in her voice that Joel’s heart melted into a puddle. “Alright, I’ve gotta go. I’ve got a lecture in postcolonial ethics, and my professor wears sweaters with elbow patches unironically. I need to prepare emotionally.”

“You are such a weirdo. Love you, kiddo.”

“Love you too, Dad. And tell Walter he’s a good boy.”

“Nah, it’ll just go straight to his head.”

When he hung up, Joel turned to find a brindle pit bull sitting on Walter, treating him like a throne. Walter wore an expression of long-suffering irritation and let out a low snarl at the violent offender.

“You okay there, buddy?” Joel called, trudging across the grass, his boots sinking slightly into the damp earth.

Walter huffed, thoroughly unamused.

Joel reached for the pit bull’s collar, noting the studded bones along the aged leather. “Alright, your majesty. Time to abdicate.”

The other dog gave a lazy yawn before sauntering off without protest, leaving behind a deeply offended beagle. Joel looked down at Walter. “Think we’ve had enough socializin’ for one day?”

Walter stood, shook himself off dramatically, and headed for the gate without a backward glance. Joel followed with a hearty chuckle. “Yeah. Me, too.”

As they made their way toward the exit, weaving around abandoned tennis balls and dodging the random pile of dog shit, a rogue golden doodle barreled past, tongue lolling and paws flying in a blur. It clipped Joel at the knee, damn near sending him to the ground.

“Jesus Christ!” he cursed, stumbling sideways into the fence. The chain-link gave a metallic rattle when he caught himself.

“Sorry!” someone called from across the field. “She gets the zoomies when she sees handsome older men.”

Joel wasn’t sure how to process that sentence, so he just kept walking. This place was so strange.

At the gate, he spotted you again, crouched to reattach your dog’s leash. You looked up at the sound of Joel’s approach, offering a friendly nod and bright smile.

“Did Walter survive his first visit?”

Joel huffed, eyeing Walter’s sulky posture and dirty-dusted belly. “Barely. He got sat on like a beanbag. Decided to end on a high note.”

You laughed, standing to your full height and brushing your hands on your jeans, little blades of grass tumbled to the ground. “Could’ve been worse. Last week, a husky stole my protein bar and then peed on my shoes. Dog park diplomacy is brutal.”

“Certainly seems like it,” he chuckled. “You always come here in the late afternoon?”

Your head tilted thoughtfully, the fading sunlight catching your eyes in a way that left Joel a little speechless.

“Sometimes. I prefer the mornings, especially on the weekends. Better crowd at that time.” You led the way through the first gate, holding it open for Joel and Walter to pass through before moving to the second gate. “This late afternoon crowd is a bit pretentious for my liking.”

Joel found himself grinning with genuine ease, something he thought might have to do with you. Walter leaned into his leg with the sagging weight of a lazy toddler, glancing sideways at your petite husky mix, who sat patiently at your feet.

She had one brown eye and one blue, and a gaze that could see right through to one’s soul. The daisy-print collar around her neck popped brightly against her silver-white and brown coat.

“What’s her name?” Joel nodded toward your dog in an attempt to keep the conversation going.

“Penelope,” you said fondly. “She loves to run. And she’s real damnjudgmental – judges people who wear Crocs and drink foam lattes and a million other things.” Your laugh was as pretty as you were, and Joel tried not to visibly react to the warmth it stirred in his chest. “Seems to like you guys though.”

He looked down at Walter. “You hear that, buddy? Sounds like we found your twin.”

Walter sneezed in response, causing you to laugh again. Joel felt certain the pleasant sound would linger in his ears for hours like a song he didn’t want to forget.

“Well, I hope you two come back. Definitely try the weekend mornings, it’s usually much less chaotic.”

Joel hesitated, thumb hooking into his front pocket, then gave a small nod. The idea of seeing you again made him almost eager to return. Almost. “We just might.”

