ishestillapunk

[ishestillapunk]

Joel and Reader grew old together watching Izzy grow up and become an incredible woman, I don't know what you're talking about

well, it up to interpretation! 💜

[ishestillapunk]

Please tell me you wrote a happy ending for my babies🙏

UHM... I guess it depends on how you see it hehe

[ishestillapunk]

Crashing on the rocks (Finale)

this is a mess of love, lust, and Joel Miller’s terrible timing. read the chapters in any order your heart desires. wanna follow a path? the masterlist has your back.

pairing: jackson!joel x f!reader

summary: Life throws moments at both of you. And he lives through it, beside you.

tags: established relationship, age gap (30s-60s), pregnancy, childbirth, angst/hurt/comfort, arguments, chronic pain, parental anxiety, death mentions, family dynamics, found family, slice of life.

w/c: 2,7k

a/n: Thank you, thank you, thank you.

The world bothered him in a lesser way as he watched your body harbor life. From afar, never touching nor caressing. Afraid of his hands, of them erasing what took years, of hurting something that–again–blessed him with the idea of being worthy of another chance.

You told him. “It’s okay. I want you to touch.”

But he would keep himself away.

Neither would let others touch you. Grabbing wrists firmly before they would reach you, holding his hand up before someone would try to touch your bump.

You tell yourself it’s normal. The past whispers harshly against his nape ever since you told him you’re expecting. He wants to make it right, he doesn’t want to “fail” again. Even if it wasn’t him failing, but life being unfair.

Joel never was the superstitious kind. Popping an umbrella open indoors, walking below a ladder. But now, he would avoid everything that meant a bad omen. He was clear, the first three months were only for you and him, no one else had to know, no one else had to have this seed of hope in mind.

And you, bathed in tenderness, agreed. 

Every once in a while, you would wake up to an empty bed in the middle of the night. Following invisible footprints that sound like a muffled sob. They take you to places around the house, to parts that become shelter in the dark pitch that comes before sunrise, where he finds a place to become, once again, that young man. Who lost, who never allowed himself to pour a tear between his palms.

You see him, hunched. Below the stairs. In a corner of the empty bedroom that will become someone’s world to dream in. Far away in the backyard, by and below the tree that seems to caress him with its darkened shade. A form that trembles by memories, by fears that threaten, by a cry he wasn’t able to lull, by dull eyes he promised himself to keep bright and shiny like the first time he saw them.

You hear him whisper. Curse. But also, forgive. Time, doom, himself. 

Because he can’t carry that man anymore, not to this new light, not to the one who is choosing him—again—from inside your body. 

And as he faces his fears, you see yourself having to too in your court.

You see danger in normality, in routine. You see evil in people you never did. And every time that strange cold runs through you, your hands hover over your bump as you stare into the emptiness of the air. Thinking.

You never loved anything like you love this.

You never feared like you fear now.

“Well, it seems like we hav’ a little butterfly here, coming to the world.” The woman says, while pressing and sliding the probe over the gel on your belly. The restored machine showing you the black and white giggly image.

You were entering the 22nd week and you were hopeful that, finally, the obstetrician would have more clarity to tell you and Joel which sex the baby was. 

But the way she said it, it knocked the air out of both of you. 

A little butterfly.

As if this butterfly knew, very deeply, she was being expected from a long time ago.

You saw Joel blink some tears and press his fist over his lips, pretending to clear his throat while he’d stare at the screen and place a hand over yours on the stretcher. 

You allowed yourself to think that this was a miracle.

Pink pieces, small dresses, bows, princess books. Every gift was carefully placed in its respective corners, slowly making the bedroom for your child. Joel spent a whole week postponing duties to finish the crib in his workshop, also carving other toys. Like small horses and wooden trains.

He would stare at them once finished, and he would tear up.

When you found out you were carrying, using all the methods the doctor told you to use when you started going to appointments every Thursday, the world stopped when the words slipped out of your mouth.

“I’m pregnant.”

You heard the dish, that he was rinsing, crash into the sink against the dirty cutlery. It was after a quiet dinner with María, Tommy, Ellie, and Dina. Everyone and this small piece of life, that for this small moment, was a secret between you and your organs that you kept for the long time of seven days and half a Wednesday.

It was sweet, during all that week. Sweet and utterly disarming.

You would take walks alone by the river. River that now looked different, walking sidewalks that now felt like clouds, passing by stores that felt like mirrors that showed your new self. A mother. Who cares, loves, and protects.

It felt like coming to a new house, knowing it was about to slowly become a home. It felt like when you saw Joel the first morning after the weeding. Scary, blooming, and honey-like. It felt like something you tried long to detach yourself from, but the world kept turning you back around to it. 

Because you just had to wait.

“I don’t like when you joke” Joel rasped, with a hope in his pupils, and that he tried to mask with the weakest of the angers in his collection.

“Did I ever joke about this?”

The silence became that moment held after the last note of a song you know from memory. Became the page before the last of your favorite book. The good news after the storm.

The wave crashing against the rocks. 

Joel walked towards you in a way that seemed like he was about to fold in the middle of the way and crack into pieces. But he reaches, pulls you into a hug, and lets out a broken sob that came from somewhere deep you hadn’t had reached until that very moment. 

The hug was long, like it’s the breath he takes before stepping inside the house after a long day, like the moment you spend contemplating him while he sleeps and before he wakes, like the baths he likes to have with you once a month. 

And as the time passed, the first of every month with you growing and growing fuller, was enough reason to celebrate. That it's still here, that that butterfly still chooses you two.

There were moments. Quiet ones. Ones where his pupils would slide away from his tasks. Land on you. Chase you around, trying to figure you out, trying to describe to himself and that small part in his mind, that you’re his. That this moment, this precious moment, has chosen him. And he lets himself linger in the way you blouse hugs what’s yours and his. Lets himself stare at the way your ankles swell and your bare feet rest against the grass, how your breasts prepare to nurture and feed the angel you both had been expecting for so long, the way your hand rests against your back, how your lungs chase another breath, how your organs move and sacrifice every little space in you to fit her. Isabellae.

“She said it,” Joel says once you came into the living room after he called you. Well, screamed for you to come. He was bouncing a small eleven months old Isabellae over his thigh while the baby girl would touch his cheeks and giggle.

“Said what?”

“Mama, she said mama.” Joel turns to you with the widest smile you ever saw on him.

The image ruined you. And you had to first stop yourself there and drive back into your mind, very, very back into your memories. When you first saw him lull Izzy to sleep, taking a fuzzy red colored bundle that wouldn’t stop crying from your arms. And just like magic, as if the baby knew, she fell asleep.

Or these long nights where you were able to have glimpses of that twenty something Joel. The one who held his babygirl in arms for hours and hours, not having an idea of anything, crying while putting her to sleep, out of stress and helplessness, shushing her to calm her heart while his was broken and weak.

And now, backlit by the moonlight coming through the window, you would stare from bed. Swaying slow, humming low, an old song that seemed to slowly bloom in droplets over his memory, feeding Izzy a bottle he warmed up downstairs on the stove.

“Tell mama there ain’t a thing to cry fo’” Joel says, with a soft smirk while carrying Izzy over his hip. Isabellae presses her small hands against your cheeks, over your tears when he holds her in front of you.

You just step forward, hugging Joel, both sandwiching Isabellae who lets out a contagious and bubbly laugh between her asymmetrical teeth. 

Arguments were now muffled, hiding in the laundry room or the bathroom, avoiding insults, playing dumb if Isabellae came into the room with her baby–walker. But the first one wasn’t as controlled as the others are now.

“I didn’t say it like that. You’re just… Sensitive lately.”

You whirled around with Isabellae attached to your breast while holding her in arms.

“Sensitive? Are you fucking joking?” You frowned, barking. “I’m tired, Joel. Tired.”

“Don’t say it as if I ain’t tryin’ to help” Joel cocks his head and steps forward.

“I didn’t say that! I literally never said that!” You walk around the counter towards him, your eyes staring a hole into his head. Your eyes were injected with anger that bubbled from exhaustion and other problems that had nothing to do with Joel, but his way of twisting everything wasn’t helping. “You think I plan for the baby to only want to be with me? No! She wants to be with her mom because… Because babies are fucking like that!”

“No, they ain’t.” Joel says it with a murmur of who knows. You take a breath, closing your eyes. “I raised a fuckin’ baby all by m’self before you even knew anythin’ ‘bout how to change your own damn diapers.”

Isabellae started to cry. Loud and raw. You held his gaze, and slowly he came down from the anger that he also let grow.

“I’m sorry,” You said while shushing Isabellae and looking at him over your shoulder. You tried to find the way to breastfeed Izzy again without her letting your breast go to keep crying. Then Joel came, walking around you and cradling the baby’s head to guide her back, finally both of you watching her latch with her closed eyes.

“No, ‘m sorry.” Joel pressed a kiss to your lips after tipping your chin up with his fingers. 

The world found its rhythm. Into your home and into your bodies. Joel retired, finally. Not completely, doing one every once and then to keep touch with the world that was always part of him and make his protective side feel sated. But at least, there’s no more nights awake hoping for him to come back home, for God to let him get back. But he kept working at the council, doing what his hands carried with comfort and ease. Planning and construction.

Tommy would keep him away from carrying heavy stuff. “Keep them knees f’ the little princess back home.” He would say. Joel would just grunt and shake his head.

He would listen to every ramble of his little girl. He would smirk, watching from the porch while Ellie would give Izzy a piggyback ride. He would read and read all the children’s books you would bring from the library for Izzy’s bedtime.

And he would, again, fear time.

“I can’t move” Joel murmured.

“How come?” You turned around in bed. It was early in the morning but he was just about to go to the bathroom to then come back, as usual.

“I… It hurts. Too much.” Joel tries to stand up again. Hand flat on the mattress, pushing himself up. Then, a harsh hiss and a wince. 

“Hey, hey. Okay, take it easy.” You move near him, quickly. Blanket twisting around one of your legs, knee biting down against the edge of the mattress. Your hand slides over his back.

“Love…” Joel turns his head towards you, and you hate him. For being a human, for being immortal. For being part of the cycle of nature. The white caressing his temples and part of his beard, the age spots over his skin, the weakness below his eyes. And he looks like a man who remembers he was once a boy who thought the world was immense and feared him.

But now, he fears it.

“It’s okay” You nod. “Let me help you.” 

Vitamins became a thing, also morning stretching. Living with a light limp. Isabellae would crawl over his lap and he would wince but he’d be silent, holding her in a hug. Walking her every morning to school and taking it as a little bit more exercise, which meant not letting the body go cold so it hurts less.

That morning, you woke up to Joel dressed with winter clothes. You frowned, sitting up.

“Where you goin’ so early?” You asked, raspy with sleep. Joel approached your side, sitting on the edge.

“‘m gonna do a little run with Dina. Jus’ up the hill and back,” Joel cradles the side of your face and kisses your forehead, the way that says ‘don’t make a scene’. “Kid needs training. I’ll teach her a few things and I’ll be back home.”

“Joel…” You said in a warn, hand going to his hip as he’s sitting beside you. “You keep getting those sudden twinges…”

“I know. But I promise I’ll be back.”

You stare at him. Joel stares at you.

And like you always did, you trust him.

“I love you,” Joel says, leaning to kiss you, slowly. With no pain, no desperation, no heat. Just love. His ring brushes against your cheekbone. “I’ll be back.”

And you remember. All of it. The letters, the wooden rings, the slap in the alley, the pain, the love, the arguments, the tears, the fear, the divorce and coming back to him, his eyes when he held Izzy for the first time, his eyes when he saw you in the barn, his eyes when you'd get angry at him but choose him again.

And it was all worth it.

“You think he’ll get them up there?” Isabellae gets up and wipes her knees. You place your hand over her hair while looking at the coffee beans over the dirt, near the flowers and you nod. You nod.

“I bet he will find a way.”

The end.

Hey. I don't really know how many people read and has followed Crashing on the rocks, but I want to tell you a few things. First of all, I'm crying as I write this, lol.

I never imagined to love to write a book so much, I never imagined I could love a couple in my head so much, and I never imagined that there would be people rooting for this. And I genuinely, with a hand over my heart, I want to say thank you. Because I know that, maybe, many of you don't even begin to imagine how important for writers is to receive a like or a comment.

And I felt so seen.

I don't want to get too emotional neither come off as sensitive (which I am) but I just wanted to thank you every person who have read Crashing on the Rocks. For everyone who thought about them enough to send a message or leave an anon. For everyone who reblogged and made me get more and more far.

Tonight, here, in my room. I'm happy and grateful.

Keep loving fanfiction, keep supporting writing. And keep reading, always read.

Desiré.

[ishestillapunk]

I HAVE CRASHING ON THE ROCKS FINALE. I CAN'T SAY ANYTHING, I JUST CRIED.

[ishestillapunk]

*tears rolling down my cheeks as i read crashing on the rocks over and over again*

oooOOOH LOVE TT thanks for reading, really. thank u, thank u, thank u!

[ishestillapunk]

thank you for updating crashing on the rocks😭😭 such a good series i love so much

omg, thank U for reading, babyyyy. It makes me so happy that there's people who loves the series so much because these two are so important for me TT <3

[ishestillapunk]

you guys remember this baby...? 💜🙂‍↔️

The right side of my neck MASTERLIST

PART 1 summary: You never meant to end up alone with the patroller, but two nights, snowed in between silence and shared space, leave you both with a bond too fragile to name and very dangerous to keep.

PART 2 summary: After a vulnerable night on patrol with Joel, you both try to pretend nothing happened, but silence is unbearable.

PART 3 summary: Joel and you thought you would be in the same page when you two got into this, now, two months into a relationship, things aren't what you expected.

PART 4 summary: A lazy summer day in Jackson, in your domestic life with Joel.

[ishestillapunk]

Crashing on the rocks

this is a mess of love, lust, and Joel Miller’s terrible timing. read the chapters in any order your heart (or hormones) desires. wanna follow a path? the masterlist has your back.

pairing: jackson!joel x f!reader

summary: When you get used to fire, every burn feels like a caress.

tags: established relationship, age gap (30s-50s), angst, arguing, morally grey joel, childhood trauma, emotional dependency, relationship issues, fear of abandonment, rough kissing, dry humping, grinding, unprotected p in v, dirty talk, crying during sex, holding back until he doesn't give a fuck, then he does (lol)

w/c: 2,7k

a/n: yeah, maybe he is a red flag 😔

There is something you always heard about marriage when you were little. Young enough to sit at the table while your mom and aunties talked about their husbands, laughing about how there was never enough in the fridge for them to be satisfied. And now, you wonder if the fridge was what they were actually talking about.

Your mom wasn’t the brightest. Not stupid, no, but you often wonder if she ever truly knew what your dad thought about her. The kind of attitude everyone could see and notice, but she would athletically swerve to lay by his side every night and keep the ring on her slim finger.

It was subtle, the first years. Less kisses around the house. Less coffee mugs shared. Then, holidays slowly began to fade into a habit that was only there because you were young and you needed to see the world. After that, dad would sleep on the couch because the mattress it’s the one to blame, and mom started sleeping in late, only because she was too tired lately.

You watched them drifting apart.

After the outbreak, and the only one holding your last name alive in the world was you, thinking about marriage was a worry swept away by the waves and overshadowed by a sea of more important things.

Soon enough, Joel came along.

Once the two of you started something real and the world settled into a rhythm, you found yourself still getting the  belonging to someone worry as it came back.

If he came to want to marry me, will we end up sad and broken like my parents?

Drifting apart?

