#i need to take a break from this i got fic to write

[i-love-ptv]

Your Forever is All That I Need ♡♱

Husband!Remmick x Wife!Vamp!Reader

Navigating through life as Remmick’s darling vampire wife—basically follows the events of Sinners

wc: 4095

warnings: toxic relationship (not reader and remmick), small mention of domestic violence (not reader and remmick), b*rt and j*an/klan mentions, small mention of infidelity, remmick is a bit of a freak ball (🤤) , reader is bratty but she lovesssss her husband

an: hey guys….😀 ik i’m supposed to be working on the stack fic but i got bored sooo here! i get random spurts of writing energy srry guys! the stack fic will 100% be done by the end of this month tho

divider credits: @/uzmacchiato

reader’s race is not described in any way but i imagine reader is black 😚 (totally okay if you aren’t! you’re all welcome to stay!)

feedback is always appreciated and welcomed!

“…I thought I could trust them—and they’re trying to kill me,” Remmick fumbles with his words.

The man beyond the threshold tightens the grip he has on his gun, “Slow down,” he commands.

“Who’s trying to kill you?” The woman clad in a blue dress questions.

All Remmick replies with is, “Choctaw.”

“They took my wife—oh, God,” Remmick whimpers. “I’m a coward, ain’t I?”

You hear his desperate, faux cries from your spot behind the couple’s cabin. You look down at your ring finger and admire the band that adorns it.

Such a charming man, your husband Remmick is. Always doing the heavy lifting so that all you had to worry about was sinking your teeth into your newest victim.

You also faintly heard the not-so-friendly words they were using. If anything, it fueled your desire to turn them. Normally, you prefer to make the vampirization process as quick and painless for the individual on the other end of your bite, for you still have a sense of “humanity”, as Remmick calls it.

You think it’s just common decency, but to each their own!

‘These is Klan folk, angel’ Remmick speaks to you through your hive mind. Of course they were, you couldn’t even be surprised at the surplus of hatred in this world, especially here.

Your ears nearly perk up once you hear the sound of horse hooves clicking against the hot dirt.

‘Hurry on up, Rem. They’re comin’

‘I got it—I got it. Don’t worry yer pretty lil head, honey’

You roll your eyes, even though you know he can’t see it. ‘I ain’t worryin’, I’m hungry’

“Hey, I got gold,” Remmick abruptly says to the pair, who still wield their weapons. “They ain’t get all of it, you can have it,” Remmick holds out the gold coin, in need of some sort of truce. “Jus’ don’t let ‘em hurt me,” he murmurs weakly.

You peek from around the cabin–still making sure that your body resides fully under the roof’s shingles–and you’re just barely able to make out the frames of the Choctaw that we’re hunting you and your husband.

You still hear the woman’s voice, meaning the man is with Remmick. Exactly how you planned.

What transpires in the next 5 minutes is truly a blur to you. You’re famished, so much so, that your head starts to ache. But you eventually peer over the wall and you’re met with the distant sight of the Choctaw’s backs.

‘How’s it lookin’, honey?’ You question your husband, but you’re met with no answer.

It was done.

You quickly glide to the front of the house as the hot sun beats down on your large hat that you stole from the next town over, your heel-covered feet float over the ground. You don’t want to scuff them up any further–not until Remmick gets you another pair, that is. You take a seat on the rickety chair that rests on the porch, you cross your legs and lightly pick at your nails to cure your boredom.

A sharp, piercing scream resonates within the vicinity of the cabin, the loud intrusion breaks the peace that the birds once had as they now scatter through the wind. You smirk at the sound, you look up and devilishly grin at the only winged-body that remained perched on the edge of the roof.

Rapid footsteps bounce off the wooden floors, you assume Remmick’s chasing her, leading her out to you. You adjust your hat as soon as she slams open the front door. She pants and shuts the door, keeping her hands on it as Remmick yells threatening nonsense at her.

A tear slips down her now rosy cheeks, you can tell when her soul leaves her body once she caught a glimpse of you in her peripheral vision. You tilt your head at her and just blink slowly at her, “Hey there, sugar!” You chirp.

She screams yet again, her voice raw, as red claws up her flushed skin.

You then pounce on her with ease; you jump on her and her back meets the floor boards immediately. You hold both of her hands with just one of yours, and your tight grip has her hands losing circulation. You don’t bother teasing or toying with her, not with your undeniable thirst consuming your mind.

You sink your pointed teeth into her flesh. You groan as she yells for what seems like the hundredth time.

God, isn’t she tired of doing that?

The door creaks open, but you don’t shift your focus from the blood that pools down from the side of her bulging neck. You do pout, however. ‘Klan folk always taste weird’

Remmick pauses and sighs blissfully, seemingly disregarding your statement, "I ever tell you how beautiful you look while feedin’, angel?”

You lick your lips as you finally get your fill, you look at him, your pout turning into something more cheeky, “Once or twice, yes. Don’t mean I don’t like hearin’ it, though.” You jump up onto your feet, and your heels thunk on the planks next to the woman’s head.

You walk over to the Irish man, who watches you lovingly, with crimson dripping from his grinning mouth and staining his ripped undershirt.

Remmick takes your hand in his, and his other arm wraps around your waist. He holds you tenderly, before slowly turning the embrace into a waltz, “Well, you look divine, baby,” he says before spinning you. You yelp as he dips you, before laughing and smiling like a madwoman.

He presses his bloody lips to yours, and you hum into the kiss while lightly tugging at his gold chain. Remmick’s hand slips out of yours and moves down to cradle your cheek. Remmick’s slight stubble lightly scratches against your chin in the best way possible as he deepens the kiss. Unfortunately though, you’re forced to part from your husband once the woman who you bit moments prior now rises up to a stand.

“Oh! My apologies, am I interuptin’?” She exults with a smile. Remmick plants you back on your feet as you both look at her, which is when you realize that her husband is also gazing at you both.

“So are they both jus’ gonna stare at us all damn day?” You huff.

“Awwe, don’t be like that, baby!” Remmick coos, making you scrunch your face up. The couple also let out similar words of approval. Remmick grabs your chin and guides your beaming red eyes to his with his thumb and pointer finger, “Y’see, with them here, we can finally get what we always been dreamin’ for.”

All you can do is sigh, as you look between the pair, who nod at you vigorously. You grumble some more before stepping off of the porch and leaping into the air.

You look down at Remmick before speaking, “Don’t bring ‘em home ‘til you got ‘em straightened out, don’t need none of their foolishness in my house, y’hear me?”

Remmick beams at your brightly, “Yes ma’am! Anythin’ for you, darlin’!”

Your dog, Beau, whimpers next to you, you pet him before he hops up and begins barking at the front door. Somehow, it’s like he had a sixth sense for his vampiric father. You listen intently; you hear one set of footsteps.

…And then two more.

You sigh without looking up from your book initially when your front door eases open. The scent of your husband floods your nostrils.

“Honey, I’m home!” Remmick jokes, making you huff.

“Take them shoes off if ya wanna keep ‘em,” you chide half-heartedly as you turn the page of your book. “That goes for our guests as well.”

“Lovely home y’all got here!” The same feminine voice that had screeched in your ears earlier exclaimed. You look up at this; Remmick’s cooing and rubbing Beau’s fuzzy stomach, the woman wearing her blue dress smiles at you, as well as her husband, who stands behind her in the door frame awkwardly.

You don’t say anything, opting to give a look to Remmick instead, and that’s when you notice his new attire: the button-up he’s wearing is slightly oversized, as well as his pants, which are so large, they have to be pulled up and held with flimsy suspenders.

“What in the hell—are you wearing his clothes?” You exclaim incredulously.

Your husband looks at you sheepishly, obviously searching for the right choice of words. “We-well, we had t’go through town—‘cause Bert ‘n Joan here ain’t strong enough to fly yet, honey, will be soon though!”He mumbles as you squint at him with fire in your eyes.

“That’s us,” The man who you assume is Bert, says eagerly.

“Will be soon!” Joan cheers.

“Washed sum clothes ‘fore ya came in..Come ‘n take these off,” you gaze up at the Irish man lovingly as you slide the suspenders down his arms; the way you look at him while murmuring softly has him hypnotized. He hums in response and you turn away, trekking down the hall with a light sway in your hips, never looking back at him once.

Remmick finally realizes that you wanted him to follow you, so he quickly dashes to the bedroom. He has to remind himself that the two of you don’t have the house to yourselves right now when he makes it to the door, so when you wink at him, it takes everything in him to fight the urge to ravish you in ways only he knows how.

He looks out down the hall to Bert and Joan, “Please, try not to touch nun…The missus likes her organization.” He smiles tight-lipped. He steps into the bedroom and closes the door, where he’s met with you: bent over in your soft and clean house gown, rummaging through a basket filled with freshly-dried clothes.

If Remmick actually had a live, beating heart, he thinks it’d be leaping out of his chest.

His breath does skip a beat, though, and despite his cold skin, he feels his pale cheeks warm.

He thinks about sneaking up on you—rushing over to you with supernatural speed without a sound even ringing out against these four walls of your shared sanctuary, but he knows you’ll sense it.

You stand back up, hands full with a shirt and matching pants for Remmick. You turn around and smile at him, already knowing that he was standing there, watching you.

“Seo dhuit, mo ghrá,” your tone is sugary sweet as you peer up at him through your lashes, but Remmick knows that look is everything but sweet.

“Here you go, my love”

If only someone had told Remmick that emotional restraint wasn’t a skill acquired once you’ve turned, because God—did he wish he could refrain from chubbing up in his large slacks when he heard you speak Gaelic.

It wasn’t a new thing, no, you’d been learning bits and pieces as soon as you met Remmick, since you had been enchanted with how effortlessly the foreign words rolled off of his tongue. But Remmick swears he falls deeper and deeper in love with you every single time he hears the familiarity.

It makes him feel like he’s at home.

Actually, it makes him proud to have a home with you: someone who makes life feel easy, especially given the fact that you both weren’t the typical couple that you’d find in this day and age—for numerous reasons.

‘Done fantasizin’ ‘bout me, handsome? Mighty tired of seein’ ya in these rags’

You speak, yet your mouth remains shut, and your eyebrow raises at him expectantly. Remmick chooses not to speak, instead, he grabs the clothes out of your hands and places them on the bed before starting to strip. You huff out a chuckle at his sudden shyness.

Fuck—you’re so obsessed with your husband, it’s unreal.

You decide to give him some privacy, even though he looks as if you threatened him with an arms-worth of silverware as you walk away. When you shut the bedroom door behind you, you walk down the lengthy hallway and unfortunately Bert and Joan are sitting on your antique couch, hands folded in their laps, necks craned to look at you.

“Y’all ain’t no friends of mine, y’friends of Remmick, so don’t go expectin’ nun from me,” you speak firmly, leaving no room for discussion or debate. “‘N get the hell off my couch,” you scold, making them jump up as if they were popping corn kernels. Their squirming made you laugh.

“Darlin’…Hope we’re not scarin’ our new friends too much now,” Remmick teases as he places his cold hands upon your shoulders in a calming manner, and his head rests against yours.

You exhale, “Maybe your enhanced hearin’ ain’t so enhanced, ‘cause I just told these folks they ain’t gettin’ no welcome party from me—anytime soon.” Remmick feels you tensing, and it doesn’t hurt his heart, it hurts his soul.

“I-I know, I know—but it’s only temporary, baby, I swear it.” Remmick whispers sweetly to you; some of his words wrapped in desperation. He turns you around so that you’re facing him.

Your eyes are fixed on the floor as you pout without realizing, “‘N how long will that be?” You ask, your attitude never leaving your tone; you didn’t even bother to speak through your shared minds. Remmick shifts his hands from your shoulders up to your cheeks, holding you and guiding your face upwards so that he could get a clear glimpse of you.

‘Just ‘till mornin’, then y’wont have to worry ‘bout them ever again’

You’d be lying if you said that you didn’t think your husband was just telling you what you wanted to hear. You knew of his plans of getting his people back, using music as a connector—so you knew damn well these white folk wouldn’t be gone by morning.

You let out what seems like your hundredth sigh, and walk to the kitchen, where you grab a glass of blood that you had stored for times like these.

Remmick grins lopsidedly, “Try not to drink too much, darlin’! Still gotta visit that ‘ole juke joint!”

“Are we sure that this joint even exists, Rem?” You groan.

“‘Bout as sure as I am Irish!” Remmick chirps, nuzzling his chin into your shoulder.

Tonight was going to be a long night.

“Well I’ll be damned…Y’werent lyin’, honey!” You exclaim, grabbing onto Remmick with just as much enthusiasm. He wraps his arms around your waist.

“‘Course not! What kinda man do ya take me for?” Remmick beams from pointed-ear to pointed-ear.

“Oh I’m just delighted to be here!” Joan giggles, quickly souring your mood.

Remmick immediately takes notice of this, and redirects the conversation. “Alright, now you stay right sweets, me, Joan, ‘n Bert got this all taken care of.” He squeezes your waist once last time as he pecks your lips; you hum against him.

Remmick secures his instrument that resides strapped against his back, and the three head to the entrance of Club Juke. The music is so loud it pours out the rickety building as if it were the ocean; the melodies meld with the air like a salty tide. You see Cornbread guarding the door, and you can’t believe you’re back here.

The last time you were here, you were living with a man that wasn’t Remmick—you were married to a man that wasn’t Remmick. That didn’t stop Remmick from visiting you every night for months after he met you, though. The ring on your finger especially didn’t deter him when he had found your husband mistreating you in ways he knew he wouldn’t.

Some nights, your husband wouldn’t let you leave the house, no matter how many times you tried to convince him that you just wanted to check-in on the animals on your farm. Remmick used to wait outside, becoming one with the shadows by the barn until you skipped on up to him. If you hadn’t been outside an hour after lights out, he’d walk back into the woods with his head hung low and a heavy weight on his heart.

On one particular night, one where your lights stayed on longer than usual, Remmick hadn’t left. In fact, he had approached your house—specifically the window that led into your bedroom.

It was wrong of him, he knows that, and he’s not afraid to admit it to this day—but he’ll never regret it, because he can still picture your face after your dead-beat husband had tried to lay his hands on you.

You had tip-toed out of your house after your husband had fallen asleep, and you knew that Remmick would be gone.

You had just wanted some air.

But you were wrong, because Remmick was still outside, waiting for you, but closer than he’d ever been before. You figured that he saw, or at least heard what happened, since his face showed both anger and a twinge of sadness.

That was the night you had been turned by Remmick.

And in that same night, you ripped your husband’s throat clean out, and watched as his life drained from his eyes.

You left without a word the morning after; you didn’t spare a single goodbye to anyone that you called family.

Not the Moore twins, not their little cousin who you looked after, not even Grace, Annie, or your best friend, Mary.

Hence why you opted out of going with Remmick to the door and seeing all of the familiar faces that could possibly hate you.

Even if they don’t hate you for leaving, you know good and well you’ll be hated for becoming what you are.

What you are is unknown by most, different, even—and different kills.

You’re so enthralled by your thoughts, you don’t notice your husband slowly walking back over to you with a sullen look on his face, similar to Bert and Joan.

“‘Fraid our plan didn’t work, darlin’,” Remmick trails off as he sits next to you on the log, still holding his most prized possession: his banjo.

“What’d they say?” You ask all too eagerly.

Remmick chuckles sadly, both for you and for him, “They ain’t interested in us comin’ in, though I don’t blame ‘em, I suppose.” You take your thumb and rub between his furrowed brows.

“…Do ya want me to go in?” You ask hesitantly, Remmick immediately grabs your hands and rubs his thumbs over your knuckles.

“No—no! ‘Course not, baby! W-we’ll figure sum out.” He smiles at you both sweetly and crookedly, calming your nerves almost instantly. “In fact, I already gotta new idea! Bert, Joan, get ready to play.”

You tilt your head and your eyebrows mimic Remmick’s a moment prior.

“Y’remember that song I taught ya, darlin’? ‘Cause y’might wanna start warmin’ up.”

Will ye go, lassie go?

Remmick sings, making a smile shine on your face. Seeing him so happy in his element makes you feel as if you’re over the moon.

And we’ll all go together

Out of the corner of your eye, you see none other than Mary walking over, wearing a pink dress and matching heels.

To pull wild mountain thyme

As she gets closer, Mary’s eyes light up in shock as she recognizes your features that she knows all too well.

All around the bloomin’ heather

Will ye go, lassie, go?

Mary looks as if she wants to speak, her mouth opens then closes several times as she gets closer to you. You look at her with love and sincerity in your eyes as you sing.

As Remmick plucks the last few notes, a tear trickles down Mary’s face.

“_______? Is that you?” Mary asks breathlessly, wiping the tears from her rosy cheeks.

“Hi, Mary,” you whisper. You know she wants to say so much more, but then she faces Remmick.

She has a motive for coming out here.

As much love as you have for her nestled within your soul, Remmick is your top priority. Which is why you quickly get your head on straight as she sits down and conversates with your husband.

Remmick offers her the gold you two acquired, and she looks in disbelief, her eyes shifting from you to Remmick.

You can’t help but roll your eyes as Bert and Joan randomly decided to put their two cents in by repeating what Remmick says. But, you hold your composure, because you all have a shared goal to accomplish at the end of the day.

“Loosing a mother’s a hurtin’ feelin’.” Bert murmurs, Remmick hums, agreeing with him.

“And I wish in my heart that we’d met sooner.” Remmick empathizes, and Mary can't help but turn her head to you.

Despite being apart for all these years, you can tell that Mary’s getting riled up due to Remmick’s advances.

“I would’ve liked to have saved your mother from her fate,” Remmick muses, “I can still save you from yours.”

“No, you must have me confused,” Mary says with cynicism. “I’m sad is all, but I don’t need no savin’.”

“Yes. Yes you do. You all do.” Remmick looks at her darkly, his glowing red eyes now on display, as well as his fangs.

Mary jumps up from the log, holding her gun with an iron grip as it points at your husband. You look between her and Remmick, then really taking in his appearance.

“Dammit, Rem—y’droolin’ honey.” You scold him, slowly lifting a finger to his chin and wiping the dripping saliva, making sure Mary doesn’t get intimidated by any rash movements. Though this doesn’t make Mary feel any better.

“Petal, what the fuck is all this?” Mary gestures between you and Remmick, making you put your hands up defensively. Hearing your old best friend call you by your old nickname almost brings tears to your eyes.

Everyone around the Delta called you Petal, since somehow, some way, you always had a flower planted delicately in your hair. Sometimes you’d even leave petals behind where you walked.

“It’s a lot, Mary, ‘n I wish I could explain it all to you. But you have to trust me when I say that this is for the best.” You tread carefully with your words, trying to ease the tension in the air.

“W-what? No—what’s that supposed to mean?” Mary exclaims, seemingly growing more wary by the second as she begins to step back.

You decide to get up gently from your spot on the log, and inch towards her faintly. “I know I got no business comin’ here makin’ demands—trust me Mar, I know that.” There's a slight tremble in your voice.

“But I want ya to join us—me ‘n my husband. We can be a big ‘ole family, Mar, just like the old days. Elias, Elijah, Annie, all of ‘em! Please jus-”

“No! I ain’t joinin’ whatever you and your—” Mary snarls with hesitance, “Husband, got goin’ on. ‘M sorry, Petal, ‘n I love ya, but it ain’t happenin’! Not now, not ever.” Mary’s breath picks up as you continue walking towards her, but then, you stop. Mary’s rapid heartbeat doesn't falter, though.

Your lip quivers as you look back at your husband, sending a message not even through your mind—but through your eyes.

Just as Remmick nods at you, Mary makes her biggest mistake: she turns her back.

You thought you taught her better than that.

Maybe it’s because in a way, you turned your back on her all these years ago.

And right now, you have to turn your back to her once again as Remmick leaps into the air in her direction.

You walk with your arm linked with Mary’s; the music inside the joint sounds both riveting and inviting.

“Cornbread,” Mary greets him at the door, making him look up.

“Mary what’chu doin’ out here?” Cornbread questions as he then notices you.

“Petal? W-Where you been all these years? What’chu doin’ back here girl?” Cornbread’s jaw might as well be on the dirt right now with the way he’s looking at the two of you.

“You gon let us in, or just sit there blockin’ the door?” Mary quickly interrupts with a twinge of sass.

