#that’s it i was just tired of it and it was big enough so i ended it here | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

damneddamsy · 21 hours ago

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falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part ii)

summary: Joel Miller never expected much out of Jackson—just a quiet place to live out the days he had left. But when a baby’s cries lead him to a mother unravelling under the pressure of nursing her child she never asked for, he finds himself tangled in something he can’t walk away from—no matter how much he tells himself he should.

a/n: on today's episode of 'angry idiots and sad assholes', introducing the one and only Joel Miller! I let out a few tears writing this one, too, it's really painful when you think about how Joel probably perceives himself, or how I think he does. onto other happier news, I simply cannot believe the kind of response the first part garnered, and I'm shook! rise up, depression girlies!!! To everyone who responded in the comments and reblogs, I've read them all twice over and giggled and twirled my hair and threw up butterflies. Thank you, and I hope you like this one! :)

Joel settled into his routine like a man settling into an old wound. Patrols, clearing trails, the stables, the repair shop, the bar, dinner in silence, rinse and repeat. It was easier that way—easier than thinking too much about a vain attempt. He ignored his neighbour’s existence completely. At least, that’s what he told himself.

But ignoring something didn’t make it disappear.

Every morning, he still ended up at the dining table—the one he never used—sipping his coffee too slow for his patience, gaze drawn to the big white house across the street like a goddamn magnet. Watching for movement. Watching for them.

And he fucking hated it.

Hated the part of him that waited, that noticed, that took account of the smallest details like they meant anything to him. Like he still had a reason to care.

Sometimes, Maya fussed too much, and Leela would come outside, her hair a little unkempt, gait all botched, but her hands steady as she cradled her baby against her chest. He saw her murmuring softly to the baby girl, pointing to the sky, the trees, the shifting clouds, the falling snow. A little trick from Maria, he figured. It worked well enough. Maya would quiet, those big brown eyes so curious, distracted by the vastness of the world she barely understood.

And Leela—she still looked tired. Still looked like she was moving through a fog, unseeing, carrying more than just the baby in her arms. But she took to Maya differently now, touched her calmly, like she was no longer afraid she might break her.

That was good. That meant she was doing fine. That meant she didn’t need him. And that meant Joel could stop worrying about the things that weren’t his to worry about.

Joel was outside, tightening the hinges on his porch gate, bracing against the cold, when he heard her steps crunching in the snow. Still quiet. Still waiting. He didn’t look up right away, just kept his focus on the task in front of him. If she needed something, she’d say it.

"Good morning, Joel," Leela greeted warmly.

Joel gave a short nod, adjusting the grip on his screwdriver. "Mornin’."

She lingered there. Honestly, he just wished she’d just go back inside. So, he kept working, unbothered, and didn't look up.

"Loose hinges?" she asked.

Courtesies. He wasn't falling for it. "Mhm."

He knew when he wasn't wanted. She was finding her feet now, somewhat starting to take care of herself, carefully taking care of Maya. She didn’t need him checking in, didn’t need him hovering. And maybe—maybe that should’ve felt like a relief. It didn’t.

"You need anything else?" he asked, voice gruffer than he meant it to be.

"No, I just..." Leela wavered, softly, like she already knew he was about to shut her down. "I wanted to say thank you. For helping me out these few weeks. I couldn't have done it without you."

Joel finally glanced up at that. Just a flicker.

Leela shifted in her puffy pants, adjusting Maya against her shoulder. The baby girl was bundled up tight, small fists curled into her mouth, watching him with that blank, childlike wonder in big eyes. It took every bit of strength he had to not fall for that, and just forget everything that happened.

Joel hung his head, nodding again, keeping his focus downward on the screw.

She was being friendly. Trying to meet him halfway. And he hated that this was what it had come to—that she felt like she had to say something, to extend some kind of olive branch, when all he’d done was build a wall between them. For no fucking reason.

He straightened up with a muffled grunt, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Nothin’ to thank me for. It was all you."

She half-laughed, something wry and knowing. "I know that's not true."

Joel glanced up, stiffening, but she wasn’t looking at him, just rubbing slow circles into Maya’s back, pressing a slow kiss to the top of her head, consoling herself.

He knew what she was doing. He wasn’t stupid.

She was trying to make things normal again. Like they hadn’t spent nights under the same roof. Like he hadn’t seen her fall apart. Like she wasn’t still here, right now, offering him something—a small, careful thing—and he was too much of a coward to take it.

So he didn’t.

Joel scratched the back of his neck with the screwdriver, rolling the tension out of his shoulders. "You oughta get inside," he said instead. "It’s too cold for the kid."

Leela’s expression flickered. Not hurt. Just resigned. He felt like he'd ripped the bandaid off a baby.

"Okay. Yes." She slowly nodded but hesitated a step back. Then—too quietly, almost like an afterthought—"It’s nice to see you around, Joel."

And with that, she started back down the road, holding Maya closer by her head, and Joel let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. That was better. Cleaner.

He grabbed his tools and turned back to his door, locking his jaw. He hadn’t meant to come off short, but it was better this way. Best to stay in his own lane. Best not to make something out of nothing. That’s what he told himself.

But later that night, when he was eating that damn delicious soup she’d left for him by his door—still warm, still considerate—he felt like a grade-A asshole.

From then on, it was Tommy who had taken over fixing the nursery, finishing what Joel had started. He figured that was for the best. It kept things clean. Tied up loose ends. He had no business stepping into that house anymore, no reason to.

And yet, his eyes always caught the details—the way the curtains in the nursery window shifted, the way light flickered between the slats, the way the wood he had sanded and painted was still unfinished, the way Tommy started bringing someone else along.

Mal.

Joel had seen him before, a younger guy with an afro that Tommy had taken under his wing. Handy with repairs, and good with his hands. Nothing special.

At first, Mal actually worked. Brought his toolbox, put up a few shelves, and nodded along to whatever Tommy said. Kept to himself. But then—things started changing. Mal started staying longer. Talking... to her. Right on the front stoop until the sun went down.

It was fine at first. Two steps between them. Then one. Then none at all. Soon, he was leaning close on the porch railing, shoulders nearly brushing hers, speaking in low, easy tones that Joel couldn’t quite make out from across the street. And then—laughter. Leela’s laughter. Soft, hesitant, but real.

More than Joel had ever gotten out of her. Not that he’d ever tried.

Tommy and Maria stopped coming around entirely. It was just Mal now. Every goddamn day. He’d stroll up, toolbox in hand, tap on the door, and then—nothing. No sounds of work being done. No hammering, no shifting furniture. Just conversation.

Joel told himself it didn’t matter. Repeated it like a prayer, like a lesson he should’ve learned by now. That whatever Leela did, whoever she let into her home, was none of his business. That was the whole point of leaving, wasn’t it? Cutting ties, walking away.

He didn’t care about the way Mal lingered on that porch, didn’t care about the way Leela had started looking at him—not quite wary, not quite inviting. Like she was still learning how to trust people but was willing to try. Didn’t care about the way Maya reached for Mal, the tiny fingers curling into his beard, the easy way Mal let her.

And yet, he always saw it.

The way Mal leaned just a little closer, the way Leela’s shoulders, once so tight and drawn, started to loosen. The way her fingers twisted in the fabric of her sleeves when she spoke to him, soft and hesitant, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to enjoy the conversation.

Joel hated how much he noticed. It was worse when he overheard them.

He'd been out all damn day. Sun up to sundown, rifle slung over his shoulder, dealing with raiders, clickers, and everything in between. The kind of day that made his bones ache, that made his back scream when he so much as breathed wrong. The kind of day where all he wanted was to go home, put his feet up, and maybe—just maybe—close his eyes for longer than ten damn minutes.

But no. Because just as he was rounding the corner to his place, the world ready to lay even more shit on him, he heard them.

"You mean to tell me no one's ever spun you around before?" Mal was saying.

Joel's step faltered. He should’ve kept walking. Should’ve ignored it. But of course, he didn’t. Joel adjusted his grip on the sack slung over his shoulder, slowing his pace, letting their voices drift through the cold evening air.

Leela snorted, light and dismissive. "Like dancing?"

"Exactly like," Mal confirmed, smooth as you please. "Having a little fun, letting go, feeling the music. Bet you don’t do much of that."

Joel’s fingers curled around the strap of his bag, grip tightening.

"There's more pressing matters than romance," Leela muttered, but she was laughing.

Joel didn’t like that one bit. He didn’t like the way she said it. Playful. Entertained. That was the first thing that rubbed Joel the wrong way. The second was the way the kid kept talking.

"Well, I bet Maya’s never even seen her mama all dolled up before, huh? Imagine that, baby girl," Mal cooed, and Maya's sweet crool followed like a melody.

Fuck this.

Joel didn’t hear Leela’s response, didn’t hear whatever she said next, because he was already moving—boots heavy, hands fisted, the strap of his bag biting into his palm.

The frozen dirt beneath his boots crunched as he made his way there, shoulders squared, hackles raised, barely restraining the urge to grab that kid by the collar and shake some goddamn sense into him.

Because who the hell did this punk think he was?

Talking like that, acting like Leela was some blushing girl to be sweet-talked. Like she hadn’t spent the last few weeks barely holding herself together. Like she hadn’t bled for that kid in her arms. Like Joel hadn’t been the one who—

He stopped himself there. Tamped it down. Shoved it deep into the pit of his stomach where all the other shit lived.

Instead, he turned away, kept his head down and walked straight home, fists tight around anything. By the time he kicked the door shut behind him, his jaw ached from how hard he’d been clenching it. Fucking Mal.

Joel dumped the sack of supplies on the table and went straight for the bottle. Pulled the cork out with his teeth, and poured himself a glass with a hand that was damn near steady.

He took a sip. Let it burn. Let it settle. Then he muttered, "Goddamn kid."

He wasn’t mad. Not really. Because why should he be?

She liked him. Sure, he wanted her to be happy. If that happened, he'd finally get a good night's sleep. And yet, it wouldn't mean a fucking thing to him if Mal was the reason. One day when he's going to see her and Mal inside her home, silver rings glinting off their hands, little Maya nestled between them, the picture of a perfect family...

Joel knocked back the rest of the whiskey and swallowed hard. Good. That was good. Good for her. She didn't need him. Maya wouldn't need him. He'd butt out and live alone, in peace.

He set the glass down a little harder than he meant to. Stared at it. Then, just to be sure, he muttered it out loud.

"Ain't my problem."

But the facts remained.

She still wasn’t eating much or sleeping well. The dark circles under her eyes hadn’t faded. She still rubbed at her temples when she thought no one was looking, still blinked a little too long, like she was fighting off exhaustion every second of the day. Food was out of compulsion, not hunger, for the sake of staying healthy for Maya.

And then, one night, he saw her asleep on the porch swing. Curled in on herself, arms tucked tight, shivering slightly against the cold, exhaustion dragging her under where she sat.

It took everything in him not to walk over and wake her. To shake her by the shoulder, drag her inside, make sure she was warm. It took everything in him not to care.

Because this wasn’t his anymore. He had no claim over them.

Didn’t change the fact that every time he saw Mal leaning against that railing, looking like he belonged there like he’d always belonged there—that knot in his chest twisted tighter.

And he hated that, too.

Joel had truly been looking forward to dinner. It was the same thing every week. He’d go over to Tommy's, have a decent meal, shoot the shit with his brother, and let Ellie fill in the gaps of conversation. It was comfortable. Familiar. Nice. A welcome change from the silence of his own home, from days spent running the same damn circuit—patrol, repairs, the bar, then back to a house that wasn’t a home, not really.

But tonight, something was off. Joel could feel it from the moment he sat down.

Maybe it was the way Maria and Ellie kept glancing at him like they were waiting for something. Or maybe it was just Tommy—sitting across from him, chewing through a mouthful of steak, his expression too nonchalant like he had something up his sleeve.

Joel didn’t think much of it at first. He focused on his food, carving through the meat, grounding himself in the scrape of his fork against the plate.

Then Tommy opened his big hole of a mouth.

"Mal’s been spending a lot of time over at Leela’s place."

Joel’s hand tensed around his knife. And just like that, his appetite was gone. He kept his face neutral and didn’t look up. Just kept chewing, lagging and deliberate motions, like he hadn’t heard a damn thing.

Tommy, either oblivious or just plain cruel, kept going. "Helpin’ out with the nursery. Putting some time in with the baby girl." He ripped a piece of bread in half, completely unaware of the way Joel’s grip had turned his fork into a weapon. "Good guy. He and Leela get along well. It's nice to see."

Joel exhaled slowly through his nose. Focused on his plate. Flattened a piece of potato with the back of his fork. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t his problem. That was the whole goddamn point, wasn’t it?

He’d helped Leela out. Gave her time. Took care of her baby. That was it. She was somebody else’s problem now. And yet, the idea of some guy stepping into his place, rocking Maya to sleep, working on the nursery, fixing things, being there—his mouth flattened into a hard line. It stung.

No. It wasn’t his place to care. He'd told himself so many times, it felt like one of those daily affirmations bullshit. Thou shall not think of thy neighbour's handyman and his fuckeries.

Though, still, before he could stop himself, the words were already out of his mouth. "Nursery ain’t even done yet."

The second it left him, he regretted it. A beat of silence.

Then, slowly, too slowly, Joel looked up—and immediately hated what he saw. Maria and Ellie were smirking. That stupid, all-too-knowing, ready-to-annoy-the-shit-out-of-him-smirk. He had the greatest urge to leave the room.

Maria lifted an eyebrow. "And how exactly would you know that, Joel?"

Joel pursed his lips casually, setting his fork down with a little too much care. "They live right across the damn street. Hard to miss."

Ellie leaned forward, propping her chin on her fist. "Right. And how much time do you spend looking across the damn street?"

He massaged the bridge of his nose. "Don’t start, Ellie."

Tommy tilted his head, giving him a look that made Joel want to knock his damn teeth out. "You’ve been actin’ real funny ever since you left that house, y’know."

"Ain’t nothin’ to act on," Joel muttered, shifting in his seat. "I helped her out. End of story. Moving on."

Tommy wasn't letting go, damn him. "Uh-huh. Then why you sittin’ here lookin’ like you just bit into a bad lemon the second her name came up?"

Joel’s jaw ticked.

"Yeah," Ellie added, grinning. "Why’s your face doing that thing?"

Joel frowned. "What thing?"

She pointed with her fork to the furrows above his eyebrows. "The thing where you pretend you don’t care, but your forehead says otherwise."

Maria hid a knowing smile behind her glass while Joel rubbed at his face consciously, glaring over at Ellie. "You could just go over there, you know."

Joel let out a short, humourless chuckle. "Oh, c'mon. For what?"

"Dinner," she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Just a meal with friends. Tommy, me, you, Ellie—Leela and Maya. Nothing big."

Joel stared down at his plate. His food had gone cold.

"We don’t need to be doin’ all that," he muttered, shaking his head. Getting familiar and cosy. It'd only invite more trouble.

Maria ignored him. "She’s got that nice, big dining room. French windows. Good view of the lawn. It’d be like a little party."

Joel didn’t respond.

"Come on, man," Tommy pressed. "What’s stopping you?"

That was the question, wasn’t it? Joel wasn’t sure he had an answer. Or maybe he did—and just didn’t want to say it.

Because the truth was, he had no business going back. He’d done what he came to do. He’d helped. That was it.

But then there was Maya—her featherlight body in his arms, the way she’d reached for his shirt in her sleep. There was Leela—standing in the doorway that last morning, silent, watching him go. There was the stillness in his own house, the way he’d catch himself in the middle of the night, listening for a cry that never came. What the hell was wrong with him?

Instead, he just stabbed his fork into his potato and muttered, "Pass."

Maria and Ellie exchanged another conspiratorial glance. And Joel had the distinct feeling this wasn’t over.

Once dinner had progressed into a chore, Ellie and Joel, ever the gentleman, helped Tommy dry the dishes. Well—Joel did. Ellie, on the other hand, was just sitting on the counter, swinging her legs and cracking jokes about Tommy’s new manbun. The kitchen was warm, the soft clatter of dishes filling the space and laughter, the steak dinner still settling in Joel’s stomach.

“You’re really doing the whole ponytail thing now, huh?”

Tommy rolled his eyes, flicking on the tap. “Jesus, you sound like Joel.”

“Hey, you take that back! I am way cooler than Joel,” Ellie corrected. “And I'm a thousand times funnier. Pun-nier.”

“Debatable,” Joel muttered.

“Did Maria do this to you?” she asked, flicking a sudsy fork in Joel’s direction. “Blink twice if you need help. I've got emergency scissors.”

Tommy snorted, stacking the last plate in the cabinet. “It’s practical. And I'm starting to like it.”

Ellie tilted her head, unimpressed. “It's lazy. Tragic.”

Joel smirked but said nothing, wiping down a plate before handing it over. Tommy shot him a glare like he was expecting some backup, but Joel just shrugged. Not his fight.

Maria walked in from behind them, and Joel noticed that infuriating look on her face. Oh, nothing good would come out of this. She set a small box on the counter with a dull thud, right beside Joel. He barely glanced at it before she plopped another paper box on top—leftovers from tonight. Steak and potatoes just for a special someone.

“Could you pass this on to Leela on your way back?” she said casually, drying her hands. “It's one dose a day, each.”

Joel looked down, his hands bracing against the counter. Vitamins. Of course.

Maria tapped the food box. “And dinner.”

Joel eyed them both, then her. The way she said it, like it was no big deal. Like she hadn’t just put him in a position he couldn’t easily wiggle out of.

He sighed, already seeing where this was going. He set down the dish towel, rubbing the back of his neck. “Tommy can pass it to her tomorrow.”

Maria simply raised an eyebrow. “Meat’s gonna go bad.”

Joel narrowed his eyes. “Oh, so this is how you’re gonna play it?” He glanced at Tommy, then Ellie, both of whom were very pointedly looking elsewhere. “Really?”

Ellie grinned. “It’s a neighbourly thing to do, Joel. Don't you call yourself a gentleman?”

“I’m with her on that one,” Tommy added, crossing his arms.

Joel let out a slow, irritated breath. Family? No, just a bunch of annoying, traitorous little shits.

Maria only smiled, sliding the box closer to him. “Wouldn’t want her going without. She's already skin and bones. And you know... you live right across the damn street.”

Ellie burst out laughing, raising her fist to Maria, who bumped with her own knowing smile. “Respect.”

Joel clenched his jaw. She'd got him right where she wanted. Because now, if he didn’t take the stupid thing, he’d look like an asshole. And Maria knew that. She was being fucking shameless about it.

His gaze flickered down to the box. Then, before he could stop himself and leave them standing, an image surfaced—Leela, sitting on that damn porch swing, curled up against the cold. Maya’s tiny fingers tugging at her collar, red-cheeked, catching swirling snow in her dark curls.

Joel closed his eyes briefly. He couldn't shake it off. And he admitted it to himself, despite all his grievances against this, he missed them. He missed Leela's soft footsteps in the nursery past midnight, he missed Maya entirely. He missed the sense of normalcy once the blood and gore of patrol ended, to head to a warm home and lay down, exhausted, knowing he hadn't had a drink to fall asleep.

Then, wordlessly, he grabbed the boxes off the counter.

Ellie elbowed Tommy in the ribs, giggling. “See? Look at him. Good ol’ Joel, real man of the people.”

Joel shot her a warning look while heading over to grab his jacket, the delivery under his arm. “Don’t push it, kid.” Then pointed a threatening finger at Tommy as he yanked the front door open. “Can't believe we're related.”

Tommy only puckered his lips at him, miming a kiss. “Mensch Miller.”

The house across the street was unlocked again.

Joel stood at the threshold, jaw clenched, boots planted firm against the porch floorboards. The door was cracked open, swaying slightly from the evening breeze, the light from inside spilling out onto the steps. Did she even care about safety? It should’ve been locked. It should’ve been bolted shut, curtains drawn, an armoury stacked by the doorway. But Leela still acted like the world wasn’t what it was. Like Jackson was different.

It had been a whole two months since Leela brought Maya into this world, a month of struggling, of barely eating, barely sleeping, barely breathing. And now she had the nerve to leave her door wide open like she was inviting trouble? Like Jackson was some safe little haven where nothing bad could ever happen? A dangerous thing, that kind of trust. He’d seen what happened to people who had it.

His jaw ticked. He took the porch steps two at a time and pushed the door open without knocking.

Inside, the air was warm, thick with the scent of woodsmoke and something faintly sweet—baby powder, maybe, or that lavender soap Maria kept handing out. The fire crackled low in the hearth, throwing restless shadows across the room, licking at the edges of the high-backed armchair and the mathematics-riddled books and papers neatly stacked up in scatters.

And there she was, standing in front of it. Leela was running a brush through her hair, violently. Dragging it down, tangling it further, hissing under her breath when it snagged. Frustrated, impatient. Needed a haircut.

The same damn nightgown again. White, sleeveless, falling in soft folds just past her knees. But this time, his eyes caught the details—the way a single pearl button at her collar had been left open carelessly, the way the thin cotton made the dark silhouette of her body visible beneath, and the odd little cherries sewn sparsely into the fabric. Small, stitched by hand.

He had no idea why all that stood out to him. It just did. And boy, did it leave nothing to the imagination.

Leela stilled, catching sight of him in the doorway. The brush hung mid-stroke in her hand.

“Oh,” she said, like he hadn’t just barged into her house uninvited. “Hello.”

Her eyes and voice were warm. Soft, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary, as if she wasn’t standing there in nothing but a slip of a dress while the light of the fire turned her edge golden.

Joel forced his gaze away. His eyes flicked over the living room instead, to the couch against the far wall—his couch, as much as he hated to admit it. The blankets were still there, folded neatly, stacked with the pillows like she’d been expecting him to come back. His grip tightened around the boxes in his hands.

“I—” He cleared his throat, stepping forward, extending the boxes toward her. “Maria sent you some stuff.”

Leela blinked again before setting the hairbrush down, padding toward him on bare feet. She took the boxes gently, fingers barely brushing his. “Thank you, Joel,” she murmured, flashing a little smile.

“Just vitamins,” he played off.

She pried the lid off the larger box and inhaled deeply. He caught the way her nose twitched, her fingers tightening just a fraction around the edges.

“Her famous steak dinner,” he offered her.

And then, like clockwork, her stomach betrayed her, the low grumble cutting through the quiet between them. She stiffened, laughing, breathless and sheepish.

“Sorry.”

“You should eat—”

A sharp cry cut through the air, calling for her. Both their heads swung toward the staircase.

Leela sighed first, setting the boxes away. “Napkin,” she murmured, as if reciting from a schedule. “Please help yourself to anything. I’ll be right back.”

But Joel stepped forward, one arm extended, the box acting as a barrier between her and the stairs. He despised the unfamiliarity.

"Eat," he said, firm.

She hesitated. Her gaze flickered between him and the staircase, like she was weighing her options, debating whether to argue or just go along with it.

Another cry echoed from upstairs—short, needy. Joel could tell. It wasn’t hunger, wasn’t pain. Little Maya was lonely already.

“I got this,” he assured.

Leela chewed her lip. “But—”

“I know the drill.” He jerked his chin toward the kitchen. “Just eat.”

A long moment passed, heavy with hesitation. Then, finally, she relented, her shoulders sagging as she breathed in surrender. She took the box from him.

“I’ll grab a fork, I guess,” she muttered, turning toward the kitchen.

Joel smothered a grin while watching her go, and took the stairs two at a time, powerless to his anticipation. Two weeks since he held the baby girl. He'd missed the shit out of her, not that he would admit that to anybody. Of course, he wasn't about to pass up this chance for anything.

From the landing, the nursery's door cracked open, light from the hallway bleeding into the dim room. Joel frowned as he leaned in to inspect.

The first thing he noticed was that the crib had moved. His boots made no sound over the wooden floor as he stepped inside, scanning the space. The wooden shelves were up, already home to Maya's folded clothes, towels and napkins. The light installation dangled halfway, unfixed. No one had even begun work on painting the walls. No armchair. No rug.

This Mal guy was a complete jackass. Maya's nursery was a mess.

"Good with his hands, my ass," Joel muttered. "What a fuckin' tool."

Joel angrily followed the hallway light, stepping through the open doorway into the furthest bedroom, a room bigger than any he’d ever seen in Jackson.

Massive was an understatement. This was the kind of bedroom you’d see in a damn commercial—the kind of thing he would’ve scoffed at, once upon a time. The bed alone was ridiculous. Olympic-sized, sunken into a floor for itself, with plush, overstuffed pillows and thick sheets, barely disturbed. A sliding-door closet stood at the far end, pristine, untouched. A plasma-screen TV mounted to the opposite wall, thick with dust.

Joel’s lips pressed into a thin line. There was something unnatural about it. The way it felt more like a untouched display than her bedroom.

Maya’s cries pulled him from his thoughts. Joel crossed the room, approaching the crib—the one he’d worked on. All pink and polished for the spoiled little girl.

The moment she saw him, her cries hitched. Big, teary brown eyes blinked up at him, wide and glistening, like she was struggling to focus. She sniffled, tiny fists flexing against the mattress, mouth wobbling around her jutting tongue, as if trying to place him.

Joel couldn't resist a grin, brushing a coarse knuckle at her soft cheek.

“Hi, baby girl.” Then leaned closer to whisper, “Traitor.”

Maya sniffled, blinking again, then reached for him—small fingers curling, grasping blindly before finding his much larger one, tugging it toward her mouth. She gummed at his gnarled knuckles with a fussy little noise, her brows furrowing in concentration.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “That ain't fair. That's your apology?”

Maya made another small whimper of a sound. And a real smile. A big, toothless, gummy grin, full of warmth and recognition. Something nearly uncoiled at his ribs.

He pulled a so-so face. “Hm, I'll bite.”

It was muscle memory, really. The way his hands moved—effortless, practised. He'd done it more than fifty times in two weeks. He made quick work of the napkin, wiping her clean, then slid his hands beneath her arms, lifting her up in one smooth motion.

He grunted as he did, “C'mere, sweetheart. You beautiful, beautiful girl. Did you miss me, huh?”

She squealed, legs kicking excitedly as he cradled her against his chest, supporting her head the way he always did. And just like that, he eased into the old rhythm without thinking. That familiar weight against him, that warmth—gentle, swaying, murmuring under his breath. It was easy. Too easy. Like breathing. Like falling asleep.

She nestled into his shoulder, tiny fist pressing against his neck, seeking his warmth. She’d gotten bigger. Not by much, but enough. Still delicate, still small—but stronger now. More aware. Smart, like her mother.

"Yeah, you missed me," he murmured when she nuzzled against his neck.

And then—pure, infallible instinct—he dipped his nose into her hair and breathed her in deep. Soft linen and old cotton, warm and faint.

Sarah used to smell like this once. For just a little while. That same invisible claw tore at his memories. Joel closed his eyes, just for a second. He remembered how, when she outgrew it, he'd missed it terribly. How he’d sometimes let her sleep curled up in his arms all night long, his back against the headboard, just to hold onto that smell. Just to keep that small, fleeting moment of innocence before the world could take it away.

That nostalgia settled deep in his ribs, quiet and whole. This seemed like the only place in the world where suffering didn’t exist. Like his hands weren’t stained with all the things he’d done, all the lives he’d taken.

Because here, right now, with Maya, he wasn’t the man who had lost and lost and lost again. He wasn’t the man who’d left behind nothing but bodies and broken promises. No, she didn’t know any of that. She didn’t care.

She only knew his warmth. She knew the steady beat of his heart, the scratch of his beard against her soft skin, and the way he said her name. She only knew him as someone safe. And fuck, he wasn’t, he wasn’t, but—

God help him, he wanted to be.

Maya sighed, a tiny, content sound, pressing closer. And Joel—he let himself believe, just for a moment, that he was clean.

A soft gasp behind him made him turn to reality and toward the door. “Oh, Maya.”

Joel turned to find Leela standing in the doorway, hand to her mouth, eyes wide in amusement. She had changed—finally—into one of those oversized sweaters he’d seen her wear on colder nights, sleeves swallowing her hands. But she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at his chest.

Joel frowned. “What?”

Leela bit her lip, trying—failing—to smother a smile. She motioned vaguely toward him. Joel tracked her finger and glanced to the side. And felt it. Hot, damp.

Damned baby spit-up.

Maya’s little betrayal soaked through the fabric of his shirt, spreading down from his collar and shoulder to his chest in an uneven, milky stain. She smacked her lips contentedly against his collarbone, completely unaware of the mess she’d just made.

He sighed, shifting her to the other arm. He levelled her with a playful glare. “You gonna warn me next time you ruin my shirt, darlin'?”

Maya only gurgled in response, a soft, pleased little sound.

And then, following her daughter—Leela laughed.

Not the quiet, polite kind that he'd managed out of her once. Not the forced kind, either. A real laugh. Breathless, unexpected, warm. Like it had slipped out before she could stop it.

Joel felt it like a slow-moving punch to the gut. He didn’t hear that sound often. Hell, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever heard it before on his account. He'd finally done it.

It changed something about her, softening her face in a way that caught him off guard. Her eyes creased at the corners, the tightness in her shoulders eased, the exhaustion in her expression smoothed over—just for a moment.