But another thought would press behind that one, pushing further: If you and him were already sad and broken from the start, after the world put you two through hell, maybe your future was different. Right? As if changing spots in the equation of destiny could change the terrible doom of your mother’s of being yours too.

She would kill you if she knew what you thought about her. As a wife.

But she’s not around anymore. For a long time she hasn’t.

“What’re you doin’?”

You crane your neck toward his voice. Joel is standing at the doorway of the room while you sit at your desk, trying to spill the words into your journal. But you just couldn’t.

His eyes flick from your face to the pages. Notices the imprint of ink on the edges of the yellowish pages and the side of your hands. He knows you never stopped writing those letters, but he stopped looking for them. He can’t drag you away from your fears just like you can’t drag him away from his. 

After all, those are some pains one seems to like to hurt. 

“Writing.”

“You been in here near three hours.”

“I know.”

Joel walks into the room, heavy steps dragging his boots over the floor as if hesitating into entering your space or keeping himself out of it like a shadow lurking. Once he stands beside you, his eyes drop on the scribbled cursive and jotted phrases like doodles of a child. 

Your hand shutting the journal doesn’t startle him but makes him look at you with tiredness.

“Did I do something?”

It’s always that question. Or its synonyms.

Did I do something?

Are you mad at me?

What should I apologize for now?

Never actually recognizing whatever he had done. Strong believer of what is done, is done.

His eyes read you like someone who knows loneliness and the way it looks in a body. Like a junkie clocking blown pupils. He knows you’ve been feeling like this way long before meeting him, and everyone does. But maybe you do since before any kind of apocalypse happened, before losing those who were always around.

Like a grief you’ve been doing for yourself—since always.

And he sometimes doesn’t know what to do.

“No… No. Just, I’ve…” You sigh. Elbows pressing over the journal, hands dragging down your face. “I’ve been going through something weird lately, like…” You shrug, looking out the window in front of the desk. 

“The flu?”

Your eyes tilt to the side, land on his flannel, then drag upwards to his face. 

“Yeah, maybe it's just the flu.” You stand up and place a hand on his stomach. “I’ll lay down. I need a nap.”

Joel follows with his eyes as you make your way out of the room to the hall. His gaze slides down your slightly hunched shoulders and the hand pressing on your lower back, like you're holding all the structure of yourself up until you can collapse on the mattress.

When the springs whine below your body, he stands by the door again. His hand rests on the wooden frame while he watches you slide the covers over you, nestled. 

“Looks cozy,” Joel says below his breath, like a murmur he doesn't mean you to hear. The distance closes as he sits heavily on the edge of the mattress on your side and his hand lands over your hip, caressing the blanket that covers you.

“I need you to talk to me, you know? I ain't no wizard” Joel slides his hand up and caresses your hair off your profile.

“Wizard?”

“I can't read your mind, darlin'. That's what I mean.” Joel slid his hand back to your waist. “If something's churnin’ up in that head, I wanna know.”

“Why have you been getting into bed after I fall asleep?” You ask, looking into his eyes. You shift up right, blankets pooling at your lap. “Why do you leave before I wake up?”

“Work's been heavier.”

“You always say that.”

“And we always end up fightin’ about the same damn thing.”

Silence.

Joel's eyes drag down your face, lingering on your mouth. How long has it been since he ripped a good kiss out of your lips? How long has it been since he tore a raw moan from your throat that wasn't soaked in sadness or pain?

He's been thinking too much about it. About how all he has done lately was giving you pain and wonders.

As if he didn't know any better.

“Maybe we end up having the same argument one and over again because we never wrap our minds around it.” It's your breathy whisper that holds back some small resentment that makes him look back into your eyes.

“Sometimes there's stuff that has no answer. And it stays like that.” Joel answers, almost like an order for you to cut it. To drop it.

“So you just avoid me. Like I’m some damn virus.”

“I ain't avoiding you. Am I sittin’ here now, or not?” Joel gestures between you both.

You shove the blankets off of you sharply, the grey fabric snapping against him briefly and he follows you with his gaze out of the room.

He always finds his way to turn the argument inside out and make you look like the one who's digging too much into it. Who's reading what's not yet written. And maybe you do. Maybe you don't. But how can you tell your mind there's nothing to fear when it can't tell the difference in being held and being throttled? 

You're wreck. Just like he is. And sometimes memory whips lashes against your back, making you stand alert.

Later that week, you eventually let go of that behavior triggered by old ghosts. Joel found himself moving his schedule to fit your traumas and get into bed at the same time as you to not feed more fears into your ideas.

He could feel it in the way you kept your hand over his arm while asleep that it was deep rotted in you.

You felt the abandonment breathing down on your neck.

You would wake up every morning seeing the face of your mother in your expression, like a canvas hanging from the tired lines in your skin. And you try for him to see something different, something that might call him back to you.

But nothing worked.

Says nothing when he notices the lipstick you wore. Gave you a quick look up and down, briefly, when you wear a sundress or something tighter than usual. Doesn't comment on the new scent you bought at the market to wear as a perfume.

You felt in a skin you tried for years not to wear.

The ring itched.

So did the absence of his heat.

“There's nothing to fear, okay? I'll be back in a blink”

“It's too far. Please, tell Jesse to choose someone else, Joel.” You hold his arm tightly against you while Joel aims to get out of bed.

The day before, he came home with the notice of being sent away for a weeklong expedition, way beyond Colter Bay which is the usual route.

“We need to do this trip, darlin'. We have to know how things are holdin’ up past the lake.” Joel grabs your hand firmly, trying to peel you away from him. But you hold tight. “Just two days, I promise.”

“Two days? Joel, you think I'm stupid?” You yank him back with a harsh tug. “Two days it's what'll take you to get to Yellowstone, if you're lucky enough to not be met with any mishap in the way, then you'll want a whole day to inspect, and then two days or more to get back here.”

Silence.

“Maybe.”

Maybe? Maybe?

“Not maybe. I'm right. It's too risky, especially with the weather we've been having” You grab him by the bicep over his flannel. “Joel, please”

“Stop.”

You instantly let go of his arm and lay back down.

“You've been too anxious lately. I don't know what's going through your head but…” His jaw ticks. The gears in his head turning. “I'm not your dad. I ain’t trying to hurt you.”

“No, you're more like my mom's husband. My dad was completely different with me” You mumble into the pillow.

You hear a sigh coming from him.

“I don't understand you. I never do.” He drags his hand down his face, scratching at his stubble. “You keep everything locked, then you expect me to guess, then you push me away and then, you're all over me.”

You turn your head over the pillow, looking at him.

“Why don't you… Seize the fact that you'll be alone for a few days?” Joel reaches and caresses your back, his hand patting your ass gently over the blanket.

“I don't want you gone.”

“You do. You have been so… Messy and… Confusing…” Joel frowns trying to figure his words out. “Maybe you need time to… Get everything in place.”

“Stop making excuses to leave me alone again.”

And he knows you're right. That he's locking himself away. That there’s something he won’t say out loud.

“I'll be back,” Joel squeezes your shoulder blade, leans and kisses your temple. Then, he gets up from bed, taking his backpack from over the vanity and leaving the room.

You hear him down the stairs. Steps that whine below his departure. House that breathes his scent before he leaves. 

Hinges creaking. Cans rattling as he takes what he needs. Screen door opening, snapping closed. Then he's gone.

You bury your face in his pillow, breathing deep in the musky scent of his being imprinted on the worn case. The dustiness of his aroma that no shower seems to take away. Your hand drifts into the warm dent his body pressed into the mattress, the ghost of him that’ll sleep beside you for days to come.

Dampness.

You wet his pillow with tears. Angry tears, because you feel like a child. Helpless, because you feel like your mom. Anguished, because you can't escape being the one who waits, who receives whatever is thrown her way. Whether it be fullness or scarce bites.

Creaks. Hinges. Rust. Clack. Tap.

Joel's hand skims over your back and turns you over by pushing your shoulder. His mouth finds yours before you're even allowed to blink tears again. His cheeks get damp just like his lips are getting wet against yours.

Your hand grasps around his shoulder, nails digging onto the rough trucker jacket. His knees sink on the mattress, denim biting down onto the springs that whine below the two of you. Joel's hand squeezes the back of your thigh, hoisting it over his hip and finally crowding you whole with his form. 

It's teeth and tongue, it's hunger barely kept. Holding you open and pressing himself against your inner thigh. Fly brushing the thin cloth that covers you.

You rise against him, chest to chest, his hands shrug his jacket off while your hands comb through his hair. Then, those same rough hands are brushing over your body while he keeps kissing you. 

Because he has no intention of letting you breathe.

Joel sucks your bottom lip, bites down soft enough to make your brow pinch, then licks over it and slips inside to taste you. You push at his chest, desperate for air, but he only catches your wrists and wraps your arms back around his neck.

“Don't…” Joel husks against your lips. You breathe open mouthed while he sucks your lower lip gently. Moans start to bubble in the lower part of your throat when you feel him start to grind slowly, already showing how he will be filling you in a few minutes.

“Tell Jesse you're… Sick…” You whisper pushing yourself up over your elbows, mouth still pressed against his while he breathes against you and starts undoing his belt with heavy grunts that tell you just how horny your pleas are making him. 

“He'll know I stayed in just to fuck…” Joel rasps into your mouth.

“Then don't stay just to fuck…” Your hands run up his soft stomach under the flannel while he shoves his denims down but keeps his boxers up. “Stay and we can… Talk…”

“We call it talkin’ now?” He chuckles, raw and low, making your spine melt as he pushes you back against the mattress, hands hook around over your thighs, sliding you over the covers against him. He keeps your thighs open, one hand rucks your shirt up over your breasts and the other holds your hip.

“Jesse always takes the ones with the most to lose” You whisper, looking at him while he looks between your bodies, about to press himself against you.

Joel's eyes snap up.

“That's selfish” 

“I'm selfish when it comes to you.”

His mouth finds yours again, slower this time, one arm wrapping your waist, the other cupping your jaw, thumb coaxing your lips apart. His hard length strains against you, rutting through your soaked panties.

A shaky sob slips out against his mouth and he seems to tighten his hold on you, pressing himself firmer, rubbing in a torturous pace. 

“You can't get this wet from just grindin’…” Joel husks against your cheek. His hand moves from your cheek to the back of your head, pressing your forehead against his while his hips start to undulate into you through your panties.

“Fuck… Joel, don't stop…” 

His mouth lowers to suck wet marks around your breasts, groaning against your nipple. “You're fuckin’ ruinin’ me…”

The sheets cry beneath you both. Your back arches when his hand slides between you, rubbing your clit through the fabric until your crying out into his kiss, barely keeping up with it. Messy with spit.

“Joel… Joel, stay…” You whisper again.

“You'll have this to remember me” He whispers, tugging the soaked cloth to the side, wrapping his fist around himself, rubbing the head through your slick lips before pushing inside.

Everything goes quiet.

Your bodies meet with slow thrusts. His slick skin meets yours. The bed creaks. Your mouth hangs open over his shoulder. Eyes shut tight. His face is buried in your neck.

Finally, the sound that was clawing at your chest to get out, slides in a symphony of melted moans. Breathy, cracked. These are met with his groans against the crook of your neck and a last huff with the sensation of his stomach contracting against yours while he fills you.

Joel feels how you pulse around him. How you slide around him while he's still nestled inside.

After what feels like eternity, a harsh knock on the door makes him tear himself away from you, tucking himself back and fixing his clothes.

Joel leans back over you and smooches your lips.

“I'll be back. I promise.”

And as you lay, staring up at the ceiling, you think: He came back, he took, he finished and he left—

After which was his last attempt at being what you most needed.

Can I tell you a secret? We're near the end................ AAAAAAAA ><

[ishestillapunk]

obsessed with cain’s curse😭😭 pls post more chapterss

me when Cain's Curse receives love:

[ishestillapunk]

Cain's Curse

series masterlist pairing: jackson!(dbf?)joel x f!reader summary: As Joel's presence lurks as a threatening revival of the past, other fears bubble beneath the surface and the fragile peace you've kept so far, is about to plummet. tags: SLOW BURN, SLOW LIKE A DAMN SNAIL, age gap (30-50), childhood trauma, emotional distress, implied family loss, anxiety, flashbacks, self deprecation, PTSD, grief, domestic violence, parental neglect, mental health struggles, babies, w/c: 6,2k a/n: the next chapter will be uploaded once this one is near 100 likes!

Your father’s image floats in the air with the mess Joel brought back by appearing out of nowhere. The weather seemed to perceive your inner turmoil and began to mock it quickly. The wind picked up as the sun faded, and the townsfolk were already packed in their homes, but you weren’t. You suddenly forgot where your home was and where you were at all.

A metallic tang filled your mouth as the memories flooded back.

“Fuck... No, not again..” You whisper harshly.

The wind was deafening, whistling loudly blowing on your face, making the snow lift and the little you could see in the dark, was now covered by a cold fog of white. The aggressive chill triggers memories of long nights in the wild, sleeping in abandoned places or caves, hoping God to not let you die in your sleep.

Whether by winter or by evil.

But it wasn’t you the one who died.

Your father’s face flashes across your mind and you wince as if you’d just been stabbed between your ribs. Then, after that, you enter a trance from which you get out God knows how long after.

You’ve been walking for what seems to have been hours. Your boots are slightly damp, your skin on the edge of becoming numb.

The town is pretty silent at this hour, even more in winter. Some patrollers are seen around on their horses, also small pockets of people that come out of Tipsy Bison after a late night drink to help the sleep to come faster and ignore the memories.

You hear the soft grunts of a horse and the taps over the snow. Someone's following. You turn around. 

“Ma’am?” You hear behind your back. “Hell, you alright?”

Maria’s husband.

“Yeah. I’m just trying to make it to Moose Street” You answer, barely looking up at the man on the horse. He frowns lightly.

“That's almost past the aven-”

“The avenue, I know.”

“I can give you a lift. You look like you’re about to freeze, ma’am. You’ll get sick” Patrollers do that all the time. Like a taxi service. Mostly in winter.

“It’s okay, I walk fast” You say as you start to walk. You hear the horse walking again, heavy. You turn around. “You can keep patrolling”

He sighs, but you keep walking. 

Then, he says your name, making you stop. Your shoulders tense.

“Yeah, that face seemed familiar…” He hops down of the animal, “Maria would throttle me if she knew I’m letting you go home walking with this cold.” And gestures to you to approach.

When you notice he recognized you because of María, your body relaxes a bit.

“I’m okay”

“Yeah, I ain’t asking. C’mon, I’ll help ya up”

He doesn’t seem to have the intention of leaving and if you keep walking, he sure will keep following until you make it home. While you’re staring and thinking about how to escape the situation, he approaches with his horse and his hands wrap around your midriff, lifting you and sitting you on the horse. 

“So, Moose Street” He says with a half smile and gets on the horse. All he gets from you is silence and that makes him chuckle. “I’m Tommy”

“I know”

It’s not a surprise that he doesn’t remember you. Tommy was rarely home when you and your dad dropped by Joel’s. He was usually out handling house calls for the small construction business he ran with his brother.

You do remember him. You always remember everyone.

Your hands landed on his shoulders when the horse suddenly started walking.

“Yeah, hold tight. He’s ain’t really used to carrying people, yet. This is his first time in the field of being a good boy. Right, Snowflake?” He petted the neck of the massive animal and the horse just grunt again. 

The silence invades again while he takes you home. You just look around in silence.

“So, do you like the group? What’dya do?” He says after a few minutes.

“Yes. Volunteering.”

“Ain’t it all volunteering?”

