#the three of them are in love with each other your honor

[fameandfiction]

IMAGINE PART I: “Girlhood is Criminal Concealment” — Reneé Rapp x Reader

— We're Gay & Unwell & Also Late.

It’s 5:02AM.

You know this because the microwave clock has been blinking “5:02” in smug LED blue for a full minute, like even it is judging you.

You haven’t slept.

Reneé definitely hasn’t either—her hoodie is on inside out, her eyeliner from last night is smudged halfway to her temples, and there’s a very visible, violently purple bruise under her jawline that looks like a vampire took it personally.

“I said one hickey,” she groans, staring at herself in the mirror.

“And I honored that,” you say sweetly. “I just... spaced them out.”

She gestures to the mirror.

“My neck looks like a topographical map of gay mistakes.”

You pop open the concealer.

“Girlhood,” you say solemnly, “is hiding your girlfriend’s bite marks before national television.”

She wheezes.

You're filming it, obviously. Because if you’re going to panic—sweaty, makeup brush in one hand, setting powder in the other—you’re also going to document it for the group chat. Or the timeline. Or blackmail.

You angle the phone toward the mirror.

The reflection shows:

You in her oversized tour t-shirt, no pants.

Her sitting on the bathroom counter, legs swinging, bruised neck, cereal bowl in hand.

Two girls who look like they definitely did not sleep and did everything else instead.

You hit record.

“Hi. It’s 5am. We’re gay and unwell.”

“I have GMA in three hours,” Reneé mutters, mouth full of Cheerios.

“I’m doing damage control.”

You start dabbing concealer under her jawline while she kicks her feet like a toddler.

“Girlhood is this,” you announce. “Girlhood is covering hickeys for each other because someone couldn’t keep their hands to themselves.”

Reneé smirks and opens her mouth to speak but you cut her off:

“You literally asked for it.”

“I asked for one!”

“Your exact words were ‘choke me a little.’”

“I meant emotionally!”

The video is shaky.

Your voice is hoarse from laughter and no sleep.

Hers is raspy and soft and smug, like she’s trying not to smile while pretending to be mad. The room’s lit by weak bathroom light and the burning chaos of queer domestic intimacy.

You post it anyway.

[@/you, 5:09AM] girlhood is covering hickeys for each other 🤭 because someone couldn’t keep their hands to themselves and has an interview for good morning america in 3h!!!

[attached: video of pure lesbian disaster]

It explodes.

The timeline eats it alive.

“the way they didn’t even try to hide they just went full gay chaos on main.” “‘girlhood is this’ is the new ‘we’re just best friends’ and I support it.” “I aspire to be this delusional in love.” “GOOD MORNING AMERICA?????” “the hickey is literally still visible you’re not slick.”

Reneé reads them from the Uber.

You’re trying to fix the smudge under her lip as she tilts the phone toward you.

“Look. They’re saying I should’ve fought back.”

“You’re literally wearing my bite mark.”

“I’m not a victim. I’m a canvas.”

The GMA stylist gives her exactly one glance and sighs.

You mouth “I’m sorry” as the woman pats her neck with high-coverage foundation like she’s erasing evidence from a crime scene.

Reneé snickers the whole time.

“Don’t worry,” she tells the stylist. “I already got yelled at this morning.”

“By who?” the woman asks.

“My girlfriend.”

Your heart does a thing it shouldn’t.

She says it so casually.

So easily.

And you’re right there. Off-camera, out of frame, but known.

She doesn’t hide you.

Not even from daytime television.

Later, when you’re both home and the adrenaline fades, you find her sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing a fresh hoodie and scrolling the replies.

“Everyone thinks I’m feral now,” she says.

“You are,” you reply.

She looks up.

“You didn’t even deny it.”

“You liked it.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re married to me in Vegas, remember?”

“True.”

You climb into bed beside her.

She pulls you into her lap, presses a soft kiss to your temple, and whispers:

“Next time, I’m biting you.”

You grin.

“Not unless you’ve got a morning show too.”

[nosferatuix]

gojo was the first person nanami called when he decided to come back but I think shoko was the first person he told when he wanted to leave. and if he kept in touch with anyone during the years he was away it was shoko

sigh....... i knew this day would come. yes, i agree 100%. these are some of the things i had in my drafts that had never seen the light of day until now, but i feel like they are some good thought-foods to explore their relationship.

these are from two separate one shots that are both based around the idea that during her fourth and nanami's third year, shoko would regularly take nanami out for drinks since gojo was usually out on missions and it was just the two of them and 16 year old ijichi on campus. they kept this tradition up all the way to the end of nanami's fourth year even when shoko was in med school, but it became less of a frequent even when nanami eventually "cut ties" with the jujutsu society. (i love the idea of them keeping in touch, though, so i agree with you there)

i was still trying things out to decide on their characterizations when i wrote the first one, so shoko might seem like she's more open to communication there, and the last screenshot is from something that i scribbled down as sort of a joke – these are all from a while ago, so keep those in mind.

1. the following three screenshots are snippets of a single dialogue, had to crop some parts out bc they were descriptions of the atmosphere but it's a single dialogue lol. they're sitting in front of the infirmary after nanami brings shoko lunch and just talking, then the conversation ends up leading to talks about nanami's decision to leave. he asks her if she ever thinks about leaving, shoko says she can't do that, nanami tells her she was the who told him leaving was an option in the first place and that they'd have to let her go if she wanted to leave so this makes her sound like a hypocrite, then shoko cuts him off by saying something along the lines of "who keeps everyone else alive if i leave?" which gets nanami to shut his mouth real quick. this is the aftermath.

2. this one is the one that's basically me trying out my luck in humor and failing miserably lol. they're at an izakaya, nanami's probably underage here but shoko knows a guy who knows a guy so it all works out in the end. he's a sad drunk at this point in his life because his best friend died literally months ago and eveything has been shit ever since. he drops his head on the table and starts crying at the beginning of this one shot and shoko doesn't touch him with a ten-foot-pole because this is how he blows off steam and he just needs a moment lol

they love each other sm your honor

[darksunwrite]

let’s just stop fighting over graylu or nalu and just make them a throuple

[romulusthethird]

Demon Twins AU Prompt

Okay, so reading the dozens of DC X DP prompts and stories on Tumblr incites the juices as it wont to do, and I have an idea! Basically, at the barebones of this idea, is that, unlike the usual demon twins fics, where Dami kills Danny and he ends up in Amity, or the ones where he fakes his death, and all that jazz (heh)-- my idea is that they both... came out wrong. Neither of them are capable of dying. They grow up together, in the league, constantly killing each other. The wounds heal, but the scars remain. There are other abilities, like they're faster, stronger, and they have a quirk (in this case, Danny can still fly, and lets say Dami can disappear, become one with the shadows). They would kill for each other, and won't stand any slight against the other, but they also fucking hate each other and they spend half the time killing the other.

--

Immortal Demon Twins AU part 1

It is a glorious day in Nanda Parbat. It is their birthday, the tenth year of their existence. There will be a celebration, as expected of the grandsons of the Demon's Head, and they will be showered with gifts and given the day off from training and their tutors. However, at the end of the day, there will be a test.

The usual ritual, fighting their mother for the chance to learn about, and eventually someday meet, their father. Bruce Wayne. The Batman. Prince of Gotham, billionaire, vigilante, leader of the Justice League.

Danny doesn't care about the man at all, but Damien wanted to meet him, and as much as he hates his brother, he wasn't going to get in his way. He doesn't participate in the fights, but he watches, and if the boy was too injured after, he'd give the finishing blow. Their wounds healed in death, and it was nothing more than torture to make him heal over a course of months what could heal in hours.

Danny woke his brother up at the sun's rise, leaping onto the bed with a dagger in hand. "Rise and shine, ahki al'asghar~"

Dami's eyes snap open, alert despite the fog still clouding them. He kicks out, shoving his brother off him. "Danny. It's too early."

"Nonsense. It's our birthday. The tenth one. You survived ten years, ahki al'asghar."

Dami scowls. "No thanks to you."

Danny taps the jagged scars on his throat. "A for effort." Danny had given it to the other boy when they were five, not yet fully used to his strength nor the sword in his hands. His brother had bled out, but was alive less than nine hours later. That wasn't the first time he'd died, and it wasn't the last.

Dami laughs, "I got an eye in return, didn't I?" He did. Danny was blind in his right eye, an injury that healed on its own. It's why they'd died so many times. Easier to heal when their hearts had stopped. If they don't, it would lead to things like his eye or Dami's missing pinky finger.

"Whatever. The sun is up, let's go to the baths before they get crowded! Yalla!"

Damien clicks his tongue. "khalas."

Danny grins, teeth a touch too sharp, and physically drags his reluctant, "younger by fifteen seconds!" twin to the bathhouse to wash off before their morning absolutions.

It went by quickly, with only one attempted drowning, and they end up eating a hearty breakfast with all of their favorite foods like Dami's falafel with cream cheese (gross) and his own special meal of chocolate cereal and milk. Dami turned his nose up at the count chocolate cereal and said, "Your teeth are going to rot."

"They regenerate."

Dami sniffs in reply, taking a bigger bite of tomato, chickpeas, and cream cheese.

"You're disgusting." Danny grimaces at the boy, shuffling away from him and his gross food.

He catches the knife thrown at him, scoffing at the tiny blade.

He doesn't know who throws the first punch, but he's missing a tooth at the end (Dami throws it at him and taunts, "regenerate that").

It's only the "Habibi" call of his mother that stalls the two preteens. They pause from their position on the floor, chunks of artificial chocolate cereal and tomato in their hair and on their clothes, Dami's hands grabbing Danny's longer hair while Danny's hands are on his throat.

"Boys." She sighs. "Just because it is your birthday does not mean you can act like ruffians in the kitchen. Go clean up. We have to start the festivities."

Danny groans, leaning up and shoving his brother off him. "I hate them, you know I hate them. Grandfather's friends are so stuffy and boring, and the rest just stand there, like statues."

