#Y’all ain’t getting rid of me

[evaiskindaweird]

been in this fandom for over 3 years y’all ain’t ever getting rid of me 😇

[rosy-crow]

YOU FUCKING TELL HIM WITH THAT GOOD OL’ COUNTRY BOY SWAGGER ANGEAL!!

Angeal is going to SAVE this kid or die trying. And I just might sob about it the entire time 😭

[bbydoll18xx]

I’ve Got a Wand and a Rabbit (Part 2)

You give Paige some guidance when it comes to self-pleasure.

Paige Bueckers x reader

Part 1

Masterlist

Word Count: 2.4k

Themes: mentions of sex, sex toys, and some ~self-pleasure~

A/N: hiii guys!!! I honestly cannot get over the love for part 1. That was probably one of my favorite things I’ve written since I’ve been here on tumblr, and I’m so glad you guys shared the love 💜😚

I hope part 2 doesn’t disappoint!!

Here we go!!

~

“You shoulda seen the way she was blushing! I’ve never seen her act that way!” KK roars to the rest of UConn’s women’s basketball team, the girls leaning forward in extreme interest as KK recounts how Paige had turned into a bumbling mess in your presence the day prior. 

“God, KK, shut up. I did not,” Paige whines, her face growing warm with humiliation. 

“There she goes again,” Jana teases, and the girls erupt into another round of laughter. 

“Y’all suck,” Paige pouts, walking off the basketball court and heading towards the locker room for a much needed reprieve. 

The taunting had yet to stop since she had stepped foot in the sex shop a week prior. KK and Ice had hunted down valuable information that a certain someone had worked there, and they had forced Paige to come inside, knowing you were standing behind the counter.

Paiges’ thoughts drift back to that day, as they had nearly a million times the past week, and she muses over the way your hair had flowed over your shoulders and your lips glistened pink.

Her crush on you was unwavering, the same way the ocean waves continuously kissed the shoreline. 

And despite what nearly everyone had perceived about Paige Bueckers, she was absolutely terrified when it came to expressing her feelings. Especially about you. So she bottled them up, settling for watching you from afar with a hope that maybe she’d muster up the courage to talk to you.

That was until her teammates had made the decision to do so for her. 

She really couldn't be all that mad at them.

Her crush on you had started three years ago. The two of you had shared a fondness for studying in the same area of the library, where it was quiet and away from the loudness of your respective roommates. Paige’s grades had always been good, but the daily motivation of seeing you, tongue occasionally peaking out in concentration and your body nestled in large, comfy-looking sweatshirts had Paige securing her place on the Dean’s List semester after semester. 

And with everything Paige did, she completely lacked subtlety when it came to you, and it only took a few longing glances in your direction for Ice and KK to connect the dots. 

~

“Oh, c’mon you can’t be mad at me,” KK whines, running into the locker room after Paige. 

Paige rolls her eyes. “Well, you ain’t gotta put me on blast.” She sits on the bench, putting her head in her hands.

“You’re being way too dramatic. She offered to show you how to use the damn toy,” KK stresses, and Paige’s face goes pink again.

“Soo,” she drags out the word with a thoughtful expression on her face. “Just take her up on the offer and boom you can have sex and then live happily ever after!” 

Paige’s eyes widen as KK, in the midst of her rambling, doesn’t see Coach Geno walk in behind her. 

Based on the look on his face, he had definitely heard KK, and he clears his throat, causing KK to whip around, her hand flying over her mouth as she pieces the situation together.

“Shit,” she mumbles under her breath, sending a weak smile over to Geno, who just waves her away, a disgusted grimace on his face.

But as Geno rambles on about how the practice went, Paige’s thoughts drift back to the way you suggested to help her. 

Would you really want to? Paige was navigating something completely new, and it was stressing her the fuck out.

If only there was a way to get rid of the pent up anxiety.

~

On the other side of campus, you were having a similar dilemma. You had been trying to work out what had come over you yesterday when you had boldly and uncharacteristically offered to teach Paige Bueckers how to use a vibrator.

The interaction plays in your mind for the millionth time, and you slap a palm across your forehead in frustration.

“I am so fucking stupid,” you groan, catching the attention of your roommate who was working on a paper at the seat across from you at your most favorite spot in the library.

“What’d you do now?” She asks, and you divulge her in yesterday's interaction with Paige, and her eyes widen.

“Dude, you have been drooling over her for the past three years, and you’re telling me you’re not going to wife her up?” She asks in a hushed whisper.

“I think she was just being polite,” you sigh. “We exchanged numbers, but I’ve been too scared to do anything.”

Charlotte shakes her head in mock derision, “I raised you better than that.”

You sit there a moment, contemplating. 

“Fuck. Okay, I’m gonna do it.” 

Pulling out your phone, you pull up Paige’s contact information, your fingers shaking slightly as they ghost over the keypad. 

“Hi, still need some help? If not, no big deal. Just thought I couldn’t leave a pretty girl stranded,” you read out to Charlotte as you compose the text, and she claps loudly in approval.

“God I hope she doesn't think I'm some sort of sex addict,” you moan, looking at the delivered sign under the text. 

~

Back in the locker room, Paige nearly chokes on a swig of water as your text appears on her screen. Aubrey, who is sitting next to her, slaps her on the back a few times, before leaning over to take a good look at what was causing the reaction.

Aubrey hoots loudly as she reads the text and promptly snatches Paige’s phone out of her hands to show it to KK, who had proudly deemed herself the captain of yours and Paige’s ship.

“FINALLY!” KK yells, fist pumping the air with great enthusiasm, and the whole locker room erupts into laughter again. 

Paige rereads the text. And then again. Your words were flirty and sure, just as they had been yesterday, and Paige is once again reduced to a blushing, simpering mess. 

She looks around the room, eyes wide and a shy grin on her face. “What do I say?” And the girls erupt again.

“Tell her you wanna fu—” KK starts eagerly before Azzi, who was sitting next to the younger girl, covers her mouth with a sharp look on her face. KK moves Azzi’s hand away, pouting and muttering to herself about how she’s “just tryna help Paige get some pussy.”

With pink cheeks and a pounding heart, Paige composes a reply, hiding her phone from the curious eyes of her teammates, hoping it seemed way more confident than she felt. You had a strange effect on her, reducing her assured ways into a bumbling mess, teetering on the edge of falling into madness.

And it was just the beginning. 

After all, you had yet to even touch her. 

~

That night you stand in front of Paige’s door with a pounding heart, determined to keep up the facade you had attached to your being, and as she appears on the other side, it is cemented. 

There was just something about seeing a bashful Paige Bueckers that makes your confidence soar, and you send her a cheeky smile, reveling in her mannerisms.

Paige leads you into her bedroom, and you immediately spot the purple vibrator laying atop of the comforter. 

You break the ice. “So what’s stopping you from finishing?” You ask, looking her in the eyes.

An embarrassed chuckle leaves those pink lips, and she rubs a hand over the back of her neck. “I guess I just keep gettin’ distracted,” she mumbles, and you nod in understanding.

“I like to think about someone,” you say boldly and pointedly. “If you close your eyes and immerse yourself into a fantasy, it’s almost like they’re there with you.” 

You watch as she takes a deep breath, like she’s mentally preparing for what she says next.

“Can I try again? And you can walk me through it?” 

The air leaves your lungs, surprised by her suggestion, and you agree before any other thought could cross your mind. 

The situation was something out of a filthy romance book, and as Paige undresses down to her boxers and her sports bra, you thank every star you had wished on the last three years for letting this happen. 

Paige settles onto her pillows, her chest rising and falling rhythmically, and with shaky hands, grabs the vibrator.

“P,” you say softly, and her eyes fly back open, meeting yours. “Use your hands first. Tease yourself, and let the arousal build up,” you suggest kindly, and she nods, putting the toy back down.

She runs her hands across her toned stomach, causing your own to lurch with want. Her hair was sprawled out on the pillows, and her bottom lip was red and plump from biting it, and despite just getting started, she looked completely fucked out. 

You secretly hope the image never leaves your memory.

Paige continues to tease herself, her fingers delicately dancing across the fabric of her boxers, and a quiet moan leaves her mouth. Her eyes are still closed in concentration, and you wished you could peer into her thoughts, hoping you were the object of her most intimate fantasies. 

And as if she could read your thoughts, your name leaves her mouth in a broken whimper that has you wanting to jump her bones and connect that sinful mouth with yours.

She’s panting now. Her eyes open, those crystal clear baby blues pleading for more. The unspoken words spoken between the two of you bridged a formidable bond, and you know at that point that this would lead to a whole lot more than offering friendly tips on masterbation. 

“Need more,” she whispers, her lithe body squirming on the bed hinting at her growing arousal. 

“Okay, baby, now take the vibrator and start at your tits and run it down your stomach,” you instruct, your voice nearly trembling. 

The quiet buzz fills the room before it’s cut with Paige’s whimpers as she runs the toy over her now exposed breasts. The pointed, pink peaks of her nipples make your own strain against the lace of your bra, and you shift uncomfortably in the gaming chair you are sitting in. 

The toy gets dragged over her belly, going lower and lower until it grazes the waistband of her underwear, and with a frustrated sigh, she lifts her butt to rip off the offending fabric. 

And now she was laid out bare in front of you, occasionally peeking at you, making sure you were still watching. 

You could not look away, and your body subconsciously leans forward toward the blonde girl. 

She places the buzzing toy on her clit, her back arching off the bed in response, moaning in pleasure. Her hips jump, grinding against the vibrator, desperately seeking an orgasm that had been denied from her several times over the past week. 

“Doin’ so good for me, baby,” you whisper, enthralled with the display in front of you, and Paige opens her eyes once more at your praise, sending you a needy look and a pout. 

“Keep going,” you encourage, and she adjusts the vibration, a higher pitched buzz ringing through the small room. 

Paige’s skin glows with a subtle sheen of sweat and arousal that you want to meticulously lick, and her whimpers grow louder as she squirms, her eyes never leaving yours. 

“Fuck, gonna cum,” she groans, and you bite your lip, her noises effecting every fiber of your being. 

And with a loud moan, your name leaves her mouth, along with a long string of expletives, as her back arches off the comforter again. Her chest heaves as the orgasm rips through her, and her eyes roll back in overwhelming pleasure.

Your gaze rakes over her, taking in the gorgeous woman laid out before you, watching as she slowly comes down from the high. 

“Oh my god,” Paige breathes heavily, suddenly feeling exposed and shy again. 

“That was probably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” you admit, your own cheeks flushed with arousal, and Paige’s eyes trail to your peaked nipples straining against the fabric of your shirt. 

“I was thinkin’ of you the whole time. And that was the best fuckin’ orgasm I have ever had,” she responds, putting her underwear back on, much to your displeasure. 

“Thank you,” she adds shyly.

You shrug, moving to sit next to her on the bed, you run your hand across the flesh of her thigh, goosebumps erupting in its wake.

And before you can even make your own move, Paige connects your lips in an impassioned kiss that adds fuel to the fire that was raging in your core. The kiss was messy with unrestrained want and need, swapping unsaid words that had been brewing in both of your heads over the last three years.

The two of you had unknowingly fallen in love with the thought of each other, and now, here you were, falling right into each other. 

And it wasn’t going to stop there. 

~

The next afternoon, you are back at work, your mind continuously going back to the delicious display of Paige’s naked body. You had been on the edge all day, dying to get home to rub one out. Or four, if you were being completely honest with yourself. 

Sitting in the back room in front of the fan, desperately needing a cool off, you hear the familiar jingle of the bell on the front door, alerting you that someone had entered the shop. You take a few deep breaths, trying to compose yourself. 

It was hard to be cordial when you were surrounded by sex toys.

You walk out of the back room, your eyes immediately trained on Paige who was now standing at the front counter with a huge smirk on her face. 

Blushing you walk up to her, pressing your lips to hers, the taste of her mouth sending your body up in flames once more.

“What’re you doing here?” You ask breathily.

Paige gestures towards the package she had set on the counter with a wide smile. “Figured I’d add to the collection. Wanted to buy something for your pleasure,” she adds casually.

Your belly lurches as your eyes land on the strap on, a deep purple and six inches of thick rubber.

“Fuck me,” you breathe, feeling yourself drip with excitement at the thought.

“Oh, I plan to,” Paige grins, and she pulls you in for another kiss.

Things were just getting started.

~

This was a blast to write!! Also I am obsessed with shy, blushy Paige

xoxo katy

~

You can now read part 3 here

[kumkaniudaku]

At Last: Part One

Summary: Patrice returns home to celebrate a birthday and a new beginning.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC

Word Count: 6.7k

Warnings: None

In a little corner of Wilmington, NC, tucked behind towering Spanish moss trees and sprawling acres of lush green grass, the Habersham family were monarchs on ancestral turf. 

Enslaved Sierra Leonean men and women had tilled this land long before Patrice was a twinkle in her mother and father’s eyes. They hoped, prayed, and danced for a future where babies far down their lineage could have a place to visit for a connection to their love and guidance beyond the physical realm. According to some, their spirits still roamed the fields once holding them captive in great triumph.

Long-held West African customs preserved and passed down over time had transformed into the uniquely rich Gullah culture that still governed the eldest generation of Habershams and their children. While much of the language patterns had been lost, Sybil Habersham-Lewis and her baby sister, Rosalyn, worked tirelessly to keep the family home tidy and traditions alive. 

They never hesitated to tell stories of how their great-grandfather rebuilt the big house with his bare hands to rid his offspring of a torrid legacy from a man he reluctantly called father. They sometimes laughed about how he, a fair-skinned man with green eyes and a mean streak, met and married a slender songstress with blue-black skin within six months of laying eyes on her. Paul and Efua produced eight children in that home. Those eight children created a line of movers and shakers that stretched far and wide. 

One of those movers and shakers stared out of the passenger side window with eyes wide as saucers and a smile that rivaled the sun, watching trees donning brown, red, and orange leaves whiz past on the way to her favorite place in the world. Patrice was itching to get out of the car and kick her shoes off to feel the soft tickle of damp Bermuda grass between her toes. She longed to see her uncle’s horses, eat fresh seafood until her stomach ached, and recap moments in her girlhood with her cousins. She couldn’t wait to kiss Nana's face 95 times for her 95th birthday. She needed to smell the blue hydrangeas in her auntie’s garden. She needed to be home.

Terry stole glances at Patrice, finding joy in her enthusiasm. She hadn’t slept a wink the night before or in the nearly two-hour ride from Fayetteville. He knew she’d tucker out eventually, but seeing her brimming with unbridled happiness made his heart swell. 

“God, I hope my auntie made okra. Oooh and crab cakes. I haven’t had any in so long!”

Terry listened to the way her accent slurred and shortened words in rapid succession with a smile. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to understand you by the end of the weekend.” 

“You’ll be lucky to keep up past tonight.” she laughed. "My granny ‘dem Geechee tuh de bone."

“Y’all make everything sound like music. I like it.” 

“If you tell Moon Pie that, she might try to take you from me.” 

“You gon’ let her?” 

“Hell nah. I’ll whoop her ass. She ain’t crazy.” 

The thought of having to put hands on her cousin behind her man made Patrice scowl while Terry let off a loud, shoulder-shaking cackle. Though she was serious as a heart attack, she laughed along with him to release the tension building in her muscles. 

Terry reached across the center console to gently rub her arm before playfully caressing her chin to pull a smile from her lips. 

“No way I’d let you fight as pretty as you are. Plus, we’re celebrating all weekend. If you aren’t smiling from tonight ‘til Sunday, I didn’t do my job.” 

Patrice’s mouth twisted into a suspicious smirk. “And what’s your job? You know, if someone were to ask for a friend.”

“Keeping you happy.” His cheeky quip made her eyes roll as she kissed her teeth. 

For over a week Terry had been tight lipped about something Patrice couldn’t put her finger on. She’d tried to catch him in a fib or make him slip up and share whatever details existed behind hushed calls and unmarked deliveries. But, Terry was notorious for keeping secrets under lock and key. Whatever he was planning would sneak up on her like a thief in the night. 

“You nervous to meet everyone?” Patrice questioned to change the subject.

“Nah, I’m good.” He cut his eyes in Patrice’s direction and smiled when he found her already eying him skeptically. “Think I’m lying?” 

“Yeah, I think you’re full of shit. Either that or you’re truly unaware of how crazy my folks are. No way you aren’t a little concerned.” 

He shrugged. “I’m not too worried. I love you, so I know I’ll love them. We’ll figure out the parts in the middle.” 

Everything Terry knew about Patrice, in his mind, was a beautiful amalgamation of those who had a hand in raising her into the woman she’d grown into. He knew her mother and how the two shared the same heart for community service. From her father, she’d inherited an uncanny ability to stop a whole room from speaking with only a raised eyebrow. Though he’d only heard stories of her grandmother, he could tell that her independent nature was a founding feature. And, if those things could make his heart turn flips with one look across a crowded room, he’d have no trouble making space for his bonus family. 

Patrice tried to formulate a counterpunch to Terry’s levelheaded assessment of the situation but had a change of heart as smooth asphalt transitioned into the familiar crunch of gravel beneath her car’s tires. 

Black iron gates adorned with an ornate H were pulled open, giving anyone casually walking by a peak into an almost mythical land. Terry’s eyes darted from place to place, lingering on the hanging moss trees lining their path, then on the children gleefully chasing each other through fallen leaves around a small white gazebo, before landing on a magnificent wrap-around porch serving as a gathering spot for elder men taking inventory of fishing equipment for an early morning trip to catch the evening’s meal. The Big House, as Patrice affectionately called it, was a modern marvel, an oasis for every hue of black man, woman, and child with Habersham blood in their veins to feel like they were somebody in an otherwise cruel world. 

“Beautiful, ain’t it? Auntie did her thing with the last renovation.” Patrice asked, beaming as she started to unbuckle her seatbelt.

“Incredible. Is this al-” 

Whatever was left of Terry’s awe-inspired sentence was swept into the wind as Patrice hopped from the passenger seat and onto the concrete driveway before the car could come to a full stop. 

Like a child finally released from the confines of their classroom onto the playground for 30 minutes of recess freedom, she hit the ground in a slight jog to greet a woman about her age skipping down the porch steps to meet her halfway. 

“Imani,” Patrice hollered, her arms already outstretched in anticipation of a hug. 

Imani called her name back with equal excitement until the two women were joined in a tight embrace. Terry watched from afar, a warm smile tugging his lips to one side as he shut off the engine and exited the vehicle. 

The two women rocked side to side until they’d had their fill of one another. Imani pulled away first to get a look at her favorite baby cousin. 

“My girlfrieeend,” she sang, imitating the theme song from the only show they watched for a full summer in their teens. “You look so good. The skin, the hair, the body! It’s all working right now.” 

