#and maybe answer some old ones if i have the spoons

[yooniesim]

Working on imperfect teeth again this week... I got a little burned out on teeth cc after updating the kids ones lol, but now I'm inspired again. Theres something about the different smiles of people thats so endearing I think! 💕 if anyone has any ideas or inspiration pics feel free to reblog with them or send them to my ask box.

[inbabylontheywept]

by tradition, the first day of the camp was spent pranking the group next to us. our prank was ziptying the zippers on their sleeping bags together. we figured one of them would sleep with a knife, because we all slept with knives, because we were dangerous maniacs and half the danger of a dangerous maniac is that they tend to think that they are Actually Normal. so. obviously that didn't pan out, and instead they got stuck in their sleeping bags for like half an hour and because their scoutmaster slept in their car and couldn't hear them yelling, they actually only got out when one of them went full caged animal and chewed through the plastic. which meant they had time to make it to the axe throwing station, but they did miss breakfast.

the scale of our victory was impossible to understate. it was an epic prank. unrivaled. the best in years. we knew they were going to retaliate, and we both feared and craved it. maybe i'm still a maniac, but that feels like a common thing, right? do well adjusted people that are not maniacs crave Judgement?

(serious answers only please, from people who would never spoon a knife.)

anyway, the next day we got back to our camp, and the neighors had skipped dinner to just come back and fill all our tents with pinecones. which was like, a decent prank, i guess, but it probably took them an hour to fill all the tents up, and it took us like 15 minutes to tip the tents out, and as a return volley to the ziptie prank it was incredibly underwhelming. we felt a little cheated.

so our scouting group held a council, and we agreed, unanimously, that our prank was 100% better and theirs sucked and that there would be no escalating tensions because we were the clear victors. they'd had their chance to retaliate, and they failed, and so the war was over. that was it.

we agreed on this. we swore. but madness is a relative thing, and in our group of maniacs, we still had J. i have many, many J stories. too many. i biked up to school with him from 4th grade to 8th, and i saw him get hit by cars thrice. he'd just swerve into the road sometimes. one time on a rainy day in 4th grade, a car splashed me, and before i could even consider my response J yelled I GOT THIS and then he blitzed off after the car. i didn't see him the rest of the day. i was so anxious i barely slept that night. i saw him the next morning and he told me that he'd chased the car until it got to a gated community and then he'd climbed over the fence and looked in peoples garages until he found the one with the car, and then he'd ripped the hood ornament off and broke their window. then he gave me a hood ornament to a different brand of car from the one that splashed me and i didnt tell him because i didnt want him missing more school. i want you to mentally adjust your mental model of the things a 9 year old is capable of doing to include chasing a car for five miles, hopping a fence, breaking into a garage, and vandalizing a randos car.

and that's just the tip of my J stories iceberg.

the point of all this is just to say that J was so crazy that he made us knife spooners look like accountanting enthusiasts.

so we agreed the war was done, and we shook on it, and then J, in the name of friendship, in the name of honor, in the name of avenging our pinecone filled tents, snuck over to their camp that evening and fornicated with a watermelon that they'd been saving in their cooler.

i want to emphasize, again, that this was not the consensus of the group. that is not a prank. like i know it seems like we dont know what pranks are because of the whole ziptie thing, but even we knew that fucking someones food is not a prank, it is a crime, and a sin, the kind of weapon that had only been ethically used once in history by Horus in his battle against Set and none of us dumb assholes had owl heads.

so.

the next day went pretty well. we threw some more axes again, which is a valuable and important skill for children to learn i guess, and we learned how to tie knots, which is a skill that turned out to be far sexier than i ever expected, and i learned how to light fires with a magnifying glass, which was great. i'm looking back at this, and i am actually just now beginning to realize that the clear and obvious point of scouting is turning child sociopaths into apex predators.

and then the day ended, and we went back to our camps, except for our leaders, who had a sort of Scout Leader Meeting they were going to have for a few hours at least. it was built into the camp, that day was supposed to be our day to chill as a group, and make peach cobbler, and just be buddies.

except, as it turned out, our neighboring group's alternative to making peach cobbler was eating their watermelon. so at some point they opened their watermelon, and woo boy. oh man. you think catholics hated seedless watermelons? you should see how much mormons hate seeded ones.

so we were chilling by the fire, and then we heard screaming from the camp over, but we didn't pay much mind to that because there are many reasonable explanations for a group of 10ish children to scream simulanteoulsy, such as wasps, which are abundant in arizona, and then the screaming got closer, which did not bother us because there were many reasons for a group 10ish children to scream and run towards us, for example, wasps, which are abundant in arizona, and then we noticed they had large sticks on them, which we figured were perhaps being used to drive away the wasps, which are abundant in arizona, and then they arrived and they started beating the shit out of us, abundantly, in arizona.

so we ran into the woods.

now, at this point, we had no idea what was up. we knew that the camp next to us was out for blood, which was crazy, because we'd actually locked them in fartproof bags for 30 minutes and they'd barely done anything back, and were trying to figure out what could possibly have happened that could drive them to Terrible Violence when we realized that J was cackling like a witch that had learned how to order children off of ebay.

so we politely asked J what the hell he had done, and he politely explained that had "done" their watermelon, and we politely beat him with large sticks because life is nothing but endless cycles of violence.

we were still being chased by the other camp btw. so it was them, chasing us, chasing J, and then they got tired and went back to their camp, and we chased J a little longer because we were mad we'd all been walloped with sticks, and J did not care because he was a supernatural entity whose only weaknesses were Needles and Fire, and then we got tired and went back and J kept running, and we just kind of figured he would come back eventually.

he did not.

we went back to our tents, and we waited, and J did not come back. we stayed up all night, peering into the forest, worrying. our leader came back, and we did our best to hide our battlewounds, and he either genuinely did not notice or simply accepted this as part of Boyhood. then he went to bed, and we waited, and waited, and waited. And Waited. and did not sleep.

eventually, we convened again, and we agreed that if J was not back by after breakfast, we would have to tell the scoutleader about what exactly had transpired. and we really did not want to do that, because it would have meant that everyone would have gotten in a very large amount of trouble.

morning came around, and J still was not back. we went to breakfast, and we ate very, very slowly. we were afraid the other camp was going to continue their war with us, but they actually looked fairly frightened. one of them actually came to us and asked for a truce, and we agreed because we truly felt bad for them. like, yes, they did beat us with sticks, but J fucked their watermelon. we werent complicit in the watermelonfuckening but they didnt know that, and it was definitely the kind of crime that left one outside the bounds of the social contract.

and then when we could eat no more bits, when breakfast was almost done, right when i was getting pushed to go and tell the scoutleader that we needed to find J, he arrived. he was sleep deprived, and noticeably scraped and bloody, and tied to his belt was a blood squirrel tail.

and i asked him, J, where did you get that? and he said, don't worry man, it was already dead, which did not answer by question and gave me several more.

the camp ended that day, and the other groups avoided us like the plague, and it was not until some weeks later that we were able to piece together what happened.

J, in his sojourn through the forest, managed to find (or, possibly, make) a dead squirrel. he then cut off the tail to keep on his belt, because he was a weird little freak like that. he also took the dead squirrel, and he skinned it, then he tied it to a little crucifix made of wood, and he left it in the other scouting group's camp. which is why they were so scared of us.

it was such an unhinged thing to do it actually sobered us up for a while. scouting became a scary thing for us. we'd found something dark and primal there, in the place where no adult could see, and our appreciation of J as a wild ride kind of changed into seeing him as something truly dangerous. we had a sense wherever he went, something terrible would follow, and the only way to escape it was to not be there when it arrived. and so piece by piece, the scout group dissolved. it wasnt until he moved out of that ward that the rest of us started daring to go back to scouts.

and for the final epilogue of the tale:

i have a little brother who was friends with a younger cousin of J's, and the two would go to parties together in highschool. and sometimes J, who was in his early 20's at that point, would show up at the parties, and it was unsettling in such a way that it just became a known risk at parties with the cousin. and at one party, they were playing truth or dare, and J wasn't even in the room, but someone asked him the Truth of how he always knew how to find the cousin, and J said the cousin's mom had mentioned she was worried about him and the parties so he'd put a tracker in his car. and when he saw that the cousin was out of the house on weekends, he'd made a visit by, just to make sure he was safe.

then he left. and every single person at that party went over that poor kid's car. they searched the wheel-wells, checked underneath it, the works, until they found the tracker. then because they were clever, they didnt break it, or throw it away, or anything that would've given away what they'd done. they just gave the tracker to the cousin, who put it in his glovebox. and on schooldays, he'd take it with him, so J could see him in the parking lot. and on weekends, he could leave it in the garage, so he could go to parties with out Hell coming with him. because everyone that met J - every single person - knew that the only way to be safe from him was to be far, far away.

[clockwayswrites]

Mx. Minx: ch2 p3

You all voted yesterday, so Minx is back! masterpost this is a first draft, please no editing or concrit <3

Danny pushed the shirt up and off in one motion. There was the sharp hiss of a breath. Jason closed his eyes.

“Oh Boss, they really did a number, didn’t they?” Danny crooned.

“Sometimes it’s easier to take a hit than dodge,” Jason replied.

“I know.”

Jason hated that Danny knew.

“I’ve got some amazing bruise cream though,” Danny continued. “And luckily none of these have split so we can just do that. Sorry that it’s going to be a bit cold, but I’ll warm it up if I can.”

Jason hummed to show that he heard, but he didn’t talk. He was too afraid that if he talked, he would break the spell in place that was keeping Danny from mentioning all the other scars that lined Jason’s body. He heard a jar open, Danny moving, and then cool cream and hands pressed against his sides. A shudder of a shiver ran through him and then relief. Jason sighed and let his head drop back against the couch.

“Told you it was good,” Danny said smugly. “I took a recipe that another working girl had and tweaked it this through a lot of trial and error. Next time I make some, I’ll make you up a pot too.”

“I won’t turn that down.” Jason wondered if he could even get the recipe. It beat the stuff in the Batcave, which was really saying something, and easily beat the stuff Jason used when he hadn’t raided a Bat safe house recently.

“That’s because you’re not an idiot,” Danny said. “At least not most of the time.”

Jason gave an incredulous little snort. He got no respect in his own damn area.

Just about every other inch of his torso had been dealt with when Danny’s hands finally touched the autopsy scar. Jason flinched. He couldn’t help it.

No one touched it.

“Does this still hurt?” Danny asked, which was an easier question than any of the ones that Jason had been fearing.

“Only in my head,” Jason answered too honestly.

“Okay.” Danny leaned back and started to clean up. “I don’t have anything that will fit you, so you’ll have to go shirtless or put your old one on. If you leave it off, I can toss it in the wash.”

Jason finally opened his eyes and blinked up at the hideous popcorn ceiling and the pink neon like that raked across it. “Wash it, I guess, if you have a dryer too.”

“Yep. First big splurge was to get the units put in,” Danny said. “They’re stuffed in the kitchen, but at least I have them, you know?”

Jason did. “Thanks.”

“Sure. Open up the blue thing, it’s a pill container. Everything’s labeled so take some pain meds, okay?” Danny ordered.

The trash and Jason’s shirt went to the kitchen while Jason did as he was told and tossed back some Advil along more of the drink. Again, Jason was left feeling weird about nudity. He didn’t mind at all being shirtless, other than his scar being out, but there was something oddly intimate about it there in Danny’s apartment.

“Will you be ready to eat or do you need to sit a bit?” Danny asked, interrupting Jason’s thoughts.

Jason shook his head. “No, food would be good. Can I help get it ready?”

Danny tilted his head before shrugging. “Sure. Cabinet to the left of the sink there’s the bowls and stuff. Silverware is in the drawer. You can missing the serving spoons on the counter.”

“Got it,” Jason said and headed through the opening to the kitchen.

It was a tiny room. Two walls were taken up by the cabinets and appliances. Danny’s table, which had only two chairs, was pushed into the corner against the same wall as the door. The only window was over the sink. Despite that, the room felt almost blindingly bright with the pastel pink cabinets, blond butcher block counters, and minty walls.

Or maybe it was the discoball that hung over table that made things blinding.

(Jason tried not to be too distracted by it, he had a job to do.)

Everything was right were Danny had said it would be and he indeed could not miss the old ceramic pot crammed full of spatulas, serving spoons, and the like, so Jason got everything out before he opened the rice cooker to check if it was done. It seemed good enough, so he made a bed of it in the bottom of the bowls. The lid to the crockpot came off next and the small space filled with the smell of spices, meat, stewed vegetables.

“Not bad for barely any work, is it?” Danny asked as he appeared in the kitchen.

“Pretty damn amazing,” Jason corrected as he spooned the goulash like mix over the rice.

“I have water, tea, or some craft beers,” Danny said, arm resting on the fridge door as he frowned into it.

“Water’s fine.”

“Ice?”

“Nah.”

It took a bit of shuffling around each other to get everything and themselves to the table, but nothing spilled so Jason figured it worked. And the food was damn good.

“Thanks,” Jason said, head bent over his bowl. Thanks for the help. The food. The meds. Thanks for caring.

“Anytime, Hood, anytime.”

[shybluebirdninja]

For Keeps

Summary      : Old Logan proposes to the love of his life. Note                : fluff

Logan’s POV

It’s late when I finally get in. The house is dim, a warm glow spilling from the kitchen and the faint smell of rosemary and garlic filling the air. I close the door softly, hoping not to disturb her, but she’s already there, peeking her head around the corner with that smile that makes my chest ache.

“Long shift, old man?” she asks, raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms, but she’s smirking like she already knows the answer.

I chuckle, rubbing the back of my neck. “More like a long week. Bunch’a rookies out there can’t drive to save their lives.” I slip off my coat, hanging it on the chair as I try to ease the knots in my shoulders. The box in my pocket feels like it’s burning a hole, waiting to be pulled out.

“C’mon, go sit. I got dinner just about ready,” she says, already turning back to the stove. I catch a glimpse of her, standing there in that old apron she insists on wearing even though it’s stained and frayed at the edges. The sight of her there, in our kitchen, making dinner after my long day, hits me harder than any fight I’ve ever been in.

I settle into my chair, watching her move around, her hands quick and sure as she spoons the pasta onto plates. There’s a glass of wine by my plate, and she’s even got my favorite sauce. The woman thinks of everything, and it makes me feel like a damn fool for waiting this long.

Finally, she sits across from me, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and looking up with that soft smile she saves just for me. We dig in, talking about nothing and everything, and for a few minutes, it’s like the world’s drifted away, and it’s just us. Her laugh, her voice, the warmth in her eyes—it’s all I need.

After a while, I realize I’ve hardly touched my food, just staring at her, trying to get my nerve up. She notices, of course, tilting her head, a little crease forming between her brows.

“Babe? You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, just… somethin’ I’ve been wantin’ to, uh, talk to ya about,” I mutter, reaching into my pocket for the little velvet box. My heart’s pounding like I’m some teenager. Almost makes me laugh, the way she can do that to me.

When I finally pull it out and set it on the table, her hand flies to her mouth, eyes widening. I can barely bring myself to look at her, staring down at my rough, scarred hands instead. “Look, I know it ain’t much. Had to work a few extra shifts, do a few odds and ends—”

She cuts me off with a choked laugh, and I finally meet her gaze. Tears are already pooling in her eyes, and that smile, that damn smile that’s always been my undoing, is breaking through.

“Logan…” she whispers, voice thick with emotion.

I clear my throat, suddenly feeling every one of my years. “Guess what I’m tryin’ to say, darlin’... is, if you’d have me, I’d be the luckiest man in the world.”

She looks down at the ring, then back up at me, and there’s a look in her eyes that makes me feel like I might just be worth something. “Yes,” she says, her voice shaking. “Yes, Logan.”

She reaches across the table, sliding her hand over mine, and I pull her close, pressing my forehead against hers as the weight of it all sinks in.

“You’re really sayin’ yes, huh?” I murmur, my voice catching.

“Yes, you old fool,” she laughs, wiping her eyes. “There’s no one else. Just you.”

My breath stutters, and for a moment, all the doubts and insecurities melt away. I press my lips to hers, softly, slowly, feeling the warmth and truth in that kiss. She’s here, right here with me, and for the first time, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, this old heart’s got one last chance at happiness.

[strang3lov3]

Let Me Try

Benji makes you cum when you can’t do it yourself.

Tags - sexual frustration, finger fucking and clit rubbing, ruined orgasms, benji talking you through it, softest of soft dom!benji, hint of somno at the end, blue balling a gentle n patient Benji :’) he forgives ya tho

A/N - for my soft and sweet dearly loved court :) cum hard, my friend.

Benji’s not deaf, and he’s not an idiot. He knows what you’re doing in there. Or rather, what you’re trying to do. It’s obvious in the way your mattress squeaks and  how each of your whines are stuttered out and broken, whimpery. Every so often you groan in frustration, too. There’s never that beautiful symphony of moaning that signals your release. And it’s been hours. 

Days, even. You don’t know what’s wrong with you. You feel fucking broken like this, unable to make yourself cum, and isn’t that fucking stupid? It’s one thing to be with another person and be unable to get there - there’s a lot of things at play, of course. Are you comfortable with them? Are they doing everything to your liking? Are you anxious about something, got some stuff on your mind, maybe? 

While alone, you should be able to just…cum. You know how to do everything, after all. How to turn yourself on and how to rub your fingers on your clit and pump them in and out of your cunt. Been doing it since you were a kid. So why the fuck isn’t it happening? You feel like your body’s failing you, and you feel like you’re failing yourself. The cycle of defeat is making you grow weary. Pissed off. 

Your hair is mussed when you finally come out of your bedroom, cheeks shiny with a light sheen of sweat. Benji notices the way you pout and glare at nothing, crossing your arms when you sit opposite him on the old, torn, navy couch. 

“Have a good nap?”

You shrug and mumble something under your breath, frustration still painted over your features. You can feel Benji glancing at you, his brows raised in concern. “I didn’t sleep,” you mutter, looking out of the sliding glass patio door. It’s rainy outside, and there’s a couple of birds jumping in and out of puddles. Benji’s got some pancake scented candles lit to mask the smell of his weed. 

“Yeah? Why not?” He’s focused on his Nintendo switch, deftly moving his fingertips on his controller. Another shrug from you as you watch him play the game - Unpacking, which you bought for his Switch. You can’t really keep track of whose shit is whose anymore, though. Yours and Benji’s lives have bled into each other so much at this point, it’s hard to tell where yours begins and his ends when you’re sipping tea out of his favorite mug or when he’s eating Lucky Charms with your favorite little spoon that you stole from some shitty diner. Whatever you and Benji are, it’s nice to have him by your side. “Don’t wanna talk about it?”

“Not really,” you answer.

Benji offers you a warm, sympathetic smile and then lifts up his oversized knitted blanket, inviting you over. You crawl over and snuggle up to his side, but Benji doesn’t want that. He turns and wraps both of his strong hands around your hips, then grunts as he pulls you into his lap, spreading his legs to make room for you. Benji would cut himself open and put you inside his ribs if he could, but this’ll have to suffice for the time being.

You’re watching him unpack his digital boxes, and you like all those quiet, satisfying little noises the game makes, as well as Benji clicking the Joy-Con’s buttons and joysticks. You could fall asleep listening to it, sort of like you did when you were in school. Laying your head on your desk during some downtime, listening to your teacher reply to emails on her laptop until the bell dismissed you. Always on a warm spring day for some reason, close to when school lets out for the summer. The breeze pouring in from the open window. It gives you the same sort of feeling.

“Do you wanna play?” Benji murmurs quietly, gently tapping your side. 

“Mhm,” you mumble, taking the Switch from him. Benji adjusts and sits more upright against the couch, but you stay lying against his warm torso. He’s got such a welcoming body, like all of him was made just so, for you alone. His belly is soft for you to snuggle, and warm for you to warm your hands against. His shoulders are broad and there for you to cry on, and his heart beats calmly to steady your own. His beard is there to tickle your inner thighs and your cheeks when he’s kissing your face or your pussy. His fingers fit in between yours like they’re puzzle pieces. He’s yours, in a way. Your Benji. You think he was always your Benji, always meant for you. 

Benji lets you play the game for a couple of minutes, and he finds that as you get lost in it, you start to relax. He worries about you and the tension you carry in your shoulders and your jaw, you know. Because it’s always there, right? Always lingering, until he brings you close and you just…melt against him, just like you’re supposed to. Benji lures you in and relaxes you in these clever little ways, by having you play quiet, mindless games and by stroking your hair until you calm. 

He kisses your head and notes the way your breathing slows, how your shoulders drop a little. Benji’s hands slide down your body and he tugs your shirt up a little, and rubs his palms over all that soft, bare skin. 

Benji draws circles on your abdomen with his middle finger, with a hangnail gently dragging against your skin. His hands are like that, always. Overworked and rough and calloused, but so soft in their own way. Like a sweatshirt gone through the wash too many times, where the inside of the fabric is all rough and pilled but so fucking warm and cozy. Or a child’s stuffed animal, loved to the point of charming disfigurement. A missing tail, sewn on with thread that doesn’t match the color of the body. Eye paint rubbed off, drawn on again in Sharpie. 

Benji’s hand slips beneath the waistband of your sweatpants, and you gasp when you feel him playing with your pubic hair. “Hey, wait - Benji.” 

“Hm?” Benji hums softly. “Want me to stop? I can stop.”

You shake your head. “No, I want–” you begin, then trail off into a stutter. “I want it, I just - it’s - I can’t…y’know. Lately.”

“Can’t what, dude?” 