She raises an eyebrow at him, which causes the older boy (by fifteen seconds!) to whine and groan, before walking out the door, back to the bathhouse. He hears her tell Dami to "behave" and grins.

--

"Are you ready, Habibi?" His mother asks his twin, hours later, at the time of dusk, drawing her sword in the courtyard. Damien's response is to grab his own katana and get into a battle stance, lowering his legs, and raising his sword, pointing it at her.

"I am ready, mother."

Danny watches. Like every year since they were old enough to understand the concept of a father. He doesn't want to meet him, doesn't feel the need to have a father when he had Mother and Dami, as much as the boy annoyed him.

"Don't die." He says, just before he banged the gong.

It's fast, seconds turning into minutes as their swords clash loudly, his mother dodging more than she parried or went on the offense. She was defending more than usual, letting Dami wack and whirl and stab and hit. It confuses him, but he continues to watch.

He won't interfere, regardless of the outcome.

That doesn't lessen his surprise when Dami wins.

No, when their mother lets him win.

She smiles the little smile she gets when she is victorious and says, "You have won, Damien. That means you are worthy of meeting your father."

And-- what?

This doesn't make any sense. Danny knows what these meetings are; false hope for something that was never going to happen. A simple way to keep their youngest in line. It had worked with their oldest, Danishara (he goes by Dan). It had worked with Athanasia, who died trying to meet the man years ago. He doesn't know what happened to her, just that mother put her in the Lazarus Pit, and she never came out.

"You and Danny leave tonight."

What? "But Mother, I don't want to meet him. Let me stay. I don't want to go!"

"You'd leave your brother alone, and defenseless? Think of what happened to your sister. I cannot lose another child, Danyal." Danny cringes. His sister had been alone, on a mission, trying to prove herself, and had drawn too much attention in the process. Enemies of Ra's had caught the thirteen-year-old and killed her. It had been two years since then. Dan still hasn't gotten over it, and nor has Ellisha, another sister of theirs. They don't see them often, Ellie is often in some reach of the world, and rarely comes back to NP, while Dan is running his own underground mercenary group out of Russia. They never see any of their family. Not Dusan, their khaal, or Nyssa, their Khala.

"He can't die."

"We never know what will happen until it happens, Habibi."

He knew it was a lost cause, but still, he tried to argue. "Go with him to Gotham, get him settled, and if you really want to come back, you can."

"Really?"

"I swear it."

And so, Danny agrees, pensive and upset, and follows his brother, whose lips would not stop quirking up, to their room to pack. "I am unsure about this," he tells the other boy when they are alone. "We do not know this man, nor his children--"

"We are the blood children," Damien cuts in. "That is all that matters. He will love us, just like Mother does."

Danny hums in discontention. "I don't think blood matters to him, but he already has other blood children. That woman... Helena is also his blood."

"She is a girl, it's different." Damien says, but Danny can see he too is worried.

"What if he doesn't love us? What if all he sees is... well, us?"

"What's wrong with us?" Damien shoots back, angrily shoving robes into his bag. "We are mighty and strong. We do not die. We excel in everything we are taught."

"We also kill. Maim. Torture. We are... we are not like his other children."

"I thought you didn't care about him-- about having a father."

"I don't," Danny said quickly, reluctantly revealing, "I looked into him, though. I wanted to know if we look like him or Mother. While we resemble him, we take too much from Mother. We don't look like his brood--pale, with blue eyes. Kids he took off the street. We were planned, designed, raised with expectations. Our skin, our features, the green in our eyes is all Mother and Grandfather, and I fear he won't look past that. It doesn't help that Mother's advice is 'take out the competition' like that will endear us to the man."

"...I still want to meet him."

"I know, Ahki. I know."

Danny zipped up his bag. "Maybe when we're there, we can see about seeing Dan or Ellie again."

That cheered up his brother, and it sickened Danny--how nice he was being to the annoyance. Just so he wouldn't forget his place, Danny shoved the boy into a suit of armor, ignoring his outraged scream as the spear stabbed the other boy in the stomach.

"I'll see you on the plane, ahki al'asghar."

--

Danny wakes to drool on arm, the weight of his brother leaning against him, warm and reassuring. His Mother sits across from them.

She is looking out the window, as the sun rises, catching her pale green eyes in its rays. She is beautiful. She is a cold, calculated killer that claims to love Danny and his brother. Loved them even as they tore from her recently revived body in the waters of the Lazarus Pool--much to the glee of their Grandfather.

She is strong.

She is his mother.

She is scheming.

"Why now?"

She looks back at him, eyes soft in a way they almost never are in the treacherous walls of their keep.

"Does he even know we exist?"

Her eyes look down at his brother and then back up to him. "Because I love you."

He blinks. Their family was never one for vocal terms of affection or declarations. Why would she--

Ah. "It's him, isn't it?"

She doesn't ask who he is referring to.

"Athanasia died, Danyal." She glances out the window again. "Danishara and Ellisha... You are so young, Habibi. You are all so young. I had my oldest when I was young."

"That doesn't answer my question."

She huffs a small, amused laugh. She smiles at him in a way she's never before. "You are both so much like your father."

Danny scowls. "Am not."

"It is not a bad thing. You inhabit all of our best qualities. You and your siblings."

"Will he really like us? Accept us? I know what outsiders think of the league, Mother. I am not naive. He- He has children."

"He does." She agrees. "three boys and two girls."

"Why would he want more?"

She mulls over that, and then says, "Do you know why Dan and Ellie never met their father?"

Danny shrugs. "I had ideas."

"When I was young," she starts, "I fell in love with a boy. He was too pretty to be real, and I wanted him to be mine. They were the result." She pauses. "He disappeared shortly after that, and I never saw him again. There is no way for them to meet him and even after searching for the entirety of your Ellie's life, he has no appeared on this Earth. You deserve to know your father."

She stands up. "Let me see how long it will take to land."

She leaves, both of her children mulling over her words in her wake. "We will always have each other," Damien whispers. A sign of weakness that Danny does not exploit. He looks out the window, hand shoved against his brother's. He says nothing when the other boy clasps his fingers with his own.

He does nothing when he continues to hold his hand to the car, and even still, tighter, until they are at the manor of one Bruce Wayne.

It is a waiting game, then. Looking perfect and pristine in the foyer of this grand mansion.

No one is there to greet then when they slip inside. Not until Mother checks her watch, rolls her eyes, and walks back over to the door to trip an alarm. They tumble in like baby chicks, misty-eyed and in uniforms they rushed to put on.

"Beloved." Mother greets the one standing in the middle, wearing all black, ready to defend his gaggle of sidekicks. "I see time has done you wonders."

"Talia," he growls. Danny has never heard anyone talk to his mother with such disrespect. He itches to take out his sword and strike down the slag, but it is only the knowledge that he is their father, and Damien's hand in his that stopped him. "What are you doing here?"

"I've come to give you a gift," she says, smiling despite the coldness in her eyes.

"We don't want it," Robin, Tim Drake-Wayne says, "So you can just leave."

"It is not up to you, little bird." She reponds. "This is between myself, my beloved, and his children."

The boy flinches, its small, but noticable. A weakness.

""He is my child, Talia. So, I'll ask again: what do you want?"

She looks at him for a time, studying his face, before she chuckles. "Very well, beloved. Come here, Habibis."

The bats look confused, until Damien and Danny step away from the wall, seeming to appear out of thin air. The air is tense, and the bats are readying to fight when they stop at their mother's side.

She grabs their shoulders and pushes them forward.

"Beloved, meet our children. This is Damien," she gestures to his brother, "and this is Danny. Say hello boys."

Damien grunts while Danny looks up at the man-- their father. He doesn't look like much, truly. A tired old man, tense, with wide, bright blue eyes.

"Is this a joke? Do you think this is funny, Talia?"

"You can run all the tests you want, Beloved, but they are yours."

Danny looks at the three children behind Batman, older than them. Cassandra, Timothy, and Helena. Three unknowns. Black cat, unknown, and Robin. They don't look like much. They looked like Dan and Ellie could squash them like bugs, easily.

He says as much to Dami, whispering in arabic that they weren't impressive and that he doubted this was really their father, because he was too old and ugly. Dami scowls, whispering back that this was an important moment and that Danny was ruining it. Naturally, Danny snaps back that he didn't even want to come meet this geriatric lame guy who dresses in spandex and his circus, and that he was only here because Mother doubted Dami's strength and skill.

Danny watches the boy's face slowly turn red in amusement. Then, before the bats could blink, there is a blade in Dami's hand and he lunges for his brother. He manages to knick his arm before their mother grabs his ear and twists.

"Ow, ow, ow, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, stop, that hurts--"

"Boys."

Danny looks up from where he was trying to lick the blood off his arm (it was coming out too fast for this to be effective. It looks like Dami hit an artery) and Dami manages to get out of his mother's hold, and hides behind Danny, like that was going to protect him.

"It's like Jason and Tim all over again..."

"What have I said about fighting?"

"But Mother, he--"

"No."

Danny grins at the sight of Dami's pout.

"You have lost the priviledge to come home, Danyal. Don't think I don't know you started it. You must stay however long Damien stays."

Danny jerks at that. "I don't want to stay! You said just until Dami was settled. He is settled, we met the old bat, we have achieved our goal of meeting the sperm donor. I want to go home now." He left all his stuff at home. Like his favorite blanket, and the doll Dami stole for him on their first mission, and all of his suveniors from Ellie, and the guns that Dan gave him--

"Your stuff will arrive within a week," she says knowingly. "Enjoy your stay with your father," is all she says, kissing their heads, a final goodbye, and left.

Danny stares at her retreating figure.

Damien tries to reach for him, but he is too angry. "I do not want to stay," he states.

"I know."

"I do not care for the bat man."

"I know."

"I want to go home."

