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sushiwriterhereside · 2 years ago

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Fake it

Chapter two: Drunk on Halloween

synopsis: a pair of best friends, one apartment, and one fake dating ploy to get jake’s ex girlfriend back, will end well right? wrong.

pairing: jake seresin x female reader.

warnings: no use of y/n, underage drinking, mentions of binge eating, jake and reader are both 20. this blog is 18+, everyone please thank @blue-aconite for deciding that jake 6'5 :)

word count: 4.3k

college au, fake dating trope, roommate trope

previous chapter | next chapter | fake it masterlist

The harsh sun beaming directly on Bradley’s back makes him deeply reconsider meeting up with Jake—especially on the one day he had off in his class schedule. Instead of sleeping in, like he originally planned to, Bradley’s waiting outside the student center building—that he didn’t even know existed until now.

Flocks of underclassmen are exiting through the front doors, fresh lanyards hanging around their necks as they walk around him. A few of them even mutter an apology to Bradley, despite him clearly being in the wrong, planting himself in the middle of the walkway—with no intention to move.

Just as Bradley’s about to turn around and leave, the devil himself appears with a crowd of sorority girls in front of him—laughing as he holds the top of the door open for them to file out through. And even with Bradley’s impatience wafting off towards him, Jake doesn’t falter.

In spite of it, Jake dips his head back down to say his goodbyes to the pack of girls, making sure to give out individual hugs as well. He then jogs over to Bradley with two energy drinks clutched in one hand, and a toothy smile plastered on his face—one that Bradley isn’t affected by because he’s not some girl seeking a temporary semester crush to keep herself going. Bradley’s just here to relay information, and to get lunch.

Ignoring the unimpressed look he’s receiving from Bradley, Jake continues walking down the cement path after passing him one of the drinks. It’s pocketed into Bradley’s sweatpants for now.

“Untwisted Javy’s panties,” Bradley flatly states, catching up behind Jake in two long strides.

“What?” Jake’s brows furrow, looking ahead at an approaching tour group. Stepping over to his left, Jake makes more space on the pavement for them to walk pass him as he continues on.

Unlike his friend, Bradley doesn’t move over at all, he continues walking in a straight line—causing the appointed tour guide to visibly panic as he divides up the herd of highschoolers from their parents. “You forgot Juliet? He forbade me from seeing you.” Bradley’s face remains stoic, delivering his reminder coldly.

“Oh, yeah,” Jake answers, mildly confused. He hasn’t got a clue where Bradley pulled the new nickname from. All Jake knows is that he can finally get through the doors for frat parties, especially now that Javy’s cooled off his case.

Both of them meet back again, walking side by side—oblivious to the wide-eyed teenage girls doing double takes at the two attractive college boys that just passed them.

It wasn’t like Jake and Bradley were blind to the fact that they always stood a head taller than most people. As a matter of fact, they both secretly marveled at their size comparison to others—it was just hard to remember how large they both were when they stood shoulder to shoulder, making eachother look rather normal.

Jake pops open the tab of his energy drink. He slows down his steps, permitting Bradley to gain on him as he sips on the liquid that pools around the rim of the can.

“This isn’t me helping you two with this shitty plan.” Bradley starts, before getting to his next point. Jake nods once, accepting the preface.

Reaching a downhill slope, their pace begins to wind down. “Talked to some chick in Alpha Xi for you. She told me Kendall’s coming to that party we’re co-hosting next weekend.” Bradley mutters, regrettably.

Opposite to Bradley’s dead eyes, Jake’s own green orbs shoot into a brighter shade at the news.

Bradley can nearly see the cogs turning in Jake’s head. From the look on his face, Jake’s already decided on taking you as his plus one to next week’s party.

Jake elbows Bradley’s side. “You talked to someone for me?”

While Bradley confirmed, more to himself, that this wasn’t him helping Jake out—the slight guilt is still there. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth, knowing you’re in the thick of it all.

Other guys would have no hesitancy when helping out a buddy, but Bradley did. An unsensible part of him wishes you didn’t remind him of his little sisters so much. Juicing out information that obviously aids Jake’s dumb ploy feels like he’s setting one of his own sisters up for disaster. And though you were just as clueless as Jake was—Bradley’s no idiot. He might act like he doesn’t know what’s going on sometimes, but that’s only to have an upper hand on people.

It was hard to not ignore the elephant in the room, Bradley felt he was watching two characters dodge an issue that was going to end up blowing up in their faces. But, Jake’s too wrapped up in his own delusions about Kendall to see that, and you? Bradley’s not close enough to you to put his finger on what method of denial you’ve stuck to.

“You flirt with her to find that out, or are you just that handsome?” Jake adds on, laughing behind the can he brung up to his lips again.

“Look.” Bradley cuts him off, making a sharp turn towards the direction of the dining hall. Jake follows alongside him, sloppily taking a larger chug than expected, caused by the change in route.

“I have plenty of sisters, they—” Bradley presses his tongue to the back of his teeth, withholding the sappy lecture that’s threatening to spill out. Jake didn’t need to know he has that side to him, not yet.

Bradley alternatively lets out a breath of frustration. “Just be careful,” he mumbles, stuffing his hands into his hoodie.

Bradley watches from the corner of his eye as Jake discards the half empty can into one of the many trash bins scattered across campus.

As much as Jake hates how much Bradley’s become protective of you, Jake also knew that this meant that Bradley liked you. Bradley Bradshaw—the guy who didn’t think twice when he stepped onto sloshed freshman that groaned under his foot—liked you.

And when Bradley extended his care to someone, he kept a close eye on them at all times. It was a tendency he fell into after becoming an older brother. Therefore, Jake made sure there would be no harm caused to you before bringing this idea up to Bradley. Because you and Jake? That’s never happening, it’s actually impossible, outrageous, unimaginable even.

