#She's small and she's quick and she knows how to use someone's weight against them if need be. She also has a pretty high pain tolerance tb

[insidekatmind]

Best friends- Pope Heyward

Wearning: +18, smut, cheating,english is not my first language

The soft lights of the sunset paint the horizon in shades of orange and pink as you sit on your porch, a book open in your hands. The air is crisp, with a light breeze carrying the salty scent of the ocean. You're engrossed in your reading when you hear the familiar sound of hurried footsteps on the path leading to your house. You look up and see Pope, his expression troubled and his fists clenched at his sides.

“Can I come in?” he asks without preamble, his voice rougher than usual.

You set the book down next to you, concerned. “Of course, what’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. He climbs the porch steps, his movements quick and jittery. When he stops in front of you, you notice the flush on his cheeks and the slight tremor in his hands.

“It’s Cleo,” he says finally, crossing his arms over his chest as if trying to contain something too heavy to hold. “We had a fight. A bad one.”

You stand up, gesturing toward the door. “Come inside, let’s talk about it.”

He nods and follows you in, collapsing onto the couch in your living room. You bring him a glass of water, which he accepts with a small nod of thanks. He takes a sip in silence, then runs a hand through his hair—a gesture you know well. It’s his way of trying to calm himself down.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” you ask, sitting next to him, close enough to let him know you’re there for him but not so close as to invade his space.

He sighs, a deep and tired sound. “It started as something stupid, at least at first. We were talking about plans for the weekend, and I said I wanted to spend it with you guys, with the Pogues. She started saying we spend too much time together and that I should dedicate more time to just the two of us.”

You nod, trying to see both sides. “And what did you say?”

“That there’s nothing wrong with wanting to spend time with my friends. But then she got upset and said I never put her first.” He pauses, shaking his head. “It’s not true, but… I don’t know, maybe I messed up somewhere.”

You look at him with gentle understanding, seeing the weight he carries on his shoulders. “Pope, you know how much Cleo cares about you. But maybe she needs to feel more secure in your affection. Maybe your words made her think you don’t care enough.”

He lifts his gaze to meet yours, his dark eyes filled with frustration and pain. “But that’s not true. I do care, so much. I just… sometimes I don’t know how to show it.”

You place a hand on his arm, your touch light but reassuring. “You don’t have to have all the answers right away. Sometimes it’s just about listening to the other person and trying to understand them.”

He leans back against the couch, closing his eyes for a moment. “Why does everything have to be so complicated? I thought being with someone was supposed to be easier.”

You shake your head with a wistful smile. “Relationships are never easy, Pope. But if they’re worth it, you work to make them work.”

For a moment, silence fills the room, broken only by the sound of the waves in the distance. Then he leans slightly toward you, his gaze now softer but also more intense. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, you know? You’re always here for me, even when I don’t have a clue what I’m doing.”

Your heart beats a little faster at his words, but you try to stay calm. “That’s what friends are for, Pope.”

He offers a faint smile, a tired but genuine one. “You’re more than a friend to me, you know that?”

Your breath catches for a moment. “What do you mean?”

He moves closer, his face now only inches from yours. “I mean… I don’t know when it started, but lately, I can’t stop thinking about you. Every time I’m with Cleo, part of me just wants to be here, with you.”

His words leave you speechless. You search his eyes, trying to discern whether he’s confused or sincere. But there’s no doubt in his gaze, only honesty.

“Pope…” you start, but he cuts you off.

“I don’t want you to think I’m using you to get over Cleo. It’s not that. But tonight, when we fought, all I wanted was to come here. To be with you.”

Before you can respond, he leans in and presses his lips to yours. It’s a kiss that starts tentative, almost unsure, but as you respond, it deepens into something more intense, more passionate. His hands rest on your waist, pulling you closer, and for a moment, the world around you fades away.

When you finally pull apart, both of you breathless, he looks at you with a kind of reverence tinged with uncertainty. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

You did not let him finish because you have re-cut your lips with his. You sucked his lip whining moaning.

Pope lies you on the couch while he takes off your clothes and then takes off his.

Pope looks at you for a moment to confirm that you want to do it, and you nod.

You moaned at how big and long Pope’s dick was. He smiled and kissed you softly, then came in with a quick blow, making both of them groan.

"You’re tighter than I imagined," Pope muttered as he began to move.

You groaned and then caught your lips with him

As the impulses of Pope increased fucking you with force venting all his anger and all his passion that had at that moment.

You could only groan with force while your pussy held Pope’s cock tightly making him moan while he fucked you harder while he chewed your neck leaving spots and bruises but you didn’t care, you were enjoying and getting even more excited at the same time.

You scratched his back feeling how it was destroying your pussy and left big scratches behind his back but neither of them cared, too taken by the moment and how you were fucking so well.

"you’re fucking me so well" You whimpered and he growled as he felt your pussy tighten even more around his cock two more shots and made you come then follow you by wheel cumming inside.

"the best sex of my life" he murmured as he joined your lips with hers again.

Pope still had his dick inside you and you felt it was getting hard again and you moaned as you were watching and stroked his hair.

"Round two?" He whispered and you smiled nodding

[astral-athame]

What Kind Of "Hot" Are You?

drunk girl in the bathroom hot

you're both wasted, she just somehow does it so much better. you're crying, about something your stupid ex did or said. and suddenly she appears, looking like an angel aside from the slight sway in her step. she's helping you our of your slump on the floor when you grow pale and catastrophy strikes. you're the most disgusting you've ever been, and still, this stranger holds your hair and rubs soothing circles in your back. gives you a breath mint and sits you back against the wall, asking what happened. you tell her, and her glittery, perfectly made face turns sour. with her heels in hand, she loops your arm around her shoulders so she can help you walk to an uber she called for you. your ex says something snarky to you in passing on the way out, and for her it's the final straw. she whirls around, fire in her eyes and a set in her brow and she slaps him hard across the face. calls him a jerk or a dick or something like that, you can't remember, you were busy smiling at the stunned look on his face as she drags you both outside. before you get home, she gives you a hug and kind words in a bubbling voice and you're thankful for her. thankful there are people out there who look out for people like you, who stand up for people even when they might have trouble standing themselves.

Tagged by (stolen from): @southern-belle-outcasts Tagging: Anyone who wants to take it <3

[vunblr]

An Unfinished Goodbye

Pairing: Ex-husband!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: Jealous Bucky. Slight angst.

Summary: Bucky tells himself he’s only watching over his ex-wife and son for their safety. But when someone threatens to alter the status quo, his quiet vigilance falters.

Word Count: About 2.6k

note: The events of this story are prior to The Weight of Choices, just an idea that’s been on my mind for some time, and I’ve finally decided to write it.

Bucky didn’t let himself linger in the neighborhood too often. He told himself it was for her safety, to make sure no remnants of his past ever came close to the life he’d left behind. But the truth? The truth was much harder to swallow.

So here he was again, parked inconspicuously down the block, watching his old household from the safety of shadows. Nearly two years had passed since the divorce, yet his routine surveillance hadn’t faltered. He called it caution. Vigilance. Love disguised as duty.

But something had shifted over the past few months. He’d noticed a pattern: Wednesdays, late afternoons, like clockwork. She would leave the house with her bag slung over her shoulder and a bounce in her step. She wasn’t dressed for a date: no makeup, no particular effort in her outfit. Casual, comfortable, but purposeful. She always walked, sometimes taking Benjamin along, though not often. Her destination was only three blocks away, a quaint bookstore with dark wood paneling and colorful window displays.

At first, Bucky dismissed it as another errand. But as the weeks passed, he couldn’t ignore how much time she spent there. The store was small, not the kind of place where someone could lose themselves in endless aisles of books. She never came out with stacks, just one or two bags that didn’t explain why she lingered inside for nearly an hour each time. It intrigued him.

What was she doing in there? Who was she talking to?

He had no right to feel like this, not after everything he’d done, not after he’d been the one to walk away. But knowing that didn’t make the questions stop, nor did it ease the tightness in his chest every time he imagined someone else making her smile the way he used to.

Bucky shifted in his seat, his fingers gripping the steering wheel tightly. He knew the store was safe, he’d checked it out the first time she visited, a quick sweep of its modest interior to ensure there were no hidden dangers. But that was before he noticed the pattern. Before he noticed him.

The clerk.

Attractive in an unassuming way, clean-cut, and friendly. The type of guy who probably didn’t carry the kind of baggage Bucky wore like a second skin. He’d seen the way the man smiled at her, the easy banter as she lingered at the counter. It didn’t take a genius to see the man was interested. But what stung more was the question that haunted him every time he saw them together.

Was she interested, too?

The first time Bucky walked past the bookstore on a Wednesday afternoon, it was a coincidence, or so he told himself. He’d been in the area, making one of his usual rounds to ensure Hydra remnants weren’t stirring trouble when he saw her through the large display window.

She stood at the counter, leaning slightly, her bag hanging loosely off her shoulder. Bucky slowed his pace, his eyes drawn to her like a magnet. Her lips moved as she spoke to the clerk, and then she laughed, he couldn’t hear the words, but the smile she gave the man, warm and genuine, was loud enough to make something twist painfully in his chest.

Bucky’s steps faltered. He forced himself to keep walking, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He didn’t look back.

The second time, it wasn’t a coincidence.

She didn’t see him, of course. She never did. He’d become an expert at moving through the edges of her world without disturbing it. That afternoon, he lingered across the street, leaning casually against a lamppost while pretending to check his phone. She was there again, standing at the counter. The clerk handed her a small brown paper bag with a flourish, and her head tilted in a way Bucky recognized, a sign she was amused. The way the clerk smiled back was almost smug, and Bucky’s jaw tightened before he realized what he was doing.

It wasn’t jealousy. It couldn’t be. This wasn’t about him. He was there to make sure she was safe, not to… what? Spy on her? Analyze every smile and gesture? No. That wasn’t why he was there.

Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

By the fourth Wednesday, Bucky had stopped pretending. He started arriving just before she did, timing it perfectly so he could loiter nearby, feigning to check the notices on the community bulletin board. He didn’t always stay long, just enough to see her walk in, to make sure nothing seemed off. He wasn’t watching her. He was watching over her. There was a difference, even if it felt like splitting hairs.

That day, though, he couldn’t stop himself from glancing through the window. Just a quick look, nothing more.

And there was the clerk. Smiling. Laughing. Reaching across the counter to tap the corner of her bag, like it was their little ritual.

Bucky’s stomach churned. He didn’t wait to see how the rest of their interaction played out. He turned on his heel and left, his steps quicker than usual.

The afternoon pick-up at the kindergarten next day was as uneventful as ever. Bucky leaned against the frame of the door, arms crossed, watching as Benjamin rushed to shove the last of his toys into his tiny backpack. The teacher smiled at Bucky, offering a polite nod before turning her attention back to the other children.

“Ready, buddy?” Bucky asked when Ben finally zipped up the bag with a triumphant grin.

“Yep!” the boy chirped, slinging the strap over his shoulder and racing over to grab his dad’s hand.

They walked back to the car, the boy chattering about his day: the finger painting, snack time, and the new dinosaur toy one of the other kids brought. Bucky listened, smiling faintly, savoring these rare moments of normalcy.

When they reached his apartment, Ben bounded in, already pulling out his toys and making himself at home. Bucky couldn’t help but smile at the sight. He set down Benjamin’s backpack and started unpacking it, pulling out pajamas, a toothbrush, and a small paper bag. The bag’s contents caught his eye, a glossy new children’s book with a vibrant cover featuring talking animals.

“Where’d this come from?” he asked, holding it up for the child to see.

“Mom bought it yesterday!” Benjamin called from where he was lining up his action figures. “She said it’s funny, and I wanted you to read it to me tonight.”

Bucky swallowed hard, his fingers tightening briefly around the book. It was a small thing, a routine purchase for their son. “Sure, pal,” Bucky said, forcing a smile. “We’ll read it before bed.”

Later, with Benjamin tucked under a warm blanket and already halfway to dreamland, Bucky opened the book. He flipped through the first few pages, skimming the cheerful illustrations, until something yellow caught his eye.

There, stuck neatly to the inside cover, was a post-it note.

Bucky’s stomach twisted as he peeled it off. The handwriting was neat and precise, the kind of deliberate script that came with care.

"For Benjamin and his supermom. If you ever need a quiet moment to yourself, you know where to find me. Coffee’s on me."

For a moment, Bucky just sat there, the note pinched between his fingers, his jaw clenching tighter with every passing second. He read it again, and then again, as if repetition might dull the sharp edge of what it implied.

The clerk wasn’t just leaving a kind gesture for Benjamin. This was for her, testing the waters, pushing the boundary between friendly and…something else.

His chest tightened as he looked down at his son, fast asleep, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in his father’s mind.

Bucky ran a hand over his face, letting out a slow, controlled breath. He knew he had no right to feel this way. He was the one who left and broke her heart. She deserved a chance to move on, to be happy. He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t interfere, wouldn’t sabotage any future relationships she might find.

And yet, as he sat there in the dim light of his living room, his son’s soft breathing the only sound breaking the silence, and all he could think about was the smile she gave the clerk, the ease of their conversation. It twisted inside him, the raw ache of knowing she might be moving on, that someone else might be filling the space he’d left behind.

The book lay open on the coffee table, colorful illustrations staring up at him like an accusation. He should be happy, he knew that. If the clerk was kind, if he made her smile, then wasn’t that what Bucky had wanted? To know she was safe, loved, and cared for by someone who didn’t carry the weight and dangers of a bloody past?

But it didn’t feel like that. It felt like something had been ripped out of his chest, leaving an empty, hollow ache. He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut.

What was he going to do? March into the bookstore and tell the guy to back off? Make a scene, all because he couldn’t handle the sight of her moving on? He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. It was pathetic and out of line.

Bucky told himself to sleep it off, to push it down and let the night take the edge off his emotions. But when he slipped under his covers, the darkness only seemed to amplify everything: the sting of the note, the look on her face when she laughed with the clerk, the ache in his gut.

He turned onto his side, then his back, staring at the ceiling as if it held answers he couldn’t grasp. Hours passed like this, his thoughts circling the same drain, relentless and unyielding.

He fell into a fitful sleep sometime near dawn and woke up with a headache pounding at his temples. Dropping Ben off at kindergarten helped distract him for a while; the boy’s energy was infectious, and Bucky managed a real smile when he waved goodbye, watching him run inside without a second glance.

But once Ben was out of sight, the intrusive thoughts returned, a heaviness that sat low in his stomach.

He pushed it aside, meeting up with Sam at a quiet café in the city to discuss a potential mission overseas. A dangerous arms dealer had resurfaced, and Sam was talking about intel, tactical approaches, and backup options, but Bucky only half-listened. He nodded in the right moments and offered a few curt suggestions, but his heart wasn’t in it.

Sam noticed. He always did. “You good, Tinman?” he asked, giving him a sidelong glance, his voice dipping in concern.

“Yeah,” Bucky replied, too quickly. He took a long sip of his coffee. “Just a rough night.”

Sam’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t push. He knew Bucky well enough to recognize when to leave things alone. “Alright. But if you’re not up for this trip, just say the word.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky insisted, setting the cup down a little harder than he meant to. He forced a smile. “Besides, what else am I gonna do?”

Sam’s grin softened the tension between them. “Yeah, well, we both know you’re bad at sitting still. Just… if you need to deal with whatever’s got you distracted, handle it before it blows up in your face.”

Bucky’s smile faltered, and for a moment, he wondered if Sam could see straight through him. “I will,”

The day dragged on, filled with errands and prep for the potential mission. It was late afternoon when he realized where he was, standing across the street from the bookstore, hidden in the shadow of a building.

He shouldn’t be here. He knew he shouldn’t be here.

But he couldn’t leave, either.

The clerk was inside, bustling about, turning off lights and flipping the sign to Closed. The street was quiet, the sun dipping below the horizon, casting long shadows. Bucky’s pulse thrummed in his ears as he watched the man lock up, a spring in his step that made Bucky’s jaw clench. He didn’t know this guy’s name, didn’t care to know it. All he knew was the way the man looked at her, and it was enough.

Bucky stepped forward, letting the streetlight catch his face just enough for the man to see his expression, cold and unyielding. He took his time, closing the distance with the kind of deliberate, measured steps that always made people nervous. He wanted the clerk to feel it, to know exactly what this was.

“I’ve seen the little note you left,” he said quietly, his voice a low rumble that carried in the empty street. He didn’t raise his voice, he didn’t need to. The menace was in the calm, the quiet control. “And I need you to know something.”

The clerk swallowed hard, taking a half-step back. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t-”

Bucky’s eyes were steely as he interrupted. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with. And I need you to stay away from my wife.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and deliberate. He knew he shouldn’t have said it -my wife- but he couldn’t help himself. He needed to leave an imprint, to sow the seeds of doubt and fear. The man’s face paled, his eyes flicking between Bucky’s unyielding gaze and the empty street behind him as if he was already considering his escape.

“I didn’t mean anything,” the clerk stammered, his voice barely above a whisper now. “I was just… being friendly, I swear.”

Bucky leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “I don’t care what you meant. If you leave another one, if you talk to her again, if you so much as breathe in her direction, I’ll know. And trust me, you won’t like what happens next.”

He let the threat hang, unspoken but understood. The clerk nodded frantically, backing away, nearly tripping over the curb in his haste.

Bucky stepped back, letting the shadows swallow him again. He watched as the man stumbled away, disappearing down the street at a near run.

The next Wednesday, she walked into the bookstore as usual, expecting to see the familiar face behind the counter, the easy smile, and the warm greeting. Instead, a tall, bearded man she’d never seen before looked up from behind the register, offering her a polite but distant nod.

“Um, hi,” she said, trying to keep the confusion out of her voice. “Is Matt not working today?”

The new clerk shrugged. “He switched to the morning shift this week. Said he wanted more daylight hours,” he explained casually, returning to the task of rearranging colorful bookmarks without much thought.

“Oh,” she replied, caught off guard. Matt hadn’t mentioned anything about changing his schedule. For a moment, she couldn’t shake the odd twist in her chest, a mix of confusion and something that felt uncomfortably like rejection. It was silly, really, but she’d thought there was a small, unspoken connection between them, a hint of something starting. But clearly, she’d been reading too much into a few friendly gestures.

After a quick, half-hearted browse, she left the bookstore sooner than usual, her expression distant as she stepped back onto the sidewalk. Her mind churned with a muddle of questions and disappointment, feeling foolish for hoping there had been something more.

Of course, Bucky was there, watching from a distance as she walked out of the bookstore, with a subtle sag of her shoulders, and a distant look in her eyes. He knew exactly why; he’d made sure of it. It was pathetic, really. He’d driven off a harmless guy, all because he couldn’t stomach the thought of her finding comfort or affection in someone else.

He swallowed hard, staring after her as she disappeared into the crowd. He’d done it again, made things harder for her, twisted the knife he’d already lodged in her heart. But despite the suffocating shame, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

Dividers by: @strangergraphics

[clovermunson]

king hargrove — b. hargrove

summary: billy never saw himself as a dad, but he’d never trade his two little girls for anything— even when they ask him to dress up like a princess and have a tea party with them.

warnings: tooth-rooting fluff. like eating two bags of cotton candy and chasing it with a 72 oz. big gulp soda at the state fair. brief mentions of billy’s upbringing (not detailed). bee’s full name is beatrice but she’s called bee. oh and a mention of mechanic!billy. no use of “y/n”. first fic i’ve written and actually finished in…months? i think?? that’s about it really.

pairings: billy hargrove x fem/mom!reader

word count: 1.7k

author’s note: i told y’all motherfuckers i was gonna give billy something happy, and here it is!! it’s the most i’ve written in about two weeks and y’all can thank this lovely goon: @bookshelf-dust for that. anyway, as always likes and reblogs (especially reblogs) are greatly appreciated, i just ask that you DO NOT copy and repost my writing and claim it as your own!! — xo, morgan🖤

Billy Hargrove was many things. A bad influence, a womanizer, some might even say an antagonizer, of sorts. And while he’d agree to being all of those things before he met you, if someone would’ve told him that he’d become the father to a little girl in the spring of 1989, and then again in the summer of 1991, he would’ve told them they were crazy.

But now as he sat at the ridiculously small white dining table set, on the floor with his legs outstretched rather than in one of the dainty chairs that he was sure would crumble under his weight, he was certain that he wouldn’t trade this life for anything.

“Daddy, you gotta wear it.” Bee, your youngest daughter, had shoved a pink feather boa at him, making him jump back.

“Pleeeease? And this?” Juno, your eldest daughter had asked, holding a tiny plastic tiara out to him, “pretty please?”

“Okay okay.” Billy held his hands up, finally accepting defeat before letting Juno place the tiara on his head as he took the boa, wrapping the feathered accessory around his neck, then smiling for his girls.

Lord, if the guys at the mechanic shop knew about this, they’d never stop giving him hell over it.

“You look pretty.” Juno giggled at him as she pretended to pour two cups of tea.

“Pretty, huh?” Billy chuckled, “I don’t think the pink goes with my shirt.” He tugged at the material of his dark red shirt, showing how it contrasted.

“Oh well.” Bee shrugged, “gotta wear it.”

“Bossy.” Billy couldn’t help but laugh at the miniature version of himself, but if anyone asked where Bee got it from, he’d say it was from you.

“Get it from my daddy.” Bee didn’t miss a beat with her response, further showing just how much she was like her dad. All Billy could do was smile to himself, knowing that she was right.

Before he knew it, Juno had offered him an empty teacup, and he’d be damned if he turned it down. The floral patterned cup was abnormally tiny in his hand, but he still brought it up to his lips, pretending to take a drink.

“Pinky up.” Juno was quick to correct him, wiggling her tiny pinky at him.

At first, Billy looked confused. Why did he need to have his pinky up?