"I--"

The batman looks at them, slowly peeling his cowl back from his face. They do look like him. Identical in features, the only difference being the coloring. Danny scowls. "I do not want you," he tells the man. "I want Mother. I do not need you."

"...We should treat your arm."

Danny scowls harder, shoving Damien away. The boy rolls his eyes and threatens to finish the job.

Danny would let him.

He does not want to be here.

And he does not know why his mother had forced him to come.

--

Damien doesn't know that normal siblings don't grow their organs back, or maybe he does, and he isn't thinking. Maybe it is just that his first instinct has always been stab first, taunt later.

Tim Drake-Wayne crumbles into a ball on the floor, clutching his side, where blood was quickly pooling out.

Damien grunted in disgust.

What a waste of a good knife. It was still in the other boy, and he had a feeling he wasn't getting it back.

It is deserved, though. No one got away with talking about his mother. Not even Danny.

"What did you do?!" Bruce Wayne yells, anger rolling off him in waves.

It wasn't his voice, but Danny's that rang out in the suddenly silent bat cave in answer. "Pathetic. If he can't even dodge that he really isn't any match for Dan."

"Are we sure this is our family? Can we get a DNA test? I think Mother brought us to the wrong house."

Which was entirely fair, in Damien's mind. He doesn't know that the rest of the world was different than Nanda Parbat. He doesn't know that they were different, that it isn't normal to try to kill your siblings, and succeed, and then have said sibling come back to life.

It isn't normal to be strong and fast and deadly.

He doesn't know that it was normal to fall to a stab wound.

He doesn't know it is normal to yell when angry.

He doesn't know anything past what he has been taught, and what he's been taught showed him that Timothy Drake is weak.

He is pathetic.

He is not worthy of his position as Robin, nor his place in this house.

He says as such.

The look... his father gives him hurt. It scares. It makes him feel inhuman. Like a monster.

He suddenly understands what Danny had meant.

He does not want them.

He does not want him.

Damien too wants to go back to Mother.

He also wants a DNA test done immediately (because parents aren't supposed to look at you that way: like you are scum; horrible, vile, not worth living. He is scared, and his chest hurts, and there is a lump in his throat, and this place is strange--) His hand finds Danny's again, like it had in the plane, and Danny doesn't swat him away when he grips his hand tight.

He's afraid too.

--

So that's part one!

Honestly this whole prompt idea stems from me wanting damien and danny to just constantly kill one another and have the bats go apeshit lol. Thanks for reading!

--

Translations:

ahki al'asghar - {younger brother, if google is correct?? lmk if it's not tho!}

Yalla - hurry up

khalas - alright

khaal - Uncle

Khala - Aunt

--

Also, the timeline differences with characters in this au is simply because I wanted to :) and DC canon is all over the fucking place lets be real, they reinvent and change shit all the time, I am allowed to tweak Athanasia and Helena and all of the other shit I might tweak.

Ages btw:

Danny and Damien: 10

Dan: 19

Ellie: 17

Athanasia (if she were alive): 15

Tim: 15-16

Jason: 20

Helena: 22

Dick: 25

Cass: 16?

Bruce: 43ish? idk

Talia: 34

Alfred: Immortal but looks like he's 57

Ra's: dying but also like a millenia old mf

--

also [I have no idea how falafel tastes, only that Danny considers falafel and cream cheese to be gross together, and adding tomato to it makes him wonder if he and Damien are related. Google said that its usually like chickpeas, fava beans, herbs, onions, spices, and garlic. I've never had them, and I haven't had them with cream cheese so IDK if they'd be good together, but Danny does not think so lol] :)

[gojooooo]

[corpusdiem-seizethedead]

Husk: *flirting* On a scale of one to ten, you're a nine, because I'm the one you need.

Angel: …I'm a ten

Husk: It's a pickup line-

Angel: *clapping between syllables* I.👏 Am.👏 A.👏 Ten.👏

[slothxio]

in all timelines, in all possibilities, only you

[beccacoffindaffer]

The amount of angst and pining in this one small exchange of party banter in the Legacy DLC... My fanfic brain can't take it. The angry porcupine warrior is so soft and awkward for his Hawke.

[shannonsketches]

Daima is giving me the thing I love most about Vegebul in Super’s manga and it’s just that good good little Quiet/Casual Comfort between an established couple who also happen to be best friends and it’s my favorite

[witharacket]

i think it's both important to not erase tashi in the throuple post-2019 new rochelle match and it's also important not to diminish the bond that art and patrick had pre-tashi either

[munsonify]

drunk call

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader

summary. when you’re in need of a safe way home from the bar, the first person you think of in your drunken haze is bucky, who comes to get you in an instant

content warnings. sm fluff, unestablished relationships, pining, idiots in love, alcohol consumption, r being super drunk lol, thunderbolts era bucky, softie!bucky (my beloved), slightly affectionate&touchy reader (sfw), pet names (sweetheart), r being called pretty, not proofread

word count. 1905

a/n. thunderbolts era bucky and tfatws bucky are rotting my brain away i love him your honor. not proofread

———

admittedly, you’d maybe had one too many drinks tonight.

when you received a text from an old friend of yours saying she was in the city, claiming she had the night free, of course you were going to make some time to see her. it was a night well spent at the bar, too. the drinks were good, you’d caught up on a lot of life with her, jokes were thrown around that had you both doubled over in laughter in the small booth you were cozied up in. the odd glances thrown your way at your giggles only made things worse for the two of you.

your friend called it a night around 11. the only reason she was in the area was for work, and with her luck, they’d scheduled her with a meeting very early the next day. it was time for her to head out, especially now that her boyfriend had arrived, ready to carefully help her to their hotel.

“do you want me to stay?” your friend slurred, grabbing ahold of her boyfriends arm as he guided her up to her feet. “we can stay. wanna make sure you get home safe.”

“i’m okay,” you told her, a genuine, reassuring smile on your face as your words slurred just as bad as yours. “promise i’ll get home safe, i’ll text you when i do.”

the way you rose to your feet wasn’t the most elegant, though you fit right in with the atmosphere. you wrapped each other up in a large hug, bidding each other a giggly goodbye, promising to keep in touch. her boyfriend gave you a small wave before he helped her out of the bar and away from your sight. that’s when you let yourself slide back into the booth, fumbling with your purse in search of your phone. your promise was true to her, you were going to get home safe. while you only stayed a few blocks away from the bar, you weren’t quite comfortable walking home in the state you were in, not like you’d walked there three hours ago.

your mind slipped straight to the thought of bucky as you pulled up your contacts, searching for his name and number. your thoughts often slipped to the man, it was hard for them not to. in the few months you’d known the man, living in the rebuilt avengers tower, you grew quite fond of him. it was a little unexpected.

you weren’t searching for anything romantic when you’d somehow stumbled upon the new team. you were focused on a list of other things - your mental health, your career (though being a now nearly full-time superhero wasn’t exactly what you’d envisioned), your hobbies -, so it caught you off guard when you noticed your growing feelings towards bucky. you began to seek him out in a way you hadn’t with anyone else. despite being a little tough and uptight at times, not really the most talkative person ever, he was kind. he had a nice sense of humor, too. dry, sarcastic, a little playful. at times, you were convinced that playfulness with you bordered flirtation.

that’s why you had found your way to bucky again in your drunken mind. you always felt oddly safe with him, anyways. it was comforting how protective he could be, a subtle sort of thing that you admired about him. you pressed your phone against your ear rather harshly as you listened to your phone ring a handful of times. the noise had you zoned in to the point you barely noticed he’d picked up, a curious ‘hello’ ringing into your ears. your body straightened up at the sound of his voice, a dopey smile finding your lips.

“hey!” you said cheerfully, hand gripping your phone tight as you began rambling to him in an obvious slur. “i’m so sorry if you were asleep or if you’re busy, but i’m kinda really drunk right now, i’m a few blocks away at a bar. is there any chance you’d, i dunno, come get me and walk me home? so i’m not alone? it’s totally okay if not!”

you realized how desperate you must sound calling him like this. you weren’t sure if he’d caught on to your slightly obvious feelings for him yet, but if he had even an idea that you might like him, this call was incriminating. you were calling him of all people, rather than simply calling a cab or an uber, or even just sticking it out and walking anyways.

“of course,” bucky told you as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. his response was immediate, without a second thought. those two words alone made your heart flutter inside of your chest. you passed along the name of the bar, one he’d remembered from passing so many times. he knew his way around the city well, and promised to be there in 10.

the moment you’d hung up the phone, soft giggles slipped from your mouth, the same wide smile on your face still present. you ordered yourself one last drink while you waited, closing your tab while you were up before you left and forgot. you sat in your booth in silence as you waited, gaze settling on to the drink that you sipped on. your body was beginning to feel a little heavy, the alcohol and your sleepiness starting to settle in now that you weren’t so focused on an ongoing conversation.

you were so zoned in, in fact, that you didn’t realize bucky had finally found his way to the bar, beelining to you in a slow, steady strut. his head tilted to the side when he stopped at your table, biting back a smile. you still hadn’t noticed him yet.

“hey there sweetheart,” bucky spoke smoothly, sliding on the opposite side of the booth. he noticed you still had a drink and decided to give you time to finish. your head shot up to look at him, eyes wide and gleaming the moment you recognized his voice. you gave him the same dopey smile you had when you’d called him. “mind if i take you home?”

you giggled at his words, biting your lower lip as you began to put on a show, thinking a little for a response you already had. you gave him a hum, words slurring still as you respond. “well i suppose so.”

you sipped the rest of you drink away after you spoke, quickly wiping away the drop that slipped from your lips clumsily. whether that clumsiness was because you were drunk or because bucky made you nervous, you weren’t quite sure. regardless, your nose scrunched up a little in embarrassment, trying your best to shake it off. he didn’t seem to mind or even notice. bucky had a small, content smile on his face, his blue eyes shining gently as he gazed at you.

the moment you set the glass down, his fingers found their way to it, taking it into his hand. he pushed himself back up from the worn booth, watching as you fumble to grab your purse and phone. the hand bucky offered up was his left. the metal felt nice against your buzzing warm, buzzing skin as you accepted it, letting him assist you to your feet. despite how hard the metal was, he was gentle with the way he held your hand, guiding you towards the bar again to give the bartender your empty glass.

bucky’s hand left yours, only to grasp ahold of your purse and your phone to carry it for you. he helped you towards his right side, wrapping that arm comfortably around you, hand bracing your waist as respectfully as he could. he began walking the two of you out the bar and onto the streets in a comfortable silence neither of you broke. you began leaning into him, still a little unsteady on your feet as you stumble slightly down the street.

your head eventually found comfort in bucky’s shoulder, the weight becoming nearly too much for you to bear on your own. you missed the way he smiled, small and proud as he continues to guide you through the city. that’s when he started to speak in a low mumble, voice deep, his tone sending shivers down your spine.

