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

[yourauthorjen]

| YOURS | — joaquin torres

(requests open)

masterlist

| synopsis: | a family was something you never thought could be a possible, but after joaquin torres you seemed to think differently.

| includes: | husband!joaquin x reader, a bunch of fluff, children, and chaos

| word count: | 1.6k

| a/n: | this was from this lovely request! thank you so much for your idea! the main headcanons i focused on were morning chaos and supportive husband and dad. also i feel like joaquin would be such a girl dad.

THE IDEA OF having a family always made you shiver.

Whether it was because of the stress from the children or the bone chilling possibility of not being good enough, you never wanted to consider that idea.

That was until Joaquin walked into your life, bright eyed and charming, stubborn but absolutely heart aching in a way that you could never forget. And ever since you two had been together, every night was spent with him mapping out the possibilities of the future. He'd lace his fingers with yours and he'd ramble on about all the different lives you could have together.

He'd tell you about the a house with a picket fence or maybe an apartment filled with toys and two small children with your eyes and his crooked grin.

The first time he had brought it up you listened to him in silence, heart thundering, and slightly terrified. You didn't know if you deserved all that but he made sure he believed enough for both of you. Joaquin never pressured you, he just smiled and held your hand tighter every time you wavered.

It took another three, four years before you agreed, and somewhere along the way — between sleepy kisses in the kitchen and long car rides where he sang off-key just to make you laugh — you stopped being afraid.

When you first felt your oldest stirring inside of you, you were consumed with cold terror and sleepless nights. It was always a string of "what-ifs" and "am I making the wrong choice?"

But Joaquin was always there, to kiss your knuckles when you couldn't sleep, or doing your share of chores when you were too exhausted to keep yourself awake.

Sam was there to help you as well, dropping by ever so often with Sarah who had made frozen dishes or to take you out shopping while Sam just teased you, joking about how you better hope that the baby didn't snore like Joaquin did.

Obviously, Joaquin's family came over too. The crowd of aunts and uncles as well as his mom all came over to gush about your new child while also bringing in enough diapers and baby food to last an entire apocalypse. They offered home cooked meals, clothing and obviously a long string of baby names, which was a whole other story.

It was bittersweet seeing his family squished into your apartment when your own deadbeat father couldn't even bother shooting you a text, but still, it was heartwarming having such a loving family in a way you always longed for.

And now, your life was different.

Shoes and toys littered the house, lying in every unoccupied corner of the house. Drawings full of crayoned scribbled were plastered across the fridge, taped to the wall and piled atop the coffee counters, all with stick figured drawings of the four of you, standing beside a house with a triangle for the roof.

This morning was no different than other mornings, you woke up to the soft scent of soap and cinnamon as soft kisses brushed your cheek then up to your forehead, before a chorus of sleepy giggles and hushed whispers barged into your room scrambling onto your bed as Joaquin groaned into your hair, his arm tightening lazily around your waist like he thought he could shield you from the onslaught.

But your oldest was determined, climbing right up onto the bed and tugging insistently at the blanket. Your youngest followed, less coordinated but no less enthusiastic, tripping over her own feet and landing in a heap at the foot of the bed, giggling uncontrollably.

"Get up," they both sang in sync as they bounced on the mattress eagerly.

Without loosening his grip on you, Joaquin turned slightly, catching your mouth in a slow, unhurried kiss. You could feel him smiling against your lips, his thumb brushing lazy circles against your hip, completely unbothered by the chaos swirling around you.

"Your breath stinks," you snickered pulling away from him as the kids continued dancing around the bed— one trying to climb onto Joaquin’s back, the other flopping dramatically onto the pillows, narrowly missing your head.

He let out a chuckle as he rubbed his eyes, "I haven't brushed my teeth yet."

You rolled your eyes, "Really, Sherlock?"

"Who's Sherlock?" your youngest asked wriggling between the two of you, eyes wide and dark hair a mess. She was like a copy and paste of Joaquin, unrelentless energy and big innocent eyes with a headful of curls. Meanwhile your oldest had your eyes, but less energetic than your second, still she piled on top of her younger sister trying to squish between the three of you, determined to snuggle into your arms.

"Sherlock," Joaquin said, "Is my only chance for a few more minutes of sleep." He shifted slightly, trying to nestle back against you, but the kids were having none of it.

"Noooo!" your oldest protested, her hands pushing against his chest as she wriggled closer. "We want pancakes!"

"Pancakes!" echoed your youngest, her little face lighting up at the mention of food, her hands tugging at the hem of your shirt, demanding your attention.

Joaquin looked at you for help, but you just shrugged as if to say this is on you.

"You three have no mercy," Joaquin muttered. You could practically see the gears turning in his head, trying to figure out how to wrangle them back into some semblance of order.

You laughed, head tipping backwards as you hoisted yourself out of bed. "Okay then, I guess we're making pancakes today."

Joaquin groaned as you gently pulled yourself out of his grasp, his lips forming a pout as you picked up your youngest, placing her on your hip. "Traitor," he muttered under his breath, though the sparkle in his eyes gave him away.

You grinned, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead as you shifted your daughter higher on your hip. "Suck it up, soldier. You're on kitchen duty."

Joaquin groaned even louder as your oldest tried to pull him up. "C'mon dad, we can do them together."

"That's the spirit," you cheered making your way into the kitchen. The morning light had spilled onto the wooden tile of the floor casting a soft glow as you set your daughter down onto one of the stools, Joaquin and your oldest trailing behind you. Both looked as sleepy as the other but a wide smile was still stretched across their faces.

"Okay team," Joaquin yawned, "You're gonna get the pancake mix—" he pointed to your youngest then to your oldest, "You go get the eggs and you—" he paused staring at you his eyes entranced as you leaned against the counter, sunlight kissing your face as you tossed your hair into a bun.

"What do I do?" you teased, cinching your apron tighter around your waist as his jaw went slack.

He cleared his throat, "You," he said, pointing the spatula at you like a sword, "are on official supervision duty. And looking way too good while doing it."

You snorted, reaching over to flick a little bit of flour from the counter at him, laughing when he pretended to stagger back in pain.

Your youngest clapped her hands in glee, while your oldest rolled her eyes like she was already ten years older than she really was. "Dad's being weird again," she whispered loudly to her sister, who giggled into her hands.

"Hey, weird is a Torres family tradition," Joaquin defended, setting a bowl down on the counter with a clatter. "You're just lucky you inherited it, too."

Weird was correct, because not even ten minutes later the kitchen was already a mess. Your youngest insisted on stirring the batter, which mostly resulted in flour puffing up into a cloud around her and your oldest took her self-assigned job of "egg cracker" very seriously— which meant you fished out a few too many shells from the mixing bowl.

"Okay," you said briskly, "Now that that's done, Dad’s in charge of flipping, but he’s banned from stepping a foot away from the stove."

"It was one time," he whined, "I didn't mean it."

"Joaquin, you burned an entire batch of pancakes," you deadpanned, "In front of your own mother."

"It was an accident," he sputtered.

You snapped your fingers in front of his face, "Hey, eyes on the stove soldier, we are not setting the fire alarm off again."

He laughed while your youngest sang a made-up pancake song under her breath, swinging her legs from the stool, while your oldest stood proudly at Joaquin’s side, offering enthusiastic and very loud coaching advice on when to flip the pancake.

You didn't even realize you were smiling until Joaquin caught your eye across the stove, flipping a perfect pancake with a flourish just to make you laugh. His smile— soft but full of so much love it ached was aimed right at you, like it always had been.

This was the future Joaquin had spent his nights rambling on about, and somehow, against all odds, it was yours too. You wrapped your arms around Joaquin's waist, hugging him tightly as he hummed under his breath, then leaned down to press a kiss to your hair.

"See," he murmured, voice warm and low just for you. "Told you you'd make something good."

You closed your eyes for a second, breathing him in— sweet and clean and that unmistakable feeling of home you never thought you'd have. His arms tightened around you briefly before he pulled away just enough to resume flipping pancakes, your oldest still enthusiastically coaching him from the sidelines.

Your youngest started singing her song even louder, and off-key, leading Joaquin to joining in with a off-tune harmony that made both kids dissolve into giggles.

You leaned back against the counter, watching the the three people you cherished so much bubbling around the kitchen. You had made something good. It was painstakingly beautiful, and you loved it. It was something that you would do everything to protect, and it was something you wouldn't trade for the world.

[rrysbabydoll]

Chemetrails Over The Country Club

Pairing: Harry Styles × Reader

CW: Flirting, kissing, teasing.

Synopsis: In Berlin for work, Harry takes Y/N to play tennis with Jeff tagging along.

Harry wasn’t exactly bad at tennis. He just wasn’t good. Not by Y/N’s standards, anyway.

The Berlin sun was unusually warm for April, and the clay courts at the private tennis club were practically glowing under it. Harry adjusted his cap, squinting at Y/N through the net. She stood poised, racket in hand, her white pleated skirt swaying slightly with the breeze. It wasn’t fair, honestly, how easily she fit here, like a painting come to life.

Jeff sat off to the side on a bench, sunglasses on, a bottle of water resting loosely in his hand. “Don’t embarrass yourself too much, mate,” he called, grinning.

Harry laughed, twirling his racket. “No promises.”

He’d been in Berlin for a week, tied up with meetings, fitting sessions, endless rehearsals for a few secret things brewing. It had been busy, almost too busy. So when Y/N had flown out from their house in london to visit him, Harry had insisted they steal away an afternoon for just the two of them. Well, the two of them, plus Jeff, because Jeff was glued to Harry’s side like a second conscience.

Y/N served with the ease of someone who’d been doing it since she could walk — which, in fact, she had. Born into old money, she grew up at country clubs and boarding schools, in a world where weekend tennis matches were as essential as Sunday brunch.

Harry grunted as he tried to return her serve, sending the ball way off into the fence.

Jeff let out a loud, mocking oof.

Y/N stifled a giggle behind her hand. “It’s okay. You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

Harry picked up another ball, tossing it in his hand. “I’ll have you know, I was this close to playing Wimbledon once.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Really?”

“No.” He grinned. “But I did once beat Niall at Wii Sports Tennis, so.”

“That’s not the same thing at all.”

“Agree to disagree.”

She winked at him across the net. Harry's heart stuttered. he could survive any amount of public humiliation if she was smiling like that.

He served, not terribly, not gracefully either. Y/N returned it easily, making him dart left, then right, then lunge forward for a shot he missed by a mile. He stumbled and almost ate clay.

“Alright, alright, time out.” Harry threw up his hands dramatically, panting a little.

Jeff clapped slowly from the sidelines. “That was... admirable.”

Harry shot him a glare before trotting to the net where Y/N was waiting, laughing openly now.

“You’re evil,” he accused lightly.

She pouted mockingly, brushing a bit of dust off his shirt, her touch light. “Come on. Let’s rally a bit. Less pressure.”

He leaned in, lowering his voice. “If I win a point, do I get a prize?”

She hummed, pretending to think about it. “Depends what you’re asking for.”

Harry smiled, wide and boyish. “A kiss, maybe?”

Y/N pretended to mull it over before nodding. “Alright. One point, one kiss.”

Jeff groaned loudly. “Please, I beg you, don’t make me watch.”

Y/N spun her racket expertly in her hand. “You’re the one who wanted to come.”

“Because you two are feral unsupervised.”

Harry just grinned. “We’ll keep it PG, Jeff. Promise.”

They rallied, slow at first, then faster as Harry found some footing. Every time he managed a good shot, Y/N would cheer exaggeratedly, making him beam like a kid. His form was questionable at best, but his effort? Unmatched.

Finally, after what felt like a thousand tries, Harry smashed a ball past her. It wasn’t clean, and it definitely wasn’t pretty, but it landed in.

“YES!” Harry whooped, throwing his racket up like he’d just won the U.S. Open. “Victory!”

Y/N raised her hands in mock defeat. “Alright, a deal’s a deal.”

Harry jogged over to her side of the court, still flushed from running around. She stood on tiptoe, pressing a featherlight kiss to the corner of his mouth.

It was barely a brush, but Harry chased it, tilting his head to capture her properly. Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt, anchoring him. The world blurred for a second, the clay, the bright sky, Jeff’s exaggerated gagging noises in the background.

When they finally broke apart, Harry tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Best game I’ve ever played.”

Y/N smiled lazily. “You’re not terrible, you know. Give it a few months, and you could be halfway decent.”

“High praise,” Harry said, grinning.

Jeff tossed a ball at Harry’s back. “Alright, lovebirds. Some of us have meetings to get back to.”

Harry caught the ball easily and turned to Y/N. “Wanna ditch him and stay here all day?”

Y/N laughed, but her fingers squeezed his for a second, a silent yes.

“Yeah, I think we should teach you a proper backhand.”

Harry groaned theatrically, but followed her back onto the court anyway, racket dragging behind him.

He didn’t care if he looked ridiculous. He didn’t care that Jeff would tease him for weeks. He didn’t even care that every muscle in his body would ache tomorrow.

Because Y/N — sun-drenched, smiling, her laughter catching on the warm Berlin breeze — was looking at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.

