#i have a LOT of feelings about how his need to keep up the good person act is EXTREMELY reminiscent of sister iris in that way

[differenteagletragedy]

Part two of the one where Simon lets you move into a room in his house You tell Simon that you have at least a few weeks before you need to move out of your apartment and into his spare room, but he doesn't see the point in wasting time. The day after he offers to let you move in, he goes shopping, and the next few days are spent putting everything together. The bed, the dresser, two matching nightstands, some shelves — he makes sure everything is solid and sturdy for you, and he hopes you wouldn't notice how new it all is.

He cleans, too, every inch of the place. He's not a particularly messy man, but he'd bought the small two-bedroom house years ago, and he's not one for company. So he goes over everything, and he does what he can to make sure that his home is a good place for you, from the small stepstool he buys and sticks in the corner of the kitchen to the way he organizes his shaving supplies in the bathroom so you can have half the limited counterspace.

When you tell him you're ready, he brings his truck to the bar to pick up you and your things, and his heart aches, just a little, when he sees that all you have is a couple of bags slung over your shoulder. Without a word, he takes them from you and carries them out, and he tries to shrug off the slight disappointment he feels when you open the passenger door before he can do it for you.

"It's not much," he tells you on the short drive back. "Two bedrooms, just the one bathroom. I'm gone a lot. Stay as long as you like."

"What do you think for rent?" you ask. "I've got a little bit saved, and I can —"

"I meant what I said, love. There's no rush."

He hops out quickly after he pulls into the driveway, opening your door for you this time. He takes your bags and carries them in and into the room that's now yours, setting them carefully on the floor before turning to you, sticking his hand in his pocket and pulling out a key.

"Same one for both doors," he says. "Not much in the kitchen, but help yourself to anything you like. And let me know if you need anything at all."

The first few days, you don't see each other much. He stays in his room more than usual, not wanting to crowd you or make you feel uncomfortable. You pick up an extra shift at the bar, trying to make that rent he keeps telling you not to worry about.

One night during that first week, he comes home late from the gym, and he's pleasantly surprised to see you sitting in the living room, watching tv and having a snack.

"Oh, sorry," you say immediately when you hear the door open, like you'd done something wrong.

He smiles, just a bit, and nods for the couch, wanting you to be comfortable — maybe liking the idea of you warm and cozy in his space a little too much.

"Nothing to be sorry about, sweetheart," he says, stepping closer.

You nod, and slowly sit back down, but on the edge of the cushion now, tense.

He doesn't care for it.

"What's on?" he asks.

"Oh, just this show I watch sometimes. It's a dumb reality thing ... I can check it out on my phone later."

You minimize yourself constantly, he's noticed that for a while now, but it's never been so clear as it is now, with you perched on his couch like you're waiting to run for cover. He still doesn't know your story, but in the moment, he'd love nothing more than to find whatever or whoever it was that put this innate fear in you and destroy it.

It's a war in him, a fight between keeping to himself and wanting you not to do the same. This particular battle is decided when he takes a seat on the other end of the couch and forces himself to tear his eyes away from you to look at the tv.

"Tell me about it."

You do. Nervously at first, but you slowly relax. He gives a small, satisfied smile when you scoot back to sit on the couch more comfortably and start to speak more freely, and he fights back a wider one when he really takes you in, bare feet and a loose t-shirt, lounging around at home. His home.

Yours too, now.

After that night, things get a little easier. You don’t sequester yourself in your room, and he warms up to you a bit more. It starts feeling natural, having you in his space. You fall into a rhythm.

Nearly a month in, he comes home one day to find you in the living room, pulling on your shoes, and he asks you where you're headed.

"We're headed to get some groceries," you tell him.

The directness is new, but certainly not unwelcome, and he follows behind you gladly as you lead the way to the store.

Grocery shopping with you makes him feel like a kid again, but one who had someone to dote on him. You walk by the produce, asking him carefully what he likes. What's his favorite kind of apple? What kind of berry does he prefer?

At one point, you actually tell him, "Simon, you have to get some vegetables," and he can't help but laugh at how you stare up at him pointedly, like he's supposed to know he's worth being cared for.

"What's your favorite dinner?" you ask him as you walk through the aisles, carefully scanning for prices before you put things in the cart.

"Don't know," he mutters. "Never really thought about it."

It's true, sort of. He eats, of course, and he has preferences, but it's never really been something to take pleasure in. There's never been some meal he craves, or some kind of food tied to a good memory. He mostly just wants to see if you'll say his name again.

But then he thinks for another beat and starts walking.

He puts a can of beans into the cart, then goes to another aisle and gets a loaf of bread. He doesn't say anything, but you nod and smile at him.

After you buy the groceries -- more specifically, after he buys the groceries, using his body to block the card reader while you laugh and try to wrestle your way around him to pay yourself -- you walk back home. He sets the bags on the counter, and together you put up all your purchases, but he notices you leave out the things he'd picked out.

"Hungry?"

"Generally."

Simon watches, arms crossed, as you heat the beans in a saucepan you'd pulled from under the stove. He doesn't move when you stand close to get to the toaster, and he watches your throat as you swallow when your arm brushes against his to put the bread in.

"You know, I would have made you anything," you tell him as you wait for the toast. "And this is what you picked?"

"Just had it a lot when I was a kid," he mutters, not offering more.

With the look you give him, a glance that's quick but still penetrates, he knows you understand the reluctance to get into the details. It's not the easiest thing to explain, how one can find comfort in the soft lulls of a tragedy. How oddly soothing it can feel to remember any bit of kindness from hands that ripped you apart.

You give him a plate first. Beans on toast, straight from his childhood. He takes a bite and nods, appreciative, and you grin.

A few bites later, you reach your hand up and swipe off a bit of food from the corner of his mouth, and seemingly without thinking, you lick it from your finger. He keeps his eyes on you for a moment longer, then sets his plate down.

Simon moves slowly, agonizingly so, giving you every chance to stop him. He puts his hands on your waist first, high and respectable, and when you just look at him, waiting, he drops them to your hips.

"This ok?" he asks, and when you nod, he dips his hands lower, over your thighs and to the back of them, lifting you up and dropping you on the counter.

"You didn't have to make me dinner, love," he says softly, working his body just slightly between your knees.

"You don't want me to pay any rent either," you tell him. "I can't just stay here for nothing."

The idea of you bringing nothing to this arrangement is laughable, but he keeps a straight face. He studies you, every fleck of color in your eyes and every line in your skin, maybe too intensely, but you just sit there, and you let him.

"You can tell me to stop," he finally says. "Won't be offended."

"I don't want you to stop."

With that, he brings his lips to your cheek, placing a gentle kiss there, then plants one on your jaw. When you still don't object, and even lift your hands to grasp onto his shoulders, he kisses your mouth.

He doesn't want to rush this, and he doesn't want to ask for something more than you want to give. He doesn't want you to feel like you owe him, but the idea of kissing you like this has been loud and persistent in his mind for longer than he cares to admit. He tries to bridge the two thoughts with his carefulness, but when he feels you start to kiss him back, he snaps.

Not visibly -- he doesn't shove his tongue down your throat or grope you with rough hands. That's not how Simon loses control. For him, snapping is internal. It's in realizing how good you feel in his arms and letting himself feel the weight of that.

He's not sure if it's the dinner you made him or something more innate, but when he kisses you, you taste like home.

In the moment, he can admit that to himself. But he's not ready for you to know. Not yet, anyway.

[daegall]

☆ when the candles burn out.

➷ Jeno Lee has everything he's wished for, except for you.

pairing: best friend!jeno x (implied fem!) reader

genre: bff2l!AU (WE R SOOO BACK), birthday!AU, university!AU, fluff, slight angst

warnings: none, but feel free to lmk if you find any

word count: 2.6k words

a/n: happies birthday to the (officially titled!) birthday boyyy!!! wishing him the very very best and hope that he knows we're so proud of him and love him sooo much!!!! I've missed writing sm so this was soo fun to make!! sorry if i've been super inactive, i've still got a lot to do before graduation ♡ i hope you all enjoy!!!

If he was asked, Jeno would say his life is very fulfilling, and that he's completely satisfied with it. How could he say any differently? He's doing really well in University, he's got amazing friends and a steady side job to support himself. He shouldn't be complaining.

But he's lying to himself. He knows he feels empty inside. And he knows what could fill that void.

It's you.

Jeno always felt he was missing something—he figured he would fix it later in life. He never knew it would hurt this much, he never knew it would be this hard to fix it. Frankly, he wishes it was something else that would be the glue to fix everything in his life.

It's not that Jeno hated you, no, he loved you. So dearly—he's never ever felt anything so intense in his life. Every time he looked at you, it was like he was reading his favorite book, unable to peel his eyes off the pages. Every time he heard your voice, it was like listening to the soft chirping of birds in the morning—the breeze in the afternoon—the comforting sounds of the bustling city in the evening. And when you touched him, a hug, or even something as simple as a high-five, it's as if you're a fireplace in winter, keeping him warm, inside and out.

God, he wanted you. Bad. Jeno never know one could yearn so deeply. He was never one good with words, but you make him want to write thousands of poems and sing melodies dedicated just to you.

The echoing questions that all his friends constantly ask him haunt him.

'Why don't you tell her?'

'She doesn't know yet?'

'What's the worst that could happen?'

'Why are you so scared?'

That's what Donghyuck always asks him. Jeno can't begin to tell him, he doesn't know where to start, Donghyuck wouldn't understand the turmoil he feels.

Jeno's scared that he's not what you expect. That you have a completely different vision of him than who he actually is. Jeno thinks you need someone who is able to love you loudly, who isn't afraid to give you everything that you not only need, but want, too. Jeno is sure that he's not your ideal man.

Today's his birthday. 25th. He knows because Jaemin greets him the very first this morning, calling him 'halfway-50 year old'. Jeno only rolls his eyes at his usual strange antics, pushing him out of the way of the fridge to grab his yogurt from the fridge.

When Jeno checks his phone, he realizes that Jaemin isn't the first one to say happy birthday. He finds out with a mouthful of yogurt, and a heart full of love, that it was you. On April 23, military time 00:12, you left a long paragraph wishing him a happy birthday, thanking him for everything and for being a great friend, and wishes of love and luck.

"Friends don't send birthday messages that long."

Jeno barely catches on that Jaemin is shamelessly peeking at his phone, throwing him a pointed look. "Maybe she does."

Jaemin's eyebrows raise—a deadpanned look. "She sent me a sentence on my birthday. At 5pm."

"That's cause you gifted her a giftcard for her birthday."

"That's what friends do!" Jaemin retorts. "You gifted her animal crossing—that shit's expensive!"

Jeno has to admit, he's right. About one thing. Friends don't send an essay's worth of a birthday message.

Okay, yeah, saving up for animal crossing for you took some time, but Jeno would do anything for you. And he means everything.

Like meeting up at your place for a birthday celebration with others. He would much rather spend it with only you, but that doesn't seem to be an option, considering how you love to make a huge deal about his birthday every year.

Now here he stands, at your door, knowing full well that you've planned some 'surprise' party. Despite that, he'll still pretend to be shocked—just to make you happy.

Jeno only needs to wait about 3 seconds right after he knocks, before the door swings open, the music inside finally distinguishable and—oh, it's... you. Just you.

Nobody else is seen behind you in your apartment, the familiar living area he recognizes so easily dimmed with a low, warm light, the walls filled with handing streamers of red and green—his favorite colors.

Jeno's heart has never swelled this much with love, his head has never been so clear and unbelievably messy at the same time, his practiced surprised smile completely fading in an expression of shock, his jaw hanging lightly.

"Hello, birthday boy," You grin. God, Jeno might kiss you.

The way you can't seem to stay still in excitement, the anticipation on your face and the way you wear his sweater, something he's definitely left accidentally somewhere inside there—he adores it all.

He never thought his feelings could get even more eager and heartfelt, and yet here he is, feeling it tenfold right in his heart.

"Come in," You smile, grabbing and tugging at his sleeve gently.

You want to laugh at his surprised expression, your excited smile falling shy. "Surprise! I bet you thought it was like all the surprise parties I hosted, huh?"

Jeno should have seen it coming. The fact that you saw through him almost immediately. A soft huff of a laugh leaves his lips as he nods, growing more comfortable as he ventures deeper into the surprise. His eyes trail over the streamers reflecting the warm light from your lamp, his gratitude growing almost unbearable.

Finally, his eyes land on the cake. Unlike the usual ordered or store-bought cake you make Mark Lee get every year for the party, it's sloppy, and it's clear that you made it yourself. The icing barely covers the full surface of the cake, leaving blank, splotchy spots along the cake.

"I tried my best," You comment, noticing his gaze on your cake. You really did, practicing some nights and watching multiple videos to find the best recipe to use.

Jeno grins even more his gaze shifting to you. If you weren't mistaken... he looks at you differently. Well, he looks at you as he always does, with a twinkle in his eyes and with utmost attentiveness, but tonight... it's different.

You think��and this is a big assumption—that he's looking at you with love. You could only dream that he would admit it.

"I love it," He reassures, slowly approaching you. "thank you, Y/N, I love everything about this."

Your cheeks feel sore from all the smiling, but you can't seem to stop smiling, pulling him into a hug, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders. "I'm glad. You deserve the best, Jeno."

Jeno holds you tight, his nose burying into the depths of your hair, eyes shutting to savor the moment as long as possible. His hands are warm, you can feel it through his sweater that you wear, one hand on your lower back, the other between your shoulder blades.

It's as if his hands have burnt through the fabric, because you feel every single movement his hands make. The way his thumbs rub gently up and down—the way his palms tensing up as he holds you closer—this feels better than it should.

When you pull away, the warmth finds it's way to your heart, beating faster suddenly and soaring, as if it was searching for his own to entangle in.

When you lead him to the couch to finally blow out the candles (with he candles now about a third of it's original height), Jeno has never felt happier, leaning in close to the cake.

He laughs when you suddenly panic, halting him to search for your camera.

"Why do you even need to film this?" He chuckles softly, it's a rich sound you find yourself enjoying more than you should.

You roll your eyes, finding the camera on your messy study desk, hidden behind a stack of books you never seem to finish reading. "To remember this! I want to look back on this when I'm eighty and reminisce like a stubborn old lady."

When Jeno blows out his candles after an awkward minute of you singing him 'happy birthday' by yourself, he finds himself wishing that you'd be a stubborn old lady with him. He wishes with his whole heart that he'd be there, reminiscing with you, that'd your grandchildren would be gagging at your love story, he wants to spend the rest of his life with you.

Jeno gives you the first slice of the cake, despite your protests, handing it to you with a stern look. His heart melts when you take it from his hands, a small playful scowl on your lips. "I wanted you to taste it first..."

"Fine," He sighs, picking up the two forks you prepared. "we'll eat it together, yeah?"

Jeno dismisses your objections, already stabbing the forks into the cake and scooping it up. He laughs heartily when your words die in your throat, offering the fork to you.

You stare at the piece of cake on your fork with intent. "If it tastes like shit, I'm sorry,"

Even if it did, he'd pretend it was the most delectable delicacy he'd ever eaten. He would believe so, with his whole being. Even if it was bad, your stunning smile would be sweet enough for it to substitute the taste.

You're surprised when Jeno brings his own fork up to your lips, blinking in shock. When you look up at him, he gives you an encouraging look. "I'll feed you, you'll feed me."

You don't think he's aware of how intimate this is. Not when he's looking at you with such innocence and care. But with the dim, warm lighting from the distant lamp, and the music that still plays softly in the background, this feels too romantic—too real.

You go along with it anyway, knowing that you'd do anything and everything for him.