“I’m only on the church side. Not the orphanage”

Tommy nods. His hands hold the reins in his gloved hands while he looks around, the wheels in his head turning, trying to think how to swim a conversation with a woman this quiet.

“It’s kind of good that you aren’t on that side of the group, tho” He looked briefly over his shoulder. “María always says that Madeleine can be a bit of a headache”

“I don’t know who Madeleine is”

Tommy snorts softly. “Mhm. Better that way. She’s kind of a grouchy rusty director, but there are all kinds of women, right? María loves you all, that group has given her nothing else than a sense of belonging.”

“Guess we all feel the same”

“Yeah. Women get that feeling easily among other women, isn’t it?”

Silence.

He notices you don’t intend on answering that.

“So, next Sunday I will be doing a small gathering at home for her birth-”

“Thelma told me”

“So you’re coming?” He asks over his shoulder. “We'll be making a small barbecue with my brother, there will be cake, for sure.”

Silence.

“Maybe. I need to get Maria a gift” 

“There’s no need. Your presence is enough.”

You just stare at his profile and then you notice the horse is walking past your house.

“Here.”

Tommy pulls the reins slightly, making Snowflake stop.

“We’ll be waiting for you” He gives a small smile while helping you down the horse.

“Thanks for the lift.” You just murmur and walk inside your house.

Every time your mom had the opportunity to disappear for a while, she would take it in a heartbeat. That meant you passing a weekend or a whole week alone with your father being his punchbag.

It was your eighteenth birthday. The air smelled like dead leaves, wet dirt and humidity from your kitchen where your dad stands in front of the stove, whipping pancakes while holding a cigarette between his lips.

“Is mom coming?” You ask while staring at his back.

“Hope not. That whore better not even show up to say congratulations. I'll kick her fucking ass to the street” William drop the oily pancakes on a plastic plate and walks across the kitchen to drop it in front of you over the round table.

“Eat” He set down the honey jar beside your plate and plop down on a chair across from you.

You don't even look at the greasy pancakes. Your eyes on the door.

“She won't be coming, kid. She surely is very busy giving head to someone to worry and come for her daughter's birthday” He shakes his head. A dry scoff on his lips while he stares at the news on the TV.

You do your best to ignore whatever thing he says. To not let him blur your mom's figure in your blooming and on–the–edge–to–wreck mind.

His eyes fix on the screen when the sports news starts. Some NFL match that same night. His eyes light with dirty excitement. You notice your day about to become just another American Football night.

“I was thinking that I would really like to go to Wendy's. Maybe have an ice cream. Right? Blueberr—”

“Shut up for a second” He raises his hand while pressing buttons on the small Nokia Ericsson. He smiles, chuckles at some message. Then get his phone back in his denim pocket.

“Get a coat. We're going to Joel's” 

Your hands fist over your thighs. A sudden rage bubbles in the back of your throat, being instantly triggered by William not even turning to look at you or ask you if you wanted to go in the first place.

“Go alone, I’ll stay here.” You say, barely controlling the angry quiver in your tone. Your dad turns his head over his shoulder slowly and looks at you with a raised brow.

“Excuse me, did I fucking ask?” The tone is low. Red zone. You’re stepping into the red zone.

So you step back.

The road is a cabin filled with some old Springsteen song and your dad mumbling the lyrics while turning the wheel to park on Joel's driveway. You almost hated that place ever since your dad started talking to this Joel guy that same year. It felt too away from your usual world, a place where you had to pretend that everything was alright and that your dad wasn’t a piece of shit.

Barbecues at Joel's would always start early. Mostly at eleven am to finally eat at three or four pm while waiting for the match to start at seven pm. It was never fun. You would spend the whole afternoon sitting at the front steps while picking at the few flowers around Miller's porch or watching Sarah ride that bike you never had enough courage to ask her to let you ride.

She's a curly haired happy kid. A kid that is a normal kid. You envy her a bit. You barely knew her but enough to know and notice that she has a normal life.

She doesn't have a mom. Never knew what happened. But his dad really loved her. Never makes comments about her appearance, always puts a plate for dinner over her table and probably tuck her to sleep.

“Sarah. We're going to the store real quick. Care to stay inside until we get back, darlin'?” Joel stands behind you. Hands on his hips, strong accent and protective gaze aimed to his daughter.

“Can I come with you?” She asks while going up the sidewalk. Joel shakes his head no.

“We'll be quick. Stay inside with your friend, she’ll take care of you, right?” He gives Sarah a small reassuring smile and looks down at your sitting position on the steps. “You okay, kid?”

“It's my birthday” It's a stupid answer. Even you know that. But it's all that your mind finds to answer.

Joel raises his brows and looks around. Then he looks behind inside the house where William is grabbing his coat and wallet, ready to go for beers and cigarettes. He turns back to you. Joel looks down at you. There is something similar to pity in his eyes. The few times he talks to you and you answer, the next thing that comes is that gaze. The ‘I’m sorry’ gaze.

“Get inside, kid.” Your dad finally steps out and gestures to you at the house. You just stand up and walk back inside with Sarah behind.

His house smells like coffee and something similar to sawdust. It’s normal and sickeningly comfortable. It made your skin crawl. How come there’s people having this normalcy when you are doomed to humidity and mold specs?

You never say much to other kids. Not even to other people, no matter the age. You know it's boring to hear you speak, boring to be around you, so you never expect anything else than to sit and stare.

Sarah rummages through the DVD boxes on the TV rack while humming some cheesy song you heard some days ago at the radio while your dad was dropping you off at school. Then, she lifts a movie box in her hand.

“This is my dad's favorite. Ever watched it?” Sarah smiles looking at it. Curtis and Viper. 

“Never heard of it” You mutter.

“It's pretty cool. Secret agents against crime” She jimmy lightly in her place trying to seem fun. You just stare at her. She bites her cheek and just places the movie back in place.

“You alright?” Sarah asks when she comes to sit beside you on the couch. You just look down at your muddy converse beside her shiny ones.

“I try” You answer.

“How come try?”

“It's my birthday, but my dad decided to come over for football instead” That was actually just the surface of everything else. If were to tell the girl everything that has been happening to you, surely she would look at you with the same stare her dad gives you.

Sarah frowns and suddenly seems like she doesn’t know what to say. Of course not. That’s a reality so unknown for her. Her dad forgetting her birthday? That would never happen. Her dad forgetting something related to his beloved daughter? Never.

She’s a bright kid, you know that. But she’s still a kid, and there’s stuff she can’t wrap her mind around. And you don’t blame her.

“Do you want to bake a cake?” She suddenly says. Your eyes turn to her. Face sweet and innocent, kind. An angel.

Because angels do exist, still do.

Joel and William took longer than you expected. It was close to three and the grill wasn’t even out of Joel’s garage. But it was good to not have grown ups around, to do a bit of mess around with frosting and sprinkles, to laugh out loud with the closest thing you have to a friend.

“Wait” Sarah raises her hand before you start cutting the cake. You wait, with the knife hanging in the air while your eyes follow the girl around the kitchen, rummaging through the drawers to find something. Then, she lifts a candle in her hand. “Here!”

She walks back to the island and sets the candle down in the center of the cake. 

“There you go.” Sarah lights the candle with a lighter. “Make a wish”

You feel warm inside. Seen. Someone being kind lately seems like a fantasy tale in your life, but Sarah asked for nothing and gave you, on this day, everything. You tilt forward and purse your lips, about to blow.

Then you hear a claxon cutting loudly through the silence. Your mom calls your name.

You walk out to the porch with Sarah following behind. Your mom stands in front of an old Corolla while hugging herself over her cardigan.

“Mom?”

“God, I’ve been callin’ William for hours. He told me to stay away from the house” She approaches you quickly and hugs you tightly. You don’t answer the hug back. Shoulders tense, arms limp on your sides.

“What are you doin’ here?” You ask, pushing her a bit. Looking at her eyes.

“I know it’s NFL night, I just guessed.” She looks up to Joel’s house and frowns her lips. “I can’t believe he brought you here…”

“And where were you?” You look over her shoulder and notice a man inside the car. He can’t even meet your eyes. “Who’s that?” You look back at your mom.

“A friend. Now, he wants to take you to the movies, have a good birthday night. Would you like that?” She asks with a smile while her hands brush your hair behind your ears and pinch your cheeks lightly.

You feel your whole body feeling way heavier, tired. Disappointed. 

“Mom. I want to be with you. Not you and a friend” You frown lightly, not wanting to be too demanding but you can’t stop yourself from yearning for a moment in peace with your mom.

“Love, he’s amazing. I know you will lov-”

“I don’t care, mom.” Your voice comes out louder than intended. Her smile fades slowly, her expression shifts to embarrassment. Sarah almost hides behind the threshold. “I want to spend my birthday with someone I love in a place where I won’t feel like a nuisance.”

“I can’t give you anything else other than this, love…” She whispers, cracking her knuckles. “I… You know I got fired last Monday and… He offered. I can’t pay any-” 

“I don’t care. Even if it is just a walk in the park. I don’t care about money, I don’t care about movies, I don’t care about anything. I want to spend my birthday with someone who loves me and in a place where I can be at peace” You feel your eyes start burning. Tears are coming, she notices them. The guilt becomes way more unbearable.

Then, Joel’s truck turns in the corner of the culdesac and your mom looks to the vehicle behind her. She gives you one last look.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… Happy birthday, love” She kisses your temple and finally gets back inside the car that quickly drives out, passing by Joel’s truck.

“What the fuck did she told you? What did she want?” William gets out of the truck in a bolt and grabs you by the shoulders, shaking you harshly. “Speak!”

“Hey!” Joel pushes William by his chest, distancing him from you. “Calm down. You’re scarin’ her.” William keeps puffing while staring at you with overwhelming rage but finally walks back inside. Sarah stays sat on the steps.

Joel approaches you, slow like someone who approaches a scared animal. Then, he caresses your shoulder. 

“Are you okay? Does he always do this?”

Your eyes drifted away since the moment William approached to shake you violently, pushing yourself away before reality catches you. Then, finally you decide to lock eyes with Joel. He doesn’t need an answer. 

“Look. I will talk to him.” 

“No. No, please” You take a step forward and lift your hand between you and him, but not touching his chest, only hovering. “He’ll forget. A few beers and he will forget everything. But don’t talk to him or he will want to argue once we get home.”

Joel looks at you for a moment. For a long moment. As if he were struggling with the idea of you being used to this, of this being your world, of you having your rules and instructions for it. He just looks down at your neck and he seems to remember something.

“We… We took a bit more time because I wanted to get you this..” He awkwardly takes a small box from his denim pocket. Then he hands it to you. “Happy birthday, from me and Sarah.”

You struggle to take it. It feels wrong. But finally, you let him place the brown small box on your hand. After lifting the lid, you see it. You lock eyes with him.

“Don’t worry, he doesn’t know… You can put someone you love there. Maybe a friend, or a pet” Joel says while you look down at the locket. Then you meet his eyes. “Or keep it empty until someone you really love appears.”

Your stuff dropped bit by bit on the floor as you made your way to the bathroom with a silent urgency. After trying to wash memories off your skin in a midnight shower, you finally slip into bed. Your head hurts after everything that happened, your skull is a turmoil of memories and cheap nightmares you already know from beginning to end that threaten to come.

Joel, Joel, Joel.

He’s everywhere now, and by that, everything comes back. Flooding your head, your home, your room. A shark sensing the blood of your pain, of your memories. Everything returns, and so do the memories of what Joel once was in your life.

What he meant to you. And now he’s there.

It feels like a glitch in reality, a slip in time. How? How do you end up in the same place while being so far from home? You know what he's waiting for. Answers. You have them and they embarrass you. They rip your heart out and hang it up for everyone to see. A walk of shame for what you did.

Before bed, you take off the locket and stare at it. Gold, closed. And when you open it, you see it.

Empty, waiting.

The next day, you don’t go to church, neither the next one. You don’t even think of leaving your house. The anxiety eats you, the fear of running into him only makes you sink deeper in bed. The memories come again like waves, you imagine scenarios, what might he say or ask.

If anyone, he’s the only one who deserves an explanation.

But, oh God. Would he understand?

When you appear again in church, the first one you bump into is Thelma, who’s carrying a small wooden box with pacifiers that she just cleaned. She raises her brows at the sight of you.

“Oh, hey you” Thelma places the small box against her hip and smiles softly. “Where were you at? You didn’t come for two days, we were worried for you. You missed the baptism, it was lovely. The kids were all dolled up and the girls were wearing purple bows.”

“Yeah, I know.” You scratch your nape lightly. “I wasn’t feeling very well. Just a cold, but I didn’t want to go out and make it worse” Thelma nods, understanding. 

“Yeah, the weather it’s a mess lately. Yesterday’s blizzard woke all the babies up and we had to stay the whole night” Thelma begins to walk and you follow her step. “We have three new babies at the nursery and these little things are so…” She looks a bit preoccupied, pinching her brow.

“Traumatized?” You ask.

Thelma looks at you. Brows raised slightly. Then she just nods, moving her gaze forward again.

“Yeah. They don’t even cry… It’s terrifying” Both of you walk past the courtyard and when you look across the stone arches of the cloister, you see him. Joel was walking side by side with María, parallels.

“Oh, fuck” You whisper looking back forward.

“Amen. What happened?” Thelma chuckles softly and looks at your profile. You both are about to meet the corner and you can hear their steps coming, the echoes of their voices. 

“She’s ‘bout this tall”

“Saw her the other day cleaning the pews”

“Did somethin’ happen to her?”

You hear Thelma talking to you and when you look at her, she looks a bit preoccupied.

“Are you alright?” She takes a step and caresses your shoulder. You nod and try to draw a smile on your lips, which you fail completely. “You look lost. Have you had something to eat?” 

“Yes, yes. Just…” Your body tense again when you hear the steps coming closer. You didn’t notice until now how your breathing was erratic and uncontrolled. Immediately after, Joel and María are at the end of the hall. His shoulders slump visibly at the sight of you, as if you’ve kicked the oxygen out of his whole system.

Thelma dart her eyes between them and you.

“Oh, there she is,” María says, pointing with her nose at you. But you quickly turn at Thelma, grabbing the box from her hands.

 “Let me help” 

You take the small box with pacifiers and push a door open from where a sign hangs.

‘Nursery. Males aren’t allowed in this ward without a bracelet.’

Once the door closes behind you both, you feel like you’ve just crossed a barrier you shouldn’t have passed. There are coos and babbles around, milk scent and baby powder. Too much innocence for you to be wandering around like a prowling presence. Thelma notices nothing, not one bit of your tension and anxiety in such a place. She keeps talking about some baby named Evan and his noticeable preference for Vivian.

You turn over your shoulders and lock eyes with Joel who stands on the other side of the door. His eyes running over you. Confusion. Helplessness. A bridge that takes to the only thing that survived from his past but he isn’t being allowed to reach.

“Here are the new little ones” Thelma stops in front of a wide crystal that looks into the nursery where the little bundles, wrapped in beige blankets, sleep peacefully. Some are just looking around mindlessly, while one of the violets walk through the cribs making sure each baby it’s okay.

This is not okay. You shouldn't be here.

“Oh, hey you!” Eloise walks out of the small kitchenette while holding a few baby bottles. “Thank God you’re here. We could use some help with the new bundles of joy.”

“Oh, no. I’m no–” You’re about to refuse, lifting your hands in front of you, but Thelma nods, in love with the idea.

“Oh, yes! You’re right!” Thelma looks at you. “You’ll love them. We need to hold them more. The new ones are touch–starved, they calm right away when someone carries them” She says with a warmth that is filled with some maternal tenderness, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. 

But it wasn’t.