Cornbread uncrosses his arms and moves aside after a beat, “No, come on—come on in.”

You smile at him sweetly as Mary eyes him and guides you into the building.

‘Careful in there, darlin’ let me know if ya need me’ Remmick’s voice echos through your mind. Normally, you wouldn’t admit that his soothing tone grounds you in ways nobody else has been able to, but there’s no use in hiding it since he already hears everything.

‘Always, baby’

[https-murdock]

daredevil’s bad day - matt murdock

summary - matts had a bad day… and you know exactly how to make it all better.

word count - 1,351

warning - ⚠️ MDNI 18+ - teasing, blowjob, heavy descriptions of smut, female masturbation, sub!matt - wasn’t the intention but i can see how it could be read that way, reader can’t breathe at one point (not for long)

note - it’s been such a long time since i wrote a full length fic! sorry if it’s rly bad! had a lot going on recently so i’ve been very behind on writing.

matt closes the door behind him with more of a push than usual, more strength behind his arms that he’d normally embrace - he feels bad, knows you’ll notice he’s not as happy as normal, but after a day like his he can’t help it.

it started when he woke up this morning and you weren’t there. you’d gone to work, slipped out of his bed early in the morning like you usually did. silent and endless, as soon as his ears tuned in to the day starting he knew he’d miss your presence next to his.

and when he got to work, he didn’t feel much better. with karen off for the day, it was just him and foggy sorting out all the paperwork for court - and next thing he knows it, court is delayed… again.

so now as matt finishes his day of drowning in paperwork, he can’t help but feel a little heavy handed.

“hey, ba- what happened to you?” you chirp, turning round on the couch to see his cane strewn near the door, and matt toeing his shoes off with his loose tie hanging from his neck. “work happened to me.” he groans, plopping next to you with slumped shoulders.

“ohhh, poor guy.” you smirk, swinging your legs to straddle his, kissing his cheek with the light giggle he dreams of all day when he doesn’t have you with him. he can’t help but let a little grin creep onto his face at the teasing, feeling your thighs touch his, the slight feeling of your warm shorts, the plush of your skin hugging his legs. “you’re home now though.”

“i certainly am.” he breaks out into a wide, knowing, flirty grin.

you laugh, kissing his cheek softly and repeating the action on the other side. you allow your hands to drift to his tie, loosening it further until it fall apart in your fingers, the buttons on his shirt following suit until your lips can meet his neck freely.

“mmmmhm,” you start, tongue peeking out from your lips, searing across his skin, “well maybe i can relieve some of that tension for you, then.”

you hear the sound that sings like music to your ears, the slight grunt that comes from his chest when he can’t deny himself the pleasure of having you surround his senses. the one when the goosebumps run across his skin, giving his feelings away each time he tries to hide them.

even though the relationship is quite new, matt always had a way of making you feel like a permanent fixture in his life - especially in these ways, when he gave you a reaction you know he saves for you and no one else.

“shit-sweetheart.” he says, breath catching in his throat as you make your way down his chest, letting your teeth graze over the skin.

“patience, matthew.” you grin again, letting your knees hit the floor in front of him, hands coming to meet his belt in attempt to not show the desperate need inside you, trying to move slowly and tease him - knowing how desperate you are yourself.

the slick between your thighs grows with time, the sight of his legs spread on the couch, head rolled backwards and eyes tightly closed all adding to the situation at hand. wearing matts t-shirt, you let it lift above your hips, exposing the bare skin underneath knowing he’ll be able to tell there’s nothing else but his t-shirt there.

he manages to slip the rest of his clothes off at a speed you haven’t seen from him before, trying to hide a giggle at the desperate mess from him when you see the wet patch at the front of his boxers.

“y’gonna let me take these off?” you question, your fingertips dancing around exactly where you want your mouth to go, “you do whatever you want.” he smiles, eyes still closed and cheeks still blushed.

finally you let your hands dip under the waistband of his black boxers, slipping them away from his hips and feeling your mouth salivate at the sight. his cock pops up, leaving little streaks of pre cum on his happy trail, as you see his stomach tense at the feeling. his breathing picks up slightly, catching in his chest every few breaths as you let your fingers wrap around him.

“shit-babe, don’t be a tease.” he grunts, in that oh so sexy voice you always love to hear. the one that comes out in the mornings, when he’s overly horny, or in times exactly like this one. his hips are bucking upwards as if he’s hoping to find your mouth somewhere near him.

“matthew, i said patience… it’ll happen.” you run your hand up and down his length, watching for the reaction and the way his muscles tense up at your movements - but you can already see the way you’re relaxing him from the day he’s had.

finally, you open your mouth and lick across his tip, tasting the salty pre cum that floods all your senses.

you always get so caught up in matt in every way - you wonder how he feels.

“shh-fuck.” he’s trying so hard to control himself that you can’t help but pity him - letting your lips wrap around him, dipping your head gently and slowly until you feel him hit the back of your throat. his hands unclench and fingers run through your hair, holding tightly and you wonder if he wants to guide you - show you what he wants, what he’s craving from your mouth.

beginning to bob your head, you earn the grunts from matt that you’ve been waiting for. your hand moves under his t-shirt still draped over you, finding yourself dripping from how much pleasuring matt turns you on. tightly, you rub circles around your clit and feel that burning sensation you always get when he’s the thought on your mind.

“j-just like that babe…” he’s muttering to himself, almost unheard.

your other hand still holds his base, stroking slowly up and down at the pace of your mouth as you realise he’s soaked with your spit, the sound of it making his hands in your hair grip even tighter, the pain mixed with the pleasure of your own hand making you see stars as you feel yourself building towards the edge.

you know he’s close too, the way he’s gone quiet, no more muttering - just quick, sharp breaths running all the way from his chest. “you wanna cum in my mouth baby?” you say, popping off and letting your hand move across him, keeping him right at the edge of where he wants to be, “fuck, yes-you’re so good to me-oh, fucking good girl, making yourself cum too-christ.”

you let yourself snap at his words, moaning loudly around his cock still slipped in your mouth, fingers still working over yourself at your orgasm washes over you so strong your blood rushes to your ears.

and then exactly what you want happens, matt sits up, using his grip on your hair to hold your head, holding you tightly at the base of his cock until you can’t breathe - his spend coats your throat, the tip notched deep. it’s warm, sticky, and just to prove your love for him you swallow the whole thing - still in another universe after your own orgasm.

“maybe this was actually a really good day.” he laughs, as you stand and move to sit next to him, his hands quickly grabbing your hips and moving you to straddle his legs, just as you were before.

“told you i could improve it.” you smile, kissing his cheeks softly, the tingling in your body slowly dissipating. “mmm, even im tired now, bed time?” you say, dropping your head to his shoulder and craving the rest you both need.

“you think i’m letting you go to sleep without being inside you tonight?” he grins, grabbing your hips and flipping you onto your back on the couch.

and all you can do is smile and laugh.

- tags 🏷️

@lambmurdock @parker-murdock @silas-aeiou @audreyclimbs @pupmurdock @millennial-birkin @poeticbookwormcat @xoxabs88xox

(if u wanna be added to my tag list check the pinned post on my profile!)

[obfuscateyummy]

Fresh Out the Slammer

Andrew Cody x F!Reader

SO I had this idea pop into my head - and it got out of hand and I wrote ~2.3k words and this is the result. with more to come because I can only write series :') Fic title from the Taylor Swift song - because the thoughts I got when it came on shuffle - it's Pope coded in my brain forever now. goodbye.

I'm not the best at warnings so if I missed something lmk. TW - Age gap (reader same age as Deran, around 26-27 when the series starts. Hidden Pregnancy. Mention of drug use. not much in this fic. A lot of fluff. A lot of happy Pope - because baby deserves a happy ending. Tried to write reader as neutral as possible, but is female. Reader is mentioned to have a named sister. No use of y/n (GO ME) Spoilers if you haven't seen AK episode 2.2 (although we hate baz in this club and I HONESTLY believe it wasn't the first time he told pope that oops.) This takes place during 1.01 - as soon as Pope is paroled.

Paroled early from Folsom Prison was a good thing for most. For Pope, it caused fear. Fear that his one true fear would come true. The two of you had been together for 3 years before he went to prison. He hadn’t seen you since the day he went to prison. You never once came to visit him. There were calls. There were letters. But he needed to see your face. He needed to find out why you never came to see him.

“Mama! Push me!” Your daughter was yelling at you from her small swing set in your backyard. 

“Okay Park, one more push,” you said as you pushed your toddler. She giggled and swung her feet. The swing started to slow and you helped her off the swing. She strolled over and sat in the grass, playing with some of the toys she had outside.

You heard a soft rattle towards your gate leading to your backyard. You looked around the corner and saw him. It couldn’t be. He still had 3 more years left in Folsom. A smile crept across your face as you quickly turned your attention back to your daughter.

“Park, stay back here and play ok? Mama will be right back,” you said.

He came in the gate, closed it, and stood with his back to it. You took off and ran towards him. In that moment, you realized just how much you missed him. He just watched you, staring. It’s what he did. When you got close enough for him to speak you said, “Andrew, love! What are you-”

“I got paroled. Came straight here,” he said as he shrugged his shoulders.

“My love, I wish you would’ve told me. I would have driven up and-” You went to wrap your arms around him and kiss him.

“Why didn’t you come visit?” He asked as he moved away from you. He wanted you. But he had to confirm if his suspicions were true.

“Andrew, I wrote to you almost every day, and we talked on the phone three times a week,” you said.

Andrew shook his head, “But why didn’t you visit me, sweetheart?” 

Why didn’t you visit? The day of the bank heist that sent him to prison, you found out you were pregnant. You were going to tell him after the job. You couldn’t risk Smurf finding out without Andrew there to protect both of you. Plus, she’d hold it over Andrew’s head while he was in prison. That would have broken him. You did the only thing you thought was right. You didn’t tell him. You planned to take your daughter up when Andrew was released and have him meet her when he was out. Try and start a life away from the Cody’s. “Andrew..” You had no idea how to tell him.

“Was there someone else?” he asked sternly, but without anger.

You bit your lip. If you said no, you’d be lying - there was your daughter. If you said yes - how could you explain it. “Andrew, I-, We need to talk,” you motioned for him to come further into your yard but he stood still giving you his signature stare that drove you mad in the best way. “Before you got arrested, I-” You looked into his eyes and he looked like he was going to cry. Fuck, does he think you’re breaking up with him? You thought as tears began to form in your own eyes.

Before you could continue, small footsteps were creeping behind you. “Mommy?” Parker said.

Andrew’s eyes went wide as they darted to the small girl behind you. 

You turned around and looked at Andrew’s clone. Her bouncy and dark auburn curls and scattered freckles on her face, and hazel eyes. If you didn’t carry her for 9 months, you wouldn’t think she was even your kid.

“Yes, Park?” You asked your daughter.

Andrew instantly began to do the math in his head. He didn’t think she could be much older than 2. There had to have been someone else. The math was right, but no, she couldn’t be his, he thought. No one would want to have a kid with him. Baz had told him that before, and he’d likely tell him until the day he died.

You speaking again is what brought Andrew back to reality. “Yeah, let’s go inside,” you said as the toddler nodded and walked towards the door. Andrew followed you into the door, which entered into your kitchen.

“Sorry, it’s kinda a mess - toddler problems,” you said as you put some lemonade in your daughter’s sippy cup. “Here Park,”

“Thanks Mama,” she said as she walked to living room, sitting on the floor and watching whatever cartoon was left on.

You sighed as you looked at Andrew. “You can come in,” you said.

Andrew didn’t move from where he was standing. “You have a daughter?” Andrew asked. 

You swallowed hard as you spoke, “This isn’t how I wanted to tell you.” You shook your head in disbelief. After three years of hiding it, this was how he found out.

“There was someone else, wasn’t there?” Andrew said. He was hurt, you could tell by his tone. 

You walked closer to him as you spoke. “Damnit Andrew, she’s yours!” Tears started to fall, and once the words came out they didn’t stop. You said almost everything you’ve wanted to for the past 3 years. 

“I found out the day you- I had a whole fucking dinner planned. I was going to tell you that night. And instead I get Deran at my door telling me the job went sideways and you got arrested,” you looked at him as you started aggressively wiping the tears streaming down your face. “I couldn’t tell you. It would have killed you to not be here. D-Deran told Smurf I had a one-night stand because she couldn’t know, we know how that would go. Smurf, she’s never seen Parker, I don’t take her if I go around the house; they’d all figure it out the minute they saw her. Deran is the only one who knows.” 

You looked up at him, he had this look on his face you couldn’t quite read, “Fuck, I-I am so sorry, love,” you said as your legs started shaking as the cries turned into sobs. You almost fell to your knees, but Andrew caught you.

“I got you,” he said as he moved for the first time since he walked back into your home and he took you into his arms, steadying you. God, it felt so good to be back in his arms. You pulled yourself closer to him. You could feel his heart beating, the one thing that always grounded you instantly. “You sure? I mean, she’s mine…she’s ours?” He asked, like he needed you to say it.

“Haven’t slept with anyone else in 6 years, Andrew. Plus did you see her? She’s yours.” You said as you kept yourself close to him, prolonging the hug.

Andrew had no problem continuing to hold you. He missed everything about you the past 3 years he was away. He spent those 3 years fantasizing and recalling the past 3 he spent with you before he was incarcerated. He missed your scent, your smile, your soft skin, the way the two of you fit together like a puzzle in the bedroom, your lips, your hands. He placed kisses along your hairline. You swore you felt his own tears hit your forehead. “I’m so fucking sorry I left you, sweetheart. I should’ve been-” he stopped talking when you both heard a knock at your door, followed by your best friend letting himself in.

“Hey,” Deran started to say to then he saw his brother standing there, “Pope?”

You lifted your head up as you heard your best friend speak.

“‘Didn’t tell me he was getting out,” Deran said hastily and directed at you.

“She didn’t know,” Andrew said sternly to his brother. “Got paroled and drove straight here.”

“Of course you did,” Deran said. “Good to see you, brother.” He hugged Pope and turned back to you.

“So, uh, I came because-”

Deran was cut off by the sound of little feet running from the other room to him, “Unc D!” Parker said as she lifted her arms for Deran to pick her up. 

“Hey Parker, you have a good day today?” Deran asked the small child, as she nodded her head. Parker had a huge smile on her face.

“Unc D, who he?” Parker said, pointing towards Andrew.

 You sighed. Of course she asked. She was always curious about everything. 

“That’s…um…” Deran started to say, unknowing that his brother already knew the secret you had both been keeping. 

You took Parker from Deran as you spoke, “I told him.” 

Deran ran his hands across his face, “Of course you did,” he said as he rolled his eyes. An action that you ignored. 

You put Parker down and bent down to her level as you talked to your toddler, “Parker, remember when I told you that you had a daddy, and he loved you very much, but he wasn’t going to be back for a long time?” Parker nodded her head. You looked up at Andrew and motioned for him to bend down. He followed your lead. “This is your daddy.” 

Parker looked at Andrew, unsure of how to react to the shocking news. Andrew was just as nervous looking at the little girl, seeing how innocent she was. He didn’t want to fuck this up. He didn’t want her to end up like him.

“Say something,” you whispered to Andrew.

“Hey uh, Parker. I’m your dad,” Andrew said. He didn’t have to say more before Parker wrapped her little arms around his neck, hugging him. 

“Daddy,” Parker said as she hugged him.

Andrew realized in that moment just how much his heart could love someone. “I love you,” he said, as he tried not to cry.

“Love you,” Parker said.

You watched the sweet moment between your boyfriend and daughter unfold. Deran stood there and shook his head. You stood up to speak to him. “He deserves to know. We talked about this.”

“You talked, I listened. Doesn’t mean I agree,” Deran said.

“Der-” you said as he cut you off.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” Deran said. 

Andrew stood up and Parker went back into the living room. He walked over to you and Deran and wrapped his arms around your middle, pulling your back flesh against his chest. You smiled. It was a smile Deran hadn’t seen on you in a while. One only Andrew brought out of you. Andrew started kissing your neck.

“Andrew,” you said as you wiggled for him to stop, and turned to face him. You looked up at him, “At least kiss me right,” you said as his lips met yours, for the first time since he was released. Your lips still felt like home to him. They were soft against his. And your mouth, that same taste he loved so much. He missed this, he missed you. The two of you were lost in each other. Andrew and you broke the kiss as Deran’s phone went off.

“Uh I gotta go, Smurf just texted 911.” Deran said. 

“Probably just sees that you’re here,” you said.

“I should go with you,” Andrew said, “She has to know I’m out sometime.”

“Yeah, yeah ok, come on Pope,” Deran said. He turned his attention to you. “See ya later, yeah?”

“Yeah, see ya, D. Thanks…for everything,” you said.

“Only for you,” Deran said as he walked out of the house.

You looked at Andrew, “Are you sure you want to go?”

Andrew nodded his head, “Yeah. I’ll find a way back later. Promise.”

“Don’t make a promise you can’t keep.”

“Nothing will keep me away. Not from you. Not from her,” Andrew said looking at his daughter on the living room floor. She was lying down with her doll. 

“Can I…Can I tell her bye?” Andrew asked.

“Of course,” you said.

Andrew walked over to Parker. “Hey. I have to go. But I will be back later okay? I’ll see you soon.”

“Ok, Daddy,” Parker said as she sat up and hugged him. 

You smiled as you watched them. Andrew broke the hug and Parker laid back down. Andrew came back to you.

“I love watching you with her,” you whispered, as Deran honked his horn. “You better go, D can’t keep Smurf waiting.”

“Yeah, I know,” he was staring at you like he does. “I really missed you, sweetheart.”

“I really missed you too, my love,” you said as Andrew placed a quick peck on your lips as he turned to walk out the door. 

You stood by the door replaying all the events that just happened. He was out. He was home. He came back to you. You ran your fingers through your hair. You felt your phone vibrate. When you looked, you noticed it was your sister calling.

“Hey Lizzie,” you said. Lizzie was your older sister, who was on and off heroin every other day. She struggled to stay clean, but refused your help.

“Hey, uh, you’re still friends with uh, that one guy, Deran Cody, right?” Lizzie said on the other end. 

You sighed. She sounded worse than she had in a while. Asking about the Cody’s was never good. “Yeah, I’m still friends with Der-”

“Oh ok, yeah, um, I think you should uh, call him. His sister, uh, Julia, she.” 

Julia. Andrew’s twin sister. The one who was outcast from the Cody family, because no one got in Smurf’s way. You sighed as you spoke “Lizzie, what is going on?” you asked. You were annoyed with your sister and her antics.

“Juila is dead.”

[mickyschumacher]

Omg Dean omg Dean 😭🙏

Thank u he’s lit soooo underrated and it’s dry out here babe like I’m thirsty

Idk if your requests are open but can u write something long for him (like 6k word count or something) something like angsty like they meet randomly somewhere but reader doesn’t know anything about football so she doesn’t know who Dean Huijsen is and they keep getting closer and closer but he doesn’t tell her about his football career but then somehow she finds out (like maybe went to a game with her friends? You’re free babes it’s your style so im sure it’s gonna be fire) and she gets upset like she cuts him off and all and he’s trying to win her back but but but wait a min pookie i got more 😌🤚 you thought only Dean has secrets guess what she also lied about some stuff miss reader here lied to Dean about why she cut him off cuz when he asked she’s like “you lied to me” but babe she didn’t tell him that she’s scared to date a footballer because of the spotlight and she’s not in a good financial situation (make it like lil hints in the fic before they reveal the fact she’s not that rich).

Thank u pookie in advance love u 💙

[PLEASE DON'T FALL IN LOVE WITH ME!]

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: you would never believe that a random meeting with a boy at work would've ever resulted in this. or in which a few lies are told to protect some hearts.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: angst, reader isn't rich = talks about money, reader works and is in uni bc i love me some education, poor football match description, lying from both parties, fluff to balance some angst, reader doesn't have the best relationship with her parents, bad humour imo, and vv bad spanish ♡︎ // not really proof-read

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: dean huijsen x fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 5.9k+

𝐀/𝐍: soo i loved this request! and i hope i did it justice! almost got to your 6k word count which is absolutely lovely. would love to know what everyone thinks bc i love comments or messages in my inbox! ♡︎

🏎️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | ⚽️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

You tried to withhold the sigh the came naturally upon hearing the bell to the local supermarket where you worked. It was a small dainty thing really. A few fridges on one side, fresh flowers decorating the area, and a nook for the cashiers. To be honest, it was so small, you could run from one side to the other in less than three minutes.