He felt Bee’s little hand grab at his, trying her hardest to raise his pinky.

“You’ve gotta put your pinky up, daddy.” She tried to pry his pinky from the tiny cup handle, giggling as Billy fought back with her.

“Daddy!” She whined, pouting at him. It didn’t take much for Bee to get her way. All she had to do was get those big ocean blue eyes a little misty, and she’d convince anyone to get her whatever she wanted— mostly her dad and her uncle Steve.

“Alright, alright.” Billy raised his pinky, waving it at Bee, “better?”

Bee simply nodded, appeased with her dad’s actions as she sipped her fake-tea.

You’d been carrying a basket full of laundry when you’d heard the giggling coming from the girls’ room. Instead of going on your way to the laundry room, you’d stopped just out of sight, leaning against the wall beside the doorway to listen in. Though you had to admit, seeing Billy in a tiara was quite the spectacle.

“You’re the king of the castle!” Juno exclaimed, quickly jumping up from the wooden chair to twirl around, her yellow polka-dot skirt twisting around her, the sleeves of her white blouse flowing from the small breeze she��d created.

“Is that so?” Billy watched as Bee joined in with her sister, both of them twirling around the table, skipping and jumping over their scattered toys.

“Mhm.” Bee agreed, “you’re the king. The king makes the rules.”

“I dunno about that, kiddo.” Billy snorted, “I would say I’m pretty influential around here though.”

“Infuwentual?” Bee stopped in her tracks, a bewildered look on her face. She struggled with the word, but Billy had quickly realized his mistake by using a big word.

“Influential.” He gently corrected her, “it means that daddy’s got a lot to do and say with what happens around here.”

Bee nodded, seemingly understanding the meaning of the new word. “So you make all the rules?”

“Not necessarily, babygirl.” Billy shook his head, smiling. “I do get to help make them though.”

“That doesn’t sound fun.” Bee crossed her arms, expressing that she didn’t agree with that decision— or whoever made it. Clearly an attitude she’d picked up from her father.

You smiled to yourself at that. Of course you and Billy made the rules together, and it was a very delicate balance of give and take between the two of you. But if your little girl could have it her way, she’d be running the world in no longer than two weeks’ time.

“But that’s how the world works, Bee.” Billy shrugged, “what can you do?”

Bee sat for a moment, seemingly contemplating her choices. Finally she spoke, and her little voice carried so much certainty with it, that even you were sure you’d let her have whatever she demanded. “Become the queen.”

“You wanna become the queen, is that right?” Billy couldn’t believe what he was hearing, feigning shock.

Bee nodded proudly, her plastic tiara nearly falling from her head.

“Well, you’ve gotta be a princess for now.” Billy had made it fairly obvious that he could match his daughter’s sass, “you do such a good job at that already.” He adjusted her tiara, making sure it was straight again.

“‘Course I do.” Bee sounded almost offended, “I am the princess.” She annunciated the word, only to add emphasis.

“Yeah, the mean princess.” Juno stuck her tongue out at her younger sister, knowing that Bee would retaliate.

“How rude!” Bee tossed one of the little building blocks at Juno, pouting.

“Meanie.” Juno threw a block back at her, which Billy had caught with astonishingly quick reflexes, making both of his daughters’ eyes widen.

“Girls.” Billy’s voice was firm, yet gentle with them, “that’s enough.”

“Sorry…” both girls mumbled, afraid to even look at each other.

“Neither of you are in trouble.” Billy felt the need to clarify, as he always felt like the bad guy when he had to scold them, “you just can’t call each other names and be mean to each other.”

The girls nodded in unison, showing that they understood the ground rules.

Since Billy had become a father, he’d become more gentle and less abrasive. He’d never once yelled at either of your girls, choosing to raise them with the kind of gentleness and unconditional love that you’d find in a family movie— the kind of home that Billy wasn’t lucky enough to have growing up.

He’d be damned if he didn’t give his little girls the best life they could possibly have though. Juno was the surprise baby, and sure money got tight at times, but he always worked extra shifts and overtime to make sure she had everything she needed and wanted. Then when Bee came along, Billy had been promoted to assistant manager, which came with a nice paycheck every week that was more than enough to support your little family.

Instead of continuing on to the laundry room, you decided instead to turn on your heel, heading back to the living room with a bright, almost dopey smile on your face from witnessing possibly the sweetest thing you’d ever seen. You set the basket of laundry down on the couch, making your way to the kitchen where you began to prepare dinner.

After about twenty minutes, Billy had gotten himself out of the princess tea party by claiming that he had ‘kingly duties’ to attend to, and while the girls were upset over it, they allowed him to leave.

“Mmm,” Billy hummed as he approached you, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, then he inhaled the aroma of the kitchen, “whatcha making?”

“Spaghetti.” You responded with a giggle, “or as Bee calls it, ‘pasghetti’.”

“She’ll get it eventually.” Billy chuckled, “she’s got her mama’s brains for sure.”

“And your attitude.” You laughed, scrunching your nose, “what a killer combo.”

“Tell me about it.” Billy grinned, pressing a kiss to the soft skin of your neck.

“William.” You scolded him, giggling as you shimmied out of his grasp, “not here.”

Before Billy could even put some space between the two of you, Juno and Bee had come barreling down the stairs, stopping just at the threshold between the kitchen and living room.

“Can we have ice cream for dinner?” They both asked, their puppy dog eyes on full display.

You looked at Billy, a brow arched as you continued to stir the pasta noodles.

“Don’t look at me.” Billy held his hands up, shaking his head, giving you that million-dollar smile of his, “I didn’t tell them they could”.

“But you’re the king!” Bee shouted, the anticipation was clear in her voice.

“And if the king says we can have ice cream for dinner…” Juno trailed off, looking up at her dad.

“I may be the king, but mama’s the queen. What she says goes around here.” Billy leaned over to press a kiss to your temple, knowing that the girls wouldn’t even try to argue with you over it. “Even I can’t get her to change her mind.”

Juno sulked, padding over to her chair at the table, seemingly having accepted defeat.

Bee took a big whiff of the air, then smiled. “Mama, is that pasghetti?”

“It is spaghetti”. You gently corrected, knowing she still wouldn’t say it right anyway. “Go sit at the table with your sister and I’ll make you a plate.”

“Okay.” She chirped, nearly sprinting to the dining table, taking the seat right next to Juno.

Billy watched as the girls chatted amongst themselves, their senseless babbling making his chest swell with pride and an almost overwhelming sense of joy. Everything he never knew he needed was right in front of him, and he wouldn’t trade it for the anything. He leaned back against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest as he felt that warm sense of comfort wash over him that he’d been waiting years for.

Seeing the opportunity to tease your husband, you took it without so much as a second thought, though you kept your focus on making dinner.

“You may be the king, but you make a pretty princess too.”

Billy’s eyes darted over to you, and he smirked to himself. He knew that arguing was pointless, because the queen was always right.

[talesofesther]

darling darkness

Wednesday Addams x OC/Reader

This story belongs to the I Told the Moon universe

Summary: Wednesday has a strange way of calming you down even on your worst days.

A/N: A little deeper look into my favorite universe. Some ideas here were suggested by @annalestern and @roleplayfandom. <3

Masterlist

There was something about the little nook where the Poe Statue stood. It was reserved, but not hidden. Away from prying eyes, yet not safe from any wandering students.

You figured that's why Wednesday liked this spot, she liked the risk of getting caught. The rush of it, if you will.

You could tell just from the feeling of her smirk. The small curve of her lips that made it just a tad harder for them to fit with yours.

For someone so sharp-edged — her words, not yours — rigid even, from her routine to the straightness of her clothes; she quite enjoyed to have you unraveling her.

It always started with her fingers curling around the fabric of your blazer so she could lay the ghost of a kiss on the edge of your mouth. She's not one for words, never has been; actions are her thing. Wednesday will confess to you in the way her nimble fingers traced a path up your neck and to your jaw, tender in a way you doubt she even knew she was capable of.

That was always your cue to pull her closer, to bring your arms around her waist and bury your hands underneath her shirt to touch the surprisingly warm skin of her lower back.

And Wednesday shivered at your touch, every single time. You're the only one who can make it happen.

Her kisses held unspoken words in them. But who needs words anyway, when she presses herself to you as if you'd run away?

It's been like this for a few months, and each time she pulls away — lips a little swollen and pupils so big that her eyes are almost totally black — it feels like the first time.

"Why do you insist on them?"

Her voice was like a soft gush of wind over the haziness her lips always put you in.

You smiled at the girl who had you pressed against the cold concrete wall, your thumb lazily tracing the skin on her waist. "Sorry," you raised a hand, taking off your sunglasses, "I forgot."

One thing you learned pretty quickly was that Wednesday had a passion for your fiery eyes. You'd catch her staring just a moment too long whenever you took off your sunglasses in her presence. Eventually, you started to not use them at all when around her.

Wednesday's dark doe eyes seemed to count each speck of color in your irises, each shade of honey and golden brown, losing herself in you. Her eyebrows softened their crease and you could feel her nails scratching at the back of your neck slightly.

You loved her for it, for associating a part of you you were never too keen on, with something worthy of devotion.

Something you didn't exactly love, though, was how perceptive she was.

"I couldn't help but notice your lack of annoying quips today," Wednesday raised an eyebrow at you then, "why is that?"

You averted her gaze then, clicking your tongue. As you did so, both of you could hear faint footsteps approaching; Wednesday was quick to untangle her limbs from yours, clearing her throat as she leaned back against the Poe Statue.

Two gorgon girls passed by you, and you stuffed your hands in your pockets. You wondered if they'd believe you if you told them how the Wednesday Addams turns into putty in your hands.

That was a thought for another time though, as you could feel a familiar weight settling into your chest and raising goosebumps on your skin. She wasn't wrong, you've been quieter today. "Um-" you tried to start, words heavy on your tongue, "my father called this morning, letting me know he's coming to pick me up this weekend." You gave Wednesday a defeated shrug, feeling small under her gaze.

"Why is that?" She asked without much emotion in her tone, but you could see the way she clenched her jaw.

The silence dragged, as if speaking would make it more true.

"Our family has been invited to a gala, something about potential business deals, I didn't really pay attention," you grimaced, "my father says it's imperative that everyone attends… especially his prized pony." You mumbled the last part, disdain dripping from each syllable.

Sincerely speaking, you were used to these parties, had attended them more times than you could remember. Though it always brought a knot to your stomach to think about being surrounded by disagreeable people who were all too powerful for anyone's sake; always whispering about wicked deals without considering who loses their lives on the line. Your family had one of the most renowned names amongst them, so whether you liked it or not, you were already in the game.

"Tell him you can't go, that you're busy with school," Wednesday raised a brow, taking half a step closer to you, "I'll vouch for you."

It was sweet just how protective Wednesday had grown of you. Reaching out, you gingerly ran a finger over one of her braids; "unfortunately, it doesn't work like that."

Wednesday's dark eyes flitted over your features and, slowly, she hooked her fingers with yours. It was a comfort to know she'd be waiting for you upon your return.

—

There was something about the darkness of the night. The cold and quiet tend to make one's emotions flourish; maybe it has something to do with the hazy silver glow of the moon and how it shines over the low fog.

Because of the fog, the grass under your paws was slightly wet, cool to the touch. The fur of your legs that touched the longer blades of grass grew damp as you walked through the deserted gardens of Nevermore.

The huffs of breath that escaped your nose were just as white as the fog, telltales of the approaching winter. It was a cold night, but you didn't feel it; the thick layer of midnight fur around your body kept you warm enough.

If any unlucky student were to bump into you right now, they'd probably think their time on this earth came to an end and the devil's beast was here to claim their soul — what with how you were lost in the darkness of the night, only leaving the frightening sight of your honey-colored eyes.

Still, nighttime was your time; it relaxed you as almost nothing else could. Pulling your mind away from your unfortunate predicament as you lay on the damp grass and gazed up at the shining moon above you.

There was an anomaly though, has been for a while. You're not sure how exactly she finds you, part of you thinks she has Thing keeping watch on you. But recently, she has been the one to invade your nights, and not the other way around.

Your ears perked up at the sound of her footsteps, listening carefully until you felt movement beside you.

She was the exception. The student who didn't fear the sight of your eyes, but loved it. The one who could calm you down more than the moon ever could.

Wednesday sat down beside you, the grass undoubtedly dampening the fabric of her pants as her thigh brushed against your paw.

Words didn't matter much.

Wednesday reached a hand out, her fingers disappearing between the dark fur of your neck and sliding up to your ear until she traced its form. And you melted.

Your head came to rest on her lap and she cradled you to her. Embracing her wolf closer to her body. Your fur doing a good job of keeping her warm on this cold night.

That's all you were tonight, all you wanted to be. Her wolf.

—

The morning you watched your father's car pull up to the school's parking lot was a cloudy one. You were dressed to the nines; with a long, dark dress that hugged the form of your body perfectly, and obsidian jewelry that cost more than you'd like to admit. All of it carefully handpicked by your father, his only child had to exude nothing less than perfection anyway.

Wednesday sat atop your bed while you glared at your reflection in the mirror, fiddling with the necklace on your hands. Though you could feel the weight of her gaze on you.

You felt out of place in your own body. Suffocated by the layers of expensive fabric that touched your skin. Slowly, you were falling into a mild panic, anticipation twirling inside your stomach.

And then, the feeling suddenly dissipated.

Cold fingers grazed the nape of your neck. You watched through the mirror as Wednesday stood behind you, her fingers disappearing into your hair the same way they did against your fur. The ghost of a kiss she placed on your shoulder came unexpectedly, but not unwelcomed.

"Even if the circumstances are not ideal, you look dazzling, mi luna."

A soft warmth came to your cheeks upon hearing Wednesday's words and you ducked your head sheepishly with a chuckle. You turned to face her then, all so you could pull her into a kiss, which she reciprocated immediately.

Wednesday's palms smoothed over your dress, dark nails digging into even darker fabric as she tugged you closer.

You pulled away slowly when air became a necessity, without really wanting to, running your tongue over your bottom lip to catch any remains of her.

Feeling strangely timid, you glanced down at the necklace on your hands, running a thumb over the faded pink pendant. You looked at Wednesday through your lashes; "would you keep it safe for me?" You asked, extending the necklace to her, "my father doesn't like to see me wear it."

A beat or two passed with Wednesday's eyes going from your face to your hand, she looked almost… surprised?

"Of course," she eventually breathed.

You reached around her then, gently clasping the necklace around her neck. The pink pendant looked a little foreign on Wednesday's pale skin, but you loved it on her. It felt as if a part of you would stay close to her heart.

"I'll be counting the seconds until I can come back to you," you whispered, leaning in once more to place a chaste kiss on her lips.

Wednesday kept a secure hold of your hand as you walked together down the stairs, through the gardens, and to the parking lot. She stopped by the gates, with a faraway gaze focused on the figure of your father waiting for you outside the car.

Only when you squeezed her hand, did her eyes slowly settle back on you. Her bangs flowed softly with the breeze outside, her cheeks a tad rosier because of the cold; "let me know if I have to kill anyone upon your return."

She managed to pull a last smile from you and you ran your thumb on the skin of her hand before letting go, "I will."

With that, you were walking away from her, your high heels steadily thudding against the stone path as you reached your father. You couldn't breathe even if you tried to. "Hello, dad."

He didn't look at you, instead, he kept his eyes on the dark-haired girl who stood by the gates, undoubtedly holding a daring staring contest with him. "Who is that girl?"

The words tasted bitter on your tongue, but for Wednesday's sake, you said them; "just a friend, no one important."

Silently, the golden eyes of your father looked you up and down, making a shiver run down your spine. When he judged you were looking appropriate enough, he turned around, "get in, we should've left two minutes ago."

"Yes sir," you mumbled and opened the passenger's door.

As the key was turned in the ignition and the car started slowly pulling away, you kept your gaze out the window and focused on Wednesday. The last thing you saw was the way she took half a step forward, as if the increasing distance between you pulled painfully at her heartstrings.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keep me motivated to continue posting here, so I’d appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment. <3

Wednesday’s taglist: @heelaechan @imagine-reblog @sakurarukas @bluetreecloud20 @the-night-owl-blr @imlike-so-gaydude @jjsmaybank20 @dreifhraniquo29 @emeraldevans @simp4nat @boobabietch @impossibleliv1031 @deadpool-in-a-snood @rainbow-love4ever @pompompuri @halleest @wandaromanova @marveloussimp @rainbow-hedgehog @left-and-right-up-and-down @get-the-fuck-outta-here @awolfcsworld @elduster @alexkolax @georgi-salva @imdumbhi @youralphawolf72 @reginassweetheart @justyourwritter69 @yangsroboarmm @8e-h-e8 @irish-piece-of-trash @femalehomosexual666 @wol-fica @wednesdays-woes @vorsdany @v1ci0us @the-nightshades-library @tundra1029 @aahdiieb @greyscxle-is-taken

[luveline]

i am obsessed with your kisses before dinner au, do you think you can maybe write something about what it’s like when the new baby is born or maybe how the older kids reacted to becoming siblings if yk what i mean? absolutely no pressure and ily!!

baby number four comes back from the hospital and steve tries not to cry about it (he fails) | kisses before dinner universe

afab!fem!reader x dad!steve (tw ment labour + pregnancy)

Steve sits down beside you on the couch with Beth in his arms and tries to calm his racing heart. To think your new baby is finally here, right here, safe and healthy and home, makes him want to throw up. He won't, obviously, but if he's a little grey around the gills that's his business. 

Avery sits on your other side quiet as a dormouse. As the oldest, she's experienced this twice before. She can't remember when Bethie came home because she'd been so young herself, and Steve suspects she might not fully remember meeting Dove for the first time either, but she remembers to be quiet and gentle, and that's all she really needs to do. 

Steve had wanted to bring them to the hospital to see you as soon as the baby was born, but Robin, rightfully, encouraged him to wait. He agrees now, because after labour you hadn't looked yourself. You'd been tired and sick. "You're having the next one," you'd joked. He had laughed until he cried, emotional from seeing you screaming and sweaty, his hand reduced to mush. Steve had been beside himself. He loves his girls, but he doesn't love how they came into the world. Seeing you that way… he can't regret getting you pregnant, not when he has all these beautiful babies, but he feels something similar. He feels better now that you're home.

"Tada," Steve whispers in Beth's ear. "There's your baby sister." 

"Another one?" you'd asked when you found out the gender, defeated but not really. You'll love whatever you're given. He loves that about you, and he feels the same. "Steve, come on." 

"It's not my fault!" he'd insisted. 

"She's really small," Bethie whispers back. 

"You don't have to whisper, sweetheart," you say, your face flopped against the couch cushions. You're still sapped. "She has to get used to all your voices." 

Bethie stands on Steve's leg and holds onto your shoulder. He grabs her waist in case she takes a spill, letting her peer down into your arms at the face of her new sister. Her lips part. 

"I think," Steve says, squeezing gently, "we finally have another one who looks like mommy and you." 

"I think so too," Avery says quietly. 

"Yea?" 

"She's got mom's nose." 

"Little," you joke, giving Avery a playful nudge with your elbow. "I think so three." 

You swap. Steve gets to hold his new baby and you make as much room as you can in your lap for the oldest two, wincing when someone's knee jabs your sore stomach. He's about to tell them to climb off of you when you wrap your arms around them, hiding your face in Avery's soft, silky hair. She got nearly everything from Steve, including how much she loves being cuddled, and she melts like butter in the sun at your touch. 

"I missed you, mom," she says. "Please don't have more babies for a while." 

You laugh. You all know Steve wants an army. You also know Steve wants what you want. You could never touch him again and he'd be okay with it, somehow. Safe to say, you won't be having any more babies for a while, if ever again.

"I missed you too. Three days without you is three too many. And don't worry, my love. Me and daddy aren't having anymore for a long, long time." You peek over Avery's shoulder and smile. "I wish we didn't make such pretty ones. Maybe I'd be less tempted."

"That's all you," Steve says. 

Bethie slouches to rest her weight on Steve's arm. God, he'd missed his girls. He'd been hoping your time in the hospital would be quick considering you've had three before, though they've been varying degrees of difficulty, and almost always made you poorly. That hope had been struck down fast, and Steve had just done whatever it was he could do to keep you breathing and smiling. He must be good at it, because four babies and eight years later he can still make you laugh between pushes. 

He's, pardon his language, fucking amazed at what you can do. And he's so in awe of his life, his family, his girls, he finds himself welling up for the tenth time today, the perfect tiny face of your newborn a blur in his eyes. 

Bethie pats his arm as he sniffles. 

"You want a hug?" she asks knowingly. 

"Yeah," he says. "I do. Thanks, baby." 

"I'm not the baby," she says, draping herself over his shoulder. He drops his face against hers and sniffles some more. 

Dove wakes up a little while after that, and when she calls, "Mommy!" from her crib you're thrilled to be able to go get her. You're still kissing her when you reach the bottom of the stairs, your nose sliding over her chubby cheeks as you coo praises at her. 

"I missed you so so much, my love," you say, softly and brightly, affection dripping from every syllable. "Mommy missed you sooooo much. You've been such a good girl for daddy and Aunt Robin, I know you have." You beam at her tiny dimples. She beams back. "You want to meet our lovely new baby?" 

Steve doesn't get too cut up about his family anymore, but he can't imagine his mother ever holding him so tenderly. He thinks she must have, once. Or maybe she didn't. There's no way to know, he only remembers growing up with that spearing sense of loneliness heavy in all his bones. 

Robin, his best friend in the entire world, had absolutely healed him. When he met you, he didn't have to worry about being enough or being too much, he'd just loved you. You'd filled those last cracks, and his daughter's pretty much erased any trace of them. 

He's so lucky. He could cry again, but the tears give him a migraine and he needs to be right as rain for the nights to come. 