As your lips come in contact with the cake, and your teeth clash just slightly with the metal of the fork, you realize the strawberry jam you used for each layer—it's sour.

Instantly, you gaze up at Jeno, to gauge his reaction and his opinion of your cake, only to see that his mouth is closed, lips stretched into a soft, loving smile as his face his dodged from your fork.

"Jeno, you—how could you!"

In a moment, both forks are on the ground as you lunge forward to grab at his shirt. On your lips is an embarrassed smile, your eyes shut as you shake him back and forth. "You ass! I made this for you..."

"Sorry, sorry!" Jeno laughs, his hands enveloping yours, holding on top of them as you continue to shake him. "You just looked so cute—all anticipated and excited,"

"Yeah! For you to taste it!"

"Fine, fine! I'll taste it! Just stop shaking me!"

When you scowl and release his collar, his hands don't leave yours, instead, he takes your hands in his, his fingers slotting almost perfectly between yours with ease. You don't shy away from this, it's normal for him to do this. It's a typical tactic he uses so you don't start fooling around once more—but this time... it feels different. His touch seems gentler, his thumbs rubbing softly up and down the sides of your palm. You have to admit, it has your heart in a twist.

"How are you going to try it if you keep holding my hands?" You smart him, sticking your tongue out at him.

Jeno's eyes search yours, his gaze deep. It's almost as if he's trying to look into your soul—trying to find the place you keep the thought of him. He should look into your heart, then.

His right hand suddenly leaves yours, and just as you think he's about to grab the fork once more, his hand inches towards your face. You don't dodge it, despite your shock, your lips parting in surprise, and Jeno knows that he's interrupted one of your sassy, smart retorts that he loves so much.

It's like instinct when his palm envelops your cheek, that you lean into his touch, your head tilting into his hold. As his thumbs rub at your cheek, his eyes search your entire face, searching for any signs of discomfort or rejection. He searches, and keeps searching, only to find nothing. You want this. As much as he does.

"...so are you going to try the cake?"

"Give me a minute, you dork,"

You laugh, and he laughs when you laugh. Your laughter entangle in the air and echo, like a resonating song on repeat—the kind that no matter how many times you play over and over, you never get sick of it.

Suddenly, Jeno's nose is brushing against yours. His thumb gently caressing at your bottom lip. He searches your eyes once more, and at this proximity, he can finally tell what you feel. In your eyes, it's him. In his eyes, it's you. In your heart, is his. In his soul, is yours.

The tender exchange of affectionate looks screams only one thing.

I love you.

When Jeno's lips press to yours, you're not surprised. Instead, you welcome it warmly, reciprocating and leaning into it.

His hands travel, one to your neck, the other your waist to tug you closer. Your own find comfort in the hairs of the bottom of his neck, tousling the strands there. You feel his lips curl into a smile, as his neck cranes to find an angle to grow closer to you, if it were possible.

Jeno slowly and gently lowers you to your back, his hand protecting the back of your head as he settles you down on your carpet, hovering over your body. As your arms wrap around his neck, his tongue finds yours, tangling tenderly and lovingly, declaring his care and affection, all his feelings for you.

You smile against his lips as Jeno's laugh vibrates against your own, content and devoted, finding the whole situation unbelievable. Luck truly is in his favor, and he thinks he's one step closer to his birthday wish coming true.

When Jeno pulls away, his breath is warm against your lips, the tip of his nose grazing against yours.

"...tastes sweet," He finally elates, smiling. His eyes find yours, pupils dilated with love.

You laugh out, eyes squeezed shut, and head throwing back against his hand that still holds you protectively. You snort when he gives you a confused, almost lost puppy-like look. "The cake jam was sour, Jeno,"

"Oh," he hums. "must've just been you I was tasting, then..."

You push playfully at his shoulder. "Oh my god, you sappy idiot!"

"No, no," He retorts with a grin. "you taste sweet. I didn't get a single taste of sour,"

"Taste the cake, then!"

"Don't wanna, just want you,"

Despite his words, you make him taste the cake, laughing as his nose scrunches up. "It's—oh god—it's sweet! I swear!" He insists.

Finally, Jeno feels complete. He no longer feels an empty void inside of him, he no longer feels lonely or hurt when he looks at you—though he does feel his heart hurt, swelling with the amount of love he has for you. He can finally say wholeheartedly that he's satisfied with his life, that he feels fulfilled.

He's doing really well in University, he's got amazing friends, the best girlfriend he could ask for, and a steady side job to support himself and his girl, you.

Jeno is dead set on making his birthday wish come true.

[redrosydiaz]

happy warm mouth wednesday friends 👄

walk with me and picture: a post bisexual awakening world — where either tommy doesn't exist or he and buck just kissed and that's it. nothing else. no relationship — but. post bisexual awakening buck, who is considering the fact that being bisexual means sleeping with men. and, he wants that, of course, but it's new to him, so, naturally, he gets in his head about it. and he's like well what if i'm bad at it? what if i don't know how to do it? what if i'm not good at giving blowjobs?

and, this, crucially, is the most upsetting part, because buck loves going down on people — on women. he prides himself on it. he's good at it, like, really good, AND it's just something he loves to do. like he could literally get off on just going down on a girl — not just because he's getting off on giving to his partner and making her feel good first, but also because he just genuinely enjoys the act itself. and so he's like well. it is fundamentally different with a man, it is something new i'll have to learn and — what if i'm bad at it? what if i don't like it?? i don't think i won't like it, but i don't know! and i won't know until i do it! but also i can't be like mid blowjob and realize i hate it!! that's terrible!! and so, in true buck nature, he is toootally spinning himself out about this.

and the thing is — he and eddie never really got detailed about their sex lives with each other. like, eddie would know that buck was sleeping with his girlfriends and buck would know that eddie was too, but outside of like the briefest of mentions of that they were never the sit down with a beer and describe in detail the play by play of the night type of guys. they never really talked about it, and they never really talked about why they never really talked about it either.

but. here buck is. talking about it. even if it is only hypothetically speaking here, but still. it's a lot more detail than eddie is used to. and he— well. buck is painting a picture. and eddie is— not lacking imagination. so he is picturing. and he is. getting hard about it. but eddie is trying so hard (hah) to be a Good Friend about this, and offer advice and keep buck from spiraling further. only— he opens his mouth and what ends up spilling out is "you can practice on me." and it. cuts buck's rambling and his pacing off completely. and he just stares back at eddie, blinking at him like he isn't so sure he heard him correctly. but, oh, he did. he did.

and so. yknow. Practice Blowjobs happen. and after the first time, naturally, it ends with eddie telling buck it was good, really good, but he trails off in a way that suggests there is a but (and, there isn't, not really, because buck WAS really good, actually. but eddie's brain is already two steps ahead trying to figure out a way to make it happen again.) and so buck goes "..... but?" and eddie goes "well. you know, you've got to keep practicing. to keep your skill up. it's like. it's like a muscle, y'know. you gotta keep using it so it doesn't deteriorate. and you don't want your um. blowjob muscle, so to speak, to to deteriorate." and buck is like "mhm mhm you're so right. absolutely. yes. yep. yeah" and eddie's like "welllll. if you ever need a practice buddy........" and buck is like "mhm mhm right. absolutely. yes. yep. yeah."

and OF COURSE it keeps happening.

and i am thinking by like the fourth or fifth time it happens maybe, eddie — in his brain — is like well. actually. what if. what if i wanted to try it. because like. buck makes it look fun. and y'know. it's always good to expand your repertoire. to learn new skills. you never know when you'll need them. mhm mhm. totally normal thought process here.

and so the next time, after they finish, buck sits back on his haunches and wipes his hand over his mouth (obscene) and looks up at eddie with those big eager eyes and he goes "so, how was it?" (because they have Kept Up the "this is for skill practice and improvement" thing) and this time eddie is like "well. it was good. but i was thinking. what if. what if i showed you. um. exactly what i like?" and bucks like "um?" and eddies like "yeah. yeah! i could. y'know. show you. exactly how i like it. so you know. for next time." and bucks like "show me?" — and like he thinks he knows what eddie is getting at here, but also, there's no way eddie is getting at what he thinks he is getting at. that's like. way too good to be true.

but it is. true. and eddie just nods and goes "yeah like. like." and he mimes a blowjob (because he is. a DORK. but also because this feels too precarious and he can't bring himself to actually say blowjob, out loud, in the context of himself. but not because he's scared or ashamed or confused or anything. but because he's just. excited about it. and that makes him nervous but like. in a good way)

and buck is like oh. oh. and then nearly swallows his tongue in his haste to agree like "oh yes yes uh huh sure absolutely that would be. i am a visual learner hah. you should— yes. you should yes. definitely."

and that is how eddie gets his practice in too.

and of course, they are not together yet and they think this is Totally Normal Boy Bestie Behavior — exchanging blowjobs for practice — and they are both catching feelings (or, becoming aware of the feelings they've already caught, really), and recognizing that this is a Dangerous situation, because it's just practice to the other, but it means something more now, to both of them, unknowingly to each other!!

[mechncheese]

do you have a specific iteration of skyfire/jetfire that’s your favourite? like backstory and personality wise cause g1 and idw are VERY different and also a bunch of the other iterations!

Every Jetfire is so different and I love that for him ! But IDW Jetfire sweeps the nation for me in every category and I do have a preference for him ! I think IDW Jetfire keeps a lot of who Jetfire (generally speaking) is at his core while pushing his character to the limit ! He's a passionate scientist with a strong moral compass and a big heart forced to get subjected to the horrors, he dislikes fighting but recognizes that he has to even if he has to do it scared

I LOVE HIM SO MUCH, his backstory is just so perfect to me ! A bot with dreams of being a scientist but can’t because of a society that values alt mode function over individualism. THAT DOESN’T STOP HIM ! THAT NEVER STOPS HIM ! I love his perseverance, I love that he will be the change he wants to see ! I love how far he is willing to go to pursue his dreams and it makes me so happy when it pays off for him because he worked so hard and now he's one of best Autobot scientists (even when bots were robot racist to him and acted micro aggressive to him IF I WERE JETFIRE I WOULD NOT LET THAT SLIDE)

He's not afraid to speak his mind and tell it how it is ! Even to Optimus when he thinks he's being too in over his head, Jetfire calls it out. He's very honest about how he feels

HE GETS COMPROMISED/BEATEN UP A LOT I CAN'T EVEN LIE but he's very capable of handling himself and he's really good at Not Dying when he gets into Really Scary situations

I LOVE WHEN HE'S A LITTLE SMUG

also I love the implication that he hates being alone BAHAHA, he needs someone to yap to I LOVE IDW JETFIRE I LOVE HIM !!!

[xazse]

HEYY GOING FERAL OVER LOSER GOJO❤❤❤❤❤❤ can you write more loser gojo pookie? Where reader is like ignoring him cuz she needs to focus on her studies and didn't have time for toru to give him that sweet relief and when he can't take it anymore he comes to her whiny and all needy. So reader stops her studying and rides gojo out?? And he's a total mess underneath, moaning, whimpering, and him digging his nails on readers back and reader is like disgusted and starts to regret riding him but keeps riding him anyways?? Lol idk. Just loser toru makes me go feral.

(Feel free to ignore this z!❤ ily n ur writings especially loser toru you inspire me to also write smut but i suck at writing lol and fear that if I do it would be so shitty n I don't want ppl to judge me lol. I love you, take care of urself z!

♡´･ᴗ･`♡)

(P.s. I'm actually obsessed with ur writings 😍)

More loser!gojo x female!reader

Notes: I know you submitted this awhile ago but omg this was tew hot to let go, thank you for your sweet words I love that you love my writing.

Don’t be afraid to start writing I was as well but I simply threw something out and it got love and that made me want to continue writing, you might not get a lot of love the first few posts but eventually you’ll have dedicated fans who’ll love anything you post!!

Annoying… that’s all that filters through your head as Satoru rambles about whatever the hell he’s been talking about for the past hour, you zoned out the minute Digimon came out of his mouth and that was within the first minute!

Everytime you attempted to let him know that you had a pretty big test coming up and needed the silence and solitude he would promptly shut up for a good ten minutes then start up his motor mouth, how was someone who was top of all his classes not pick up on simple social cues!?! It drove you insane when he did things like this.

Drowning out his voice was nearly impossible with the loud boom that came from his vocal cords when he’d get excited about a certain something. Regardless you know Suguru is too busy to keep him occupied so you’re the next best thing. You press your pen to your paper and focus… focus and even more focusing.

But Satoru is needy, extremely needy.

He doesn’t like being ignored so he does his next tactic by being in your space, he pulls up a stool next to you and hovers over your shoulder, leaning down to look at what you were writing, he even goes as far as to correct a mistake you had made during his endless torture of a mouth.

You’re about to light him on fire but notice his fingers trailing lightly up and down your side, fingers sticking and popping your tank-top, he’s obviously not even looking at the paper anymore but instead down at the flimsy material you call coverage, oh…

You hadn’t even realized how long it had been since that last time you had sex with Toru, he looks so lost with those hazy blue eyes that require attention, he’s probably been touching his poor cock just off pure flashbacks, you feel bad for the man: but not really, you’re curious as to how long it’ll take him to finally break and ask you.

You wanted to play and mess with him for a little longer but not even five minutes pass before he’s guiding your hand to his erect cock, it doesn’t take much to get him aroused so you’d bet he’s been like this for a while. He leans his head down to rest in the crook of your neck, hiding his reddened face.

“You’ve been… ignoring me.” He whispers more to himself than you, the way he drags it out makes it come out as desperation on his tongue.

“I’ve been busy Toru, you know that.” You bring yourself to your feet, sliding your chair into your desk and making your way to the bed. His eyes follow your figure and they land on you roughly patting the bed prompting him to slip in front of you, seated nice and pretty.

“Well? Take it off, all of it.” Snapping at him gets him to start undoing his belt but of course he’s clumsy and unorganized so it takes him a while.

He’s completely nude and sitting at the top of your bed, relaxing against your lush fluffy pillows. His cock hasn’t calmed down at all, still an angry red crying for your soft hands around it, you give him the gift of jerking him a few times, his sensitive dick reacting quickly along with his body thrusting forward.

Within a few seconds precum has started leaking and pooling inbetween your fingers, it’s gross really. You’re thinking about just getting him off, washing your hands and going back to your studies but something sinister grows in your belly, it’s been a while since you’ve had some so why not jump at this opportunity.

First before you even think of connecting with Satoru for the first time in a while you have him beg for it, beg for your cunt around his nasty cock. Just the pathetic excuse of a man he is, the pleas roll off his tongue with ease, he starts cruising low on his tongue, even telling you how much he loves you and how pretty you are.

You think you’ve collected enough of his juices, the loud squelches every drag of his cock is more than enough proof.

Riding his cock is an entirely different story, he’s sat up, face drowned in your chest as he cries out even more pleas.

“Feel’s so goodd” he slurs out as best as he can but the clench of your pussy doesn’t help at all, it’s wet and obscene the way your juices mix with his, a nasty concoction being made. You bury your fingers in his hair pulling him out of your chest every now and then to stare at his ruined snotty face, he’s crying just like the baby he is. The things your pussy does to him make him not himself, the way your walls fit so snuggly around him, or the way you press your hips against his drives him mad.

You bounce on his cock purely without his help, his stamina clearly not being all there he’s practically being used as a sex toy, and you make sure to tell him that, that’s all he is to you, something for your pussy to get off with. Of course he nods along and confirms everything that comes out your mouth, yes he’s a disgusting loser, yes he doesn’t deserve pussy this good, and yes he’ll buy you whatever bag is trending right now.