[bullet-prooflove]

Ethical Thieving: Andrew 'Pope' Cody x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @fadeinsol @akotafi @yousigned-upforthis @cowardlycandy

Companion piece to:

The Professional - Pope meets the love of his life when Smurf hires her to crack a safe.

Crazy (NSFW) - Pope's always been crazy but now he's also a man in love.

Tomorrow - Pope's family always fuck up the good in his life.

Do Over Day (NSFW) - Pope tries to make up for the day before.

Pope learns about ‘ethical thieving’ during one of your safe cracking lessons. He’s halfway through the tumblers on an Aspen 305 when you ask the question. “Have you ever stolen anything from a gallery?”

“No.” He tells you as he listens to the fourth one drop. “We’ve never had a fence that can move that type of shit.”

Art theft comes with its own unique set of problems. You usually need to have a buyer in place because the items are too hot to put out on the open market. Those types of people don’t exist in his world, they’re always too high maintenance or pretentious.

“No fence required in this one, no pay day either.”

He glances at you over his shoulder.

“No payday?” He exclaims, shaking his head. “Then why do it?”

“Sometimes it’s not about the money, it’s about righting a wrong.” You explain as he turns his attention back to the safe. He hears the locking mechanism click as he slides home, spinning the handle at the same time. The heavy door opens to reveal his prize, a Snickers bar resting on the middle shelf.

You’ve discovered he works best with an incentive so you’ve been sneaking candy into the safes to give him that drive. You never tell him what it is, which only adds to the intrigue.

“And what wrong would we be righting?” He asks, removing the Snickers and tearing it open with his teeth. He breaks it in half before handing you a piece which you take happily.

“We’d be liberating a portrait that was looted by a war criminal from his private collection.” You tell him with that mischievous look in your eye and that fire in him ignites because you, you might just be his salvation.

He’s never thought about utilizing his skillset for something like this before. All the jobs Smurf has given him have been for profit or to suit her needs, not anyone else’s. This is a chance to do some good, to put something positive back into the world.

“I’m game.” He tells you, focusing on unwrapping more of the candy bar. “It’ll be our first solo job together, maybe kinda like a date.”

“I’m not sure how all our other dates will live up to this one.” You tell him as you hop off the wooden work bench and duck underneath it to remove the schematics for the gallery. “Stealing Nazi artwork is kinda hard to top.”

“I’m sure we’ll find away.” He murmurs as he steps up alongside you, tilting his head to review the plans. “I didn’t miss the implication there would be more than one date by the way.”

“Good.” You tell him, your hip bumping against his. “I was hoping you didn’t.”

**

You really do plan the best first dates.

That private gallery job, it’s everything he could have hoped for.

Challenging, fun and the best part is he gets to burn down the whole fucking place to the ground.

A cleansing, you call it after you discover ‘Girl in A Yellow Sundress’ sitting amidst a plethora of Nazi memorabilia. It’s not the normal type of stuff you see in museums, it’s deranged fucked up shit like teeth from Auschwitz and baby shoes. The essence of human misery emanates from that room like a fucking beacon before it disappears in a puff of smoke, all of those trapped spirits returning to the ether.

The biggest high of the night is when you stop off outside the little house on Oakview. He watches from the driver’s seat as you climb the steps with the black telescopic tube slung over your shoulder. You’re greeted at the door by an old woman, one that grasps you so tightly he’s terrified she’s going to break something with the forcefulness of the notion. It’s that gratitude that lights up something deep within his soul, that knowledge that he helped with that, that he did something right for once in his life.

“Who was she?” He asks you when you’re back at your place, sipping beers on the back porch in the darkness. There’s a couple of candles burning on the wicker table in front of the outdoor couch, illuminating the two of you as you listen to the waves crashing against the shore.

“She was my foster mother once upon a time.” You tell him, pulling the hair clip from your hair. It falls across your features in waves and he wants nothing more than to run his hands through it. “After I killed my father, she took me in, raised me, taught me how to crack a safe. She gave me a trade that didn’t involve selling my body.”

“Is that why we took the painting?” He asks you, his arm coming to rest along the back of the sofa. His fingertips trailing over your bare shoulder, tracing the pattern of that Medusa tattoo on your bicep.

“She barely survived Auschwitz as a girl.” You say softly. “Her parents didn’t. The portrait is of her mother, one she barely remembers because of the Alzheimer’s. I hoped her having it would help with the good parts of her memory, that it would bring her some comfort.”

“You have a good soul.” He tells you, his palm coming to cradle your face, his thumb ghosting over the apple of your cheek. “If you wanna do more of these jobs, help more people, then I’m up for it. Hell, I could probably do with the good karma.”

Your lips brush over the base of his wrist, your eyes on his and he inhales sharply at the intimacy of the sensation.

“Too much?” You ask and he shakes his head, his breathing ragged.

“Not enough.” He murmurs. “I want…”

The words die on his lips because Pope, he’s never really considered his own needs before, he’s been too busy taking care of everyone else’s.

You shift positions, climbing into his lap. The two of you fit together like the missing pieces of a jigsaw, it’s both wonderful and overwhelming all at the same time. His hands come to rest on your waist squeezing lightly as he tilts his head up to meet your gaze.

“Can I kiss you?” You ask him and he nods unsteadily.

“You can do whatever the fuck you want to me.”

Your hands thread through his curls, tugging just a little and he moans outloud as your mouth meets his. You have the softest damn lips, he can’t help but wonder what they’d feel like chasing over his neck, his chest, his dick. A burst of citrus blossoms on his tongue, the taste of your lip balm and his hips arch causing you to make that sound, the sweet one he hears only in his dreams.

His hands rove over your clothes, stroking, caressing, kneading until your grinding against him so hard, he thinks he’s about to lose it.

“Gonna come.” He warns you, his voice a rasp.

“So am I.” You whisper back, your teeth grazing his lower lip. “You want me to stop?”

“Fuck no.” He whispers as that ecstasy surges up inside him. “I wanna keep going for as long as it takes us.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[redhoodinternaldialectical]

I 100% have a whole Scheme planned out for the super likely and definitely going to happen event in which I win the Comics Books Lottery and get to be the CEO of DC for a day lmao I have been dreaming about what I'd do for this for MONTHS!

welcome to the first draft test screening of...

Red Hood: Vein Tides

ISSUE #1

We open on a panel of a mugging which has just begun, then, the next panel pulls back to show us the looming silhouette of THE RED HOOD looking down. The view of the mugging is split into two panels side by side across the width of the page with the blacked out shape of Jason in the middle, poised to spring down and attack!

But he doesn't. Instead we see his inner monologue as he continues to let this go on.

The panel on the left holds the mugger and Jason's first thought box: [John Abernac. Father of four. He lives down the street. He's also about to get evicted due to late rent.]

The panel on the right holds the victim [Don't recognize her. Do recognize the pearls. Genuine. Two grand, easy, if you know a good fence.]

We face Jason, seeing him in an impassive, unreadable full face mask OR in full creacher mode with only the two red dots of his eyes visible in the darkness of the hood. [Four kids kept off the streets for the price of endangering one stranger who can clearly afford it? Simple math... so long as nothing goes wrong.]

The mugger reaches for her jewelry. [Maybe I don't love or understand God...]

[But I am praying.] Closeup of his white knuckle grip on the hilt of his kris.

The mugging goes as fine as threatening someone with a knife for their possessions can. He wasn't needed, and tonight, everybody walks away unharmed.

Jason steps away from the edge and breathes a sigh of relief. [That's the difference between me and Bruce... He's never been able to make the hard choices.]

[And after tonight, with any luck, any luck at all, I won't have to.]

The rest of the issue sees Jason making sure everyone in his territory is okay, settling scores, and paying up debts, at one point literally sending small sums of cash to various members of his friends/family, culminating in him shedding his armor and physically cleaning his home and giving back a borrowed object as a civilian.

He checks his now incredibly clean apartment and declares his satisfaction [Perfect.] Then we linger on him hesitating for a moment before deciding against calling his landlord.

Then he leaves the apartment, passing by a janitor who he smiles and waves to. [Not here. I can't do that to him. Besides, I've always been partial to Lydia Tomkiw's view of it.] The last part being a reference to this song.

He walks through the streets and down to the water, hiding himself away with his back against a support pillar and the water up to his gut.

He holds a gun up to his temple. [I felt so light and free all day today that it actually surprises me when I feel fear in the end.]

He screws his eyes shut, tears rolling down his cheeks. [I am so, so scared.]

He pulls the trigger and we see the muzzle flash from afar lighting up the sunset and then a panel of the sunset as it tints purple.

ISSUE #2

Jason wakes up in the hospital, having been found by beachgoers at Amusement Mile and rescued. The bullet only grazed his skull and he almost drowned, but all in all it only took pumping the seawater out of him to get him well enough to wake up and walk out.

He goes home, curls up in the shower, and weeps.

This has firmly cemented in his mind a suspicion that he's long held: [Death is a mercy God has forbidden me from receiving.] <- this should be the first actual thought or speech we hear from him this Issue.

He gets dry and dressed and sits down. Several panels of him simply staring at the floor. Then he thinks [Well... guess it's a good thing I didn't cancel my lease after all.] and the bleak humor of how unfairly mundane that is seems to break him out of the paralysis of depression somewhat.

He weakly resolves that he's got to find something to do or be or whatever that will make it worth surviving.

He can't name anything that could possibly do it though. He's not honestly sure he can remember a time in his adult life that he was actually fulfilled or at all happy.

In the meantime though, there's no rest for the wicked. Some how or another he finds out about a secret underground laboratory that's right beneath his feet and has been producing batches of highly rare designer drugs.

He sneaks his way into the laboratory and we end with a panel of his face, he looks awed. [It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen...]

ISSUE #3

Full page dramatic panel as Jason stands before a huge vat filled with a horrific squid-human-crab hybrid. From behind him out of panel comes a speech bubble. "So, Red Hood, what do you make of our latest creation?!"

"It's gorgeous..."

The awe in his voice and the unusual response is enough to break the traditional back and forth that a hero and villain ought to have at this juncture. So, when he turns around and reveals our Villains(?), Monsieur Mallah and The Brain, they don't start fighting.

Instead he gets a tour of the facility as a potential ally - or, well, more like a potential landlord and mafia jackass who's going to demand a cut of the profits from all the drugs they've been making in order to fund this operation.

This also gives us a tour of their goals. "Clones, I'm sure you've noticed, tend to disintegrate very, very quickly. The solution to this is generally to add enormous amounts of non-human DNA, specifically lobsters and octopuses and anything else that demonstrates significant resilience to aging"

The problem is that they can't get anything even remotely human out of the process. Vaguely Bipedal is about the best they've ever managed, and the Brain doesn't want to be stuck as a pile of incoherent stabbing limbs and slimy tentacles. So, the progress of science marches ever onwards, one failed, brainless squid monstrosity at a time.

And they are brainless! No brain or even any spinal chord in their vertebra - they aren't eager to make a bunch of minions that'll inevitably turn on them when they learn they were made purely to have their brains scooped out to house The Brain.

Or, at least they claim that they're brainless and why should anyone be trusting them? In every panel, Jason's thought boxes have been consumed with figuring out ways to take out the lab, the guards, and of course the loving duo of evil themselves.

And when he finally gets to the end of the tour Jason's mind is made up:

It's too dangerous to take them on without good reason. The lab is positioned right underneath an apartment building that houses at least a hundred people and there's no way in hell he can take this place out without it being a blood bath that seriously risked opening up a sink hole right under all those innocent people.

Plus, they just aren't doing anything all that evil! [Who gives a shit if they're doing weird experiments on a bunch of animals? The world does worse things for hamburgers every day.] The audience is meant to be made a little uncomfortable by the fact he cares so little about the animals.

So he gives them his stipulations for safety and selling practices with regards to the drugs and agrees to let them stay in his territory - And silently resolves to follow up on the brainlessness claim to make sure they're on the level with that one. [Zapping animals? Fine. Making an army of disposable quasi-people? Not so fine.]

Jason leaves, trying to think of what to do next to keep the soul crushing depression at bay. He's about to despair that his only options are sleep and throwing himself off of this roof - when suddenly he spots Damian moving into a nearby building.

ISSUE #4

Jason follows Damian and inserts himself into whatever fight Damian gets himself into.

It turns out that Damian has been tracking down an odd case: designer drug manufacturers with a penchant for rare animal smuggling on the side... He's after the lab that Jason has just sanctioned.

Damian confronts Jason about the drugs that are coming from his territory. "And you mean to tell me you are simply okay with this poison spilling out from underneath your own nose?"

"Hey, what do I care if the people of the Diamond District have gotten bored of their usual highs? Besides, it's not coming out of my territory, just moving through it. You'll have better luck trying the other Robin down at the docks - good f%$king luck getting him to cooperate as much as I am by the way."

Damian leaves, hopefully none the wiser for now, and hopefully this will give Jason enough time to figure out a plan.

Because seriously, what is he DOING?!