You sit down. You smell familiar, and your smile curves under his ear as you drop a kiss against his wane skin. 

"Are you alright, Stevie baby?" you ask softly, one part concerned and three parts fond. You know what he's thinking. 

"I've never been better." He reaches out to comb a rogue strand of hair from Dove's face. "Are you ready to meet your new little sister?" he asks her. 

Dove glares at him. He wouldn't expect anything less. 

[natalievoncatte]

Here's a quick snippet of something I'm working on. This is from a discarded draft, but I'm still thinking of rewriting it and using it as the cold open for the story.

The bullet in her leg was going to be a problem.

Lena had been in scrapes before. This was, after all, the third version of her armor, each one built after the previous one had failed her in some way. It had taken her six long years to work out the balance between strength and agility, speed and power; to enhance her stealth abilities and find the right balance of preparation vs weight in her equipment. Prior to that she'd spent almost ten years preparing for her mission. Traveling, studying, learning, inventing.

At first her only concern had been blades and bullets. That had been easy to deal with. Her armored suit consisted of a base layer of electrically activated fibers that simulated fast twitch muscle fibers and could boost her overall strength output five fold, making her the physical equal or better of any enemy she might encounter in the field. A layer of kevlar-nomex triweave and proprietary composite armor plating over that made her quick and agile but well protected against guns and knives.

Tonight she'd learned that well protected wasn't totally protected.

It was almost funny, after everything that had happened in those five years, everything she'd overcome, that a gang of corrupt cops and mob thugs would be the ones to take her down.

Oh, and make no mistake, she had been taken down. She might have escaped the Axis Chemical factory, but she wasn't going to make it to the extraction point, and she knew it. She wasn't going to make it to Alfred this time.

They'd find her, eventually, pry her out of the armor, and reveal to the world that the Batman had been Lena Wayne all along. Of all the things she regretted as the plain flared in her thigh and she felt hot blood flowing beneath the inner layer of her suit, Lena was surprised to find that one of the things she'd regret most was not getting to see the looks on their faces when they found out.

She'd faced down plant toxins and freeze cannons and a shape-shifting monster. Aliens and metahumans and magicians. She'd taken them all on and come up ahead.

You know what? Lena decided, this isn't too bad. No, it wasn't a good death, but she was going out on her terms, knowing that she'd made some small difference. Maybe someone else could carry on her work. She'd left journals behind, set out instructions for what was to be done with her inventions and technology and the Wayne fortune. She would leave good in the world behind her. Martha and Thomas, the people who'd taken her in and raised her, would be proud. Bruce, her little brother who'd been the bravest man she ever knew, would be proud.

Maybe it would be a good death after all.

Lena stumbled through the open construction, threading between exposed I-beams. It wasn't in her to give up, to stop limping forward. She'd locked out her wounded leg, turning the suit rigid so she could hobble on it, and had already hit herself with an adrenaline auto-injector to keep her eyes open. She could make it to the extraction if she just kept moving.

Just keep moving.

As she limped forwards, Lena wondered how she'd get down. One problem at a time. She was in no shape to use a grapple line to get to street level. Keep moving. The pain in her leg was shocking, excruciating. She wondered if the bullet had fractured her femur. Maybe. She'd been hurt before, of course. Bullet to the back that slipped between armor plates and punched through, once, and all the ones that didn't hurt like hell anyway; it was like being pummeled with baseballs.

The display on the inside of her cracked helmet was lit up with warning lights and messages she didn't have time to parse. She knew what some of them were: Corrosive damage to the suit, drained power cells, her vitals plummeting, and the repeating all points bulletins declaring that the Batman was to be arrested on sight for the murder of Jack Napier.

Lena made it to the edge and leaned on a steel beam, looking down. Two blocks over to the extraction point. Alfred would be waiting for her. He'd get her out of the suit, patch her up, make it better. Alfred always made it better. She had to try. She had to try to get back.

Fumbling, she almost tumbled right off the edge until she slumped against the beam, her wounded leg starting to slide out from under her. She had to hug the steel to pull herself back up, prop herself up on the locked armor segments.

No, she wasn't going to make it, she realized. This was it. No heroic last stand, no final sacrifice, just bleeding out in a half-finished bougie apartment complex that had been stripped of all its copper five times. Lena wanted to laugh, but her lungs could only wheeze.

She almost didn't realize it when the half-skeletal building shook from a gust of wind.

No, not a wind. A blur of motion.

Her HUD lit up with proximity alarms, the onboard computers panicking when the sensor systems started failing from lack of power or severe damage. She really wanted to laugh. What now?

Turning, Lena put a hand on the beam to keep herself upright, and sighed.

No amount of preparation, no amount of refinement to her suit, would ever prepare her for this.

The Kryptonian strode across the plywood construction floor, cape majestically billowing behind her. Even in the dark she seemed alive with light, haloing her flawless golden curls and alive in her sky blue eyes, like she brought the sun with her. Her bright blue and red uniform stood in stark contrast against the muted grays, blues, and blacks of Gotham by night. Below them, sirens wailed. Hunters on the prowl for their wounded prey.

"What do you want?" Lena rasped. Her helmet altered her force into a deep growl.

"Batman," said Supergirl, "there's an all points bulletin out for your arrest."

"What else is new?"

Even now, she was the detective, stalling. The helmet's systems were scanning Supergirl's face, matching against her own facial recognition database using algorithms she'd written herself. The suit did all this automatically, so that she had complete files when she returned to the Cave.

"They're saying you killed a man tonight," said Kara. "I'm taking you in."

"I'm not going anywhere with you," Lena coughed, the sound exploding in a garbled belch from her damaged helmet.

"You can barely stand," said Supergirl. "That wound in your leg needs medical attention. Just let me help you."

"Help me?" Lena spat, reaching for her belt. "Don't be absurd."

"You're coming with me either way," said Supergirl, edging closer. "Trying to fight me is pointless. You don't stand a chance."

"Want to test that theory?" said Lena.

Supergirl shook her head.

The suit came back with a facial recognition match.

DANVERS, KARA.

Her biographical data began to scroll across Lena's vision. She dismissed it with a laugh.

"It figures," she muttered.

"What?" said Supergirl. She moved closer. "I can hear your heart rate decreasing. I'll take you to a hospital. I promise, you'll get a fair hearing, you just-"

Lena laughed again. "A fair hearing. You must be joking."

Supergirl edged closer. "Wait. You're using a voice changer."

Lena's eyes shot open wide inside her helmet. "How... of course. Superhuman hearing, right?"

"Wait," said Kara, "wait, I know that voice. Lena?"

[infinity-mars]

Play With Me

Pairing: Jack "Whiskey" Daniels x f!reader 

Word Count: 8.5k+

Rating: Explicit Smut (18+ only) 

Summary: You go out for a night of fun and encounter an alluring cowboy that does everything he can to capture your attention.

Also posted on my AO3 !

You loved to dance. Those moments when your heart fluttered in your chest made you move like you could fly, relishing in the feeling of power it gave you. You weren’t particularly graceful or always on time, but there was a certain magnetic thrum in the air that bent you to its will all the same. 

From outdoor dance clubs to private velvet-roped lounges, discothèques, raves and rooftop bars, you’ve tried to see it all with your friend Kate by your side. 

The cool air nipped at you both as you finally walked inside the club, the heat of passing bodies a welcome feeling. The lit room had a hushed glow as people made their home for the night in plush seats off against the far walls. 

You imagined that the venue was similar to what Alice saw when she went down the rabbit hole and found herself in Wonderland. The bar certainly had the right name, you thought, the people walking around just as colorful as the children’s story. 

The bartender was quick and you were thankful, even though the drink he made was weaker than you preferred. Vodka burned as it hit the back of your throat, aided by the scoff that found you at the man chatting up your friend. 

Kate always had a thing for slightly pathetic men, like she could eat them alive. You were used to her routine by now, her colorful storytelling one of your favorite things to listen to over your morning coffee.

Honestly, you were both horrible together: you pitied the unsuspecting bystanders that listened in. Laughing at an old story she loved to tell at your expense, you didn’t see him at first. 

You wish you could go back to the moment he came crashing into your orbit, not noticing the person on your left until he made himself known. 

“Now what is a pretty bee like you lookin’ so bored all the way over here?” a gravelly voice spoke, the man’s lips tantalizingly close to the shell of your ear. 

Your eyes looked over before your brain could catch up, and what you saw certainly sidetracked whatever thoughts had possessed you before. Wearing a black leather jacket that swam in the neon light of the bar, he almost seemed to glow in a classic white shirt that tapered on his slim waist.

“I’m enjoying myself just fine thank you,” you retorted, taking a generous swig of your watered down drink to hide the rush of nervous energy that possessed you. You were used to beginning the chase, and it caught you off guard to be taken by surprise. 

How refreshing.

 A small grin flickered across his face at your answer. His dark hair and broad shoulders only made him more mysterious, the lolling drawl of his voice making you curious despite yourself. 

Men would approach you with the fashionable audacity they all liked to carry around with careless hands hoping for a quick fuck. Sometimes you’d indulge yourself, but the enjoyable heat of another person wasn’t worth it if they never shut their mouths. 

Your vibrator and weighted blanket made sure of that.

You were undecided if this man fit into that category though.

“That’s not what I see.”

“Hmm, what do you see then, if you know me so well?”

The man shifted his foot and leaned in closer, the subtle spice of his cologne clinging to his suede collar. The way he wore it was effortless, and you wanted to grab onto his jacket to either bring him closer or shove him back, depending on what he said next.

“I see a woman that’s bored out of her mind trying to convince herself she’s not, drinking alcohol not worth the proof on the bottle,” he explained, voice dipping lower as you turned to fully face him, finally meeting eyes that never strayed from you.”You want more than whatever junior over there could ever offer someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“Oh honey, I know I walked into that one with both feet. You’re just fishing for compliments now, aren’t ya?”

“Mmm, are you going to tell me what I wanna hear or are you going to buy me a drink?”

“The shit they mix here ain’t what you deserve, I saw that bartender mixing those drinks. Take a sip of this darlin’, and tell me I’m not wrong,” the man tempted, readily extending a sleek silver flask to you that was attached to his belt buckle. How scandalous .

The promise in his expression emboldened you. He had taken a drink from the flask himself before offering it to you in invitation.

“What’s life without a little risk?” His eyes seemed to ask.

You took the chance, the warmth from his hands lingering on your fingers as you took the flask from him.The delicate gold choker on your neck glinted in the light as you swallowed.

Taking a swig, you absorb the flavor. He knew his alcohol, and from the confidence of his statement nothing less than top shelf mattered. You could certainly respect that, wondering if his lips would have the same taste if he kissed you.

“You’re not wrong, it’s very good. I’ve always been partial to whiskey myself.”

“Just good? What you have in your hand is a rare share of Statesman Whiskey, made straight from the source in Kentucky,” he retorted, almost offended if not for the mischievous twinkle in his eye. Something you had said passed a test you weren’t yet aware of.“Even as a Yankee you must understand the quality of that. I knew you would.”

“You caught that, did you?” 

“I don’t miss a thing, and you have most certainly caught my undivided attention.” 

You shifted completely to turn your back on your friend and her man of the hour, uninterested in the conversation that no longer included you. 

This man was right about one thing: you had been bored, and hopefully he would measure up for the evening. He didn’t shrink at your gaze.

It was nice to be approached for once with an interest that could mirror your own. 

“I don’t know how you fit that ego of yours inside this place. This doesn’t exactly look like your scene if I’m being honest.”

He chuckles at that without taking offense and coyly tips the brim of his hat in your direction, smiling with a flash of tongue at your choked laugh that's just for him. 

“Let’s just say I’ve gotten a lot of practice over the years. Even more talking to gorgeous girls like you. A buddy of mine wanted me to check out this new place to meet up sometime for work .”

The queer way he said that wasn’t lost on you, but you figured it was just an inside joke of some kind. 

“You know that a honey bee can sting when it's threatened right?” 

The way he widened his stance in victory as you focused on him was intentional, the insufferable action the kind of cockiness you usually wanted to smother with your own if not for the way it oddly suited him. 

“Oh, that doesn’t deter me one bit. I’m sure your sting is just as sweet. I happen to like that.”

The grin peeking out from beneath his mustache looks genuine. You’re intrigued, looking at him now in consideration. As you checked him out from head to toe, one thing stood out rather prominently. 

“Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just really happy to see me right now?” 

New York might be a concealed carry state but he looked like one of the only men on the premises actually packing heat in all of the ways that matter. The well fitted dark blue denim hugging his thighs left very little to the imagination. 

He was tailored to torture you inch-by-fucking-inch.

“Why don’t you come dance with me for the next song and find out?”

Oh you definitely wanted to shut him up. Preferably with something else to keep that mouth of his busy. 

“No.”

“No? Give me one reason why not and I’ll leave you alone. You can take someone else home tonight and leave ol’ Jack behind.”

“So that’s your name then? Jack,” you reply. His eyes droop at the sound, half lidded and unhurried in the way he examines the way you say his name. 

You finally introduce yourself, like you hadn’t been bantering with the man for a while now. 

Like you hadn’t been imagining what he would look like after spending a night with you, scratch marks down his back a parting gift that'll make him think of you every time he moves.

“If you are so obliged, it’ll be the name you’ll be screaming later and that’s a promise,” he vowed, chewing on a mint he popped in with a cheeky wink thrown in your direction. On any other man that would be a turn-off, but you looked down and saw the way his hands clenched around nothing as you observed him. 

Jack was his own harbinger of surprises it seems. 

The second of silence that follows sears under your skin, charged and frantic for more friction. A quick reply caught on your tongue that you held in, keeping it for later: never let it be said that you didn't like flirting with delayed gratification every once in a while.

“How do you know that I don’t have someone already waiting in my bed for me?” You asked. Jack’s eyes were arresting, lingering lower on your chest for a few moments before looking into your own to answer you.

 He gave a satisfied hum when he found whatever he was searching for.

“I think the way you’re staring at me is all the answer I need.”

You’ll give him credit, he was saying all of the right things. Or at this point, you wanted them to be, your attraction only tipping in his favor.

“Now what is a Southern boy like you doing here? Not to be a cliche, but you’re a long way from home.”

“Oh, I’m just like anyone else. I work at the Statesman New York office, traveling a lot when I’m needed elsewhere. What do you do when you’re not talking to vagrants like me in strange bars?”

“I’m a romance novelist, dabbling in a lot of things really, you know how it is.”

“Hmm, now that sounds interesting. What words must form on that clever tongue of yours?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you flirted back. 

He began speaking again, the story he launched into exotic and altogether hard to believe, but it wasn’t the words that reeled you in. It was his large hands waving temptingly close that distracted you. You could care less about the time he almost died in Marrakesh after offending someone’s wife.

You’d commit the story to your memory later when the pleasant haze of him faded away.

His tale came to a close as you glanced down and laughed at the stereotype that for some reason didn’t surprise you.

“Can you even dance in those boots for anything other than a two step?”

“I can do a lot more than that.”

“With your shiny belt buckle and Stetson I’d almost think you’re compensating for something,” you teased. A flash of delight lit up his face at your observation, the smirk he sent your way something just north of sinful.

“Everything is bigger in the south darlin' and besides,” he trailed off, hands coming to slowly cage you in against the bar but not quite touching you. “Let’s be honest here, we both know you like what I’ve got underneath.”

You lean forward, a breath of air suspended between you as your mouth almost ghosts over his. Maneuvering out of Jack’s reach, you reach up and take the hat off his head.

You had no doubt he would have stopped you if he had actually wanted to, those large hands of his able to easily overpower and hold you down. 

You suppress a grin at the thought.

Putting the large hat on your head, you brushed out your unruly hair to make it stay firmly in place. His eyes unfocused for a moment before looking at you with renewed intensity, his jaw ticking to the side as he takes you all in. 

You loved the chase, but at that moment you were tempted to end the flirtation and leave the bar to see if those fingers would fill you up as well as they promised. 

“Come on, show me your moves," you dared, steeling yourself as you joined the growing crowd beginning to take over the dance floor. He convinced you. "Do your worst, Jack.”

A remix of one of your favorite songs set the pace as it moved through you. The bass was rich and dark in your veins as you danced, Wonderland falling away in the fury of bodies all around you. The charge that flitted low in your abdomen was one that threatened to crack you in two as Jack brought you back, your ass grinding into him after each beat.

It would be so easy to turn around and let yourself melt into the heat of him.

 But riling him up sounded like a lot more fun. So when the beat shifted so did you, one hand removing the hat from your head as the other reached behind you to bring him down to your level. 

“You know, there’s a saying I heard before that if you steal a cowboy’s hat you’re either fuckin’ or fighting, and darlin’ I don’t have any weapons on me right now. So what’ll it be?” He asked, his voice against your ear making you lean into his palms. 

You felt like smoke, weaving around him as you continued to dance.

“Mmmm, doesn’t a combination of both sound just as good?”

The reactive tightening of his fingers on your hips was just what you needed. The both of you were lost, the music loud enough to cover up how hard your heart was beating.

Jack runs his nose along your neck and jaw until he nips at the vein, the heat of his breath making your own decision for you.

Turning, you reach up and finally kiss him. It wasn’t a quick affair, the push and pull between you both a fight to see who would give in first. You wanted to memorize the feeling, imagining the burn of his facial hair on your thighs as you rode his face. 

You’d even wear his hat while you did it if he asked nicely. 

He tasted like mint and mussed hair dangled in front of his eyes, lightly brushing your forehead as you mingled together. 

You were both insulated in the crowd, kissing each other until you were hardly even dancing anymore. 

Ready to leave the liquor and low lighting behind, you stopped Jack in his tracks. Backing him into the wall of the hallway you ventured into, you did so firmly, hands holding him hostage as you clung to the lapels of his leather jacket. 

The hunger he saw reflected in your eyes pinned him in place, and that alone made him want to ruin you. 

Leaning up in your high heeled boots so that you could kiss his cheek, the remaining lipstick you wore smeared onto his skin like a brand, the red lip print left near his opened mouth telling him that you were dangerous.

Better yet, his favorite kind.

“Follow me cowboy,” you rasped, leaving goosebumps in your wake as you lightly skimmed over his skin with your teeth. The fever consuming from now was one he hadn’t felt bubbling in his blood ever since his last mission months ago.

 He craved it.

Jack vaguely connected that you were an unstoppable force to his immovable object, ready to crash into him like the paradox you were presenting yourself to be. 

When he had clocked you from across the bar earlier he had admitted to himself that you weren’t the usual type of woman he jumped to charm into his bed. You had looked wholly unimpressed with your surroundings before, swirling the ice in your drink as the yuppie next to you preened like a toddler with a captive audience. 

The oncoming storm he’d read in the lines of your body told him another story, however, one that swept him into you and past the redhead that had been trying to catch his attention since he’d walked in. 

The shadow of something wicked had made Jack eager to align your passions with his own.

Impatient at his composure as he thought of this, you hooked two fingers into his belt loops and tugged him off the wall and into you, that jolt he felt from before electrifying below his skin as you pressed against him. 

Reaching down and lightly cupping one of your hands over the denim of his jeans, you felt him squirm the longer you dared. 

 His dark brows furrowed at your forwardness, wanting to taste you again.

Your hands were firm on him, brokering no argument for the sly agent to persuade you with. He admired your drive, easily taking the momentum from him and twisting it to your desires. You kept surprising him, and by the way you delved into his mouth you weren’t afraid of showing him this side of you.

You wanted him to say something, anything, so this time you squeezed with intent, the hiss in your ear headier than the alcohol on his breath.

His cock twitched under your hand, and god it was power . 

You enjoyed him like this: slightly wild but contained, a groan threatening to break through clenched teeth as you felt him up in public so casually. 

You kiss him possessively in that dark room, drinking him up and daring him to consume you in turn like he promised. He might have approached you first, but you were going to finish what you both started.

It was desperate and messy and loud but neither of you cared.

A couple walked close to the both of you, forcing you to break from him in the narrow hallway to let them pass. Your absence made Jack swiftly reconnect himself with your body, his large hand sliding down into the pocket of your jeans to roughly squeeze your ass that had been grinding on him only moments before. 

Leaving his hand where it was, he used it to direct you outside into the street. The nighttime air filled your lungs with relief, cooling the sweat that dampened your neck.

“You're positive you don’t wanna go back to my place? I can assure you the view from my floor is nothing to scoff at.”

“While that might ordinarily be tempting, Jack, your apartment doesn’t have any of the toys that I like to use,” you retorted. 

You could already imagine flashes of the night ahead of you at your apartment. 

“A pity then, I just know that you pressed against my floor to ceiling windows when the sun rises would be a pretty sight indeed.”

“Let’s enjoy tonight and plan on that for next time.”

Shame was not an emotion that Jack entertained often and he wasn’t about to start now, leaving your lipstick where it sat proudly on his face. A few people stared at him in the street, but no one stopped your brisk pace. 

At the last crosswalk he pinched your ass in retaliation when you turned to kiss him harshly, nipping his chin as you leaned back onto your heels. As if you were dry kindling struck by lightning, his hands trailed flames in their wake, each touch only hastening your steps forward.  

Exposed brick, industrial lighting, and high ceilings were what attracted you to your building when you first moved to the area. Your small loft on the upper floor gave you the privacy you craved, the cityscape around you comforting in the way it always kept moving. 

While waiting for the elevator Jack untangled himself from you to lean against the wall on your right. He stood there appreciating you as a few of your neighbors walked around the lobby, Jack tipping his hat to them as they passed.

You didn’t even realize you’d dropped it at some point to kiss him earlier.

“Prettier than a peach,” he murmured, his hand reaching to smooth over his mustache in thought. He was earnest, the mood shifting into something unnamed as the elevator dinged. You huddled into him as people came and went.