“Me? Look at you! I know for a fact this caftan is from like Paris or Bali or somewhere crazy.” 

“Oh you know, just a little somethin’ custom from London. Not too much, not too much.” 

“How you stand it there with that nasty looking food is beyond me, girl.” 

Imani laughed. “That’s for them other folks. People that look like us know where to get a good meal. You oughta come see me sometime. Book a flight and let me worry about the rest.” 

“Next summer?” 

“I’ll throw it on my calendar. Bring Mister Man, too.” 

Patrice didn’t need to turn around to know that Terry had made his presence known. She could feel the warmth of his hand on her lower back as he joined her side. 

If he hadn’t known her for nearly two decades, Terry would have easily gotten Patrice and Imani confused. Both women wore glowing deep dark skin like a badge of honor, soaking up rays of sun and reflecting them in the way that only ethereal beings could. Wide noses and plump, pink and brown lips complimented impossibly high cheekbones. Beauty marks at the corners of opposite eyes might possibly be a tell-tale sign if one could fight being lulled into a trance by the sheer grace they both possessed. The only difference was Imani’s slight height advantage and low, ash blonde haircut.

“Wow,” he whispered, the words catching him by surprise. He shook his head in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I just - y’all are damn near twins.” 

“Don’t I know it,” they spoke in unison. 

Patrice took over after a chuckle. “They used to call us Frick and Frack. Mostly because they couldn’t always tell who was who.”

“Which Petey over here never wanted to use to our advantage.” 

“Petey?” Terry questioned. 

“Wait, she never told you her nic-” 

“And, that’s enough,” Patrice hollered, purposely eclipsing Imani’s voice to keep her cousin from going further. “Terrence, this Imani. Imani this is Terrence, my man.” 

Terry could feel a bolt of lightning surge through his body as he reached out to shake Imani’s hand. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure what Patrice might call him in a simple introduction. He’d always given her a treasure trove of titles - his lady, the love of his life, maybe his wife one day if the Lord willed it so. He’d introduced her so much that they never explored how the inverse would work. But hearing himself be proudly referred to as her’s was a shock to the system that he hadn’t prepared for but welcomed all the same. 

Imani waved his outstretched hand away and pulled him in for a hug. “Boy, we family. Come here and get this squeeze.”

Like an old friend, Imani pulled Terry into a welcoming hug. Patrice looked on with a silent thanks to God. If what she knew of her cousin still held weight, they’d be fast friends and thick as thieves by the end of the weekend. 

Pulling away, she lightly tapped his chest and looked at Patrice. “I can’t believe I finally get to meet Terry Richmond in person. You’re basically her Nelly!” she laughed, recalling Patrice’s near obsession with St. Louis and their hometown hero after Hot in Herre debuted. Patrice rolled her eyes while Terry and Imani held on to each other through loud laughter.

“Got damn, Moanie, hold ‘em hostage why don’t you! You ain��t the only person they know ‘round here.” 

“Hey, Daddy!” 

“Hey, Baby Girl!”

The perfectly timed distraction took Patrice’s attention away long enough for the newest tandem to exchange hushed conversation.

“Yeah, but I’m the best!” Imani hollered back before winking at Terry and Patrice. “Go on. I’ll have the boys get y’all’s stuff. Make sure you get to the kitchen. Think Mama’s got some pound cake cut for you.”

The mention of other family members awaiting their arrival was a quick reminder that Terry had barely scratched the surface of new faces and connections. Every direction he turned presented another opportunity to be pulled into a spirited handshake or warm hug. 

With the men in her life, he was immediately received with masculine equivalents of praise for his physical form.

“Son, you look like ya 'bout tuh buss out dat shirt 'round ya arms. Petey, you don’t have to worry ‘bout no protection, huh?” was Uncle PJ’s way of saying he was confident in Terry’s ability to keep Patrice safe. 

“You comin’ out fishin’? Country boy like you probably catch catfish with your bare hands!” 

“Where you from?”

“Where your people from?” 

“They white? How you get them green eyes?”

“You got kids? You sure?” 

“You know you got some ears on you, don’t ya!”

Patrice’s father, Leon, interjected to save Terry from an increasingly invasive dive into his personal history. “Don’t answer none of that. But I would like you to come out on the water with us. Have a beer or two so we can finish that conversation from the other week.” 

“Y’all talking about me behind my back?” 

“Hell, I do,” Junior laughed. “She aggravating, bruh. You can say it. Go ‘head.”

“You better not.” 

Patrice playfully poked a perfectly manicured finger into Terry’s chest to force his silence, earning a chaste kiss on the forehead. Junior scoffed and sipped from his half-empty bottle of water.

“T, you grown now. Your big ass don’t have to let her boss you no more.” 

“That’s my favorite part,” Terry answered, finally speaking up for himself. “She sweet when she wanna be.”

“I ain’t seen it.”

“Because I don’t like you, Junior. How many times do we have to go over this?”

Terry tried to contain his wide grin from watching the siblings bicker like old times. He’d been in the middle of many a verbal tussle between them, always stepping in as the voice of reason. He still held the role of peacemaker all these years later. 

“She loves you, man. Still keeps your room up and everything.” 

Leon shook his head at his children’s antics. “Good thing you here. I couldn’t take that shit this weekend.” He pointed at the passenger seat of his truck and the open lunch box resting in it. “So, you comin’. Got food for you if you wanna ride.” 

“Uh, yeah,” Terry started before looking toward the house at the small audience of women crowding at the kitchen window. They scattered when he caught their gaze, making him laugh at the ridiculousness of the whole thing. “Give us a few minutes. I think there’s some people inside I gotta meet first.” 

“Good luck, man. I would say you got five minutes but we both know that ain’t happening. We’ll wait a bit.”

With one trial by fire ending, another began. In their short walk to the front porch, Patrice had given Terry opportunities to gracefully bow out of the incoming circus and take her father’s invitation as a get out of hell free card. He’d refused every effort with a kind smile and unfounded reassurance that everything would be okay. In his mind, he’d hug a few necks, kiss a few cheeks, and be out of dodge before anyone could hold him long. 

Stepping into the home’s foyer felt like being in a museum. Photos of Habersham descendants living and passed on to Glory lined the hallway as a reminder of their history on this land. Eyes that carried an array of stories looked back at him, leaving goosebumps across his arms. Especially once he landed on a young woman with a familiar half-smile encased behind an antique picture frame. 

Patrice noticed him stop short to give the photo his full attention. 

“My great-great-great grandma,” she informed, adding extra emphasis on the final ‘great’. “Efua. Nana says she was barely bigger than the kids but ran this place with an iron fist. I believe it. She look like she don’t play.” 

“She looks kinda like you and Imani.” 

Patrice tilted her head to get a better look. “Hm. I guess you’re right.”

Clamoring in the kitchen pulled them away from Efua’s watchful eye and around the corner for their grand entrance. 

Women of every age, size, and shape filled the room from wall to wall, each one participating in the cooking process. On one side, a small group of teenagers huddled to inspect bushels of greens for bugs and cut them in preparation for a proper wash. On the other, small girls shelled black-eyed peas and giggled amongst themselves over TikTok videos. But in the center of the room, where spices and fresh ingredients intermingled for an almost intoxicating aroma and conversation was the loudest, all of the cornerstones of the family gathered to share gossip and wisdom alike. 

Terry’s appearance, tall and muscled with a winning smile to match, sent a hush over even the loudest woman present. 

“Oh God,” Patrice mumbled to herself, preemptively embarrassed by the storm she knew was sure to follow. 

Someone whistled. Then came a low “mm-mm-mm” from an auntie fighting hard to contain herself. Terry let every sound and look fuel his ego for just a few seconds before speaking. 

“Hey, ladies.” 

“Hey, Terry.” 

Every voice greeted him in unison like the Angels speaking to Charlie over that old speakerphone. Patrice screwed her face and pinched his shoulder. He’d been given strict instructions the night before, but being in the moment called for an audible that immediately made him a shiny new toy to be paraded.

Before he could have any say so, Patrice’s mother was ushering him around for every aunt and cousin to say a personal hello. He charmed each woman who met his acquaintance like a seasoned politician. If nothing else, they could all hang on to the memory of meeting the long-fabled Terrence Richmond. 

But, for all the pomp and circumstance, every breath hitched once Rosalyn led Terry to matriarch. 

She wore 95 years on Earth well. Chestnut skin covered in beauty marks crinkled around her eyes as she smiled back at him. Even as she sat in her wheelchair more slight and fragile than Patrice remembered, Terry could see her inner strength shining through.

Patrice watched her mother lean down and speak something into her grandmother’s ear before directing Terry to crouch down to eye level. He did as he was told, gingerly capturing her much smaller hands in his. 

“Hi, Ms. Ida. I’m so happy to finally meet you. My name is Terrence.” 

The softness in his voice ignited a chorus of heartwarming sentiments from every corner. Patrice had become so enraptured in the meeting she never thought would happen that she nearly missed her mother directing her to join Terry’s side. 

Ida didn’t say much back to him. Instead, she slid her hand from his grasp and traced her fingertips along the perimeter of his face. She examined him from all angles with a nostalgic look in her gaze. Terry tried not to let confusion come through in his expression, but Rosalyn caught the sliver of uncertainty. 

“You remind her of somebody close, that’s all. Same eyes.” 

He’d inadvertently sent her back to her childhood, bringing back memories so deep in her mind she thought she might never get them back. Even with slightly darker skin and broader features than Paul could boast back then, Ida still saw him clear as day. And that, all those years later, made her feel more alive than ever on her 95th birthday.

Ida tapped his jaw lightly and laughed. “Mhm. Petey, this him?” 

Finally joining Terry’s side, Patrice mimicked him and knelt by her grandmother’s feet. 

“Yes ma’am. He wanted to be here for your birthday.” 

“Nice looking boy, ain’t he?” 

Patrice giggled. “He cute, I guess. I heard he got you a gift for tonight, but he won’t tell me what it is. Can you believe it?”

“Well, hell, this all the gift I need. Give me anything else and I might not make it to 96!” 

“Mama!” 

Sybil hated when her mother made jokes about death, but Terry couldn’t help but laugh. He wanted to joke with her, see what else she might say knowing that no one in the house could tell her what to do, but the loud blast of a car horn in the front yard reminded him that he’d made a prior commitment. 

Gently, he squeezed her knee and spoke loud enough for her to hear. “Now, I go gotta go catch you somethin’ for tonight. You gon’ be here when I’m back?” 

“Oh yeah,” she answered, reinvigorated and saucy like her younger self. “I’ll be dressed up real nice too. Might leave here with two gals on your arm.” 

“You know I never been the sharing type, Nana.” 

Ida smiled at Patrice, nodding in approval. “That’s my girl. Keep that up.”

A second and longer beep let Terry know that time was running out. He quickly bid the group farewell, ending on Patrice with a simple kiss on the cheek and a promise to be back soon. 

While she became swept up in a whirlwind of who, what, when, and where, Rosalyn and Sybil slipped away to speak with Terry on his way out of the door. He’d become the center of attention, even long after his scent had faded. 

“Is he the one from high school?” 

“What’s he like?” 

“Is he always this nice?” 

“Y’all shackin’ up?” 

“When y’all getting married? What about kids?”

More questions, more prying, more assumptions than she could handle. Short, vague answers weren’t enough for them. They wanted the full scoop from the young lady they once knew as a shy girl who only focused on her studies. 

Patrice answered every question with enough detail to satiate their curiosity and maintain some level of privacy in her relationship. For a moment, that was enough. They’d unveiled the mystery of Petey’s other life and could move on to more pressing matters.

They quickly shifted to discussions of other people’s business. Who’d had a baby? Who was divorcing? Who’s kids were raising hell in the community? They took a winding road filled with chats about celebrity news and politics, nonsense about music, and, Patrice’s personal favorite, the old days. 

Those chats, full of lore and laughter, always took place in Nana’s parlor. A room covered in powder pink wallpaper and situated in the corner of the home where natural sunlight welcomed any guests that had the privilege of visiting. 

The older women sat side by side, crammed on expensive armchairs and soft couches, to convene at their leisure. Patrice stood by her favorite spot beside the window with Imani sitting on her right and her grandmother positioned in front of her. On her left stood a small table holding hair grease, a fine-toothed comb, and duck bill clips to help her pincurl Ida’s shoulder length silver hair. Her favorite pastime. 

“Everyone of y’all was bad,” Sybil laughed, referring to the crop of children that came up with Patrice. “Y’all came here every summer acting a damn fool.” 

“Not me and Petey!”

“Especially you and Petey. The worst of the bunch. Just sneaky and sassy!” 

“I don’t know what you talkin’ about. All I did was read and sit up under Nana.” 

Patrice’s highly inaccurate recollection of her time in the country every year made Ida laugh in her wheelchair. “Don’t let ‘em lie on you. I never saw my baby gettin’ in no trouble.” 

“Oh yeah right!” Sybil exclaimed. “Ros, wasn’t you there when these two let all the chickens out and had us chasin’ them ‘round out back.” 

“Sure was. They had all the grown folk out there huffin’, puffin’, and ‘bout to blow the house down!” 

The room fell into laughter watching Sybil imitate the group of adults fighting to capture livestock. Patrice remembered that afternoon and tried to defend their actions. 

“Okay, that is true, but I remember that being your daughter’s idea. I was only helping my sis.” 

Imani shrugged and sat back in her seat. “You raised an activist. Those animals were in captivity.” 

“Moanie, you eat meat,” Moon Pie commented. 

“I never said they didn’t taste good. I said we were holding them captive. The circle of life is different. Now let’s talk about how Moon had us sittin’ at the eating table all night because she wouldn’t finish her Frogmore stew thinkin’ there were real frogs in it.”

“Heaven forbid a girl need proof!” 

More laughter. The kind of laughter that healed deep emotional wounds. The kind that seeped into the walls, keeping the home full of love and light. The kind that made Patrice happy to not only be home but to share a piece of her heart with the man she loved. 

While she wished he could hear the silly stories and witness the exaggerated retellings, Terry was fidgeting with his fingers as he waited for Patrice’s father to meet him at the back of his truck. 

Across the way, the other men sat in small clusters, chatting their way through a midafternoon lunch break. As much as he wanted to talk shop with them about the fate of the Carolina Panthers, there was a more meaningful matter on the table. 

Leon grunted as he closed the driver’s side door and rounded the truck’s cab. “Let that down, will you?”

Terry sprung into action quicker than he meant to, nervousness making him move at hyperspeed. Leon laughed and lifted himself onto the truck bed before handing over a small cooler. 

“Grab whatever you like. We got plenty.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“Just Leon. Kinda weird to call your father-in-law sir, ain’t it? Plus that’s that fool’s name over there and he ain’t worth a damn. Lazy sumbitch.” 

“I got you. Won’t happen again,” Terry chuckled as he pulled a piece off of his turkey sandwich and popped it into his mouth. They sat in silence for a few moments to enjoy the sound of nature around them until he reignited the conversation. “I appreciate y’all agreeing to all this. Especially so quickly. I hope things don’t feel rushed.”

“You ain’t doin’ nothin’ I wouldn’t want for my girl. She need somebody willing to go above and beyond for her. I know you always have and I don’t see you slowin’ down no time soon.” 

Terry nodded, smiling. “Couldn’t if I tried.”

“I know. Moanie got the ring, right?” 

“Yeah. We worked it all out a couple weeks ago. She’s hiding it for me and keeping Treece distracted. You know she’s nosey.”

“Her mama said to call it inquisitive.” 

“Hm. Inquisitive, huh?”

They looked at each other and spoke at the same time. “Nosey.”

“That’s her,” Leon remarked. “Time’s flyin’, ain’t it? I remember when it looked like you was drowning in your clothes. Now look at you. Big as a damn tank. What they feed y’all in the Corps?” 

“Shit, nothing but slop and a hard time seasoned with a dash of casual racism from some crazy white boy outta one of the Dakotas every once in a while.”

Their shared laughter disturbed a cluster of nearby birds, making the rest of the men look in their direction. Sir threw his hands up in the air. 

“Well, damn, Leon. Gone ‘head and fuck up the catch!” 

“Or I can fuck you up instead.” He looked over at Terry struggling to keep his face neutral and shook his head. “I can’t stand his ass. Or his daughter. Or his wife. All of ‘em get on my nerves. C’mon, so we can finish up.”

As high noon gave way to early evening and the sleepiness of fall pushed the sun into the west earlier than usual, Imani and Patrice sat alone in one of the guest rooms engrossed in conversation. 

Imani was the only sister Patrice had ever known. It didn’t matter what portion of the world they occupied or how long it’d been since they last talked, they always picked up right where they left off when they were reunited. 

Patrice focused on the vanity mirror to examine Imani’s careful twists and twirls to place her thick natural hair into bantu knots.

“You think I can grow my hair out like this by January? I’m going to Ghana and I wanna switch it up a little bit.” 

“Of course. Manifest it, my sister!” 

Imani laughed as she parted out another section. “If I ever need somebody to follow up my foolishness, I know I can count on you.” 

“What Whitney said on the Waiting to Exhale soundtrack?” 

Together, they broke into song, harmonizing to breathe life into the final track from one of their favorite movie soundtracks. Imani hugged her cousin from behind and kissed her cheek. 

“I love you, girl. I miss you so much. It gets so lonely being away from home all the time.” 

“I love you, too. Life be life-ing, don’t it?” 

“All the time. I gotta make my way out to Fayetteville and spend more time with y’all. Maybe learn some more about Mister Man.” Patrice tried to hide her bashful smile, making Imani squeal behind her. “So…tell me about Terry. I know you said something downstairs but I wanna know the real scoop.” 

Patrice sighed at the mere thought of their romance. “The way I love that man, girl, I can’t even explain it. I feel like I’m going crazy.” 

“Oooooh! Swept you clean off your feet, huh?” 

“Threw me over his shoulder and hasn’t put me down since. Never in a million years did I expect to end up here with him. I mean I hoped for it, but to be here is mind-blowing. He’s so sweet, Moanie. So, gentle. Kind. More affectionate than I think I was ready for. I don’t know. I’m just in love. I’m happy.” 

“It’s all over you. I see the glow.” 

“Well, that’s from other things,” she added, a cheeky grin spreading across her face.

“Not the choir boy!” 

“Please, don’t let him fool you. Can’t keep him off me or keep his mouth closed when he gets to talking.”

Their shared laughter spilling out into the hallway became a beacon of their location for Terry as he dragged his tired legs up the stairs in search of Patrice.

His knuckles rapping against the closed bedroom door halted the private conversation until they gave him permission to enter. He slowly pushed the door open before poking his head into the room. 

“Everybody decent?” 