Jason looks down at his hands, trying to sort out why on earth he'd felt any desire to stick his neck out for them.

His reasons for not taking Mallah and the Brain down immediately fall apart like this. On his own he stands a high chance of making a deadly sinkhole, but a whole team? They could just dedicate one of them to keeping collateral to a minimum, problem solved.

All the same, for reasons he doesn't even understand himself, Jason thinks again of the haunting beauty of the horrific squid beast and he cannot bear the thought of its legacy coming to naught.

We change over to Damian clashing with Tim as he tries to find the information on this case that Tim supposedly has.

They figure out pretty fast that Jason lied to him about it.

This has him... well, Damian would never call it scared, but it provides a distinct sense of concern. He remembers fighting Jason with Dick, the way he ran rings around them, the way things went very, very badly for every other bat who has tried to fight him one on one, and how Jason required basically ALL of them to catch him in Task Force Z - and it turned out that Jason had simply meant to get captured anyways at the end of it.

Together, Tim and Damian decide they need to call in The Big Guns. They each pull out their phones and dial, with the last two panels showing that Tim is calling Cass and Damian is calling Dick.

((Though, Author's Note here: I'm not sure I have enough room in this plot to justify this many characters. I may axe Cass, bc as is she has to get sidelined pretty damn heavily, since this is really about Dick and Jason. I might end up axing Tim too, or maybe instead of her? Could have her fill in his plot beats? Idk, we'll see. Sometimes not including a character at all feels more respectful than shoe horning them in and out of the plot, even though it would logically make sense for them to be involved.))

ISSUE #5

We open into a scene of Jason arguing with Mallah and the Brain, trying to convince them to pack up and move. In turn, they're demanding that he either fuck off or buy them time to make one last attempt. Being captured and being forced to move on both bring them to effectively the same square one and they'd rather fight it out.

Jason snarls. "You two-bit morons already know exactly what's going to happen if you stay! You'll make yet another body that's 90 percent fish, fuck yourselves over with your own damned pickiness, and get your shit kicked in by every damned vigilante in the city!"

"Since you are so concerned with my Husband's so called 'pickiness', then I am sure you won't mind it if we put you into one of these failures and take your body for ourselves!"

The idea shocks Jason and we transition into a flashback via panel edges shaped like shattered glass

[Memories. Not exactly mine - a different Jason, a different reality...]

Various thoughts play out over panels roughly summarizing the tenta-Todd-tacular events of the Nightwing run Brothers in Blood. [Joy.] [Freedom from pain.] [Finally feeling like a part of my body rather than a prisoner inside it.] [Power. Thrilling strength.]

We fade back the present moment as Jason realizes, [I could have it all again...]

"Do it!" Jason thrusts out his exposed wrist. "Take a sample then, see if I'm compatible!"

This again brakes the flow of the normal Villain-Hero dynamic, and Mallah cautiously steps forwards and stabs him with some kind of super science gadget.

He mutters some comic science mumbo jumbo and declares him to be a viable body donor.

The Brain says, "It will take at least 48 hours to build your body. If you cannot keep your associates away from us for that long, we will simply have to go ahead with the surgery - without a destination for your grey matter... Deal?"

"Try to take it without and I'll turn both of you into a fine pink paste spattered across the walls. Deal."

Scene transition into a planning session as Jason assesses the resources and forces available to him for the purpose of misdirecting the bats. He's planning for everyone, even though he knows that most of them have far bigger fish to fry right now.

He briefly gets out into the field and talks to various goons and mooks, setting up his pieces, but it's clear he's planning on fighting many of the Bats himself, one at a time, ideally. He knows he's no match for them all at once, but one on one he's got good odds he can take anyone except Cass and Dick.

Then Jason is called back to the lab for surgical preparations. They're checking his blood pressure, taking a bit of his last minute medical history, determining if he's allergic to any particular kinds of anesthesia, getting told when to start fasting, getting his head shaved, that sort of thing.

We see Jason staring into the main cloning tank. In the dark water within we see the mass of cells that will form his new body. In the dark of Jason's metaphorical mind space we see a soft blue glow in roughly the same shape as the mass of cells.

The Brain joins him. "Horrid, isn't it?"

"I thought we'd been over this already."

"I meant the Hope."

"Oh..."

They briefly discuss the shared pain of brutal failures suffered over and over and over again, of existing in a world that seems bent on nothing but retreading their greatest moments of suffering, always leaving relief just out of reach, and about the simple truth of why they both keep trying:

There's nothing left for them if they ever try to stop.

We end with Jason gearing up to go out and fight, outfitted with some yet-to-be-revealed gadgets from his temporary allies.

ISSUE #6

Most of this issue is dedicated to his fights with the other Bats and their encounters with his schemes.

During these fights, it's very clear to see he's gained back some of his zest for life, flipping and shit talking and joking around in a distinctly Robin way - something that's been absent from his fighting style for years now, and wasn't there in earlier fight scenes in this series either.

He returns to the lab battered, bruised, tired, but victorious and mostly unharmed.

He rests against a wall and listens in on a conversation between Mallah and Brain. They're talking about what they're looking forwards to doing with his body. Drinking tea, feeling the warmth of the sunset, holding each other. It's soft and sweet, and a striking contrast to the way he's always viewed his own body. It leaves Jason more determined than ever that he's doing the right thing.

ISSUE #7

The bats can tell they're being maneuvered, and so switch from trying to directly catch Jason, to trying to catch a mook who knows enough that they can start catching up to Mr. Three Steps Ahead.

Another frustrating as hell fight with Jason later and they manage to catch someone that's actual been inside the lab. However, they don't know much beyond the basics because Mallah, The Brain, and the Red Hood keep speaking French to each other and not many of them understand it - it's a cloning lab, they know the way to get to it, the bosses have changed the plan to stealing the Red Hood's body, and no one seems to know why the Hood isn't fighting them about that.

The Bat group assumes that Jason must have fallen for a trick, that maybe they'd falsified some kind of terminal diagnosis and were offering some kind of false promise of a cure or something. It would go some way towards explaining why a few of his actions lately have seemed an awful lot like tying up loose ends...

Dick isn't so sure, though. Something about it feels off. Even ignoring the fact that Jason's way too clever to get duped like that, would he really go to some random supervillains for a cure instead of just... waiting it out? Or finding a proper blaze of glory? However, without a better idea to propose, he hesitantly goes along with the group's ideas.

Back at the lab, Jason looks at his new body, far more formed now, and listens to the technician walk him through what it's likely to be able to do once fully matured. He gives some last minute input on the ratios of how much species's genetics will be expressed. Lots of silly comic book science about how octopus DNA alone could give him the limited shape shifting abilities he's after, but adding in sea sponge or clam DNA will be necessary if he wants the sort of toxin filtration systems needed to survive living in the Gotham Harbor.

For once, he finds himself truly looking forwards to tomorrow, eager to see what life in the water is like, rather than merely grimly resigned to enduring another day.

[It's almost unbearable. Too soft, too kind. It's all I can do to keep myself from trembling.]

ISSUE #8

We're down to the final hours of the cloning process. The bats have finally managed to side step Jason's schemes and it's down to tunnel warfare down in the storm drains and sewers of the city.

They're having to fight for every damned inch of ground against mooks and dozens of traps clearly designed to disable them, but it's clear to see that it's only a matter of time before they reach the lab proper.

Alarms blare as they breach the doors and Jason stands ready to greet them, loaded for bear with armor and weapons.

Dick tries to get Jason to stop fighting so they can talk, beating around the bush like, "We just want to make sure you know what you're getting into..."

Jason is reasonably responding with different versions of "Fuck off with that patronizing horseshit!"

Tim gets tired of this and yells out, "He is trying to steal your body so he can f@#k a gorilla, goddamn it!"

This successfully shocks Jason to a standstill. Genuinely horrified he says, "Tim! Mallah is a person with a name! That's his husband!"

Then in the next panel Jason continues, while firing his guns at them again, "What they do in the privacy of their bedroom with my body is none of your business!"

Tim, dodging bullets, "What?! You think this is ending in a three-"

"I DEMAND WE CEASE THIS LINE OF QUESTIONING AT ONCE," Damian interjects, while stabbing.

Jason backflips away, cackling - and then the device on his wrist beeps as the countdown displayed on it reaches zero. "Ah well, this was fun folks, but it's time for the finale!"

He bolts as fast as his legs can carry him, heading for the surgical suite with his pursuers nipping his heels. The Brain has already gotten into the machine, and Mallah practically slams him into his end of it.

Jason has one last moment to look longingly towards his new body, the first glimpse we see of it in its completed form, then the anesthesia takes him under.

Mallah punches the lockdown button that will seal this room off from the outside world, but he's too late. Nightwing manages to slide underneath the blast doors at the last possible second

A tense one on one, man versus ape fist fight ensues. Mallah is clearly giving it his all, but in the end, Dick wins. He stabs a tranq into Mallah and is left alone with the controls.

He opens the case protecting the ABORT button.

One panel goes by without his fingers lifting off of the case. Then two. Then three.

He closes it again, walking away and pacing the room. He looks at Jason, floating in his tank, tubes and wires hooked up to him, various horror movie style buzzsaw arms and massive injector needles hovering over him, and starts talking to his sleeping form.

"How could you possibly...? This is- it's repulsive, it's insane, it's..."

He looks down silently for a moment.

Dick walks to the control panel again and begins typing. "I know you. They're wrong. They underestimate you. This has to be what you want for yourself... And you've had too much of that taken from you already..."

The computer speaks as the machine whirs to life, and we get to see the saws baring down on his skull, {PROCEDURE INITIATED - PREPARING DONOR BODY}

Outside we see that this has triggered the last ditch defense mechanisms of the laboratory. The whole place is quickly flooding with seawater. {TRANSFERRING PATIENT TO DONOR - TRANSFERRING DONOR TO SHELL}

The rest of the bats are forced to evacuate while Dick scrambles to get the emergency breathing equipment onto himself and Mallah who is groggily beginning to wake up.

{TRANSFER COMPLETE - WAKING PATIENT AND DONOR}

The last page is absolute chaos as Jason practically explodes out of his tank, laughing and shouting his victory, spiky red rimmed speech bubble and all :3

ISSUES #9 and #10

Everyone scatters -Mallah and the Brain escape onto some kind of helicopter or something, Jason crashes his way into the harbor, and the Bats are left cleaning up the mess.

We focus on Jason learning his new powers, and just enjoying the feeling of swimming and transforming and playing kraken with a boat full of people smuggling guns out of the US.

We get a small aside to show Mallah and the Brain living it up somewhere, maybe Zandia if that's still a thing. Ideally this will include a tasteful fade to black, because, of course, what they do in the privacy of their own bedroom with Jason's the Brain's body is none of our business.

I also want to have a scene where Jason returns to the spot where he committed suicide in the first issue, but I'm not exactly sure how I want to handle it. I want something that both shows that he's happy to be alive, but also that he doesn't regret having made the attempt. I want him to reject the narrative that it was a mistake, instead seeing it as... a vital part of his autonomy I suppose? I have complicated thoughts on it and they aren't quite fully formed yet, but I know I want to have him respect his former self's decision. His decision to become a sea monster is of the same substance after all.

The final scene has Dick taking a boat (Tim's?) out into the water at night and luring Jason up to him. They talk for a little while, about how he's doing, whether or not he can actually participate in life on land anymore (he can), and Jason thanks him with a hug before they part ways again.

Obviously, DC would almost certainly undo both the Brain getting a body, and Jason gaining monster powers :/ Tis tragic, but! The point of this would be to force them to actually put some damned work into it! No last minute return to the status quo, you want that shit back you're gonna have to take a whole ass other story arc to get there >:3

And of course, alas, SOMEDAY I'm going to be able to admit to myself that DC will never ever let me install this shit into their canon and simply draw it as the fan comic it was meant to be lol

Serious question: DC has asked you (yes you 🫵) to write a 10 issue Jason Todd comic run. No conditions or stipulations, any era, any supporting cast, any villain. What do you do?

[geddyqueer]

tidbit tuesday

this is from the sequel to no crying in baseball, "the best laid plans". if this premise seems slightly familiar to you it is because i am repurposing the plot of an older ficlet for the drama. tagging @rcmclachlan @setmeatopthepyre @screamlet @postmodernau @beanarie @newtkelly and anyone else who's working on something. you're it!

Tommy's alone in the hangar; everyone else is either doing maintenance checks in the lot or out on the picnic bench on the west side of the building. He likes the east side better, though: more private, and with the one long magnolia tree branch hanging awkwardly over the chain-link fence, it feels almost like a garden back there. If he still smoked he'd be carrying a pack of Marlboros with him. He gave that up, though, around the time that Howie carried him out of the exploding mall almost twenty years ago.

Evan has been living with him for three weeks. None of the fears that had bubbled up the first time the question was posed have come to fruition. He only had one panic attack, early on, and dealt with it himself in the laundry room while Evan was busying himself reorganizing the hangers in Tommy's—in their—closet. Then he felt bad, and realized his mistake, and had hung his head and nudged himself into Evan's arms and opened up the line of communication.