It did something strange to him. Something he didn’t have the time to name. So he just exhaled sharply, muttering a curse under his breath as he adjusted Maya over to the other arm, rubbing a hand over his damp shirt.

“Yeah, real funny. Your girl just aired her paunch all over me,” he grumbled.

Leela tried to sober up, apologizing, but another chuckle slipped out in between, and Joel caught the way she bit her lip, fighting to suppress it.

She was enjoying this. And he was in big fucking trouble.

"Don't move. I'll get you a spare shirt," she said, laughing, before walking to the adjacent closet doors.

Joel didn’t even get the chance to protest before Leela slid one side of the closet doors open, revealing—sweet Jesus.

His eyes landed on the neat rows of men’s clothing hanging inside. Not just a few misplaced items, not something left behind by chance. An entire collection.

Button-downs, slacks, henleys—clothes meant for daily wear. Added into the mix, were pressed suits, the kind that cost more than a month’s worth of supplies, the kind men used to wear to skyscrapers and boardrooms, back when the world was still upright. And golf shirts. For fuck’s sake, golf shirts.

Joel’s jaw hinged back up. Golf was a rich man’s game. He’d worked jobs near country clubs in his past life, and seen the kind of people who played. Men with money. Her father, perhaps.

Leela had definitely grown up rich. And looking at this—this untouched wealth, just sitting here, long past its time—it became clear. She probably still was.

Joel’s grip on Maya shifted slightly, the warmth of the baby pressing into his chest the only real thing anchoring him as his eyes dragged over the closet once more.

For all that Leela lived like a ghost, for all that she barely let anyone near her, this place still held echoes of what she came from. A past life that didn’t match the woman he’d seen standing at her front door, exhausted and hollow-eyed, desperate for her baby to stop crying.

Leela flipped through the hangers without hesitation, fingers brushing past labels he recognized—Armani, Burberry, Hollister. Eventually, she pulled out a green pullover. Soft, fine material. A little small for him, but it’d do.

She turned, offering it wordlessly.

Joel didn’t move to take it right away.

He was still staring at the closet. Not because he gave a damn about how much a fucking sweater cost, or whether she had a trust fund hidden away somewhere, but because it told him something. Something he hadn’t really thought about before.

Leela had come from comfort. Stability. A world where things were taken care of. And yet she’d buried herself in this big, empty house, alone, fighting tooth and nail to survive—like everyone else. And she never asked for help.

Leela cleared her throat. "It should fit. My father was a tall man."

Joel managed a sigh, shifting Maya in his arms. He took the pullover with one hand, already halfway through plucking open the buttons of his flannel.

While he worked, Leela stepped closer, ready to take Maya. She was quick about it, but Joel caught the way her fingers lingered, just for a second, as she scooped the baby up from his arms. Not on Maya.

On him.

Joel really tried to push it out of his head, write it off as an illusion, already plucking open the buttons of his shirt. His fingers brushed the fabric, and he paused when he caught the tag inside. Ralph Lauren, for fuck's sake.

Leela noticed with a small smile. "I didn’t take you for a man with fancy taste," she mused.

Joel let out a dry snort. "Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it."

He pulled off his flannel, the sleeves catching briefly on his wrists before he tossed it aside. The room wasn’t cold, but the air bit at his skin anyway. The scars felt it first—every healed cut, every old wound stretched over knotted muscle, each one a reminder of what his body had been through.

"Oh, man," he couldn't help but grunt, stretching his arms.

He worked the pullover over his head in one smooth motion, the fabric soft, snug across his shoulders. Felt like something he would’ve bought for Sarah back in the day, something she’d pull from a Macy’s rack, nodding in approval before insisting, "Dad, just try it on."

It fit better than he expected, but Joel barely registered that. His body had begun to ache. Not in one place—everywhere. It was late at night, it was cold, he missed his daily dose of whiskey, and he needed sleep for tomorrow.

The exhaustion sat in his bones now, permanent and familiar. His bad knee throbbed, aggravated from the cold, from the weight he put on it patrolling for hours at a time. His back had never been the same after that one fall, a long time ago. Some mornings, he woke up and could barely stand straight, feeling every single one of his years sink into him.

And yet, his body still held. Still worked. It wasn’t much to look at anymore. Not that it ever had been.

He had no delusions about himself—he wasn’t built for admiration. Never had been. Picking up girls and fooling around; was Tommy's thing. He wasn’t the kind of man people looked at twice, not in the way that mattered. His body told a story, but not the sort anyone wanted to read or had a happy ending,

His hands were ruined things, thick with callouses from years of exertion, from gripping rifle stocks, from skinning game, from chopping wood in the dead of winter. His knuckles were perpetually split, healing just enough before the next fight, the next job, the next reason to curl his fists. Scars mapped his skin, uneven and jagged, old bullet wounds and knife cuts, hard edges, marks of a life spent fighting for something—for anything.

He wasn’t young anymore. He wasn’t some smooth-talking son of a bitch with a face that turned heads. He was always angry at something, thinking about something, readying his next step, even if it was a complete waste of his time.

But he was still formidable. He could protect. He could endure the rough-hewn demands of survival, even now. He could fight like hell. That had to count for something.

But Leela—she wasn’t staring, exactly. Wasn’t not staring, either. It was subtle. Barely there. A flicker of something implicit, something fleeting, the way her gaze traced along his arms, his shoulders, abdomen, the sharp cut of his collarbone before snapping away. As if she hadn’t meant to look, and she’d caught herself a second too late.

Joel had been around long enough to recognize when a woman was checking him out. And hell—he wasn’t gonna lie to himself. It made him feel good. Fucking fantastic, really. Like he could wake up tomorrow feeling twenty years younger. Like he could leap right out of bed and his back wouldn’t stiffen before noon. Like he still had something left in him worth looking at.

He wasn’t an idiot, though. He wasn't going to let it go to his head.

Leela adjusted Maya in her arms, moving her weight as if giving herself something to do, something to focus on that wasn’t him.

And Joel—he pretended not to notice. Didn’t say a damn word about it. Didn’t shift under her gaze, didn’t smirk at her, didn’t let her see that she’d gotten under his skin in a way he hadn’t expected.

Just muttered a quiet, "Thanks," and left it at that.

Leela hummed in response, turning away to lay Maya down, who was already dozing her little head off, into the crib with practised care. Then, just as easily, she pivoted back to her bedside dresser, fingers moving over a stack of neatly folded quadrille paper.

"Can you pass something to Tommy for me?" she asked, voice soft, controlled. "It’s really important he gets this as soon as possible."

Joel might not have paid it much mind, might’ve brushed it off as just another errand he wasn’t keen on running—but then he saw it. The way her posture stiffened, the way her hands smoothed over the edges of the papers like they were something fragile, something vital. But whatever this was—it mattered.

She flipped through the pages, and for the first time since he’d met her, he saw something rare. Excitement. A flicker of life.

"It’s a wonderful breakthrough, Joel," she said, and there was a rare enough lightness in her voice, bordering on unguarded enthusiasm.

Joel just blinked. Leela wasn’t the type to get excited. Or maybe he's just never seen it in her before.

"So, I’ve been working on…" then she went into something technical for his dense mind, talking fast in words that blurred together. It all went miles over his head. Circuits, electrical theory, conduction points—half of it might as well have been a foreign language.

Joel just stared when she finished with a deep breath.

Leela instantly caught the look and pursed her lips. "Okay, um. Let me put it this way."

She shifted toward him, gesturing as she spoke, putting it into Layman's terms. "You know how the dam stops producing enough energy in winter? When the river freezes over?"

Joel gave a slow nod.

"So we rely on fuel, but fuel’s very limited. We've got the town expanding, and people coming in. So our batteries drain. If we had an alternative energy source, something reliable—" She held up the paper, tapping a rough sketch. "And that’s where this comes in."

Her hands moved as she spoke, cutting through the air with sharp, purposeful gestures. Not just passion, not just expertise. Conviction.

"Lightning is erratic, but it’s raw power. Joules of energy. Think about it. If we can direct a strike into a controlled medium—like a graphene capacitor—we can store it."

Joel narrowed his eyes, the concept clicking into his lagging brain. "So what, you think you can catch a goddamn thunderstorm and turn it into a battery?"

Leela wheezed a quiet laugh. "More or less."

He thought about it. "Seems like a hell of a thing to gamble on."

"It’s not a gamble. It’s math. Physics. It will work, Joel, I know it."

Joel didn’t argue. He didn’t understand it, not really, but he’d seen Leela work before. He trusted her genius. The nights she couldn't sleep—he’d sometimes blink awake to the sound of chalk scraping against a blackboard, catching sight of her standing there in the dim glow of the bulb, mapping something out with surgical precision. Or hunched over a notebook, scribbling feverishly, lost in calculations that only made sense to her.

It wasn’t just her passion—it was her outlet. A relief. A tether to something greater than herself, something she could control before she lost herself completely in the demands of motherhood. And if this was what she was holding onto, then perhaps it was more than just an idea.

She tucked the paper back into the stack, leveling him with a quiet look. "I also have a prototype," she said simply.

Joel raised a brow.

Leela nodded toward the hallway. "It’s in the basement if you want to see."

Joel wasn’t big on machines. Or gear. The finer technical details weren’t for him. But—he glanced at her, at the way she stood, weight shifting from foot to foot, something unreadable behind her eyes.

She wasn’t pushing him. She was waiting.

After a beat, he sighed, tilting his head toward the door. "Lead the way, ma'am."

The stairs were steep, the kind that creaked under their weight, but Joel kept a firm hold on Leela’s elbow, steadying her as they made their way down. She was still weak. Too breakable. As far as his knowledge went, she should've gotten better by now. And how the hell was she supposed to do that when she barely ate without cringing?

Joel had half a mind to tell her that, to point out how unsteady she was, how she winced when she put too much pressure on her feet—but she’d just brush him off with a shaky smile. So instead, he let out a quiet breath through his nose and adjusted his grip, keeping her close until they reached the bottom.

"There you go. Watch that last step," he guided as gently as he could.

She glanced up at him from the fringes of a smile, letting his hands go. "Thank you."

He expected damp walls, waterlogged corners, mould creeping up the corners, and a basement that smelled like rot and rust. As what he had been always used to when he went scouring towns nearby for supplies. What he got instead stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Well, I’ll be damned," he blew out.

It was a workshop. A big-ass one. Tools lined up on the magnetic walls, neatly arranged, half-finished projects sitting on a worktable, schematics pinned up in careful rows. More of Leela's notes and markers, taped-up designs. Funny how there was life only around all this machinery. Off to the side, an old wine cellar, the glass cases still intact, though the bottles inside were coated in dust.

And then—the cars.

Joel let out a low whistle. Two of them. Just sitting there like some abandoned luxury showroom. One was a Dodge Aspen, a classic in its own right. All violet and under repair. But the other...—his eyes caught the silver emblem glinting under the dim basement light. A prancing horse on the red steel.

"Come on," he muttered in disbelief, stepping forward, barely resisting the urge to run his hand over the hood. "Is that a… Maranello?"

Leela took a deep breath, still recovering from the stairs. "Yes. Custom made. Not sure if there's any left out there anymore."

"Holy shit." His fingers flexed at his sides. He didn’t want to seem desperate, but fuck, when was the last time he’d seen something like this? Much less, been this close?

"Can I, uh…" He gestured indistinctly at the car.

Leela flashed him a small grin. "Knock yourself out. The door's unlocked."

He didn’t need to be told twice. Joel reached out, fingers brushing over cool, crimson steel before yanking the door open. The new car smell hit him right in the face—leather, polish, something untouched by time. His chest tensed at the familiarity of it.

He slid into the driver’s seat, running his hands over the wheel, the knitting around the stick shift, and the soft beige leather of the custom interior. And just for a second—he let himself imagine it. Top down. Gliding down the I-10, no speed limits, no patrols, just him and the open road, wind in his hair, sun on his face, Raybans on. That dream all felt like a lifetime ago.

A soft knock on the passenger side window startled him back to reality.

Leela’s face appeared through the glass, her lips quirked in amusement. "Should I leave you two alone?"

Joel huffed, turning slightly to mask the grin tugging at his mouth. She opened the door and drudged her way inside, moving slowly. The descent had taken more out of her than she was willing to admit.

When she shut the door, he immediately rolled down his window, straining his ears toward the stairs. The one time he wished his hearing wouldn't betray him. Had he locked the door upstairs? Could he hear Maya if she cried? What if he couldn’t? How come Leela didn't seem to think about this? God, this girl really had no clue.

Her voice broke into his thoughts. "I wish I knew how to drive it." She ran her hand absentmindedly over the dashboard, voice softer now, almost wistful. "I believe the last great invention of man was the automobile."

"You said it," he mumbled.

Joel glanced at her and did a little mental math. She must’ve been nine, maybe ten when the outbreak hit. No middle school. No high school. No road trips, no late-night drives with her friends, music blasting. No first kiss. Just one world ending, and another one starting—a crueler one.

Leela exhaled, long and slow, sinking deeper into the leather seat like she could melt into it. Her fingers drummed idly on the handlebars, tracing invisible patterns, slipping into an old rhythm—one she didn’t even seem aware of.

Then, soft as a whisper, she started humming.

It was unhurried, quiet, like something she’d sung to herself a thousand times before. But it was enough to make Joel pause, something about the tune pulling at him. A half-buried memory, something from before. He knew that song. Hadn’t heard it in years, but it was still there, lodged somewhere deep in the creases of his mind.

"That’s—" He frowned, tilting his head, listening closer. "That Patsy Cline?"

Leela glanced up, surprise flickering across her face before something warmer took its place. "Walkin’ After Midnight. Yeah."

Joel hid a grin. "That is way before your time."

"So?" She smirked, tipping her head back against the seat, fingers still tapping, moving. "I had old parents. Rubbed off on me."

A layer beneath her words made Joel tread carefully. He, of all people, knew how age could sit heavy on a person, how some things weren’t worth prying open.

"Can’t have been that old," he muttered, though he wasn’t sure why he said it.

"My mom was seventy-eight when she passed."

Joel blinked. "W-o-w." The syllables came out slow, one after the other before he could stop himself.

Leela let out a quiet laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes this time. She glanced down, her fingers still moving, trailing over the leather, the stitching, following some old path only she could see.

"I miss them every day," she said, voice softer now, more distant. "I’m grateful they singled me out of those photographs. Brought me here." She gestured vaguely to the house above her, her home, before exhaling, like she was letting something go. "I just hope I’m doing them proud."

Joel felt something shift, and he realized: too much sharing. It had to go both ways. And he was never going to be ready for that. So he did what he did best, avoided and threw her off the scent.

"Man," he said abruptly, with a cluck of his tongue, "if I had the keys and some fuel, I’d ride the hell outta this beauty." The words came out before he could stop them. "And die a happy old man."

Leela laughed. A loud laugh, sounding much like her daughter just then, deep in her chest, like she hadn't done it in a long time.

"It’s got fuel," she said, still grinning. "You can still ride it."

"Just sitting here like it's nothing." He shook his head, a small laugh rolling out. "Christ. This is amazing."

He glanced down at the stick shift, thumb absently tracing the edge of the gear knob, but something else caught his eye.

Her nightgown. Hitched up, ruffled around the tops of her thighs, loose fabric pooling where she sat. Bare skin. Soft, smooth, taut over lean bone—too much of it. The way she shifted, unthinking, rubbing one knee over the other, restless. He felt a rock dislodge in his throat.

Fuck. For all that he could be—a guardian, a protector—he had to be a man.

His fingers curled against his palm, an old instinct, something long-trained. Look away, don’t think about it. He turned back to the wheel, forcing his eyes forward. Dashboard. Windshield. Glove compartment. The thin layer of dust coating the steering column. Anything but the way one more inch of movement would have left too much for his mind to comprehend.

But the problem was—she hadn’t bothered to fix it. She didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, she didn’t care. So why should he?

He swallowed, jaw flexing tight. Because that was the kind of man he was. Greying, frustrated, scarce on love.

His fingers twitched, itching for something to do, something to grab. Instead, he moved without thinking, across the partition—one finger. Just a light tug, barely a breath of a touch, dragging the hem of her gown down, covering her knees. A simple thing. A quiet thing. A mistake.

Her whole body jerked, a sharp intake of breath—like she’d been touched by fire. Really, Joel felt it more than he saw it. The way her muscles tensed, a shudder raced, the quick clutch of her fingers as she held the fabric in place now, suddenly conscious of it.

Shit.

He withdrew instantly, fingers curling into a fist on the steering wheel. Should’ve just minded his goddamn business. Stupid, stupid man.

For a second, the air between them felt too tight. Even with the windows rolled down and winter winds howling outside, he broke into a sweat.

"Didn't see it," she mumbled.

He just shook his head, a small, dismissive grunt, keeping his eyes straight ahead. And that was that.

But the silence that settled over them after wasn’t comfortable. Not one either of them knew how to break.

Joel exhaled through his nose, fixing his stare on the windshield., fingers tapping slowly against the wheel, like he could smooth out the moment just by waiting it out. Jesus, he should’ve never touched her. Should’ve let it be.

“So, that prototype of yours,” he attempted to distract, voice rough. “You got it nearby?”

No response.

He frowned, risked a glance at her—and stopped cold.

Leela sat stiff in the passenger seat, her posture folded in on itself. One slender hand curled at her side, gripping the hem of her nightgown tight until her knuckles went white, the other was pressed to her face, knuckles braced against her nose. Her eyes filled with tears in seconds.

A long, slow breath in, too shaky.

Joel’s stomach sank. He knew that sound. He had seen a lot of it in his time. Had seen grief in all its forms—loud, violent, shattering. But this—this was different. This was quiet, heavy, desperate.

Her shoulders hitched, her breath sucking in too sharp like she was holding something back—something about to give.

And then, just like that, as if a thread had been cut, she sucked in another sharp breath, her whole body curling forward, hands coming up to cover her face—and it hit.

That same soft, keening sound he’d heard from her room almost every night. The one that came through thin walls, muffled by pillows, engulfed by fatigue.

But this time, she wasn’t hiding.

And Joel—he didn’t know what to do. His hands flexed against the wheel, confused and useless.

She wasn’t supposed to be crying. Not because of his pathetic self. Whichever way he saw it, this was his fault. He’d crossed a line, broken through a wall he’d meant to keep standing, and now she was here—crying. Because he couldn't keep his hands to himself.

His mouth opened, and his throat worked, but nothing happened. Fuck. What the hell was he even supposed to say? Everything seemed inappropriate. There was no justification for what he'd done.

His fingers curled tighter, nails digging into his palm. He had to fix it. Before it got worse.

His voice came out too rough, uncertain. “I'm sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Just go.”

It hit like a crack of thunder. A faint, clear command, strangled between a cry. His stomach twisted.

He hesitated for half a second, long enough to hear the way her breath hitched, how her fingers curled deeper into her hair, how she looked like she wanted to fold in on herself, disappear into the goddamn leather seat.

He swallowed, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

He'd had seen women cry before. Ellie, Tess, hell even Maria. He’d occasionally held them while they did. But not this. Not her. And he hated—hated—that it was because of him.

His fingers flexed against his sides, fighting the instinct to reach out, to fix something he wasn’t sure could be fixed. But she’d made herself perfectly clear. To leave her alone.

So he did.

He wrenched the door open, barely registering the way it swung shut behind him. Didn’t look back, didn’t breathe until he was back up the stairs and out the door.

As he jogged down the porch stairs, the cold biting sharper now, cutting straight through the thick weave of his sweater, Joel tried to breathe. Snowflakes clung to the expensive fabric, melting fast, sinking in. He barely noticed. His inhales came long, exhales too short, not quite ragged, but uneven—like he couldn’t get enough air, like something in his chest was pressing down too hard, and no matter how deep he pulled, it wasn’t letting up.

It wasn’t panic. He knew what that felt like all too well.

This was different. A slow, creeping wrongness. A feeling that something had already slipped through his fingers, something he hadn’t even realized he was holding onto. And now it was gone, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to fix it.

He pressed a hand to his mouth, and wiped it down the scruff on his jaw, trying to steady himself, trying to shove it all back where it belonged. It wasn’t working.

His fingers curled into an aching fist. His breath fogged in the air in clouds.

He needed that fucking drink now.

The cold still lingered in the morning air, settling deep in Joel’s bones, but that wasn’t the only thing weighing him down. He hadn’t slept worth a damn. Tossed and turned all night, drifting in and out of restless half-dreams—images he didn’t want, memories he didn’t need. He woke up cold, despite the blankets, with a dull ache in his joints, and a scratch in his throat. Maybe from the weather. Maybe from something else.

Didn’t matter.

What mattered was getting out of that house. Getting up, getting moving. Keeping his hands busy, keeping his mind from straying where it wanted to go—back to last night, back to the way she had curled in on herself, hands to her face, shaking with something he couldn’t fix. He despised being around something unfixable. Made him feel incompetent.

He gripped the stack of papers tighter, the edges digging into his fingers as he stepped into the stables. Tommy was there, adjusting the saddle on one of the mares, humming some old tune under his breath. The familiar smell of hay, leather, and horse filled the space, grounding Joel in the moment. He clung to that.

“Tommy,” Joel called, his voice rougher than he meant it to be.

Tommy glanced up, brow lifting in mild curiosity. “Mornin’, brother. No hard feelings from last night,” he said, giving the straps one last tug before stepping back. His gaze flickered to the papers in Joel’s hand. “What’s all this?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. Just extended them out. Tommy brushed his palms off before taking them, flipping through the pages absentmindedly—until he wasn’t. His fingers slowed, putting together the pieces, his brows knitting together, his mouth parting just slightly.

"What in the... I mean—I talked to her about this,” Tommy muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "Told her we'd be having trouble. That was last week.” He let out a low breath, rubbing at his mouth as he stared at the pages like they had just appeared out of thin air. "She really did all this?"

Joel exhaled with a slight grin, feeling like someone had just handed him a gold star. An odd feeling settled in his chest—one he didn’t quite know what to do with. It wasn’t his place to feel this way, no right to. But still, pride curled warm and solid in his ribs.

“She stayed up workin’ on ‘em,” Joel muttered, not quite looking at him.

Tommy let out a short whistle, shaking his head. “Christ. This little genius just saved our asses out of the red.” He waved the papers at him. “Takin' this straight to Maria.”

Joel rolled his shoulders, clearing his throat. “Not just yet. There's a page is missing.”

Tommy paused and frowned, flipping through again. “The hell you talkin’ about?”

Joel crossed his arms, tilting his head. “I’ll give it to you if you let me fix that nursery instead of that goddamn kid.”

Tommy looked up at that, blinking. Then, realization dawned, slow and amused. His mouth curved into a smirk.

“For real, Joel?”

Joel scoffed, shaking his head. “Can’t even fix shelves right.”

Tommy cocked a brow. “He's just doing his job.”

“Little shit damn near had it fallin’ apart the last time I was there,” he argued. “Look, do you want the page or not? I'll just feed it to the horse.”

Tommy let out a sharp laugh, tipping his head back slightly. “You really got a bone to pick with this poor guy, huh?”

Joel’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer. Just kept his arms crossed, eyes unwavering. He wasn't backing down just yet.

Tommy shook his head, flipping the last page with a chuckle. “Fine, fine. You can fix whatever you want.” Then, without missing a beat, he held out his hand. “Now gimme the damn page.”

Joel handed it over without another word. But the way Tommy was still looking at him—grinning like he had something to say but was letting Joel walk away with his dignity intact—had him turning on his heel before his brother could get the last word in.

[ wow you read this far! now, if you're still reading, I'd just like to know - what song crept into your mind, about Joel or Leela, as you read this chapter? For Joel, definitely: Pain and Misery by The Teskey Brothers and as for Leela, ooooh: Wasteland by Royal & the Serpent! what about you? ]

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kyndahot · 2 days ago

Text

When Quinn witnesses Darlin fight in their wolf form, all he sees is a beast. A ferocious monster, big and intimidating and powerful. One at his beck and call, no less. He lets them lick their own wounds when the fight is over. If they did well enough, maybe he’ll offer them a quick pat on the haunches before leaving them be in their own blood and sweat. They don’t know a lick of healing magic, let alone anyone in their circle at the time that might help them. Darlin walks around with large bruises and bandages strung lazily across their body. Not for lack of trying— they’re just so sore, so tired that it takes effort to reach the places that need covering. Their poor eating habits and lack of sleep make the healing process especially slow.

When Sam witnesses Darlin fight in their wolf form he sees a scared animal. Cornered, wild eyes darting around— as if looking for a way out. Lip curled with low posture. They fight like they’ve been backed into a corner even in the most open of spaces. Once they shift back, he’s all over them in seconds. Checking for wounds, healing said wounds, tight hugs and deep breaths. Affirming to them that they’re ok, he’s ok. More than anything he’s reassuring himself. The wounds he can’t heal he wraps and treats with the supplies he has until he’s recuperated enough to continue healing them. He’ll bring them food in bed, much to their chagrin.

“I can get up myself! You don’t have to bring it to me I’m fine.”

“You’ll pop a stitch if you move around too soon. Quit your whinin’, you big baby.”

When they’re alone, Darlin will shift and lay in Sam’s lap sleeping soundly. He’ll run his hands through their fur and get caught tracing the large scars where fur refuses to grow back. Soft and gentle as if they’re still fresh, still tender. He 's caught in a trance staring at nothing while doing so until a rhythmic thumping breaks him from it.

Still asleep, it’s Darlin’s wagging tail.

#kynda.text #DARLIN I LOVE U #THEY’RE JUST A BIG BABY!!!!!#redacted darlin #redacted tank #redacted sam #redacted sam collins #sam collins #darlin #redacted audio #redactedverse #redacted quinn #redacted audio headcanons

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revelboo · 8 hours ago

Note

I had a question for you! What would your headcannons be if a few IDW autobots walked in on you naked. Let's say you finally were able to get washed up and take off your towel when someone like Rodimus or Swerve walks in. How do you think they'd react?

I feel like Swerve would try flirting while failing, meanwhile Optimus apologies profusely, immediately shielding his eyes.

Oh, poor Optimus. Still embarassed even though he’s been intimate with his human

Accidentally Flashing Bots Headcanons

Optimus

• Head thrown back into the warm spray, you’re half tempted to go give Wheeljack a kiss on those blinky vocal indicators of his for rigging up showers for all of you humans. Suspect his human might not appreciate that, though. Poor thing is so lovesick and it’s their luck that their bot is oblivious. You’d told them they should just strip naked, order him to mass shift, and ride him into the sunset. That comment had only gotten you shocked looks from all of the other humans. Except the one stuck with Prowl. They’d gone red faced and refused to meet anyone else’s eyes. Well, at least you’re not the only alien fucker of the group. Shutting off the water when you hear the door open, you push aside the sheet of plastic meant to give you some privacy and step out.

• Turning at the soft rustle, he startles and immediately averts his optics. Because you’re naked and wet. And laughing at him. “I think we’re past modesty, big guy,” you say, grabbing a towel and bending over to dry your hair. There’s no not staring at you now. Especially when you glance back at him with a little snort and pointedly slide your thigh a little so you’re more on display in invitation and his spike throbs. “You know, I can always take another shower.”

Swerve

• Coming in to his habsuite, he rubs a hand against the back of his neck as he stretches. Where are you? You’re usually waiting to greet him, smiling up at him. Being quiet in case you’re sleeping in your nest, he leans to look and vents sharply. Well, you’re in your nest of blankets, head thrown back and naked. A hand between your thighs, little fingers pumping into yourself and he groans. And your little head snaps toward him, eyes wide as you claw to drag a blanket over yourself and he covers his optics with a hand. “I wasn’t spying on you, I swear. I mean, I can leave so you can finish if you want?” Even though he wants to watch you. Wants to touch you. And you groan, completely hidden under your blanket when he peeks.

• Why is he back early? Mortified, you hide under your blankets. And you can hear him awkwardly shuffling around. Probably as horrified at catching you as you are about being caught. Does he even know what you’re doing? He acted like he did. He’d asked if you needed him to leave so you could finish. You’re not going to be able to look him in the optics after this.

Rodimus

• Face turned up toward the spray, you let the warmth relax tired muscles. And nearly jump out of your skin when something brushes against you. Hip and shoulder banging against the little shower Brainstorm had rigged for you, you try to shove a mass displaced Rodimus out while covering important bits. “What are you doing?” And he stares at you before awkwardly turning his back to you. Still not leaving.

• “The wash racks were full,” he mutters, plating heating as you swear at him and try to shove him out. And maybe he’d wanted to see what a human looked like under all those coverings. What you looked like. Flustered, he stands under the spray with his back to you. How angry would you be if he touched you, because you look so soft and wet. Had gotten a glimpse before you’d covered yourself. Enough to realize you’re made to take a spike. That maybe mass shifted, you could take him. Shouldn’t be wondering about that as his plating pops and becomes uncomfortably warm. Becoming dangerous.