“Mhmm. Come on in.” Imani invited over her shoulder. She looked back at Patrice through the mirror as her cousin adjusted her clothing and sat up a little straighter in anticipation of Terry’s avalanche of affection. 

His eyes seemed to close beyond seeing clearly from the sheer force of his smile. 

“Hey, pretty.” 

“Hey, love. You have fun?” 

Terry released a dry chuckle. “Yeah. A real hoot.” 

Imani watched the young couple flirt back and forth, her hand outstretched to pass a small black velvet box from a drawer in her vanity to Terry while he kept Patrice occupied with short kisses. He secured it in one of his cargo pockets before pulling away. 

“You stink,” Patriced joked, half lying.

“I know. I still have some set-up work to do, so I’ll bring your stuff. Don’t want you to get behind on account of me.” 

“Thank you, baby. You’re so sweet.” 

Patrice captured his chin with her fingers and pulled him closer for another kiss. 

Terry lifted an eyebrow in concern. “You sick?” 

“No. I just love you.”

“I love you, too.” He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. The way she softened her gaze to scan his face. The way the gloss on her lips caught the sun. The way every one of her perfect features was on display with her hair pulled up and away from her face. He’d never been more confident in a decision in his life and, if not for the promise he’d made to half of her immediate family, he would’ve done what he drove all the way out to Wilmington for right then and there.

Knowing time was of the essence, Imani cleared her throat and gave Terry a look to urge him along behind Patrice’s back. 

“Well, Terry, think you oughta get down there and set up a table or something, right!”

Snapping out of his trance, Terry stood to his full height to look down at Patrice. “Yeah, you're right. See you a little later?” 

“It’s a date.”

He wanted to give her one more kiss to take with him, but a final reminder for him to scram was the catalyst to push Terry out of the room and leave the ladies to readying for the evening. 

She was all he could think about as he toiled away setting up tents and placing tables exactly how Rosalyn wanted them, sometimes several times over. Even as he casually sipped strong moonshine with Junior and the younger men under lantern light, all dressed in his most pristine white to fit strict instructions, he thought about Patrice and what might look like in the dress she’d chosen. He needed to see her.

His hands were sweating inside of his pockets. He casually caressed the velvet of that small black box, occasionally flipping it open to touch the cold metal inside. Time moved painfully slow. Hunger gnawed at his empty stomach. His mother’s constant phone calls for updates and reassurance didn’t help. Nervousness made his chest hot with anxiety. 

“You gon’ be alright,” Rosalyn assured while adjusting his collar on one of her many trips around the backyard to adjust the tablescape. “Breathe. Won’t be too much longer.”

He thanked her for her kindness and prayed she was right. Or he prayed for the dream he’d written down on a random Tuesday in his creative writing journal to come true. He wasn’t sure anymore. But, when he opened his eyes and lifted his head to check that sliding glass door for the umpteenth time, there she stood amongst the Habersham women as they escorted the guest of honor arm in arm. 

Angelic was the only way he could describe her. Cosmically beautifully and capable of bringing the strongest man to his knees just by batting those long lashes. A toothy grin helped him bare each one of his teeth as he watched her saunter down the decorated pathway to the event tent with Imani in tow. 

“Happy Birthday to you,” the group sang once Ida and all her ladies had made it to the long communal table packed to the brim with food and decorations. 

They serenaded the woman responsible for much of their existence until their faces ached from the singing. She bobbed her head along to the song with a smile on her face then quieted their loud applause with a simple wave of her hand. 

“Ninety-five of those and you’d think I’d be used to it by now,” she laughed. “Thank you. Each of y’all are beautiful. Young and strong. Blood of my blood and I’m glad to have you here with me. Even the ones who just came along to spend some time with an old lady. I love you. Eat, drink, and dance ‘til you bust out your clothes. That’s alright with me! We got a lot to celebrate.”

Teary-eyed and full of gratitude, Patrice reunited with Terry at the dinner table as soon as she ensured her grandmother was comfortable. He worldlessly dabbed at her waterline with his thumb and kissed the top of her head. 

“You okay? Need to step inside for a second?” 

“No,” she answered, laughing at herself for her dramatics. “I’m just really happy. C’mon. Let’s eat.”

Eat, drink, and be merry had a whole new meaning under the soft, warm light wrapping variations of black skin in its embrace. Loud pockets of conversation and laughter made for a melodious cacophony of sounds while music played in the background. 

Patrice clung to Terry the entire time, always staying connected by a hand on his thigh or their fingers laced together beneath the table. Every once in a while, they’d break from separate conversations and catch each other’s eye and smile like schoolyard crushes sitting at the lunch table together. 

The romance in the air between them was palpable enough for Imani to pull out her phone and covertly shoot Terry a quick text. 

Dessert’s out. Do it now or they’re gonna start dancing. 

Now?

NOW!

Terry eyed Imani across the table. She urged him to do something with a sideways nod. He chewed his lip and fiddled with the box in his pocket. The music was starting to pick up as a few small children hit the dancefloor. Imani gave Rosalyn the signal to make a video call.

Now or never. 

He nervously clinked his knife against his wineglass and cleared his throat. 

“Nigga, you gone break it! That’s Big Mama good crystal.”

“Shut the hell up, Sir! You ain’t pay for none of this.” Rosalyn’s reprimand came with visual daggers sent to her baby brother at the far end of the table that only softened when she looked back at Terry. “Go ahead, sweetheart.” 

Terry stood to look at every confused face in the vicinity while he waited for one of the teenagers to turn the music down. 

“Sorry, y’all. I just had a few words to say. I won’t be before you long. In the real way, not the pastor way.” His attempt at a joke fell flat. Patrice tried to keep him motivated with a smile, but her eyes begged him for answers that he couldn’t provide. “Um, I know I’m the odd man out around here. Y’all have been incredibly kind and welcoming. I really appreciate it because you didn’t have to. Especially you, Ms. Ida. Happy Birthday, again. You look beautiful.” 

“Thank you, baby.” 

He nodded his appreciation and continued. “I also wanna thank Ms. Ida and everybody else who gave me permission to ask a question of somebody really important to me. Because I know being here with all of y’all is really important to her. Can you stand up for me, Treece?”

Patrice allowed Terry to help her to her feet before whispering through her teeth. “What are you doing?” 

“Something I’ve been wanting to do since I met you.” 

There wasn’t time for Patrice to process his statement. Terry slowly dropped to one knee, not caring about the dust below him. He kept his focus on her the entire time, even as quiet whispers turned into fervent murmurs. 

“When we were kids you told tell me that, if you ever got proposed to, you didn’t want a big speech or any of the stuff they did in movies. So, I promise not to do that. What I will do is tell you how much I love you. And I’ll do that today, tomorrow, and every day after that if you allow me the privilege of being your husband.” 

“Terrence,” Patrice huffed out as she tried to contain her mess of emotions. He reached up to grip her hand. "Don't make me cry in front of my people."

“Too late. Patrice, I’m askin’ you scared as hell in front of all these people, will you marry me?”

Everyone watched as Terry presented Patrice with an open ring box and a sparkling diamond illuminated by the small light tucked into the inside.

“I knew it,” Patrice whispered, losing the battle against the happy tears pouring from her waterline. 

“No, you didn’t, girl! We got you. Answer that man,” Imani hollered.

Her heartbeat pulsed in her ears. The cheering from her family began to muffle. Her body temperature skyrocketed. She felt faint. The people were waiting. What would she say? 

Just as reality began to slip away, Terry’s eyes looking back at her quieted the external and internal noise. 

Driven by pure love, Patrice met Terry in a squat and grabbed his face with both of her hands. 

“What you doing tomorrow?” 

“Hopefully saying a couple vows to this pretty girl I know from way back. I brought a tux with me just in case she wasn’t too busy.” 

“From way back, huh? I think I talked to her and she has a little time on her books.” She took another look at the ring before plucking it from its box and placing it on her left ring finger. She examined it for a bit then leaned forward to kiss her betrothed with enough passion to send the crowd into a frenzy. Pulling away, she smiled and wiped gloss from Terry’s lips. 

“Let’s do it. Let’s get married.”

----

TAGS: @planetblaque @wvsspoppin @thatone-girly @avoidthings @slutsareteacherstoo @eilujion @amyhennessyhouse @yaachtynoboat711 @jenlovey @pinkpantheris @blowmymbackout @onherereading @hrlzy @becauseimswagman1 @thiccc-c @urfavblackbimbo @blackburnbook @ashanti-notthesinger @xo-goldengirl

[kirietown]

Star Burster | Part IX

Pairing: clark kent x f!reader

Summary: an uneventful backyard wedding!

Content: mommy issues and absolute disaster

18+

[chapter eight] … [chapter ten]

Word Count: 2.2K

White wedding dresses only became common in Kansas some years ago. You were told that ever since some Queen in England decided on it, all the ladies wanted in on it. Eventually the craze reached Kansas and it became the new normal for women to wear white.

But frankly you didn’t care, and your nanny’s yellow sun dress was what she wore to her wedding. Why not wear it to yours? Admittedly, despite your granny’s care for it over the years, it had started to look quite worn down. Your mother had given you a look when you pulled it out of the closet instead of the nice white one she had picked out for you long ago.

“I don’t see why ya wanna wear that ratty old thing,” your mother scoffed from her spot across the room. The two of you were in your bedroom, getting you all fixed up to go outside. If you turned your ear to the window you could hear the sounds of wedding guests hooting and hollering— likely trying to encourage Clark to down another beer.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with it,” you replied cooly. You took a twirl, and watched the ends flutter around you. You paused to admire your backside in your vanity mirror. “If I’m gonna get married, I wanna do it by my own terms at least.”

Your mother only scoffed in return.

“Always so stubborn,” she said. You furrowed your brows and noted her solemn tone. You turned to face her and saw that she sat with her head down as she fiddled with the bouquet of flowers you were meant to be holding.

“No way you think you can have a sour face on my wedding day,” you scoffed. “Ain’t this what you wanted anyway? It’s finally happening! You can be rid of me now just like ya wanted.” Your words were bitter and quite hostile, but you didn’t care. Your mother was the most confusing person you’d ever met— which was saying a lot considering the man standing outside waiting to marry you was an alien.

“Oh hush,” she said softly. “Get rid of ya? Is that wha’ you think this was? I was protecting ya.” She turned her gaze up and looked you in the eye now. Your mother didn’t flinch despite the visible anger on your face. “Careful, ya don’t wanna make a face like that, it’ll freeze.”

“Don’t give me that,” you replied. “Protect me? Y’all were just tryna save the farm, and so were the Kents and that’s why you came up with this whole idea anyway.” It had practically been drilled into your brain since you were old enough to reason. The whole point of the marriage was to merge the properties eventually. Heck, the new house they’d built you and Clark was dead in between both family’s houses.

“Clark’s a good boy,” your mother replied earnestly. “I’ve been able to see that just his whole life. Why can’t you?” She stood up and walked toward you, only for you to flinch at the contact her hands made with your bare shoulders. If she noticed the tension, she didn’t acknowledge it whatsoever. That was like her; she could ignore anything, discomfort, awkwardness, hurt feelings, so long as it didn’t impact her personally she could ignore it all.

“Can we just go outside now?” You said it as less of a question and more so of a demand. You were sick of the arguments and the stress of it all, and just wanted to get the day over with.

Your mother seemingly had more to say, but held her tongue. She turned to your bedroom door, and escorted you out. You followed her down the stairs, carefully, as you were wearing uncomfortable heels that you were convinced weren’t designed for walking.

“Martha!” Your mother called her from the middle of the staircase. “Let the folks outside know we’re coming out.”

“Got it,” Martha replied from the kitchen. You paused and listened. You heard her steps quiet after having had reached the door. The sound of laughter and cheers grew before they suddenly stilled as though disturbed.

“This is it,” your mother said from the bottom of the staircase. You’d hardly noticed she’d moved to the bottom until she spoke. You shook your head, hoping to disperse some of your anxieties before you walked down and joined her.

“This is it,” you replied bitterly. You followed her through the kitchen, and tried your best not to note all the various decor that signified your growth over the years. The items in the house would stay, but most of your possessions in your room had already been tucked and boxed away.

When you reached the door leading to the backyard, you paused and shut your eyes before you hesitantly walked through. The brightness outside caused you to squint, but you quickly adjusted especially as you felt your father’s arm loop around your own.

You turned to face him, and noted his clean flannel shirt— it was a rarity for him not to be covered in grass and dirt stains. You wondered where your mother had disappeared to until you realized she had quickly moved to sit amongst the other guests.

The backyard, which was more like a large open field that led to the various vegetables your family kept, was decorated with some banners and streamers. Chairs were stacked on either side of a large white tarp that acted as a carpet for you to walk on. You could feel the material scrunch under your heels. You kept your eyes on your feet before you dared to look up and made eye contact with Clark.

Unlike all the other men at the wedding, he was dressed fancy. It reminded you a bit of a penguin with how stiff the black suit and white dress shirt fit against his tall figure. You were glad that you weren’t the only one who had to be semi uncomfortable today at least.

Next to him stood his father, and an officiator who worked for the Smallville local government to make sure you said the vows and wrote all the paperwork out after.

Weddings were a hassle; too many legalities. Smallville didn’t care for it, and frankly neither did you. You bit your lip, feeling the creamy texture of your mother’s favourite rouge lipstick on your tongue. You needed to focus on Clark, that would help cool your nerves. You tried to imagine what he was thinking as you walked forward slowly. The sound of the breeze being the only thing to reach your ears as your mother wanted the musicians to hush during this part.

You reached Clark and shifted your posture to face him directly. Your bouquet was tucked close to your chest as though to shield you somehow. The insecurity was ridiculous, but somehow you felt more naked in front of him than you had when the two of you made love all those weeks ago.

You decided to meet his eyes, and felt your own widen. There was a deep intensity hidden in his dark blues even with his glasses on, and it overwhelmed you. If you had asked yourself months ago how you’d describe Clark, you would have never used that term: intense. But it seemed that things changed,— people changed, or perhaps you hadn’t truly seen the real Clark until recently.

A stranger; a boy you loved, a man you felt you knew, and a hero to everyone. Which was he to you? Which title took over? You stared back into his eyes firmly, and without fear. That was all you could do, really.

The officiator cleared his throat, and you turned to face him. He was an older gentlemen with dark skin, and a sagging face. You had never met the man before but heard that he’d been at your parents’ wedding, and even at the Kents’ too. They were glad the old man was still strong enough to do this one as well, and his ailing health might have been a small factor as to why they wanted to rush this whole thing.

“We are gathered here today…��� he began. You lost focus unfortunately as he drowned on, instead you looked at Clark. Your eyes never left his, even when you felt his fingers brush against your cheek softly. However, you had flinched at his touch, and you noticed him freeze for a second. You furrowed your brows as you watched him contemplate for a moment before he opened his mouth to speak.

His words did not come out unfortunately due to the chaos that came next.

Frankly, you didn’t know what happened, it was as though the world outside of you and Clark was still whilst the officiator recited his words. Then suddenly, you had fallen into Clark’s arms, screams had erupted from the crowd of friends and family. You felt yourself shift,— or perhaps Clark had moved you out of the way because you felt his warmth then it disappeared, leaving you alone to stand next to the officiator.

Your brain scrambled to put the pieces together, as you stumbled toward your parents who had also been making their way toward you. You collapsed into your father’s arms, a tremor going through your entire body as you held onto him and finally assessed your surroundings.

The party had long dispersed and people fled in various directions as some sort of giant reptile sparred against Superman— Clark! You scrambled out of your father’s arms and gasped at the sight of a flying Clark, somehow already in costume, pounding his fists against the rubbery stomach of the beast. It shrieked in pain, its jaw unhinging to reveal large fangs. You stumbled at the horrid sight, and watched in terror as Clark reeled another fist and smashed it into the head of the beast. Its steps wavered for a moment before the reptile creature fell to the ground face first. The Superman lingered in the sky for a few moments, watching along with the small left over crowd as what you now identified as a giant turtle man shrank down into a regular sized man.

Cautiously, you stepped forward and ignored your mother’s scolding as you walked toward the naked man who laid on the field. You furrowed your brows at the familiar dark coily hair, before you shouted in surprise.

“It’s Jimmy Olsen!”

“What?” Your mother replied in shock. “Little Jimmy from the publishing house?” You heard muttering across the crowd before you turned around once you felt a sudden presence behind you. It was Jimmy’s mother, who looked at the sight of her boy in shock before she rushed forward and took him into her arms.

“Someone please get him some spare clothes or something,” she cried. You faced the crowd, but looked away once you realized some of the men had started to remove their own shirts to assist Jimmy.

What the hell was going on?

You flinched at the feeling of a firm hand pressed against your lower back, only to relax at the sight of Clark. You wrapped your arms around his neck, and feigned as though you were frightened.

“What’s going on? Why did Jimmy… Turn into that?” You whispered your words against his ear, hoping anybody who was paying the two of you any mind would just assume you were frightened love birds.

“No clue,” he replied. He took the opportunity to wrap his arms around you securely, and you felt your feet lift from the floor as he did. You sighed in reply, and turned to look into his eyes.

“You were about to say something, weren’t you?” You said softly. “Before he—“ you tilted your head toward the crater where Jimmy was knocked out. “— came in. What was it?”

He pursed his lips for a moment before he replied. “It wasn’t cold feet if that was what you were thinking. I— I just saw the look in your eye, and felt like you were terrified. I don’t want you to feel f—forced to be with me, I’ve stayed silent so long, wrapped in my own head. I should’ve fought for what you wanted instead of just letting our parents push us around because I was okay with it.”

”A bit too late for that, don’t ya think?” You said with a bitter chuckle.

“Please,” he said. “I— It… It hurts me a lot to think about it, but if you decide right now y—you don’t want to carry on with this… I’ll… I’ll support you.” He squeezed your waist a bit tighter as he spoke. You felt you couldn’t breathe, but not because of his arms but because of something else entirely.

“Just what are ya tryna’ say?”

”You can say no, you can have a choice. Even… Even if it kills me, I’ll back you up.”

“Clark,” you said quietly. Your head was spinning, and you suddenly wished he would let your feet touch the ground. “We both know I don’t have a choice, don’t forget about what we did.” His eyes softened at your words, and he held your cheek in his hand.

“I know, but—“

”Boy,” you heard your father bark. You turned, still in Clark’s arms, and faced his angry expression. “Ya think you can sweep my daughter into yer arms after having abandoned her. Where were you?” He spoke with such venom, you nearly didn’t recognize him.

It looked like you had another parent to worry about for once.

[sweetheartsofpanem]

There She Is - Built to Be Wanted

Previous

i really hope y’all like this, i made it a lil extra fluffy and soft for y’all as an apology😔

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

warnings: refer to series masterlist

word count: 9.40k

series masterlist | main masterlist

The morning settles soft and slow across the living room, thick with the kind of stillness that only comes on weekends—when there’s nowhere to be and nothing you have to pretend for.