His sharp untrimmed nails dig into your back, Satoru is so clearly a bitch in heat, what kind of man is the one leaving marks in the woman’s back?

You’re not able to think about the nails not when you feel something leaking down your chest: his drool, you’re about to get off him and leave him high and dry but the way he whines for you, cries out your name has you second guessing.

So you continue riding and chasing your own high, he can cum as many times as he wants but you aren’t through yet, not even when hes flopping on the bed, spent and exhausted are you stopping, you chase that spark that sits and festers up.

[elodieunderglass]

You never clearly state it, but its obvious Killie missed his brother. Charlies absence is seen in all the cracks Killie has. But did Charlie miss Killie? Its easy to say: "of course he did! Thats his twin! He must have missed him!" But did he? Did he allow himself the time to grieve? Did he tell his partners there is a carbon copy of himself walking around somewhere? Or did he lock up this part of himself as secure as he was able to not look back and live his life? Do Charlie and Killie ever talk about this? They dont seem to be like people, who talk about feelings. eww feelings

(in reference to Killie to jockey OC, who was estranged for a long time from his twin brother Charlie)

Charlie was the one who left. and when he left, he went scorched-earth. By leaving, he cut himself off from not just his immediate family, but his career path, extended family, horses, horse racing, his friends, horses, his native country, his magical-realism-psychic connection to his twin, horses, the family's religion (probably a plus side but definitely a framework); and, when you remove the load-bearing explanatory bit about "being a generational jockey", quite a strange relationship with his body/exercise/nutrition/self-care/pain tolerance/masculinity. Charlie went to England, sheltered with his horrible English family and took their last name for a bit, played along to get them to pay for his uni, went to uni in a panic, took up weird jobs, sheltered with his friend Ken and lived on his boat, and pursued an absurd career trajectory, largely in a panic at the thought of Ken going to graduate school without him. At the time of reuniting with Killie, Charlie had a rich life full of partners, kids, friends, career, hobbies, and therapy. He was Winning at Life and Mental Health! and sang with his friends and did healthy things like KNITTING! and was a PRESENT AND INVOLVED FATHER and had TWO! WHOLE! SPOUSES! which looks like a perfect life. it looks like Charlie did very well for himself. it looks like he Won. And he did! He's a good father and a good husband (husband²?) and has a job and everything. But, if you squint, and think about how what society deems "winning" is milestone-based; and how a lost person who is viscerally, addictively competitive might view "bagging life milestones" as an excellent replacement for "bagging horse-shaped golden trophies"; and remember that Charlie is off his hinge in a way that LOOKS healthy but is, nonetheless, off his bloody hinge, then you go: hmmm! Charlie you are POWERFULLY and OBVIOUSLY off your bloody rocker, and you only get away with it because it's all in ways that are charming and/or marketable.

this implies that Charlie needed to find about 25 people to replace Killie; that he needed to study, out of nowhere, astrophysics at the doctoral level as a way to keep himself from thinking about other things; that he tried on a lot of different masks in order to find one that fitted; that he snatched up as much light and colour and noise as possible to fill his head; and that he was, in general, Extremely Bad at being alone. He did not function alone. without family, structure, direction, ambition - cut completely loose - he is very lucky that he actually had a workable plan, that he found good people, and that he bounced into pockets of uncannily good luck. he's lucky that Ken picked him up and put him in his pocket. he's lucky that he was a good singer. he's lucky that he somehow managed to stay on the straight and narrow and build an entire life. it definitely looks like a life! a life that a Real Person would have! why would anyone grieve that! don't be silly!!! Charlie's mirror-book to Killie's would be On The Straight and Narrow. Ken's The Straight, and the narrowboat (and charlie) are the narrow.

and he would not talk about his family. and he would lie to everyone. I think his partners and closest friends would probably know, eventually, where he came from, and that he'd had siblings. but the light and colour and noise in between (the husband in front of you) and (whatever his childhood was) would be its own distraction and barrier.

Don't be silly! he was raised by pirates! he was raised by wolves! charlie made himself out of junk. charlie was born fully formed in a duck's nest. charlie is actually Ken's ginger brother (he takes after Mr MacKenzie, you see it, right?) Charlie's birth name was definitely and legally Charles Dragonfly. why would you not believe that

[venenna]

may i request rin, isagi, sae with an s/o who is unathletic pls!! like bad at sports in general (cause i've never been good myself 💔)

She's a runner she's.....a track star??

A/n: this is so ass but like i did my best 💔💔💔💔, zont bully me sjjskekeke, some crack silly stuff, ALSO other requests will get done at some point dw!!!!

Rin:

-Will bully you a bit

-At first he'd be like "Lukewarm, just excuses you can walk up the stairs"

-Will make you participate in his runs from time to time "You're in the house lazing around all the damn time, outside now!"

-Later on after falling down the stairs or fainting, too much for his liking, he'd be nicer and take a bit more breaks with you, will still force you to participate tho...

-And no he didn't carry you after passing out you're imagining it!!!

Bonus:

+after fainting for the first time around him, he was so fucking worried but hid it while giving you a piggy back ride home, he may or may not forbid you to do anything in the house for a week (yes rin gets a bonus cuz he my bae)

Isagi:

-Momsagi making a comeback with this one, one worried bf you got

-First time when he asked you to run with him you were so out of breath after barely 50m and he was high-key panicking "OMG ARE YOU OKAY DO YOU NEED TO SIT DOWN?!?"

-Will have some candy and water on him in case you feel dizzy

-He still brings you with him so you can get some vitamin D (you hermit need to touch grass), he'd leave you on a bench with something to keep you occupied like some kid

-Overall he'd be understanding

Sae:

-Not as forceful as his brother, will make you go to gym with him for your own health

-Will not believe you're unathletic "That's a dumb excuse, now on the treadmill"

-Once while you were fighting for your life on the treadmill while he stood beside you making sure you actually put in effort he increased the speed "You should do something more challenging" "SAE NO-" as soon as it sped up you fell face first, hard

-Feels guilty but won't let it show, and suddenly you'd get a lot more gifts than usual

-Since then he never questioned how you used machines, will still tease you about falling

[motorsportbarbie13]

Hurricane - Part 2

{“Sometimes,” Max continues when she remains silent, “people just genuinely want to help. There are no strings attached. Not with me. I just don’t want you stressing about money on top of everything else you’re dealing with.” I want to take care of you. Let me take care of you. The words die on his lips because he knows they’re too much. Too much too fast and he doesn’t want to scare her off.}

warnings/notes: talk of toxic/unsupportive parents, maybe some swearing? As always, thank you to @lestapiastrisgirl for always letting me yap about stupid plot ideas and being the voice of reason when I get too unhinged 😂❤️ pairing: max verstappen x emma meyer (OC) word count: 5.4k (oops)

hurricane master list main master list ask me anything

“Max, I am not using your credit card while you’re gone.” Emma hisses, standing in the middle of the kitchen, hands on her hips as she glares at Max Wednesday morning.  

From his seat at the kitchen counter across from her, Max narrows his eyes at the tiny blonde, genuinely surprised at the sass coming from her mouth. He’d never really quite understood why some people were so opposed to allowing him to take care of them but in his experience, it was generally those people who needed it the most. 

The corner of his mouth tips up and when Emma sees it, her eyes go molten. “Stop smirking at me like you’re going to ignore anything I have to say and do whatever you want anyway.” 

“But I am going to ignore anything you say and do whatever I want anyway. Which includes leaving you my credit card while stealing all of yours.” 

Emma’s eyes go wide with horror when Max reaches across the counter and plucks her wallet out of the top of her bag. “Max!” She yelps, reaching unsuccessfully for the faded black leather billfold that held all of her credit cards and cash. “I can’t…” 

“Can’t what?” He asks, slipping the heavy black card into the front slot while shuffling the other cards around. He sees the panic in her eyes when his fingers brush against the silver and gold cards already there and decides not to push it too far, leaving them untouched instead of making good on his threat. “Can’t grab some groceries because my fridge is empty? Can’t treat yourself to a nice dinner or three while I’m gone?”

“I can’t use your credit card.” She says, eyes fixed on the marble counter that separated her from Max. The words held such weight it felt near impossible to lift her gaze to meet Max’s, even though she could feel the press of his attention pushing heavily into her. 

“Can’t or won’t?” Max challenges, lifting his coffee cup to his lips. 

Emma lifts her eyes to glare at Max then, struggling to keep from rolling them at him. Picking up her wallet, she fishes out the black card Max had just slipped in there and tosses it back on the counter. “I will not be using your credit card, Max Verstappen.” 

Max peers at Emma from over the rim of his cup, brow quirked. This sass was a side of Emma he was unfamiliar with but he didn’t hate it. Not at all. Tucking away that little bit of Emma that he wants to mull over later tonight, he sets his coffee cup down. “Why not? It’s not like you asked me. I’m offering. You need things, right? Need to eat? Until you figure out your next steps…” He trails off, gesturing vaguely with his free hand. 

“I’ll figure it out myself.” The words come out sharper than she intends and she winces at how rude she sounds. She can’t help it though. The ingrained mantra, the survival mechanism she’d relied on for years, echoes inside her head and it sounds a lot like her mother: “Figure it out yourself Emma. Don’t be such a burden to everyone. You need to grow up.” 

The stubbornness in her voice has something stirring wildly in Max’s chest. Another thing to mull over tonight. 

Max leans against the counter, his expression softening as it dawns on him that this is something a bit more deeper than just refusing the kindness of a friend. “Hey,” He says gently, more serious now that he sees how distressed this is making her. “No one is expecting you to figure it all out overnight. You just had the rug ripped out from under you two days ago, it’s okay to not know where you’re going to go next. I’m just trying to help, okay?” 

“I know.” Emma mumbles, sliding her fingers through her hair before gathering it up in a ponytail. “I’m just-” She pauses, eyes flicking away from Max’s intense blue eyes. She hated how they pinned her to the spot so easily, reading her like she was an open book, making butterflies stir in ways that she knew was very dangerous. “I’m just not used to it.”

Emma’s admission was small, a tiny crack in the walls she held so solidly in place to protect herself from the outside world, but Max caught onto it so quick. He was good at reading racing lines and telemetry reports, but people were usually a different story. He never really much cared about what other people thought, how they felt, how he made them feel. It took up too much time and space in his head and he just couldn’t find it in him to care, not when there were more important things to focus on. Like winning world championships. 

But with Emma it was different. 

Every shift in her posture, every dip of her brow, they all meant something to him and he felt like he was going a little crazy every time he oriented himself to her presence the last two days. 

“Not used to people helping you?” He asked, gaze intently fixed on those pretty dove grey eyes that he’d been thinking of all last night. He sensed something deeper was going on here, the visceral rejection of his offer spoke of something more at play and anxiety thrummed deep in Max’s gut at the thought of what, or who, had caused her to react like this. 

Emma’s fingers twisted the twists of gold that decorated her right hand. A fleeting, unpleasant memory surfaced, completely unbidden: the humiliation of her parents yelling at her back in secondary school after she had needed to ask a friend to borrow a few Euros for lunch on a school trip because she had forgotten her wallet in her locker. Her father had been incensed when he found out about it, raving at her for nearly an hour the evening she had come home and asked for a few bills to pay her friend back.

 “You were begging your friends for money? Now everyone is going to think we’re poor and can’t afford to send you on school trips! Why are you always so irresponsible?” 

The shame of her mistake and embarrassment of humiliating her family so publicly still lingered all these years later. 

“It’s…complicated.” Emma says, voice low. “I was always taught that relying on others just leads to trouble. You end up owing them or they hold it over you as leverage. It’s just easier to do it yourself.” 

Max watched as the memory took hold of her right there in the kitchen. He didn’t know what the memory was but he could tell it hadn’t been a pleasant one. The discomfort she felt at his offer was evident in the way she shifted her body away from him, shoulders hunched in on themselves. He could tell there was a deeper story here, a reason the fiery blonde in front of him was so fiercely independent. 

It was almost as if she was allergic to kindness. 

“Not everyone operates like that, Em.” Max says softly. 

Emma’s eyes flick up at the nickname, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Only Victoria ever called her Em. 

And now Max. 

“Sometimes,” Max continues when she remains silent, “people just genuinely want to help. There are no strings attached. Not with me. I just don’t want you stressing about money on top of everything else you’re dealing with.” 

I want to take care of you. Let me take care of you.

The words die on his lips because he knows they’re too much. Too much too fast and he doesn’t want to scare her off. 

“I don’t want to be a burden, Max.” Emma confesses, the words tumbling out before she has a chance to stop them. The ingrained fear, the constant awareness of being an inconvenience to everyone around her, bubbles to the surface so violently, goosebumps erupt all over his skin. 

 A flicker of something unreadable crosses Max’s face. It looks a bit like understanding colored with a touch of sadness. Like he knows exactly what she’s talking about from first hand experience. 

He leans forward just fraction of an inch closer to Emma, not taking his eyes off of her. 

“You are not a burden. You could never be a burden.” To me, he finishes in his head. “You just need a little help right now and that’s not the end of the world. Just…consider it. Even if it’s just for the small things. A coffee and some groceries, maybe? Whatever you need.” 

Max didn’t press further, just turned around and walked towards his bedroom quietly to finish packing, leaving Emma behind to stare at the card like it might just explode if she even touches it. 

But when Max returns a while later, suitcase for the next few days trailing behind him, he notices the card isn’t on the counter anymore. 

The silence in Max’s apartment stretched, thick and unbroken. It was a jarring change from the noise of the home she had spent the last three weeks living in and while it was somewhat unsettling. Now, it was only the gentle ticking of the clock in the living room that filled the quiet. The first thing she had noticed this morning when she woke up was how delicious the silence sounded, soft and unfocused as she laid in bed, still and quiet, for a over an hour after she had woken up. 

But now, the afternoon stretched out before her, the novelty of having the expansive apartment all to herself until Saturday evening had worn off. A nervous, restless energy replaced it and as Emma sat on the couch flicking through the endless streaming services Max subscribed to, she was itching for something to do, someone to talk to. 

Sunlight streamed through the large windows, illuminating the subtle disarray Max had left in his wake. It wasn’t dirty per say, not really messy either. There was just a distinctly masculine lack of meticulousness that left the apartment feeling slightly chaotic, slightly unhinged and most definitely in need of some organization. 

Needing to busy her hands, Emma found herself moving around the apartment absentmindedly tidying the pile of racing magazines here, dusting the surfaces of the racing sim station Max had tucked away in a corner, just trying to make sense out of the quiet chaos. It was a way to occupy her hands, to allow her to feel useful during her stay in this borrowed space, while allowing her mind a chance to wander, to try to figure out what her next move was going to be. 

Shortly after finishing organizing the cords around Max’s sim rig, Emma’s phone rings. She smiles when she sees Victoria’s name flashing across the screen. 

“Hi, bestie.” Victoria’s cheerful voice fills the quiet apartment. “How is Chalet Verstappen treating you?” 

Emma chuckles as she pads over to the overstuffed couch she’d spent too long on already. “It’s…quiet. And surprisingly unorganized. I would have expected more out of a Verstappen.” 

Victoria laughed on the other end of the phone. “He certainly missed Jos’ penchant for an immaculate house, didn’t he? If it weren’t for the house keepers he has come every other week, it would be so much worse. Anyway, I didn’t call to talk about my dumb brother. What are you up to? Plotting your next move?” 

Emma sighed, tugging the gray cashmere blanket up over her legs. It only took a few moments but as she settled back, sinking into the plush cushions, Jimmy hopped up into her lap. Max had warned her his two cats might be a bit standoffish when she first arrived on Monday night. But to everyone’s surprise Jimmy and Sassy took to Emma instantly.