You pause before answering. “Cum,” you admit, finally. 

“That’s bullshit.” 

“It’s not bullshit, it’s true,” you argue. “I’m just…yeah, I don’t know. Broken or something.” Broken, yeah. That’s a good way to put it. Broken, like you’re a misfit toy or something. 

“Okaaaay,” Benji drawls. “But I’m handy.” 

You scoff. “Well yeah, sure, with opening jars and whatever but you can’t–”

“Let me try, though?”

You’ve heard those words before. Benji’s infuriatingly adept at fixing shit, because he is exactly what he says he is: handy. He’s great at hanging pictures and adjusting the screws in your glasses and whatever else. And usually how it goes is Benji finds you getting all huffy and pissy about something broken and fucked up, and you tell him you’ve got it, or that it’s fucked forever. And Benji goes ‘can you just let me try?’ and whatever’s broken is then fixed. Wrongs are righted, because Benji’s handy.

He’s a bit of a jack of all trades, and a whisperer of everything. Benji’s got this special way about himself where things just sort of go his way. He charms a lot of people, and even animals, too. There’s this feral cat that’s been coming around for the past seven months or so, and she wants fuck all to do with you, but Benji, well. She’s Benji’s girl. He sits outside with a can of tuna to lure her close, then gives her belly rubs in a patch of sunlight until she wanders off again. Benji says he’s playing the long game, that he’s gonna get that cat one of these days. He says he’s gonna bring her inside and turn her into his familiar or some shit. 

You sigh and part your legs, making more room for Benji. He adjusts you so he can reach your pussy a little better, and you move the Switch out of the way to watch how he touches you. “No, don’t - don’t look at what I’m doing. I’m not here,” he tells you. “Just play your game.”

You sigh deeply. “It’s not gonna happen, Benj.” 

“Uh huh, well, shut up. Positive mental attitude.”

Benji waits for you to start playing again, and then his fingers find your seam. He slides them low, feeling you out. You’re not wet yet, and not particularly warmed up, so he licks his fingers, and hums at the taste of you. 

“Pervert,” you whisper, earning a chuckle from him. He touches you again with slick fingers, simply dragging them up and down your folds, sometimes passing over your clit. You wriggle a little and push yourself against him, letting out soft sighs as he touches you. 

“Shh,” Benji whispers. “Relax, dude.” 

Benji patiently works you up, and he feels satisfied with himself when he gets you to drip. You’re using your hips to follow his hand, and you’re sighing his name when he pushes his fingers inside your entrance. In and out, in and out, slowly teasing you. 

“Benji,” you whine, arching your back a little. 

“I got you.” Benji kisses the side of your head. “M’right here, dude. Not going anywhere.” 

He fucks you on his fingers, then rubs your clit for a moment or two, alternating between both actions. He knows what your problem is, and it’s impatience. He can feel it in the way you chase his touch, and he can hear it in your frustrated little noises. You’ve tensed all up again, too. “Try not to force it, okay?”

“I’m not, I just–” you huff, restless and already annoyed. 

“I know - hey, I know. It’s not a race and I’m not going anywhere, so just…yeah, yeah, perfect.” Benji smiles, happy when you settle against him again, all that strain melting away again. “Attagirl.” 

You’re having trouble focusing on the game as Benji touches you, but you’re trying to follow his instructions. It’s all made worse as he kisses your ear over and over, drawing the tip of his nose over it, too. You’re close, and release is right around the corner if you let it come. So you drop your game and roll your hips in time with his ministrations, breathing heavily, chasing that special feeling. And it’s right there - you are right fucking there, and then it’s gone, like the memory of a dream vanishing when you open your eyes. 

You groan loudly and cover your face, feeling tears prick your eyes. They build quickly and fall down your cheeks, and fuck - you feel so fucking pathetic, crying over this. You scoff when you watch Benji pull his hands away, but he pays your attitude no mind. 

For fuck’s sake. It’s been hours - no, days, you realize. Because you couldn’t fuck yourself earlier, and not yesterday, and not the days before that and–

“C’mere,” Benji murmurs, pulling you a little closer against him. He tugs the sleeve of his hoodie over his hand and wipes your cheeks and your nose. “It’s okay, man.”

“It’s not, though,” you tell him, choking on a sob. You sniffle and gasp as you cry, feeling worse about yourself as Benji continues to dry your tears. He’s not mocking you, but it’s hard not to feel mocked when your own body is doing such a thing to you. 

“I know, I know, I know. You’re all fucked up, huh?”

You don’t answer Benji, and he doesn’t mind. He lets you cry it out for a while, patiently, silently. Lets you have your little temper tantrum. You poor thing, all out of sorts. He scratches up and down your arms until you quiet yourself, and those wet sniffles of yours have spaced themselves out. 

“Hey.” Benji taps you. “Look at me.” You turn and look at him, met with his kind and empathetic eyes. Benji pushes some hair out of your face and rubs your swollen, sticky cheeks with his thumbs. “I know you’re upset, but you can’t get all worked up like this,” he tells you quietly, noting how you look away. Benji turns your face gently, bringing you back to him. “Hm? Right?”

“M’guess.”

Benji nods. “Yeah, because that’s half the problem,” he says, matter of factly.

You’re annoyed at his tone, and you’re mad because he’s right. Angrily, you argue. It’s instinctual. “But you fucking–”

He shakes his head, cutting you off. “Nope, cool the fuck off, dude. I’m on your side,” he says, encouraging you to take a breath for a beat. “We’re gonna figure it out,” he says softly, wiping the last of your tears away. “Yeah?” You shrug as you sniffle, hesitant to agree, so Benji tries again. “Hm? Yeah? You wanna keep being a baby or do you wanna party?” he asks, poking you in the ribs until you break into a giggle. 

“Fine. But I’m not a baby.”

“Mm. Crying like one, though, aren’t ya?”

You say nothing as you flip back over, but Benji laughs behind you. His hands slide beneath your pants again, and he’s back to teasing you. You’re still nice and wet and swollen, and you’ll cum for him so long as you don’t get all in your head again. Just breathe, dude. It’s gonna be okay.

Benji’s got two fingers inside you, curling against your g-spot, and he’s using his other hand to rub your clit in tight, steady little circles. He can feel that sensitive part of you twitch, and he knows by the way you’ve gone quiet that you are right there. “I got you. You can do it,” he coos. “Doing so fuckin’ good, kid. Like that, just like that. Just let it come to you, let it happen...” 

You squeeze your eyes shut as the pleasure builds, chasing that little spark until you feel it wash over you. Fuck, it’s everywhere, coursing through your veins and making your muscles tense and release, rippling through your body in waves. Benji fucks you through it, his fingers never faltering until you tell him you’re done, enough, enough. 

You flip back over on your belly and hug him tightly, breathing heavily as you come down. Jesus, you’re fucking crying, still. You’re relieved to have cum, even more so to know that you’re not broken like you called yourself earlier.

“See? I knew you’d fuckin’ do it,” Benji says softly, rubbing your back. He laughs when you tell him to shut up.

And you stay like that for five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen. Drifting off into a well-earned nap as Benji strokes your hair and scratches your scalp. “Hey, you. You gonna return the favor? Aren’t you supposed to - I don’t know, you pay it forward or some shit, right? Hm?” He adjusts so that you’re not putting so much pressure on his cock, left all stiff and aching. “No? Just gonna leave me high and dry to nap on me?” 

“Mm.”

“Ohhkay, you fuckin’ dick. That’s fine. Just don’t be all fuckin’...whatever when you wake up and my cock’s in your–” 

You’re already snoring, you fucking asshole. But whatever. Benji giggles and kisses the top of your head, then picks up where you left off in Unpacking. 

you know the drill :) reblog and dirty talk me in my inbox. love ya :)

[someone-writing]

Today's menu:⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ Headcanon 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Pleasure to meet you, Doctor Spencer Reid gender neutral!reader

Spencer Reid... is a man who, in my eyes, eats the raisins from the mix of dried fruits and nuts. (In that “no one else wants them, so I will” sort of way... this may not be just about raisins.)

Spencer Reid... is not a bad cook, but he religiously holds to the recipe, so in case he is missing something extremely specific, he doesn't know how to work around it.

And he neither knows for how long to mix some things to not over-mix them, nor how much boiling is too much, etc.

Give him a recipe that requires measuring to micrograms and cooking for exactly 17 minutes, 25 seconds and 4 milliseconds, and he is a Michelin chef.

Give him your granny's recipe with 'Bake for 12–17 minutes and add a spoon of salt', and the man will be screaming in despair over how big that spoon is supposed to be, and he burns the thing to a crisp because he's scared to underbake it.

Spencer Reid... who would love to share clothes with his partner, but only under the condition that he will still know where to find them later.

Spencer Reid... who supports the academic rebellion against the publishing companies because research should be accessible to everyone. (Ehm... he would maybe even be one of the archive donors under a fake name...)

Spencer Reid... was a kid who took his time and learned sign language the moment he found out that one of his old neighbours back in Vegas had hearing problems.

Spencer Reid... is not a picky eater because of his childhood, but he avoids some types of food because of their texture when he can (for example: dried dates, soggy cornflakes, overripe bananas, and pears).

Spencer Reid... never really played any games, but Penelope made it her crusade to teach him how to play Mario Kart. (He is surprisingly good at it.)

Spencer Reid... has one pair of shoes he’s been buying for several years in a row at this point (those black sneakers), and he no longer even bothers to try them on in the shop. The moment they have a hole at the bottom, he just walks to the shoe shop, grabs the box in his size, checks that they don’t have any manufacturing defects, and pays for them.

Spencer Reid... is a man who smiles and waves back at smiling children when they wave at him first. Because they deserve to meet happiness and goodness while they still can. And hey... it’s just a smile. That’s the bare minimum.

Spencer Reid... is a man who cannot watch medical dramas with his partner—or unsupervised either. Because that man yaps about the medical inaccuracies and has to bite his tongue every time to not scream “Chest compressions! Chest compressions! Chest compressions!” when one of the characters whips out a defibrillator in a case where the patient's heart has stopped.

Spencer Reid... who is a cat person, but if he had a dog, it would be an English Cocker Spaniel called Remi, who was supposed to be trained as a search and rescue dog.

But she was too sad when she didn’t find the training figurines alive, so they had to remove her from the program and offered her for adoption. And so... the search and rescue dog found the man who needed to be found.

Spencer Reid... takes his time when the day of 'Bring Your Kid to Work' comes. He always hangs around to speak with the kids who are left behind—too shy to ask anything, or in general not really included—and answers every question they may have. (He is surprisingly the favourite agent, but he himself doesn’t know about it.)

Spencer Reid... who would crawl on his knees up the stairs from hell to heaven for his partner, but at the same time doesn’t need them to be with him 24/7.

Just the idea of sharing a flat with them makes him happy. Just the idea that behind that wall is the one person who loves him is enough. (He is like a turtle—he is hidden most of the time, but he loves the idea of closeness that is not completely obvious.) Being near them, letting them sleep on his shoulder, watching them move around the shared space, or hearing them hum from the living room—and the man is a puddle on the ground.

Spencer Reid... in my eyes, is a man who doesn’t mind dog-ears and broken spines on books. He wouldn’t do it purposefully to destroy the book—no, he has respect for the thing. But for him, those are the signs that the book was read again and again, and that it was well loved.

When he gets his hands on old antique books, he lingers a bit longer on the places where the spine is broken, trying to figure out what might have caused the previous owner to stay on that particular page longer than the others.

In his eyes, books are supposed to be worn down by time, by the hands that held them and turned their pages. Books are supposed to be read and loved.

Spencer Reid... is a man who appreciates those whimsical designs you can find on canned fish and boxes of matches, because he knows that even something so... useless and mundane got enough care from someone.

Something small for today :] And this may or may not be the canon for Spencer that exists in my stories so... yeah, maybe we will meet Remi one day And I'm definitely planning to write more of those head canons Hope you enjoyed! Underline note for the recipe: I'm not a native speaker, 'pardon my French' and any mistakes, but we're cooking in freestyle here

[joemama-2]

this is not how you imagined your friday night would go.

you thought you’d be watching the stars by now after a nice dinner. maybe some compliments, maybe even a small kiss shared. or some held hands.

but no. because currently you’re seated on the expensive couch, eyes fixated on some random nature documentary because you don’t have the courage to face the six year old boy to your left and demand him to stop staring.

you like kids, but this one oddly makes you nervous, scared almost.

your date is in the bathroom taking way too long and you’re half tempted to up and leave. your posture is stiff, forcing yourself to find the screen interesting.

our of your peripheral, you can see the boy raise his spoonful of ice cream to his mouth, head tilting like you’re one of the animals being observed on the TV.

“are you the one he keeps talking about?”

confusion strikes you as you finally turn your head to face him. your titled head mirroring his own. “um…..i’m not sure.”

a part of you feels flattered by the sudden fact. is satoru really talking about you? but then an unsettling feeling takes place, one of hesitation and jealously. or is he talking about someone else?

“you have the black Cane Corso, right?”

ah, so it’s the former. you smile. “oh, yeah. that’s me.”

“what’s his name?” the little boy asks you, shifting his small body as the talk of dogs gains his attention by the second.

“sunny.”

his brows pinch together. “why sunny?”

“because he was a stray, i found him in a box on a very hot day.”

he hums and nods before asking yet another question. you forget how curious children can be. “is he nice?”

you chuckle. sunny has the stereotype of being aggressive due to his breed and size, but he’s anything but. he’s your gentle giant who gets scared of butterflies and plastic water bottles. “he’s really nice, he loves meeting new people and licking.”

you playfully stick your tongue out with a look of a faux grimace. this gets the small boy to crack a hint of a smile. it warms your heart almost instantly. “you like dogs?” you ask him, voice softening.

he nods automatically. “i really like dogs, i have two dogs. one is white and the other is black.”

“oh wow,” your eyebrows raise. “that’s so cool, are they big too?”

“mhm.” he nods.

you do a small look around. “where are they?”

he simply shrugs and answers, “they only come out sometimes.”

you want to ask what he means by that, but you figure satoru would best know. speaking of, he must be shitting a big one or he’s trying to calm his nerves inside that bathroom down the hall.

the little boy hesitates, like he wants to ask another question but isn’t sure if he should. you give him an encouraging nod and he sighs. “can you bring sunny next time?”

—————————————————————

“when you said you were fostering, i assumed a pet or something. not an actual child.” you tell Satoru as he’s walking you to your apartment door.

the two of you stop in front and he takes this time to grin. “do i not look like a boy dad?”

your eyebrow raises with an unamused expression. “no, first off, you look like a girl dad. and second off, does he consider you his dad?”

“nah, not at all. more like an older brother if anything. or maybe that annoying uncle everyone hates.” he reaches forward to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “did he like you?”

“i hope so.” your lips purse. “i wasn’t exactly ready to pitch myself as a good person tonight to some kid.”

satoru chuckles, thumb lingering on your cheek. “don’t need to pitch yourself, just be you and he’ll like you just as much as i do. well—actually—hopefully not as much. i’d hate to have competition.”

you can’t help but roll your eyes. “he did mention a next time, though. wants me to bring my dog.”

“you mean that oversized human on all fours?”

your hand collides with his shoulder. he laughs and intertwines your fingers with his. “kidding, kidding. don’t get violent, at least not now.”

leaning down, his lips kiss your forehead smoothly, they linger for a few seconds before he mutters against your skin. “his names megumi, i hope you’ll get along.”

your stomach flutters during this moment, relishing in the easy and comfortable intimacy. you nod and murmur back. “of course.”

he pulls back and smiles down at you. just as he’s about to speak another cheesy line, you beat him to it.

“so….you talk about me a lot?”

[gingiesworld]

Hii, l love your angsty fanfics, it hurt in a good way. Here is an idea for a fluff.

How about a fanfic where wanda and R who've always been a bit awkward around each other get stranded in a cozy cabin during a snowstorm? They start out unsure and bickering, but slowly bond over shared stories, hot chocolate, and board games. By the time the snow clears, they're inseparable—and maybe even in love. Lots of soft moments, warm blankets, and emotional healing.

Hope you have a great day

Girlfriend Huh?

Wanda Maximoff x GN! Reader

Warnings: Angst, Fluff

Word Count: 3.4k

AN: Hey guys, it's been a while since I've written a light hearted fic so I am a wee bit rusty. Also a reminder that my asks are open of you have any requests or just want to say hello. I hope you guys enjoy this one!!!

18+ MINORS DNI

Taglist : @mothertoall2 @natashamaximoff-69 @canvascoloredin @wizardofstories @louxbloom @wandanats-goodgirl @the-ox-fan20 @ladyqueenxoxo @aemilia19 @wandaromamoff69 @mfd-101 @dorabledewdroop @marvelogic @dopeyouth @karsonromanoff @bimad @reginassweetheart @machyishere @gemz5 @pawiie @duckiekong (If you want to be added to my taglist, please DM me or comment)

Y/N concentrated as they drove through the wooded path, struggling to see as the snow started to fall heavier. Wanda was sat in the passenger seat, watching the unfamiliar surroundings pass before she turned to face them as they drove. 

"Where are we going?" She asked them, her tone cold. 

"Just one of SHIELD's safe houses, we can't make it back in this storm." They told her, a small cabin coming into sight as Y/N slowed down. "Hopefully it will be clear in the morning and we can head home tomorrow." They told her as they turned off the engine. Wanda only huffed as she stepped out of the car, following Y/N as they approached the cabin door, moving to lift up an old gnome, picking up the key before letting Wanda inside first. "SHIELD has these safe houses all over, just in case any agents are stranded on missions." Wanda only hummed as she moved through the cabin, seeing some old books on a small bookcase in a corner, a log fire and an old worn out sofa. 

"So, we have to stay here?" She questioned, raising her brow. 

"It's just until the storm has passed." They told her, reaching into the bag they had brought with them. "I'm just going to update Fury on our situation, he'll get someone out to us in no time." Wanda only nodded before she moved through the cabin, searching through the cupboards, finding them already stocked with tinned foods. "They also like to keep them all stocked. There is also fresh clothes in the closet, they vary from sizes." They directed her towards the bedroom, opening the door for her. "Just in case you want to change." 

"There's only one bed." She told them, watching as they nodded, pursing their lips before they exhaled. 

"I'll take the sofa." They told her, leaving her to do what she needed to do, Wanda had decided to take a warm shower as Y/N cooked up a quick meal for the two of them. Wanda entered the kitchen, freshly showered and a clean set of clothes, moving to step beside Y/N as they stood before the cooker. "I don't exactly know how to cook properly, so be warned." They teased her, their shoulders deflating as she gave them no reaction. Watching as she reached for the spoon out of their hands, tasting the food before she moved towards the spice rack they were provided. "I guess you can cook?" They tried, hoping to make some conversation. 

"Yes." She answered them, keeping her answers short. 

"Okay then, I guess I'll go and shower while you fix this monstrosity." They shuffled nervously before they turned around and left the kitchen. Ever since Wanda had joined the Avengers, she had only really taken to Clint, Vision and Natasha, but she was still alright with the rest of them. But with Y/N, she was close with them, the two used to spend time together, either watching old sitcoms or reading quietly. They had always wondered why she had pushed them away, practically a stranger to them now. 

"It's ready." Wanda told them, taking their attention from the books. Y/N followed her into the kitchen, taking their bowl and thanking her before they sat down at the table with her. They ate in silence, it wasn't comfortable, nor was it uncomfortable. Y/N was extremely cautious, watching as Wanda ate her food, her expression was stoic as she glanced up and caught them. "What?" She asked them, raising her brow. 

"What happened to us?" They asked her, placing their spoon down as they stared into her eyes. "We used to be so close, we weren't exactly best friends but we enjoyed each others company, we had conversations but now, now it's like you don't want to know me." 

"It's not." Wanda chuckled dryly as she shook her head. "Can we not do this right now?" She pleaded as she rose from her seat, taking the bowls and heading towards the sink. 

"Why not, Wanda?" They questioned, following her and leaning against the counter. "I deserve to know what I did wrong? To make you treat me like a stranger." She watched as their shoulders deflated. 

"Please." Wanda whispered shakily, pausing her movements as her hands remained in the dish water. "Can we not do this, not right now." They shook their head, a dry chuckle falling from their lips as they moved away. Wanda watched as they moved further away. 

"Okay." Y/N nodded, turning around and leaving her alone in the kitchen, she watched as they lit the fire before they moved onto the sofa, watching as they lay down, their eyes remaining on the dancing flames as the warmth filled the room. Wanda sighed, finishing her task before she disappeared into the bedroom, laying down on the bed and pulling the covers over her. Glancing out of the window, watching as the snow came down harder, closing her eyes as she listened to the stillness that surrounded her. Although, Y/N's question replayed in her mind, their face imprinted in her memory, the hurt in their eyes as she didn't answer their question. Truthfully, she is afraid to speak aloud of why she pulled away from them, she feared they wouldn't understand. 

The next morning, Wanda woke to the sound of Y/N moving around the living room, muttering as they paced. Wanda stood and watched for a moment as they continued their movements, worry on their face as they mumbled incoherently. 

"What's going on?" Wanda asked, announcing her presence, Y/N soon pausing in their tracks to face her.

"We are snowed in." They told her, gesturing to the already open door. "I have sent out an SOS to Fury, but there's no saying in when they will arrive." 

"But you said we would go home today?" She told them, her voice rising slightly. 