You’re stretched out on your side along the couch, your body heavy with the kind of drowsy warmth that feels impossible to fight. You’re not really awake. Not really asleep either. Somewhere in between, where the world blurs at the edges and everything moves slower.

The deep blue sweater hangs loose around you, swallowing your arms and most of your thighs. The shorts you pulled on after doing laundry cling gently to your hips and soft legs, leaving your skin bare where the sweater rides up.

It’s rare — you being the one awake first.

So you took the couch for yourself. Just for a little while. Let yourself sink into it, breathing slow and easy, wrapped in the quiet.

You don’t even realize he’s there until you feel the couch dip behind you.

A second later, there’s a hand sliding over your waist — broad and steady — fingers finding the softness there like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You jump, a startled gasp slipping from your throat before you can help it, your body tensing on instinct.

But before you can pull away, you hear him.

Low and rough, still sticky with sleep, voice right at your ear, “Easy,” Haymitch murmurs, the barest rasp of a chuckle under the word. “Told you it was dangerous to tell me I could always hold you.”

Your heart stumbles hard against your ribs.

But the way his arm curls around you—sure, steady, warm—pulls the fear right out of you.

You settle back into him without thinking, your body softening against the solid wall of his chest, your bare thighs brushing together under the sweater, your breath easing into something slower, safer.

You’re still not fully awake.

The heaviness in your body hasn’t quite left, but the fog in your mind is starting to lift. You’re waking up whether you want to or not.

And Haymitch hasn’t moved.

Still tucked up against your back, one arm slung low around your waist, his legs tangled lazily with yours. His hand resting over your belly like it belongs there, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You shift slightly, trying to stretch without dislodging him, your thighs brushing his jeans. His hand slides easily with you, not gripping, not pulling, just staying.

Your cheeks burn.

You swallow, voice scratchy and awkward when you finally speak. “Um… mornin’.”

You don’t even know why you say it—you’ve been wrapped up in him for who knows how long already—but it slips out, clumsy and breathless, like everything else you try to say around him.

Haymitch huffs a quiet laugh against your hair.

“Morning, peach,” he murmurs, voice still slow with sleep.

You shift again, tugging the hem of your sweater down out of habit even though it does nothing to make you feel less exposed, less soft and seen where his hand rests.

He doesn’t tease you for it. Doesn’t move his hand either.

Instead, he tips his head just enough that you feel his breath against the shell of your ear.

“Was wondering when you were gonna wake up and fully realize you have a six-foot blanket wrapped around you.”

You huff a soft, nervous laugh and duck your face deeper into the pillow, wishing it would swallow you whole.

“I—I don’ mind,” you mumble, voice half-muffled. “It’s… nice.”

You feel him smile against your hair.

“Yeah?” he drawls, low and teasing but not cruel. Never cruel. “Good. ‘Cause you ain’t getting rid of me now.”

Your heart stumbles.

You feel him shift behind you—just the smallest adjustment, like he’s getting more comfortable now that you’re awake.

And then, low against your ear, his voice slides out, rough and slow, “Y’know, peach, you’re real dangerous, laying here all soft like this.”

Your breath catches.

You blink against the pillow, heat rushing to your face so fast it’s almost dizzying. You don’t even know what part of the sentence sets you on fire more—the dangerous, or the soft.

“I’m not—” you start, flustered beyond saving. “I’m not tryin’ to be dangerous—”

He chuckles, low and pleased, the sound rumbling into your back.

“Didn’t say you were trying. Just said you are.”

His hand strokes lazily over the curve of your waist, tracing the sweater stretched over your body like he likes every inch of what he’s touching. Like he’s memorizing it.

“You laying here all warm and pretty,” he murmurs, almost like he’s thinking out loud now, “makes a man forget what he was supposed to be doing with his day.”

You make a tiny, mortified noise in your throat and immediately cover your face with your hand that’s drowning in the sleeve of the sweater, like you can hide from the way your heart’s pounding out of your chest.

Haymitch just laughs again, quieter this time. Almost fond.

“Don’t gotta hide from me, peach.”

You don’t move.

Not because you’re frozen—but because deep down, you don’t want to.

The teasing fades after that, the air between you thickening into something warmer. Quieter.

The quiet stretches between you, but it’s not uncomfortable.

Just heavy. Warm. Full of all the things you’re still too shy to say out loud.

His hand stays steady on your waist, thumb stroking absent, lazy circles into the thick knit of your sweater.

“You’re real easy to keep around like this,” Haymitch says eventually, voice low and rough, like he’s talking more to himself than to you.

You blink, caught off guard.

Your face warms immediately. “I—I’m not tryin’ to keep you hostage or nothin’,” you mumble, voice tripping over itself.

He chuckles, slow and fond. “Ain’t complaining, peach.”

You tug at the hem of your sweater awkwardly, the fabric bunching between your hands.

“I’m not… real good at this kinda thing,” you admit, staring at a loose thread on the couch cushion like it’s the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen.

“What thing?” he asks, voice mild, easy.

You shrug, the motion awkward against him. “Bein’… y’know. Held. Talkin’. Bein’… not weird.”

Haymitch huffs a soft sound that might almost be a laugh.

“You ain’t weird,” he says simply, like it’s a fact that doesn’t need defending. “You’re just not used to people treating you right.”

Your throat tightens at that.

You shift a little closer without meaning to, letting your back press more firmly against his chest. His hand adjusts with you, pulling you in like it’s second nature.

“Still,” you mutter, voice small, “I’m… not all that good at bein’ wanted.”

The confession slips out before you can swallow it back.

You stiffen immediately, shame spiking hot and sharp under your skin—but Haymitch doesn’t let you pull away.

He just exhales slow, like he already knew.

“You’re doing just fine, peach,” he says, voice rough and quiet. “Ain’t no wrong way to let somebody care about you.”

You bury your face into the sleeve of your sweater again, heart hammering, too flustered to answer.

You want to say something.

You want to say a lot of things, actually.

But your mouth feels clumsy, and your mind trips over itself before you even open it.

You chew your lip, breathe in slow through your nose, and finally you manage to whisper, “You… you make it easy.”

Your voice is so soft you barely hear it yourself.

Haymitch shifts slightly behind you, like he isn’t sure he caught it either. His hand strokes once over your waist, slow and steady.

“Make what easy?” he murmurs, coaxing.

You squeeze your eyes shut, cheeks burning.

“Wantin’ to be held,” you mumble, face buried half into the pillow. “Wantin’ to stay. I… I never thought I’d—”

You break off, shoulders curling tight.

There’s a long beat where you think you’ve ruined it—where the words hang too raw between you.

You feel him lean in.

You feel his breath warm against the shell of your ear.

“Good,” Haymitch says, low and certain. “’Cause I don’t plan on letting you go anytime soon.”

Your whole body goes hot.

You press your cheek harder into the pillow, too flustered to speak, but you can’t fight the tiny, helpless smile that pulls at the corner of your mouth.

The room hums with the kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled.

And then—just as your breathing starts to slow, just as you start to think maybe you’ll survive the way he’s touching you—he dips his head closer, voice low and rough against your ear.

“Y’know,” Haymitch murmurs, almost like he’s just thinking it out loud, “you really do look pretty like this.”

Your breath catches instantly.

He rubs his thumb slow over your waist, tracing the thick knit of your sweater where it drapes over your hips, the motion unhurried, familiar. Appreciative.

“All soft and sweet,” he adds, quieter now. “Could stare at you like this all day.”

You make a tiny, helpless sound in the back of your throat—something halfway between a gasp and a whimper—and immediately close your eyes tight, mortified.

Your whole body burns, every inch of you buzzing under your skin.

But Haymitch just chuckles low in his throat, like he knew exactly what that would do to you.

And before you can drown in it, he shifts gears so smoothly it almost gives you whiplash.

“So what’s the plan for today, peach?” he asks casually, like he didn’t just tell you he wanted to look at you all day. “You got big weekend plans I oughta know about?”

You stammer for a second, struggling to find your voice.

“I, um…” You squirm a little, flustered beyond repair. “I was jus’… plannin’ on bein’ lazy, I guess.”

You can feel him smile against your hair, the curve of it soft and pleased.

“Yeah?” he drawls. “That’s a good plan.”

You nod sheepishly, heart still hammering.

“Yesterday kinda… took a lot outta me,” you admit, voice small, fingers picking at the edge of the cushion. “I—um—I figured maybe today I’d jus’… not do much. Jus’ rest.”

He hums low in his chest, the sound curling around you like approval.

You lie there against him for a little while longer, soaking in the steady feel of his hand at your waist, the way he breathes slow and even like there’s nowhere he’d rather be.

But the words are building up inside you.

Heavy and hot, sitting just behind your ribs, begging to be let out even though you’re terrified of what asking them might do.

Finally, after what feels like forever, you shift.

Slowly. Awkwardly.

You turn over onto your other side, careful not to pull too far away from him. Now you’re facing him, your nose tucked just a little too close to his chest, the warmth of his body radiating to your face.

You don’t look up.

You can’t.

Instead, you stare at your own hand where it rests in the small space between your bodies—curled slightly, fingers twitching with nerves.

You swallow hard, gathering yourself.

“Can I… um… ask you somethin’?” you mumble, barely above a whisper.

Haymitch’s hand shifts instinctively to your back, rubbing slow and reassuring between your shoulder blades.

“Yeah, peach,” he says, voice low and easy. “You can ask me anything.”

You nod, but the words still stick, your throat thick with nerves.

You fidget, rubbing your thumb over the fabric of the couch like it might give you courage.

Finally, without lifting your eyes, you whisper, “Why do you… why do you wanna touch me?”

The question hangs there, trembling and raw.

You keep your eyes fixed on your hand, terrified of what you’ll see if you look at his face.

You hear his breath hitch—just the tiniest bit—before it evens out again.

You wait.

Heart hammering. Hands shaking.

Praying you didn’t just ruin everything.

You keep your eyes glued to your hand, fingers twitching restlessly where they rest on the couch between you, bracing yourself for—you don’t even know what.

A sigh. A shrug. A kindness dressed up like mercy.

But none of it comes.

Instead, you feel Haymitch shift—slow, careful.

His hand moves from your back to your waist again, fingers curling lightly into the soft fabric of your sweater, grounding you.

And when he speaks, his voice is low. Steady.

Like he’s not giving you an answer he thought up just to make you feel better—like he’s giving you the truth.

“First time I touched you,” he says, voice rumbling through the little space between you, “I damn near lost my mind.”

Your heart slams hard against your ribs.

“I’d never felt anything like it,” he goes on, slow and deliberate, like he wants you to hear every word. “The way you’re built, peach… you’re soft where a man’s hands want to stay. Warm in ways that don’t fade when the sun goes down. Every inch of you’s meant to be touched. Meant to be held.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, breathing hard, your fingers curling tight into the cuff of your sleeve.

“And it ain’t just that,” he adds, voice dipping lower. “Ain’t just your body—though God knows that’s enough to ruin me.”

You let out a tiny, shaky breath, but you still can’t look at him.

“You got a way about you,” he says, quieter now. “You don’t even see it. The way you still wanna help people even though no one would blame you for not wanting to after all you’ve been through. The way you smile small, like you’re scared to take up too much room, when all I want is to see you take up more of it.”

His thumb strokes slow across your waist, steady and sure.

“I touch you ‘cause you’re worth touching,” he finishes, softer than before.

You press your lips together so hard they tremble.

You want to say something.

Anything.

But you can’t.

You can only nod, once, tiny and trembling, your fingers tightening into your sleeve like it’s the only thing holding you together.

You stay frozen for a long moment.

The weight of his words still wraps around you—thick, heavy, almost too much to hold.

But not too much to want.

You breathe in slow, your heart hammering so hard you can feel it in your fingertips.

And then—finally—you shift back slightly and lift your head.

Slow. Careful. Like the world might crack open if you move too fast.

Your gaze drifts upward, inching over the line of his chest, his shoulder, the strong line of his throat, until finally—finally—you meet his eyes.

Full and steady.

And you look at him.

Really look.

Not the way you had before—glancing, darting away the second he got too close to seeing too much.

This time you let yourself see him.

The roughness around his mouth. The tired lines at the corners of his eyes. The steadiness in them too—deep and burning and so achingly sure it makes your chest tighten.

You meet that steady, burning look and you don’t look away.

Not this time.

And for a second, the whole world feels like it’s holding its breath right along with you.

Haymitch doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

He just looks back—letting you have him.

Letting you take whatever you need from this.

And somehow, somehow, you find that you can breathe easier like this.

The silence stretches, thick and electric, humming between you.

You don’t look away.

You can’t.

And he just holds your gaze like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Like he’s been waiting for you to look at him like this.

The corner of his mouth twitches—just a little. Not a smirk. Not teasing.

Something softer.

Something real.

In a voice rough and low enough to scrape along the raw edges of your heart, he says, “There she is.”

The words are so quiet you almost think you imagined them.

But you feel it—the way his hand tightens just slightly where it rests at your waist.

Hear the way his breath hitches before settling again.

He says it like you’re some long-lost thing that finally found its way back.

Like he’s proud.

Like he’s relieved.

Your throat tightens. Your chest aches.

But you still don’t look away.

Something in you shifts.

Maybe it’s the way he said there she is.

Maybe it’s the way his eyes haven’t moved from yours.

Or maybe it’s just the way his presence wraps around you—solid, unshakable, yours—and you don’t feel afraid of reaching anymore.

Your hand lifts slowly.

Tentatively.

Like you’re not entirely sure you’re allowed to touch him back, even after everything he’s given you.

But he doesn’t stop you.

Doesn’t move.

Just watches—quiet, steady—while your fingers rise and come to rest over his chest.

Right over his heart.

His skin is warm beneath the fabric of his shirt.

His heartbeat strong and steady under your palm.

You can feel it.

And it makes your breath hitch.

Your thumb rubs the fabric once, slow and nervous.

Voice barely audible, you whisper, “I… I don’ really know how to say it right, but…”

You swallow hard, eyes dipping to your hand like it’s safer to look there than to keep holding his gaze.

“I jus’… I like how you make me feel.”

The words tumble out crooked and small, shaped by too many years of silence and too many bruises you never put into words.

“I don’ always get it. I don’ really know why you’re so nice to me. But when you hold me, or talk to me like I matter, it… it makes somethin’ in me stop hurtin’ for a lil while.”

You keep your hand there, pressed gently over his heart, even though your fingers are trembling.

You risk a glance up.

Just the briefest flick of your eyes.

And what you find in his face—the softness, the certainty, the way he melts under the weight of your touch—makes your chest tighten in a way that isn’t painful at all.

He’s looking at you like he sees it all.

The hurt you barely manage to put into words.

The fear wrapped up in your voice.

The fact that even reaching out like this took everything in you.

And when he speaks, his voice is softer than it’s been all morning—quiet and even, like the truth doesn’t need to be loud.

“You don’t gotta understand it yet.”

His thumb brushes once against the curve of your waist, still resting steady where he’s been holding you.

“You just let yourself feel it. That’s enough for now.”

Your throat tightens.

Before you can even think of how to respond, Haymitch shifts and gently, slowly, pulls you closer.

Not fast. Not greedy.

Just enough that your forehead rests lightly against the worn fabric of his shirt, your whole body tucked against his like you belong there.

Like he wants you there.

His hand settles firm at your lower back, holding you in that new closeness like it’s a promise.

“I’ll keep reminding you why,” he murmurs, voice rough against your hair.

“As many times as it takes.”

The quiet between you lingers, warm and steady, tucked around you both.

You’re not even sure what makes you say it—maybe it’s the way he’s holding you, or how soft his voice was when he said I’ll keep reminding you—but the question slips out before you can stop it.

“Can I—um.” You swallow hard. “Can I ask about… your family?”

The second it’s out, your heart lurches. You lift your head a little, eyes wide with panic.

“I mean—only if you wanna,” you blurt. “I didn’ mean to—I’m sorry, that was probably—if you don’ wanna talk about it, thas’ completely okay. I jus’—”

“Peach.”

His voice cuts through your rambling, low and even.

You stop.

He doesn’t sound upset. Just quiet.

“It’s alright,” he says after a moment.

You nod once, eyes dropping again. His hand rubs slow against your back.

“My little brother Sid was ten,” he says, voice steady but softer now. “Sweetest kid you’d ever meet. Always trying to carry more than he could. Thought being helpful meant being good.”

You press your lips together, listening.

“He had this laugh,” Haymitch says, a little breath catching in his throat. “Kinda high-pitched, real loud. Annoyed me half to death when I was trying to concentrate, but… when you’d hear that laugh, you felt better. Didn’t matter what kinda day you were having. It made things feel alright for a second.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat.

“And Ma…” He exhales slowly, his hand tightening just a bit on your side. “She was tough. Had us doing chores like we were running a damn Peacekeeper base. But she never made us feel like we were burdens. Not once. Even when there wasn’t enough to go around and her hands were raw from washing clothes to feed us.”

His thumb strokes slow along your waist.

“She worked harder than anyone I ever met. Could fix damn near anything. Knew how to stretch food, mend clothes, make use of anything she could. All that while raising two boys and mourning my sisters and my dad.”

You smile, soft and aching.

He’s quiet for a second, like he’s sorting through the next memory.

“My dad… he was smart. Real smart. But not loud about it. Didn’t act like he was better than anyone. Said only stupid people brag about being intelligent.” A soft huff leaves him. “He wasn’t like a lotta the other dads back then. Didn’t shout. Didn’t hit. Just… listened. Taught me stuff without making me feel dumb for not knowing it yet.”

Your chest tightens.

You imagine little Haymitch. Sid’s laugh. Their mom fixing something with quick fingers. Their dad sitting across the table, explaining something slow and quiet.

You blink back the sting behind your eyes.

“I think…” you whisper, voice unsteady but sure, “I think I woulda liked ‘em.”

Haymitch doesn’t say anything for a moment.

But he holds you tighter.

And that’s answer enough.

His thumb traces a slow arc along your waist, not asking anything from you, just being there, holding the silence like he’s not in any rush to leave it.

But after a moment, he shifts slightly—just enough that you can feel him looking down at you, even if you’re not looking back yet.

After a moment, his voice comes low and thoughtful.

“What kinda kid were you when you felt safe?”

He asks it so gently, so casually, that it takes you a second to realize what he said.

You blink, surprised by how much it rattles something soft inside you.

Nobody’s ever asked you that before.

What kinda kid were you when you felt safe?

You think real hard about the answer, sifting through memories of your mom and Mercher.

You shift a little, wrapping your arm around him like it helps to hold onto something.

