dimlylittorch

[dimlylittorch]

“POKE THE BEAR” part 1

Grumpy!Joel Miller x Sunshine!Reader

Summary: You’re too bubbly, too chatty, too cheerful for Joel’s liking. Always rambling about dreams or tossing out random facts no one asked for. And sometimes… Joel just wants a little silence.

Joel’s Masterlist Join the tag list Part 2

WC: 11.4k

Warning/Tags: Angst, eventual smut (not in this part), kind of slowburn, undisclosed age gap, f!reader, Joel is a grumpy and mean old man, and ofc he sucks at feelings.

“Hey partner, you’re late.” Joel heard you call out, your voice far too bright for this early in the morning, too damn cheerful for seven a.m. “Looks like it’s you and me from now on, huh?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. He just gave a grunt, adjusted the rifle on his shoulder, and kept walking toward the stables.

He liked patrol, always had. It kept him sharp, reminded him of what still lingered beyond the gates of Jackson, reminded him of the shit people were too comfortable forgetting. The warm beds and hot meals were nice, but it was comfort that made people soft, and being soft gets you killed. He also liked patrolling with Tommy, it had always made the hours go easier. They understood each other without needing to say much, they knew when to speak, when to let the silence stretch between them, and when to crack a joke. But last week Tommy had come to Joel, said he needed to cut patrol for a while. "Just a few weeks," he promised. Said he needed his mornings free to supervice some work being done on the hydric plant. "Don´t worry, I'll reassign someone with you."

And now here you were, bright-eyed, full of questions, talking like you were hosting a radio show. You always had something to say, too much to say. You never knew when to shut up, it was like you didn’t realize how loud your voice could get, how damn annoying it was for the people who had to listen to you, as if the words “shut the hell up” had never been directed your way in your entire life. And maybe it’d be easier for Joel if you were just useless. If you couldn’t shoot for shit or kept forgetting to check your blind spots, then he’d have a reason to complain, a reason to go to Tommy and say, “Take this girl off patrol. She can’t do a damn thing right.” But that wasn’t the case, you were sharp and you knew how to handle yourself. You were a survivor just like him.

And that pissed him off even more, he didn’t like you not because you were loud, or bright, or talked too much, sure, those things annoyed the shit out of him, but it was because somehow, despite everything this broken world had thrown at you, you still looked around and saw something good, you still looked at him and saw something good. And he didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

Joel didn’t say out loud how annoying he found you, but he thought it constantly, every time he got saddled with you on patrol. You, with your sunshine voice and those eyes full of stupid, stubborn hope, like you hadn’t noticed the world ended twenty years ago, like you still thought it could be fixed somehow, or that beautiful things still existed. He’d sit through entire shifts in stiff, seething silence, grunting when you spoke, or straight-up ignoring you altogether, hoping you’d eventually catch the drift. That maybe, just maybe, you’d realize he didn’t give a damn about whatever weird dream you had last night, or your favorite color growing up, or some useless fact about bees, or whales, or whatever the hell it was today.

It was a cold morning. Joel pulled his coat tighter as he trudged through the morning snow, boots crunching over the frozen ground. You were just behind him, your constant stream of chatter following him.

“…and did you know lizards can drop their tails when they’re in danger? Like, it just… boom, falls off, to distract predators. Imagine if we could do that, being chased by a runner and suddenly your ass just drops off behind you like ‘see ya!’ Of course, we wouldn’t be able to grow it back like lizards, but still. I think that’d be kinda cool, right?”

Joel didn’t answer, he never did, but that never stopped you. “I read that in a book, I mean, it was a children’s book, but it was still really interesting. Did you know that female goats don’t live with the male goats—”

“Bucks and does,” Joel cut in. You blinked, surprised, because that was the first thing he’d said to you all morning.

“Huh?”

“Female goats are called does. Males are bucks.”

“Oh. Right.” You nodded thoughtfully. “Well, when the female goats—does—have babies, if the babies turn out to be male, once they grow up, the moms kick them out. Make them go live with the other mal— bucks. I think goats are smart. We should raise some here at Jackson, and we could even make some goat cheese with their milk. Oh, I’ve never tried goat cheese, but I’m guessing it’s probably really good. Have you ever tried it, Joel?”

Joel only grunted, a gruff sound that you couldn’t even tell if it was a yes or a no.

You told him next about the deer you’d seen near the river, about the weird dream you had three nights ago where the moon exploded but it turned out the moon was made of cheese, so everyone at Jackson was happy and celebrated by eating moon-cheese pizzas.

“Hey, Joel,” you called again, as if you were clueless about how much you were annoying him, your voice muffled behind your scarf. “Can I ask you something?”

“No.”

You snorted. “Okay, well, I’m gonna ask anyway.” He rolled his eyes where you couldn’t see. “If you could be an animal, what would you choose?”

He didn’t turn around. “You’re gonna get yourself killed someday, talkin’ ‘stead of payin’ attention.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He sighed heavily, like your words were physically weighing him down. Still, he said nothing, the crunch of snow under your boots filled the silence.

“I think I’d be a butterfly,” you said, your voice light as the snow crunched beneath your boots. “It’d be nice to fly, go wherever I wanted. Plus, they’re cute. People like butterflies, they get the pretty treatment, you know? Everyone’s like, ‘aww, look at that butterfly, it’s so pretty!’ But if you’re, like, a moth or something? People just wanna kill you. Instantly. Life’s so unfair, don’t you think?”

Joel blinked. What the hell were you even on about? He didn’t get how your brain worked, how you even got to these thoughts. Butterflies and moths? Did you just think things and say them out loud with no filter, no sense of direction? He didn’t say a word, just kept walking, praying internally that you’d finally run out of things to say, that the endless stream of chatter would dry up, that you’d burn through every thought in that strange little head of yours and, God willing, just shut the fuck up already.

“Or maybe I’d wanna be a chicken,” you mused, your voice louder than necessary, resonating through the woods. “They always look so clueless, right? Like, what’s going on in their heads? Are they secretly scheming some evil plan, or is it just… static in there?”

Joel didn’t respond, not that you expected him to, so you just kept going. “Did you know roosters don’t just crow in the morning? They cackle, too. It’s a totally different sound. Like, they cackle when they wanna mate, or when they find food and wanna tell the others. Imagine being a chicken and hearing your husband cackle, you’d have to figure out if he wants to do it or if he just found a worm.” You laughed at your own joke, your head tipping back like it was the funniest thing you’d ever come up with. “Like, ’Is he trying to make a baby or is dinner ready?’ That’s gotta be so confusing.”

Joel grunted, just a short, low sound, but from him, it might as well have been a full monologue. You grinned, proud of yourself, that was something, at least you’d managed to pull a reaction out of him.

Shoving your hands deeper into your coat pockets, you added, “Y’know, I think if you were an animal, you’d be a bear. You totally give ‘hibernate for six months just to avoid people’ vibes. Or maybe… a lone wolf. Yeah. All moody and broody and with a tragic past. Definitely a lone wolf.”

Joel didn’t say a word. The woods go quiet again, and Joel dares to hope, for a moment, that maybe that was it, maybe you’d finally run out of things to say, that you were done, and he could have what he wanted most: silence. The trees stand tall and bare, branches black against the pale morning sky, Joel walks ahead, the rifle slung over his shoulder doesn’t sway.

You glance up. “I had a dream last night about—”

Joel stops short. You nearly crash into him, your boots skidding a little on the snow-packed path. He doesn’t turn fully, he just speaks.

“Y’know,” he mutters, eyes still forward, “you ain’t gotta fill every second with talk.”

“Oh.”

He turns just enough to glance at you, not all the way, just enough that you catch a piece of his face in profile, of his mouth pressed into a hard line. He doesn’t look angry, not exactly, be just looks… worn, maybe a little annoyed.

“Jus’ sayin’,” he adds after a beat. “You could let the woods do some of the talkin’.”

You nod. “Right. Of course. Sorry.”

He starts walking again, crunching through the snow like nothing happened, and you stay quiet… for almost twenty whole seconds, until you suddenly saw a rabbit hopping through the woods, and Joel knew another goddamn animal fact was coming.

“Did you know rabbits have like three or four pregnancies every single year? How insane is that? I mean, I guess that’s where the whole ‘doing it like rabbits’ thing came from. It’s crazy how biology works, don’t they get tired of popping out babies? Poor things.”

Joel exhales sharply through his nose, and you smile like you’ve just won something. “You ever shut up?”

You grin, he was just kidding, right? He actually loved hearing your rumbles, didn’t he? “Nope.”

He mutters something under his breath that might be Jesus Christ, might be kill me now. It’s hard to tell.

“God, this weather’s perfect,” you chirped, dragging your boot through the fresh blanket of snow. “Crisp, but not too cold, you know what I mean? And the trees look so beautiful like this, like they got powdered sugar on them.” You glanced over, squinting at Joel’s profile. “You like snow, Joel? You seem like a winter guy. Definitely winter-coded.”

No answer, not even a grunt. You didn’t take it personal, you were used to that with Joel. The silence didn’t bother you anymore. You just… filled it, that’s what you did. You filled space, filled time, filled quiet, because the world was already heavy enough, and talking made it lighter, at least for you. But Joel wasn’t having it today, maybe because he’d had a shitty night, because he hadn’t slept. He was even moodier and grumpier than usual, which was saying something.

“So I was thinking,” you went on, undeterred, “what if we organized a karaoke night at Jackson?”

Still nothing from him.

“I bet you’d kill some old country song. You’ve got that deep, grumbly voice, you could totally pull off a Johnny Cash. Or, like… wait, do you like country music? I kind of assume everyone from Texas does cause I don’t remember much from before and that’s what comes to my mind when I think about Texas... did you use to go places on a horse? Did you have a cowboy hat? I feel like you must’ve had a cowboy hat. Sorry if the whole stereotyping is offensive, by the way.”

Nothing, not a sound came out of his mouth, but you didn’t let that stop you. “Anyway, do you even like Johnny Cash? You could totally sing something from him, I bet you’d crush it.”

He didn’t answer, not even a little grunt this time. You grinned and nudged his arm lightly with your elbow. “Come on, Joel. Give me something. A sigh? A groan? One of those little annoyed huffs you’re so good at?”

His steps halted, you blinked and looked up at him. “What’s wro—”

“I swear to God,” he snapped, turning on you fast, “if you don’t shut the hell up for five goddamn minutes, ’m gonna lose my fuckin’ mind.”

You froze, the breath caught in your throat, you were used to Joel being grumpy, you were used to his silence, the annoyed grunts, the glares, but you’d never heard him like this, never heard him snap.

You let out a weak, awkward laugh, trying to lighten the sudden weight in the air. “Talking’s kind of my thing, Joel. You know that.”

He shook his head hard, like he was trying to shake you right out of it. “You think every moment of silence is a goddamn invitation. Like you have to talk, like people need to hear every damn thought that crosses your mind. Well, we don’t. I don’t.”

Your voice came quieter now, a little stung. “I was just trying to make conversation.”

“Well, I couldn’t give two shits bout what the snow reminds you of. I don’t give a fuck about what you think I’d sing. And I don’t care if you think ’m a fuckin’ winter guy.” He took a step closer, looming now. “You treat every patrol like it’s some goddamn field trip. And some days... some days, I can’t take it, you’re too much. So do me a favor, ’nd top talkin’. Just… stop.”

He didn’t even blink when he said it: “’Cause I can’t stand the sound of your voice. And believe me, I don’t give a damn about anythin’ that comes out of your mouth.”

You didn’t speak, which was rare, Joel had finally done what he’d wanted for weeks now… he’d shut you up, you didn’t even know what to say, it felt like someone had reached into your throat and ripped the words out, like even if you wanted to speak, your mouth wouldn’t know how to shape the sound.

Joel’s chest rose and fell, hard, like he’d just spat out something he’d been choking on, like it was a relief to finally say it, but the silence that followed wasn’t peaceful or restful. It was cold, unpleasantly cold. And maybe that was the point, maybe he’d meant it to be, maybe this was what it took to finally make you shut up, right? He’d tried subtle hints, hadn’t he? Polite nudges, short replies, walking faster to get ahead of you, that one time he said maybe you should “save your breath for the hike.” But you never got it, you never listened, so maybe this was necessary, maybe cruelty was the only language you understood. At least, that’s what he tried to tell himself.

You took a single step back, your boots crunching in the snow. “Okay,” you said lowly. “Got it.” You didn’t look at him, you just turned, and started walking ahead, in silence now, just like he wanted.

The next hour dragged and you didn’t say a word. Your mind buzzed with a thousand thoughts, stories, questions, stray facts desperate to spill out, but none of them made it past your lips. You fought the urge to tell him about the time you’d built a snow fort as a kid and nearly froze your fingers off. You stopped yourself from asking him about his favorite food, or who he liked the least in Jackson, or whether he knew horses can’t physically vomit.

You were quiet, gave him exactly what he wanted, but somehow, it didn’t feel like a win. Joel had spent so long wishing for this, some goddamn peace and quiet. And now that he had it, now that you’d finally shut up… it didn’t feel right, didn’t feel good. It felt wrong. The silence settled between you two and guilt slowly crawled up his spine, making him feel like a dick for saying that to you, gnawing at the edges of his pride until all that was left was the sharp echo of what he’d said and the miserable quiet that followed.

You stopped by a frozen stream, crouching to sip from your canteen. Joel stepped up beside you, but he kept a careful distance, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed closer anymore. You could feel him watching you, but you didn’t look back.

“Wasn’t tryin’ to be mean,” he muttered, keeping his eyes on the snow.

You glanced sideways, but didn’t dare to meet his gaze. “Didn’t sound like it.”

Joel exhaled, a frustrated sigh more at himself than at you. “I just—”

“You don’t have to explain,” you cut in quickly, with a smile that didn’t even pretend to reach your eyes. “Really. I get it. Some people like quiet. Some people like noise. You like quiet. I’ll be quiet.”

He shifted his weight. “It’s not like that, I—”

“Sure it is,” you said, your voice light in that careful way that hurt more than yelling ever could. “Lesson learned, Joel. Don’t poke the bear.”