"You know," you began, "I'd look even prettier with your hands wrapped around my throat."

 He coughed into his hand, not wanting everyone else in the lobby to see how tight his jeans suddenly felt. You laughed.

You both stumble into your apartment, the size of Jack overwhelming as he backs you into the closed door. His mouth was persuasive, like a switch was flipped now that you were both away from everyone else. 

He left bruising kisses on your neck, completely unyielding in his quest to mark you wherever he could reach. His hands were on the back of your head, holding you in place as he gripped your neck just so. 

For a long suspended moment you were frozen, wanting to regain the ground you refused to lose. But hell, could this man kiss the thoughts from your head. 

Then, all at once, heat spreads through you, thawing you into action. 

Holding onto his jacket with your fingers you tilt your head back with a breathless chuckle, making Jack look into your eyes. You take up one hand and grip his chin, the other drifting to caress the lipstick mark you shamelessly left on his cheek. Pressing down on it with more pressure to show you meant your next words, you wanted him to listen. 

He smirked into your touch, a cocky sort of grin showcasing his dimple that felt entirely warranted as your breath stuttered in your chest. 

“Go sit on the couch,” you ordered. Kissing you once more before moving away, a filthy moan left you as his tongue darted out for a taste. His eyes didn’t look away until you turned your back, shedding clothes in your wake until all you had left on was the lace you were wearing.

“Would you like a drink?”

“Sure thing baby, pour me a bit of whatever you’re having.”

You didn’t leave him for long, reappearing with strong liquor and the type of lingerie that made you feel like you could eat a man’s heart in the marketplace like Beatrice once said.

The warmth from the drink you’d sipped in the kitchen enveloped you as it licked up your chest— you were in your element now.

Grounded in your body, you took a deep breath. 

Emerald lace and satin embrace you, assured in the sway of your hips as you walked over to your cowboy. Handing him his drink and swiftly straddling his parted thighs, you let him take you in.

 You don’t know when he became “your cowboy,” but it sounded right, for the night at least.

Say what you will, but Jack was flexible with a change in plan. He just had to bide his time, finishing the finger of bourbon left in his glass before setting it aside.

The way you spilled out of your lingerie had him drowning in you. Champ once told him that he was an adrenaline addict, chasing every mission that got his heart racing. He wasn’t wrong—you couldn’t function as a successful Statesman agent without a dash of daredevil in you.

And he just loved the way you moved.

His mouth descends on you again, leaving you once to gulp in a desperate breath before attacking with renewed vigor. 

He hoarsely spoke your name, and it was the best thing that had left his lips all night. You wanted him to say it again but this time underneath you, unbidden and desperate at the way you pulled it out of him. You slid your tongue into his mouth and brought up a hand to roughly yank at the hair on the sides of his head, until he bowed his back and leaned into you for a moment.

“Is this what you want?” You asked, snaking your hand underneath the cup of your brassiere to shove it aside and caress your breast, a groan breaking through your composure at the way Jack bucked into you. Though his breathing was measured and even, his lips parted at the sight of your nipples pebbling in the cool air. 

“You know, when I saw you at the bar I knew I had to talk to you, take you with me when I left,” he murmured, quiet in his admission as it rang true on his face. 

“Mmmm, honey, I don’t know if you’ve noticed but...you’re in my apartment at the moment, on my couch no less, drinking my bourbon,” you answer just as quietly into his ear. You graze over it teasingly with your teeth just to see him shiver. “And I’m wearing a matching set right now. So who really took initiative tonight, hm?”

Jack laughed almost in disbelief at your words, his body responding for him. It’s an honest sound, one that makes you kiss him deep enough to taste his tongue in the back of your throat.

Ultimately what you saw in his eyes was patience. And that was hotter than anything else he could have done. 

 You sigh his name, letting your head fall forward as he seeks out another kiss from you. 

“This is just the preview. I want it all, and I know you do too,” he breathed against your lips. “Now are you going to let me touch you, or do I have to watch you fuck yourself on my thigh before I can taste you? You can only tempt a man so far.”

“Is that a threat or a challenge I hear?”

“I did promise that you’d be screaming my name, and I take that job very seriously. You'll hear no arguments from me.”

“You sure you can handle me like that, cowboy?”

Jack was wavering somewhere between wholly aroused and perversely indignant. No one questioned him like this, in the bedroom or otherwise if he could help it.

 He hated how it turned him on like this. 

You’re not sure what emboldens you to tease him; your resolve only heightens the longer he looks at you, as if you could spill over into him and it still wouldn’t be enough. 

“I have never been more sure than I am right now.”

He knew how to fire you up. In many ways, you were both quite similar.

Restless and insatiable. 

Purposefully running your hands down his chest only to stop your exploration at his belt, the rumble in his chest was one of approval as you scratched at his abdomen through his shirt. 

You enjoyed yourself when pleasure could mix with a bit of pain, and you had an inkling that Jack did too. You wanted to deny him, reduce this enigma of a man into a begging mess before the sun came up. But your own need to be touched by him won out, and damn him for kissing you like that—as if you were the antidote to a fatal poison he had drunk in an effort to forget you. 

“You can touch me, Jack, but there’s something I want to do first.”

You meet his gaze for a brief moment as you pause in this position on top of him, being perfectly still when all you wanted was to hold him close until there was no space for questions or distractions.

An understanding passes between you both. Your body buzzes with nerves, synapses firing as all thoughts focus on the man holding you.

He grabs at your hips, whispering encouragement in your ear as he guides you to settle flush against his lap with your legs on either side of him. The zipper of his jeans and his belt buckle rubbed into your clit hard enough to make you shiver.

“ Fuck… ”  

Jack  scrapes his teeth over your jaw. Barely there. More of a breath across your cheek than anything. 

You reach back and unlatch your bra, throwing it away as he cups each breast in his calloused hands. Arching into his attentive mouth as it reached your skin, you threaded your fingers in his hair, messing up the hat flattened strands and tugging on them harder when he bit down teasingly. 

Letting your nipple go with a wet plop, he leaned back into your hands on his head.

“God, I am so fucking hard thinking about licking into that pretty pussy of yours, bet you taste real good,” Jack groaned. You answered in kind, kissing him again to swallow his words.

This was just the warm-up.

“I’m going to cum just like this against you, but if you move any more then I won’t be quite so kind later. Wanna make you earn it. I’m a generous lover, Jack, but a fair one,” you simpered, grinding almost cruelly against the hardness of him that you could feel throbbing through his pants. “You want me to be nice, don’t you?”

“Oh darlin’, I’m sure you’re sweeter than a saint,” he grunted, words stuttering as you brought his head up closer to yours, lips touching but not quite. Rotating your hips, you sigh into his mouth as you move against him. 

True to his restraint so far, he kept himself in place, his breath hot against your cheeks as your pace quickened. 

“Mmmm, can’t wait to have you inside me,” you sighed, his muscles straining beneath your fingers. Shuddering at the feeling of him under you, your first orgasm was creeping closer as it began trickling down from the tips of your fingertips. “D-don’t want you to cum until I’m done with you.”

Jack’s mouth opened partly in awe as you grinded on him with even more force. 

He had a hidden strength to him, and by the way his arms flexed around you he could have easily moved you under him at any time. The fact that he didn't demand it was arousing.

Fuck you were wet.

Tilting his head slightly, he enjoys the view of you on his lap using him for your own pleasure. Your tits bounce as you move, and he’s torn between telling you how perfect they are and moving just slightly to bury his face in your softness. He whimpered silently as you pulsed around him, able to feel it over his clothes as you threatened to unravel.

“Oh, look at you,” he exclaimed, voice a low rumble that stokes the fire in your belly. “Just like that, baby. Fuck, come on. Take what you need from me.”

He says your name once, fervent and taut, barely able to keep himself in check. The fact that he was still almost fully clothed made him need more . You were all warm skin and curves and he wanted to feel every second of you wrapped around him.

He tensed his thigh and shifted slightly but you didn’t notice as you rode out the waves of pleasure rolling over your clit.

It was exquisite and hurried and not the end goal but you didn’t mind. You had wanted to see if he would listen to you. If he could take what direction you gave him. It was an entirely different high you’d surprisingly discovered in your twenties, having a man in your control, making him beg with just your body. 

And yet, Jack did not beg for himself. The look in his eyes was expressive enough. Still he didn’t move, and that was what finally pushed you over. 

Gasping in shock, your orgasm softly washed over your skin. He eagerly watched, memorizing the way your mouth hung open at the feeling of him grabbing your hips with bruising force to drag you over him once again.

When you finally opened your eyes Jack was already looking at you, and you did not shy away. His hair was tousled from your hands, lips swollen, eyes bright—you savored him like the Kentucky whiskey on his breath. 

“Mmmm, you were so good for me,” you praised, voice heavy in your mouth as you recalled how to speak.

As you came back down he chased your lips, taking his time to touch you the way he could now that you’d fallen into his chest. His mouth was a wanting, wretched thing, tracing a path from your lips to your chest. 

You pulled back for a moment. “Do you want to switch to the–”

“I’m not done yet,” he interrupted, bringing you back into a heated kiss that had you whining into his hold on you. He slips his tongue in your mouth and seems to slow time licking into you just so, making you shiver. 

His hands were frenzied in the way they glided over all the flesh he could reach. 

You would torture him no longer.

His blunt nails traced over your spine, and you wanted to ask him to do that again. 

“Now you are a rare gift, my dear,” he hummed into your mouth. “I would hate for you to be tired already.”

“Oh, you don’t have to question my stamina,” you slyly answered. Even now you are still hazy in your bones, tethering yourself to his firm grip on your ass. “Worry about your own.”

The chuckle that leaves him is telling, and you clearly feel his frustration rolling off him now that you can think in complete sentences.

You kiss the corner of his mouth and swiftly hop off of his lap, trembling for a moment as you right yourself. There’s a slight damp spot from where you were sitting on his white shirt that had been hanging over half untucked from his jeans, but you’re too drunk on endorphins to feel embarrassed. 

You did that .

Your heart stuttered for a moment at the raw ache you saw in his face. Hooking your fingers in the slim waistband of your panties, you then cast them aside. 

It felt like an afterthought after what you had both just done, but the way Jack looked at you was anything but unappreciative. 

What you inspire in him is so erotically charged that he is momentarily struck dumb by what you do next.

Falling onto your knees you look up at him through your lashes, taking the flask attached to his belt buckle, the surface slightly wet from your release making it slick in your hands. It was silent in the apartment, the only sound Jack’s breathing as he watched you drink from the flask that he favored so much. 

You could taste yourself around the metal and lipstick and whiskey. A theme of the night it seemed.

Awareness flows down your spine at Jack’s gaze. As you take one more pull, his hands reach up to card through your hair, holding it in a makeshift ponytail, reaching for you with a finality that has you arching into him.  

You lead him into your room, wishing you had cleaned up a bit before tripping on the rug, laughing as you both stumble into your metal bed frame. 

“Now Jack,” you begin, bracing yourself for the next conversation you rarely walked into without some gut feeling bracing you up. “Do you have a safe word?”

He didn’t answer immediately, but when he did he was entirely focused on you. 

“I do, pretty girl. It’s sweet tea.”

The way his mouth caressed each syllable with that slow southern drawl shouldn’t have been as damning as it was.

“How do you feel about ropes?”

The way he lit up was thrilling. He looked away with unfocused eyes, enjoying a private joke that only he knew. It was the expression of a man that delighted in his own mystery. 

You couldn’t deny that a part of you was burning to know what he locked away. He prowled with that hidden energy, and knowing what you’d experienced of him so far, you would have to work for a proper taste.

“I happen to be quite gifted with whips and a lasso if I do say so myself. I’m rather versatile in that regard. Rest assured it is not my first rodeo.” 

“In that case cowboy, I want you...to tie me up,” you said before grazing your thumb across his bottom lip. He nodded slightly surprised, with the way you had directed him earlier he had thought you’d wanted to tie him up instead.

 It wasn’t like he couldn’t escape from some ropes if he really needed to.

He had been amazing under you before, but you wanted more. You wanted him to take your body and make your need dissolve on your tongue as you cry. You wanted it to hurt.

Jack felt like you could read his mind, look into the very heart of him and learn all of his desires. Palming himself over his jeans, he imagined the warmth of your mouth and had to stop from outpacing himself.

You walked into your closet with purpose, toeing on your favorite pair of stiletto heels as you grabbed your selection of ropes from where they’re hidden.

His eyebrow ticks up at the sight of you naked with only your Louboutins on, the black ropes in your hands are just as daring. He waits for you to settle onto the pillows of your bed before methodically tying your hands to hooks in the wall on either side of your headboard.

 It took him a few moments but his knots were sound, loose enough but tight on your wrists so you couldn’t break free. You were grudgingly impressed with how fast Jack could work when he was motivated, filing it away where you could exploit later.

He throbs at the salacious painting you rendered, spread out and glowing in the warm lighting of the room. With your opened legs you were vulnerable and slick and soft. 

Jack didn’t want to wait any longer before losing himself in you.

He shifted down to lay himself between your parted legs. You swiftly stopped him with your left leg extended fully out, the stiletto of your heel digging into his lowered shoulder as he kneeled on the bed. The startled look on his face made you tease him, grinding it in a little further before moving it down his chest to stop at the length of his cock straining for freedom. 

Pressing down.

The choked groan that he involuntarily let out was painfully erotic. You wish you could record it and hit rewind.

“Hold your horses, Jack. You have far too many clothes on. Strip for me first before you get what you want.”

To his credit he didn’t jump up and frantically discard the remainder of his clothing. Like you before his expression turned calculating, methodically shifting off the bed and taking off his shirt and discarding his pants along with his underwear. All are then folded on your nightstand, neat and pricise to minimize wrinkles.  

You swallow at the way he ignores your anticipation, but it brings no relief. 

His skin is tan like the rest of him, belly soft and strong before a small trail of dark hair leads down to the base of his cock sitting heavy against his stomach. 

You imagine tracing your tongue over every inch of him seeing where he’d fracture and break in your hold, only to put him back together again when he asked.

He was incredibly distracting like that when he wanted to be.

Captivated, your eyes stop back at his chest, small faded scars criss-crossing his skin, one worryingly close to his heart that had you straining for a closer look. His muscles ripple as he moves, the veins of his arms as formidable as the rest of him. 

Jack was focused as he finally settled low on the bed, fingers ghosting over skin as he hitched your legs over his shoulders. Kissing and nipping at the inside of your thigh, he took in a deep breath and let out a little hum, puffs of air hitting your pussy as he adjusted.

He leaned his head on your left thigh and looked up at you briefly.

“You remember the safe word, sweetheart?” He asked. You nodded, almost drunk at the heat of him crowding you. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes Jack, I remember it’s sweet tea. Now are you going to eat my pussy like you mean it or do I need to get myself off again?” You answered, tapping your leg down on his back knowing fully well how it would rile him up.

He grins at you savagely, leaning down the remaining space to lick a long stripe all the way up your folds. 

You buck into his mouth, your already sensitive clit coming alive again. He moves his arms to cage your hips in his hold, bringing you flush to his tongue by grabbing onto your ass. 

He was nestled between your legs, mapping your body with licks and handprints. Your half-formed praises and keening whine made Jack a mess of a man, grinding into the mattress as he drank up everything you could give him.

He loved your voice and the way it scattered into nothing when he sucked your clit into his mouth. He made no pretense at staying quiet, noisy and whole in his destruction of you.

Coming up for air, his mustache glistened, cheeks red from his own harsh breathing against your cunt. His lips were wet and you wanted to taste yourself when he kissed you. He reaches down for a moment and pumps himself harshly, tightly fisted and the sound he lets out...you feel it like a pulse.

His nose brushes you as he dives back in. If he could sink underneath your skin you would burst. 

He slides two fingers inside, your muscles clenching around him as far as he could go. Curling his fingers upward and holding them there, a hot fusion of unnamed pleasure and painful awareness zips through you. You can't help but squirm underneath him.

There it was.

Jack wanted you to call his name until he no longer connected it with himself, an uncontained force that compelled him to do whatever you wanted if only you'd say his name like that again. 

Wanting. 

“Fuck, when you say my name like that I just burn all over,” he murmured. “You gonna cum now, baby?”

You hum distractedly, the coiled tether in your abdomen snapping when he doubles down just right. He eagerly laps at you as your pussy flutters, climbing higher and higher until plunging you into nameless bliss. Each limb feels liquid as you touch down.

Jack keeps sucking and licking you without stopping and you can’t cover your mouth to muffle the whimpers that slip through. He adds a third finger and continues to move through each aftershock that bounces through your body.

“Come on. Lord—when you sound like that I don’t want you to stop. You’re not done yet, I know you can give me another one. Look at the way you take me in.”

You wanted to dodge his mouth as he sucked on you again, even the gentle way he prodded at you felt like too much. You weren’t going to beg yet, even for a man like Jack. Despite your discomfort you felt yourself stir again, weaker but no less corporeal, as he pressed down hard on your clit with a pressure that made your breathing pick up.

With effort you rocked into him once more and strained to lock your legs around his head, squeezing when he nipped at you. A handful of minutes later you were boneless and spent, legs trembling as he drew your pleasure out.

 He moaned at the feeling of being utterly surrounded, desperately sending you over again so that he could breathe. 

You couldn't think past the wall of sensation you were being held against without mercy.

This orgasm was harder than the last, a juggernaut that only built on the first. A few silent tears trailed down your face, so overcome that his facial hair burned similar to the hand shaped bruise already forming on your hip. 

You close your eyes so tightly that sunbursts bloom behind your eyes as you breathe through it.

Standing up to catch his breath, he used some of the slick on his fingers to slowly cover his shaft, aching from being hard for so long already. From the sheer size and weight of him that you can see, you’re glad for the bottle of lube on your bedside table, though you’re so wet it probably didn’t matter.

Jack settles himself over you, tugging you up into a fierce, messy kiss, teeth and tongues and harsh breaths traveling from his mouth into yours. 

You were so relaxed that the stretch of him affected you only for a moment as he buried himself inside you. The gasp when he moves catches in your throat, a ghost of all the pleasure he had given you just moments before leaving your body.  

 His voice stutters as he slowly thrusts inside of you, setting a steady pace. “Should keep you right here just like this, make you cum until you forget your own name. Would you like that? Take care of you like no one else will?”

You swear, picturing his words as they traced themselves down your body. As heavy as the feeling of Jack resting his weight on you was, you thrived on it. Your arms felt strained from being tied, but he curled around you just so, keeping you both connected for as long as possible.

Jack’s arms flexed as he adjusted to reach for you, extending his fingers until they pressed into your parted lips.

Swirling your tongue around his two fingers, you could taste yourself on his skin. He then leaned down and used them to press into your clit. It had you closing your eyes, too overwhelmed to speak through it. 

You didn't have any smart comebacks in you now.

His unrelenting tempo jostled the bed against the wall. Moving back to lean on his heels, Jack pistoning into you at this new angle was overwhelming but you simply didn’t care. He yelled out in a voice you almost didn't recognize, hoarse and wet as it ripped from his chest.

“Come on Jack, cum in me,” you panted. “ Fuck , I know you’re close. Can feel you aching for it. You’ve been so patient. So good . ”

You intentionally clench around him like a vice, and it has him tumbling into his own release moments later with a startled shout.

Satisfaction seizes his veins in a chokehold.

He collapses into your chest, the both of you covered in a slight sheen of sweat that was beginning to dry in the cool air.

Whimpering slightly as he pulled out, he worked through his own lethargy to take care of you.

He leaned up and undid the knots holding you hostage. Immediately your arms flop onto the mattress, the burn of your muscles just adding to the mental catalog of sensations you take stock of. With Jack resting on your chest you card your fingers through his hair, the both of you too out of breath to say anything for a few moments. 

The weight of him on top of you kept you grounded.

Warm. Languid. Eyes drifting closed at how heavy you feel. 

“You are gonna be the death of me, woman.” 

“Mhmmm, if that’s the case then I’ll wait to tell you my proposal then. Wouldn’t wanna kill you before another round, Whiskey.”

He lifts his head from your chest at that.

“What did you just call me?” He asked, eyes unreadable as they scan your face. You didn’t care, the words light in your mouth as they leave you.

“Whiskey. You taste like it. And if you think this is the only time I take you to bed, then let me inform you: I still need to drink my fill of you.”

He scratched at his mustache for a moment in thought before he smiles, the most genuine of the night that makes his eyes crinkle with laughter. There it was again, that secret in his expression that has you eager to ask what he’s hiding.

“You’re a very perceptive person, honey. I am thoroughly surprised by you. Tell me what you have in mind when I come back.”

He jumps out of bed to walk into your en suite bathroom, his ass distracting as you watch him fumble around before returning with a warm washcloth to clean you up.  Each brush of his hands on your body is gentle, reverent even as it glides over you. He kisses where your hands had been bound, asking if he was too rough.

You almost laughed. 

You liked it that way. 

Something inside you wanted to stay in the moment, gazing at each other in the dimly lit room. Not forever, just a little longer. You imagine him walking away from you out the door, and it puts an unpleasant feeling in your gut, like you wouldn’t see him again.

You had the sneaking suspicion that if Jack didn’t want to be found he’d disappear.

“So I was thinking,” you began, finally tossing your stilettos off the bed to lay under your quilt. “I have an ungodly expensive espresso machine that makes a decent latte and fresh beans in the kitchen. How about we take a quick nap and then fire it up before round two? I heard once that drinking coffee makes the sex even better.”

“Don’t you mean rounds three and four?” He teased, that ego of his purring at the thought of how much you spasmed and shook around him.

If you weren’t so relaxed you would have probably grabbed onto his balls in response, made him swear around that crooked smile of his.

You'd learn how he liked it and edge him until he melted out of his damn cowboy boots. The thrill of him was delicious, and you hadn't gotten to take a true bite out of him yet.  