“I really shouldn’t, I have to be a–”

“Where? C’mon, you just arrived!” Eloise takes you by the arm and holds you near while the three of you walk. “You’re never around this area and believe me, I get it. I was the same when I arrived”

“Oh, geez. If I tell you” Thelma chuckles and Eloise rolls her eyes, amused. “She didn’t want to change diapers because she was scared a baby would pee on her face while trying to clean them up”

“It happened once in a movie I watched when I was young, okay? It just stuck with me” Eloise voice ricochets through the hallway you walk through. The rainbows, birds and butterflies painted on the walls makes your stomach churn and your legs hurt as if you were carrying heavy blocks behind you.

Thelma opens the door of another wide room with more babies. Cribs, cotton, the sun getting through the blinds, plushies. Everything holds a cozy softness that makes you feel at ease for a moment. Maybe it’s not so bad…

“Come here. Sit.” Eloise hands you a blanket and guides you to a brown chair beside the window. She takes a baby from the nearest crib, that was om the edge of a crying, and hands it to you with care, placing it on your arms against your chest.

“It’ll fall”

“He won’t. Hold tight, they like pressure.” Thelma stands near smiling softly.

“It’ll fall” You repeat.

“Oh, c’mon. Chill. He’s fine” Eloise fixes the blanket and caresses the soft brownish hair of the small baby. “Look, he stopped cooing. Surely he’ll fall asleep in no time”

You look down. His chest rises and falls, pressed against yours. He doesn’t cry, and that makes it worse, he trusts you. You shouldn’t be trusted.

“You okay?” Thelma looks at your face that suddenly went deadpan. You surely forgot how to breathe.

There’s too much sweetness. Too much softness.

Not even a hint of darkness.

His fingers clutch your shirt, his eyes close heavy, melting. He’s choosing you.

“I want to leave”

Eloise notices the real anxiety starting to paint over your face and she decides to take the baby back, carefully.

“Okay, this was a good first step. We can go slow” She takes the small bundle back to the crib and Thelma sits over the armrest, beside you. She caresses your back softly while Eloise approaches again. “It’s okay. You did amazing. I personally spend like half an hour trying to get these little demons to sleep”

“Yes, that was very fast. You’re a natural” Thelma nods but both of them startle back when you stand up suddenly.

“I have to leave. I… I need to buy Maria’s gift for tonight” You avoid locking eyes with the women and they just nod confused. “I’ll see you both there”

As soon as you step out of the nursery, you look both ways at the cloister. No sight of Joel. 

You know you won’t get to run away from him for too long. You ask yourself, why now? Why here? When you just started to get comfortable in one place. Maybe this is life remembering you that you can’t have a place to call home, because you don’t deserve it. You try to not linger on the memories too long, you can’t go having a panic attack in the middle of town. 

Walking down the street, trying to shake off the remaining feeling post a very baby–scented moment, your eyes glide across the store’s front window. None of the objects or pieces of clothing you see feels like María. You don’t even know her that well, and it even feels a bit bad to be at someone's birthday when you barely know them, but you know Thelma and Eloise will come knocking if you don’t show up.

“Another one? You literally traded for one two weeks ago, kid.”

You lift your head slowly, peeping across the crystal. The store owner is talking to a short girl who is holding a journal in hand.

“Well. What can I say? I write and draw too much” Her cheeky and quick retort makes you smile a bit. She looks eager, fresh. “C’mon, Gary. I have two rice bags.”

“You stole that from your old man?”

Silence.

“Well, he doesn’t have to know, right?” The kid grins. Gary shakes his head.

“Nah. Come back with something that’s yours. I ain’t getting caught in the cross fire because of ya.” The man waves the back of his hand, shooing her.

While staring at the whole interaction, your eyes follow the journal being waved in the air and another one over the counter while the two of them seem to argue. Your mind drifts back to María and the exhaustions passing over her, blurring her memory and giving her a hard time to work properly. Motherhood is always hard while trying to be everywhere.

That’s it, you have the gift.

“Excuse me,” The bell above you makes both heads by the counter turn to the entry. “How much for those two?” You say holding the door open. 

Gary looks down at the journal in the kid’s hand. Then back at you. “What’dya have?”

“Uhm,” You open your canvas bag and peep inside it. “I have a ball of black wool and a knitting set.”

The man nods and beckons you closer with a curl of his finger. "Yeah, okay."

He takes the set, you take two journals from his counter and gently nod the kid towards the sidewalk. Once you two step outside, your hand stretches out to her, handing her the black journal.

“Gee, thanks” She takes the journal in hand while giving you a wide smile. “This is fucking amazing.”

Your brows rise. A small chuckle escapes you.

“Well, you’re welcome,” You slide the other journal inside your bag to then cross your arms and look at the girl. “That man was being a bit of an asshole.”

She nods while putting the journal in her backpack. You notice the bags with rice, some flour and a few apples. A little business girl.

“Yeah, he’s always like that. Always shoulder to shoulder with Joel,” She rolls her eyes. “Name’s Ellie. You?”

Your eyes roam the girl standing in front of you. Shoulder to shoulder. Joel, shoulder to shoulder with assholes. Some things never change.

When Joel’s name hangs in the air, it makes you say your name in slow motion since your  mind just short-circuited. Ellie chuckles a bit.

“You okay?” Ellie looks at you sideways. Then, her eyes drop to your wrist. “Oh, you’re a violet.”

You look at your own purple bracelet and then back at her. “Oh, uhm. Yes, yes, I am.”  You raise your hand a bit, wiggling the bracelet lightly. 

“María wanted me to join the group, but it’s not my style,” Ellie crosses her arms, popping one knee out. “They say you guys do weeping sessions.”

“Weeping what?” You frown, confused.

“Yeah, like, you all get in a circle and start to cry loudly. That’s what most of the patrollers say.”

You never heard something more ridiculous than that and it surely amuses you. Ellie notices the faint smile of amusement in your lips and scratches her nape.

“As far as I’m concerned, we don’t have that.”

“Well, it seems like I shouldn’t believe everything I hear, right?”

“You sure shouldn’t” You answer while looking at her. It's… adorable. She’s adorable. Then, Joel’s name comes again to the front of your mind. “So… You seem to not like Gary at all…”

The kid kisses her teeth while shrugging.

“He’s Joel’s little rat. Everyone is Joel’s rat when it comes to me” Ellie looks back at the shop and then looks at you. “Are you a rat too?” She lifts an eyebrow and leans a bit.

You lean backwards slightly, with a small amused smile forming.

“I… I don’t know who Joel is, so…” You shrug lightly. The lie tastes dry and heavy.  Ellie looks at you up and down and hums.

“So, you’re like, new really new.” Ellie frowns her lips. After a moment in a bit of an uncomfortable silence, she finally speaks while walking. “If you’re a violet, it means you’ll be coming tonight.”

“To Maria’s, you mean?” You walk beside her, holding the journal against your body while looking forward. The park across the street is packed with townsfolk and kids that play snowball fights near their parents.

“Yeah. Tommy said all the violets are coming. Well, at least most of them” Ellie looks up at your profile. “I hope Madeleine doesn’t show up. She’s always giving María a headache.”

Your eyes come back to her. “I don’t know who Madeleine is.”

Ellie stops on her spot and you turn around. She looks at you quizzical.

“So you really are new” Ellie whispers while approaching again. “Just… Make sure not to go against her rules if you ever come across her.”

“Ellie!” A young girl calls from the opposite corner and gestures to her to approach in a hurry.

“I gotta go! See you tonight!” Ellie nudges your arm and runs away behind the young brunette. 

The whole interaction was too fast and messy. You hold too many questions that whisper in the back of your mind. This girl, Joel, why? Joel had another daughter? Then, whoever might be Ellie’s mother, must be around. 

Like many have done, maybe he gave life another opportunity after the storm. 

In the night, as the eight died on the clock, you find yourself walking between Thelma and Eloise while approaching Maria’s home. Hands in your pockets, their arms hooked around yours while they talk between them. When you lift your eyes from your boots and look at the porch, you notice a very fidgety Tommy standing by the railing and smiling once he notices the three of you.

“Hey,” Tommy lets out with an airy smile while opening the main door. “It’s good to see you, girls. The rest are inside, María must be about to arrive”

“You look nervous, man!” Eloise claps Tommy’s back and he smiles a bit, looking away.

“No, I’m not” He shakes his head, dropping his eyes to the floor and shrugging. “I just want the best for my girl. She’s been working so hard lately, I want her to feel loved” 

Eloise lets out a small “Oww…” and Thelma chuckles softly. You stand behind them.

Finally, the three of you step inside while Tommy stays outside waiting for María to arrive. Thelma and Eloise hug and kiss the violets scattered through the cozy house. Some are sitting in the living room, having something to drink, some around in the kitchen preparing plates with snacks, and when you walk beside one of the windows near the back, you see there are more in the backyard.

Tommy really invited them all.

As you hang your coat on a clothes rack, your eyes drift to the girl that you spoke to today. Ellie, chasing the other girl through the patio. You smile softly, following their fun through the women, being careful not to knock someone over by accident, until they pass in front of the grill.

And you see him.

Who is also looking at you.

“Oh, fuck…” You move to stand behind the wall and when you turn, Thelma is holding a glass to you, which you almost tip.

“Everything alright?” She asks while you grab the glass. She can see your breath picking up a bit. 

“Yes, totally.” You shake your head while gripping your sweater tightly over your stomach, feeling it twist. “ You… You scared me.” The music coming from the living room is suddenly too loud, and the hubble around seems to hit directly into your skull.

Thelma frowns.

“You’ve been like this the whole day.” You see her glance to the window. “You saw someone?” Thelma moves closer to the window, moving the curtain and staring outside. “Or something?” 

In the background, Tommy opens the door with a smile while María enters with Benji between her arms. Everyone approaches, smiling and clapping. Her smile is a mix between tiredness and some sort of relief. Your eyes dart to the scene but immediately come back to Thelma.

“No, nothing of that”  You place your hand around her arm, “It’s just, there are too many people around” While aiming to drag her away from the glass, she stands too still and accidentally, you just get close to her side, staring outside too.

You try to act calm, but when you look outside, Joel is still staring.

The violets begin to sing happy birthday while Eloise approaches María with a cake. Many candles illuminating María’s face, Benji is hoisted by Tommy while he stands beside her, the baby looks at the warm light with shiny eyes.

Her eyes darted between Joel and you. Thelma sees it, notices.

“Do you know him?”

THANKS FOR READING. I promise that since the next chapter, we'll have more interaction between these two. Whilst, enjoy this tensioooon.

Love ya! Pls, reblog and comment!

taglist: @glitterspark (if you want to be part of the taglist, lmk!)

[ishestillapunk]

Cain's Curse

series masterlist

pairing: jackson!(dbf?)joel x f!reader summary: When you thought that prayers and lies were enough to keep the past buried, he appears to turn your world upside down. tags: SLOW BURN, SLOW LIKE A DAMN SNAIL, age gap (30-50), trauma, emotional distress, implied family loss, alcohol use, anxiety, flashbacks, mentions of religion, self deprecation, PTSD, grief, religious guilt, mental health struggles. w/c: 4,1k a/n: the next chapter will be uploaded once this one is near 100 likes!

Green lights.

Green lights merge with the curtains of the living room and the heavy sound of trucks and police cars running a hundred miles per second rush past the street, almost shaking the small structure of the condominium.

“Love. Wake up. C'mon, up” Your mom shakes your shoulder firmly, pulling you out of your dream kingdom.

“What time is it? What’s happening?” Your blanket being removed and soft hands brush you awake, fingers taking off the small eye boogers that were forming near your tear duct.

“I need you to put on your shoes and a jacket. Quick” She doesn't even turn to meet your eyes while she speaks. She's all of a shaky tone and trembling hands while she crouches near your dresser putting your clothes away in a bag.

“Mama, where are we going?” You frown. Your eyes fly to the clock on the wall and you frown. It is not even five am and the town sounds like chaos out there suddenly, freezing your spine. “Mom, what's happening? There's people screaming in the str-”

“Don't” As soon as you try to pull the curtains and look out, she's dragging you back by the worn shirt of your pajamas. You look as she keeps moving around, rummaging through the clothes. You look at the barely see-through yellow curtain, the lights keep illuminating the small room from time to time. The posters on the walls, the framed pictures, all things from a teen world you’ll never see again.

“Move. I need you to move” She says looking at your form standing there, trembling.

“Mom” You look at her searching for answers but you're only met with a firm expression that tries to hold back a pile of anxiety that threatens to explode like a bomb.

And it's heard a few blocks away. It shakes the house entirely. An explosion.

“Ah!” Your body hides between the arms of her, who takes care, who protects. “Mom, what's happening!?”

“Sh… I know, I know. I'm scared too but we'll be okay” She says while holding you tight and pulling you away from the windows. She sits you on the couch, crouches in front of you and cradles your face. “Look at me. Hey, eyes on me. Eyes on me”

Your lost pupils find hers like darts hitting a bullseye and your breathing suddenly finds a pace to mock. Her breath comes in soft exhales, the sound of her breathing makes you come back.

“Listen to me, I need you to pay attention, okay? I have to go find your dad”

“No… Mom, don’t leave me alone, please…” You cling to her and your breathing becomes erratic again.

“Hey!” She shouts, making you stand frozen in place. Fists on your sides. Head up. “Be a big girl and listen. I'll be back in ten minutes, I promise.”

Your lips tremble. The tears want to spill and flood the space, flood your heart. Your stomach is hurting like daggers stabbing on it. But you're a big girl.

“I promise, love. I promise I'll be back” She says, now softer and crouching again to hug you. “I can't take you because the street is a mess, but I'll be quick. You know the store is just two blocks away.”

“Is he okay?” You ask, only looking at her. The mess outside becomes unknown and becomes distant. 

“I just called him. He's okay, he's hiding with Mr. Reinhart” She caresses your cheeks sweetly and her brows pinch up. You can almost perceive the knot in her throat forming, she's trying so hard to be the reassurance you need.

Even if she doesn't even start to imagine what's happening out there.

“Be a big girl, for mom” Her mouth pronunciates almost inaudibly while caressing your cheeks and hair. “Be a tough girl and make me proud, okay? I promise that after tonight, I'll take you for that ice cream you love so much and we’ll have a girl’s day, okay?”

“The one with berries?”

“The one with berries.”

She hugs you. You don't know why but the hug is uncomfortable, bitter. Her arms around you say things that your mind doesn't get yet, because it doesn't know about life and doesn't even have an idea about death.

Her lips smooch your temple and, quickly, she takes you to the small laundry room where you sit between the washing machine and the dryer. She hands you your backpack with your stuff. Then, she gives you those eyes.

Those goodbye eyes.

And the world went dark that night.

Coffee and many wooden toys of different types rest on the long table occupied by a long group of women.

The smell of paint and apple pie fills the common area to its smallest corner, the scent brings a sense of serenity and warmth that shields this world from the horror that most of the women that are inside the church haven’t seen in a long time since they arrived at Jackson. Like you, who has been there for three months, but still feel like a rat from another hole.

The Purple Wing banner hangs above the doorframe of the wide open door that leads to the common room. By women, for women. You’ve been part of the volunteering group since you entered the community. It was created by Maria four summers ago. It has brought many women a sense of usefulness, of fulfillment. For you, is the silence you can’t achieve at the loneliness of your house. A silence filled with chatter, laughs and innocent gossip.