It was decently popular within the Alcobendas area, known for it's quality products and friendly environment. Customers flew in and out at a steady rate, always leaving you a little something to do other than study.

"___, you wanna go for your break?" Your boss and family friend, Rosa, queried, walking over to the cashier. She gave you a soft smile, spotting your tired eyes. "I'll take it from here. When you get back, I think Marìa needed some help on the upper shelves since she hurt her back."

You nodded, smiling gently. "Claro. Call me if you need anything, okay? En serio. Stop trying to do everything by yourself," you narrowed your eyes playfully.

Your boss rolled her eyes. "I'm not that old yet," she retorted, walking behind the nook to replace you. She watched a customer come forward with some items and looked over to you. "Now go on."

You sighed, begrudgingly walking away from the cash register while you removed your apron. Hands parting the curtains to the back room of the store, you rummaged through your bag, grabbing the apple and planner in your bag before leaving through the back door. You winced at the harsh reality of the sun on your skin. The air conditioner in the store had clearly been doing you a favour.

There was a café next door to the store. Equally small and busy. At this time, however, it was more vacant, allowing you to snatch a seat outside after you ordered your second coffee for the day.

You gave a thankful smile to the barista who placed your coffee on your table before opening your planner, finding your happiness quickly die down. Due dates were plastered in every box, some for university and others for your bills.

Taking a bite out of your apple, you flickered through the dates with a frown. When did these all become so close together? A sigh fell from your mouth. You took out your phone, opening your calendar to add on any extra work you had to do in the upcoming works.

By the time you finished, you could barely look at your planner anymore without wincing. You closed the thing shut, taking the last sip of your coffee before resting your cup on the saucer.

Overlap. Everything was beginning to overlap. Work. Assignments. Payments.

Moving out of your home for your first year of university wasn't ideal. But when it became apparent your parents couldn't afford it and suggested for you to work instead of prioritise your education, the only option you saw was to leave.

You parents weren't particularly happy about it, to say the least. But they didn't complain when a magical fairy deposited money every month to help them. In the end, you were doing what you wanted. Even if it was a struggle.

Your eyes flickered over to the time on your phone. You had a minute left till your break and four hours till your other part-time job. Without a second thought, you were walking back to the store, phone slid back into your pocket. You smiled at Rosa as you entered the store, forgetting to get your apron as you found the shelves your co-worker Marìa was initially attending to.

You squinted at the height of the shelf, old stock all towards the back of it. You weren't particularly any taller than Marìa, if anything she had a couple inches on you. Nevertheless, you stretched up, leaning on the tips of your toes, arm reaching out to grab the glass jar of pickles. You winced, feeling your arm strain at the burning stretch, fingers grasping only the air while the store's door opened once again.

You looked blankly at the shelf. You would probably have to go get the step stool in the back room. But before you committed to the idea, you decided to try once again, hand reaching out to, waiting to graze the jar at least but to no avail.

Instead a much longer arm reached above you, grabbing the jar with swift ease and in one fell swoop that had you widen your eyes. You blinked in surprise, turning to find an almost overly tall boy your age stand in front you, hair verging between dark blonde and brown, eyes hooded yet smiling as he handed the jar to you.

"Aquí," the stranger said, voice slightly on the lower side.

Hesitantly you grabbed the jar. "G-Gracias..." you smiled awkwardly, holding to the jar close to you, taking a step back when you realised how close you were.

"Oh," he blinked as if he had remembered something else. He looked down at his hand and the book in lying within it. He stretched out his arm again. "You forgot this at the café. I thought I'd give it to you."

Your eyes widened at the sight of your planner in front of you. You could've sworn you had brought it with you... right? Your brows furrowed while you meekly took your planner from his hands. "How did you..."

His lips parted, realising how weird this seemed. "Oh, um, I was at the table next to yours... so, uh, I just figured you'd want it."

"Right," you slowly nodded, pressing your lips together before you lightly smiled again, flickering your eyes to the amused Rosa in the corner. "Thank you."

His smile in return seemed genuine, far less awkward than yours. He ruffled the back of his hair sheepishly and shook his head. "No worries. I'm Dean."

You blinked at the hand hung out in front of you. Oh. This conversation was still going... You nodded slowly, smiling once again while you reached to meet his hand, eyes having to look higher than usual to meet his gaze. "Nice to meet you, Dean. I'm ___."

Dean nodded as if he was trying to repeat your name in his head. The loud dings from his phone broke his concentration. He sighed, knowing exactly what those messages were saying. "Mierda," he quietly swore under his breath. He looked back at you and sucked in a sharp breath. "Um, I need to be somewhere right now. I just... do you– do you go to that café often?"

You blinked, feeling a wave of heat crash over your face. "Y-Yeah, I guess."

Dean smiled with satisfaction, taking a step back to quickly leave. "Great. I'll see you soon!" He called out, reaching the store door, letting an elderly lady go first before running down the street.

You swallowed hard, trying to register what on earth had just happened.

━━━━━━━━━━━

It turned out Dean truly meant what he had said. You had in fact seen him soon. The next day actually. And almost every other day after that.

You had a friend in him when you least expected it. You spent an unhealthy amount of texting him and waiting. You had no idea what he did during the day but it didn't bother you. You assumed he was also studying or doing something similar which was why you always met in the late afternoons and evenings.

But you couldn't meet him all the times. You had your other job as a retail assistant in a small shop just two streets away. Then you tutored some kids. Though you would never tell Dean.

Dean wasn't like you. If he knew struggle, it was unlikely to be of the monetary kind. The nice clothes, the expensive perfume, offering to pay every time you met each other... his house, God, his house, it was like a mansion. Nothing compared to your over-priced one-bedroom apartment nor your parents' fixer-upper of a house which required a plumber to come every other month to fix something. His parents were similar, naturally. Sophisticated, polished, educated.

These differences lead to excuses. Take today for example. Dean had invited you to go shopping on your free day and then eat at a fancy restaurant. But you declined those hopeful blue eyes. You said you had to study. Which technically wasn't a lie. The studying came after your work shifts and tutoring. But what had been bugging you the most, was the way you looked next to him.

So... out of place.

Like you didn't belong.

Deep down you knew it was nothing to be ashamed of. But it was so difficult. The only thing that was easier to do was make up excuses.

"Can you please go?" Your friend, Isabella, from your very first day of class begged you, waiting for your lecture to start.

You gave her a confused look, putting your laptop on the table gently before you turned to her. "Why would I go to a football game? I don't even watch it."

Isabella clicked her tongue like it was obvious. "Because I'm trying to turn you into a madridista!" She sighed, hands wrapping around your arm in an effort to plead. "Please. I need you to experience this with me. It's Madrid versus Barça," she sobbed loudly.

You winced at the curious looks from your fellow classmates, covering your burning face with your hand while you looked at her. "Fine. Fine. If you shut up, fine."

Isabella leaned back, dropping the fake cries and smiling satisfactorily. "Thank you," she beamed with a shamelessness in her tone.

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head as your professor walked in.

━━━━━━━━━━━

"Do you eat a lot?" Dean queried, following you around the grocery store.

You furrowed your brows, pausing in front of the fruit and vegetable display racks before looking at him incredulously. "What?"

"Np, I mean–" Dean's eyes widened, cheeks automatically flushing. "I just feel like you're always here. I didn't know there were so many things to buy," he shrugged, putting his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

Right.

You hadn't told him that you had worked in the store. Dean had assumed when you first met each other that you were just doing some usual shopping to get your daily needs and whatnot.

You should've told him the truth but you just couldn't bring yourself to do it. Especially when you had met him the next day and realised just how different he was from you. It was just... embarrassing.

You smiled awkwardly, holding up a green apple. "I just really like fruit," you huffed uneasily before putting it in your reusable grocery bag. You internally winced at the amused grin on Dean's face as you moved to the cash register. "Buenas tardes Rosa," you greeted.

Rosa smiled at you, eyes flickering to the tall boy next to you. She had seen him more often in her store, making sure to take her time and tease the both of you. She grabbed your items, sporting a cheeky look on her face as she opened her mouth. "How are you finding my sweet ___?" Rosa asked him.

A family friend... that was what you had told Dean. That's what Rosa only was. Not your boss. A family friend.

Dean grinned, taking a quick glance at you. "You're right. She is pretty sweet."

Your cheeks reddened, a sigh falling from your lips while you shook your head lightly. "You two," you mumbled, rubbing the back of your neck nervously.

Rosa rolled her eyes, sending a nod of agreement towards Dean. "Kindest heart I've ever seen. Don't lose her, okay?" She gently chided, poking his arm playfully.

Your eyes softened for a moment before you looked away, guilt quickly replacing the warm feeling. Your chest felt heavy as Dean grinned again, nodding.

You weren't kind. You were a liar.

You cleared your throat, giving her a tight smile. "I'll see you later, hmm?" You queried, gathering your things, taking her nod as an answer and leaving with Dean.

Five minutes of walking had left Dean spotting a flower shop and begging you to stop for a minute. You weren't going to say no but his lips pouting and blue eyes swirling with hope made it difficult. It had come to the point you rather text him because at least then it was easier to make excuses.

You stood inside the store, calmly eyeing the colourful range of flowers while he greeted the owner. The store had a bit of everything. Pre-made bouquets and pots hanging from every inch. Small paintings hung on the columns, framed with flowers covered in resins.

"¿Buscas flores para una senorita guapa?" The owner queried, taking a step forward and glancing between Dean and you knowingly. Looking for flowers for a beautiful lady?

You opened your mouth to refute the question but Dean had beat you to it. "Algo así," he nodded, tips of his ears turning red. Something like that.

Pressing your lips, you hoped your hands were cold enough to reduce the temperature of your flushed cheeks. But your efforts were to no avail. You could feel your fingers absorb the heat but you could still feel the visible presence of the warm tint on your skin. Furthermore, your heart... it was thundering against your chest.

"I... I think I'll wait outside," you murmured, suddenly craving some fresh air. You walked through the door, still able to here them within earshot.

The owner grinned, turning to find the bouquets of flowers closest to him. He bent down slightly, pointing at the different types. "They all look nice but all of them have different meanings," he started. "The Bougainvillea come from Granada symbolising beauty and peace. The red carnations and the Valencia roses represent affection and love. Lavenders are grace and serenity."

Dean leaned into the flowers, eyeing them carefully. "I'll take a combination of these two," he pointed, smiling at the amused look on the owner's face.

You chewed your lip nervously, slowly breathing in the summer air of Spain. Your heartbeat had gotten slower, thankfully. Out of your peripheral, you could seen the mop of Dean's dark blonde hair. You looked at him and then the small bouquet in his hands: Bougainvillea and Valencia roses.

"Beauty and affection," Dean murmured, pushing the flowers towards you. "Fitting for you."

Your cheeks were flushing once again, even more fiery than the last time. Your throat felt dry. You weren't sure what to say. "I... um."

"Just take it," Dean laughed quietly, taking in your flustered state. He stepped forward, pressing the bouquet into your hands.

Your breath hitched, in fact it ceased to exist as or a moment, you felt as though time itself had stopped. He was so close to you, you could faintly feel his breath as he towered of you. You could feel his hand raise, fingers lightly grazing your searing cheek.

He smiled, stepping back, blue eyes still on you. "Linda." Cute.

━━━━━━━━━━━

"Am I going to have to ban you from your phone?" Isabella queried, amused at the way you were smiling at your screen while you walked towards the stadium for her oh so precious football match.

You gave her a pointed look, rolling your eyes while you turned off your phone. "No, you don't," you maintained, eyeing the floods of white shirts amongst the blue and red.

"So how are you and your mystery loverboy?" She asked, showing her ticket to the staff official outside the doors.

Isabella had caught wind of a change in you almost instantly. It was like you were a different person entirely. Humming while you studied out of nowhere. The weight on your shoulders lighter as you sat in your lectures daydreaming.

When she had asked about it over and over again, you had finally caved, telling her about this strange boy you had meet at work. And she absolutely positively loved it, dreamily citing, with her words exactly, "You two came out of romance novel."

Your cheeks warmed at her words. "There's nothing going on between us," you denied, also showing your ticket.

The both of you headed towards the security check, letting them do whatever they had to. A dry laugh fell from Isabella's lips, hand on her hip. "He got you flowers. He remembers your coffee order. He thinks your beautiful. And when he first saw you, he asked if he could see you again."

You sighed at the way your heart skipped a beat, still remembering that moment outside the flower store – heck it had been replaying in your mind for days. "A-Anyone can do those things," you retorted, dismissing her once again.

Isabella stared at you for a moment, thinking while she pursed her lips and nodding. "Sure," she agreed, grabbing her stuff, "but he did those things and to you."

You stayed quiet, following after her. The sound of your heart rang inside your ears. She was right. Even if you hated to admit it. After Dean had brought you those flowers, your friendship had taken a different turn. It was like he could confidently compliment you without feeling as nervous. And you could laugh freely at his stupid jokes, knowing very well no one else would ever find them as funny as you did.

Your silences together were more comfortable. Small things would remind you of him. He's send you videos of what you thought you'd like. He had even made a handmade card to motivate you for your classes, pairing it with a teddy bear.

It was strange. The world now seem to spin more. Flowers seemed more lovely to you. You would look in the mirror and find yourself smiling out of nowhere. Even the air seemed sweeter to you.

If you took a step back to look at the bigger picture, you could see Dean for who he was. He was sweet, understanding, an idiot most of the times, and walked around carefree.

Simply put, you liked him. And that excited you as much as it terrified you.

━━━━━━━━━━━

You sat in your seat amidst rows and rows of madridistas. The flocks of white stood bright across the wave of red and blue from the culers. You had never been to a match before, though you had seen clips of it on screen. The real thing was far more surreal. Loud, full of cheers and chatter before it even started, music barely intelligible as it thundered through the speakers, and the vibrancy of the green field was striking. Banners and flags ran one with the wind, large tv screens capturing every moment.

The announcer's voice reverberate amongst the crowd, introducing each team, creating the rumble of roars as if it were a cacophony. On the screen, you could see the backs of both teams, each player holding a child's hand while they walked through the tunnel and entered the pitch. Thank God, for the screen. You could barely see anything from where you were sitting.

You watched both teams line up, chests already heaving with anticipation. The camera started with Barça, zooming in on their faces. You could recognise some faces from social media, players like Yamal and Pedri being hard to miss. But as the camera went further down the line and moved to Real Madrid, you could feel the world that was once spinning come to a halt.

Your eyes widened, breath hitched. Heart echoing in your ears under a sadder pretence this time round.

The camera had now moved past him but you could still see it clear as day.

Dean.

It was Dean.

The same hooded blue eyes. The same dark blonde hair. The same freckles you had come to admire. But dressed in white from head to toe, with the royal club crest embedded at the corner of his jacket.

Holy shit.

You watched him join his teammates clapping and greeting every player and referee before running to prepare, shrugging off his jacket, you could see the writing clearly.

Huijsen. Dean Huijsen. He was a football player.

"Oh my God," Isabella squealed next you. "It's Dean." She captured your furrowed brows and sighed, quickly remembering you were a newbie. "He signed with the team a month ago or so. He used to be in England, playing for Bournemouth. He's a really good defender."

A month ago. That was probably when you had first met him.

You said nothing, just vaguely nodding at every bit of information Isabella told you throughout the first half of the match. You just couldn't stop thinking.

You had taken out your phone, hesitantly searching Dean's name and funny enough, you had learnt more about him in ten minutes then you had in a month.

Your stomach churned, skimming the information as much as you could. His Instagram which you had never thought to ask for... it had 3.5 million followers. His dad, a former footballer player.

Chewing your lip, you fought to breathe normally. A football player. That meant cameras, no privacy, a spotlight, and worse of all, money.

Your head peeked up at the sound of the referee's whistle, indicating it was half time. Your eyes naturally fell to Dean, who moved towards the edge of the field and towards the tunnel. He couldn't see you from where you were. And for some reason you were thankful.

For the rest of the game you simply chose to watch him play. It was better than feeling the sickness swirl around in your stomach. Dean was good, like Isabella had said. She had said he was a slightly aggressive player, which surprised you. You had never seen him get angry before. He was always so... shy and sweet around you. Like he was walking on glass.

But you could see it. The desperation and annoyance written across his face as one of his teammate barrelled into an opponent, hands wailing in the air, mouth open to shout. A sore reminder that you didn't really know him.

━━━━━━━━━━━

The game had ended with Real Madrid winning, which you supposed was good for Dean. But even as you waited for Isabella outside the bathroom, you couldn't shake off what you had now known.

You sighed, head leaning on the wall, arms folding around your cardigan. You were torn. What were you supposed to do? You liked him. But this wasn't... you weren't prepared for something like this. Hell, you were nowhere near worthy of it either.

Your head turned to a small crowd of laughter, eyes immediately zoning on the dark blonde haired boy who was smiling ear to ear, patting his teammate's back.

You could feel your heart dropped as he turned, catching you in an instant while your hand shot up, your purse covering your face. You winced, eyes clenched tightly. Shit. Shit. He hadn't seen you right?

Hesitantly, you peeked your head, lowering your purse. You spotted Dean's face and it made your chest hurt. He wasn't smiling anymore. His sleepy eyes were wide, lips parted in shock. He stepped forward, hand reaching out to you, calling out your name gently as if he was scared you were going to disappear. " I–"

Just as he did, Isabella had come out of the bathroom, not bothering to look at who was behind you as she rambled on and on about needing to get to the car park before you were stuck here forever.

You took one last dejected glance at him before following after Isabella.

━━━━━━━━━━━

It had been a week and Dean was still reeling from the moment he had seen you after his win. The last thing he had expected that day was to see you there. But there you were.

He wanted to explain. Why he lied instead of telling the truth. But you had ceased all contact. Blocked his number. Even his Instagram that you didn't follow. And you didn't come to the café anymore. He didn't know any of your friends that he could contact. You had cut him off effectively.

He only had one last resort.

"Buenos días," he greeted as opened the door to the store, waving his hand at Rosa, who was stocking some fruits.

"Dean," she acknowledge with a warm smile, putting down an apple before walking towards him. "I saw you on TV the other day. You should've told me you played. Anyways... well done, my boy," she congratulated, patting him on the back with the gentleness of a mother.

Dean smiled tightly, stomach turning at her second sentence. "Thank you," he said earnestly, blue eyes flickering around for a familiar face.

"Looking for ___?" She asked knowingly, grin softening at his eager nod. "Wish I could help you," she sighed regretfully, "but she hasn't come to work for the past three days."

Dean furrowed his brows at the information. "Work?" He repeated, "She works here?"

Rosa also looked confused, nodding slowly. "She does. For a few months now. She also works at that small clothing store two streets down from here. Inventory or something like that."

Dean blinked in surprise. He mulled over her words, trying to piece everything together. "She does all of that and study?"

"I don't know how she does it. She even tutors some kids to earn some money. She left home to study. Her parents, my friends, they weren't too happy about it," Rosa sighed with a sad smile.

Suddenly it clicked. Why you were so secretive. All your excuses. Why you were so awkward at his house. Why you were always in this store. The look on your face when he offered to pay.

And now you knew him as a fucking footballer.

"Mierda," he swore under his breath, taking a step back. He looked down at Rosa, opening his mouth in desperation. "Do you know where she'd be right now?"

━━━━━━━━━━━

The library. Dean didn't know how he hadn't thought of that. He supposed not having to focus on his education made him forget that you had probably spent a majority of your time there aside from work.

Dean had never stepped into a university before but the action alone had shown him a whole new world – your world. Students everywhere, few of which lightened up, recognising him quickly. He winced, pushing his cap down further to cover his face while he sped up.

His eyes flickered over the campus. He could see all the things you had described to him when you met. The fountain, the large trees, the the endless glass buildings. They were still here. But still he wondered which building you went to the most during your time here. Where your favourite class was. Where your favourite café on campus was. What class you absolutely hated.

The thought of these small things made his heart stutter. Because he had been more further away from finding those things than he had ever been. He needed to find you and explain everything. Now.