“You think you can go another round later and finally ride this prize stallion?” 

That makes you slap at his shoulder. His laugh diffused whatever seriousness lingered and you readily agreed, the both of you winding down as exhaustion hits.

 As his arms settle around you, you imagine the potential of a future with this man of mystery.

 He had barely scratched the surface of what made you wild, and you wanted to change that. Leaving Wonderland with him tonight was an event you were eager to repeat. 

[secret-smut-sideblog]

Lay on Hands

Astarion x F! Tav

18+ sub/dom, use of mage hand, power play, threats, dirty talk, groping, fingering (f!), restraint, p-in-v, roughness, porn w/o plot

In the early hours of the morning someone cant keep their hands to themselves...

-

"Sleepy," She moaned in protest against his roaming hands, nestling into his pillow.

Honestly, she should know better by now. To be so beautiful and in his bed.

That in turning away from him in her sleep the blanket would pull with her, revealing the delicous line of her hip, her waist. That curling her leg up would only flaunt the round curve of her ass. That the sweet lavender would still be caught in her hair from her bathing. That her underclothes, still dreadfully on, would tease at the edges of her hips.

Even in his camp shirt, the sight always making him hazy. The ruffle of the collar plunging into her cleavage.

Truly, how could he resist?

She sighed against him as his fingers traced the inside hem of her small clothes, hooking underneath. Not quite pulling, not yet.

"Astarion.." She whined into her arm, yet her hips pushed slightly into him.

"Such a delectable display," He murmured into the curve of her neck. "How can I not indulge?"

Ran his tongue light against the soft skin. Felt her shiver against his chest.

Turning onto her back to look at him, his hands free to new landscape. An unrestricted eyeful of how divinely his shirt hung from her curves.

Gave him a withering look, convincing no one.

"It's so early," His mouth burying into her shoulder, humming in agreement, body hovering over her. Fingers travelling, tasting. "Do you have no- ah!" A quick gasp as he thumbed over her nipple. "-decency?" She finished. Leg curling around his hip.

"Never." He smiled, fingers pinching lightly through the fabric of his shirt. "And you should know that by now, darling."

"Well then," She hissed into his ear, hand in his hair. Pulling. "You wont expect me to play fair then, will you?"

He groaned, hoping for this outcome. She was so easy to rile up. Teasing his throat in the vipers mouth.

Flipping quickly she straddled his chest, knees pinning his elbows down, his hands splayed next to his head.

Breath caught in his throat, this was new.

Her fingers drawing the line of his clavicle.

A sigh. Eyes alight.

"Volo."

The spectral hand appeared behind her back, invisible to him. Could feel a single finger trace up his thigh.

Eyes wide he arched against her, groaning, making her rise slightly.

An evil glitter in her eyes. "Already?" She purred. Leaning down onto his chest, chin rested on folded hands. Her full weight holding him. Watching.

"You conniving she-devil," He panted, the unseen hand running lazy circles over his bulge.

Turning her head slightly, a deceptively sweet smile spreading her face. "Oh? You want to play by the rules now?" Hand below palming him so lightly.

Rising on knees, rumbling into his ear. "When I'm just getting started?"

Giving him a quick vantage point between her legs, her ghost fingers wrapping tight around him.

"Fuck," He hissed. She sat back again, satisfied. Could feel the wetness of her underclothes against his sternum.

"Fuck what, my love?"

"Fuck you."

"Not yet."

The hand came up over her shoulder, pulling the collar of his shirt away from her long neck. Dancing along her pulse. Fingers splaying as she licked them obscenely. A line of saliva trailing from its spectral fingertips.

He moaned, hips thrusting into nothing.

Both her hands pushing her hair back, ribcage lifting. Eyes closed. Hand trailing down her neck, pulling the ties of his tunic, slowly unlacing with rough pulls.

Despicably hard below her, he thought he was going to go mad.

Only when the still slick hand cupped her breast, her fluid smearing a patch of transparency across the thin white fabric, did his resolve break.

"Please," He whined quietly, hands clenching near his ears.

Her eyes slid open, hand dragging across her other breast, revealing further.

"Please what, beautiful?"

Throbbed hard at her compliment. "Please let me touch..." His right hand straining against her hold.

She bit her lip, pretending to consider. The hand cupping up the side of her neck, running over his favorite spot to feed. Her low sigh against it.

She moaned, phantom hand running its thumb against her lower lip. Teasing inside. Making him wait.

Smiling wickedly at the flush of frustration climbing his neck.

"How can I deny those sweet eyes," She breathed, sliding back, releasing.

He practically scrambled over her. With a grunt, pulled her Godsdamned underclothes off. Fingers plunging inside her. Rough. Fast. Vengeful.

Her head fell back, already fluttering against his fingers. Mouth hot on her neck. His pace brutal.

"Oh Gods, Astarion," she panted into the curl of his hair, pulling her leg up into her chest.

He could only growl in response, fingers a flurry. Free hand gripping into her hair.

A pressure against his ear. Gods he had already forgotten about the hand.

Thumbing just like she knew melted him. His eyes flashed. Still she teases him.

"Darling," He warned, low. Fingers still punishing. "You're going to regret it if you keep this up."

Her eyes glittered. Bit a smile at him.

"Prove it." Phantom hand pinching.

Whispered, raspy. "I dare you."

Hooking her leg around his hip he pulled her up. Hand freeing himself, fast as lightning, he slammed inside her.

She moaned loud, back arched, choked out a little laugh.

His hips brutal, he rolled into her. Right hand pushing smearing circles into her clit. Left pushing down on her throat.

Her mage hand dissipating as her concentration broke.

A delicous little whimper left her and he smiled wide. Malicious. "There we go," He purred.

Already clenching around him, he hitched her up higher. Hitting that spot that made her mewl.

"Vith uns'aa isilme!" She cursed in Drow, so low he could barely hear. Oh he had her now.

"What was that, darling?" Pushed forward into her ear. Revelling.

"I said," She breathed, voice hot. Her hand gripping the back of his neck. Switching to Elvish.

"Arkhlavae tel'quiet salen illunathros."

Fuck me my moonlight.

He groaned loud, eyes pulling shut. Her words, the way her tongue danced over the syllables, driving him into her viciously. Hips snapping.

How did she always gain the upper hand?

"Siilens thar, alet nesh tel'quiet Veluthe.." She breathed into his ear.

That's good, come for me Beautiful.

Too much, his resolve shattered again. Hips stuttering, he was teetering over the abyss.

"Tet," Drow again, low, throaty. Could hear the smile in her voice. "Ussta xukuth.."

He was gone. Thrown over. Gripping her hips he lunged into her. A wet guttural sound ripping from him. Hips spasming. Biting down, hard, on her shoulder. Drawing blood.

Her legs wrapped strong around his hips, pulling him in even harder. Matching his relentless pace. Grinding him down.

Something between a whimper and a growl left him. Her hips merciless. Locked in.

No choice but to ride his high to almost insanity. Panting, begging moans, words lost. Oblivion.

Only when he was slumped comepletely into her did she stop. His breath a gulping gasp.

Gods it would take all morning to recover.

"What," He struggled out, her hands scratching his scalp lightly, just how she knew he liked. "What did you say?"

"Lovely." Pressing a sweet kiss into his hairline. "My heart..."

~

[daddy-suguru]

ᴍᴏᴏᴅ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏᴜʀ | sᴜɢᴜʀᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴋᴇɴᴊᴀᴋᴜ

ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇs | roommate au, pierced!tattooed!twins!Kenjaku & suguru, the twins are a nasty menace, hints phone sex, hints at face fucking, teasing/taunting, light groping

Huffing and crossing your arms, as you stare at your open bedroom door. The sanctuary of your bedroom beyond your reach as the twins, trap you between their large bodies. With Kenjaku leaning against your bedroom door frame, you couldn’t step around him easily.

Even with his thick, inked up arms folded across his pecs. Which have a detail tattoo of a empty and ripped open chest cavity. The macabre theme of it matching the first ink he got on his forehead. Telling most the difference between Suguru and Kenjaku before Suguru got his tattoos.

Kenjaku’s predatory smirk stretches across his snake bite pierced lips as he ponders, “Baby girl is it hard to look at us knowing what our cocks feel like inside you?” He grabs your chin, tilting your head up.

Huffing, “No! I've been wanting alone time.” Stepping back into Suguru’s chest behind you as he grabs your hips. Trapping your body to his. While you wonder how someone’s half-bare body pressing against yours could be so pleasurable.

Suguru’s hands are warm, and soft slipping underneath your shirt. Sliding up your sides and splaying out. Melting into his warm touch, as Kenjaku grabs your jaw, tilting your head back. While Suguru points out,

“After all of that, you’re melting into me after I touched you once." Kanjaku is quick to remind you,

"She wants alone time. Maybe we should leave her so she can use her toys while thinking of us." Suguru pulls away. Chills spread over where his warm body was pressed. While the feeling of his hands on your waist.

Pouting as Suguru wonders, “Are you going to ride your dildo while holding the vibrator to you clit wishing it was us?” During your first and only time with them, Kenjaku and Suguru took turns dragging the answers out of you. You’re reward was cumming and after the first three times had turned your brain to mush.

Leaving you craving more as you happily spilled your dirty secrets to them. You couldn’t help it, all of them are pussy throbbing, pussy dripping attractive. And when they were comfortable enough walking around their underwear, sweatpants or gym shorts without their underwear.

Even though they aren’t touching you, their looming height in the small hallway. While their bulky builds take up the width of the hallway. As you stand in between, with your panties already soaking wet.

Kenjaku’s cock is straining against his gym shorts, you can make out both of his cock piercings. Just below the outline of his fat head. Your pussy quivers as you remember how the smooth round balls felt, adding a eye rolling, toe curling ribbed effect.

Dropping onto your knees, looking up and pleading, “Please don’t leave me alone. I-I’ll stop being a brat.” Glancing over at Suguru’s cock straining against his sweatpants. His while short than Kenjaku is thicker, and hangs underneath its own weight.

Suguru admits, “I always knew you suddenly going to the room, locking it and playing some music was you getting yourself off because of one of us.” You has tried not to be obvious, staying in your room afterwards and cleaning yourself up before coming back out.

Kenjaku slips his cock out, as Suguru grabs a handful of your hair. Turning you to face Kenjaku as you open your mouth and stick your tongue out. As Suguru slips his phone out of his snug sweatpants’ pocket to call Satoru

Kenjaku confesses, “Here’s a dirty secret of our own. We would bet on who would turn you on the fastest. Who do you think is winning?” Tapping the tip of his cock on your tongue.

[dresshistorynerd]

I think we can all agree that this is dumb, right? Though the title is highly misleading and the quote marks around "ban" do a lot of work here. These companies just no longer requires actresses to wear structural garments. Still a dumb and bad solution to the problem of badly made costumes.

Couple of my issues with the article:

The purpose of the corset or any other similar structural garment wasn't to reduce waist, but to provide support and shape the silhouette. In the article someone from Netflix commented that they shouldn't promote that women should make their waists smaller, apparently it's "bad optics". And from Neflix the main series where corsets are no longer required is Bridgerton, because one of the main actors had bad time with her stays. But if you take just one quick look at the Regency silhouette you will see the waist is far from reduced. Literally there is no waist. Completely covered. They have been doing something terribly wrong if they have made Regency stays that pinch down the waist. Some actors also seem to think the waist is supposed to be reduced all the time. I remember that one actor in HBO's The Gilded Age complained about the corset, but then in the same breath admitted that she had asked the costumers to make it purposefully a little too small so she could be tight-laced all the time (a practice some fashionable rich Victorian women did for high society events, and definitely not all the time). But beyond the inaccuracies in the article, there is an issue here. Structural garments supported the bust yes, but also in many periods they supported the weight of the dress. In 17th and 18th centuries and Victorian Era the skirts of rich women especially had a lot of heavy fabric which would be hard to deal with and move around with, if all the weight is only on the waist. But with a structural garment it distributes the weight to the whole torso, especially on the hips.

A structural garment needs to be fitted well and worn with with a shift underneath. It absolutely can be uncomfortable, create bruising and restrict breathing, if it's not well fitted. If you have ever used too small jeans that contain no spandex at all, you know how nasty the effects can be on the skin. Especially TV sets often have very little time for creating costumes and they might have just one fitting or at tops two or in worst case scenario none at all, which very easily leads to ill fitting costumes. That is a huge issue with structural garments. I've been making transitional short stays for myself and I have never made a garment like that so I'm still struggling fit it well (it's unfinished), and I can say it's not comfortable when it doesn't fit well. I haven't watched Bridgerton but I have seen couple of screencaps of different scenes with characters wearing stays and no shift to be seen anywhere. I really do hope they actually are wearing shifts when they have the full outfits on and just didn't wear them in these scenes for aesthetics or something. Because, yes, that will absolutely give you bruising, if you wear any type of fitted and structured garment against your skin without any fabric between it and the skin, against which the structural garment can slide against. It would be irresponsible to put your actors in such garments without shifts. I don't blame the actors for complaining about the "corsets", since I can believe they are uncomfortable if they are not well fitted or god forbid if they aren't wearing shifts.

I don't know how many times this needs to be said: corsets are not torture devices. While I don't blame the actors for complaining, reading comments like this kills one brain cell every time: "Women existed in that for such a long time, which does give you a lot of sympathy for that time period and what they were going through. For the first month, I couldn’t breathe." I'm sorry, but women literally did physical labour in corsets. They climbed mountains in corsets. (I have a whole post related to this.) Do these people really think so little of women in the past that, if corsets really were torture devices, they would have just endured them quietly for centuries? Of course the most fashionable clothing in a lot of the periods were uncomfortable and hard to move in, even restrictive, but those were the court gowns and ball gowns the young fashionable elite wore for the special evening occasions to show off to the high society. But does that really differ from today? If you look at the MET galas and stuff, do these actors really claim the outfits are comfortable? The everyday clothing and the clothing of the working class was fairly comfortable, and yes, they all wore corsets.

Yes, you can make properly fitted, comfortable supportive garments for costumes in any production. The proof is in opera. Opera singers wear corsets in a lot of productions. I have read many accounts by opera singers who talk about how their corsets are well fitted and actually makes singing easier, because you can "lean" on the corset (I don't know anything about singing, but that's what I have seen them say). Also they tend to wear those large and heavy period dresses and as alluded earlier moving on them on stage without corset would be very hard. Singing also would be harder as the singers could easily become breathless from moving the heavy dress without using the muscles on the whole body. Operas have much smaller budget than these big tv and movie productions, so there's really zero excuses for making badly fitting corsets.

So yes, it's dumb, it's inaccurate and kinda infuriating. But it's also actually pretty sinister. The issue isn't actors wearing corsets for many hours, that's what people have done for ages and still do in re-enactments, opera etc. The issue is that there's too little time for fitting and sewing the corsets in modern tv and movie production. And this is part of a much broader issue. Costume designers and makes are unionized in Hollywood and for a while now Hollywood studios have tried to cut the amount of unionized behind the scenes labour they employ.

Making profit from a movie or a tv show is not good enough anymore. Now productions that don't "perform as expected" are seen as flops. The production companies make predictions of profit and green light projects they have calculated to make most profit, and if they don't make that high profit, it's a flop and it won't get the planned sequel or the next season. To achieve those high profits they also do everything they can to lower the production costs, and one way is by employing as little unionized labour, to whom you have to pay fair wages, as possible. So costume departments are then very often understaffed and they have way too little time to produce the costumes in proper quality. This can be seen very blatantly in the clear drop in quality of movie costuming during the past couple of decades. So the reducing of structural garments in costumes seems like yet another attempt to reduce unionized labour disguised as feminism.

Obviously the good and smart solution to the problem of uncomfortable structural garments is to hire enough costumers for long enough time so they can have multiple fittings and make them better.

[loveing-eyes]

falling asleep on them including deku, todoroki , denki shinsou , tamaki , kirishima , dont judge me shigaraki

i would never judge someone for who they like I mean I literally wrote for mineta

izuku midoriya

• you two were sitting on the floor doing your homework well he was you were laying on his lap exhausted from school and training keeping you up

•for a moment he didn't realize you had fell asleep till you stopped replying to his randoms questions he glanced down seeing you wrapped your arms around his torso snuggling your face in his stomach

• he felt his face heat up as he smiled at you carefully laying a hand behind your head to make sure you didn't roll your head into the table smiling he slowly picked you up resting you down on the bed taking his shes off he laid next to you

• hey he was exhausted to he had the same schedule as you and he didn't have full control of his quirk yet

•instantly you found your way back to spread out laying I between his legs head rested on his chest

shoto todoroki

•also doing homework cause he wants both of you to do good in classes

•yet you were also actually doing work with him and helping

• when he felt a weight on his shoulder he thought you were just taking a small break and at first, you were until the relaxing feeling of shoto letting you rest against him

•then when he felt your breathing steady and you become limp he knew you wee asleep so he put his free arm around you to secure you not falling ovet

•smiled to himself you trusted him enough to take a nap on him

denki kaminari

•you two were laying on his bed you laying on his chest fidgetting with the choker he was wearing

•and him scrolling on his phone humming quietly just enjoying each others company smiling to himself about how much you loved when he wore jewelry at first he thought it would make you think he was to girly

•you didn't you thought it was hot and always fidgeted with the rings necklace and bracelets

•he stopped humming and moved his phone when your hand rested on his chest and your head landed on his upper stomach

•upon seeing you had fallen asleep on him he smiled taking a few photos for memories before grabbing a blanket he had laying it on top of you and laying a hand on your back

shinsou Hitoshi

• the two of you had been drug out with some of the 1-a class to a play

• a very boring history play

•so he knew you would get realy bored and took the seat next to you

• within 10 minutes he himself wanted to gouge his eyes out when he felt a small weight land on his shoulder and something pulling him closer to you

•glancing he saw you had fell aslep and were now pulling him closer to you like he was a body pillow

•he put his arm around you leaning ito your touch so you didnt yank on him in your sleep and the rest of the play was very bearable for him when he wasn't even paying attention to it

eijiou Kirishima

•it was in class when everyone was stil getting used to no leep and mr aizawas monotone voice didn't help keep you awake

•so when he felt a weight on his shoulder he was confused till he looked and saw it was just you getting a quick nap while Mr Aizawa looked like he was ready to fight bakugo so he could get fired and bor have to deal with his students anymore

•mineta was staring at your sleeping body and kirishima gave him a disgusted glance

•he put a protective arm around your shoulder making sure to block you from possibly falling out of your chair he lightly laid his head over top of yours smiling

•very manly of him to protect his s/o like that

tomura shigaraki

•you were lying in between his legs while he played his videogames explaining it to you while you rest your head against his thigh sleepily

•at first he thought you were ignoring home when you stopped replying till he glanced down seeing your shoulders moving slower and you were limp

•he smirked knowing you trusted him enough to do that even knowing how he felt bout weak people though he didn't see you as weak he liked you

•he carefully patted your head careful not to lay all 5 fingers on you at the same time

•he actually even turned the game off making kurogiri move you where you were laying on his chest so he could just hold you close and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead you were different to him than the rest of the world you were special

[daryltwdixon]

The Promise of Us: Chapter 38

As the hours drag on, the woods stretch endlessly ahead, the only sounds are the crunch of leaves underfoot and the occasional distant call of a bird. Beth walks silently beside him, her steps light but tired. The earlier tension between them has settled into an uneasy quiet, leaving Daryl alone with his thoughts.

The sharp, gut-wrenching panic over Y/N’s absence has dulled into something different now—more of a steady, familiar ache. It’s like a constant, low throb in the back of his mind, not as overwhelming as before, but still there, persistent as ever. Every time the brush shifts or a branch snaps, he half-expects to see her stepping through the trees, her expression determined, maybe a little annoyed that it took him this long to find her.

He almost laughs at the thought, but it gets caught in his throat, replaced by that damn ache again. Even if it’s not the screaming, desperate grief from before, it’s still like picking at a scab that only just stopped bleeding.

Beth walks a few paces ahead, her blonde hair a stark contrast against the green of the forest. She’s not Y/N, not by a long shot, but she’s someone who’s still here, still moving forward. Daryl keeps his eyes on the trail, his grip tightening on the crossbow. He doesn’t let himself linger too long on the memories—they’re too painful, too distracting. But no matter how hard he tries to shove them down, Y/N’s face is always there, just beneath the surface.

“Motorcycle mechanic,”

“Huh?” Daryl grunts, shaking himself out of his thoughts.

“That’s my guess,” she says, “For what you doin’ before the turn. Did Zack ever guess that one?”

“Don’t matter,” Daryl’s voice is low, “Hasn’t mattered for a long time,”

“It’s just…what people talk about, Daryl,” she says, a little snipped, “you know, to feel normal,” 

“Yeah, well that never felt normal to me,” he says, and as they walk into the clearing of the woods, along a dirt path, a small cabin materializes in front of them.

“Found this place with…,” he says, his voice so low and rough it’s hardly even a whisper. He trails off though, unable to form his mouth around her name out loud. Sure, her name scratched at him, relentless in his mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Speaking it felt like giving in, like he’d finally collapse under the weight of her absence.

Daryl’s eyes fix on the small house in the clearing, its dark, dusty windows triggering a flood of memories he wasn’t prepared for. He remembers finding this place with Y/N during one of their runs from the prison—a quick break from the chaos that defined their everyday lives back then.

The memory is immediate, foggy with time but still vivid enough against the backdrop of exhaustion. It had been a long day—one filled with tracking game, dodging walkers, and keeping their guards up. But the moment they’d stumbled upon this house, he’d noticed the rare spark of excitement in Y/N’s eyes.

She’d grinned wide, nudging his arm. “Looks like we got ourselves a jackpot, Dixon,” she’d said, that familiar teasing lilt in her voice. He could still see that big, radiant smile of hers, the one that he hadn’t seen for months at one point— but it felt like a burst of warmth cutting through the constant cold reality they lived in.