You only sit and listen. Painting, hunched over your own work, holding the slim wooden brush between your middle and index finger against the pad of your thumb, trying to maintain a sense of stability as you spread the red paint over the wheels of the adorable train. The little paint stains begin to appear over your fingers, some around your wrists. Sat between Christine’s wheelchair and a very chatty Belle who fixes the glasses over the bridge of her nose every five seconds, the two daily hours pass as they use to. Some of the girls nag at your silence and you just smile and roll your eyes.

No one pushes you, though. Is a little familiar banter that you never complain about and they know when to stop. Grace walks around every few minutes to fill the cups again with tea or coffee. Your cup remains at half the whole two hours, getting cold. You don’t ask for more. You don’t ask for another. 

“Now you mention it, who made these cute little thingies?” Christine ask to the other women. One of them, closer to the edge of the table while finishing painting a little wooden sword, answers while munching a piece of pie. 

“Most of ‘em have been made by Maria’s brother in law” Julianne chirps between Marie and Lorraine.

“There’s like four new patrollers who also do carpentry. I want to ask them to make one for my son” Vivian, a blonde woman with chubby rosy cheeks smiles while sipping her coffee. 

“I also saw Jeremiah doing some at the workshop” Eloise tapped her chin, thinking.

“That man. He spends hours and hours making stuff with iron and wood” Belle chuckles and hands the red paint to another woman who asks for it. You make your pupils jump between the women that talk, losing the thread between so many interjected conversations.

“You’re coming, then?” Thelma asks across the table. She seemed to have been speaking to you for quite a while but her voice disappeared between your thoughts and the overlapped convo.

“Huh?” The sound comes out breathy and almost imperceptible. Thelma smiles at that lost gaze you give her, her head shakes gently to assure you that it’s okay. She stood up from her spot and walked around the table to reach your spot and crouched beside the stool you’re sat on while holding herself from Christine’s wheelchair.

“Tommy thought about making a surprise birthday party for Maria. After their son’s birth she's been running around between duty tasks and motherhood. She’s pretty tired and he wants to give her a rest on her special day”

“When is this?”

“Next Friday”

“I can’t. I have shift at the diner”

“Great, you already used your excuse. Birthday it’s on Saturday. Just a small gathering. Be there at eight pm or I’ll be breaking into your house to drag you with me.” Thelma brings a pat to your back and goes back to your spot. 

She moves crowds, literally. Every morning, she walks through town, gathering the kids from their houses and leading them to school, only to bring them all back again later. The kids adore her, and she adores them right back. Even in a world like this, she still dreams of a big, beautiful house filled with children.

Others dare to keep having dreams and goals. It sometimes ignites envy in you, but it’s caged in your chest like a crazy parrot.

The women begin to stand up from their seats, kissing goodbye to each other, grabbing their bags and coats. Purple wristbands on each of them, like a sisterhood. That brings calm every time your eyes set on it. You make your usual way to your house, now your boots leave traces on the white covered floor.

Cold ain’t your favorite thing, neither summer, but cold is a different kind of pain, a silent one that makes every wound hurt a lot more than it should. Everything happened in summer, it began to sink in winter. And it was the coldest of all. 

That thought makes you feel ungrateful with everything that has happened so far. Jackson. The community. Purple Wing. Church. Having a roof and food on your plate. But when you come to your pillow every night, the silence is too loud, it anticipates chaos, a feeling dreading with a note of everything will end in no time. And you sit, waiting for the impact.

But the sun comes up and nothing happened. It happens to your body that feel the lack appetite, that trembles almost the hundred percent of the time, it happens to the alcohol that seeps into your veins every night, Jesus image over the hearth of the chimney watching your sinful act for tomorrow be cleaning your soul at the confessionary.

Because you think you can fool everybody. That no one will ever see through your silent bullshit.

The house receives you with the familiar creak of the old white door. No one inside as usual, no one expecting your arrival, and it’s okay. Who in their right mind would? This is your eternal fate, how things were supposed to happen.

You wait for nothing, you expect nothing. Nothing happens, chaos doesn’t break into your bubble. This is how things are supposed to be.

The evening comes in silence, bleeding over the small house, the silent block. Routine comes with it, if you aren’t still at the diner or with the violets, you’re at home drinking something warm and watching something from the old collection of  VHS below the box TV. You own a fair share of things that keep your mind filled with baggage more bearable than your own thoughts and your own life. Such as records, a collection of animated films that you found once in an expedition, and empty notebooks you sometimes fill with drawings or thoughts. 

Your own company is the hum of the TV. Some golden age film, black and white, naiveness from the old world, from the past. People worried about things that aren’t surviving or escaping.

Certainly, you don't survive nor escape anymore. Jackson walls have never been violated since they were lifted, nothing enters without permission, nothing leaves without who has to know knowing. You certainly, after years and years of fighting the unimaginable and bearing the horror, feel a kind of uselessness. What do your hands do when they aren’t ripping someone’s throat off their necks?

Paint children's toys.

The bed receives your body in its cold and the alcohol in your system mimics warmth, sinking you like a comfortable coffin, wrapping you in the arms of dreams that never come. You stare at the ceiling. The void over your head, someone that listens, that knows everything and threatens to say everything if you bark back.

“It was my fault” Your lips murmured. The hot tears puddle the corner of your eyes and they fall freely without sobs, without wiping them away. The darkness nods at your submission, at how you know your place and you are allowed to close your eyes knowing that now you have accepted the blame like every night, you won't die in your sleep.

Black. 

You open your eyes and the sun is seeping through the crystals of the window at the corner of your room. Life is still life. And your body feels as weak as it did yesterday. 

Or maybe even more.‎ ‎ ‎ 

Being at church is a daily task, not a duty that has been assigned like library or diner shifts. You go to church because it makes the day a worthy one, you do things, you work, you offer your hands for things that will help others. You are useful, worthy of love. You even attend the days off, because that’s a home that fills the silence with the sound of movements through its empty corridors and echoes the faith you have long lost.

It’s a multifaith, and you feel like you fit in none. But it feels good to be part of the herd, to have forgiveness once your soul crosses the threshold to be connected with others even if the wolf teeth hurt below your lips, hiding them from others to see.

Relief washes over you when you notice the hall empty, and the way to the confessional is free of scrutinizing eyes. The booth welcomes, smelling of wood, of forgiveness below his gaze. You sit down, the wood creaks gently under your weight. Your knees don’t touch the wall, but it feels close enough to hear his breath. The small screen between you carries more than light, it carries the weight of being seen.

His warm voice speaks on the other side of the confessional as soon as he feels you enter, and it envelops you in calmness. Love. 

“In the name of the Father, the son and the Holy spirit”

As your fingers slide over and across your chest, drawing the cross, you murmur while you pick at the skin peeling off your cuticles.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was… three days ago” You murmur, placing your hands over your lap. Father Maverick is on the other side and he knows you are there, even if he pretends he doesn't. 

The routine is familiar, and slips past your lips easily.

“I.. I drank last night” Your voice comes out like a scared child being caught. “To help me sleep, again. And I…” The stuttering comes. And it comes with shame. Your hand drifts up, fumbling at the chain around your neck, tracing the small locket.

“It’s okay. One step at a time. Alcohol, I see” Father Maverick murmur. You can hear the way his fingertips scratch lightly the slight stubble that covers his jaw and tip of his chin. “We’re gonna try to control that, okay? I know it can be hard but think about this. God did not create alcohol as an aid for sleeping, isn’t it? He gave us that beautiful creation only for celebrations and special occasions.” 

You just nod, even if he can’t see you.

“Like the bible verse Mark 7:21-23 says. We’re not what we consume, but what we think and do. We’re not alcohol, neither the bread we eat, we’re not the diet we have or the junk food we crave, but what we think and do. We’re what we think of others, what we desire for others. Repeating gestures, which if they are not accompanied not only by good actions, but also by good intentions and thoughts, are only empty, contaminated actions.”

Now, the second sin you were about to confess, decides to hide in the back of your head with shame. With disgust. I envy who dreams, who’s free of wanting.

“The punishment for that will be two weeks of praying Hail Mary each night before bed, and if the need of alcohol comes again, I invite you to read the bible, opening it in whatever part. The words that need to reach you will do.”

Silence. 

“Care to voice the other sin?”

“That was all” You said quietly. And continue automatically “Lord Jesus, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner”

“Good. Be with God.”

And you quickly leave, heading to the room where the Purple Wing volunteers always are.

When you enter the common room, the space is empty of people. Only a few chairs, the long table, scattered boxes and clothes waiting to be sewed for donation. And now you have a task, and your hands are useful. The morning passes like the thread that connects the pieces back in place, baby clothes, old shirts, some jeans. They hold history, surely terror and it makes a cold shiver run down your spine because no one in this world has been kept away from the clutches of the apocalypse.

“I knew you would be around” Maria entered the gathering room with her arms holding a bundle wrapped in a sky blue blanket. She moves further inside walking towards the table you’re working at. Your eyes raise, her face seems tired, a bit exhausted, You can see it, motherhood. Your pupils dart between the baby sleeping calmly and her face. “You weren’t around yesterday at the diner”

“Ate at home”

“I imagined. Did you rest well? I need to ask you for a favor… Oh, I forgot what I came to ask you” Maria sits beside you on the large bench and your eyes fall on the sleeping angel between her arms. Benji. You look back at her. She rubs her forehead and finally remembers. “ The nave needs some dusting off. Most of the violets went out on caregiving duty. I have Thelma and Vivian with the babies, Blair and I are prepping some snacks before dinner. Could you take care of that? For tomorrow’s baptism”

Caregiving was common in Purple Wing. Many people in Jackson lived alone, and if something happened and they didn’t have anyone nearby, volunteers were called in. These cases were mostly the town’s elderly.

“Sure. Only the sanctuary and the pews?” You answer quietly, giving a short nod and folding the shirt you just mended over the table.

Maria shows a small but perceptible smile. Nods.

“Okay, I’ll get going then” You murmur, grabbing the box with fabric, Maria follows your movements with her eyes while rocking Benji gently. His little eyes move beneath his eyelids drawing invisible dreams full of innocence.

“Hey. You’re okay? You look a bit tired, I can look for someone else, maybe Tommy, don’t feel compell-”

“At all. I’m okay. I’ve had a bit of insomnia lately but I’m good” You’re fast to cut her words. Not meeting her eyes to avoid her perceptive eyes. Like two chestnuts that fear to blink and lose your form.

“You sure?” Her voice was laced with a tangible concern.

“Yes.” It comes a bit harsh. “Yes…” Now it is softer. Maria squints her eyes a bit. “Please, let me do this”

She sees it in your eyes. Let me be useful. Maria sighs softly and nods.

“Okay” Maria just looked down, taking a thoughtful breath. “...just tell me if you need help” Maria says now approaching the door, her eyes not leaving your presence in the vast room. As she’s met with more of your silence, she just nods and leaves.

Strolling down the hallway towards the church’s nave, you crossed the courtyard. Across the cloister arches, you caught a glimpse of Thelma playing in one of the orphanage’s classrooms with a group of five children. Probably that game kids like a lot such as Escape the Clicker or Don’t touch the fungi. 

The kid’s laughter ricocheted through the long hallways. Messy footsteps, clicking tongues mocking clicker sounds, Thelma’s voice guiding the kids. You allowed yourself to stand there for a moment, let your eyes roam over the scene of innocence.

You never allowed yourself to go to that part of the building. The orphanage was like a restricted zone for you. The sight of the violets taking care of babies, the scent of baby powder and apple juice blooms memories that you prefer to keep buried. You limit yourself to the side where sins and prayers meet. The church.

The long rug leads you to the altar and sanctuary. From a small room nearby, you grab a rag, a duster and a bucket with some water you gathered from a tap. You begin to clean, unhurried, careful. The rag slides over the wood pews, across the ceramic figures, the cups, and the wood stands in the altar. The broom slides across the ceramic tiles, the quiet brushing sound filling the air.

You’re used to spend your time there. Most of the time just staring at the art pieces hanging on the walls, or the stained glass windows. You wonder if those survived for such a long time or if the survivors took their sweet time to fabricate them again. Questions like that run around your mind for hours.

It's your silly way to kill time until you’re needed again.

For some weeks you’ve been staring at the big piece that hangs almost purposely hidden behind the columns on the side aisles. A man kissing Jesus. A turmoil in the back, followers and soldiers, a calm demeanor from one, a regretful one in the other. Agitated gestures, tension.

It calls you. It invites you to question yourself.

Which one are you?

Which one were you?

“ ‘scuse me, ma’am.” 

You’re pulled out of your thoughts, gripping the wood pole for a moment between your hands. The gravel voice with a familiar texan undertone reverb in the church’s apse, louder than he probably intended. 

“ ‘m searching for Maria. Do you know where I can find her?”

Heavy footsteps are heard approaching your spot. The sound sharpens everything else. The quiet breath you didn’t realize you were holding, the smell of old wood and candle wax, the way the back of your neck prickles like it remembers something your mind hasn’t caught up with yet. 

Finally, you decide to turn around. And you see him.

Like an old memory. A body that shifts shape in your mind in a single instant. Brown hair, now faded into a dark grey that brushes the tops of his ears. That sharp, hawkish nose you always remembered, still cutting through his face like it never softened. A face hardened by whatever horror he’s seen, maybe the same kind you’ve lived through.

And then his eyes.

Eyes that bring your whole life rushing back like a hurricane that’s finally broken down the door.

Joel Miller.

He stops his tracks. His stoic expression is momentarily thrown off the hook by you. You. Eyes narrow focusing your form and face, not believing his own sanity. Maybe it's the lightning, maybe it's the fact he didn’t sleep much this past week—this whole month, to be fair. Your name escapes through his chapped lips in a breath, not convinced of you really being who he thinks it is.

“H–how?” You barely hear your voice coming out. Your brows frown. Confusion, overwhelming sense of being perceived. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing at this moment makes sense. 

Him. You. There. Now. Why? How?

His eyes search for answers in the shape of you, standing tense right there. Looks around, searches for another. For him. Him who is not there, whose nowhere. His eyes land on the locket over your sternum.

“Darlin’, it is really… It’s you…” He says with an airy tone. Almost as if your image took all the oxygen left around him. “Where is Will—”

“No” You spit with disgust. Names of the past get you like that. His name gets you like that. “Don’t.”

Joel frowned even more bewildered. He takes a step forward. You step back. He can’t reach you and your sins, he must not know what you did.

“Leave me alone” You mutter with a shaky tone. And you walk away quickly.

Ok, I'm scared. This is my very first long fic and I've been preparing it for months already. I hope you like it and I hope you don't mind how slow this will be BUT I PROMISE IT'S WORTH IT.

This is very important for me, so I really really hope it gets the attention I've been desiring for it to have, you know what to do. recommend if you like, reblog and comment. You know I always read everything and I appreciate all the support.

Hugs and kisses,

Desiré <3

[ishestillapunk]

౨ৎ masterlist !!

౨ৎ Joel Miller

ONE SHOTS:

౨ৎ 'Strange dynamic' Joel Miller x f!reader

౨ৎ 'I Know' Joel Miller x f!reader

౨ৎ 'Midnight Crib' Joel Miller x f!reader

౨ৎ 'Ecstasy' Joel Miller x f!reader

౨ৎ 'Curls' Joel Miller x f!reader

FICS:

౨ৎ 'Crashing on the rocks' jackson!joel

౨ৎ 'The right side of my neck' jackson!joel

౨ৎ 'Cain's Curse' jackson!joel

౨ৎ Ted García

ONE SHOTS:

'We have to talk about Ted García' Ted García x f!reader

DISSECTION: A personal space where I leave my thoughts about pedro related themes

౨ৎ 'Everybody Wants a Piece of Pedro Pascal'. (VF interview)

IMAGINE:

౨ৎOne 'Nook'

౨ৎTwo 'Drunk text'

౨ৎThree 'Sounds'

౨ৎFour 'First time'

[ishestillapunk]

tw: explicit content

Just imagine. It's been a few days after you and Joel had sex for the first time after orbiting around each other for months with a tangible sexual tension. It was slow, intimate, and explosive in the most exquisite way.