He stopped at the words written in bold across a brick building. Biblioteca de Universidad. Dean sucked in a sharp breath before going inside.

The quietness was what hit him first. The chatter was barely above a whisper, almost melding with the soft smell of books and paper. It was large, numerous floors layered with rows of desks and lamps, surrounding by years of accumulated knowledge. And there on the ground floor, you sat in the corner, headphones plugged in, eyes focused firmly on your laptop while your hand wrote down the necessary notes.

He spotted the various small snacks on your table and frowned gently. It was like you had been there for hours already, choosing to immerse yourself into studying if it helped you avoid him.

Dean tried to quiet the thrum of his heart in his ears as he walked over to you. You hadn't noticed him yet, heavily engrossed in what you were doing. Slowly, he pulled out the chair across you and took a seat, finally capturing your attention.

Your eyes widened at the sight of Dean, registering his presence while you took your headphones out of your ears. He looked pretty terrible for someone so handsome. Slightly dark eye bags, exhausted eyes, hair poking out of his cap in odd directions.

"Hey," he softly said, giving you a small wave from across the table before resting both his hands.

"H-Hi," you greeted back, eyes cautiously flickering around to see if anyone recognised him. "What are you doing here?"

"I want to talk," he simply said, shoulders shrugging and his face full of hope.

Your stomach churned at his words. You knew what he wanted to talk about. The very conversation you had been avoiding. It didn't take long for the waves of betrayal and guilt to flood your brain. "I..." you sucked in a sharp breath, "I don't think that's a good idea."

You could see the disappointment kill the hope in his eyes and you hated it. If he was angry, it might've been understandable. Yet his voice still came out soft and gentle. "Even for five minutes."

You bit your lip, carefully thinking over your options. If you didn't talk, you wouldn't know why he lied but you would also avoid bringing up anything unnecessary. If you did talk, however, you weren't sure if you'd like the outcome.

You blinked as Dean's hand reached over to cover yours, a small warmth spreading through your skin as he tightly smiled. "Please."

You caved. "Okay," you uttered out, not trusting your voice to say anything else.

Leading him outside of the library, you found an isolated corner. The both of you took a seat on the bench, taking a breath of the fresh summer air, still crisp and refreshing. You waited for him to speak, watching the clouds pass by on the blue canvas above you.

Dean quietly laughed to himself, making you look away from the sky and raise a brow at him. He sighed, smile still on his lips. "Now that we're here, I don't really know what to say," he admitted in disbelief.

You pursed your lips, rubbing your arms lightly while you looked back at the sky. "You lied," you simply stated.

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. He rubbed his clammy hands on the material of his shorts, heart beat picking up once again. "I did," he agreed.

"Why?" You finally queried, turning your head to him.

"Honestly?" He asked, sucking in a sharp breath of air. "Because everyone knows Dean Huijsen. But you didn't. I didn't have to feel judged around you and I liked that," he confessed, pressing his lips together.

You blinked. The guilt was gnawing at your heart again. Here Dean was talking about judgement. And it turned out you both had been worrying about the same things. You cleared your throat, trying to push away the nauseating feeling. "But you had to have known that being a footballer would change everything. The camera, the media, the spotlight–"

"Is that what you're worried about?" He interrupted with a raised brow. It wasn't in a demeaning way. In fact, the action held all the concern in the world.

"What do you mean?" You retorted, mending your own brows with confusion.

"I visited Rosa."

Your face paled while your body stilled. Shit.

"Why didn't you tell me you worked there?" Dean asked, pausing momentarily to let you answer. But when you said nothing while your cheeks heated, he sighed. "That's nothing to be embarrassed about."

You huffed with amusement, your eyes burned as they focused on the students in the distance. "How would you know? We're entirely different people. I can barely afford half of the lunches you paid for. You dine in at fancy restaurants. You live in a seven-bedroom mansion while I live in a shitty one-bedroom apartment. You don't even need to think about about looking at the price. Dean, when I'm next to you, I'm nothing."

Dean clenched his jaw at your choked voice. His chest hurt upon hearing your words. He leaned up from the bench, turning his body to face yours. He took your hands into his, capturing your attention. "I don't care about that. You're not... you're not nothing," he whispered, struggling to get those last words out without feeling disgusted.

You couldn't keeping looking into his eyes. You were scared. Scared he would see right through you. See past your glassy eyes. See your fears for what they were: the fibres of who you were. So instead you looked away again, praying the hot tears welling in your eyes wouldn't fall.

Dean swallowed, blinking rapidly. He stood up from the bench while he kept your hands within his grasp. Bending down in front of you, he ensured you could see him clearly, giving your hands a comforting squeeze. "I'm proud that you work there. Or anywhere. I might not know how you feel. But I know that when you struggle, you don't see how strong you are. You're living by yourself as a first year university student and paying for everything and yet you smile through life... if that's not strong, I don't know what is."

Dean could feel his heart breaking with every passing second, watching the rivets of tears drop and roll down your cheeks, your body shaking lightly. If he could, he would've done anything to stop you from feeling like this.

You groaned to yourself, sniffling while you removed your hands from his hold. You covered your face, voice muffled. "Esto es tan vergonzos," you sighed out, wiping the tears off your cheeks. This is so embarrassing.

"It's not," Dean reassured, hand moving to hold your face gently, thumb carefully caressing your cheek. "I'm sorry you felt this way. I wish you felt like you could've told me and I'm sorry I made you feel like you couldn't. And I'm so goddamn sorry I lied to you. I don't know if it's obvious or not, but I really really like you."

"Even after all of this?" You queried, breathing out slowly to calm yourself down while you met his eyes.

Dean smiled gently. "Well, since we both lied, I'd say we're even," he joked quietly, letting his chin rest on the top of your knee as he looked up at you. "But yes," he agreed, "even after all of this. If you're worried about what the others will say then forget about them. If you let them, my parents could hunt them down."

You snorted and rolled your eyes, making him grin. He adjusted his body again, leaning up straighter to smooth the creases between your brow. "But I promise you I don't care. What is it they say? For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer?" Dean queried, a quizzical look washing over his face.

You narrowed your eyes yet unable to keep your smile down. "Wedding vows already? You aren't thinking too far ahead?" You teased, poking his shoulder.

Dean smiled, reaching his hand out as a gesture. "Will you take me as your... uh," he paused, trying to think, "oh, as your universally-acknowledged boyfriend?"

Your heart fluttered as it usually did around him. You took his hand and grinned and you could've sworn for a moment Dean had malfunctioned. "I do."

© 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐘𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑

[sillygoose067]

Can you write a smol fic for Joaquin Torres with younger reader (early 20s) where she got caught in the crossfire of someone else's (probably a villian) mission to retrieve potential candidates to turn into assassins and she ended up getting kidnapped to and was trained for a short while to be one

Maybe Joaquin (and Sam, maybe Bucky but thats up to you) was on a separate mission and found her, maybe like one of the few remaining assassins left, and just takes her in

Maybe she didn't think about staying and was planning to leave him and just hide and pretends she doesn't exist because she feels so guilty and feels like shes weak because of the incident and had a normal life leading up to it

Maybe she sees her mourning friends/family in the distant and doesnt go and tell them shes alive and sage because of the issue and instead just watches in the background, feeling like it'll be safer that way

Heeeey, so I'm really sorry that I take so long to reply to asks and all, but honestly, I really enjoyed this request and needed a good chunk of time to do it justice. Also sorry that it turned out being a not-so-smol fic.

I hope you like it!

———————————————————————————-

Vaporized

Joaquin Torres x Reader (but kind of more reader-centric)

You weren’t supposed to be seen.

That was the rule—your only rule, really. You moved through the world like vapor, slipping past eyes, past cameras, past consequence. That’s how you liked it. That’s how you’ve stayed alive.

But that night, something caught.

A sliver of glass beneath your boot. A breath misting too warm in the cold air. The wrong kind of silence under the warehouse floodlights. You knew before they looked up. Before the first shout broke through the quiet. Before the van doors slammed open and the boy—skinny, oblivious, earbuds in—was grabbed and gone.

You'd been watching for him. For them.

It was supposed to be your clean extraction. Quiet surveillance. In and out. Follow the trail, find the nest, tell no one. You didn’t work with SHIELD. You worked under them, around them, behind their backs when needed. You took the cases that came with no files, the ones no one wanted their names on. There was no backup. No handler whispering in your ear. No one even knew you were there.

That was the point.

But this—this was a mistake.

And you never made mistakes.

———

When you wake, the lights above you are too white. Too still. The air has that sharp, chemical chill of medical spaces—no scent, but you know it in your bones.

You're lying flat on something cold. Limbs heavy. Head full of static.

Not restrained. Not quite.

But watched.

The door opens like a sigh.

She steps in like she owns the world.

Tall, pale-suited, with a face that tells you she hasn’t had to raise her voice in years. Everything about her is tight, sharp, pristine. A blade that’s never dulled.

She doesn’t ask your name.

“You’re not one of ours,” she says, eyes flicking to the thin tablet in her hand. “No record. No origin. No heat trail.”

She looks up. “So tell me. What were you doing there?”

You stare.

She smiles, thin as a thread of wire. “It doesn’t matter. You’ve seen too much. You’ll stay.”

You manage to speak, though your throat feels like it’s wrapped in gauze. “You’re making a mistake.”

“Probably,” she murmurs. “But I make them well.”

———

They give you a name: Stray.

You let it stick.

They think you were an accident, another body swept up in the wrong place at the wrong time. But you were already hunting them before they touched you. Already building a map in your head. Already turning threads into patterns, patterns into something closer to truth.

You fall in line, because it’s easier to watch from the inside.

They train you like the others—recruits mostly young, most of them raw, confused, angry. The kind who slip through cracks and don’t get looked for. They break them down, build them up again. Clean. Sharp. Obedient.

You pretend to be one of them. You bleed just enough. Sweat just enough. Hold back just enough.

But in the dark, when the lights go out and the facility hums low like a sleeping thing, you move.

You slip past the cameras you’ve already memorized.

You mark access points, record names, time the rotation of guards. You hack into systems they think are closed. You collect data piece by piece—slow, careful, quiet. And you wait.

Because this isn’t just a training facility. It’s a hub. A pipeline.

You’ve seen the files now—lists of names flagged for recruitment, assessments marked with things like conversion potential and mental pliability. You’ve seen cities pinned on digital maps with red pulses like heartbeats. You’ve seen shipments labeled in code, moving in and out like blood in a body.

They’re not just making weapons.

They’re building an army.

———

She comes to you again one night.

No guards. Just her, a shadow slipping under the doorframe.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, reassembling a combat knife with deliberate care. Every piece placed with calm, mechanical grace. You don’t look up.

“You’re not like the others,” she says, voice soft. Thoughtful.

You keep your hands moving. “I learn fast.”

“That’s what concerns me.”

That earns a glance. You meet her gaze—still, unreadable.

“Where did you train before this?” she asks.

You let a beat hang in the air.

“I didn’t.”

A lie. But not a big one. Not in the way she means.

She studies you for a moment. “No fear. No hesitation. No questions. Most come here screaming or silent. You—” She tilts her head. “You seem like you’ve already been through something.”

You smile. Barely. “Maybe I have.”

She stands there a moment longer, the silence folding between you like cloth.

Then she nods, turns, and walks out. Her heels echo like punctuation.

———

You count the days in heartbeats. In the flicker of overhead lights. In the quiet blink of data sliding into your stolen drive.

You’ve almost got what you need.

You know now where the next base is. How they move recruits. What they plan to do with them.

But you can feel her watching you more closely now. The woman in gray.

She doesn’t know.

But she suspects.

And suspicion is dangerous.

You’ll have to move soon.

Before she confirms what you are.

Before she realizes she didn’t catch a stray.

———

You’d nearly given up on the signal.

It was a foolish hope, really—sending out fragments of Morse in the cracks of facility surveillance, hiding them in power surges and machine glitches, tapped through loose pipes and stripped wires. Just a whisper through the noise. Too faint to register. Too random to decode unless someone wanted to find it.

But you sent them anyway.

Because something inside you refused to stop trying.

Somewhere, in the fractured spaces between fear and fury, you hoped someone might still be listening.

You didn’t expect it to be them.

They were running their own mission. Quiet op. Classified enough that Sam hadn’t even told anyone at SHIELD what they were doing near a supposedly inactive zone.

Joaquin was the first to notice.

They were holed up in a safehouse—some dusty room above an auto shop outside city limits—when he paused mid-sentence and tilted his head. “You hear that?”

Bucky looked up from his weapons check. “What?”

Joaquin was already crossing to the wall, fingers brushing the old radiator. “That tapping.”

“It’s a pipe,” Bucky muttered.

“No.” Joaquin's eyes sharpened. “That’s code.”

He tapped it out against his own wrist, quiet and steady. Repeating sequences. Timed intervals. Not random.

Not noise.

Someone was sending a message.

They traced it.

Not easily. Not quickly. But enough to triangulate a source—somewhere in the industrial sector, buried beneath half-finished construction sites and false utility records. Hidden on purpose.

Sam ran it through SHIELD’s encrypted maps. “Nothing’s supposed to be there.”

Bucky just stared at the coordinates and muttered, “Then we go.”

Just the two of them and Joaquin, dropping off-grid, moving fast and quiet toward the ghost signal buried beneath the city.

———

You were pacing your cell again—routine, familiar—when the shift in power drew your attention. A flicker. A second longer than usual.

Too long.

You knelt by the vent where you’d hidden the cable. Tapped twice. Then three short bursts. A longer pause.

Static.

And then—

Three quick taps in return.

You’d tapped the code again, heart hammering in sync with the flicker of the broken vent pipe. Twice. Three short bursts. Then waited—silent, breath held, every sense straining for a sign.

Three quick taps.

Someone was listening.

You froze.

That was a response.

———

They found the compound’s outer ring just before dawn, tucked in fog and silence, masked under layers of false infrastructure.

Sam stayed high, overwatch, wings primed.

Joaquin slipped through with barely a sound, eyes scanning every wall like they could betray him.

Bucky went straight for the entry point—he’d been in places like this before. Too many. His steps were purposeful, quiet, like he’d known these halls in nightmares.

When they found the camera grid, Bucky hissed low. “Someone’s been rewriting this from the inside.”

Joaquin’s face lit up. “Then we’re not just here for recon.”

You were ready to make your move.

———

Your escape was a chain of stolen codes and rewired doors, forged access from a guard you’d blackmailed with the right silence. You didn’t know where you’d go. Just that you would.

You had to.

But then, the door hissed open ahead of schedule.

You didn’t flinch.

Bucky didn’t lower the gun.

Behind him, Joaquin leaned into the frame, gaze scanning you like he wasn’t quite sure what he was seeing. “You’re the one who sent the signal.”

You rose slowly. “I didn’t think anyone would hear it.”

You didn’t wait for introductions.

Instead, you grabbed your stolen drive, tucked it into your jacket, and jerked your head toward the north wing.

“There’s a vault,” you said. “I haven’t cracked it yet, but everything else I’ve found? It points there. Data logs. Recruitment records. Future targets. SHIELD needs this.”

Sam’s voice crackled through Joaquin's and Bucky's comms. “Security’s lighting up. You’ve got maybe seven minutes.”

“Then we go now,” Bucky said.

You moved as one, a shadow-unit forged in urgency.

You led them through the halls you’d memorized, rerouted them through systems you’d quietly corrupted. Lights blinked in warning. Doors slammed behind you.

Alarms didn’t matter now.

You were nearly out.

———

The corridor was burning.

Not fire. Not yet. But something louder. Sharper. Mechanical screaming clawing at your skull. Warning lights flashing in fevered rhythm—panicked eyes of red and white. Steel doors groaning shut, inching closed like a tomb. Minutes left—maybe less—before the whole facility sealed you in forever.

But still, you moved.

You found them.

The children.

Dozens—lined in rows like broken dolls forgotten in a toy box. Some glassy-eyed, minds scrubbed and drugged. Others awake, but too hollow, wearing silence like armor. One—the smallest—maybe nine or ten—locked eyes with you and reached for your hand.

You took it.

They followed without question. No words, no fear. You were the first unfamiliar face they’d seen in too long.

You led them down twisted halls, bypassing surveillance you’d sabotaged, looping through tunnels and hollow ducts. Your voice low, commands clear—careful not to terrify more than they already were.

Because they were the mission.

They had been all along. This was never just data. Not to you.

They were the mission.

The truck waited in the loading bay, engine idling beneath layers of concrete and steel. Joaquin counted heads, his usual dry humor muted by urgency. Bucky paced the perimeter, a coiled wire ready to snap. Sam stood high above, wings folded tight, voice calm in your comm.

“Three minutes before lockdown. Get in now or don’t get out.”

You didn’t move.

Instead, you crossed to Joaquin and pressed the stolen drive into his vest.

He blinked. “Wait. What—”

“I’m not coming.”

Bucky stepped forward, tense. “What do you mean, not coming?”

“I have to finish this,” you said. “The woman running this—she’s still inside. She won’t get out. Not while I breathe.”

Sam offered from above, voice steady, “We can extract her later.”

You shook your head. “No. Not if she’s allowed time. She’ll wipe every trace. Every name. This is the window. You get the kids safe. You get that drive to SHIELD. I’ll take her.”

Joaquin looked to Bucky. “We don’t know who you are.”

“Good,” you said. “That’s why we're all still alive.”

They hesitated, weighing instincts and losses. Bucky’s gaze sharpened, soldier’s calculations flipping through odds and regrets.

“Do you even have an exit plan?” he demanded.

“I’ll find one.”

“You hope.”

“No,” you said. “I know. I’ve survived worse than this. I don’t need permission. I need time.”

Sam’s voice crackled, “She sounds real.”

“Damn right I am. Now move.”

Bucky didn’t shift.

You met his gaze steady and cold. “I have no one waiting for me. You do, Senator Barnes. I’m the only one here who can afford not to come back.”

Bucky turned with a swift nod, lifting a trembling girl like she was glass. Joaquin helped the others into the truck. He turned back to you, concerned, voice low.

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

He nodded unsurely—almost as if he was riddled with some kind of regret.

Then the truck doors slammed shut. The engine roared.

You watched it disappear beneath the tunnel, gates grinding closed behind them.

———

You never wanted this. Never wanted someone close enough to break through the walls you’d built around yourself — walls made of silence and scars, thick enough to keep the world out. You wore that silence like armor, something familiar, something safe. But then Joaquin came — bright and stubborn like sunlight pushing through a crack in a locked door — and slowly, without mercy, chipped at those walls. You wanted to pull away, you really did. But sometimes, just sometimes, his presence was the only thing that stopped the cold from swallowing you whole.

There were moments, brief and fragile, when you believed you could breathe a little easier. His laugh, warm and soft, pushed back the weight pressing down your chest. You almost forgot what it was like to feel something other than the endless ache. Almost forgot you were broken. Almost believed that maybe, just maybe, you could be normal again. But the shadows never left. They waited. Quiet and patient, they crept back in the cracks — twisting your gut with memories you’d rather drown than face. Their silence pressed down on you like a fist squeezing the last breath from your lungs. Your hands shook in the quiet, your breath caught and rattled like it might break.

Then came the call — the one you knew you weren’t ready for. Another solo mission. Dark and messy. The kind you took because no one else would. But that day, everything collapsed beneath your feet. Every move was wrong. Every step was a gamble. Like you were stumbling blind in a storm that tore at your skin and soul. Mistakes piled on mistakes until the chaos swallowed you whole, dragging you to a place where control was just a ghost you’d lost. You fought — not just the mission, but the war inside yourself. When it was over, you weren’t sure who you were anymore. The person who emerged was a stranger. Hollowed out. A shadow of the girl who believed she could do this alone.

So you made a choice — brutal and unforgiving. The kind that leaves scars deeper than any bullet wound. You reached out just once. Whispered to Fury through static, your voice cracking like broken glass. “Tell Joaquin… tell Sam and Bucky. This case... it broke me. I got lost in the fight.”

You didn’t say goodbye. You didn’t ask for understanding. You vanished. Folded yourself into the shadows where no one could find you.