All that being said, his only real alone time these days comes in these stolen moments outside Harbor's east door.

He's got his flight suit unzipped, the top rolled down around his t-shirt, sleeves tied across his waist. It's hot today and bizarrely the air feels humid to the point of being wet. It's reminiscent of Georgia, where he only lived for basic training, and it's so unlike Los Angeles that it really sticks in his brain for a second. He pauses, eight or so feet from the door. The floor feels almost… spongy. Probably not good, he thinks, and he's making a mental note to tell Melton about it when the baby box alarm goes off.

The baby box at Harbor sits directly next to the east side door. It's cozy, if a little sparse inside. It has a special alarm tone, one that he's never heard before, because nobody's ever used this before. Tommy clears the space between him and the box in nearly a single stride, and he gets the box open, and he pulls out a tiny little thing, wearing a yellow onesie, wrapped in a Winnie the Pooh towel. The baby looks up at him and opens their mouth, once, twice.

"Okay," Tommy says, looking down at the bundle in his hands. "Okay. What?"

"Was that an alarm?" Richardson calls from the open hangar door.

"Baby box," Tommy calls back. The baby starts to cry. "Oh, no, I'm sorry, that was loud, wasn't it," he says to the baby, as he starts walking back across the hangar.

He doesn't get very far. The floor that was spongy not three minutes earlier is now sinking, tipping down at an angle that shouldn't be possible since it's made of concrete, and so is the rest of the floor, and the west wall is caving in, and that's all he manages to register before the earth disappears underneath him and he's falling, falling, falling.

[maddiee-line]

Oh my…it’s already been 6 months since I had FFS. I think it’s time for “that” post. The before and after results. This is a long one…

In late October 2024 I had Facial Feminization Surgery. I’ve tried to be transparent (ha) here that I’ve had this surgery. Unfortunately, the reality is that many of us may need to get procedures like this to feel comfortable with our bodies. Is it necessary for everyone? No, you can transition to whatever makes YOU comfortable and at peace with your body. For me, FFS is what I needed to help me achieve that. I worked really really hard to get this surgery and I want to share my experience.

So as a background, I began medically transitioning at 31, and inherited my family’s very masculine facial structures. AMAB or AFAB, most in my blood family have strong masculine features and hormonal imbalances. Longterm T exposure didn’t help me at all either. Looking back at old pictures before my FFS is really hard now. It’s hard to believe that is ME.

I feel it is important to share the magic that FFS can accomplish. E is amazing but it can’t change bones all that much. I believe it is really important to compare our changes with everything over time in our journeys. Many of these photos before FFS were during my first year medically transitioning. No matter what hairstyles or makeup techniques I tried, nothing could hide the insecurities that FFS would eventually take away. For a while I tried to convince myself I didn’t need surgeries…but I knew I’d never be happy without it. I jumped at the opportunity to get it when I found out my insurance covered it.

Then came October. It was a brutal recovery. I have a very low tolerance to pain. However, I never felt any of this was impossible and I was very much supported by my doctors. The recovery was challenging for other reasons too. It limited my ability to eat for a bit and I was really uncomfortable for a couple weeks. I had a constant feeling of disorientation during the first week as my vision is pretty bad and without being able to put my contacts in I was practically blind. The nausea also was debilitating at times. This isn’t what happens to everyone but this is what experienced.

My jaw was also severely limited. It was mostly because of the inside the mouth incision to contour the chin and jaw. I could barely open my mouth. By the end of November I could eat sushi by squishing it with a spoon. By late December I could eat small sandwiches and most of my mobility returned. The swelling also took a while to go down. I’d say by February, four months later, I felt that most of the swelling had disappeared or was on its way out. Today, some swelling remains in my chin and my nose.

The liberation and freedom of expression FFS gave to a face like mine has been truly life saving. My style has changed rather dramatically. My brows are now lifted and I no longer make them higher, in fact I just keep them clean, thin them a little, and highlight in tinted gel and maybe add a little red to them. I also can finally do eye shadow, which is was one of my most anticipated aspects of this surgery. I also just feel liberated from my parents. I had a really rough upbringing and no longer being defined by my father’s forehead or my mother’s chin brings me so much peace.

Not pictured is my presence. I’ve heard countless people tell me that I’m happier, more comfortable, and more outgoing than I was before my surgery. I used to calculate my every move so people wouldn’t see my brow bone or an unflattering masculine angle. I don’t worry at all about that anymore. I truly am free. I am just me regardless of the angle. People see this in public too. I’m consistently given the male gaze or they try to make conversation with me. I catch women looking at my hair and outfits all the time. I pass very well.

So now I sit here at six months. And I’m absolutely thrilled with my results. If you are on the fence, and it’s accessible to you, I highly recommend to get FFS if it will help you achieve greater peace and comfort with your mind and body. I went to a surgeon in NYC, and would be happy to share the details if you’d like. I also would be able to answer questions about the whole process of getting and recovering from FFS. I hope this has been helpful to you!

This is my 6 month result:

[cameronsbabydoll]

I just read ur prompt abt scc conversation and it makes wonder would scc!reader seek out someone she can actually talk to, like a mom from school a teacher or someone she’s sees on a daily basis when running errands

yes — absolutely, she would.

because even caged birds look for cracks in the bars.

scc!reader is so deeply lonely, and even if she doesn’t realize it fully — even if she still defends rafe in her own mind — there’s a quiet part of her that aches for real connection. someone who sees her.

so yeah, it would be so natural for her to gravitate toward someone she sees regularly — someone safe, non-threatening.

like:

a kind teacher at her kid’s school who always smiles at her and asks how she’s doing,

a neighbor mom who walks her dog every morning and waves over the fence,

the older checkout woman at the store who always remembers her name and her kids’ favorite snacks,

or even the receptionist at her OB office, who gently asks, “how are you doing, really?”

and at first it’s just little things — small talk. smiles. shared glances when the other moms are cold or dismissive. but slowly, she starts clinging to those moments. it becomes the highlight of her week.

someone remembered her name.

someone asked how she was, not just the baby.

someone said, "you look tired — are you okay?"

but then the fear sets in.

what if rafe notices?

what if she lets it slip that she’s unhappy, and it gets back to him?

what if this sliver of warmth gets ripped away too?

so even when she starts to feel close to someone, she’s careful. always careful.

she doesn’t share the full truth — not about rafe, not about how trapped she feels — but she wants to.

it just… catches in her throat.

she’ll sit in her car in the parking lot after school pickup, crying quietly because the teacher complimented her, and it made her realize no one’s really spoken to her in weeks. not really.

and she almost texted the teacher.

just something simple like “thank you for being so kind.”

but she didn’t.

because rafe checks her messages sometimes.

[hairmetal666]

Eddie Munson doesn't believe in love at first sight. It's hopeless romanticism, childish fantasy, another way the straights just aren't okay. He's not wrong--look how love at first sight worked out for Romeo and Juliet, both dead by the final act. Couldn't be him.

This makes him strong, he thinks. Smart.

He won't end up like his parents, infatuated for six months, and then years of his mom's sleepless nights as his dad came home less and less.

He's never been sold on the whole white picket fence thing. The world's let him know that it's not meant for him, no matter how many millions of records sold and dollars earned. Plus, he's seen the most beautiful men in the world, slept with many of them, and none of them enticed him for more than a good time.

The band's on a break--after a hit record, a sold out world tour, a couple of Grammy's, they deserve it--plus, the other Corroded guys, they have serious relationships, families, the aforementioned white picket fence. It's been him and Wayne for as long as he cares to remember, and he loves his uncle more than anything, but when the offer comes in to solo headline a festival in Australia, he doesn't hesitate.

He has songs, plenty of them, that don't quite fit Corroded Coffin's sound. There's never going to be an Eddie Munson solo album, at least he's never really considered it, so why not play this stuff in a 'one night only' kind of deal? Plus, he loves festivals, the atmosphere, the music, the delirious rush of it all.

He gets a lot of flack in industry rags for being a music snob, and sure he has strong opinions about metal, but he listens to and loves a wide range of artists across all genres. It's why he's so good at his job. At any festival, he considers it a professional duty to check out as many of the acts as he can, especially the ones he doesn't know yet.

He's waiting for a performance right now, pushed up against the barricade, hoodie on, tattoos obscured, piercings removed, hair in a tight bun, dark glasses his hiding eyes. He hadn't recognized this name in the line- up, the stylized SH, and the only stage decoration is a black backdrop, white letters spelling out, "Shhh," the outline of a finger over cherry red lips. It's cute, Eddie thinks.

He checks his phone, just for a second, and in the space of that moment, the crowd begins to cheer. He looks up, eager for his first glimpse of SH.

A man crosses the stage towards the mic, guitar slung across his chest. He's wearing a yellow polo and a pair of Levi's so tight Eddie's already about to get down on his knees and repent. He's got this coiffed shock of brown hair, a face dotted with freckles, perfectly kissable pink lips. Eddie's seen the hottest men in the world, slept with most of them, but this guy, this guy, is the prettiest one, and somehow he'd never considered pretty.

SH lifts his arms to wave to the crowd, and his polo is short, right, maybe cropped, so the move exposes a large expanse of his stomach. And Eddie, he knows abs, but never before have they been this perfect for biting, can already imagining the give beneath his teeth.

Eddie is transfixed, mesmerized, totally enamored, and he doesn't realize at first that the noise of the crowd, of SH's banter, has blanked into nothingness. It's only the shape of him, the awareness of his existence, that bleeds through.

He watches the stage, mouth wide, as the man's fingers find their places on the strings, as he begins to play music Eddie can't hear over the electric sizzle of his blood, the fuzzed out distortion of his heartbeat.

He has a moment to think, no, this isn't supposed to happen to me before SH begins to sing. The crisp tone of his voice is the only thing Eddie hears, hits him like the sharp buzz of an amplifier, reverberates through him like a plucked guitar string.

Oh no, he thinks. Not this. But there's no outrunning it.

He watches the performance in awe, eyes never leaving SH, immovable for the entire set, slack-jawed with wonder and sensory overload. Too soon SH is introducing the band, names Eddie can't decipher, says, "I'm Steve Harrington, thank you!"

Steve. Steve Harrington. Steve dances in a circle around his brain.

Even once Steve leaves the stage, Eddie doesn't move. He stands at the barricade, knuckles gone white where they clutch the metal, mind whirling. He's done for, a goner, how could this happen, how could this happen, how could this happen.

He stays as the crowd drifts away, as crew pack up instruments and cords, and different crew brings out new equipment. He stays as people trickle up for the next scheduled act, until he's surrounded, and only then does reality click back into focus.

Shoving his way out of the crowd, he rushes backstage, hastily presenting his VIP badge to security. He's too late, he's sure. He spent too much time processing, and surely Steve is gone now, back to an RV or a hotel or boarding an airplane. And maybe that's for the best, Eddie isn't meant for this, Eddie isn't--

Voices stop him in his tracks, a gaggle of children shouting over each other, blending into a cacophony, and in the middle of it all is Steve.

"All I said was that your set starts in five minutes. Why are you yelling at me?"

A girl with long red hair puts a straw to her lips, a spitball hitting Steve square in the forehead.

"Who says we're mad?" She asks, as the wet paper unsticks from his skin, plopping to the floor.

With that, the whole crew of them bop towards the stage, leaving Steve with an annoyed smile on his face.

"Those fucking kids," he says to someone out of Eddie's line of sight. The undertone is alarmingly fond given the sentiment.

Suddenly, the distance between them is too much, and his feet are moving, bringing him closer.

Steve is still talking, but Eddie's movement catches his attention, has him throwing a glance down the hall. He stops mid-sentence, sitting straighter in his chair, a bemused little smile spreading across his mouth.

It's too much, stops Eddie in his tracks, takes his breath. It doesn't stop Steve, though. He's standing and crossing the distance between them before Eddie so much as blinks.

"Hi," he says, when they're toe to toe, when he can see every green speck in Steve's shining hazel eyes. He takes off his sunglasses.

"Hi," Steve answers in a half-whisper, awestruck.

They stare at each other, both smiling.

"Can I kiss you?" Eddie asks.

"Might die if you didn't."

He wraps his hand around the back of Steve's neck, draws him in, holds their lips a hairsbreadth apart. With a sigh, Steve closes the distance, slotting their mouths together.

Eddie Munson doesn't believe in love at first sight, but as Steve's lips part for him, he has to admit this might be one of the rare occasions where he's wrong. After that first taste, there's no doubt that his happiness begins and ends with Steve Harrington. Irrevocably, forever.

They part, gently, noses still touching. Steve's smile is like the sunrise, bright, breathtaking.

"I've been waiting for you," Steve says.

"You have?"

"My whole life."

"Sorry I made you wait, sweetheart. It won't happen again."

I swear that I saw a post with a pic from Djo's first Coachella set with a premise that it was Eddie's first glimpse of Steve and he falls hopelessly in love with him, which obviously inspired this fic, and I can't find that post at all to give credit. So, if anyone knows remembers a post like this, let me know so I can credit for the inspo!