“you look pretty tonight,” bucky complimented, his head turning to look down at you fondly. it wasn’t often he got to see you like this, a little skirt he’d helped you pull back down into place just a minute or two previously. the shirt you wore was a little low cut, too, just enough to show some cleavage. that’s not why he gave you the sentiment. he rarely got to see you put together. it was usually sweaty work out clothes or bloodied uniforms he saw you in. this was a nice change.

bucky watched the way you smile wide, nose scrunching up again at his words. you tilted your head up to see him, sincerity laced in every inch of his face. while collecting your thoughts, you pressed your cheek into his arm as you stare up into his eyes, clinging to his body for dear life as you try not to fall. his strong arm kept you upright, though, careful not to let you drop to the ground.

“thank you,” was all you could manage out in a small voice, a hand of yours gently grasping at the sleeve of his leather jacket. it was then that you’d finally made it to the rebuilt tower, bucky swiping the both of you in, before holding the door wide open for you. he watched the way you stumbled into the building with an appreciative smile, before looking back at him expectedly. you had your hand extended outwards for him, searching for his touch

bucky took your hand without a second thought, letting his fingers intertwine with yours, before you guys made your long way towards the living quarters. even when you’d entered the elevator, three empty walls and a long railing for you to grasp ahold of to find your footing, you still held onto him. he was already helping you, anyways, so why would you let go now?

he continued to walk you out of the elevator when it’d reached high inside of the tower, helping you all the way to your bedroom door. bucky positioned you in front of him, letting go of your hand only to reach to your hair, tucking pieces behind your ear and out of your face.

“think you can find the rest of your way?” he asked, his hands smoothing down your hair once, before dropping it to his side. you gave him a lazy nod, eyes beginning to droop with exhaustion.

“yeah, i think should be fine,” you answered, offering a small smile. before you could overthink, you took two steps forward, arms reaching up to wrap around bucky’s shoulders. he blinked a few slow times, arms finding their way around your torso carefully as he embraces you. he tugged you a little closer to him, letting his chin rest gently on top of your shoulder. the hand that wasn’t holding your belongings smoothed up your back, a weak attempt to soothe you.

“thanks for walking me home, buck,” you whispered. “it means a lot. you’re a great guy.”

“anytime, sweetheart. just give me a call and i’ll be there.”

[kenniesf1]

the people we meet on vacation | OP81

masterlist

pairing: oscar piastri x singer!reader (smau!)

summary: oscar and his childhood best friend, whose families always vacationed together, haven't seen each other in forever. maybe the f1 2025 season summer break is the time for them to rekindle?

tropes: friends to lovers, fluff, angst, social media, based loosely off of people we meet on vacation by emily henry

yn.jpg

liked by oscarpiastri, lizzymcalpine, and 441,955 others

yn.jpg panic on the streets of london

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user1 i'm her biggest fan, your honor

user2 can't be you bc oscar had this post liked within SECONDS

user1 i fear their fans know before they know ...

gracieabrams girl get out of london and INTO THE STUDIO liked by author

rolemodel hey there lover 😏

yn.jpg i heard you're SOBER now????

lilymhe silverstone is an hour and 35 by car, lovely!

yn.jpg i know what you're doing

alex_albon pls yn don't, if you're here, she'll forget all about me

lilymhe who is alex?

alex_albon IT'S COMMENCING

oscarpiastri name three smiths songs 🤓

yn.jpg name three people who like you (boom roasted)

oscarpiastri you do

yn.jpg I INTRODUCED YOU TO THEM

yn.jpq wait i thought you'd be much more aggressive

user3 yn in london, oscah at silverstone--let lily be right 🙏

yn.jpg

liked by inhaler, ediepiastri, and 603,687 others

yn.jpg yn and oscar reunion at the british grand prix!!! snuck that silly photo of osc before mclaren got mad at me for taking photos in the garage...

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mclaren you're off with a warning

yn.jpg 😅

user4 GUYS DID YOU SEE HOW CUTE THEY LOOK TOGETHER

user5 when yn was walking in and oscar just LEFT the convo w his engineers to say hello KILL ME

user4 they're my parents

user6 i need the oscar to my yn STAT

lando what a sofishticated post

yn.jpg we all miss danny 😓

alexandrasaintmleux pretty pretty girllll

yn.jpg lovely lovely lady

pierregasly can i get tickets for your next tour, kika wants to go

yn.jpg anything for kika 🤭

pierregasly hold your horses

user7 can they just kiss

user8 bro they're good friends, why does every boy-girl friendship have to become a relationship?

user9 not every but YNOSCAR??? yes it does

user8 weird

oscarpiastri missed you

yn.jpg you could make it more believable

oscarpiastri I MISSED YOU A LOT

yn.jpg that's more like it 😋

yn.jpg i wanna meet sebastian vettel

f1

liked by georgerussell63, bestf1memes453, and 1,202,994 others

f1 Your drivers, enjoying their summer break, hope you enjoy yours!

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user10 AWW ALEX IS PROBABLY GOLFING WITH LILY

user11 i need to play paddel with lestappen

user12 they're just gonna be making love eyes at each other

lando yes. they will.

user12 ARIANA WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?

scuderiaferrari competitive on and off the track

georgerussell63 that's me and my girlfriend

user13 girl we've BEEN knowing

yn.jpg expect oscar on vacation pics 🫡

f1 🫡

user14 YNOSCAR ARE TOGETHER?!?!?!!?

user15 ya yn has said in interviews that she and oscar have gone on vacation together since they were kids

user14 hold me im gonna faint

yn.jpg

liked by oscarpiastri, billieeilish, and 583,023 others

yn.jpg greece agreed with me tagged oscarpiastri

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user1 THEY'RE IN GREECEEEEEE

user2 yn having a mamma mia summer

lilymhe couldn't you have taken me with you?

alex_albon im right next to you, at least PRETEND to care

lilymhe i can love two people

carlossainz55 buy me a house in mykonos! liked by author

mclaren don't let him eat too much gyro!!!!

yn.jpg too late, he's a fatty

oscarpiastri ☹️

user16 i can't w the people who say they're dating--THIS IS SO FRIENDSHIP CORE

oscarpiastri red journal is running out of space

olliebearman i'll buy her a new one, yn's feeding us

oscarpiastri oh who is you?

user3 i love him your honor

oscarpiastri

liked by opeightyone, kimiantonelli, and 1,030,199

oscarpiastri greece sounds like fleetwood mac, yn said. i said i didn't know fleetwood mac. hence, an hour of her playing the guitar. slide 3 👍

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user16 guys... it's not even funny anymore

user17 the FIRST slide totally confirms it

user8 yeah i was against it at first buuuuuuuut... slide 1 doesn't lie

user16 join us

lando did you see that reel i sent you

oscarpiastri no :p

user19 oscar = kimi raikonnen

charles_leclerc son, why was your father not invited?

oscarpiastri yn hates you 😰

yn.jpg stfu ugly ass hoe, i stan charles

lewishamilton nice

user19 that's the most you're ever getting out of lewis

liamlawson did you jetski?

oscarpiastri yes it was very good

yn.jpg oscar was holding on and he fell like five times

user20 GUYS HE WAS HOLDING HER!!!!

logansargeant i guess oscar hates me because I VISITED FOR A DAY #justiceforme #photographer

yn.jpg #don'tusehashtagsweirdo

oscarpiastri thank you for the photo logan :)

yn.jpg i look quite pretty, put it on my raya 🥰

oscarpiastri yes and no. in that order pls.

july 11th, 2025 - 23:08

oscar was sitting on the patio attached to their small cabin, poking the uncooperative fire. their campsite was full of young people, just like them, their hoots and hollers and fast pop music echoing throughout the area. parties were never oscar's ideal way of spending an otherwise perfect night, and, luckily, they weren't yn's. she was still inside, washing the salt water and sand from her hair--considering she was taking ages, oscar knew he'd be asked to help untangle the insistent strands later on. he'd help, but he didn't really want to.

since seeing yn at silverstone, something had felt... strange. he didn't dare to assume that it was strange in a bad way, or that, after two decades of knowing each other, they were falling out. but he didn't like the ambiguity either. he wished he could put his hand on the pulse of this change, learn its rhythms and find a way to ride the storm. however, it seemed that only he had noticed it. yn was still floating around, a dream in her hand and a smile on her face, oblivious to what was glaring for oscar.

their house was too small. he couldn't breathe. not air, anyway--yn's floral perfume wafted around, basically etching her name into his lungs. her clothes were found in every nook and cranny of the home, reminding him of her continuous presence. her humming--which she thought he couldn't hear, but he could--made its way into his mind, altering the way he thought and listened and even walked.

strange.

"hey," yn interrupted, stepping through the door onto the patio. she wore the funny capybara slippers he had bought her when they visited argentina, but apart from that, she looked too good for a random friday night. too good for just him to see. her hair hadn't been dried, sitting in natural curls and making her stripped quarter sleeve wet. her hands were holding two mugs, so her hairbrush was in between her teeth. oscar knew she'd ask. she dropped the brush onto the couch, "what are you thinking so hard about?"

his eyebrows furrowed. "do i look like i'm thinking hard?" he put the rod for the fire down, leaning back into his cushioned chair. this attempt at nonchalance was easily noticeable and a massive failure.