Even now, with Max gone, the two bengals didn’t seem to miss Max quite as much as he had warned her they would.

“I don’t know. I’m trying.” She scratched at the fur behind Sassy’s ear as the other bengal cat came to sit on the back of the couch, cuddled up into her neck. “I don’t think I want to come home.” 

Victoria is silent for a moment, letting the words hang in the air. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Emma rasped, knowing Victoria would be sad to not have her so close by. “You know how my parents are. It’ll be nothing but ‘I told you so’s’ for the next decade. I don’t think I could handle that right now, Vic.” 

“I know.” Victoria says softly. “They were never your biggest cheerleaders, huh?” 

“Understatement of the century.” Emma mutters, running her fingers over Jimmy’s smooth back. “They thought leaving my teaching job was insane enough. This whole nannying fiasco will just confirm all their worst opinions of me.” 

“You were so unhappy teaching though, that’s not a moral failure.” Victoria reminds her. Out of all of Emma’s friends, it was Victoria who had had a front row seat to how her parents had treated her growing up. Sometimes it had felt like Emma spent more time with Victoria at the Verstappen household than she did at her own growing up. 

“Miserable.” Emma corrected. “I was totally miserable. The kids were sweet, I loved that part of the job. Seeing their eyes light up when they finally grasped a new concept. But the endless grading? The politics between the parents and admin? It was just too much.” Emma pauses, hand skating over Jimmy’s velvet ears as he napped on her lap. “I felt like I was slowly suffocating.” 

“So they wanted you to stay in a place that was killing you?” Victoria challenged, knowing that Emma would use her last breath to defend her parents despite them barely wanting to spare her a second glance most of the time. 

“They want stability for me, even if how they execute it is a little…misguided.” 

On the other end, Victoria sighed but didn’t argue, knowing that Emma was so close to getting away from the toxic home life. 

“I just don’t want to go home and have to be subjected to the hours long lectures of ‘we told you so’ and ‘what are you going to do now that you’ve managed to fail again?’ Because Vic, I don’t even know what my next move is and I’ve been thinking about nothing else since Monday night.” 

 “So if not home, then what?” Victoria asked gently. “Have you thought about staying in Monaco? Maybe looking for another job there?” 

Emma hesitated. The thought of staying in the city despite the last 3 miserable weeks with her nanny family was somewhat appealing. It was certainly better than the alternative option that felt like her only way out. “I don’t know. It feels…scary. Staying here with no sense of direction? But the thought of going back home and facing them is almost worse.” 

“Okay.” Victoria says slowly. “You don’t have to make any rash decisions right now. You’re safe at Max’s for the next few days. He’s goin until what, Saturday?” 

Emma nodded despite Victoria being unable to see her. “Yeah, Saturday evening is what he said.” 

“Perfect. Use this time to breathe. Maybe look at some job postings? I can put some feelers out to the people I know in Monaco, maybe someone has an opening for you. If all else fails I’m sure you could find some families that are looking for a piano tutor.” 

Emma’s heart rate ratcheted up as she let out a nervous laugh. “My piano playing days are long over, Vic. You know that. It’s been years.” 

Emma’s mother had put her in piano lessons the day she had turned 5 years old, insisting that music helped bring out the genius in children. What she hadn’t expected was Emma falling in love with music instead of using it as a means to be better at math. She loved every bit of the piano: learning new pieces, exploring the way it made her feel. In time it became her outlet, the way she expressed herself. Sitting at the piano had been her refuge growing up. It had been her escape, the only place where she could lose herself and sooth out the anxious noise in her brain that was brought on by the criticisms of her parents. 

Emma had begged for singing lessons for 12th birthday one year and had been denied. It wasn’t a worthy enough pursuit, her parents said. There was no way she’d ever make it as a professional musician, she wasn’t good enough and it wasn’t a practical career, so there was no sense in paying for lessons anymore. 

Her parents sold the piano the year Emma turned 16. 

She hadn’t played since. 

“Max still has that piano in his living room, doesn’t he?” Victoria asked, a hint of mischief in her voice. 

Emma glanced toward the far corner of the living room where a sleek, black grand piano stood, it’s polished surface flaming in the afternoon light. It looked expensive. Untouched. 

“I don’t know. It already feels like I’m intruding in on his space as it is. I don’t want to insert myself even further into his life.” 

“He wouldn’t mind, Em. Trust me. He’s got more money than he knows what to do with and he’s genuinely a good guy. Besides, who knows? Maybe it’ll spark something. You were always so talented when it came to music. I was always so jealous.” 

A flicker of longing stirred in Emma’s chest as she continued to stare at the piano across the room. The memory of her fingers dancing across the keys, the release she found in the music, how she felt when she finally got a particularly challenging piece nailed finally, those warm and comforting memories wrapped around her, encouraging her to stand up and approach the piano that seemed to be calling her name now. 

“Maybe.” She murmured, bare feet padding across the hardwood floor of Max’s living room. 

There was no sheet music anywhere to be found and the keys themselves looked to be a little dusty. She tapped one of them, pressing down so softly only a soft note sounded from the instrument. The tone sounded off, not significantly so but Emma knew. She knew that the piano hadn’t been played in ages probably, that it needed a good tuning, but she’d handle that later. 

“Just think about it.” Victoria’s voice gently pulled her back to the present. “No pressure. Just give yourself permission to breathe. You don’t have to have all the answers now.” 

The conversation ended shortly after with Victoria promising to call tomorrow morning to check in. Emma stayed where she was long after she hung up though, just standing in front of the piano, finger tips barely brushing the ivory keys. It was almost as if she was afraid to really touch it, to bring that kind of happiness back into her life. She was afraid if she allowed that sort of thing in again, it would break her when she inevitably had to give it up. Emma had given up enough already and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to survive another heartbreak. 

Max slotted the key into the lock, the click echoing in the quiet hallway outside his apartment door. He had intended to stay in Milton Keynes until Saturday evening, placating Horner and Marko and their requests he show his steady presence at the Red Bull Racing headquarters after a rocky start to the season for the team. 

The meetings at HQ had been a masterclass in PR spin, something Red Bull was endlessly good at. It was a carefully orchestrated attempt to quell the impending media storm and fan backlash. Liam, while being a talented driver in his own right, had been shuffled back to the sister team. Max was in disagreement with the move and he had made his thoughts on the subject known pre and post China but in the end, it had been Christian’s call. Max understood the team’s desperation for consistent points and view that Liam wasn’t living up to the expectations, but the way they had done it, the brutal way they had only given Liam 2 races to settle in before making such a drastic move, didn’t sit well with Max. 

And the sim time he’s been wanting to get in while he’d been in the UK? An absolute joke. He’d barely gotten an hour in the seat between the endless strategy debates and his PR obligations. The car still felt like a temperamental beast, unpredictable and frustrating from one setup to the next. 

It was driving him crazy. 

So, Max had cut his losses, mumbled an excuse about needing to be back in Monaco a day early, and had practically sprinted to his jet. He wanted nothing more than to spend the next few nights alone, in his own bed, before he had to leave again for a brutal triple header. 

He’d expected quiet when he’d arrived home. Craved the comfort and anonymity he had when he was alone inside those walls. Max knew Emma was still there but the thought of going home with her waiting for him didn’t bother him as much as he’d thought. Having been raised by a father who preached about making sure to stay unattached during the height of his career had left a mark on Max. He shied away form deep human connection more often than not and so the fact that he didn’t mind Emma staying with him for a bit longer was a little foreign to him. A little unsettling. 

As Max pushed the door open, a hauntingly beautiful melody drifted towards him from the living room. It was slow, melancholic, each note seemed to carry a profound sense of longing with it as it floated towards him. He couldn’t quite place the song, but he could feel the deep sadness resonating throughout the apartment. There was a quiet outpouring of something intensely personal coming from the piano sitting in the corner of his living room and as Max stood just inside the doorway, he fought the urge to slip right back out of the apartment. He felt like he was intruding on something. 

Something pulled him towards the living room though and he moved silently, not wanting to disturb Emma if it really was her playing his long-neglected piano. When he reached the archway to the living room, he stopped, mesmerized by the scene before him. 

Emma sat at his grand piano, facing away from him. Her posture was slightly hunched, her blond hair tumbling down around her shoulders in loose waves. Her head was bowed, tilted forward just a bit so she could make out the notes on the sheet music in front of her. 

Her fingers moved across the keys with a delicate grace that spoke towards the raw emotion in the music. Each note seemed to resonate with a deep sense of sadness, a quiet outpouring of something intensely personal. Max watched on, captivated, as Emma worked through the piece bit by torturous bit. He could almost feel the weight of her unspoken anxieties, the demons of her past that she was still fighting with today, all of it woven into the fabric of the melody she was making. 

Max couldn’t see her face but there was a telltale tremor in her shoulders, a subtle catch in the rhythm of the music that suggested she was not only wrestling with her demons but fighting back tears as well. There weren’t any loud, wrenching sobs. Instead, Emma’s posture trembled with the kind of silent, heart wrenching tears that spoke of a soul laid completely bare. 

The final notes of the piece hung in the air, fading slowly into the quiet hum of the Monaco evening that filtered through the closed windows. Emma’s fingers lingered on the keys for a few moments, the silence that slipped through the apartment amplifying the unsteady rhythm of her labored breathing. She hadn’t realized she’d been crying until the last few chords but the hot tears that traced silent paths down her cheeks reminded her how much she’d lost in the last few years. The melody of one of her favorite pieces, so achingly beautiful and filled with a gentle sorrow, had somehow unlocked a dam inside her, releasing a tsunami of long buried, deeply guarded feelings. 

With a shaky sigh, she finally lifted her hands from the piano, the sudden stillness that blanketed the living room, felt almost jarring. Reaching up to swipe at her eyes with the back of her hand, she turned slightly to see where Jimmy and Sassy had wandered to while she had been occupied elsewhere. 

It was then that she caught sight Max. 

He was sitting on the large sofa across the room, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his head resting against the back cushions. The dim light from a nearby lamp casting long shadows across his face but Emma could see his eyes fixed on hers, a quiet intensity shining in them as he watched her. She had been so lost in the music, so consumed by her own emotions, that she hadn’t even heard him come in. 

A jolt of surprise, bordering on panic, shot through her. Her breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t expected him back until late Saturday night. What was he doing here? How much had he heard? What had he seen?

“Max!” The sound of his name left her lips in a startled whisper, his unexpected arriaval making her jump. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic flight of hummingbirds wings against the sudden silence. 

She hadn’t meant for anyone to witness that raw, unguarded moments. Shame, hot and prickley, swelled in her chest, painting her cheeks a bright rosy red. 

“I’m sorry, Em. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Max replies, lifting himself off the couch before approaching her. He eyed Jimmy, who had leapt up onto the piano bench shortly after Emma had finished playing. 

That was an interesting development. Jimmy usually hated strangers. 

“You’re back early.” Emma scrambled for something, anything to say to distract herself from the intense way Max was looking at her, like he was really seeing her for the first time. 

Max lifts Jimmy off the bench before plopping him down on the floor, taking the cats place next to Emma on the piano bench. It was a short bench, really only meant for one grown adult, so his shoulder brushed hers as his fingers brushed against the sheet music sitting in front of him. 

“I wondered what that charge from the music store was last night.” He murmurs. 

“I’m sorry.” Her apology is instant, like a reflex coming as easy to her lips as breathing. 

Max peers at her then, liking the way the blush colors her cheeks but wishing that it was him making her blush and not the shame of needing help. “Don’t be.” His statement is firm, but not unkind. “I told you to use it if you needed anything and by the way that piece sounded, you needed that music.” 

It made Emma’s skin itch a bit at how Max read her so easily. She didn’t want to admit how much she liked feeling seen under his gaze. It felt dangerous, like there was a risk in remaining this close to him. Like if she allowed herself to get used to his kindness and generosity, she’d pay for it with her heart sooner rather than later. 

“I didn’t know you played.” Max says when Emma stays silent, her gaze flicking between the music in front of her and Max beside her. 

“Up until I was sixteen and then my parents decided my time was better spent elsewhere.” There was a touch of bitterness in her voice that made Max’s skin prickle. Every time he learned something about her parents, he liked them less and less. 

“Well, I’d never be able to tell you’d taken any time off. It sounded incredible.” 

Emma blushes harder and Max grins. “The piano is a touch out of tune, I’m afraid. It could have been better.” 

Max shakes his head, “I wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t said anything to me.” He turns back to the music, flipping to the front of the piece. “Pavane pour une infante defunte” He reads out loud in perfect French before turning back to Emma with a raised brow, “Pavane for a dead princess?” 

Emma smiles sadly at the knowing glint in his eyes. There was that feeling again, that itchiness over the fact Max was so easily able to read her. Like he knew her so well already and they’d barely spent any time together. “It was the last concert piece I ever learned before…” The rest of the sentence dies on her lips. 

Max’s gaze softened. He could hear the hurt in her voice, remembering the abrupt end to something she clearly loved. The desire to call her parents up and give them a piece of his mind for ripping away something that meant so much to Emma had his fingers itching to reach for his phone. “Before they decided your time was better spent elsewhere?” He asked gently, not wanting to push but needing to understand the shadows that seemed to cling to her today.

Emma hesitated, her fingers tracing the edges of the sheet music as she leaned just a fraction of an inch closer into Max’s warmth beside her. The silence stretched between them, thick and stifling as Max waited patiently for her response. Finally, Emma lifted her gaze to meet his, a flicker of vulnerability in her dove-grey eyes. “Before they decided music was a frivolous waste of time because I wasn’t good enough to make it a career. They said I needed to focus on more…practical pursuits.” 

The word ‘practical’ fell off her tongue, bitter as ash and dripping with venom. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Max’s jaw flutter almost imperceptibly. His parents, while demanding in their own way, had always supported his passions, his desire to race cars for a living, even when it had seemed like a long shot. The idea of someone stifling such a clear talent, such a deep connection with something so beautiful, grated on him roughly. 

“Well,” He began, low and sincere, “I’m glad you decided to waste a little more time on it tonight. Even though it wasn’t a waste. It was beautiful, Emma. Really.” 

Emma’s blush deepens but this time there was a hint of something else in her expression. There was a bit of a flicker of surprised pleasure there in her eyes as she watched Max watch her. Dropping her gaze down to her hands, she flexed her fingers slightly as if her fingers were sore from playing for so long this afternoon. 

“Thank you.” She whispered so softly Max was almost sure he’d imagined it. 

Max shifted a bit, his shoulder brushing hers once again, the casual contact sending a cool shiver of pleasure down his spine. He ignored the little voice in his head that warned him to keep his distance. He shouldn’t be this interested in his little sister’s best friend. Shouldn’t care what her plans were for the future. Shouldn’t want them to include him. 

“So,” He said, turning his attention back to the sheet music, a forced lightness in his tone as he spoke. “A dead princess, huh? Bit morbid for a Friday night, don’t you think?” He shot her a teasing grin, hoping to lighten the heavy atmosphere that had settled between them. 

A small, genuine smile spread across Emma’s lips, Max’s lighthearted question chasing away some of the sadness that had clouded her features. “It’s not really about a dead princess.” She explained, tone patient. “Ravel said the title just sounded nice. It’s more about a memory, a feeling of something lost and mourning that.” 

Max nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on the slope of her nose, the high cheekbones that he dangerously loved watching go pink at the sound of his voice, the way her lips formed a perfect heart shape as she concentrated. All of these observations were dangerous but not wholly unwelcome. 