From a distance, you watched the wreckage you left behind. Joaquin’s light — once so bright — dimmed slowly, painfully. His shoulders curved inward, carrying a weight you’d never wanted him to bear. His laughter, once easy and full, cracked like fragile glass. You felt it, even from the distance — his grief, raw and jagged, tearing him apart piece by piece.

He mourned you in silence no one else could hear, in moments only shadows witnessed. You wanted to reach out. To tell him you were still here. But you stayed silent. Because ghosts don’t get to choose when they disappear. Because you were becoming the very absence you’d feared — the cold, empty silence you’d wrapped around yourself for so long.

You became the absence you dreaded. Not because you wanted to, but because you had to. And somewhere deep inside your shattered heart, a flicker of hope lingered. Maybe, someday, the pieces could come back together.

[shintaru]

𝓨𝓸𝓾'𝓻𝓮 𝓶𝔂 𝓼𝓸𝓭𝓪 𝓹𝓸𝓹

🥤 m.list ♡ taglist ♡ recent fics🥤

Synopsis ~ Vinny gets you a labubu!

Tagging ~ @dzvelinaskebiyars @wthphe1n @zyart-jpg

A/N ~ collab post with @i-nssomniia! I love this fic collab so much it’s been so fun to write!

“VINNY LOOK AT HOW CUTE THESE ARE!” You shout excitedly as you pull Vinny to look at the Labubu’s at a pop up shop table stand. Your boyfriend follows your lead leaning over your shoulder to look at what’s on the table he spots a table full of little devils?! This is what you want him to look at? He’s confused.How are these things cute?! He’s questioned your taste since you confessed to him but now you’ve taken it to another level.

If it makes you happy he wants to get you one the ugly things can’t be that expensive. He looks over the prices and none are below $70. In fact they are all above $70 some even $300?! As much as he wanted to spoil you with something you liked even if he found it ugly he couldn’t justify the price. He barely has enough to purchase ramen for the two of you to eat later. He feels horrible. You always reassure him telling him ramen is your favorite meal and you don't need anything fancy.

A week has gone by since he felt bad for not being able to buy you something you were so excited for. He was trying to figure out how he could afford something so expensive while also worrying about his moms medical bills. While he was outside his part time job taking a smoke break he saw Hwangyeon and his crew approaching. “What’s up doggy eyes?!” Hwangyeon says as his crew laughs. Vinny clenches his fists and throws his cigarette in the ashtray.

He turns around to head back into work. His break was almost over anyway but Hwangyeon stopped him. He wanted to just ignore them and get back to work cause the last time he fought Hwangyeon while being on the clock he was fired. As Vinny turns around to face Hwangyeon he is almost met with a fist until he dodges it. Vinny is still pissed about not being able to provide for you or his mom. He didn't want to deal with Hwangyeon’s shit today but luck is never on his side.

He wastes no time talking to Hwangyeon knowing it won’t get him anywhere anyway. Instead he throws the first punch hitting Hwayngyeon in the nose, jaw, check, and lastly his eye. Vinny takes on some of the other ghost crew members before they all decide to grab Hwangyeon and scatter away. Vinny sees they left a pink shopping bag he wasn’t about to let those assholes know they forgot their shit. He takes a look inside seeing three boxes of those little demon things that you were wanting.

Hwangyeon must have bought these for his girlfriend, Vinny thought. It surprises Vinny that a piece of shit like that has a girlfriend anyway but thanks to that he was able to give you these. He was starting to feel a little better now that he had something to give you and technically he didn’t steal it. They owed him after all those years of making fun of him. He smiled while taking the bag and putting it with his stuff. After he finished his shift he rushed home to you on his bike.

He didn’t even use his kickstand after getting off his bike; he just let it fall to the ground. He hurries to unlock his apartment door. He runs to the bedroom nearly falling, stopping to greet Jack by giving him a few pets. He walks over to the bed to see you rubbing your eyes. It looks as if all the commotion he made woke you up. “Vinny what happened?! Did you get beat up again?” You ask, still rubbing your eyes. “N-nooooo” he says while pulling his sleeves down and adjusting his hoodie to cover the bruises from his fight from earlier.

His no didn’t sound very convincing but you knew Vinny he didn’t like you to pry and he also didn’t like to worry you. So you decided to let him tell you when he was ready. “Then why did you run in here like a bull in a China shop?” You ask softly while yawning. “Because I got you something” he says while placing the pink shopping bag in your lap. You stretch your arms into the air and yawn again before finally reaching to open the gift.

“Sorry I’m still a little sleepy, you didn’t have to get me anything but I really appreciate this!” You say while pulling a box out of the bag. Your eyes widen in shock when you see what you just pulled out you look in the bag and pull out two more identical boxes of labubu’s. Your jaw drops looking at Vinny “HOW DID YOU FIND THESE?!” You ask loudly. “I remember you mentioned them when we were shopping last time so I got you some” he says while scratching the back of his head.

“VINNY DO YOU KNOW HOW RARE THESE ARE?! THESE ARE THE COCA COLA ONES!” you say smiling at him. “The what?!” He says. You shake your head laughing and set down the labubu box. You walk over to him giving him a kiss when you pull away you notice his cheeks are as red as his hair. You grab his wrist and pull him over to the bed “open them with me” you say while sitting back on the bed.

You hand him a box while taking one in your hand. “The side has three different ones. There is a surprise shake, happy factor, & a surprise one.” You tell him while giggling. “Let’s open them at the same time!” he says. You open yours and pull out the Happy factor and Vinny pulls out a surprise shake. You squish yours holding it up “Awww they are so cute yours has Coca Cola in a bottle mine has canned Coca Cola” you say holding them together side by side. “Aren’t they cute?!” You say. “No I still think they are ugly” Vinny says laughing as your jaw drops.

“They aren’t ugly… let’s open the next one together” you say while picking up the other box. “What if we get the surprise one!” He says while observing the side of the box. “That one’s really rare, we better get that one” you say. You pull the tear strip on the box and Vinny pulls out the colorful packet decorated in various labubu’s he holds it towards your direction letting you make a tear in the packing before pulling out a labubu.

After he pulled the labubu out the room was dead silent. The only sound that could be heard was Jack meowing. You and Vinny slowly turn and look at each other. “Did we… just” he starts “we did” you finish. You both had pulled surprise attack from the last box. It was a brown labubu unlike the other two which were white labubu’s. This labubu was inside a can. It wore the can’s lid as a hat. “It’s so cute” you say looking at it. “This one’s kinda cute” Vinny adds. “The red matches your hair” you say holding the canned labubu up to Vinny’s hair.

[total-drama-brainrot]

This Alenoaheather AU is bringing me an unholy amount of serotonin and I love it- I’m still just now discovering it and I wish I knew about it sooner😭😭 But question if I may!

So, by the time Noah gets eliminated, where would you say his relationship lies with Alejandro and Heather? Like, does he leave the competition like, “You both tried to play each other, but I ended up playing the both of you, L” Like does he just think that Alejandro and Heather only romantically like each other, and he was just their attempt at emotionally manipulating one another, or does he at least have an idea that they potentially may feel romantically towards him? Honestly I’m just curious about how his elimination would play out between the three of them-

I'm glad other people are enjoying this AU as much as I am. Me and Perp are slowly spreading our Alenoaheather propaganda and it's working.

It's been established that Noah's elimination in this AU will take place at some point in the early post-merge game, probably either China or the Serengeti (though Niagara Falls might work too. We haven't exactly touched on how each challenge can/will play out since this whole concept has been put on the backburner), which gives his dynamic with Heather and Alejandro time to blossom from the initial double fake dating ploy into something more genuine.

Well before his elimination, Noah's been caught in his double-crossing ways; or to be more accurate triple-crossing, since Noah initially decided to play along with both Heather and Alejandro's schemes with the intention of throwing them both under the bus (or at least reaping all of the benefits for himself). But, by the time his ploy is figured out, the three of them have developed genuine feelings for each other.

As such, Heather and Alejandro are hesitant to have him eliminated; sure Noah somehow managing to pull the wool over their eyes for as long as he did was infuriating, but it was also impressive. Like recognises like, and the two biggest schemers in the game can appreciate when they've been outplayed, aggravating as it is, especially when the person who bested them essentially used their own trickery against them. Also, though the two of them would never admit it, both Heather and Alejandro know that they'd honestly miss Noah's caustic company.

Of course, at this point in the competition Heather and Alejandro are still deep in their "rivalry" phase, so it takes the two of them a very convoluted and overcomplicated conversation to figure out that they both share the same sentiment concerning a certain cynic- since every encounter they have with each other is practically a game of backhanded compliments and dancing around the true meaning of their words. It takes even longer for them to come to an agreement, given how stubborn the both of them can be, but eventually they manage to co-operate.

Which is what leads to The Confrontation, the point in the story where the two fake dating plots merge into Heather and Alejandro putting aside their differences to rule the game together, utilizing Noah as their shared right hand man since he's shown a knack for strategy and subterfuge. After all, why would they want to get rid of the one person on the jet who's able to go toe-to-toe with them in terms of scheming, when they can instead keep him around as an accomplice?

At least, that's the excuse they both use. But the two of them internally can't deny that, even if it was all pretend, Noah wasn't a bad "boyfriend" by any means, and they genuinely enjoy his company. In turn, Noah's accepted that neither Heather nor Alejandro are as insufferable as he initially assumed, and that playing along with their grand plots is actually really fun. (And maybe he also likes the two of them, but Noah would never admit that.)

But there's a a whole cast's worth of people on the jet who the trio also have to consider in their plans; it would be super suspicious of all three of them if the flirting and Aleheather's animosity suddenly ceased. No matter how oblivious the rest of the competitors are, a sudden public change in their dynamic would be the equivalent of waving a huge red flag and screaming "hey, we're in an alliance, vote us out!" Very counterintuitive to their goal of winning the competition.

So the three of them resolve to act as they have been during challenges, and sneak off to the confessional when it's most convenient/feasible to do so, where they can plot and scheme away from the rest of the cast.

This means that, at least to everyone else in the game, Noah's still in this weird grey area where he's actively flirting with both Heather and Alejandro. Or, well, "flirting", since I imagine most of the advances would be initiated by the other party and Noah would play the part of the blushing damsel- or more accurately the begrudging but highly amused recipient, since I just can't conceptualise snarky, stoic Noah being the type to get flustered easily.

I imagine The Confrontation would happen somewhere around London timeline wise (it just feels like the most appropriate place to have a major shift in the plot happen, for obvious reasons), which would give the initial fake dating aspect of the AU time to run it's course without getting stale, and allow the three of them to establish their dynamic as a trio before the merge hits. It'd give Alenoaheather around five or six episodes worth of time to grow closer as a trio (from Greece's Pieces to Niagara Brawls, at least) and have their feelings grow and develop at a natural pace, to the point where they acknowledge that, perhaps, not all of the romantic tension between them is fake.

And then, of course, the Fake Cheating Arc happens. Noah's elimination is the catalyst for this section of the plot, which Perp and myself touched on pretty heavily in one of our reblog chains, and at this point in the story Alenoaheather are in a sort of vague kind-of-dating situation; the three of them know there's feelings there, but they're all more invested in the competition (and their manipulation of such) than trying to figure out what exactly is going on between them. Plus, World Tour takes place in 2010- concepts like polyamory weren't exactly common knowledge back then, so the three of them wouldn't have any basis of comparison for what their dynamic is/would be.

That, and the three of them are all fairly emotionally closed off, so getting them to admit genuine feelings for each other and show vulnerableness to anyone would be like pulling teeth. As it stands, they're fairly content to continue acting as a Trickster Trio, contented to leave whatever's going on between them unlabelled for the time being in favour of focusing their time and energy on winning the million. There's an unspoken understanding between the three of them; what they have is special, inconceptual and indescribable by mere words... which is mostly just an excuse for the three of them not to breach the subject, since they have the collective emotional intelligence of a spork.

That doesn't mean they don't love each other. Because they do, even if some of them (Heather and Alejandro) aren't exactly familiar with concepts like "unconditional love" and "loyalty/compassion for someone besides yourself" and "lowering your emotional walls and being the most genuine version of yourself in front of the people who care about you". It's a steep learning curve, but they're doing their best.

But that's besides the point; at this point in the plot, the trio are essentially a throuple in all but name at the point of Noah's elimination.

That's why his suggestion of playing off of his "cheating" is initially met with hesitance on Aleheather's part- they don't want the one person on the jet (besides each other) they actually care about to risk his reputation, but they also know that it's a strategically sound idea. There's a conflict of interest between their desire to win the competition by any means necessary, and the budding sense of empathy they've both began to develop as a result of their situationship.

Of course, they eventually agree to his plan, and then the whole Cheating Arc plays out as it's been explored previously.

Which means Noah's actual elimination ceremony is a very tense affair.

He's intentionally playing himself up as kind of a scumbag during it, since he wants both Heather and Alejandro to appear as sympathetic as possible to the remaining competitors, so the three of them stage an altercation during that day's challenge where Noah's caught out in his "cheating", and consequently "admits" that he's been playing the two of them and it's all ingenuine on his part, to direct the majority vote against him. It'd kill two birds with one stone that way; Noah gets himself eliminated without having to do much out of the ordinary, since he's already kind of an asshole so all he really has to do is play up that aspect of himself a little and lie about manipulating his partners, meanwhile Heather and Alejandro can reap the benefits of whatever brownie points they gain from being his "victims" by using their own manipulative prowess to adopt the role of the ex-villains, redeemed by their shared heartbreak. Or something equally melodramatic.

Noah doesn't really care about the specifics of it, he'll be long gone before his partners can start playing up their "betrayal and heartbreak", and then soon enough one of them will win the competition. And spoil him rotten with their money.

So, during the actual ceremony, Noah becomes persona non grata. No one wants to sit anywhere near him on the benches, and the remaining cast members form a protective wall between him and a distraught Heather, who sniffles back quiet tears every time her eyes wander too close to the cynic's slouching, impassive frame, and Alejandro who's sat eerily still and taut with disgraced fury, who's fiery green eyes haven't strayed from the burning glare he's shooting towards the bookworm.

Not that Noah's a stranger to receiving glares; the rest of the cast are also shooting him some downright murderous looks. Though he is impressed by his partners' acting abilities. He's also physically biting back pearls of laughter- the gritting of his teeth only serves to make him look unapologetically indignant, and thus more irredeemable in the eyes of their company- because every time Alejandro knows that no one's focus is on him, he sends his cerebral partner a cheeky wink and a smirk. The smug bastard.

Unsurprisingly, the vote is fairly unanimous. Chris doesn't even bother trying to raise suspense or tension by counting the votes, since the result is inevitable. That, and the atmosphere is already so tense and dramatic, the host is revelling in it. Chris even goes so far as complimenting Noah for outshining Duncan's cheating fiasco, showing the audience "what real relationship drama looks like", and maybe even congratulating Noah on almost being as heartless as he is.

He's escorted to the Drop of Shame, parachute backpack in tow, but before he can take the plunge he glances back at his audience. A raging sea of hostility greets him, but within the depths of animosity two shining beacons of light greet him. Alejandro and Heather shoot him a fleeting wave, the ghosts of smiles flickering across their features before they continue their flawless acts, but it's enough to reassure Noah that everything will be fine.

(Spoiler alert, things don't end up being fine for Noah.)

Of course this is all just an idea I'm spewing out. Nothing in this AU is set in concrete and it's always open to peer review or change. That's the beauty of public AUs; you can do whatever you want with them!

[wikiangela]

wip wednesday

tagged by @jesuisici33 @callaplums @daffi-990 @loserdiaz @thewolvesof1998 @disasterbuckdiaz @fortheloveofbuddie 💖💖

made a bit of progress on the sick fic so here it is🤷

prev snippet

___

“Maybe we should get you to a doctor.” Buck muses, wrapping the blanket over Eddie’s shoulders.

“I don’t need- I just closed my eyes for a second. I’m fine.” he grumbles, fumbling with the blanket too long to want to actually throw it off, but he does in the end – he’s cold and refuses to admit it, and he’d rather sit here and pretend he’s fine. He’s impossible.

“Eddie, that cough did not sound fine.” he points out. 

“Buck-” he sneezes, and then wraps the sleeves of his hoodie over his palms. Buck raises his eyebrow, and Eddie pointedly avoids his eyes, as he not-so-discreetly wipes his nose with a sleeve. 

“I bought tissues.” Buck reaches for the bag and digs out a box, then tries to give it to Eddie, who, instead of taking it, just levels him with a stare, as he sniffles loudly, and swipes a sleeve under his nose again. “Seriously? You’re gonna be gross and disgusting just to prove you’re not sick?” That’s a new level of stubborn Buck hasn’t seen from Eddie yet. He can’t believe this is the man his heart decided it wants. And that even while sick and gross and stubborn and ridiculous, a part of Buck is still endeared by him.

“I’m not.” Eddie insists, sounding so congested Buck swears he can feel it in his own sinuses. “Let me just finish my coffee, and then I-” another sneeze. “Have so much to do today.” he finishes, but at least this time he reaches for the tissues, looking anywhere but at Buck, cheeks red.

“Yeah, no, all you’re gonna do today is rest and take some medicine.” Buck says decisively, then takes the bag in his hand, and slowly starts walking to the kitchen. “Get comfortable, and I’ll just put this all away and be right back. I bought meds, tissues, and something to cook you some soup-” he starts listing off, getting louder the further he gets. “Oh, and stopped by the farmer’s market to get honey. Did you know that honey has antioxidant and antibacterial properties?” he asks excitedly, ready to tell Eddie every single thing he found in his quick research. Buck learned a long time ago that with Eddie he doesn’t need to hold back and can rant and ramble all he wants, and Eddie is happy to listen to him.

“Yeah?” Eddie yells back, voice hoarse and strained. Buck can hear the couch shift as Eddie gets comfortable, maybe even finally lays down. He knows Eddie won’t just give in and admit he’s sick, but this is a start. “Why don’t you tell me all about it?” he sounds genuinely interested, though also really tired. 

“I will, just a sec! I’ll make you some tea with lemon and honey, how’s that sound?” he asks, and gets a grunt in response, though he’s not sure if that’s an answer, or if Eddie’s just trying to suppress a cough in an attempt to hide that he’s sick, as if Buck didn’t already know. He chuckles to himself. He really has his work cut out for him today.

___

no pressure tags: @elvensorceress @gayarthur @diazass @thebravebitch @silentxxsoul @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @arthursdent @diazblunt @911onabc @eddiediaztho @housewifebuck @lover-of-mine @gayhoediaz @rogerzsteven @watchyourbuck @hoodie-buck @monsterrae1 @hippolotamus @ladydorian05 @forthewolves @honestlydarkprincess @wildlife4life @spotsandsocks @eowon @theotherbuckley @weewootruck @thewolvesof1998 @giddyupbuck @disasterbuckdiaz @hoodie-buck @spotsandsocks

[sarcasticgaypotato]

In honor of the latest Panthera chapter.

Spoilers but also come on she's been a cat for like. 13 chapters, I can only contain myself for so long.

As always, Panthera by @idrewacow

[sisterdivinium]

At long last, the unholy trinity is together.

I don't care about statistics but I care about aesthetics and it is VERY satisfying to me to see that these three are now together in the stats page, lol, I've been waiting a while for it and now it happened.

[styxpenz]

fulfilling 10 year old mes dream (writing proper self insert fic)

[squeakheart-deactivated]

we added a doc q fic to our slate of planned x reader fics!! epic win for disabled top nation 🧡

[raksh-writes]

Twf your body forces you to take a break by making you feel sick and giving you migraine symptoms, like-- thanks, I get it, but could you lay off on the stress if Im to have any Actual rest? Please and thank you :')

[ofbatsandballads]

Based on that little blurb you reblogged can I request the batfamily finding out that Jason has a girlfriend by him rummaging through the stuff in his pockets?

They're like dang dude what do you have in there? and it's all hair ties, lip stick, and a recipe for two 💕

-🍬

oh I love a good “Jason hides his lover from his family only for it to get revealed dramatically” fic and now thanks to you, nonnie, I get to write one!

jason todd x f!reader. warnings include canon typical injuries, sibling violence, and slight hints at the batfam’s more traumatic interactions. this is mostly a good ol’ batfam fic, because reader is only alluded to, but I really like it. sorry I made it angsty for a sec there, I just can’t resist the Dynamics™️.