"you're always thinking," she commented, sitting down in the seat next to him. her hands naturally went to the ends of her hair, running through them. "you think a lot." seeing the look on oscar's face, she added, "not in a bad way."

his eyes stayed on her for a second longer before dropping it. "here," he said, extending his hand, "give me the brush. let me help." she shrugged, lightly chucking the hairbrush towards him. instead of going to sit in front of oscar, however, yn hopped up, walked over to the corner, and grabbed the rickety guitar she'd left there earlier.

"i'll compensate you with music," she stated, taking her place in front of him. oscar moved his legs to make space, and immediately yn's hands reached for the strings, playing a beautiful melody he found uncannily familiar. as he began to brush through her hair, oscar did his very best to be gentle--if he so much as pulled on one hair, the gorgeous music yn was playing would stop.

the brushing continued until the lyrics began, "all i knew, this morning when i woke, is i know something now, know something now, i didn't before," yn softly sang, so focused on her fingerpicking that she didn''t even notice oscar stopped brushing. just for a second. she kept going. "cause all i know is you said hello, and your eyes looked like coming home. all i know is a simple name, and everything has changed."

the song ended far too quickly. when it did, yn turned her head just a bit, making eye contact with oscar. her eyes were so wide, so vulnerable, that he almost felt bad that he'd listened to her sing. it was, again, strange. she sung for crowds of thousands, but was scared to for him?

everything really had to have changed, he thought.

yn.jpg

liked by lilymhe, chappelroan, and 541,111 others

yn.jpg eiffel when i was in paris

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maxverstappen1 terrible joke

user21 MAX YOU CAN'T DISRESPECT YN LN!!!!

user22 i'm getting tired of these games yn

yn.jpg 🙈

user23 i swear to god i will unfollow... this is ynoscarbaiting

user1 let's cancel them for not dating

user8 real

user1 you hated the ynoscar train literally 5 days ago

user8 i decided to be realistic 😐

reneerapp gorgeous girl and ... oscar

yn.jpg he's the gorgeous girl and i'm oscar

pierregasly fraNCe 🇫🇷

isackhadjar fraNCe 🥖

estebanocon fraNCe 🚬

alpine we love to see it yn liked by author

lando danny ric hath awakened with dad jokes like that

user23 lando bringing up danny all the time is so me

user24 haunting the narrative like jackie taylor

user9 he loves danny more than christian horner or netflix do

oscarpiastri at a loss for words with the first photo

yn.jpg diva, you took the photo?

user25 PLEASE STOP WITH THIS SHIT RIGHT NOW

user26 take away their instagram privileges

user27 on my roommate's wifi?

july 14th, 2025 - 13:42

yn had always had a crush on oscar. she wasn't afraid to admit it. in fact, it had lasted so long that the stage of denial that used to exist felt more like a hazy fever dream than a memory. she leaned into his touch too much, she saw him when she closed her eyes too much, she missed him too much. she tried being distant, she tried hinting, she tried. considering they were just friends, it hadn't worked.

yn had made her peace with only having oscar as a friend. but it was on days like this that she felt immense jealousy for the lucky girl who'd be able to see him fall asleep and hear his morning voice for the rest of her blessed days. right now, oscar was laying on their picnic blanket, flipping through a bukowski and occassionally taking a sip of his coffee. yn was supposed to be reading too--she planned this outing so she could binge read song of solomon. but right now, the convoluted story of milkman and guitar paled in comparison to the simple sight before her.

it was never difficult to know that oscar would never happen for her. it was always difficult for her to have to remind herself.

"can you pass the chocolate?" he asked, hazel eyes still glued to the pages. yn did as she was asked, doing so in a way that didn't intersect with her admiration of the man next to her. it was only when their hands brushed--a completely unimportant moment, one they had shared a million times over--that oscar's eyes left his novel and turned to yn. "what?"

yn pondered what to say, ashamed that she didn't feel ashamed. her best best friend caught her staring. she didn't mind. she should've. "have i ever told you how gorgeous you are?" she asked in a way that seemed genuinely shocked that she hadn't. "i feel like you should know."

his face softened, hands naturally lowering the book to shift his body towards her. "we don't usually talk like that," yn noted, running a hand through her hair in feigned casualness. "i know that. but it's true. and we say things that are true."

yn.jpg

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yn.jpg came to copenhagen!!!! oscar has been enabling my tourist-y magnet addicition, send help in the form of money (so he isn't the enabler, you are!!!)

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user24 oscar liked this within 6 seconds, just putting it out there 🤷🏽‍♀️

user25 everyone but yn and oscar know what we know

user7 they're not in the room where it happens

user26 even though they ARE the room where it happens

iamrebeccad cutie!!!!!

yn.jpg 😏

user27 guys i fear yn is just flirty with everyone

user28 but it's MORE THAN FLIRTING it's psychological warfare

oscarpiastri i'll buy you even more magnets when we get to italy 🫶🇮🇹

yn.jpg i like shiny things BUT

user1 CHAT CHAT CHAT GUYS LOOK

user29 bro has her quoting taylor, she's cooked

gracieabrams i felt summoned by this post

yn.jpg i chanted "gracie ABrams" before posting

olivieblake hello!!!!!

yn.jpg send the arc for the new book over here 🫦

ediepiastri oscah got sad he wasn't featured, treat him kindly tonight, he's sensitive 🤧

oscarpiastri 🤡

maxverstappen1 have you been practicing paddel oscar?

yn.jpg mate, ask in private chat

maxverstappen1 ok

rasmus.hoejlund glad you visited liked by author

user30 getout

user31 DON'T PLAY WITH ME

user4 RED ALERT

yn.jpg i challenge arthur_leclerc to go on the amazing race w me

osarpiastri take me, i'm your best friend

user8 THE FRIEND ZONE NO

lando the things i could say

hattiepiastri yn text me rn

oscarpiastri i swear to our lord and savior julian casablancas

yn.jpg got something to hide, osc?

part two coming soon.......

[ninikrumbs]

what gave it away?

Satoru gojo x dense reader. fluff.

Satoru Gojo, the strongest, the honored one. The world practically shifted on its axis the moment he was born. Curses feared him, fellow sorcerers respected him, and women swoon at the mere sight of him. He is indispensable in the battle field and the head of one of the three prominent families in the Jujutsu World meaning he was rich beyond his means. Yet to your bewilderment, here he was, standing in your little kitchen, cooking an omelet for you, with fresh coffee ready in the pot. The morning light made his snowy hair look radiant, his eyes glowing, and a small smile decorating his lips. He looked absolutely ethereal.

A hand on the hip of his luxury pants, another on your cute pastel pink spatula, eyes so focused on his task before he saw you eyeing him at the corner of his eyes. Instantly all his focus directed to you, a gentle smile forming on his face. And it was a type of smile that reached his eyes, nothing but pure contentment grace his beautiful features. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”

You felt something clicked in your head, but like a missing puzzle piece you didn’t even know you were looking for. Almost speechless, you mumbled a low good morning back.

“Morning.” you eye him suspiciously as you slowly sat down on the bar stool in front of your kitchen island. He did not seem to notice your sudden perplexities of him as you studied him intently.

"Satoru, why are you here?” you asked hesitantly, propping your hands on your chin.

He looked at you, blue eyes puzzled as he turned off the stove. “What do you mean? I vaguely remember offering to cook you breakfast yesterday. Did ya forget?”

You shake your head. “No, I meant why are you cooking breakfast for me?”

Confusion and worry graced his features as he gazed at you intently, his eyes wandering all of over your face. “Are you okay? Feeling sick?”

His hand flew to your forehead before replacing it with his own forehead. You pulled away from his close proximity, your cheeks burning before clumsily saying “That is not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

You sighed. The sight of Gojo in his teachers uniform in your kitchen was a common occurrence, but it hasn't occurred to you until now about the why. Why is he in your kitchen during the mornings, cooking you breakfast? Why is he randomly giving you flowers,cause he thought you would like them? Why would he drop a mission for you because he thought you were sick?

You always thought that Gojo's act of services were just the results of a life long friendship built on mutual respect and trust, and of course you liked to think you did care and love each other on a platonic level, but could it be something else?

The late night visits after his missions, the endless souvenirs, the unabashed physical affection. His sulky moments when you don’t give him your attention and how he always tries to make you happy. Were you really this dense?

Your head tilted to the side, pure and utter disbelief in your voice as you speak, “You’re in love with me.”

Surprise passed his features. His bright azure eyes wide, and jaw falling slightly slacked. He was silent for a moment, before giving a low chuckle. “What gave it away?”

Now, It was your turn to be taken aback. He wasn’t even trying to denying it, in fact he looked relieved like a weight was lifted off his shoulder. His lips curved into a teasing smile, but his eyes. Oh his eyes, they were full of unfiltered adoration.

“You are?” You breathed in disbelief. Did he really shower you with his love all this time without ever knowing that it was gonna be reciprocated?

He huffed a laugh before making his way to you, squeezing himself between your thighs and pressed his forehead against yours. “For a couple of years now, thought you’d never notice.”

[nereidprinc3ss]

slumber party

in which there's only one bed. fem bau!reader x spencer reid

fluff! warnings/tags: dark humor, (the word molest is used jokingly once but in my defense your honor its completely on brand for early seasons cm humor, if u cancel me u have to cancel the whole cast those are the rules, its just a joke cause reader always flirts w him aggressively, pls don't come for me i have a wife and children and three boyfriends to take care of,) mutual pining, bullying and death threats as flirting, they love each other so much and bicker like children, glasses spencer, (moans), emily and rossi are mentioned bc canon means fuck all to me, i think thats it but this is my most out of pocket duo so if i'm wrong lmk a/n: just a silly little thing that i cooked up, not a masterpiece but i think its cute!! I hope u enjoy!! lmk what you think!! looooveee youuuu

“Oh, there is no way.”