“See you around then.” You offered a small wave, leash in hand, as you and Penelope turned to find your car. Joel watched you walk away, telling himself he wasn’t checking you out, but… yeah, he totally was. He was having a hard time telling if you were being flirtatious or just friendly. He wasn’t good at this shit. Always missed the context clues.

Walter snorted, drawing his attention away from your retreating form. The dog eyed him like he knew exactly what type of thoughts rolled through Joel’s mind.

“What? Don’t look at me like that.”

The beagle turned and headed for the truck without waiting, tail wagging in slow semi-circles as he dragged Joel along with him. Once they were back in the cab, Joel buckled his seatbelt and glanced over at Walter, already halfway into his post-park coma. His head lolled against the door, lips fluttering slightly in the breeze from the open window.

Before pulling away, Joel took out his phone and shot a quick text to Sarah.

Joel: Survived. Barely. Walter got sat on. I may have been flirted with? Not sure. Outta practice and this dog park is a hellscape.

Sarah’s reply came within seconds.

Sarah: Omg a WOMAN??? Did she have teeth? Was she breathing? Did YOU remember to breathe??? How are you alive right now?

Joel rolled his eyes and sent one final text before shoving the phone into the empty cupholder.

Joel: Haha you lil shit.

Walter shifted in his seat with a soft, sleepy groan. Joel reached over and scratched behind his floppy ear. He stared out at the horizon for a beat, taking in the vibrant colors of the setting sun, and turned the key in the ignition.

“We’ll come back Saturday morning, yeah?”

Joel took Walter’s silence as a yes.

tbc

Part Four

taglist: @milla-frenchy, @noisynightmarepoetry, @bunnymami13, @lillaydee, @missladym1981 @therewastherewas @joelmillerpascal @baronessvonglitter @ashleyfilm

[cmgmikealson]

Guys lando went to go over to the fans waiting at the fence to say hi and show of the trophy someone jumped in front of lando to get on the pitwall and he then fell and since lando was right behind him literally fell on lando making lando get hit in the face with the trophy cause he was holding it!!! I hope he is okay!!!

This is what I’m talking about 👇🏻👇🏻

[iamyourwayout]

● No Turning Back ●

❣️ A short chapter excerpt / Remmick's turning ❣️

(Huge thanks to @bloodandbutts for reading and initial feedback!)

I am currently in the process of writing a longer fic about Remmick's origins and his life before the events of the film.

This is the scene where he is turned into a vampire.

I didn't have much luck finding beta readers, so I just wanted to share this here to get some feedback, and see if people would even be interested in the whole work. Thank you for any potential comments and constructive criticism, I really appreciate it!

I am still working on this sequence too, so it will be subjected to change and improvement!

𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽: 1k

𝒞𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓍𝓉: 1.) This scene takes places in ye' olden days, I am not set on the exact date yet. 2.) "Remmick" is not his original name, the reasons for the name change and who turned him will be revealed in the final work. 3.) In my headcanon (for now) vampires still have a heartbeat and breathe, but at much slower pace than humans

𝓦𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼: blood, body horror, dissociation, mentions of death

And so, on this hard, cold stone floor, his life would be drained from him - like blood drains out of an unidentified corpse on an autopsy table, before being carelessly discarded somewhere in a shallow grave, just to be forgotten.

This would be his own funeral - one without a ceremony or fanfare, without anyone there to cry for him - his tears would be the only ones seasoning the ground beneath, the ground he would not be granted the dignity or privilege of being laid to rest in.

What must have lasted only a minute, felt like years, decades - like every millisecond equaled his whole lifespan, and then some - like in that time, he could have lived a hundred lives, a hundred times over. 

But time no longer existed, and neither did space. 

His life force, or soul, or whatever used to occupy his body, was being violently pulled upwards through his chest by an invisible force, like organs from a lifeless carcass of slaughtered livestock are ripped out by the butcher.