Jason should’ve known better. Really, he should’ve. Taking on Killer Croc alone? A fool’s mistake, but he was just too stubborn to say yes when Bruce asked if he’d like some backup. So now here he is, loopy in the Batcave after Waylon absolutely rocked his shit.

“‘S not even that bad,” he slurs.

The fact that he trips on his own feet and nearly faceplants before Bruce catches him says otherwise.

“Sure it’s not, Jaylad. Let’s get you to the medbay,” Bruce grumbles, worry creeping into that stone cold exterior.

“I’m fine, old man. Lemme jus’ go home,” Jason whines.

He’s met with a grunt that firmly negates his request.

“You can stay in your room tonight,” Bruce says.

“Not my home. Wanna go home,” Jason mumbles as he drops onto the medbay bed.

If Bruce’s face drops a bit, if guilt and sorrow flash across his eyes? Well, Jason’s too concussed to notice. Bruce just nods and begins to assess any other injuries Croc may have left on him. When he reaches for the collar of the Kevlar top, Jason flinches away from him so hard that he slams into the wall behind him. It’s only when Bruce realizes that he’d brushed his fingers against the scar on Jason’s neck that he understands why. His heart sinks and he can’t even look at his son. His shame doubles when he hears a trademark sigh of disappointment from behind him.

“C’mon, Littlewing. Let’s get all of this off you,” Dick says gently as he pushes past their father.

Jason doesn’t flinch when Dick starts to remove his gear. In fact, the presence of his older brother sets him at ease.

“I told ‘im I had it covered, Dickie. He didn’t fuckin’ listen,” Jason complains.

“Yeah, had it so covered you’re concussed in the family home?” Dick teases.

“What the fuck, Richard?” Jason groans before breaking out into giggles.

“How hard did Waylon hit him?” Dick jokingly asks Bruce.

“There’s no fractures, but the contusions are appearing rapidly. Jason’s lucky that’s all he got.”

Dick stares blankly at Bruce. He goes to open his mouth to retort that he was kidding, then decides it’s not worth his effort. Tim thinks it is, though.

“Wow, for a guy that’s chronically online for vigilante reasons, you still know nothing about the internet,” Tim laughs as he wanders into the medbay and flops down on the bed next to Jason’s.

Bruce ignores the teasing and catalogs all the injuries that are revealed to him as Dick strips away Jason’s tattered gear. There’s plenty of lacerations on his torso and likely some on his back. A few are deeper but nothing they’ll need to call Leslie for.

“Or maybe your jokes just aren’t funny, Timothy” Damian says haughtily as he sits himself next to Jason.

The thirteen-year-old tries to put on a mask of indifference, but it wavers when he spots the gash on the back of Jason’s right shoulder.

“Akhi, in what world did you think apprehending Waylon Jones alone would go well for you?” Damian scolds.

Jason narrows his seafoam eyes at Damian and lowers his voice.

“Ya really wanna talk about apprehending people alone, demon spawn?” he taunts lightly.

Damian’s eyes widen and he drops the subject because no, he actually does not want to talk about that on account of the fact that he tried to bring in Clayface alone two weeks ago and nearly got immortalized as a clay statue until Jason swooped in. The two of them had scrubbed his Robin suit within an inch of its life to try and hide the excursion from Bruce. It worked; only Alfred noticed the faint hint of clay in the threads of the cape and all he’d done was sigh and shake his head.

Jason’s gear is fully removed and his head is starting to clear a bit, wooziness replaced by a hammering pain in his temples. The headache masks any pain he would feel from the stitches being placed in his back, though he also suspects that those are less painful because Damian is doing them.

“Your technique is gettin’ better, y’know?” Jason whispers, the compliment unheard by the other three men bustling around the room.

The hands stitching him up freeze and he can imagine the look of surprise on Damian’s face even without turning around.

“Thank you,” he mutters. “I think it will be useful for future endeavors.”

Jason smiles to himself. He knows the kid wants to be a doctor, and he thinks it’s a damn better fate for him than whatever Bruce or Ra’s could’ve planned. The silence that settles over the medbay is peaceful, only broken by the sound of clacking computer keys or the zipping of evidence bags. Then, like an unholy boom of thunder, comes the voice of Tim Drake.

“What the hell is all this?”

Jason’s head whips to the side and he sees Tim rummaging through the pockets of his tactical pants. He goes to scramble off the bed and feels the harsh pull of thread that was mid-stitch through his skin.

“Mind your fuckin’ business, replacement!” Jason shouts.

He grabs a pillow and chucks it at Tim’s head, but he just ducks and continues to empty Jason’s pockets. The contents that spill out on the sterile tray are…perplexing to say the least. Two lip balms (one tinted red), three scrunchies (one black and two red), a grocery list with the word strawberries and a woman’s name underlined, a recipe for chicken stir fry with enough for two portions, and one single soft chocolate chip cookie lay unexplained in the harsh white light of the medbay.

If looks could kill, Tim Drake would be dead and buried six feet under.

“What part of mind your fuckin’ business did you not get?” Jason growls, glaring daggers at the nineteen-year-old.

“Holy shit, he’s got a fucking girlfriend!” Tim exclaims.

The pillow hits him square in the face this time. All four sets of eyes turn to him with varying emotions. Shock is evident in the forest green of Damian’s gaze, smugness and vindication in the icy blue of Tim’s, panic and guilt in the ocean blue of Dick’s, and some weird mix of sadness and fondness in the gunmetal blue of Bruce’s eyes that Jason doesn’t want to think about for too long. The acrobat quickly moves across the room and sweeps all the belongings off the tray and back into the pockets of the tac pants. He grabs Jason’s gear from Tim and hands it back to its rightful owner, who clutches it to himself protectively.

“Don’t make assumptions, Tim,” Dick says. “Civilians leave stuff on us all the time.”

It’s true. They’ve all come home with someone’s forgotten work badge or piece of jewelry before. The oddest thing was when Bruce had a Hello Kitty keychain stuck to the end of his cape. Jason casts a subtle look of gratitude at Dick for trying to give him plausible deniability. Not that it works. Tim stares not at Dick, but through him with his pale eyes in a way that makes a chill run down the spine of the eldest son.

“You knew already? How?” Tim asks incredulously.

Really, he’s a bit miffed that he hadn’t figured this out already. He has contingency plan files on each member of his family (himself included) and he had not a clue that Jason might be in a relationship.

“Drop. It. Now.” Jason warns.

Tim doesn’t consider it until he sees Jason’s fingers twitching in the direction of the butterfly knife on his belt. He doesn’t need another scar from Jason shanking him. Well, at least not today.

“Fine. Whatever. But if I have to bring Bernard here for Thanksgiving, then you have to bring,” and he pauses to remember and recite the name on the grocery list, “home too.”

He knows he’s pushed it when Jason lunges at him, dragging Damian and a threaded suturing needle behind him. Tim barely jumps out of the way in time to avoid a punch to the jaw.

“Robin! Knock it off!” Bruce barks.

It’s almost comical the way all four of his boys freeze in place. It is slightly less comical the way they all proceed to glare at him.

“Fuck it,” Jason grumbles as he settles back on the bed for Damian to continue stitching his wounds. “Just get these done so I can go home.”

“Home to his girlfriend,” Tim murmurs.

“I will fuckin’ slash your throat again, you second-rate fuck!”

Bruce lets out one long suffering sigh. He doesn’t know you yet (a quiet part of him hopes he may one day be allowed to) but he already feels sorry that you’ve been roped into all of this. He feels even more sorry when the butterfly knife flies past his head and buries itself into the wall inches from Tim’s neck. Really, what is he going to do with these boys?

[aeyumicore]

misty invasion - omnipotent perception

━ .ᐟ✧ PAIRING: rafayel x female reader (afab)

━ ✧.˖ GENRE: smut, porn with some plot, porn with feelings, angst with comfort

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 6.5k (who’s surprised)

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, slight spoilers and alterations to ‘omnipotent perception (rafayel’s misty invasion card), slightly toxic relationship, m!receiving handjob, bathtub sex, pulling out, cummies in hair/face, lots of making out, hickeys, HEAVY references to rafayel’s lore (sea god and some abysswalker), references to rafayel’s 4* memory fragrant dream, so much angst (with comfort), soooo much feelings, sensory deprivation, sensory play, blindfolding, switch!raf, desperate rafayel, kinda withholding rafayel, clothes on in tub, p in v seggs, use of y/n, use of pet names

━ .ᐟ✧ LINKS: video | ao3 | xav's version | sylus's version | zayne's version

━ ✧.˖ A/N: RAF IS HERE! sooooo this one is a long one. each one of my misty invasions got longer and longer, i am a menace to myself. but this one made sense, i felt as if raf’s misty invasion had the most lore subtly stitched into it and you guys know i always try and explore some angst/lore <3 i am very happy and excited to finally close out the misty invasion series. 

i’m going to be taking a much needed break after this. i’ll likely still be writing, but slowly and in my own time. I had a brief period of motivation, after the clarity of sharing my story, but now i am back to being anxious and exhausted.

that being said, please do not send anyone hate in my name or in my defense. I have never and will never ask for that. it’s enough that i have your support, i don’t need more than that. 

special thank you to my friend @myusuchaa for helping me SO much with the rafayel lore. definitely the biggest fish forker i know <3

as always, if i missed any warnings or used too specific physical descriptors, let me know and i can do better! thank you guys for your support. i love you!

THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL NEVER POST MY FICS ON OTHER TUMBLR BLOGS. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND ON AO3.

✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖ nsfw | minors dni | 18+ only | minors dni | nsfw ✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖

“Do you feel lonely in this world that is totally different from yours?”

—

It’d been a beautiful summer day, riding bicycles along the Italian coast of Verona. Rafayel had just finished his piece for an art exhibition in the capital of the picturesque city, and you’d had time to soak in the summer breeze with each other. The air was wonderfully salty, just enough to remind you of the sea itself. Of Rafayel. 

It hadn’t truly surprised you when you’d found out Rafayel had lived here before, especially now knowing his Lemurian roots. Something about the way he walked through the Veronian brick paved roads, the rustic wind tousling his beachy waves, the cloudy sun shining on his effervescent skin. Like he’d belonged here, once upon a time. 

It was the perfect day.

Even when you’d teased him about the Lemurian who’d dissipated into sea foam for a mere human, and Rafayel’s expression misted over with a melancholic nostalgia. When his eyes glazed over with a torrent of inexplicable emotions, he could tell you wanted to prod him about it. But you didn’t, and for that he was incredibly grateful. There was a part of him that longed for you to know, to remember, the truth of that story. But he couldn’t trust you with that part of him again. Not yet. 

Even then, it was a perfect day. The two of you in Verona, the city of Romeo and Juliet. 

Two ill-fated lovers. 

It was perfect, he was perfect. 

Until you asked him that question. 

“Do you feel lonely in this world that is totally different from yours?”

Suddenly, Rafayel couldn’t look you in the eyes. Even when the rain droplets had started to patter onto your sun kissed skin, Rafayel holding you close under his favorite cardigan to shelter you from the onslaught of crystalline water. He couldn’t look at you. He refused to look at you.

If he did, you might’ve seen the tumultuous storm flickering in his eyes. The violets in his irises bright with unshed tears, the blues dark with a bitter loneliness. 

He didn’t speak to you the entire way back to your hotel, heading straight to the bathroom. At first you think that perhaps he’s upset with you, but he only draws you a warm bath in the luxurious clawfoot tub overlooking the Italian night lights. 

When he finally does speak to you, peeling off his layers of soaked clothing, you can tell he’s masking his true emotions under a facade of classic Rafayel sarcasm. Joking about whether he should write a Lemurian handbook for you or just read you 1,001 Lemurian stories. But he surprises you when his voice cracks with a raw genuineness, one that’s masked under layers and layers of hesitancy and loneliness. You can’t quite understand it.

“You can be my caretaker. And I can tell you 1,001 stories,” he mutters, eyes trained on the ground once more, voice soft and vulnerable. 

“I’m okay with every choice you provide,” he continues as he peels your wet jacket off your shoulders innocently. When his hand reaches the inside of your coat, grazing against your exposed waist, he pulls his hand back. His face is a storm of conflicted torment.

“...But you should take a warm bath first. Or else you’ll catch a cold.”

As he turns to leave, the sight of his lean and muscled back making you blush, you muster all your courage and call out to him, “You can’t leave. You still haven’t answered my question.”

You catch his wrist, using all your force to pull him back. Rafayel stiffens, unable to catch himself before he tumbles backwards into the filled tub. 

He’s able to protect his head from hitting the edge of the tub, the water sloshing around and splashing onto the tiled bathroom floor. Rafayel sits in the tub, not a semblance of annoyance on his face. Instead he looks flustered, the warm water clinging to his defined muscles.

“Do you want me to stay?”

Rafayel’s hair is disheveled, the water making clumps of his damp hair stick to his wet skin. His eyes watch you with inscrutable emotions, waiting for you to speak. 

You don’t answer his question, instead asking one of your own.

“You can spare me the details, but there’s something important you should tell me…” you hum, walking to his side by the tub, leaning over him, “How do Lemurians express love?”

Rafayel looks startled by your question for a second before composing himself, “Do you really want to know?” The fragrant candles in the bathroom flicker, the steam of the bath dancing against the soft flames. His words seem less like a genuine question…and more like a vague warning. 

Before you can respond, Rafayel’s fingers are closed around your wrist, tugging you into the tub on top of him. You squeal as Rafayel guides your body onto his, the violent crashing of water loud against the soft sound of the rain against the large glass windows.

Rafayel looks smug, his hand holding yours against his chest. You’re messily sprawled across his half naked body when he shifts you off of him so that he can sit next to you, his strong arm wrapping around your body. The warm water is uncomfortable against your still half-clothed body, but you can only focus on the way Rafayel holds your fingers up to his mouth, pressing a kiss into the back of your hand like you were royalty. 

“When Lemurians fall in love with someone…” Rafayel mutters, his warm breath fanning against your hand, “All our senses are committed to perceive them without question.” His eyes are intense as he speaks to you, hoping to convey even an ounce of the love he speaks so honestly of. 

You raise an eyebrow at him, “Your senses? Like…this?” You untangle your hand from his, bringing your index finger up to his lips. You barely graze his pouty bottom lip before he’s panting, struggling to speak. 

“...Your way of triggering my “senses” has only touched the surface,” he mutters sulkily, yet he has to look away from you, cheeks rosy at your mere touch. He grabs your hand, eyes locked back onto yours giving you a silent warning. 

But you only proceed further, your fingers grasping his chin, your eyes peering up at him with a faux innocence. It’s not long before your fingers wander south, pressing into his heaving chest, flitting around his sharp collarbones. Rafayel’s reaction only fuels you with mischief and confidence, the way his breath matches his heartbeat: fast, erratic, and demanding. 

He looks at you with almost…disbelief. Disbelief at your actions, but more so disbelief at the way your simplest touches can have his body reacting so viscerally. It was a testament of just how much the dark-mauve haired Lemurian loved you, his every sense reacting to you so readily.

“...Are all humans idiots?” Rafayel grits, refusing to look at you again. But his body betrays his words when your hand ventures further down. You’re barely able to register the shocked expression on his flushed face before your back is pressed into the edge of the tub, the water splashing wilding as Rafayel hovers atop you.

He’s careful not to press his body into you, knowing he’d be an absolute goner once he felt your core against his. His thick muscles twitch angrily as he holds you down against the back of the tub, your hand clutching his shoulder for support against his erratic actions. 

“Someone’s intentions are as clear as day,” he accuses you. Though his words hold not even an ounce of ill-intention, he narrows his eyes at you. Just then, the rain outside turns into lightning, briefly illuminating Rafayel’s ethereal features. The flash of light accentuates the tempest that’s brewing in suspicious eyes. 

As you watch the turmoil flicker in them, you suddenly think maybe you pushed too far, “Do you not like it?” Your voice comes out more insecure than you’d wanted it to, suddenly aware of how forward you were being.

Rafayel sighs, pausing before his voice comes out pained, “If I said I didn’t, would you stop?” 

At the hint of anguish in his voice, you move to pull your hand away. But Rafayel’s hand abandons its grip on the tub to clasp against your hand, holding it tighter against his neck, refusing to let you go.

You gasp, as his movements cause the warm water to swash around. With his forceful hand over yours, your flushed skin prickles against his alarmingly chilly skin. 

“Rafayel, your body is so cold!” you whisper worriedly, fearing he might be catching a cold. For a second you forget that he’s Lemurian, accustomed to the frigid depths of the ocean. As your eyes search his anxiously, hand still gripping his cold shoulder, Rafayel’s own eyes watch yours meticulously. 

The swirls of blue and pink in his eyes have always been breathtaking, like the perfect mix of the most expensive paints. But now, as he watches you with the depth of the whole Lemurian oceans in his eyes, you’re completely speechless to the flickering of rampant passion behind them. 

That is until he grabs your chin roughly. Rafayel was no stranger to taking what he wanted, but this was different. The way he grabbed you screamed of…insecurity. Demanding, but unsure all the same. His cheeks are tinged the prettiest of coral pinks, his bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly as he closes the distances between your faces. Quickly, so he can’t change his mind. 

His soft lips slot over yours in a bruising embrace of passion, need, and unwavering longing. There’s something mind numbing about how gently his lips take yours, yet the pads of his fingers hold your chin so forcibly, as if afraid you’d slip into the depths of the water and disappear from his arms forever. 

The thunder rumbles deafeningly but all you can hear is Rafayel. He pants into you, his mouth claiming every inch of your lips, of your tongue. He kisses you like he knows nothing else, like he feels nothing else. 

He doesn’t let you go, although you’d never want him to. You only want him to hold you tighter, pull you closer, take you harder. You want to protest when he finally pulls away, gasping as a thin rope of saliva connects your parted and bruised lips.

Flashes of light illuminate his face, making him look as ethereal as the sirens warned about in ancient tales and myths. He hesitates to speak, trying to find the words to convey the emotions he’s been trying to control since the memories of Verona had begun to overwhelm him. The memories of his past. His past with you.

“And you’re warm,” he pants, still trying to catch his breath. His heart was pounding painfully, his body always so willing to react to you. All his senses, always so hyper aware of you, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. His thumb strokes your glistening bottom lip, fingers still holding your chin captive. His eyes watch you with an unbearable longing, the previously intense crinkle in them softened to a tender vulnerability. 

“So perfect for me.”

Butterflies wriggle in your tummy, and you reach your wet hands reach up to cup his cheeks. 

“Rafayel, you seem different…” you mumble, stroking the cold and smooth expanse of his cheek. He looks down, avoiding your gaze, clearly grappling with a turmoil of intrusive emotions and memories. Despite that all, his face softens under your touch, even unbeknownst to him. 

Before you can ask him what’s on his mind, he’s rubbing his cheeks into your palms. The warmth of your affectionate embrace makes it difficult for Rafayel to think clearly, and he can’t stop himself from whispering, “Will you still love me no matter who I become?”

You’re speechless at the blatant insecurity in his voice, in his eyes. Rafayel was always confident, years as a world-famous artist had made him self-assured in more ways than one. But now, as his shadowed and down-cast eyes searched yours desperately for an answer, you could see just how unsure he was. You could see the cracks forming in his polished shield, the fissure spider webbing uncontrollably, on the precipice of shattering completely. 

His eyes pierce yours, fully intending to get an answer from you. You don’t even think he notices how pouty he’s become, his bottom lip protruding in an tragically adorable show of just how badly he needs you to understand him. To love him. 

To remember him. 

Unable to withstand his paralyzing gaze any longer, you yank him down to you by the chain that hangs around his neck. The silver necklace matched the shimmering bracelet he’d gifted you, that currently sits on your own wrist. 

Rafayel grunts as you pull him closer, clearly taken aback. His gaze doesn’t lighten, only becoming more intense and heated as your breath grows more bated against his own parted lips. 

“You…” he grumbles, trailing off, eyes flickering down to the beautiful sheen across your lips, before they dart away, looking to where his fingers grip the edge of the porcelain white tub. The rosy blush that dusts his cheeks gives away just how much he yearns for more, more of you. 

You find him to be so irresistibly tortured that you can’t help but hook your arm around his neck, pulling him further down until your lips collide with his collar. If you can take even an ounce of his tumultuous pain away, you’d do it.