Your duffel bag hits the dingy carpet as Spencer is still closing the door behind you. 

“What? Is it—”

You give him a look over your shoulder, eyebrows raised as if to say, what are you going to do about this?

But he only manages to meet your eyes for a split second before they’re back to the singular queen bed, darting over the white sheets and pillows like he might find another mattress if he looks hard enough. 

Sharing a room with Spencer, you can handle. You've done it before. Whenever the team has to pair up at a hotel, you two are an obvious choice. And while you occasionally butt heads, mostly you adore each other and it's great.

But sharing a bed is a whole other situation.

One you were not prepared for. And evidently, neither is he.

Watching his big anxious eyes flit around the room nervously, you feel sort of bad for your reaction. You know you can be a bit… abrasive, sometimes. 

“It’s fine, I’ll just—I’ll see if I can share a bed with Emily or JJ in their room—”

Just then there’s a knock at the door. Spencer looks relieved to have something else to focus on, turning back around and quickly undoing the latch again before opening the door to reveal your favorite raven-haired SSA. Emily leans past the doorjamb, eyes immediately honing in on the awkward sleeping arrangement. 

“Oh my god! You guys too?”

“What?” You and Spencer ask at the same time. Emily raises her eyebrows at this and glances between you, but otherwise doesn’t comment. 

“Me and JJ only have the one bed. I thought it might just have been us.”

You frown. There goes your plan of sharing a room with them. 

“What about Morgan and Garcia?”

Spencer snorts.

“Something tells me Penelope wouldn’t be too torn up about it if that's the case.”

“Hotch and Rossi?”

The room goes quiet and a little chilly as the thought disturbs everyone equally. Emily frowns deeply.

“I don’t even… I can’t picture that.”

“Can we please not try to picture it?”

“Great. Okay, well. I just wanted to make sure everyone is suffering equally. Good luck, champs.”

“Thanks,” Spencer mutters dryly. Emily smiles, eyes darting between the two of you for just a moment too long, before pushing off the door frame and disappearing from sight. Once the door is closed again, a heavy silence ensues. “I’ll… I can take the floor—”

“It’s fine, Spencer. I’m not going to make you sleep on the floor. We’re both grown-ups. Besides, we like each other, right? It’ll be like a slumber party.”

“I’ve never had one,” he admits. His glasses slip further down his nose as he frowns. Your fingers itch to push them back up. 

“Then I’m happy to be your first,” you tease, facing him fully with your hand on your hip and barely resisting the urge to add, I’ll be gentle. “Do you want the shower first or can I?”

Spencer has a habit of looking you up and down like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. Some might find it odd, but his utter lack of social graces is, lucky for him, incredibly endearing to you. 

“You can have it first,” he says, meeting your eyes again. “Just don’t do that thing where you get the entire bathroom soaking wet.”

“Aw. But I love doing that. It’s my favorite part,” you tease, scooping up your bag once more.

Twenty minutes later you’re emerging from the bathroom with damp hair, clad in loose shorts and a college hoodie. 

“Nice outfit,” Spencer says from the spinny-chair at the desk, examining your outfit choice with a scrutiny you wish you’d been prepared for. Really, you wish you’d known ahead of time you’d have a roommate and brought some alternate sleeping clothes. “I had no idea you felt so passionately about… Scooby Doo?”

“Shut up right now,” you grit, tossing your bag into the corner of the room and tugging your hoodie down over your cartoon-patterned shorts as far as you can. 

“What?” He’s laughing as he brushes past you on his way into the bathroom, bearing his own bag. “It’s a good look for you.”

Your face is burning as you choose the side of the bed furthest from the door. Springs creak underneath your weight as you sink down, sitting with your legs hanging off the side for a moment before swinging them up onto the mattress, leaning against the headboard and side-eyeing the empty space next to you. There’s really not very much of it. The bed feels even smaller than it looks. 

From the bathroom you hear the sound of the shower squeaking and starting up again—a cacophony of droplets against tile on the other side of the wall. You try not to be nervous as you imagine Spencer filling the space beside you in just a few minutes, hair wet and in pajamas. And yet you spend each second wondering if he’s almost done, wondering if the shower will finally sputter to a halt, and once it does, wondering how long it’ll be before he’s out again. It’s ridiculous how impatient you're getting—and by the time you finally watch the door knob twist you feel crazy. 

“I think that was your longest shower yet, Dr. Reid.”

The teasing affords you a moment to ogle him head to toe, taking in his choice of pajamas—tonight, familiar plaid pants and an MIT crewneck—as well as his hair which has already begun to dry. Briefly you wonder if he does that thing guys do, where they lean down and haphazardly dry their hair with a towel because they have no concern for its texture whatsoever. But you kind of doubt it, because his hair always looks so soft. 

“You were sitting here waiting for me?” He chuckles, and honestly you’d been expecting a shyer response. But you adapt quickly. 

“Maybe I was. Big spoon or little spoon?”

“Ha-ha.” He opens a drawer in the dresser and begins unpacking his clothes into it. It's a funny habit of his. You never unpack your duffel. “You took the better side of the bed.”

“Uh, yeah. I’m the woman. I get to do that.”

“Well you should know that if an intruder breaks in, I’m not fighting him off. You’d probably have a better chance than me.”

“And my chances will be even better if he’s distracted with you first.”

“So I’m just bait?” He scoffs, looking back at you. Strands of wet hair hang so prettily around his face, like the perfect frame around a work of art. You smile sweetly from your spot on the bed before playfully biting at the air in his direction. The message goes unspoken but reads loud and clear. Of course you are. You make such good bait. 

That gets a blush out of him and he has nothing else to say as he turns back to his drawer. Happily you lean back against the headboard, stretching your legs out and bouncing slightly in place. Beneath you the mattress springs groan and squeak in protest. 

“I hope you're not going to be this irritating all night.”

It's clearly lighthearted, but you promptly stop and frown at his back. 

“Call me irritating again and see where you end up sleeping tonight.”

“I just don’t see how you’re even more hyperactive than usual right now. Has anybody ever told you that you’re crepuscular?” Spencer asks, finally sliding the drawer shut and going to shut the overhead light off. Your eyes narrow. 

“Obviously nobody has told me that.”

“It means y—”

“I’m most energetic within the few hours around dusk and dawn. Contrary to your belief, Dr. Reid, other people are also capable of looking up words in a dictionary and remembering what they mean. Are you going to stand in the corner all night or are you gonna come to bed?”

“I am,” he scoffs, clearly embarrassed and shy and embarrassed of being shy. “I’m just… you look like you kick in your sleep. And hog the blankets.”

You shrug, folding your knees to your chest and hugging them quaintly. 

“I’ve never had any complaints. In fact, you should be so lucky to share a bed with me. All five star reviews, baby.” 

You toss a suggestive wink in at the end, which seems garish enough to break the tension so that Spencer can stop lingering in the corner like a sleep-paralysis demon and move to carefully take his place next to you. He almost mirrors your position, but his legs are too long to quite manage your level of compactness and so they simply fold underneath him. A few silent moments go by, in which you have the dumbest smile on your face and you keep glancing over to the side, waiting for him to be looking back at you. 

“This is already the least relaxed I have ever been in a bed.”

“Good thing we’re not going to sleep yet.”

Finally he looks at you, a casual mix of hesitance, concern, and moderate curiosity coloring his features. 

“We’re not?”

“Oh, my god, Spencer,” you snort. “I’m not gonna molest you. We have to do slumber party stuff, remember?”

He flushes again, glancing at the digital clock in his bedside table. 

“But it’s late. We should go to sleep.”

“At slumber parties you have to stay up until you literally can’t keep your eyes open anymore. Those are the rules. I don’t make them.”

Still, your insistence that you follow the international code of sleepover law goes unabided by Spencer. He simply leans over to flick off his lamp, bathing the room in darkness. 

“I appreciate the effort,” he says, and your eyes haven’t adjusted but you can hear the rustle of sheets and blankets as he gets under them, “but unfortunately we have to be awake and alert in five hours.”

“You’re no fun,” you huff, but climb under your own side of the cover and scoot down until you’re flat on your back, covered in blanket and hands folded on your sternum. 

Spencer doesn’t respond. 

It’s silent for maybe five minutes, during which your brain doesn’t slow down at all. Maybe you are crepuscular. Or slightly nocturnal. You have nothing but energy. 

In an attempt to get comfortable, you try adjusting your position.

The mattress squeaks. 

You do it again. 

Another squeak. 

A second goes by, and now you’re intentionally jostling about, squeaking the mattress as much as you can. 

“Would you stop that?” Spencer says, voice already gravelly with sleep. You manage, but you’re already devolving into a fit of giggles. “I’m going to smother you with this pillow,” he threatens, but you hear the disgruntled smile curling his words. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m just not in the mood to rest.”

Another moment passes. He sighs deeply. You smile into the dark. 

“What are you in the mood for?” He asks flatly, and you’ve won. 

“Tell me a secret,” you immediately demand in a hushed tone, flipping on your side to face his back. “Something you’ve never told anyone else.”

“I don’t—”

“Shh! You have to whisper it. Those are the slumber party rules.”

“I don’t have any secrets,” he whispers, clearly flustered, and to your delight, rolling to face the ceiling. “None that you’d want to hear.”

“Oh, now that’s just not true. You’re an enigma, Spencer Reid. You fascinate me.”

You’re only sort of kidding. 

“I… fascinate you?”

“Completely. You know, ever since you moved your desk across from mine I get distracted just staring at you and wondering what you’re thinking about. But you’re very… hard to read, sometimes. I think it’s because you’re a Scorpio.”

“The position of the stars at the time I was born has no bearing on my personality.”