He was familiar with that sense of loss, of mourning what could have been. What should have been. What could have been. 

“Well,” Max began, his eyes meeting hers again as a new understanding passed between them in the quiet of the evening. “I’m glad you’ve found your way back to it again, Em.” 

Tag list:

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[monicfever]

holding their face 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher hcs

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / micro

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

your hands are gentle, like he’s made of something fragile — not bone and blood, but myth and ruin. his skin is warm beneath your palms, scraped and bruised in places he won’t talk about.

he flinches when you first touch him — not from pain, but from surprise. from the quiet ache of being held like this. you whisper his name and he doesn't pull away.

the city hums outside — always too loud, too much — but here, in this moment, it's quiet. the kind of quiet matt never gets. your thumb brushes under his eye, and his lashes flutter shut. he doesn’t open them.

your fingers slide into his curls, damp with sweat and rain. you hold him like you’re anchoring him, like you’re keeping him tethered to something good. his breathing slows. he leans into your touch like he’s starved for it.

“i’m right here.” you remind him. and for once — for just a second — matt believes you.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

tonight, he’s tired. his eyes are downcast, jaw tight, like he’s bracing for a blow that doesn’t come.

your hands are slow, steady. one at his cheek, the other at his jaw — rough stubble under your fingers, skin too warm for how cold he always pretends to be.

he blinks once. like he doesn’t know what to do with it. “you don’t have to…” he starts. but you already are. your thumb brushes across the scar on his cheek — the one he never talks about.

he doesn't pull away, but he doesn’t lean in, either. just lets it happen. like he’s trying to figure out how this feels. he’s quiet. so quiet you can hear the weight in his breathing. the way he exhales like he’s holding a war behind his ribs.

“frank.” you whisper, and that’s the part that undoes him. not the touch — the way you say his name like it’s something worth holding. his eyes close. not because he’s calm, but because he’s overwhelmed.

your hands are shaking slightly. he notices. of course he notices. “you okay?” he murmurs. you press your forehead to his. “always.” he leans into you. it’s not surrender. it’s trust. for a man like frank castle, trust is the rarest kind of softness.

your fingers slip into his hair, and he doesn’t move. he just breathes. and in that moment — bruised, broken, holding more pain than most people can comprehend — he feels safe. with you.

only with you.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

foggy talks a lot when he’s nervous — jokes, rambles, deflects. but when your hands find his face, everything goes quiet.

he looks at you like you just hit pause on the chaos in his head. his brows lift, his eyes soften, and he gives you that crooked little smile — the one that always means thank you, I needed this.

“hey,” he says, voice low, gentle. “what’s that look for?” but he knows. your thumbs brush the apples of his cheeks, warm under your hands, a little flushed because he still gets flustered when you touch him like this.

he leans in instantly. instinctively. like he’s meant to be there. you’re not just cradling his face — you’re grounding him. reminding him he doesn’t have to carry everything alone. “you’re doing too much again.” you whisper.

he sighs — busted. “someone’s gotta keep things together.” he murmurs.

you shake your head and rest your forehead against his. “someone’s gotta take care of you, too.” he melts. full-on puddles into your hands. his shoulders drop, and the tension he didn’t even realize he was holding slips away.

he reaches up, hands on your wrists, holding you like you’re the only real thing in the world.“you always know what to say.” he tells you. you don’t. not always. but you see him. and that’s enough.

sometimes he makes a joke — something like, “you’re not gonna smoosh my face, right?” but it’s a deflection. because the truth is, when you hold his face like that, foggy feels safe. loved.

and no matter how loud the world gets, your hands always bring him back to himself.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

karen carries herself like she’s fine — chin up, shoulders set, voice even. but your hands find her face, and the cracks she’s hidden so carefully start to show.

her breath catches. just a little. not because she’s scared — because she’s not used to being held like she’s something worth protecting.

you don’t say anything at first. just look at her. just see her. her eyes search yours like she’s trying to believe it’s real — that someone would choose her, softness and scars alike. your palms are warm against her cheeks, and you feel the way her jaw clenches. a reflex. a habit.

she blinks fast, like she’s trying to keep from unraveling. “hey,” you murmur. “you’re okay.” her lips press together, but they tremble at the corners. she nods — barely.

you brush your thumbs along her cheekbones, and she leans in, hesitant at first, then all at once. she closes her eyes. lets herself sink into the quiet. with you, she doesn’t have to be strong every second. she doesn’t have to fight. not right now.

you kiss her forehead, soft and slow. and when she whispers, “thank you.” it’s not just for this moment — it’s for every time you remind her that softness doesn’t make her weak.

sometimes she makes a dry little joke — “you’re not checking for bruises, right?” but it’s just her way of hiding how much it means.

for the first time in a long time, she lets herself feel safe.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

she doesn’t stumble through the door — she never stumbles — but you can see the tension in the set of her shoulders, the way her jaw is locked like she’s biting back the whole night.

blood on her knuckles, maybe. maybe not hers. she doesn’t say. she doesn’t need to.

you reach for her face without a word — slowly, like you’re approaching something wild. your hands are warm. hers stay at her sides at first. she doesn’t pull away, but her body goes still — not tense. just… waiting.

no one touches her like this. not without motive. not without want. but you don’t ask anything of her in this moment — you just see her, and she doesn’t know what to do with that.

her eyes flick up to yours, unreadable — but there’s something breaking at the edges. not fear. never that. just disbelief that someone could hold her like she’s not a weapon.

like she’s allowed to be held.

she exhales, barely — a breath you wouldn’t catch if you weren’t paying attention. her jaw tightens, her lashes flutter, like she’s trying to hold herself together. your thumbs brush across her cheekbones, and for a second, her eyes close.

“hey.” you greet. her lips part like she wants to argue, to make a joke, to keep the distance safe. but she doesn’t. not this time. she leans into your touch, just slightly — then all at once.

you kiss her temple, slow and careful — not because she needs saving, but because she deserves softness. she doesn’t say thank you — not out loud. instead: “you’re not checking for battle scars, are you?” — voice low, almost amused.

but her hands find yours, fingers wrapping around your wrists like she’s anchoring herself. with you, she doesn’t have to perform strength. doesn’t have to be on guard. doesn’t have to be anything but herself.

and when she finally lets herself breathe, when she allows the silence to settle between you — it’s the closest she’s come to peace in a long, long time.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

he’s always in control, always trying to maintain a perfect façade. but you can see it — the cracks in the mask, the hollow look in his eyes after another brutal day, another moment where he failed to hold it together.

he doesn’t say anything — he never does when he’s breaking. just... stiff, distant, like he’s suffocating but doesn’t know how to ask for air.

you reach for him slowly, your hands finding his face — his skin cold to the touch, almost unnervingly so. he doesn’t pull away, but his whole body goes rigid — like he’s forgotten what it feels like to be touched without fear of it turning into something dark.

his eyes flick to yours, almost cold, but there’s something deeper hidden under that guard. a hint of confusion. of vulnerability. he doesn’t understand why you’d touch him like this, why you’d want to.

you don’t say anything — you just hold him. your thumbs run across the sharp lines of his cheekbones, grounding him in a way he’s not used to.

“you’re okay,” you murmur, your voice just loud enough for him to hear. his mouth twitches — the corners of it pulling up just enough to make it clear he’s trying to force a smirk, but it never quite reaches his eyes.

“i don’t need comforting,” he mutters, but it’s a weak defense, a habit he’s clinging to more than an actual belief. you don’t respond to his words. instead, you press your forehead against his, slow and deliberate.

he doesn’t push you away, but his breath catches — a shallow thing, like he’s been holding it in too long. in that moment he doesn’t know whether to be ashamed or relieved that someone could want him like this — raw, unmasked, vulnerable in a way that feels dangerous to him.

he tenses, like the idea itself is a threat — but his fingers twitch just barely, as if fighting the urge to touch you back. “you... don’t know who i am,” he argues,, but there’s something in his voice — something close to needy.

“i know you,” you reply, brushing your thumb across his bottom lip, letting the silence stretch for a beat. he doesn’t say thank you. but when he looks at you this time, when he lets you hold him like this, he believes he could be more than the mess he’s convinced himself to be.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

it's quiet, the kind of day where words don't feel necessary — just the hum of the room, the weight of his body next to yours. he’s leaning into you, but there's still that tension in his posture, like he’s holding back a part of himself.

you don’t say anything — you reach up slowly, hand finding the line of his jaw. his skin is warm, you can feel the way his muscles tighten at your touch, but he doesn’t pull away. he doesn’t need to be told anything — you’re not trying to fix anything.

your thumb brushes across the curve of his cheekbone. he looks at you, eyes dark but not distant — something in him softens when you touch him like this, for a second, he doesn’t have to be the guy who’s been through too much. he just lets you hold him

“you’re pretty.” you praise. he exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for too long, and his head tilts slightly into your touch.

he doesn’t pull away. doesn’t need to. not right now, at least.

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

she doesn’t fall apart. not ever.

she comes home late, tension still riding her shoulders, eyes sharp but tired. kicks off her boots, shrugs off the day like it’s something she can peel away — but it still lingers in the set of her mouth, the way her fingers twitch like they’re still reaching for a gun.

you’re both on the couch, legs tangled. it’s quiet. a movie’s playing, something you’ve both stopped pretending to pay attention to. her head is resting near your shoulder, and you feel the weight of her — present but somewhere else, too.

you don’t say anything. just shift, turn toward her, and gently cradle her face in your hands.

she blinks, once — like she wasn’t expecting it. but she doesn’t move. your fingers trace along the edge of her jaw, slow and careful, like you’re handling something you don’t want to break.

she holds your gaze — guarded at first, like she’s trying to read what this means. then it softens. just a little. enough. her lips press together, for a second, you can tell she’s thinking too hard — about control, about vulnerability, about being seen.

she closes her eyes. leans in, just slightly, and you let her, no pressure, no words. you keep holding her like that, fingertips brushing behind her ear, thumb tracing the edge of her cheek; like she’s allowed to rest. like she’s allowed to be soft.

just for a while.

⏜︵ MICRO / DAVID. 𐂯

it’s late. he’s hunched over his desk, screen glow painting shadows under his eyes. there’s a half-empty mug by his hand, something playing softly on the speakers — white noise he probably hasn’t noticed in hours.

he doesn’t hear you come in. his mind’s still spinning, still running loops — old memories, what-ifs, the kind of guilt that lingers even when you tell him it doesn’t have to.

you walk up behind him, say his name softly, he finally looks up; gives you a tired smile — the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, like he’s trying to convince you he’s fine so you won’t worry.

you don’t say anything. you just kneel down beside his chair and gently take his face in your hands his breath catches. tenderness always seems to catch him off guard, like he still doesn’t believe he’s allowed to have it.

your thumbs brush along the edges of his jaw, where the scruff’s gone a little longer than usual. he leans into it without meaning to, eyes fluttering shut like the weight of the day finally gets permission to settle.

he murmurs something — maybe your name, maybe just a sigh — and lets you hold him there, like that’s all he needs right now.

he whispers, “i’m okay,” like he’s trying to believe it, and maybe, with you there, he can. he opens his eyes after a second, looks at you like you’re something steady in a world that won’t stop shifting. he doesn’t say thank you — he just reaches up and covers your hand with his, fingers curling over yours like he doesn’t want you to let go

and you don’t.

★ a / n : mid tier effort tbh might take this down at some point

started 4.23.2025. finished 4.24.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[the-stellaron-hunters]

things you said prompt list

Aventurine

things you said over the phone

Aventurine figured you would call.

It’s definitely because of the gift that he sent your way. He is fully expecting you to ask him what’s with the sudden goodwill coming from him, and he has a response prepared in case that happens — something casual enough that you might believe that everything is still alright between the both of you, convenient enough that you may not ask him any other questions. But that doesn’t mean he has full control of how he truly feels, and that certainly doesn’t mean he has a handle of how the rest of the conversation goes, at least not when the both of you haven’t talked properly in months.

This would be far easier to deal with if you were both at fault. The problem with Aventurine is that he gets attached to someone, and he has a habit of showering them with all the attention he could give, and suddenly he feels too vulnerable and he needs to put his guard up and he’s gone and it’s as if he is out of their life, and just when there’s this reasonable assumption that he has completely cut ties, he is back again like nothing happened, and he does it again and again and again.

And this is not the first time he’s done this to you. It’s probably not the last time, either. Meanwhile you update him every now and then about what’s going on in your life, mostly in the form of texts, sometimes in handwritten letters when you feel like it. And there are a lot of times when he would just never answer, and you never seem to point it out even when your message logs become one-sided.

Aventurine answers your call and you both exchange pleasantries. He talks about anything and you talk about everything — how are you doing, I’ve missed you, I hope you are well. And for a while it feels like all is right in the world and everything is back to what you both used to be. But it doesn’t last long because after a while you fall quiet, and then he inevitably goes silent, and then he is dreading what comes next because he has an inkling of what you’re about to bring up, and for all the time he has contemplated what he did, he’s still not sure how to handle it.

You break the silence.

“…So.”

“So.”

“We haven’t talked in a while.”

Regret stabs in his chest and his breath splits into two. He feels his mouth twist as he tries to come up with something to say, but you don’t even give him enough time to think of a response.

“Hey, I’m not angry. You do know that I never hold it against you, right? I mean, you always do this with everyone. Not just me. I’m used to it.”

And you say that like you’re worried that he is going to hate you if you accidentally push one of his buttons, too cautious of what lines to cross even though you’ve both never really talked about boundaries. You say he does this to everyone and you’re not wrong. Everyone has grown used to it so he thought the more he did the same thing to you, the easier it would get.

The problem is you’re not everyone else. 

That’s the worst part. He knows you meant every word you just said. The bigger, more realistic part of him thinks that he should be grateful you’ve grown used to his habits, but the small, battered, vulnerable part of him thinks that you deserve better than this. He thinks you should be angrier, that you should hold it against him. Maybe he might keep doing the same thing to other people because he needs to protect himself, but that shouldn’t apply to you.

He is not about to tell you all that, though. Not when he’s not completely certain of how you feel about him anymore, and especially not when he has never given you a good reason to expect more than what he has shown you. So he gathers all those thoughts together and he ties them into a neat bow, hoping he doesn’t have to unpack it anytime soon. “Of course I know that. I appreciate it as always.”

“And I haven’t opened your gift yet,” you say. He couldn’t tell if you’re changing the topic on purpose, but the excited lilt in your voice says otherwise. “Not that I’m ungrateful, but it’s not my birthday. What’s the occasion? What made you want to give this to me?”

I just didn’t know how to approach you again after ignoring you for so long, Aventurine thinks to himself. He expected you to ask that, but it doesn’t make the conversation any easier. He hasn’t forgotten all the excuses he has come up with, but they no longer feel right. Because I wasn’t sure how I’d handle it if I tried to call you and you never picked up. It’s far easier to give you things that you might like than to start a conversation just to see how you’re doing. “I saw it and I thought you would like it,” he settles on saying instead, “so I thought to myself, why not send you a gift? I’ve been busy, after all. It’s the least I could do.”

You hum. “Huh. I thought this was a peace offering after ignoring me all this time. You know. Like usual.”

Your tone is light and your words are teasing. You want him to not take your words seriously, but the truth in your words is too heavy to ignore. “It could be,” he tries to say it like he’s fooling around as much as you are, ignoring the way the words burn in his throat. “Why, did you want it to be one?”

You fall very, very, quiet. There’s something contemplative, something pained in your silence that he can’t quite pin down.

“Maybe I do.”