You were waiting at the stables when Joel arrived. You had your coat on and your hair tucked into your hat. You looked like you always did, a little too pretty for patrol, the soft curve of your cheeks pink from the cold, but something was missing… your usual charm, your cheerful voice greeting him, your bright smile. You just nodded when you saw him appear at the stables. No “good morning,” no snow commentary, no teasing about how slow he always was, just a nod. He looked at you for a second longer than usual, then walked past to saddle up his horse.

“Ready?” he asked.

You didn’t say anything, just climbed up in silence and rode. The first hour passed without a single word, and it felt so unnatural, so uncomfortable. You used to fill the air do naturally, but now it was just the wind and hooves and the sound of your breathing. Your silence was sharp and uncharacteristic, the girl who used to talk about snow and song lyrics and dream dinners with celebrities was now just… trying not to breathe too loud, scared that would annoy him too.

By the time you reached the crossing path at the river, Joel had tried to say something three different times. The first time, he opened his mouth and closed it, his jaw working like he had to chew the words before they came out. The second, he cleared his throat and muttered, “Watch your step,” as you crossed a patch of ice. You nodded and that was it, no smile, no playful “Yes, Dad.” Just a nod. The third, he almost said your name, just to test it, to see if you’d say anything back, but he didn’t, too scared you wouldn’t reply.

At one point, you saw a deer sprint across the path, his cute little white tail flashing through the trees. Normally, you’d make a joke, say something like, “Think he had somewhere to be? Maybe a hot date?” but today, you just watched it go by, didn’t even crack a smile, just breathed in slowly and let the moment pass. Joel followed your line of sight, then glanced at you again, you didn’t look back, didn’t even seem to notice him. He couldn’t stand it, the silence didn’t suit you, it looked wrong on you, like watching a bird forget how to sing.

And the worst part was that you weren’t pouting, you weren’t dramatic about it, weren’t even trying to punish him. You were just… quiet, just deeply hurt by what he’d said, and it was all his fault alone. It echoed in his head, louder now than it had sounded in the moment, he still saw it, too clearly: the way you’d stepped back that day, the way your smile had dropped, the way you’d said, “Lesson learned. Don’t poke the bear.”

By the time the sun dipped low, you kept ahead of him on the path back, not out of spite, but because you didn’t feel like walking beside someone who didn’t want to hear you. Except… he did. He realized that now, too late, maybe—but still, he missed your dumb jokes, your questions, your weird little facts. He missed the way you made the world feel softer, he hadn’t deserved any of that, but you’d given it freely, and he’d crushed it with one goddamn outburst. Crushed something warm and rare and good.

Snow fell over your wool hat. It was another patrol morning with Joel, but you were still quiet, you weren’t speaking, and Joel hated it. He wouldn’t admit that, of course, not out loud, but he did. You rode a few feet ahead of him, not too far, not enough to be rude, but far enough that he didn’t have to pretend not to look at you. And he did look. Often, in short, guilty glances when you weren’t watching.

The silence was driving him crazy, by the time you passed the old bridge, Joel was clenching his jaw so tight it ached. “So… Ellie’s got this book,” he says. “Full of jokes. Real bad ones. Think you’d like it.”

Your posture didn’t change, you didn’t turn your head, didn’t soften your shoulders, didn’t give him anything, didn’t offer him the comfort of your voice.

“She told me one the other day. Uh… lemme think…” He frowns under his breath, tugging on the reins slightly. “Why did the scarecrow get a promotion?”

No response.

“Because he was outstandin’ in his field.”

Fine, it was a good joke, you probably would’ve laughed until you fell off your horse, if your chest didn’t still ache from all the things he’d said. You still said nothing, not even a breath of amusement. The silence that followed felt louder than the punchline.

“Get it?”

You nod, but it’s cold and mechanical, a hollow gesture. He exhales and scratches the back of his neck, a nervous tell. Joel Miller doesn’t fidget, doesn’t tell jokes, doesn’t try to ramble, but for some reason, you’d gotten him trying now. And somehow, that made it worse, because he’d only started trying after he broke something.

Another hour passes like that, the only sound was a hawk criying in the distance.Joel kicks at a rock as he walks next to his horse, it skitters off the path and disappears into the trees. “You’d have a fact about hawks, I bet,” he says. “Prob’ly somethin’ real weird, like how they mate midair or scream to scare prey. Somethin’ strange like that.”

He says it like a joke, but his voice is low, almost uncertain. Still no answer from you, you don’t even look at him, not once. His attempts at small talk were pathetic, really. Painfully awkward, it was obvious how much he sucked at trying to make light conversation, the words didn’t flow, it didn’t come naturally to him like it did to you. Joel wasn’t built for that, he was built for silence, for scowls and short commands.

He’s grasping now, and he knows it, but he keeps going anyway. “Or frogs. You always liked frogs, right? Ain’t heard a goddamn frog fact in days. ’M startin’ to worry.”

Still nothing, just the steady rhythm of the horse’s hoofs in the snow, your silence tucked tight around you like your coat.

You eat lunch in silence by a half-frozen stream. Joel sits across from you, he tries not to stare, but fails. Your head is down, shoulders hunched a little from the cold, or maybe from something else. You chew on a protein bar and look out at the trees, Joel doesn’t even bother unpacking his own food.

And suddenly, he was starting to get pissed at your silence. Why were you acting like this? Like a little girl throwing a tantrum. That’s what it felt like, that’s what he wanted to call it, but it wasn’t, he knew it wasn’t. Still, the frustration built. Yes, maybe he’d said something a little cruel, maybe he hadn’t meant it to sound like that, maybe he didn’t know how to say things right, but goddamn, did you have to stay so quiet? Did you have to make him feel like this? Like every second you didn’t speak was a punishment he couldn’t bear.

“Alright, enough.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You proved your point,” he said gruffly. His tone was sharp, like he was the one who’d been wronged. “You’re mad. I get it.”

“I’m not mad,” you said, and God, your voice was quiet and so empty.

“So you’re just gonna stay quiet this whole damn time?” he muttered, the words sounding more bitter than he intended.

You glanced over at him. Not angry, just… tired. “Figured you’d like that.”

He scowled. “Didn’t say that.”

He was so stubborn he couldn’t even own the words that came out of his mouth just a few days ago. Couldn’t admit them.

“You did, actually. You told me to shut the hell up, remember?” you said, glancing ahead again. Your voice didn’t shake, you weren’t accusing him, just repeating the facts, it was the truth, he’d said that. “Said you couldn’t stand the sound of my voice. So I’m doing you a favor.”

Joel muttered something under his breath, it sounded like a curse, or maybe it was your name. You didn’t know, didn’t catch it, and sure as hell didn’t ask him to repeat it. You weren’t being dramatic. You weren’t sulking or giving him the cold shoulder on purpose. You were just… sad, quiet in the way people get when they’ve decided they’re not allowed to take up space anymore, like you’d tucked yourself into some small corner of the world, somewhere less inconvenient. And Joel had done that to you, he still remembered exactly how you’d looked when he snapped, the flicker behind your eyes, that small, tight smile, how fast you’d folded yourself in.

“Y’know I didn’t mean it,” he muttered eventually, like he didn’t really want to hear himself say it.

You didn’t look at him. “Yeah, you did.”

“I was just—”

“Tired. I know. Had a bad day or whatever other excuse, didn’t want to hear me rambling.” You didn’t say it bitterly, just plainly, like a fact you’d finally accepted. You didn’t care about any excuse he might have for treating you like that. Honestly, it’d be easier if he just owned it, if he admitted outright that he hated you. That was the part that hurt the most, how honest he’d sounded. Because you liked hanging around Joel, even if he never said much, you still enjoyed taking up the same space as he did, telling him about your dreams, about your past, and knowing he couldn’t even stand being around you completely broke you.

Joel exhaled hard through his nose. “You’re twistin’ it.”

“No,” you said calmly. “You were clear. And I listened.” You didn’t want an apology, you didn’t want to fight, you just wanted to believe your voice mattered again. You stood again, shouldering your bag. “Let’s keep moving. I wanna get home soon.”

“Just lemme know if you ever get tired of bein’ mad at me.”

You stopped in your tracks and looked him full in the face “I’m not mad, Joel.” He blinked. “I’m just… not interested anymore.”

And that hurt him more than any yelling ever could.

You waited until just after noon, when the patrol rosters were still being finalized and Tommy was alone. He looked up when you knocked on the door frame.

“Hey,” he greeted. “Can I help you with anythin’?”

You nodded, stepping inside. Your boots felt heavier than usual, like every step toward that desk was one you didn’t really want to take. “Can I talk to you?”

“‘Course.” He sat up straighter. “What’s goin’ on?”

You hesitated, just for a second, but you knew it was the right choice to make, even if it stung, even if it felt like giving up. Then: “I want to switch partners. On patrol.”

You’d thought about it, a lot, and even though it hurt, deep inside you knew it was the right call. Being out with Joel hurt, you couldn’t stop thinking about the things he’d said to you, the look in his eyes that day, as if you were just… an inconvenience to him, something loud and annoying and in the way, something he had to tolerate, not someone he wanted to have around.

Tommy blinked. “You were with Joel, right?” His voice was careful and measured, but he wasn’t dumb, he already knew the answer. And he also knew his brother was a complicated man, especially around people. He didn’t find it difficult to imagine Joel acting like an asshole around someone like you, not when your personalities were complete opposites.

“Mhm.”

“Sure you wanna change?”

You nodded, quick, and it felt like ripping off a bandage. If you hesitated, even a second, you knew you’d unravel.

He studied your face, the way it looked down for someone who was always chatty and cheerful. Someone who used to talk so much she barely paused to breathe.

“Did Joel… said… or do somethin’?”

“No,” you said quickly, and suddenly you were trying to fight the tears back from your face. Your throat tightened, and it took everything not to blink too fast, not to wipe your face, not to let it show. “He didn’t. He just…” You shrugged. “I just think it’s not working between us.”

Tommy frowned. “Not workin’ how?”

You exhaled. “I don’t know. We’re just… really different and… I think we’d both benefit if we get assigned to different people.”

You didn’t say anything else, you didn’t trash Joel. Didn’t tell him how it felt to offer up every little spark of joy you had, only to watch it die in silence. You didn’t explain what it felt like to give joy to someone who never once gave any back. Didn’t say how it hollowed you out, how it started to feel pathetic. You didn’t explain how he had made you feel like you were too much, like you were unlovable. Like your kindness was annoying. Like your voice didn’t deserve to fill the air. You just stood there and waited for Tommy to speak.

Tommy rubbed his jaw. That soft, thoughtful gesture of his when he was trying to work through something, trying to find the right thing to say. He didn’t usually do favors for people wanting different patrol partners or better routes, he was a fair man, through and through. But there was something in the way you looked that made him relent. He felt responsible for the big asshole his brother was. And so, against his usual rules, he agreed.

“Well,” he said, standing. “I’ve got Javi lookin’ for a partner for the east routes. Bit longer than the ones you’re used to, but if you don’t mind… I’ll talk to him. You okay with that?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, that works for me. Thanks, Tommy.” Your voice was polite, practiced, the kind of tone you used when you didn’t want anyone to ask follow-up questions.

Tommy gave you a quiet smile. “Joel can be... complicated. Don’t take anythin’ too personal.”

“I know.” You looked down, then away, but you didn’t believe it, not really. Joel wasn’t just complicated, and you were tired of people excusing a grown-ass man for acting like a dick.

Joel found out about the change the next morning. He walked into the stables expecting to see you there, same as always, but the space where you usually stood was empty. He slowed to a stop, frowning. “…Where is she?” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Hector, a man in his forties Joel didn’t know well, just a face from around town, appeared from behind one of the stalls. “She’s with Javi today. East patrol.”

Joel turned, shocked by this new information. “What?”

“Got reassigned yesterday,” Hector said, tightening a saddle strap without looking up. “Tommy said she asked for it. I’m with you now.”

Joel stared, feeling how his stomach dropped. Had you really gone to Tommy asking for a new partner? What had you even said? “Joel is mean and he hurt my delicate feelings, I want a new partner.” He could almost hear it in your voice, except not really, because you wouldn’t say it like that, you wouldn’t be petty. Had you really been that immature? Or was it that he’d hurt you so much you couldn’t even stand to be around him anymore? That possibility stung the worst. He’d seen the pain in your eyes, but he never thought you’d come this far, never thought you’d actually pull away for good, thought maybe you’d get past it soon enough, start talking like before, start babbling about the clouds or chickens, and Joel would once again beg for you to shut up.

“She asked for it?”

Hector finally looked up and shrugged. “That’s what I heard.”

Joel said nothing, did nothing, just stood there, in the cold morning air, until Hector called his name and forced him to move.

“What the hell, Tommy?” Joel said as soon as he came back from patrol with Hector, stepping inside his brother’s house like it was his own.

Tommy looked up from where he was peeling an apple at the counter. “What you on bout, big brother?”

“You just rearranged patrol ‘cause she asked you to? Like she’s a spoiled girl? You can’t pull that shit.” Joel’s voice was rough, irritated, and maybe a little defensive too.

“Look, Joel—” Tommy tried to explain, this reaction from Joel surprised him, why did he care so much about you changing partners? He’d assumed Joel couldn’t stand being around you.

“No. Who does she even think she is? She comes here and asks for a different partner and everyone just does what she wants like she’s—”

“Like she’s what?” Tommy asked, quieter now, with a warning in his voice.

Joel paused, he didn’t finish the sentence, didn’t want to say something he couldn’t take back.

“Look,” Tommy said again, slower this time. “I dunno what the hell went down between you two. I don’t know what you said or did to that poor girl. That’s your business.” He dropped the knife down on the cutting board with a soft clack. “But she came to me tryin’ to hide the tears in her eyes. Asked for a new partner real quiet. Wouldn’t say much, just kept lookin’ down.” He shrugged. “Javi needed one after Mikey split his ankle, so I offered her.”

Joel just shook his head and scoffed, a bitter sound, one that tried too hard to cover up the sinking guilt that had started curling in his gut.

Weeks stretched by. You liked having patrol with Javi, he was a funny guy, easy going, warm. He didn’t seem to mind how much you spoke, in fact, he always followed your conversation, he cracked jokes back at you, he’d answer all your questions with real enthusiasm, and he’d tell you about his dreams too. Made you feel like your voice wasn’t a burden, like it mattered, and it was exaclt what you needed after Joel’s words broke your spirit.