#transformers x reader #swerve x reader #rodimus x reader #optimus prime x reader #optimus prime #rodimus #mtmte swerve

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ineedpaigebuckets · 7 hours ago

Note

ONE SHOT AZZI TOP I BEG

PTPOM 2.0

an: i don't know who the fuck allowed me to write this

disregard this thanks

warnings: filth 🥲🤞

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

azzi pov

the sound of sza seeping in through my ears, my headphones blocking out the sound of the music blasting through the bus. i can hear a little bit not enough to disturb my peace of just looking out the window. the light fall of the snow and the silence of the trees outside.

my peace is very quickly disturbed when i hear PTPOM 2.0 being blasted through the speaker and big fucking surprise my girlfriends screaming at the top of her lungs. she's one seat diagonal of me since i insisted on having my own seat, she can be a bit much at night.

"put that pussy on me." i hear her scream and my eyes whip to her before they're caught on amaris live, she tilted the camera towards me and i give her a guilty expression. paige sings a few more lyrics before she gives me a wicked smile and i groan looking back out the window.

i hear amari mumble something along the lines of "you're so gay." and that must have motivated paige to come annoy me.

i feel someone plop down in my seat next to me but i don't even bother, knowing it's paige.

"hi." she grins pulling the headphone off my ear to get my full attention. i slip them off and hang them around my neck leaning against the back of the seat.

"hi baby." i whispered brushing back her flyaways and holding my hands on her cheeks for a few seconds, silently asking her to please calm down. she still gives me her little giddy grin, and i can't help but smile back.

"you played good tonight." i soften my voice letting hands drop down to her lap holding onto her hands. my thumbs running over her skin.

"so, you gonna put that pussy on me or what?" i can see the look in her eyes, she's not kidding. i mean if i had a game like the one she just had i'd understand.

"i'm not the one who dropped 30 today, imma show you how proud i am." the amount of joy that goes through her face at my words is actually insane.

the second paige and i make our way into our hotel room, hand in hand giggling, we cuddle up in bed and turn on the tv. about 30 minutes later i look down to see paige spread across my chest just relaxing in the feeling of me. "thought you were gonna put that pussy on me." i whisper my lips tracing the outline of her ear. as much as paige liked having dominance over the situation, she fucking loved it when i got her right. i see paige pick her head up slowly as her tired hooded eyes meet my own, but there's a glint of something else in them.

"imma do whatever the fuck you want me to." her voice deep and raspy, i'd give anything to hear her voice all day everyday.

"good girl." i whisper my one hand tugging her chin up to me, causing our lips to meet. the first touch was soft, but it didn't take long for paige's mouth to slot open letting my tongue slide around, exploring every inch of her mouth i knew all to well. my other hand sliding up the back of her shirt leaving a tingling sensation wherever i touch. before i could move again paige had propped herself up practically pushing me down into the pillows as she pushed her mouth against mine in a kind of urgency neither of us had been prepared for.

everything else in the room quickly forgotten, all 5 of my senses quickly attuned towards paige.

"imma make it quick so we can get you to sleep okay superstar?" i mumble against her tired lips. her motions had gotten sloppy but not at all less motivated. my girl was grumpy when she didn't sleep. and we were not about to have a grumpy paige.

"how tired you feeling, you wanna lay back for me or you wanna sit up?" i whisper, a string of spit connecting our lips as we pull away, her breathing heavy.

"lay down." she whispers rolling off of me and laying flat on her back her chest rising and falling. i let a small smile cross my face as i push her shirt up and let it sit above her sports bra.

"you wanna take these off?" i whisper my lips ghosting her stomach, pressing soft kisses and licks across her toned abdomen as i position myself between her legs. she props herself up and i help her slip both items of clothing off, drawing my mouth back to her small perky breasts. my thumb runs gently across her neck in a soothing manner. she lets out soft sighs and i completely relax into the feeling of her.

"az." i hear her mumble and i move my mouth from her chest onto that spot behind her ear i know all too well.

"i gotchu baby, i gotchu." i knew i wasn't gonna tease her, or be a bitch tonight, tonight was about showing her just how proud of her i was. and she deserved just that. i slide my hands to her waistband and sit up as i slide both her pants and boxers off at the same time.

"you're so beautiful my love." i whisper pressing a soft kiss on her lower stomach. she shifted on the bed uncomfortably as i pushed her legs apart and settled in between them again. before she can even think i hook her feet above my shoulders and lick a long stripe up her heat. i feel her back arch off the bed as she sucks in a breath. her face contorting in pleasure. i could get off to just watching her. i feel her hands grip onto my hair pulling me into her before i can even get a breath out. i run my tongue gently across her clit, my movements soft but just the right amount for her, sucking gently at her skin.

"fuck, fuck baby, so good." paige starts to ramble off incoherent words and i continue my work, letting my tongue slip down into her entrance and brushing my nose to where my lips previously were. expertly knowing just what she needs. i feel her legs trembling over my shoulders and it gives me confidence. my hands pull her thighs impossibly closer, trying to get as far into her as i physically could.

the whole world is gone, the only thing going through my mind is the taste of the girl i love, the smell of her sweat, arousal, and cologne all mushed together, she feel of her legs around my head, the sight of her sweaty abs glistening in the light right in front of me, and the small sounds she was letting out at my movements. everything perfectly at ease. i feel her buck her hips against my tongue and i know it before she even says anything.

"az-" she tries to speak but is cut off by an even more beautiful moan slipping from her mouth as she pushes the back of her head into the pillow.

"look at me paige, look at me and let go." my voice deep and husky as i keep my mouth on her not letting up one bit. she's propped up on her elbows, my eyes soft as i watch her come undone. her hands tighten further in my hair as i feel her pool into my mouth, and i have no problem licking her clean. but when im done licking it up, i don't stop, keep going as i feel her clench around my tongue for the second time tonight. but then i feel her hands desperately pushing at my forehead.

"off, too much- can't." she breaths out and i do as she says moving only a centimeter away from her heat as i breathe into her.

"one more baby, i know you can." when i went down on her there was absolutely no stopping me and she knew it. she nodded her head with big eyes and threw her arm over her eyes as i got back to work. my tounge flicks a little rougher than last time as i realize just how close she is already. her legs tremble over my shoulders and all i can do is grab onto her thighs, my hands digging into her skin. i look up at her, eyes closed just taking in the moment and i slow my movements just a little, trying to remember exactly this moment, wanting to hold it with me forever. i see her back arch higher and i know she doesn't have much longer so i slip away from her and trail my hand up her chest and hold two fingers in front of her lips.

"open." i hum as she takes my fingers in her mouth swirling her tongue around and between them getting them all ready for her.

"good girl." i murmur as i slide my hand back down and circle my now wettened fingers over her clit. but i feel her twitch under me and replace my fingers with my lips, sucking hard. my fingers easily dip into her wetness and fall into a steady rhythm for only a few seconds before without a warning she's gushing all over my hand and my chin. i look up at her, she looks like she's screaming but there's no sound coming out. the hottest fucking scene i've ever looked at. she lets out a strangled moan as her body falls limp against the bed. i slip out of her and pull my lips away from her throbbing center.

"so good for me, you did so good baby. so proud." i smile coming up to flop down on the bed right beside her. she gives me a lazy smile before her eyes fall closed. after a few minutes when i know she's at least calmed down a little i turn to her my own breath finally evened out.

"you know, you still never put that pussy on me." i grin a wicked smile as my hand traced across her bare stomach and my eyes meet hers just as she opens them. she gives me a look almost pleading me to not continue. but knowing she has one more in her i give her my own look. a look of desperation.

"sit on my face p come on." hoping the dirtiness of the words would finally bring out the last bit of desire she had in her. and boy was i right because she sat up in no time. her eyes wide almost asking me if i was sure. it wasn't something we'd done before, i'd done it to her but not this way. and it was exactly what i wanted. i swing her leg over my head so she was hovering over me. i lick a stripe up her wetness gathering what i could on my tongue as i desperately try to pull her down onto me.

"az, careful baby, i don't wanna hurt you." her voice was raw and worn out, yes so sweet and gentile. everything about her made me smile.

"don't worry, i got you, just relax, sit down." i feel her slowly let all her weight fall onto me and i wasted absolutely no time, able to hit new spots with my tongue at this new angle.

"taste so fucking good." the vibrations of my voice caused her to tense up around my tongue and i felt her legs tremble already, only seconds in and she was overwhelmed.

"gonna- can't- azzi." she murmurs holding on to the headboard for the most part and i pull her hips to rock against me as she works herself through the third orgasm of the night. she turns around and flops back her cheeks flushed and her lips bright pink as i kiss them gently.

"no more, all done, sleep." she mumbles her eyes falling down already.

"did so good mama, all done, time for bed." i sit up and strip off every item of clothing i was wearing and wrap myself in her side, the skin to skin contact perfect.

"goodnight paige." i whisper against her neck, hearing the soft snores coming from her body.

#paige bueckers #azzi fudd #pazzi #uconn wbb #wbb #paige buckets #ineedpaigebuckets #pazzi fics

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skimmingmilk · 1 day ago

Text

can’t put time on hold (my arms are full)

Sonic had never considered it before.

The life he’d led thus far had been a bit unconventional, to be fair, so when it came to certain sentiments—especially those of parents—Sonic could freely admit he was a good deal in the dark and content to be there. Not much applied as far as he was concerned, especially at this point in his (and Tails’s) lives, so he didn’t ever go out of his way to engage in those kinds of conversations.

It was only by pure happenstance that one of his runs took him past a park in Seaside City, where a small group of mothers were chatting. He’d paused at the proverbial water cooler, a park drinking fountain to get a sip of water before he continued on his way, but his ears twitched as he picked up their rather boisterous conversation from where they sat clustered on a nearby bench.

“You know what Notch said to guilt trip me the other day?” a finch mobian was saying. “That eventually you’ll pick up your child for the last time and you won’t even know it.”

“Oh, I’ve heard that one before,” a sheep mother laughed. “I’ve offered to carry Linen, but she just brushes me off and tells me I’m embarrassing her. She’s six.”

“No,” a monkey mother clutched at her heart. “That’s so sad! I can’t imagine not carrying my little ones around with me. Simone still climbs on my back every chance she gets.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” the finch told her. “If your kid doesn’t make you stop sooner or later, then your back definitely will.”

Sonic snorted, nearly getting water up his nose in the process. He wiped his muzzle off with his forearm, an amused brow arched as he glanced over at the mothers commiserating over the passage of time and their kids growing up. What a thing to fuss about. It was just the nature of the world. Growth and change were part of living life to the fullest, and all anyone could do was roll with the punches and try to keep up.

Shaking his head, Sonic sped off to finish the rest of his run, then made a pit stop to pick up some takeout on his way back to the Central City workshop—his and Tails’s current base of operations. While in line for chili dogs, he stood behind a family of fennec foxes, a dad with his two kids in tow. The little one was balanced on the dad’s hip, only to be set down when he needed to get his wallet out to pay for their food. The older brother glanced down as the younger started fussing, quietly shushing them. Turning their big-eyed stare on the older brother, the little one lifted their arms in a silent request to be picked back up. Though the older brother rolled his eyes, he crouched down and scooped up the kid anyway, letting them cling to his front with a long-suffering sigh.

“You’re getting a little too big for this, aren’t ya, keed?”

“Oh, but I can keep going, Sonic! I’m not tired yet, honest!”

“Heh, oh yeah? Tell that to your tails, Tails!”

Sonic’s brow furrowed as he watched the fennec fox family get their food and leave, the older brother eventually trading his younger sibling for the bag of food so their dad could take over. The frown remained as the bell over the door rang and Sonic stepped up to the counter to give his order, rattling it off from sheer muscle memory alone while his mind wandered elsewhere.

When was the last time he’d picked up Tails?

Probably to put him to bed after catching him asleep at his desk in the Mystic Ruins workshop, but it had admittedly been a while since that had happened. Not because Tails’s sleeping habits had improved—more like they’d worsened—but he was better at keeping himself awake late into the night and Sonic had been away traveling a lot more lately. A lot more…

Sometimes he’d pick him up to get him out of danger in a fight, but it had been a while since anything like that had happened, too. Tails was usually careful and Sonic was usually fast enough to just bust up whatever was putting him at risk. Or he’d grab him by the wrist and drag him out of harm’s way if it really came down to it. He remembered carrying him plenty during his transformations into the werehog, but that had been months ago at this point.

Had it really been months since he’d picked Tails up?

It wasn’t like he needed to be—kid was eight, nearly nine, after all—but a dense pit in his stomach dragged down his entire mood at the thought that Tails was like one of the kids those moms were talking about. Not because he was growing up; heck, nothing was more exciting than seeing all the ways his little bro changed every day. No, it was because it had already happened to him.

Tails’s parents—whoever they were and wherever they’d gone—put him down one day and never picked him up again. Whatever safety, comfort, and love came from being held by someone he was supposed to trust had been lost to him long before Sonic had ever met him. And one day it would happen again.

One day he’d be set down for the last time and never picked back up.

The thought stayed with him all the way back to the workshop, frown still etched onto his face as he stood in the doorway to Tails’s lab. He watched him tinker at his work table, music playing from the surround sound speakers hooked up throughout the workshop. His legs still kicked back and forth where they dangled in the air, much like they had when he’d been little, and his teeth still gnawed little indents into the end of his pencil as he hummed along to the melody, deep in concentration.

Until that concentration was promptly shattered.

“Woah!” Tails yelped, suddenly finding himself hoisted in the air from behind, pencil falling to the floor. “Sonic! What gives? Lemme go!”

Both of Sonic’s arms wrapped around Tails’s middle. The bag of takeout abandoned on the floor somewhere behind him, so he could focus entirely on holding his little brother. His squirmy, huffy, unamused little brother.

“Just checking something,” Sonic chuckled, resting his brow at the nap of Tails’s neck as the crease that had been embedded there finally faded away.

The fight left Tails as confusion replaced indignation. “Sonic?” He craned his neck back to try and check on him.

“Eh, don’t mind me.” Sonic tilted his head up and grinned shamelessly. “Knuckles just bet me that I wasn’t strong enough to carry you anymore. Had to prove him wrong!”

Tails rolled his eyes. “You interrupted my work to manhandle me because of a bet with Knuckles?”

“Well, yeah! My credibility as your big bro was on the line!”

“What credibility? It’s not like this is something you still need to be able to do. I’m not a little kid anymore.”

“Don’t I know it.” Sonic finally set him down, but he couldn’t keep from ruffling the fur between his ears. “Just means I’ll have to keep getting stronger, huh? Keep pace with ya! Trade in one of my leg days for arm days maybe. Or combine ‘em! Heh, I can carry you around while I run up the walls.”

Tails batted his hand away. “What are you even talking about? You don’t need to do that. Actually, please don’t do that.”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun! Used to carry you like that all the time when you were just a little guy! You’d practically beg me to whisk you around at top speeds!”

“Are you trying to embarrass me on purpose?” Tails grumbled, stooping down to pick up his fallen pencil.

“Aw, what’s there to be embarrassed about? And, heck, you still carry me around when I need a lift. That's part of our whole teamwork thing. How’s what I’m doing any different?”

“Because it’s actually useful for you from a tactical standpoint. You can’t fly. Having me carry you can be a strategic advantage in various circumstances. But I don’t need you to carry me, especially if it's just to use me as dead weight. There are plenty of more efficient ways for you to strength train that don’t involve lugging me around like a sack of potatoes.” Tails pointed out, jabbing the lead point of his pencil at Sonic.

Sonic’s grin wavered. “I guess. Sure.”

“Besides, if you’re looking for volunteers, I bet Amy’ll be more than willing.”

“Yeah…”

“Or ask Knuckles since you’re so eager to prove to him how strong you are,” Tails scoffed, hopping back onto his chair. “Heck, you can just carry around weights or a giant rock or an actual sack of potatoes and you’d get the same results.” With a shake of his head, he turned his back on him. “Sometimes your competitiveness can really blind you to the dozens of more logical options that don’t involve dragging me into whatever show you’ve gotta put on. But congratulations, I guess. You win. If Knuckles asks, I’ll let him know you sure showed him.”

Sonic rubbed the back of his quills, glancing away. “No, that’s not… I just made that up on the spot, bud, I wasn’t—” He cut himself off with a wince when Tails turned to look at him. “There was no bet with Knuckles. I just wanted to pick you up.”

Tails stared at him. “And you didn't just say that because…?”

Sonic’s ears lowered. “While I was on my run, I overheard this conversation. About how everyone gets put down one day as a kid and never picked up again. Just got me thinking, that’s all. Couldn’t remember the last time I carried you.”

“Seriously?” Tails arched his brow in disbelief, but at least whatever irritable storm clouds that had been hanging over his head cleared up and an amused grin stretched his muzzle. “Jeez. Since when did you get so sappy?”

Sonic shrugged half-heartedly, still refusing to look at him as he crossed his arms. Embarrassment prickled along his spine, but it paled in comparison to the sting of rejection. Maybe this was what those mothers meant. It wasn’t so much the growing up that hurt as it was the growing apart. Not that they didn’t need you anymore, but that they didn’t want you either.

A heavy sigh broke the silence, then Tails hopped out of his seat to stand in front of him again. “Two weeks ago.”

One of Sonic’s ears swiveled towards him. “Huh?”

“You picked me up two weeks ago after I fixed your Extreme Gear,” he sighed, but exasperated fondness was reflected on his face. “You hefted me up on your shoulder and paraded me around the workshop until you tripped and I had to catch you before you fell flat on your face. And a week before that, you picked me up off the couch and carried me to bed when I fell asleep during movie night. I told you I could go to bed by myself and you said, ‘nice try, spaghetti legs. You can’t fool me with those limp noodles ya call limbs.’”

“Heh.” Sonic’s muzzle quirked up, the impersonation of him terrible on purpose. “Yeah, that… that sounds about right.”

Tails’s expression softened as he reassured him, “You haven’t put me down for the last time yet, but if I ever feel like it’s been too long, I’ll let you know.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it.” Sonic immediately brushed it off, the prickle of embarrassment escalating into an all-out itch with the realization that he’d shown too much of his hand. “It’s not that big a deal. Just something that got into my head, that’s all. I bet I won’t even be thinking about it in a few days. Won’t even remember this conversation even happened!”

“Okay, well… what if I don’t think I’m ready for it to have been the last time?” Tails glanced away as he shifted to hold onto one arm; and Sonic could see his little buddy was fighting against every independent instinct in his body to let him know that. The desire to be seen as grown-up and capable always at odds with his too-big heart. “I mean, like I said, I don’t need to be carried or anything, but… sometimes it’s nice.”

Hope reignited in an instant. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Tails shrugged, the same jerky motion Sonic had just displayed moments again. “Not as strength training or to prove a point or anything, just sometimes... I dunno. Just feels like I haven’t been forgotten.”

Sonic’s grin grew and for the second time he scooped his little brother up into his arms and held him up off the ground, only this time it got a surprised giggle out of him instead. “That’s ‘cuz you’re unforgettable, little bro!” he declared.

Tails latched onto his shoulders to steady himself, even if he knew Sonic wouldn’t let him fall. “Shut up,” he laughed, removing one hand to playfully bop him on the nose. “I was being serious, you know.”

“So was I.” Sonic stopped his whirlwind to focus on the kid he knew he’d always be able to carry with ease. “I know you don’t need it, too, but you’re right. It is nice sometimes.”

“Finally, we’re on the same page again,” Tails snickered. “And about time, too. Our lunch is probably getting cold.”

He pointed at the takeaway bag still sitting on the floor and Sonic’s smile turned sheepish. “Whoops. Eh, I’m sure it’s fine.” He gave Tails a little bounce as a warning, then tossed him in the air so he could start hovering with a whirl of his tails. “Race ya to the kitchen, spaghetti legs!”

“I’ll make you eat those words!” Tails zoomed after him.

Sonic had never considered the idea that he'd one day put Tails down for the last time before, because there was nothing to consider. He could always count on Tails to have his back and lift him up when he needed it. And as long as he could help it, Sonic would always be there to return the favor. They’d keep changing and growing as time went by, but that was one thing that would remain a constant.

One thing they’d never have to doubt.

---

A/N: This is just a little something I wrote a while back that I've been sitting on, lol. These kinds of fics are always fun to play out, but they definitely feel like shameless indulgence on my part xD But it's been a minute and the fic I was hoping to have done this week isn't ready yet, so thought this would be a cute, silly thing to have in the meantime. Might put this on AO3 in the Little Gestures set? Since Sonic needed the reassurance here a bit more than Tails, lol. But we'll see!

#sonic fanfiction #sonic the hedgehog #miles tails prower #sonic and tails #they're brothers your honor #unbreakable bond #the picket fence timeline #the growing pains of a child raising a child lol #best friend big bro and mom dad and picket fence <3 #family fluff #~2000 words #skimmilk stories #wholesome sonic and tails wednesday

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httpsminsgirl · 2 days ago

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๋࣭ ⭑⚝ bonedo and their campus crush ⚝๋࣭ ⭑

contains: fluff, bonedo being down bad, non-idol! bonedo, OT6, campus crush bonedo ! (members are not referred as ''his members'' but ''his friends'') gn! reader (i'm pretty sure) a/n: I have dyslexia so sorry if there are missing punctuations or grammar mistakes, also english isn't my first language!! hope you like it! ^^ requests, feedback and opinions are always appreciated ! <3 warning: none

๋ㅤ ࣭ ㅤ⭑ ☆ㅤ ๋࣭ㅤ ⭑๋ㅤ ࣭ ㅤ⭑ ☆ㅤ ๋࣭ㅤ ⭑๋ㅤ ࣭ ㅤ⭑ ☆ㅤ ๋࣭ㅤ ⭑๋ㅤ ࣭ ㅤ⭑ ☆ㅤ ๋࣭ㅤ ⭑

Jaehyun: (wc: 258)

you'd only have one class with Jaehyun, but he was friends with your friends, so sometimes you'd have lunch together or walk around together, somehow he always had a cute natural blush on his face.

He'd take every and any chance to stare at you, and everytime you'd notice and stare back he'd just avoid all eye contact and hide his face, sometimes his face just would fall straight onto the table and his arms would cover him as he acted tired

all your friends would say he's always really talkative and confident, but with you he was barely able to form sentences that made sense or barely able to talk without stuttering at times, just causing you to call him cute and making him blush more

his friends would love teasing him nonstop, making fun of him every chance they got, specially when you walked in front of them and waved your hand at Jaehyun making him get all flustered but also as excited as a puppy with a ball. As much as they loved teasing his friend, they'd encourage him to ask you out.

You'd end up catching on his little (BIG) crush on you as he was painfully obvious, so you would just make your mind up about asking him out, but that same day he'd come to you with a flower he picked up, face as red as a tomato and unable to look into your eyes as the words ''do you... want to.. maybe go.. hm- on a date with me?'' left his mouth slowly but surely.

Sungho: (wc: 250)

Sungho thought he wasn't obvious at all but his gaze would be following you everywhere you went, even if you were just sitting down doing nothing his gaze was fixed on you and that's when Myungjae had to intervene hitting his elbow ''stop staring so much, weirdo'' his friend said making him get out of his trance ''oh? oh'' he muttered to then focus on class

after that Jaehyun would tell the whole group about it and they'd start to make fun of him but he wasn't paying attention, you just entered the lunch room and that made him get lost in you once again.

The guys would have to help Sungho on this one, he wasn't one to be shy, but he was just mentally blocked this time. The guys would accidentally push his friend towards you causing you both to crash onto each other as Sungho apologized nonstop and you just gave him a reassuring smile to then leave hearing how he cursed his friends afterwards

next day he'd wait for you at lunch just to apologize once again, and maybe even take a chance? as soon as he saw you he walked to you, blushing and scratching his neck as he apologized, after that was done there was silence for some seconds, until he build up enough courage ''I- I think you're really.. p-pretty'' he said a bit unsure and flustered ''would you like to have lunch with me?'' he asked now as you smiled and nodded, hearing what you supposed, were his friends cheering in the background

Riwoo: (wc: 259)

Riwoo was really quiet about it, no one knew about his crush on you. He kept it completely buried, or so he thought until he had to do a project with you and he didn't know how to even articulate a single word causing him to blush embarrassed and for you to look at him worried.

Next meeting Riwoo would be more prepared, but he'd still be quiet, he wouldn't talk much, but he'd steal glances at you and maybe even slowly start a conversation as he warmed up to you and tried to break out of his introvert shell

He'd usually bring snacks, coffee or sweets to have as you worked on your project, and he'd always bring you the best, your favorite things, if you weren't onto sweets like him, he'd make sandwhiches just for you, excited to see you try it and get opinions on it, he'd be really attentive and warm to you. a lot of heart fluttering moments just catching him stare at you and smile or listen to you and agreeing to whatever you say.

As the project was done and you wouldn't have an excuse to see each other anymore, he'd have to prepare himself and tell his friends about it, just to get them to encourage him and prepare him for the big moment. he'd just give you a cup of your favorite drink next day before class and a little note that said ''meet up at 7pm? I'll pick you up... if you want to'' making you chuckle and nod

Taesan: (wc: 265)

Taesan was one to look at you at all times, or most of the time trying to play it off, only thing was that his facial expression was so neutral and unreadable you didn't know if he looked at you cause you had something on your face or just because

He'd never get close to you but he'd look at you from the distance, just secretly admiring you, his friends knew about it and even though they wanted to tease him they knew better than to mess with him about his feelings, something he was quite sensitive about.

As he'd keep an eye on you he'd learn your habits imitating them at times, he'd know what you liked and what you didn't, when you didn't do your homework or if you were awake the whole night.

He'd veeery painfully slowly get close to you, offering you some candy, water, or snacks he had in his bag if he felt you were hungry, even letting you copy his homework if he saw you didn't do it

You slowly got more used to him, his coldness, the distance he'd always keep and how he wasn't someone that talked a lot, but it was fine. you started talking with him at class, just making up for everything he missed, whether it was talking, warmth, initiative, you took it all, and started getting closer but he never really seemed to be interest or attracted to you, until one day he asked if he could walk you home and in the way he held your hand for the first time.

Leehan: (wc: 270)

Leehan and you shared classes together, but not like it mattered, you never talked anyways. he caught your eye, and you had a crush on him, but just something you used to have the will to go to class. until one day you found out you both have some friends in common

at first he was quiet, he never really talked to you or looked at you so you'd think he disliked you or just found you annoying, until your friends started teasing you ''he always looks at you when you're not looking'' they said and that made you feel just a little bit crazy

as the group got closer and closer you slowly started talking too, your friends mostly led the conversation but the only answers he'd pay attention to were yours. One afternoon at the hangout you weren't feeling really well, but no one noticed, or so you thought, until he asked you if you were okay.

You took a walk together as you got some fresh air and he got you a sugary drink to help you feel better, as you did, you both were walking back to where your friends were, but you didn't want to go with them, and Leehan didn't either. ''what if we hang out together? let's do something more relaxing... just- you know... so that you don't overwork yourself?'' he said and you smiled nodding, after that night you'd always sit together in class and talk, have lunch together and he would always make you feel almost crazy as he stared at you attentively with his beautiful brown eyes and a soft smile.

Woonhak: (wc: 181)

Woonhak was also one to be painfully obvious, but also painfully cocky. You would see him sometimes in the hallways, lunch room, or with your group of friends, he was always looking at you with a smile, waving at you like an excited puppy that just met eyes with his owner after a long day of not seeing them

he'd get closer and closer, ask you about your classes and without even asking you if you wanted to or not, he'd walk you to your class and wait for you after if he could. His friends would tease him non-stop, maybe even say he seemed like an stalker or a bit too over the top, so one afternoon he asked you if you thought he was annoying. You hated to admit it, but his cockiness, warmth and attentiveness got to you, you loved the attention he gave you and how smiley he was always specially when looking at you

after a lot of teasing and dares he ended up asking you to date him with a bouquet of flowers one day as you were walking back to your dorms together

๋ㅤ ࣭ ㅤ⭑ ☆ㅤ ๋࣭ㅤ ⭑๋ㅤ ࣭ ㅤ⭑ ☆ㅤ ๋࣭ㅤ ⭑๋ㅤ ࣭ ㅤ⭑ ☆ㅤ ๋࣭ㅤ ⭑๋ㅤ ࣭ ㅤ⭑ ☆ㅤ ๋࣭ㅤ ⭑

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burning-omen · 2 days ago

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With Everything I Say and Do (part 1)

Jason Todd x Male!reader

(A/n: Unrelated to the fic but I love Jason's fuck ass hair from utrh. Also, this isn't meant to be one specific version of Jason, I pulled from several different canons and also made shit up while writing this. Also, also, peep the title, Brokeback Mountain reference, I know I'm so cool)

Ao3 ver.

Summary: Jason isn't stalking you, stalking would imply something more sinister than what he was doing- he was just...watching you in a completely non obsessive, platonic manner.

W.C: 6,486

Warnings: THIS IS A FLUFF FIC I SWEAR, PTSD, childhood trauma, mommy AND daddy issues (both reader and jason), child abuse, mentions of Jason and Bruce fighting, depressive episodes, anger issues, murders, child death, bombings, canon typical Gotham violence, stalking (affectionate), breaking and entering, Y/n's friends being cringe but I love them so shut up about it, Barbara and Jason being friends, homelessness and being kicked out (reader, pre-fic) mentions of Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, and Bruce Wayne (not really a warning just wanted to mention it), also, I didn't send this to my proof reader beforehand so if you see a fuck up feel free to mention it.