Your voice is tinged with an emotion that’s difficult to judge. And he would’ve dwelled on that if he could, but maybe you didn’t want him to have the upper hand in the conversation because you immediately change topics; you open the gift and you tell him you like it, he says he’s glad, and you both continue talking like nothing happened.

As soon as the phone call ends, Aventurine receives a text from you, a simple thank you with an image of the scenery in your place attached to the message. As he snaps a picture of the sundusk through his window, he thinks about the hope and uncertainty and the faintest spark of expectation in your voice. He doesn’t know how he is going to do it — he is going to worry about the consequences later — but he needs to find a way to free up his schedule in a short notice.

[kiragecko]

The Husband and I just made some really exciting progress in problem solving together, and I wanted to talk about it!

Our eldest, Nq Stickperson, really struggles to clean up or throw stuff away. Our house is filled with piles of papers, some of them a decade old. Old wrappers are hidden under them, and he gets distressed and cries if we try to throw the wrappers out. Our attempts to support him have been really ineffective, and the kid is a teenager now! We're wanting him to be able to be independent some day, no matter how long in the future that is.

Yesterday, Husband and I sat down for date night, and tried to work through the problem. Why weren't we effective? What was stopping us?

Pretty quick, it became obvious we weren't on the same page, but we couldn't figure out why. I kept getting defensive before we had really gotten anywhere. He was getting flustered, and then passive as I got more worked up. We had to keep resetting.

I decided to make my context as clear as possible, and talked to the Husband about I would have needed if I was in my son's place. I would have needed to be told that what was being asked of me was painful and awful. Getting rid of beloved possessions HURTS! I would have needed someone to walk me through how I actually felt then - the constant fear of loss, the stress because there was so much stuff that I could never actually find what I cared about, the distress about never being allowed to bring anything home, because there wasn't room for it. Someone to help me recognize that I'm in pain NOW, and even if the fix will hurt MORE, that pain would end. This pain isn't going to without action. And then comfort and sit with me while I ranted about how much the situation sucked, and CHOOSING pain was a garbage choice, and I hated this.

Then the Husband brought in what he would need. He would have needed someone to walk him through all his stuff and see if he cared about ANY of it. Stuff just shows up in his life, unwanted and in his way. He struggles to organize, or recognize if things can be thrown out. Someone walking him through those executive function tasks is his main need.

And that cleared up what our issue was. The Husband kept starting by talking about how our son's stuff wasn't wanted or valuable. I'd dig in my heels, feeling like our son's emotions weren't being validated. And it would be so early in the discussion, we didn't have anywhere to fall back to!

After realizing this, we were able to stop making it about us, and actually talk about our son.

I tend to give him a lot of support STARTING, because executive dysfunction is real and mean, but almost none for the actual organization and prioritization. "Sorting" and "thinking" are nearly synonymous for me, so I'm not even sure HOW to walk someone through it! That's just ... how thinking works? Just do the thinking thing on the objects? But my son isn't good at organization, and just ends up lost and abandoned by someone who said they cared.

Meanwhile, my husband tries to help our son recognize that he doesn't CARE about this stuff, so he can let it go. But my son does care. A lot. So that doesn't work either.

Eventually, we realized that my Husband could break down organization further than I could, and suggest simpler tasks for me to support our son through. We realized I could get Stickperson to neatly stack his papers. Maybe I could put them in folders after, if he was okay with that.

-

I told my son the plan this morning and he got excited and wanted to do it before school. He choose papers to hand to me and told me what group they went with. (More organization skill than he's shown before!) I made little stacks, and slid the stacks into folders. Then I labelled the folders.

3/4 of the living room sheets dealt with in 5 minutes! He's spent HOURS trying to deal with them, moving them around, crying because he can't let go of anything. I haven't been allowed to touch them because he was afraid I'd throw them out.

Now we have three folders and I can see the floor. All because my Husband and I worked through our own issues enough to actually see our son's.

[lila-lou]

✨Turning Heads - 2/5✨

Summary: You were just supposed to act. But from the moment Jensen Ackles knocks on your door, the lines start to blur. The chemistry is real, the scenes are intense—and he's... well, he’s married.

-requested-

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: Language

Word Count: 4178

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes. I love them all.

Sitting on the small couch in Jensen’s trailer a few weeks later, you shifted uncomfortably, your script resting on your lap. You had gone over the lines a dozen times, but your mind wasn’t really on the dialogue.

Jensen, sitting across from you, leaned back against the armrest, flipping through his own script with an easy, relaxed posture—completely unfazed. Meanwhile, you were practically vibrating with nerves.

“Alright”, Jensen said, tapping a line with his finger. “This part right here—where Soldier Boy kinda loses control for a second—we should probably talk about how we’re gonna play that”.

You nodded quickly, feeling the heat creep up your neck. “Yeah. Right. Totally”.

Jensen glanced up at you, and his lips quirked as he took in your rigid posture. “You good?”.

You exhaled sharply, running a hand through your hair. “Yeah, just… I don’t know. I’ve never done a scene like this before”.

Jensen closed his script and gave you his full attention. “It’s a lot, I know. Especially for your first big gig. And having to do it practically naked? That’s a whole other level”.

You swallowed hard, nodding. “Yeah. I mean, I know everything’s choreographed, and I trust you, and the crew is professional, but…”. You hesitated. “It’s still terrifying”.

Jensen leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His expression softened, the usual teasing glint in his eyes replaced by something more serious. “Listen, I get it. It’s awkward as hell at first, no matter how long you’ve been doing this. But my job—besides, y’know, pretending to be an asshole—is to make sure you feel comfortable”.

You bit your lip. “I appreciate that”.

He nodded. “You’re in control, okay? We go at your pace. If anything feels weird, too much, even a second too long—say the word, and we adjust".

You played with the corner of your script, still feeling the weight of tomorrow hanging over you. “I just keep thinking about the modesty patches”, you admitted. “I know I won’t be seen naked, but I’ll be naked, y’know”.

Jensen smirked. “Yeah, those things don’t leave much to the imagination”.

You groaned, covering your face. “Not helping”.

He chuckled. “Sorry, sorry. But look, I promise—when we’re on set, it’s not gonna feel as bad as it does in your head right now. We’ll have a closed set, only essential crew. And I’ll keep my eyes where they need to be”. He lifted his hands in mock innocence.

You peeked at him through your fingers. “Uh-huh. Sure”.

Jensen laughed. “Hey, I’m a professional. But, y’know, if it makes you feel better…”. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “I’ll be in the same boat. Just some modesty gear and a prayer”.

You snorted, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little. “Right. I’m sure you’re really worried about being half-naked on set”.

He smirked. “Okay, fair point. Not my first rodeo”.

You sighed, finally setting your script aside. “Thanks, Jensen. Seriously. I know you don’t have to do all this, but it means a lot".

He shrugged, his smile easy. “Like I said, it only works if there’s trust. And for what it’s worth, you’re gonna kill it”.

You exhaled, nodding. “I just hope I don’t pass out from nerves first”.

Jensen grinned. “If you do, I’ll catch you”.

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. Maybe tomorrow wouldn’t be as terrifying as you thought.

The next day, the set was eerily quiet, the usual hum of background chatter completely absent. Only the essential crew remained, their movements efficient and professional. The motel bathroom was dimly lit, the shower running, steam curling against the tiles.

You stood near the edge of the set, wearing nothing but a robe and a pair of slippers, biting the tip of your thumb as you watched the final adjustments being made. Your stomach was in knots.

Jensen was already inside the shower, water cascading over his bare chest, his modesty patch in place, though from this angle, it looked like he was completely naked. He was talking to the director, nodding at something Kripke was saying, looking completely relaxed—like this was just another day at the office.

You, on the other hand, felt like you might pass out.

A hand touched your shoulder gently. “Hey, you ready?”. The intimacy coordinator, Sarah, gave you a kind smile. You appreciated her presence—she had gone through every detail of the scene with you and Jensen the day before, making sure you felt comfortable.

You exhaled shakily. “As ready as I’ll ever be”.

Jensen glanced over and caught your eye. His lips curled into a reassuring smirk, and he mouthed, You got this.

You nodded, even though your nerves were still buzzing.

“All right, places!”, Kripke called out.

Your cue was coming up. The robe had to come off. You swallowed hard, steeling yourself, and untied it with slightly shaky hands.

Jensen, still leaning against the shower wall, tilted his head slightly as he watched you step into position. His eyes flickered down for half a second—not in a way that felt unprofessional, but in a way that told you he was taking in your nerves, not your body.

He shifted slightly under the spray, the water dripping off his hair, and offered you a small nod. His way of saying, It’s just us. We’ve got this.

You inhaled deeply.

Kripke called out, “Action!”.

Everything around you faded—the cameras, the crew, the nerves. It was just you, standing under the artificial glow of the motel bathroom, and Jensen—Soldier Boy—waiting for you beneath the stream of water.

The shower was already running hot, steam thickening the air as you stepped inside, your bare skin instantly covered in a sheen of moisture. The warmth made everything feel heavier—your breath, the tension, the way Jensen’s gaze darkened as he took you in.

Soldier Boy wasn’t a man of tenderness. He took what he wanted, unapologetically. That’s exactly what this scene was meant to show—the raw, unfiltered way he devoured the woman who had somehow managed to capture his interest.

Jensen moved the second you stepped into the shower.

A rough hand wrapped around your wrist, yanking you forward so fast that a gasp left your lips. Before you could process, your back was already pressed against the cool, wet tiles, the contrast to the hot water making you shiver.

“Fuckin’ finally”, Jensen - Soldier Boy - growled, his voice thick, rough.

His body caged yours in instantly—broad shoulders, towering frame, every inch of him pressing down against you. His hand was splayed over your ribcage, so massive it nearly covered the whole expanse of your side. His grip was firm, almost bruising, fingers digging into your damp skin as if reminding you who was in control here.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t have time to react before his other hand came up, gripping your jaw roughly and tilting your head back. His thumb brushed your bottom lip, and his smirk turned wicked.

“All that attitude, all that fuckin’ mouth”, he murmured, voice thick with condescension. “Bet you sound a lot better when you’re moanin’ instead of talkin’ back”.

Heat coiled low in your stomach, the way he manhandled you making something primal stir deep inside you. You knew it was just acting—you knew—but your body wasn’t quite on the same page.

Then his mouth was on yours, hot, demanding. The sheer intensity of it made you whimper.

Jensen—Soldier Boy—swallowed the sound eagerly, one large hand sliding down from your ribs to grip your thigh, hoisting it up against his hip. The movement was rough, controlling, making you fully aware of just how much bigger he was than you.

And that’s when it really hit—how small you felt beneath him.

His massive frame nearly engulfed yours, his chest pressed flush against you, slick with water and heat. His hands, calloused and huge, wrapped around your bare skin like he could completely consume you. His presence was overwhelming, his control absolute.

You barely registered the way your own fingers clutched at his arms, at his biceps, feeling the raw strength beneath them. You weren’t just acting anymore. Your skin tingled where he touched, your pulse thrumming hard beneath the surface.

And then you felt it.

The subtle, unmistakable press of him against you—solid, hard.

Your breath stuttered for a second, and so did his.

Jensen’s fingers flexed against your skin, like he was trying to ground himself, trying to stay in character, but something in his stance shifted. You saw it in his eyes, the way they flickered—just briefly—from Soldier Boy to Jensen.

And then—he nearly dropped you.

Not completely, but his grip on your thigh slipped for half a second, enough that you gasped and scrambled to hook your arm around his shoulder, your fingers digging into the damp muscle there.

The loss of balance made the scene visibly fall apart.

“Cut!”. Kripke’s voice cut through the air like a whip, sharp and immediate.

The room went still, the only sound left was the steady patter of water hitting the tiled floor. Jensen exhaled hard, his jaw clenching as he carefully—carefully—set you back down onto both feet, his hands lingering for only a second before he pulled away completely.

You barely heard Kripke sighing in the background, probably blaming the slippery floor or poor blocking, but you knew better. Jensen knew better.

His hands went straight to his hips, head tipping down as he let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh—one of disbelief, frustration, maybe even amusement.

You, on the other hand, didn’t know what to do. Your skin was still burning from where he had touched you, from where his body had pressed against yours, from the very real thing you had felt just moments ago.

Jensen finally looked up, rubbing a wet hand over his face before glancing at you. His eyes searched yours for a moment, almost like he was trying to gauge your reaction.

Then, barely above a whisper, just for you— "Sorry".

It was so quiet, almost lost beneath the steady stream of water, but you heard it. And for a second, you saw something almost vulnerable beneath the confidence, beneath the Jensen Ackles persona.

But before you could say anything, Kripke’s voice rang out again. “Alright, let’s go again from the top of that last section. Reset positions. Cameras ready?”.

Jensen inhaled sharply, his shoulders straightening, rolling the tension away as he slipped seamlessly back into character. You swallowed hard, shaking off your own thoughts as you repositioned yourself against the wet tiles.

The second Action was called again, everything changed.

Jensen’s fingers were on you instantly, rougher this time, like he had something to prove—to himself, to the scene, to you.

The Scene continued.

As his large hands gripped your waist tightly, spinning you so fast your palms smacked against the wet tiles, your chest pressing flush against the cold surface. A gasp left your lips at the sudden movement, but it wasn’t from surprise alone—it was the force of it, the sheer strength in how he handled you, like you were weightless to him.

“Thought I told you not to run that fuckin’ mouth”, he muttered, voice thick, gravelly, dripping with that unmistakable Soldier Boy arrogance.

You barely had time to react before his body pressed into yours from behind, his broad chest molding against your back, his massive hands sliding down your sides, gripping your hips possessively. His fingers dug in, hard enough to leave marks.

Jensen—Soldier Boy—was consuming you.

Your breathing was ragged, a mix of nerves, heat, and the sheer overwhelming presence of him against you.

His lips ghosted against the shell of your ear, hot breath fanning against your damp skin. “You gonna be good for me now?”, he murmured, voice dangerously low.

A shiver ran down your spine, your fingers twitching against the slick tile. You knew your line. “Make me”.

The second the words left your lips, Jensen moved.

One of his hands left your hip and grabbed the back of your neck, fingers wrapping around your throat just enough to tilt your head back toward him. His grip wasn’t choking, but it was possessive, dominant, a silent reminder of who was in control.

Your pulse thrummed beneath his fingertips, and you could feel him smirk against your jaw before his lips crashed against yours.

The kiss was rough, demanding. He kissed like he fought—aggressive, unapologetic, like he owned you in that moment.

The heat between you was suffocating, the steam making everything feel heavier, thicker.

And just like before, you felt him. That same hardness, that same evidence that this scene was blurring lines neither of you had anticipated.

This time, Jensen didn’t falter.

He didn’t drop you, didn’t hesitate—but you felt the way his breath hitched, just for a fraction of a second, the way his fingers flexed against your skin, betraying him.

The way the control he prided himself on was slipping.

But still, he stayed in character, his lips ghosting over your jaw before he pulled back just enough to sneer, “That what you wanted, sweetheart?”.

“Cut!”.

The room snapped back into reality.

Jensen’s grip on your neck instantly loosened, his hands dropping from your body like he had just been burned. He took a half step back, but his breathing was still heavy, his jaw tight.

You stayed where you were for a second, your hands still pressed against the wet tile, trying to breathe, to force yourself to remember this was just acting. But it hadn’t felt like just acting. Not to you.

Jensen exhaled sharply, finally breaking the silence. “You okay?” His voice was lower than usual, rougher. It wasn’t Soldier Boy’s voice anymore—it was his.

You finally turned to face him, your gaze flickering up to meet his. His green eyes were darker than usual, still hooded with the weight of the scene, with something else. Something unspoken.