His mind was, in that moment, completely separated from his flesh - he was floating on air, motionless, bound, like a fly caught in a spider's web. He could feel and see his own body below, covered in blood, with eyes filled with unbearable fear, mouth agape in a scream he could not hear from up there. 

The entire world around him shut off, as if someone blew out the candle in a dark chamber, and he was levitating in a pitch-black abyss of nothingness - with no sound, vision, smell, or sense of touch - no air, no light, and no hope.

Then, another pull - like hundreds of arms, tree branches, or vines - grabbing at him, wrapping themselves around his limbs, his chest, his neck, and forcing him back down.

The world came back, spun and then shattered into countless little pieces, like glass from a broken mirror, reflecting life lost, and every single one not lived.

And just like that, he was back in his body.

And he could feel again, but only an excruciating pain, one almost incomparable to anything he’s experienced before - it felt like every nerve in his body was being hacked into billion pieces with a dull axe, like he was being torn apart limb for limb by a pack of rabid wolves.

He was changing, in every way.

His body –  twisting like rope, bones breaking and mending themselves back together, eyes flooding with a ruby-red haze and heavy like they’re about to burst out of their sockets, mouth nearly ripping at the seams from razor-sharp fangs violently exploding from his gums in a gush of blood and spit, fingers turning into long, freakish claws like pointy heads on a fence ripping through his skin from inside-out -- soaked head-to-toe in cold sweat running down his body and making his clothes stick to it, like he was sweating his humanity out as if it were a bad fever.

Humanity, identity, everything he once was and stood for, everything he could never be again -  now stripped from him, ripped off clean like skin from an exotic animal to be fashioned into a prized coat - but all he would wear now was death, disgust, regret, longing and something not yet named.

And suddenly, in the blink of an eye, the pain subsided - and something else took over.

It felt like an enormous, unspoken weight had been lifted - like he once carried a giant, heavy rock on his chest that was now removed, like he was anchored to the bottom of the ocean with a chain that was cut, allowing him to finally float to the surface.

He could feel his heartbeat slow down, his lungs tighten, and his breath shallow as flesh healed itself around his new appendages.

For that very brief moment, he was at peace - and as he took his very last breath, it felt like he was finally taking the first. 

He hoisted himself up and sat down in a smooth, mechanical, almost mindless motion - with wide eyes, and parted lips, blood dripping from his mouth and down his neck.

Everything felt different – all his senses replaced by something stronger, deeper, more intense, and gloriously overwhelming. 

His vision was sharper, and the world seemed to have shifted into a whole new, bright hue, like he could see colors he’s never seen before - as if a thick fog that used to cloud his eyes was now lifted – a clear blue sky on a perfect, cloudless day. 

He could hear the night birds outside as clear as if he were standing right under the tree on which they sat, singing just for him - a eulogy for his past self - beautiful, morbid and loud.

And he could smell the wax of every candle in the room - filling up his nostrils, so incredibly intense he could taste it in his throat - fragrance stronger and more cutting than the heat they produced, like he could almost feel the wax dripping on his skin and burning it.

Most dazzlingly, though, his brain was exploding with rapid thoughts - thoughts clearer, and more vivid than he knew were ever possible - visions, and ideas, and flashbacks, and memories - and for a second, he could even see his mother’s face again, so vividly, she could be standing right there beside him.

But there was also hunger - a strange, insatiable craving for something, growing within him, spreading like disease - something brand new, unfamiliar … as if all the blood that no longer ran through his veins had to be replaced with something else - and it cut to the bone. 

And it was all beautiful.

Unbecoming, dying and being born again, anew. Shedding old life and everything that came with it like a snake sheds its skin and leaves it behind, never to look back. 

He slowly, but confidently got up on his feet, standing tall and with head held high - and as red haze came over his eyes, through a mouthful of sharp fangs, a wide smile crawled onto his lips.

The life he knew was over, and a new one just begun - undead, but more alive than ever.

And so, there was no Ríoghán anymore.

There was only Remmick.