“I—um.” You clear your throat, cheeks already warming. “I guess I’ve always been kinda… awkward?”

You feel him huff a quiet breath, but not like he’s laughing. Just listening.

“I never really knew how to do… people stuff,” you say softly, closing your eyes. “I’d watch other kids jus’ walk up an’ start talkin’ to each other an’ be all normal ‘bout it, but I—I’d jus’ freeze up. Like I was missin’ some step everyone else knew.”

You shift slightly, tucking your body closer against his.

“But… when I was home, with Mama an’ Mercher, I didn’ feel like that. I wasn’ scared I was too much, or sayin’ the wrong thing. I’d dance ‘round the house an’ make up songs an’ sing ‘em like I was puttin’ on a whole show.”

You smile, small and a little embarrassed. “They were awful. I mean—real bad. But when Mercher started walkin’ an’ talkin’, he’d sing with me. Dance too. He was always gigglin’ through it, tryna keep up.”

Haymitch doesn’t say anything, but you can feel how still he is. How present.

“I use to sit by the window an’ make up these stories in my head. ‘Bout growin’ up, fallin’ in love, havin’ a family someday. I didn’ tell anyone ‘bout that stuff back then. Felt… silly. Like it was stupid to dream ‘bout stuff like that when life was already so hard.”

Your voice is quieter now. Like those memories still live close to your ribs.

“But I’d talk to Mama ‘bout everythin’ else. All the stuff I liked, whatever I was curious ‘bout. I’d ramble forever an’ she never got annoyed. Never told me I talked too much or asked too many questions. She jus’… listened. Like I mattered.”

You swallow, throat tight.

“I guess when it was jus’ us, my awkwardness didn’ make me feel weird. Or unlikable. They jus’… loved me. Every part of me.”

You fall quiet.

Haymitch’s thumb strokes soft across your back once, and then stills.

After a moment, his voice comes low, steady—like he waited until he knew you were ready to hear it.

“You ain’t silly for dreamin’ about those things.”

You press your lips together.

“You ain’t hard to like, either.”

Your breath catches, your fingers twitching in the fabric of his shirt.

“You’re just used to being around people who didn’t know what to do with all that softness. All that light.”

He pulls you in a little tighter—his hand splayed warm across your back, his chin resting against the top of your head.

“But I do.”

Your fingers fidget softly at the edge of his shirt, nerves starting to spark again, lighter this time. Not fear. Just that quiet flutter of uncertainty that comes when you want to ask something personal. Something that matters.

You hesitate.

“Can I… ask you somethin’ else?”

Haymitch hums low against your hair. “You’re real into questions today, huh?”

You bury your face against his chest for a second, flustered. “I—I can stop if it’s too much—”

“Nah,” he murmurs, thumb brushing slow over your side. “I like it. Go on.”

You press your lips together, heart thudding.

“You ever think about… havin’ kids?”

He goes quiet for a beat. Not cold. Not distant. Just… quiet.

“I always liked kids. They kinda just… flocked to me, I guess. Even when I didn’t have the patience for it or they woulda been better off picking someone else,” his voice has an almost sad kind of fondness to it, like he’s thinking about all the kids he’d known.

You smile a little at that. You can picture it—little kids trailing behind him like ducklings, him pretending to be annoyed and secretly loving it.

“But even before my Games…” he trails off for a moment, thoughtful. “I knew I’d never want to bring a kid into a world where the Games existed. Didn’t feel right. Didn’t feel fair.”

Your chest aches gently at the truth of that.

“And after my Games…” His voice lowers. “I didn’t know if I’d even be a good father. Didn’t trust myself. Didn’t want to pass down the mess in my head, y’know? So I figured it was better that way. Safer. For everyone.”

You nod slowly, still tucked against him.

A little quieter, a little clumsier, you ask, “Has that changed at all? Since the rebellion? With the Games gone?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just breathes.

You can feel the way he thinks about it.

“I’m old, peach.” His voice is rough but not unkind. “Hard telling if I’ll be around long enough to have kids. But… it’s a possibility.”

You blink, then let out a small breath of a laugh—soft, disbelieving.

“You’re only forty-two,” you murmur, glancing up at him with the tiniest smile. “You got at least another forty years left. You ain’t really that old.”

He snorts, but there’s something warm behind it. Something lighter.

“Tell that to my knees.”

You snort softly, still curled into him, your face pressed warm against his chest.

“If busted knees mean you’re old, then I’m… ancient,” you mumble. “Like… prehistoric. Mine gave up years ago. Honestly I think they filed for early retirement.”

You hear him laugh—actually laugh—low and genuine, feel the vibration of it in his chest.

“How’d you end up with hands that can stitch and treat wounds but eighty-year-old joints?”

You groan. “Genetic betrayal. Or wheat.”

Haymitch huffs. “Wheat?”

“Yeah, y’know. All that grain I hauled growin’ up. My body probably hit a quota and jus’… quit.”

He lets out a bark of laughter.

“Christ, peach.”

“I’m just sayin’,” you mutter, a little flustered now. “At this rate, I’ll need a cane by twenty-five.”

Haymitch laughs again, quieter this time.

And even though your banter’s a little clumsy, a little breathless, it lands.

He lets it all land.

And with every laugh, every teasing reply, it gets easier.

You stay like that for a while.

Tucked up together, warmth settled low between your ribs, your fingers lightly fidgeting against the edge of his shirt as your breathing syncs without trying.

The conversation drifts into something easy—half sentences about how quiet the house is, how you can tell it’s Saturday by the way the sun hits the window. He grumbles a little about needing to fix the way the back door sticks, and you suggest kicking it, which he says is already his go-to method.

And then, after a small stretch of quiet, Haymitch lets out a sigh.

“As much as I don’t wanna move,” he mutters, “I should probably make food before my stomach decides to eat itself.”

You huff a quiet laugh, and he shifts, his arm loosening around your back. You both move slow, like neither of you really wants to get up, but you’re doing it anyway.

You stand first, stretching a little, your sweater slipping lower on one side.

Haymitch rises behind you—and just as you’re adjusting your sleeve, his hand reaches out.

Without a word, he smooths your hair where it’s gotten tangled from all the shifting around on the couch, his fingers brushing over your head in a way so gentle it makes your breath catch.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just fixes your hair then turns like it’s nothing—like he didn’t just touch you like you’re precious—and walks off toward the kitchen.

You stand there, stunned.

Completely short-circuited.

Your hand lifts halfway to your hair, but you don’t move it. You just blink, heat blooming across your face, your whole body frozen for a second too long.

When you finally get your feet to work again, you pad quietly into the kitchen and drop into one of the chairs at the table, hands folded awkwardly in your lap.

Haymitch doesn’t say anything at first. Just moves around the kitchen with sure, measured ease.

You’re beginning to realize that the sureness he carries himself with is one of your favorite things about him.

And after a minute, without even looking at you, he says, “You couldn’t be in a room with me for more than a few minutes when you first got here. Now you follow me around.”

You make a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a groan. “I—I’m sorry—I’m not tryin’ to be annoyin’, I jus’—”

“You’re not,” he cuts in, glancing over his shoulder with that small, amused look you’re still not used to being for you. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

You duck your head, flustered. “I jus’… I like bein’ around you.”

He doesn’t look back this time, but his voice is softer when he adds, “I like bein’ around you too, peach.”

The kitchen fills with soft sounds—the low sizzle of the pan, the dull clink of a fork against ceramic, the slow, steady rhythm of Haymitch moving around the kitchen.

You watch him cook in quiet stretches, but the silence doesn’t stay empty for long.

Conversation flows between you in quiet, uneven starts—soft, simple things. He asks what your favorite flower is. You tell him about a weird dream you had once.

It’s nothing heavy. Nothing hard.

Just easy.

And it feels strange—good—to talk like this. To not be waiting for the moment it turns. To just exist in a kitchen with someone who wants to know you.

When the eggs are done, Haymitch plates them without flourish. Toast and eggs, nothing fancy. He sets a plate in front of you—still warm, edges a little messy—and doesn’t say anything as he turns to leave the room like he always does, giving you space without making it a thing.

But before he can take a full step away, your hand shoots out and wraps around his wrist—awkward and fast.

“You—um. You can stay.”

He pauses.

You look up at him, face already hot.

“Jus’… if you wanna. I mean.”

His expression doesn’t change much, but something about the way he holds still tells you he’s listening.

“But—um—could you… not sit across from me?”

You clear your throat, looking anywhere but at him.

“Like. Just next to me? An’ don’ look at me while I eat… please.”

You wince immediately. “Sorry, thas’—thas’ weird, I know it’s weird, I don’ even know why I said it like that, it’s stupid, you can totally ignore me, I jus’—”

He moves before you can finish.

Wordless.

Simple.

He pulls out the chair next to you and sits, setting his plate down, his shoulders relaxed like this is just what you do. No questions. No commentary.

You go quiet instantly.

He doesn’t look at you.

Doesn’t try to make it a thing.

He just sits there and eats—slow, unhurried.

And about halfway through your breakfast, his hand settles warm and steady on your thigh.

Not squeezing. Not shifting.

Just there.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

You eat your food in silence, his hand still resting on you like a weight you didn’t know you needed.

When your plate’s empty and you set your fork down, Haymitch gives your thigh the gentlest squeeze.

His thumb brushes once along your leg.

“You let me stay, even though you’re still scared.”

Your throat tightens instantly.

You stare down at your lap, eyes burning, and your hand drifts to his—resting where he’s touching you.

You start tracing your fingers lightly over his, quiet and clumsy, but intentional.

Voice small and shaky, you mumble, “I’m tryin’ not to be so scared.”

You swallow hard, still fiddling with his fingers, still not looking at him.

“‘Cause I wanna let you see the things I’ve always been ashamed of.”

You can’t look at him.

But you feel him exhale—slow and steady.

“Then I’ll be right here when you’re ready to show me.”

No rush. No pressure. Just truth.

And just like that—like always—he makes it feel possible.

You nod, barely, your hand still tangled with his.

He gives your leg one more squeeze, then rises from his chair, gathering both your plates in one hand, silverware clinking gently together.

You don’t move.

You just sit there in the warm quiet of the kitchen while he rinses the dishes at the sink, sleeves pushed to his elbows, water running steady as steam curls upward from the basin.

And you watch him.

Watch the slow ease of his movements. The way he doesn’t say anything else. The way he just lets you sit there, no questions, no demands.

You stare at the back of him, and your chest starts to ache in that strange, weightless way you haven’t let yourself feel in years.

Because how the hell did you end up here?

Sitting in the kitchen of the man you used to blush and giggle about whenever he came on your grainy old TV screen.

Back when you were just a kid in District 9 with tired knees and soft dreams and no clue how to talk to anyone.

And now here he is.

Washing dishes with his sleeves rolled up like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Letting you cry on him.

Letting you stay.

Treating you like you aren’t some hideous, enormous monster the world spat out.

The faucet shuts off with a soft clunk of the handle.

You watch as Haymitch dries his hands on a dishtowel, slow and casual, like you didn’t just sit at the table and fall a little harder because of the sound of his quiet.

Then he turns, already walking toward the living room.

“Come on, peach.”

It’s said without weight, without fanfare—just a gentle drawl thrown over his shoulder, like there was never any question of whether you’d follow.

And you do.

You trail behind him, socked feet whispering against the floor, and when he drops back onto the couch, you hover for a second like maybe you shouldn’t sit too close.

Like maybe he needs space, or maybe you do, or maybe if you press up against him again he’ll finally see what everyone else always has.

But before you can even lower yourself onto the far end of the cushion, Haymitch reaches for you.

Fingers at your elbow, firm but easy, tugging you in like it’s second nature.

You go without a word.

He settles you into his side, arm around your waist, his hand finding your hip—fingertips slipping just under the hem of your sweater.

And then higher.

Callused skin grazing the soft give of your belly, right where the waistband of your shorts rests.

You freeze.

Not visibly, not enough to draw attention—just inside. Everything goes still.

Because you know what’s there.

You know what his fingers are brushing over—what they’re going to find.

The raised lines. The stretched softness. The marks you’ve spent years hiding, ignoring, hating.

You wait for it. The shift. The recoil. The silent judgment.

But it doesn’t come.

His fingers move slow.

Exploratory.

And then they trace one of the lines—deliberate. Gentle.

Like it’s something sacred.

Your breath stutters in your chest.

But he just keeps holding you.

Thumb stroking over the curve of your belly, not like he’s tolerating it—like he’s learning it.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

His hand stays warm on your stomach, thumb brushing absent circles just above the waistband of your shorts, like he’s not in any hurry to stop. Like he wants to memorize every line of you.

And you melt further into him without meaning to—without thinking.

Your body relaxes, breath soft and even, your head finding that perfect place beneath his chin.

You bask in it—the warmth, the quiet, the miracle of being touched like you aren’t disgusting.

Until there’s a knock on the door.

Haymitch groans like he’s been mortally wounded, throwing his head back against the couch with a dull thud.

“Shit,” he mutters.

You blink up at him, startled.

He scrubs a hand down his face. “Forgot I told the brats they could come over today.”

Your stomach drops.

You already know who the brats he’s referring to are, you don’t even need to ask.

“Oh my God.”

You sit up straight like someone just lit a fire under you.

“I—I need to change—I look like an absolute mess, I can’ meet them like this—”

“Peach—”

But you’re already scrambling off the couch, tripping over your own fuzzy socks as you bolt toward the hallway.

“I’ll be back in like three minutes!”

You don’t even wait for a reply before disappearing down the hall in a flurry of panic.

Haymitch just sighs deeply and slouches further into the couch.

“They’re gonna love you, you lunatic,” he mutters to no one in particular, as another knock hits the door.

You make it to your room and immediately shut the door behind you like you’re sealing off an incoming flood.

“Okay,” you whisper, already pacing in a circle. “Okay. Okay, okay, okay. It’s fine. You’re fine. You’re just meetin’ the Girl on Fire and her sunshine boyfriend and probably makin’ a fool of yourself in the process—no big deal.”

You stop in front of your dresser, flinging it open with too much force and staring down at your options like one of them might magically make you not so mortifyingly awkward.

“You jus’ need to look normal,” you mutter. “Not like you’ve been meltin’ into Haymitch Abernathy’s side all mornin’ like a clingy lil furnace.”

You finally spot your light blue mom jeans—the loose pair with soft fabric and miraculous forgiveness—and snatch them from the drawer. Down each leg are tiger striped purple orchids, flowers you’ve loved since childhood, that your mom carefully embroidered.

You tug them on quick, hopping a little to get your foot through the second leg just as you hear the front door open.

Haymitch’s voice drifts faintly down the hall.

And then—two more voices. A low one. A lighter one.

You freeze.

“Oh God.”

You yank a soft white shirt from your dresser, one of your favorites—plain, not oversized, not tight, just… safe. Familiar. You tug it over your head and do a frantic once-over in the mirror.

You smooth your hair. Twice.

You lean in. Pull back. Try to smile and see how bad it looks. Frown. Smile again. Give up.

Your heart’s pounding so loud it feels like your ears are vibrating.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. Then another.

“They’re jus’ people,” you whisper.

Your hand lingers on the doorknob.

And before you can chicken out completely, you step into the hall.

The moment you step into the living room, you instantly regret not chickening out.

They’re all already sitting—talking, mid-conversation—and the moment your feet leave the hallway, you freeze.

Katniss and Peeta are tucked together on the loveseat, angled toward Haymitch, who’s sprawled on the couch. None of them are looking your way yet, which somehow makes it worse. Like you’re intruding. Like you don’t know how to exist in a moment you weren’t there for from the start.

You hover awkwardly at the edge of the hallway, fingers twitching at your sides.

Then Haymitch turns.

Like he felt you.

He glances over his shoulder and lifts a hand—just a small motion, a quiet come here—without saying a word.

But Peeta and Katniss are already following his gaze.

You force a small, clumsy smile and start toward the couch, stomach turning as both of them look at you. Peeta gives a warm, open little grin. Katniss… doesn’t smile, but she nods slightly. Neutral. Watchful.

You move to sit down, trying not to get too close to Haymitch, nerves tangling up in your chest. Some deep, useless part of you whispers that maybe he’s the kind of man who only likes someone like you when no one’s looking.

You know better. But that fear doesn’t listen.

Before you can even finish lowering yourself onto the cushion, Haymitch wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you in—firm, casual, easy. You end up flush against his side, his hand warm along your arm.

Your heart does a full somersault.

You catch Katniss raising an eyebrow.

Your whole body burns.

“This is Y/N,” Haymitch says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Peeta’s face lights up. “I figured, it’s nice to finally put a face to the name! I like your jeans, by the way.”

His voice is so genuine it makes you flinch a little.

You manage a quiet, “Hi,” and give him a shy smile.

Katniss gives a small nod. “Hey.”

From what Haymitch has told you, that’s just how she is.

They fall back into conversation like you aren’t even a new variable.

Not in a rude way—just familiar. Easy. Katniss and Peeta and Haymitch. The kind of dynamic you know was built across years and scars and silent understandings.

You sit still beside Haymitch, tucked into his side with his arm still draped over your shoulders. His thumb moves slowly over your upper arm—lazy, absent, grounding.

It helps.

But you still feel like you’re on the outside of something.

You listen quietly while they talk, nodding slightly every so often. Laughing under your breath at a few dry jokes from Katniss, though you’re not sure if you’re supposed to laugh. You want to add something more than a smile at the right parts—but the words keep catching before they make it past your throat.

Because you know how they’ll come out.

Awkward. Hesitant. Weird.

So you just stay quiet. Try to look engaged. Hope that’s enough.

They’re talking about Peeta’s bakery now—Haymitch teasing him about adding too many options, Katniss asking if he’s going to finally hire more help.

Peeta rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “I’m not adding too many options. I’m just trying new things, seeing what people like most. You have to test product lines before you commit.”

“What the hell’s a product line?” Haymitch mutters.

Peeta ignores him and turns to you instead, a bright smile on his face. “Y/N—what do you think? What kind of cake should I be selling?”

You blink. Your brain stalls for a second, surprised to be pulled in so suddenly.

But then warmth bubbles up in your chest—grateful and startled all at once to be so casually included.

You blink again. “Oh. Um. I mean… I think angel food cake’s the best.”

Peeta perks up immediately. “Yeah?”

You nod, fidgeting slightly with the hem of your sleeve. “Memaw use to make it for my birthday every few years. She didn’ always have the ingredients or the time, but when she did… it was like, the cake, y’know?”

You smile a little at the memory, gaze softening.

“But, um, me an’ Mercher—he’s my lil brother—we use to get screamed at constantly ‘cause the floors in our house were all uneven, an’ the oven’d shake if we ran too much while it was baking. An’ if it shook, the cake’d fall.”