God, you forgot how ridiculous you were in middle school. Reading through your old journal- which had been shoved in a box once it was full, then shoved in another box when you moved out of your parents house-it really just showed that your avoidant tendencies had been festering for far longer than you’d care to admit. Seriously, were you actually that concerned about- you re-read the chicken scratch that was your writing back then, squinting slightly- the fucking moon landing of all things? No, you weren’t, but it had been April 28th and the day before had been a lot. So now you have a passage about the moon landing.

It had been closer to the bottom of the box, covered by old memorabilia from your early teen years. With a trash bag to one side of you and a pile of things you were keeping on the other.

It’s about time you went through it- the box has been sitting under your bed long enough, and really, when were you ever going to need an old hoodie from Gotham City Middle School? Never, so it went in the trash pile. You, of course, got distracted by your diary and have been reading through the pages for the past half hour- you really don’t remember being this edgy- good fucking lord. You flipped through the last couple of pages until you landed on what was supposed to be the blank, white card stock at the back of the book- only to see the word “LOSER” written in big, red letters. You blinked, now who the hell did that? Defacing your perfectly good diary. Under the graffiti, in smaller letters, was “-Jason”

You closed the book. Of course. Who else?

Really. He’s the only other person you’d let have the book long enough for this kind of vandalism to make sense. He’s the only person who your adolescence self wouldn’t have thrown a fit at for touching your property- or making fun of you, even in a joking fashion. You smiled down at the book for a second before tossing it in the keep pile.

You pulled the next item out of your little memory box. It was your senior portrait- sorta. It was just a picture of you in your cap and gown- you’d skipped school the day the actual senior portraits were taken- not intentionally, you just skipped school a lot then, and happened to hop the gate that day- and every other day that week. You were smiling in the picture, but your eyes were far too dark and far too tired, you weren’t standing straight, slouching and leaning slightly- but it was good enough for your mom, so it hung in the living room of your parents house for the next 3 years. She’d tried to put makeup under your eyes, fussing with your hair and your gown until she decided to take the photo as you were. Some days you wonder where that patience had gone- that forgiveness and kindness that she showed to you that day. You sighed, you could reminisce and lament about your parents later, for now you needed to go through the rest of this shit.

You flipped the frame over, bending the little metal pieces back, and taking the picture out. Folding it down the middle and sitting it on your night stand- you’d find a place for it later- the frame went with the rest of the trash.

The box was almost empty- small knick knacks at the bottom, some more clothes, an umbrella- you picked it up, checking for holes in the canopy. It was old, but it was better than any other cheap umbrella you’ve ever had. Resisting the pestering urge to run your fingers over the bronze “J.T” inset in the handle, you set it in the keep pile. The rest of the box was pretty much trash- buttons and pins, crumbled class notes, more school spirit wear, and Gotham High School's Library’s one and only copy of Pride and Prejudice. Oops- you hadn’t meant to take that. Letting out a quiet sigh into your empty room, you thought, ‘oh well’ you doubted they wanted it back after the years it's been rotting- and you really didn’t want it either, it was dirty and had something inappropriate written on nearly every page. An unsalvageable childhood artifact- now bagged up with everything else you deemed trash.

The sun had set hours ago, and it was a weekend- Gotham’s crime scene was always overly active on weekends, and you’d rather not get mugged on your way to the trash shoot-

‘Not like I’ve got anything to give..’

–Still, you sat the bag by your front door. Walking through your dark apartment, the only light coming from the desk lamp in your bedroom, the loud, creaking floor covering the sound of your footsteps. You weren’t afraid of the dark- but you did live in Gotham- so you were more reasonably cautious of the dark than anything. You should be- you’ve had the literal Batman in your apartment before. Why that freak was in your bedroom, you may never know, but he left as soon as you woke up so you decided- after changing the lock on your door and buying a gun and deadbolts for every window and door in your house, that you weren’t going to worry about it.

Even if you’re 90% sure he bugged your place- you’d just have to deal with it. He is Batman- invasive and mysterious is kinda what he does according to the Gotham Gazette.

Back in your room, you shoved everything from the “keep” pile back in the box to be dealt with…eventually. You’ll get to it by the end of the week- probably- no, nope, no more procrastination, you’ll put it away in the morning- after breakfast and a shower.

Kicking your slippers off, stepping onto the freezing, wood floor for just a second before crawling into bed- your heater was broken and the city was just as cold as it always was, so you wrapped yourself in every cover and blanket you had in a nearly successful attempt at comfort. A bit of cold air would seep in every couple of minutes, but you could handle it, at least for the next few days until the building manager is able to get it fixed (turns out it's not just your heater, no it’s everybody's heater. So your entire apartment building is freezing, but you’re freezing together- how touching). You rolled onto your side, sticking an arm out of the burrow of blankets you’d created and turning off the lamp on your night stand, pulling your arm back in as fast as you could to keep any more heat from escaping before settling in for the night.

—

‘Damn, It’s cold out,’ Jason thought for the millionth time tonight, crouching down on the dingy, rusted roof of yet another warehouse- fifth one tonight- watching from the skylight as nothing happened. His helmets night vision didn’t show the slightest hint of movement, not even a fucking rat scampering across the ground. Just like there had been nothing in the last 4 warehouses. At least this one is somewhat familiar- his gaze wandered over to warehouse A-9 for about the hundredth time since they arrived. He knew the night crew was in, only a handful of people occupied a handful of buildings, mostly in the A buildings, where all the important shit was kept- Red Hood and Nightwing, however, were stationed on top of the B-16 building, as instructed.

Rising from a crouch, catching the attention of Nightwing, his knees popped.

“Feeling restless?” He asked.

At first Jason just grunted- obviously- he’s been sitting in one spot for 40 minutes and the hunch that Batman had them working off of seemed to be a dud, but he can’t just leave. He could, Bruce doesn’t control him- but after a few too many dramatic family feuds and attempted (and successful) murders Jason is just really, really fucking tired of constantly arguing and fighting.

He’s “back to being the favorite” Dick had joked a couple times- after he decided that maybe there was some merit to a no-kill-rule, and maybe Tim wasn’t so horrible, the kid’s kinda funny actually, smart as shit too. And Bruce..things were..fine. For the most part. It wasn’t entirely Bruce’s fault- he still held a grudge- the clown lived entirely too long after, but Jason already knew that Bruce had no interest in playing executioner- judge and jury was fine- but he wasn’t going to kill. Jason could understand that, especially after going off the murderous deep end himself- once you start it feels like you can’t stop, like there’s no point in stopping. So sure, he gets why Bruce didn’t- doesn’t make it hurt less though.

“Any word from B?” He mumbled, his voice made robotic and stiff by the modulator in his mask.

Nightwing silently fell back, sitting with his legs crossed, his attention now fully on Jason, “Nothing yet.” he sighed, stretching his arm, a amused grin on his face, “Not trying to jinx it, but I think we finally got a calm night in Gotham, who would of thought-?”

Right on queue, a deafening, blinding explosion went off- about two hundred feet away. Jason barely managed to not be fully knocked off his feet, couching down near his brother, one hand gripping his arm as the aftershock sent strong winds their way- mostly a comfort for Jason, but there was no time to think about that- because what the fuck just exploded and why?!

He glared at his brother through the helmet- and no, Dick couldn’t see it, but he still deserved it.

“See what you did? Now we have to deal with this shit.” Jason said, no real malice in his voice, mostly annoyance that his already long night was about to get even longer.

“Me?” Nightwing gasped.

“Yes, you- stop testing the universe, you know it doesn’t like us.”

The conversation ended there. Jason hopped off the roof, landing in an uncomfortable crouch- ‘My knees were going to be demolished in the morning...’ he thought before heading in the direction of the explosion- hearing Dick following behind him with his near silent landing.

Waking up to a hundred texts and calls was…new. Your friends, people you hadn’t talked to in ages, and most noticeably, your estranged parents. You blinked at the screen as more text rolled in. You decided you weren’t dealing with that. It’s entirely too early. Breaking free of your cover cocoon and rolling out of bed, phone discarded..somewhere in there.

You showered before anything, letting the shower run long enough for the entire bathroom to fill with a heavy fog before stepping in. Taking as much time as you physically could, until your skin was steaming and tinted red from the heat. Not even bothering with a towel as you walked straight back to your room, dressing warmly before flopping back down on your bed. You had a shift today. You used to take night shifts- sleeping through the day like a true night owl. But, in a desperate attempt to regain control over your life after what felt like a never ending downward spiral, you switched to the morning shift.

It was a win-win scenario, really. It paid just as much as the night shift, and you’d have the entire afternoon to yourself, and you would sleep at night, like normal, well adjusted people did.

You had planned on having a serene morning- getting to that box, having a nice well balanced breakfast, then heading to work, but your phone would not stop buzzing. Even under a mound of covers it was distracting as all hell.

“Ok..” You muttered as you dug it out, “What do you want?”

‘Y/n bby if you can see this I love you <3’

‘He’s in a better place now (hell)’

‘PLEASE stop joking like that its stressing me out’

Seems like your friends groupchat, aptly named “Gotham’s prison for whores”, was having quite the morning, hundreds of messages ranging from genuine expressions fear to half hearted jokes.

‘‘Tf are y’all going through???’’ you texted back

A collective group response came instantly.

‘‘He’s alive????’’

‘‘OH THANK FUCK YOUE NOT DEAD’’

“LETSGOOO”

‘‘*you’re’’ you responded without thinking, before fully processing what you’d just read, “why would I be dead??’’

‘‘Dude.’’

You waited for them to continue.

“GHL blew up last night, thought you worked the night shift????’’

Oh.

Ok, so you don’t have a shift today.

“WTF no I switched to the morning shift a couple weeks ago what happened”

“Idk man shit blew up, Nightwing and the red one were out there.”

‘The red one?’ you paused to think of who The Red One was, not even near processing that your job had blown up- wasn’t Robin, he knew that one- and his cape covered most red in his costume anyways. Red Robin, despite his name, his costume was more black than red, and your friend was more likely to call him CondomMan or something, because of his head piece thing.

“Bitch, do you mean Red Hood??”

“IM NOT FROM GOTHAM LEAVE ME ALONE”

Followed by-

“THERES TO MANY OF THEM I CAN NOT REMBER THEM ALL”

You laughed for a second, before remembering that your mother had also texted you and suddenly any joy you felt was sucked away- fuck, why wasn’t she blocked.

“Are you ok?” She asked

“I’m fine.”

Simple, blunt, and definitely not an invitation back into your life. You closed out of her contact and moved onto the mountain of text you still had. How did this many people have your number- how did this many people know where you work- worked, past tense.

After an hour of assuring dozens of practical strangers and distant relatives that you were perfectly fine and no you didn’t need anybody to check on you- you decided to get to the bottom of your sudden popularity. Seriously, none of these people reached out when you got kicked out, or worse, some outright denied you when you asked for help. They weren’t obligated to, but they can’t come around acting like their hearts were absolutely broken and bleeding at your supposed death.

With minimal digging, you figured it out. All you had to do was open any social media your mother had- it’s been, what? 4 hours since she first texted you, and she’s got two dozen posts about you up, with your number and your job posted for the world to see on each one, half of them posted over 5 hours ago, the others posted at random with the latest being only 12 minutes ago.

‘Fuck, this was so her, why the hell would she think this was ok?’

Another way to garner attention and sympathy and now she’s dragging you into it, like sure, you could have been dead, but her text didn’t exactly scream “I’m worried about you”.

You opened your messages with her again,

“Take the posts down, mom. Thanks.”

___

Why was the sun in his face?

Jason made sure the curtains were drawn so he wouldn’t have this problem. Cracking his eyes open he spots his brother- the traitorous bitch- standing by the window, opening the curtains just enough just to peek through. His personal cell phone pressed to his ear, talking quietly to somebody.

“I’ll uh- I’ll go check on him later today Mrs. L/n..”

‘L/n..?’ Jason pushed himself up. ‘Ah, fuck. Please let it just be a god damn coincidence.’

Dick glanced back at Jason, a tired smile flashed across his face. Jason let him stay at his safe house for the night so he wouldn’t have to travel all the way to the manor, or worse, all the way back to Bludhaven. Laying back, Jason continued to listen in to the half of the conversation he could hear.

“No, sorry, of course not- I’ll call him right-” Dick let out a frustrated sigh.

“I will try Mrs. L/n. Right, thanks- bye.”

Despite the nagging feeling he knew exactly who was on the other side of that line, he asked, “Who was that?”

Dick sat on the edge of his bed, another irritated sigh leaving him.

“Remember Y/n?”

Ah, fuck.

“Yeah.” he said, doing his best to give the impression of disinterest and flippant-ness .

“That was his mom- Y/n works over at the GHL Warehouses- well, he used to before last night. His mom wanted to make sure he was ok.”

Jason breathed out- you were fine. He knew you were fine because you don’t work the night shift anymore- when the bomb went off you should have been safely at home, sound asleep, trying to get some rest for your morning shift.

“Is he?” The deception in his voice was blatant this time, his thoughts having drifted to you and away from the mask he had perfected literally a second ago. Dick turned to look at him, a grin splitting across his face. Dick, who was just as much of a detective as the rest of the family, clocked that something was off immediately.

“What?”

“Oh Jason,” He said, all too happy to have been just talking about you potentially getting blown up. “Are you still into him?”

“Get out.” Jason responded, which only made Dick happier.

“You are, aww Baby Bird’s got a little crush-”

“Fuck off, I’m serious.”

Years ago, before his death, Jason had confided in his brother. During a quiet moment in the library of the manor, Jason told Dick that he liked guys, well, one guy, so far. He didn’t know what he was then and doesn't have the energy to label it now, but he does know that at 14 he had a massive crush on a boy his age that he went to school with– which only became a hundred times worse when he actually became friends with said boy. Y/n. You. One of his few attachments outside of his family.

When he came back he didn’t think about you for years, revenge, rage, and violence were the only things on his mind- but when he settled, you popped back into his mind. Just as much of a stalker as the rest of his family, he did some digging on you. It was invasive as hell, as he went through every bit of public (i.e., the stuff that was only slightly illegal to obtain) information about you before asking Barbara for more private(super illegal) information.

Barb- whose closeness to Jason surprised everyone, including themselves (paralleling traumas, they supposed)- was more than willing. Her moral compass was a bit sideways, understandably, but she couldn’t help but “play match-maker” as she had put it. He intentionally ignored that comment from his accomplice.

It’s how he knew about your work schedule, and just about everything else about you- and why he really, really hated your fucking parents.

He was…captivated. It wasn’t love, he didn’t love you. He didn’t even know you anymore.

…

He should check on you, though. Losing your job so suddenly couldn’t have been easy for you. Finding a legal job in Gotham was hard enough as it was- he didn’t want you spiraling, or worse, getting involved with criminals- except for him. He huffed out a short chuckle. He wished you could get involved with him. He was, legally, still very, very dead. And you had no idea he was back. Which he’s somewhat happy for.

He killed…a lot of people, he got his ass handed to him in public by his father, and had lost his shit in PTSD fueled episodes of rage multiple times.

It was better if you stayed as far away from him as possible. Your life was just getting good, you had friends, an apartment of your own, you could probably fuck anyone you wanted- an unsurprising amount of people were into that independent, blue collar thing you had going on- Jason sure as shit wasn’t immune to it. He wouldn’t be mad if you did- you don’t. He has his ways of knowing. (your entire apartment is bugged thanks to Bruce’s almost unfounded paranoia, which was only a bit fair, Jason and Bruce were still on new ground in their… reborn relationship when he broke into your house for the first time, B probably thought he was trying to kill you, which- if it had been any other member of the family- would have been outlandish and entirely unfounded. But it was him, so…yeah, wasn’t really coming out of left field with that one) Which was a surprise, but a relieving one.

Fucking hell, Dick was still looking at him with that stupid smile.

“You’ve got a boyfriend.”

Jason, as he did everytime a conversation steered in a direction he didn’t like, brought up his own death.

“I don’t have anything, Dick, can’t be anything to him if he still thinks I’m dead.”

“..right.”

A moment passed before Dick spoke again, “He’s fine, by the way. Barb sent a list of the confirmed victims earlier. He wasn’t on it.”

___

Fuck Bruce Wayne. No, really. This guy fucking sucked, you hated him and you hated that the only way you’d be keeping your apartment was by signing up for his stupid unemployment program. You’ve reloaded your inbox a dozen times waiting for the confirmation email, after spending hours upon hours reading through fine print and having to dig out your own documents, send proof of unemployment- you’re brand new letter of termination had been emailed to sometime earlier- and digitally signing your signature with your mouse pad and just wading through piles and piles of exhausting corporate bullshit-

You were really sick of this shit, to say the least.

‘It's been five minutes..’ You thought, glaring at your laptop screen.

Trying not to think about how this was literally the only way you’d be keeping your apartment and not go back to living in your car, you reloaded the page again.

And again and again until finally-

“Congratulations! You have been accepted into the Wayne Int…”

You didn’t even need to open the email, the preview told you all you needed to know, a long sigh of relief leaving you as you shut your laptop.

Well, that’s over, now what.

You’ve worked nearly every day since you’ve got this apartment, and when you weren’t working you were either catching up on sleep or, well, that’s it really. Despite planning on “having afternoons to yourself” when you switched schedules, you haven’t actually done anything with those afternoons, cleaning, watching TV, and texting more than anything. Because of course none of your friend schedules aligned for more than a couple minutes a day- usually early in the morning or really late at night.

You breathed in again- looking out the window, you could see the sun just barely peeking over the horizon, mostly hidden by the typical gothic skyscrapers that were found all over Gotham. Another heavy breath, you rolled out of bed, feeling a sudden pang of hunger after neglecting yourself all day.

You didn’t bother taking your phone with you, even though your mother had pretty much announced to her loyal 1,267 followers that you were okay, you were still getting text and calls at random- you needed to take your mind off of all of this for at least a moment, cooking and then maybe a long, long sleep could help. You did a mental coin toss on what to eat, burger or pasta- either would do, really- conjuring up a slow, dramatic coin toss in your head, letting your subconscious decide.

Heads. Pasta it is.

Rummaging through your cabinet until you pulled out the little pot you were looking for, perfect for a single serving. Filling it with water from the sink- completely forgetting for a moment that this was Gotham and you probably should have checked to see if it had been poisoned or tampered with- it was such a common occurrence that there was a whole app for it…Created and funded by Bruce Wayne of course. You sighed for about the millionth time today. That fucking jerk has his hands in everything- can’t even be in your own home without running into the motherfucker.

You huffed, it’d be fine. If there was something wrong with the water you would have seen it on the news.

Putting the pot on the stove, repeatedly turning the knob until the fire lit. Putting a bit of salt in the water as it heated- staring into the pot for who knows how long as bubbles started to form. Thinking about things hurt right now. You lost half of your co-workers, your income, the first thing you felt you earned on your own, and on top of that you had to indirectly beg a man you couldn’t stand for money. It would only get worse from here. That was guaranteed- but you couldn’t spiral- because that would only make things so, so much worse. So, you’d face whatever the next couple of weeks brought with maturity and strength and when it was all over things would be semi-normal.

Hopefully.

You moved to the cabinet and pulled out a half empty box of bowtie style noodles and dumped them into the boiling water- then moved over to the fridge to see if you had any jarred sauce.

___

Barbara was just about the only person Jason actively texted- he didn’t need casual conversation with anybody else, not yet anyways. Roy maybe could have been the exception, but Roy barely responded, Jason doubted he even kept his phone on him.

Leaving his bike in the alley before scaling your building- resting on the roof for a short moment as he texted Barbara.

“Think you can keep B out?”

She didn’t respond instantly, but when she did,

“You know he’s still home, right?”

‘Obviously, Barb’ he thought as he typed out a response

“I’m just checking on him.”

Then,

“He won’t see me.”

“You’re getting bold, thinking of saying ‘hi’ soon?”

No, definitely not. That would be a horrible idea. It would blow up in his face and he’d not only freak you the fuck out but would piss off his entire family (excluding Barbara, and maybe Dick- now that he’s thinking about it Tim would probably have been a good accomplice too- no, he’s not forming a little stalker crew, not gonna happen). It was, definitively, a terrible idea. Even if the infinitesimally small chance that you wouldn’t lose your shit and he was able to have any semblance of a relationship with you was calling his name like no other, he wasn’t going to take that risk. Stalking you- no, watching you in a completely non obsessive, platonic manner, would be all he did- and an occasional breaking and entering. But that was all.

“No” he finally responded.

She sent a sad face emoji back, then a middle finger, then,

“You’ve got 5 minutes.”

That jolted him into action, the sun quickly setting over Gotham as he crossed the building. He’s done this enough times to know just how to get through your window. Using a rope to scale down to the 4th floor windows- stopping right next to yours, closed, but unlocked for once. Good, he wasn’t looking forward to picking the lock.

As quietly as he could, he pushed your window open, cursing at the small creek it made about halfway up. Slipping inside, landing silently on his toes, pausing before pressing forward. Pressed against the wall of your nearly pitch black room, your bedroom door cracked open he could see the yellow-ish light emitting from outside it, he could hear you shuffling around out there, the faucet running for a second, and the ticking of the gas stove as you turned it on and off and on again. You were fine, you were up and active, cooking, not sulking. You were fine.

Mission complete.

Time to go..

He heard you open the fridge, let out a small sigh before closing it.

He leaned closer to the door, peaking through the small opening- your apartment small enough for him to see everything from his place in your room, including you standing in the kitchen standing over a boiling pot of whatever it was you were cooking. Ok, seriously, you were ok, he needs to go- he’s already been here for too long- he’s sure his time is up. You were fine, you are fine.

“Fuck, ow-” You muttered to yourself, barely audible in the already near silent apartment.

He pressed forward again, taking a step, then another, until he was standing just behind the door- half hidden in the dark room, illuminated by the kitchen light.

—--

‘Stupid fucking cheap pot, why the fuck is the handle so hot?’ You thought as you checked your hand for any actual burns. You were fine, but dammit that hurt- first thing you’d when you got a new job, buy better pots and pans- ones that didn’t scorch your hands when you touched the handle. Turning around to face the sink, and run some cold water over your flushed hand-

What the fuck was that.

You paused at the sink. As you turned, you caught a glimpse of something…red. Just barely illuminated, standing in your bedroom.

Your heart dropped to your stomach, a feeling of impending doom washes over you as you turn to stare at whatever it is you just saw. Red and shiny, with stark white eyes- the rest of whatever the hell it was is hidden by the darkness of your bedroom and the door.

A part of you wants to run- out of the apartment and into the street, scream for help at the top of your lungs until either whatever it was caught you, or one of many vigilantes showed up. Unfortunately, you lived in the absolute shit hole that was Gotham- so you were more likely to be an unsolved case than actually get saved. You really, really didn’t want to join the billion of unsolved cases already plaguing Gotham- you had so much more life to live, and shit was just getting good, well- not really but you still didn’t want to fucking die. Shit still could get good in the future! As long as you don’t get murdered tonight.

‘Ok, time to think rationally,’ You thought, eyes still locked on the whatever-the-fuck-it-is standing in the doorway, ‘I’m not dead yet, so maybe it doesn’t want to kill me, maybe it’s..I don’t know, trying to rob me or something.’

Robbed was probably the best possibility, considering all the other things that it could be.

“I do not have any money, I’m poor as fuck I swear, can you please leave?” You tried.

You nearly tripped over your own feet, clambering backwards as the thing moved forward, stepping into the light and-

…

…Somebody is fucking with you, you almost immediately decide as your brain finally processes what you had been seeing this entire time. Fucking Red Hood. Every bit of fear is replaced with frustration and annoyance.

Taking a deep breath, you put your hands over your face, letting out a groan that quickly turns into a small, muffled scream.

Why? Why you? Huh? This is the second vigilante home intrusion you’ve experienced. You weren’t afraid of vigilantes, you had no reason to be- you aren’t a criminal and unlike certain organizations, they actually protect the innocent and whatnot. So, for you at the very least, seeing them was less of a terrifying experience than it was a wonder to behold…as long as they’re not in your fucking house. You just wanted to eat dinner. You just wanted to eat dinner and go to bed and then watch stupid 2000’s shows in the morning. But no Red Hood is in your house, and now your whole night is interrupted and you’re stressed and irritated and you really want to throw the nearest thing at him- but that’s rude and he might actually be here for a reason so you should really get out of your own head and hear him out.

You bring your hands down to your side, take a deep breath, and stare right into the eyes of his helmet.

“What do you want?”

—--

Jason has a very inappropriate answer to that question- he doesn’t say it, he doesn’t even give himself the chance to fully think it. But he does need to find an appropriate answer as to why he was in your house.

“You work at GHL?” He asked, his voice unwavering.

You rolled your eyes so hard he thought they might get stuck in the back of your skull. Fuck, you’ve always had a bad attitude, he hasn’t seen it up close in years. He hasn’t seen you this close in years either. During his…other illegal excursions in your house, he always kept a respectful distance from you, mostly out of fear of waking you up, but also because standing over you while you were asleep just felt…wrong.

You groaned, crossing your arms as your glare set on him.

“Yes, I worked at GHL before it blew up, no, I don’t have anything to do with the explosion, I was here all night, there are cameras in the halls, feel free to check them if you think I'm lying. Is there anything else or can you go now?”

Fuck- uh.

“No.” He said, before he could even come up with a reason why.

“‘No’?!” You were, reasonably, upset by this, “Why the hell not?”

‘Good question,’ he thought.

“I know-” Jason started without actually knowing what he wanted to say, his voice modulator making him sound a lot more sure of his words than he actually was, “-you’ve been very..vocal about your disapproval of the police in Gotham, they were temporarily holding a shipment of weapons and ammo there.”

Accusing you of being a criminal maybe wasn’t the best option, definitely wouldn’t get him into your good graces, but it was believable- his preexisting knowledge of you made it just that much easier, even if you look offended by the accusation.

“So what, you’re stalking me?”

You don’t even know the half of it..

“Investigating you.” He responded sternly.

You nodded, so clearly on the verge of losing your shit, “Right, right, ‘investigating’. I don’t care what you call it, I already told you I wasn’t involved in whatever happened so can you please-”

A sudden, blaring alarm shocked both you and Jason. You stormed back into the kitchen a pot of what was previously edible pasta sauce having been reduced to a soldering, smoking mess. Frustrated mumbling filled the space, you groaned and growled as you grabbed the pot handle with a towel and damn near threw it into the sink, turning on the faucet and letting it run. You turned to him, thoroughly pissed off at this point, so many thoughts and words festering in your mind- probably vulgar and violent- but you said nothing, clenching your fist at him and staring at his mask with an nearly dazed but somehow still enraged expression before turning to handle the fire alarm. Using a towel to fan smoke away from it until it stopped beeping.

Then, you sat on the floor, facing away from him. Breathing deeply, rocking slightly. Jason just stared, there wasn’t much else he could do-

He heard you sigh, the tension in your shoulder reducing until you were slightly hunched over.

“You owe me dinner.” You said, calmly.

Jason blinked behind his mask- that’s it? You were over it? Just like that?

He halfway expected to be yelled at, hell, he’s surprised you didn’t throw the pot at him. But the ability to just calm down wasn’t something that came easily, if at all to Jason.

“I can do that.”

You sighed again, pushing yourself up off the floor. Turning to him, you face tired and your eyes dark- he knows he just made an already hard day even harder for you, he knows the guilt is going to crush him later, too.

“I know you’re just doing your job and all but you’re kinda a jerk, you know that, right?” Your tone was flat and dim, “Look, I don’t know anything about what happened. I’m just…really fucking tired now so can you just go?”

I know

“I believe you.”

You sighed, “Good, I’m going to bed now, good night.”

He watched as you walked past him, your shoulder bumping him and he tried to ignore how his heart clenched at even the briefest touch from you.

“Oh, and-” you glanced over your shoulder at him, “-if you’re going to come back, use the door.”

You didn’t give him time to respond, closing the bedroom door behind you.

He stood in your apartment alone, a minute passes, and then another as he attempts to process what had just happened and just how fucked he was when Bruce inevitably found out. But…

A small smile crept on his face, could have been a lot worse, you don’t hate him, hell, you invited him to come back in a way. Bruce might scream his head off at him and he’d likely be placed under some kind of suspension and heavily monitored for the foreseeable future. But none of that mattered right now, because he’s seen you, he’s talked to you, and suddenly he has a goal.

—-

Last night felt like a fever dream, but you could tell it was real. Early in the morning, when the sun was just barely peeking through your window, there was a knock on your door- your bedroom door. You should have been freaked out by it, but you had a sneaking suspicion that a familiar red jerk was on the other side. Stretching and yawning before getting up, your body was more tired than you realized, feeling heavy and anchored as you dragged your feet to the door. When you opened it, there was nobody there, but a little white paper bag sat on the floor just outside. You looked around, the living room and the kitchen were both empty and the big red jerk was nowhere to be seen.