But he has a problem now.

He can't function properly. He keeps thinking about the way you sound. Or the look you gave him while he was sliding inside you slowly. The way your breath hitched as he finally bottomed you out. The sweat beads rolling down your sweet skin, your flesh jiggling with every thrust, your knuckles tensing while gripping onto his shirt, your slick wetness rolling down his thighs, your kisses that left him getting hard every time he thinks about you sucking his lower lip.

What are you doing to this poor old man?

He can't sleep now, all because he can't stop thinking of you.

[ishestillapunk]

She didn’t turn. “I’m not here to be ready. I’m here to be useful.”

Uuuuuuuuh gooooooood, that made my skin crawl. And Javier after shower in a towel 🤤.

I need more!

⋆˚࿔ ultraviolence chapter 4 - performance 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Javier Peña x f!Reader | Canon-Divergent | Mature Audiences

click here for the masterlist!

⊹ ࣪ ˖story summary: Medellín, 1989. A seasoned DEA agent is assigned to infiltrate a cartel by pretending to be the wife of none other than Javier Peña. She’s sharp, beautiful, and built for survival, but when the lines between duty and desire begin to blur, the mission turns dangerous in more ways than one.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ chapter warnings: none!

If I missed any warnings feel free to tell me!

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ N/A: Short chapter babes, but the fun is just about to begin.

Y/N dropped the apartment keys once. Then again.

They hit the tile with a muted clatter, skidding toward the baseboard before she finally caught them on the third try, jamming the jagged end into the lock with more force than necessary. Her hands weren’t trembling, at least not enough for concern, but just enough to annoy her. Just enough for Javier to notice.

In another time, he might’ve made a comment—something about butterfingers or nerves. But tonight he said nothing. Just crouched, picked up the keys with a quiet sigh, and opened the door himself.

The apartment greeted them with silence. Shadows pooled in the corners of the living room, faint city light brushing the glossy edges of furniture they didn’t pick. Their fake life waiting inside, staged like a set after curtain call.

She stepped in first. The sharp click of her heels echoed off the floor as she crossed the room without flipping a single switch. Her purse landed in the nearest chair, forgotten.

Behind her, Javier locked the door with a soft snick, then paused. The image of those men at Night Magic, the way they moved through the crowd, so deliberate as the space opened around them like parted water, was still burned behind his eyes. Their power didn’t need to be announced; it was understood. Worn like spicy cologne and weighted like a weapon pressed against your back.

He crossed to the kitchen, filled a glass at the tap, and drank it all in one go. The water was cold, but it did little to refresh him.

So, without a word, he headed for the bathroom.

Steam filled the mirror within seconds. The water ran hot enough to scald, but Javier didn’t flinch. He stood beneath it until the heat numbed everything but the quiet pressure building behind his eyes. The cartel men. The way Y/N’s spine had gone rigid beneath his palm and the way he’d held her anyway.

She hadn’t pulled away.

But she hadn’t leaned in either. It's all an act, he reminded himself, as if there existed any proof to doubt it. The lines on the sand were still clearly drawn, untouched by the sea that were them.

By the time Javier stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung around his hips, the apartment hadn’t changed much. Just dim pools of lamplight now instead of shadows.

And Y/N— still awake. Uhm. Usually she went to sleep before him, or at least pretended to, lying stiff as a board by his side until he invariably fell asleep too.

She sat cross-legged in the middle of the living room, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes. Washington’s carefully curated domestic lies spilled around her in soft, sterile memories: vacation magnets from Paris, a set of matching mugs, a wedding photo in a silver frame that caught the light just enough to look real. No faces shown.

She was placing them all precisely, methodically, like positioning landmines.

“You can’t sleep?” he asked.

Her fingers didn’t pause. “Too much to do.”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing loosely over his chest. “You’re still shaking.”

“I’m not.”

He tilted his head slightly, observing her profile. “Are you scared?”

“No.” It came too fast, clipped and practiced. She stood then, abruptly, holding the wedding photo as if to burn holes into the frame. “Are you?”

Javier didn’t answer right away. Just studied her. The steam from the bathroom still clung to his skin, beads of water tracing slow paths down his shoulder blades. Finally, he gave a small nod.

“Concerned,” Javier said. “They’ve seen us now. Really seen us. Next time, they’ll remember.”

“Good.” She crossed to the side table and placed the frame down. Adjusted it. Then adjusted it again until it stood perfectly centered. “That’s exactly what we need.”

He pushed off the doorframe. “Is it?”

Her voice tightened. “We need to go back.”

“To Night Magic?”

“Yes. Every night if that’s what it takes.”

Javier frowned; she couldn't be serious. The place was a hellhole. “That party they mentioned... it’s not just some social hour. It’s for show. Opulence. Power plays between people far more dangerous than just the nephew of one of their pets at the prosecutor's office.”

“Exactly,” she snapped. She stepped closer, the soft lighting catching on her cheekbone, her mouth set in a firm line. “That’s the point. Saucedo’s nephew will be there, but the rest of them too. We know he's just a step, means to an end. But we should aim for the bigger prize."

He couldn't hold back the scoff that went past his lips. “You think it’ll be that easy?”

“Easy?” Her laugh was dry. “Nothing about this is easy. But if we’re seen in the right places with the right eyes on us, we’ll be noticed. We can’t fake that kind of credibility with coffee mugs and a monogrammed towel set.”

He studied her for a long second. Her pulse fluttered at her throat, but her gaze didn’t waver. Underneath all the steel, something more fragile hummed, but she’d locked it behind layers of focus and command. She wasn’t about to let him past.

He exhaled. “All right. We keep going. But if things escalate—”

“They already have.” Her voice was calm. Firm. Like she’d known this for longer than he had. “But you know it's not enough.”

He nodded, once. Slowly. No point in pretending otherwise.

She turned from him again, back to the box, fingers brushing lightly over the rim of a fake photo album. “We go back tomorrow. We keep showing up until someone pays attention.”

“You sure you’re ready for that kind of attention?”

She didn’t turn. “I’m not here to be ready. I’m here to be useful.”

The silence that followed hung heavy between them.

Finally, she glanced back, her tone shifting just enough to close the conversation. “You should get some sleep, Antonio. We’ve got work to do.”

The name stung a little, exactly how she meant it to. A reminder that this wasn’t personal. That it couldn’t be.

Javier gave a small nod and walked toward the bedroom, the weight of her words trailing him like a shadow. Behind him, the soft sound of cardboard tearing, objects shifting, tape peeling back.

He didn’t look back.

Tomorrow, they would keep pretending.

And if they played it right, someone would invite them to the real performance.

────୨ৎ────

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ Please do not copy, translate, repost, or modify this story without permission. If you see it somewhere that isn’t @/rabb1tcult (Tumblr or AO3) it was stolen.

I write for love, not profit. Respecting fanfiction means respecting the author.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ Support original creators. Reblogs, likes, and comments are golden!

[ishestillapunk]

this is CRAZY. thank you so so so much!

I've been writing fanfiction in Spanish for almost eight years in Wattpad, and in English for two years until I finally decided to move to Tumblr.

I can finally say that I'm happy and comfortable, because I finally found a place where I feel like my writing is really seen and perceived by people that loves reading just like I do.

I want to get better to bring you better pieces, better worlds, and better stories for you to escape from routine for a moment and imagine your favorite P characters in an exquisite way.

Keep supporting fanfiction writers. Whether small or popular. Whether if they write 600 words or 10k. Whether they do fluff, angst, smut or any other kind. Reblog their work, comment what their story made you feel and like their post. Believe me, a simple action can change someone's day completely and you always can try to change it for better.

Again, thank you so so much!

[ishestillapunk]

can I make a request? I really liked crashing on the rocks and how you write smut. I wanted to ask for a ted garcia oneshot. whatever you feel like writing but inspired in this gif I saw in X. if you do it, thanks!!

“We have to talk about Ted García”

Pairing: dark!Ted García x f!reader

summary: It's election season in Eddington, NM, and Mayor Ted Garcia's reign is hanging by a thread. Why? Because you, a punk with a thirst for justice, just went viral. Your TikTok and Facebook videos calling him out are stirring chaos between the townsfolk and now, they are becoming too aware. Things are about to get messy.

tags: canon divergent, politics and corruption, enemies to shut up and fuck me, porn with plot (sorry, I can't build it without a foundation lmao), swearing, smoking, alcohol, mention of readers father, age gap, dubcon, suicide, harassment, stalking, power imbalance, physical violence, emotional manipulation, sexual content, dry humping, unprotected p-in-v (insert sonic gif), oral sex (m!receiving), fingering, light spanking.

sorry if I forgot a tag. lmk!

w/c: 7,8k

A/N: Hey! So, I'm so sorry for being so late. I just got really inspired while writing because I LOVED Eddington and the whole world it presented. I really hope you like it and thank you for this request.

"We have to talk about Ted Garcia's latest selfish act" 

The fan hums beside your open window, blowing the street's sticky heat into your small condominium like an uninvited guest. Your phone, plugged to the charge, is set in the ring light, streaming live. Your notebook over your lap, your tongue loose.

"We're officially four weeks out from the official elections and the only two braincells running for office belong to Ted García and the town sheriff, Joe Cross" Your eyes rise to the camera, a dry scoff.

"It's a damn joke. Well, sounds like, but it's true" Your hands smooth the pages of the notebook. 

"The town's been a chaos lately. Well, as chaotic it can be in times like this, right? Every kind of problem you can imagine, we've got it, here in our beloved Eddington that always give us something to talk about" You lean back on your chair, crossing your legs. 

"Just like they say: Little town, big hell" 

A cicada buzzes near your window and makes you look towards the street. Who could say that such a small town could be going through all this mess? It has always been like this, though. Since you were a kid. And now, living in your dead aunt's excuse for a house, you wonder if there's anything for you out there.

Your eyes go back to the screen and you see it. Garcia's son comment.

"Go back to the kitchen" You read and scoff. 

"Oh, wow. Groundbreaking stuff. Did you come up with that all by yourself, or did Daddy help you sound it out? You know, talking about genes. Bet you did hard work trying to type it, considering how smooth your brain is" You just laugh. That kid is always all up in your business, and you know his dad too, even if he never commented nor addressed any of your videos.

"Whatever, as I was saying, Ted's latest selfish act. You guys saw the supplies boxes his crew left at everyone's door? More than help, they felt like… what? Stage props?” 

"Two bottles of water, two bags of flour, packs of hypoallergenic face masks, and... candy? Oh, please, Ted. Try harder, man." You read a comment in Spanish and shake your head, scoffing.

The comments stir. Mostly boomers, tired and angry.

'What am I supposed to do with two bottles of water!?' 'My sink water comes out brownish...' 'It was the cheapest candy from the store!'

You lean in, adjusting the camera a bit. 

"Now, I know what some of you might be thinking. 'At least he's doing something, right?' Well. No." You snort again. "When it comes to García, he doesn't do stuff. He performs them."

You flick a page of your notebook and start reading the research you did.

"Wanna know something weird?" You lower your voice "That supply shit? It wasn't even from the mayor's office budget, because no. Our beloved Ted will never touch a green from his own pocket. It came outta some obscure 'State of Emergency Fund', which is a bunch of bullshit, by the way. The link was adjunct to the supply boxes post in the Town Council Facebook page and the ends aren’t meeting at all." 

"wait, wtf. i didn’t know we had one?" "how do you know that?" "post the link"

Your hand moves through the pages of your messy journal where you wrote down every little discovery and proof you found after nights and nights of investigation. 

“If you search Eddington plus State of Emergency Fund and you scroll down enough to reach those archives no one opens, you’ll find a PDF called Final Expenditure Report of this same performance Ted did a few days ago, in which we can find that the expenses don’t match the store invoices.” You look at the camera. “Yes, I went to the local store and… I might have a whistleblower there. You know how I am.” You shrug, smirking, then…

You lift a printed document showing the difference between numbers. The comments are burning after the evidence of the big gap between numbers.

“where did all that money go??!” “omg, this fucking idiot!” “I hate Ted García! #TEDGARCIASTEPDOWNNOW”

You look at the screen. More comments.

"And guess what else I found spiraling down a caffeine-fueled investigation? The declaration of these public records was made by a nominee. Some Jonas Adams that I found nothing about, which also, in our sweet little Eddington hole of forgotten archives, approved a zoning permit last year. For a data center… Solidgoldmagikarp"

"Supposedly, it’s gonna produce more employment…” “Isn’t that an tech kind of shit?” “town’s fucking falling apart and they pay for a damn technology center?” “#wesupportTedGarcía Stop spreading lies, fucking whore!”

Pause. You ignore the comment athletically by rolling your eyes.

"You heard me. Out by the old cattle grounds, where no one ever goes anymore. The application was vague as hell, some 'technological infrastructure'. But here's the thing. It's owned by a corporation registered in Nevada."

A slow smirk forms on your face.

"And you and I both know..." Whisper "Everything is legal in Nevada, right?" 

The comments get wild.

"And here's another fun coincidence. Around the same time the permit got approved, our tap water started tasting like rust. And the town got a brand new water filtration contract that we all had to pay access to. Company?" You hold up a printed screenshot in front of the camera.

HighWater Systems.

"Familiar?"

"what." "Wait, I'm lost" "Explaaaaain"

You chuckle and raise another printed screenshot.

"HighWater Systems in the eighties was... Mhm, funny.” You tilt your head while reading. “García & Co. Sold to a nominee in 2013 after our good ol' papa died and Ted had to dig gold from somewhere now that daddy wasn't around. It seems like he didn't really really sell it at all, ‘cuz, guess what. Jonas Adams is here again." You point the name in the printed screenshot.

"#TED GARCÍA 2025" "This fucking asshole" "He's really out there doing money laundering all chill...."

“Ted is doing and undoing as he pleases with our town. Spilling money where no one cares for god knows what. Wasting money behind nominees in projects that have no clear goal.”

You close your notebook and a mail pops up in your notifications on your phone.

Anonymous. No name. No picture.

somethingtotalkabout@gmail.com: subject: Be quiet.

'You better shut that mouth before I stuff it with some real matter that'll leave you talking for months'

Your blood runs cold. But you smile. You like being targeted, and it seems like the bullet hit the spot you've been aiming for for months.

"I'll see you all next week once I find more. Remember, my DM's are open and I read everything. Have a good night"

“Just run for office already!” “You have my vote, girl!" “C’mon, we need a female mayor FOR ONCE” “Imagine someone who actually gives a shit running this town” “You’d eat Ted alive on a debate stage”

You read the comments and finally turn off the stream. You receive those comments all the time, in every stream and post. People have been begging you to postulate for months already, and you’re actually thinking about doing it.

Watching his face drop. Hating you by pushing him off the stage he thought he owned…

Your whole profile has basically become a shrine to hating every fiber of the political system that's ruled Eddington for over a decade. TikToks, all of them in long parts that waste no limit of recording, tracking the endless corruption, the moves made behind closed doors, and the cheap public events designed to cover these reports with events, dates, receipts. Facebook posts exposing every single one of Ted García's little buddies.

The right hand men. The ones who help him pull this shit off every time.

And all that hate has been piling up inside you, for a man that has done nothing but drag this town deeper and deeper into the mud.