"I know I did Wanda, I didn't expect to be snowed in when I woke up." They told her, their anger rising slightly. "I've done all I can, Fury knows of our situation and he will get us out of here, but until then we will just have to wait." With that, Y/N headed towards the bathroom as Wanda just looked at the pile of snow blocking the exit. She moved to close the door before she headed towards the kitchen, seeing what to have for breakfast. 

The day went on, Y/N had remained at a distance from Wanda, barely acknowledging her as they sat on the sofa, a book in hand. Wanda watched as they read, flicking the pages the more they read. They raised a brow, not tearing their attention from the book in their hands. 

"What?" They asked, their voice flat as they felt Wanda's eyes on them.

"You have barely spoke to me today." She told them, leaning back in her seat as she watched them close the book, placing it in their lap before they turned to face her. 

"Okay, is there a problem with that?" They asked her, raising a brow as they waited for an answer. 

"You're punishing me." She told them, her voice firm as they just chuckled. "Because of last night." 

"No, I'm just respecting your wishes." They told her, their eyes finding hers. "You were the one who pushed me away first, you're the one who won't even give me an explanation as to why either, so I just don't see the point in trying to make conversation with you if you're only going to ignore me or barely acknowledge my existence at all." They got to their feet, Wanda was staring at her hands, hearing as they grabbed a water from the fridge before she rose to her own feet. Y/N watched as she approached them, standing just before them. 

"You have no idea what happened." She whispered, fighting back the tears that threatened to surface.

"Then talk to me. Tell me how it really was, because I have no fucking clue!" They yelled, slamming the bottle down on the counter, Wanda took a deep breath as she gathered her thoughts, her heart hammering in her chest. 

"I couldn't lose you, not like I lost him." She whispered, her breath catching as her tears started to fall. "I have lost everyone who I have ever loved, everyone who meant everything to me, and you." She took a deep breath, Y/N's eyes never leaving hers as she spoke. "You meant everything to me, you made me feel something more than just the grief and the pain. You stopped me from drowning within my own mind and I was starting to fall and I thought that if I pushed you away, I would stop falling, that it would hurt less if anything happened to you, but it didn't." She wiped her eyes as she gazed into theirs. "It didn't stop it, and I am scared." She exhaled shakily as she continued. "I am scared because I think I love you, like I'm in love with you and I am scared to lose you." Y/N reached out for her, wrapping their arms around her as she cried into their chest. 

"I'm sorry, Wanda." They whispered, their hand rubbing her back soothingly. "I didn't know you felt like that." They moved back slightly, cupping her face as they wiped her tears away. "But you're not the only one who is scared." They confessed, looking in her eyes. "What I have been feeling for you, since the moment you snorted at that scene in that Adam Sandler movie you had me watch with you, the way you laughed, the way your eyes sparkled as you smiled, it was then that something had shifted between us."

"I'm sorry." She whispered, resting her forehead against their chest, their fingers softly combing through her hair. Y/N pressed a soft kiss to her head, fingers still combing through her hair. 

"You have nothing to apologise for." They told her, pulling back slightly to look into her tearful eyes. "It's okay, we're okay." They reassured her, pressing a kiss to her forehead, Wanda sighed at the feeling of their lips against her skin. "Maybe, if you'd like we could um try and be something you know, together. Maybe it was a stupid idea, you should just." Wanda cut them off, pressing her finger to their lips, their eyes finding hers. 

"I think we could try and be something more." She smiled, watching as their shoulders relaxed as she moved her hands to cup their face. "Maybe we could, keep it between us for a while. I just, I don't think I'm ready for the team to know about it just yet."

"No, yeah, we can do that." Y/N nodded, swallowing hard as they held her hips, their eyes searching Wanda's as they glanced briefly at her lips. "Can I kiss you?" They asked her, she gave them a smile as she nodded, leaning in herself to meet their lips in a soft and passionate kiss. Both pulled away with wide smiles on their faces, Wanda then reached up and pecked their lips before she pulled them towards the bedroom, pushing them down on the bed as Y/N watched her every move. Wanda wasted no time in latching onto them like a koala bear, Y/N moved to wrap their arms around, pulling her in closer and kissing the top of her head. The two just revelling in each others warmth as they both succumbed to sleep.

As the days passed, Y/N and Wanda were soon heading home, after spending their nights talking and laughing, with some making out, well a lot of it. Natasha was shocked to see Y/N sat on the sofa beside Wanda, the two watching a movie. She raised her brow, observing for a moment before Y/N rose to their feet, heading towards the kitchen and grabbing two waters. 

"What's going on with you and Wanda?" Natasha questioned quietly after she followed behind them. 

"What do you mean?" They asked her, tilting their head in confusion. "We're just watching a movie."

"Exactly." Natasha pointed her finger at them. "You're usually never in the same room as her, I just don't understand the sudden change." 

"We both talked about what happened, why she pushed me away and we decided that we would give our friendship another go." They told her honestly. "I just wanted my friend back, and I have her back, she's right in there waiting for me to continue our movie." Nat only nodded, feeling bad as she remembered how they used to be before. 

"Okay, I'm sorry." She nodded, turning around to head out of the kitchen. "But, just so you know, if it was something more than what you're telling me, I'm happy for you both, you both deserve happiness after all of the bad you've both seen." 

"Thank you." They whispered, nodding as Nat left the kitchen, they then started to make their way back over to Wanda, handing her her bottle of water, she thanked them before she turned to face them. 

"What took you so long?" She asked them, before taking a sip of her water. 

"Nat wanted to know what was going on between us." They answered her, playing with their bottle as their eyes remained glued to their hands. They felt the sofa shift, signalling that Wanda had shifted positions, she leaned her head on her hand as she watched them carefully. 

"And what did you say?" She asked them, her voice calm and steady. 

"That we're just trying our friendship out again, getting back to the way we were before." Their voice broke slightly as they spoke quietly, their eyes still not meeting Wanda's. 

"I'm sorry." She whispered, moving her hand to play with the baby hairs on the back of their neck. "We can tell them maybe? If you want to."

"Do you want to? Are you ready for that?" They asked her, their eyes finally meeting hers, searching for any sign of doubt or regret in her eyes. 

"I am." She gave them a soft smile, moving her hand to caress their cheek. "I am ready for them all to know that I'm your girlfriend." She told them confidently. Y/N raised a brow, a smirk growing. 

"Girlfriend huh?" They teased, earning a groan and a slap on the chest from Wanda. 

"Well, you never really asked me." She countered, challenging them. "We've been on dates and you have yet to ask the question, so yes, I am taking matters into my own hands and claiming you as mine, just as I am yours." She told them sternly, Y/N soon having a goofy smile on their face. 

"Girlfriend." They whispered to themselves, Wanda watched as their smile widened as they gazed intensely into her eyes. "I would be honoured to call you my girlfriend Wanda Maximoff." They caressed her cheek, leaning in to kiss her lips tenderly. 

"Girlfriend huh?" Tony spoke as he leaned against the wall, Wanda buried her head in Y/N's neck as they turned to face her.

"Is it so hard to have some privacy around here?" Y/N questioned, raising their brow as Tony stepped closer to them. 

"Well, this is a communal area, you want privacy, you have your bedrooms." He clapped his hand together sarcastically. "And they have doors that lock." He gasped, feigning excitement. "But on a more serious note in regards to this." He pointed between the two of them. "The bedrooms also have a soundproof option, especially for the more R rated nights or dates. I don't want to be reminded that I currently don't have a sex life because I am a raging idiot." He sighed before smiling at them both. "But I'm happy for you guys. Happy Humping!" He cheered as he left the living area. Wanda lifted her head out of their neck, smiling up at them as they turned the attention back to her. 

"It's good to know that the rooms are soundproof." Wanda smirked, Y/N coughed loudly, choking on air as Wanda just rubbed their back soothingly, her smirk staying in place as they calmed down. "I can kick your ass on Mario Kart." She squealed, jumping off of the sofa and heading straight to their room, Y/N right on her heels as they passed Nat on their way. Tony chuckled to himself after he had an updated on the system, the soundproof being turned on in Y/N's room. 

"What's so funny?" She questioned, Tony just shook his head as he shown her the screen. "Why would they want to soundproof their room? What on earth could they be doing? They were just watching some movie with Wanda." Her eyes widened, Tony nodded as he took a sip of his coffee. "Nooo! They lied to me!" 

"What do you mean?" He asked her. 

"I asked Y/N earlier if there was something going on and they said no." She told him, Tony just chuckled. "I'm gonna." She started to leave the kitchen as Tony called her name. 

"Are you sure you want to that? Right now?" He asked her, raising his brow. "There would be things going on in there that shouldn't see the light of day." He finished his coffee, rinsing the cup out before placing it on the side. "Besides, we can just ask them in the morning, they have some tests to run on their gear and I'm letting them use my lab." 

"I'll be there." She told him, a smirk on her face as she turned away, retreating to her own room. Soon enough, morning came around and as expected, Nat was already in the lab with Tony, waiting for Y/N to enter. 

"Morning." They grumbled, rubbing their eyes as they struggled to hold back a yawn. 

"Someone had a fun night." Nat teased, a smirk on her face as Y/N soon stopped in their tracks, their eyes bouncing between the both of them.

"I did actually." They confirmed, heading towards the spare desk. 

"Yeah you did." Tony spoke excitedly. "Our Y/N/N is finally growing up." He turned to Nat, who matched his smile. "I never thought I would ever see the day." Y/N turned around to face the two of them.

"What are you even going on about?" They asked him, a hint confusion in their voice. "I am grown up, I have been grown up." 

"But last night you were even more grown up." He raised his brow, Nat stifled a laugh at him. "Isn't that why you soundproofed your room last night?" He questioned. 

"NO!" They raised their voice slightly. "We weren't, we haven't done, I don't think we're." They took a deep breath, closing their eyes as they regained their composure. "We were playing Mario Kart, you know how loud Wanda can be." Nat snorted as Tony pursed his lips, trying to hold his own laugh back. "Not like that! We are not at that stage, it's too early for you know." They waved their hands nervously. "Well, anyways we were playing Mario Kart and you know how she is whenever she plays that game, she is both a sore winner and a sore loser." 

"That is true." Tony agreed with them. "I had to resort to wearing my armour whenever I play that game with her." 

"Exactly!" Y/N spoke up, clapping their hands. "You know, as nice as this has not been, I have some work to get done." 

"Okay, well I will leave you both to it." Nat said as she stepped beside Y/N, resting her hand on their shoulder. "I know that you both will be the best part of the other, just don't ever take her for granted." With that, Nat left the lab as Y/N put their favourite playlist on, their classic rock playlist. They sang along to the songs, Tony joining in just as enthusiastically as they both moved around the lab continuing their work. 

[xxepherr]

.ೃ࿐DANCE WITH ME

summary — matt can't see the way you dance to your old vinyls, but he can imagine it. he doesn't have to this time when you invite him to dance with you

pairings — matt murdock x oldsoul!reader (established relationship)

pronouns — none

word count — 1439

note — i have a million and one matt murdock ideas half written, but this one is a bit self indulgent :)

LIVING WITH YOU MEANT there was never a complete moment of silence.

not because you were loud, but because you always had your record player spinning. from bob dylan and joan baez to the beach boys to fleetwood mac, the air was never dull. matt could feel the change in the air better than anyone — the mood seemed to lift, your high spirits mixing with the pleasant sounds of calamity, successful in pulling him out of his head and into the moment with you instead.

he'd felt the extensive amount of vinyls you had, he'd bought the shelf for you to store them all on when you moved in after all. the smell of old dust that was impossible to scrub away made it so much more you. he liked that his apartment didn't linger with the scent of antiseptic or bandages, or even that metallic tang of blood on his tongue when he took a breath. matt murdock never thought he could like the subtle texture of dust so much, but he welcomed it with open arms and an open heart.

every day he wished he could see you dance the way he could hear you — the subtle shifts in the air leaving him with just enough description to hang onto, but never enough to satiate.

MATT could hear the music before he heard you, as always. the second he entered the apartment complex, he could usually tell what you were up to based on what you were listening to. tonight it was a record he hadn't heard before, no doubt one of the few he hadn't been around to hear spin on the turntable. he was almost sure he'd heard every single one by now.

the music was louder by the time he got to the door, not loud enough to be heard through the door by the average person, but just loud enough for only him to have a small smile pulling across his lips at the thought of you.

opening the door, he set his cane by the door and removed his jacket. he softly called out your name, "i'm home," he turned the corner, setting himself in the direction of where he could hear you in the kitchen.

with a smile, your humming fell short, dropping the wooden spoon in your hand down onto the counter. "how was work?" you asked him, making your way over to him. he wrapped you up into a warm hug before you got the chance to do so first.

"spent most of the day researching," he answered, raking his fingers through the ends of your hair. "how was your day off, hm?"

you were so comfortable you almost forgot to answer. "good! i cleaned the place up a bit for us . . . bought some more bandages for you," he could almost taste the edge of sadness in your voice, maybe even something bordering the same bitterness a lemon tasted of. he knew you hated fixing him up purely because that meant he got hurt in the first place. your disdain stemmed from all the years you spent growing up listening to anti-war bob dylan, he knew that. you would never turn him away, however. "now i'm making dinner."

matt didn't have to ask what it was — the herbs and spices you had open was a telltale sign you were making that family recipe pasta sauce while the tagliatelle boiled.

you pulled away first, a small skip in your step as you made your way back over to give the pasta a stir in the pot, a gentle ripple of movement a dance across your shoulders, every step in time with the beat.

there was no reason for him to be able to see you to be mesmerised by you. "which one is this?" he asked, turning to face the direction of the music, feeling around for the vinyl's cover on the table beside the record player. it was smooth with a rough edge, much like all the others you had, each weathered with age from the people who owned them before you.

"some of dinah washington's best songs," you answered mindlessly, a warmth flourishing in your cheeks from talking about it. you enjoyed talking about this with anyone, more so matt than anything, much more than you cared to admit. "it was a few bucks in a second hand store, i couldn't resist." it was a few days ago now, and it had taken as long for you to gain the courage to listen to it. you liked what you knew, and it always took longer for you to open up to the idea of something new — only now were you regretting that ( once again ) because dinah's old jazz music was heavenly to your ears.

you moved away from the stovetop once more, the sauce simmering while the pasta boiled, not needing to be touched at all now until the timer went off. matt's head tilted ever so slightly as he followed the soft sound of your socked footsteps, each one closer than the last.

your hands slipped into his, gently pulling him away from the record player and out into the open space between the lounge room and the kitchen. "come dance with me."

he'd never danced with you before, though you had asked almost every single time. he didn't like to dance apparently, but still had the audacity to try and get you to explain the movements to him. dancing wasn't really something you could just explain ( though you were sure he could picture roughly enough with all those senses ) and so you left it. now was your chance if he said yes.

a quiet sound of protest escaped his throat as he had no choice but to follow your direction. "no," he shook his head, his hands loose in yours. still, he wasn't pulling away. "i can't dance, come on . . ."

you just shrugged, shifting only slightly from foot to foot, following the jazzy rhythm. "you just gotta move with the music," you explained. "feel it. i know you can do that . . . i'll guide you."

matt supposed it couldn't hurt just this once. he was stiff, trying to seem completely uninterested as your movements became more fluid, moving his hands for him and hoping it would be enough to encourage him to try it on his own. he refused to let go of your hands.

a few moments of silence as the current song ended drew heavy, and you frowned, unfamiliar with the record. you were letting go of matt's hands in defeat knowing that there would be no use trying to get him to dance now that the moment had passed, but he surprised you by squeezing your hands. he refused to let go. your frown disappeared.

the next song kicked up to fill the void, this one slower than the previous. you were surprised when you looked down to see matt's feet shift, albeit awkwardly. you laughed, a sound that sat beautifully on his ears, showcasing a happiness he had only ever seen in you. "okay, work with me here," you warned, and before he could try and work out what you were doing, you had lifted one set of your connected hands as high as you could.

piecing it together, he held his tongue and spun slowly until he was facing your direction once again. who was he to deny you of your excitement? "gorgeous twirl, my love," you giggled, pulling him close. you wrapped your arms around his neck, and his hands naturally gravitated to sit on your hips.

"never again," he shook his head, but he couldn't help the laugh that tumbled out of him, tangling in with your own. "now this . . ." he trailed off, his head dropping down to rest in the crook of your neck. you kept your mouth shut as you swayed slowly in a soft slow dance, not wanting to spook him now that he was actively participating like he was some kind of small animal. "this i can do."

with his approval on slow dancing — which you couldn't believe had taken this long to find a style of dance he was willing to participate in — keeping you comfortably melting into him, you sighed softly, homely, enjoying every moment in his presence. "this is perfect," you agreed, all in all glad that you could spend such a loving moment with him.

it would only last until the end of the song when you had to check on the pasta, but it was enough, and now you knew exactly how to coax him into dancing with you next time.

[theshiniestgemstone]

trust me- fem!reader x gideon gemstone

warnings: smut, p in v sex, first time, minors dni

When Gideon confided in you that he was a virgin, you blinked at him. You were speechless. You’d been in the game room sat beside one another in saucer chairs. You'd spent the afternoon making them, curating the bowl of sugars into perfection. After flipping through channels, you landed on a movie with some raunchy sex scene playing.

The awkward silence that followed was only made worse by the exaggerated moans echoing from the TV. Gideon had gone still beside you, spoon halfway to his mouth, eyes locked on the screen with this unreadable expression. You thought maybe he was uncomfortable, but then again, so were you.

Then, just as you were about to crack a joke to ease the tension, he said it. Quietly. Casually, like he was commenting on the weather.

"I’ve never actually… done that."

You turned to look at him, thinking maybe you misheard. But he was still staring at the screen, cheeks tinged pink, jaw tight like he was bracing for laughter or judgment.

Instead, you blinked. Slowly. Processing.

You were speechless. “Really?”

He nodded, a vacant stare in his eyes as he watched the scene change into a meadow.

“Yeah.”

You hummed. “I’d have thought you were doing nothing but slinging puss all day in LA.”

Gideon scrunched his nose. “First off, gross. Second, I just never… got around to it I guess.”

You took another bite of your sundae. You let the cold bite of ice cream settle on your tongue before speaking again. “You know, I kind of like that.”

Gideon turned to you, brow raised. “That I’m a 23-year-old virgin?”

“That you waited,” you said, shrugging. “That you didn’t let some weird macho thing or some L.A. girl in a fringe bikini pressure you into it.”

He rolled his eyes but you caught the way his shoulders relaxed a little. “I came close once. But I got weird about it and bailed.”

You grinned. “You? Getting weird? Color me shocked.”

He huffed a small laugh, then nudged your knee with his. “Shut up.”

You licked your spoon clean, feeling bold. “So, are you waiting for someone special? Or just waiting for someone not insane?”

“Little of both,” he said after a beat. “Someone who doesn’t make me feel like I have to prove anything.”

You nodded. "Yeah. I, uh.. me neither."

He raised an eyebrow. "Not even with Jake? You guys dated for like four years."

You stiffened just slightly at the name, your spoon halting mid-air. Gideon didn’t notice at first. He was still watching the TV, trying to sound casual, but his gaze flicked back to you when you didn’t answer right away.

You set the spoon down in the bowl and wiped your hands on your thighs, suddenly unsure what to do with them.

“No,” you said finally. “Not even with Jake.”

Gideon blinked, surprised. “Seriously?”

You nodded once, more firmly this time. “Yeah. I mean, we did other stuff, but… it never felt right. He was always trying to turn it into something performative. Like he was trying to impress himself, not… I don’t know. Be with me.”

Gideon tilted his head, listening. Really listening.

“It just felt like I’d be giving something away to prove a point. And I never wanted to do it like that.”

There was a beat of silence, then he said, “That makes sense.”

You looked at him, half-expecting a joke or a deflection. But his expression was open, unguarded. Like he was seeing you clearly for the first time in a while.

“I always figured you’d-” He cut himself off, cleared his throat. “I dunno. You just carry yourself like someone who knows what they’re doing.”

You smirked. “I do. Just not… that. Yet.”

Gideon snorted and ducked his head, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “God. We’re a couple of late bloomers, huh?”

You bumped your knee against his. “Better than being reckless idiots.”

He looked at you then and for the first time in the whole conversation, it felt like you weren’t talking about “someday” or “someone else.”

The conversation came full circle a few weeks later. You'd snuck in a bottle of wine and somehow, you landed on the conclusion that you'd lose it to each other. Just two friends who trust each other deciding to give each other your virginities.

You were both cross-legged on the floor of your room, the half-drained bottle of wine between you and the late-night air heavy with that warm, blurry stillness that only ever came after hours of laughter and near-confessions.

Gideon’s cheeks were flushed and not just from the wine. He was reclined against the edge of your bed, arms resting lazily over his knees, watching you as you talked about something stupid, something light, until the conversation dipped again.

"Just two friends who trust each other," you'd said, more to your glass than to him. "No pressure. No weirdness. Just… safe."

His eyes didn’t leave you. “Are you sure?”

You’d already thought about it more than you probably should have. The last few weeks had changed things. Not with one big moment, but in the accumulation of small ones. The way his shoulder bumped yours when he laughed, the way his eyes softened when you spoke, how easy it had become to fall asleep beside him during movie nights, socks touching.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I’m sure.”

There was a pause, longer than it needed to be, but neither of you rushed to fill it.

“I just…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t want to ruin anything. You’re- this is the best friendship I’ve ever had. If this gets weird-”

“It won’t,” you said. “We’ve seen each other through worse.”

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize you in that moment, your hair messy, wine glass in hand, knees touching his.

“Okay,” he said, voice barely above a whisper as he repeated himself. “Okay.”