Taking the bag in your hands, the familiar logo of the 24 hour cafe down the street plastered on it, as well as a note. Taped to the bag, a torn square of paper read,

“Not dinner, but I figured this was close enough.

And I used the door this time. You’re welcome.

-R.H”

And for some stupid, unfortunate reason, you found it charming.

“Fucking stalker..” you muttered, fighting a smile as walked back to your bed with the bag.

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x male reader #jason todd x male!reader #male!reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #red hood x male reader #red hood x male!reader #red hood x you #red hood x reader #x male reader #male reader #x male!reader

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thebrothel · 3 days ago

Note

Heyyyy❤️ I’m here for the sleepover and I hope I’m not late😅 I don’t know what I’m asking for, anything honestly, but I’ve been thinking a lot about my man Nightwalks and his friendship with baby Vamp. I love their bromance so much and I’m definitely not opposed to be in that sandwich. So what if my car breaks down and it’s raining and I happen to walk to the brothel to ask for help and Nws and Vamp take me to their room to warm me up and Vamp is sweet and a little shy and Nws is 🥵🫠😵‍💫 asdfghjkl ya know, does his thing (this scenario brought me comfort when I was sick the last time🥹) I’m not even asking for smut. Just anything about these two will make me happy❤️😍

Love y’all and love you, Toxy💖💖💖

men of the night

After blowing out your tire, you pull into a sprawling, wooded estate. It's a foggy evening, and you get quite a scare. But your luck turns around when a mysterious man carries you to safety.

STARRING: vampire!Joel x f!reader x night walks!joel

LENGTH: 3.6k words

CONTENT: 18+ comfort, smut, minor injury, blood

NOTES: Love you, kate! I'm so happy these two bring you comfort. Ty ALL for your patience and support. Hope y'all enjoy this one. I do. 🩷

Your phone has been dead for a while by the time your tire pops. As your car hobbles along, you have no choice but to turn into the first driveway you see. Two big, steel gates are sitting open enough for you to pull in. Just after dusk, a dense fog has settled over the area.

What is this place?

You drive slowly, looking for signs of life. Someone you can ask for help, or at least to use their phone.

The road is winding. There are woods, lots of woods. When the tread falls off your tire completely, you’re still in a remote part of the complex, but you have no choice but to pull over.

It starts raining.

You get out your tire-changing supplies and you’re taking the spare tire out of your trunk when an imposing figure appears in your peripheral vision. You stare at the tire and freeze. Your heart races. You’d know that figure anywhere. That stance. But it must be your imagination. Michael Myers isn’t stalking around some remote old estate waiting for a victim to blow out their tire. It’s probably the property owner. . . or groundskeeper. Huge groundskeeper. By the time you find the courage to look in the hulking figure’s direction, he’s gone. You exhale in relief, but then–are you hearing things, or are there footsteps receding into the forest?

You need a minute. Deep breaths.

Several deep breaths. Eyes closed.

Then, back to the task at hand.

You start using the tire jack and a sharp corner slices a hot line across the heel of your palm. “Shit,” you whisper.

You’re staring at your hand when a gentle voice some distance behind you calls, “Hey, You okay?” You jump and gasp, and he says, “Didn’t mean to scare ya, sorry.”

You look over to see the silhouette of a man in a cape approaching. As his form pushes through the fog, you can see it’s not a cape, it’s a cardigan. He has the face of a kind professor. “Lost?” he asks, and his nose twitches. You stand up to face him, and his eyes fall on your bleeding hand. “Oh, fuck,” he mutters then yanks his eyes back to your face. He swallows and takes a handkerchief out of his cardigan then steps forward and hands it to you. “Here,” he whispers, then backs up and turns away to offer you a private moment, putting his hands back in his pockets.

You thank him.

His adam’s apple bobs with a swallow, then he inhales through his nose and tilts his head up to the sky and mutters “Jesus.” He takes a deep breath through his mouth and composes himself, then forces a chuckle as he looks at you again. “All good?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you confirm.

“Sorry, I’m Vahh....” his voice trails off as he realizes how strange this situation must be for you already, without knowing his condition. “Vam. You can call me Vam,” he decides.

"Vam," you repeat, then share your name in return.

Your face is overcome with horror, but not at him. You're looking just over his shoulder, toward the woods. He turns to see what you’re looking at–who you’re looking at–Michael Myers, towering in a faded navy jumpsuit, mask and all.

“Mike,” Vamp acknowledges the enormous slasher, then turns back to you to explain, “He prob’ly just wants to help.”

You swallow and your eyes gaze over. You’re still staring over Vamp’s shoulder when Michael lifts up a big wrench. Your eyelashes flutter and your knees buckle under you.

“Oh, sweetheart-” Vamp lunges forward and catches you in his arms as you lose consciousness. “Oh boy,” he mutters to himself.

Michael is still standing there.

Vamp tells him, “Yeah–I’ll uh–you take care’a that, I’ll take care’a her.”

Michael gives a single slow nod, then goes to the stripped tire, tools in tow. Vamp holds you securely with one muscular arm, then the other, as he takes his cardigan off and wraps it around you. “There ya go,” he whispers to you in your sleep, then scoops you up. “I’ve got ya, sweetheart.”

It's not a short walk, and vamp does his best to ignore the beautiful scent wafting from your hand. He passes the front of the mansion and no one notices, they're all watching tv together. Something exciting. A couple of them are bickering. Others are glued to the screen. For a moment, vamp wonders if he's missing a watch party, but he's far more intrigued by you.

As the road winds around back and vamp nears the joel mansion’s basement, you wake up in his arms.

He feels your body tense as you lift your head up and ask, “Where am I?”

“My buddy's place, he’s a real good guy, we’ll get ya dry, and warm, get ya back to your car….”

He seems to carry you effortlessly. You can hardly take your eyes away from his face. He’s handsome and familiar. His eyes nearly glow. Is he real? Is any of this? You wrap your hands around his neck to get a better look. He presses his lips together and gives you a shy look, holding you, a stranger, in a bridal carry with his handkerchief wrapped around your sliced hand and his cardigan wrapped around your body. Your hair has gotten misty in the fog and drizzle, and so has his.

“Who are you?” you ask.

He exhales through pursed lips before answering, "I'm Vam, remember?”

Your eyelashes flutter heavily again.

“Hey, you’re okay, sweetheart” he reassures you. “You’re okay.”

In lieu of knocking at the basement door, Joel taps it with his boot a few times. “N-dub,” he whispers, not wanting to disturb you.

As the door opens, a man is saying, “No more edibles, man. You gotta…” but his voice trails off when he sees you in Vamp’s arms, wrapped up in the cardigan. He’s speechless. He steps out of the way.

He’s handsome, too. You’re in a daze, but god, he's good looking, and he's got this vibe, you can tell that much. He has a joint behind his ear and his eyes are slightly glassy. The place smells of weed with a hint of patchouli and shaving cream.

“Shit, man. Where’d you take her from?” the basement owner asks.

“SHH!” Vamp responds. “I didn’t take her. She was stranded in the rain.”

“She okay?”

“Yeah,” you answer for yourself.

“Michael scared her,” Vamp explains.

“Well shit, guess we’ve all been there,” the man with the vibe says and closes the door behind you.

You feel strangely at ease in the basement. It feels familiar, like a place you’ve been in your dreams or fantasies, but hadn’t fully visualized. At the same time, it feels foreign, like it’s a familiar place in a strange location. A little darker, maybe. A little off. But still, the strong sense that you belong somehow.

Vamp sets you down in an easy chair and they both stand there looking at you, then each other.

The pothead steps forward and squats next to the chair to have a better look. He gently nudges your chin to look toward him, and keeps his hand there. His eyes soften and he bites half his bottom lip as he admires your features, then says, “Well, god damn. . .” Then, as his hand leaves your face, his forearm brushes the cardigan and he feels the light misting of rain on it. “Let’s get you dry,” he offers, and nudges the cardigan open.

Hunger overtakes his face as he catches a glimpse of your body in your rain-soaked clothes. He doesn’t bother averting his eyes from your tits until you accidentally cough.

Vamp reacts, “we gotta hurry, she's getting sick,” and goes to check the closet. “Where are all your clothes?” he asks his best friend.

“Laundry day,” the basement dweller answers. “Shit.”

You ask, “You got a robe or something?”

“Uh, yeah,” he retreats to his bathroom.

Vamp takes the opportunity to discreetly tell you, “Hey, I think he’s kinda into you. So if he makes you uncomfortable at all…”

“I can handle it,” you smile, and you get butterflies at the thought. “What’d you call him? Indub?” you ask.

Vamp chuckles. “That's just his initials. It's Night walks,” vamp answers.

“First name ‘knight’?”

“No you say it like one word, nightwalks.”

“Nightwalks and Vam, huh?”

Vamp nods, then asks, “You want a bath to warm up?”

“Uhhh… I am kinda chilly, yeah”

He calls over to the bathroom, “Hey nightwalks? Draw her a bath while you’re in there.”

“Do what to the bath?” night walks laughs at the old fashioned term.

“Run a bath, man. C’mon.”

The water starts, and night walks emerges holding a silk, leopard print robe. He lets it hang over his muscular shoulder as he kneels to take your shoes and socks off.

Vamp leaves to attend to the bath.

You giggle and flinch as your second sock is pulled off.

“Ticklish?” Night walks smiles, eyebrows up.

You shrug demurely.

He prowls up the lazy chair hovering over you, then kinda hugs you, hooking one strong arm under your back. “Let’s get you outta this,” he murmurs.

You stand, and he helps for balance to make sure you’re not too dizzy.

“I’m okay,” you whisper, and he lets you stand on your own two feet.

He nudges the cardigan off your shoulders and it falls behind you. His eyes scan your body then meet your eyes again. You rub your lips together trying not to flirt with him, but there’s a cheeky sparkle behind your eyes. There’s something darker but equally charming behind his.

And there’s a calming energy that seems to waft from him to you. Comfort and desire is thick in the air.

He begins to take your clothes off, slow and intimate as if he doesn’t know how to do it any other way. His warm hands glide over your hips and up your sides as he lifts your thin, wet shirt.

He lets you keep on the undershirt for now. Not that it makes much of a difference.

He stares at your tits, nipples blazing through the damp, thin undershirt. No bra.

“Freeballin’,” he nods in approval. “My kinda’ girl.”

You can’t help but giggle at that.

He adjusts himself, making your loins buzz, then he kneels to unbutton your jeans. As he takes down the zipper, your face heats up as you remember the panties you’re wearing - they’re printed with a she-devil whose tail points down to your cunt.

“Oohh,” He coos nearly under his breath, “We got a bad girl here.”

You cringe at yourself and mutter, “oh, god,”

He looks up and doesn’t laugh. “My kinda girl,” he repeats, locking eyes with yours.

As he takes your pants down, his hands glide down and around your hips and linger on your ass for a squeeze. “God damn,” he whispers.

Once your pants are off, for the first time, he notices the bloody handkerchief in your hand. It had been tighter in the clutches of your fist before.

“Oh, shit,” he comments. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just a little cut,” you answer and glance at it to check. “It's fine, it stopped bleeding.”

He takes the handkerchief from you and discards it on the chair. He inspects your palm. “I dunno if I got any first aid shit,” he mutters to himself.

“It’s fine, really,” you reassure him. He holds your hand, inspecting your palm, then looks at your face again. His eyes fall on your mouth and he seems to forget what he was thinking about. He wets his lips. “God damn, you’re hot,” he murmurs.

“Thanks,” you whisper, thinking the same about him.

He laces his fingers with yours as he steps even closer, then he brings his hands to your waist.

Your head tilts upward, watching him look back and forth between your eyes.

He leans in and your lips meet.

There’s a spark, more of a spark than you’ve ever felt, and he must feel it, too. He slips his tongue into your mouth as his hand meanders and grabs your ass. “Mm,” he hums into your mouth. You put your arms around his neck and he pulls you against him. A warm bulge throbs against you, making you moan into his mouth.

He breaks the kiss to murmur, “There’s my bad girl,” then he kisses you again and crosses his hands behind your back to take off your undershirt.

He takes a long, deep breath as he looks at your tits, then urgently pulls you up against him again, one hand cradling your head as he feeds you his tongue

He grinds against you as you kiss, and your fingers lift the back of his shirt. He takes it off, breathing heavily, then says, “c’mere, baby.” His lips attack your neck as his thumbs hook into your panties and pull them down below your ass cheeks. He gives you a little spank then groans into your neck.

Fuck, he's hot.

His palm slides down your crack and between your legs until his middle finger can feel your dripping hole. “Hell yeah,” he breathes against your neck as he reaches further. Then he breaks away from your neck and wedges his other hand in between the two of you to finger you from the front. The hand in the back palms a cheek, fingers spanning quite a distance on your skin.

He rubs you from the front and you moan. “Yeah, that's right, sugar.” He closes his eyes and tilts his head slightly upward as he touches you, letting himself get absorbed entirely by the feeling of you in his hands.

You're hypnotized by the veins on his neck and the rhythm of his fingers through your slick.

The way he touches you, it’s like he knows exactly what you like. And his hands, they feel so…

“Oh, daddy,” the word slips from your lips and he replies, “Mmm,” and looks down to observe your face of pleasure. He grinds himself against your hip as he fingers you just the way you like. Like he'd done it dozens of times before - to you.

“Yeah, cum for daddy,” he breathes then nudges your forehead with his nose, prompting you to lift your chin for his lips to take yours again.

He moans into your mouth, the shape of his cock stiff against your hip through his PJs, his hand between your legs, and one on your ass.

As his fingers push you over the edge, you break away to moan, then stifle it in his bare shoulder, gently biting.

“Good girl,” he whispers, “fuck yeah.”

You cum in the palm of his hand, and he moans.

“Attagirl,” he breathes, “fuck.”

He shudders and groans, then his hard-on throbs against you and a warm, wet spot spreads through his PJ pants.

“Damn,” he mutters.

A short sigh comes from behind you.

“Hey “ Night walks greets vamp matter of factly as he catches his breath. He looks vamp up and down and vamp casually covers his crotch, prompting a smirk from night walks.

Vamp clears his throat, “Bath’s ready.”

“Thanks,” night walks says. “Now I need one too,” he chuckles, then turns his attention back to you. “You’re real damn hot, you know that?”

He kisses you gently on the mouth then says, “finish this later,” with a wink. He pulls your soaked panties from your thighs down to your feet and helps you into the silk robe.

You make your way into the bathroom and Vamp lingers in the living room with night walks. Never judging, he’s simply raising his eyebrows in a question - how did that happen?

“Just happened, man,” night walks says, then squints. “She familiar to you?”

“Uh, YEAH,” vamp agrees. “Smells familiar.”

Night walks sucks his slick fingers and says, "Tastes familiar."

“Nice bathroom,” you announce, and both men file into the room to see if you need anything. “Never seen a bathtub this big,” you add, stretching out your arms, tits on display.

Night walks takes the opportunity to ask, “Want some company?”

“Sure,” you smile, and he takes down his pj pants.

“Room for three?” night walks asks on behalf of his buddy.

“Yeah,” you agree.

Night walks asks, “You wanna be sandwiched or wanna look at his pretty face?” He can’t let vamp sit behind you. Too much neck access.

“I’ll take the extra body heat,” you answer with a flash of your eyebrows.

Night walks gets in the bath behind you and settles his legs outside yours. You can feel all of him against your back. He sneaks in a squeeze of both tits as vamp prepares to get in front of you.

Vamp is a solidly built man. Not in a distinctly muscular way. A little softer than night walks, but he’s just so broad. His back flexes as he gets into the tub and rests back on you. His hair smells nice. And your tits feel amazing against his back.

Sandwiched between them, you feel their breathing. You just sit and feel it for you don’t know how long. Your breathing synchronizes. All three of you.

You’re almost lulled asleep--maybe you even are asleep-- until vamp gasps softly.

You look down to see a faint red plume coming from your hand.

“Oh, crap,” you react.

“He can take care’a it,” Night walks murmurs, sounding half asleep. “He’s got ya.”

“How?” you ask.

“Kiss it better, man,” night walks encourages, then sighs with how comfortable he is with you nestled between his legs, laid back on his chest. He gets a waft of your hair and sighs, “Mm.”

“You gonna kiss it better?” you ask vamp with a giggle.

“Sure, I can if ya want,” he offers and holds your wrist. He plants a kiss on the lower end of your wound, letting his lips linger long enough to inhale as much of your scent his nostrils can get.

It’s not just a kiss. To the naked eye, it’s just a kiss, but it feels like more. It feels like healing. It feels almost like...pleasure. He takes his lips away and the part he kissed is no longer bleeding.

“Whoa,” you whisper.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Night walks mutters over your ear.

“You want more?” vamp asks.

“Yeah,” you answer. No brainer.

Night walks takes your un-injured hand around to vamp’s abdomen and rests it on vamp’s thick, semi-hard, uncut cock. The shape under your hand sends a pang of desire down your spine and between your legs.

“might lose a little blood,” vamp warns. “But not much.” He brings your hand to his mouth, kisses your wound again, starting at the top and sliding his lips all the way down it. Then he shifts his lips a bit, and something smooth begins to slowly trace the cut as his lips slide back up the wound. You feel a suction along the cut, and at the same time, his cock stiffens under your palm. You reflexively palm his shaft, holding it against his stomach.

The suction in your palm feels good. Your nipples harden and a rush of pleasure shoots down your chest, then lower.

“Oh, god,” you whisper.

When he reaches the top of the cut, his lips break away with a moan, as you continue to massage him. “More?” he asks breathily.

You nod, “please.”

He repeats the process, ever so slowly, twice. . .and you go from massaging his cock to pumping it, until he’s coming against his stomach underwater, moaning into your hand.

When night walks slips his hand between you and vamp, you realize your hips have been moving, seeking pressure. Night walks finishes you off, and God, you cum hard.

Night walks’s dick is hard against your back, and you’d love to do something for him, but you’re utterly spent. Your palm looks good as new, and you can hardly keep your eyes open. Vamp twists his torso to look back and check in on you. He idly tongues his sharp incisor.

You look at him, eyelashes fluttering and say, “You’re….” He closes his lips and swallows, and he looks away, expecting you to say that word he doesn’t like. But you don’t. . . “Special,” you say, making his heart swell.

“You too,” he whispers as your eyelids fall shut.

Your head lulls back against night walks and he asks vamp, “she okay?”

“Yeah,” vamp answers. “Most people can’t process that kind of pleasure their first time.”

“That’s why she’s passed out? God damn,” night walks says. “We’re the dream team, buddy.”

“Let’s get her to bed,” Vamp says.

—-

“This is all good, right?” vamp asks night walks as they get you situated nude in the bed. All three of you are dried off.

“Yeah, bud,” night walks reassures vamp in a whisper. “We’ve got a duty to act.”

“That’s doctors,” vamp replies, then lowers his whisper more. “Not….men of the night.”

“Shhh,” night walks replies. "we gotta keep her warm."

You stir and let out a sigh. Vamp is wearing silky shorts and night walks is in fresh boxer briefs.

They settle in on either side of you. After a minute, vamp whispers, “hey, n-dub?”

“Yeah?”

“Is she really familiar to you?”

“Yeah,” night walks answers unequivocally.

“Me too,” vamp agrees. “I think she–”

“Let’s talk about it later,” night walks whispers.

“Yeah,” vamp agrees.

“Get some sleep, man,” night walks encourages.

Vamp starts to respond, “I…” then doesn’t bother. “Yeah.”

“Oh. Sorry, bud.”

“It’s okay,” vamp says, then asks, “but hey, if I go in my restful state, will you rouse me if you're gonna fuck her?”

“I think you'll be ‘roused,” night walks chuckles. “But sure, buddy.”

Vamp gets up on his elbow, then hovers over your face. strokes your cheek and plants a kiss on your forehead. “Sweet dreams,” he whispers.

---

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----

---

I sincerely hope y'all enjoyed this as much as I did 💕. Ty kate for the prompt that kinda led me to write a comfort fic for myself too lol.

Note: in English, "woman of the night" is a tame or old fashioned way of saying female sex worker

#brothel sleepover 💕#vampire!joel #night walks!joel #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #toxicanonymity ☠️#cw daddy kink

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racoon3lizabeth · 2 days ago

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Art critics at work: part three

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

summary: remus can’t wait for the next time he sees you and sirius manages to figure out his best friend.

notes: hellooooo!! hope you like this chapter, tell me what you thiiiink. AND BTW I hope you guys know I accept requests for like mini fics and blurbs!!

One day isn’t very long. There’s only twenty four hours after all. But when he settled down behind his wheel, clutching the leather until his knuckles turned white, he simply couldn’t wait.

He fumbles with his hands, letting go of the wheel and finding his phone deep in his pocket. Clicking the side button, chewing on his lower lip when he sees the time. 16:05. It was even worse than he thought. Not just twenty four hours but twenty five.

In a few quick motions Remus opened up his chat with Sirius. Leaning back into the car seat as he starts typing.

You’re late again

Am I?

Yeah fuck

Okey I’m running

🏃‍♀️‍➡️🏃‍♀️‍➡️🏃‍♀️‍➡️

Enough with the emojis!!

That’s so mean😞

—————————————————————————————————

After a few very long minutes a flushed and panting Sirius appeared outside of the car window. “I’m so sorry,” he apologises the second he opens the door.

“S’alright,” the other man brushed it off with a dismissive hand. He’s used to Sirius' problems when it comes to arriving on time. “C’mon hop in.” Remus urges, nodding his head in the direction of the passenger seat.

Sirius does like his friend tells him to, settling down in the leather seat and closing the door after him, putting on his seatbelt with a tired sigh. Without even so much as asking he quickly reaches out with his ring clad hand, fiddling with Remus' car so that his phone is connected to the stereo.

He always tends to do this, overusing his rights as the person in the passenger seat.

“Only good music,” Remus demands, driving out of the school's parking lot.

He could argue with Sirius and tell him that it's his car, he’s the one who gets to choose the music. But he also knows better than that. He’s unfortunately known the man since they were eleven years old, he knows that Sirius could easily take him down in a fight.

Sirius arches a single black eyebrow, his gaze focused on his phone as he smiles widely. “You have such a weird idea of what good music is.” He comments as he scrolls on his phone, trying to decide what to listen to, sending Remus a coy smile when he hears a faint scoff coming out of the history professor.

Like every other day Sirius eventually puts on Queen. It’s something he and Remus can always agree on.

Tranquility gradually settled over them like a nice warm blanket, despite the fact that Brian May was having another wild guitar solo in the background. It’s the kind of silence that comes from having known someone for such a long time. There’s no secrets left and most certainly no uncomfortableness. They can talk about everything, well maybe not everything.

There’s one thing Remus has always struggled to talk about.

“What do you think about the new art professor?” Sirius questions curiously, not knowing the depth of what he’s actually asking. “I reckon she’s a hundred times better than that substitute they hired for like two months.”

Remus swallows thickly as he turns the wheel, getting closer to their shared apartment. Yes he’s a man in his late twenties, soon thirties, that has a roommate. What’s the big deal?

“She’s nice.” He acknowledged, clearing his throat. Hoping that Sirius would drop it.

Sirius' perfect black eyebrows furrow slightly, crossing his arms over his chest. Unintentionally also covering up his favourite ABBA t-shirt. “Nice?” He interrogated, a hint of disbelief entering his tone. “But you ate lunch with her. She must be more than nice.” Sirius pointed out and god does Remus regret telling him that.

Remus offers him a half shrug, his rose coloured cheeks saying something completely different. “I don’t know,” he sighs, clearly trying to completely shut down the conversation, never bringing it up again.

To Remus' surprise Sirius is actually silent for a few moments. Until he can’t hold it in any longer. “Just nice?” He questions, still not believing Remus. They ate lunch together outside. Not just in the cafeteria like teachers normally do.

“Yeah nice.” He repeated, the word nice tasting awfully strange on his tongue, feeling like they’re just going back and forth now.

Sirius observed him with narrowed eyes, studying Remus. Pulling back a loose strand of black hair that fell down in his face. “Alright.” he gives up, glancing out the car window. Watching their street flashing by, their apartment getting closer and closer.

They finally arrive by their front door, Remus parking as close as he can so he won’t have to walk more than necessary. It’s not that he's lazy, actually quite the opposite. His hip and sometimes knees just tend to ache. Especially when it’s cold outside.

Sirius rattles with his keys in front of Remus face teasingly, the two walking up the stairs to the door. “You know,” he smiles. “She’s not just nice is she? I think you like her.”

Twenty four or twenty five hours, it doesn’t matter. Because they eventually passed by.

You didn’t get very much time before your last class and the beginning of the parent teacher meeting and unfortunately your last class of the day isn't by any means the oldest. So before running through the hallways to try arriving on time, even though the meeting started ten minutes ago, you needed to clean away blotches of paint and brushes.

With fingers coated in different acrylic paints you hesitantly reached for the doorknob. You truly didn’t want to be that teacher. That teacher who comes off as completely ignorant and uncaring about their students. Which you’re not, you could never be. Your timing was just wrong and honestly unfair.

The second you opened the door all eyes were on you. The hope of sneaking in unnoticed immediately shredding into pieces.

Remus' head jolts up when he hears the door shut. He’s been waiting patiently, or not so patiently as Sirius kept teasing him. Apparently his foot had been tapping against the chair's leg to the point where Sirius completely lost it.

He observes you with curious eyes, softening when they finally meet. Extending a hand, subtly gesturing for you to sit down on the chair on his right.

You shuffle over, apologising over and over to the people who need to stand so that you can get through. “Hi,” you breathe, a bit out of breath. Your eyes flickering over to the familiar man on Remus' right. His shoulder length raven curls pulled up into a low messy bun, a few strands falling out. Wearing one of his usual band t-shirts.

“Sirius right?” You extend a hand, giving Sirius a good firm shake before you sit down next to Remus. “I’m y/n, the new art teacher.” You introduce yourself.

The music teacher's forehead creases, lips twitching upwards. “Yeah,” he nods, sending Remus a teasing gaze. “Nice to meet you.” he replies kindly, looking back at you and then settling his gaze forward on the whiteboard.

The meeting returns to normal, the headmaster McGonagall standing at the front. Talking about a trip to France that might be happening for the students studying French.

Truly there’s really no real point in all of the other teachers being there. It’s just to look good and so that the parents can get a chance to talk to them if they have any questions or concerns.

Remus does try to concentrate, at least for a few minutes, but he can’t when you’re sitting next to him. He just wants to know everything about you and he doesn’t want the conversation to be short. He wants it to last for a long time, wanting to know every single little detail.

After spending a few seconds thinking, which he could’ve spent listening to the ongoing meeting, he finally leans in a bit so that he can whisper:

“Why were you late?”

You really couldn’t concentrate either since his thigh was only a few millimetres away from yours. You were waiting, patiently just like Remus, heart accelerating inside your chest. “I needed to clean up from my last class.” You explain quietly, making sure no one else can hear you.

Remus brows raised, pulling together. “Which class?” He questions. Rolling up the sleeves of his dark green sweater up to his elbows. You’ve noticed he wears a lot of those. Not that you’re complaining.

“They’re in year nine I think,” you whisper. “I haven’t really learned which classes are called what.” You admit somewhat sheepishly.

“Ah,” he nods, knowing how the ones in year nine can get sometimes. “Most of them are nice and well mannered. But you’re also new. They’ll get better soon when they’ve warmed up to you and if they don’t I'll tell ’em off.” He warns playfully, his nervousness slowly starting to wear off.

You snicker quietly, the wild and eager butterflies in your stomach getting worse when he smiles at you adoringly with those perfect deep brown eyes. An uncomfortable lump building in your throat, stopping your words from coming out.

Remus starts to feel a faint lightheadedness and glances back to the front of the room. Making a very weak attempt at actually listening. He’s never felt the urge to continue talking to someone, to keep the conversation alive. At least not as strong. Remus has always been a rather reserved person, the few people getting him out of his shell being his three best friends.

You try to ignore how your mouth is starting to feel more like a desert, swallowing desperately and subtly peering back on the history teacher. Whose mind also seems to be somewhere else.

“Mr Lupin,” you whisper, smiling nervously when he turns his head to look at you. Your faces suddenly unintentionally become very close, both of you flinching back. “How did you manage to save my seat?” Referring to the fact that every single chair in the medium sized auditorium is being used.

Remus manages to maintain eye contact, almost a bit proud of himself. “I pulled some strings,” he answered, lips curling into a lopsided grin, folding his hands in his lap.

It became quite apparent that Sirius catched a bit of the conversation. Because he quickly leaned forward up and behind Remus, leaning his arms on the top of the chair so that he can talk to you. “He yelled at a few people actually,” Sirius tells you proudly.

Remus' eyes widened comically, mouth slightly parted. “No hey, that's not true!” He defends himself just a bit too loud, a few of the parents turning around to send them annoyed glances.

He presses his lips tightly together, nostrils flaring as he exhales deeply. “That’s not true.” He murmurs through gritted teeth. Avoiding both yours and Sirius's eyes.