You nodded, though your voice wasn’t as steady as you wanted it to be. “Yeah. You?”.

Jensen hesitated. Just for a second. But that second was enough.

Then he smirked—his usual Jensen smirk, easy, charming, playful—but there was something behind it. Something restrained. “Yeah”, he said, rolling his shoulders like he was physically trying to shake it off. “All good”.

Kripke’s voice cut through the moment before you could say anything else. “That was great. Let’s do one more for safety, but that was it”.

One more.

You saw the brief flicker in Jensen’s expression—the awareness that doing that again, feeling that again, could be dangerous. But he nodded, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah. One more”.

You had barely sunk into the couch in your trailer, robe still loosely wrapped around you, when the exhaustion hit. The adrenaline from earlier had finally worn off, leaving behind a mixture of relief, residual heat, and an underlying tension you couldn’t quite shake.

The talk with Kripke had gone well. He had praised your performance, reassured you that you handled the scene like a pro, and reminded you that today was the hardest part. He had even joked that you should take the rest of the afternoon to decompress.

Jensen had been there too—charming as always, back to his usual self, laughing with Kripke, nodding along to his feedback. But every now and then, you had felt his eyes flicker to you. Not the teasing, big-brotherly looks he had given you before filming had started. No, this was something different. Something unreadable.

Now, an hour later, you were curled up with a bottle of water, trying to replay the scene in your mind, trying to decipher what exactly had happened between you and Jensen in that shower.

And then, a knock.

You jumped slightly, not expecting anyone. You frowned, setting the water bottle down and straightening up. “Uh—yeah, come in”.

The door creaked open, and there he was. Jensen. Except… not Jensen the way you usually saw him. He looked almost nervous.

His usual cocky ease was replaced by something more uncertain, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, his weight shifting slightly as he hovered in the doorway. His damp hair was tousled like he had run a hand through it a few too many times.

You blinked at him. “Hey”.

“Hey”, he echoed, then hesitated. His jaw tensed, like he was debating something. Then he let out a small breath and finally stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

You sat up a little straighter. “You okay?”.

Jensen let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “Funny. I was about to ask you the same thing”.

You tilted your head. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”.

He gave you a look. “C’mon, short stack. That was… not your average day at work”.

You exhaled, running a hand through your hair. “Yeah. No kidding”.

A small silence stretched between you.

Jensen shifted again, his fingers tapping against his thigh, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. Finally, he sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Listen”, he said, his voice lower now, more serious. “About earlier…”.

Your stomach tightened slightly. “Yeah?”.

He met your eyes, something there that wasn’t just casual, wasn’t just friendly. “That got… a little intense”, he admitted.

You swallowed. “Yeah. It did”.

His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something else, but he hesitated again. That wasn’t like him. Jensen Ackles was never hesitant. But here he was, standing in your trailer, looking at you like he wasn’t sure if he should say what he was thinking.

Jensen exhaled sharply, his fingers rubbing the back of his neck before finally meeting your gaze again. His usual confidence was off—not completely gone, but definitely cracked.

Then, to your surprise, a faint flush crept up his neck. “I, uh…”. He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Look, I just—wanted to say sorry”.

Your brows furrowed slightly. “Sorry?”.

His jaw tightened, and for the first time since you had met him, Jensen Ackles actually looked embarrassed. “Yeah”, he muttered, shifting his weight again. “That—what happened—that doesn’t… happen to me. Ever".

Your stomach flipped. You knew exactly what he meant, but you still asked, “What doesn’t happen?”.

Jensen gave you a look, one that said don’t make me say it, but when you just raised an expectant eyebrow, he let out another dry chuckle, shaking his head. “You felt it”, he muttered, looking anywhere but at you.

Your face heated instantly.

Of course, you had felt it—the very obvious, very undeniable way his body had reacted to yours in the heat of the scene. But hearing him acknowledge it out loud? That was something else entirely. “I—uh”, you started, suddenly very aware of how small the space between you was. “Yeah”.

Jensen groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed.

That made him glance up at you, his brows raising slightly. “You’re laughing at me?”.

You pressed your lips together, trying to stifle it. “I mean… kinda?”.

Jensen scoffed, finally meeting your gaze again, the corners of his lips twitching. “Unbelievable”.

You shrugged. “Sorry. It’s just—you’re Jensen Ackles. Mr. Charming, Smooth, Experienced Actor. And yet, here you are, blushing in my trailer, apologizing because you got…”. You trailed off, letting the weight of your words hang between you.

Jensen ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaling again. “Fucking shit".

You tilted your head, teasing now. “So… what was it?”.

He blinked. “What?”.

You crossed your arms. “What was it that got you?”.

Jensen narrowed his eyes slightly. “Excuse me?”.

“I mean, you said it’s never happened before. So… what was different this time?”.

For a moment, he just looked at you, his expression unreadable.

Then, after a beat, he let out a breath, shaking his head with a small, almost incredulous smirk. “You”, he murmured.

Your stomach flipped.

Jensen studied you, his smirk fading slightly, replaced by something softer, something more real. “You caught me off guard”, he admitted. “Didn’t expect you to be so—”. He stopped himself, lips pressing together.

Your heartbeat picked up. “So what?”.

Jensen hesitated again, then finally sighed, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter”, he muttered, running a hand down his face. “Point is, it was unprofessional, and I didn’t want you thinking I was being a creep or something”.

You swallowed, your pulse still quick. “I didn’t think that”.

Jensen met your gaze again, studying your expression, and for a second, the teasing, the tension, the awkwardness—all of it shifted into something heavier. Something unspoken. Something neither of you were ready to acknowledge.

After a beat, he cleared his throat and glanced toward the door. “Alright, well… guess I’ll leave you to it”.

But before he could move, you reached out—just a small movement, your fingers brushing lightly against his wrist. “Jensen”.

He stopped. Looked down at where your hand had touched him. Then back at you.

You swallowed. “I didn’t mind”.

His jaw tightened slightly, something flickering behind his eyes—something he pushed down fast.

Then, after a long, silent beat, he huffed a small, almost amused breath and shook his head. “Yeah”, he murmured, eyes still locked onto yours. “That’s kinda the problem, isn’t it?”.

And just like that—he walked out.

The second the door clicked shut behind him, you let out a groan and facepalmed. "I didn’t mind". Seriously? That was the best you could come up with?

You had just been trying to reassure him, to ease his awkwardness. But the second those words left your lips, the entire conversation had shifted.

And then—that comment. "That’s kinda the problem, isn’t it?".

You sank onto the couch, your heart still pounding as you replayed it over and over in your head. Did that mean what you thought it meant? Had he been feeling this pull too? Not just today, not just in that scene—but for the last few weeks?

You groaned again, dropping your head back against the couch. What the hell were you doing?

Jensen was married. Happily, as far as you knew. You had met Danneel briefly when she visited set. She was gorgeous, confident, the kind of woman who seemed untouchable. And yet, here you were, sitting in your trailer, practically burning from what had just happened with her husband.

But, your mind argued, he was the one who came here.

He was the one who hesitated at the door, the one who blushed, the one who admitted that what happened in that shower wasn’t normal for him.

He was the one who said that was the problem.

And, shit, you couldn’t even pretend it wasn’t a problem for you, too. Because the truth was, you hadn’t minded. Not one bit.

Jensen was just so much. He had been since day one. Larger than life, effortlessly charming, teasing and protective in all the right ways. And physically—Shit, you had felt him today, really felt just how massive he was compared to you, how his hands had completely swallowed your skin, how easily he had moved you like you weighed nothing.

And the worst part? You had gotten just as turned on as he had.

You clenched your jaw, your fingers gripping the couch cushion beside you. This was bad. Really, really bad. Because now, you couldn’t stop wondering.

How long had he been feeling it? Was today the first moment he had slipped, or had there been other moments—small ones, lingering ones—that you had missed? Had he been watching you, noticing you, thinking about you the same way you had caught yourself thinking about him?

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing your heart to stop hammering, willing your body to calm the fuck down. None of this mattered. It couldn’t matter. Jensen was off-limits. Untouchable.

But as you sat there, still replaying the way his fingers had gripped your skin, the way his voice had dropped when he whispered Sorry, the way his pupils had blown when he pulled away from you in that shower… You weren’t sure you believed that anymore.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

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[julietcpulet]

LN 5 epilogue: The moment, the aftermath and the anime.

I’ve seen people being concerned for how things will be portrayed if the anime makes it to the LN 5 epilogue where Jinshi and Maomao have their undoubtedly most intense moment of the series. If the anime gets renewed for a season 3 it’ll have to cover this as the first two seasons have done 4 light novels so if we get even one more it’ll be expected to make through light novel 6, which is great material. Do I expect that some people are going to see Jinshi’s behavior as toxic, assault and the like? Yup, probably ramped up 1,000% from the frog scene even. Do I think the anime will tone it down from the light novel? Yes I do. They’ve added things here and there to other scenes and in ways I think it’s helped, with that moment and its nuances I don’t see them going all the way there. Also, there’s lots of fan debate on translation so I wouldn’t be surprised if the animators take a light tone just to keep from siding one way or another on how it was translated. That being said, here’s why I’m not that worried even if the whole scene is shown: because sometimes we need the messy moments for the growth to happen. (Spoilers under the cut)

First, some perspective. An analysis on the moment itself.

People can argue that this one moment in Jinmao history is a bit too messy but I don’t think so. For one, I don’t think Jinshi was truly trying to hurt Maomao. Yes we see him put his hand on her throat and pull her hand behind her back, however he quickly releases both, his one hand to twine in her hair and the other to pull her closer when he kisses her. The point of both was to get her attention. This scene starts out in a somewhat similar fashion to the frog scene but it is much more of a breaking point for the two of them than that. Just like with the frog scene, Jinshi has something vital he wants to communicate with Maomao. The whole reason for her being there is that she’s a marriage candidate, she is even wearing a hair stick Jinshi had made specifically for her, one with a moon and a poppy. (Moon Prince and the girl who likes poison, since poppies represent poison, anyone?) But when they begin talking on this subject Maomao, like before and always, evades and won’t admit she knows she’s his real choice for a wife and this is a proposal. Instead she even has the audacity to suggest he marry Lishu, who at this point even Maomao knows has feelings for Basen and wouldn’t be a good choice for Jinshi given her nature and his. To me it’s this continual evasiveness that gets Jinshi to grab her attention again by putting his hands on her in a more aggressive manner. For Maomao though, we’re finally given a glimpse at why her responses are likely instinctual over emotional and why she appears to almost “shut down” in the face of an advance. It’s because we see that her brain has been taught to view everything from the perspective of the pleasure district, she even later says she was “indoctrinated”. Horrifyingly, her sisters subjected her to sexual conduct when she was young to learn the ways of a courtesan to the point of tears and so when she’s in a situation where anything sexual happens she doesn’t see it as an opportunity to express herself but instead to retreat and only find a way to gain the upper hand.

Remember too that Maomao admits from the beginning that Jinshi “isn’t the type who would lay a hand on a young woman” and this doesn’t make her change her opinion. She even says out loud when he says “I wasn’t actually going to hit you”, “I know.” She can jump around his actions but knows whatever he’s doing isn’t about hurting her, it’s about getting a reaction out of her, which is why she denies him that satisfaction. We see once Maomao takes any kind of initiative Jinshi backs off, showing his only real goal was to have her show any reciprocation towards him at all. Especially when we see his perspective at the beginning of LN 6 where he’s looking back on the interaction and realizes Maomao’s detachment, we understand what he wants from her is not simply sexual engagement. He wants her to feel something and not be “like trying to shove a curtain…simply roll with it.” To me this expresses why it’s not “assault” in that Jinshi wasn’t trying to harm, harass or have sex with Maomao. He releases her when he thinks she’s kissing him back and his excitement over the interaction is over when he sees her face and realizes that she was completely devoid of feeling like usual and just playing along to whatever end she thought was expected of her.

Why is this pivitol for Jinmao? Understanding them. Growth.

Because it’s where we finally get to see why these two cannot seem to get on the same page about love or mutual feelings. Without it they’d just keep doing the same old push / pull song and dance forever. The quote before he reaches behind her head gives us a clue to all of it.

“That word, that simple four-letter word with its o and its e, was sometimes called vulgar, and sometimes turned out to be nothing more than a game- but some people said it was impossible to live without.”

Maomao is talking about love, what she sees in Jinshi’s eyes, what she’s trying to avoid and how we’re supposed to see them both playing it as a game because right now they can’t see it as anything else just yet. If you read on into LN 6 we see that Jinshi’s whole goal was basically to “triumph over” or to get a rise out of Maomao in some way, which he miserably admits he failed at. She remained unmoved and defeated him soundly. But that’s the whole point of this moment between these two is to show that they’re both still viewing love this way, as a “game” where one side has to win and have the upper hand to be successful. It’s why Jinshi tries to push Maomao to show him emotion and then Maomao is the one to have “victory” in the end by using what her sisters taught her but with absolutely no feeling behind it. Even during their interaction we get a glimpse that Maomao seems pleased Jinshi was jealous she had been dancing with Rikuson, “So he had been watching them!” (To me meaning she wanted him to notice.) So there may not be complete lack of feeling on her part, just a twisted sense that it has to be manipulated. Jinshi’s view of love comes from watching palace women and men play political games for affection and status. Maomao sees love as dangerous and deceptive, many times the only form of it leading to harm and abandonment in the pleasure district. So both of them have no real concept what it means to love someone other than to try and get one over on the other, it’s about power, control and hiding what you actually want. Without this understanding on our part, as the readers and audience, that Jinshi and Maomao have troubled histories and a distorted view of love, we would just see the way they handle one another as abusive. You need this scene and others like it to get a glimpse into how they actually operate, what they're hiding and what the aftermath does for them.

From the moment to the aftermath, where change happens.

It's in the aftermath we see real change for the two of them. Jinshi realizes he was conceited and a part of him believing that because others respond to him favorably he could get Maomao to do the same. Maomao doesn’t evade him in the same way as before either. Yes when they reunite in LN 6 Jinshi still offers her an antler and they engage in their typical back and forth complete with Maomao trying to reason herself out of being Jinshi’s choice but it’s lighthearted and both are far less intense. Maomao’s want to rationalize Jinshi’s choice as purely political without feeling helps her reason why he might want to pick her. It gives us a glimpse at her self esteem being so low that she has to say “He’s got strange tastes, though” to understand why Jinshi would pick her over other women she’d consider more desirable to him. It’s telling too that Maomao is quoted as thinking,

“Maybe he was hoping she would come right out and say she loved him, but quite frankly, Maomao wasn’t at a point where she could bring those words to her lips. The best she could manage was that she wasn’t without a certain affection for him."

It’s telling because 1. It says she isn’t at that point she can bring the words to her lips, not that she doesn’t feel love for him. 2. It still states clearly she has affection for him. This goes to show that Jinshi’s prodding can have an effect on Maomao. Being the kind of shut down person she is due to her background, she in effect can almost need someone like Jinshi who’s willing to push her outside her comfort zone to get her to admit to feelings she’s unwilling or even at times unable to fully voice. Even in the next moments where he tickles her and she lightly objects but lets him, it allows even more walls between the two to be bridged. It’s not aggressive like what happens in the LN 5 epilogue but more like what two true lovers might do in playfully getting to know one another. And it still proves the most effective way in getting Maomao to open up because their conversation here leads to the first real confession Maomao makes about her true fear and it’s made as clear as it can be that it’s not marrying Jinshi himself but that in doing so she doesn’t want to become Gyokuyou’s enemy. This revelation by Maomao sets off a lot of what happens in the next novels for them and it wouldn’t have happened had Jinshi not pushed Maomao to stop ignoring she was a marriage candidate and instinctively shutting him out. By letting Jinshi in, not hiding what she’s actually thinking, even this little bit, he takes that knowledge and tries to do all in his power to keep her from being afraid of a future where they’re together. But without the moment in the garden of the LN 5 epilogue there would be no Maomao opening up and no Jinshi realizing he needs to do what he can, not to prove his feelings to her but to prove it’s possible they can work and she won’t be in a tough position.