Joel saw you once, across the market, laughing softly at something Ellie said. It caught him off guard, that sound… your laugh. It was the first time he’d heard your voice in days. Another time, in the dining hall, he almost didn’t see you there, but you were sitting at a table near the back, listening to Javi talk while your eyes stayed fixed on the window. And once, the hardest of all, at the gates, you were loading your patrol pack, and Joel couldn’t help but remember, and also miss, his mornings patrolling with you.

You’d reached out again and again and again, with light and warmth and endless words, trying to pull something out of him, and all he’d ever done was push you away.

One night, he sat on his porch with a half-drained glass of whiskey and no coat on, the cold didn’t bother him, it couldn’t reach somewhere already frozen through. He stared at the street, at the place where your silhouette used to pass by some evenings, humming, talking to yourself, but now you were gone. He missed it, he missed you… And it was too late to take it all back.

The gates were already open when the horses came in. It was late, and the watch lights had already been turned on, casting long yellow shadows over the ground. Joel was just walking by, just passing through, he’d just… wandered this way. Thought maybe he’d say hi to Tommy, that was the lie he told himself, he was definitely trying to run into you after your patrol shift, to look at you even if it was from afar. But when he heard the hooves, saw the horses trot in through the gate… and saw you, slouched in your saddle, with blood down your sleeve, he went still.

You weren’t crying, you weren’t panicking, but your shirt sleeve was ripped off, and there was red streaked from your bicep to your knuckles. Javi was beside you, talking, too animated, too casual, his hands moved while he spoke, like this was just another story, like you weren’t bleeding, like Joel wasn’t standing there ready to rip someone’s throat out.

Joel’s blood ran hot, his fists curled and his chest burned, something primal slammed into his ribs, roaring to life. He started moving before he knew why, his eyes locked on you like you were the only goddamn person that existed. You dismounted with a slow wince, your wound wasn’t anything life-threatening, not visibly at least, but there was a long, jagged cut along your arm.

Joel pushed past two people who were in his way, his shoulders slamming without apology, and stormed straight for Javi like he was seconds away from ripping his head off his body.

“The fuck happened out there?” he snapped, looking at him like he wanted to eat him alive.

Javi turned, surprised by Joel’s outburst. “I don’t know man, we were cool and suddenly there’s like a dozen runners coming out of nowhere. It was siiiick.”

Joel’s chest rose and fell like he’d just run a marathon. “She’s bleedin’.” He pointed at you like it physically hurt, like the blood on your arm was on his hands. “What the fuck happened?” He said again, as if Javi’s explanation hadn’t been good enough.

“I told you, some runners attacked us,” Javi said, frowning at Joel’s insistence. “She tripped and cut her arm with some glass from a broken window. She’s fine.”

“She ain’t fine!” Joel’s voice cracked through the air and people turned. The guards, the stablehands, two kids passing by with a bucket of feed. Even you stopped, still holding your reins. Joel wasn’t a man known for yelling, not like this, not unless someone was already dead or dying. And yet here he was, vibrating with fury, his eyes locked on Javi like he was seconds from breaking something… or someone.

Joel stepped closer to him. “You’re s’posed to watch her,” he said darkly. Pissed at Javi but also pissed at himself for not being there to protect you. “That’s your goddamn job. Makin’ sure she’s okay.”

Javi scowled, Joel was really getting on his nerves with all this complaining, trying to put the blame on him for an accident that was not out of the ordinary during patrol rounds. “Hey. Don’t come at me like that, man. She’s not a damn child. She can protect herself too.”

Joel’s face twisted in anger. He hates Javi for not doing something more to help you, but he also hated him more for being the one taking the place Joel used to have next to you. “Maybe, but she ain’t you. She’s not built like a fuckin’ tank. She’s small. You should’ve had her back.”

Javi took a step forward. “You weren’t there, man. You don’t know what the hell went down. She handled herself just fine.”

“Then why the hell is she the one comin’ home bleedin’ ‘stead of you?”

“Joel,” you said, sharp now, feeling like you needed to intervene before this got out of hand. Your voice cut the air like a knife. “Stop.”

Joel fully ignored you, just kept looking at Javi. “Maybe if this asshole—“

“Hey!” Javi barked, who the fuck Joel Miller thought he was to talk to him like that? “Back the fuck off. You don’t talk to me like that.”

“No, you listen to me, you little—”

“What the fuck is your problem, dude? There was nothing I could do.” Javi tried to explain himself again, trying to get that old stubborn man to understand it.

“THERE’S ALWAYS SOMETHIN’ YOU CAN DO.” Joel straight-up yelled, it wasn’t just anger now, it was fear. Fury and guilt and panic, all knotted together.

The shouting echoed, everyone was staring now, a dozen half-frozen faces looking between them like something might snap, like they were about to watch some street fight. And they almost did, Joel’s shoulders were tight, his fists trembling at his sides, Javi was standing his ground, his chest puffed, ready to throw the first punch if he needed to.

And you? You stepped forward, planting yourself between them like a barrier between the two big man. “Come on, Javi,” you said firmly, not leaving any room for argument. “Let’s go.”

Joel’s jaw clenched like it might crack any second now. Where you really siding with Javi on this? With the guy that was supposed to protect you but failed? “You don’t have to leave with him.”

You turned to him. “Yes. I do.” Your voice didn’t rise, it was just flat and final.

Joel stared at you, at your pale cheeks, at the cut at your temple and the blood on your arm. Blood he hadn’t cleaned, wound he hadn’t checked, wound that was there because he hadn’t been around to protect you. There was so much anger in your eyes, like you couldn’t believe he had the nerve to care now. You were already walking away with your head high, Javi gave Joel a final glare and followed you, his presence behind you was loud and loyal, like a dog who knew where home was.

And Joel stood there, fists still curled, chest heaving, surrounded by silence, staring at the empty space you’d just walked out of. No one spoke, no one dared, not with the way Joel’s hands were shaking. Not until Tommy came walking up from the far side of the barn and muttered under his breath, “Jesus Christ. What the hell’s goin’ on with you?”

"It's goddamn Javi. He's an idiot, he—"

“Don’t bullshit me, Joel. What was that? That wasn’t about Javi.”

“Yes. It sure was. Stupid kid can’t watch his flank. He’s gonna end up gettin’ someone killed.”

“Joel, you can’t lie to me. I know it’s about her.”

“It ain’t about her. She’s got nothin’ to do with—” He tried to lie, but Tommy knew him too well, he could tell when his brother was lying.

Tommy stepped closer, it felt familiar in the way only someone who’s known Joel his whole life can be. “Listen, man. I get it. She’s bright. She talks a lot. Got that energy that makes people wanna stay near her.” Joel’s jaw flexed, a muscle twitching from holding back too much, too many feelings, too many emotions he’d tried hard for years to suppress, but now they were coming out all at once. “But whatever’s goin’ on,” Tommy continued calmly, annoyingly gentle even, “you gotta figure it out. ‘Cause this whole hot-cold act? It’s not workin’. Not for you. Not for her.”

“Ain’t an act.” Joel tried to excuse himself, almost defensively. The words tasted strange in his mouth, hell, he didn’t even know what this was all about. He thought he hated you, he’d told himself that, over and over. Repeated it like a prayer every single morning he had to spend patrolling with you, he’d convinced himself that he’d rather have a clicker come and bite him in the neck than listen to another second of your voice… your voice that never shut up, your voice that filled the silence with sunshine and facts and nonsense and life. But now? Now he was dying to hear your voice again, now he was starting to think that maybe… maybe he liked you. Maybe he liked the way your nose scrunched up when you talked about animals, maybe he liked the way you laughed at your own bad jokes, maybe he liked the way you made everything feel less cold. Maybe he’d just been a goddamn coward.

Tommy didn’t flinch. “Then that’s worse.” The silence that followed was thick. “What is it? Between her and you. Be real.”

Joel looked away again, like it physically hurt him to say it. He couldn’t even admit it to his own brother, hell, he couldn’t even admit it to himself, couldn’t even say the words: ‘I like her’ out loud. “It’s nothin’.”

Tommy stared, Joel was too much of a stubborn, emotionally-constipated man than he even remembered him being. “You gonna stand here and lie to my face?”

“There ain’t no goddamn deal,” Joel snapped, angry at the world for trying so hard to get him to admit his feeling for you. “I patrolled with her a few times. Thassit.”

Tommy was not buying a single word. “You don’t scream at someone’s partner like that after they get hurt unless there’s a reason behind it, Joel.”

“I didn’t scream—”

“You lost your goddamn mind.”

Joel looked down at his hands. They were clenched, he realized, like he’d been bracing for a punch that never came. “I am…” he exhaled roughly, and almost inaudible said, “upset.” That was as close as he could get to talk about his feelings out loud.

“Right. And ’m the Pope.” Tommy moved closer now, like approaching a wounded animal. “Y’like her. Don’tcha?” Joel didn’t respond, he let the silence be the confirmation of his feelings toward you. “You care bout her. You ever told her that?”

Joel gave a bitter little laugh. “You think she’d wanna hear that from me?”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “You ever ask?”

“Believe me, she don’t want anythin’ to do with me.”

“Maybe cause you act like an asshole every time she gets close.” Tommy said, Joel didn’t flinch, he’d been expecting that one, he deserved worse after how goddamn cruel he’d been with you. “You pushed her away, Joel. And then you got pissed when she let go.”

Joel ran a hand through his hair, the gesture was restless, almost violent, like he was trying to rip the thought of you out of his skull. “I didn’t mean for it to go this far.”

“Well, it did,” Tommy said. “She asked to stop patrollin’ with you. That’s a big step. That girl didn’t seem the type to give up on people.” Joel swallowed hard and Tommy sighed. “So ’m gonna ask one more time. Not as your brother, as someone who watched you lose your goddamn mind when you saw her come back bleedin’.”

Joel looked up at that, Tommy met his eyes. “What’s the deal with her?”

Joel exhaled slowly, like it cost him something. “I dunno,” he said. “I don’t know what it is. I just…” His voice tightened. “She was always talkin’. Always smilin’. Like it didn’t matter how cold it was, like she didn’t know the world we live in.” Tommy waited, Joel rubbed at the back of his neck. “I didn’t know what to do with that,” he admitted. “Didn’t think I deserved to have it pointed at me.”

“You mean her attention?”

“I mean her.” It was the most honest thing Joel had said in months.

Tommy’s gaze softened. “Joel…”

“She was better off. With someone who could…” Joel shook his head. “Smile back.” He couldn’t even picture it, himself smiling at you like you did at him, like he meant it, like he deserved it.

They stood in silence, and Tommy let out a long breath. “Well, she ain’t smilin’ much these days.” Joel didn’t move or speak, just stared at the dirt like he could dig a hole and bury this whole damn mess. Tommy clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t gotta fix it all at once. But maybe stop pretendin’ it don’t exist.”

That night, you sat on your bed. The room was quiet, too quiet, Javi had offered to walk you home, but you told him you were fine, and you weren’t lying, not really. It wasn’t the pain that hurt, not the cut, not the dull throbbing in your arm or the tender spot blooming purple on your ribs. It was the sound of Joel’s voice cracking through the cold like it suddenly mattered, like your well-being was important now that the damage wasn’t his fault. Where was that fire when you’d gone mute for days? When your eyes welled up mid-patrol and you turned away so he wouldn’t see? Where was that protectiveness when you’d been swallowed by quiet and too afraid to speak again? Where was he? Not when you needed him. He couldn’t protect you from a wound he’d already made, and no amount of yelling at Javi would change that. He could shout all he wanted now, full of heat and anger, but it was too late. The damage was done in the stillness, in the look he didn’t give you, in the joke he tried to tell when you were already fading. You didn’t need him to defend you now, you needed him then.

Joel didn’t sleep. He sat at the window with a half-empty bottle, watching the streets go dar, watching the world turn quiet while something inside his brain stayed loud. Not because you were hurt, not even because of Javi, but because for one brief second, when he saw the blood on your skin, his heart stopped, and then it shattered. It wasn’t the cut, it was you, with blood on your face and standing on your own two feet, not needing him, not even looking at him. And the aching realization that he didn’t know you anymore, that he’d pushed you away, bit by bit, and word by cold word. And now? Someone else got to stand beside you, someone else got your trust, your time. Someone else got to see you bruised and brave and trying, and Joel just watched from the damn gate like a stranger, like someone who used to matter.

The Tipsy Bison was loud on the night of your birthday. One of your friends had brought a guitar, someone else was dancing badly after too many shots, and there was a small cake waiting on the table. You were in the center of the room, halfway through a funny story, your hands flying as you animated something absurd, probably patrol-related, probably exaggerated, probably funny as hell because everyone around you was howling. At least that was what Joel thought. He’d come for one drink, maybe two, say hi to a few people, show his face so Tommy would stop nagging him about not leaving his house. That was what the night was supposed to be like, but then he walked in, and he saw you, and everything stopped.

Javi was doubled over, your friend Annie had her hand on your shoulder, laughing so hard she spilled beer down her sleeve, someone at the next table leaned in just to hear more of your story. And you? You were shining. Your mouth was open wide with laughter, your cheeks were flushed from whiskey and heat, your voice bouncing through the bar like music. That fire Joel thought he’d snuffed out was back.

He watched from the far corner of the room, you wore a deep green sweater that made your eyes too bright, and your hair was half-tucked behind your ear, messy from dancing. There was a thin scar just beneath your cheekbone now, probably from the bad patrol a few weeks back, but it only made you look prettier. And Joel hated how long it had been since he saw you like this, he hated that you could glow again and he wasn’t part of it.

Someone toasted you. You rolled your eyes but raised your glass anyway.

“To her loud mouth,” one of your friend said.

“To her bad jokes,” someone else added.

You laughed and clinked your glass against theirs. “To being a pain in the ass for one more year.”

The whole table cheered and Joel’s chest hurt, because there was nothing in this world he desired more than to be there celebrating next to you.

You stood to stretch at one point, hands over your head, grinning as the music shifted. Javi grabbed your hand and spun you clumsily in place, it wasn’t a real dance, just a drunken sway. You laughed and shoved him off, swatting his shoulder. And Joel gripped the edge of the bar like it might keep him grounded, that used to be his spot beside you. His partner, his patrol, his quiet moments in the woods, listening to you ramble. He threw it away, and now you were spinning, tipsy and bright and surrounded by people who wanted you. People who didn’t flinch when you reached out, who didn’t push you away.