The thunder roars violently as you kiss him, the water in the tub splashing over and hitting the bathroom tile. Rafayel is quick to relent all control, letting you take every inch of him. His fingers thread into your hair as you kiss his sensitive chest, teeth nipping at the cold skin on his collar. His whimpering gasps are audible, fingers tugging at your damp hair, as you suckle torturously at his chest, no doubt leaving a reddened bruise. 

When he finally pulls away, there’s a clear look of reluctance on his beautiful features. You try and pull him back, and he briefly lets you before pulling back, the look of hesitation returning to his thunderous eyes. 

You give up, instead moving your finger to brush against the reddened hickey forming on his collar. Rafayel looks at you, pained and begging for mercy, as your fingernails graze over the sensitive skin. 

“When humans fall in love…” you hum, admiring the beautiful bruise, “We try to leave a unique mark on them.” 

At that precise moment, the moment you mention you’re in love with him, you can visibly see the fractured remnants of Rafayel’s walls come crashing down. He pants, eyes fixed on the way your hand presses over the right side of his chest, so dangerously close to where his heart was. To where his bond with you was etched into his very soul. 

In that very moment, a flip switches in Rafayel. His eyes burn, not with anguish or uncertainty, but with a dangerous desire.

“If you say so…” he rasps, leaning in until your breaths mingle into one. As his eyes flicker closed, lips ghosting along yours, he whispers, just before his lips claim yours. 

“Join me, then.” His lips press into yours, holding back as to not take you completely.

“Let’s drown in the ocean.” He inhales your torrid gasps, his words deceitfully simple. 

“Together.”

Rafayel kisses you, instantaneously consuming you. He pants into you, unable to soften the way his body reacts to you, the way his senses consume you until there’s nothing left of him. To him, loving you, losing you, and repeating the cycle…felt exactly like that.

Like drowning. 

He throws all that emotion into the way he kisses you. The embrace is so intense that it makes tears form in your eyes, emotions welling in your chest so tightly you fear you might burst. 

When he pulls away to breathe, you look up at him, “You never answered my question from earlier.”

Rafayel’s eyes widened, knowing exactly which question you were referring to. What he didn’t expect was for you to be so direct. His eyes dart around, but you hold his face in your palms before he can physically turn away. He opens his mouth to speak, before pursing his lips again in hesitation. 

You gently prod him, fingers stroking his locked jaw, “Raf?” 

“It…” he starts, eyes crackling with emotions. Rafayel struggles to find the words. He knows exactly what he wants to tell you, but can’t find the words to express it to you. 

It’s not that he wanted to be withholding, least of all with you. He would give you anything. He had given you everything, time and time again. To the point where it destroyed him. 

But the fear of having it all taken away, again, had made him so reluctant to lean back into the wind, like he’d done so many times in the past. Too scared of how much of himself he’d lose again in the never-ending cycle of falling irrevocably in love with you. 

And yet, as much as it took from him, it didn’t matter. Because you were everything to him.

“In this human world…it’s not difficult for a Lemurian to become lonely,” he laments wistfully, eyes misted with a faraway look. 

He continues. “But in all the lives I’ve lived, I almost never felt lonely,” Rafayel gently smiles at you, a smile filled with a wistful sorrow. 

“Really? Why?” you ask genuinely, still soothing his hardened jaw. His features had softened considerably as he peered down at your wet form, the tension between his legs growing visibly.

Rafayel chuckles. His answer was simple. 

Because, there was always you. 

But that was a tale for another time. 

“Are you trying to trick a foolish Lemurian into giving up all his secrets again, my little human?” he whispers huskily, leaning down to kiss at the skin under your ear. 

You’re about to ask him what he means by again, but the words die on your tongue when Rafayel sinks his teeth into your neck. His fingers find the buttons of your drenched top, unbuttoning it feverishly, desperately shedding your layers of clothing off of you.

Before you know it, you’re naked in Rafayel’s arms, his own bare manhood pressed insistently into your inner thighs, dangerously close to your core. Though the rest of his body is chilly from the rainwater, his throbbing erection burns against your skin. Even submerged in water, you can feel his pre cum oozing onto your leg, hot and thick.

His lips trail down your shivering body, kissing the grooves of your collar, teeth grazing the swell of your breasts. He’s nearly heaving, gasping for air like he can’t breathe. And truthfully, he couldn’t.

The dam of his emotional barriers absolutely decimated, the flood of his unabated passion overwhelming his senses. There is only you. The smell, the sound, the feeling, the sight, the taste of you. 

A Lemurian in love. Utterly, brokenly, and wholeheartedly. 

You try to match his intensity, pulling at his soft and wavy hair, drawing him closer to your naked body. You thrust your chest towards him, wanting him to claim you like he’d done so many times before. 

Rafayel chuckles at your obvious desires, but more than willing to oblige. His Queen. 

His lips close over your breast, his lips cold but his tongue wet and hot against your nipple. The warm water splashes messily against your clashing bodies. The lightning outside flashes, the shadows of your lewd acts dancing against the bathroom walls.

“Nnghnh, R-Raf!” you wail, his skilled mouth devouring you whole. Your spine arches into his demanding mouth, the wet splashes of the bath and the ravenous slurps filling the acoustics of the hotel bathroom. 

The pleasure of his tongue is so intense that your body can’t help but squirm backwards. Rafayel chuckles almost cynically, as he captures the back of your neck with his long and slender fingers. 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re trying to run away from me,” he pouts, leveling with your drooping eyes, body already delirious from the pleasure Rafayel knows how to bring you. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, bringing your chin up so that your eyes meet, “Don’t make me wait anymore, please.” 

You can’t help but smile at his adorable pout, his eyebrows furrowed in a sulky plea. You wrap your hands around the back of his neck, twirling his wavy hair into your fingers, bringing him closer until your foreheads are pressed together. 

“I don’t want to wait either,” you whisper breathlessly against him, his face so close you can feel the length of his eyelashes against your cheek.

Rafayel gulps, his neck bobbing with the pressure of how forcefully he has to restrain his senses, restrain himself. It’s so clear how vulnerable he is to your every whim, so you take the opportunity to push him below you. His glimmering eyes shine with confusion, but he lets you climb atop him, hissing when your slick cunt presses down on his cock.

“What are you doing, Miss?”

You don’t answer, leaning over the tub to grab Rafayel’s damp cardigan, bringing it up to his face. He raises an eyebrow in question at you, his palms resting in the fat of your hips as your bare pussy drags against his pelvis. 

“Do you trust me?” you grin playfully at him, spreading the cardigan out and preparing to use it as a makeshift blindfold. Rafayel seems to know exactly what you’re planning. He looks up at you, inexplicable emotions reflected in his glassy eyes. 

“I do,” he whispers finally. His worlds are simple, yet something about them rips through your consciousness, filling you with a torrent of bittersweet fractures of a lost memory. 

A memory of another time Rafayel told you those same words.

I do.

Rafayel can read the confusion in your eyes, and squeezes your hips reassuringly. You’re shaken from the confusion of your mind-bending memories. Trying to focus on the moment at hand, you clear your throat and carefully tie the soft and expensive cardigan around Rafayel’s head, effectively cutting off his vision.

You lean down to whisper against his ears, lobes pink with excitement and anticipation.

“Let me show you what else humans do when we’re in love.”

Rafaye’s entire body quakes, his chest rising rapidly at your unabashed words. His fingers dig into your hips as he does his best to limit his embarrassingly visceral reactions to your body. With his vision limited, all his other senses are heightened to your will. 

With your lips at this ear, your neck is exposed to him. The smell of your pheromones mixed with your perfume clouds his thoughts, the urge to drive his teeth into your pulse so unbelievably overwhelming. But your palm on his chest pushes him down, your lips trailing down his ear, down his neck, and to his chest. 

With his eyes covered, his skin is all the more sensitive to your touch, 

“Please,” Rafayel rasps, nails digging into your thighs, “Please. I can’t wait anymore.”

You giggle at how adorably needy he’s become. You can tell just how much the blindfold affects him, his body more readily reactive to your lips, your fingers, your words.

Even with his eyes covered, Rafayel can’t help but pout. The inability to see you, his beautiful Queen, made him all the more desperate.

You decide to indulge him, fist closing around his cock under the water. Rafayel’s hips jolt violently, his lower half lifting to chase the friction of your soft hand. While he cries out in pleasure, you kiss down to where the water meets his defined chest.

“O-oh fuuck,” Rafayel hisses, his head thrown back on the edge of the tub, neck straining into the cool ceramic. His hips buck up into your fist wildly, your hand moving far too languidly for his taste. You continue to tease him slowly, his cock and your hand completely submerged under the surface of the water. He whimpers, teeth digging into his bottom lip, continuously thrusting up into your hand.

You take his desperation as an opportunity to torture him more, moving as gently as you can so that you can move up to his ear without him noticing. With your hand still pumping his oozing cock under the water, you whisper into his ear, letting your tongue graze his earlobe.

“When humans love someone…we want to make them feel good,” you whisper seductively into his ear, purposely letting your words come out in hot breaths. Rafayel jolts and squirms in response, fingers gripping the edge of the tub until his knuckles are pale white. 

“Sh-shiit,” he hisses breathlessly as your hand pumps up and down faster, the movements causing the water to ripple. His muscles flex under your touch, shining with a wet sheen against the flashing glow of lightning. 

“So? Does it feel good, Raf?” you murmur into his neck, pressing a chaste kiss to where his throat bobs with the heavy beat of his pulse. 

He thrusts himself into your hand violently, voice coming out in a gravelly groan, “Yes. You always feel so fucking good. S-so soft.”

Surprising him again, you take his lips into yours, insistently pushing your tongue into his mouth, all the while your fist continues to jerk him off. You catch every one of his unabashed moans with your own mouth, the muffled sounds of his pleasure mixing with the thundering storm outside.

It’s a furious clashing of saliva, teeth, and pure unfiltered passion. His fingers digging into your waist, your fingers squeezing his cock so tightly it threatens to have him spilling all over you and the filled tub. 

When you pull away, the spit dribbles down Rafayel’s chin and onto his damp chest. He looks adorably flustered, the cardigan still covering his eyes. With his sight gone, the feeling of your tongue against his, your fingers wrapped around his cock, your plush thighs against his twitching muscles is all the more intense. His body, all the more pliant for you. 

“Hah – if you keep going, I’m g-gonna–”

He doesn’t even have time to finish his words when his cock lurches in your greedy hands, thick and burning rivulets of cum shooting into the lukewarm bathwater. It’s strangely beautiful, like a ribbon of iridescent pearls. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Rafayel gasps, nearly choking over his own rapid breath, his fingers gripping the edges of the tub.

His body convulses with his orgasm, a broken mantra of swears and lewd groans the only thing audible even in the roar of the storm outside. 

“Nnnghnh – b-baby,” Rafayel whines as you pump him through a mind-numbing overstimulation, desperate to see you. But you don’t stop, only giggling as you watch even more cum spurt from his angry pink tip. 

In a sudden flash of splashing water and strong fingers gripping your thighs, you find yourself under Rafayel again, his hand holding the back of your neck protectively as he slams you into the edge of the tub. His cardigan no longer covers his eyes, likely discarded somewhere on the wet floor.

Your eyes are wide from the whiplash of his sudden movements, “Rafayel?”

His sunset eyes blaze wildly as he watches you, the sight of you so utterly indulgent and overwhelming after having his vision returned to him. 

“Will you let me worship you?” 

His question is vulnerable, desperate. He looks at you so damn hopefully that it’d be impossible to say no even if some insane part of you wanted to. 

You reach up to clasp his cheek in your hands, pulling him closer until your noses brush against each other, “Yes, always.”

With the breathy desperate utterance of consent leaving your lips, fanning across his open mouth, he loses it.

He forces your thighs wider, gripping you by the fat of your hips and dragging you towards him until your bare cunt brushes right against once-again hard erection. You were used to Rafayel’s virtually non-existent refractory period, his cock upright and commanding attention so quickly after his orgasm.

The lukewarm bath water makes every touch feel much more fluid, all the more intimate and sensitive. Your grip the edges of the tub for support, Rafayel’s movements erratic and unpredictable. He leans down towards you, your bodies as close as the confines of the tub will allow. 

“My Queen,” he mutters under his breath like a vow, shifting to line himself up with your entrance. Without another warning, he pushes himself into you. 

You squeal at the stretch, your arousal making it easy for him to push into you completely. Rafayel groans as he enters you, his head thrown back in ecstasy, his large hands wrapped around your thighs. 

Rafayel is absolutely not shy with his cries of pleasure. His body shudders even though he hasn’t moved since seating himself fully inside of your warm and impossibly tight walls. 

When he doesn’t move, you screw your eyes open in confusion, doing your best to speak through the wonderful stretch of his cock inside your quivering walls, “R-Raf? Are you okay?”

Rafayel doesn’t speak, but the glow of the storm outside illuminates the way his throat bobs, every fiber of his body overstimulated with the pleasure of your body gripping his, refusing to let go.

You move to shift towards him, worried about the way he’s locked up, but that only causes your body to involuntarily squeeze around him. Rafayel hisses, pushing you back down gently, his fingers caressing your cheek.

“I-I just need a second.”

“A-are you okay?” you ask worriedly.

“You’re so tight, so warm,” Rafayel chokes out, his fingers tightening around your cheek and thigh. You can vaguely feel his cock growing inside you, and it’s then you realize he’s paralyzed, not by hesitation or pain, but pleasure.

You can’t stop yourself from teasing him, clenching down on his manhood snug inside you. Rafayel moans, his hands coming down to grip your thighs in a silent warning.

“No more teasing me,” he cautions with a pout, one hand shifting to rest on your naval. At your mischievous grin, Rafayel presses down. 

You cry out, eyes rolling back as he forces the walls of your pussy to rub against his cock. Rafayel wants to smirk at your helpless writhing, but the sensation is also overwhelming for him. His body heaves, nearly collapsing on top of you, only catching himself by gripping the sides of the tub.

Your fingers wrap around his trembling biceps, eyes urging him to take you.

Rafayel swears, obliging at the fucked-out look in your eyes. He unsheathes himself fully from your addicting gummy walls, barely even leaving his tip in, before shoving himself back into you.

The newfound vigor of his thrusts makes the water in the tub slosh wildly, splashing all over your face and hair. But you could care less, because the feeling of his excitement bruising its way in and out of your throbbing cunt is literally all you can think about. Pathetic moans of pleasure, the only sound you can make.

Rafayel fares no better, strings of beautiful grunts leaving his own lips. His pelvis slams into your soft inner thighs, the sound of the water against your colliding skin sinfully mixing with your combined moans. 

“You’re so – nghnh – perfect for me, Y/N,” Rafayel groans as he drives into you, the tip of his cockhead brushing into your cervix and g-spot all at once, at every thrust. 

His hands clutching the tub on either side of your head cage you in, making it so the only thing you can focus on is him. And the only thing that his senses can perceive is you.

The only thing he can see is you, your tears mixing with the soapy water, the reddened love bites blossoming on your skin.

The smell of you heightened even against the fragrant scent of the bath soap, your pheromones driving him to the edge of insanity. 

Your wanton cries for him, fueling him to fuck you harder, the sounds of your sweet pleasure making his own noises come out unabashedly. 

The taste of you lingering on his tongue every time he bends down to capture your lips in his, saliva running down both your chins. 

But mostly…the feeling of your perfect walls constricting him, pulling him in, refusing to let go. The feeling of your hands, pressed deep into his twitching muscles. Your soft thighs locking him against your sopping cunt. 

God, he was so in love with you it was nearly pitiful. 

“You’ll always be my Queen,” Rafayel babbles, thrusts becoming erratic as he becomes overwhelmed by the bittersweet memories that’d resurfaced in Verona, “My entire heart.”

You nod vigorously at his words. “Always Raf,” you gasp, holding onto him as he pounds into you even harder, your spine thudding into the tub, the water cushioning the blows.

“You better never leave me,” he broods, putting every ounce of emotion into the way his cock claims every inch of your poor cunt. The word ‘again’ dies on his lips, the writhing artist above you opting to save that for another time.

“W-would – nnghnh – never leave you.”

His wild eyes focus on your words. He says simply, the subtleist hint of insecurity and doubt playing in his shaky voice, “I’m gonna – hah – hold you to that.”

You bob your head, wanting him to see how serious you are, see just how much he meant to you.

Your fingers venture to your clit, desperately pent up from all the sexual and emotional tension that’d built up from today. Rafayel doesn’t see you immediately, his head thrown back in a drawn out groan, his body glistening with sweat and bath water, chiseled muscles twitching with his impending release.

When he finally glances back down, he sees your fingers furiously pawing at your clit and he nearly growls at the sight beneath him.

His voice comes out broken and husky, uncharacteristically so for the normally charismatic and smooth-talking painter. He gently pushes your fingers away, his own lengthy and skilled fingers replacing yours.

“Let me,” he begs, hips stuttering as he nears his second release, “I’ll take care of you Y/N.”

His sweet words make you shiver, your body convulsing around him. Rafayel shudders as you grow tighter around him. It felt like you were nearly cutting off his circulation, in the best way. 

Rafayel’s fingers on your quivering bundle of nerves have you seeing lightning even with your eyes screwed tightly shut. He truly had the hands of a god, fingers slender and deft, the pads of his digits hardened from years of skilfully maneuvering expensive paint brushes. Your body was his canvas, and he’d spend hours creating art with you. 

“R-Rafayel, I’m soo – nngh – c-cloose,” you slur, your body arching into him, head thrown back until all you see is the ceiling above. 

Rafayel heaves at the sensation of you coming undone around him, his fingers still rubbing furiously. There’s a bright desperation in his glowing eyes, the need to see you cum on him as strong as the need to fill you up with his endless seed. 

As his body trembles above you, his fingers grip the tub so harshly his knuckles have turned taut and deathly white. 

“I-I’m close too, baby,” he groans, “Please, can I cum?”

You nod vigorously, wanting nothing more than to feel him release with you But Rafayel wants to hear you. 

“Say it, Y/N. Tell me,” he pleads, “I need to hear you.” His voice is so brokenly desperate it drives you closer to your release, the sound of his lewd pleas so utterly erotic. 

“Ra-Rafayel, n-need it s’bad. Shiiit – please!” you all but scream, his insistent fingers pushing you into your orgasm. 

Rafayel chews on his bottom lip as he watches how beautifully you explode on him, so unbelievably close to finishing himself. He desperately wanted to cum inside you, but he knew if he did that he would be at the point of no return. You’d very well spend the rest of your trip in Verona locked in your hotel room, his cock nestled inside you until you literally begged for mercy. And maybe not even then. 

So with every ounce of will he had left, he pulled out of you as he came, standing on his knees so he could wrap his fist firmly around his cock as he came. The force of his cum so strong it shot all over your damp breasts and even your face, your expression still contorted in the ecstasy of your climax. 

You watch in awe, your cunt convulsing around nothing, your orgasm tapering off, as Rafayel trembles through his own pleasure. His cum is hot as it splashes onto your wet body, some of it shooting into your hair. Honestly the sight of how powerfully his cock erupted makes your stomach lurch in arousal.

Rafayel whimpers through his endless orgasm, his fist pumping up and down as he finishes on you. You’re left quivering beneath his imposing body, mesmerized by the white ropes of cum that shoot from his angry red tip. 

When he finally finishes, his glassy eyes watch you, absolutely awestruck. He bends down, his forearms trembling as one grips the side of the tub, the other stroking your cheek. He catches a rivulet of his milky seed with his finger, grinning cheekily at your reddened face.

“I’ve never seen anything so damn beautiful.” 

If it’s even possible, your cheeks burn even more furiously. You swat his fingers away.

“Shut up,” you whine, looking around at your bodies, joined in the filled tub. You inwardly cringe when you notice there’s more pools of milky white fluid than there are bubbles at this point. The amount of cum he gave you every time was nothing short of a phenomenon. 

“It’s everywhere!” you shriek dramatically, hitting his chest above you, “We need to get cleaned up!”

Rafayel’s grin widens, and before you can ask him what he’s scheming, he uses the finger still on your cheek to smear his cum around.

“Rafayel!” you yelp, trying your best to inch away from his filthy fingers, coated in both your arousals, struggling due to the limited space of the tub.