[strnilolover]

⋆⭒˚.⋆ the first time famous!reader spots paparazzi!matt

the day had been long and tiring. interview after the next—photoshoots one after the other, it was like you couldn’t catch a break.

that’s why you always enjoyed the time of day when you were finally home, not having to worry about anything else for the rest of the night except for relaxing. your fluffy robe tied around your body as you laid sprawled out on your bed—your eyes already threatening to close as your scrolled on your phone.

you could feel the way your muscles ached after standing in heels all day, after being put in different poses. and your eyes hurt from all the flashing lights—paparazzi and none paparazzi.

you sighed through your nose, letting yourself melt into your mattress as you opened your instagram. the faint scent of vanilla and raspberries flowing around your room.

when the app opened, notifications came rolling in. likes and comments and people tagging you in posts—it was a lot. you keep your phone on silent most of the time, too overwhelmed with it constantly going off.

smiling, you rolled onto your stomach, kicking your feet up into the air slightly as you scrolled. looking through some posts you were tagged in, and some fan made edits. you adored them, really.

your scrolling was stopped when a notification popped up on your screen.

mattsturniolo viewed your profile.

you stared at it for a moment, reading it before it retracted away into your notifications bar. you felt like you’ve heard that name before—somewhere but you weren’t sure where.

curiosity got the best of you.

slowly you exited instagram, opening tiktok instead as you shifted your body to sit on your covers. your finger moved, going to your profile to click who has viewed it. and there at the top was his name—a picture of himself in a red hat and shirt as his profile picture.

you clicked it, opening his account. and that’s when it clicked. you knew who he was—not personally—but from fans who listen to your music. he was older sure, but he was attractive—like distractingly attractive.

there were videos posted of just himself and some with two other men, who must be his brothers.

you smiled at your screen, your bottom lip tucking between your teeth as you clicked the link in his bio to redirect you to his instagram. the same profile picture greeted you, and every post he’s ever made.

you couldn’t help the way you felt as you scrolled through them—your thighs clenching at just how good he looked in all of them. but there was one set of photos that caught your eye.

he stood in front of a fence—black leather jacket on, a black cap and a camera in his grip. before you could stop yourself, you liked the post, making a little comment underneath it about how they were great photos.

swiping out, you scrolled to the top and quickly hit the follow button, grinning to yourself as you did before turning your screen off and tossing your phone onto your sheets.

you don’t even know him, but why is he making you feel like this?—why did you want to get to know him more.

a/n : for @endereies cause she made me paparazzi matt edit even tho this is in famous!readers pov

[mtcloudsworld]

OKAY I HAD A DREAM

Where like reader is an important person in the community like the person who takes care of children outdoors and every thing right? NOW image the reader losing her passion for it until she meets Jason (who’s stuffed in a dumpster side why not🤷🏽‍♀️) and she takes him home and cleans his wounds

Good nightttt (drink water dawg dehydration is not sexy)

Okay listen.... hehhehhehhehheh.

Taking care of kids is like, a lot.

It's really a lot.

No seriously it's LITERALLY way too much. 😭

But you?

You're not heartless no?

You'll take them, feed them, clothed them-- do the bare minimum, do what any and every parent/guardian should do and then some.

Lately it's been rough though. It's been draining the living shit out of you. People don't know how you do it but they commend you for having such a heart for it. It's nothing really, it's just you doing the right thing. Who's gonna care for them if nobody else does?

And because you like to get shit done the way you want and how you want it-- very independent. There are times where your just.. lagging a little? It's starting to feel like a job now rather than just doing it out of human decency. The passion? It just hasn't been there anymore.

And it's not the kids, no.

It's the fact that you're doing it all by yourself, and you know deep down inside you need help.

But you don't want to let go. You've built this orphanage from the ground up. Memories of joy and love was hard to give away, when you've all grown attached. I mean they call you mama for crying out loud😭

It's like you're on the fence about it and you feel guilty for feeling that way but it's true.

So, like I said before taking care of kids is a fucking full time job, paid or not, you gotta go through the steps to make sure everyone is good. Are you good? Because babygirl you're tired, and you're this 🤏🏾 close to crashing out and it's not looking cute baby, not one bit.

Luckily you have some people in your circle who sees the obvious right?

They see you're not your usual, right?

So a break.

You just need time to yourself.

You need a years worth of a vacation really but is that even ideal? No not really. You've been known to be a working hard sista who never liked to be seen as lazy, who always wanted to give give give to the community and help others.

So, vacation it is.

Vacation is what you need right?

Most suggested you travel outside of Gotham. Go somewhere far far away for awhile.

But how could you? Have you seen them prices lately? Shit is kinda expensive nowadays ya feel me? 😂

Nonetheless, you're gonna try to stay home and not do much. You're gonna try to relax or whatever.

Fast forward, five months in, you're living in your peace. Taking care of yourself. Doing what you want. You call the oraphange every now and then just to check in on everyone but no hasn't really seen much of you.

And just when you were getting comfortable, feeling kid free. Something happens, something wild yet not beyond your character happens.

You found yourself standing before a dumpster side watching as a pair of legs dangle from outside of the smelly object.

You were just out at a nearby coffee shop getting a cinnamon roll (because you were just randomly craving something sweet and they were the only place open) when you just so happened to hear someone call for help out of the very dark suspicious alleyway, and as you got closer you just see little legs, dangling.

You gasp, "oh my gosh!" You run over to the dumpster and start helping them out.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

Removing the trash and debris, you're able to finally see them.

He nods. Light skin, strawberry blonde hair and blue eyes.

Your frown grows deeper when you see all these bumps and bruises all over his skin, some scratches here and there-- clearly he's been abused and you're afraid he's gone through much worse.

"Who did this to you?" You ask, "Are your parents or guardians around?"

Stoic and voiceless, he looks down at himself, where your hands were located-- wrapped around his tiny torso, he stood still in his grasp feeling slightly bothered but also realizing that they were gentle. He also realized your voice was soft with concern. You smelled nice and looked perfect, almost as if nothing could really harm you, you also look familiar but couldn't quite put a name to you.

Knelt before him, your eyes scanned between his, in hopes he'd give you a response. But he doesn't, instead he just stands there and observes you curiously.

You sigh, already knowing he wasn't gonna say a word from the way he was looking at you.

You have a kid.

You have a kid. In your house.

You have a kid in your house after you distinctly promised not to take care of anybody else.

But you're not heartless! You weren't just gonna leave him out there like that! What if something happened to him? It'd eat you alive knowing you could've done something to prevent it.

And so you sat there, at the table beside him watching carefully as he rushed to eat his food, making a mess in the process.

"Hey, hey, hey, slow down. There's plenty okay? No need to rush, just enjoy it yeah?"

Poor thing, he's hungry. Whoever was responsible for this has clearly been starving and abusing the kid for sometime now

You groan, running your hands over your face. You stand to your feet going back into your guest room to find the first aid kit and something for him to wear.

After he gets done eating, you give him privacy to clean himself. Proceeding to get dress before coming back to you, proceeding to care and dress his wounds.

"We'll go out tomorrow and find you some clothes and toiletries. I doubt you'd want to smell like me for much longer." You say halfheartedly, giving him one last bandage before pulling away.

You ushered him into the guest room he was previously in and tucks him into bed for good measure. Telling him you're not that far if he needs anything. He just nods and buries himself in the covers.

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months.

He moved with caution and watched your every move. He was very quiet unless spoken to. Trust wasn't there yet but eventually he opened up to you little by little.

Let's just say it took awhile for him to say anything to you. For him to tell you his name was Jason, for him to tell you his likes and dislikes, for you to understand his family wasn't really there for him. For you to understand that he doesn't ever want to leave your side.

Soon, he finds out who you are. The face of the community, the one who built the orphanage not that far from you. He finds out that there were other kids like him who came from the same background as him.

And as you stood back and watched him interact with other kids, it made your heart swell. To see this boy who was (and still is) so introverted, wouldn't go to anybody for anything, was slowly starting to open up.

It made you realize right then and there you were to just building this orphanage for kids to stay in. You built this place for kids to feel loved and safe. To feel like they have a home. To make them understand they are not alone in this world. They have every right to feel secure, happy, to feel... wanted. That nothing is their fault. That they're not the cause of other people's problems. They're innocent.

And so little by little you started to feel like yourself again but more refreshed and uplifted, now that you have a management team of your own is able to work things out smoothly, you manage more than just one orphanage in the city.

And Jason? Well...

You've adopted him as your kid now ☺️

Goodnight anon (Lol I'm drinking water as we speak. Gotta keep the body hydrated ya know?)

- ☁️

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

people just don't understand nuance. two things can be true: blake may be a victim of SA or general creepy behavior (which taylor can - and clearly does - support her getting justice for!!) AND blake may have done some other stuff that - intentionally or not - feels very manipulative. it's clear this situation is VERY complicated with a lot of stuff going down in private, which sucks in the social media age of "your team versus my team" and "my party can do no wrong."

yup exactly. It's two separate issues.

Blake's case is important, and imo it is very strong if you've read the filing. It wasn't an isolated incident, other people filed complaints, there is clear evidence the production etc. had to mitigate the unsafe environment.

But people are people and sometimes people do shitty things when they're in shitty situations. She may have felt backed into a corner and did something that accidentally lit a fuse. And if I had to guess, Taylor probably understood that, even if it was hurtful. But if I also had to guess, it's that the steps taken after that did not really attempt to rectify the situation, and instead are now adding fuel to the fire. And THAT is a separate issue from a) Blake's SA case and even b) the initial action (presumably using Taylor's name) that was hurtful to her.

Like, not to be speculative or write fanfic, but just placing myself in the shoes of someone whose friend accidentally did something hurtful, I could imagine if Blake had come to her at the time and said, "I panicked and said x and may have implicated you in something," Taylor may have been taken aback or upset, but likely would have worked through it and found a way to mitigate and even help Blake. But instead it seems like Taylor more than likely found out about her implication at the same time as the rest of the world, so that is the first thing that probably really stung. And next when Taylor probably indicated: this sucks and this hurts, and I'd like you to not use my name anymore, the response seems to have fallen on deaf ears. Because unwittingly or not, Blake's team keeps doing the very thing that hurt Taylor in the first place. Once was a mistake, repeatedly is a pattern, and that has to be painful, because that's a choice and like you said, it increasingly feels like a manipulative one.

IMO, if I were someone like Blake, my way of making amends would probably have been to have my team make a statement condemning JB's team's implication of Taylor (and/or whoever else they went after like idk Hugh) as a wild good chase to make it clear she was not part of the story. But instead, it seems like they are lowkey continually returning to the narrative that "the case strained their friendship but they've mended fences" as a way of piggybacking off of Taylor's goodwill (e.g. if our benevolent pop queen can forgive Blake than surely the public can see she is Good). Which again: is a really shitty thing to do to a friend who has asked to be removed from the situation, especially if you hurt said friend in the first place by dragging them into it. And particularly when you know said friend would walk through fire for you if asked. It's not that the stories themselves are harmful -- they're fluff, obviously -- but it's that every time they pop up, they push Taylor's name back to the top of the headlines. And again: in a legal case that has nothing to do with her but she now has to deal with because of her friend's actions.

This is not a binary, there are many factors at play, and it's very complicated. Which sucks but is also entirely human. I'm sure Taylor supports Blake as a victim and as a woman fighting this case and the targeted smear campaign (which-- again-- was OUTLINED IN THE FILING and has been followed to the letter even to now), but I'm sure she's increasingly hurt and frustrated that this private business is being used for public brownie points, while infringing on the peace she's earned and has a right to. Taylor is the queen of keeping her shit locked tight, and normally Blake and Ryan are equally protective of their private family life, and it has to be very upsetting to have their friendship kind of being used for clout.

Which sucks, because Blake is in an impossible situation as well, and I don't envy her at all, but like... in a situation where all choices are kind of shitty, it seems like instead of picking the least shitty for her personal relationships, she's gone with the moderately shitty one that protects her public ones, which leaves other people hurt in the process. But to err is to be human, idk what to tell you. She can be imperfect and hurt people while still being a victim and being valid in pursuing her case and deserving of the public's support on that front. It just seems like there may be personal consequences that can result from them that were unforeseen.

[neonovember]

Back to You

part two to all for you

after the fight at the bear, you find yourself ready to run. carmen doesn't let you.

w/c: 2.4k

a/n: she's short. she's gone through many deletions and rewrites and i'm still not completely happy with it but I'm posting it anyways lmao. it's very wordy but how else am I going to untangle the clusterfuck that is this relationship? this is CARMEN.

At first, you don't know where to go. You walk twenty blocks until your feet ache and the cold bites at your cheeks, you walk until you get to the second last stop on the L, you walk until you forget Carmen, the soup and everything you had left wanting in the bear hallway.

You find that you don’t like how your own blood tastes, and you can’t help the laugh that escapes as juttered cold air when you realise Carmen still had domain over your tastebuds. 

You don’t forget him, you can’t forget him.