“Y’alright?” the bartender asked him. Joel blinked, realized his glass was still full, he nodded stiffly. “Birthday crowd,” the guy said. “She bring the whole damn town in with her.”

Joel didn’t respond. Didn’t say: She used to talk to just me for hours, she used to walk beside me and hum under her breath, she used to ask me questions just to fill the silence... and now she laughs like I was never there at all. He just gave a tight nod and turned away from the bar. You didn’t see him, not at all. You were too busy dancing, talking, drinking… too busy living.

Joel was walking home, hands in his coat pockets. He’d tried to finish his drink but couldn’t, and seeing you there having fun with your friends had become unbearable, so he decided to call it a night. But then he saw you, alone, laughing softly at nothing. You were half a block ahead of him, your coat was open, you had a half-empty bottle in one hand while your arms stretched out like you were trying to balance on an invisible beam. You were talking to yourself, to the moon up in the sky, maybe to some cricket you’d encounter along the way. To him, when you turned and saw him in the middle of the street.

“Ohhh my god,” you said, grinning. “Look everyone! It’s Joel Miller.”

He blinked. “You drunk?” What an stupid question. He already knew the answer.

“Extremely.” You walked toward him with uneven steps. “What are you doing out? You stalking me? Bit forward for you, cowboy.”

Joel sighed. “Jesus.”

You stopped in front of him and squinted. “Good evening to you too, Mr. Miller. You look awfully serious tonight.”

“I always look serious.”

You nodded solemnly. “True. That’s your whole vibe. You should try smiling more often, you got nice lips. Not that I noticed, of course.”

Joel looked at you, really looked, for the first time in what felt like months. You were flushed from the cold night breeze and the whiskey, and your eyes looked brighter than usual, your lips pink and chapped from the wind. “It’s your birthday,” he said softly.

“OH MY GOD, you’re right. It’s my birthday!” You grinned, as if you’d forgotten it after too many drinks. “Wait, how did you know?”

“Saw you and your friends at the bar.”

You took another swig from the bottle. “I’m a year older now. Can you believe that? I made it this far. How crazy is that?” He didn’t respond. “I used to think I’d die young,” you said casually. “Something poetic. Falling off a roof trying to rescue a cat or some shit.”

Joel frowned. “That ain’t poetic. That’s stupid.”

You burst out laughing. “Okay, fair. But you get the idea.” He sighed, and you rocked back on your heels. “Anyway. Happy birthday to me.”

“Happy birthday,” he murmured.

You smiled, wide and tired. “Well, thank you very much, Joel Miller.” Your started walking again, slow and wobbly, and Joel moved to follow. “You don’t gotta walk me home,” you said.

“I know.”

“Let me guess… you’re gonna anyway.”

He didn’t respond, but you talked the whole walk, like the old times, probably because you were too drunk to remember, or to care, that you were still angry and hurt. You talked about the music at the Tipsy Bison, about how your friend Annie cheated at darts, about how someone made you a cake with candles, actual candles, and you cried for like six seconds over it. Joel just listened, he didn’t speak unless you asked him something, he didn’t interrupt you, just walked beside you in the dark, feeling blessed to hear your voice once again. You tripped on a rock at one point and he reached for your elbow, you let him touch you just for a second, then kept walking.

“I missed you,” you said suddenly. Joel looked at you but you didn’t look back. “I mean,” you continued, “not that we were ever, like, friends. Or whatever. I know you’re not exactly a fan of… people. Pretty sure you hate me.” Joel stayed quiet. “But still, I missed you. It was weird not talking to you.”

Joel swallowed. “You stopped talkin’ to me.”

“You told me my voice annoyed you. And that you didn’t care about anything I said,” you said without any anger behind your voice. “What was I supposed to do, Joel?”

He didn’t answer, you stopped walking and he stopped too. You looked up at him, suddenly a little less drunk, like the chill had sobered you. “Why did you say that?” you asked quietly.

Joel blinked. “Say what?”

“That I talk too much. That I was annoying. That I wasn’t… enough… Was I really that insufferable?”

He frowned, fuck, you were kicking him while he was on the ground. “I didn’t say you weren’t enough.”

“You said worse.”

He inhaled sharply. “You were pushin’. Always askin’ things I didn’t want to answer. Talkin’ when I needed quiet. I tried givin’ you signals but you didn’t know how to stop.”

“I didn’t want to stop,” you said. “That’s the difference. I didn’t want to stop cause I enjoyed talking to you” Joel stared, but you looked away, ashamed, and for the first time, your voice dropped. “I spent my whole life being told I was too much. Too loud. Too happy. Too intense. I always thought… maybe the right person wouldn’t mind it.”

Joel’s throat went dry. Did you really think he was the right person? Him? An old, grumpy, broken-down man? That was what you saw for yourself? That was what you aspired to? You, with your bright eyes and all that goddamn sunshine in your voice, thought he was it? You couldn’t be serious.

“I liked you,” you added softly. “I didn’t think you’d like me back or anything,” you continued. “But I thought you didn’t hate me. I thought you… tolerated me. Cared a little, maybe.”

He took a step toward you. “I did—”

You held up your hand to stop him there. “And then you snapped. Like I was a burden. Like I was some stupid, useless little thing you had to drag around on your boot like mud.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“But that’s how it felt. I wasn’t pissed,” you said. “I was hurt. Maybe you thought it was the same thing cause you have the emotional range of a teaspoon. But it’s not the same thing.”

There was a big silence, just the wind in the trees was heard. And Joel, stuck between wanting to apologize and not knowing how. “’M sorry,” he said finally. “I shouldn’t have said those things,” he continued. “Not like that. Not to you.”

This time it was you who didn’t answer.

“I was… mean. For no reason. You didn’t deserve that.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You were the first person in a long time who—” He paused. “Who made me forget. How bad things were. Just for a minute.” Joel exhaled. “I didn’t know what to do with that. And for the record, I don’t hate you, I never did.”

“I don’t need you to explain,” you said. “You already did the damage. And I already survived it. It’s all good, Joel. No hard feelings."

Joel looked like he’d been hit. You turned, started walking again and he followed. You didn’t say another word the rest of the way until you stopped in front of your porch, one foot on the bottom step, swaying a little, maybe from the alcohol in your body.

“I should go to bed,” you said, and Joel nodded. “Thanks for walking me.”

He gave a tight nod again. “Yeah. Don’t mention it.”

You turned, made it up two steps, then paused. Without looking back, you said: “You know I never wanted you to like me back, right?”

Joel blinked. “What?”

“I didn’t expect that. I wasn’t asking for anything. I just… liked the way it felt, being around you, making you smile sometimes... even if it was just a grunt. And when that stopped… that hurt worse than a bullet. And I got shot once, so I know what I’m talking about. I’d tell you the story but I doubt you’d be interested.”

You should’ve gone inside, the door was already open, you could feel the heat of your living room escaping into the cold night. Your limbs were buzzing with too much whiskey and too many words said, but Joel was still standing there, and your body was still turned toward him.

He shifted on his feet and glanced up at you with a slight squint. “How,” he said with caution, asking the question that had been killing him inside. “How’s patrol goin’ with Javi?”

You blinked and then snorted. Oh, he had some nerve asking that. You leaned against the railing, smiling just enough to hurt him. “It’s great. Javi doesn’t complain when I talk too much, and he doesn’t tell me to shut the hell up. So that makes him a better partner than you already.”

Joel winced, and you let him suffer for a bit. He nodded once, and then, after a long moment, his voice came out carefully neutral. “You and Javi…?”

“Me and Javi what?” you asked him, arching your brows.

“Are you two a thing or…?” he said, trying to appear unfazed, like he didn’t care about the answer, even if internally, he was praying you’d say no. His voice was tight, casual in the way someone pretends not to be holding their breath.

“A thing? What do you mean?” you asked, genuinely confused.

“Y’know what ’m talkin’ about,” he muttered, eyes flicking to the side like he wished he hadn’t opened his mouth.

Then sudden realization hit you. Your eyes went wide. “OH MY GOD, NO!” He blinked startled, and you smiled wider. “Javi’s gay. Like, suuuper gay.”

You watched it happen in real time, the way his jaw relaxed just slightly, the way his shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch, like a thread pulled too tight had finally been cut.

“Oh,” he said.

“Yeah, like reeeaally into guys. I mean, like, if we were both naked he’d probably be checking you out and ignoring me,” you chuckled, amused now, watching color bloom subtly in his cheeks. Joel didn’t say anything, he just felt relieved, so stupidly relieved it made his chest ache. “Your gay-dar is super off, Joel. You should get it checked,” you teased with a grin.

He didn’t respond, just grunted, shifting his weight, clearly trying not to smile. You tilted your head. “Why did you ask?”

Joel didn’t answer, he didn’t need to. You could see it all in his face… the question he didn’t ask, the way his eyes flicked over you like he couldn’t help it, like he was trying to memorize you before he lost his nerve.

You took a step closer and Joel didn’t move, or look away. Your voice was soft now. “Did you think he was my type?”

Joel’s voice came slow. “I didn’t know if you had a type.”

You smiled. “I didn’t either.” Another pause. “But now I think I might have a thing for older guys. The grumpy type. The ones who break your heart without even meaning to.”

You leaned against the porch railing again, closer now, and Joel stepped up. His hand came to rest on the railing beside you, not touching you yet, but near. You looked up at him, and found his eyes already on you. You stared at each other, and then he moved, not fast or clumsy, he just leaned in, slowly, like a man who’d been thinking about it for weeks, like a man who didn’t believe he’d ever get a second chance if he didn’t act now.

And when his mouth met yours? It was quiet and warm, like he was apologizing for all the things he said with that same mouth before... that mouth who’d hurt you in the past was now trying to put the pieces of you back together. You didn’t pull back or freeze, you just let it happen, let your eyes slip closed, let your hands curl against his flannel shirt… let yourself feel him.

It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t needy or desperate, it was gentle like he was terrified he might break you, and maybe that was the part that undid you most, that this man, this gruff, stubborn, often infuriating man, was finally treating you like something precious. His hand came up slow, fingers brushing along your jaw before sliding to the back of your neck, you felt his thumb at your pulse point, like he was grounding himself in the fact that you were real, that this was happening.

When he finally pulled back, just inches in between you two, his voice was the softest it had ever been.

“Goodnight, birthday girl.”

You looked up at him, dazed. He stepped back and walked off your porch without another word, and you stood there like you’d been struck, watching him walk away, still swaying slightly from the whiskey, still buzzing from the feel of his mouth on yours, still trying to catch your breath. Joel Miller was already halfway down the walk. You watched him go, one step, two, three.

“HEY!” you shouted.

He didn’t stop walking, just turned back over his shoulder, eyes catching yours for a second, that big-ass smile stretched across his face.

“Joel Miller, you can’t do that!”

He slowed, but kept walking away anyway. “Already did it.”

“No! You can’t— You can’t do that and walk away!” Your voice cracked, but there was no real anger behind it, just amusement, and maybe a little frustration, because he’d left you hungry for more. “You can’t kiss me and run away like a coward!”

“Sweet dreams, birthday girl.” He replied teasingly with that same grin still painted on his face. The street was empty, the windows all dark, it was just you and him and the sound of your own heart thudding against your ribs.

“You better come back here and finish what you started, Joel Miller.” You tried to sound dangerous and commanding, but the look of a schoolgirl in love on your face wasn’t helping you.

He offered you one last smile before turning around and walking away. It was faint, like he didn’t have the right to give you more than that. Maybe this was all that was meant to happen tonight, but it sure as hell meant something for both of you. He felt it in his chest as he walked away, you felt it in your throat as you watched him go. And you wondered what would happen the next time you saw him, if he’d pretend nothing happened, or if he’d look at you the way he did when he had his lips on yours.

READ PART 2 HERE

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A/N: Wraaaah, I’ve had this idea bouncing around in my head for a while, and I finally sat down and wrote the first chapter! Please, please, please let me know what you think🥹 I’m writing a second part soon (with some smut in it😮‍💨).

This is one of the fics I’ve poured the most love into, I swear I’ve edited it a thousand times to make sure it’s the best it can be. I have so many more ideas for these two in the future, so please, I’d really love to know what you think!

As always, a huge thank you for your support🩷

tags: @unforgivemn @puduvallee @gorzelnia-blog @conrzd @applebloom928 @glitterspark @imjustaprettyyprincess @mani-pedro @jettia @sunnyssimming @sethell @thescxrpio @cowboylikejoha @dugiioh @crimsonxcobra @twigleektribute23 @alexxavicry @thievin-stealing @tearsweetenedtea @serenity-1221 @lover-of-books-and-tea @joelsgoodgirl @nightbornangel @millersweetheart @spacemooi @bbyanarchist @nixiaw @dlwrish @yeswhale456 @mxyjailer @uncassettodiricordi @looking1016 @Ghostlover19 @sofisweb @lanasdolll @smvtwitchmiller @bolitadesol

dividers by: @/thecutestgrotto

[dimlylittorch]

your only job on this earth is to be so intrinsically yourself that the right people gravitate toward you and the wrong people move out of your way

[dimlylittorch]

“We’re just gonna give you a quick update *wind makes everything unintelligible*”

[dimlylittorch]

I had my gallbladder out today and I’m in so much pain that I can’t lay down in my bed. I’m confined to sleeping in a recliner :(

anyways if i post something about ‘blank character comforting you after gallbladder surgery’ don’t think it’s super random😭

[dimlylittorch]

so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god

[dimlylittorch]

STIMULI AND RESPONSE: A STUDY IN CHEMISTRY…

|| pedro masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

｡𖦹°‧➵ PAIR: Reed Richards x fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ WC: 6k

｡𖦹°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, spoiler free, age gap (unspecified), intern reader, divorced reed (sorry sue), swearing, sexy science, first kiss, lots of data talk but it’s just filth, sex pollen, fingering, p in v, dr. reed ‘any size you want’ richards, finger sucking, nipple play, creampie, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S NOTE: well this was extremely inevitable…we all knew this was coming. i loved fantastic four and i love marvel’s first family, the avengers don’t have SHIT on them. i can’t believe this is my very first (1st) sex pollen fic, like i’ve really been dropping the ball but that ends right now. hope y’all love it, mwah!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics & reed pic by angel @iamasaddie!

dr. richards asks a favor of you…

The Baxter Building laboratory always smells faintly of motor oil and hot circuity, like the very air itself has been charged.