Jake knew what you liked, and that wasn’t him. Time and time again, you went for guys who were put together, guys who were as smart as you were, and guys who made your heart flutter through lame shit that Jake can’t even come up with. The few relationships you had didn’t last that long, but Jake was pleased knowing you weren’t left disrespected in the breakup. You were always the one who cut things off anyways.

Having that knowledge made Jake confident that you’d say something if this fake dating thing wasn’t cutting it anymore.

“Relax, Dad.” Jake claps a hand onto Bradley’s back, lightly laughing at the uptight expression dawning on his features.

Seeing that they’ve reached the wide steps leading up to the dining hall, Jake lets the hand on Bradley’s back fall to his side again. Already dismissing their conversation, Jake stomps his way up the stairs—skipping a few steps just because his long legs allowed him to.

Bradley sighs at his lack of awareness, following right behind Jake. Putting his hunger aside, Bradley feels something else bothering his stomach—a premonition, is what his kooky sisters would call it.

“Quit covering your face. I’m tryna show you off—not hide you.”

Contrary to his complaint, you turn your head away from the speechless girl who stumbled upon you two in a compromising position. “This is humiliating,” you groan quietly into his hoodie, listening to her scramble off with hurried footsteps.

Meeting up with Jake in the library was a mistake. With your search for textbooks coming up empty, Jake took it upon himself to fool around—making a show in front of other innocent students, subjecting them to a view of him towering over you. How else would everyone know you’re my girlfriend, he argued.

You lean back against the bookshelf he’s pinned you against.

Thumbing over the button of your denim shorts, Jake lets out a soundless breath. The metal clasp looks so tiny compared to his digit tracing it—putting Jake in a momentary trance. “My girl’s so shy, what am I supposed to do with you,” he teases, eyes still trained on your waistband.

“I…I see why she broke up with you. You can’t keep your hands to yourself,” you grumble—face hot at the coined term. It’s embarrassing as is—that he’s starting with a public declaration of your ‘relationship’, but calling you his girl? None of your exes had even attempted to test out the term with you, because they had shame—something that Jake Seresin has not one ounce of.

I see why she broke up with you. Right, Kendall broke up with him.

Jake’s hands drop from your figure, feeling kicked by your comment. “You think so?” He whispers, eyes trailing back up to your face. Jake fills his cheeks with air, self-conscious at the sudden reminder that Kendall dumped him out of the blue—without giving him a single explanation as to why.

Reaching up a hand to squish his face, your eyes soften. His cheeks slowly deflate as your fingers press down on his tanned skin, allowing him to blow out the excess air. “No. I don’t think so.”

After echoing back his comment to him, Jake eases up again—puckering his lips in your hands to make you laugh, which you do—quietly. The librarians were already well versed on who you two were, there must’ve been a catalog of complaints under their desks with both your names on it.

You drop your hand from his face, forcing Jake to conceal his disappointment at the motion. “Told some girls I have a new girl today,” he moves on, eyes tracing over the lines of your face.

It only hits him now how much you’ve aged—not like it’s a bad thing. You just look different—not like the younger version of you that Jake had in his head.

“Told em’ you’re real pretty—think that’ll get back to her?” Jake rests his palms on your hips again—maintaining the illusion.

Through natural impulse, Jake’s thumb finds itself ringing around the clasps of your shorts again. The pad of his digit circles the metal button, and occasionally drops down to trace over the teeth of your zipper. He plays with the opening of your pants so lightly, that you don’t even notice it.

You face scrunches up, pretending to wince for his ex-girlfriend. “Ouch.”

“Can’t wait to break your heart and dump you, once she comes crawling back to you,” you lightly joke, poking a finger into his chest, where his heart would sit. Despite his soft jab to Kendall, you had a feeling that he’ll win her back in no time.

Jakes softly smiles at you, almost forgetting where you two are for a split second. “You wouldn’t break my heart, Princess. You’re too nice for that,” and he meant it.

When his older sisters used to complain about how insufferable Jake was during puberty, you always assured him that he wasn’t annoying at all. One could say the comradery only conspired because you were also going through puberty, but it made Jake feel validated at the time. You were always too lenient with him, even when he was clearly undeserving. Thirteen year old Jake was well aware that he was a brat, but he just needed to hear you say that he wasn’t.

“I’m just the bestest friend ever huh?”

“The best a boy could ask for,” Jake’s eyes crinkle from his stretched out smile.

In the last hour that you two have spent here, there had been a layer of hushed whispers that can be heard amongst the soft clattering of hardcover books and clicking of keyboards—but there’s one familiar voice off in the distance that urges you to tune out Jake’s response.

Turning your head in search for it, your vision zones in on a group of girls heading directly towards you and Jake. You don’t know if it was pure luck or your intuition but the voice belonged to one of Kendall’s friends.

To your surprise, all her girlfriends are here—but she’s not with them.

Right as you take notice of the one friend, the glossy lipped girl makes instant eye contact with you. She wastes no time notifying the others around her by swatting their arms with her nimble hand.

The air in your lungs immediately expunges once they all start to swivel their heads precisely at you.

Alertness strikes you like a clap of thunder, prompting you to snap your head back to Jake. His smile falls once he catches your panic-stricken expression.

Wanting to decipher what’s bothering you, Jake tears his concerned eyes off you and starts to lift his head in the direction you were previously looking at.

If Jake were to look over there—this whole dating thing wouldn't look natural. With that in mind, you knew you were left with only one option.

Without a warning, you cup his cheek in your hand—bringing his attention back to you. Tucking away your nerves, you clasp your other hand onto the back of Jake’s neck—pulling him down towards you.