“Fine,” you concede, still in a glorified stage whisper. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t display the archetypal Scorpio traits. You’re all brooding, mysterious. Kinda, I don't know... intense and sexy and unknowable…”

“Sexy?” He laughs, breaking the whisper rule. You grin and let it slide. You’d hoped he would catch that one. 

“Hey,” you snap, losing the smile immediately and lightly shoving against what you hope is his shoulder. “You’re supposed to be telling me a secret, damnit. I won’t let your wiles and charm distract me from getting what I want.”

“When have you ever let anything stop you from getting what you want?”

Truly, your cheeks are going to start aching with this constant back and forth between poker-faced and huge Cheshire smile. 

“Stop flirting and answer my question, Reid.”

With the amount of times you’ve made him sigh tonight he must be dizzy. You chew your lip apprehensively in the silence, picking a loose thread on your pillow. It’s so pitch black in the room, you can’t see him where he lies only a few meager inches from you. But you can feel his presence. You can feel the unexpected bass to his voice when he’s tired and speaking this lowly, which you’ve never heard before.

“All the secrets I’ve never told anyone are just… depressing.”

Your heart sinks a little at the way he swallows between words, like that in and of itself was hard to admit. Unthinkingly your hand slides into the small gap of white cotton between the two of you. 

“Not very good slumber party material, I think,” he laughs self-consciously. 

“You’d be surprised.” 

The sentiment comes quieter and more serious than you’ve been all night. If only you had the words to tell him that he can tell you anything. That you want to hold his secrets for him under lock and key. That you would never, ever do anything less than offer him kindness and support—even if it doesn’t always seem that way when you’re teasing him. 

“Do you have any secrets you’ve never told anyone else?” He murmurs eventually, so soft it could kill you. 

And you do. There are plenty of dark ones, probably not all dissimilar from those he’d elected not to share only a moment ago. 

But you don’t bring those up. 

Instead, you decide to admit to something silly. Still, it makes you nervous as you feel it coming loose in your chest. You’ve really never told anyone this, and it’s perhaps more vulnerable than you’d realized before the words were already leaving your mouth. 

“I, have…” You pause to laugh at yourself, and continue on. “I have a stuffed dragon that I take with me on every single case.”

“You do?” Spencer laughs, so loud and unexpected it almost hurts your ears, angling his head toward you. Blood rushes to your face. 

“Yes. He usually sleeps in bed with me. He’s an excellent listener and has been the origin of several of my most genius breakthroughs. You remember Gibson Cooper?”

“Family annihilator from Houston?” 

“Correct. He’s in prison because Oscar helped me make the Cook Creek Campground connection between the O’Hara and Diangelo families.”

“You have a stuffed profiler dragon named Oscar? Is he here?”

“He’s—I mean, I wasn’t expecting to share a room with someone.”

“So he’s in your bag.”

“Yes,” you seethe, “and I will not be introducing you to him. He doesn’t do well with men.”

“You are genuinely psychotic.”

You huff.

“Fine. I’m sorry I told you anything.”

You’re about to roll over onto your other side—but Spencer surprises you by catching the hand that had been outstretched in his direction. He carefully intertwines your fingers and squeezes gently. 

“You’re right. That was mean. Thank you for telling me about Oscar.” His tone is surprisingly teasing, and you’re so uncharacteristically flustered by this rare show of physicality and affection that you can’t muster an adequate comeback. Spencer doesn’t seem to mind filling your silence, though, sounding a little more solemn now. “I’m sorry I don’t have any secrets for you.”

The way his voice gets all thin and scratchy sometimes—it’s like the earnest sincerity just pours out of him. He can’t control it. He can’t be anyone other than who he is. Maybe that’s a part of why you love him so much. You wonder if he knows how much you love him. It’s not exactly a secret—anyone on the team would be able to tell as much. You’ve been relentlessly teased for the way you are with him. For your batting lashes and your lingering touches and your unabashed flirting. But beneath it all is true affection, and nobody doubts that. 

“It’s okay,” you decide with a squeeze of your own, after a moment of deliberation. “You’ll think of something. ’Cause, y’know—you’re stuck with me for at least a few more days.”

“Oh, god,” he laughs, and releases your hand, rolling over to face away from you. But you don’t mind. You’ll get lots more time to invade his personal space over the coming week or so. “Goodnight.”

“Sweet dreams,” you sing-song, turning away to face the wall with what is perhaps your biggest, stupidest smile yet.

[lyrablack1883]

Children of The River - frames and thoughts

This one has a really messy thought process.

Jiang Cheng’s mourning clothes were intentional. The siege happened only three months after Yanli’s death—not even a hundred days had passed. He was still in mourning. No guan, no Zidian. Just Sandu and his clarity bell.

I wanted, later on to portray that one moment in battle where Jiang Cheng’s figure would mirror Yanli’s. Just for a second. Despite all their differences. The song was picked entirely for the line ‘I’m the river’s daughter’. It ties back to their childhood—the three of them children of Yunmeng Jiang. ‘Jiang’ means river, so it felt fitting. Too fitting, honestly.

⸻

When I drew their expressions, there was one emotion I wanted to show most. Most depictions of the siege go straight into revenge, fury, rage. But for these two? I didn’t want anger to be the main thing. I wanted to show grief.

That kind of hollowing, simmering grief that sits in your chest and never leaves. Especially with Wei Wuxian—it’s complicated. You can feel how hard he’s trying to keep it together. To stay calm. To control it. And then you see it—red bleeding into his eyes. For Jiang cheng, There’s that one line where Wei wuxian describes Jiang Cheng’s face as full of hostility… but also incredibly gloomy. I just went on with it.

⸻

The blindfolded panel was very much on purpose—a way to show how both of them were just pieces in someone else’s game. A center piece of this animatic, you could say. One small detail is I made Jiang Cheng’s sword point toward his own neck. Just a hint. A quiet suggestion. That start with one truth —Jiang Cheng could never have won against Wei Wuxian. And at the same time, Wei Wuxian could never let Jiang Cheng die.

To be blunt, Yunmeng Jiang was weak at that point. They were barely standing. The sect had been rebuilt, yes, but it hadn’t even been five years. They’d lost so much. You can see it in how little they received after the Wen war—basically scraps. Their strength was gone. What kind of people were crazy enough to follow Yunmeng Jiang back then— to stand behind a leader who held a single flag alone in the middle of a war?

Probably the kind who had nothing left.

The kind who’d already lost the same.

Calling them a major force was more of a political statement than reality. they were made into a shield. Something to take the hit. Something to use.

⸻

Why make Yunmeng Jiang the main force in the first place?

A sect barely standing, rebuilt on ashes, carrying grief like second skin.

They didn’t have the numbers. They didn’t have the strength.

But they had Jiang Cheng.

And that was enough.

Not because he could win—but because he was the one Wei Wuxian couldn’t kill.

That was the play. That was the advantage.

They made him a commander, not out of honor—but because he was the only sword that could get close without being struck down.

The only one who could hold that line while the rest moved in for the kill.

They handed him the siege—

because they knew he’d walk straight into the fire, and Wei Wuxian would flinch.

⸻

The cultivation world had witness something. They saw what happened in Nightless City. They saw the two of them face each other—and how Wei Wuxian let Jiang Cheng live. And they made their bet.

Not just on strength or strategy. They bet on history. On loyalty. On love—if you want to call it that. Not romantic, but something deeper. Something messy. The love that comes from being raised together, losing the same people, breaking and still somehow holding on.

That’s why Jiang Cheng made the perfect shield. Maybe even the perfect knife.

They weren’t just betting on power.

They were betting on love.

And they bet right.

[joelsdagger]

homeland || one shot

joel miller x reader

special thanks to the lovely @5oh5 for providing me with plant resources many many many moons ago and to @phoeberidgers for lending me her eyes. ily both sm <33

pairing: jackson!joel x f!reader summary:  joel gets you ready for a day of horseback riding. warnings: jackson era, joel being his typical acts of service type of man, pet names, implied age gap, established relationship, angst, glimpses of domesticity, sliver of reader having anxiety [see: angst], horses [i feel like they need their own warning yk?]. joel is a big ol’ teddy bear, brief mentions of grief, referenced character death, reader is described of having hair long enough to braid, smidgen of a size kink. no smut – only fluff, rated E for everyone! **should also be noted this takes place years into their shared life together and they’re very much in love. SUE. ME. word count: 2.3k

masterlist || ao3 || follow @joelsdaggerupdates for notifs!!

“You doin’ your walk of shame, cowboy?” You half-shout from the porch when his tall form materializes down the street, the sun still rising on the horizon behind him. You know he’d headed out to the stables before first light, but you can’t deny you get a kick out of pulling his leg. 

His head drops, a slight shake at the pavement, and when he meets your eye again, a soft smile sprouts on his lips. “Needed to check on Callus, make sure he’s good to go,” he says, striding up the porch stairs.

You turn to meet him, railing pressed to your stomach, coffee mug in one hand, the other reaches for his chest, and you press your lips to his warm cheek. “Let me grab my boots and I’ll be right out,” you say mindlessly as he settles himself on the rickety chair. 

You crack open the front door, place the mug of coffee you’d been nursing all morning on the entry table, pick up your cowboy boots and Joel’s guitar leaning against the wall, and shut the door behind you. When you turn to face him, Joel pats his thigh, beckoning you over. You set aside the instrument and place yourself on his lap.

As you shuck off your slippers, his large hand comes up to brush your hair away from the nape of your neck, he lays a featherlight kiss there. “You got one of them hair ties on you, sweetheart?” 

You giggle at the warmth of his breath fanning across your neck, “I do.” You drop your boots down beside your feet and reach into the pocket of your jeans, pulling out a finicky black elastic.

He gathers your hair into his hands, dividing it into three large sections. After a few light pulls of each section, you realize he’s braiding your hair.  Warmth blooms in your chest at the feel of his thick fingers meticulously braiding one section over another with practiced ease. Like he’s done it a million times. 