Due to the fact that Remus is staring down into his lap you take your chance and tilt your head to your left, raising a questioning eyebrow as you face Sirius.

A sly smirk spreads across his face, mouthing the word yes so that Remus won’t hear. But Remus knows better than that.

“What are you doing Sirius?”

“Mhm? Nothing,” Sirius lifts his hands up in mock surrender. Removing his arms from the chair, leaning back against it again. Starting to fiddle with the silver rings on his hands, one ring on every single finger. “Y/n? Does Remus have your number?” He asks, leaning forward to once again catch eyes with you, waggling his eyebrows. Knowing exactly what he’s doing.

Remus opens his mouth to answer, but you get there before him. “No, I don't think so. Why?”

“Just wondering,” Sirius shrugs, knowing he’s in for a real scolding later. “It’s rather important though, if something happens.” He ponders quietly but loud enough for both of them to hear him.

After that little interruption from Sirius' part it took you some time to gain the courage to actually comment on what Sirius said. So much time that the meeting ended and you panicked, not wanting to lose this incredible chance.

Just as he stands up, on his way to leave, you gain his attention by not rising from your chair. Everyone was on their way out, why weren’t you leaving?

“You know,” you begin to say as he finally looks at you with confusion written all over his face. “I think he was right. I might need your number,” you declare, realising you sounded a bit desperate. “For work purposes, you know. If something happens.” You add quickly, feeling how your skin begins to prickle with warmth, pink appearing on your cheeks.

Remus can’t help but look around before he answers, as if he’s afraid someone could hear you. “Uhm,” he stutters, his chin held close to his body before he properly looks up at you. “Yeah. For work purposes obviously.”

—————————————————————————————————

tags: @amatoanima @po3tbbygirl @lettertovera @allformoony @ladyaida @ilovejamespottersomuch @jamesweather

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overadores · 9 hours ago

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･ ⟢ ⋮ without warning ゛༝. ✦ sophia laforteza

“We had the stars, you and I.

pairing.ᐟ sophia laforteza x sick!reader

about.ᐟ Sophia and Y/N’s college friendship blossomed through a shared love for adventure and literature, leading to countless spontaneous road trips. Unbeknownst to Sophia, Y/N carried a heartbreaking secret. As they created unforgettable memories, time quietly slipped away, leaving behind a final gift and a love that would last forever.

genre.ᐟ heavy angst, hurt no comfort.

cw.ᐟ major character death, friends - supposed to be lovers, language, sickness (leukemia).

wc.ᐟ 1353 words

a/n.ᐟ and another one :P i forgot to post today FUCKKK, i was too busy playing im so sorry TT and manon story for the fluff. pls i need more friends on airbuds.

And this is given once only.”

Sophia Laforteza met Y/N in college, an instant bond forming between them over their shared love for literature, adventure, and their equally extroverted nature. Their first encounter was playful—Sophia, being the new girl, had wandered into the wrong classroom.

"Hi, is this Literature 101?" she had asked as she carefully took her things out.

Y/N glanced around before smirking mischievously. "I don’t think so. This is Biology."

Sophia’s face paled, and she immediately stuffed her things back into her bag, ready to bolt, but before she could reach the door, Y/N called out, barely containing her laughter. "I’m kidding, new girl! This is Lit 101."

Sophia turned back, eyes dead serious, as she returned to her seat. "Ha ha, so funny," she muttered sarcastically.

Y/N grinned, offering a hand. "Oh, come on, let me have a little fun with you. I'm Y/N."

Sophia shook her hand, side-eyeing her. "Sophia."

"You're a feisty one, Sophia. Enjoy college, pretty."

That was the start of something beautiful. Y/N’s teasing and pestering became a constant in Sophia’s life, and strangely enough, Sophia never complained. She loved it. When Y/N invited her on a spontaneous road trip, Sophia—being the people pleaser she was—agreed without hesitation. One trip turned into many, and soon, Sophia bought a digital camera to capture their adventures. A sunset on a hiking trip, Y/N’s excitement at Six Flags, the quiet serenity of an empty beach at dawn—each moment immortalized in photographs.

At first, Sophia didn’t question why Y/N was always so eager to travel, but curiosity got the best of her one night. "Why do you always go on these trips?" she asked as they lay on a motel bed, scrolling through pictures on her camera.

Y/N hesitated before answering, "Fulfilling my bucket list, Forteza."

Sophia thought it was just Y/N’s way of romanticizing life. She didn't press further.

But in reality, Y/N was sick—dying, even. The spontaneous trips weren’t just for fun; they were a race against time. She knew she wouldn’t make it until forty, but if she had to go, she wanted to go with beautiful memories. And with Sophia.

There were only three things left on her list:

Try to fall in love again, give love another chance.

Watch the stars and have deep emotional talks.

Maybe, just maybe, try to make it until 40.

As days passed, Y/N grew more tired. She noticed her body weakening, but she pushed through. She had to. One evening, while strolling through the park, Y/N watched as Sophia played with a golden retriever, laughing at the way its tail wagged excitedly. Y/N smiled, storing the image in her heart.

Another memory to cherish.

"Soph, can we go now? I'm starving, darling," Y/N said, waiting for her to finish petting a golden retriever.

Sophia looked up, grinning, and linked arms with her. “Alright, alright.”

They walked side by side, chatting aimlessly. Sophia, unable to hold back her concern, finally pointed out, "You’ve been looking paler lately. And thinner. Are you okay?"

Y/N brushed it off with a laugh. "I’m always like this when I’m stressed. No big deal."

Sophia frowned but nodded. "Just… take a break sometimes, okay?"

"Yeah," Y/N murmured, guilt pooling in her stomach.

Later that night, they lay under the stars on the rooftop of Y/N’s loft. Pillows, a picnic cloth, and food were all prepared by Y/N. Sophia was surprised by the effort. "You really went all out," Sophia chuckled, settling beside her.

"Of course. I promised myself I’d watch the stars with someone special."

Y/N broke the comfortable silence. "Do you like the idea of soulmates?"

Sophia turned her head, furrowing her brows. "What do you mean?"

Y/N shrugged. "Do you get excited by the idea of finding someone that completes you?"

Sophia pondered before admitting, "I do get butterflies at the thought."

"What about you?" Sophia asked, turning toward Y/N.

Y/N inhaled deeply. "I like to believe that there's someone out there who will love me no matter what, even if I die." Sophia stiffened. "Why would you say that?"

Y/N just shrugged. "It’s comforting to think love doesn’t end, even when life does.

Sophia sat up slightly, watching Y/N’s face intently. "What would you do for the love of your life?"

Y/N smirked. "Maybe the usual romantic clichés—kissing in the rain, writing her letters, learning all her favorites and surprising her with them, 3 AM car rides. Maybe have a little fun."

Sophia giggled, pinching her side. "Hey, don't be dirty now."

Y/N laughed with her, closing her eyes as Sophia’s warmth surrounded her. This was enough. Even if it all ended too soon.

Then, on the last day of exams, Y/N was nowhere to be found. Sophia looked around campus but gave up when their professor excused Y/N from the session. Concern gnawed at her.

She rushed to Y/N’s loft after the exam, only to find it eerily quiet. No music, no humming, no laughter. Sophia pushed open the bedroom door and saw Y/N lying there, breathing heavily, shivering, and burning up with fever.

Panic surged in Sophia’s chest. She shook Y/N desperately. "Hey, wake up! What’s wrong?!" Sophia shook her, panic flooding her veins. "Please, wake up." No response. Her forehead burned under Sophia’s touch.

She called an ambulance, hands trembling as she cradled Y/N. "You’re gonna be fine," she whispered, voice cracking. "Just hold on."

The hospital smelled sterile.

Cold.

Empty.

Sophia sat outside the emergency room, fingers digging into her palms, praying that it’s just a worsen flu, but the doctor’s words hit her like a train.

"The leukemia is progressing. She needs to stay hospitalized."

Sophia’s world shattered.

Sophia’s world tilted. "Leukemia?" Her voice came out broken. "She… she never told me."

The nurse handed her Y/N’s phone. "She’s awake. You can see her now."

When she was finally allowed to see Y/N, she walked into the room, eyes glistening with unshed tears. Y/N smiled softly and patted the space beside her.

"I'm sorry I didn’t tell you," Y/N murmured,

Sophia sniffled. "You should’ve never kept this from me."

Y/N sighed. "I just needed to be ready." leaning her head on Sophia’s shoulder. Sophia sat down, holding Y/N’s frail hand. "You should’ve told me. I would’ve… I don’t know. Done something."

Y/N chuckled weakly. "You did enough. You made my life beautiful."

Tears slipped down Sophia’s cheeks. "Don’t talk like that. You’re going to be okay."

They sat in silence before Y/N whispered, "I have a surprise for you, but you’ll only get it next week."

Days passed, and Y/N grew weaker. Then, one morning, Sophia entered the room and saw the monitors still. The beeping had stopped.

Y/N was gone.

Sophia broke down, her cries echoing through the hospital room. The person who had filled her life with adventure and love was gone, leaving behind nothing but memories.

A week later, Sophia received a call to pick up a package. When she arrived, a golden retriever puppy was waiting for her, a polaroid of their first road trip, and a tiny collar, along with a letter in Y/N’s handwriting.

Dear Soph,

I wanted to give you something to remember me by. Someone to love, the way you loved me. I hope you look at him and see the best parts of us—the laughter, the adventures, the love.

I never told you, but I did fall in love again.

With you.

Thank you for giving me the happiest moments of my life. Don’t cry too much, okay? You still have so much living to do. I’ll always be with you, in every picture, in every adventure, in every sunset.

Thank you for being my greatest love story, even if it was shorter than I wanted it to be. Take lots of pictures for me.

With love, always, Y/N.

Sophia clutched the letter, tears streaming down her face. She looked down at the golden retriever, who wagged its tail at her, and she couldn't help but laugh through her tears.

Y/N was gone, but her love remained—in the dog, in the photographs, in every adventure they had shared. And in Sophia’s heart, forever.

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ayrtonswnna · 14 hours ago

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"TROUBLESOME!" 〃 oscar piastri x lila morris (female!oc)

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✧₊⁺ oneshot. fluff/crack. word count: 4.2k +

✧ my masterlist! ✧ requests are open! ✧ more osc!

five times oscar went to his girlfriend's rescue; she has a history.

warnings: character facing racism, fun couple, osc being a softie, not much happening i just liked the concept, sweet and supportive couple. would probably write a texting au of this.

01. THE MCLAREN 720S

Lila wanted to drive the supercar the moment it was parked inside her boyfriend’s garage.

The boyfriend in question—a man professionally skilled behind the wheel—knew it wasn’t a good idea. But, yeah. She had those big brown eyes, round like a puppy’s, lips plump in a perfect pout, looking so damn kissable. And there they were.

"Alright. No parallel parking, no over-speeding. And—" Oscar paused, exhaling through his nose. "You go to college and come back home. Alright?" He handed her the keys, and before he could react, they slipped from his fingers as Lila jumped excitedly.

"Yes! Yes, babe! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I swear I’ll take care of her!" She launched herself at him, pressing messy kisses all over his face. He chuckled, cheeks flushing as he tried to keep his cool. "I love you! I love you, Osc! I’ll reward you for this! Byeee!"

"Yeah, love you too. See ya."

It took about three hours.

A call from an unsaved number—he already knew where it was coming from.

Another McLaren out of the garage. Another trip straight to the police department. Another worried Oscar Piastri behind the wheel, just hoping his girlfriend wasn’t hurt—or in too much trouble.

"What did you do this time?" he sighed, walking into the room where she was properly locked in.

Lila looked up at him, mischief sparkling in her eyes. "Proudly informed the officer that his mom didn’t ask me if I stole the car when I fucked her in the backseat last night."

Oscar rubbed his face. Exasperated. And yet, somehow, his heart softened.

Lila had a way of making chaos seem like just another part of her charm. She was impulsive, and he was well aware of her short temper when it came to authority. He was also aware that, as a woman of color, the scrutiny she faced behind the wheel of an expensive car was different. He could drive the McLaren a hundred times and never get pulled over. But for her? It was a different story.

"Of course you did," he muttered, scratching his face, more tired than anything.

Oscar wasn’t the type to make a scene. He had enough influence to cause trouble if he wanted to, but he wouldn’t—not with Lila around. She’d kill him for it.

"I’ll pay, and we’ll go, alright?" He sighed as an officer approached, probably to guide him through the process.

"Not your fault." Lila smiled, that same mischievous gleam still in her eyes. "Thank God you’re a millionaire, or I’d be locked up for life."

"I wouldn’t let that happen, even if we were debt-ridden." Oscar raised an eyebrow. "Wait here, alright? Love ya."

"Love you too." She grinned as he was led through the hallway.

"Is this... is this girl with you?" an officer asked, eyeing him with confusion.

Oscar frowned. "Yes. My girlfriend."

"Oh, so the car is yours, then?" The officer scoffed. "I knew it wasn’t hers. If she wasn’t so dirty-mouthed, this could’ve ended without your wallet."

Oscar’s expression darkened. "Yeah, she’s running out of patience for people like you," he said flatly. "And I don’t blame her. Now, where do I sign? How much do I need to pay?"

"Your little girlfriend committed a crime, Mr. Piastri. It’s not about patience—it’s unlawful."

"Having an expensive car was her crime, I guess." Oscar shrugged. "But it’s fine. She’s tough. She’s used to this mess. Let me pay, and I’ll take her and her car home."

The officer exhaled, reluctant but defeated. The process was quick, and soon enough, Oscar had the keys back in his hand. He returned to Lila, shaking his head as she smirked up at him.

"Let’s go, troublemaker," he said, voice laced with fond exasperation. "For once, I think you’re the victim in this."

02. NIGHT OUT

Oscar and Lila had been dating since middle school. Oscar, as calm and quiet as he was, was used to waiting for Lila at home on her nights out with her college friends. That night was no different.

He usually stayed awake, just in case of an emergency. Again, that night was no different. Her name flashing across his phone at past three a.m. meant only one thing: trouble.

"Heeey, Osc! The famous boyfriend of the crew!" a voice slurred.

Not Lila.

"Yeah, that’s me," he chuckled, already out of bed. "What’s going on? Where’s Lila?"

"So… Okay, handsome. Let me break it down to you. I didn’t know she-she could go so far! Fuckity fuck! Your girl is a beast!"

Oscar sighed. If her friend was like this, he could only imagine Lila.

Minutes later, he pulled up to the club she had surely mentioned before heading out. The moment he spotted her sitting on the sidewalk, bundled up in her coat, little purse hanging around her neck, and eyes droopy from exhaustion, he wanted to laugh.

"Babyyyyyy… helloooo, baby." She beamed up at him, lips trembling from the cold. "Hey, I missed you."

"Missed you too, bug. What are you doing all alone?" He took her purse off her shoulder, slinging it over his before crouching down. "Had too much to drink, huh?"

"No, baby. Nooo, I didn’t drink that much." She blatantly lied, letting herself melt into his arms as he scooped her up. "Wooow, that is sooo good. You’re like my prince, right? You are my prince."

"I do save you from a lot, guess I can handle that title." He carried her to the car, setting her inside with practiced ease. "Alright, saved princess. If you need to throw up, tell me. Seriously. Tell me."

"I love this car, Oscie. I would never ruin our beautiful seats." She smiled that same childish smile before sighing dramatically. "I looove you… Osc, I love you sooooo much."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "I love you too, bug."

Lila let out a dramatic gasp, eyes widening. "No, no, nooo, you don’t get it. I love you soooo much it hurts! Like, physically. Ow."

Oscar raised a brow, fighting back a smile. "It hurts?"

"Yes!" she threw her hands up, nearly smacking herself in the face. "Because you're so pretty, Oscar. It’s not fair. How do you get to be this pretty and this nice? Huh? Explain that."

"Genetics, I guess?" he teased, turning onto their street. "Or maybe you're just very, very drunk."

"Noooo, you don’t understand!" she sniffled, and Oscar’s amusement instantly turned into concern as he glanced at her again. Her lower lip trembled, eyes welling up with tears. "You’re so pretty. And I love you. And you always pick me up and take care of me and—" a small hiccup interrupted her sentence—"and you’re the best person in the whole world, and I don’t deserve you."

Oscar sighed, softening immediately. "Bug, of course you deserve me. Don’t start crying."

"But I dooo," she wailed, rubbing at her eyes and sniffling dramatically. "You’re perfect and I’m just—"

"My perfect drunk mess of a girlfriend," he interrupted gently, pulling into the driveway and shutting off the car. "Come on, love, let’s get you inside before you make me cry too."

Lila let out a tiny giggle through her sniffles, letting Oscar scoop her up again without protest. "I love when you carry me," she sighed dreamily, nuzzling against his shoulder. "You’re so strong. My prince."

"Yeah, yeah, your prince is getting you showered and in bed before you pass out on me."

Inside, Oscar skillfully maneuvered her towards the bathroom, setting her down on the closed toilet lid. She blinked up at him, cheeks still pink and eyes dazed. "You’re so pretty," she whispered again, reaching for his face with clumsy fingers. "It’s distracting."

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he grabbed a washcloth and ran it under warm water. "Alright, alright, enough of that. Let’s get you cleaned up."

The shower was more of a quick rinse—Oscar mostly helping her wash her face and change into one of his hoodies before guiding her toward the kitchen. He made her sit on the counter as he grabbed a water bottle and a snack.

"Eat this, bug. It’ll help."

She pouted but took a bite, eyes never leaving him. "M’sorry for crying."

"It’s okay."

"You forgive me?"

"Always."

A lazy smile spread across her face. "You're the best boyfriend ever. I love you so much."

Oscar pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "I know. Now finish that so I can get you to bed."

By the time he tucked her in, Lila was already dozing off, still mumbling about how pretty he was. He just chuckled, brushing her hair back before turning off the light. "Goodnight, drunk bug."

03. PADDOCK BUREAUCRACY

"C’mon, you guys! It’s me! I do this every other week! What the—C’mon, help me here! You know me!"

They might, in fact, know her. Lila was a recognizable face in the paddock—getting the wrong passes, wanting to be everywhere, causing a fuss with fans, sneaking into public viewing areas, and inevitably getting in trouble trying to come back. A security nightmare, a fan favorite. A gift or a curse, depending on who you asked.

"No pass, no access, lady. I’m sorry." The security guard stood firm at the entrance.

"Oh, man. Pleeeease. Please. My boyfriend is racing in thirty minutes! C’mon! I’m like his lucky charm! If I don’t get in, you’re going to be to blame for McLaren’s championship! I need to get in!"

"Yeah, yeah. Sure. You’d be surprised how many ladies show up here talking about Lando Norris and—"

"No! No, whew! No, not Lando! My boyfriend is Oscar! Piastri, second driver, you know? Vroom-vroom, consistent as fuck, pretty polite cat, Australian… You notice my accent, right? We’re dating, look!" She quickly flashed her lock screen, showing a picture of them together from her last birthday party.

"Sorry, miss. No pass, no access. Good story, though. I’d read that online."

She was sure he kept talking, but she had no intention of listening. Just a slight hope, a slight chance that Oscar still had his phone in hand.

And after a few beeps… There it was. "Sup, troublemaker? Hope you’re calling to wish me good luck because—"

"They’re keeping me out! I can’t get inside! Can you send someone to help me here? Pleeeease."

"They’re keeping you out? On my way, wait a minute."

It took no time; within minutes, Oscar was jogging over, his McLaren polo slightly wrinkled from the rushed movement. He barely acknowledged the security guard before his eyes landed on Lila, arms crossed, face set in a pout of deep frustration.

"What’s going on here?" Oscar’s voice was calm but firm, his eyes flicking between Lila and the guard.

"She doesn’t have a pass, sir," the security guard explained. "She claims to be your girlfriend, but without credentials, we can’t let her in."

Oscar’s brows furrowed slightly as he looked at Lila, who dramatically threw her hands in the air. "I am his girlfriend! This is so unfair! You guys let strangers in all the time—"

Before she could launch into another impassioned rant, Oscar simply stepped closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Yeah, she’s with me," he said, his tone final.

The security guard hesitated, glancing between them. Something unspoken hung in the air, a flicker of disbelief, like he still wasn’t entirely convinced. Oscar didn’t bother addressing it, just pulled Lila in closer with an easy familiarity.

Lila caught on immediately, tilting her head up at him with a theatrical sigh. "See? You almost had me standing out here alone while my boyfriend was getting ready to race."

Oscar hummed in agreement. "Would’ve been tragic."

The security guard, clearly uncomfortable, cleared his throat. "Again, sorry, sir. We were just following protocol."

Oscar waved him off. "No worries. But maybe next time, try believing her. She’s a bit of a menace, but she’s harmless."

"Hey!" Lila smacked his chest lightly, though she was grinning.

With that, Oscar tugged her toward the paddock entrance, his grip on her wrist secure. Once they were far enough from the entrance, she looked up at him, grinning. "You let them think I was some random fangirl."

"Technically, you are my biggest fan," he quipped.

"Please, I barely know your stats."

Oscar scoffed. "Liar. You correct people when they misquote them."

She gasped, hand over her heart. "Betrayed by my own boyfriend."

He chuckled, squeezing her hand as they reached his driver room. "C’mon, let’s get inside before you cause more chaos."

"You love my chaos."

Oscar opened the door, gesturing for her to enter first. "Yeah, yeah. Just get in before they ban you for life."

She beamed up at him before slipping inside, and Oscar shook his head, smiling to himself. Definitely a menace. But she was his menace.

04. DEAD WORRIED.

Oscar was halfway through reviewing race data when his phone buzzed. He barely glanced at it, assuming it was Lila texting one of her usual complaints about how bored she was in class or sharing a random meme she found funny.

But it wasn’t her.

It was her mother.

His heart dropped.

Call me when you can. Lila’s in the hospital.

He shot out of his seat before his mind could catch up, already dialing. The phone rang once before her mother answered.

“Oscar,” her voice was calm—too calm. “She didn’t want me to tell you, but I thought you should know—”

“What happened?” he cut in, grabbing his keys as he headed for the door.

“She wasn’t feeling well and collapsed earlier. They’re running tests.”

His breath hitched. “She collapsed?”

“She insisted she was fine,” her mother sighed. “She didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

Of course she didn’t. She never did.

“I’m on my way.”

—

When he arrived at the hospital, he half-expected to find Lila sitting up in bed, rolling her eyes at how everyone was overreacting.

Instead, she looked… small.

Her usual spark—the one that had her sneaking into places she wasn’t supposed to be and laughing at her own jokes—was dimmed. She was propped up against a mound of pillows, an IV in her arm, her skin pale, too pale.

And yet, when she saw him standing in the doorway, she groaned.

“Oh my God,” she muttered, throwing her head back dramatically. “She told you, didn’t she?”

Oscar ignored her attempt to downplay it and rushed to her bedside, pressing a soft kiss to her lips before anything else. “Are you serious, Lila? You collapsed and didn’t think to tell me?”

She pouted. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Too late for that,” he snapped. She blinked, startled. His fists were clenched at his sides. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down, before reaching for her hand. It was cold. “What’s wrong? What did they say?”

She hesitated, just a second too long.

“Oscar—”

“What did they say?” His voice cracked, just a little.

Her expression softened, and she squeezed his fingers. “They’re still figuring it out. It’s not… that bad. I just need rest.”

He shook his head. “You never get like this, Lila. Never. And you were going to just—what? Keep it from me until you magically got better?”

Her eyes flickered away. “Maybe.”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He hated this. Hated seeing her like this. Hated that she had to be this sick before she’d admit something was wrong.

When the doctor finally came in to say she could go home, Oscar stood up without hesitation.

“Alright, let’s go,” he said, already reaching for her.

She swung her legs off the bed, ready to stand—only to yelp when Oscar scooped her up effortlessly.

“Oscar!” she shrieked, clutching him. “Put me down!”

“Not a chance.” His grip was firm, unyielding. “You’re not walking anywhere.”

“I can walk!”

“Don’t care.”

She groaned. “You’re being ridiculous.”

He shot her a look, his eyes still clouded with lingering fear. “I almost lost my mind today, Lila. Just—let me do this, okay?”

She stared at him for a long moment before sighing, resting her head against his chest. “Fine. But only because you’re comfy.”

His lips twitched. “Lucky for you, I plan on keeping you comfy for a long time.”

And he carried her all the way out, past the amused nurses and her grinning mother, straight to the car—where he buckled her in himself.

She huffed. “You’re really doing everything for me, huh?”

He kissed her forehead, lingering there a second longer than necessary. “Yeah, I am.”

And he wouldn’t stop, not until she was better. Not ever.

05. THE FAMILY IS GROWING

Oscar knew something was off the second he stepped into the apartment. The air felt… different, like it was holding its breath, waiting for him to notice.

And he knew, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that if Lila had anything to do with it, the “normal” he was used to was long gone.

He closed the door behind him, eyes scanning the room. It wasn’t just the stillness that felt strange—there was an energy here. Something offbeat. Something… Lila.

Before he could take another step, a blur of fur zoomed across the room, knocking over a stack of books like they were mere obstacles. Lila came barreling after it, her hair a tangled mess, socks slipping on the hardwood as she slid to a stop. She lunged, all the grace of someone who hadn’t quite figured out the art of coordination—barely missing whatever had darted under the couch.

Oscar raised an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Well, this is new,” he drawled. “How long were you planning on keeping this from me?”

Lila froze, turning slowly, her expression morphing from frantic to feigned innocence in less than a second. Her smile was the kind that could melt anyone’s heart if they weren’t already in a state of disbelief. “Oh, hey! You’re home early.”

Oscar’s gaze swept over the scene—books scattered everywhere, a pillow rolling across the floor like it was trying to make a getaway, and Lila still standing there, caught with the look of someone who’d been caught red-handed. “Explain.”

She bit her lip, shifting on her feet as she tucked her hands behind her back. “Well, you see, I found her—”

“Lila.”

“—and she was all alone! She was so scared, Oscar, you should have seen her! She was shivering! And I just couldn’t leave her there.”

As if on cue, the tiny puppy peeked out from under the couch, its big brown eyes wide with guilt. Oscar’s heart softened against his will, but he had to keep his composure. This couldn’t turn into the kind of mess he couldn’t escape from. He turned back to Lila, raising an eyebrow. “So you’re telling me you’re just gonna sneak this little disaster in without telling me?”

She gasped, putting a hand over her chest in mock offense. “Sneak? I prefer ‘rescue.’”

Oscar couldn’t help but smirk. “Rescue? Really?”

Lila was already crouching down to scoop up the tiny puppy, cradling it like it was the most precious thing she’d ever held. The puppy let out a soft whimper, nestling into Lila’s chest as if it knew the game was up. “Oscar, look at her. How could I just leave her? She’s so small, so helpless. She needs someone.”

Oscar watched the way she looked at the puppy, her face lighting up in that rare, unguarded way. His chest tightened, realizing how much he loved seeing her like this—carefree, giving, and a little bit ridiculous.

“God help me,” he muttered, but there was no real heat in his voice. He wasn’t mad—not even close. He was just… helpless in the face of her charm.

Lila turned her head to look at him, eyes wide and hopeful. “I’ll put up posters, ask around. But, you know, if no one claims her… well…”

Oscar exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You already named her, didn’t you?”

Lila’s eyes widened, clearly caught. “...No?”

Oscar raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Lila.”

She sighed, looking down at the puppy as it licked her chin. “Okay, fine. Her name’s Peanut. But it’s not like she told me or anything.” She glanced back at Oscar with a cheeky grin. “Say hi, Peanut.”

Peanut licked Lila’s nose in response, and despite himself, Oscar chuckled softly. It was impossible to stay annoyed at this point—especially when Lila looked so damn cute trying to make it all sound so innocent.

Oscar dropped onto the couch, his body finally giving in to the absurdity of it all. “I swear, you’re the most adorable disaster I’ve ever met.”

Lila beamed, a proud smile tugging at her lips. “I know, right? But you love me anyway.”

Oscar just shook his head, but the smile that tugged at the corner of his lips was all too telling. “Yeah, I do. Can’t seem to help it.”

As she ran around, picking up the scattered books and pillows, Peanut following close behind like a tiny shadow, Oscar couldn’t help but watch her. The way she moved with that excitement, the way her eyes lit up every time she caught sight of the puppy’s tiny antics—it was all too perfect. All too her.

“You’re lucky I’m too in love with you to be mad,” he murmured to himself, half under his breath.

Lila looked up at him, a teasing glint in her eyes. “You know what? I think you’re right. I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”

Oscar couldn’t help himself anymore. He stood up and took a step closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face, his hand lingering on her cheek. “I’m not mad, Lila,” he said softly, his voice low with affection. “I just… I think you’re the cutest thing I’ve ever seen, even when you’re doing stupid shit.”

She smiled at him, her eyes softening, and without another word, she leaned in, capturing his lips in a kiss that was gentle at first, like she was testing to see if he truly meant it. But Oscar wasn’t about to leave her hanging. He pulled her closer, his lips pressing against hers with more intensity, a kiss that said everything without needing words.