You've long since gotten used to the smell after all these months spent hard at work in your internship.

You're used to the low hum of oscilloscopes, the spotless glimmer of all the different chrome instruments strewn about the room, the tick of Dr. Richards' watch when he's hunched over his workbench with the kind of single minded focus that never fails to make your chest ache.

It’s well past midnight, another day of you staying far beyond the allotted time, but it’s hardly out of the ordinary by now. Dr. Richards research—and mind quite frankly—has no regard for any kind of normal office hours. It’s almost as if he exists in a different realm, tethered only loosely to the rest of humanity by his work.

That’s another thing you’ve become accustomed to. The clipped speech, the crisp white lab coats always just a bit rumpled from long days, and the air of a man who thinks faster than anyone could follow.

You were supposed to be here for observation, honing in on the delicate skills needed to work in a lab as complex as this one. It started off as just another internship credit. Two semesters of assistance. What it’s slowly morphed into is something more like a full time job, if not a full on fixation with your boss. 

You’ve become the one person Dr. Richards doesn’t mind in his peripheral vision. Always quiet, always ready, always watching him with eyes a little too attentive, voice a little too eager each time he speaks to you.

It’s something you never let yourself think about too closely. The one thing you’d never stick under the dozens of highly advanced microscopes just beneath your fingertips.

It’s not plausible.

You’re halfway through labeling a series of glass slides when the door softly hisses open behind you.

“Ah, there you are. Wonderful.”

You swivel around on your stool, standing almost automatically—like Dr. Richards' mere presence demands it. At this point, you’re sure that it does.

He’s standing at the threshold of the lab—tall, thoughtful, thin glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose. In the bright, sterile fluorescent lights, Reed Richards looks less like a man and more an idea given form. All poised intellect, sharp eyes, and a mind clearly three steps ahead.

“Dr. Richards,” you greet, smoothing your skirt out of habit, because no matter how hard you try, you always feel like a nervous schoolgirl around him. “I was just logging the slides from the blood pressure data–”

“Excellent.” He cuts in gently, like he always does when your words are just a little slower than his. “However, I have a far more pressing matter at hand.”

Dr. Richards strides past you to his desk, flipping open one of the many notepads cluttering the space. It was quiet for a few beats, only the sounds of pages turning and muted mumbling as he read over the flurry of sporadically scrawled notes and equations.

You stay in your spot a few feet away, hands clasped in front of you as you wait patiently for him to speak again. He isn’t the kind of man you dare to interrupt when he gets lost in his work.

He picks up a stray pencil to scribble one final note in the margin, then straightens and turns his sharp gaze on you. “I need your assistance with a controlled trail,” he says simply, like he’s requesting something as routine as a full body scan.

“A trial?” You blink, taken aback. Your eyes cut to the clock hanging on the opposite wall, noting the time before returning your gaze to his passive expression. “Tonight?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitation, waving you over and turning back to his work. The quiet clinking of glass rings out as he cards his fingers through a test tube rack full to bursting with a different array of brightly colored chemicals. “It’s Compound 83. A strain I synthesized last week from the pollen of a Peruvian orchid."

You cross the short distance obediently, perching yourself on the spare stool next to him just as he plucks out a tube filled with a viscous pink liquid.

Dr. Richards swirls the tube gently, brow furrowed as he watches it splash up against the sides. “Genus Cattleya venusta. Extremely rare. Hyper stimulating. A short half life. I’ve…refined it recently.”

You nod, still confused but refusing to let it show. You pick up your own notebook from the pile, the one with a small atom sticker he placed in the top right corner to mark as yours. “What does it do?”

He hesitates, just long enough for you to notice. But the moment is gone just as fast as it came, giving you no time to think on it.

“It’s a neurological accelerator targeting oxytocin, dopamine, and a few obscure hypothalamic pathways we’ve only begun mapping. Thus, when administered in a controlled environment, should trigger an amplified parasympathetic response.”

Dr. Richards’ voice is calm, measured, full of the kind of certainty that makes people believe anything he says. He adjusts his glasses with his free hand as though to punctuate the statement.

You slip the pencil resting behind your ear out and begin dutifully recording his dictations on a fresh page. “Amplified parasympathetic response,” you repeat, as though saying it out loud will cement the idea in your mind. “Meaning…relaxation?”

“Relaxation, certainly. But more specifically…” He trailed off as his long fingers drum along the glass tube. “...heightened sensitivity, increased blood flow to erogenous zones, accelerated dopamine release, and a…well, a state of arousal far surpassing the body’s baseline capacity. Think of it as a neurological catalyst. A kind of–hm–sexual amplifier, for lack of a better term.”

You blink. Your pencil abruptly stills against the paper. “Dr. Richards…” you begin carefully, dreading the answer you were sure to receive. “Are you saying this is…an aphrodisiac?"

“Yes,” he says, dryly. “But I’d prefer we didn’t reduce it to that.”

Your pulse quickens before you can stop it. You try to disguise the sudden dryness of your mouth with a stunted laugh void of all humor. You’re unsure if this is a joke, some elaborate scientific prank to weed out the weak interns—or if Dr. Richards is really asking what you think he is.

He takes a step closer, peering at you over the frame of his glasses. “I need data on its physical, behavioral, and cognitive effects. In vivo. A live trial. Unfortunately, none of the team are suitable candidates due to immunogenic complications. Johnny had a reaction. Ben refused.”

You don’t bring up the obvious member missing from his apparent previous failed trails. The divorce was none of your business, it never will be. You’ve seen Sue and Reed interact less than a handful of times since the news broke to the press and then to the general public. They seem to be working together quite well despite what one might think, still cordial and professional with each other in every facet within the team.

Your grip on your pencil tightens, lips parting. “And you want me to…test it?”

“Yes.” Dr. Richards nods once, deliberate. “Your physiology is well suited to controlled observation. You’re young, in excellent health, no known endocrine disorders. Statistically ideal.”

Your stomach sinks, a flush of warmth creeping up the back of your neck. It’s hardly a compliment, practically the furthest thing from one. It still has arousal sparking deep in your belly, the idea that he’s looked at you. He’s cataloged you. He’s thought about this moment carefully, crunched the numbers and deemed you the best candidate for this experiment.

You don’t realize that you’ve gone quiet, the silence stretching out in the spotless lab as your brain tries to process all the input you’ve received in the last five minutes.

“I wouldn’t ask,” he says quickly, taking your silence as a negative. “if I didn’t think you capable. You’ve shown remarkable composure under pressure. And I assure you—if at any point you wish to stop, you only need to say so. Consent, of course, is paramount.” His gaze finally softens, just enough for you to see the man behind the scientist. “I’d never want to harm you.”

You swallow stiffly, your throat dry. “What about you?”

Dr. Richards brows furrow slightly, like you asked him an extremely stupid question. “It would be irresponsible to not include myself. The biochemical pathways are interactive, and I must assess the shared impact.” He raises the test tube to the light, the liquid shimmers under the bright white rays. He glances at you again, eyes unreadable. “To be perfectly clear, the study would involve direct physical contact.”

It’s the most clinical way anyone has ever told you we’d be having sex.

Heat flares under your skin, like thousands of tiny pinpricks breaking out all along your body. “So, what you’re really asking me is to–”

“Copulate,” he supplies matter of factly, as if he’s describing the weather. “Us, under the influence of the compound.”

He says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like the simple word us doesn’t rearrange your entire nervous system. Like you haven't spent months wondering if Reed Richards—brilliant, remote, obsessively precise—even thinks about you at all when he’s not assigning you lab reports.

You try to find the words, but they all tangle in your throat. “Um, what–what exactly would the study entail?” you finally manage.

“Simple,” he replies, turning fully toward you now. His deep brown eyes pin you to your seat with clinical intensity. “Oral intake of the compound, both subjects will report on their individual symptoms as they manifest. I’ll monitor physiological changes as it begins to take effect—heart rate, body temperature, pupil dilation. Eventually, I’ll…well.” His voice trails off, as if only now realizing the inevitable conclusion. “We’ll engage in various sexual activities to evaluate its full efficacy, at which point I’d assess how, if at all, the effects might be mitigated or resolved.”

“Resolved,” you echo, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” he says softly. “Achieving climax would, in theory, alleviate the overstimulation.”

Your breath catches, sharp and shallow. Once again, he says it like it’s nothing—like sex with him is just another variable on a spreadsheet.

Your heart pounds hard against your ribcage, your palms sweaty. The logic is sound, of course it is. The delivery is methodical, careful. You hear the question Dr. Richards isn’t voicing beneath it all clearly despite all that.

Would you let him touch you?

You should say no.

You really should.

This could complicate everything, in a myriad of different ways. Dr. Richards is your boss, your mentor. The possible legal ramifications alone should be enough to scare you out of the lab and all the way back to the safety of your apartment.

Instead, you hear yourself whisper, “I’ll do it.”

The relief on Dr. Richards face was subtle but unmistakable. His shoulders relax, dropping a beat of tension you didn't realize was there. You have the inexplicable urge to laugh, at how ridiculous this all is. Or maybe, it was because he thought you'd ever be able to say no to him.

"Very good." He nodded once, his face already set with determination. He swept the notebook from his desk, the test tube still secure in his other hand. "Follow me."

You have no choice but to obey.

The isolation room is a sea of crisp white.

White walls. White floors. A single chair is bolted to ground right in the center, padded with spotless white leather.

It's sterile in nature, it was designed that way. Silent except for the low electrical hum of the halogen lights shining overhead. There’s a faint antiseptic tang in the air, like bleach diluted with something floral. Faint enough to almost be pleasant.

You know for a fact there's a camera somewhere, disguised in the ceiling tiles. It's for safety purposes, to monitor subjects from afar when they're deemed to dangerous for an in person encounter.

You wonder idly if Dr. Richards disabled the camera, or if he's kept it on.

The latter seems extremely likely. If you know him at all, he'll want the footage to be available for later use. To review the trial as more of a fly on the wall when all is said and done.

The idea of him re-watching this encounter has your chest tightening, something like embarrassment and arousal churning together sickly somewhere deep in your stomach.

Dr. Richards enters behind you, his footsteps soft against the tile as he passes you and stops next to the chair. "If you'll sit, we can begin."

You lower yourself down into the chair, it was made to cradle the spine and ensure maximum muscular relaxation. You've cleaned it before, wiped it down countless times. Logged its maintenance just as much. You never thought you'd be perched on it like this, legs pressed together nervously, arms resting primly at your sides.

"I'll begin with a baseline assessment." He clicks his pen, flipping his notebook open with brisk precision. "Pulse, temperate, pupil reactivity." His voice is calm, steady. As though he isn't about to feed you something that will make you ache for him.

He doesn't look nervous—he never does—but the faint tightening at the corners of his mouth betrays just how carefully he's bracing himself for what's about to happen.

Dr. Richards leans in closer, and for a moment the clinical facade fades. His scent—clean linen, aftershave, the acrid note of lab alcohol—floods your senses. He takes your wrist gently, sliding his fingers over the delicate skin of your wrist until the press against the throb of your pulse.

"Eighty beats per minute," he murmurs to himself, eyes narrowing as he counts under his breath. "Slightly elevated. Presumably caused by anticipation."

"You think?" You speak before you can think better of it, tone laced with the barest hint of sarcasm.

"I know," he replies matter of factly, jotting the number down. His fingertips linger on your skin for a bit longer than necessary before falling away. "Measuring pupil dilation now."

He plucks a small penlight from the breast pocket of his lab coat. Without warning, he reaches forward and takes your chin between gentle fingers, steadying you. His thumb brushes your check as he shines the small light back and forth over your eyes.

You hope he can't feel the warmth rising beneath your skin. The beam stings, but you hold still, because he expects you to.

"Pupils responsive," he notes, close enough that you feel the fan of his breath. He clicks the pen light off, slipping it back in his pocket before his hand moves up and presses against your forehead.

It takes every bit of will in your mortal body not to lean into his touch.

"Temperature is normal." He nods, dropping his hand to scribble more information into his notebook. "Ninety eight point four."

You fight the urge to laugh. You feel like your skin's blistering.

"All right." Dr. Richards takes a step back, placing his notebook on the tray. "We can proceed."

Your heart skip three times over in your chest as you watch him retrieve the test tube. He unscrews the cap, and a sweet, heady scent drifts through the air between you. It hits your nose like perfume. Your mouth waters against your will.

"Compound 83 has been calibrated to a micro-dose." He picks a pipette off the metal tray resting on the table beside you, sliding the dull tip inside of the test tube and carefully measuring a few milliliters of the liquid. It shimmers rosy pink in the light, filmy and iridescent like the surface of a bubble. "Oral administration. It should take approximately three minutes to cross the blood-brain barrier."

You nod once, jerky and tense. You don't trust your voice enough to speak.

"Tongue out," he instructs softly, taking a step closer.

The command makes your stomach twist.

You part your lips, tipping your head back slightly. The first drop lands on your tongue, and the taste is shockingly sweet—like sugared fruit with bitter, chemical bite beneath. Dr. Richards tilts the pipette, letting the measured dose coat your taste buds.

"Swallow." His tone leave to room for hesitation.

You obey, throat working as you take it down. His eyes track it the movement with the subtle air of fascination. For your apparent bravery? For your insistent need to please? You're not entirely sure.

"Good," he whispers, reeling back to take his own dose. He sets the tube and the pipette down, checking his watch. "Note the taste."

You roll the few drops left around in your mouth, absentmindedly chasing the flavor. "Sweet. Slightly bitter."

Dr. Richards nods in agreement. "Any tingling? Metallic aftertaste? Olfactory shifts?"

You shake your head, wringing your hands nervously. "No. Not yet."

"Good," he repeats, eyes sharp as he keeps his gaze trained on his watch, recording the time down to the second. "Now, describe the sensation. Do you feel warm?"