“Last time it was flappin’ around in your face. You can’t see where you’re headed like that,” he murmurs. You close your eyes and hum, lose yourself to the therapeutic pull of his fingers through your hair. 

“Did you do her hair? Sarah’s?” you ask somewhat absentmindedly. 

You don’t hesitate to bring her up in conversation. Joel has talked about her, shared pieces of his life with you, bit by bit. The first mention of her seemingly on accident, only a fleeting moment, but after the second time, you deduced he fully intended on letting you in, on his life before.

“Used to braid her hair for her games. Horse riding too,” he says faintly, tone seeped in affection.

You smile softly, prideful. It took him years to get here, but Joel slowly realized his grief was the unexpressed love he’d always have for his little girl — love that had nowhere else to go. He found that in the missing, he’d grown closer to her. He’s since filled an emptiness he once knew with little moments that honor her life. 

Lost in the slow rhythmic movement of Joel’s fingers in your hair, in the comfort his touch instantly provides, your mind wanders; imagine Joel — many years younger, frantically getting his little girl ready. Threading that golden hair into an elastic, vibrantly colored and a charm dangling from the band, perfectly on trend for young girls in that era. You even picture little Sarah putting hair ties in her dad’s hair, if he ever grew it out as much as he does now. You smile to yourself, an ache in your chest flares; it’s not hard to picture, but it’s not easy to think about what could have been. 

The deep bass of Joel’s voice pulls you from your reverie. “Took a few times, but Tommy n’ I figured it out,” he says simply, his words slipping into a light chuckle. 

He holds out his hand, palm up, and you drop the hair tie in his hand. The elastic snaps as he ties off the braid. And when he’s finished, he presses a palm to your lower back, and mutters a low, turn around.  

You oblige and twist to face him; the corners of his eyes crinkle as they dance across your face, and his fingers tug gently at the curved bowl of your ear. “Beautiful,” he marvels, his lips connecting with your forehead, laying a long kiss there as he inhales the berry scent of your hair.  

“Almost forgot,” he mumbles and leans back in the porch chair as he reaches into the pocket of his jacket. Pinched between his fingers is a small flower, one with dazzling bubblegum pink petals and a splash of gold at the center — an aster flower. 

You bite back a grin. “Where’d you get that?” you ask him pointedly. 

He avoids your gaze, slips one finger through a loop of the hair tie, threads the dark green stem through with gentle care. “Uh,” Joel clears his throat, “plucked it on the way from Mrs. Doyle’s yard.” 

Your mouth pops open, feigning surprise. He’s quick to defend himself, already sensing your disapproval. “What she don’t know, won’t kill her,” the right corner of his mouth twitches up in a smirk, and he releases your braid. 

You mirror his smirk, and you scoot up his thighs. Firm hands find your hips, anchoring you in his lap, and you interlock your fingers behind the nape of his neck as you lean closer. “You know, Mrs. Doyle told me once that all plants have meanings,” you say against his mouth. 

He hums. “She tell you what they mean?” 

You peck just beneath the plush of his bottom lip, and his hands squeeze your waist, his eyes crease. “Mmm. Perhaps.” Your mouth drifts to the corner of his, the silver hairs on his mustache tickling your lips. 

“What’s this one mean, sweet baby?” he asks softly, his fingers coming up to toy with the loose strands at the end of your braid, glowing adoration in his gaze as he looks up at you from beneath his lashes.  

You know what it means. Mrs. Doyle, who ran an apothecary before the outbreak, practically gave you a rundown of what she likes to call A Beginner’s Guide to Floriography. She never fails to jabber your ear off every time she supplies you with herbs. In the beginning, for your period cramps, and then some odd years later, when you and Joel started messing around, in which she was the first to catch on, she supplied you periodically with plants for an herbal tea to avoid any unwelcome surprises. 

You’re silently thankful for her. You know exactly what it means, and you certainly know that Joel knows what it means. The observant man that he is, his every move is intentional; he wouldn’t just pick a flower amongst the many simply for its beauty.

But that doesn’t mean you can’t mess with him a little. “If you had been patient instead of sneaking off while she wasn’t looking, maybe she would’ve told you,” you goad. 

“Oh, I reckon she would, after she’d tell me her whole life story.” 

“That’s cruel, baby.” 

He tuts. “I’m cruel? I ain’t the one withholdin’ information.” With a light yank to the end of your braid, a smirk quirks his lips. 

You shrug, feigning seriousness, “It’s gotta be one of those poisonous flowers used in witchcraft and hexes.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that right?” 

You nod. “Something about calling upon evil spirits. Wishing ill upon me and everyone I’ve ever loved. That sorta thing.”  

He snorts and shakes his head, murmurs something under his breath that you can’t quite make out; you think it’s something about giving him more grays.

You smirk and unhook your arms, twisting your body around in his lap to pull your boots on. And Joel runs the palm of his hand down your back, stopping at the base of your spine; his other hand reaches down and tugs the top of your cowboy boot, assessing the fit of them. “These the ones I brought back?” he asks, peering over your shoulder. 

“Mhm. Finally get to break them in,” you start and pat your hands on your denim-clad thighs before standing up. “Alright, ready?” 

He nods, groaning as he stands to grab his guitar, looping it over his shoulder, and walks in tandem beside you down the porch and onto the street, arm over your shoulder the whole way. 

—

There’s a cool breeze in the air as you and Joel reach the stables. You stand idly at the gate while Joel steps in and walks Callus out of his stable, both of your backpacks already saddled on either side of him. 

You turn, give two of the men manning the wall a firm nod, and they open the gate. You step out of the settlement and make your way down the trail; the east gate groans as the men on guard promptly close the barrier between the living and the dead. 

Minutes pass, and you reach the clearing. Joel releases the reins and beckons you towards him with a flick of his head. 

Joel strokes over Callus’ mane. “Figured you should be up front this time, get you used to it,” he says. 

Panic settles in your stomach, Joel sees it threaten to spill across your face. He steps forward, squeezes your hand in his. “S’okay, you can do it, baby,” he says softly. 

You hesitate, feel Callus nudge his muzzle into your palm, your eyes flitting between him and Joel. “Joel. I’ve never–” 

“Hey,” he starts, taking your face in his calloused hands, his head dipping to meet your eye line, “you can. We all start somewhere.” You glance into his eyes, the flecks of amber swimming in his hazel irises, and somehow it brings you at ease. Slightly. 

He pecks your lips twice in quick succession. “Better?” he asks. You nod numbly, tossing him a weak smile. 

Joel bends, puts one hand over the other, and you place a wobbly foot up into his hands. With one hand gripping the horn of the saddle and the other on the seat, you throw your other leg over Callus. Joel grunts a low, there you go, as he boosts you up.  

“Attagirl,” he praises, patting the small of your back before swiftly hoisting himself up behind you.

Your back is flush to his chest; he loops a hand around your front to settle on your stomach. You sense he can feel your uneasiness, your muscles tensing beneath his hand. “Remember what I said last time? He can sense your fear. Have faith in the fella.”  

His words fall on deaf ears, and you let go of the reins, the leather already hot and damp in your sweaty palms. You wipe your hands on your denim-clad thighs, cursing yourself under your breath, knowing you’re burning daylight. 

Your shoulders tense at the realization, expecting to hear a low huff of contempt or a quiet sigh of frustration from behind you.

But nothing comes of it. 

Joel moves his hand up your stomach, follows the slats of your ribs, and whispers softly against the shell of your ear, “Close your eyes f’me.”

You obey, eyes fluttering shut. “Now deep breath in…hold it...” His hand steady as your diaphragm expands, your lungs filling with air. “Now breathe out. Slow. Slow.” 

And you do, matching your breathing to his gentle instructions, feeling the anxiety wring itself out from within. 

Until Callus moves slightly beneath you, strong hooves that thump in place. Your eyes tear open, a freakish whimper slips past your lips, your feet lock in the stirrups.

“Easy. Easy. I gotcha, baby. You’re alright, darlin. C’mon, one more time for me.” 

His other hand squeezes your hip, a gentle command. “Stay with me. In and out, you got it, honey.” 

Your stomach settles, and Joel tucks a loose lock of hair behind your ear, careful fingers running  down your braid. “Helps me sometimes,” he says simply. 

You frown, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” you mumble. 

Joel stiffens behind you. “You don’t gotta do that.” 

“I feel stupid. I’m sorry it’s taking me so long…to get used to it.” 

You can feel Joel shaking his head. “Look at me,” he urges, his voice low and firm.

You peer behind you, meet the hues of concern in his eyes, the twists of his brows. “None of that, we’ve got time. I’ve got time.” 

Your eyes flit to the collar of his shirt, suddenly interested in the faded neckline. He senses you’re not convinced. “Listen here, you say the word ‘n we quit. We head back ‘n forget it. S’your call, baby.” 

Something pulls at you. Maybe it’s his unwavering patience and attentiveness. Maybe it’s the moment from earlier that loops back in your head. Joel’s expert fingers threading through your hair while talking about his daughter. The reminder of his and her shared love of horses. Maybe it’s the reminder that this moment, with you here, keeps her memory alive. Maybe it’s an urge to further crack his stony walls. That urge to know her and him through this. And you think it’s why he’s so adamant to see this through. You see it in the real joy it brings him every time he takes you beyond Jackson’s walls. See it when the sun sinks behind the hills, cotton candy weaving through the sky. My Sarah would’a loved this, he’d say fondly, with an adoring smile so big his eyes gleam. Teaching you not only lets you know this part of him, but it also allows him to strengthen his connection to her, to reach out to her, twenty years later. 

It all melds together and it nudges you on. You manage to mutter a feeble, thank you. 

He kisses the nape of your neck and readjusts your braid down the line of your back. “You got it, baby.”

Your head turns to face the horizon, the burst of persimmon that spills across the sky. You hesitate to click your tongue. And Joel’s hand retakes its place over your stomach. “S’okay. M’right here, darlin’. I ain’t gonna let nothin’ happen to you.”