“But you look so exquisite like this,” Rafayel murmurs, fingers capturing your chin, pulling you up to look at him, his eyes hazy and sated, “My beautiful Queen…”

He dips down to press a lingering kiss to parted lips, mouth hitched open in excitement. When he pulls away he grins playfully at you.

“Besides, it’s good for your skin. Lemurians have a lot of uses, you know.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, “Is that why your skin always looks so flawless?”

Rafayel’s cheeks flare, his eyes averting from yours, “Okay! Let’s get cleaned up shall we?”

You smile widely, unable to contain your fit of giggles. Your body shakes with your laughter, making the water ripple, “You’ve tried it haven’t you?”

Rafayel’s sheepish expression answers your question, “No! Shut up!”

“I knew it!”

© aeyumicore 2024.

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[pedgito]

𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒 | Joel Miller x reader

↝ masterlist | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

summary | You've patched up Joel countless times before, but this is different.

author's note | i'm taking a little break to work through some series and pre-write but i needed to write a little fix it fic for my own well being. ANYWHO, if you're reading this, thank you <3 and thank you to @chaotic-mystery for the beta read, love you bitch

content warning | hurt/comfort, fix-it-fic, jackson!joel, s2ep2 spoilers, established relationship, medic!reader, wound tending, mentions of leg injury and some face injuries, old man joel using a cane, flirting, fluff, kissing, i'm going to go cry again

word count — 3.8k

He’s breathing. Alive.

You’ve patched up Joel countless times - cuts and gashes that were too far out of reach for him to handle on his own, a busted ankle from a construction project gone wrong, the occasional painkiller to help with his aching bones. He was a regular within the clinic, like most of the patrol team. And he was your favorite, which wasn’t a secret.

But, this was different.

Tommy - as hard as he tried, attempted to shelter you with the rest of Jackson’s women and children, but it was useless.

You spent the last hour patching up the towns wounded and helping lay to the rest some of the less fortunate, but brave people who had attempted to defend Jackson from the impending horde.

In the chaos of cleaning up bloodied bandages and used medical supplies, the front door to the clinic sounds, bells ringing out so deafening it makes your heart stop.

And the sound of Tommy’s panicked voice as he called out your name.

When you turn the corner to catch sight of him, it was Tommy and Jesse carrying a limp, sleeping Joel on a makeshift gurney and equally injured Ellie holding tight to her ribs as Dina and Maria supported her weight, your eyes widening in shock.

“Fuck—I—what happened?” you ask, immediately sliding the supplies off of the only semi-available operating table you had in the office - it used to be a veterinary clinic, but the town was making do with what they had.

“You save my goddamn brother,” Tommy demanded, his tone riddled with an emotional pain you couldn’t fathom, taking the order in stride as you nodded and put your own curiosity aside, slowly accessing the weight of the situation and surmising that this had been an ambush, more or less, “alright?”

You access his knee, jeans matted with blood around his festering wound, his leg tourniqueted by a belt that Tommy explains wasn’t there doing, rather the attackers. His pulse is steady as your fingers over his femoral artery once you’ve cut his jeans open further with the scissors.

“El—Ellie,” your voice shakes slightly, looking over your shoulder to catch her grimace as she hunched over further in pain, “she needs—”

“I’ve got her,” Maria assures you and Tommy, who was understandably only focused on Joel.

You don’t waste another second, working around Tommy on instinct while Jesse followed the girls to the back room, a gentle but reassuring hand on your shoulder as he passes by.

Your hands move gently over his wound, mind racing through every step of triage and trauma care as if your nerves hadn’t already been shot an hour ago. You didn’t know how many wounds you’ve treated today, but Joel’s was the worst—and unspeakably, the most important.

The wound is bad. Deep.

Frayed flesh around the spread of the bullet, a shotgun you can assume, already turning an angry red. The steps were simple, fortunately. You’ll have to clean it out, maybe even dig if the bullet fragments were lodged in deep. 

His face is a mosaic of bruises and dried blood, and he hasn’t stirred once.

That—more than the sight of the injury itself—makes something in your chest clench.

Tommy’s gripping the table tight, white knuckling as his jaw clenched in worry.

“Do I want to know?” you ask softly.

Tommy shakes his head slightly, “Ellie ain’t said much—jus’ know whatever the problem was, it isn’t one anymore.”

“He’s gonna need blood,” you explain to him as you work quietly but carefully on the wound, grateful that most of the issue was at the surface and that with enough time to heal and consistent check-ins, Joel would recover.

Undoubtedly with a limp, but you knew Joel—he’d manage.

The quiet is unsettling, though.

He should be fighting this. Groaning. Cursing. Something.

But he’s still.

Too still.

Tommy stays rooted in place like he’s afraid Joel will vanish if he lets go.

Part of you carries that fear, too.

With the attack on Jackson, everything seemed up in the air.

“I need you to keep your hand here,” you say firmly, guiding his hand to the artery in his leg, feeling the steady pulse underneath your fingertips. “Count the beats, focus. If it slows, weakens—don’t wait, tell me.”

Tommy nods, jaw still clenched tight.

He’s got blood dripping from a cut in his brow, covered in dirt and grime, streaks on his face from the tears he was shedding quietly, it was your only attempt to busy his mind.

You work diligently, more focused than you had been all evening.

Forceps clink against the metal tray as you dig out fragments, your breath hitching every time Joel twitches—barely, like his body’s fighting beneath layers of pain and unconsciousness.

You glance toward the IV stand that was taped to hell, barely holding on.

Just like everything else in Jackson at the moment – like Joel.

“I’m gonna flush the wound,” you murmur more to yourself than Tommy, gripping the saline syringe with steady hands. “Then I’ll stitch it. Antibiotics to be safe. He’ll need pain meds and I need to work on the cuts to his face, but I want his body to rest. We have morphine stored away, but I know Joel will probably refuse…”

Tommy doesn’t respond. Just keeps his hand pressed where you told him, eyes locked on Joel’s face like he’s willing him to wake.

“He still needs blood, Tommy,” you remind him, “but I don’t know his blood type.”

“I’m O-negative,” Tommy interjects.

“That works,” you assure him, nodding for him to sit as you grab the supplies to draw Tommy’s blood, unflinching as the needle slips into his vein.

It’s all rather quick, kneeling to hold the bag as it fills while Tommy stares at his brother, looking briefly over your shoulder to catch his breathing, a slow rise and fall.

“He’s gonna be alright,” you assure Tommy, “the worst outcome here is him complaining about having to use a cane, if it comes to that.

Quietly, you tend to the small head wound that Tommy has and he doesn’t even attempt to argue, eyes flickering to your briefly at the gesture, tilting his head up for better access.

You move efficiently, like muscle memory as you tape up his wound before transferring the blood and prepping the line for Joel. 

The line finds Joel’s vein without much resistance, and you secure it with shaking fingers, your breath held as the dark crimson slowly, mercifully begins to flow into his body.

“C’mon, Joel,” you whisper under your breath. “Not you.”

“He was in and out on the way here,” Tommy comments, holding the cotton ball to use the wound as he stands and you quickly return to him to bandage up and pressure the wound, “but now he’s just…still. That ain’t good,”

“It’s the body responding to the pain,” you remind him, “he’s clearly lost a lot of blood, his face is bruised—the important thing is he’s breathing and his pulse is good. Just…let me work on him. Go check on Ellie.”

Tommy hesitates, glancing back at Joel like his feet were already rooted permanently to the floor. Then his eyes shift to yours—tired, firm, unwavering—and he nods, finally stepping away. 

Just far enough to check on Ellie. 

Just long enough to breathe.

The second he’s gone, it’s just you and Joel.

–

The room feels colder without the presence of Tommy’s worry. 

You stitch slowly, methodically, carefully maneuvering around the skin until you are satisfied, constantly eyeing Joel to gauge a reaction, noticing some of his color had returned, hair damp with melted snow.

If he was awake he’d be grumbling and complaining and part of you hates how much you wanted to hear it as you bandage up his knee, assuring that bleeding was under control before you removed the belt on his upper thigh and grabbing a spare blanket to drape over his body as you move down to tend to his face, riddled with cuts and bruises.

You press a hand against his and pull it to his chest, resting gently against the fabric of his shirt. 

His palm is rough, calloused, and warm—thank god, still warm.

You clean the last of the blood from his face, wiping gently along the arc of his brow, around the corner of his eye that was slightly swollen. A bruise is blooming dark down the line of his jaw, but under it—his face is still familiar.

Still him.

After a stretch of time that feels like eternity, Maria and Tommy return to the front room of the clinic, looking fearful as their eyes land on Joel.

“He’s alright,” you assure them both, “he probably needed the rest, too.”

Tommy chuckles weakly at that, “I—we’re…we’re gonna go pick up Benji, but we’ll be back, alright?”

You nod in response, “I’m not leaving until he wakes up Tommy, I promised.”

“I know, kiddo,” Tommy says endearingly, approaching you with arms open slightly, enveloping you into a short hug that were few and far between, “Ellie’s asleep, too. Dina and Jesse are sticking around until she settles.”

The front door clicks shut behind Tommy and Maria, the heavy silence seeping back in soon after.

You don’t move far, bringing a stool to sit beside Joel.

The clinic is dim now, the lights softened by fucky wiring as the evening crept in.

You can hear Jesse’s and Dina’s muffled voice in the back—low and quiet—and the distant creak of the cot Ellie’s curled into. But here, in this room, it’s just you. 

And Joel, and the quiet hum of his breathing.

You reach up to brush a stray bit of hair from his temple, your hand pausing just above his skin.

“You scared the hell out of me,” you whisper. “If you were awake, I’d be screaming at you,”

And you know he’d only smile.

Joel doesn’t respond, but his breathing shifts. 

Not much—just enough to prove he’s still there, riding the edge of sleep and pain.

“You enjoy it, though. You always laugh, I know it’s pointless and that you’re just stubborn as all hell and I’m willing to put up with it,” you push the few strands of hair away from his face and sigh, “guess there’s a reason why you always ask for me.”

A few hours pass, the night creeping in slowly amongst the storm that roared outside.

You glance at his hand after a thorough check-up and redressing his wound for good measure, still resting palm-up where you’d placed it. Hesitant, your fingers slip into his, lacing slowly. 

You wait. No squeeze. 

But, the warmth is enough.

Then, a shift.

A low grunt, almost imperceptible.

Your breath catches. You look up sharply, eyes scanning his face. One eye twitches. His brow furrows just slightly.

“Joel?”

He doesn’t open his eyes, but his mouth moves.

“Ellie?” he asks weakly, squeezing your hand back.

Tears burn your eyes before you can stop them, relief flooding your chest in waves.

You squeeze his hand back again. Tight. “She’s okay—she’s good,” you whisper quickly, wiping your cheek with your sleeve, not that it helps.

Joel breathes out, like the tension’s finally releasing from somewhere deep inside his chest. 

You watch the slow rise and fall of him for a moment, just taking it in. Life.

Then his eyes crack open, albeit one is swollen, but hazy and bloodshot and focused on you.

His brows twitch as he looks at you.

“You cryin’?” he rasps, voice rough but teasing.

Even now, he teases you.

“You worried the hell out of me,” you tell him.

“Did I?” Joel asks genuinely, “M’sorry, darlin’.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

Joel grimaces and makes a soft noise, “S’all touch and go, right now. I’m really tired, that normal?”

“I gave you some painkillers,” you explain, “probably why.”

Joel looks around gingerly, noting the mess with an amused expression.

“Cleaned up real nice for me, didn’t you?”

“Sorry to disappoint,” you mutter dryly, shifting to adjust the blanket over him. “Next time, I’ll set up some mood lighting and put some music on for you.”

Joel groans low in his throat, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“Nah. You singin’ for me would be good enough.”

You snort softly, “I don’t sing.”

“Shame,” he murmurs, barely audible, his eyes slipping closed again. “Bet it’d be real pretty, you got a pretty voice, know you’d sing pretty too.”

Your chest squeezes, caught somewhere between a laugh and a breath you can’t quite take.

“You’re losing it, old man.”

Joel smiles weakly.

“Maybe.”

A long pause and he speaks even soften.

“Still think you got a nice voice, though.”

–

You stay beside him. Even after he dozes back off, you don’t move—not far. Never quite letting go of his hand either. Just shift the stool closer and brace your elbow on the edge of the bed, chin tucked in your other hand. 

The storm outside has softened, now more wind than snow, rattling the windows with every gust.

You don’t realize you’ve nodded off until something shifts. A sound—low, grumbly.

“…you snore a little,” Joel rasps.

You straighten quickly and shake your head, blinking through a sleep haze as you answer him defiantly, “I do not, Miller.”

“Oh—you do, sweetheart,” Joel challenges, a subtle smirk playing at his face, staring at you through his swollen eye.

“Good to know you never stop being insufferable,” you tease him.

“Just like seein’ you laugh,” Joel admits before a silence grows, a look of subtle concern crossing his face, “How bad was it? The horde?”

“We’ve dealt with stuff like that before, maybe not at that level but it isn’t something we’re not prepared for. A couple didn’t make it, got bitten defending the watchtower—Jackson can always rebuild, we mourn, move on, you know? With you, s’different,”

Joel, for once, doesn’t know how to respond.

You see it then—that quiet, careful look he sometimes gives you when he thinks you're not watching. Like he’s cataloguing you. Not in some grand, poetic way. More like he’s memorizing how you look when you're safe. When he needs the reminder of it.

You’re too tired to do anything but meet it.

“I ain't goin' anywhere,” he says finally, voice rough but firm, “You can stop lookin’ at me like I’m about to flatline.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Joel smirks faintly. “You’ve been holdin’ my hand for a while,”

“Oh,” it started to feel like an extension of you, his touch, but you slowly attempted to retract.

“Don’t,” Joel tells you, gripping your hand tighter, shifting his head against the makeshift pillow underneath his head that you had made out of his jacket halfway through the night.

“Thanks for not givin’ up on me,” Joel says gently,

You glance over, unsure how to respond at first.

“You really think I would?”

“Dunno,” he says, voice low, “don’t really think I deserve the effort anymore from anyone…”

He trails off, but it hangs between you anyway. 

The way he says it—soft, raw—like the words snuck out before he could stop it.

You lean in slightly, brushing your thumb just once over the back of his hand.

“I’m not anyone, Joel.”

Joel looks at you again, his expression shifting.

His fingers curl around yours again. Warmer this time. Intentional.

“Five years I’ve known you—I’ve patched your ass up more times than I can count. I’ve had dinners with you, beers with you and your brother. This isn’t my attempt at gaining some good karma. I care about you just as much as the rest of this town.”

“You’re too good to me,” Joel says quietly.

–

Jackson rebuilds, but it takes time.

Eventually, you find out that the assailants were after Joel—but Jesse and Ellie had shown up at a crucial point in the ambush that saved Joel and Dina’s life, despite his extensive injuries.

And Joel, stubborn as he was, began to heal.

The first few weeks are slow, mostly bed-ridden - or office-ridden, leg propped up at his desk as he and Tommy planned out the rebuild process and you rounded your daily office visit to him for assurance that he was taking the antibiotics you had given him and checking on his wound.

It takes a few months, but he does get on his feet again.

He’s resilient, you’ll give him that. An injury that would take no less than six to eight months before the healing was done and Joel was already moving, though with some noticeable pain.

You spot him halfway down the main road on the first name where Jackson was finally starting to feel normal again, walking out of the Tipsy Bison with a pronounced limp.

You sigh to yourself, shifting the object under your arm and start down the road.

“Joel Miller.”

He doesn’t stop walking, but he flinches a little. 

He’s been avoiding you for a couple weeks now, knowing how insistent you had been about him using something to support his leg, just to give it a break once in a while.

“I will chase you down.”

He stops.

You close the distance, holding up the object in your hand.

“If you don’t use this, I’m following you everywhere, barring you from walking, and pushing you around in a wheelchair.”

He eyes the cane. Then your face. Then the cane again.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“It’s exactly what you think it is.”

He scowls. “I’m not usin’ a damn cane.”

“You’re still healing,” you tell him, “and if you care about my worries—you’ll use it.”

“That’s low,” Joel counters,

You had spent a week sanding down the cane to a smooth texture, rounding out the handle to something comfortable to grip, even polished it up. It was extravagant or crazy, but it was clearly made with love.

“Did you make it?” Joel asks curiously.

“Doesn’t matter,” You shrug.

Joel smirks at that. 

You had. He knows it.

He takes it wordlessly, wrapping his fingers around the handle and planting it into the ground.

He tests it out wordlessly, leaning his weight into it and only slightly annoyed at how it eases the weight on his injured leg, looking up at you sheepishly.

“So….should I say it now or?”

“Zip it,” Joel retorts with a faint playfulness, “it…helps, s’real nice of you, you know?”

You raise your brow. “You sayin’ I was right? Knowing you needed it?”

“Don’t push it.” Joel warns

“Say it.” you tease with a flirtatious smile that doesn’t go amiss.

Joel sighs, scratching at his jaw. “You were… not completely wrong.”

You beam, and he rolls his eyes, though the edge of his mouth quirks up.

After a beat, he taps the cane gently against the side of your boot.

“Walk with me?” he asks.

He didn’t even need to ask.

–

There wasn’t any indication of where you were walking to, but naturally you drift to your shared street, homes sitting on opposite sides of the street, but near enough that you were only a short walk away.

The cane clicks softly against the dirt road like a steady metronome to the quiet shuffle of your boots. His limp is pronounced, but less severe than it was a few weeks ago.

The streets are quieter these days. Jackson feels like it's exhaling after holding in a long overdue breath.

Joel walks with his shoulder close to yours. Not touching, but close enough that it would only take a shift. He’s never been one for words, not when the moment matters most—but his silence is full of meaning.

Or, maybe he is just savoring the peace.

“You really made this?” he asks again after a few paces, like he needs to be sure.

You nod shyly, hands shoving into your coat pockets.

He’s quiet for a while, but then, “It’s real thoughtful of you.”

“I was gonna carve your name into it, actually,” you joke, nudging him gently with your elbow, “but Tommy said that was a bad idea.”

Joel chuckles low under his breath. “He’d be right.”

Through your sudden shared laughter, your knuckles brush.

It’s nothing, but it feels like so much.

As you approach your houses, Joel turns to you.

“Do you need anything?” you ask him gently. “I can stop by later if you need some pain meds or anything? Or yell at you for not resting up at home like you should.”

Joel huffs, shaking his head. “Always lookin’ for a reason to yell at me, huh?”

“Only ‘cause you keep givin’ me so many,” you tease.

He looks at you for a long moment, eyes scanning your face in the too quiet dark.

“You stayed the whole night,” he says finally, like he’s been holding it in for a while.

“I told Tommy I wouldn’t leave until you woke up.”

Joel nods once. He shifts his weight on the cane, hesitating just slightly, before adding, “I heard you—talkin’ to me.”

“You did?” you ask, your voice quiet. “Well, that’s…embarrassing.”

Joel’s gaze drops to your hand lingering close to his—he hadn’t even realized he’d reached out until it was too late, his hand dwarfing your own in a gentle hold of your fingertips. 

It’s a small touch, but it grounds him.

You flinch slightly at the touch, feeling the heaviness of the moment

“You can let go,” he says, looking back up at you.

You smile faintly. “I don’t want to.”

Joel hums thoughtfully. “Seems I don’t want to either,”

And in that soft hum between houses, under the stars beginning to peek through the roaming clouds overhead, Joel leans in, his cane shifting a few inches behind you as he leans his weight into it to reach you, his lips pressing against yours in a quiet, tender moment of vulnerability under the dim street lights.

“Never got to thank you properly,” Joel admits.

“Is that your way of saying thank you?” you ask curiously.

“Can be,” Joel responds mischievously, a smirk tugging at his lips as you pull back to look at him.

“I think you can do better,” you challenge him, nose brushing against his own.

“You’re damn right,” he agrees, using his free hand to curve around the back of your neck as he pulls you in, stealing your breath away with the second press of his lips.

When he parts, you can’t help but giggle against him, an indescribable feeling tightening your chest.

“Yeah…that’s—” You breath stutters as you nod, “that’ll do.”

Joel chuckles softly, his thumb grazing your cheek.

“Good, ‘cause I got a lot of thankin’ to make up for.”