"For you, I will remove every obstacle that keeps us apart. One day. Just know that." - "I won't let what you fear come to pass. I swear it."

An important detail: star crossed lovers.

I think this quote that occurs just before the LN 5 epilogue moment is important to mention because it ties into a theme that becomes relevant with Maomao and Jinshi going forward, that of the star-crossed lovers.Maomao is looking up at the dark sky and it’s possibly one of the most romantic observations she makes. Some may say I’m reading too much into this but if you’ve read Hyuuga’s novels you’ll know the details are where are the goodies are.

“The sky seemed so vast. There was no moon, making the stars to shine all the brighter. Three of them shone brightest of all. Perhaps those stars were the two lovers, and the river that separated them.”

This is likely referencing the myth of Altair & Vega, those are their western names but it’s a Chinese ancient myth about a celestial princess who falls in love with a mortal and they end up being placed as stars in the sky, separated by the Milky Way only able to see one another on occasional days (that’s my brief description, worth looking up if you want to know more). So I don’t think it’s coincidence at all Maomao references the stars being two lovers (Jinshi & Maomao) and the river that separates them (likely the empire or even Gyokuyou because she keeps requesting Maomao at her side.) I don’t think it’s that far a stretch to make. And this comes before they have this intense, highly charged moment in the garden as almost lovers. Completely misunderstanding each other yes, hence the river between them they have yet to cross but I think that’s why nothing can be taken at such face value here because even a quote like this can add such depth. Hyuuga does this again with the star-crossed lovers motif in LN 6 where in the same antler scene she has Maomao notice Jinshi looking at the book that falls and it’s Romeo & Juliet. How this relates to the LN 5 scene is that the star-crossed lovers are mired in tragedy, misunderstandings, missed opportunity. But as we see in LN 6 with the moment Maomao & Jinshi speak about Romeo & Juliet is they both agree about wishing for a different ending (I talk about this in another post). So my thought here is without the LN 5 epilogue, without having them be the stars separated by the river, having them face these difficulties, we also wouldn’t get the ending they’re both working so hard towards.

Finally, the anime: striking a balance.

So why should we actually look forward to a moment like the one in LN 5 being shown in the anime? Because it's not just about that moment but about everything it represents and leads to for these characters. Without this singular moment that's fraught with so much unresolved tension, feelings and decisions, Jinshi and Maomao would've never been pushed to discuss what needed to be between one another. They've both had too messy of upbringings to do so in any natural way. Maomao almost needs Jinshi to needle her to get her out of her self-imposed shell and he likewise needs Maomao to shut him down sometimes to prove his conceited notions aren't always on course. But without a moment like this we wouldn't have gotten a truth from Maomao that leads to down the road her admittance that she's merely afraid her feelings are too lukewarm compared to Jinshi's.

"It was a heat like molten metal. She wasn’t sure what to do with it all for the temperature she could return was no more than that of lukewarm water."

In effect showing that it's her sense of inferiority keeping them apart more than it is a lack of actual desire on either side. With the anime, I expect them to strike a reasonable balance. There's too much internal monologue that I don't think they'll be able to capture it all. The frog scene for me showed they were able to walk that tight rope between intense behavior and romantic advancement like the scene is meant to convey so if it would be the same team handling the garden scene I'm not worried at all. I think the anime's that are willing to stick to the canon, regardless of plots that may seem a bit edgy or not fit within modern standards, tend to be the best ones. So far Apothecary Diaries anime has stuck closely to the light novels and I would be surprised if we got to this moment and they deviated too much, they've handled much darker topics than this. I worry more about people's reactions to it but even then I anticipate the arguments that will coming along, hence this long winded explanation haha.

In truth, were this reality, would I recommend a girl friend stay with a guy like Jinshi, no I wouldn’t but I also wouldn’t recommend and guy friend stay with someone like Maomao who never listens and eats poison. Sometimes people take the fun out of watching two characters who are close to reality but don’t live in it play out an interesting story. I fully expect people won’t get the nuance in that scene and even I could read too much into it myself but I’m just looking forward to more seasons if we get them. However the anime decides to portray it should be good if we get there and I hope my analysis has made sense, even if it’s a bit long as always 😂.

[digiflora]

hello!!

i’m here to spam your blog again, but this time with a request!!

i know you write for a lot of fandoms, but i’m kinda curious about your favorite characters… so what about them with a sleepy reader?

i’ve had Certain Thoughts about being a sleepy gf (i definitely already am sleepy just need the gf part) but i’m curious to see how you’ll take this request, especially bc it’s vague on purpose 😭

lmk if you would like more info on it if you take this req! ❤️

hihi nikster!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻 spam from u is always welcome, and a request is exciting!! :o especially this one, i lurrrvvvv talking abt my favourite characters

also as a fellow sleepy not quite gf I FEEL THISSSSSSS. the self insert is strong with this icl ehehofifoewihfewohfewohfew.

i thought it would probably be best if i just wrote about them in a big paragraph of hcs each? straightup word vomit it you will. the most authentic source of my thoughts on them i hope that you don't mind!!

alhaitham 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ a very ideal partner for someone who is sleepy imo. he's on the quiet side, rather withdrawn in his mannerisms, loves to read, and has big old bahonkers which all really indicates how perfect he would be to use as a human pillow lmfao. he would read to you 100%. on a good day if he feels like humouring you he'll even read an actual fiction book and do different voices for each character. but usually it will be some nerdy sciencey theoretical nonfiction one that works like a charm in sending you right off to sleep. i think that he would find a lot of peace in this activity, especially after a long day and he comes home to you, also feeling exhausted. and then with you curled up on his chest, his arms around u, and resting the book against the slope of your back, he'll make it as far through the book as he can, continuing to read to you in his soft low voice long after you've fallen asleep, before he finally lets the book fall shut, and he'll place it to the side before properly embracing you and letting himself conk out too. or maybe on the rare occasion where he falls alseep first he does it so adorably, voice trailing off as he fights to finish the sentence, the slight weight of it falling from his grasp to rest on your back alerting you that he's fully asleep. and (ok hc time alhaitham has reading glasses) then you'll grin up at him, his face a touch softer when he's unconscious and you reach up ever so carefully to coax his glasses off the bridge of his nose, folding them up and placing them safely on your bedside or the coffee table nearby whethere you're on the bed or the couch, before letting yourself join him in slumber <3 10/10 amazing incredible no notes

wriothesley 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. a very comfy man. i don't think he is really the type to nap that often, though he certainly doesn't mind if you do!! i feel like he has a very calming presence. if he feels like indulging you (aka always) he would maybe give you a lil scalp massage that would help send you straight to sleep hehe. or or ooh maybe if you're like coworkers and not lovers he can't help but take notice of your sleeping habits and how you seem to nap a lot and if you have to stay awake for a long while then it takes a toll on you. tries to show his atfection for u by recommending you different teas to try that might help invigorate you. shoots his shot by telling u to come have some tea with him during your break jejjfjejf. OOH and if he sees u slumped over some paperwork dead asleep from exhaustion or something ohhhhh this man he's such a silent lover he would gently pry the papers and pen from you, make sure you're comfy and resist the urge to just take you to his bed to let you properly sleep. would put a blanket over you if he could. very considerate of you. can't help but have a little preference for you. keep an eye on your wellbeing (just because he's a considerate employer, he tells himself). asks sigewinne to try help you out if you seem particularly exhausted. yupppp 🙂‍↕️ caring from a distance. blink and you'll miss it.

blade 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ look me in the eyes and tell me this man isn't dead tired to begin with. shared naps are so in with you two. he takes naps already. you do too. it's a match made in heaven. so imagine ur both stellaron hunters right. and he's his regular grouchy self and sure you're both members of the same team but you're certainly not close to him. and u end up sat by each other somehow and you just finished a mission and you are both just quite frankly exhausted. and before you know it your eyes droop shut and your head drops onto his shoulder and it's the best power nap of your life. and u wake up flustered when you realise what you've done but with the way blade is also blinking slowly and lethargically like a cat he's gone and done the exact same thing and fallen asleep on top of your head. and he doesn't seem to mind at alllll. and there blooms a new tradition between the two of you where you sort of just.... gravitate (you don't quite have the guts to admit that you seek each other out) towards each other when one or both of you need a nap. shoulders turn into laps. you're a bit sweeter than blade, and one day he wakes to find your fingers playing with his long locks as his head's in your lap (you swear you hear him purr at the sensation). his somewhat clumsier and more inexperienced hands try to return the favour when you fall asleep. the casual skinship tiptoes across the lines of more and more, both of you too greedy to care about how it looks when you're curled up on his lap, head against his chest as his arms keep you locked in place. it's a little too late to say it's just a casual thing now. but as greedy as you both are, you're also cowards when it comes to voicing your true feelings, so this limbo will just have to continue a bit longer..

nanami 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ aka the most perfect man ever no i am not biased. he's so attentive and sweet and lovely god i need a nap with him. his love grows with familiarity i think so he can read you like an open book. all your little tells that you're getting tired and with a gentle smile he's fixing you a cup of chamomile tea like it's second nature, helping you do your evening routine before gladly welcoming you into his arms so that the two of you can sleep. lightly reprimanding you if you stay up too late, his philosophy of hating overtime applying to all aspects of his life, carrying you away from your work if he has to, acting like a very forceful voice of reason. if you're sleepy but don't give yourself the time to rest properly he's on that, ensuring that you've got plenty of hours, not satisfied with rest until he's sure that you're asleep first. this one's kinda short oops but I SAID WHAT I SAID 🗣️🗣️

[devilmaymetalgear]

That was a long time ago

swap/evil au!Dante x childhood friend!Reader

Cw: a lot of exposition, dmc3 Dante, gn!reader, this is more of an intro post for the au so I could practice writing him, use of baby and sweetheart, next post WILL be smut with an older evil Dante where he actually is horrible, he's just a little mean in this ❤️

(THIS IS ANOTHER AU I DONT ACTUALLY THINK DANTE WOULD DO ANY OF THIS SHIT IN MAINLINE)

A/n: i have not played dmc5 in a while and forget what the fuck the area around their house looks like, so play along if there's not a forest nearby. I also like... i dont know what happened near the end, its not verg good

He remembered that fateful day. He was left alone, sparring outside. Vergil said he wanted to keep reading his dumb poetry. It was quiet, that familiar of bugs was missing. The chirping of birds gone silent. It was as if time went still.

He didn't notice it at first, that buzzing in the back of his mind that made him want to flee. He probably should of. At 8 years old his mother left him to die. Thrown to the wolves. Thrown to the demons, more accurately.

He watched as the house burned down to ash, the smoke high in the sky. Even as he fled, running for his life, he could see that smoke high in the sky.

And he remembered the days before that. Where he played with his brother and his friend. His secret friend. Mother and father were always worried about them, said they couldn't go too far off the property. But Dante never listened.

He saw another kid in the woods next to his house, plucking some of the wild flowers from the ground. Placing them into their little basket. They looked so excited with each little flower they plucked. And Dante never got to hang out with other kids his age. He crept into the forest, dodging every little leaf and twig that if crunched could scare them.

"Hii!" He shouted, watching them look up.

"Hi?" You waved back at him nervously, and he watched as you stood up straight from the ground.

"Who are those flowers for?" He pointed down at the basket, stepping in front of you.

"They're for my mom. She told me not to come over here but they're just so pretty. Look!" You held your hand up to his face, a small, red wildflower limp between your fingers.

"Can I pick some?" Reaching towards the ground, he grasped at the little flowers, squishing them in his hands. The delicate petals fell onto the ground, leaving partial, crumpled stems in his hands. He was about to give up and sulk, stomp off to go bother Vergil and hope that'll make him feel better.

But you reached out, gently picking up another flower of the ground. Setting into his hand as carefully as you can.

"Now you have one to give to your mom."

Thats all he can remember. His head aches if he thinks about it anymore. That's all he needs to remember anyway.

Why would he ever sit and daydream about the eight year old you, when he's got the smoking hot adult you?

"Dante.." You mutter, gazing down at the rubble and gore beneath temen ni gru. Hundreds dead or injured, the squeals of demons feasting ringing out loud enough for the next city over to hear. His hand tightened around your hip, pulling you close.

"Yeah, baby?" He snaps out of whatever place his mind was, a sharp grin on his face. He looked a little too delighted staring at the gore below him. Like a king on his throne. You wouldn't be surprised if he saw himself as one. "You like what you see, right?"

"It's... definitely something!" His hand drifts lower, resting right on your ass. As much as the urge to swat his hand away rises in you, staring at all the viscera makes you rethink that. "A little... excessive, don't you think? Couldn't we have done this somewhere more... rural? Not right in the middle of the busiest part of town?"

He snickered, leaning into you and glancing over. "I forget how stupid you are when it comes to hellgates and stuff. We can't just move a hell gate, baby. That's where it is so that's where it comes up. Not my fault that I killed a few people."

"You're the one who raised the hellgate! If you didn't raise it then those people wouldn't have died!"

He went quiet, snarling a little. He dipped his head a little lower, his nails digging into your skin.

"If you talk back like that again, I'll throw you down there with them since you pity them so much. You humans are so fragile, any time someone dies you just have to whine about it." He rolled his eyes, as if you were complaining about spilt milk.

He adjusted his grip on you, grabbing your wrist and walking away from the edge.

"Enough of this anyways, I've got a reunion party to plan."

Intro to the au next post WILL be sloppy pervert sex leave me recommendations for what he should do pls ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

[elaineiswithyou-blog]

So my chronic illness has been flaring up so excuse me while I write comfort from my fav boys

TW: Sickness

You’ve been sick the past few days, ill from whatever you’ve picked up from work/college. Thankfully, the 141 have always been good with teamwork and that extends to helping you as well. Even when you’ve been feeling like you’re on death's door, they always seem to be able to help you out.

If you need an ice pack, it’s there. Trashcan? You bet. TIssues? Already there. Medicine, checked and double checked with the right timing. The best part is the doting.

Simon Riley, ever so schedule oriented, helps make sure you get medicine and get it regularly. Plus he’s a walking radiator so you’ll never be cold unless you want to be. He’s also calm and relaxed, making sure you rest properly.

Johnny does have to tone down his energy a bit when you’re feeling ill and while he’s not the best cook of the five of you, he makes a mean soup that his mama taught him when one of his siblings was ill. It’s got all the good stuff to make you better and can be cold or hot. Not to mention that he’s waiting on you hand and foot. You want food from a shop 30 minutes away? He’s already out the door love

Gaz is sweet and he understands how much work you put into the house when they’re both away and even when they are here to pitch in a hand so he makes sure he keeps it all running. He does all the household chores, laundry, cooking, cleaning, groceries. He puts all his effort into making sure you and the house are put together so you don’t have to worry about anything.

Price is a bit of all three. He helps out where he can in the house, makes sure you get medicine and will get anything you need. But most importantly, he’s calming. He makes sure none of you worry or get overwhelmed from the stress or sickness. He’s calm, stoic and a leader, even off the battlefield. He’ll hold your hand ( and the other’s) the whole time and doesn’t skip a beat. Managing you lot is his speciality so let him work and give yourself time to rest and recover