When they finally pulled away, breathless and smiling, Lila nuzzled into his chest, content. “I love you,” she whispered, the words a sweet, simple truth.

Oscar held her tight, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “I love you, too, Peanut’s mom.”

Lila laughed softly, shaking her head. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I know.” Oscar smiled, holding her even tighter as they both looked down at the little puppy—who, in that moment, seemed like just another part of their chaotic, perfect little world.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✧₊⁺ @ayrtonswnna, 2025.

#lele writes ʚɞ #oscar piastri #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri angst #oscar piastri fluff #pookie piastri #formula 1 #formula one #formula one imagine #mclaren #landoscar #oscar piastri x reader

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monstersflashlight · 8 hours ago

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Can you write a longer story on Minotaur Cowboy 🤠

I love the other ask, and your writing is amazing 👏

A/N: First part for those of you who don’t know what anon is talking about is here. (If that link doesn’t work try free suscription on Patreon and this link). This is very filthy, same as last time, and it’s a very niche kink, but good damn it if I didn’t enjoy writing this. Enjoy!

Hucow (part 2)

Minotaur x fem!human || hucow fantasy, voyeurism, exhibitionism, edging

Your minotaur farmer thought he was very smart and he loved you the most, but what he didn’t really knew was that you’d been playing him all along. You enjoyed his attention much more than he thought.

Since the first day you saw him, you wanted him. You wanted him desperately, and when he asked to milk you, you were more than eager to agree. He used his hands on your nipples, gently massaging them at first but rapidly milking you like the cow you were, his body covering your back as his hands squeezed every drop out of you. You could feel his dick against your covered pussy, and you rolled your hips, asking for more, wanting more… But he didn’t do anything that day. You had to walk back home with a dripping pussy and an eager clit that day.

The next day was more of the same, and the next one, and the next one after that… He hired more hucows and more minotaur cowboys, but you were always out of their rotation, nobody could touch you but him. And it drove you wild. You could only watch as others got milked and teased as you leaked, unable to touch your own breasts, and unable to find release.

The first time you saw one of the other minotaurs fucking the hucows, you pinned. They soon realized that was the way to make them more productive, more eager to be milked… So you became bolder, more eager, and he was helpless to resist your sweet scent and tight pussy. When later that day he appeared to milk you, you begged and begged until he was balls deep inside of you, releasing so much come you were dripping around his dick. He humped your pussy like an overeager minotaur as you moaned and groaned, asking for more.

Most times he enjoyed watching you across the farm, fucking some of the others but never looking away from your plump body. He fucked them, milked them… But always found his way to you.

You observed him while he walked around the farm, testing and probing the other hucows there. He thought he was so important and so big, but you saw past his exterior, seeing him as what he was: a bull ready to fuck every one of them until they were crying out. You knew you should be mad, you should be angry that he fucked them first, that he milked them first… but you didn’t care about that, it excited you. You liked how he walked one by one, choosing the pussy he was going to fuck until he was ready to burst, making them come until they were dripping down their legs and their breasts were leaking into the buckets under them, his dexterous hands milking them until they were dry and spent. It was all part of the fun, it was all part of the edging he was playing with you.

Until he got tired of playing with the others, and positioned yourself right into his office. You were like one more piece of furniture, your body displayed there, ready to be fucked and milked by him every time he wanted… or every time you begged loud enough. He loved that, he loved to fuck you senseless and have you bent down so he could stare into your dripping pussy as you milked yourself in front of him, getting hornier by the second just so he could slip right back inside and fill you with load after load. A never-ending circle that left both of you satisfied.

And that’s how you became his personal hucow, ready to be fucked, ready to be milked, displayed on his office for everyone to stare… but not touch.

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hamzaheaven · 22 hours ago

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hey lovely would you be comfortable with writing something about hamzah finding out the reader has a medusa tattoo? like maybe they’re cuddling or something and he sees it and asks her about it xx

a/n: ohhh to anyone reading this with similar experiences im so so so sorry and i give you the biggest hug. ive actually thought of getting a medusa tatt myself so this req really spoke to me !! this imagine is just kind of how i would handle it when brought up, i hope thats okay <33 big hugs to all of you and ily . thank you for the request angel <3

warnings: vague alluding to SA

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

you step out of the shower, his bathroom engulfed in a subtle haze from the heat of the water. the ends of your hair drip with cold droplets, sending shivers down your spine as you quickly dry off, rubbing one of his towels through your hair. the fabric smells like his laundry detergent, a smell that has grown all too familiar with you in the past few weeks.

mindlessly, you slip on a pair of pyjama shorts, not even paying attention to the ink embedded in the skin of your upper thigh as you do. the fabric of the piece of clothing hides the Medusa tattoo partially, but it has been there for long enough for you to sometimes forget it’s even there at all.

it was a part of your history, your own way of taking your power back; silent, wordless, a quiet testimony of what you had been through, and how you had refused to let it shape you as a person.

you finish brushing your teeth before exiting his bathroom, flicking off the light and turning to look at Hamzah. he’s laying on his bed in only his sweatpants, one arm perched behind his head as the other rests on his stomach as he mindlessly scrolls through his phone. quietly, you pad over to the bed, plopping down on the empty space beside him, shivering slightly from the change of temperature from the clammy bathroom to the cold air in his bedroom. he’s quick to put his phone down next to his pillow, sighing as he focuses his gaze on you. he looks tired.

silently, you lay down on your back, your still damp hair sticking to your shirt, causing you to shiver a little.

“you cold?” he mumbles, his voice soft and hoarse. he doesn’t await your reply, but simply removes his arm from behind his head, opening his arms for you to crawl into them. you quietly scoot closer. your cold, wet hair drapes across his bare chest, causing him to hiss through his teeth as he wraps his arms around you, shifting in his position to get a little more comfortable. “shit, that’s cold,” he mumbles, mostly to himself as he tugs you closer to him, resting his chin atop your head.

“sorry,” you mumble humorously, wrapping your arm around his chest and resting your head against the warmth of his chest. you absentmindedly pull one of your legs up and over his legs, your thigh peeking just above the duvet he had previously draped around his waist. the room is basked in a comfortable silence for a moment as his other hand wraps around the cold skin of your semi-exposed thigh, his dark eyes mindlessly traveling down to your leg. gently, he starts tracing the swirls of ink on your skin, gently furrowing his brows together.

“how long have you had this one?” he quietly asks, gently pulling at the hem of your shorts to reveal the full tattoo, his fingers careful in their movements.

you look down for a moment, watching his fingers trace the black lines on your thigh rather cluelessly. he knew you had a few tattoos, but he seemed to have never really taken notice of the one on your thigh. for a split second, you felt something you could only describe as ‘caught’; like a child with their hand in the cookie jar. it was a part of your history you didn’t exactly like to revisit, but that’s the whole reason you got the tattoo in the first place; to stop being ashamed, to stop feeling like it’s something you need to hide, to stop feeling like what happened made you less of a person.

you inhale shortly, plucking at the fabric of the duvet as his fingers continue to trace the lines of your tattoo. “like, two years now, i think,” you quietly mumble, shrugging.

he tilts his head a little to catch your weary gaze. he can’t help but notice the slight apprehension in your demeanour. “i don’t think i’ve ever seen it on full display,” he comments, semi-jokingly. “well, never paid enough attention, i should say,” he jokes, his tone slightly suggestive.

you chuckle at his words, unsure whether you should reveal that part of your past to him. you two hadn’t been together for that long, and that part of your history could be a lot to take in, for anyone; let alone a partner.

he carefully tugs your shorts up a little more to take a better look at it. in the darkness of the room, it’s a little hard to see the details, but he’s quick to catch on, regardless. “medusa… right?” he carefully asks, his dark brown eyes flicking over to catch your gaze.

you can’t help but avoid his gaze a little, keeping your eyes down as you look at the tattoo yourself, trying to push back the emotions and memories that come with the confrontation of being asked about the tattoo. you nod, unsure whether he knows about why most people get a Medusa tattoo.

he stays quiet for a moment, seeming to ponder whether or not he should dig a little deeper, knowing how you struggle with being vulnerable like that most of the time. “why did you get it?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper in the darkness of his bedroom. he carefully places his warm palm on top of the tattoo, as if he already knows the answer.

you deliberately stay silent for a few seconds, inhaling deeply. “i think you know,” you finally reply, your fingers continuing to anxiously pick at his sheets.

you feel him inhale deeply underneath you, almost frustratedly. “why didn’t you tell me?” he then asks, his voice gentle and careful, knowing this must be a topic you tend to avoid for a reason.

tilting your head upwards, you lock eyes with him. his eyes are full of sorrow and worry, breaking your heart a little. you shrug. “it’s not exactly something i enjoy explaining, y’know? that’s kinda why i got the tattoo in the first place,” you quietly explain, “the tattoo can explain it for me.”

he intently listens to your words, furrowing his eyebrows, nodding. “i’m sorry,” he finally whispers, removing his hand from your thigh and bringing it up to your face, cupping it gently. “i can’t even imagine…” he starts, fumbling over his words a little bit.

you quickly shake your head, placing your cold hand over his warm one as it rests on your cheek. “stop,” you whisper, a sad smile tugging at my lips as i lock eyes with him. “it’s okay,” you nod, even though the both of you know that it is far from okay. but it has to be, in someway, if you want to live your life in a way that doesn’t and won’t revolve around the violence and tragedy that was forced upon you.

he pulls his lips into a tight line, shaking his head. “it’s not, though,” he replies, pulling the duvet higher up, so it covers your thigh as it rests atop of his legs. he tightens his arms around you, pressing a kiss against your forehead, sighing. “why didn’t you tell me before?” he finally asks, his eyes opened as he stares at his ceiling, still holding onto you.

you shrug, tightening my arms around his torso. “it’s not really a great ice-breaker, now, is it?” you sarcastically chuckle, closing your eyes tiredly against his warm skin.

he stifles a bitter laugh, followed by a sigh. “you know that’s not what i mean,” he mumbles, tilting his head downwards to try and catch your gaze. you keep your eyes closed, though.

you nod. “i know. it just didn’t seem important. i’m with someone i feel safe with now… all of the other stuff is in the past,” you murmur tiredly, pressing a kiss against his bare chest.

his hand moves up from your waist to the back of your head, gently tracing his fingertips into your still damp and cold hair, smiling to himself. “okay,” he whispers quietly, pressing another kiss to your head as you fall asleep, his mind still silently racing from the piece of your history you revealed to him tonight.

#hamzah #hamzahthefantastic #slushynoobz #martin and hamzah #hamzah fic #hamzah imagines #hamzah x reader #slushy noobz #hamzah x y/n #slushy virus #hamzah the fantastic

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knightjpg · 10 hours ago

Text

landslide | chapter 4

chapter tags: alcohol mention, reader has a toxic boyfriend, implied cheating on reader by said boyfriend

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You dream of the ocean.

Blue against blue, hot dry sand between your toes. The aftermath of salt under your tongue. You're swimming. You look, feet kicking, hands paddling, but there's no shore to break your line of sight. The horizon stretches until it fades, a blurry blue line as vast as the world.

You don't feel afraid. You're just tired. Your arms and legs feel so heavy, and the water feels heavy, too. Waves are coming faster, weightier; you dip below and break through the surface—

until you're pulled under.

Buried alive under big heaving wells, swallowed down by surface gravity. You claw against the water, desperate, fighting for air—

and cough yourself awake. Your chest hurts, tight with the remnants of your nightmare, and for a split second you feel panic when a weight presses on you; but it's just Kettlebell who curled up on top of you somewhere during the night.

Upon feeling your hand in his fur his head lifts, big dark eyes blinking hello. Then he yawns and hops off you. Now that you're awake his job is done, and he can go annoy Mim in peace.

When you swing your legs over your bed you groan, pressing a hand to your forehead. Your temple throbs, occasional pinpricks of pain shooting like stars over your eyes.

Last night comes back to you slowly.

The bar, the too-many drinks, no sight of Dave. The kind stranger who listened to your blubbering about your boyfriend.

Hot shame rushes through you now that you recall your words in the wondrous, headache-inducing light of sobriety. God. You totally unloaded on a guy you'd never met before and then he...

He called you a cab, didn't he? And made sure you were sent home.

You bury your head in your hands and mouth the words what on earth is wrong with me.

The mortification is enough to eat you alive. You vow you'll never let it get that far again—with alcohol or waiting for Dave that long. Speaking of which...

You raise your head and grab for your phone. Predictably there's an apologetic text from Dave waiting for you:

01:24 Srry missed your calls, smthing came up with a friend x

You stare at the screen for a long moment.

Slowly, like your fingers haven't quite made up their mind yet about replying, you type out an answer.

08:50 I waited a long time for you.

You chew your lip as you send it, feeling anxious and small. When Kettlebell returns to the bed to let you know his and Mim's food bowls are still offensively empty, you shake yourself out of it and go through the motions of your morning routine.

Before you hop in the shower, however, you can't resist another peek:

09:22 Make it up to you?

You exhale.

See? He doesn't say it explicitly, but he's sorry. He'll make it up to you. He cares about you.

Life happens, things get in the way. You have to believe that. What is a relationship if you can't trust your partner?

What is a relationship if not the feeling of throwing yourself off the tightrope and waiting for the other to catch you mid-fall?

“Wear the sluttiest one you have,” Liv says. Her voice crackles on speakerphone; her face is out of frame on the video call, bending down to apply her eyeliner.

You laugh. “The sluttiest—? God, I don't know if I even have anything like that.”

You sift through your clothes again, slowly, pulling out one or two things that might make the cut. It's been a while since you've gone out with just friends, just for fun, just for yourself.

Without Dave.

He hasn't made good on his promise to make it up to you yet—says that with his holiday coming up he's extra busy, has to make sure things don't fall apart once he leaves.

The reminder of the stupid Bora-Bora trip with his stupid marketing colleague has been enough to leave you on edge.

And while you don't think Liv and you will ever become best friends she's been kind. When you texted her in a fit of tears about Dave flaking on you again you expected excuses for his sake—

You're so lucky!

—but instead she called him a cunt and said you should join her and some others to go dancing. Shake your ass and make him regret on losing out on time with you, she'd said, and even though it's not your thing you agreed.

If only to feel like you could.

“Wait, what's that one? The black one?” Liv peers into the camera. One eye is perfectly made up, smoky dark eyeshadow contouring an arched, pencilled-in brow.

“This one?” You pull the dress off its hanger and hold it up for the camera to see.

It was an impulse buy. On sale. The fabric felt soft and stretchy, and even though you could see your panties in the changing booth mirror when you bent down you loved the look of it too much to leave it.

You'd just started dating Dave. You remember you were still feeling giddy and excited with that nervous kind of confidence that made you blush and smile and think maybe I'll wear it for him one time.

It's been gathering dust in the back of your closet ever since.

“Yesss,” Liv says. “That's what I'm talking about.”

When she goes back to her make-up table you hold the dress up in front of the mirror.

It doesn't feel like you.

It feels like the person you once really wished you were, and even that wishful optimism is no longer part of your repertoire.

You turn around. “Hey, do you think—”

Your phone buzzes, covering Liv's face with a popup that says in big white letters incoming call!

You grab it quickly, throwing your dress on the bed. “Hang on, someone's calling—”

With one swipe Liv disappears, and you hold the phone to hold to your ear. Unknown number.

“Hello?”

“Simon.”

“Nice to finally meet you,” you smile, and shake the massive hand held out to you. Simon runs warm; his grip is firm and brief. “I, um. I heard about your mother passing. From Beth. I'm so sorry.”

He averts his eyes for a moment. They're a lovely warm shade of brown, starkly contrasted against his pale skin and blond lashes. Up close you see shadows of nicks and scars. Souvenirs from his work.

“Thanks.”

He hardly says another word all evening. At times it feels more like he's watching over rather than participating in your little party of friends gathered at Tommy and Beth's apartment; a hulking shadow brooding in the corner, shying away from the inner circle of light and laughter.

It'd be easy to forget he was there, but you don't.

You're a little fascinated by him. If Beth is like your sister, what does that make him? Family by-proxy-by-proxy. You've heard enough about him to decide he's got a good heart underneath his withdrawn demeanour, and it makes you eager to forgive what others might see as rudeness.

You sneak looks all throughout the get-together, in between board games and salty snacks and bad jokes. Try to map his heavy brow, his serious gaze, the scar running over his chin that mirrors the one Tommy has on the back of his neck.

After the first few times you chalk it up to coincidence. But when you look again, again—those brown eyes meet yours. It confirms:

Simon's been looking at you, too.

“I don't understand,” you say.

You're not convinced this isn't a prank call. No, worse—a scam. Even when “John” reads out Joseph's place, date, and time of birth—even when he could tell you Beth's middle name or Tommy's last place of work.

There's just no way.

“Just... after eight years? Isn't that a crazy long time...?”

A begrudging pause. “I can't tell you everything, sweetheart. Confidential. You understand.”

You try to. Simon left you something, John said. Wouldn't say what. Couldn't say how. But it's for you, if you want it, just making sure—

Of course you want it, you tell him. You have a P.O. box, he can send it anytime—

“It was requested you receive it in person,” John says. “On base.” Paper is shuffled and shifted in the background. Faintly you hear a door open and close. “There's one not too far from your address.”

“John” gives you the directions, and a quick google shows that he's not lying; there really is a base close by, and it fits John's description.

“Okay. Um... Do I need to bring anything?”

“Your ID should do.” John clears his throat. “I'll have one of mine handle it. Mention my name—John, Captain Price, whatever you like—and they'll sort you out.”

“Alright. Thank you...”

You end the call feeling dazed. Tonight was supposed to be for letting go of everything, for living in the now, in the moment—and suddenly the past comes knocking at your door.

The anxiety returns like a wave crashing on your shore.

You should be over this by now. It's been so many years. You've cycled through all of grief's vicious stages, and the sadness and loss has dulled to the point you don't think of it anymore every day. And even then—it was Beth who was your best friend, Beth who you cried for the hardest. Not Simon. Simon was—

(family by-proxy-by-proxy)

—special.

But him leaving you something behind shouldn't be enough to derail the peace you've clawed out for yourself.

Right?

You tell Liv it was a family thing when she asks, but she's concerned, says you look pale; “Are you sure you're up for going, babe?”

You open your mouth to say yes.

Before you can, though, a notification pops up. It's Dave. You told him you were going out earlier today and received no response—more and more often these days, you remember thinking—and shrugged. Put it out of your mind.

You open the text.

Oh I was thinking we do chinese tonight and a movie marathon

You bite your lip, hard. Text back, Sorry, maybe some other time?

He's not usually one to respond so quickly, but the three dots pop up before you're even done typing.

We can go out together sometime

Just call and cancel

I'll get your fav <3

—you crumble.

It's pathetic, but right now all you want is someone's arms to bury yourself into and to cry on a familiar shoulder. To not be alone in a crowd of strangers with girls that you don't know very well.

You take a shuddering breath and try for your best apologetic smile. “Liv? Sorry. Um—I think the family call thing got me a little harder than I thought.”

How do you explain what Simon was to you? What Beth and her family were to you?

“I'm really sorry for flaking on you suddenly, but is it okay if I go with you next time?”

“Of course, babe,” Liv rushes to assure you. “Take it easy, okay? You really don't look so good. We can go out dancing anytime—I'll add you to the groupchat.”

“Thanks. Have fun,” you tell her, and she says she will before the screen goes dark.

With trembling hands, you press the call button.

“Um, sorry. Am I in the way?”

“Not at all.” The guy before you flashes you an easy smile. “Want one too?”

You nod yes, and watch him pour you your drink. He has nice hands; slender, nails neatly trimmed, a plain watch around his wrist.

“I'm Dave,” he says as he hands you your drink. You accept with a smile and offer your own name, and go through the usual so what do you do for work, who do you know here, did you come with a friend, what food did you bring to the potluck?

“Er,” he says a little sheepishly, “just drinks, I'm afraid. I can't cook to save my life.”

“It's not so hard once you get started. They've got these food delivery boxes now, where you just get everything you need for a meal.”

“Ah, I want to, but. You know.” Dave gestures with his hand. “Work keeps me so busy when I get home all I want to do is pass out.”

You give him a sympathetic smile. You know that feeling too, all too well. “So that's why you're here, huh?” you joke. “To eat your fill and then leave before the cleanup?”

Dave winks. “Oops. Saw right through me.”

In the end Dave does stay for cleanup, though you suspect he only does so because he wants to talk to you after and ask for your number.

You're a little surprised at yourself for giving it.

It doesn't have to mean anything, you tell yourself later on the way home. It can just be practice. Getting back into the dating scene after disappearing from it for a few years.

Worst case you try a one-liner on him and he ghosts you.

Part of you hopes he doesn't, though. You enjoyed talking to Dave. He seemed nice. Normal.

Uncomplicated.

Beth would want that for you, too, you decide when you close the door behind you. A nice normal bloke you can live a nice normal life with. You can't hide yourself away forever; the excuse of work keeping you too busy to socialise is wearing thin.

Who knows? You smile to yourself as you drift off.

Maybe this could be the start of something really good.

Dave leaves early in the morning when you're still half-asleep in bed. You don't remember getting there last night; he must've carried you over after you fell asleep on the sofa.

You wrinkle your nose at the empty plastic containers littering the low table in the living room. It's messier than you remember it; Dave even forgot his jacket, still thrown over the back of the sofa. You pick it up and dust it off—

...?

You frown and lean in, sniffing the jacket.

Traces of something sweet and fruity still cling to the fabric.

You stand there, in the still morning light spilling through the windows, holding the jacket and staring at it. You're overreacting. You're reading into it. You're so sensitive. Jumping to conclusions.

Dave doesn't usually wear scent, does he?

crazy bitch, possessive cunt, stupid whore—

...But maybe he's started to. You'll... you'll ask him about it. That should be okay, right? You'll ask him, and then he'll say oh, yeah, just trying out this new thing.

And the world will be right again.

Tears prick at your eyes and you blink them away, carefully hanging Dave's jacket onto the hanger in the hallway. You avert your eyes as soon as possible.

You don't want to think about it.

If you do, you'll just make yourself go crazy. Talk yourself into doing something stupid, like calling him and then blubbering accusations at him like a lunatic.

You breathe out. No. This is your free day, and you're not going to spend in moping inside. You scoop up Mim, who's come out of his hiding place, and kiss his little head while he purrs in your arms.

You're going to feed your cats, feed yourself, and then...

Then you'll go to that military base. Get it over with. It'll get you out of the house, out of your head, make you think about something else than Dave wearing a woman's scent.

Even if that something else is the dead brother-in-law of your equally dead best friend.

#cod mw2 #cod x reader #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #simon riley #ghost x reader #ghost/reader #simon ghost riley x reader #x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x y/n #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader

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hoo-n-i-ki · 2 days ago

Text

Cold One. (Chapter 3)

Only when death looms do regrets surface.

PAIRING - Volturi!Riki x Cullen!fem!reader

GENRE - Twilight AU

CHAPTER WC - 7337

WARNINGS - Vampires, shapeshifters, graphic violence, cursing, plot heavy. Mentions of death + organized crime. Brief cameo of villain shapeshifter Enhypen. (This is a complete work of fiction and is in no way a representation of Riki or Enhypen).

☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾

Once the shock wears off, Misora lunges at her brother.

At the Mind Stealer. At the most devastating angel—despite the eyes of a demon.

You watch as your new best friend moves, driven by over a century of pain. She slams into him with all her inhuman strength, knocking him back, snarling like a feral creature.

And the Volturi guard? He stands as he is, and takes it, despite the likelihood that he could overpower her.

“You left us!” She roars, but her voice is ragged. “We thought you were dead! We thought the Yakuza killed you after you stole all that blood money and left it on our doorstep!”

“I’m sorry.” His apology drips with sincerity. But his words fall onto deaf ears.

“But in reality—this is where you were? Off playing assassin for those parasites? Do you know what you did to mom? If you thought she lost it when she lost her husband, you should’ve seen her when she lost her son.” She laughs bitterly, a cackle so loud it sends the birds flying off the treetops. “She used up part of the money you left us to throw you an elaborate sōshiki, to honor you, and even though there was no body, she cried at your memorial stone for weeks.

“Weeks, Puppeteer, weeks!”

Misora starts screaming. Actual, gut-wrenching screams.

And him? If vampires could cry…

“Jasper, how about you calm her down?” Carlisle whispers to him on your side of the clearing.

“Let them keep going,” Edward interrupts. “He deserves it for using his power against Bella 19 years ago. Any Volturi bastard deserves it.”

“But he’s with us, now.” Carlisle says.

“No he isn’t. He’s with Misora. And…” Edward throws a momentary glance at you, almost contemplative or confused. But he doesn’t finish his sentence.

“I only left to protect you from myself, I swear—“

She punches him, square in the stony jaw.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare swear a single thing to me, because I’ll never believe you, anymore.” Her chest heaves. “You swore that our family would always be together. But guess what? You left. You’re not even the son our parents raised, anymore. Mom, dad, Konon, they’re all gone.” She lifts her arms in exasperation. “I was almost gone, and I was excited to finally see my big brother again, but I got hit with the curse that you so openly embrace.”

He kneels.

“Miso, please, hear me out.”

“I will never,” her voice breaks, “ever be your Miso again!”

She starts shouting in Japanese, but he simply watches with furrowed brows.

It’s like he… forgot his mother tongue during his time with the Volturi.

He lost his identity.

She keeps going. He keeps kneeling. The Cullens keep curiously watching.

And you keep wishing to intervene. But it’s not your place.

Until Misora’s voice tires, and finally stops. She stares at him for a while, heartbreak radiating off of her skin. She recognizes her brother, but she doesn’t know him at all.

She turns to re-enter the Cullen house, you follow her, and the Cullens follow you.

You turn to the angel one last time, and he’s still on his knees with his eyes cast downwards.

The family tries to calm down Misora by giving her a bag of O-.

“(Y/N)?” Esme turns to you with the second blood bag in hand.

You shake your head. You haven’t drank in a week. You feel weak, but you don’t wanna give in—not to human blood, at least.

There’s nothing wrong with you that you’re so unable to ingest animal blood, whereas the Cullens are able to.

Right?

“No, thank you. I wanna give animal blood a try again.”

Esme nods with a sympathetic smile. “Just drink this so you can be strong enough to hunt with us next time, then?”

You sigh and take it with a grateful nod.

A couple sips. Just a couple sips.

Hm.

It’s not as warm as it is fresh—straight from the source—but it still has the sweetness no deer or mountain lion can replicate.

Your fingers tighten around the bag and your fangs ache the more it floods every single one of your senses.

It’s an addiction, but you can control it. You can. You have to—because you refuse to relive that shame.

You tell yourself that this is just closure. Just one last drink. You certainly need it in more ways than one.

It’s just so easy.

But you’re (Y/N) (Y/L/N). You’ve never chosen the easy way out—so when you’re done, you force yourself to pull it away for the final time, even as your throat burns as though it’s upset at saying goodbye.

Misora turns to you. “You’re sure you can do the deers with the sliminess in their blood?”

You trade a glance, and the two of you burst into miserable laughter.

“I’m not sure about anything, anymore,” you scoff.

The two of you sit in a distracted silence whilst the Cullens split off—washing away the remnants of the morning. So you take the opportunity to slip outside.

You weave your way through the trees, feet silent against the damp earth. Something in your gut tells you he’s still here. It’s not logic—it’s instinct. A quiet pull in your chest that you don’t quite understand. You don’t know why you’re doing this. You don’t know him. His scent isn’t familiar like the Cullens’ or Misora’s—it doesn’t pull at any memories or feelings of safety.

And yet, there’s something about him. Something magnetic. Something that urges you forward, despite every rational part of you telling you to turn back.

And then you see him.

Riki kneels at a small creek’s edge, staring into the water like it might hold all the answers he’s lost. His reflection wavers, distorted by the gentle current, but he doesn’t move. He’s unnervingly still—too still, even for a vampire. And his cloak is discarded on the ground, beside him.

For a moment, you just watch.

It’s strange, isn’t it? That you followed him here. That your feet carried you straight to him. You shouldn’t be here. He was sent to kill you, wasn’t he? And now, with Jane and Alec gone, the Volturi will come for him.

And that should scare you. It does scare you.

But you don’t turn away. Instead, you step closer.

“This place… it reminds me of home. There’s a creek behind our old neighborhood in Okayama. My sisters and I used to play there—before everything changed.”

He exhales sharply, gaze still fixed on the water.

He heard you… or maybe he felt your presence, the way you did his.

“Volterra isn’t like this. It’s stone and shadow. Cold. The only water runs through the underground tunnels, and it reeks of death.”

The sound of his voice settles into your bones the more he speaks—a deep, rich tenor that seems to hum through the air itself, and it lingers even after his words have faded.

Yet, when he speaks now, there’s a quietness to it, a vulnerability beneath the depth of his tone.

It shouldn’t be so mesmerizing. He shouldn’t be so mesmerizing.

But the way his voice brushes against your senses—it’s like gravity itself shifts, pulling you closer.

You smile softly as you near his side. “Misora never talked about her old life.”