They’d made their way inside, not to settle but to rest, scavenge, and maybe find something useful. It was a simple house, nothing special, but it had four walls, a roof, and a momentary sense of privacy. He remembers the way Y/N had moved around the small kitchen, rummaging through cabinets, her eyes lighting up at the sight of some canned food that had somehow avoided looters. The real memory, the most vivid one of course, is the way they laid on the old, rotten couch, so familiar to their old trailer homes growing up, and their bodies wasted no time to be close again. He remembers the way she’d looked at him, sweat still clinging to her skin from the hunt, eyes intense, the air between them charged. They’d reached for each other, hands rough but urgent, wrestling between gentle and rough touches, wanting to be as close as possible. It was a brief period of complete privacy, no echoing cement walls, no cold metal bed frame pressing into her back as they melted together.

“I was expecting a liquor store,” Beth says, pulling him from his memories, unaware of the flood of emotions churning inside him. He lingers for a moment longer, the warmth of that day replaced by a cold emptiness in the pit of his stomach.

“No, this is better,” he says quietly, staring out at the house. 

He swallows hard, pushing down the memory as Beth moves toward the front door. The memory felt so sharp, that dull ache he had before split open, bleeding and raw.

Beth’s footsteps keep him here, in this moment, even if she’s unaware of the flood of memories that’s just hit him. He follows slowly, his steps heavier, his heart weighed down by everything he’s lost. Instead of taking her to the front steps however, he veers to the area behind the house.

In the back shed, Daryl spots it—a row of old wooden crates filled with dusty glass jars, the contents clear as water. The sight pulls a memory from somewhere deep, something old and foggy but sharp enough to hit him in the gut. Him and Y/N in his father’s backyard, working under the relentless sun, hands sticky with sugar and alcohol, the day their friendship had their first crack in it–the argument about Shane that felt so distant now, like another lifetime. The memories kept coming, relentless and unforgiving. He wishes he had the strength to shove them away instead of letting them crash through over and over. It was near torture now.

“What’s that?” Beth asks, snapping him from his memory once more. 

Daryl’s hands tighten around the crate as he lifts it. “Moonshine,” he says, a slight grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, the hint of nostalgia sneaking into his voice, “Come on,” 

Inside, the house looks exactly as they had left it, if anything just more layers of dust that had accrued. It didn’t look like anyone had found it since that day. So, he sets his crossbow down once he checks the back room and grabs a glass from the cupboard. He twists the moonshine jar lid off, and pours her a little bit, handing it to her with pride. 

“Alright, that’s a real first drink right there,” he says, but she pauses, looking nervous, “Wha’s the matter?” 

“Nothin’,” she says, but half heartedly, “it’s just…my dad always said bad moonshine could make you go blind,”

Daryl almost chuckled at that, a sound lost so deep down now that it never comes, “Ain’t nothin’ worth seein’ out there anymore anyway,” and he leans down to push it closer to her, and watches her take her first sip. As expected, however, once the alcohol hits her tastebuds she grimaces, pulling the cup away.

“That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever tasted,” she breathes a laugh, but then brings the cup to her lips again, and when she puts the glass down again, her smile never fading, she says, “Second round was better,”

She reaches again for a jar, cheeks already tinting a bit, and Daryl eyes her warily, “Slow down,” 

But she just smiles up at him again while she pours it, “This one’s for you,”

“Nah, I’m good,” he says casually.

“Why?”

“Someone’s gotta keep watch,”

“So what, you’re like my chaperone now?”

He rolls his eyes, stomping away, “Just drinks lots of water,” 

“Yes, Mr. Dixon,” she sings as he passes. 

Over the next couple of hours they spend fixing up the place, just to make it safe for the night. Covering windows, scavenging what he and Y/N might’ve not found that day months back.

He hears Beth chuckle behind him as she says, “Who’d go into a store and buy this?”

He turns, and sees her holding a large makeshift bowl that’s made to look like a woman’s bra, hot pink and full of cigarette butts. The second he sees it, it’s like he’s thrown back into his childhood home again.

“My dad, that’s who,” he calls over, “Oh, he was a dumbass,” he says shaking his head when he looks at her fully, her eyes unbelieving, “Used to set those up on top of the TV set, use ‘em as target practice,”

“He shot things inside your house?” Beth asks seriously.

“It was just a bunch of junk anyway,” he says quieter now, “That’s how we knew what this place was,” he gestures around, “That shed out there, my dad had a place just like this. You got your dumpster chair for sittin’ in your drawers all summer in, fancy buckets for spittin’ chaw in once your old lady tells you to stop smokin’,” he pulls the newspaper off the old table, “Here’s your internet,”

“Did you and Y/N hang at your house a lot back then?” She asks, but then her eyes widen as she bites her bottom lip, like she didn’t think before the words fell out of her mouth. Daryl just glances over at her before he’s freed from having to answer by the low groaning coming from a walker passing through, snarling close to the window.

“Just one of ‘em,” Daryl says.

“Should we get it?”

“If it keeps makin’ too much noise, yeah,”

“Well, if we’re gonna be trapped again,” Beth says, reaching for the jar of moonshine again, “We might as well make the best of it,” she holds it out to him with wide, blue eyes, “Unless…you’re too busy chaperoning, Mr. Dixon,”

He hesitates, looking between her and the alcohol in her hand, but grabs it despite his uncertainty, willing to keep the memories that keep flooding in at bay, “Hell,” he gravels, “might as well make the best of it,” he parrots.

He sits on the dirty old couch, no longer masked with the smell of his and Y/N’s sweat and raw need, and sips from the jar with ease, “Home sweet home,”

 ❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥

You

The woods stretch out endlessly around you, the thick canopy above shrouding everything in muted greens and browns. Your boots crunch over the dead leaves, the air thick with dampness and the faint, earthy scent of rain. You pause for a moment, trying to get your bearings, but your mind is a tangled mess of exhaustion and grief.

You glance down at your hands, the dried, dark streaks of blood still visible beneath your nails, rough and caked on your skin. It’s Jade’s blood—what’s left of her after the attack, a brutal reminder that nothing, not even a moment of connection, is safe in this world. You rub your hands together absently, trying to scrape off the dried flakes, but it clings stubbornly, like the guilt that’s been gnawing at you. The bitter taste of failure sits heavy on your tongue, and you can’t help but wonder if you’re destined to lose everyone you try to get close to. It’s a familiar ache, but Jade’s loss is fresh, a new wound layered on top of old scars. You take a shuddering breath, blinking hard to keep tears from rising. You can’t afford to cry—not now. Grief is a luxury, one you’ve learned to push down deep.

As you stand there, trying to get your bearings, you think of places you’d been before—familiar trails you’d taken with Daryl, the abandoned houses and cabins where you’d scavenged together in these woods. The memories are muddled now, hazy around the edges, but one stands out clearer than the rest: a small house, tucked away deep in the woods. You remember the afternoon there, the way the sunlight had slanted through the dusty windows, warming the worn floorboards. You’d rummaged through old cabinets, found a few canned goods, and laughed at the ridiculous floral wallpaper peeling off the walls. How much it reminded you of your childhood homes. 

And then, there were Daryl’s hands on your waist, rough but urgent, pulling you closer, his breath warm on your neck. You’d barely made it to the tattered couch before the world blurred into a mess of tangled limbs and desperate need. The memory isn’t just about the physical—it’s the feeling of safety, however fleeting, that came with being in that space with him. The way you’d both collapsed afterward, sweaty and spent, laughing softly at nothing at all.

You swallow hard, the ache in your chest sharp and familiar. The idea of going back there, even just to see if it’s still standing, feels like chasing ghosts. But it’s a direction, a goal, something to keep you moving forward. It was potential shelter from the elements, from the walkers. Even if it’s far—even if it’s too far—you don’t care.

You adjust your pack on your shoulder, taking a deep breath as you pick a path that feels familiar, even if the forest around you seems to blur into sameness. You step forward, each stride more certain than the last, driven by the sliver of hope that the cabin is still there. You don’t know what you’ll find when you arrive—maybe just an empty shell of a place that no longer holds the warmth of that memory. But it’s better than nothing. It’s something to hold onto in a world that’s taken everything else.

And so, you walk.

[sunsetplums]

In The Belly of a Whale

When she asks him how many times he's been in love, Sebastian lies. None, he says. Love isn't real. Just a word to cover up how empty life feels. A word for nothing at all.

When Ominis used to ask, he would say, As many times as it took to reach you.

They sit across from each other, the table between them like a chasm. She talks, and he nods, but her words are noise. She laughs too loud, fills the silence too much. He thinks, Ominis wouldn’t do that. Ominis knew how to sit in the quiet, how to laugh in a way that made the world laugh with him.

She reaches for his hand, her touch too light, too soft. It annoys him. Ominis was firm, certain. She picks at her food, fidgeting, restless. He thinks, Ominis never fidgeted. Ominis was steady rivers, calm waters.

She asks if he’s having fun, her eyes wide with hope. He forces a smile, says yes, but he’s lying again. He’s somewhere else, with someone else, in a place she’ll never reach.

He wears the bracelet every day, the Braille pressed into metal, a secret that only his skin knows. She notices it, asks what it says, her fingers brushing over it. He doesn’t answer. Just changes the subject, talks about the food, the weather, anything but that.

Later, he tells her he has money, more than he needs. Says he’ll buy her anything, everything. He says it like it matters, but it doesn’t. Nothing does. She smiles, eyes bright, unaware that he doesn’t care. She likes the idea of it, the promise of more. Sebastian can give her more, can give her everything. Just name it, he says. Money is just paper, just numbers.

He feels nothing, not even when she leans in, whispering that she’s ready, telling him get the tab, get the car, let’s go. She’s too pushy, her words grating, and all Sebastian wants is for her to shut up. So he does what she says, just to quiet the noise.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing does.

They end up tangled in the back of his car, clothes discarded, her breath quick and all dirty martini against his skin as they fuck. He goes through the motions, feels her moving beneath him, but it’s like he’s watching from a distance. Detached. Hollow. She clings to him, desperate, searching for something in him that’s already gone.

They do it again in the room, the night swallowing them whole. It’s just a distraction, a way to pass the time. He’s numb to it, numb to her. He fucks her hard, just like she wants. She asks why the lights are off. To set the mood, he says, but that’s a lie. The real reason has nothing to do with her pleasure.

Sebastian prefers the dark. He doesn’t want to see. He’s ashamed, embarrassed, of what he’s become, of how far he’s fallen. The darkness hides everything, even from himself.

Morning comes, the sun cutting across his face, but the emptiness clings to him like a shadow. She’s beside him, still asleep, her breathing soft, one breast slipping out from under the sheets. He stares at the ceiling, at the yellowed crack from water damage he’s been meaning to fix. He has more than enough money to repair it, to replace the entire damn ceiling, to buy a new house that isn’t crumbling, but what’s the point? It all feels meaningless. Just an illusion, a flimsy curtain hiding the emptiness underneath.

Good morning, she says later, the sun now softened, no longer screaming over the bed. Her arms are cold, too cold to hold him. He grumbles, heads to the shower. The water is colder, biting at his skin. He shivers but doesn’t turn it warmer.

In the kitchen, he makes coffee. Pops acetaminophen and Xanax like candy. Lights a cigarette at the breakfast table. The floor creaks behind him. Arms wrap around him, and he knows the texture, the weight. The jumper clings to him, too tight, too wrong.

He freezes. Take it off, he says. Why, she asks, you’re not wearing it. It’s mine now. Her voice is small, teasing.

I’m not joking, he says. Take it off, now. She hesitates, her smile fading. What’s wrong with you?

He doesn’t answer. He just pulls it off her, rough, quick, desperate. She shrieks like she’s been burned, like he’s burned her.

He hugs the jumper to his chest, holds it tight. It still smells like him. Like Ominis. But it’s fading, just like everything else, a ghost of something he’ll never have again.

She gathers her things, crying softly, figuring it all out.

It doesn't matter. Nothing does.

Sometimes, it’s easier to believe that. His therapist says it’s not a healthy way to cope, but Sebastian doesn’t care. He tells her she doesn’t understand, that her concern irritates him. So he walks out and never goes back.

Sometimes, he digs through drawers, through boxes shoved in the back of closets, pulls out everything that belonged to Ominis. A half-empty bottle of cologne, a worn leather bookmark, a pair of mismatched socks, a cracked teacup with a chipped handle. A tangle of braille-embossed paper, small notes Ominis used to write, little reminders for himself. A keychain shaped like a dog, the one Ominis kept because it made him laugh. A music box that no longer plays, a scarf that still holds the smell of winter, a wristwatch that never kept time.

He gathers them, lays them out on the bed, stares at them like they might speak to him.

He needs to get them out of the house. They’re too much, too heavy, but he doesn’t. He can’t. Instead, he puts them all back, carefully, exactly where Ominis had kept them, their places etched into his memory. He knows their spots by heart. This isn’t the first time he’s done this.

Sometimes, he writes letters to Ominis, late at night when the world is quiet and the emptiness is too loud. He writes because it's the only way he can still talk to him. But the words are sharp, jagged. They cut into the paper, into him.

How dare you, he writes, hands shaking. How dare you leave me behind.

He’s furious, the anger like fire in his chest. You told me to find happiness, he writes. Told me to find love again. How dare you. How dare you say that and then leave.

He writes until the page is filled, until his hands ache and the ink smudges under the weight of his grip. He writes until there’s nothing left to say, but the anger still burns, still eats at him. He crumples the letter, throws it away, but the words are still there, echoing in the silence.

He writes another letter the next day. And the day after that. The anger never fades. Neither does the grief.

At the supermarket, the fluorescent lights blur, harsh and unfocused. It happens fast. A fight he doesn’t start, but he doesn’t walk away either. Words exchange too quickly, anger sparking where there should be silence. A stranger’s fist connects with his face, a sharp crack that splits his lip. Blood drips down his chin, warm and metallic, staining his shirt. He doesn’t fight back. He barely flinches. Pain is just another thing he collects, another thing he can feel when everything else feels numb.

Later, on the tram, he sits in a corner, the blood dried and crusted on his mouth. He stares at his reflection in the window, at the dark eyes that don’t seem to belong to him anymore. A girl sits down across from him. She’s young, too young to be alone this late, but she’s there, headphones in, eyes flicking nervously to the window, then back to her phone. She glances at him, her gaze lingering too long on his busted lip, the dried blood that he hasn’t bothered to wipe away, the emptiness in his stare.

She shifts in her seat, uncomfortable, her fingers tightening around her bag. He watches her, not really meaning to, but he can’t help it. There’s something fragile about her, something that reminds him of all the things he’s lost. He tries to smile, but it comes out wrong, more like a grimace. She looks away, pretends to be absorbed in something on her screen, but her fingers tremble.

The tram is nearly empty. The silence between stops stretches too long. She stands up suddenly, moving to the other end of the carriage, putting as much distance between them as she can.

He doesn’t follow her with his eyes, just stares at the empty seat she left behind. The tram rumbles on, the world outside a blur of lights and darkness. He touches his lip, feels the rough edges of the wound, and thinks about how the blood tasted. It’s just another reminder that he’s still here, still alive, even though he doesn’t want to be. The girl’s fear lingers in the air, a ghost he can’t shake off.

He doesn’t blame her. He knows what he looks like—like something broken, something that doesn’t fit. He closes his eyes, wishes for the numbness to return, but all he feels is the ache in his jaw and the empty seat Ominis left behind.

He doesn’t know why he ends up at the tarot card reader’s door. The sign outside is faded, the letters peeling, but it catches his eye as he wanders the streets. He steps inside, the air thick with incense, a cloying scent that makes his head swim.

The room is dim, cluttered with old books, crystals, candles burned down to their stubs. The woman behind the table looks up, her eyes dark, unreadable. She doesn’t flinch at the sight of him, doesn’t ask about the bruises or the blood. She just gestures for him to sit.

He sinks into the chair, the wood creaking under his weight. The table between them is covered in a worn velvet cloth, the edges frayed. She shuffles the deck, cards whispering against each other like secrets.

Ask your question, she says, her voice low, almost a murmur.

He doesn’t have a question. Doesn’t know what to ask. So he just sits there, silent, his mind blank. She waits a moment, then lays the cards out, one by one.

The first card: The Tower. A spire struck by lightning, crumbling, people falling. Destruction, chaos, everything coming undone.

The second card: The Hanged Man. A figure suspended upside down, trapped, yet oddly serene. Sacrifice, surrender, seeing the world from a different angle.

The third card: Death. A skeletal figure on horseback, the end of something, the beginning of something else. Transformation, but it doesn’t feel like a new beginning. Just an ending.

She looks at the cards, then at him. There’s a pity in her eyes that he can’t stand, a softness that makes him want to leave, but he stays. She doesn’t say much, just tells him what the cards mean, their symbols, their stories. But he isn’t really listening. The words wash over him, meaningless, like everything else.

He leaves the shop with the images of the cards burned into his mind, but they don’t tell him anything he didn’t already know. His life is falling apart. He’s trapped in it. And something inside him is already dead.

Sometimes, he wears Ominis’s jumper. It’s too tight, stretched over his frame. He curls up in the bathtub, knees to his chest, the cold porcelain pressing against his skin. He texts Ominis, again and again, messages that go unanswered. He calls out his name, voice cracking, tears slipping down his face. The walls echo his cries, but there’s no reply, just silence that feels like it’s swallowing him whole.

He screams until his throat is raw, until the sound is ripped from him, leaving him hollow. The neighbours hear, of course they do. They always hear. They call the police, just like last time.

When the police arrive, they bang on the door, loud and insistent. They find him in the tub, clutching the jumper like a lifeline. They question him, their voices hard, treating him like he’s done something wrong. They threaten to take him away, to a hospital where they say he can get help.

But he knows they don’t understand. They don’t see that he’s already lost everything. That it’s useless, getting help. They think they’re saving him, but there’s nothing left to save.

Sometimes, Ominis’ voice echoes in these walls, soft like a memory, sharp like a knife. It’s one of the reasons why he can’t move, why he stays in this crumbling place. This isn’t his home. It never was. This is Ominis’s house. Sebastian is just a guest here, an intruder in the life they used to share.

He can’t leave, not when Ominis’s ghost still lingers in the corners, in the shadows. The sound of his laughter in the next room, the way he’d hum quietly to himself when he thought no one was listening.

Sebastian stays because leaving would mean letting go. And he can’t. He won’t. This house, this ghost—it’s all he has left.

He meets a girl in the supermarket line. She says she likes his jeans, ripped and faded, like a nightmare trying too hard to be forgotten. Sebastian doesn’t like that, the way she makes it sound like poetry, like she’s trying to make something ugly sound beautiful. He glances at her basket—tampons, hair dye, eggs, bread, strawberries. In his, there’s cheap instant coffee, acetaminophen, nasal spray, two bottles of wine, pre-made spaghetti. He feels pathetic, thinking he can have a decent night, sitting on his balcony, staring at the stars, drinking wine, eating that sad excuse for a meal. It’s pathetic, really.

The girl smiles, hopeful. He doesn’t smile back. He doesn’t have to charm her. He can see it all already: she’ll be at his place on Saturday, three martinis deep. He’ll lie to her so many times his tongue will bleed. He’ll tell her one truth: that he has enough money for everything she’s ever wanted. And then they’ll fuck in his bed, in the dark, and Sebastian will eat her pussy like it’s the last thing keeping him tethered to this world. And morning will come, the sun splitting his face in half, and he’ll empty his ashtray as the coffee drips. And the girl will wrap her arms around him, and he’ll pretend the jumper swallowing her body is the ocean, pulling him under, into the belly of a whale, and he’ll scream, and the girl will run away.

And nothing will matter. Nothing ever will.

Later, when the blood in his mouth tastes like saltwater, he’ll think of the fortune teller who promised good news, and the police who laughed like he’d just told the best joke of his life. He’ll sit at his desk, hands trembling, and scrawl a furious fuck you across the page. The words jagged, raw, slashing through the paper like they can cut through the pain. How dare you. He’ll press the pen so hard it nearly tears through the paper. How dare you leave me behind.

And then, and then, Sebastian will catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror. But it’s not him—it’s Ominis staring back, his expression soft, asking that same question he used to ask. How many times have you been in love? And Sebastian will answer, his voice cracking with the weight of it, As many times as it took to reach you.

Ao3

[blueberry-ovaries]

CHAPTER FOUR : BOLD FACED LIES AND CIGARETTES

A/N: Hello?! what’s this? a new chapter? that’s right chapter four of hiraeth!!

Word Count: 2.2k

Content Warnings: mentions of war, injuries, bullying (?), strong language, horrible accent writing and probable OOC and historical inaccuracies

< previous chapter > - < next chapter >

The sun had started to set by the time a new person arrived at Winnie’s hiding spot. Ron had left a few minutes prior claiming he was needed for food service preparations. Winnie thought it was just because the man didn’t know how to talk to people

“Winnie?” The voice of Dick Winters called out “are you alright?”

Winnie huffs an unamused laugh

“I just bit and drew blood from one of the men” she mumbles

“I suppose you did” he counters “but, I was more worried about what caused that reaction”

Glancing up at the red headed Lieutenant, Winnie pursed her lips, before turning away from him

“I’m fine. Won’t happen again” she mutters

Dick let’s put a low sigh, folding his hands behind his back, nodding

“While that is appreciated, i am more concerned about why you were in such a panic” he sighs “what you did, while not best case scenario, was not against the rules”

Winnie picks at the grass, drawing shapes in the dirt.