The same town you were born in, the same one you’ll probably die in.

People always ask in the comments:

“Why haven’t you just reported Ted García already?”

Well, the answer is very simple. 

That son of a bitch is smart. And so far there’s not even one fucking piece of “evidence” in all your investigation that has his name on it. Every document, shady contact, shell company. There is always a wall between him and the line of fire.

He slips out of your hands like a damn greasy snake.

You tried, months ago, to file a report. It got delayed. You’re not certain, but you know and feel that someone stopped you. Be it City Hall, some Ted shady friend. Someone made a call, someone sent a message. 

And in a flick of a wrist, you got shelved. 

The pandemic was it. Seeing this asshole do and undo with total freedom, unchecked, while everyone else is locked in, staying at home. It makes your blood boil.

The data center was something that taught you something: Just when you think a motherfucker has reached the peak of motherfucker status, he finds a way to outdo himself. You watched it go up through your binoculars, steel frame one day. Foundation laid the next. And when you tried to get closer, on that joke for a bike you own, the cops stopped you.

“Violation of quarantine protocol”.

Yeah. Sure.

You make sure he knows you exist, that you loom behind him like a shadow for the things he did and does. Even though the two of you never exchanged a single word. 

Just glance.

Across dumb public events, ribbon cuttings, those cheap ass ceremonies meant to cover up yet another line in the budget he’ll never explain. But you know he knows you. You know he sees you. 

You can’t prove it. But you know it.

Every time you stand between the townsfolk in the crowd. With your hoodie on and your eyes on him. You see it. A flicker of recognition, and then… That smirk.

Smug.

Mocking.

Oh, you’ll burn that asshole to the ground.

Nights pass with you in front of the screen of your laptop and the swirling smoke of some forgotten cigarette on the ashtray. Documents are scattered over the coffee table, some old files with pictures of the data center lay near the desk in a corner of the living room.

Your eyes momentarily drift to the wall behind the TV where you have some show playing to keep you company. Because the condominium is too silent sometimes. And you lock eyes with eyes that aren’t around anymore.

Your dad’s.

His sacrifices. The hunger for a stable life he passed to you. His craving. For something yours, for something that means no working yourself to death for a piece of bread.

You’re so near. So near from the truth.

Receipts. Contracts. Property records. More fucking nominees that don’t mean shit. Shell companies folded into more shell companies. You chase shadows, but they’ll bring you to him. You know you’ll find a slip, an untied end, a name amongst others. And you’ll be there to point the finger.

When you glance at the time on your laptop, you realize you’ve spent another night hunched over, assembling a puzzle made of pieces that almost fit, but in the end, don’t. Still, it’s worth it. You’re close. So fucking close. 

As you stretch, ready to drag yourself to bed, you hear it. A soft, but sharp sound. Comes from outside.

Without thinking much of it, you step out to the sidewalk. The street looks bluish and deserted. Summery in that way the heat doesn’t even drop at this hour of the night. As you walk closer to the edge of the railing, you spot the trash can knocked over. Probably a coyote or a stray dog looking for food.

The silence feels uncomfortable. Too thick. Far too thick.

Too seen.

You whirl around, peering towards the edge of the yard. Eyes scanning the dark, looking for something that the hair on your arms that are rising, feel. 

Your phone vibrates in your hand. No caller ID. No picture. You narrow your eyes and get back inside by the feeling in your gut telling you to walk the fuck back in. You stare at the call ringing until it fades, then, a mail pops up.

somethingtotalkabout@gmail.com: subject: :)  “I’m not playing. Stop what you’re doing”

You snort and begin to close curtains and lock the doors. This coward, whoever it is, it’s fucking playing the stalking game with you? It surely is some sick Garcia’s follower or someone sent by Ted’s crew.

“Fucking prick…” You whisper, squinting while looking out to the street before closing the curtains.

A new email drops. Same address.

subject: :)  “The curtains don’t really help. You should stop squinting, you’ll get wrinkles.”

You drop your phone, suddenly, as if it burnt your hands. Your palms are sweating, your heartbeat is running a hundred miles per hour, your mouth tastes like dry ice. Now they are too near to your liking, you thought you were prepared for this, you thought about this scenario. It must be a troll, someone wanting to just fuck your sanity up.

But it’s still cutting through your skin like a knife.

You write back.

“Come say it to my face, fucking pussy”

And after a few minutes, your phone rings again.

“I will”

This goes on for weeks. You try to treat it as some stupid troll trying to scare you, like you thought from the start, but things become harder and harder to ignore. The electricity goes out suddenly while you’re on live, the wifi disappears when you’re about to do a post about García. 

But you don’t let anything stop you. You keep finding stuff, filling a manila envelope with real evidence that will be his downfall. 

The money trail that leads to more nominees and shell corps. The promised streets. The promised future he brings up in every campaign and people keep falling for.

And you come to the cherry on top of this disgusting dessert. 

Solidgoldmagikarp, a generative AI which computers use water to refrigerate their engine. Water that is supposed to keep a town alive. Water that—now, rusty and scarce—is starting to get those who can’t pay a filter system, sick.

HighWater and Solidgoldmagikarp.

But why?

Ted García’s flyer keeps sliding below your door every day and watching that asshole’s face printed on glossy paper, smiling like a damn television ad that makes your blood boil. The fifteen bots per stream keep flooding your comments with “MAYOR GARCÍA” like a twisted mantra.

But that’s not the only thing that throws you off the hook.

Someone shares your address in X and then, one night, someone tries to break in.

“OPEN UP, FUCKING DIRTY WHORE!” The low male voice and the rattle of the doorknob being forced makes you jump from your bed. Your heart kicks so hard that it takes the air out of your lungs too fast.

Barefoot, you run into the bathroom and lock the door to call the cops. Some minutes after the loud noise of fists banging the door and the doorknob being broken, you hear a softer male voice.

Cross.

“Fan out” You hear him say to the other officers. 

“I-I’m here!” You say before opening the door and jump back when you see the Sheriff aiming his gun at you, but instantly lowering it.

They ask if you have cameras. You say No, I don’t. They ask if this happens often. You say It’s the first time someone tries to break in, but I’ve been feeling watched lately. Then, they ask if you’re on some kind of medication.

Your eye twitches.

You close the door on their faces and stay locked inside the bathroom the whole night.

The next day, you see something that the past night you were unable to see.

“SHUT UP” All caps, blood red on your fence.

Great.

Then, that stupid COVID-19 testing site opens at the abandoned lot down by Main Street, where he’s shaking hands with people through latex gloves and pretending he gives a damn.

You go, of course you attend. Hoodie pulled up, phone in hand, standing in the crowd. And then he sees you. Knows you. And he fucking smiles. A real full smile, slow, intentional, like the devil himself.

You’re done.

The bicycle wheels rattle over the gravel as you make your way up Ted’s driveway. The house, untouchable up the hill, high, illuminated, imposing, and dirty in an incredibly neat way.  You don’t even let the bicycle fully stop when you get off it with a manila envelope in hand. A handful of everything that this son of a bitch is surely making you go through.

You don’t care about the hour. You don’t care if you've ever been this close to him or if you ever spoke to him before. You don’t care about nobody being around in the ratio like every rich asshole that seems to love living in the middle of nowhere.

You knock once. Twice.

And you’re alone.

With evidence that holds from nothing.

Alone with one of the most powerful men in the county. 

And he appears when you’re about to take a step back. 

Looks like a normal civilian for a moment. Your eyes hold his stare with a sense of alert, a thought. Don’t lose sight of him.

“You came all the way here on a bike? It must be really important, lady.” Ted, leans on the doorframe, biceps straining the short yellow sleeves of his shirt. “Where’s your mask?” His expression does nothing but trigger that rage you get every time you see him. Those eyes that seem to mock concern, preoccupation like a good friend you can rely on. 

But you know.

And he knows you know.

His eyes flick down to the envelope in your hand and drag back to your face.

“Ma’am,” He says, now his facade slowly sliding off him like a veil. “You didn’t come to do a funny stream of yours right at my door, did you?” Voice thick with practiced charm. “It’s…” He looks at his watch. Heavy. Another number covered with records. “Twelve-forty-three AM.”

You can’t understand why you can't move. 

Your breathing is still ragged by the nonstop cycling you did in a state of rage and dissociation, your muscles beat with the aftermath of god knows how many kilometers you did. 

Ted looks at the sweat beads sliding down your temples and forehead. He steps aside and gestures to you to walk in. “Come on in. I’ll give you some water.”

You keep standing there, hesitating. But, if not for this, what did you come for? For him to fall onto his knees and confess all he did for your stupid little video? For him to apologize for what happened to your father? For him to hand you all the evidence you need for him to rot in jail?

You finally step inside. Tense like a postlight. Sweat rolling down your spine, breathing that won’t set a normal pace, eyes that dart everywhere too fast. The house is strangely cozy, more than you expected. You pictured the property to be filled with luxuries inside. But it wasn’t. There’s pictures of his son, of his presentations, of him with other politicians as dirty as him, shaking hands.

Finally, the heat seems to come back to your mouth.

“You’re really slipping through my fingers every time I’m about to catch you slicking.” You drop the paper on the coffee table and turn around to look at him.

Ted doesn’t rush to the envelope. Instead, he moves to the liquor cabinet and pours himself two fingers. Then, he takes a bottle of water from the fridge and leaves it beside the envelope on the coffee table.

“Nominees that appear nowhere, shell corps, money that you keep stealing from your damn people.” You snort, placing your hands low on your hips. The rage is starting to make you tremble. “What the fuck…” You try to catch your breath. “What the fuck are you planning on doing?” You say while looking at him. It feels so strange, to be finally spitting all your piled up grudge in front of him.

“Planning?” Ted frowns lightly. Sips the whiskey in one gulp and leaves it over the crystal of the coffee table with a clank too sharp for your now too–alert ears.”You said it yourself. I don’t do things. I perform them.” He smirks, so slowly that you swear you can almost see a fang. Like a wolf that has you where he wants. “And I’ll rephrase it. I don’t plan, I execute.”

“What. are. you. doing.” You say, again, through teeth. He smiles more. 

“Cute…” Ted licks his lips and turns around walking to the other side of the living room shaking his head and murmuring your name, amused. It makes your skin crawl ugly. Gravel and coated with whiskey. “Let me ask you. All those streams, posts, trying to drag my name into the mud…” 

Ted turns around.

“You ever wonder why no one’s stopped you yet?”

“You tried to” You cut him.

Ted lifts his brows, places a hand on his chest while mouths a “Me?” with a face that makes you boil. Is he fucking playing?

“Oh, that… That hurts me, darling. Very much.” He chuckles and places his hand on the backrest of one of the couches, resting his weight. 

“You’ve been sending people to attack me. T-the mails, the graffitis, the c-calls” Fuck, why are you stuttering? You’re not scared.

Are you?

Should you?

“The fucking man you sent to break into my house,” You point a sharp finger at him across the living room. He drops his head, sighing and shakes no with his eyes closed. “You sent him to do God knows what, but you… You got scared! You know there’s people watching me, you know there’s people that follow me!”

Ted stops shaking his head and slowly lifts his gaze. Coldness that silences the whole environment the moment his pupils set on you. You can hear, and you bet he can too, the sound your throat makes when you swallow with effort.

“And you really, really think that if i’d were to be scared of you…” He walks around the couch to sit down. Thighs spread. Hands folded over his crotch. A smile that slowly draws on his face. “You’d be standing right there?” 

Ted ducks his chin, looking at you below his lashes and mocking a pout. “No, right?” He lifts his head and kisses his teeth. “C’mon, I know you’re not naive.”

“I’m not stupid” You say. Comes out needy, more like something you still need to prove. Not something that is decoded. 

“I didn’t say you were” Ted lifts a brow.

The silence swirls around again. Even if he’s sat across from you, far, you feel like he’s throttling you. His gaze, reading you whole without needing you to say a thing. Then, he stands up. 

Swallows the distance between you and as he approaches, your breathing picks up again. Harsh, ragged, but silent. 

As your jaw trembles, you speak. “I want to know…” You gulp heavy and get the envelope on the coffee table. You hand him one paper. HighWaters. “I want to know what you are doing with the water…”

You see a flicker in his stoic expression watching the paper. A heavy sigh escapes you and you take a step forward. Now, you invade his space, desperately trying to reach the human behind the politician.

“People are getting sick, Ted… And they can’t afford a filter or that shit that assures them they won’t be getting fucking trash into their bodies. ” You say with the thread of voice you still hold onto. Your hand moves around your lower back, subtly, and you activate the recorder of your phone. “And they will end up dead… You don’t care? Y-you don’t fucking care?”

“Where's my name in all this?” Ted asks. Automatically shitting on everything you just said. “It's a bunch of papers that aim nowhere, sweet.” He says between an airy chuckle that almost makes you hit him. “The Data Center? Approved. The water contract? Inspected and permitted.”

“Why the water?” You take another step. Ted squints his eyes but doesn't move.

Then, he speaks.

 “‘Cause people take it for granted. Always did, always will.” Ted's breath hit your face. “They don't care where it comes from, and a little infection will be fought with antibiotics. And those who can't afford it? It's not my fucking problem.”  

You freeze. 

“You're… Trading fucking lives for money, García.”

“This place is mine. Every broken street, every dying business that makes no penny, every fucking idiot that still votes for me because they're too scared to see what happens if they don't” His voice drops to a whisper. “Every piece of poor shit? I'll take them to the grave until they leave a free spot for the people that will come next, once Eddington finally becomes an actual fucking place.”

He sharply takes your chin between two fingers and tips your head up.

“Because no big change has been made by knocking a door, darling.”

You swat his hands away and he lifts them in the air with a smug smirk while you take the envelope and walk back to the entrance. He stays there, standing. And when the door slams shut, the tears come out like a storm. Hot, angry tears that you don't sob, you wipe harshly with the back of your hand and while you ride back to your place, his words keep running around.

People have to hear this.

People have to know the truth.

Once the video with the recording of him saying “Every piece of poor shit? I'll take them to the grave until they leave a free spot for the people that will come next, once Eddington finally becomes an actual fucking place.” and people accept that that voice is unmistakable, Eddington becomes a warzone.

Aggressions between neighbors, sudden arguments in public places, looting at night. 

Joe Cross stepped down from the elections. You were the only one left people was looking up to, but you had nothing when it came to promises for a future. Because, what do you do—

—without power?

You made a mess.

A mess you didn't plan for it to be between neighbors of town but against Ted's office. But he was nowhere to be seen, not even appearing in social media. And Eddington was now closer to the hole you've been trying to save it from.

As you lie awake, three days after the post you did, your phone rings. Unknown. You slide to pick up and a harsh breath comes from the other side.

“Old cattle grounds. Now, by the back. I don't care if you're fucking asleep, you come here or I fucking make you” Ted. Ted as desperate as you never heard him.

You move automatically. Why not in his bar or his house? No, riot is happening everywhere and people can barely see him without wanting to kick his ass. Another silent question hangs in your mind. How is he doing with all that's happening? But you don't acknowledge the question, you leave it there, in the corner.

Because, who has empathy with whom was the principal reason of  your father's passing?

When you arrive, you drop the bicycle and you walk around the data center holding a flashlight. When you get to the back, you point the light at him and he covers himself jumping in place, halting his pacing.

There’s a bag on the floor and his truck a few feet away. Ted fans the air with his hands as if he could move the light while squinting his eyes.

“Turn that shit off,” Ted runs his hand through his hair and after you turn off the flashlight, you look at him properly. Shirt rumpled, hair a mess, sleeves rolled and sweat. Too much sweat. He looks behind you, probably trying to see if you brought someone. 