The feeling is quick as it morphs back into the nauseous anger, like the press of your imprints into the snow before it falls back into the sheet of white that covers the city. You don’t want to think about the bear but it comes in flashes, in waves muddled with the pieces of the past that had felt like stomach acid burning your throat.

You had thought you made peace with the memories of Carmen and you from so long ago, in the silence after he had left for Chicago and for Mickey that filled your apartment. So why did it feel like you were back there again? Like he had left you? Like you were left to swallow the embarrassment and betrayal- your vision blurs when you try to make sense of it. A couple yells as you push past them on the sidewalk, hand over your mouth when you try to blink them away.

Carmen had looked at you, in the moments before you left the Bear. His eyes were glassy and red, his mouth was open and he looked at you like he had broken something. You hated it, god you did. You wanted to scream, to break something but all you did was laugh. And then cry. And then laugh again.

You didn't know what you wanted really, an apology? What could Carmen say to fix what had happened? You can’t find reason and that scares you more than anything, that you would be stuck with this sick, this plague of a feeling that you could not fix.  

It would be the end of you both, and you didn’t know if Carmen would change. If he could be who you wanted him to, and suddenly you feel embarrassed. Like maybe you were trying to fit yourself into his life where it could not be, squeeze yourself into a space that was too small, and that they all could tell. That they saw how your limbs jutted and you were crouched in the crawl space. Could someone love him better? Someone that would make sense rather than your misshapen, haunted past ever could. Did he believe that?

Did he know that? Now? After you had made a fool of you both?

You wanted to run away, to escape before he could leave you. You can’t go back home, you can't go back to an apartment he will leave you in.

You feel the buzz of your phone in your coat pocket, and it’s not till you slump your tired body onto a park bench do you remember you hadn’t left it in the Bear. You see the bundle of missed calls, nearly bulging off the fogged up screen of your cracked phone. You see Sydney, and Richie, and Sugars name and you find that you still have tears to give when you can’t find Carmen's. 

Everything is a blur in the moments after, like your vision was now clouded by a haze, by the grief of finally losing him. He hadn't said it, and you didn't dare speak it aloud but it was true wasn’t it? You felt it, like a part of you was missing, left on that table or hallway or wherever else the Bear keeps parts of you.

You grip the rusted fence of the harbour, watch as the night waves crash violently against each other, loop and swirl in the undertow, pull itself down and under and up again.

You would let him go. Retract the canines and the pressed finger nails that you had sunk into him when you found him again.

The gasped cries that leave your mouth are uncontrollable, and you thank the waves for concealing them from the foot traffic behind. Your hands shake as you stuff them into your jacket, throat raw and eyes burning as you stagger into the backseat of a taxi.

The driver pauses when he turns his shoulder, bushy eyebrows and eyes that looked like they would be kind if it wasn’t near midnight. He begins to open his mouth but you beat him to it and spit out your apartment address. When the soft melody of “That's Life” sputters out of the radio you close your eyes and press your cheek to the window, murmuring the lyrics into the fogged glass. 

-- -

You're stuffing whatever clothes you would need into a bag when your phone rings. You ignore it, try to think of the earliest way to get back to New York that didn't cost an arm, or at least only half.

But your phone doesn't stop, the blaring piano notes shouting at you from where you had thrown it. In truth, you were scared. Scared to flip the screen and see his name, scared to see that it wasn't him. But it rings again and falls off your couch, flips so that the screen blares out anyways.

It's a number you don't recognise, and when you swipe the reciever you hear Tina's voice, or more so the sigh of relief she whispers into the phone.

"Finally. God, baby we were getting worried"

"Tina?"

"You okay baby?" Tina replies softly

You hear rustling in the background, and catch pieces of Richie and Sugars voice calling out before Tina shushes them.

"Yes" You squeeze out from the space between the lodged brick in your throat.

"Oh honey, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Carmen was being a fucking idiot yeah? And I don't know what he was thinking, I don't know what happened before we met you. But what I know, what all of us know is that Carmen would be the so foolish to let you go."

"It's over Tina. He- I can't force something he doesn't want" You whimper

"Force? Baby do you know Carmen when he didn't have you? Do you see the way that man watches your every move? Just silently, he has this wonder and concentration when hes cooking. Like his mind is finally blank and he can breath and it's the same, it's the same look he has with you."

"You have him. Completely. Even more so than I think anything ever will. You know that right?"

Your mouth is open, blinking when Tina calls your name

"But, I thought..he let me leave Tina. It isn't like he's been trying to call or reach me-"

"That's probably because he left damn near everything but his shoes runnin' after you"

"What?"

"You think he would just let you leave?" Tina replies, voice high, like she found it the most impossible thing to believe.

“He just stood there in the hallway. Didn’t say a word, left running and we let him. We damn near pushed him out the door. Didn’t even have a jacket on, the mans running around in negative degrees with a white shirt on”

"He is?" You whisper

And you don't have time to hear Tina's reply, because you hear Carmen instead. Outside your door, his voice straining as he begs for you.

You drop your phone to the ground with a shake, and in flashes your at the door, opening it wide until the cold rush of snow hits your nose and you see him beneath you.

He came to you, he came back to you. He’s gripping the door frame on his knees in the snow, chest heaving, cheeks pink and eyes only on you.

You can't speak, eyebrows furrowed as you blink and blink and see his face straining up to you every time.

“Forgive me, forgive me forgive me. I could never leave you, no.” Carmen continues to beg, eyes red and twitching, unblinking when a tear escapes.

“I can never take back what I did to you, what I did to us. That was me, that was me running back to Chicago, running back to Mikey, to try and fix a dead brother”

“I left you there like you weren’t everything”. Carmen lets out an exhaled gasp, like he was just now realising it.

“I was scared, you know? You knew me, you knew me. So when Mikey-when I found out” Carmen shakes his head

“I was something I didn’t know I could be. You were the first- the first person to ever sit in my mind. And then I had to turn dirt over Mikey's casket and suddenly everything I did, everything I saw was him. How could I come back to you, how could I beg you when I wasn’t the same man I was when I left? When I couldn't even breathe, when I was too busy weeping in bathroom stalls to smoke. And I couldn't, I couldn't do it, i just fucking couldn’t.”

You don’t speak, the cold wind as you stare down at him. The feelings, New York, the Bear swirl in front of you, in Carmen's cerulean blues, in his golden hair darkened by the snow, in the slope of his neck as he looks at you.

You can’t run from it anym-

“But I know better now. I lost you once and I won’t let it happen again. I’ll stay out here all night until you have to step over my corpse in the snow I swear it. I’ll die out here waiting for you”.

“I was getting bad, and you knew it. And I fought you on it because I have a problem with people pointing out the truth. I didn't want to accept I needed to slow down, it was just I finally had this thing, this piece of me I made you know? And every night, every time I would enter the door I’d walk into the bathroom and puke. I-I was so sure, so sure it would end up ruined.”

“That aint an excuse, fuck it isn’t. What I did, I can't take back” Carmen shakes his head

“I hurt you, I hurt you. Left you all alone in that apartment, made you think I didn’t love you, a fucking coward. I never stopped, even when I promised myself I wouldn't come back to look for you. I would let you go after Mikey, after what I did.”

“But at night I would dream of you, I would keep pieces of you, like it was strapped to my fucking chest. The guilt wasn’t enough, it didn't stop me needing any part of you I could remember. Didn’t stop me standing in the middle of a fucking grocery isle smelling the soap you used to use”

“Then I blinked and I could kneel and press my face into your skin instead. And I didn’t say anything because I had you again- how fucked up is that? I should have told you to run away, to leave, I should have begged you too. But I didn't, I can’t. It’s selfish and cruel but I have to have you, in whatever way you can give me. 

He's breathing heavily now, palm pressed against his chest as he grinds his jaw and lets the tear spill a trail down his neck.

“Now every night I dream of you. I hope I'm haunted by you leaving me. So I know what I need when I wake up.”

And you don't know how, you don't know how that part of you slips out from its stitched imprint on your heart and melts away. Melts away like the snow under your feet when you step out onto your porch. And you don’t say anything, you don't have to really, Carmen watches you. Watches the way your face twists and changes and crawls up your body to hold you into him.

-- -

“Are you sure about this Carm?” You turn your head.

Carmen simply wraps the scarf tighter around your neck as he nods, killing the engine and leans against the driver's seat.

“You should've been there, at the funeral you know?”

“He was your brother Carmen”

“Exactly” Carmen exhales sharply, grinding his jaw as his eyes shift to the cemetery car park outside. Out into the field of snow, with their stone heads poking through, the few stragglers walking across the path.

It’s silent, just your cold breaths leaving smoked exhales in the space of the car. 

“Haven't visited him since the funeral.”

“Could hardly even stand up straight then, when I first heard about it- felt so heavy. Like I was sinking into the ground”.

 “And I had this headache.” Carmen swallows

“No no it wasn't a headache really, it was- it was just the weight of him in my mind. The memory of him you know? An anchor, just dragging me down, trying not to crumble and fall and just stay there. Always there, always reminding me, he'd cover my eyelids when I tried to fall asleep. Just flashes of him, his hair, his shoulders.”

“One time I chased after a man, while I was at the farmers market for one of our new menus, I chased after him through the crowd thinking it was Mikey. I chased after the nape of his neck and in that short moment, where the fear and anxious and hopeful delusion drove me to that? I had him.”

“And then I remembered, and so I can’t come here. I couldn’t. How could I when he would refuse to leave my mind? My fucking temple.” 

“Carm” You whisper

“But I'm here now. Because you are also. And I think that headache has started to make room for it. For you. Only you. And maybe I'll start to remember him differently, in the back, warm and sad all the same. But I’d have you to remember, you to have as well”.

And so you did. You and Carmen stepped out into the gravelled road, leading to the polished footpath. Until you stop at the stone engraving of Mikey, and you hold Carmen when he crumbles slowly to the floor. And you sit with him until the snow melts and his cracked cries slow. Until the leaves turn and the stone ages and your children recognise Mikey as the man their dad talks to every Friday.

tags

@nolita-fairytale @kpopgirlbtssvt @parmforcarm @btskzfav @eed-a-life-or-grass @mccaffreyswifey @yousigned-upforthis @noxiousfeline @juleshadalittlelamb @jep24 @shaq-27

[zepskies]

Girl YAAAAS!! 😍 I'm so glad you decided to dive into @chevroletdean's fun moodboard challenge~ 💛🧡🩵

I can't believe you've wanted to write about my home state, but I was cackling right from the start at the accuracy 🤣👌🏽

chasing a ghoul through backyards full of pink lawn flamingos and chainlink fences.

🤭 sounds like Miami! loll

And Dean doesn’t mean the good kind of eating ass, either. Nope, he means the swamp-ass, sunburned, get-mauled-by-an-alligator kind.

Girl don't make me quote this whole fic, we're only like 100 words in! "swamp ass" is deadly accuracy, I cannot 😆😆

And yes we are indeed cursed - with throat-closing humidity and heat upon heat all year round, tropical storms, expensive bread, terrible traffic, and too many damn snowbirds coming to live here year 'round now 🫠🫠🫠

It’s humid enough to drown standing still, and the sand sticks to everything, including parts of him he’s not ready to confront.

lmfaoo we call that ✨making a pearl✨

Also not the drone-sized mosquitos 🦟 <- THAT is also on point, especially in summer - and the closer you get to the Everglades. 😭 And the "fried seafood and moldy flipflops" def reminds me of the boardwalk at Fort Lauderdale Beach lolll

Florida’s not even a real fucking state. Can’t be.

hahaaa We mostly divide ourselves by North, Central, and South Florida (SoFlo). All are different countries, essentially. I think a comedian once called it the dick of the U.S. or something, but I went to a Def Leppard concert years ago and Joe Elliot called it "Satan's ass crack." I haven't recovered since 🤣🤣

The bikini strings are tied in neat bows at your hips, a popsicle melting bright mango-orange between your fingers, and you’re working the thing over like it owes you goddamn money with the most sinful mouth he’s ever had the misfortune of knowing.

lmaooo absolutely LOVE this. She's really working that orange dreamsicle. Bet he wishes she'd do him like that 😝🧡

Also - "molten saffron sun" is my new favorite description ever now. 💓

That would explain why he’s three seconds away from dropping to his knees and offering to be your loyal, desperate, sunburnt servant.

LOL I'm cackling imagining a sunburnt Dean, willing to do "whatever it takes" to be her new dreamsicle 😝

Time freezes. The ocean quiets. The gulls freeze midair. Dean’s pulse slams loud and dizzy in his ears. His world narrows to you, your suntanned legs, the glint of sea-salt crystals on your skin, your bright and glistening mango lips. Jesus fucking Christ. You just– Did you– He stares at you, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “Huh? What?” he croaks, voice pitched embarrassingly high. You blink at him, then repeat – slowly, sweetly, “I said: Should we check if it sucks the breath outta people like a leech?” “Uh, yeah,” he croaks. “Suckin’. Life. Outta dudes. Totally.”

DEANNNN. LOL just fucking talk to her already, before you implode!!! 🤣🤣 But I love how this scene played out in my head like a movie. Such a good freeze frame and cut to the reality of the moment 😂

He is too old, too tired, and too desperately in love with you for this shit.