It almost happens too fast for Jake’s brain to register what’s going on—until he feels a new warmth against his mouth.

You’re kissing him.

Your tongue isn’t shoved down his throat, your lips aren’t slotted into his—all you do is softly press your lips against the corner of his mouth, but it catches him off guard nonetheless.

From the sudden proximity, the distinct scent of your strawberry body-wash floods his nose and travels to his brain—scrambling all of his thoughts into one jumbled mess.

Not knowing what to do with himself, Jake digs his sweaty fingers into your hips in surprise, the pads of his fingers practically wet your denim. This was the last thing he expected out of his visit to the library.

Slowly, you pull back only to peck him on the corner of his mouth again, to make it look believable. Deciding it should be enough, you get off your tippy toes—and withdraw the hand you hooked onto him.

Disregarding the dizzying rush of adrenaline pumping through your veins, you look up at Jake expectantly—lashes fluttering underneath him.

It’s fruitless—Jake’s scan to see if you’re wearing that prickling lip plumping gloss Kendall used to jabber out, the one that made his mouth sting from kissing her. Because Jake feels that similar sensation on the little spot you kissed. His lips tingle there.

“Jake? Did they see?” You ask, cutting through his thoughts.

Jake blinks down at you, marked with confusion. “Jake.” You stamp down again, urging him to check. You were far too mortified to make eye contact with those girls again.

Jake stammers for a moment before looking off to see what you’re talking about. Finally, his sights land on the overly familiar group of girls—it’s Kendall’s best friends.

They’re all standing by a row of printers across the library floor, faces frozen in shock. Their heads almost knock into each other in a failed attempt to turn around, as if he hasn’t already caught them looking over here.

Dismissing his heart thumping in his chest, from the energy drink he guzzled down earlier—Jake twists his neck to look back at you again, mouth parted in realization. You took the initiative to kiss him on the edge of his mouth, because they were looking—because from this angle, it looked like you were giving him a sweet little peck. One a girlfriend would give to her boyfriend.

Jake easily shakes you from the way he squeezes your hips in celebration. The boastful action pulls a weak smile from you. “You're a fucking genius, you know that?” Jake feels like he’s about to explode from the swirl of pleasant emotions in his chest, ones that he can’t even put a name to.

Jake could give you an actual fucking kiss right now. Even if you’re probably wearing that tingling lip gloss.

“Get your–own! Jacob!” you shriek, pulling your ice cream cone away from him. The soft serve was initially bought as a thank you gift, for the show you put on in the library. But you were sadly mistaken if you thought you could enjoy your frozen treat without Jake asking for a bite—which turned into two bites—which turned into half of your ice cream being gone before you could have so much of a taste.

The fight you put up is futile, as Jake’s already coming up from behind you. His large frame almost casts a shadow onto the bulletin board you’re both standing in front of. To steady your stance, Jake presses his palm against your stomach, so you don’t stumble forward.

Holding your wrist steady with his other hand, Jake lifts your hand up to his mouth to sink his teeth into the melting glob of milk and sugar. After securing a large bite, he uncurls his fingers from your wrist. “What are you gonna do about it? Kiss me?” He asks, voice rumbling behind you.

Tipping your head backwards, the top of your head hits his chest. “No more,” you declare softly—looking at him through your lashes.

Jake licks off the excess ice cream on the corner of his mouth. His teasing smile drops at your serious plea. “No more,” he repeats, looking down at you.

You knew it was ridiculous to be slighted by Jake eating your ice cream, but you’ve been feeling uneasy during the past few days. And the snacks back at the apartment weren’t enough to diminish your need to stress eat. There was something in the back of your mind lately, that’s been increasing your desire to binge lately.

Jake nudges the side of your foot with his own, encouraging you to eat your ice cream.

At the assurance that he’s done consuming your vanilla cone, you both bring your attention back to the array of neon flyers stapled onto the board in front of you two.

Since Jake’s hand is still pressed against your tummy, he extends his pinky to play with the button of your shorts again. “How about the outdoor movie? Maybe Kendall will show up,” he offers.

Your eyes search for the poster he’s referring to. “Jake, you’re really bad with scary movies. It says right there that it’s a horror movie night,” you point out, apprehensively.

“Movie nights are stupid anyway,” he scoffs, setting his embarrassment aside.

For the next few minutes, you read off the upcoming school events to Jake as he distracts himself by watching you give your ice cream kitten licks—holding back the impulse to take another bite.

“...I don’t think she’ll be showing up to any of these Jake,” you conclude, leaning back against his chest with the waffle cone between your teeth.

Jake stiffens. It only just occurred to him now, that he made you two come all the way down here for no reason. Jake was already aware of an event you both could go to with Kendall’s confirmed attendance.

“Did you just—flex your abs because I laid back on you?”

Yeah he did. It was reflexive for the most part, but there’s other things to be discussed.

Jake cuts in with his new idea, “My old frat is co-hosting a party that we’re invited to. Kendall’s showing up,” he proposes, looking down to probe your reaction.

“Oh, okay. We can—we can do that,” you untangle yourself from him, while still being careful to not drop your cone.

Jake’s brows pinch in confusion, seeing you slip out from under him. “Where are you going?”

Doing a quick turn to face him, you hand him the empty cone which he grabs from you. “That just reminded me of something—I gotta go. I’ll meet you at home later?”

Jake raises the cone to his mouth, taking a bite from it. “You don’t want me to come with you?”

“No, it’s okay,” you assure him with a faint smile.

When the doorbell rang through the house, Bradley swung open the door, already prepared to tell whatever girl that was there to leave. And that her boyfriend is most likely cheating on her if he lives in this house.

Instead of finding some teary eyed girl on the doorstep of the frat house, he found you standing there digging the toe of your sneaker into the stained doormat beneath you.