You glance up shyly. “She’d chase us out the house with her wooden spoon if we didn’ calm down.”

Peeta laughs, eyes sparkling. “That’s amazing.”

Even Katniss cracks a tiny, amused smirk.

You duck your head, a little red in the cheeks but smiling now, too.

The conversation drifts again, light and easy—Peeta asking more questions about cakes, Katniss occasionally chiming in with suggestions that sound more like dares than recipes.

You’re just starting to feel like maybe—maybe—you belong in the room when Katniss glances over and tilts her head slightly.

“Do all the people in Nine talk like you?”

Your heart stutters.

It’s not said mean, or even blunt. Just a curious observation.

But your stomach still flips.

You shift slightly where you sit, beginning to rub your thumb over the side of your index finger.

“Um,” you mumble, trying not to sound weird about it. “Kinda? Depends where we grew up. Lotta different areas and some folks don’ have much of an accent. But where I grew up… yeah. Most people sound like me.”

You bite your lip, your face going warm. You know your voice is soft and twangy and strange to some people from other districts, even if they have accents of their own. You’ve had people mock it before. Mimic it. Laugh.

You keep your eyes down, heart thudding.

Haymitch’s thumb brushes slow along your arm again and he says it like it’s the easiest truth in the world, “I like the way you talk, peach.”

You blink up at him, surprised.

Katniss nods a little.

“I wasn’t making fun of you,” she says, straightforward but not harsh. “I was just curious. It sounds nice.”

Your shoulders ease a little.

“Oh. Um… thank you.”

You look down again, still flustered—but now it’s a different kind of warmth blooming in your chest.

Peeta turns to you, kind as ever, a little smile on his face.

“What made you want to go into pediatrics?”

You blink.

For a second, the question doesn’t even register as yours to answer—like it must’ve been meant for someone else. But when you realize he’s looking right at you, waiting, something shifts in your chest.

And despite the nerves that still flicker under your skin, your face brightens.

“I—um—” You huff a quiet laugh, looking down, but you can’t stop smiling. “I… kinda always knew, I guess.”

You glance up again, eyes still shy but sparkling now.

“I grew up helpin’ Mama treat injuries from the fields. Folks’d come back all cut up or bruised or with hands blistered to hell, an’ she’d patch ‘em up right there on the porch.”

You fidget with the hem of your shirt as you speak, your voice still awkward and uneven, but warm.

“An’ once other people started helpin’ her more, I ended up spendin’ more time with the kids. Y’know—tryin’ to keep ‘em from climbin’ things they weren’ ‘sposed to or tryin’ to feed frogs to each other…” You trail off, grinning.

Peeta laughs softly, and even Katniss’s mouth twitches at the corner.

“I dunno,” you say. “I’ve jus’ always loved lil kids. They’re honest. An’ funny. They don’… they don’ look at me like people my age or older do.”

You shrug, voice softer now.

“I treat every kid around me like they’re mine. Can’ help it. An’ for some reason, they always seem to like me more than most people.”

You glance at Peeta again, a little breathless, a little embarrassed. “So… it’s jus’ easier to work with ‘em. Feels right.”

There’s a pause. Just long enough to feel like something has settled in the room.

Peeta’s smile is soft and real. “That makes perfect sense.”

The conversation dips into a lull, that comfortable kind where no one feels the need to fill the space too quickly.

And then Katniss tilts her head slightly and looks straight at you.

“How’d you get him to be such a softy?”

Your brain short-circuits.

Haymitch lets out a quiet snort beside you, but you’re too stunned to respond. You blink. Then blink again. Your mouth opens slightly like you might say something—but nothing comes out.

You glance helplessly between the three of them and slowly raise both hands in a small, awkward shrug.

“I—um. I don’… I don’ know?”

Your voice comes out so confused and soft it only makes Peeta grin wider.

Katniss raises an eyebrow like she expected that answer. 

Haymitch huffs and shifts beside you. “You act like I’m not soft with you two.”

“You are,” Katniss says, matter-of-fact. “But this is different.”

He doesn’t argue.

Doesn’t smirk.

Just lifts his hand from your arm for a second to brush his knuckles along your shoulder, casual as anything.

“People like her just make a man wanna be soft,” he says dryly.

Your face ignites.

You duck your head immediately, biting back a smile so hard your lips twitch at the corners. It feels like you’ve pressed your whole face into the sun and now you’re just sitting there, glowing and horrified and giddy all at once.

Peeta chuckles.

Katniss just shakes her head with a quiet little smirk, like she’s watching something ridiculous and sweet unfold in real time.

The rest of the morning flows by in a kind of rhythm you never expected to be part of.

They keep talking—Peeta telling stories with his hands, Katniss chiming in now and then with dry, sharp commentary, Haymitch throwing in the occasional sarcastic remark. You speak, too—still awkward, still stumbling over your words sometimes—but no one flinches. No one makes you feel like you need to be anything but exactly who you are.

And slowly, you stop feeling like an outsider.

It’s midday by the time Katniss and Peeta start to gather themselves, brushing nonexistent crumbs from their clothes and stretching like they’ve settled in for longer than planned.

At the door, Peeta smiles at you warmly, one hand already on the handle.

“You’re always welcome at our place,” he says, like it’s a given. “And if you ever want to help out at the bakery—or just hang out while I’m baking—I’d love the company.”

Your heart warms.

You manage a shy smile and nod, too overwhelmed to say anything meaningful, but you hope it’s clear how much it means.

Katniss turns towards you, more reserved but just as steady.

“I see why you’re a good nurse,” she says. She doesn’t explain. Just nods once.

Then, almost as an afterthought, she adds, “If the hospital ever needs natural medicine—plants or salves or whatever—come to me. I’ve got enough dried herbs to patch up half the district.”

You blink, surprised, but nod quickly. “Okay. Thank you.”

They both offer short goodbyes, and the front door clicks softly behind them.

You stay where you are on the couch, processing.

And then—dramatically, with a groan that’s way too theatrical for the quiet house—you flop onto your side, closing your eyes like it’ll help recharge your brain.

Haymitch barks out a laugh.

It rumbles through the living room like something easy. Familiar.

He heads to the kitchen, grumbling something under his breath as he pours himself a glass of whiskey—his first of the day, you’re pretty sure, which is saying something.

You stay where you flopped, hair covering your face and eyes squeezed shut.

When he comes back, he doesn’t say anything. Just lowers himself onto the cushions beside you with a quiet grunt, glass in one hand.

Then, casually—like it’s just how things are now—he pulls your legs into his lap.

You let him.

You always let him.

His hand settles on your thigh for a second, then begins rubbing slow and easy over your jeans. Even through the denim, the motion is warm—reassuring in that way only he knows how to give you.

And your cheeks heat like they always do.

“You weren’t too awkward or weird,” he says after a moment, voice low and certain. “I know you’re worried about that. But you did good.”

His thumb sweeps gently over your knee.

“You got nothing to worry about, peach. They like you.”

You shift slowly, rolling onto your back, your legs still draped over his lap. Once you’re settled, his hand finds its way right back to your leg like it never left.

You look up at him from the other end of the couch, trying so hard not to look pouty.

But judging by the way his mouth twitches, you know you’re failing.

You fiddle with the hem of your shirt. “They’re basically your family. I jus’ really want ‘em to like me.”

Your voice is soft. Shy. Embarrassed.

Haymitch looks down at you, his fingers pausing only briefly on your thigh.

“You’d know if Katniss didn’t like you,” he says, blunt but not unkind.

“And Peeta…” he huffs a little. “That boy doesn’t know how to dislike anyone unless they’re downright evil.”

You let out the smallest laugh, lips twitching despite yourself.

You stay quiet for a while, letting his hand on your leg soothe the tension in your body.

But a thought’s been rattling in your head since they left, and you finally work up the nerve to say it.

“It’s kinda funny,” you mumble, staring up at the ceiling.

Haymitch hums low. “What is?”

“Katniss and Peeta,” you say. “They… I dunno. They remind me of you.”

That gets his attention. You feel him pause for a second, his thumb stilling briefly on your thigh.

You blink at the ceiling. “I mean—not exactly. But… Peeta’s like you, if you were more… loud about bein’ kind.”

That makes Haymitch snort.

“An’ Katniss is like you if… if you’d never had the chance to learn how to talk to people.”

You wince. “That sounded bad. I didn’ mean it bad. Jus’—she’s sweet, but you gotta really look for it. You’re like that too, sometimes. Or you use to be, when I first got here.”

Haymitch chuckles quietly, shaking his head. “You really got a way with words, peach.”

You groan softly and cover your face with one hand. “I said I didn’ mean it bad.”

“I know,” he says, still laughing under his breath.

You peek at him between your fingers and catch that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

After a second he speaks, his voice low and soft, “You like ‘em?”

“’Course I do,” you say, lowering your hand. “They’re… kind. In different ways, but still. I dunno. They made me feel like I wasn’ intrudin’.”

Haymitch hums again. His hand never stops moving.

And you let your eyes drift shut—warm, safe, and full of something that feels suspiciously like being wanted.

[shugar0cone]

“WHY IS THERE SO MUCH P%#n!”

Summary: pretty much this https://youtu.be/5khrrCXhAcA?si=EbI43LBLXhZ-g_Ip

Y/n: *holding up her phone so she can get in a call.*

“Shit I can never get a signal in this crappy hotel.”

*y/n sat her phone down and looked at angel.*

Y/n: “hey, hun. Can I use your laptop.”

Angel: “sure I don’t mind.”

*y/n gets off the couch and walks to the front counter where angels laptop was charging.*

Y/n: “thank you Cher.”

….

Y/N: “WHAT IN THE FUCK!”

*angel gets up out of his seat and Alastor (who’s y/n husband) appears to see distress.*

*as angel got to the counter him and Alastor respond at the same time.*

Angel: “what the hell happened”

Alastor: “you ok love I heard your distress.“

*y/na hands gripped her hair wide eyes like a deer in head lights.*

Y/n: “THERES SO MUCH PORN!”

*alastor audibly made a record scratch and left the scenes so you and angel could hash it.*

Angel: “why are you looking at my private shit!”

*angel said with his arms out in frustration.*

Y/n: “angel this ain’t private, IT WAS WIDE OPEN!.”

*y/N scrolled down hopeing to exit.*

Y/N: “THERE IS LIKE THOUSANDS!”

Angel: “IVE BEEN MEANING TO CLEAN THE SHIT!”

Y/n: “what is this shit CLOCK WISE, COUNTER CLOCK WISE… CHICKS WITH DICKS..”

Angel: “listen the toung placement is important.”

Y/N: “YOU SICK FUCK!”

Angel: “I NEED HELP!”

Y/N: “ANGEL THERE ARE NO CHICKS WITH DICKS ONLY DRAGS WITH BAGS!”

Angel: “OKAY I HAVE AN ISSUE MAYBE I WANTED TO BE CAUGHT!”

*angel started to cry as y/n put both of their hands on his shoulders.*

Y/n: “Angel, now you listen to me your gonna go out there and meet somebody, your out of control here!”

Angel: “alright alright you will just advert your eyes from the computer.”

Y/N: “I mean it next dick you see do it.”

Angel: “fine I’m done, I’m done.”

*angel relaxed as he noticed y/n grabbing the laptop.*

Y/N: “let’s get rid of this.”

Angel: “woah woah we can just delete the files.”

Y/N: “no no no that shit can be recovered we got to smash this shit, and with a hammer.”

*cut to y/n smashing the laptop with angel.*

Angel: “okay, you good.”

Y/n: “nope it can still be recovered we gotta burry it in the harbor.”

*cut to angel and y/n in diving suits to get rid of his stash.*

*angel and y/n are bonded over this experience while Alastor was traumatized*

A/n: this was a shit post and was board ofc it’s gonna be bad. And yes I changed the script abit.

Love y’all!

-Shugar

[magicxc]

Stay With You

Pairings: Trevante Rhodes x Black Reader x Aldis Hodge

Word Count: 1652

Warnings: double penetration, hand job, cream pies

BBJ Masterlist

“Y’all when I said let's go camping, I was thinking something along the lines of smores, maybe even a cute lil bonfire,” I ranted. “But to be out here in natures ass crack, the possible meal of a grizzly bear is where I draw the line. 

“Y/N, we’re in a makeshift tent in the backyard, I doubt a grizzly is making it this far into the city,” Aldis sighed. 

“And if he does, we’ll hear him,” Trevante added. 

“Was that supposed to make me feel better?”

“This is practice Y/N, you stay complaining like this on the real campsite and a grizzly will be the least of your worries.”

“Aldi, is that a threat?” I gasped. 

“No, it’s a warning, so take heed.” 

“Ohhh Aldiii, you giving out warnings now?” Trevante mocked. 

Deadpanning Tre, I look over to Aldis to assess what the problem really is. 

“Aldi, you know I don’t do the whole nature thing, but I’m legitimately trying FOR YOU." 

“You ain’t gotta try if all you gone do is keep complaining,” he protested. 

“I AM -“

“Hey hey hey y’all enough,” Tre interrupted. “Let's put a pin in it before one of us says something we can’t take back. 

Always the peacemaker that one. Trevante is quite literally the definition of lover not a fighter, whereas Aldis on the other hand is my little hot head. We tend to clash from time to time, but we’re learning which buttons not to push. 

He’s been begging us to go camping for a minute now and I finally gave in last weekend, opting to do this only if I could work my way up there. Tre is no more keen to do it than I am, but pushed those feelings to the side for all the times Aldis has been so willing to try something for us. I guess it didn’t help that I’ve been bitching since we crawled inside here. 

Sighing, I apologized for my earlier whining and creeped over to his side of the tent to seal it with a kiss. He accepts it with a grumble, but the scowl on his face tells a different story. 

“Baby, I am so sorry for not coming in here with an open mind and if you let me, I’ll have us all making noises a grizzly wouldn’t dare interrupt.”

I get a small smile in return, but it’s not the heart melting one I’m used to seeing. 

“Please, forgive me and come morning I’ll fix your favorite breakfast.”

“There are no stoves in the woods,” Tre reminded. 

“Right, well I’ll do whatever it takes to survive in nature,” I promised. “No soap, no toothpaste, just a knife and my killer instincts.”

A chorus of woahs follows from both men, Aldis urging me to relax, emphasizing the idea that living in nature surrenders the use of modern technology not hygiene. 

“Yeah well I’ll stay clean ONLY if you forgive me,” I bargained. 

Chuckling, he leans in and pecks me on the lips, formally forgiving my prior tantrum. 

“Moving forward, I don’t wanna hear no lip and you’ll do exactly as I say,” he demanded.  

Wrapping my arms around his neck I lean in for another kiss, mumbling a yes sir. Deepening it, I feel Tre’s palm run across my ass, caressing its curves in the softest way. 

Aldis’ arms wrap around my waist, pulling me in closer as his lips run over mine, trailing down to my chin, my neck, and stopping just shy of my breast. 

“Now, tell me more about those non interrupting grizzly noises,” he says through light pecks. 

Shuffling off the floor Tre gets behind me, locking me in between them, sprinkling his fair share of kisses along my back in agreement with Aldis. 

Turning so that my body faces forward, I rest my arms on the shoulder of each man; leaning firstly into Tre and then into Aldi to swap a little bit of spit. 

“Well, for starters we’d need less clothes.“

“Like this shirt for instance,” Tre proposed as he tugged it off me. 

“And these pants,” Aldis added, unbuckling them. “They don’t really serve much purpose do they?”

Shaking my head no, I help them shed the rest of the clothes by ridding myself of the remaining undergarments. Now in my birthday suit, I watch as each man's clothing finds itself in a pile next to mine. 

Tongue slipping between teeth and over my lips, I can’t help the jolt of excitement that washes over me as I ready myself for both my men. Leaning over to Tre, I sink my teeth into his skin as I suck on his sweet spot, no doubt leaving a hickey - eager to mark him in the sexiest way. 

He breathes out soft, shy pants and I reach down to grab his semi hard dick as I stroke it back and forth. Dribbles of precum ooze from the tip and I drag my thumb forward to smear it against his length, allowing me to jerk him off a little more smoothly. 

Tilting over to my left, I lean into Aldis and dip my head into the firm arch of his shoulder blade, peppering his jaw in open mouth kisses; spots of saliva left behind after each one. 

He then grabs my left breast, his mouth swirling around the hardened nipple as my head tips back at the delicious sensation, quiet mewling tumbling past my lips. Tre follows suit with my other breast, tweaking and kneading before taking the nipple into his warm mouth. 

Hand gliding down Aldis’ lap, I stop at his girthy member, tracing over each thick vein while I softly run my hand over his nuts. Bringing my hand to my face, I spit in the palm and return it back to his length, this time stroking him with ease. 

Breathy moans follow, but it comes out muffled around my nipple and I take this chance to speed up in pace on both men, hoping to see their creamy finish. 

“Tell me how good this feels,” I whimpered. “Matter of fact, cum for me so I know it’s real.” 

Heated lips run along my skin, tongues leaving wet trails in their paths while hands get entangled with limbs and moans get engulfed into the noiseless night. My body feels hot with desire, eyelids fluttering closed, and mouth ajar, I couldn’t tell who was doing what but my movements never ceased; eager to bring my men over the edge. 

Their heavy breathing becomes more erratic, my cooing and encouragement having them spill onto me as my hands come to a slow stop and I lick each fist clean. 

Grabbing the back of my neck, Aldis pulls me in for a kiss, thumbs spreading my lips open to taste himself. Pulling away, I turn over to Tre and dive in for another round of tongue twisting, saliva trailing down our chins as we pull apart. 

“On all fours Y/N, you know wassup,” Aldi directed. 

“Yes sirrrr, Tre you on the bottom baby?” 

“I’m wherever you want me,” he winked. 

Lying down on his back, he helps position me on top of him, dick in hand as he watches me slowly slide down his length. A heavy gasp leaves us both at the heated feeling of being connected. After we adjust, he gives me a lazy smile, mouthing a quick I love you to which I eagerly return it.

“Ready for me angel?”

“Go for it Aldi.” 

“I’ll be your genie, Y/N, every fucking day if you let me,” he confides, smearing his cum between my ass. 

“Your every wish would be my command,” he continued, entering first with his finger. 

“You’re my beacon of light honey,” he insisted, adding in another digit. “In an otherwise bleak and cruel world.” 

“You both reassure me that all is not lost,” he chanted, driving his fingers into me, the pace deliciously unwavering. 

“Y’all have given me the joy to call you guys family,” he admitted, removing his fingers entirely. 

“But this ass? Oh this ass Y/N is what I can call home,” Aldis ended as he thrusted to the hilt. 