He shrugs. “It was a tough life, I don’t blame her. And pretty sure I only ended up making it worse, no matter how much I thought I was doing good at the time.” He looks down for a couple of seconds, then back at the water. “I never spoke about it either.”

“Well, pretty sure the company you kept isn’t the type where you sit in a circle sharing secrets while you braid each other’s hair.”

He laughs.

It’s quiet at first—just a short exhale through his nose, like he’s caught off guard by the amusement creeping in. But then it deepens, a low, rich chuckle that rumbles from his chest and melts into the evening air. It’s unpolished, like he isn’t used to laughing anymore, like the sound itself has been buried beneath years of blood and duty.

And it’s… warm. Unexpectedly warm, considering everything about him should be cold. You shouldn’t be wondering how someone who has done such terrible things could sound so human when he laughs.

But you do.

He quiets down and continues. “Not just that. I didn’t want to remember, because I knew that the memories would never stop haunting me if I let myself dwell on the past. It worked… even though it was at the expense of everything I’d ever held dear to me. Until now.” He sticks a tongue in his cheek. “And now? It feels like I’m drowning in everything.”

You hesitate for a moment, studying him as he stares into the water, lost in something only he can see. His words hang between you, heavy and raw, like he’s only just realizing the weight of them himself.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you ask, “Why are you telling me this?”

His jaw flexes. For a second, you think he won’t answer. That maybe he regrets saying anything at all. But then, he exhales sharply through his nose and finally turns to look at you.

His eyes—so red, so beautiful, so unreadable—search yours like he’s trying to find the answer in them before he even speaks.

“I don’t know,” he admits, voice quieter now. “Maybe because you’re the only one who doesn’t look at me like I’m already damned.”

You nod thoughtfully, and turn to gaze at the waters, trying to see what he’s seeing.

If he was truly damned, he wouldn’t have betrayed the kings for the sake of love.

There’s humanity in there, somewhere. Perhaps you’ll be lucky enough to get to slowly uncover it as you uncover your own.

The silence you share is not awkward. It’s peace.

“You were right, by the way. I did hesitate. And maybe that cost me everything. But it feels like I gained something, instead.” He scoffs. “I definitely didn’t gain Misora back. Hell, I deserve everything she threw at me—because I don’t even know how to be a brother anymore. I just…”

You turn to face him fully, the weight of his words pressing into you. You can see the conflict in the tense set of his shoulders, the way his hands rest loosely at his sides, as if he’s unsure how to move forward.

“You got some closure?”

For a long moment, he doesn’t speak, doesn’t even move. His eyes flicker to yours, and when rubies meet bloodstains, there’s an intensity—something raw and searching.

His gaze holds you captive, and you’re not sure if you’re the one who’s getting pulled in or if it’s him. Maybe it’s both. It’s like the world itself has narrowed down to just the two of you.

“Maybe I’m just trying to figure out how to be someone who’s worth trusting again.”

You give him a tight-lipped smile. “She’ll come around. You just have to prove to her that she can trust you again. And hey, you have all the time in the world to do that, right?”

He chuckles dryly. “If Aro doesn’t kill me by tomorrow.” He shrugs. “I’m not sure she’ll be able to look past the past 200 years, though.”

“You might’ve known the Misora from back then, but I know the Misora now. I genuinely do believe she’ll forgive you one day. She might be cynical and great at holding a grudge, but she is crazy loyal. Just try to live long enough to see her loyalty, okay?” You try to laugh.

He smiles with those plump lips. “I was sent here to kill you. Why would you want me to live?”

You pause. Why indeed. “Because it would make my best friend happy, and you didn’t kill me, now did you?”

“Is that it?”

You both fall into a charged silence, and for a fleeting moment, the world feels like it’s holding its breath.

Something stirs inside you. Maybe it’s the lingering threat of danger, or maybe it’s the unspoken understanding between you two that you don’t know how to name.

You can’t hold his gaze for long. The intensity is too much, like it’s pulling you into some unknown abyss. Had you still had a beating heart, the pulse would thumping in your ears.

“I don’t know,” you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper. The truth.

He nods slowly, eyes never leaving yours, and it’s as if he understands—like he knew you didn’t have an answer, but he needed to hear you say it. For a moment, there’s nothing but the rustling of leaves in the breeze and the soft gurgle of the creek before you.

Then, you both get the urge to move at the same time. As you do, your hand brushes against his, and it’s a fleeting touch, but it’s enough to send a jolt of electricity up your spine.

You don’t pull away immediately. Your eyes flicker down to where your fingers are lightly grazing against his skin. Riki’s eyes shift to your hand, then back to your face, his expression curious. But there’s something in the way his lips twitch upward, just slightly.

You pull your hand back, awkwardly, but it doesn’t seem to matter. The connection remains, thick in the air, heavy with unspoken words.

You both start walking, and you try to fill the silence, trying to let your mind wander away from the ending conversation you just had, but it keeps coming back.

“So,” you ask, breaking the quiet, “you planning to stick around at the Cullens’ place for a while?”

Riki scoffs, his hands stuffed in his pockets as he walks beside you. “Highly doubt Carlisle would let a Volturi into his home, even if his daughter does vouch for him.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m not his daughter.”

The words are out before you even think about them. But then they land heavier than you expect. You hadn’t really thought about what it meant to not have parents ever since you entered your… current state.

You slow your step, the sudden weight of the memory crashing into you. Your parents. Their deaths. The vampires who took them from you. What would they think of you now? What would they think of where you are, who you’ve become—who you’re standing next to?

The thought is suffocating, and it almost stops you in your tracks.

Riki’s footsteps falter slightly beside you, and when you glance at him, his gaze is far off, focused on nothing in particular. His brow furrows in quiet thought.

“You know,” he murmurs, “I can’t help but wonder what my parents would think of me. If they could see me now…” His voice trails off, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you once again. You’re sharing something, without ever having to say it.

You understand that neither of you can change the past, can undo what’s been done. But you both have to keep going.

You force yourself to shake off the dark thought and turn your attention back to Riki, the smile creeping back onto your lips. “Don’t worry about it. Carlisle’s good with lost causes. You’ll fit right in.”

He glances at you, that same quiet amusement flickering in his gaze.

But it falls once you step up to the edge of the property. You follow his gaze—to where his sister sits in the living room, exposed by the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“On second thought, I’ll go occupy myself with something else.” He gulps. “Thank you for your… kindness.”

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Riki walks away, and he doesn’t stop until the lights of the Cullen house disappear behind the trees.

It’s better this way—that’s what he tells himself.

But the weight in his chest doesn’t agree.

He tells himself Misora is safer without him, that she’s better off not facing the repercussions of what he’s done. He tells himself he didn’t leave because he was afraid of her reaction to seeing him again.

But that’s a lie.

He is afraid.

He saw the way she looked at him. That uncertain betrayal, like she was trying to make sense of the person in front of her. Like she didn’t recognize him.

Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she never will again.

Because the brother she remembers—the one who looked out for her, protected her, stayed by her side—he doesn’t exist anymore.

The person standing here now?

He’s a murderer.

The words taste like blood, metallic and bitter.

He doesn’t regret it. Alec and Jane deserved to die.

But the Volturi won’t see it that way, because they don’t care the way he does. The members of the Volturi all have their mates with them, and that’s all that matters to them.

He’s never had a mate… but today struck him with the loneliness and seclusion he’s been in for 200 years, and when faced with impending death, he wishes he went about everything differently.

They’ll come for him. That much is certain. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not next week. But eventually.

No one kills the Guard and walks away unscathed. Not even the Volturi’s most prized possession. In fact, they’ll probably be more eager to kill him, considering his position.

He knows too much.

So why does he still feel like he lost something else, tonight, besides his life?

He exhales sharply, shaking his head.

Misora will be fine. The Cullens will protect her.

And (Y/N)…

His steps falter.

Her face flashes through his mind—eyes steady, voice unyielding. She spoke to him like he’s a person. Not just the boogie monster of vampires. He’s been somebody else for centuries, now, but for a moment… he felt like Riki Nishimura.

He laughed.

She looked at him like he was more than just his sins. Like there was still something left worth saving.

Stupid.

He scoffs under his breath, pressing forward. She’s just a reckless newborn. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. She doesn’t know him.

And yet, that brief moment with her is the only thing that doesn’t feel tainted by the rest of tonight.

His fingers twitch at his sides.

Stupid, reckless, exquisite newborn.

But none of it matters.

Not her. Not Misora. Not this useless ache in his chest.

Because soon, the Volturi will come for him.

And when they do, there won’t be anything left of him to mourn.

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Morning light filters through the trees outside, casting soft, shifting patterns on the Cullen house’s pristine walls. The peace feels deceptive—something you haven’t had since turning.

And then Rosalie, standing by the door, lets out a sharp breath.

“You’re going to want to see this,” she says, unfolding a piece of parchment.

It’s the blood-red V emblem imprinted into the wax seal. It’s the same logo on the letter itself.

You’ve seen it before, months ago in Carlisle’s office.

Back then, it was a warning about the tiger shifters. A very vague warning, because there’s nothing actually in it for them. It wouldn’t have affected them or their authority if the Cullens were killed by the Baekho clan.

This letter, though, leaves no room for interpretation.

“To the Cullen Family,

It has come to our attention that one of our own has chosen to defy us. Riki, a member of the Volturi Guard, has committed an unforgivable transgression. The breach of our laws cannot go unpunished.

We understand that he may be under your protection, but we warn you—this is not a matter to be taken lightly. His actions will have consequences, and we demand that you return him to us.

Bring us the boy.

Failure to comply will result in actions that will not be limited to just the one who defies us. You may believe yourselves untouchable, but know this: the Volturi do not make threats. We make promises.

Consider your next steps carefully.”

You’ve barely read the words before Misora’s exhale, barely more than a whisper, breaks the silence. “Riki…”.

She’s already on her feet before anyone can react, moving toward the door like she’s running on instinct.

“Where are you going?” Jasper asks, stepping into her path.

“To find him.”

You speak before you even realize it. “I’ll go with you.”

Misora hesitates for only a second before nodding.

Once outside, the cold air bites at your skin—not that you mind. You don’t speak at first, just move quickly through the trees.

But where would he go? Misora seems to be as aimless as you are.

Then you remember him at the creek. Quiet, lost in thought. So water is nostalgic to him.

“Should we try the Goldstream River?”

Misora shakes her head. “No. That doesn’t make sense. Riki isn’t… he isn’t that person anymore.”

“Then where would we find him in this entire town?”

Misora doesn’t have an answer, but this is the only idea, the only lead you’ve got.

So you run.

The forest blurs around you as you race toward the river, branches whipping past, footsteps quiet against the undergrowth. And then, finally—

There he is, in all his shimmery glory.

Riki stands at the water’s edge, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the slow-moving current. His expression is unreadable, but something about the way he holds himself—shoulders stiff, jaw tight—tells you that brain of his has not quieted down.

Misora exhales sharply, and glances at you, then back to him.

You just watch him for a moment. Misora doesn’t think he’s the same person she used to know, the brother that played with her by the water. But this is where he always finds himself.

Misora freezes, and she can’t bring herself to move closer. He’s noticing, though. You can see the red of his irises in the corner of his eyes watching, waiting, hoping.

Well, you hope that you’re enough.

“Riki,” you start, stepping forward. “You need to hear this.”

He doesn’t turn, doesn’t shift from where he stands. But you see the way his fingers twitch at his sides. He’s listening.

“The Volturi sent a letter,” you continue. “They’re demanding that we hand you over.”

Misora flinches beside you, but Riki… he just smiles. It’s small, barely there. A resigned kind of thing.

“Of course they did.” He finally turns his head to glance at you. “It was only a matter of time.”

Something about how calm he is unsettles you. There’s no panic, no urgency—just this quiet acceptance, like he’s already laid himself at the Volturi’s feet in his mind. Like he’s been waiting for this moment all along.

“You don’t have to do this,” you tell him, stepping closer. “The Cullens—Misora and I—we’re not going to let them take you.”

His gaze flickers, but he shakes his head. “You don’t understand. This isn’t a fight you can win.”

“That’s not your decision to make.” Your voice is steady, firm, and that surprises even you.

He looks at you then—really looks at you. Eyes scanning, searching, trying to figure out what the hell you’re doing standing here, offering him something no one ever has.

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“Absolutely not.”

The words hit the air like a slap, and Riki flinches, though he doesn’t show it. Edward stands rigid, his gold eyes dark with what Riki knows is a mix of disbelief and fury.

“You can’t seriously think we’re going to risk everything for you,” Edward continues, voice low and harsh. “I don’t care how much we owe Misora or care about (Y/N). We’re not going to stand by you when you’ve already made it clear how little you think of us,” Edward spits out, the words laced with a sharp edge. “All you’ve done is hurt people, Riki. You were there when the Volturi wanted to kill Renesmee. You don’t get to walk in here and expect us to fight for you.”

Expect them?

He never expected a single thing. The only thing he’s expecting is death.

It’s just that (Y/N) let him hope. He really should’ve known better.

His guardian angel who for some reason decides to speak up. “If he dies, it doesn’t change what he did. It won’t undo the blood on his hands.” She narrows her red eyes at her gold-eyed family. Because the way they stand together? This really is a family—regardless of whether or she accepts it.

And he… is envious.

“But this isn’t about the past. It’s about the present,” she continues. “I thought you guys don’t leave someone behind, not someone who needs us!”

Carlisle, who had been quiet up until now, finally speaks. “The moment that letter arrived, we were already implicated. The Volturi made that clear—we’re in this, whether we like it or not.”

The words settle over the room like a cold realization.

Still, Misora doesn’t move. She hasn’t said a single word since they returned, standing with her arms crossed, watching it all unfold. But now, finally, she steps forward.

“Why should I fight for you?” Her voice is quiet, but the bitterness in it is unmistakable. “You never fought for me during this life.”

Riki exhales slowly, his expression unreadable. “Misora…”

“You stood by and let me believe I was abandoned,” she continues, the edge to her voice sharp. “I fought to keep myself alive. I’ve already done more than I needed to by deciding to warn you.”

She laughs bitterly, but there isn’t a single glint in those crimson eyes of hers. The eyes that used to hold nothing but mischief are now all sorrow, and it’s his fault.

But like she said, she did warn him. Does she want him to live long enough to make things right?

Carlisle exhales. “I understand why none of you want to fight, and I’m not asking anyone to put themselves in danger.” His gaze lingers on Riki before moving to the others. “But that doesn’t mean we do nothing.”

“So, what?” Rosalie crosses her arms. “We just watch from the sidelines?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

Silence stretches, thick with tension.

Alice shifts, arms wrapped around herself. She looks at Riki, then at Edward, then finally at Carlisle. “I’ll try to see what Aro’s planning,” she says, closing her eyes.

Riki watches the crease form between the psychic’s brows. Her fingers twitch at her sides. Seconds pass.

Then Alice’s entire body tenses.

“I… I don’t see anything.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. Her hands curl into fists as her golden eyes snap open, wide with disbelief. “It’s blank.”

The words freeze the room.

Riki stands with his body taut, trying to plaster on that mask of indifference he had screwed onto his face back in Volterra. It would be easier to block everything out—to feel nothing and not care that no one is willing to fight for him. He wishes his sister’s bitterness didn’t pierce so hard, and didn’t remind him of all the years he let slip away. The numbness was so much safer—it prevented him from disappointments. But now? With Alice’s vision going blank? He realizes that it’s all too late.

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A week passes. A whole week, and still—nothing.

The Volturi don’t come. There’s no sign of them, no whispers of their approach, no ominous figures in the distance. Just silence.

It’s like the entire purpose of the letter was to put everyone on edge. And it worked. Even Alice, who has spent the past few days trying and failing to see anything, looks unnerved. Every conversation in the Cullen house circles back to the same thing: Why haven’t they come yet?

You don’t have an answer. No one does.

But in the meantime, you force yourself to focus on something you can control.

The animal blood still doesn’t taste right. It never will. Even the hunt doesn’t fill you with the adrenaline rush you used to chase for three whole months. But you drink it anyway, pushing past the revulsion, the longing for something richer, warmer, stronger. Every time you force it down, you remind yourself why.

You lost your way and became the very creature you resented your entire life. You let yourself forget that when you woke up with red eyes, let yourself believe the hunger was all that mattered. Even now, part of you still wonders if it’s too late—if you’ve already crossed a line that no amount of restraint can erase.

But if you can’t bring back the lives you’ve stolen, then maybe this is the least you can do.

Still, you miss it. The chase, the thrill—the way Misora used to grin at you right before the hunt began, sharp and wicked. But you hunt with the Cullens now.

Misora still chooses human blood, but she doesn’t hunt here. The Cullens made their treaty with the tiger shifters clear: no human blood within Victoria. So she vanishes for hours at a time, returning only when the hunger is sated, and you don’t ask where she goes, so that it doesn’t trigger your cravings.

Riki, on the other hand, appears to be too… dejected to hunt. He’s only drank a single blood bag so far, courtesy of Carlisle, just enough for his eyes to not turn black. But he did try out a coyote that Emmett dragged back to the lot a couple of days ago, and he didn’t look as disgusted as you’re certain you still do.

You’re perched on the back steps of the Cullen house, staring at the trees beneath the grey clouds when you hear him approach.

“You’re changing,” Riki says. His voice is quiet, not quite neutral, but close.

You glance at him. He’s standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets, eyes unreadable as they flicker over your face.

“What?”

He gestures vaguely. “Your eyes. They’re not as red as before.”

You blink, momentarily thrown off, before realization settles in. He noticed something so little. You lower your gaze, staring at your hands.

“Well.” You shrug. “I never liked the red much, to begin with.”

Riki doesn’t respond right away, and for a moment, there’s only silence between you. It’s not uncomfortable, not really. It’s just how things have been. He doesn’t seek you out, but he doesn’t avoid you either. There’s a strange in-between that you’ve both settled into—where he doesn’t push, and you don’t pry.

But now, he stays.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He looks as beautiful as always—messy dark hair, sharp features. And yet, something is different. Maybe it’s the way his shoulders don’t hold the same rigid tension, or how his expression isn’t completely closed off.

He almost looks… lost.

You watch as he shifts his weight, debating sitting down next to you.

Until he does.

“Is it a you hating vampirism kind of situation?” He asks calmly.

“I hate… what it reminds me of.”

You tell him everything.

Your memory of your parents’ death. The rampage you went on up until a month ago. All the while, he doesn’t judge. Certainly not the way you’d expect red-eyed royalty to—or at least, the direct subordinate of royalty. He just takes in what you have to say, the red of his eyes warm.

After a moment, he runs a hand through his soft hair. “I get it,” he says, voice quieter than before. “The whole… hating what you are thing.”

You blink, caught off guard.

He doesn’t elaborate immediately. Instead, he leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, gaze fixed on the woods ahead. “Back in Volterra, I used to tell myself it didn’t matter. That I’d already lost everything, so what was the point of feeling bad about it?” His jaw tightens. “But then, at some point, I stopped having to tell myself. It just… was.”

“So what changed?” you ask, because clearly, something did.

He hesitates. Then, his lips curve into something that isn’t quite a smirk, isn’t quite a frown. “I saw the very reason I begged to be turned, again. I was killed, and then I was almost drained, but I begged the vampire I woke up to to save me somehow. I just wasn’t aware that by being saved, I would end up having to leave everything behind.”

You look at him, but he doesn’t meet your eyes. It’s not avoidance, exactly—it’s something else. Like he’s letting you in, just a little, but not enough to be exposed.

Little does he know, you were in a very similar position. Except you didn’t have a family to leave behind, you just had to let your career go… but in turn, you gained a family.

“I don’t wanna leave people behind, anymore, as long as they’ll have me.”

Instead, you huff a soft breath, nudging his arm. “Careful, Riki. That almost sounded sentimental.”

That earns you a glance, a glimmer of amusement in his expression. “Guess your coven rubbing off on me.”

“You wish.”

The corners of his full mouth twitch, just slightly. And you notice. You always notice. And you can’t help but stare.

But your gaze drags his to your lips, as well.

Until the creak of the door breaks you apart, so you re-enter the house.

Carlisle steps in, his footsteps a lot more… guarded than usual.

And in behind him comes Dr. Park.

You haven’t seen him in months. Since that night.

“(Y/N),” Carlisle starts, his lifted eyebrows almost telling you to be wary. “Dr. Park here wanted to check on how you were doing.”

Riki gets the hint and walks away, away from the brown-eyed man.

“Dr. (Y/L/N), how lovely it is to see you!” His tone is cheerful, but his eyes flicking between your blood orange ones are uncomfortable. Assessing.

“How are you holding up?” he asks, in a tone that suggests he’s genuinely curious—but something about it feels calculated. He gives you a sympathetic smile, but you’re in no position to trust it. “I can only imagine what a change it’s been for you, adjusting to this… new lifestyle.”

You tense, but you force a smile. “I’m managing.”

Dr. Park shifts, and though he’s trying to act casual, his body remains rigid. “I must apologize again for what happened that night… with the tiger shifters.” He holds up a hand, as if to stop you from interrupting. “I know it wasn’t just a simple accident. It was my responsibility, and I—” He pauses, then looks at you like he’s about to offer a kind gesture. “I never intended for any human to be hurt.”

He doesn’t regret attempting to kill Carlisle. He regrets the outcome.

“I’m sure you’ve been through a lot, with… everything you’ve had to give up,” Dr. Park adds, his gaze flicking to your hands briefly. “Family, friends, everything that you once were.” His words are soft, almost too soft. “But you should know that as soon as you build up your self control , if you ever want to come back…” His voice trails off, leaving a silence in the air.

Riki, standing off to the side, frowns slightly. You catch the flash of annoyance in his expression, but he says nothing. Misora, too, watches from the living room—her similar expression making her appear more like Riki’s twin than just his sister.

Carlisle steps in. “She’s doing fine, Dr. Park.”

“Of course, of course.” His smile falters for just a moment before it returns to its practiced warmth. “I just thought I’d offer my assistance.”

He turns toward the door, clearly not wanting to overstay his welcome. But his gaze lingers near the living room for a second longer than necessary.

But you might have hallucinated it.

Just like how the next day, when night falls, you start hallucinating a tiger’s roar. Because there’s no way Dr. Park would violate the treaty for no reason, right? Right?

You, the Cullens who aren’t out hunting, and Riki all share curious glances.

They heard it too.

A low, rumbling growl that wouldn’t belong to any vampire or human. It carries through the trees, deep and guttural, setting every nerve in your body on edge.

Riki hears it too. You see it in the way he tilts his head slightly, listening—then in the sharp flicker of his gaze toward the door. The two of you move almost at the same time, stepping outside alongside Carlisle and the others.

And that’s when you see them.

The tigers.

Your entire body locks up before you can stop it. The world narrows, sharpens—too bright, too loud, too familiar. The way they stand, the way their muscles coil like they’re ready—

It’s just like that night.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides, nails biting into your skin. You try to force yourself to stay still, to ignore the way your throat tightens—but then Riki shifts.

At first, you think it’s just him moving closer to get a better look. But then, without a word, he steps in front of you.

It’s subtle. Casual, even. He doesn’t bare his teeth, doesn’t snarl like he’s challenging them—he just exists between you and them, a silent blockade.

“What is this, James?” Carlisle calls out to the woods. The man isn’t actually around, but who else could be commanding the shifters?

The amber-eyed tiger steps forward. You remember him—Jay, Dr. Park’s son. The one with icy eyes, Sunghoon. The largest, Heeseung.

And the one who attacked you, the one currently standing at the back but is the fastest, regardless. Jake.

Then shadows shift behind the tigers.

“Ah, how lovely to see you all again. I do hope we aren’t intruding.”

A voice that’s all warmth and poison.

A man you’ve never seen before steps out, with his long, brown hair and black and red coat, followed by a taller man with similarly dark hair and a blonde man.

Gasps ring out near you. Riki tenses in front of you. And you know his name right away.

Aro.

The one Misora once told you is the worst of them all. Thank goodness for her that she’s currently away from Victoria, hunting.

Alice takes a hesitant step forward, flanked by Jasper, her anchor. “So that’s why I couldn’t see you coming,” her voice shakes. “You were hiding behind shifters.”

Aro’s smile widens at that, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Ah, dear Alice,” he muses, tilting his head slightly. “You always have been quite the gifted one. But yes, it seems our little allies here have provided quite the convenient cover.”

His gaze flickers toward the tigers, then back to you. His expression is unreadable, but the way he looks at Riki, and then you behind him—like he’s peeling back your layers, examining you from the inside out—makes your stomach churn.

The tigers remain silent, their eyes fixed on you. And you truly wish that Edward is here to read their thoughts. It’s clear they don’t like standing alongside the Volturi, but they’re tolerating it. A temporary truce.

“We have a truce with the Baekho clan.” Carlisle’s eyes flicker from the shifters to the Volturi.

“Your treaty was nullified the moment you allowed the boy and his sister to stay in your town,” Caius growls.

“And so,” Aro’s quietly delighted voice rings, “we formed our own treaty with them. Kill the red-eyed, and they’ll never have to see us in Victoria again.”

A slow, creeping chill settles into your bones.

Aro watches you carefully, but there’s something particularly pleased in the way his gaze drifts to Riki, his fascination clear.

“How curious,” Aro muses, almost to himself. “That the very one who was sent to eliminate you is now your shield.” His gaze flickers between the two of you, lingering on the way Riki’s posture remains stiff, unwavering.

Riki doesn’t move. He doesn’t react. But you can feel the tension rolling off him in waves.

Aro’s fingers twitch at his side, as if the urge to reach out and confirm what he’s seeing is almost unbearable. “Riki, Riki, Riki,” he sighs, tilting his head. “I must say, you continue to surprise me. First, you slaughter my dear Jane and Alec. Then, you desert us. And now?” His eyes gleam, lips curling upward. “You protect the very newborn you were sent to destroy.”

His voice is almost admiring, like Riki’s betrayal is nothing more than an interesting puzzle to solve.

Riki shifts slightly, but he still doesn’t move away from you. “Not my problem if you sent me on a job I didn’t finish,” he mutters. “Guess you should’ve picked someone else.”

Beside Aro, Caius stiffens, and Marcus—who has remained silent this entire time—finally lifts his gaze, watching with interest.

Aro, however, just laughs. Soft, entertained, yet there’s something razor-sharp underneath it.

“Oh, Riki,” he sighs, almost fondly. “You misunderstand.”

He takes a small step forward. Riki doesn’t back away, but you can feel the way his muscles tense.

“You didn’t just fail your assignment,” Aro continues, his voice dropping into something softer, silkier. “You abandoned your family—your true family that has been with you for centuries. You took the lives of our own.” He claps his hands together gently, though the sound is eerily hollow. “That is not something we can simply forgive.”

The threat lingers in the air like poison.

Riki still doesn’t move.

Aro hums, his gaze flickering back to you. But I must know—” His head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing in thought. “Where is your accomplice? His lovely sister?”

You keep your expression carefully neutral. You cannot let him see an ounce of concern.

Aro studies you for a moment longer, then sighs. “Ah, well. No matter. We’ll find her in time.”

His focus shifts back to Riki. And this time, the amusement slips, leaving something far colder in its place.

“You do understand, my dear boy,” Aro murmurs, voice quiet but unyielding, “that deserting the Volturi is a crime punishable by death?”

The moment Aro speaks, the air changes.

It’s subtle at first—a shift in the atmosphere, the way the trees seem to stand still, listening.

For the snarl. Low and rumbling.

The tigers move first.

Jay lunges, a blur of muscle and fur aimed straight for Riki. Thanks to his vampiric speed, he’s able to shift his weight, sending them both tumbling.

You stumble back just as Sunghoon and Jake launch forward. Jasper intercepts Sunghoon, the impact sending shockwaves through the ground, while Jake barrels toward you.

For half a second, you freeze.

Not again. Not again.

The memory punches through you—Jake lunging in the dark, his weight crushing you, claws digging in.

But then—

Riki.

He rips himself free from Jay’s grasp, and in a blink, he’s in front of you again. His fingers twitch at his sides, and the tiger freezes in the air, until he falls backwards. The massive body jerks like it’s being pulled by invisible strings, and Jake snarls, trying his hardest to to break free.

But the Puppeteer is far too practiced.

And then the Volturi join.

Caius moves first, aiming for Carlisle. He’s fast—but Carlisle sidesteps him, forcing him off balance just long enough for Alice to charge in. Jasper and Sunghoon are locked in a brutal exchange of claws and limbs, neither gaining the upper hand.

Riki is facing both Jay and Jake at once, switching between combat and his own power, since it appears two minds are his limit.

And you move.

The heavily striped one, Jungwon, comes at you, but this time, you react. He lunges, and you drop low at the last second, sweeping your leg out to knock his balance. He stumbles, and before he can recover, you slam your palm into his ribs, sending him skidding backwards.

Your hands shake, but you refuse to stop.

Until movement flickers in your periphery. Aro.

You whirl just in time to see him standing perfectly still amid the chaos, watching you, studying you.

Like he’s waiting.

You feel it before you see it. The shadow moving behind you. The air shifting.

You turn too late.

And cold fingers wrap around your throat.

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Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

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