If he was given a heads up that you were coming, Bradley would’ve made an effort to tidy up his room. When he led you inside, he had to kick away the piles of out-turned shirts and dirty boxers to clear the way for you.

Bradley couldn’t begin to imagine Jake's reaction if he knew that you were sitting on top of Bradley’s bed right now.

Typically when Bradley did have girls on his mattress, they didn’t look like a meek little lamb with their hands politely folded into their laps and they definitely didn’t have their legs stiffly glued together.

Directly across from you, Bradley’s manspreading in his black and white gaming chair. He’s dressed in grey sweats and a black hoodie. And the only light in his room is a desk lamp that shines down on your face.

“He definitely remembers.” Bradley squints his eyes at you in suspicion. It’s not often that you come to him for advice, so when you did, it always had to do with Jake.

Your hands clamp tighter in your lap. “I don’t know Bradley, he looked so confused when I mentioned it in the elevator,” You’re practically sweating under the yellow light, as if Bradley’s cross-examining you.

“You kiddin’ me? I’ve seen Seresin play Jenga when he had a pack of beers in his system. And he fucking won,” he scoffs, leaning foward to rest both elbows on his knees.

Bradley’s voice is naturally gruff, but he’s making an effort to keep a calm tone with you—because it honestly looks like you would shatter like glass, if he were to speak to you in the wrong way. “When did you say this kiss was?”

At the question, your face scrunches up trying to remember the details. “It was at a Halloween party—we had to be sixteen or something,” you swallow thickly, recalling what follows. “I only had a few hard seltzers but Jake he…um he had a couple of his dad’s beers.”

Bradley intently nods, ensuring you that he’s listening.

“The music was so loud Bradley, I could barely make out what he was saying—he was trying to tell me something but his words were all—they were,” you pause, deliberating over the right word choice.

“Slurred? Fucked up? All over the place?” He offers, engrossed by your narrative.

“Yeah, and God—I had such a big crush on him at the time,” you bury your face in your hands. This had to be the first time you admitted this out loud. Never in a million years would you think you’d tell Bradley of all people.

Bradley presses his lips together and nods slowly, unmoved by your confession. He wonders what his sisters would tell you in this situation.

On his bed, you’re taking slowed breaths. It doesn’t take a genius to get a sense on why this problem from years ago is troubling you now. But, Bradley’s not sure if he wants to be the one to break it to you.

Bradley sighs deeply, putting his hard demeanor on hold.

“You don’t have to say anymore, I can tell how the story ends,” he says quietly, bringing a stiff hand over your knee.

Jake had just broken up with his first girlfriend that Halloween and intentionally got shit-faced, while dressed as Ken and you as Barbie. The costume was meant for his girlfriend pre-breakup, but you took it and matched with him instead—hoping it would cheer him up.

After having too much to drink, Jake came staggering over to you, spewing out nonsense you couldn’t even hear over the blaring music.

Then, he kissed you—right then and there. It was nothing special, the kiss lasted for less than three seconds, but it still knocked the air out of your lungs.

And right after he took your first kiss, Jake proceeded to pass out, landing straight on your shoulder like dead weight. It left you standing there, trying to keep him upright as your legs felt like jelly.

The morning after, Jake didn’t bring it back up. Right when you knocked on his door still giddy from last night, Jake let you in and continued his complaints about his ex.

You had cried for weeks at the revelation that he didn’t remember. That he had probably mistaken you for his ex-girlfriend, given the costume and all. Jake thought he kissed her in his drunken haze, not you.

And by the time you two were seventeen, you finally got past it. Whatever romantic feelings you felt for him diminished to nothing. And you’ve already concluded that it didn’t matter anymore.

So why does it bother you so much now?

“…Get out…my…room,” you tiredly mumble. The words are almost incoherent as they slip out your mouth.

Sitting on your bedside, the corner of Jake’s lip tugs into a small smile. How can he take you seriously when your face is squished into a pillow?

When Jake came in to check up on you, he walked in on you being half awake with your front sinking into the bed and your back pointing up towards the ceiling.

With a hand sprawled against the small of your back, Jake stretches his fingers wider to see much of your back he can cover. Then, he begins to gently caress his hand over your spine, contributing to your sleepiness.

“Where’d you go?” He asked in a hush tone, not wanting to disturb you too much.

Jake had gone straight home after you left him earlier in the day, but you didn’t get back until the sun had set. And when you finally got home, you looked off.

“Friend’s house,” you short-cut your answer, a tell-tale sign that you were drifting off.

Jake pauses his movement.

“…What friend?” Last time he checked, you had no other friends but him.

He waits for you to answer, but he’s only met with silence. You fell asleep on him.

All he can do is sigh, pulling his hand away from you. And as he stares down at your peaceful state, Jake struggles to identify the uneasiness twisting in his stomach.

note: after much keyboard smashing she is here! (the fast pace..is pacing!). thank you for reading! and as always, reblogs are greatly appreciated! + i’ve yet to go over spelling errors, so if they’re any please gently ignore for now.

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#fic rec

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sushiwriterhereside · 2 years ago

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The way this made my heart pound…! I love the way your write Jack 😩🤧 I’m obsessed

cupcake - car salesman!jack daniels x f!reader

moodboard (and fic) by me and @haylzcyon

summary: Jack Daniels, lead used car salesman at his dealership, has a crush on you, the pretty receptionist. It's too bad he can't get out of his own way. Luckily for him, you have patience and a soft spot for shy cowboys. rating/warnings: E [semi-public male masturbation, some objectification, fantasized sexy times, descriptions of food and eating, kissing, it's all very sweet okay, reader wears glasses] wc: 6k (whoops) a/n: as mentioned above, this was co-written by @haylzcyon! and it was an awesome, fun process, and i love her sm<3 we set out to write a drabble, and then we lost our minds a little, and now we've created a universe. i said to myself no more AUs but i lied. we are very anxious and excited to present this sweet man borne from our various experiences with car salesmen. jack would've been better to us, and he's gonna be incredible to you, dear reader.

masterlist

“Hey there, sunshine.”