Oh poor baby. I feel so bad for you. 🙄 Talk to her!!!!!

He imagines you bent over the hood of the Impala, bikini tangled around your ankles, hands bracing against the hot metal while he rails you like a man possessed.

oh my God poor girl, she'd burn the fingerprints off her hands - but I can appreciate where Dean's going with this 😂😂

But he sooooo is gonna die of heatstroke in his usual hunter garb, and I love her for cheekily calling him out on it! He's about to catch on fire in so many ways 🔥🔥🔥

Dean looks at you – skin kissed by flame-petals and sunset sugar, hair blowing soft in the briny breeze, popsicle stick clutched between your fingers like a crime scene weapon.

Ahhh you wove so much beautiful poetic imagery throughout this, but I really love this one^ and the "skin glinting like bronzed sugar" line 😍💖💖

Before he can say something catastrophic (like “Marry me right now” or “Please put your mouth on me, I'm begging”), Sam comes jogging up the beach, waving his phone like a savior in flannel.

Noooooo why does Sam have to butt in!! lmfao I love him but Dean was maybe on the verge of making a move! Maybe?! 😂

Yeah, Florida is one hell of a drug, but you’re the one that fucked him up.

(lol sorry I had to)

But omg this was too much fun! Part of this felt like FL tourism in the early 2000s, but a lot of it was very legit and accurate too. 🤣 This story was so layered with rich imagery (which you're so amazing at), but also fun and playful and torturous for Dean.

Maybe I'm wrong, but I feel like after a while she kind of knew what he was thinking! 🤭❤️‍🔥 I could so see her finally being the one to make the first move and be like, "now why couldn't you do that yesterday?" 😆😆

Florida!!!

Summary: One fishy monster hunt, one sweaty afternoon at the beach, and one innocent popsicle – Florida is fucking hell for Dean.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: +18 language and smut in the form of dirty fantasies, severe pining, one idiot in love, humor, Florida, one popsicle, unresolved ending & feelings

Word Count: 2.8k

A/N: My entry for @chevroletdean's 500 Follower Celebration! Congrats again, lovely, and thank you so much for hosting this challenge and creating this awesome moodboard!! I was immediately inspired (and have wanted to write something set in Florida for an eternity). This was perfect and so much fun! 💛🧡🩵

Main Masterlist || DW Masterlist || Tag List

Florida can eat his ass.

Dean’s decided this at least seventeen times today. He has known this little fact since the first time he set foot here at nineteen, chasing a ghoul through backyards full of pink lawn flamingos and chainlink fences.

And Dean doesn’t mean the good kind of eating ass, either. Nope, he means the swamp-ass, sunburned, get-mauled-by-an-alligator kind.

Because no matter how pretty the scenery looks – sugar-powder beaches and sea-glass tides, slats of the boardwalk bleached bone-white under a honeyed sky – the whole damn state feels cursed.

It’s humid enough to drown standing still, and the sand sticks to everything, including parts of him he’s not ready to confront.

And between the humidity thicker than chowder and the scent of fried seafood and moldy flip-flops lingering like a bad decision, every drone-sized mosquito here is carrying at least three diseases and a vendetta. The crime rate also looks like a Mad Libs page: “Florida Man assaults alligator while wearing tutu and high on bath salts.”

It’s too hot, too wet, and too damn weird and crazy. Every breath here tastes like sweat, regret, and a hint of swamp water.

Florida’s not even a real fucking state. Can’t be.

Dean’s convinced it’s a bad trip someone had in the ‘70s that somehow got voted into the union. The sun feels less like it’s shining and more like it’s attacking. Everyone’s either a retiree, a guy named Skip with a neck tattoo of a flaming dice, or some batshit meth-head who thinks they saw Bigfoot behind the Waffle House.

Dean hates it with every fiber of his being. Florida is Satan’s back porch.

And now, thanks to a string of weird drownings at a no-name beach town outside Destin, Dean is trapped in the sweaty armpit of the country, baking alive in jeans, while trying very hard not to stare at you.

Which is impossible.

Because you’re right next to him in a little turquoise lounge chair and a skimpy bikini the color of wild citrus – or tangerine, maybe. You hum a little tune – that stupid Weezer song that only plays on the radio during summer. You kick your feet lazily in the sun, flashing him a smile so bright he’s pretty sure it could get him legally blinded.

The bikini strings are tied in neat bows at your hips, a popsicle melting bright mango-orange between your fingers, and you’re working the thing over like it owes you goddamn money with the most sinful mouth he’s ever had the misfortune of knowing.

All tanned legs and unapologetic sunshine. A vision of temptation under the molten saffron sun.

Dean sweats. Internally and externally. Better than that: He is cooked. Absolutely fried. Every casual motion of yours is branding itself into his frontal lobe forever.

Your tongue flickers out again – pink and wet and glistening – smoothing a drip from the rounded tip, completely oblivious to the fact that you’re currently starring in every X-rated daydream Dean’s ever had.

His vision whites out at the edges.

You hum absently, flipping through the manila folder in your lap. Your voice floats over, sweet as saltwater taffy. “So,” you say, casual and sunny, “are we thinking mer-creature, or like, a shapeshifter with a thing for boats and aquatic cosplay? Or what if it’s a water demon? Like a kelpie, but more murdery?”

Dean makes a strangled sound that’s supposed to be a word but comes out more like a dog’s dying whimper.

You blink at him. Tilt your head. Wait.

Dean clears his throat. “Yeah. Mer-thing. Whatever.”

“Or,” you muse aloud, tongue darting out again to lap at a drip, “maybe it’s like–… like a water wraith? Something that sucks the breath outta your lungs?”

You pop the popsicle out of your mouth with an obscene little smack. Dean’s mouth works soundlessly. Because all he can imagine is you on your knees, tongue slick against him, big eyes wide and innocent while you–

Focus, he barks at himself. For the love of fucking God, focus, Winchester.

Dean swallows hard, dragging his eyes off your mouth and back down to the battered folder in your lap.

This isn’t normal. He’s doomed. Maybe even cursed.

Yeah, that’s gotta be it. He’s probably been hit with a lust spell. Florida is full of weird shit, right? That would explain why he’s three seconds away from dropping to his knees and offering to be your loyal, desperate, sunburnt servant.

But then again, this isn’t entirely new either.

You’ve been driving him nuts for goddamn years. Laughing too loud at his dumb jokes. Sitting too close in motel beds when you both casually watch movies. Calling him Winchester in that honeyed voice that makes him feel like he’s being dared to fuck up and kiss you.

And still, he’s always been good. Good at pretending. Good at stuffing all that want somewhere deep under rib and bone and battered leather jackets.

But this? This is fucking torture. This is some bikini-clad Greek tragedy, starring one dumbass in boots on a beach who can’t stop fantasizing about licking saltwater off your thighs.

He should be thinking about the case. About that water-witch or whatever the fuck they are hunting this time. He should be thinking about hex bags and salt rounds, not about how your bikini bottoms ride up just a little when you stretch your arms over your head–

Stop it!

You lean forward to show him something on a photocopied page and tap a newspaper clipping about the latest victim – some unlucky fisherman who swore he saw a “golden-scaled woman” before getting dragged into the shallows.

But the little bow at your hip shifts, skin glinting like bronzed sugar under the clear sky. Dean makes a small, wounded noise in his throat, and his brain immediately supplies another vivid fantasy:

You perched in his lap, that bow coming untied with a lazy pull of his fingers, your thighs slick and hot against him, the ocean thundering in the tropical background while you ride him so slow it borders on a religious experience.

He blinks against the burning sun, feels himself slipping again, heat and blood rushing downward. The image hits him so hard he has to adjust himself in his jeans, subtle as a heart attack.

His dick twitches miserably.

He slouches lower, trying to think of anything not filthy – taxes, Sam’s hair care routine, the time Bobby caught him naked in the kitchen with a meatball sub – but it’s useless.

“Dean? You even listening?” you ask, laughing, poking his leg with your sandy toes.

Dean grunts something noncommittal that might be English, jaw clenched so tight he’s surprised his teeth don’t shatter. He tries to answer. Really, he does. But the words get bottlenecked behind the visual of you dragging your tongue slowly up the side of the melting treat.

You bite your lip, thoughtful, tapping the end of the popsicle stick against your mouth. “Maybe it’s something worse,” you continue. “Like a siren who doesn’t seduce you to death, just… I dunno. Sucks you off and leaves you floating.”

Dean’s soul physically leaves his body.

You tilt your head, grinning wickedly. “You want me to suck you off too, Dean?”

Time freezes. The ocean quiets. The gulls still midair. Dean’s pulse slams loud and dizzy in his ears. His world narrows to you, your suntanned legs, the glint of sea-salt crystals on your skin, your bright and glistening mango lips.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You just–

Did you–

He stares at you, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “Huh? What?” he croaks, voice pitched embarrassingly high.

You blink at him, then repeat – slowly, sweetly, “I said: Should we check if it sucks the breath outta people like a leech?”

“Uh, yeah,” he croaks. “Suckin’. Life. Outta dudes. Totally.”

You stare at him a second longer, suspicious, before shrugging and going back to the file.

Dean exhales, trying to will his hard-on into submission through sheer force of shame. You’re systematically dismantling his ability to think in complete sentences. His entire brain is on fire.

His internal organs shut down one by one. He drops his head back against the lounge chair, squeezing his green eyes shut. He is too old, too tired, and too desperately in love with you for this shit.

The sun beats down, hot and merciless, painting everything in shades of clementine and burning copper. Apricot umbrellas dot the beach like slices of candy. The ocean blinks lazy and endless, a rolling quilt of bottle-green and blue-fire sapphire. Seagulls wheel overhead, shrieking insults.

Dean’s mind drifts again.

He imagines dragging you down into the frothy surf, your hands curling into his hair, your giggles swallowed by the sea.

He imagines you mouthing at his jeans, impatient and greedy, while the sun sets behind you in a tangle of electric clementine and bruised lapis skies.

He imagines you kneeling between his legs, licking a stripe up the underside of his cock like you’re taste-testing it, humming around him, sweet and filthy and happy about it.

He imagines you under the boardwalk, hips rocking against his like the waves, bikini strings snapping loose with frantic fingers.

He imagines you bent over the hood of the Impala, bikini tangled around your ankles, hands bracing against the hot metal while he rails you like a man possessed.

He imagines your thighs caging his head, that same lazy, teasing look on your face, and him savoring your taste of sugar and salt and heat, while the whole crazy, humid, goddamn state of Florida spins off its axis.

“You’re quiet,” you chirp, tossing a sideways glance at him. “Florida getting to you?”

Dean clears his throat, gruff. “Yeah. Somethin’ like that, sweetheart.”

You raise your sunglasses, peeking at him over the frames. “You know, Winchester, you’re the only guy on this beach dressed like he’s about to sell used beach towels out of the back of a van."

Dean frowns, looking down at himself: worn boots, jeans, his favorite faded black tee with a sun-bleached flannel thrown over it. Practical. Battle-tested. Entirely inappropriate for beachside Florida.

“First of all,” he says, lifting a finger, “this is classic Americana ruggedness. Chicks dig it.”

You lean your head back and laugh, all bright and cruel. “You’re sweating through your ‘Americana ruggedness.’”

Dean scowls, dripping like a busted fire hydrant. “I told you. I’m not gonna wear fucking board shorts like all the other frat boy idiots here.”

You laugh again, the sound bright as bells, and Dean’s heart trips hard enough to hurt.

“You’re gonna die of heatstroke,” you tease. “Right here. Buried in Florida sand. Some old lady’s gonna find your corpse and knit you a ‘Bless Your Heart’ sweater.”

He snorts a chuckle. “I’ll haunt this beach just to piss you off.”

“Promise?” you ask, giving him a cheeky wink.

Dean is about five minutes away from lighting himself on fire. And honestly? Florida would probably consider it normal Tuesday behavior.

Your gaze drifts out to the ocean beyond your feet and sandy calves with a blissful little sigh. “It’s kinda pretty, though, isn’t it?”

Dean looks at you – skin kissed by flame-petals and sunset sugar, hair blowing soft in the briny breeze, popsicle stick clutched between your fingers like a crime scene weapon.

Yeah. Pretty.

Pretty much the goddamn end of him.

“Victim said he saw orange,” you murmur thoughtfully. “Bright, like-… like a koi? A clownfish?”

Dean is about to make a dumb Finding Nemo joke when you lick a bead of melted popsicle off your wrist, slow and absentminded.

And all Dean wants is to dig a hole right here in the sugar-white sand and bury himself alive in this cursed, gator-infested sandpit.

“Dean?”

He snaps back to reality so hard he gets whiplash. “What?” he wheezes.

You arch an eyebrow. “I said, should we check the tide charts? Maybe the creature only comes out during low tide.”

Dean coughs into his fist, face hotter than the sun overhead. “Uh, sure. Tide charts. Definitely. Research.”