You'd planned it for a week from now. His parents would be gone and you were already planning on hanging out. The reality set in an hour before when you were standing in the family planning aisle of the pharmacy, staring at all of the options. You stood there frozen, a basket hooked in the crook of your arm, heart thudding a little too hard in your chest. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed quietly as your eyes scanned rows of brightly colored boxes. Words like ultra-thin, ribbed for her pleasure, and latex-free blurred together until none of it made sense.

It felt absurdly clinical for something that had started as a half-drunk, half-tender promise between two people who trusted each other.

You shifted your weight from foot to foot, chewing your lip. Every so often someone would walk past, and you'd pretend to be examining the cough drops like you hadn’t been standing in the same spot for ten straight minutes.

You picked a box with simple packaging and a brand name you recognized, tossing it into your basket before you could overthink it again. You grabbed a backup option too, just in case. And then, because it felt like a grown-up thing to do, you threw in a pack of gum.

The cashier didn’t even blink as she rang you up, but your ears still burned.

When you got back to the car, you took a breath and texted him.

You: still good for tonight?

The response came seconds later.

Gideon: yeah. unless you’re nervous. i’m good if you wanna wait.

You stared at the screen, your thumb hovering.

You: i’m nervous. but i still wanna.

Another pause.

Gideon: same. see you soon.

You tucked your phone away and sat there for a moment, hands resting on the wheel. The sun was starting to set, painting the sky in streaks of gold and lavender. You let yourself sit in the quiet, feeling everything. The nerves. The warmth. The pull of something good waiting for you at the end of this day.

Then you started the car and drove.

You let yourself in, like always. You stared at the little cross beside Gideon's name that was hung on his door, swallowing harshly before stepping in. He was hunched over his desk, scribbling in a journal. One foot bounced against the floor, the other leg tucked under him. His hair was still damp from a shower, curling slightly at the ends. He wore an old black T-shirt and gray sweatpants, soft and worn at the edges. He hadn’t heard you come in.

You stepped inside quietly and dropped the pharmacy bag beside the mountain of shoes he kept by the bed. Nikes. Work boots. A single cowboy boot. Classic Gideon.

“Did you see the new movie with Salma Hayek in it?” you asked casually, leaning against the frame like nothing was out of the ordinary. “Looks good.”

He looked up, startled for a second before softening. “You scared me,” he said, setting the pen down. “I thought you were Pontious.”

“You think your brother’s gonna sneak into your room and catch us in the act?”

His ears pinked. “Please never say it like that.”

You grinned, kicking off your shoes. “Fine. Catch us being two responsible adults making an informed and consensual decision.”

“Better.” He sat back in his chair, spinning lazily to face you. His eyes dropped to the bag, then back up to your face. “So… you actually did it.”

You shrugged, playing it cool. “Of course I did. I’m a woman of action.”

He nodded, then paused, fiddling with the edge of his sleeve. “Still sure?”

You crossed the room, slower now, letting the moment settle. You stood in front of him and nudged his knee with yours. “Still sure. Are you?”

He looked up at you, all wide eyes and a flicker of nerves behind them. But then he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “I want this. I want… you.”

It didn’t sound like some grand declaration. It wasn’t dramatic or possessive. Just honest. Simple. The way he always was when it really mattered.

You reached down, brushed his hair back from his forehead. He closed his eyes at your touch, leaned into it.

“Then let’s just take it slow,” you murmured. “No pressure. No script.”

You stayed there for a moment, between his knees, your hand still resting lightly in his hair. The room was quiet except for the low hum of the ceiling fan and the soft rustling of pages as his journal settled closed behind him. He looked up at you like he didn’t quite believe you were real, like maybe if he blinked, you’d vanish.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, voice low and barely more than a breath.

You nodded. “Yeah. Please.”

He stood slowly, cautiously, like you were something delicate. His fingers hovered near your hips before settling there, unsure. Yours curled around his wrists, grounding both of you.

When he leaned in, it was tentative and so slow you could feel the space between you dissolve an inch at a time. His lips brushed yours like a question, like he was waiting for you to answer. So you did, leaning in just enough to meet him there.

It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t practiced. But it was tender. Honest.

His lips were soft, a little dry from biting them, but warm against yours. He kissed you like it was something sacred. Not rushed, not hungry. Just… careful. Like he was afraid to mess it up. Like he’d thought about it a hundred times and still couldn’t believe it was happening.

Your fingers slid from his wrists to his waist, slipping under the hem of his shirt just enough to feel the heat of his skin. He pulled back a fraction of an inch, eyes flicking to yours.

“Still okay?” he whispered.

You nodded, heart pounding. “Still okay.”

So he kissed you again, a little braver this time. His hands settled at your waist, drawing you closer like he didn’t want to lose the feeling of you. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything more.

And you kissed him back like a promise.

The kiss deepened slowly, the kind of slow that felt earned. His hands were gentle, fingertips skimming over your waist like he was memorizing the curve of it. You guided him toward the bed with a soft tug at his shirt, and he followed like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he'd always meant to fall into you.

The room was dim, the sun nearly set now, casting long shadows across the wall. His room smelled like cedarwood and laundry detergent, something comforting and deeply him. The mattress dipped beneath your weight as you lay back, head resting on his pillow, the scent of it anchoring you.

He hovered above you, one arm braced beside your head, the other resting gently on your ribcage like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to go any lower.

There was something unfamiliar blooming in your stomach. A warmth, a need that unfurled low and slow. It wasn’t urgent or frantic. It wasn’t lust that clawed at you like you’d seen in movies or heard in locker room whispers. It was something else. Tender. Real. A pull you didn’t know how to name, but you knew it had everything to do with him.

You watched his face closely, the crease in his brow, the way he looked at your mouth like it held a secret. He was nervous. You could feel it in the way his breath hitched and the way his eyes kept flicking between yours and the space between your bodies.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted softly.

You smiled, lifting a hand to cup his cheek. “That makes two of us.”

His shoulders relaxed just slightly at that, and he leaned down to kiss you again, slower this time. Less afraid. His body pressed to yours, not heavy, but grounding, and the heat of him seeped through your clothes. Your legs shifted, parting just enough to welcome him in between them. You could feel the trembling effort in his arms as he held himself up, not quite touching you fully.

“It’s okay,” you whispered.

His breath caught.

You guided his hand from your ribs down to your waist, under the hem of your shirt. He traced the bare skin there, thumb brushing along the curve of your stomach like it was holy ground. Your own hands found the edge of his T-shirt and pushed upward, and he helped you pull it off entirely. You took him in, admiring the slope of his shoulders and the scatter of freckles across his collarbone. There was a slight tremble in his chest as he exhaled.

You reached for his hand again and brought it to rest just below your sternum. He watched your face, searching, as his fingers splayed across your skin.

Your shirt followed his, tossed to the side. There was something sacred in the way he looked at you, like awe and reverence lived in the same breath. His eyes widened as you leaned up to undo your bra, but he stopped you. He asked silently, moving slowly after you’d give him a nod. He undid the clips gently, fumbling a few times before pulling the straps down your arms. His breath hitched at the sight of your bare chest.

“Is this still okay?” he asked, his thumb grazing the underside of your boob.

You nodded, voice caught in your throat. “More than okay.”

He dipped his head, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. Your hands ran over the planes of his back, feeling the tension melt away as he kissed his way lower, pausing just above the swell of your chest. You could feel that same warmth pulse in your stomach, deeper now, laced with a need that was unfamiliar but welcome. It wasn’t scary. It was just big.

He settled against you again, chest to chest, his skin warm and a little clammy. You didn’t mind. It made it that much more safe. You shifted slightly, wrapping your legs around his waist, and felt him go still.

“Okay?” you asked, voice quiet.

He swallowed. “Yeah. I just… you feel good.”

You smiled and pulled him down to kiss you again, tongues brushing tentatively. There was nothing rushed about it. No choreography. Just exploration. Curiosity. Trust.

When his hips rolled forward, tentative and slow, you gasped softly against his mouth. It wasn’t even skin to skin yet, not fully. But even through clothes, the pressure sparked something deep inside you. The need in your belly curled tighter.

“Gideon,” you murmured, one hand tangling in his hair. “You don’t have to hold back so much.”

He shook his head against your neck. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You won’t. You’re not.”

He lifted his head to look at you, and what you saw there nearly undid you. He was shaking with vulnerability, reverence, and something that looked an awful lot like love. Or maybe the beginning of it.

“I keep thinking about how I want this to be good for you,” he said.

“It already is,” you whispered. “Just being here with you… I’m not scared.”

That seemed to settle something in him. His body lowered, easing into yours, and your hips lifted in response. The friction was maddening, soft and slow and not enough, but it was a start. A sweet, aching start.

You felt the drag of his body against yours, the press of his mouth to your throat, and the building need that made your fingers dig into his back. Still, neither of you rushed. It wasn’t about getting anywhere. It was about learning the language of each other’s skin. About showing up. About being.

You stayed like that for a while, just half-dressed and tangled in sheets, exploring in kisses and whispered reassurances. Every sigh, every brush of skin against skin, stoked the fire just a little higher. The unfamiliar sense of need kept blooming in your stomach, deep and molten, but it didn’t scare you.

Because it was Gideon. And you trusted him.

He undid the string on his pants, you did the same with your own, sliding them down your legs. He was hard, hot with need. Your eyebrows raised. 


"Is something wrong?" He asked, suddenly self conscious.

"No, no," you whispered back. "I've just.. never seen one in real life before."

He paused, blinking at you. Then a nervous laugh slipped out of him. It was quiet and breathless, but sincere.

“Oh.” He scratched the back of his neck, cheeks blooming red. “Well... this is kind of a weird first impression, huh?”

You shook your head, smiling, though your own skin was warm with nerves. “No. Just... surreal, I guess.”

He looked at you for a moment, like he was trying to gauge if you were okay, if you were still in this with him. Then he leaned down and kissed you again, slow and grounding.

“I can stop,” he murmured, lips brushing yours. “We can stop.”

You slid your hand up his chest, fingers splayed over his heartbeat. “I don’t want to stop.”

Your underwear was the last barrier, and his hands were slow, reverent as he slid the waistband down your thighs. Your breath hitched when the cool air hit you, nerves coiling tighter in your belly. He kissed your cheek, your neck, your shoulder, like he was anchoring you to the moment.

And he was fully bare too, vulnerable in the truest sense of the word. There was a flush across his chest, a sheen of nervous sweat at his brow, but his hands were steady as he reached for the condom. You watched him unwrap it, watched the way he carefully rolled it on, brows furrowed in concentration. The sight was somehow endearing, almost domestic in its tenderness.

When he moved back over you, your knees bent to frame his hips, your breath caught again. Not from fear. From wonder.

“You okay?” he asked again, voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded. “Yeah. Are you?”

He let out a shaky breath. “I think so. Just… want to do this right.”

“There’s no wrong way, Gideon,” you said softly.

He nodded. "I read somewhere that, um, it's easier for girls to control when she's on top. I just.." 


"Okay."

The shuffle was awkward, a tangle of limbs and shy glances as you both tried to find your footing, well, positioning. You giggled once when your knee got caught in the blanket, and Gideon muttered an embarrassed “Sorry” when he accidentally elbowed the wall. But eventually, you were there, straddling his hips, your thighs on either side of him, hands braced against his chest.

His skin was warm, flushed pink at the collarbone. You felt the steady thrum of his heart beneath your palm.

You looked down at him. His hair was slightly haloed on the pillow, eyes wide and dark with anticipation, lower lip tucked between his teeth. He looked nervous, but he wasn’t pulling away. He was just waiting. For you.

“Okay?” you asked, breath barely above a whisper.

He nodded, hands finding your waist, tentative and light. “Okay.”

You shifted slightly, adjusting, feeling the way his body responded under yours. Your hands slid up his chest to his shoulders for balance, and you guided him with one hand, breath hitching as you sank down slowly.

It was new. All of it.

You felt full. Stretched. There was a moment of stillness where neither of you moved, both of you just blinking at each other, caught in the same suspended breath. You let out a soft whimper, swallowing down a groan. You knew it could be painful, assuming it would be more like a cramp than a sting. You stopped halfway, turning away so he couldn’t see the pained expression on your face.

His grip on your hips tightened ever so slightly. “Is it okay?”

You were quiet. He brought a hand up to your chin, guiding you to look at him. A single tear dropped from your eyes and you could see the cogs turning in his mind. Before he could say anything or move, you took a deep breath.

You nodded, exhaling slowly. “Yeah. Just give me a second.”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You’re really… warm.”

You huffed a laugh, nerves crackling under your skin like static. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

You stayed like that for a while, slowly inching lower and lower as your body allowed. He whispered encouragements and sweet nothings as his hands ghosted over your skin. When you were fully seated, you grinned. He nodded, giving you a shaky thumbs up which you returned.

You began to move, rocking your hips slowly, searching for a rhythm that felt good, not just physically, but emotionally. Something that didn’t feel rushed or scary. Something that made space for the both of you.

Gideon’s hands flexed at your waist, his eyes never leaving yours. You could tell he was holding back, trying not to move too much, not to overwhelm you. His restraint was almost sweet. The sting softened into something deeper, a heat pooling low in your belly. You adjusted your angle slightly and felt a jolt of pleasure that surprised you just enough to make you gasp softly.

“That-” you started, and then broke off in a shaky exhale. “That feels good.”

He nodded quickly. “Keep doing that. Yeah.”

You did. Moving slowly, building momentum in tiny increments. The friction, the warmth, the closeness. It all blended into something heady. His hands slid up your sides, gentle and grounding, his thumbs brushing just under your ribs.

“You’re beautiful,” he said suddenly, voice breathy and low.

You blinked down at him, caught off guard. “Gideon-”

“I mean it,” he murmured. “I’ve thought it before. A lot. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

You leaned down and kissed him. It was slow, deep, messy in the way first kisses always are when you’re trying to communicate too much at once. Your noses bumped, your teeth clicked, but none of it mattered.

He made a quiet, desperate noise when your hips rolled again, and you felt the tension in his body rising, like a coil winding tighter and tighter.

“I’m not gonna last,” he whispered, brows furrowed. “I’m sorry.”

You pressed your forehead to his. “It’s okay. You don’t have to.”

Another minute, maybe less, and his hips bucked beneath you, uncoordinated and frantic as he spilled into the condom with a sharp inhale, hands gripping your waist like a lifeline. You stilled, giving him a moment to breathe, your own chest heaving.

He looked at you like he couldn’t believe what had just happened. His eyes were glassy, mouth parted. You brushed the hair from his forehead, kissed the tip of his nose. You scooted off of him, careful when pulling the condom off. He tied it slowly, like he was still coming back down to earth, before tossing it into the waste bin.

When he’d calmed, he gently pulled you down beside him, arms wrapping around your waist instinctively. Your legs tangled together beneath the covers, and for a while, the only sound in the room was your breathing, synced like waves against the shore.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked eventually, so softly you almost didn’t hear it.

“No,” you murmured. “You were perfect.”

He snorted. “I doubt that.”

“I don’t,” you said honestly. “It felt… right.”

He looked at you, his eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. “I’m glad it was you.”

You curled into him, nose pressed to his collarbone. “Me too.”

And then, in the quiet hush of his bedroom, wrapped in his warmth and the fading blush of your first time, you realized that this wasn’t just a pact. It wasn’t just a decision born of curiosity or timing or trust.

"I think I'm doing this all backwards," he started, "but can I take you on a date?"

[swightops]

still holding the silence - thunderbolts* (b. reynolds)

summary - the world is moving on with the New Avengers leading the move. you not so much. warning(s)- typical thunderbolts warnings (depression, cannon violence, blood, etc.), mentions of alcohol, language a/n - mentions of multiverse of madness, thunderbolts,CA 4 (?), this will probably become a mini series since this is wayyyy too long (around 3.8K words) but I really couldn't help myself, lowkey a sad x sadder trope hehe, pretty angsty ngl

It's funny how Bucky and his new team seem galaxies away from you, like characters from a fantasy. You shift in your seat on the couch, eyes glued to the huge TV screen. Reruns from the news report earlier today play different angles of the new heroes cycling with new commentary here and there. They seem untouchable, like heroes you only see on screen. 

A laugh mixed with a scoff makes its way out of you as you force yourself to get up and throw out the empty ice cream carton from your hands. You place your spoon in the sink, and as you turn around, you nearly jump out of your skin and see Morgan now sitting on the couch.

The young girl's eyes are trained on the screen before she turns to you, her lips curled slightly downwards. "That guy with the metal arm was at Dad's funeral," she says, and your mouth goes dry momentarily.

You exhale as you sit next to her, the couch dipping and her small body leans onto you. Morgan's quick to curl up in your lap, and you let her. Your fingers comb through her brown hair, and your eyes fall back onto the TV.

"Yes, he was," you finally answer, your voice quiet, almost a whisper. You don't remember your voice always being so small. You used to be louder, snarkier, livelier. Keyword: used to.

Now, everything seems to be muted. There isn't a new adventure or mission every day, and part of you likes it like that. After everything that's happened, you deserve to live a quiet, calm life, not wondering what monster is around the corner.

But then there's another part of you—one that yearns for the life of the New Avengers—your old life. Yes, constantly fighting bad guys was annoying and tiresome, but with it came the Avengers, your friends, your family.

And now?

Now, there was little to nothing to show for it. You look down at the girl curled up in your lap and notice her breathing has evened out. She's fallen back to sleep. Maybe Morgan sensed how sad the news of the New Avengers made you and sought you out to comfort you. Kids are like that, as Pepper told you once. That they could sense things that adults couldn't.

You shake away all your thoughts and lift Morgan up. You really should have scolded her for being awake since Pepper is coming early to pick her up. Guess there's still some of this "parenting" or "adulting" thing you need to get better at. With a last look at the TV screen, your heart squeezes again agonizingly as you look at Earth's newest defenders.

Good luck to them, you think.

You've come to the conclusion that you're a glutton for punishment.

Your fingers run over the silky material of your black dress as you lean back in your seat. Happy's eyes dart back to you for a moment, trying to asses if he should turn the car around back to your apartment.

You can feel his eyes, sense his worry, and hell, hear how loud his thoughts are. Not the exact thing he's thinking, but more so a general "I am worried about y/n, but I don't want to say anything out loud" thought. You aren't as gifted as Wanda when it comes to mind-reading. Or, you aren't as talented as Wanda was at mind-reading. 

The reality of your best friend's death makes you shrink in on yourself as you recall everything that happened with you, Strange, Wanda, and America. Why hadn't you been there for her earlier? Why hadn't you thought about your family after Thanos and the war? You were hurting, so surely they were as well.

No.

There's no point in dwelling on the past. You also aren't gifted with time-manipulating abilities, so there's not much you can do now to change reality.

"You ok back there, Kid?" Happy finally asks, and you lift your head to meet his eyes. There's a furrow in his eyebrows, and you feel bad about making him worry.

"I'll be ok," you reply, short and small. Happy frowns.

"You don't have to go to this, you know," he says. And he's right. You aren't required to attend the New Avengers' "Meet the Future" gala. It's not like you were actually invited.

You figured no one could say no to you if you showed up.

You could also finally talk to Bucky. You know that he and Sam had argued about the New Avengers, and when you tried to talk to the former assassin, nothing but silence came your way. It hurt. Downright ripped what little of your heart you're holding onto.

Realizing you haven't replied, you clear your throat. "I just want to say congratulations to them. That's all."

Happy isn't convinced.

You shrink a little under his flat gaze. "Do you think it's a bad idea?" you ask, voice smaller than before, almost like a child asking their parent if they're in trouble.

"Why do you think it's a good idea?" he says, and you furrow your brows. Happy's been on this crusade lately of flipping your questions back, hoping you do some "self-realizing." He read it in some book and you think it's bullshit.

As annoyed as you are with his questions, you give him props. Why do you think going to this gala is a good idea? On paper, it isn't.

You, former Avenger now turned billionaire philanthropist, who seems to be on the verge of breaking down in all senses, meeting the New Avengers, made up of people you know don't have the greatest backgrounds, whom no one bothered to ask you about. Ask if it was okay, if you wanted to be involved, what you thought—nothing.

"I don't know," you finally confess, and the car stops.

Paparazzi shout and flash their cameras, and you watch multiple investors, politicians, and workers walk up the red carpet and into what was your home, now remodeled for the new heroes living there.

The world seems to mute itself as Happy steps out of the car and approaches your door. He knocks three times.

"Are you ready?"

You knock back once.

"Yes."

Dozens of flashes go off, and the crowd intensifies as you step out of the car and onto the red carpet. You can see reporters call your name and wave you over for an interview, but you ignore them, simply turning to thank Happy for driving you and that you'll call when you're ready to go home. You breathe out before straightening your shoulders and holding your head high as you enter the tower.

"Ms. l/n! One moment!"

"Sunwraith, will we be seeing you join the New Avengers!?"

"Are you supporting the New Avengers tonight?!"

"What do the remaining original Avengers say about these new ones!!"

"What does this new team mean for the Avenger legacy?!!"

Finally, you make your way inside the tower, and you stop. Something, a mix of guilt and joy, you think, floods you as you look up. The tower's lobby has always had a high ceiling, but now, it seems taller, different, scarier. 

"Ms. l/n!" a voice calls out, and you turn your attention to the older woman calling you. Cecilia Anderson greets you, telling you that you look stunning tonight. She's an older woman and a politician who has donated to the Stark Relief Foundation and yours, "New Light." She's nice, has a good heart, and is a little blunt, but company you don't mind.