You look up from the papers on your desk into the deep, mesmerizing brown eyes of Jack Daniels, the top salesman of the quarter three quarters in a row. You know this because you spend most of your time filing those sales reports, marveling at sales bonuses that could pay your rent for a year.

Jack’s not even supposed to be here today. He doesn’t get back from vacation until tomorrow. You know this because you have the schedules of all the salespeople in the dealership taped to the surface of your desk. You definitely don’t pay more attention to Jack’s schedule.

It’s not like you’d memorized it or anything.

But he’s here now, standing with his hands behind his back, dressed more casually than you’ve ever seen him in a pair of blue jeans that sit snug on his slim hips, and a dark grey t-shirt with sleeves that hug his biceps. He’s missing his usual Stetson, and he looks so much softer with just a crown of soft, dark waves that he runs his fingers through as he waits for you to acknowledge him.

He’s smiling at you.

“Morning, Jack. Aren’t you off till Monday?” You ask with a yawn. It’s early still, and the dealership isn’t even technically open.

“I am, but I got somethin’ for ya,” he says, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. You peer over the edge of your desk, eyebrows raised to better see what he’s holding.

“You—you did?”

From behind his back, he produces a small white box tied closed with twine. “I felt just awful about missin’ your party last week, so I got you a little something.”

“Party?” You ask before your brain catches up with you. Oh, right—your birthday party. That.

They were supposed to throw you a party. Everyone else got a party. It wasn’t that big of a deal, just a cake and some punch in the big meeting room, and a card signed by everyone. That’s what you’d heard, at least. You’ve never gotten to go to one. The phone, unfortunately, never stops ringing.

“Jack, you are so, so sweet. Thank you so much,” you say, trying to shake off that lingering ache of disappointment and eying the box he sets in front of you. “But you didn’t miss anything. There wasn’t a party or anything like that.”

Jack squints at you, nostrils flaring a little like that’s the last thing he expected you to say. “No party?”

“They couldn’t get anyone to cover the front desk,” you explain, heat blossoming in your cheeks, and you desperately trying to change the subject. “It’s fine, no big deal. Lemme see what you got me.”

You tug on the twine, and the box falls open delicately. Inside is the most beautiful red velvet cupcake you’ve ever seen.

“Oh, Jack,” you breathe, looking back at him. “It’s amazing. Thank you, you really shouldn’t have.”

His cheeks are a delightful shade of rosy pink, a bashful grin spreading across his face.

“You’re welcome, darlin’,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. He hesitates and takes a breath before he speaks again. The phone starts ringing, but you ignore it. You’re not open for another five minutes, and you don’t think you’d answer it even then; not with Jack Daniels being so adorable in front of you. “Listen, I was wonderin’ if you…are you busy tonight?”

“I have big plans with my couch, actually.”

“What if I took you out tonight instead? Just to…just to make up for these idiots not doin’ something special for you like they ought to.”

You consider the offer, ignoring the butterflies flitting around your stomach. There’s no reason to think this is anything other than him just being nice, but you’ve never been alone with Jack. Up until about a month ago, you’d been convinced he wanted nothing to do with you.

Regardless, having his full attention sounds incredibly appealing.

“That would be amazing, Jack,” you say. The smile he gives you lights up the whole gloomy day.

The unfortunate crush you’d harbored for the man started your third day here.

The woman you were replacing—a gorgeous, cheerful woman named Ginger—had left you alone for the first time to go to lunch.

“You’ll be fine,” Ginger insisted, shouldering her purse, already halfway around the reception desk. “Remember, if it’s someone looking for a salesperson, send it to them in the list order, okay?” Ginger tapped a bright pink Post-it note with a list of names stuck to your monitor. “Top to bottom, and then start over.”

“And that’s because…”

“Because salespeople have egos, and if you send too many calls to one of them too many times, it starts a whole thing,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Okay, I’ll be back.”

You only had two accidental disconnects (which, yes, was an improvement), and your confidence had gone up by about ten percent when a man jogged toward you, looking down at an envelope in his hand. His face was obscured by the brim of a brown cowboy hat.

“Sweetheart,” he said, still not looking up. “Can you get me the keys to that 2012 Honda Acc—you’re not Ginger.”

He finally looked up at you, stopping short just before he got to your desk.

“Nope,” you said, telling him your name. “I’m the new girl.”

“What happened to Ginger?”

“She’s…still here. She’s just moving to the back to take over as title clerk,” you explained. You tried not to think about how handsome he was, even with that ridiculous hat.

“Oh,” was all he said. For several long moments, he was quiet, looking at you like he didn’t understand the concept of a new receptionist.

“Did you…need something?” You asked, finally.

“Of course!” He said. “Sorry. Yeah, I needed some keys.”

Unfortunately for both of you, you had no idea where any keys were.

“I, um, Ginger hasn’t told me about keys yet?”

You braced yourself for some kind of impatience—you already felt like you were wasting his time—but he just strode around to the other side of your desk, opening a drawer to your right while fastidiously avoiding direct eye contact.

“The keys to the key cabinet are here,” he said, picking them up off a notepad. “And the key cabinet is there. They all have serial numbers that match them.” He read off a long series of numbers and you rifled through the keys until you came to the matching 2012 Honda Accord tags.

“Why do you ask me for them if you know where they are?” You asked, genuinely curious. He just stared at you again, though, and hot flames licked up the back of your neck, burning to the tips of your ears.