“i talked to Lieutenant Sobel, convinced him that having you on latrine duty would serve as better punishment than removing you from the airbourne” He continues

Nodding silently Winnie stands, dusting off her shorts she bites her cheek

“Thank you Dick- Lieutenant Winters” she stumbles “that was not necessary, i would have taken my punishment for my wrong doing”

Dick sighs, crossing his arms over his chest.

“As i mentioned, there was no technical wrong doing” he glances back towards the Easy company barrack “Shifty is pretty worried about you, kid, at-least tell him you didn’t die a tragic death”

Winnie nods.

——

The crickets chirp all night long, Winnie discovered. After a quick shower to remove the lasting feeling of dried blood off her chin, and a short conversation with Shifty that yes, i am okay. no i don’t want to talk about it right now. thank you for caring. Winnie once again found herself sitting on the steps of the barrack.

Her dog tags jingle slightly as she twists them along the chain, rubbing her thumb over her name and number. That was all she was. a number. Not a person with a family, a person with dreams. A number to be used and moved like a marionette.

The crickets used to remind her of home, when she would stay awake on the farm until the early hours. Just her and the moon, talking. Now it just reminded her of what she lost. Her home, her family, friends and comrades. The crickets taunted her.

Next to her tags, a small necklace. A present from her parents before she left. Winnie was not religious. She did not believe in God or divine intervention. Many of the men wore crosses or stars, or some form of religious jewellery. Winnie wore a small handmade cow charm on a silver chain. Home.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting outside for, her face going numb in the cold. She didn’t even notice the creaking of the door or the groaning of the planks under someone else’s weight.

A warm hand on her shoulder causes her to jump, pulling her fist back instinctively.

“Fuck!” she hisses “you scared the shit outta me!”

“I’m real sorry, didn’t mean ta frighten you” Eugene apologised “called out to ya, didn’t respond, like you were caught in some trance”

“Oh. sorry” Winnie mumbles, rubbing her thumb over her dog tags as she looks out at the grass “must have been lost in thought”

The two soldier sit in silence, only disrupted by the occasional shouts of protest from inside the barracks, from the various games of poker they played. Winnie often wondered what her life would have been like had she of not joined the ANZAC’s. Had her dad gone and died in the mud jungles of new guinea when his knee wouldn’t allow him to climb the treacherous slopes. Had her mother saw her as she was leaving that morning and stopped her. Would she have finished school? worked the farm like her brothers?

She often fell into pits of self guilt. Blaming herself for events out of her control because of an event she could control. She wouldn’t be scarred and broken had she of not deluded herself into thinking her position in the military would make a change. That the efforts of one small, scrawny girl from a town no one had heard of playing dress up, would affect the war. Just like the boys back home who wanted to be soldiers for pride and glory, Winnie played soldier.

“You want to ask about it.” Winnie muttered “That’s why you’re here right?”

Eugene shrugs, lighting up a cigarette before offering the pack to Winnie, who takes one with a tip of her head in gratitude.

“Everyone wants to ask ‘bout it” he counters

Smoke fills the air as the two sit in silence. Winnie wanted Eugene to let it go. To not wonder about her story, her time in the army. Contradictory, she wanted someone to care. To care enough that they would listen to every detail, tell her how brave she was, hold her hand and make her feel like a person again. Not some rabid dog with tags around her neck.

“What is it that everyone wants to know?” she sighs in defeat, a need to belong over taking her need to be distant.

“The scar” he scratches his cheek, the same place of Winnie’s scar.

With a huff, she flicks her cigarette to the ground, stamping it out. Maybe she didn’t want to belong that badly.

“Service wound.” she responds bluntly “I was on the front lines before coming here”

Eugene hums out in understanding, the only noise apart from the men inside, still playing cards.

“Where’d ya serve?” he drawls, taking a final drag of his cigarette and crushing it beneath his boot

“Africa mainly, spent some time in New Guinea” Winnie picks at the skin around her nails.

Eugene nods along softly with the explanation, letting Winnie talk at her own pace.

“That don’t sound too fun, from what we get told about those places anyways” he settles on saying

Winnie let’s out a short scoff

“It definitely had its moments” she looks down at her hands, half expecting to see them coated a deep shade of red

“And the scar?” he asks feigning nonchalance

The memories of that night flood to her all at once. The german soldiers, the hot sand, the moon in the sky overhead. She can still feel the burning in her lungs some nights when it’s all to hard to breathe and her throat feels heavy under an imaginary weight of a forearm

“Africa” she mumbles

Nervously she fiddles with her fingers, the look Eugene gives her goes unnoticed

“Look. I just don’t want people to think of me differently” she mumbles “So if i tell you this, can you keep a secret?”

Eugene nods.

——

“That’s why I bit him.” Winnie concludes “I didn’t want to hurt him… I just… It’s been a long war and I got lost”

“That sounds awful… i’m sorry that happened to you Winnie” the cajun man drawls

“Not your fault” Winnie shrugs “you gotta keep that a secret. Or i will bite you on purpose.”

“Won’t tell a soul” Eugene smirks slightly at her threat

The door to the barracks slams open.

“Winnie! you gotta come play poker with me. I’m loosin’ real bad” Shifty complains “I’ll teach you how to play and everything”

Winnie raises an eyebrow, sending a skeptical look to Gene.

“You want me to play… even if you have to teach me?” she asks “How bad are you losin’?”

“Well I ain’t doing too good, that’s for sure” he awkwardly rubs the back of his neck, a grimace on his face

“I don’t know Shifty I don’t wanna make anyone uncomfortable” Winnie hesitates

“She’d love to play” Gene answers

“That’s great! I’ll see you in there!” Shifty grins, walking back into the barracks

Winnie hits Gene in the chest with an open hand

“Why the fuck would you say that” she grumbles “I don’t wanna play poker.”

“You gotta make friends with ‘em at some stage” He retorts

“You know. I’m starting to really hate you yanks” Winnie complains, still she stands and dusts off her pants

She stops infront of the door, turning to look back at Gene

“Thanks for not telling anyone” she mumbles, quickly entering the barracks

——

The hooting and hollering of the easy men come to a deafening silence. Judgemental eyes mixed with looks of skepticism sweep her up and down. Winnie stands in the doorway, fiddling with her fingers behind her back

“Well come on Winnie!” Shifty beams “You can’t be any worse than me at cards”

Shifty sits down on one of the crates, card game abandoned in the middle of the make shift table

“I’m not playing cards with the crazy broad who tried to bite Joe’s finger off” the man in the bed beside her argues… Bob? Maybe it was Bill. Bill sounded right

“He shouldn’t have put his fingers near her mouth then” one of the men countered, someone she hadn’t met yet

“The crazy broad has a name” Winnie raises an eyebrow

“yeah yeah” Bill waves his hand in the air “just hurry up will ya, got me some money to win”

Winnie shuffles over towards the makeshift poker table, pulling up a crate to sit next to shifty. Dealing out the cards, Bill gives Winnie and Shifty the one set of cards.

“What are the rules?” Winnie asks, staring at the cards in her hand

“It’s poker, you don’t know how to play poker?” one of the men ask, He was tall and had a scowl.

“i’m just wondering what the rules are” she mumbles

——

It was with a withering glare that Bill laid his cards down as he folded. Winnie bluffing that her cards were a straight flush instead of two sevens. Most of the men stopped playing after the third round were Winnie cleaned them out of smokes and cash. Bill persisted, claiming that he needed to win his money back.

—

Sitting on the front porch with her dad as he beats her round after round at poker. Chocolate chip cookies and various sweets used as bets, her father had a pile that seemed to be a mile high.

“how do you keep winning daddy?” a six year old Winnie asks. Her front two teeth had fallen out and she waited desperately for the tooth fairy.

“practice, and knowing how to play the game and the players” he responded, ruffling her hair

“play the players? you can’t play the players daddy that’s silly!” she giggled

“my sweet girl, poker is just as much playing the game as it is playing the players” he pulls her to sit on his lap “if you know how to lie and bluff than you can get away with lots of things, like having bad cards in poker”

—

“Did I win again?” Winnie tilts her head in confusion

“Yeah you fucking win again” Bill grumbles

The men jeer and punch him in the arm as he glares at the girl collecting her winnings. She wouldn’t need to worry about cigarettes for months!

“You lost to a broad Bill” Joe Toye slaps him on the chest

“I know I lost to a fucking broad” he hissed

Winnie piled her cigarettes into her crate and collected the money she won into her wallet with the help of Shifty, who was beaming

“Keep the pack” Winnie smiled and threw him two packs of cigarettes

“Boy you really showed them!” Shifty smiled “I didn’t know you could play!”

“Beginners luck?” Winnie smiled

“I ain’t ever seen a beginner play as good as you” he stated

“Guess i was real lucky” She shrugged

“Crazy beginners luck” Someone called out

“Maybe next time you’ll get some too” she smirked

The man made his way over to Shifty and Winnie with a troublesome grin

“George Luz, i believe you stole four of my cigarette packs” he introduced himself

“Well George Luz, I would apologise, but i wouldn’t mean it” Winnie shook his outstretched hand

“Say what happened to your face” George asked

Winnie defensively rolled her shoulders back and set a glare on her face

“It’s rude to ask people about their scars.” she muttered

“I meant your eyes, they’re… purple, d’ya get punched?”

“Oh… broke my nose last night, when Sobel made me run currahee” She blinked in shock, not expecting her broken nose to be a point of interest

“Fuckin’ Sobel” He muttered “Doc fix you up?”

“Hm? oh yeah, Gene set it back into place” she confirms

An awkward silence falls over the conversation before George is called over by a group of the other guys, one of which was Joe. He turned around with a goofy smile

“And, hey, don’t worry too much about the whole biting Joe thing, some of us won some real money off ya” he winked and walked over towards the loud bunch.

Dumbfounded Winnie stood at the end of her bunk, a pack of cigarettes in her hand, looking up at Shifty

“People bet money on me to win?” she spluttered

“Well sure, odds were stacked against ya, but some of us made some money” he replied in his usual soft spoken tone

She thought about his response, a feeling of warmth spreading through her chest. Maybe she would fit in after all.

——

TAGS: @malarkgirlypop @mads-weasley @footprintsinthesxnd @bucky32557038ww2 @grumpy-liebgott @executethyself35

A/N: I really hope you guys are liking this fic! i’m really sorry it’s slow to start, i just want you guys to see Winnie’s struggles as a person before really getting into it, but please feel free to let me know what you think!

[preciouslandmermaid]

and i'll break all my rules for you (joel x gn!reader)

note: Reader is only 4 years younger than Joel. GN!Reader & they/them pronouns used where needed, but otherwise no other terms are used. Takes place prior to the video game & tv-show (pre-canon). 

(Not beta read, no use of Y/N). 💛 Feedback/reblogs always appreciated 💛

summary: You are paired with Joel for a smuggling run to the Massachusetts General Hospital outside of Boston. Despite Joel’s initial stoicism and penchant for antisocial behavior–you find yourself breaking all your own rules for him. 

warnings: canon-typical violence, mature language, mild hurt/comfort, mentions of drug use/addiction, a sprinkle of quiet yearning 

🍄🍄   READ ON AO3    🍄🍄

“They’re a doctor, Joel.” Tess says, “a real one.”

“Non-military?” He asks dubiously. 

You settle your hands on your hips, “I’m not a narc if that’s what you’re asking.”

Joel scoffs, “thought most of you were snatched up by FEDRA. How’d you get out?” His tone is sharp-edged and suspicious. Maybe even accusatory if you listen close. 

You bristle. This smuggler has no right prying into your past. Rule #1 of staying alive: you don’t let people get close (and most people in the QZ know how to follow that one). 

“I got lucky.”

“Joel.” Tess folds her arms across her chest, “we need them.” She gives him a weighted look. There are a thousand words in that single look. It speaks to their trust, their history, and you instinctively look away. You let Joel and Tess silently discuss your ability to run this job. 

Eventually, he bends against the category-five force of nature that is Theresa "Tess" Servopoulos and says a gruff; “Alright.”

Joel isn’t a talker. And that suits you just fine. You don’t need words to complete this job unless those words are “Look out, someone’s gonna shoot you in the face.” Although, you rather like to think you’d be quick on the trigger if someone did try and shoot your face. (Getting shot would break Rule #2 on your guide to survival). 

You make your way through the tunnels with your heart in your throat. Your sweat pools in the middle of your back. Your shirt sticks to your spine and beneath the straps of your backpack. It’s been minutes, you think, but it feels like hours. 

You’ve never been outside of the QZ.

You open your mouth to ask Joel what to expect and then snap your jaw shut. He’s not a talker and you’ll see for yourself soon enough. You remember the world before it ended. You remember movie theaters, bad karaoke, and smoke-filled restaurants. You remember brightly lit grocery stores, loud playgrounds, and quiet libraries. You thought it would never end. You thought there would always be cars, concrete, and pop music.

So much for that. You bite the inside of your check. Now we’ve got FEDRA and ration cards and a fungal infection that desires full-scale invasion. 

Joel says, “watch your head.” 

He holds a rotted plank up and you crouch beneath it. When you pass him, your nostrils twitch with the scent of his body odor, but it doesn’t smell gross. Which is surprising considering showers are a rarity and you’ve stood in line for jobs with your nose and mouth plugged to block the stench. 

The thought is quickly forgotten when you step outside for the first time in twenty years. 

You exhale, “Holy shit.” 

The world is a jungle. A cacophony of concrete and lush, vibrant wilderness. There is decay, there is destruction, you can see the iron gridwork of collapsed buildings like they’re its ribcage. But there is also beauty. The sky has never felt more open. It’s bluer, you think, than you’ve ever remembered. A shade of blue reserved for summer afternoons when you were small. The overgrowth of plant life sprawls like tiny capillaries over walls and chain link fences and through gaps in the rubble. The sunlight cuts through open rooftops and reflects rainbows off the broken windows. 

You glance sidelong at Joel. He rubs his mouth with his hand. And although he’s looking at the horizon, you doubt the view has any effect on him. You suspect he’s mentally planning your next steps.

As if to prove you right, Joel points to a narrow alleyway, “we’ll take this route.”

You shift the weight of your backpack and nod.

~~~~~~~~~~

You shimmy through narrow alleyways and climb across wooden planks. It takes several minutes before it finally hits you. You’re surrounded by silence. The QZ always contains some level of background noise whether it’s FEDRA and their trucks, or people talking, or crackling fires. You hear every step you and Joel take, every rustle of the breeze through the buildings, every shift of your clothing, every beat of your heart. You stare at the back of his head. His hair is thick and streaked thinly with silver strands. 

“Is it always like this?” You ask.

“Is it like what?”

“Like this.” You fall into step beside him and wave your arm, “this quiet.”

He glances at you. The furrowed line between his eyebrows deepens. “Could be quieter.” It’s a pointed yet passive aggressive statement. 

You bite the inside of your cheek. It’s quiet enough, you figure, to ask the question that’s been gnawing at your stomach since yesterday morning. 

You ask, “what is your problem with me?”

Joel shifts his shoulders in an almost-stretch. “I don’t have a problem with you, doc. I just…” He glances sidelong at you, then away, his scowl etches into the lined grooves of his face. “It’s odd, alright? It’s odd that a doctor doesn’t work for FEDRA.”

He sniffs. “I don’t trust it.”

I don’t trust you. That’s what he means to say, and you’re not even surprised by it. You don’t trust him either. You trust him to complete this job. You trust him to survive (with or without you). You don’t bother trying to give him explanations as to how you’ve avoided FEDRA’s grasp. Truly, it was pure, dumb luck. You fell through the cracks. An authoritative regime liked to shoot first and ask questions later and their bureaucracy was shit. FEDRA wasn’t asking folks for their resume, and it was easy enough to lie once you were in the QZ. You’d rather be a coward and survive, then a hero and get yourself killed. 

That’s why you had rule #3: Always run if shit goes sideways. 

You shrug, “There are other medical professionals hiding out in the QZ. Not everyone jumped at the chance to be a FEDRA dog.”

Joel doesn’t reply. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Joel explains quietly that you’ve got to cut through the library to reach the hospital. You’re not thrilled about the enclosed space, but what can you do?

The air is rich with gray dust motes and dead fungal cells. You and Joel step quietly (so silently a librarian would be proud!) through the dilapidated shelves and collapsed aisles. The magazines on the front desk are rotted into pulp. It smells of decay and damp mold and soggy newspapers. Many of the tables and chairs are snapped in half, chewed by termites, or broken by passing survivors for kindling or weapons.

The large hole in the ceiling has allowed every element of weather to permeate the library into a tomb of dead literature. If you close your eyes, you can imagine the ink running rivers through the aisles, around fallen rubble, and spilling down the stone steps. The children’s section of the library is muted in color. All the bright stuffed animals are chewed, stuffing crawls out of their eye sockets, and vibrant plastic toys are covered in grime.

You touch a shelf in passing, letting your fingertips graze the water-logged spine, and imagine the pages crumbling within. Your heart squeezes like a vice.

Mechanical textbooks, poetry, and biographies, and books on tape and DVDs–gone. As if they never existed. And now children are taught in FEDRA schools, taught to shoot, and taught the FEDRA-version of history. 

Something snags in your chest, and you instinctively turn your face away from Joel’s so he can’t see. Your eyes prick with tears. You’ve seen bodies piled to burn, you’ve seen civilians shot down in the street, you’ve seen horrors upon horrors and lost everyone you’ve ever loved. You shouldn’t be crying over dead, lost books.

But it feels like a piece of humanity that is irrevocably lost.

The future opens like a black void, like a pit, like the mouth of hell beneath your feet. What’s the point in completing this job? You ought to just take the meager supplies you have and keep walking into the abyss. Maybe you’ll find something better or maybe you’ll be eaten–consumed–by the infected. Maybe that would be better than this. This pretense of a life worth living. It wasn’t even life. It was purely survival. Your breath stutters and you clear your throat despite the sharp, cold glass lodged inside of it. 

“Hey,” Joel’s tone mirrors that of a cowboy trying to soothe a spooked horse. “Where’d you go?” He steps in front of you, snapping his fingers and it breaks your zoned-out focus on the books. You shake your head.

“‘M fine.” Your words string together like a children’s beaded bracelet. 

“Keep your head on straight, doc.” He admonishes. “We’re almost there.”

 ~~~~~~~~~~~

Hell breaks loose in the sound of a scream. 

It doesn’t make sense that raiders should be here so close to the QZ. But, they are. Joel grabs your arm and jerks you sideways into one of the cavernous divots formed by two bookshelves that fell into one another. You crouch-walk through the make-shift tunnel with cold, stagnant water dripping onto your head and shoulders from the shelves. 

The raiders run through the library while hollering profanities at one another. Their faces are covered by gas masks or simple cloth face-masks and ski goggles. You count the footsteps and watch the elongated shadows cross over the mossy walls. It’s a small group. Hopefully they just run through and keep going. 

Joel’s breath is warm on your cheek, “there’s three,” he whispers. 

You nod minutely to signal that you’ve heard him, but you don’t trust your voice to speak. He cranes his neck to peer around the shelf and you watch the tendons shift on his dusky throat. He glances over his shoulder toward you and lifts his index finger to his lips. His dark eyes are pensive, hard, and focused. Like two chips of dark amber, like pieces of obsidian. 

You wait, listening, your body crouched and muscles stiffening. The raiders have moved to the south section of the library. You can hear them rifling through things–furniture is moved, either smashed or kicked over, and book pages flap wetly as they are tossed aside.

Joel leans close in again. So close you feel his body heat radiating from him. You smell his sweat again. Your heart threatens to break free from your ribs. 

He whispers into your ear, “this place is already picked clean which means they’re probably looking for an old stash. If we take the second floor we can sneak past ‘em.”

You carefully follow Joel’s steps. He’s drawn his revolver, but you keep your own piece holstered at your hip. Your palms are slick, and you don’t trust yourself to hold a gun properly. If these raiders see you–you’re going to run. No question about it.

Joel grimaces, his face taught in concentration, as his shoulder slowly pushes open a rusted, stairwell doorway. Every sound he makes feels like a gunshot, like a noose tightening around your throat. You glance around, paranoid and cautious, before Joel makes a quiet sound in his throat. 

You meet his eyes. He flicks them into the created narrow space of the doorway. He wants you to go first. You angle your body to the side, your chest brushes against Joel’s as you pass, and side-step through the door. The touch doesn’t even register until after you’re in the clear and even then–your mind cannot process anything beyond the potential for death, the threat of the raiders. 

Your sticky palm holds the door handle and Joel follows you into the stairwell. You muffle your relieved sigh behind your fist. You climb the stairwell like mice trying to avoid an angry housecat. The stairwell is metal and rusted, but it holds your weight and doesn’t creak too much. Joel takes the lead. 

His eyes are constantly checking you. They are brief, passing glances. You’re not sure who is more paranoid at this point–you or him. Although, it’s probably you.

You keep checking over your shoulder as if the raiders will appear like ghosts behind you. What will you do if they find you? Where can you run to in this cramped, tinnitus-dangerous stairwell? 

Your foot slips as the rusted step gives way. Just your luck, right? You swallow your gasp of alarm, your shout of terror, and your arms windmill to regain your balance.

Joel’s hand shoots out and catches you effortlessly by the wrist. He pulls you forward with surprising, wiry strength and onto the step he’s standing upon. Your cheeks burn. He releases your wrist, nods, and you keep moving.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun has almost fully set by the time you manage to escape the library. The sounds of the raiders on the floor below echoes in your eardrums. Joel led you through the destroyed second floor (which was arguably worse for wear than the first floor). He guided you over wooden planks, and through bookshelves, until you finally climbed out through a broken window and onto the roof.

The warm air tastes so, so sweet.

You plant your hands on your knees, breathing heavily, your sweat drips down your face and over your spine in sticky, moist rivers.