You do, now that he's brought it up. A pleasant heat thrumming just beneath your skin, like the hot spray of a shower head beating down on overworked muscle. Nothing you can't handle.

You nod, tongue coming out to sweep along your bottom lip. "Yes. If baseline temperature was determined as normal, I'd estimate it's climbed approximately six degrees."

"Fascinating," Dr. Richards mumbles, reaching out yet again. Long fingers catch your wrist, gently circling it to find your radial pulse point. "Pulse is elevated, one hundred and thirteen beats per minute."

Your thighs shift slightly, the hem of your skirt creeping up with the movement. His eyes track it, his gaze feels like a physically caress on the newly exposed skin.

He drags his eyes back up slowly, really looking at you, studying your face. "Pupillary dilation at…remarkable. Nearly thirty percent increase already."

Your hands fall to the armrest on either side of you. "Dr. Richards-"

He cuts you off. "Subject B experiencing similar symptoms to Subject A. Internal temperate is rising steadily."

He sheds his lab coat then, draping it over the back of the chair. He unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeve with deft fingers, rolling them up to expose the corded muscle of his tan forearms. The collar of his shirt is askew, just enough to show off the hairy skin of his chest. His undershirt is thin enough that you can see the slight clench of his abdomen.

He looks more inviting this way, more approachable. Devastatingly handsome.

You try not to notice the way his suspenders hang loosely around his hips. You fail.

White hot heat unfurls low in your belly, sharp and sudden, like the spark of a match catching dry paper. Your skin prickles, sweat beading at your hair line. Every inch of you is hyper aware of Dr. Richards nearness radiating the same warmth.

Your breath hitches, hands squeezing the chair's armrests. "Dr. Richards, I-"

"Reed," he interrupts, his tone tighter than before—strained. "Please, call me Reed."

Your chest heaves, lips slick and parted as you suck in greedy lungfuls of air. Your thighs clench, pressing together tightly. There's an unmistakable dampness spreading over the thin cotton fabric of your panties.

“Breathe normally,” he instructs, eyes glued to your chest, to the hard peaks of your nipples straining against your shirt. “The compound should take effect within-”

You don't hear the rest.

The compound spreads faster now, thrumming in a way that's inescapable. The room feels like someone cranked up the heat as high as it goes, your skin sings under every brush of air. You shift again, and a needy sound escapes before you can catch it.

Blood rushes through your ears, a mess of white noise. Your heart pounds in your chest, adrenaline coursing through your veins to light them up like you took an injection of kerosene.

"Reed…" You breathe, voice gone airy and taut. "It's-it's getting stronger."

"Wonderful." It's almost as if the word is pulled from him before he can think better of how lewd it sounds. "Describe the sensation in your lower abdomen."

He means your pussy—your brain supplies unhelpfully. The thought alone has another humiliating sound falling from your lips.

"Pressure," you admit softly, eyes never straying from his. "Heat. A kind of almost…pulling sensation."

Reed's eyes darken, it's unmistakable. "Touch sensitivity?"

You blink. "I-I don't know."

"Then let's determine."

Before you can respond, he steps forward. Your thighs part instinctively, giving him the room he needs to loom over you.

You can hardly sit still beneath the intensity of his gaze. Your thighs part further, and he notices—of course he notices. His sharp brown eyes flick down, linger, then return to your face.

Reed reaches up slowly, being sure to let you see the path his hand takes through the air. Gently, so gently, he cups the side of your face.

The touch is featherlight. Measured. His skin is warm, callused. Your eyes flutter shut, a soft moan falling from your lips. His skin feels scorching, burning a plane of heat along the side of your face.

“You’re—extremely sensitive,” he observes. “Marked increase in reactivity. Pupils dilation increased to 100%. Body language—shifting. Seeking friction.” His fingers trace down your neck, just barely ghosting over your pulse.

You suck in a sharp breath.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, his own hand shaking. “Very responsive to light contact.”

You want to deny it, but the data is undeniable. Your breath is quick, thighs pressing tight together, nipples showing through the thin fabric of your blouse.

Another wave hits you hard. Your hips shift against the chair involuntarily, and Reed watches. “Pelvic tension. Motor restlessness. Onset confirmed at three minutes, thirty seconds.”

Your back arches off the chair, sweat dripping down the length of your spine. You finally let yourself lean into his touch, panting at the contact.

“I can feel it as well,” he says quietly, breath hot against your ear. “My palms are sweating. Heart rate elevated. There’s a persistent ache behind my eyes. Blood flow redistribution—predictable.”

You glance down.

There's a very pronounce tent in straining behind the fly of his slacks. A patch of wetness darkens the khaki fabric, spreading and so inviting.

You moan at the sight of it, your hands twitching with the need to touch.

"This will be for data," he says, like he's convincing himself the words are true.

You nod, dragging your eyes back up to his own. Your gaze is dazed like you've been spun in circles.

Reed kisses you.

Your hands fly to the lapels of his lab coat, dragging him down as he leans into the chair with you.

It's not romantic. Not soft. Not scientific. It's hungry, searching. A filthy mess of spit and something delicate and layered shattering like sugar glass between the two of you.

He's trying to map you, to gauge your reaction. His tongue slides into your parted lips and you whimper, aching. Reed swallows the sound, returning one of his own. A deep, low groan that wracks through your body like thunder.

When he pulls back, you chase him.

"Extraordinary," he breathes against your mouth, more to himself than to you. "The compound is creating extreme dopaminergic reinforcement."

"Touch me," you gasp, past the point of desperation. "Please, Reed. Touch me. I need-"

Reed's mouth crashes against yours, hard enough to clack your teeth together roughly. He's more gone than you thought, the careful man who handles each and every lab instrument like they're made of blown glass long gone as he claims your mouth. His hands slide up you body—along your waist, up over your ribs, until they cup your breasts.

You cry into his mouth when his thumbs brush over your nipples. The stimulation is immediate, electric. Explosive.

He pinches them between long, nimble fingers—caution lost in the whirlwind of arousal.

You keen.

“Heightened sensitivity confirmed,” he murmurs against your jaw, now completely wrecked. His voice is hoarse. “God—you're responding faster than anticipated. It's remarkable.”

You gasp when he yanks your blouse open with a sharp tug. Buttons scatter across the floor, clinking against the tile. His hands are on your bare skin now, mouth following. You arch as he sucks a nipple into his mouth, his fingers teasing the other.

Reed groans like he's in pain, panting against your breast. “Where are you experiencing the most acute sensation?”

Your tongue is too thick in your mouth. You try to swallow, try to answer, but it comes out wrong.

He leans closer, resting his forehead against yours. “You’ll need to verbalize, please.”

“Between my legs,” you manage, barely audible. “It—it’s extremely sensitive.”

A low sound rings out in the minuscule space between your lips. It takes your molasses drenched thoughts a few beats to realize it's coming from Reed. From somewhere deep in his chest, clawing its way out.

“Understood.” His touch travels, skating down lower until his fingers are trailing up the inside of your trembling thigh. “Do I have your permission to proceed with physical contact?”

"Yes," you whisper, and it comes out far too fast. Too eager. You can't find it in you to care. "Yes, Reed."

Reed slips his hand under your skirt, seeking out the damp plane of your pussy.

You jolt at the contact, hips twitching forward before you can help it.

Through the cotton, he traces the outline of your cunt, every shift of pressure measured, every reaction recorded in the keen flick of his eyes. He presses just slightly against your clit and watches the way you squirm, the way your breath stutters.

“Fascinating,” he repeats, eyes fixed on you as you start to writhe beneath him. “Clitoral response is heightened. You’re…exquisite. Perfect. Responding exactly as hypothesized—no, better—God, better.”

Two fingers spread you wide, and the slick sound is nothing but downright obscene. Your hand flies to his forearm, gripping it tightly as his index finger teases along your entrance.

You whimper, taking your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Remove your underwear,” Reed instructs, not unkindly—but without pause. “I’d like to confirm those measurements manually.”

You scramble to do exactly as he says. You lift your hips, fingers fumbling with the hem of your skirt and dragging the soaked panties down your thighs. You can’t bring yourself to look at him as you set them aside on the tray. The air hits your bare cunt like a slap—wet and exposed and throbbing.

Reed sinks to his knees.

It’s the first truly shocking thing he’s done all night.

He doesn’t say anything about it, not at first. He just positions himself between your legs, face level with your cunt, and exhales once. A long, slow breath. It's ragged at the edges, tormented.

It makes you shiver.

“Excellent visibility,” he mutters, seemingly unbothered by the fact that your folds are glistening and swollen inches away from the front of his face. You can still hear the slight termor of his voice all the say. “Subject appears to be fully engorged. Labia minora are visibly distended. Vulvar tissue is flushed.”

His first finger enters you with barely any resistance. You’re so wet, the stretch is effortless, obscene. He watches the way you swallow him in, his jaw flexing once as if trying not to react.

“Incredible,” he says, voice low. “Increased elasticity. Temperature is elevated. Constriction around the first phalanx…tight. Responsive.”

He curls his finger experimentally.

You choke on a gasp.

He adds another.

The stretch has your thighs clenching automatically around his wrist. You’re wet enough to hear it—the slick, filthy sound of your cunt sucking him in. Reed doesn’t blink.

“Two digits…full insertion.” He speaks as if he’s trying to distance himself from it. But his breath is shallower now. His cheeks are flushed. “Subject is—remarkably reactive.”

Reed scissors his fingers gently, eyes trained on the place where they disappear into you. “You’re pulsing around me,” he murmurs, full of awe. “That’s…beautiful.”

You’re past the point of embarrassment now. Your hips rock helplessly into the rhythm he sets—slow, firm pumps, angled just slightly until—

“Oh my god—”

“There,” he breathes, and there’s an almost feral edge in his voice. Not clinical. Not detached. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

You nod desperately, your free hand flying to your mouth to muffle the pathetic noises spilling out.

“Dampness-Jesus Christ,” he rasps, voice barely intelligible now. “Lubrication ratio also surpasses hypothesized maximum. You’re absolutely soaked. I—God, I need—I have to be inside you. Now.”

He slips his hand from between your legs and frees himself from his trousers with the same kind of focus you’ve seen him use to construct a fusion coil. Efficient, but trembling at the edges. His cock is flushed a deep red, thick, the tip shiny with precome as it presses against the heat of your cunt.

You moan at the sight. Your mouth waters as your cunt throbs with the raw, visceral need to be filled.

Reed stands, cock sways in the air, hard and heavy, pressing insistently against the slick seam of your cunt. Your body jerks at the contact, thighs twitching open wider, a helpless invitation.

The heat of him is almost unbearable, the swollen head nudging against your entrance like he’s testing the resistance.

His eyes are wild now, pupils blown wide, but his voice is still that low, steady baritone, though it trembles with restraint. “Lubrication is more than sufficient,” he says, breath ghosting over your lips as his hand fists at the base of his shaft. “Your body is prepared to accommodate penetration.”

Prepared—like you’re a lab experiment instead of a dripping mess beneath him. The words shouldn’t make you whimper, but they do.

Reed drags the head through your folds, coating himself in your wetness, collecting every drop. You keen, desperate for him to breach you, hips canting forward as if your body could take him in by force.

And then, without warning, he presses inside you.

The stretch punches the air from your lungs. Reed’s cock slides in slow, thick, impossibly deep, the sweet burn of it making your spine arch off the chair.

It's everything you've imagined it and more. All the guilty nights spent after lab hours with your fingers stuffed inside yourself as you let yourself indulge in the plethora of dirty thoughts floating around your brain couldn't have prepared you.

Nothing in the universe, this one and all the others, could have prepared you for the feeling of Reed Richards cock craving your cunt open like it belongs there.

You cry out his name, hands flying to his shoulders so your nails can dig crescent moons into the muscle there.

His head tips back, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. “Ah—constriction exceeds expectation. Warmth is—” He cuts himself off with a shudder. “You’re perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

There's no easing into it, no letting you get used to stretch. Your whole pelvis burns. The perfect mix of pain and pleasure intertwined together as one.

Reed fucks you with a single minded intensity, the same focus he gives to his equations, except now it's your body under his meticulous study, your cries the data points, your rapidly approaching orgasm the undeniable proof.

Your body arches off the chair, legs wrapped tight around his waist. He sets a brutal rhythm, each thrust deeper than the last, his hands braced on either side of your head.

“God,” you cry, nails clawing at his shoulders. “It’s—it’s too much—”

“It’s the compound,” he pants, his hair damp and curling against his forehead. “It’s magnifying everything. Every nerve. I can feel your heartbeat around me—Jesus—” Reed watches you through half lidded eyes, his expression wrecked, fevered. “Your walls are…milking me,” he mutters, reverent. Worshipful. “Constriction’s incredible. God, you feel—unreal.”

You moan louder when he adjusts his angle, the thick head of his cock rubbing against the sweet spot inside you. Your hand flies to your mouth, trying to muffle the noise.

“Don’t,” Reed growls, catching your wrist. He guides your fingers away from your lips and replaces them with his own. “Open and suck. Need to test oral fixation. S-salivary response.”

You suck greedily, tongue swirling over his fingers. The broken sound he makes only spurs you on. He moans when you suck harder, when you glide your tongue along the pads of his fingers like you want to devour him whole.

“You’re—fuck—you’re responding to every variable,” he says, voice cracked wide open, losing composure fast. “You’re better than anything I could’ve projected.”

You gag softly around his knuckles when his pace picks up, each thrust deep and punishing. Your nipples rub against his shirt, swollen and desperate for friction.

“Good girl,” he breathes, hips slamming harder into you. “God, you look so beautiful—sucking my fingers while I fuck you.”

Reed pauses, trembling, as if his own body is trying to calibrate to yours. “Is the stretch too much?” he manages, voice frayed with strain.

Your answer is a desperate whine, your hips bucking as his fingers slip out of your mouth so his hands can grip your hips tightly. “More. Please, Reed—”

His lips press hard to your ear, and you feel the words rumble out of him. “I can make it better. Adjust dimensions.”

It takes a second for your brain to process. And then he shifts.

You feel him thicken inside you, the stretch intensifying deliciously as his cock grows, swelling to fill you more completely. Your cry is broken and raw, your cunt clenching around him like a vice.