“That’s just how it’s done,” he said at last. Oh, he definitely thought you were a moron.

“Okay, um, well, thank you,” you said. He flashed a tight-lipped smile and gave a quick nod.

“No problem, sug—uh, no problem. Name’s Jack.” Then he turned around, disappearing around the corner. It pained you to note he had a distressingly cute little ass.

Ginger came back not long after, and you told her about Jack and the keys.

“Is he shy or something?” You asked.

Ginger scoffed. “Jack? No. Not at all. He’s never met a stranger. Why?”

“He was just a little quiet with me.”

“Uh-huh,” Ginger said like she knew something you might not. “Well, he’s probably just in a hurry. He’s usually plenty chatty.”

And over the months, you came to see that he was very, very chatty. And friendly and funny, too.

Just not with you.

While Jack is preoccupied, backing into the spot next to where you parked this morning, you take the moment to watch as beams of the car lot's lights wash over his face. You’ve always found him handsome, but the sharp edges of his features catch and shine inside the dim cabin, illuminating the softer parts around the apples of his cheeks and the slope of his neck as he cranes it to check the side-view mirror.

You actually think he’s beautiful.

He's different tonight, too. Where his movements and words to you previously were ever awkward and spacey, he has been nothing but smooth and attentive since he picked you up at 5 o'clock. The way his jeans slid over the leather booth at the restaurant when he scooched close to hear you better was natural, and his sweet drawl so close to your ear in a crowded room was richer than any you'd ever heard. The way his eyes focused intently on the center of your face whenever you adjusted your glasses, and the way your name seemed to drip like honey off his lips sent goosebumps across your skin every time.

Jack is an exceptional salesperson; the kind of man who treats his customers like family and his coworkers as friends. But how he's treated you all night, on top of the heady energy radiating from him and filling the space between you right now- it's surely neither of those things.

You've witnessed how polite and caring and thoughtful he can be, but there's still always been some invisible wedge driven uncomfortably between you. Something that kept him from loosening up; from giving you the casual assurance that he's interested in speaking to you as not just a coworker, but a friend.

All night you’ve struggled not to ask him what changed.

Ducking your head and fiddling with the hem of your skirt, you try not to let your breath sound too shaken when his arm reaches behind your seat headrest. Jack’s torso twists and leans towards you as he peers out the back windshield, throwing a pleasant mixture of clove and butterscotch across the center console and more butterflies into your stomach.

Once the car’s in park, he gingerly turns the radio dial all the way down. Staring at his hand for a moment before letting it fall to the shifter, his jaw ticks before he turns to face you with an earnest smile.

“Really glad you let me take you out tonight, darlin’.”

Willfully ignoring the heat that spreads across your chest, you return the smile and reach for the purse at your feet.

“Me too, Jack, I had a great time,” you say, beginning to dig for your keys, “Far and away better than the plans I had with my couch.”

He chuckles before grabbing his door handle to step out after you. “I sure hope so.”

You’re still rummaging around the bottom of your purse as he mosies around the hood of his SUV, planting a hip against the grill. He's spectating your struggle with a look in his eye like it's the most amusing sight in the world.

“Well," you say, disregarding the butterflies in your stomach under his gaze, "you obviously haven’t spent an evening in my living room eating Chinese takeout and watching Bake Off. It’s usually a blast.”

“I believe that,” he concedes with a tilt of his head, a grin spreading across plush lips. “You like to bake?”

“Sometimes,” you say, finally wrapping your fingers around your key fob and pulling the ring from the depths of your bag. “My kitchen is kind of small, so- oh, wait!”

Turning on the spot, you start a brisk walk toward the clear glass walls of the dealership’s office.

“What’re you after?” Jack asks, stepping in quickly behind you.

“I left your cupcake on my desk. And frankly, Mr. Daniels, you’ve got me all wrong if you think I wasn’t planning on eating it in the bath tonight.”

Your cheeks burn again but you shoot him a coy smile before placing your key in the lock and turning it. He closes the door behind you, stepping to the alarm panel on the wall to disarm it while you head to reception.

Stretching over the counter on your tip-toes to retrieve the box, he’s only a few strides from joining you when you pivot and move toward the break room.

“Gonna grab a couple forks.”

You're reaching high, your fingertips just brushing the edge of the box of plastic cutlery atop the fridge when Jack sneaks in the doorway to the kitchenette. A sudden, booming rendition of “Happy Birthday” fills the room, nearly causing you to drop the box but saving it at the last second.

A grin stretches across your face at the shockingly tone-deaf singing voice that bounces off the linoleum floor, as well as the sight of the oversized cupcake dwarfed in his hands. Even so brazenly off-key, the sound of Jack singing your name sends an excited ripple through your body.

As he walks to the small table in the center of the room, Jack shoots you a wink before ending the song and placing the treat squarely in the center of the surface.

Thanking him, you stifle your giggles and revel in the brightest smile he’s ever given you in return. You both take a seat, the cheap plastic chairs creaking as you settle in front of the picture-perfect red velvet cupcake and take a better look at the confection. It’s topped with neatly piped frosting, both white and dark chocolate shavings, and looks absolutely delicious. Plucking the fork you offer him out of your hand, he watches as you bite your lip before sinking the utensil into the treat and bringing it to your lips.

“Oh my gooood,” you moan, mouth half-full but unable to help yourself at the explosion of decadence on your tongue. Knitting your eyebrows and raising them as you swallow, you find his eyes and say, “Jack, this is amazing, you have to try.”

He chuckles and raises his own brows. “I reckon I do. You’ve already given it quite the review.”