No matter how many times he’s entered my backdoor, I can never get used to his sheer size. He always knocks the wind out of me and I find myself planted face first into Tre’s chest, his hands cradling my jaws as I seep back into reality. Sweet nothings are whispered into my ear but it’s the driving force of their dicks that fully reels me into the present. 

“There she is,” Tre snickered. “I got you baby girl, don’t you worry.” 

I barely recognize the sounds coming from me, my words now indecipherable, cockdrunk and drooling as they tear me apart. Aldis wraps his hand around my throat, drawing me in to plaster my lips with sloppy kisses while Tre takes a hold of my waist to drive his dick further into me, my pussy stretched around his dick as his tongue explores the shape of my neck. 

My fingers are embedded into skin, whose I don’t know, but the crescent shaped marks will reveal it sooner or later. Tongue sliding against Aldis’ while Tre’s fingers dance every which way across my waist and thighs, I can’t help the howl that escapes me; grizzly bear be damned, my body feels worked over past its limits. 

The peak that I hit seems never ending, my soul paralyzed and heartbeat accelerating, while everything around me ceases to exist. I come down just in time enough to feel them splatter my walls simultaneously which elicits a minigasm of my own. 

Loud, labored panting is all that I hear. Rough, calloused hands is all that I feel. Navy blue sky littered with twinkling stars is the view that meets me and I must admit that camping isn’t so bad after all. 

[earthtoharlow]

SERIES MASTERLIST

Previous Chapter

THATGIRLSTACEY

liked by justinbieber, haileybieber, kimkardashian, cassie, asiandabrat, iamcleotrapa, jaydacheaves and 567,890 others

thatgirlstacey: 🖤

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THESHADEROOM

liked by 678,457 others

theshaderoom: OOP are Y/N Y/L and Drake back together?! The former couple were seen leaving MAMO Restaurant in NY. What you think roommates?

view all 8,467 comments

user: she never learns

user: one thing about y/n she’s going to get back together with them at least once!

user: she not allowed to hang out with her baby daddy now?

user: if she’s hanging out with him that means they ended on good terms

user: I hope they’re back together 😭😭

user: second chance loves are my favorite!!

user: as long as she’s not dating that white boy she moved in with

jackharlow added to their story!

JACKHARLOW

Miami, Florida

liked by neelamthadhani, meekmill, joeywagner, justinbieber, icespice, djdrama and 745,036 others

jackharlow: we both ain’t shit and it’s working for me

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user: oh dear god

user: he’s got her back y’all

user: WE CAN NOT GET RID OF HIM

user: second chance love >>

user: more like third chance

user: you the only one not shit

user: GET A JOB STAY AWAY FROM HER

user: we gotta save y/n

user: where is Urban or Drake someone HELP!!

YOURINSTA

Miami, Florida

liked by saweetie, lilnasx, normani, SZA, druski, urbanwyatt, latto777, flomillishit and 789,046 others

yourinsta: Who's coming to my show tonight? I'm lookin' for the hoochie daddies

view all 10,067 comments

user: y/n trying to get her coochie scratched

yourinsta: AND IS 🤭

user: I really do love single y/n

user: prettiest bitch in the game

user: Jack wrote no enhancers about you 😍

Latto777: HER 🥰

flomillishit: whewwwwww

user: are you ever with Ariel

user: my crush forever 🥰

user: don’t get back with Jack or I’ll do something drastic

urbanwyatt: It's the outfit tho.. you a mom.

yourinsta: urb stfu 😭

***

WELL.... TELL ME YOUR THOUGHTSSSSS

WHOOP THAT TRICK!!

we'll see more of Urban/Y/N next chapter :)

Tag List:

(message me if you’d like to be added or removed)

@heavyhitterheaux @hoodharlow @neon-lights-and-glitter @babiefries @toocriticalharlow @mace23477 @jackmans-poison @dstark-0706 @harlowsbby @itsyagirljaz @leftapricotprofessorlover @comehomeimissyou @minkookie95 @harlowcomehome @jackharloww @jaydaaasworld @blossomluvv​ @fdl305 @khiyah @kkrenae @hufflewhore128

[ohthewh0rror]

for the accent posts, which fics are you talking about? ( i say this as someone who's written for x reader stuff and want to improve )

If you DM’d me on here I wouldn’t mind linking it, I’m hesitant to link/post it publicly. I’ll just give some examples of what me and anon are talking about

The anon gave a good example: “well I’s reckon you best step on now, ya’ hear?” Or like oof the way I went to give an actual example from a fic but it was almost word for word what the anon said 💀 nvm

It’s hard to explain because southern people talk like everyone else, just with more “y’all” and “ain’t” mixed in, plus it’s common to hear ppl getting rid of the g’s at the ends of words, I.e. callin’/talkin’/walkin’. But other than that southern people speak like anyone else, just with an accent.

[bucksboobs]

wait a minute are you seriously gonna leave when they break up? but you've been in this fandom for years. i'm sure this crap will pass and we can all just love and embrace buddie again

The irony is that at least 50% of the people curating whatever “list” I’m on have not been here half as long as I have. Like I watched the divorce era live in the back of a Hardee’s. I have a veteran’s discount and y’all ain’t getting rid of me unless every OG cast member leaves this show. It’s not like I’m some newbie that only cares about one thing that once said “I’m not really excited for this episode because it’s going to be mostly Angela Bassett”

[yallemagne]

Finally posting my feelings on season 3 of X-Men: TAS. Ughhh.

Episode 1 & 2: Out of the Past

Looooove Gambit and Jubilee’s continued sibling relationship. 

Yuriko: “You killed my father!” Logan: “I didn’t!” Yuriko: “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Don’t got much else to say other than ugh this leads into the space shenanigans and I haaaaate that. 

Episode 3, 4, 5, 6, 7: The Phoenix Saga

This saga is a drag but that doesn’t mean I didn’t get emotional when Jean and Scott parted. Seriously, when they kissed?? And Jean’s hair lit up like it was aflame? Fucking sexy as hell can I be them? These two are romance incarnate. 

Episode 8: No Mutant is an Island

Scott is so fucking done and I love that for him. He deserves a chance to go apeshit. Says he’s sick of playing “den mother”??? Oh my god. Speaking truth to power. Especially since Logan’s absence clearly marks that he’s already gone off to sulk, Scott deserves some sulk time for himself. 

THE ORPHANAGE. RUSTY!!! RUSTY COLLINS!! My darling Russell. 

“He’s just not used to the loving discipline a boy his age needs.” Kill this pervert. “After only two days I already love you like a son.” SCOTT KILL THIS PERVERT!!

Killgrave’s using these fucking kids as a scapegoat and the crimes they’re blamed for in his stead are what keep them from getting the help they need. I fucking hate this cunt. 

THEY DUMPED SCOTT IN THE POOL??? DOG?? What are y’all gonna do when a man is found drowned in your pool? Say “whoops guess he couldn't swim”??

I don’t like this Sarah chick. I’m sorry but like Killgrave is the most suspect guy ever, and she endangered the lives and futures of those children because “no one else would take them”. All that bullshit about her seeing the mutant kids as family? Girl, you got rid of them. She’s just gonna sell them to the highest bidder again because that’s what she did last time. 

I don't like that the message is "acceptance and tolerance is earned not forced" no, tolerance is NOT earned. Under no circumstances should a child be forced to EARN the right to live. Killgrave is wrong because he's a human trafficker using children to commit crimes. And obv his plan to groom the kids to become politicians would have never worked because his actions have gotten the kids in trouble with the authorities before, meaning they are distrusted by society because of HIM.

Episode 9: Obsession

I’m just gonna take a wild guess and say the Ming Dynasty scroll was planted to lure Archangel in. 

Warren is a fucking prick. Worthington is a dumb cunt and I hate him. “Deep down, he is still Warren Worthington!” Well, Warren Worthington is a bit of an angsty prick, so that ain’t saying much Rogue. Rogue and her sympathy for bitter blue bastards is gonna be her downfall. 

“Xavier was right, it is sentient! We can speak to it!” Uhh… or the ship just has Siri, McCoy. 

“Ship, you are a work of art.” “Thank you, Henry McCoy. You have no idea what a pleasure it is to interface with someone who appreciates the subtleties of my programming.”  Okay damn. I stand corrected. And Hank is about to wine and dine a ship. Jioegpoi Hank getting shocked for attempting to hack the ship and the ship apologizing. Wolverine and Cyclops are just standing there like “why are we here playing voyeur to this weird shit?”

I knew it, the scroll was planted. I fucking called it.

They need to stop giving Hank compelling love interests and then getting rid of them by the end of the episode. 

THEY SHOT APOCALYPSE INTO SPACE LIKE KARS. 

Episode 10: Longshot

Logan teaching Jubilee to drive!!! And he’s wearing a fuckin’ cowboy hat and a bolo tie. Why is he dressed for the rodeo? And he’s just such a dad for the rest of the episode, he recognizes Jubilee’s crush on Longshot and IMMEDIATELY goes into Dad Mode. 

“Bad doggie! No biscuit. We got leash laws in this town, mutt.” I fucking Love Wolverine. 

“Allowing me to scan his mind must be Longshot’s decision.” We love a king who respects consent. 

I fucking love Domo’s nicknames for Mojo. 

Yeah, I think I love Longshot. And I think most of the reason is just that I’ve read Exiles but ya know. He really is a heartthrob. He’s cliché but it’s a fun cliché. 

Honourable mention: that ram guy who threw away his gun to pull out a knife. 

Jubilee outfit without the coat is cute. Lol but they kept accidentally animating her with the coat on. 

Episode 11: Cold Comfort

BOBBYYYYY. Gay boy what are you doing here? Lol Bobby was the golden child, that much is obvious. At the same time he’s like “I was never good enough for you!” Dude Xavier let you get away with everything and that bred resentment in your teammates. 

Scott’s been wearing a bomber jacket recently and it just makes me miss Morph more

“What’s with those two? I’ve never seen the Professor so angry.”Daddy issues. “It’s a surrogate father-son dynamic with unresolved issues of dominance.” Wow damn I was right. 

Bobby: *insults Scott* Logan: *unsheathes claws* “Only I can call Cyke a goody goody.”

Jubilee looking up the records <333

FORGE???

QUICKSILVEr????

…Havok? oh gee.

Love Logan calling out that the government is employing mutants to police mutants. Forge says they're helping but like... Jaguars. Faces.

WHAT THE FUCK POLARIS. Polaris you absolute piece. “You wouldn’t have supported my decision so we faked my disappearance.” Who does that? Imagine needing to have absolutely no pushback in your decision-making, so to avoid having an argument with your boyfriend you fake your own kidnapping and start dating someone else without ever breaking up with the first guy. I wouldn’t hold it against her if it were just a simple misunderstanding, like if she left a note but he thought she wrote it under duress, but she purposely led him to believe that she needed to be rescued. 

They need to stop introducing characters that could be permanent additions to the team and then squandering that.

Episode 12 & 13: Savage Land, Strange Heart

Who is this chicken lady? I can’t take her seriously, she looks like a chicken. 

Rogue and Storm are lowkey dating and I love it. 

NO ONE KNOWS HOW TO CLOSE THEIR EYES. Who knows? Maybe it isn’t as simple as closing your eyes or looking away… but then why have Sauron repeat the phrase “look into my eyes” if you don’t actually have to look for him to control you? It’s stupid. 

“Well, next time Storm is kidnapped, I’ll make sure they take her someplace nice.”

The Savage Lands are fucking boring oh my god. 

I’m guessing… Sinister was in the soil when they last left… they’re saying Garokk is in the soil… hmm?? I’m probably wrong tho… it actually is just Garokk, that’s boring.

WOLVERINE TACKLING AND PETTING ZABU!! Fucking adorable.

Episode 14, 15, 16, 17: The Dark Phoenix

This whole saga gave me the ick. It made me sick to watch. It’s is just a very disgusting storyline. First, Phoenix invalidates Jean’s free will, then the motherfuckin’ Rape Syndicate drops in and invalidates Phoenix’s free will. It’s just very gross and I felt like I was playing voyeur to some gross man’s fantasy. OH WAIT I literally fucking was because of that creep character I refuse to remember the name of.

“Ohoho! Looks like you’ve been having fun without me! Where’s the Cajun?” kinky

Who the fuck are these silk-stocking wearing hoes? “Tradition demands that this power be wielded by us” Ah, so they’re white supremacists. 

Every woman wants a piece of Scott. Callisto wanted a piece, Dazzler wanted a piece, The Phoenix is staying in Jean’s body because she wants a piece. “Dark pleasure of destruction” Fancy words for saying you want to peg that man. 

KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF OF HER. GET A JOB. STOP FUCKING TOUCHING HER YOU CREEP. I scream. They do not listen. But hahahaha Scott’s beautiful eyes broke her out of the creep’s rape fantasy. 

DAZZLER YOU PIECE. I know it’s hard to resist Scott’s charms but you do NOT spring a kiss on a man. Literally this whole thing is caused by people not respecting consent. The only reason Scott and Jean’s psychic rapport was broken was because Dazzler couldn’t fucking keep her hands to herself. And it's SOOO forced bc he could have just sent Gambit to play bodyguard.

These guys are fucking governing Genosha in ’97. Whose bright idea was it to put the Rape Syndicate in charge of a sovereign nation?

“I know what you’re thinking, bub. Question is: “Can I get Wolverine before he turns me into shish kabob with his claws?” Well bub, seeing as these claws are adamantium: the strongest metal known and can slice through vanadium steel like hot butter, you gotta ask yourself: “Do I feel lucky?””

“Lousy year.” *drops wine bottle on man’s dick*

I just love unhinged Wolverine quotes.

“I need no help from a woman to destroy the X-Men.” What a surprise. The head creep is a misogynist. Question: if Shaw can absorb any energy, can he absorb the energy of me ripping his spinal cord from his back? Asking for a friend.

Just when I think it’s over this damn saga still won’t end. Lilandra I thought I was done with you, woman. You come back into my life to fridge Jean Grey a second time, you piece. 

Scott/Jean has captured my mind and soul. They’re perfect. I love them so much. 

Episode 18: Orphan’s End

What an on-the-nose title for an episode where Cyclops learns his father is alive. Oh by the way that was mentioned before, his father is a space pirate. 

Cyclops mockingly calling Corsair “dad” fuels me. Let him tear his father a new one. 

Corsair says that if he’d known his children were alive nothing could have stopped him from coming back. Girly you never even looked, deadbeat. Just assumed your sons were dead for convenience, motherfucker. 

Episode 19: Love in Vain

We need a codeword for when Rogue gets dragged into some bullshit by toxic people from her past. Girl has had too much. Cody gave me bad vibes from the beginning. 

The fact that they defeat the Brood by talking to their sentient fish space ship? Two for two on sentient ships saving the day this season.  

Logan trying to comfort Rogue but her gravitating toward Gambit, the one whose affections she spurned going after the one that got away… I just got a lotta feelings, okay?

Season 1

Season 2

[issacballsac]

“Attempting to be Friends with Vergil Sparda„

Honestly he’d never outright call you his friend💀 ! Gn Demon Reader

Origins | DMC3

Let’s be FR he wouldn’t care abt your gender or lack there of he still sees you as lesser than

You’d have to be a Devil or half Devil to even linger around him

Im seeing you just come from Hell to be friends with him🦀

Naturally like any of the devils in DMC3 u were originally gonna attack Vergil bc NPC does what NPC is supposed to do

But you have common sense a pretty mf with a sword is bad news so let’s be friends dear beautiful one

Bear with me right—all ur demon gang gets slaughtered by this mf and you’re just standing there watching fascinated absolutely entranced by this mf

Seeing as you’re the last obstacle he points that big ass katana at you

“Sorry I just can’t fight someone so beautiful man.”

Gives you the MEANEST side eye

Still tries to HARM you and succeeds—but like you regenerate 💀

Mf would let out the BIGGEST sigh and just walk away🪦

You follow ofc bc who wouldn’t (a mf who wants to live 💀)

Bonding

Me when might controls everything 🫦

Despite being a demon yourself you def would try to convince him to NOT open the portal

Bc lets be FR them other devils ain’t shit for nothin‼️

He constantly looks annoyed and has a mean case of resting bitch face

He’s very stand-offish and depending on how long/well you know each other he’ll listen to what you’re sayin

Especially if ur a person that likes to go on rants

DMC3 he’d be more open to a mf who has no attachments as seen during the scene where he stabbed Arkham

New to friendship and sees everything as a transaction

You give me this and I give you that typa thing

Would take FOREVER to tell you abt his childhood and by the time he does u pretty much already know bc of Dante

Would get along better if ur also half demon rather than full demon as he has a complex where he continuously tries to rid himself of his humanity

Bros on a MISSION so u gotta be able to keep up

Obviously being demon/half demon you got some power but if you’re weak he’s gonna drop you I’m sorry 💀(no I’m not)

Daily

Doesn’t celebrate his birthday

Just in general regardless of his childhood I just don’t think he’d like to

So no surprise parties please🫶

Now don’t get me wrong he IS smart but like also a dumbass💀

Constantly makes you think bc he’ll say smth so stupid but make it sound so smart

A very dramatic mf

Always makes dramatic entrances no matter where he goes

Walks into McDonalds with his blue coat flowing, snowlike hair, glistening eyes, arched eyebrows, and a judgmental look

Baby let ur hair down🫦

Bro is effortlessly breathtaking and if u ask for tips or question what he does for his routine he looks you up and down, scoffs, and leaves💀

I NEED MORE POWER

Spars with you bc luckily you can regenerate

Infinite punching bag

Love a reader with no shame(me acting like I didn’t write this)

Idk why but I feel like he can play the piano as just like a pastime thing

When trapped in Hell u just roam around y’know bc you’ve lived there for as long as you can remember 😭

Vergil is in a constant search for more power and ur just chillin watching him

Like those mfs who still calmly sip on their drinks when there is a bar fight

“Woohoo! Go Vergil you’re doin’ great!”

“Shut up!”

He loves you, I promise.

Talks shit abt Dante, lovingly ofc

After the events of DMC5 if he were to come back with Dante(ambiguous ending)

Y’all would prob live together

And they were roommates 😨

FR tho it’s like weird especially with Nero being recognized as his son

“Nero is my son?”

“You have a son?”

“I didn’t know..”

“How did you not know?”

Becomes more vocal during the friendship during/after the events of DMC5

He doesn’t see the need for an abundance of clothes so if ur into fashion your ideas fill 98% of his wardrobe

Honestly I think he can cook

More of a baker methinks

He probably wouldn’t like sweets but he’ll certainly make them himself

No I’m not going to make a berries delight joke.

[luminarykaito]

hi kaito! i saw a post about how you said you would kiss shuichi for free if offered but also said you straight in the same post. and i just wanted let you know, denial (the nile) is a river in egypt, and we should keep it there! you should just come out as homosexual already.

and don’t worry nobody we’ll have accept you when you come out, you are the luminary of the stars after all!! and i even hear atua now, he’s saying everybody cheers and saying things “like yeah we already knew” so it’s fine! live your homosexual truth kaito!!