"Hello," you greet softly, your hand shaking hers. "You flatter me, Ms. Anderson. I love the gold tonight." Cecilia laughs at your compliment, telling you your dress is much more modest and flattering than hers. You let her ramble away for a few minutes, silently nodding here and there and laughing when appropriate.

"Shall we make our way upstairs?" she asks, her eyebrows wiggling up and down in anticipation. Your stomach turns.

"Of course."

Your heart beats wildly in your ear as you make your way towards the elevator. People are staring. They're whispering. They're pointing.

All directed to you.

Cecilia pulls out a small card from her clutch, and the guards nod at her. She turns into the elevator, waiting for you to join her.

But you can't. Your feet freeze as you stare at the ground. The world shifts, and everything sounds murky as you hear their voices around you. Time rewinds, and suddenly, seven years haven't passed since Thanos. You're still you, a hero, an Avenger, Sunwraith.

"Ms. l/n," the guard to your right calls out, and everything snaps back into place. You raise your head and meet his gaze. "You're free to enter," is all he says, and you force a polite smile before bowing your head and apologizing for holding up the line.

You step into the elevator, and Cecilia is saying something, but you're not listening as you press your back to the wall. People fill up the shaft, and you feel them looking back at you. You duck your head down a little to avoid their gazes, and shit, you think Happy was right. You shouldn't have come; this was stupid, so utterly stupid.

What did you think you were going to achieve by showing up tonight? Show people that you're stable, like all this "New Future" shit doesn't bother you? Show the world that you've moved on past the Avengers, that it was who you were, and now you've turned a new leaf? This plan was complete and utter shit. You can turn back now. Leave and pretend this—

The doors open, and people flood out.

Shit.

Your brain goes on autopilot as you step out. Before you know it, you have a glass of champagne in your hand and are shaking all sorts of hands.

Faces come and go as you're dragged from one side of the room to another. Pleasantries are shared, and bad jokes about how you've grown up so much and are much more well-mannered than Tony ever was. Foundation names are thrown at you, and you simply smile and nod. Questions are asked about you and New Avengers, and all you do is give them a cheeky wink and a finger to your lips, and they eat it up.

You don't know how many people you've spoken with, but soon your chest is filling up. You need to get out, breathe some air, and take a moment to remind yourself that you're a person and not some marketing pawn for these people.

"If you'll excuse me, I don't want to fall too behind on drinks," you say, and the older men around you laugh. You're quick to move away from them and out of the main room.

You walk and walk and think you're going the right way toward a balcony, but everything's different, and you're lost. Your eyes start to sting as you come to a crossroads. Unsure which way is the right one, you crouch down. A shaky breath leaves your lips, and your dress suddenly starts feeling too big, like it's not meant for you, like you're a little kid playing dress up.

"Are you ok?" a voice asks, and your head snaps up. A man stands there, his eyes big, worried, and cute if you're being honest. He's biting his lower lip as his right hand tugs at his other hand, and he's starting to shrink in on himself in the looming silence. "I'm sorry! Y..You probably want to be alone, so I don't know why I asked. I.. I'll just leave!" he stutters out, and he flinches when you suddenly stand tall.

"You can stay," you finally say, and some of the tension leaves the guy's shoulders. "I was just looking to get some air, but I'm kind of lost now," you add on, and you try to laugh to seem happy, but it comes out sad and depressing.

"Me too," the man adds and his eyes meet yours for a second before shifting down to the ground. "I can show you the way?" he asks, and his shoulders bunch up again, already preparing himself for your rejection.

It certainly doesn't help that you're just staring at him. Helplessly staring at him, he really wants to look up and meet your eyes, but he can't. Bob knew he was a depressing person; hell, he couldn't really use his powers because of how intensely he went from his highs and lows. But you, your eyes were just so sad. 

Sad in a way that made him sad—like it was oozing out from you and clinging to his newly tailored pants that still felt too tight. But with that sadness came a weird calm, like the feeling he gets when he's curled up in his room, staring out over New York on a cloudy, rainy day.

"I'd like that," you finally answer with a small smile, and Bob catches a glimpse. Seeing you smile makes his chest feel lighter, and he feels like he has accomplished something unthinkable. He nods, and a silence falls between the two of you. It's not uncomfortable or awkward, it just feels right.

Finally, you're able to breathe again once Bob leads you to a balcony. The lights of New York seem to shine a little brighter tonight as you look out over them, and it brings another smile to your lips. You remember nights like this when you and Natasha would sit on the helicopter pad and talk, overlooking the night sky. Sometimes Bruce or Clint would join you, and the two of you would gang up and tease the joining party about something embarrassing they've done recently.

"Do you come to these things often?" Bob asks, and your eyes shift over to him. Honestly, you forgot he was here. He was so quiet and leaning in on himself, as if he feared taking up too much room, as if he were scared of simply existing.

"I used to. Now...not so much," you answer, and he nods, soaking up all your words.

"Do they ever get easier?" he asks, making you laugh. Again, his chest swells, and he feels like he has accomplished something.

"You get the swing of them. At least, I did. You learn when you can escape," you chuckle, and Bob does too. "I used to get trouble for escaping." Pepper used to lecture you on your escape acts while Tony simply made faces behind her, which had you trying to contain your giggle in fear of being lectured more.

"I don't think I ever will," Bob says, pulling at the cuffs of his suit jacket. "All these people and all the talking...I'm not too good at that."

"You seem alright talking to me," you say, facing him so you can see him fully. He's taller than you, only a couple of inches, and his brown curls are slicked back with gel. You wonder what they look like normally. Your eyes fall onto his suit again, and you can tell it's tailored to fit him. Although he's hunched in on himself, you can tell he's fit and that there's muscle underneath. It makes you wonder what he does. He doesn't seem like a politician. Maybe an investor?

Bob flushes under your gaze and words and quickly coughs (or laughs?). "I guess you're just easy to talk to," he says, and you blink.

You? Easy to talk to? When was the last time anyone ever said that to you?

"You think so?" you say, your voice lower than before, and you also start to lean in on yourself. Bob's eyebrows furrow as he watches you curl up from his words, and he starts to worry that he said something wrong.

"Of course," is all he can say, and somehow, like magic, you're peering over at him and uncurling again. "I...I'm Bob," he blurts out, his voice a little too loud and pitchy, and he cringes. A soft laugh comes from you, and he smiles.

"y/n," you say, and Bob can feel himself smile a little more. "So, Bob, why are you here tonight?"

"I'm just here to support my friends. I'm not good at talking, but I already told you that." Bob chuckles breathily, but it's muted in your ears.

"You're friends with the New Avengers?" you ask, and you feel like you're floating outside your body.

Bob nods, unaware of the shift in you. His gaze falls onto the city's lights. "Yeah, they helped, uh, me a while ago, and now...well, we're all a team."

"Oh."

"What about you? Why are you here?" Bob asks, a soft smile on his face, and it confuses you. He doesn't know who you are?

No, he's probably lying. He has to be. He's friends with the New Avengers, Bucky, more specifically.

But, as you look at his face and see the honest curiosity, you know he's not. Like, he's incapable of lying and just wants to know about you. There's a flutter in your chest, relief. Bob has no idea about your past, what you've lost, and who you were.

It scares you just as much as it comforts you.

"I need to go," is all you say before turning and rushing away. Your heels click on the floor as you follow the sound of laughter and chatter back to the main room.

Bob calls your name out from behind you, asking if he said something wrong, and you want to turn, but you force yourself to keep walking. Everything is closing in around you, and your vision is getting fuzzy, with wisps of black coming into your view and growing by the second. The sting comes back to your eyes and fuck, you really shouldn't have come tonight.

"Sunwraith!" a voice cheers, too loud, too staged. You freeze.

The blinding lights of the main room rip the shadows away, and all eyes turn to you. You feel Bob freeze and duck behind the wall, retreating from the sudden shift in attention.

From across the room, the woman who called you out grins. Not kindly—no, the curve of her lips is wolfish, all calculation, like she's watching to see what makes you twitch.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, the person who formed the New Avengers, starts walking towards you, the room parting like the Red Sea. It almost seems staged, like she was waiting for this moment all night.

"Or is Ms. l/n more suitable," she purrs, her gaze never breaking from yours, "since you're not avenging anymore?"

A ripple of talk stirs uncomfortably through the room, unsure if this is some show. But all of them are soaking up whatever's about to unfold. They're all watching, waiting for you to reply.

She turns to the audience. "Everyone, don't be shy! We're in the presence of greatness! A founding Avenger. A living weapon of light and death. The Sunwraith herself. Please! Some applause!" And like a commandment, the room fills with claps.

Your fists clench behind you, and your fingernails dig into your palms to create tiny crescent moons. Your codename burns like an old scar being reopened. It brings back memories, and it creates heat running up and under your skin and flowing throughout your body, a change from your usually ice-cold body.

Valentina tilts her head, mock surprise playing on her features. She steps closer to you, and you can smell her perfume; it's spicy and burns your nostrils, like breathing in cinder ashes. Valentina leans in close enough that everyone else can't hear her words.

"Oh, but I forgot," she says slowly, eyes narrowing just enough. "You gave that all up, didn't you? Walked away. Some say burned out, others say buried too many friends. Depends on who you ask." The crowd is still watching, waiting.

You breathe in, and your shoulders fall back. Your spine straightens out, and Valentina whistles low as she watches you puff out your chest.

"Is there a point to this?" you ask, voice steady, low.

She grins widely, "Only that the world doesn't get to retire just because you did." Valentina's grin sharpens, pearly and cruel. "See, I thought you might want a look at what progress looks like."

She lifts her hand theatrically, and your gaze shifts to where she's pointing. And then you see it, see the New Avengers, see Bucky. His presence crashes into you like a riptide. Blue eyes met yours, and your breath stills in your chest.

You knew the chance of seeing him tonight, hell, you were hoping to, but seeing him now, standing with her, letting Valentina dangle your past like bait for a crowd…it's like being gutted all over again.

Valentina clocks your reaction instantly.

"Even James knew how to move on. It just took the right kind of...leadership," she says, her voice still low, keeping the words between you both.

You don't move. You don't flinch. Hell, you don't even think you're breathing anymore.

Valentina tilts her head, eyes dancing with mock concern. "Aww. Did that sting? Or are we still pretending you don't feel anything at all?" There's blood dripping from your palms, and you hope it doesn't stain your dress.

You blink once, slowly, measuredly, and force your lips into a neutral curve. Not quite a smile, but enough to keep your image polished. The lights are still hot on your skin, the weight of every stare pressing against your back like a loaded gun. "I feel plenty," you say softly, voice sweetened just enough to mask the venom underneath.

Valentina laughs—a sharp, brittle sound that cuts through the murmurs in the room. "Someone's PR trained!"

With a swift move, she links her arm with yours and smiles brightly at the audience. "Sunwraith, everyone! A true hero for embracing the future of our world!" Cheers and applause sound throughout the room, and cameras go off as you force that practiced smile of yours to stay.

"You know there's always room for more," Valentina purrs, her teeth still locked in a smile for the photos. "Especially, for America's sweetheart."

"I'd offer congratulations," you say, voice soft and pleasant, "but I think you've got enough people doing that for you." She laughs at your words.

Valentina breaks away and steps closer to the crowd, her smile still pearly white. "Shall we raise a glass, then? To new beginnings? To heroes who show up when it counts?" She glances back at you, and it takes everything in you to keep your composure together.

Champagne is passed around, and people start to move again.

You don't. You stay frozen.

And then, once again, your eyes meet Bucky's through the crowd. You swallow the lump in your throat, and so does he. He starts moving towards you, but you turn and walk away. You can't talk to him, you don't want to anymore.

A shift catches your eye, and your eyes meet Bob's. His back is pressed to the wall, and his eyes are wide with worry and shock. You swallow again and keep moving.

You really shouldn't have come tonight.

[yujiqi]

match made in heaven

stranger!hyunjin x wealthy f!reader

synopsis: you’re feeling desperate tonight so you decide to look for someone to hook up with on a dating app and it seems you guys could be more than a one night stand

genre/s: smut, fluff

warnings: oral f!receiving, vanilla sex, lil bit of dry humping

wc: 1.7k

a/n: listen to singularity - bts while reading! i wrote this 2 years ago so it’s not that good but i feel bad for not posting so heres a little smth! mostly proofread!

you long for evenings like this. sipping on a glass of wine, taking a hot bath with a rich lavender essence filling the bathroom.

"miss y/n, your food has arrived. shall i leave it here?" you hear your butler from the other side of the door.

"leave it on my coffee table, thank you"

you hear his footsteps fading away. being wealthy is fun. many people say money cant buy happiness but you think that's false. they're just saying that because they don't have money.

you live alone, your butler and the others that do your housework come early in the morning, but by midnight, it's just you. a part of you wishes you had someone to spend your nights with. you’re the ceo of the company your dad owns. some say you were born with a silver spoon. they aren't wrong, but it does bother you how people badmouth you behind your back when you could easily end their career.

you take the last sip of your wine and set the glass down. you carefully step out of the bathtub and wrap a towel around yourself. the aroma of food fills your nostrils. you ordered lobster with a couple other sides. your butler left a new bottle of wine right by it. you usually don't have big meals like this but it’s friday and it’s been a tiring week. you hear your phone ring and you hesitate for a moment. you don't feel like talking to anyone right now. it’s your mom calling. she's always bugging you about how you need to get married.

"hello" you finally answer the phone.

"y/n. what did i tell you about ignoring my calls." she sounds mad.

"you know i'm busy, mom"

"too busy to answer the woman that brought you to this planet?"

"mom," you pause for a second because you really don't wanna do this right now. "i have to go"

"when are you going to get married, y/n" you feel like she can practically hear your eye roll at this point.

"why are you so worried about that when i'm literally the ceo of a company? i'm well off, i don’t need a man" you protest.

"i just think it would be best if you settled with a man, have a kid that will soon takeover the company too"

"i'm going to sleep. goodnight" and with that, you hang up.

you’re 26, she seriously needs to back off a bit. although you do feel you should find a man. you don't want a man to settle down with though, you want a man to satisfy you and pleasure you. lord knows you need it. you can't remember the last time you had sex. maybe 3 years ago? you’ve been so busy, you haven't had time to think about yourself. you look at your phone and can't believe what you’re about to do. you open the app store and type in "hookup apps".

you’re shocked you’d stoop this low, but you’re feeling really desperate tonight. you open the app and it asks for the basics. name, age, city, and a few extra questions. the app is very quick to find matches. none of them interest you until someone catches your eye.

hyunjin, 23, seoul

cool, hes 3 years younger than you but you can make it work. you send a request to him and he immediately sends a message.

hyunjin: into younger guys i see?

me: im gonna be honest... im really desperate rn

hyunjin: oh yeah? dont u wanna know even a little bit about me?

me: not really

hyunjin: i could be an old white man yk

me: the fact that ur saying that alr lets me know ur not

hyunjin: true

me: ill give u my address then

hyunjin: already???

me: i told u im desperate

you send him your address and anxiously wait in the lobby area of your penthouse. you mess with the strap on your velvet robe. you’re not wearing anything underneath so easy access, right? you get a message from hyunjin asking for the gate code. you give it to him and soon you hear the doorbell chime throughout the house. you quickly get up and open the massive door for him.

"woah" his mouth wide open, pure shock on his face

"you like it?"

"i'm not talking about the house, i'm talking about you" he says.

well that's a first. you don't get many guests, but when you do, all they talk about is the house.

"you're bold" is all you manage to let out. he's fine. incredibly fine. the way his long black his falls perfectly onto his shoulders. you notice the mole under eye. how unique. he's also very tall, much taller than you at least. he has long, slim fingers and your mind can't help but imagine what he can do with them.

"do you want a glass of wine?" you ask him

"i thought you were horny"

"i am, i'm just building up to it" you look up at him with those eyes. the ones that make any guy melt. you grab his hand and lead him upstairs to your room. we sit on the couch and you pour him a glass. even while he drinks, he doesn't take his eyes off of you. he looks hungry and you like it.

"this is a nice place you have" he says, setting down the glass.

"yeah, i'm the ceo of my dad's company" you’re not really one to brag so you don't know why you said that, internally face palming. he nods and continues to stare into your eyes. he then looks down to catch a glimpse at what you’re wearing. the hunger in his eyes grows even more. with the way he's looking at you, you don't think you can sit still any longer. you get closer to him. he watches you closely. you look at him and ask,

"what do you want?"

"you" is all he says before placing his lips on yours. he kisses you so slow and sensually, just how you like it. you wrap your arms around his neck and your hand moves to the back of his head. he deepens the kiss, if that was even possible. he adjusts himself on the couch, making you sit on his lap. you can't help but to slightly grind against him due to the lack of friction. he lets out a slight groan into the kiss. so he likes this... good to know.

"hyunjin, please" you breathe between kisses

he only lets out a low moan in response. his hands find your robe strap. he wastes no time unraveling it. you get goosebumps from the cold air. but the second his hands land on your bare chest, you feel hot. he plays with your breasts for a while before breaking the kiss. his lips move to your jaw, then neck, then collarbone. you start to breathe heavy as you wait for him to put his mouth where you want it the most.

he kisses the area right above your left nipple and takes it in his mouth soon after. you almost immediately moan at the sensation you haven't felt in forever. you run your fingers gently through his hair as his face is shoved in your chest.

"hyunjin, the bed" you whisper into his ear. he stops feasting on you and looks into your eyes with that same look from before, but this one more desperate. he hurriedly picks you up and places you on your king bed, white satin sheets. your lips connect again with the slow and sensual pace as hyunjin climbs on top of you. it feels like you’ve been doing this all night but its only been a few minutes. you pull his shirt over his head. he has a slim appearance, but also has visible abs. what a sight. he's so beautiful, you admire him before he starts to kiss down your stomach. he gets closer and closer to your pussy and you want to moan before he even does anything. you like that in this moment, no words are needed. you’re taking things slowly. you desperately want him to touch and feel every part of you. he looks up at you before eating you out like you’re his last meal. with every movement of his tongue, you feel like you’re in heaven knowing you’re far from it. you thrust your hips, shoving yourself further into his mouth. he pulls your legs further apart, trying to taste every inch of you. there's that familiar yet unfamiliar feeling building up in you.

a breathy "hyun m’gonna" is all that can come out of your mouth.

"not yet love" he moves away from your pulsing cunt. you’re about to whine before he shuts you up with another kiss. he sits up to unbutton his pants. he discards his boxers as well. he pumps himself a bit before leaning down to place more kisses onto your lips as if he'll never get to feel them again. he adjusts himself before thrusting into you slowly. gosh it's been so long since you’ve felt something this good. he leans forward onto his elbows, his cock buried deep in you. you feel his breath your my ear. you wrap your arms around him tightly. the way you are right now feels so comfortable. it's like you’ve known him your whole life even though you met 30 minutes ago. he ruts into you deeply and passionately.

"y/n you're doing so good" he breathes out. he holds you tighter, kissing the skin by your ear. his thrusts start to get faster as you both get closer to your orgasm, and your moans get louder. there's that feeling again, except it's much more intense this time. with one final thrust, you both release. it's interesting how you’re so in sync with everything. you don't want this to be your last night with him. you guys catch your breath for a second before he removes his head from your neck to look at you.

"you're amazing" he smiles at you, a sincere one.

"you too" you smile back.

for some reason, it feels like you don't need to say anything else. like you both know what the other is feeling and thinking through everything you just did. it's connections like this that you should cherish. you plan on sticking with him.

"lets stay like this for a while, then get cleaned up, yeah?" he says

you just nod, his hair tickles your chin.

you’ve finally found your match, your match made in heaven.

[kjack89]

New year, same bullshit. I’m sorry I’ve been so MIA, friends, but I hope you accept this drabble as an explanation of sorts. Love you all ❤️

“Should I be worried?”

Grantaire’s eyes flicker up to Enjolras’s, his cereal spoon halfway to his mouth. “Do you mean, like, in general?” he asks. “Because I mean, like, it’s 2025. And we’re all fucked. So.”

He sticks his spoon in his mouth and shrugs. Enjolras doesn’t smile. “That’s on me for not being more specific, I guess,” he says, scrubbing a hand across his mouth before crossing his arms in front of his chest. “You’re not painting.”

Grantaire swallows. “Well, no,” he allows, “mainly because I’m eating breakfast at the moment.”

“Be serious.”

Grantaire’s lips twitch. “It’s somewhat less funny when you know it’s coming.”

Enjolras arches an eyebrow. “And yet that’s never stopped you before.”

“Fair.” Grantaire twirls his spoon between his fingers before pronouncing, like the well-worn, inside joke it had become, “I am wild.”

Almost certainly despite himself, Enjolras smiles, just slightly. “Yeah, you are,” he agrees. “But you’re also not painting.”

Grantaire’s answering smile fades. “Could be,” he says, a little sullenly. “It’s not like you’re around enough to know.”

It’s a low blow and he knows it, but Enjolras doesn’t flinch. “Maybe not but we live in a late capitalist surveillance state so I have my ways of finding out.”

“Well, well, well, typical white man, complaining about the system except for when it directly benefits you.”

“Yep,” Enjolras says. “Are you going to keep deflecting? Because I can do this all day.”

For a moment, Grantaire’s tempted to take him up on it, to see just how long he’ll actually allow this to drag on. It’d almost certainly be good fun, and it isn’t like Grantaire’s got anything better to do.

But he can also see that Enjolras is genuinely worried, can see it in the tightness of his shoulders and the lines at the corners of his eyes that he tries to claim aren’t crow’s feet because he’s not old enough to have crow’s feet. And considering Grantaire’s previous point about all of the other things that are almost certainly more worth Enjolras’s worry, he supposes he owes him at least a semblance of the truth.