Removing his hat and twiddling the fork in his fingers, he gestures for you to take another bite before digging in himself. The two of you sit in near silence while you eat–the trickling of the water cooler, the distant thrum of heavy traffic outside, and his grunts of approval over the cake lending a comfortable ambiance.

As comfortable as you can be, considering the picture of Jack beside you. His plush lips purse enticingly with every bite he takes, and the red security light bouncing off the skin of his hands, his face, his neck, is more distracting than anything you've ever seen in this office.

He looks up from the cupcake right into your eyes, like he’s waiting for the answer to a question. Because he is—you’ve just been too preoccupied with staring at that divot in his bottom lip to hear him.

“Sorry,” you say, a nervous grin spreading across your face. “What did you say?”

Jack wasn’t sure what to do with you at first. After that initial stilted interaction, he did remember when Ginger mentioned a new hire coming to replace her at reception. But he’d been so taken off guard, you with your bright eyes and soft features sitting where he’d expected Ginger, he could barely remember his name before he gave it to you.

You were so pretty he couldn’t even make himself speak more than he absolutely had to, convinced that he’d say something foolish or offensive. For a reason he hadn’t ascertained quite yet, he really didn’t want you to think he was either of those things.

He had a plan—it was a good plan, really, it was. He’d get past his weird, unsettling crush on you, and be professional and cool. He just needed a few weeks to settle himself; talk to you in small doses, find some kind of flaw of yours, and focus on that. But he could never, ever make himself say more than three words at a time to you, and so he never found one damn flaw.

Plan A fell apart quickly, and the only other plan was to avoid you entirely. That plan sucked, but Jack didn’t know what else he was supposed to do. Walk over and have some kind of normal conversation? Not when his tongue felt too big for his mouth every time you smiled at him. Not when every time you stood too close and he got a whiff of your perfume he felt all the muscles in his chest constrict–along with every stitch in the crotch of his trousers.

So he chose distance. After a few months, he managed to delude himself into believing it had worked. He could look at you and give a pleasant smile without a twisting sensation in the pit of his stomach.

And then came goddamn casual Friday.

When the dealership had a particularly good week, it always meant more work for the office. Recently, they’d had a lot of good weeks, and the ladies in the back were swamped with paperwork. And in the grand tradition of capitalism, rather than hire someone to help, the general manager suggested a “morale boost”.

“They can wear jeans on Fridays!” He’d said. Jack’s eyes had rolled clear into the back of his skull at the proclamation. What the hell were blue jeans supposed to do for morale?

He got in early that first casual Friday by coincidence—he also had a ton of paperwork that needed to be completed before he sent it to the office. He was just gulping down his second cup of coffee when you walked in wearing a black v-neck t-shirt and the most form-fitting pair of dark blue bellbottom jeans he’d ever seen.

They were certainly the tightest pants he’d ever seen you wear, anyway. It was like you’d been sewn into them, how they clung to every lush curve of your hips and ass.

He almost choked on his damn coffee when you faced away from him to hang your purse on a hook next to your desk, the outline of your panties fully visible as you stretched your arms over your head and yawned.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He was useless the rest of the morning. Any progress he’d made in the hour before you arrived was for naught as the paperwork just kept piling up. He couldn’t focus on anything other than you and those goddamn jeans - how they must bunch up a little around your hips under the desk, or what color those panties might be beneath them. Jack was sure if he lingered on the mental image long enough, the idea of peeling that tight denim off your thighs and abandoning it in a pile on his floor could make him bust completely untouched.

When you slipped into his doorway to quietly place his most recent sales numbers and a couple of messages on his desk, the sight of your fingers nonchalantly adjusting the strap of your bra, the quickest flash of purple–lavender–before you smiled politely and exited, nearly broke him.

When noon finally rolled around, he let out an exasperated sigh as he watched your form disappear out the front doors for your lunch break. Shifting his weight in his chair, he hastily tucked his half-hard cock into the waistband of his jeans and booked it out of his office. Mumbling an apology after almost barrelling over another salesman along with the elderly customer he was assisting in his rush, he didn’t even wait around to hear if it was accepted.

He was a mess, but he needed to finish the day out. And in his frustrated and lust-addled state, he only saw one option for seeing this Friday through.

After hopping into the front seat of his car and scanning the lot for signs of porters or customers, he threw it into gear and slowly crept towards the back fence. He backed into a solitary parking spot that was mostly obscured by low-hanging tree branches, unconcerned about any potential scratches they might leave on the roof of the SUV.

Jack’s heart was pounding like a bass drum in his chest before he even shut off the ignition, guilt creeping up the back of his neck. This was stupid. This was wrong. This was disgusting.

The self-beratement continued as he let his hand fall to his crotch, his palm running smoothly over the bulge behind his zipper and causing a pathetic whimper to fall from his lips.

It wasn’t like he’d ever done anything like this before, he tried to reason with himself. You just made him so crazy. Like a damn teenager.

He leaned the seat all the way back, still palming himself with his other hand and flicking open his belt. He reached into his jeans and groaned as he pulled his cock out, the guilt starting to dissipate as he rubbed his thumb over his slit. He hissed, pulling his hat low over his face and closing his eyes as he conjured up a vision of you in his head. To add to his shame, this wasn’t the first time he’d stroked himself to the thought of you. It wasn’t even the hundredth time.

He squeezed the base of his cock and sighed. You’d let him tug those jeans off of you, sighing as he’d kiss down your thighs and calves and up again until he got back to your pussy, nosing the soaking wet fabric. Lavender, like your bra. He’d tease you there, and you’d giggle and slide your fingers into his hair and pull.

He stroked a little faster, the wet, slick sound of his throbbing cock filling the car. It’s so loud, there’s a fleeting worry that someone might hear if they happen to walk by.