“I'm by myself” You say with your eyes on him. A bit thrown off the hook by his nervous attitude.

Teds suddenly starts to approach you fast, steps heavy towards you. You start stepping back, gasping and lifting dust with your shoes, scrambling. He grasps your wrists.

“You think you've won? You made a fucking mess!” Ted shakes you by the shoulders, so harshly you almost got whiplash. 

“People heard you, Ted. They know what you are!” You say firmly, but you wince with how near he is. 

“And what am I!? The big bad wolf?!” Ted shouts. “I keep this fucking town running. You don't get it, this town needs me!” 

You push him away and he steps back. But he doesn't get away from your personal space.

“Without me, it rots faster. There's no money, no future, no jobs.” Ted jab his finger against your forehead.

You slap his hand away. “You're poisoning them!”

“And they'll drink it anyway! They'll do it if it means their kids getting new textbooks and their roads paved!” Ted snaps back. “Your fucking dad would have fucking accepted the hell on earth itself if it'd meant you going to college! But no, what happened? The fucking factory went on bankrupt and he killed himself!”

You jump on him immediately after that. A dry thud and a grunt sounds when you both fall to the ground. Your fist lands on his mouth, cutting his lower lip as it meets his teeth. One of his hands grasp your neck and the other your waist.

“Stop” Ted moves his hand swiftly from your neck to your wrist. His hand on your waist tightened. “I said— Sto—” Ted holds you firmly by the hips and gives a light buck upwards.

You stop moving instantly.

Ted breathes heavily on the ground while looking up at you.

“Your dad… He would have made anything for you to have a future” Ted says quietly. His hands don't move from their spot. “Anything.”

The mention of your dad again, after the sudden fury it brought to you moments ago, now seemed to drain all your energy.

“Don't talk about my father like you knew him” You say looking away. Still sitting over him, thighs bracketing his hips, hands fisting his shirt. “You knew nothing about who he was.”

“Yes, I did.”

“No, you didn–”

“Yes, I did.” Ted states more firmly, sitting up. His hands frame your face. “He was a hard-working man who didn't deserve anything that happened to him. And it was my fault.”

You turn your head locking eyes with him.

“I shouldn't have let all those people on their own. I should have found a way to employ them immediately somewhere else.” Ted drops his eyes low and sighs heavily. “I knew that many of the ex-employees of the factory weren't able to get new jobs because they were too old and starting to get depressed, but I was ambitious and I looked to the other side…”

Silence.

“I didn't know it would reach the point your dad reached.” Ted looks up, locking eyes with you.

He sees you. Perceives. 

Notices, finally, that you’re not angry.

You’re just scared.

Ted looks at you for a long moment. Long enough for your breaths to synchronize. You end up leaning forward. Even if your dad yells at you from the other side, even if all the non-stop work you've done to bring him down kicks in the back of your mind. You kiss him. You kiss him.

Ted wraps his arms around you slowly and tilt his head. Your hands cradle his jaw and you force him to open his mouth, tasting iron on his mouth. That gets you a slight whimper from him that makes you roll your hips slowly. His hands go to your hips, down to grab your ass pressing you down onto him. You sigh heavily against his lips, he bites your lower one. 

Reality crashes back and you stand up quickly.

“Fuck you…” You say, stepping backwards while touching your lips and looking at him out of breath.

He stays there, on the ground while you grab your bicycle again.

Your body buzzes with emotions. Heat, disgust, need, lust mixed with rage.

And the indelible sensation of his lips and hands on you.

The next day—the image of you on top of Ted is everywhere. Taken from behind a glass. Clear. Illuminated by the bright lights of the massive data center.

Instagram.

Facebook.

Tik Tok.

You are now in hell on earth.

“No…” You begin to scroll hastily. “No, no, no…” You see the video published from the surveillance cameras from the center, and the other picture published by an anonymous user.

Adams Jonas.

You followers begin to drop, people report your videos and spam your comments.

“Easy whore.”

“THE MAYOR’S PRIVATE CUNT”

“#BITCH”

“Now I understand your obsession with Ted”

Obsession with Ted.

Obsession.

Obsession.

You read the latest City Hall posts and notice a recent one. A last minute campaign at the park near City Hall.

The town square is packed. People are there begrudgingly, some prepared to jump on the makeshift stage if needed. The security is arranged around the stage, looking everywhere. You can even see Joe Cross standing at the distance beside his truck.

You stand between the crowd, hood pulled up despite the heat and sunglasses. The sun bleeds in the distance and when the street lights turn on, the stage lights begin to swing around and Katy perry’s ‘Firework’ plays. Harsh white lights when Ted García comes out to stand in the center of the stage, holding a microphone.

Suit, perfect hair, charm gesture.

A ripple of applause. Some hesitant, some eager.

“Good people of Eddinton…” Ted makes the typical politician pause while looking around. “I come here tonight, not just as your mayor, but as a man who has spent his life fighting for this town.”

Your eyes roll back into your skull.

“The past few days I have been absent and I want to apologize for that. I know some of you have been hurt with the misuse of such a powerful tool which is AI. Twisting my words only because they didn’t get what they wanted from me, making fake declarations with my voice about a town I did nothing else but love and watch over.” Your heart drops to your stomach. Ted makes sure to hold eye contact with each one of the people in the crowd. “Because I know who I am, and you know who I am.”

“I could be here and be angry. Point fingers. Say the names.” Ted shakes his head. “But I won’t, because I have more important things to do than to explain an affair you don’t care about. I have to think about this town’s future, about the future of your children, and the children of your children.” 

Affair. 

He set you up.

The men standing behind Ted, uncover a banner with his face and the name ‘HighWater Systems’.

“That’s why, effective immediately, the HighWater filtration system will be free for every household in Eddington.” The crowd erupts. Cheers. Whoops. Disbelieving murmur. “And the Solidmagikarp data center will be fully solar–powered, with its own water reservoir. No use of our resources, separate connections. Jobs and progress.”

More applause.

Louder.

He did it.

He won.

And then, his eyes skim over the crowd. Ted finds you. Smirks, ever so slowly. You see the fangs, you see the devil. 

You were so close. But now you think—close to what? If power was never related to you. Not even close. 

His eyes sink in your memory, the kiss sensation still buzzes over your lips, his hands, his words, the picture, the records, the lies, the water, your father, the factory and this fucking town that digs its own hole.

Sweating, you drop the bicycle between the bushes and you hoisted yourself up the back fence of his backyard. You stammer through the garden and the chairs and table there. You slide the back screen open, not caring about knocking or announcing your presence. Your legs drag you upstairs with heavy steps, your breath heavy like a bull, seeing red.

His bedroom door was ajar. Inside, he was laying in the darkness. On his side, arm below the pillow, snoring softly. Face relaxed like a man who regrets nothing at all. Rage burst in your chestbone.

You get over him and start shaking him by the shoulders. “You fucking piece of rusty shit! You’re a fucking liar!” 

Ted’s eyes flew open, but there’s no fear, neither surprise. Just a calm that snapped away for a moment. 

“Took you long enough” He says, raspy with sleep. One arm slides behind his head. 

Your hand lands hard against his cheek and he grunts, rubbing the now pulsing soon–to–be–red mark. Ted sighs and turns around, locking eyes with you.

“Why… why…” Your voice comes out exhausted. “Why didn’t you do all this from the fucking start? The water, the fucking solar panels and all your shit…”

“Because execute. I perform” He says too calm.

You frown. The environment becomes eerie with the silence he settles. He prop himself on his elbows, you just stare.

“...what the hell does that mean?” You ask.

“I needed you and Cross out of my way,” He begins. “And when you started to get too loud, I knew I had to stop you somehow.” Ted shifts beneath you, you don’t move. “You were getting that kind of attention that people love to give to punkies who think they can stop the rain with a bucket.”

“You’re easy to read, darling. You’re impulsive, you’re short tempered” He leans close. “And you’re alone.” Ted’s eyes drop to your arm, caressing up your skin with only a finger, slowly. “I knew you’d come, soon or later, I knew you would play detective and record me, and I knew how to make you seem like the traitor…”

Ted lift his eyes to yours.

“No…” You shake your head, mouth twitching. “No, you’re not some fucking mastermind.”

“I’m not. But I think like every class of person to know which will be their next step.” Ted’s hand cups your jaw. “And all I had to do was think like someone who craves—power.”

You didn’t answer.

“They needed to think they were losing me. That the Ted they know was finally dropping his mask. And then, I gave them the hero.”

“You wanted me to record you…” You say shakily. 

“Of course I did, sweetheart.” His thumb brushes your lower lip. “You played your part perfectly, the camera loves you” His smile is wide, your breath stutters. “You’re now the one who tried to smear my image, and now they trust me more than ever.”

You shake your head slowly. “What are you doing with the water…?”

Ted smiles slowly. “You still don’t get it, don’t you? There are lies that have to be held to improve as a community.” His hands set on your hips. “Darling, this data center isn’t just for AI. It’s a mining operation. Crypto. We need all the kind of power we have in this shithole and if I have to drain the tow dry? I’ll do it” His hands tighten their grip and he speaks close to your face. “And once this town becomes the next Silicon Valley? My name will be on the top.”

“You’re poisoning them for profit” You whisper.

“I’m giving them a choice, because no real change happens by knocking a door…” Silence. “And I can give you a real change.”

Ted cups your face, one hand slides to the back of your head, cradling it. “I can give you a place of your own, paid taxes, a plate of food over the table every day, and a new fucking place to start all over again. Where no one knows you. Where no one will point fingers at you.”

Your lower lip trembles. You taste iron. One of his hands slide down your chest.

“I’ll be the one to give you something to really talk about. Not about me or someone else, about you. You’ll be the protagonist of your life…” Ted whispers. “Only if you let me…”

Your body leans forward. Grasping his shirt, clashing teeth and tongue in a slow and deep kiss that is more a kind of friction that releases sparks. Ted’s hands pull from your shirt and his hands cup your breasts, mouthing them over the brasier. He leaves marks over them, and his hands on your back unclasp the garment.

Your hands hold from his shoulder while he kneads one of your breasts with that heavy hand and the other suckles your nipple, dragging his hot tongue over it and kissing up your neck. He nudges your chin up with his nose to kiss your throat and mouths against it. “Let me show you how a real man gives it to you…”

His other hand unbutton your pants and slides his hands below your panties, finding you instantly. 

“Ted–” 

“I know… I can feel it…” Your wetness coats his thick fingers. “Who would say that someone who hates me so much in streams would be this soaked…” Ted lays you down and slides the jeans up, taking them off you. Your hands clasp on your chest while he throws the jeans away. When you sit up again while he’s taking off his sweatpants, your eyes attach to the lower part.

Cock hanging heavy, hardened. 

Ted sits back, legs spread, arms over the back rest.

“Come here…” Ted caresses your face as you crawl towards him. His lips find you again, kissing now with a softness that makes you drip even more. Ted bites your lower lip and with a last short peck on your mouth, his hand cradles the back of your head.

“Show me what else your mouth can do besides being a wildfire…” Ted smirks while he guides you and you set between his legs, kneeling. Your hands take him, you feel him. Heavy, veiny, throbbing. 

Angry.

Your hands slide up his thighs, feeling the heat of his skin. Your tongue slides over the curve of his tip and he hisses through his teeth, frowning and moving his jaw while he breathes through his mouth. His hand caress your nape while he watches you pump him slow while your mouth opens around him.

“You’re such a good girl…” Ted rasp while breathing heavy. Slight moans come from his throat.

His thumb caresses your hollow cheek while you take him. Hips lifted behind you, his eyes on the way you take him to the hilt, making him groan. He becomes obsessed with the way you take him out of your mouth and show him how you coated every single inch with spit. Spit that hangs from your lips and makes you cough. Spit that hangs from his tip and leaks on his perfect neat sheets.

“Fuck…” Ted smirks and takes your wrists, pulling you towards him. “You’re so good…” He caress your hip with one hand while the other finds your wet folds. “You’ll be so good… You’ll be everything… You’ll have everything you want…” His fingers brush his fingertips in circles over your clit. “You’re on top of the world tonight, sweetheart.”

Your body jerks, your hands massage your breasts while you look at him while he speaks. Like a snake to a sweet song. Hypnotized, believing, once again. Your hips roll against his hand, his mouth attaches to your tits again while he slides his fingers inside you, curling against that spot that turns you weak as a feather.

“Ah–” Your hand comes to your mouth when you moan louder than intended.

“No… No…” Ted’s mouth, smeared with your saliva and his, glints below the moonlight while he looks up at you. “You’ve been so loud these past weeks, don’t go silent on me now…”

His hand on your hip gives a hard spank on your flesh that curiously doesn’t hurt but makes you arch forward. 

“Please…” You whisper. Please what? Please, fuck me? Please let me go? You wanna leave? Please give me all the power? You don’t know anymore. You just give yourself to him, and he’s there to catch you.

His hands guide you to sit over him. Your head lays on his shoulder but he cradles your face and presses your forehead against his while you lower yourself on his waiting cock. Your hands wrap around his wrists, holding and your moan comes out whispered, high. His are throaty, low and you swear you can see the vapour coming from your mouths while he sinks deeper, stretching.

You hate how good it feels. 

The devil’s inside you.

And you’re so glad for the fucking fire.

Your hand drops on his stomach, your torso hunch a bit and a sharp moan escapes you. Ted wraps one arm around you, holding you firmly while you start to bounce slowly. His eyes lock with yours, his expression dark and suffocated, like you’re putting him through a punishment too good to be true.

Your other hand snaps forward wrapping around his throat, and press him against the headboard while your hips speed up. Ted smirks, shows the fangs, enjoys your downfall while he lets you savour the fake power for a moment.

Because while you’re at least on top of him once, you’ll seize it.

“That’s my girl… Take it…” Ted bites his lower lip watching you. His hands caress your waist while he looks down at the way you take him. The way your fluids mix. The way you pulse around him.

“You hate me?” Ted asks, looking at your face, twisted with pleasure and helplessness. 

“Y-yes..” You answer with a moan, sounding needy.

Ted smiles and his hands help you to move faster, encouraging you.

“Yes, I know, babe…” Ted says between breathy chuckles, bucking up to meet your body. “Show me how much”

You hand stops squeezing around his throat and you feel his throat bobbing below your palm. He takes both of your hands in his and kisses your palms, then he makes you wrap your arms around his neck and takes you down to the mattress. 

Laying on your back, your thighs bracket his hips. He snaps harder, sparks appear in your vision, his hand holds the back of your legs and watches himself ruining you.

“The sweetest cunt that ever hated me…” Ted groans below his harsh breath. His hands grasp your hips with a strong grip, you arch your back and your hands grasp the sheets.

Your eyes lock on his face while he keeps looking between you two. Sweat rolls down his forehead, his eyes dart from your flesh to your eyes doing a double take. His breath comes in short puffs while he holds your gaze.

Your expression twists slowly, the heat pools and bubbles. He knows it.

“C’mon… Give yourself to me…” Ted whispers against your jaw.

And you do.

Anything for this,

for a piece of power,

to quench your thirst.

AAAAA i'm so nervous, I hope you liked it. This is one of the longest things I ever shared.

Love you all! Reblog, like, comment and go watch Eddington NOW!

[ishestillapunk]

hii!! just wanted to make a question about COTR. since you said these are posted in a random order, did you already post the final chapter? can you say which one is it?

hello <3 thanks for asking. no, I haven't uploaded the finale and it will be posted once the series come to an end. dw, I will clarify once I upload it.

read Crashing on the Rocks, here!