Joel taps your shoulder and signals with a tilt of his head that you need to keep going. At this rate, you’ll reach the hospital by nightfall. Not an ideal situation, but what choice do you have? You have a job to do. You can’t turn away and run back to the QZ with your tail between your legs. The job runs bigger than just you and Joel, and you steal a moment to wonder if Tess told him the details. You push the thought from your mind. There is no use in speculating about Joel and Tess’s relationship. Once the job was done you’d never work together again unless fate played its tricky hand. 

Your flashlights cut sharp, white lines through the deserted and overgrown streets. The hospital is derelict and dark. It poses like a forgotten specter over the street. Alongside the destroyed cars and police vehicle, there is an overturned and torched ambulance near the ER entrance. If you were to shine your flashlight into those cars, or the doorway, you have no doubt in your mind that you would find corpses. A chill shivers across your damp skin. You hope there are no infected inside, but it’s a risk you’ll have to take. 

You lead Joel around the side of the building and shine your flashlight up toward a broken window. Wordlessly, he situates himself near the brick wall and laces his fingers to hold your foot. You grunt in unison as Joel boosts you into the window. You awkwardly grip the window ledge, avoiding a large piece of glass, and shimmy your torso up and over. 

You land and grumble, “fuck.” Your boots crunch on scattered, broken glass. 

A quick cursory glance around the room reveals two skeletons sitting upright in their beds. Their clothes and blankets have rotted and are pocketed with moth-eaten holes. Their eye-sockets bloom with dead and ashen fungus that spreads like spidery roots across the wall behind them and stretches toward the ceiling. Their wrists and ankles are secured to the beds with thick, leather clasps. You shine your flashlight over their bodies and golden, empty bullet casings glitter on the floor. Shot dead. There’s no telling when they died–were they shot on day zero? Or did some scavenger pass through and shoot them out of fear or pity? 

You take off your coat, bundle it into your arms, and sweep away some of the glass. You pull a rope from your backpack, tying it on a metal bedpost, before you drop it to Joel. The hewn rope cuts into your palms and fingers like woven splinters as you hold it steady.

You release a silent sigh of relief when Joel crests over the window and joins you. Something akin to relief uncoils in your stomach when you see him. It’s not like you expected him to bail or anything. Joel doesn’t strike you as that kind of guy. However, being alone in the hospital, even for a few seconds…is unnerving. You are safer with him beside you. It’s not sentiment or tender, warm feelings creating that thought. It’s pure, survival-based logic.

“The stash is just across the hall.” You whisper.

Joel nods gruffly.

You pull your pistol from its holster and force your arms not to shake as you walk toward the door. It creaks. The hinges are flecked with rust. A constellation of acrid, gray dust plumes and swirls in front of your face. Your flashlight beam bounces over fallen IV poles, and wheelchairs, and gurneys. And corpses. Dozens of corpses. You listen, and breathe, and push the door infinitesimally wider. The hospital yawns and stretches and rises like an old alley cat to meet you. A hundred memories tug at your shirtsleeve and beg for your attention. You tell yourself you cannot indulge in reflection. You must focus on the task at hand. You have to survive this. 

You tentatively step across the hallway with your heart lodged in your throat. The ten or so steps it takes to cross the hall feel like a hundred. You are only aware that Joel is following because you can hear his breath. You intentionally mirror him - his inhale and exhale - and a semblance of calm radiates across your worried nerves. 

The closet winces open.

The handle of a mop barrels toward you. You inhale sharply through your nostrils. 

You catch it before it hits the floor. 

Your eyes lift to Joel’s, and he gives you a look that seems to say– “Nice one.” You cannot decide if his look is sarcastic or not. You weasel yourself into the janitor closet and push your fingers behind the plastic bottles of glass-cleaner. You bite the inside of your cheek. What if it’s gone? You don’t know what you’ll do. You don’t know what you’ll say to Tess. 

After some blind searching, your fingertips finally touch a plastic bag taped to the underside of the shelf. 

Thank fuck. 

You tuck the bag of mixed pills into your backpack. You quietly slip from the closet and dip your chin toward Joel. 

He raises both eyebrows then whispers, “is it all there?”

“I think so.”

You and Joel return to the first room. Together, you brace the door with whatever spare furniture you can find. Two chairs meant for visitors. An IV pole. Two cheap, wooden nightstands. You hate how flimsy it looks. How vulnerable. An infected could easily break through that. 

“That's all we got.” Joel says. “I ain’t risking moving the beds.”

You massage your hand over your neck, “yeah, no shit.”

“We’ll move at first light.”

“Fine.” You remove a ration from your bag. A sense of unease and doubt gnaws at your empty stomach. “Joel…?”

“Hm?” 

He looks over at you with an inquisitive, yet chagrined expression. He hears the question in your tone, maybe even wants to answer, but likely hates all this talking. Realistically, you think you and Joel have said less than 50 words to each other. You tear a corner of the ration off with your teeth. It’s chewy and gritty and too salty. 

“We’re good here, right?” You ask slowly, your voice sounding far too small for your liking, “I can’t shake the feeling that the raiders followed us.”

Joel shifts his weight. He is silent for a few seconds, his face closed off, his gaze on the fungal skeletons eternally resting in their deathbeds. 

Finally, he says; “I’ll keep watch.” He glances at you, “get some rest.”

You doubt you’ll manage anything more than a few fretful minutes, but it’s better than nothing. You don’t want to be jumpy and anxious from a lack of sleep. At this sudden thought, you try to catch Joel’s eyes again.

“What about you?”

He shrugs one shoulder, “I’ll be fine.”

His answer annoys you. You’ve spent the entire day climbing through rubble and avoiding raiders. You brought him to the hospital. You got the stash. You followed through on your end of the bargain and yet…

“You really don’t trust me huh?”

Joel snorts, “not really, no.”

Offended, you cross your arms, “have I done something specifically or is that just your general asshole attitude to everyone?” You ask, snappish. 

You know it’s hypocritical. You know it is. You can’t help it. Whether it’s adrenaline wearing off, or hunger, or tiredness that is the cause for your tone doesn’t really matter. Your skin itches with restlessness. Hasn’t Joel been paying attention? You’re not a smuggler like him. You’ve never been outside the walls! You risked your life for this job. 

Joel cuts you with his dark gaze. “It’s my attitude toward everyone, yeah.” He replies coldly. “But especially to so-called doctors who somehow aren’t dead or with FEDRA.”

You roll your eyes.

“Oh sorry!” You pat your pockets dramatically, “I don’t have my credentials on me.”

He sighs. The weight on his shoulders deepens. He pinches his brow. Your harsh flashlight illuminates his torso and face in blue-white. His flashlight emits a halo of light. The dark, spidery-fungus frames Joel like two membranous wings. For a passing moment, he appears like a martyr, a patron saint of little patience and years of quiet agony. 

“I trust Tess.” He says, “she said we needed you because you knew where this stash was…but you wouldn’t say how you knew…and you wouldn’t tell her where it was or why you needed to go. So, I’m standing here, and I’m thinking that I could’ve done this job with Tess. And if I did then we’d be back in the QZ by now.”

He continues, “you’re inexperienced, you’re jumpy, and it’s a miracle you haven’t stepped on a network yet.”

You flinch. 

“So, yeah, doc. I’m having trouble trusting you considering you haven’t done a damn thing to earn it.”

You turn away from him. You’re too old to be sulking, but dammit (and damn him!) you are. Did watching his back not count for anything? Your success in moving stealthily? The fact that you didn’t lose your fucking cool at any point?! Your nostrils flare. You won’t jump over hoops and climb mountains to earn his trust. And why should you?! He’s kept you alive at this point but the same could be said for you. You don’t expect his whole trust, not even half of it, but you expected something. A shred of trust. A scrap. 

You settle against your backpack as a pillow and zip up your coat all the way to your chin. The minutes unhurriedly pass in awkward, tense silence. 

You realize, bitterly, that you trust him. It’s not fair that he doesn’t trust you in return. A second realization crawls into your mind. And it’s somehow worse than the first. 

The fact that you trust Joel (just a little bit!) means that you’ve let him in. You care what happens to him. You want him to survive. Hell, he’s not even a friend! Yet, you don’t see him as baggage or a liability. You don’t see him as a simple asset to your own survival. And yet….and yet…he’s earned a tiny, tiny piece of your trust.

You’ve broken rule number one: don’t let people get close. You always assumed that rule functioned in a primarily receptive way. As in, other people getting close to you and not the other way around. Your eyebrows draw together in annoyance and frustration. Silence stubbornly stretches onward while Joel watches the door and you watch him.

Quietly, you admit, “I used to work here. Not during the outbreak, though. Like, years earlier.” You stubbornly close your eyes to hide Joel’s face from your view, “an ex-resident told me about the pills. She wasn’t able to…obtain…them before they fired her.”

You flick your tongue across your dry lips.

“We were friends.”

You wonder what happened to her. You wonder if she’s alive in some other QZ. You wonder if she’s clean, or if she’s happy. Finally, you wonder if she’s dead. You try to remember the color of her eyes and are met with a void. An empty lot where a memory lived and then was evicted by your mind to make room for something else.

“She asked me to get them for her…but I never did.” You clear your throat, “we stopped being friends after that.” 

Rule number one is officially and monumentally fucking broken. 

Joel is so goddamn quiet that you suddenly fear he hasn’t been listening. Your eyes snap open. Joel is looking at you–his brow furrowed, his lips gently parted. You’ve seen this expression on his face before. He’s pensive and calm. Usually, this look is reserved for when he’s planning routes of escape.  

He asks softly, “you thought she’d come back for it?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug, “she was technically banned from the hospital, but she could’ve had someone else do it or…” Your eyes trail upward to the spore-marked ceiling, “gone herself wearing a disguise or something? I don’t know.” You say while laughing weakly.

“And that’s why you wanted to come.” He guesses. 

You nod. “I knew there was a chance that I could be wrong. I didn’t want to risk anyone else for that.”

Joel’s mouth thins, “just me.”

“Yeah,” you smile, “just you.”

You sense the fragile truce between Joel and yourself. Satisfied, you close your eyes again and try to settle into a semblance of rest.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Joel shakes your shoulder. Hard. Your mouth instinctively opens to groan or wince and Joel’s hand snaps over your mouth. You groggily blink at him, tugging at his coat sleeve, glaring, but Joel’s expression is pleading. His eyes are big, and sorrowful, and deep, dark brown like roasted coffee. His index finger presses to his lips. You tilt your head and try to speak against his hand. His fingers press a little harder into the meat of your cheek.

A clicking noise echoes down the hallway.

A sour taste of fear floods your senses. Your grip on Joel’s forearm tightens and your eyes widen as if they could somehow absorb all visual stimuli and discover a way out of this new mess. Joel slowly pulls his hand away from your mouth. His eyes side-glance to the window. You’re lucky you had the foresight to clean up some of the glass after your first entry.

He doesn’t need to tell you twice. You establish a new knot onto the hospital bed leg and toss the rope out of the window.

Joel jerks his chin to the blossoming, rosy dawn that spills like silk into the room. You peel your jacket from your shoulders and drape it over the broken glass on the windowsill. You’d rather not accidentally slice open an artery while there’s a clicker loose in the building. You squeeze the rope in your hands. Rule #3: Always run if shit goes sideways. You throw your leg over the ledge.

The rope pulls taunt against the bedpost. The metal scrapes against the linoleum. You and Joel share an identical ‘Oh, fuck!’ expression. 

The clicker runs through the hallways and knocks over who-knows-what along the way. Always run, always run…You freeze on the ledge. Joel moves toward you. Unthinking, unbidden, your hand drops the rope and grabs Joel by the arm. 

You pull him. The world tilts sideways. A sense of vertigo rushes through your body before the ground hits you. All air is forced from your lungs in a painful, tense wheeze. A field of twinkling white stars dance in front of your eyes. Your ribs ache. You suspect more than one of them is bruised from Joel’s weight falling onto yours. 

Did it count as breaking rule number three? You ran, but you ensured Joel’s safety as well as your own. Joel lifts you to your feet. His grip is steady and sure.

“C’mon.” He whispers urgently before pulling you with him. 

Who are you kidding? Rule number three is definitely broken. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You have the shittiest luck in all of Boston. You and Joel make it nearly halfway to the library (which you are planning to go around) before a raider literally runs into you. His body collides with yours, but he’s faster on the draw with his weapon.

His heavy automatic gun swivels and points to you and Joel. 

“Hold it!” There’s a tremor of terror in his voice. You glance around. He’s alone. That’s weird. The raider is wearing a FEDRA issue body vest, camouflage pants, boots, and a visorless motorcycle helmet. His ammunition is strapped over his chest like he’s in a bad 80s action movie.

His watery brown eyes notice the backpacks, “Drop your bags! And any weapons!”

“Easy.” You say, your arms raised, “we’re just passing through. This doesn’t have to get violent.”

“You’re right!” He snaps, “it doesn’t! So, drop the fucking bags and whatever else you have!”

You’re not sure what exactly clues you into the raiders’ next move. Maybe his eyes flick to Joel for a nanosecond. Maybe, you think, he sees Joel as a bigger threat (which is rather misogynistic of him but whatever). 

Your feet move before your brain has time to catch up. 

The bullet bites into the meat of your leg and you eat a face-full of dirt and gravel. The tiny, jagged rocks burn as they scrape across your skin and rip your palms and chin. You try to pinpoint the pain radiating through your body and roll painfully onto your back. Your lungs are wheezing for air. You prod your jeans with your fingertips to find the bullet entry point. Thank God. The femoral artery and vein isn’t punctured. You’d be dead otherwise.

Your wet bloodied fingers crawl along your thigh and finally find the hole. The relief is minor compared to the pain you’re in. You dig your finger and press against the bullet hole in an agonizing, guttural cry. It feels like a clean shot, but you can’t be sure. Your rule number two (don’t get fucking shot!) has been officially broken. And you did it to save Joel. Your world goes blurry with pain and tears. The muted gray scenery takes a moment to re-focus. 

And when it does–you see Joel on top of the raider. His knuckles bloom carnation red. His chest heaves with labored, deep breaths.

“Good.” You murmur, “my risky move paid off.”

“Your risky move nearly got you killed.” He snaps before crouching beside you.

“That’s a weird way to say thank you.” You apply firm pressure to your bullet wound, “he was gonna shoot you.” Weirdly, the thought makes you want to laugh. You bite down on the hysterics bubbling inside your chest. It’s adrenaline. Your body is in shock. You tell this information to yourself like a meteorologist explaining the weather. It helps a little. 

Joel scowls. “I had it handled, doc.” His hands shake as he digs through his bag. You decide not to draw attention to it. 

Your eyebrow ticks upward toward your hairline, “were you going to glower him to death?”

“Enough.” He holds a rolled bandage in his hand, “let me see.”

“I can walk.” You start to protest and flinch when he reaches for you. “We gotta move out of here.”

“You need your hands.” Goddamn, you think, Joel is a stubborn sonofabitch. You reluctantly pull your hand away from your thigh.

“Clean through?” He asks while wrapping your thigh in gauze.

You wince. The pressure is necessary to halt the bleeding, but it still fucking hurts. “I think so. Yeah. Yeah, hopefully. ” A clean shot without any gun shrapnel or broken bones will be a miracle. 

He says, “we’ll get a better look at it later.” You look away from your wrapped leg and meet Joel’s dark gaze. He holds your stare for a beat longer than you expected. You’ve never had much time to look at him–really look at him–and you realize he’s got a handsome, weathered, and tired face. Something inside your chest flutters. 

You look away before he does. “Yeah, alright.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~

Wincing and breathing heavily, you manage to limp your way through the streets and caved-in buildings. You cling to Joel for support when needed until he finds a safe spot to rest. You help him push an old refrigerator in front of a doorway and black spots dance in front of your vision. The pain radiates through your leg like fire. Your face glistens with sweat.

But before you can topple over, Joel catches your shoulder in his familiar, steady grip. One moment he was standing on the opposite side of the fridge and the next moment he was next to you.

He murmurs, “easy now.” And guides you to sit down and extend your leg. You breathe harshly through your nostrils and squeeze your eyes shut.

“We have to stop the bleeding.”

You hear Joel’s bag unzipping, “I know.”

“There’s a kit in my bag.”

“Okay.” You hear your bag being unzipped. “I see it.” He says.

“Apply pressure and…”  You realize distantly that you’re slurring your words, “sterilize the needle…”

 “I know.”  

You feel his hands on your thigh. His palms and fingers encircle the painful space. You can feel the heat of him, the heat of his touch, his bodily warmth. Your eyelashes flutter open. Joel is so close…his head is bowed, his expression grim and focused, and a little sheen of sweat dappled his wrinkled forehead. Joel pours disinfectant onto his hands and briskly rubs them together. Your blood-soaked bandage is pulled away. 

He shines a flashlight into the pulsing, wet wound. Some of your blood has clotted around the entry point in thick, dark red clumps. Your fingers twitch. You want to clean and care for it yourself. You want to stitch it up. But, that would risk too much infection. Your hands aren’t clean. You have to trust Joel and trust that the injury won’t kill you.

“Here, bite down on this.” He says while handing you a faded, colorless cloth bandana. You shove the fabric into your mouth and bite down at the first sharp sting of the needle poking through your skin. 

You reach out and clutch Joel’s shoulder for support. Your fingertips dig into his muscles. Your arm trembles as you squeeze him. Your vision goes soft and blurry with tears. The needle bites and bites and bites until your skin is pulled together again. Your sense of time is completely distorted as you walk between worlds on the verge of passing out while crying out in pain. 

Joel mutters quietly, “don’t worry. I’ve got you, okay? I’ve got you here. You’re gonna be alright.”

You think you mumble, “I know.” but you can’t be sure. 

When Joel is finished, and the wound is wrapped, the strangest thing suddenly happens. Neither of you move. Your hand remains on his tense shoulder. His hands are applying unnecessary additional pressure to your thigh. Your ragged breath syncs to his. Your eyes burn with tears and sweat that’s dripped from your brow. 

Something magnetic draws your gaze to his. He watches you with intensity and something else–something hot and sharp and dark.  

“Are you mad at me?” You ask breathlessly. 

“You did a stupid thing.” He deadpans. 

“He was going to shoot you.” You enunciate every word.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do!” You rush out, your eyes bright from exertion, “I saw it in his face. He was going to shoot you and then me because it would’ve been easier to rob us.”

Joel replies, “he was a scared kid.”

“Fine!” You spit out, “maybe he wasn’t going to shoot us. Maybe he was just going to alert his buddies and then they’d rob us, or kill us, or capture us for their sick amusement. Either way, I don’t regret it Joel, and neither should you!”

The skin under Joel’s collar flushes red, “You got shot!”

“Yeah, well, I’m not dead!” 

Joel jerks away from you as if you’ve slapped him. His hands leave your leg, and he pulls the pocket of pills and tiny, injection vials from your bag. You scowl at his coldness, his distance. He scowls at the plastic baggie.

“I recognize some of these…”

You sigh and lean your head against the wall, “not everything in there is for pain.”

“What else is there?” He says while holding a tiny vial of morphine close to his face, “besides this I mean.”

“Antibiotics.” You say, “my friend would sell them…y’know…to people who couldn’t afford it ‘cause of the scam known as the American healthcare system.”

He nods absentmindedly while procuring some pills for you. And he passes his water bottle to you as well. You take both pills (after visually confirming that one was a low-dosage pain medication, and the other was a general antibiotic). You sit in silence while watching the tense rise and fall of Joel’s shoulder out of the corner of your eye.

You say, “I’m not sorry, Joel.”

Joel chuckles under his breath, “yeah, I know.”

He shifts his body and settles next to you with a loud, heavy sigh. His hands are smeared with your blood, the color bright like red poppies or dark like fresh cherries, depending on the angle of the light.

“We have to wait till nightfall to re-enter QZ…” He says and although there’s gruffness to his tone you think you hear warmth in it too (or its the drugs). “In the meantime, you ought to rest.”

“Mhm, yeah, alright.” 

Your head lolls sideways and your temple lands on Joel’s warm, solid shoulder. To your surprise and secret delight–he doesn’t push you away. He doesn’t relax or lean into you either. Instead, he’s more like a warm statue. But you don’t mind. You broke all your goddamn rules for him, and you can afford to be a little self-indulgent after the past two days. It won’t kill you. 

You’re going to have to establish some new rules once you return to the QZ. (And yes, rule number two should probably remain the same).

Your thoughts drift and carry you into a dreamless, gray void.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Joel folds his arms across his chest, unsmiling, and watching you. Turns out–you are a doctor. (Or at least, you were before the known world ended). You crouch beside a sick kid–obviously the kid is not infected, but sick with something that looks like pneumonia based on how hard the kid is trying to breathe. Their skin is glassy with sweat and every few seconds they cough like they’re going to lose a lung. 

Tess gravitates to his side. Her hands slide into the back pockets of her jeans.

She says, “I didn’t even think to consider they were getting the drugs to help other people. I figured it was just more opioids.”

Joel sniffs, “yeah.”

“Did they tell you anything?”

He frowns and shakes his head, “not much.”

“Well, they’re honest. They gave me our agreed upon cut and then some extra.” She glances sidelong at Joel, “would you work with them again?”

He watches you as you talk quietly with someone’s mother. Your expression is smooth and there’s a practiced and comfortable ease in the way you move, the way you talk. Outside the QZ, he considered you a goddamn liability. A nuisance. But, then you took a bullet for him. You dragged him out of a window to flee from a clicker. You risked your life to help these civilians (who probably don’t deserve it). You lean against your cane and walk toward him and Tess.

Joel rubs his jaw and his stubble is scratchy and rough beneath the pads of his fingers. He recalls the weight of your head on his shoulder. He recalls your eyes bright with strain, wide with fear, sparkling with amusement, and narrowed in annoyance. He wants to answer Tess’ question before you reach him. 

“Yeah,” answers Joel, “I would.”