“Yes, I haven’t been painting,” he says, dipping his spoon in his bowl of cereal and stirring it, mostly to give himself something to do with his hands. “No, you shouldn’t be worried.”

Enjolras nods like he didn’t really expect a different answer. “Are you depressed again?”

Enjolras’s bluntness, characteristic though it may be, still startles a laugh from Grantaire. He sighs and looks down at his cereal bowl. “There’s not really a way to say this that won’t worry you.”

When he sneaks a glance at him, Enjolras meets his eyes evenly. “Try me.”

Grantaire jerks a shrug. “I’ve never really not been depressed,” he admits, which isn’t really a dirty secret so he’s not entirely sure why he’s saying it like it is.

Maybe because he really doesn’t want Enjolras to worry. They don’t talk about this, really, other than for Enjolras to reiterate more times than Grantaire can count that he’s always there to listen if ever Grantaire wants or needs to talk.

He knows that Grantaire’s in therapy, and takes meds, and had some very low lows previously, but Grantaire’s never felt the need to fill him in on the specifics.

It was depressing enough living it the first time.

He made that joke, such as it was, to his therapist, who didn’t laugh. “Do you frequently feel like you’re a burden to your loved ones?” she asked in response.

Of course Grantaire does, but again, he won’t tell Enjolras that.

Enjolras taps his fingers on the table, the way he does when he’s deciding on the best plan of attack or how to most effectively dismantle whatever asinine argument Grantaire’s brought up. “I thought you were doing better,” he says hesitantly after a moment.

He doesn’t pitch it as a question but Grantaire still nods. “I was.”

“What happened?” Enjolras asks, before pausing and asking, “Did something happen?”

Grantaire sighs and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “It doesn’t always work that way,” he says. “It’s not always triggered by something happening.”

Enjolras’s brow furrows. “Right,” he says shortly, something like disappointment flitting across his expression.

It took Grantaire a very long time when they got together to realize that this kind of disappointment isn’t aimed at him, but at a problem Enjolras can’t fix, an enemy he can’t fight.

At least, not directly.

He clears his throat. “But in this case, I think probably everything over the past few months played at least a contributory role, shall we say.”

True though it is, he mostly says it for Enjolras’s sake. Enjolras just nods slowly. “Are you not painting because your depression is bad again?”

Grantaire exhales sharply. “I’ve painted a lot while depressed.”

Enjolras’s expression doesn’t shift. “Another excellent deflection.”

Grantaire barks a laugh and scrubs both hands across his face. “You know me too fucking well.”

“Or just well enough.”

Grantaire lowers his hands and sighs again. He doesn’t quite meet Enjolras’s eyes as he says, “Every time I go try to paint…it’s like I can’t see it anymore, you know?” Enjolras almost certainly doesn’t know, but he’s struggling to put it into words in a way he can understand. “Like I can’t picture it in my mind, how I want it to look, or how to get there. It’s– it’s like trying to paint in fog.”

It’s not an exact metaphor, but it’ll do.

Enjolras nods slowly. “But I don’t need to be worried.”

“No,” Grantaire says, before wrinkling his nose. “Yes? I never know what the correct response is.” Enjolras just gives him a look, and Grantaire tells him, “No, you don’t need to be worried.” He pauses, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth before telling Enjolras with an almost tired conviction, “It’ll come back. It always has.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire cracks a smile. “Then you can worry.”

Enjolras takes a deep breath. “Ok,” he says simply.

Grantaire eyes him resignedly. “You’re going to worry anyway, aren’t you?”

A smile twitches at the corners of Enjolras’s mouth. “Newsflash, asshole, I’ve been worried this whole time,” he says dryly, and Grantaire’s smile widens at the quote.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Enjolras’s smile disappears.

“What? Why?”

Grantaire shakes his head, mostly because he knows Enjolras won’t like his explanation. “Because you shouldn’t have to—”

Sure enough, Enjolras cuts him off with a scowl, though his voice is gentle as he tells him, “That ship I’m pretty sure sailed when I fell in love with you. Or, frankly, probably a good deal sooner than that.”

There are so many things that Grantaire wants to say that, but he can’t bring himself to. Instead, he stretches his hand across the table and tells Enjolras, sincerely, “I love you.”

Enjolras takes his hand, lacing their fingers together. “I know,” he says softly. “I love you, too.” He squeezes Grantaire’s hand before adding, “I hope it comes back soon.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire agrees. “So do I.”

[itsa-me-lily]

I am still tired, but brain is less mush after some lunch. (Can you guess what I had)

Here is other Simon & Thimble playlist

Here is more Military Program Spouse AU

It helps to assume here that unless stated otherwise Simon is wearing a medical mask around reader. She’s just like whatever floats your boat my dude

Content warning;

Mention of food, medical devices, scars, cellulite

“Simon whatever your middle name is Riley you better not be looking at my legs.”

Maybe his mum had a point, that women developed eyes in the back of their head. He wasn’t deliberately looking at your legs, but he wasn’t not not looking either. For some reason unbeknownst to him, you had decided that you had to make the biggest batch of soup known to man. Sure the seasons were changing, summer slowly letting go for fall, but it wasn’t as if a chilly wind was rattling at the windows threatening to steal whatever heat existed. It was still relatively balmy, warm enough to have the windows open and enjoy the breeze. Warm enough that having the stove going made the kitchen borderline stuffy, encouraging you to cook in just a loose tank top and shorts that hit mid thigh.

Simon wasn’t a prude, he wasn’t scandalized at seeing the curve of your thighs, or grossed out by the cellulite. Everyone had fucking skin and however you wanted to dress in the comfort of your home you were welcomed to it. But he had eyes and well he was curious. His own body was covered in scars and tattoos that told a myriad of stories. So he looked to see what yours had to say.

Picking at the chicken you had left on the counter he counted the spots that your insulin pods left behind like stars, noticed how you missed a small strip of hair when you were shaving, even the mole that you had on the back of one ankle; they all came together to make up parts of a story about his wife that he was just starting to get.

He was so lost in thought, mechanically putting piece after piece of poached bird into his mouth, barely paying attention to anything besides the action of seeming busy, that he didn’t notice when you turned around, the exasperation in your voice finally catching his attention.

“Seriously? What did I just say?”

Simon wasn’t someone who startled, didn’t jump or hunch his shoulders to his ears. He had spent far to much time sharpening himself as to cut anyone who tried to catch him unaware. He just wasn’t prepared for you to admonish him like that, hands on your hips and looking for him to answer your question.

“What? You said not to look at your legs…I wasn’t lookin’ at them”

Not a lie, but not quite the truth.

“Yeah instead you’re eating your way through them!”

He blinked at you slowly once and then twice, following your gaze down to the plate of chicken leg quarters he was indeed making his way through. At least one looked like it had been pounced on by scavengers.

“You said no lookin’, nothing about no tasting.”

That was most certainly a twitch to your eye. That probably should have been concerning, but honestly Simon was secure enough in his height and size that if you tried to suffocate him he could throw you off. He was a good head taller than you, honestly how much damage could you do? When you pointed your wooden spoon threateningly at his chest it didn’t do much besides remind him of a little old grandma who would wield the same utensil as a weapon.

“You sir, are an asshole. Now go run to a shop and get me one of the pre cooked chickens.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because you’ve eaten half my damn chicken and like hell is my sancocho going to suffer for it.”

“Your what now?”

Yes Simon Riley knew he was being as ass. Yes he also thought that there was a realm of possibility that your upset face and clear murderous intentions were slightly endearing. But only slightly.

“My god damn soup. I swear to god if you fuck this up for me I will find a way to make you suffer the consequences.”

“Alright alright, no need to have a bird over some-heh, bird.”

He didn’t stay to see the double middle fingers you aimed for his back, he didn’t need to. He was pretty sure you were also cursing his name and maker. It wasn’t until the front door shut behind him that your colorful vocabulary was loudly shared with the world. It made him chuckle as he picked up his pace.

Heaven help anyone who got between a woman and her soup.

Edit

I am very passionate about my soup

[koshkamartell]

No One But Me

notes: I'm so sorry this has taken so long to write and post to you all. I had initially wanted to finish the epilogue and post it as one complete work, however it has stretched longer than I anticipated and I don't think it is fair to keep you guys waiting. I know it might be annoying that I'm posting this epilogue as two parts, so forgive me for that, but it might be more enjoyable this way.

warnings: some warnings have been omitted in order not to spoil parts of the story, dissociation, descriptions of episodes of depression, instances of PTSD, mentions of pregnancy, lots of angst and emotion, grief, mentions of past sexual abuse and assault.

When you arrive back to your home in Jackson the first thing you do is take a shower. You strip the layers of clothes from your body and leave them discarded on the floor in the corner, too tired to bother putting them in the clothes hamper. You remove the necklace from your neck and toss it onto the pile of clothes.

You stand under the blasting stream of hot water and groan with appreciative satisfaction as it pours along your neck and down your back. You lather your hands with a bar of soap and drag it over your arms and chest, then your legs and the rest of your body. You bow your head to watch the diluted soapy mix of blood and dirt swirl around your feet before disappearing down the drain. You stay under the water until every inch of your body is clean.

Your brain is blank, operating on autopilot, and all the scarce remaining energy within you is channelled into each slow, deliberate movement of your limbs. After the shower you dress in an old shirt and a pair of sleep shorts, then you pad to the kitchen to see what you can eat. Maria had dropped off a stew earlier, when you had just returned back home - she had lingered at your doorstep, concern etched all over her pretty features, only leaving once you reassured her you'd be okay alone.

You stand in the kitchen and eat a few spoonfuls of stew directly from the pot. Although you haven't eaten a full meal for several days your appetite is dulled by exhaustion, and a few bites seem to suffice, sating the twisting hunger pains in your stomach.

The lure of sleep is too inticing and powerful to resist any longer, and so you half stumble to your bedroom to finally collapse into your bed. Both your body and mind are so overcome with fatigue that you slip into a black dreamless state as soon as your head hits the pillow. You sleep for 12 straight hours.

••••••

The first few days pass by in a blur. Maria and Tommy take turns stopping by each day to check up on you, a meal from the mess hall always in hand. You barely talk during their visits, purposely avoiding their pitying and worried expressions. They don't hang around for long, just enough to check that you are coping and not in need of anything. They want you to take some time off work for a while, they say. You don't bother to protest.

During those first days your friends stop by several times, but you don't answer their knocks on your door. You aren't ready to socialise with anyone and you know they will overwhelm you with a myriad of questions about things that you have no desire to talk about. Tommy or Maria must tell them as much, for the knocks eventually cease, leaving you to the quiet comfort of your self imposed isolation.

You wake, eat as much of the food as you can stomach, then go back to sleep. This cycle continues for a week. On the seventh day you wake up feeling less disconnected from reality, your brain and body more refreshed, a calm clarity flooding through your system.

But the feeling is short lived, for as soon as your feet touch the bedroom floor you find yourself retching. You blindly rush to the toilet just in time to vomit a heap of yellow bile into the bowl. You gasp in between heaves, sweat beads forming along your hairline, and it doesn't take long for your stomach to empty itself from the gross acidic liquid.

Maybe you ate too much last night. Maybe the tomatoes in the stew were too acidic for your stomach. You'll have to be more careful next time.

You force yourself to take a shower, desperate for the relief the hot water grants your body. You stay under the stream until the hot water runs out, then quickly bundle yourself in a towel and go to get dressed. You still have no intention of leaving the house, for facing the world outside seems impossible right now - you want to remain in the cosy security of your cocoon for a little while longer. You make a mental note to do a load of laundry later and dress in a fresh set of pyjamas.

Today you opt for a change of scenery and decide to totter out to the living room and laze in your armchair. Your brain no longer feels so foggy, so you might even try reading a new book, if you feel ambitious enough. There's still a couple of library books on your shelf that you have yet to finish. You are just about to take a seat when a knock comes at your door - Tommy or Maria, no doubt.

You are shocked when you swing the door open and find Ellie on your doorstep. She looks dejected and uncertain, as though she isn't really sure why she's arrived at your home. She looks like an anxious child as she shifts her weight between her feet.

"Hey," she mumbles, her eyes not quite meeting yours.

"Hi," you whisper back. There's an awkward pause as you wait for her to speak. You've known Ellie long enough to know that she's struggling to articulate what she wants to say. You can't help feeling sorry for her - she must have so many questions and thoughts running through her mind, so many conflicting emotions battling inside her heart.

If it were anyone else on your doorstep you would turn them away, but you feel like you owe it to Ellie to talk. You invite her inside and insist on making a pot of tea for you both to share.

"You look like shit," she quips as she follows you inside. There's no malice in her voice; she's making a simple observation, and you're sure you do indeed look horrible. You haven't looked in the mirror since you've been back. Maybe you've been afraid of what you would see reflected back at you, that you will finally be confronted with the shame and guilt and misery that you've been suppressing.

"Why did you leave?" She asks sharply, leaning against the kitchen counter as she watches you prepare the tea. The safety of your home seems to have granted Ellie the confidence she needed, you think wryly.

You clear your throat, conscious of how rough your voice sounds from lack of use.

"Joel wanted to find somewhere else to live for a while," you answer surprisingly smooth, not meeting her eye.

It is the first time you have spoken his name and the word feels strange on your tongue. You fill a small saucepan with water, empty some tea leaves into it and then and set it on the stove.

"You didn't even say goodbye," she shoots back quickly, an edge of accusation in her voice. The hurt is evident in her voice; she probably thinks you willingly left without saying farewell to her.

"I didn't want to go," you reply softly. You turn the flame of the stove on and glance over to her. "I wouldn't have left without saying goodbye. You know that, Ellie."

Ellie stares at you for a moment with an air of wariness about her, a slight pout formed on her young face. She looks like she wants to believe you but something is holding her back.

"Did he make you?" She asks quietly.

Her question makes your stomach clench.  You don't want to denigrate Joel or expose the ugly truth of his actions, but you think you might too tired to be tactful or diplomatic for long. You wonder if she's heard any talk around the town. You wouldn't be surprised if there is gossip being spread around.

You understand that she must be feeling frustrated, that she probably hasn't had anyone around to talk about it all with. Poor Ellie, you think. You resolve to try your best to provide a safe space for her, as long as she doesn't probe you too much.

"Yes," you answer simply. "But he wasn't in a good place mentally after your....argument. He wasn't thinking clearly."

"He never thinks - he just does whatever the fuck he wants, without even thinking about anyone else!" Ellie bursts out angrily. She crosses her arms and huffs out an irritated grumble. "He's a fuckin' psycho."

You sigh softly and pull two mugs out from one of the kitchen cupboards. You have nothing to say back to that, nothing to argue in response. You cannot deny she speaks the truth atleast to some extent.

A tense minute of silence passes between you before Ellie speaks again.

"Did he hurt you?"

It catches you off guard. Your movements falter, your grip on the mugs wavering slight. The ceramic clink sharply together and you have to quickly set them on the counter before they fall to the ground. You glance at her and try to school your expression to one of confusion. She meets your eyes with unwavering focus, sharp and expectant.

"No," you blurt a little too sharply. "I mean, what do you mean?"

"I mean, did he hurt you?" Ellie says slowly, empathically, a biting edge to her voice.

Ofcourse he had, but what would the point be to expose her to that truth? It wouldn't fix anything - it would only further damage the already shattered foundation of her relationship with Joel and cause her to feel more animosity toward him. Why add more fuel to the fire?

Besides, just to what extent Joel had infact hurt you, both physically and emotionally, was your pain to bear, your trauma, and the thought of sharing it with anyone felt wrong.

"No," you answer flatly, the lie slipping from your tongue with surprising ease. "He didn't."

You both fall silent, unsure what to say next. The atmosphere in the small space of the kitchen becomes thick, like the two of you are holding your breath. Then the water begins to boil and you quickly act to remove it from the stove, grateful for the distraction. You position a steel strainer over one of the mugs and pour the water through it, then do the same with the second mug.

"Did you love him?" Ellie asks, her voice now low and gentle. She looks down at the ground, too vulnerable to meet your eyes.

"I did," you respond in a soft whisper, eyes fixed on the tea. "I really did."

When you're finished, you slide one of the mugs over the Ellie. She tentatively looks up at you as she grips the handle of the mug.

"And now," she questions with the slight raise of an eyebrow. "Do you still love him? Or do you hate him?"

You pick up your mug and give a delicate blow on the liquid.

"No, I don't hate him," you admit in a hushed voice. You ignore the question about love.

"Well I do," Ellie growls, her face suddenly darkening into a contemptous frown. "He's a fuckin' liar."

You shake your head gently and look back up at her. "He loves you more than anything in this world, El. I'm sure he had good reason to do what he did."

"Bullshit!" She scoffs angrily. "He was just too selfish to tell me the truth."

"He probably wanted to protect you. He would die if anything were to happen to you." You try to reason. You still don't know the exact details of what happened, so you hazard a guess at what Joel's justification would be. "He was probably scared he would lose you if you knew the truth."

Ellie says nothing and walks from the kitchen to the living room with the mug in her hands, blowing on the hot liquid to cool it down. You follow her and the two of you sit on the couch, one on either end.

"I just feel so betrayed," she admits, her voice low and laced with frustration and pain. "Like, he fuckin' lied to me all this time. And I knew something wasn't right, you know? I fuckin' knew it."

You nod slowly to indicate you're listening, trying to ignore the guilt gnawing in your insides over the fact you had just lied to her yourself. Ellie looks down at her cup of tea and shakes her head bitterly.

"I'm so angry at him," she mutters.

"You are allowed to be angry, El. People make mistakes. Maybe you need to talk to him, hear it from his perspective."

Ellie takes a slurp of her tea. "I dunno. I got no idea when that will be. Uncle Tommy says he's not coming back."

You say nothing. You knew that Joel wasn't going to be back in Jackson for a while, if ever - Tommy had told you so when you returned, an effort on his part to reassure you that you would be safe. You were neither relieved nor pleased to hear the news. In fact, since being back you hadn't had much of a chance to process what had happened to you, or your feelings. Everything has been locked away deep inside you, self preservation working overtime.

"You and Joel aren't together any more, are you?" Ellie questions hesitantly.

You both stare down at the mugs of tea in your hands, too uncomfortable to meet each other's eyes.

"No, we aren't," you reply simply, your voice devoid of any affection.

"I guess you don't wanna see me anymore, seein' he won't be around." Ellie mumbles.

"Oh, El," you breathe out, trying hard not to let the pity you feel cloud your expression when you finally look over at her. "Whatever happened between Joel and I...that doesn't affect our friendship. I will always want to see you. You mean so much to me. "

It is the most sentimental and emotive you have ever been with the teenager and you are unsure how she will react to such an emotional display. Ellie has never been the kind to express anything sugarcoated, and she rarely communicates without her usual sparkling wit or sarcasm. You worry that you've crossed a boundary with her.

There's a few beats of loaded silence between you, then she gives a little sniff and nods her head once, still not meeting your gaze.

"Good," she says plainly, maintaining a detached exterior.

You swear you can detect the slightest trace of relief in her voice. You don't push the topic any further. The two of you sit in companionable silence for a while and sip from your mugs of tea. Neither of you mention Joel again.

Ellie gives you a tight hug when she departs from your home and you sense the great unspoken affection within the gesture. You give her shoulder a gentle squeeze, a reassurance that you will always be there for her, and when she leaves you feel a tiny ache of tenderness inside your heart.

Although Tommy tried his best to downplay the whole saga, Joel's absence within the patrolling community became somewhat of a scandal. Tommy had to call a meeting amongst all the patrolmen to address the rumours and gossip that had been circulating. He asserted that Joel was in good health but needed a break from others for a while; he would be living outside the gates for the foreseeable future but would be actively communicating through radio and keeping watch from his remote location. The exaplanation seemed to appease everyone's curiosity and the community eventually continued on without dispute.

It wasn't a lie, either.

Initially he was going to stay at the raider's cabin alone but Tommy convinced him to live closer to the settlement with the reasoning that it was safer and he would have access to food and supplies when needed.

Although Tommy was disgusted and horrified by the snippet of insight into Joel's abusive behaviour towards you, he still cared about his older brother. He didn't feel right about Joel living so far away, isolated and alone. He worried that Joel's already precarious mental state could easily worsen if he was left by himself without any purpose in his life.

Joel agreed to act as a sentry at the cabin checkpoint a few miles outside Jackson. He and Tommy remained in contact through a radio walkie talkie to report any signs of danger around the area. It was a beneficial arrangement for everyone; it afforded Jackson extra security and in exchange Joel was issued a ration of food supplies once a fortnight, delivered by Tommy.

It went without saying that Joel shouldn't step foot through the gates of Jackson so soon after what happened. Tommy couldn't trust that Joel wouldn't do something reckless if he did and Tommy wanted to respect you and your right to feel safe.

But to his surprise it was Joel himself who voiced that it wasn't a good idea for him to be in the community. Joel just couldn't be around people for a while. He needed space and time to himself, away from forced social interactions, away from all the guilt and shame, the ruination of his life.

Joel didn't admit it to Tommy but another reason for his self imposed exclusion was because he couldn't bear the thought of seeing you or Ellie. He was sure he would die on the spot if he caught a glimpse of either of you. Witnessing either of you continuing your lives without him would only serve to prove that neither of you needed him, and for Joel that would be akin to torture.