— @artistyonaga

HEY NOW!!! It wasn’t for free, it was for five bucks!!!!… I said I could probably go a bit less in that post, but that’s beside the point!! 😡 It’s bromance!!!! You don’t get it cuz you’re a girl, but alllll dudes have a friend they would kiss for a suspiciously low price. Saying no homo gets rid of the gayness!!! Plus, ad I said, Shuichi totally looks like a girl so it’s even straighter!!!You ain’t helping me, you’re just making assumptions that aren’t true!!

…Nothing against gays or anything. Y’all are cool and all, but that’s just not me!!! 🔥🔥💯

[starkwlkr]

where are y’all getting that jack abbot is a widower?? guys i’m right here!! i ain’t dead he can’t get rid of me that easily 🥰

[winterwandersland]

New Story: Paperwork

Summary:

“Who’s that?”

“‘Mare’. The Lieutenant’s Missus .”

“Why d’you call her ‘Mare’?”

“‘Cause she’s a right paperwork nightmare’”

Task Force 141 is in dire need of a linguist and on short notice. Their Lieutenant, Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, knows who to call, and with loads of convincing, he finds the team’s linguist, his wife, Kamara ‘Mare’ Riley, her military records filled to the brim with write-ups for disciplinary action. 

Previously in a unit together that was imprisoned for months, only them two making it out, Simon has fought to rid the world of the people like the ones who imprisoned them, fighting on the lines, while Kamara has decided to stay at home with their adoptive daughter, Ellie. Leaving Ellie to her uncles, Joel and Tommy, while they are away, Kamara joins the 141 on a mission that could save or destroy the world, opening the door to a past they thought was left behind. 

Will Simon be able to choose between work and his family? Will Kamara be able to face the demons from her past? OR will a mission put the Riley family in jeopardy?

tw/cw: arguing, slight mentions of past torture but nothing detailed, mentions of death word count: 3.8k Simon knows the perfect linguist to ask to assist his team on an important assignment.

Chapter One

“I have already told you ‘no’, Simon. How many ways d’you need me to say it? Nein. non,  não, いいえ, нет, no, नहीं, He, Hapana-,”

“Alright, I get it.” It had been a grueling few days, every conversation seeming to lead to the same topic of one-sided interest, joining Simon on the Task Force, the same conversation that led to the same decision, ‘no’.

Usually, Simon respected his wife’s boundaries, but this subject was one of great importance to him. It was a matter of life or death, a few lives to save the many, but he hoped it would be one life to save the world. It was a reasonable price to pay. They kill the enemy, the world is saved and everyone, well, almost everyone, goes home. 

“But you do get why we need you, don’t ya?” She was very aware of why his team needed her and it was the very reason she knew they could find someone else if they tried hard enough. “Yep, and I get there are plenty of other linguists in the military y’all can call.”

His wife was his last hope, the only person he knew he could let on the team and trust. He trusted her with his life and therefore knew she would be the only person who he let near his precious team. “There ain’t no other linguists who can fight and translate like you do. No one else has a memory like yours.”

An eidetic memory was what he was referring to, a type of memory that allowed his wife to save her teams countless times, translating destroyed texts that she memorized beforehand, deciphering messages that seemed impossible to understand, even to the best trained and specialized linguists. “You all are the best of the best. I’m sure you can figure something out. I’m not leaving Ellie behind. It’s bad enough when you leave. What do you think two parents leaving her behind will do to her?”

Before their imprisonment, Simon and Kamara had already begun their secret affairs, Kamara sneaking into the men’s barracks, never being caught except for one time by her Captain, but because of her good behavior that week, he turned a blind eye, only giving her wry looks during their meetings. Their mission-gone-wrong had started as a joint operation to rescue a group of hostages taken by rogue scientists and military personnel that planned to release a virus that would have killed thousands. The team spent months in captivity, despondent that any inkling of help would arrive. Upon their escape, the inseparable couple had grown closer, seeking out the hostages themselves despite their injuries, Kamara more wounded than her counterpart and leaving with a permanent scar that dragged from below her eye towards her jawline, a constant reminder of the hell she endured. They spent weeks recovering and months searching for the whereabouts of the hostages, but by the time they found them, it was too late. Each hostage had already been brutally murdered, having suffered from the fatal serums they had been given. However, there were two people left, a mother and her young daughter. 

The mother was dying, pleading for the soldiers to take her child and care for her. She told them the child was special and that they couldn’t let the other soldiers or scientists take her. So, the child said her goodbyes and Simon silently put a bullet in the mother’s head, the room dark so no one, especially the child, could see, too young to fully recall the memory. Three years later, the child, Ellie, was finally comfortable and felt safe in her new home with her new parents. While the soldiers hadn’t planned on having children so soon, they knew that they had more than enough love to give her and that they were the safest people to raise her, so they did just that. 

“Listen, we won’t be gone long. She can stay with Joel and Tommy, get to know Sarah a bit more. Please, love, we need-“

The floor creaks behind the two, hinting at the presence of their child being amongst them, Kamara shuddering at the sound which didn’t go unnoticed by Simon, adding to his theory of his wife’s paranoia that someone was watching them. “Hey there, sweetheart. What’re you doin’ up so late?” Simon moved towards the young girl, squatting to her eye level before picking her up as if she were the same size as when he first met her. “I heard you and Mara talking very loudly.” Ellie never called Kamara her mother or Simon her father, and they thought it was best to never force her, letting her create her own boundaries in their household. “Sorry, baby, didn’t mean to yell and wake you up,” Kamara said, planting a kiss on Ellie’s cheek.

“You weren’t yelling, just loud.” Ellie was soft-spoken, only ever yelling when she was in great distress. The two had taught her to express herself, allowing her to communicate healthily without raising her voice too loud, something the couple was still working on. “We’re sorry, love. We’ll keep it down.” Simon was always gentle with Ellie, Kamara too, opposite of the brutish man that efficiently took down his enemies on the battlefield. 

“Actually, we were just finishing,” Kamara quipped, wanting the conversation to be over with and never reach the surface again. “We’re going to bed, aren’t we, dear?” Her brown eyes shooting Simon a look he knew all too well, accompanied by her smile that she used to cover up her annoyance in front of Ellie, but letting Simon know that if the conversation continued, their daughter would be complaining of yelling instead of loud talking. “Yeah, we are,” giving his wife his look of almost certain defeat, “You want to head to bed yourself or do you want t’be tucked back in?”

Having never had kids, Simon and Kamara didn’t know if Ellie was too old to continue to be tucked in, but it was a small act that they both wished they had in their childhoods, one they hoped Ellie would never stop asking for, but feared the day she would. “Can Mara tuck me in this time?”

“You don’t like the way I tuck you in?” Simon teased, faking his hurt emotions and eyeing Ellie, who smiled as she spoke, “I do, but Mara does it better.”

“I’ll make sure to take tips from the blanket-tuck expert, then.” Kamara reached for Ellie, who fell into her arms after Simon gave her a kiss on her forehead. Ellie was growing while Kamara was not, so holding her wasn’t frequently her first option, but the thought of leaving Ellie made her want to cling to her tighter, keeping her on her hip as everyone headed to the lowly dimmed bedroom.

There were lights that hung over the curtain hangings that loosely draped over Ellie’s bed, keeping her room dark enough to sleep but light enough to keep her from seeing her dying mother in the corner of her room. Kamara lightly placed Ellie in her bed, performing the same ritual she had done since the first time she had put Ellie to sleep, waving her blanket the same number of years old Ellie was, the last wave always falling perfectly over the child’s body, each limb protected from the bad men that come to take her when she sleeps at night. “Goodnight, boo,” Kamara gently said, placing a clinging kiss to her daughter’s forehead and pushing the loose straight strands of hair out of the child’s face as she laid in bed. “G’night, kid,” Simon said from the doorframe of the room, waiting patiently for his turn to give the child a kiss goodnight. “Goodnight, Mara,” Kamara heard behind her back as she exited the room, avoiding eye contact as she walked past Simon with her arms crossed, heading to their shared bedroom. He headed to Ellie, kneeling beside her to bring himself eye to eye with the tired child. “Are you both going to leave me?” she asked her father quietly, making sure that Kamara could not hear her. 

He choked on the words he couldn’t muster up, his brain racing to find the right ones. Kamara was right, if she joined the team, they would both be leaving Ellie. If she stayed, his team was in jeopardy, along with an entire country. “You know we could never truly leave you, right?”

“But you leave all the time.” The words felt like a punch to his gut followed along with a hand squeezing on his heart. “When I leave, I make sure I do everything I can to come back ‘cause I can’t leave you two forever, especially you. I’ve got a proper important job-,”

“Mara says you get rid of bad people, like the ones who killed my mommy.” Simon could feel a tear make its way to the front of his eye, and while he worked hard to teach his daughter that it is okay to be emotionally vulnerable, it was easier said than done, for him at least. “Yes. And that takes time, so I’ve gotta go away sometimes, but I always come back. I have to.”

“Why do you want Mara to leave with you? Does she get rid of bad people, too?”

“Kamara, your mother,” he emphasized, something he made sure to do whenever he remembered, not to erase Ellie’s memory of her biological mother, but to remind her that Kamara was her mother, too. “She’s got skills, ones that me team needs, but she dun’t wanna come ‘cause she dun’t want to leave you.”

“If Mara leaves, will I be here by myself?”

“No chance, love. We’d never leave you on your own. You’ll stay with Uncle Joel and Uncle Tommy. You can have a play with Sarah.” The conversation felt wrong, like he was using their daughter against his wife, something he only did when they plotted to playfully ‘scare’ their mother as she came into the house. “Will she help you get rid of the bad people?”

“If she wants to, yeah, but she doesn’t fancy it, and that’s fine. Just like we say to you, you don’t have to do summat if you don’t want to. ‘No’ means ‘no’.” He felt like a hypocrite, knowing that he had tried to convince his headstrong wife to join him for the past few days despite the number of times she told him ‘no’. 

“But if she doesn’t help, then the bad people will be free.”

“There’s plenty of other folk who can help me at work. They might not be as good as Kamara, but they’ll get the job done.” He didn’t want to worry the young child, already traumatized by the death of her biological mother. But something told him that his wife was his team’s only hope, and he felt like Ellie may have known that, too. Before Ellie could speak again, Simon broke the conversation off, “Get some rest, love.”, he said as he placed a firm kiss on her forehead.

When he made his way toward the master bedroom, he both hoped that his wife was asleep, but also had a sliver of hope that she stayed awake to continue their conversation. The bedroom was quiet when he walked in, the only sound being a spray bottle the Kamara was using to wet her long coarse coils, a routine she did before wrapping her hair in a scarf and heading to bed. 

Simon was always good at being quiet, defying physics given his size, a trait that Kamara both loved on the field but hated in their shared humble abode. She stared at Simon for a slight second before she headed to their bed, keeping the silence between them. “Love?” 

“Simon,” a name she only ever fully pronounced when she was pissed with him which seldomly happened, but the name also slipped past her lips when she thought they would die, scared it would be the last time she ever heard it, however in this instance, she was nearly infuriated, only keeping calm and collected to stop herself from waking up Ellie with her yells.

His eyes were pleading with her, but her eyes already told him her decision, every plea her husband had worn her ability to stay firm on her decision. “You can’t go to bed.”

“Well, why the hell not?” 

“‘Cause you’re angry.” It was a rule they had. Never go to bed mad at or upset with each other. However, that rule was out the window today, “Watch me.” 

She untucked the tightly made bed, unwrinkled because of the pair’s military training. Before she could get in, there was a tug on her arm and a familiar arm on her waist that spun her around and pulled her away from the bed that was so dear to her. “No,” Simon said, keeping his body in between Kamara and the bed. “Simon, move.” She tried to get around the large man, but it was no use because of her smaller stature, though she was sure with enough anger and determination, she would win the game that her husband was trying to play. 

“Can we have a chat first? Then you can lay your lovely little head on the pillow.” Somehow, he always knew his praises would find their way through Kamara’s stubborn barrier, the one she put up when she shut down, or in this case, wanted to cease the topic of conversation. “You’re not gonna give up, are you?” 

Simon shook his head, the first time he had ever pushed past Kamara’s final decisions. Whenever she said ‘no’, she meant it and he always respected that, but this time was different. Knowing Simon for as long as she had, she knew whatever mission he needed her for was of great importance to him, though most of his missions seemed that way, but this one was different.

“Fine. Run me the details of the operation in a timely manner. I would like to rest my lovely little head on my pillow,” she said with a forced smile going across her face. She stood with her arms crossed while she peered up at her husband who had a slightly sunken look in his eyes. The deep breath he took before he spoke was all Kamara needed to know that the mission sat heavy on his heart, her smile instantly fading, “The person we’re after plans to start a World War, one that could wreck loads of countries.” 

“Okay. How does this person differ from anyone else you’ve gone up against?” Every enemy wanted a war. It wasn’t uncommon. People want power and would do anything to get it, including starting a war if it meant their name would be on the paper. “‘Cause no one else knows this person better than you do. We need you, Mara.”

“Spit it out then. Who the hell is it?” Simon could feel a lump in his throat forming, not wanting to set off the beloved woman in front of him who was just calming down. “Zakhaev. Vi-,”

“Viktor Zakhaev. Yeah. No need to finish. I got it.” She averted eye contact with Simon, her gaze now staring at the floor, her head filling with memories of the man, well, indirect memories. She had never met the man, only subjected to torture by his men years before. The only information she knew about him was what she studied in his files, information decrypted from flash drives, and analyzed behaviors. 

“I hoped they would have caught him by now…”

“Every time anyone thought they had him, he slipped through their fingers. We reckon he’s got a partner helping him get away.”

“I wouldn’t shoot the idea down.” She was still grappling with the information she was just told. Only twenty-five years old and tortured twice, both times she blamed herself for whether or not she was assured it wasn’t her fault. Three times if you count the duration in her childhood. The last three years she had been in a bliss, away from violence and the only torment she faced was when she went to sleep at night praying to an unknown god that her husband would make it back home. The compensation and benefits she received from the federal government was more than enough for her and Ellie to live off of, and when Simon was home, it was just right. Enough to eat, keep a roof over their head, proper clothing for the winter, and the ability to take a few vacation trips during the year. It wasn’t enough to hold the wedding Kamara had always dreamed of, but none of that mattered. She had her husband and her kid. They were worth more than any wedding she could have had. 

“So what do you need a linguist for?”

“There’s a set of documents that we can’t make out. Just in case it’s got confidential info-,”

“You need someone you can trust.”

“That’s right. You’re the only person I trust and that Price can trust.” It was almost unbelievable, how could anyone trust her knowing her history? “How? How could you trust me with anything of that caliber?”

“Kamara,” his voice pitying his love, the person who blamed herself more than anyone else, “it weren’t your fault.”

“I’d believe you if it were the first time. After the second time, there’s a pattern. I almost got my team at the bureau killed. Our unit is dead because of me.” Before the military, Kamara was an informant for the FBI, gathering any information on her former agency that she was so determined to demolish. Being too close to the case got her removed, but she was the youngest to join and the most stubborn, all thoughts of the consequences if she continued with the case on her own nowhere to be found, ending with her team having to be put into witness protection for an extended duration of time. 

“Neither of those were your fault, love. Nowt was ever your fault.”

“If that’s what keeps you in bed next to me at night, sure.” No matter how many times someone told her it wasn’t her fault, she couldn’t find it in herself to believe them. Simon had been trying for years, but to her, all the evidence pointed to every reason her team’s death was her fault. Everything wrong was her fault. That is what she believed.

Simon reached his hands to cradle both sides of the woman’s face, forcing her to look at him, revealing the guilt she carried hidden in her stare and the forced smile she tried to give him, though her lip quivered. “Listen to me. What Zakhaev did to you weren’t your fault. The bureau weren’t your fault. The Red Room weren’t your fault.” 

A tear escaped from her eyes, something she tried so hard to fight off, but if anyone could make her cry, it was Simon, even if he didn’t mean to. He never had any malicious intent, but he seemed to be the one person that found access to the emotions she fought so hard to hide. She hadn’t heard anything about the Red Room in years, something she was grateful for, hoping that the agency would one day collapse, ending the suffering of the next class of Widows. 

She hadn’t mentioned feeling guilty for her actions at the Red Room, but leave it to Simon to know that Kamara’s one wave of guilt turns into a spiral down memory lane. The two had both struggled with mental health, but they did their best to manage it without medications, only taking them when needed. Sometimes, Kamara felt like Simon was always ten steps ahead of her when it came to regulating their mental stability, but little did she know the turmoil that he constantly went through, using the military to blow off his steam. 

They were similar in such a way that they both turned their emotions inward, only seldomly lashing out at others. Since she’d known him, Simon was able to keep his calm demeanor, having to learn to manage his anger issues when he returned to the military after a tragedy. He learned to turn his anger toward his enemies rather than his friends, though the friends who knew his anger were now dead. 

Simon pulled Kamara into his chest, holding her tight as she cried so very gently to ensure her tears were only heard between the two of them. The flow of tears felt nonstop, staining Simon’s shirt and leaving their salty taste on her lips, and the air becoming less able to go through her nose. In Simon’s embrace, all of her worries went away and the safety she was never guaranteed formed, allowing her vulnerability to be completely displayed. “I’ll do it,” she cracked through her tears, inaudible to Simon. “What?”

“I’ll do it. I’ll help you.”

“No, no. Kamara, I didn’t say that just for you-,”

“I know. Just…I’ll do it…just bring the files here.” Just when he thought that the weight was lifted from his chest, it drops once again, him letting out a deep sigh. “I wish we could,” Simon started, knowing that the next words that came out of his mouth may end the first physical moment in months they were having, “but nowt can leave base. Price dun’t want nowt to happen to the files if they were to leave.”

He was telling the truth. The files couldn’t leave base and it would be a breach of confidentiality if they did. “M’sorry,” he whispered in advance. Kamara pulled herself away from her husband, him wiping her tears once she peered up at him. “It’s alright,” she said, sniffing up the invisible snot that blocked her nasal passages, another reason she hated crying, “Base is only an hour away from Joel and Tommy. We can drop Ellie off and each night I’ll spend the night with them, so it’s not like both of us are leaving her.”

He embraced Kamara again, taking advantage of the rare time that his wife actually let him touch her after three years. It hurt his heart to hear those words, implying that only one was leaving their daughter, knowing that it was him she was referring to. He left every time, putting his job above his family, but to him it was for a good cause. He put into his head that completing the mission would bring his family back together, and more importantly, bring his wife back.

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