But all he can think about is those legs locked around his waist, sand clinging to your thighs as he fucks you into the waves. You moaning into his neck, salty and sweet, fingers yanking at his shirt like you can’t stand to have him dressed another second.

You nibble at the edge of the popsicle, teeth scraping the melting mango sheen, and Dean watches helplessly as a single sticky bead runs down your wrist.

He fantasizes about leaning over, licking it off your skin, trailing his mouth up your arm to your shoulder, your throat, your mouth. He imagines you gasping against him, laughing breathless.

He fantasizes about hauling you out of that chair and onto his lap, mouth on yours, sticky hands sliding under the knot of your bikini top, tugging until you’re bared for him and only him, sunshine turning your skin to gold, and–

Greatly frustrated, Dean runs a hand down his freckled face. Why the fuck can’t he bring himself to stop? You’re unraveling him atom by atom.

But then, the fucking frozen treat drips again, and you lean forward to catch it with your mouth, lips wrapping tight around the end. Dean watches you hollow your cheeks slightly when you suck, head tilted thoughtfully like you’re considering footnotes and not absolutely wrecking his entire being. You pull the melting syrup back again with a soft, wet pop.

At this point, he wants to fucking throw himself into the ocean and let the sharks tear him apart like Hellhounds. He’s pretty sure his soul leaves his body, too.

He grips the arms of his chair so hard they creak in protest, knuckles turning white as he’s trying to tether himself to reality and not his fantasies.

Florida is hell.

You are hell.

And he’s a good man being punished for crimes he hasn’t even committed yet.

Dean shifts in his chair, crossing one leg over the other like that’ll hide the state of emergency going on in his jeans. He’s surprised no one here has asked any questions yet or called fucking 911.

Meanwhile, the world keeps spinning. The ocean rolls in lazy, glassy sheets of turquoise and teal. The sun licks liquid gold down your shoulders. The salt air curls the loose strands of your hair into a halo. And Dean – miserable, desperate, wildly in love – watches you polish off the last inch of your popsicle, tongue flicking the stick clean.

“Earth to Dean,” you sing-song, waving a hand in front of his face and kicking sand lightly at his boots.

Dean jerks back into consciousness. “Yeah?”

“Should we check out the marina witnesses after this?” you ask, tossing your popsicle stick into the trash bucket next to your chair.

Before he can say something catastrophic (like “Marry me right now” or “Please put your mouth on me, I'm begging”), Sam comes jogging up the beach, waving his phone like a savior in flannel.

“Got a lead! Marina worker said he saw something with gills and claws dragging people under.”

Dean launches out of his chair like his ass is on fire. A man escaping execution.

“Awesome. Let’s roll!” he barks, voice too loud and way too eager.

You tuck your notes into your beach bag and sling it over your shoulder, grinning wide and bright as the sunset. The same grin that ruined him long before the bikini did.

You hop up beside him, laughing, brushing sand off your thighs with maddening slow sweeps, and Dean bites back a groan so hard it nearly gives him a hernia.

“You sure you’re okay, Winchester?” you ask, teasing. “You looked like you were about to pass out there for a second.”

“I’m great,” Dean lies, voice strangled, letting the sun melt him into roadkill. “Peachy.”

“You sure? Seriously, you’re a walking heatstroke PSA,” you quip, hip-bumping him lightly as you fall into step beside him.

Dean coughs. “'M fine, sweetheart. Just… dehydration. And Florida. And mermaid murder.”

As you brush past him, the smell of your sunscreen and coconut shampoo punch him square in the gut. Dean follows, trying very, very hard not to watch the way your hips sway like you own the whole damn coastline.

He thinks about how easy it would be to slip his arm around your waist, how natural it would feel to lean in, to kiss you like he’s wanted to for years. Instead, he shoves his hands deep into his jeans pockets and marches grimly through the sand, already planning a quick, ice-cold shower and about eight beers after this job’s done.

Yeah, Florida is one hell of a drug, but you’re the one that fucked him up.

Okay, I may have had way too much fun with torturing Dean here. Forgive me, guys 😂☀️🏝️

Hope you enjoyed this one! 🩵

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @feyresqueen @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444

@syrma-sensei @perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming

@hunter-or-the-hunted @k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways

@muhahaha303 @ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith

@nesnejwritings @samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02

@impala67rollingthroughtown @star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v

[setmeatopthepyre]

Bucktommy and sharing a dessert 🩷

(@ambernotember)

I know I sent you a tidbit of something that was going to be for this prompt fill but I decided to use that for something else so here is something completely different! oops another au. went for strangers on the road from this poll though if I ever end up writing more I may add the other winner too. I've been yelling at @trombonechurchill about my desire to write something medieval-ish ever since I saw this gorgeous artwork by @chimneyz, though also very much based on my own fencing experience and desire to write homoerotic swordfighting. of which there is tragically none in this ficlet. but it's the thought that counts. gonna call this sweetmeats au just in case I decide to return to it

-

sharing a dessert [bucktommy | 620 words]

The young knight has the sleeves of his undershirt rolled up, tendons shifting in strong forearms as he pokes and prods at the coals of the fire, getting them to spread evenly.

“You’re planning to cook?” Tommy inquires, his resolution to only engage in conversation for the sake of acquiring news quickly forgotten. Sure, the man doesn’t appear to be traveling particularly light, but neither has Tommy spotted any fresh game on him that would require preparation.

Blue eyes blink up at him, contrasted by bright splashes of pink high on the man’s cheeks from the fire’s heat. It’s a very pleasing look on him. Tommy decides he won’t notice such things going forward.

He fails at that, too, when the knight smiles at him, cheeks dimpling sweetly.

“Not cook, exactly, but I have some hand pies that taste much better warmed. Would you want one?” With that, he produces a bundle from the satchel behind him and unwraps the waxed cloth, showing Tommy its contents: flaky dough brushed generously with egg wash, shining and golden and crisp despite their time packed away. Not the pies one buys at the riverside market, where the dough is just a necessary vessel for the often questionable filling. These were made with care in a home. They look much, much better than the dried provisions Tommy plans to fill his stomach with, the hard bread that he needs to moisten to be able to eat. And here he’d thought his meal would be a luxury since he had wine to wash it down with tonight.

“A kind offer, but unnecessary,” he wills himself to say. There’s no need to be indebted to this stranger if he can help it.

For his part, the knight just glances up at him a moment, then continues on, undeterred. “I have herbelades, as well as sweet pies with apple, if you rather not eat pork,” he says, tilting the wax cloth so that Tommy can better see. “I, uh, made those myself,” he adds as if embarrassed. “I learned it in my lord’s kitchens so I wouldn’t have to go without.”

“You baked these?” Tommy finds himself asking. It’s a disarmingly charming thought, this knight begging his way into some lord or inn’s kitchen to bake sweet apple pastries to eat on his travels. Tommy wonders, not for the first time, who this man’s patron is, what lord would provide for his knights to spend their free time baking in kitchens instead of inflicting their boredom on the local peasantry.

“I did,” the knight confirms. He doesn’t insist Tommy take one or even repeat the offer, but he places three hand pies on the stones by the fire: one of the herbelades, and two of the apple, the dough yellow with saffron and smelling sweetly of cinnamon and cloves and ginger. The scent makes Tommy’s mouth water, his stomach audibly interested, and the knight grins up at him from his place by the fire. “It won’t be but a moment,” he says knowingly.

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Tommy tries, but he can hear how unconvincing he sounds. He’s always had a weakness for sweets - and for men with even sweeter smiles.

“I insist,” the knight says, and Tommy is unable to argue, is left only to wonder at this strange young knight, traveling alone with satchels laden with pastries that smell like heaven. If Tommy were the kind of man to believe in the fantastical tales the old ladies tell, he would be afraid this man was one of the fair folk come to lure him into the woods with the promise of sweet treats for eternity. Thankfully, he isn’t, and Tommy knows these woods better than anyone.

-

thank you @ambernotember <3

[nthspecialll]

If John and Abigail had survived to old age, what do you think they would’ve been liked? I can imagine Abigail taking really well to the role of Grandmother, but John less so

You know how they are in rdr1 after John returns, I think they would be a bit like that.

Abigail would have found acceptance in her life, in the fact that she made it, she went from being a child playing piano in brothels to a mother, a wife and a ranch owner, she made it. I think when that finally settles, like when she realises that no one is going to steal that from her, she will settle, she will relax, and while she is still going to shoo John around for being lazy, she will become more relaxed. She will sit by the piano playing tunes, she will kiss John's cheek as she walks by him or make him coffee in the morning.

I think John would struggle a bit to settle into a 'lazy' life, I think he would always be active. He is that one grandpa who is out hunting despite an age of 80, you can't get him to stay in bed. He is working the farm, fixing a fence, herding cattle or out hunting. There will of course be moments where he settles a little, where he walks up and wraps his arms around Abigail or sleeps in next to her, but in general expect a very active old man who is more than willing to tell stories (probably not about the gang but maybe about life on the ranch), say "back in my days-" and teach the younger generations things he find to be a nessesity, like hunting.

[love-minor-poltergeist]

A/N: Here to contribute to (what I could already assume is) the massive amount of Eddie Gluskin content in this fanbase. These are mostly just for fun and to flesh out how I would like to portray our lovely Groom! I hope you all enjoy!

C/W: While I don't go into graphic detail, there are brief mentions of Childhood Abuse/CSA. Please proceed with caution!

General Eddie Gluskin Hcs:

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Touch is a delicate matter with Eddie. If he’s the one initiating he’s absolutely fine; he has no qualms against hurting others, after all. However, he absolutely abhors being on the receiving end of it. Though it’s been long since his father and uncle were incarcerated, their abuse left Eddie adverse to even casual touch. He can still feel the ghosts of their half-assed attempts at “comfort” after they were done with him. No amount of bathing or scrubbing can wash away the damage. 

It’s better to give the man his space. 

If he wasn’t in the vocational block toiling away at the sewing machines, Eddie could be found within the recreation area. He can’t go often thanks to the fact that the security guards have to watch him like a hawk, but he enjoys the fresh air. It also helps that the grounds come with weight-lifting equipment. A man must maintain a peak physical form. And Eddie is a vain main.

Granted, Eddie dislikes going into the courtyard for the same reasons. He’s solitary by nature, and a lot of the patients flock to the place; desperate to have some form of distraction. It’s difficult to maintain his friendly demeanor around so many people for so long. 

However, he does cross paths with Frank Manera from time to time in the recreation block. The scragglier man offered to spot him one day while Eddie was weight-training, and the two of them had gotten along ever since.

Frank, naturally calm and lethargic in his movements, never set him off. Even if the cannibal’s hygiene habits leave much to be desired. However, Eddie is willing to overlook it. Besides, the man is surprisingly opinionated when it comes to stageplay costume design, and it was nice that Eddie can finally share an interest with someone else.

In addition to sewing and tailoring, Eddie naturally has a knack for drawing and pastels. He’d like to have a try at painting one day, but Murkoff is a bit stingy when it comes to art supplies. 

Though, on the other side of the spectrum, the man is hopeless when it comes to digital media. Sure, he could learn if he truly wanted to, but… He truly doesn’t have the patience for it. Yes, sewing isn’t exactly the fastest, either, but it felt way better than just sitting in front of a computer screen trying to figure out how to make a website. He’ll get stir-crazy if he can’t occupy his hands. 

Usually will keep his needles and pins tucked within his teeth while he’s working. Whether or not he’s accidentally swallowed one, Eddie will never share. 

He absolutely has. His poor mother was in hysterics the first time it happened.

While he dreams of a white-picket fence with a wife and kids and a dog— he’s terribly allergic to dogs and cats. A fact he discovered the hard way with a neighbor’s schnauzer. Seven year old Eddie was crushed that day. 

Used to have longer hair when he was a child, but kept it cropped short thanks to his Father not wanting, in his words, “a queer for a son”

Stuck within the limbo of hating his mother and revering her. Mrs. Gluskin was a victim as well, and she did her best to provide her son with comfort; and if she invited him to tag along with her for errands, it meant he was safe for the day.

Yet all Eddie could focus on was how she cowered away and avoid looking into his eyes after his abusers were done with him; how she would turn up the TV when Eddie’s crying and shouts could be heard from the basement; how she refused to talk about what happened after his father and uncle were arrested. The years of resentment only grew worse thanks to Mr. Gluskin passing his misogyny onto Eddie. 

He may go on about how he wants to have a family, but Eddie is a little awkward around kids. He more so tends to treat them like little adults as opposed to children. It didn’t help that he never had many friends during childhood, so he has a tendency to stand there, frozen in place, while he watches a bunch of children run around. 

Doesn’t like having his picture taken. He hates having to force a smile for the camera, only to be met with how empty his eyes look in the end product.  

Do not ever take him clothes shopping unless you want to spend an entire day bickering with him. He’s quite critical over fabric quality and finding the “right” set of clothes that’ll flatter him. He’ll walk into the dressing rooms with a mountain of shirts and pants in one hand and end up leaving with only a single set of pants and a button up shirt. At least he neatly folds everything before placing it back on the return rack..

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