He spends his days in the small cabin by himself, the radio walkie talkie serving as the only connection to what had been his home for the last five years. He patrols the surrounding area twice a day. Tommy gave him a few paperback books to read to pass the time, and Joel ends up reading and rereading them within a couple of weeks. He savours his rationed food and eats modest meals, the only remotely comforting thing he seems to have out in the wilderness.

You should be here with him. This is what his plan had been all along - living a simple and quiet life surrounded by nature, far away from everyone else, just you and he. He feels frustrated and angry; no, he's actually fucking shattered, completely, to the point of abject dissociation.

You're back in Jackson, living your life without him, probably so carefree and happy that he wouldn't even recognise your smiling face as belonging to the woman whom he had loved so passionately. Ellie would be the same, so young and exuberant, not missing his presence for even a second. He imagines the two of you going about your day, laughing and spending time with your friends, Elle rearing the sheep while you tended to the children's education.

Joel is often lost in nostalgic daydreams about you and Ellie during the daylight hours. He reminisces about the times he spent teaching Ellie chords on his guitar and the movie nights where they would watch the same VHS tapes over and over in the living room. He thinks about the all the times they shared dinner together while Ellie recited ridiculous jokes and anecdotes. Those memories make Joel smile. Oh, how he wish he could experience them again.

The memories of you, however, are far more painful than pleasant. He thinks about the early days when you first starting seeing each other, how passionate and romantic it had been in the beginning. He recalls the infatuation written all over your face, all shy smiles and giggles, your supple lips against his. His heart and body ache as he remembers the feel of you in his hands, pliable and eager to please, so willing to submit to him.

He misses the softness of your skin and the taste of your mouth, the wet warmth of your cunt and your sweet moans in his ear. Sometimes he jerks his cock with your name on his lips, luxuriating in that moment of fleeting pleasure before he's left feeling empty and pathetic once more.

He dreams about the two of you almost every night. Some dreams are like nightmares; recreations of you and Ellie turning and walking away from him while he was unable to move, his feet cemented to the ground and leaving him helpless and hysterical. Those dreams leave him with that familiar gut wrenching devastation which cause him to jolt awake gasping, his cheeks already wet with salty tears.

In those times Joel reaches across the bed in blind search of your body, desperate to feel the weight of you next to him. He had never acknowledged it but your presence in his bed had been a source of comfort to him, especially during the nights when peaceful sleep would evade him. Now you are gone from his life and his bed, he feels more alone than ever.

He has other dreams, rare ones where you and Ellie forgive him and hug him and kiss his cheeks. Those are far more bearable. After those happy dreams he wakes feeling just a little less glum, just a little more inspired to keep living. The fantasies become persistent, chasing after him through the day as well as the night, never giving him reprieve for very long.

Despite his longing, Joel doesn't look at the polaroids. He doesn't allow himself to hold your panties in his calloused grasp or to twirl your ribbon around his fingers. He doesn't even open the shoebox once.

••••••

After wallowing in seclusion for another week you decide you need to get on with your life. Knowing you can't avoid people for much longer, you arrange for your friends to come visit you one afternoon to debrief them on everything that has happened. You dread it more than anything but you feel too guilty to keep evading them, knowing they are patiently waiting in the background for you to finally come to them and share your experience.

The group of women surround you in your cramped living room and cling to every word you speak, fascinated yet astounded by your story. You reiterate that Joel forced you to leave town when he was distressed and not thinking straight, that you hadn't wanted to go when you did. You omit so much, lie through the grit of you teeth so often, that it feels like a performance of sorts.

You hate yourself for it.

You tell them you and Joel are over and that you just want to move on. You try your best to don a fake smile. The women seem to accept what you say and don't ask too many questions. You catch Kate gazing at you pensively a few times, her expression unreadable, but you pretend not to notice.

The next morning you wake up with an itching compulsion to deep clean the entirety of your home, like a switch has been flicked inside your brain. Your body feels recovered and revitalised enough now, so you leap up and get straight to work cleaning your cottage from top to bottom.

You strip your bed sheets and put on new ones before rearranging the position of your bed and your set of draws. You scrub your bathroom and sweep and wash all the floors. You dust every surface and wash down the windows inside and out. You wipe down the kitchen from top to bottom and reorganise your pantry.

You work on autopilot as you move throughout the cottage completing each task. You are methodical and focused, so preoccupied with cleaning that your brain disengages from anything else. You continue until you are exhausted, knees aching and finger joints tight, and the fresh scent of lemon permeates your cottage. You meander between each room to survey your hard work, soaking up the gratification that comes from the knowledge that your space was now cleansed. It feels purified and fresh, untainted by the lingering energy of anyone else.

Like Joel.

His name echoes in your mind, causing an involuntary shiver to crawl up your spine. You suddenly become hyperaware of your own unwashed state, the dried sweat and muck on your skin and clothes now feeling unbearable. You quickly make your way to the bathroom and tear off your clothes, reminding yourself to do a load of laundry later.

You turn on the shower and wait for the hot water to kick in. As you stand there naked, ready to step into the alcove, an abrupt wave of nausea knocks you to your knees. You steady yourself on your hands and gag and dry heave, but nothing comes up. The queasiness eventually passes, leaving your body trembling and depleted.

You should have eaten something more substantial today.

You crawl into the shower and sit against the tiled wall, pulling your knees up to your chest. You wrap your arms around your legs and bow your head, letting the water cascade over you and fill your ears with a dull roar.

Only in this moment, when you feel so alone and vulnerable and weak, do you weep for the first time since coming back home. You cry for Oscar and the wretched way he died, for the immense guilt you feel that he died as a result of trying to help you. You cry for the memories of your days together, light hearted and joyful. You cry for the loss of a close friend, a shining light of hope in your life, for all that could have been.

And at last you cry, ugly and unabashed, at the realisation to why you've been feeling so ill, why your belly has recently started to swell.

2 months later

Joel is sat at the square table by the cabin window, a small handled blade in one of his wide hands. He studies the little chunk of wood in his other hand, rubbing his thumb over its smooth underside. He has only just started this new project but it is quickly taking shape. He hasn't yet decided if this new figurine will be a black bear or a panda.

He has recently taken up whittling, a hobby that he used to dabble in but hasn't indulged in for a few years now. There are so many hours in the day and patrolling and checking traps hardly puts a dent in the passage of time. The nights are even worse, seeming to tick by agonisingly slow, magnifying the cold empty space in his bed and within his heart. Whittling has become one way to distract himself from the pain, even if only for an hour at a time.

Joel carves and chips at the wood with surprisingly dexterity considering the size of his hands. He holds the wood with a gentle kind of reverence as he carefully shaves and shapes with his knife, his tongue lodged in his cheek while he concentrates.

Oh, how he wishes Ellie could see the latest piece he accomplished. It sits on the windowsill beside him, watching on as he works; a regal looking hawk perched on the top of a tree branch, it's proud chest puffed and its beady gaze piercing. He knows she would love it. He would be kidding himself to think he created it without her in mind.

Joel wonders what figure he would whittle for you. A cat, maybe. Or a turtle dove. Something more delicate and pretty thank eagle. You imagines presenting it to you, how your face would light up in delighted surprise and you'd kiss him and cling to him and----

Except that won't happen, he inwardly scolds himself. You fucked it all up.

Why didn't he this sooner? Why didn't he do something romantic like this earlier, when you were still his, when you still loved him? Why had he never made more of an effort to show you his love, in ways that weren't fueled by aggression and his need to dominate? He had always been so scared of losing control that he didn't allow, himself to open up, to show that side of himself to you, not until it was too late. Not until after he raped you.

He had everything he ever wanted with you and he lost it all. He lost you. Just like he lost everything and everyone else.

Joel frowns and shakes his head irritability, his self hatred smouldering like a hot coal. Living a solitary existence in the checkpoint cabin has given Joel more than an ample amount of time to reflect on the past, on his actions and the consequences of all his deeds. Sometimes he thinks he is slowly going mad, for he has not been alone like he is now for a very, very long time, and the solitude can be defeaning. It is peculiar for him not to have you or Ellie around, and some times he has to remind himself that he is no longer in Jackson, that he isn't just simply waiting for either one of you to finish work and come back home to him.

He's alone, completely and utterly.

It gives him time to think of the people in his life who have been significant to him, who he has loved in one way or another, the people who have managed to carve a home inside his heart. The ones whose faces and voices have been etched into his brain, haunting him like ghosts of the past.

He thinks of Sarah and her killer smile, of all the happy memories they shared as she grew up. He's able to smile at those memories of being a single father to such a beautiful girl, comforted to know that he did his best to be the best parent he could.

But it doesn't take long for those joyful recollections to become overshadowed by the feelings of panic and anguish that still seem so real even after more than 20 years have passed. He tries to push them from his mind but it seems impossible, like the repressed pain can no longer be subjugated and imprisoned in the deep recesses of his consciousness.

The agony rips right through Joel when he remembers the worst day of his life - the day his child was shot dead right infront of his own eyes. It tears his heart to shreds to recall the harrowing moment he held his dead child in his arms. He failed to protect her and keep her safe, failed to uphold such a crucial and fundamental part of being a father.

Joel's self hatred festers and grows inside his chest. He feels it creep up from his ribcage, like noxious black tendrils, to curl around his neck. It is suffocating, threatening to choke all the breath from his body.

I'm so sorry, babygirl. I'm so sorry.

The emotions he has stifled for so many years are finally unleashed and he cannot stop the torrent of tears that come flooding. He can no longer stop the deep seated guilt and sadness from rising up and swallowing him. He ends up on the bed, curled into himself, weeping for what seems like hours. He cries like he cried when you turned and walked away from him for the very last time. He buries his face in his hands and cries and howls until his guts and sternum feel hollow and his stomach threatens to retch.

Joel remains in bed long after his tears cease. His entire body feels drained and limp but the weight of grief has been lightened somewhat; there's an almost serene, numbed sensation cloaking him and he no longers feels like he is drowning or that his brain is short circuiting. It is a strange feeling, one that he is conscious of but uncertain of how to process. The respite from the heavy emotions stretches across several days, granting Joel some peace inside his mind.

The bouts of intense sorrow happen several times more. Like waves along the ocean shore, the grief comes crashing down and washes over him. He no longer fights it, instead letting it engulf him until he cries and releases the pressure of the agony that has accumulated within him. Each time the sadness ebbs away, Joel feels that same sedated solace envelope him.

He occasionally thinks of Tess, of the last words she spoke to him before he was forced to abandon her. Save who you can. He had always remembered her words, using it as the ammunition he needed to continue powering along to complete his mission of transporting Ellie to Marlene. And even though Ellie now hates him for murdering the Fireflies and lying to her, Joel feels not a shred of regret for his decision to protect her existence and save her. He fucking saved her, and in turn saved them both, for he would have surely died had she been sacrificed for a shot at curing the dreaded cordyceps infection.

Tess's parting words echo in Joel's ears whenever he thinks of that fateful day at the raider's cabin - the day when Oscar tried to save you and died, when Tommy led a rescue mission to find you, when he had ended up losing you forever.

He had failed to protect you from that raider, to save you from whatever depraved things he has planning to do to you; it had been Oscar, his rival for your affection, that had been your hero. It still fills him with great shame to think of the way you yelled at him with so much rage, stupefying him with the acidic truth of your words.

"That raider could have killed us all! He was going to hurt me and you did nothing! Oscar saved me from that raider, not you!"

He failed you. He didn't protect you from his own failings as a man and partner. His need for control, borne from the trauma of losing Sarah, had overshadowed his ability to nurture and cherish you. He's painfully cognisant of this now, only now it is too late to repair and heal your relationship.

Fuck.

He would do anything to show you how sorry he is, how much regret resides so deeply inside his soul to have hurt you. He would give anything for the chance to make up for everything he ever did to you, for one last chance to hold your face in the palms of his hands and kiss your lips and whisper his apologies.

It has been just over two months since Joel has seen your face. He can still picture you as clear as day, though. Your face is burned into his memory, all the defining features of your image; the plumpness of your bottom lip and the wide set of yours eyes, the shape of your nose and the angle of your jaw, the arch of your brows and the curve of your chin. He wonders if he will ever lay his eyes upon them ever again.

••••••

Nights are difficult for you to endure these days. Sleep is elusive, a goal you chase for hours as you toss and turn in your bed. When you do finally grasp a few hours of sleep you rarely get a decent nights rest. Sometimes you're plagued by flashbacks of the raider and his filthy face, his burning malevolent eyes and his rotted teeth. Sometimes you dream of Oscar dying in your arms and you wake up crying.

You occasionally dream of Joel. They aren't dreams of him tying you up or loading you in the wagon, or being rough and cruel with you. In fact the dreams featuring Joel are the most peaceful ones your brain seems to conjure; they are mundane situations where he's cuddling you on the couch or repairing broken furniture in your cottage, and he seems happy, even sometimes smiling. Sometimes two small children run into the room giggling, a boy and a girl with dark brown curly hair and large brown eyes.

More often than not you wake up with an aching pain inside your ribs. Your bed feels so spacious and cold. These deathly quiet late nights are the only time you allow yourself to consciously confess you miss Joel. You miss his warmth, the squeeze of his thick arms around your body. You miss the rise and fall of his chest against your back as he spoons you, the mumbled drawl of his accent in your ear when you are half asleep.

Each morning you draw the curtains open and allow the sun to imbue every room in your home with its golden yellow light. You open the windows and welcome the gentle breeze that drifts in, fresh and carrying the perfume of spring flowers from nearby gardens. You are determined to begin each day with a positive outlook, a sort of promise to keep your spirits afloat.

You had resumed your work duties once you felt mentally stable enough to be around other people. You still hadn't really processed much of what had happened at the raider's cabin, but by this point of time in your life your brain had adapted to managing trauma the best way it knew how; repression and compartmentalisation was sufficient enough to allow you to continue living without having a complete breakdown.

You slipped back into your role as a teacher relatively easily - the children showed no signs of knowing the real reason why you had been missing from school for a few days, and so their ignorance spared you any further discomfort. You enjoyed seeing their youthful faces light up with interest during the more exciting lesson plans, enjoyed hearing their cheeky laughter peel through the building and out into the yard.

You had dreaded going back to the library for the first time. When you unlocked the front door and passed through the threshold, the jingle of the bell above you caught you off guard. It's tinkling sound was like a stab to your heart.

"Is it weird that I miss that sound?"

You heard Oscar's voice echo in your mind and your eyes instantly filled with sadness.

You slowly trailed through the library, running your fingers across the surface of the front counter, feeling like a ghost haunting an abandoned home. Although Oscar stopped working there some time before his death, you swear you could sense his presence within the nooks and crannies of the building; you half expected him to come strolling out from the back room with a book in hand and that characteristically charming grin on his face.

Except for Tommy no one had known about the love triangle between you, Oscar and Joel. As far as everyone in town knew, Oscar had died trying to rescue you and Joel after Joel had persuaded you to try living outside the gates. Oscar's body was transported back to Jackson and buried in the town cemetery as a hero. That's what everyone believed.

"Stop it," you had scolded yourself under your breath. "He's gone."

You got to work dusting down the shelves and straightening the books and comics, then you sorted through the stacks of returned books behind the counter. Sometime around the mid morning a trio of children entered into the library and rifled through the picture books, their giggles and chatter fill the quiet empty space, and you smiled to yourself.

The presence of the children around you made you contemplate just how proud you are to contribute to your community, how important your role is to help maintain a safe, happy place for people. This is what you want to live for, you think, to be a source of comfort and love in this apocalyptic world.

One of your hands trailed down to rest on your belly, warm and delicate. The telltale prick of impending tears stung your eyes and you sniffed them back. You're going to be strong, you promised yourself. You can be your own hero now. Oscar had helped you to realise just how special and important you are, and you owe it to him to keep living and being happy.

Besides, you've now got a whole new reason to be resilient.

After the initial shock and panic eventually ebbed away, you recognised deep down that you weren't irrevocably distressed at the thought of being pregnant. It may be an entirely unexpected and frightening prospect, but you feel no need to wallow in helplessness. You can't change what has happened. You draw strength from your acceptance of fate. You simply go on living, just as Oscar wanted you to.

You don't tell anyone. You feel the grip of paranoia every so often, worrying that people can see right through your exterior, and in those times you scurry back to the sanctuary of your home and isolate yourself until your next shift at the school or library. Kate and Rhi and Jess try to encourage you to be social and invite you to lunch and dinner dates and drinks at the Tipsy Bison - they never seem deterred by all the times you politely decline.

It takes two months of being back in Jackson for you to finally feel courageous enough to brave a community event. Your friend, Cassie, is finally getting married after all the months of planning and stress. You make the mammoth effort to disguise your pain and help organise her special day with the rest of your friends. You and Rhi endeavour to find enough pretty table cloths and flowers vases to decorate the town hall tables with, and the day before the event you and Kate collect enough flowers to design a stunning bouquet for Cassie to walk down the isle with.

The afternoon of the wedding is encumbered by a swell of stiflingly hot weather. The lack of breeze exacerbates the humidity and the only relief you can find is in the large pitcher of cool lemonade sitting infront of you on the table. You pour yourself another drink and relish the sound of the ice clinking as the sweet liquid spills into the glass.

"It's so fricken hot," Kate groans beside you. She unfurls a hand fan and begins to fan herself in a dramatic fashion.

You watch her with an amused little smile. The fan is plastic with a pastel pink paper leaf, and considering its age it is in quite good condition. It matches the dusky pink colour of her blouse well. You yourself opted for a flowy skirt and top of a similar style in an effort to hide the slight bump of your tummy. You're grateful that you haven't had a bout of nausea so far this afternoon.

You take a big gulp of lemonade and hum with satisfaction at sensation of the cool drink sliding down into your belly. You lean back into your chair and nurse the glass on your lap and watch the wedding celebration taking place all around you.

The town hall is brimming with wedding guests; some sit at the clusters of tables arranged around the open space in the middle, where people dance to country music played by the town band. It's a merry affair, carefree and jubilant, with everyone smiling and laughing. Cassie beams as she dances close to her groom in the centre of the hall. She wears a crown of different coloured flowers ontop of her head, a creation that you and Rhi helped to fashion for her special day. She makes a gorgeous bride, you think, like a fairy queen.

Her newly pronounced husband gazes at her face with open adoration. He only has eyes for her, not even paying attention to anyone else around them, as if they are the only people in the world. You're happy for your friend, that she's met someone who loves her so much. He's a good man. He's good to her. Perfect soul mates.

You aren't at all envious of Cassie, for she deserves to be happy, but there is undoubtedly a part of you that feels forlorn witnessing this celebration of love and matrimony. It's a bitter reminder of all that you have lost, of all the potential that never came to fruition, and of the dreams you had dared to dream before all the mess Joel put you through.

You feel the unexpected prick of tears filling your eyes. Oh, not now. This isn't the time to cry. You sniff and bow your head to discreetly swipe at your waterline but Kate notices what you're doing.

"Hey," she leans close to you and clasps her hand over your knee. "You okay?"

You aren't sure what to say to her. Yes, you are okay - on the surface, atleast. But on a more fundamental depth you aren't okay. You are still internally reeling from the trauma of what happened to you just two months ago. How can you tell your friend that your head and heart are still broken and jumbled, that you are still tormented by the death of the man who loved you so dearly and you him?

How can you tell her that despite everything Joel did to you over the past year, that his absence has left a painful emptiness within your life? How can you possibly describe these things to her when you yourself cannot fully comprehend your own feelings?

Lying is so much easier.

You dab at your nose with the back of your hand and raise your head. "Yeah, I'm okay," you answer. Kate leaves her hand on your knee and gives it a little squeeze.

"Look at me," she implores gently. You do as she asks, although there's a trace of shame in your expression as you do. She stares at you with concern and sincerity for a few moments, studying your face.

"It's okay not to be okay, you know?" Kate leans a little closer and lowers her voice. "You're allowed to be sad. You are allowed to grieve for a part of your life, even while you celebrate someone else's happiness."

Her sage words penetrate your carefully crafted facade of composure and strike at the raw wound deep inside your soul. Kate did always have a knack for summarising a complicated situation into a concise observation, but never in an insensitive manner. Her ability to read you causes a lump to swell in your throat and a fresh wave of tears to threaten to unleash.

You bow your head down once more, unable to meet her gaze any longer, and slip your hand over hers. Kate interlaces her fingers with yours and squeezes delicately. "You can be sad for as long as you need to be."

With her free hand she pours you another glassful of lemonade. You allow a few tears to fall before wiping them away and inwardly resolving to save them for the privacy of your bedroom late at night. You spend the rest of the wedding reception sipping lemonade with Kate and taking turns fanning each other, all while watching with delight as Rhi struts around the dance floor.

Life can be good, you think.

••••••

3 months later

The weeks following the wedding were  when you really started to struggle with the pregnancy. You were regularly hit with nausea throughout the day, no matter how much you snacked, and you were constantly battling the urge to abandon your work shifts to go home and sleep. Was this normal? There were so many questions you had, so many things you wondered about. Was it normal for your breasts to feel so swollen? Was it concerning that all you wanted to eat was mashed potato and bread slathed with honey? Why did it sometimes feel as though your abdomen muscles were close to tearing apart?

You knew nothing of what to expect as your body was growing a new life. All of your scarce knowledge about pregnancy had come from an outdated book about women's health that you had found in the library. You studied your body in the mirror each morning, running your hands over your thickening abdomen, fretting over just how much longer you'd be able to hide your body until it would no longer be possible. You weren't sure how far along you could be - you couldn't remember when your last period was, so you couldn't really calculate an estimate.