You’re dizzy, trembling, barely holding on. The friction is unbearable, the way his cock drags against your walls like he was designed for you. Reed leans back just enough to watch your face, his own expression wrecked. His cheeks are flush, curls plastered to his sweaty forehead.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your skin. “Your body’s pulsing, clenching—I can feel it, how bad you need it. You’re going to—God, you’re going to come so beautifully.”

Your hands scramble to sink into his salt and pepper hair, holding him against you, desperate. He growls low in his throat, hips picking up speed, driving into you harder, faster. The lewd slap of skin on skin echoes off the pristine white walls, obscene and unrelenting.

When his free hand slides down to rub your clit, your vision whites out.

“Reed—!”

Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, ripping through you so violently you sob. Your cunt spasms around him, sucking him deeper, milking him. You’re shaking uncontrollably, tears sliding down your temples as Reed groans against your breast.

His thrusts turn erratic, his composure breaking. “Constriction—fuck, so tight—I can’t—” He slams in deep, burying himself to the hilt.

With one last broken groan of your name, he’s coming inside you—flooding you—his cock stretching slightly, growing thicker as if his body wants to stay buried in you. You feel the warmth of it spread, thick and hot and unstoppable, deep inside where no one else has ever reached.

His forehead drops to yours, sweat slick, breath ragged. “Perfect,” he whispers, almost delirious. “Absolutely…perfect data set.”

Reed places a sweet kiss over your slack lips, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles along the skin of your hips.

You’re still trembling when he pulls back enough to watch the way his come leaks out of you around the base of his cock to drip down onto the leather, eyes dark with awe. His thumb swipes gently along your clit again, just to watch you jolt.

“Reaction remains heightened post-climax,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “I’ll need…further confirmation.”

The look in his eyes tells you he isn’t nearly finished.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: this man is autistic and literally no one can convince me otherwise. i was sitting in that theater like, he’s my people…anyway i need that. those little slutty grey patches? yeah. that’s some good goddamn fucking food.

also, who knew all the hate i spewed on my chem lecture last semester would come back to bite me hard in the ass writing this. i mean i'm really in my chemistry bag with this one. that and a&p. can you tell i’m a stem major? i know all my professors would be proud.

thank you so much for reading, love you!

[dimlylittorch]

18+ drabble MDNI

just a simon x reader meet cute :3 (3.6k)

My Masterlist🌱

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x neurodivergent!sweetheart!transmasc!reader

(simon is also very neurodivergent coded in this)

He had dated plenty of people before. Surely he had a grasp on this whole relationship thing. He knew the basics- you date, you fight, you make up, etc. Just the natural order of things, right? He always seemed to date people who were like himself. Emotionally closed off, distant, angry. That was until he met you. The complete opposite of him.

He had been standing in the grocery line, watching the cashier swipe everything with a close eye. Wearing a black hoodie and his skull balaclava, he wasn’t exactly welcome in the community- but he had to get food somewhere. When he tries to pay fifty dollars for the bare minimum, he tenses when his card declines. He huffs, pulling out cash instead. His paycheck must not have come through yet. But then he notices he only has twenty five dollars and some change.

Before he can even think about what he should put back, the card reader beeps, making him quickly glance over. You were standing there, a sweet smile on your face as the payment went through. “No worries” you said sweetly, as if you’d bought him something as simple as a soda. His eyes trail over your form, and his brow furrows. Smaller than him. Weaker than him. Yet your smile made something in his chest shift.

As he grabs his bag of groceries he watches you set your own things on the little conveyer belt, chatting with the cashier like nothing had happened. You just paid for his food. Who the hell does that? “Hey” he says gruffly, his voice coming out rougher than he’d meant it to. He sees the cashier shoot him a glare, but you simply look up at him, your head tilted like a puppy.

“Yes sir?” You asked, and once again something in his chest just clicked into place. Sir. You called him sir. The silly little bird had manners. He could tell already- you weren’t scared of him. Not like most people were.

“I want your number.” He replies, but when he hears the cashier scoff, he realizes how it sounds. “To pay you back.” He adds.

You smile up at him, nodding as you continue to go through your basket. “Sure thing” you grinned softly, reaching into your pocket to grab your phone. “Just put your number in while I check out, okay?” You said sweetly.

He paused for a moment, hesitating before taking your unlocked phone. Christ, your lack of survival instincts were starting to get to him. Just letting a strange man who clearly didn’t have much money take your phone? He couldn’t help but hear that little voice in the back of his head. Keep him safe. He really was losing it.

When he got home later that day he put his groceries away, sitting on his couch with a sigh. Much to his displeasure he couldn’t stop thinking about the stupidly sweet guy that paid for his food. And a small while later, he gets a text.

‘Hey! This is the guy from the grocery store. You totally don’t have to pay me back, but I did want to say hi :)’

He stares at the text for a long moment, thinking of what to say. You sounded so genuine. It was unfamiliar.

‘Hi’ he texts back, immediately regretting hitting send and not saying anything else. He rubs his hand over his face, groaning as he tosses his phone aside. You definitely wouldn’t answer now.

But only a few seconds later, he hears the little sound that goes off when someone likes a message. You hearted his message. His message. Fuck, what was wrong with him? He hesitates for a minute before sending something else.

‘Dinner?’

Little did he know you were staring at your phone, practically squealing to yourself alone in your room. The massive and totally cute guy (you just knew he was cute under that mask) from the grocery store asked you to dinner.

‘I was going to ask you the same thing!! But you could totally beat me up lol so I held back. I’d love to :D’

He can’t help but smile a little at your reply, sighing as he thinks about what he’s getting himself into. He couldn’t remember the last time he went on a real date. He was familiar with random hook ups in dirty bar bathrooms, or drunken night outs with strangers that somehow always ended with someone in his bed. He didn’t do polite. He wasn’t a gentleman.

He tries to distract himself, but his mind keeps drifting. As he makes himself fold his laundry his eyes keep shifting to his phone, just waiting for it to light up again with a new notification from you. And finally, he finds himself quickly reaching over to grab it.

‘I didn’t get your name by the way! I’m y/n. It was really nice to meet you today!! and just so you don’t forget who I am, here’s a picture to use for my contact’

He let out a faint breath as his eyes trailed over your message, reading it not once- but twice, just to make sure he didn’t miss anything. Your name. You wanted his name. His heart stutters a bit when he sees the photo you sent him, a selfie with you grinning like the sweet guy you were. Shit, did he have to send a photo now?

It takes a whole ten minutes for him to reply, while the entire time you were left wondering if you’d said the wrong thing. Meanwhile he had been in his bathroom, trying to figure out how to take a selfie that didn’t make him look like crap. Eventually he settles on a mirror picture of him in a black tank top with his balaclava on, keeping one of his hands tucked into his jean pocket. It wasn’t too horrible. At least it showed something so you didn’t think he was a weirdo.

When he replied with a simple ‘Simon.’ and that photo of himself, your eyes widened as you immediately sat up, clicking on the photo and zooming in on the first piece of skin you’ve been able to see. Was it embarrassing? Yeah. But were his arms gorgeous? Definitely. His muscles were bigger than you could’ve guessed from under that baggy hoodie, and it’s safe to say you felt your cheeks heat up at the thought of having dinner with him. In your rush to look closer at the photo, you accidentally hearted the picture. Oh fuck. Now he definitely thinks you’re weird. He sends one photo and you heart it? Jesus Christ.

Simon’s eyes widen when he sees that you hearted his photo, and he freezes. You liked it? You didn’t just like it, you loved it. That definitely made him feel some type of way. A few seconds later he hearts the photo you had sent him, making you breathe a sigh of relief. What you don’t know is that he saved your photo almost instantly, immediately moving over to his photos to prevent any mishaps- and reaching down to unbuckle his belt with one hand, his phone with your face front and center in the other.

He felt like a horrible person. You were so sweet and kind- and here he was, a guy that could absolutely ruin you. He shouldn’t have worded it like that, now he was harder than before. It doesn’t take long for him to shuck his boxers down, licking his palm and grabbing his cock, tugging on it roughly as he groans, eyes locked onto your picture. That smile alone could kill him. Not to mention your body? Fuck, what he wouldn’t give to have you on his lap, keeping him all nice and warm. And the thought of your lips against his.. it was pathetic how quickly he came, his black tank now painted white.

—

It took a few days to arrange dinner, but once the plans were set in stone? He couldn’t stop thinking about backing out. He had been in the military for christ’s sake, and here he was scared of a little date. His social skills had never been the most refined, often opting to keep to himself during his school years. He never got much socialization with people like him- different. The fact that someone had even taken an interest in him still triggered an age old reflex of ‘maybe it’s a joke’.

But normally, he had a good eye for reading people. And you? He didn’t think you’d be the type to be cruel. You seemed more like the type to apologize to a stuffed animal if you dropped it, or buy a stranger’s groceries. Yeah, the complete opposite of him. He wasn’t great with words and was even worse with actions. He was blunt and brutally honest, something most people turned their noses up at. Everyone loved lying. It was the one thing he never could really master.

He had let you pick the restaurant since he didn’t have much of a preference for food. He could eat just about anything, he wasn’t picky considering he had grown use to the taste of MRE’s. And he might as well do what he can now to make you happy to make up for how boring he’ll be in person. You decided on an Italian restaurant, a small little hole in the wall place that he had never been to. As he was trying to decide what to wear, his phone buzzed.

‘Just so you know the restaurant doesn’t have a dress code!! it’s super laid back, I’m friends with most of the staff :)’

You had practically read his mind. He opts to grab a black button down he had, something he hadn’t worn in ages. And then another buzz.

‘Also, what’s your favorite color?’

He stares at the text for a moment, blinking as he processes the question. Favorite color? Was this kindergarten? He thought about it for a minute, contemplating what to say. He couldn’t be boring and say black, right? You probably wanted to hear yellow or something. He sighs, begrudgingly answering.

‘Orange.’

It was a little embarrassing how excited you got when he answered. Most guys blow off that kind of question thinking it’s dumb- or saying they don’t know. But he actually gave you an answer. God, the bar is on the floor, isn’t it?

When he had to go to unfamiliar places he usually showed up early, just to scout out the area. It always made him feel more comfortable in his surroundings. He sits at a booth in a back corner somewhere, just how he likes it. He doesn’t have to worry about someone being behind him, and it helps to ease his mind. Just as he’s glancing around the mostly empty dining area, his eyes widen when they land on you. Sitting by yourself in a booth on the other side of the restaurant.

His head tilted ever so slightly in thought. You must’ve had the exact same idea as him. Get there early, scout out the area- make sure you aren’t late. He hums faintly, opening his phone and calling you. He watches you react to seeing the notification, the slight panic. You probably thought he was canceling - he definitely felt a little bad now. He sees you put the phone to your ear and try to put on an upbeat tone.

“Hey! Everything okay?”

He lets out a faint chuckle, leaning back in his booth. “Didn’t mean ta’ scare ya.” He murmurs. “Look to yer left.”

You quickly glance over to your left, a relieved smile forming on your face when you see him. Hanging up the phone, you grab your bag and quickly walk over, clearly a little embarrassed.

“God, I’m so sorry” you laugh softly. “I can’t believe I didn’t see you. I always try to get to places early.”

He huffs, wondering if he should stand or do something gentlemanly while you sat down. Too late now. “Nah, I just got ‘ere. No worries, dove.” He smiles slightly. “I had tha’ same idea.”

“Well, you know what they say” You chuckle. “Great minds think alike.”

“Wouldn’t call my mind great. But I’ll let ya think that it is.” He murmurs as he picks up his menu.

You have a sweet grin on your face, as if him even being in your presence makes you happy. He has to keep his eyes down on his menu because he’s bloody dumbfounded. Why are you so happy to be here with him?

“Oh! I almost forgot.” You say suddenly, reaching behind you in the booth, pulling out a small orange rose you must have been hiding behind your back. Just to surprise him. “Since you like orange..” you smile shyly, offering it to him across the table.

He stares at the flower for a moment, his mind short circuiting before hesitantly reaching out and taking it. “Ya.. didn’t have ta’ do that.” He murmurs, his eyes shifting to your own for a split moment.

“I’m not very good with words.” You smile, your eyes moving to your own menu. “I just.. wanted you to know I’m really glad you asked me to dinner. I thought that would convey the message pretty well, right?”

He’s quiet for a moment before a small laugh falls from his lips. “Yer a fuckin’ sap.” He teases, setting the rose down next to his keys. “I like it.”

Your smile widens and you laugh with him, the tension in your shoulders fading slightly as you were able to relax more in his presence. “I’m glad somebody does.” You muse. “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind me being a weird hopeless romantic.”

He snorts, shaking his head with amusement. “That’s one of tha’ better kinds of weird ya can be.” He chuckles. “At least ya aren’t a guy who goes around wearin’ a balaclava at all hours of tha’ day.”

“You’re not wearing one now.” You smile. “I must be special.”

He hums, his eyes flitting over your form as he sets his menu down.

“Yer definitely different, I’ll give ya that.” He muses. “I wear it t’a scare people off. Not much of a people person.”

You hum, resting your chin on your hand as he speaks. His voice is so low and soothing. What you wouldn’t give to take him home with you, wrap him up in a blanket- no, nope, stop that line of thinking right now. You don’t take people home after one date. You’d probably freak out anyways if he tried to do anything. You weren’t exactly well versed in hook ups, unlike Simon. God knows what you’d do in that kind of situation.

And of course, there was that steady thrum between your legs that amplified every time he spoke. He was just so attractive. He was big and muscular, covered in scars and tattoos.. exactly your type, much to other people’s surprise. Squeezing your thighs together subtly, you try to focus on his voice, your mind a little hazy. It was embarrassing how desperate you were. But he’s so pretty.

“I don’t do well with people much.” You murmur. Suddenly the waiter walks up and takes your drink orders, and Simon can’t help but raise an eyebrow when he sees how sweet and friendly you are to the waiter, completely contradicting your last statement. You see his expression and laugh softly. “Okay- okay. I’m good at passive interactions. But I’m not good at the long lasting friendships or anything.”

He lets out a small grunt of acknowledgment when the waiter comes back with your drinks, a sharp contradiction to your overly excited thank you. He hums as he takes a sip of his drink, his eyes drifting down your form before he catches himself, his gaze moving down to the table. “Good thing I was lookin’ f’r more than a friendship.” He smirks, his eyes meeting your own.