There was no doubt that the weight of your secret was taking a toll on you mentally. There were times when you felt very alone, when you craved the comfort that comes after sharing your woes and worries with someone trusted. It was becoming too much for you to bear by yourself.

You thought of the people in your life that you would approach for help, who you felt you could trust to protect you and offer you the understanding and wisdom you so needed right now. It didn't take long for you to arrive at the natural conclusion that Tommy and Maria would be the first people you wanted to confide in.

They were trustworthy people, two important pillars in the Jackson community, always looking out for the wellbeing of others.Tommy had led the rescue mission that had ultimately saved you, and Maria had nurtured you when you came back to town. They also had children of their own and could counsel you about all the questions and issues that were causing you to toss and turn in bed every night.

You had planned to announce the news one evening at their home, when Ellie was present. You wanted the three of them to know first - it seemed appropriate considering you were all connected to Joel in some way, making you like a surrogate family.

You sit on the couch in their living room now, twisting your hands in your lap, steeling yourself for their unpredicted reactions.

"So why'd you ask to see us?" Maria prompts, angling her body to face you. "Is everything okay?"

You glance up at Tommy standing across the room. He is watching you with that characteristic expression of his, eyebrows knitted together and his beautiful dark eyes full of concern. Ellie sits in the armchair beside him, her eyebrows raised, awaiting your response. You take in a sharp breath of air and the answer comes tumbling from your mouth, candid and without emotion.

"I'm pregnant."

Maria is known for being a composed, staunch woman, however, your revelation has her demeanour momentarily slipping; her eyes widen and her mouth falls open in shock, a tiny gasp escaping from her. Ellie's reaction is similar, with her fingertips coming up to cover the bottom half of her face. Tommy suddenly expels a choked splutter, as if he has something lodged in his throat.

"Fffuuuuuck," Ellie manages to exclaim through her flabbergasted state. "Is it Joel's?"

"Ellie," Tommy mumbles in an embarrassed tone, shooting her a reproachful glare. Ellie gives him a theatrical shrug and gesticulates to you.

"What's wrong with asking that? She could've totally got a secret boyfriend since she's been back!" Ellie cocks her head to the side. "So uh, do you?"

"No, Ellie," you answer dryly. "It's Joel's baby."

"So are you gonna tell him?" Ellie leans forward in the armchair with her elbows resting on her knees. "Do you want him to know?"

You look down at your hands in your lap and give a little shrug. "Probably not right now," you admit quietly. "I don't know if it's a good idea."

"Whatever your decision, we will support you completely," Maria asserts firmly, reaching over to clasp her hand over yours. "We are here for you, whatever you need."

You glance up at her and give her a small smile, hoping she can recognise the relief and gratitude you feel at her words. "Thank you," you reply shyly.

"So you're just going to keep it a secret from Joel? Even though he's the father?" Ellie suddenly spits out, disapproval and disgust heavy on her tongue. You look at her as she casts her piercing gaze around the three of you. "More secrets?"

You know Ellie is still feeling sensitive about Joel lying about the real events at the hospital. You can understand why the idea of you concealing your own truth is triggering for her. But her outburst takes you by surprise, her disdain stinging you like the tail of a scorpion.

"Just for now, Ellie. It's for the best. Please don't be upset."

Tommy seems to snap out of his daze, the tension in the room prompting him to intercede. He stands up straighter and clears his throat to address Ellie. "Now El, that's her choice to make and she's got her reasons for it. Ain't no one else's opinion matters right now."

"He's right, Ellie," Maria interjects, calm and gentle. "Pregnancy can be a very challenging experience for a woman, not just physically but emotionally and mentally. If keeping the news confidential gives her reassurance that she's safe, then we should support that."

Your heart swells with appreciation for Maria. You turn your hand over to curl your fingers through hers. "Thank you," you whisper.

Ellie stands up from the couch unceremoniously, mumbling an excuse that she needs to go see her friend Dina. Her attitude hurts but you cannot blame her for feeling how she does. She doesn't look at any of you before she stalks out of the living room and slams the front door shut after her, the force of it reverberating through the house. You flinch and Maria gives your hand a comforting squeeze.

"Don't worry about her." Tommy takes a seat in the unoccupied armchair and stretches his legs out infront of him. "She'll come 'round soon enough. The way things were left with Joel...well, it's still raw. Don't take it personally."

"Maybe she needs to have a talk with him sometime," you murmer, staring at your hand still clasped with Maria's. "For some kind of closure."

Tommy hums contemplatively. "Yeah, well, maybe that ain't such a bad idea. Once she's ready, ofcourse."

"Ofcourse," you say in agreement.

A silence falls over the room, but it isn't an unpleasant one. Infact, you feel quite comfortable on the couch, Maria's presence beside you acting like a calming anchor, Tommy's laid back nature making you feel at ease. You look up at him and he flashes you a polite smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

It is never wise to make such comparisons, but you cannot stop yourself from contemplating the contrast between the Miller brothers. The men have such opposing personalities that you occasionally wonder how they are siblings. How does one possess such a benevolent and altruistic persona while the other is paranoid, brutish and ill-tempered?

You had sometimes wondered what Joel had been like prior to the outbreak. Maybe he had been an entirely different man, with a sense of humour and an easygoing nature. You know he had a daughter who was lost in the outbreak but you know no other details; it was Ellie who told you in confidence one day, but Joel had never talked of her, so you chose not to ask about her, despite wanting to know more.

You look at Tommy now as he speaks with his wife, and you silently analyse the features of his handsome face. There are clear similarities to he and Joel, such as the patchiness of their facial hair and the shape of their mouth, bottom lip full and sensual. But while the younger brother's mouth is more often than not pulled into a jovial smile, the older rarely smiles at anyone except Ellie.

It is their striking dark eyes, arguably the most attractive feature of both the brothers, that are strangely contrasted. Tommy's brown eyes always seem to emanate a sense of warmth and humility. Whether he is talking with a close friend or greeting an acquaintance, his eyes shine with a geniality that puts people at ease. You watch him now and notice how they soften even more when he looks at Maria,  with nothing but pure adoration in his orbs.

You aren't sure if you've ever witnessed Joel look at you in such a way, though it wouldn't have been more than a couple of times if so. Had he always been so stern and serious? If not, what had made Joel into the hardened man he is today?

"Tommy," you speak up, catching his attention. "Ellie told me Joel had a child before the outbreak. A daughter."

Tommy nods once, his eyes flickering back to Maria for a brief moment before he answers. "Yeah, he did. Her name was Sarah. She passed on outbreak day."

Sarah.

You have no clue what she may have looked like, but you can't stop your imagination from conjuring up an image of a young girl with round cheeks and sparkling brown eyes. Knowing how much Joel loves Ellie, you bet Sarah was the apple of his eye.

You hesitate for a few beats before you ask the question that you have wanted to ask Tommy since the moment you accepted the reality of your circumstances. "Was....was he a good father?" You ask, the unexpected tremble of your voice taking you by surprise.

You notice Maria's back straighten just the slightest and the way her gaze narrows at her husband, indications that she could also be intrigued to hear his answer.

Tommy exhales a soft sigh, a sad little noise, then gives a solemn nod of his head. "He was. She was his everythin'. He would've done anythin' for her." He keeps his eyes fixed on you, genuine candor written in the somber knit of his brows and his downturned mouth. "He worked his ass off to give her the best life he could. He loved her more than anythin' in this world."

Tommy inhales an audible breath and pauses, seeming to hesitate before his next words. "I know my brother has his faults."

His eyes drop down to the floor, a wave of shame and sadness visibly crashing over him. Maria doesn't outwardly react to his words and you momentarily wonder if she has any idea just what Tommy is alluding to. "I know he hasn't been a good man to you. But Joel was always a good father, there's no doubt about that. He was the best father to Sarah."

As you listen intently to Tommy's words you come to realise that there is no doubt in your mind that Joel was a good father to his daughter; you know just how deeply he loves Ellie, that he would be willing to do whatever he had to in order to keep her safe and happy. You knew, deep in your heart of hearts, that although Joel has many flaws, he is nothing short of a dedicated and loving father.

"When Sarah died...he just couldn't handle losin' her. He..." Tommy's voice becomes thicker now, and you can see how he is trying to choke out the words through the lump of emotion sitting in his throat. "He tried to end it all...to kill himself. He was so broken."

Tommy bows his head. Your heart skips a beat and your stomach suddenly drops. You feel a pang of something - a mix of sympathy and shock, perhaps -  strike behind your ribcage.

Joel tried to kill himself?

You think of how Joel looked that day you left him kneeling in the snow, when you had walked away from him after Tommy had come to your aid. You remember the devastation within his eyes, the hoarse desperation in his voice as he begged you to stay, the strangled sobs of defeat that followed. Joel must have looked similarly when he was preparing to end his life.

Witnessing him so distraught had not affected you at the time - you had been too traumatised by the events of your abduction to feel anything more than relief for the end of your nightmarish ordeal. You had found it easy to turn your back and leave it all behind, to leave Joel behind.

But now, imagining him in such a profound state of grief that he willing to kill himself, causes your heart to sieze within the confines of your chest.

"When it didn't happen he just kept goin' on, not carin' about anythin' but survivin'. He turned hard and cruel. He wasn't the same man anymore." Tommy continues softly. "I thought I'd never see him smile ever again. But then Ellie came along..."

He lifts his head and gazes at you, tears filming over his puppy dog eyes. "And she gave him a reason to be happy again, I think because he got to be a father again. And I think bein' a father is the biggest reason for him wantin' to stay alive."

You feel your own eyes fill with warm tears and your nose begins to drip. You sniff and tip your head back to stop from crying. Maria passes you a handkerchief from her pocket and rubs your back in soothing circles. Tommy wipes his nose with the back of his hand and sits up straight, his barrel chest puffing out.

"I don't want to influence any decision you make in any way, just answerin' your question, sweetheart." He clarifies earnestly. "And like Maria said, we'll support you however you need."

"Looks like you could eat something," Maria offers gently. "I got some leftover soup, you want a bowl?"

"Sure. I'd love that."

Tommy quickly stands up from the armchair and adjusts his belt buckle. "Stay there, ladies, I'll get it."

He darts out of the living room and to the kitchen before you can even thank him. You and Maria exchange glances and she chuckles.

"Getting a bit too heavy in here for him, I guess," she grins. "Once the dam breaks it's hard for Tommy to hold back the waterworks."

"Really?" You wipe your nose with the lacy white handkerchief. "Has he always been so...open with his feelings?"

"Nah. I mean, he is a man, after all." Maria gives you a smirk and settles back into the cushion. "When I first met Tommy he was alot more restrained. Except when it came to his anger." She rolls her eyes and shakes her head ruefully. "He bottled up so much for so long that he didn't know how to deal with it, aside from starting fights at the Bison."

You gawp at Maria, shocked that a man as soft spoken as Tommy could have been so combative. Maria clocks your disbelief and snorts. "Oh yeah, you got no idea."

"What changed?" You ask timidly. "He's so... different now."

"As I'm sure you've guessed by now I don't tolerate that kind of macho bullshit," Maria says with wry humour. "So I told him if he wanted anything to do with me then he better work on his repressed shit, or else he could get lost."

Your eyes widen and a small, startled gasp slips from your mouth. "Really? You said that?"

"Ofcourse. I liked him, but I haven't got the time to deal with that nonsense. I wasn't going to be the one to clean up his blood everytime he mouthed off at the wrong person."

You twist the handkerchief in your lap and clear your throat. "So, what happened then?"

"He agreed to work on himself. Stopped drinking so much and started talking about why he was feeling so much anger and sadness."

"Wow," you whisper in awe.

"Don't get me wrong," Maria adds quickly. "It didn't happen overnight - it was a long road, and we fought alot. But Tommy wanted to change and he made the effort to."

You swallow the lump that suddenly forms in your throat. So Tommy's nature hadn't always been so opposite to his older brother's temperament; he had just chosen to improve himself, to actually deconstruct his emotions, and that is why he is the warm hearted individual he is today. Although you feel awestruck, you cannot help the niggling disappointment that Joel had not followed Tommy's lead. Would he be like Tommy if he had?

Then Joel's voice suddenly echoes in your mind; it hits you like a bomb and your whole body stiffens on the couch.

"I been tryin', you know that, don't you? Been tryin' to show you how I feel and make it up to you."

Had he tried? Yes, you supposed so, at one time. He had tried to more patient, more affectionate, more loving, but it had been too late. You remember when you hadn't returned the same level of effort that Joel had felt spurned and ended up treating you even worse than before.

Maybe Joel just wasn't capable of properly loving you in a healthy way, without the jealousy and hate that plagued him so much. Maybe he just didn't love you enough to keep trying to change, like Tommy had for Maria.

"Soup's heated up, ladies," Tommy's honeyed voice chimes from the kitchen, breaking through your thoughts. "Bring yourselves to the table."

Maria shoots you a smile and stands up, taking your hand and pulling you carefully up with her. "Let's get you and baby fed."

••••••

You revealed your secret to your friends a few weeks after the wedding. You anticipated their surprise and concern, and although you dreaded it, you dealt with their bombardment of questions with as much patience as you could muster.

Yes, you were okay.

Yes, the baby is Joel's.

No, he doesn't know.

They all gathered you in their arms and embraced you in a group hug, promising to support you and be the best aunties that your baby could ever dream of. You cried, your heart heavy with the magnitude of your circumstance, but there was also a sense of relief that coursed through you to know you wouldn't be alone in this journey.

You weren't able to hide the bump of your belly for much longer, especially in the warmer weather. Sweat made the material of your clothes cling to your skin, outlining the curves of your body, and it had become obvious to anyone who looked at you that you were pregnant.

The majority of the Jackson community are conservative folk and the news that someone is pregnant out of wedlock is a subject of scandal. Although people talk and gossip, as they tend to do in all towns, no one ever directly approaches you to ask questions or dig for information. Some people throw you occasional looks of curiosity (or what you thought was scrutiny) and whisper to each other behind their hands, but your friends are quick to defend you from the unwanted attention. More than once Rhi confronts someone about their staring, raising her voice at them to mind their own business and fuck off.

You don't really care about other people's opinions, anyway. You are beginning to feel more excited as the days pass, more in wonderment of your body and the slowly developing physical changes that you can see in the mirror. You still couldn't truly grasp the concept that your own body was growing something so precious within it.

Life continues.

You see your friends most days and Maria invites you over for dinner once a week. You don't see much of Ellie, only when you bump into one another in the street or the mess hall. Tommy and Maria tell you she's busy with her duties and spending time with friends, but you wonder if she's purposely keeping her distance from you. It secretly pains you, but you remind yourself that Ellie needs time to process everything that has happened recently. You wonder if she has spoken to Joel yet.

You don't talk about Joel to Maria or Tommy or anyone else, but lately you have found yourself thinking of him at random times of the day. You wonder if he is safe, if he is managing life okay without Ellie with him.

You wonder what he would think of your belly. When he finds out the news will he be angry? Will he be happy? Will he be full of regret?

You hadn't been able to really analyse your emotions or even think about Joel until now. You're aware that there has been some kind of shift in your brain recently - there is a clarity, a sort of empowering positivity that surges through you. Perhaps you feel so supported and safe now that you no longer need to avoid triggering thoughts or memories.

The times of introspect sometimes come in unsuspecting little pockets when you least expect. They present themselves in flashes of memories throughout the day, sparked by a phrase someone says, something you spy, or a certain scent that catches your nose. His existence once again manages to pervade your life even when he's not around, like the throbbing scar of a freshly healed wound.

One morning on the walk to the school you spot a speck of vibrant blue flash within your peripheral vision. You stop and redirect your steps toward where the twinkle of colour has materialised from - in a shaded spot on the ground, at the edge of an unused store building, partly obscured by a tangle of weeds. You can guess what it is almost instantly and a stuttered gasp of surprised joy hitches in your throat when your eyes confirm it.

It's your favourite flower. Forget Me Not.

You tread over to the store, with its window fronts shuttered and the wooden front door cracked and dusty looking, and bend down to inspect the cluster of flora. Amongst the weeds are three thin green stems that each carry a bunch of small star shaped blue flowers. Despite how sparse the collection of flora is, it adds a much needed pop of colour within the muted backdrop of the dusty street. It's simply beautiful, you think.

You kneel down slowly, a hand under the shelf of your belly, and begin working to extract the fragile plant with your hands. You are careful not to crush any of the petals as you unwind the dry weeds that have twisted around the stalks.

You break off the more tougher weed tendrils and then yank the weeds with a tigh pull so the roots give way, freeing the fragile flowers from its grasp. You chuck the tangle to the side and dust your hands together to rid them of the dirt.

All that is left now is the delicate pedicel. You sit back on your heels and admire it, a hint of a smile on your face. Maybe you could dig it up and take it home with you and plant it in your own garden; you haven't seen this particular flower in such a long time, and here it is, growing in a neglected spot where it will surely be drowned in a dirty clump of weeds, no one to tend to it and nurture its beauty.

Then, without warning, the quiet baritone rumble of Joel's voice drips between your ears.

"Forget Me Not. The flower. It's your favourite."

The smile instantly drops from your face and you screw your eyes shut. You remember when he had said it, the night he had confessed to know you better than you thought. You remember the shock of his words, how bemused you felt that he had somehow learned and retained such a random fact about you.

The residual hurt and resentment from that time returns once again, like a sharp stab to your heart. Had he been more observant than you thought? Had he actually cared about who you are as a person, just choosing never express it, atleast not until after wreaking so much damage?

You open your eyes again to gaze down at the blue flowers. Your fingertip gently strokes over one of the soft petals. No, you think bitterly. He had never cared about you, not really, not as a woman with your own autonomous dreams and needs. All he wanted was to own you.

You decide to leave the plant. It could end up thriving right where it is, happy with the shaded dirt and neighbouring weeds and shrubs. There was no reason to uproot it and disturb it. Maybe it even liked being there, despite the unispring setting and no one to really admire it. After all, you knew all too well what it was like to be plucked from the comfort of your familiar surroundings and taken somewhere entirely foreign.

You push yourself to stand back up, letting out a small grunt as you wobble slightly once back on your feet. A rush of dizziness momentarily clouds your head but it disappears quickly. You should have eaten a bit more for breakfast, perhaps. You were feeling more sluggish lately, more inclined to laze in bed for longer in the mornings. You wish you could forfeit your duties and go back there right now, but you soldier on. You sigh softly and steel yourself for the day ahead. Your hand gently rubs over the bump of your belly as you walk the rest of the way to school.

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CB theories/thoughts (part 1)

One of the things I love about CB is how the story immerses its reader into the story and makes them discover for themselves what is happening, watching it unfold and learning things along with Chase. The story is done in a way that it doesn't spoon feed you the information. It gives you the pieces and you have to put them together. There are so many details that can go unnoticed,but they can be crucial to the plot.

I am really interested in Nox cause he is the biggest mystery to me so far in the series. The guy is such an enigma,we know him but we don't know ABOUT HIM. Much like Chase.

I would like to point out that this is the first time that Nox saw Chase,he didn't look as aggressive as the first time he interacted with Chase,but he does seem to be under pressure.

Nox said that he has to get back THAT KEY, talking about Silver as she is an item? Why would he do that when he is a key himself? I did think of the possibility that he was human at first and became a key at some point later in the story,but I now doubt it. Mainly because he has known since the start how every story goes by the time he enters it and that's a trait the keys have. Plus, if he has been a key this whole time, the whole narrative makes more sense. It is interesting how Nox said "something is missing" and not "the key is missing" maybe because Silver is not what was missing or she is not the only thing missing. She did come with a torn paper that has instructions and we do see a book with a missing page. The page Chase found seems to fit,it is just that Chase is reading the other side of it,but the torn pieces seem to fit.

The questions that are arise are the following.

Was it Nox that torn the page? 

Who put Silver and the page in the library?

Why was silver cracked? 

Was silver intended to be found by someone specific?

 Was it Nox that torn the page?/ Who put Silver and the page in the library? If we look at the handwriting in the "read me" book it seems a bit sloppy. I think this is the kind of letters someone would have while trying to write in a hurry or fit a sentence in a small space. Or maybe these are the kind of letters of someone using a bigger pen than their size to write. I am giggling so much at the thought that Nox is actually living in some secret room under the library, and under some toy story-like operation, he managed to put the book in the library. The book was found after all on the lowest bookshelf and the only reason Chase noticed it was because he was lying on the floor. It is safe to assume that whoever has Nox and the keys are close to Sugar springs since two other keys were found there.

Why was Silver cracked? I honestly have no idea,I am not creative enough for that. All I can think of right now is that the last time she was in a book something went wrong. As I have said in another post, I don't think ex libris is active anymore cause whoever is that old man,he doesn't seem to fit the profile of Ex libris. In a previous post, I said that Nox and Violet do not seem strictly supervised and Nox is not forced to retrieve the keys as the old man doesn't seem to know of Silver's absence or even care. It is possible that he didn't know that her crack could be fixed so Nox saw it as an opportunity to sneak her out.

Was silver intended to be found by someone specific? Maybe, maybe not. Nox does say ‘’after all that and it is just a small weak little thing like you’’ which could mean that he did not know who was supposed to find Silver, or maybe he was looking for a candidate that he deemed worthy of including in his plans. I don’t think there is enough information to draw a clear conclusion for that question to be answered.

Bonus detail: Nox likes to hide between trees and leaves and that's where he was hiding the first time he saw Chase. When Bronze entered we see a rustle of leaves, implying that Nox did enter the book for a moment. 

I am thinking of making this a series of posts where I just overthink everything and I make silly theories cause I need season 2 asap and I feel a great urge to yap.