A shy smile forms on your lips as you meet his gaze. “I’m probably even worse at relationships.” You murmur, sticking a straw in your drink and stirring it mindlessly. The waiter returns after a moment, taking both of your orders before asking how you’d be paying. Together or separate?

You and Simon both automatically say ‘together’ causing you to look at each other a little surprised. The waiter chuckled before leaving you two alone, and you could feel Simon tense slightly at the sudden silence. “I’m paying.” You say softly, reaching into your bag to pull out your wallet.

When you both said together, Simon had wondered if it was a red flag. Were you expecting him to pay for the both of you right off of the bat? But the second he sees you pull out your wallet, he scoffs. “No way, bird.” He mutters as he pulls out a roll of twenties. “Ya bought my groceries. I buy ya dinner.” When he sees you working up to protest, he grabs the rose off of the table and gently taps the petals to your lips, causing you to freeze. “Not a word out a tha’ pretty mouth.” And it would seem the decision was final. “Ya said it yerself, I could beat ya up. Don’t go arguin’ wit’ me now.”

When the petals gently brush against your lips you can’t help but go quiet, your eyes shifting between him and the rose. A heat rose to your cheeks, and you adjust in your seat slightly as he pulls it away. “Fine.” You concede faintly. “You win. Just this once.”

He smirks, bringing the rose to his nose, sniffing it. “Ya said yer probably not good at relationships.” He murmurs. “Why probably? Ya ain’t sure?”

That makes you chuckle a little, your fingers thrumming on the table in thought. “I haven’t had many.. romantic encounters.” You muse, but he could tell there was the slightest bit of melancholy behind your eyes. Hell, he even recognized it. It was like he was looking at himself for a moment. “I was the kid in school that never had a boyfriend or a prom date.”

“Wouldn’t ‘ave guessed.” He murmurs, setting the rose aside. “S’not like yer bad lookin’. I’ve seen plenty ‘a people wit’ an uglier mug than you.” He smiles, making you smile in return.

“At least if you’re unattractive you know what the problem is.” You sigh, taking a sip of your drink. “When no one likes you because of your personality.. how do you even fix that? It’s not like anyone would tell me what they don’t like about me, anyways. I’m always just stuck wondering what I’m doing wrong.”

He’s quiet for a moment, thinking over your words. “I’ve got tha’ same problem.” He mutters. “Except my looks don’t help my case.”

Your eyes shift to scan over his face, your head tilting slightly. “Oh, I don’t know. I think you’re pretty cute.” You murmur, and it makes him pause for a moment. He can tell you’re being honest. That’s what gets to him. You’re not trying to be nice to get anything from him- and you’re not put off by his appearance. Most people usually want him for the muscles, telling him to leave the balaclava on. “Especially your nose.” You smile.

His nose? His crooked, large nose that had been broken time and time again? “What’s there ta’ like?” He scoffs, leaning back in his seat.

Right as he leans back, you sit up, elbows resting on the table. “You have a few freckles on your nose.” You muse. “And I know what you’re thinking. Your nose is crooked.”

He chuckles faintly at your bluntness, shaking his head with amusement. “Nothin’ gets past you, eh?”

You scoff, an undeniable smile curling up on your lips. “I like that it’s crooked.” You clarify, your smile growing wider when you see how he looks a little surprised by your words. “Our bodies are just.. homes. For our souls to live in. I like it when someone’s home looks lived in.” You murmur. “Not when it looks perfect and blends in with everything else.”

He stares at you for a moment, his head tilting slightly. “Ya lied to me, bird.”

Your smile immediately falters, your body becoming more tense. “About what?” You ask.

“Ya said you weren’t good wit’ words.” He smirks. “And then ya say some shit like that. I’m on a date wit’ a fuckin’ poet, christ.” He laughs.

Relaxing almost instantly, you grab a little salt packet and toss it at him. “You scared me!” You grin. “I thought I said something wrong, god. Don’t do that.”

—

The rest of the night went smoothly. Despite them getting Simon’s order wrong the first go around, you managed to keep him entertained long enough for him to not get grumpy. He had to admit, he got pretty flustered (internally, of course) when you started to share your food with him while he waited for his own, even holding the fork up to his mouth for him to try a piece of chicken. The way your smile widened when he said he liked it made his heart flutter, and something shifted inside of him. Damn it. He was locked in now. If he had to let you go- he could already tell it would hurt for weeks, if not months. One night and you’ve left a lasting impression on him. Who knew he could be treated so kindly? By an angel on earth, no less.

[dimlylittorch]

the true elation and dopamine hit I get when I have a friendly random conversation with a stranger in public needs to be studied

[dimlylittorch]

hi hello I am going to be sick

[dimlylittorch]

i have a new obsession you guys

OH MY CLARK!!!😭😭💞💞😍😍

I don't have words to describe what I am feeling. This is THE NERDIEST CLARK we ever got. He literally tumbled out of comics.

[dimlylittorch]

So whoever is patient zero with “he needs to touch people because of his anxiety,” made that shit up for fun and it has gotten way out of hand. He literally has never said that, ever. He said one time to Bella that he puts his hand on his torso because that’s where he feels his anxiety, which had nothing to do with other people. Because actually…these are the things he does when he’s anxious. This is him self soothing.

[dimlylittorch]

this sudden wave of hate against Pedro Pascal is so fucking annoying.

enjoy this somewhat detailed tangent about why it’s dumb⬇️

You shouldn’t put celebs on pedestals, but you’re allowed to say you love a celeb just because they are a good person. You don’t need to meet them, you don’t need to know them. You’re allowed to admire people who are true to themselves and stick up for what’s right.

Like look if it does come out he’s a bad guy? fine, i’ll eat my words. But what i do know as of now is i have never seen a video of a woman be uncomfortable around him.

I don’t know Pedro Pascal and I won’t pretend to. But just going with context clues..

1. He is physically affectionate with male and female costars. And often times they initiate the contact with him, it is not one sided. So the whole narrative of ‘he is only affectionate with his female costars’ is quite literally false.

2. I literally cannot think of a time I’ve heard or seen anything about someone saying he made them uncomfortable. If anything I’ve heard ten times over how sweet he is and how he always tries to make others comfortable, as he understands how shitty it feels to be uncomfortable around others.

3. All of this hate is coming from cisgender men, mainly conservative ones. Right now we live in ‘Trump’s’ America, where power is being stripped away from minorities and hate is becoming even more rampant. Cisgender, and usually white, men are on a power trip knowing that the president cares about them the most, and has no care in the world for people who aren’t his followers.

And what else do we know about these kinds of men? They are racist, homophobic, misogynistic, sexist, transphobic, and so on. They hate people that are different from them. Pedro is a man of color who has openly defended the queer community as well as immigrants who are being attacked by the government. He has openly spoken about these issues, and what are men’s favorite tactics? To yell. To be loud. To be aggressive. They have taken this smear campaign and run with it, saying whatever they can to get Pedro to stop talking.

They’ve noticed how women and minorities love Pedro because he cares about us. He is one of us. People are allowed to think he is in too many films, or that he is overrated. What they are not allowed to do is to make up accusations about a man who has shown no sign of inappropriate behavior towards his costars or anyone else for that matter. These men will do whatever they can to get Pedro’s career trashed, and his reputation tainted. It’s literally disgusting how hateful they are.

4. This hate comes from a place of jealousy. It’s so obvious that the only men hating are incredibly insecure. They wonder why women can’t be that comfortable with and around them, and it’s because they can’t be normal around women. They always have to make things weird, or take things too far. They’re upset that Pedro is setting a standard that consent is a requirement and the foundations for any healthy friendship with a woman, or anyone. So, they go and try to ruin his reputation. ‘Wow, this guy that always seemed like he cared about consent? Yeah, turns out he’s just a creep who never cared at all.’ It’s literally trying to ruin the idea that men can have platonic relationships with women and have healthy contact that isn’t driven by ulterior motives. By going out and ruining a good guys reputation, they think women will have to lower their standards and go crawling back to creeps like them. ‘The bar is too high, women really like this guy because he is emotionally intelligent and kind. If we make him look bad women will further fall into the idea that all men can be bad and not care about consent, so they’ll be more likely to give normal guys like us a chance.’ It’s a very ‘savior’ tactic. ‘A guy who seemed genuine and sweet wasn’t that way at all? Maybe you need a guy who doesn’t act like that, just like me. Guys who are that nice have to be weirdos.’ They’re just trying to make an excuse for not being polite and gentle people, attempting to normalizing their shitty behavior.

5. Men constantly whine about women not caring about their mental health. But the second a man is open about his mental health struggles and finds comfort in other people, he’s bashed and told he’s faking it. ‘If he had anxiety he shouldn’t have been an actor.’ The male loneliness epidemic is not real. Male loneliness is real, but the term ‘male loneliness epidemic’ has heavy connotations by saying that women have caused it. Women having better standards and fighting for their rights does not cause male loneliness. Men treating other men who openly share their struggles like crap causes male loneliness. Women are not responsible for making men feel comfortable, especially since men have never made an effort to make women feel comfortable. If men want people to care about men, they need to look in the mirror and realize they do it to themselves.

6. Men complain about how women label all of them as threats. ‘Why do women assume I’m dangerous?’ and ‘Women are scared of me? I’m scared of being falsely accused.’ Men do not want to be seen as threats to women. Yet, the second a man is incredibly kind and gentle with women, everyone calls him ‘gay’? Or not manly? Do men even realize that the typical standard of being manly involves being aggressive and intimidating? What woman would feel safe around you while constantly being reminded that you could and might attack her. Women have to live in fear for their own safety. Men who make an effort to make women feel comfortable are men like Pedro Pascal. While he may initiate physical contact, he does so in a safe and polite way. He has never just grabbed someone like plenty of other male celebrities have.

7. Men are saying they are outing Pedro as a ‘creep’ to protect women. Why didn’t you guys want to protect women from other male celebrities? Why didn’t you support the MeToo movement? Why do you say women reporting their assaults is attention seeking? Why do you refuse to acknowledge that women deserve to feel safe? ‘If women wanted to be equal so bad, I won’t go to their rescue.’ It was never about protecting women, and it never has been.

8. Pedro has openly supported the queer community, especially trans rights. His sister is trans, and honestly as a trans man myself, his support means the world to me. I don’t often see celebrities so outwardly support us, and with him being such a famous person right now, it counts for a lot. Every single person I’ve found saying Pedro is a creep, is also transphobic. That alone says enough. Any YouTube videos I’ve watched about him being weird? (Because I do care to listen to the other side and give them a chance, I am not a blind supporter of anyone.) Every single channel also had videos that were transphobic, homophobic, anti-feminist, pro trump, etc. It is so incredibly clear that Pedro has a large target on his back for something as simple as supporting human rights.

All in all, I love Pedro Pascal as an actor, and I enjoy seeing him in films and online. I don’t love him in a weird parasocial relationship way, I love him in a ‘I really respect him as a human being’ way. I am not saying all men are bad, Pedro is a great example of that. But I am saying that the men hating are him are very clearly sad people who have nothing better to do with their lives than smear others, and spew bullshit about people who disagree with them. You don’t have to like Pedro Pascal, but you do have to recognize that none of this started until just recently, where J.K. Rowling has probably been fuming over him calling her out for being transphobic, as well as at the same time of him hitting his peak as an actor. He is right in the spotlight, starring in multiple major films, and the center of the public eye. Even if you hate him, it doesn’t give you the right to make false allegations or speculations about him when there is literally nothing other than him and his costars being touchy and friendly with each other.

Which btw even if it was weird for him and Vanessa Kirby to be that close for the last few weeks, you have to remember that in Fantastic 4 they play husband and wife. They are clearly playing it up for the cameras, as that is such a large part of their characters. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were encouraged to act more familiar with each other for the press. He also just seems like an incredibly caring man, so with her being pregnant there is a whole extra layer of wanting to make sure she feels safe and comfortable, as being in the public eye can be a lot.

Sorry for the rant, I just really hate when anyone has stupid accusations made about them for literally no reason. He’s just famous and lovable and people are jealous🤷‍♂️ thanks for reading :3

[dimlylittorch]

to call you mine - series masterlist

Pairing: dbf!joel x reader

MDNI* this series contains mature and explicit themes

How is it that in one simple, fleeting moment, the dynamic with the constant in your life, your dad’s best buddy, old, gruff Joel Miller.. shifts into the most thrilling, turbulent secret you’re forced to keep under wraps?

If only you knew where it was always doomed to lead.

1: kindling

2: upper hand

3: combing through the wreckage

4: something’s got to give

5: broken parts

6: to you, i surrender

7: there it blooms

[dimlylittorch]

hope you don’t mind me joining in!! :3

tag game -- on Pinterest type: aesthetic, character, colour, movie, lyric, and celebrity and post below

thank you @the-californicationist ! sorry for the tardiness. i love these

no pressure tags @gemmahale @gloard @peachesofteal @553580 @stellewriites @ilium-ilia @gildui

[dimlylittorch]

guys i managed to write 1000 words in like an hour and a half, which is the most i’ve written in months.

SELF DELETION IS CANCELLED🗣️🔥‼️

i turned 20 btw :3

[dimlylittorch]

I’ve ended up being on a pretty long hiatus, I am sorry for the abrupt absence!! Not sure if I’ll be writing much in the next couple of weeks, my birthday is this upcoming Saturday, I work a lot the week after that, the week after that I’m going to see if I can get testosterone (YAY), the week after that I’m having my gallbladder out and the week after that school starts😀

Sorry if this is annoying to pop up on your dash, I just wanted to keep you guys in the loop :)

I’ll probably start writing smaller stuff to get myself back into the groove of writing! Most likely some golden retriever reader x black cat [character] as I find it pretty effortless to write about since I enjoy that trope so much

[dimlylittorch]

Hallo! Just popping in to say I love your writing and I hope you’re doing ok ^_^ it sucks to be creatively blocked or have no motivation, very much relatable ):

thank you so much lovely!! I’m doing okay, just a lot going on life wise lol. I’m getting a grasp on myself again, so I think I should be back to writing soon! Writers block is sooo annoying, like I KNOW I have ideas but the WORDS-