Jack pumped frantically as he slipped back into his fantasy. You’d gaze down at him, biting your lip in some coy flirtation.

“Aren’t you gonna kiss me, Jack?” You’d ask, and he’d trace his fingers up your thigh, slipping them under your panties.

“Where, sugar?” He’d ask, and you’d lean your head back on the headboard in playful frustration. He wouldn’t be able to resist your pout. He never could in these little dreams of his. He was almost there, heat coiling in his belly.

He’d pull your underwear down in a quick, smooth motion, pushing your legs open and—

The sound of a car door slamming shut nearby broke his focus, Jack’s heart nearly jumping from his chest as he whipped the hat from his face and lifted his head just enough to peer through the windshield. His terror eased to find he was still well concealed, but a choked gasp stuck in his throat at what he could see from this vantage point.

There you were, standing next to your car with your fingers through your belt loops and doing some sort of half-jump, half-jig in an attempt to readjust the jeans on your hips. You were facing away from him, and he could just make out the way the material pulled tight at the small dip between your thighs, the shape of your perfect curves on display as you let go of the loops, gravity working to make your ass fall slightly with a bounce.

An inhuman groan filled the inside of the car as he threw his head back onto the seat, eyes pinched shut and hips bucking sporadically into his hand as the image of the tiniest shake of your ass played over and over behind his eyelids. As hot, white ropes covered his fingers and belly, he continued fucking his hand with alacrity, losing himself completely in the extra slip in his stroke and the thought of what you might think if you found him like this–cock in hand, covered in his own cum and with the knowledge that it was you who put him in this wrecked state.

When he finally let go of his cock, breathing deeply and reaching for the glovebox to find napkins and hastily clean his mess, deep shame filled his gut.

This was downright wrong. He couldn’t keep doing this to himself. He couldn’t do this to you.

On his drive home that night, Jack made a decision. Keeping you at arm’s length was obviously only exacerbating the problem, turning you from a whole person to an object he used to get himself off. Something had to give.

So every day after that Jack would come in and tell himself he’d talk to you; he wouldn’t be weird, he wouldn’t stare at you and then play it off like he was trying to get someone else’s attention when you inevitably caught him. Every day he fucked up somehow.

He didn’t think it was that noticeable until Ginger, of all people, said something exactly two weeks ago.

“What’s your deal with the receptionist?” She asked as he hovered over her desk, waiting for a set of temporary tags. His mouth rounded, stomach clenching as he prepared his defense.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he said, folding his arms and tapping his foot against the concrete floor. She peered down at the offending noise.

“Stop that,” she said, glaring at him over her glasses, and he did. It did no good to bother the office ladies, and he knew Ginger was more than capable of making his life just difficult enough to drive him nuts. He didn’t think she would, but he wouldn’t test her. “You know exactly what I mean. You’re a total freak around her. You’ve never shut up the whole time I’ve known you, and she says you’ve never even had a conversation with her.”

“I’m—I don’t have that much reason to be talkin’ to the receptionist. I’m busy, you know,” he argued. Ginger stopped typing and looked up at him.

“You bothered me plenty,” she reminded him, exasperated.

“That was different. We’re friends,” he said. “Been friends a long time.”

Ginger shook her head and gave her mouse a hard double-click, the whir of the ancient printer in the corner signaling the temporary tags were ready. “Well, she thinks you hate her. She asked me—very sheepishly, I might add—if I knew why. So get that under control, Jack. Reception is thankless and hard enough as it is.”

“She thinks I hate her?” He asked, standing up straight.

That was certainly not his intention.

“She said she’s the only person you never say good morning or goodnight to.”

“I—just—goddammit,” he said, snatching the tags from the printer. “I don’t hate her. Tell her I don’t hate her.”

But Ginger waved him away, and he skulked back to his office, taking the long way to avoid the reception desk.

How could he possibly explain that if he talked to you too much, he’d tell you that he thought you were the prettiest girl he’d ever seen? And it wasn’t just that you were pretty—you were nice and charming and helpful, and you brought in cookies for everyone, and you were always reading a new book every time he saw you so he knew you were smart, too. And when your glasses slid down, your nose twitched like a bunny rabbit when you pushed them up.

And he’d never told you any of that because he was afraid you’d find out he had a crush on you. But so what if you did find out? He hadn’t even given you the chance to decide whether or not you liked him at all. He’d just decided all of it for you.

Had he really never said good morning to you?

Jack sat back in his chair and looked out at the show floor, straight to reception where you smiled brightly at a couple who’d just walked in.

Had he really never said good morning to you?

He passed your desk that evening as you packed up and stopped, licking his lips and taking a deep breath.

“You have a good night, sweetheart,” he said. You looked up at him like he’d sprouted a pair of bull horns, but after a moment a smile spread across your pretty face.

“Y-you too, Jack. Thank you,” you said, like he’d just told you he’d paid off your student loans. Too grateful for something he should’ve been doing all along.

You were still smiling when you left a few minutes later, and all the way to your car, too.

He could do this.

And here you are now in front of him, all beautiful and soft under the red glow of the security light. You have a smudge of frosting on the corner of your mouth, and when he tells you, you don’t answer. You just stare back at him with big eyes, and before he knows it, he’s reaching over the table and dragging his thumb across your lip to clean it off himself. It takes all of his self-control not to rub your lip a second time.

“Said you have a little somethin’ on your mouth,” he says, sucking the frosting off of his thumb. You’re still staring at him, and he can’t help but smirk.

“What’s on your mind, darlin’?” He asks. You look away, biting that lip he just touched.

“I’m just glad we’re hanging out. I thought…I just didn’t think you wanted to be friends with me. It’s nice.”

“...Friends?” He asks, scratching his chin. Not that he’d let you see the bill, but that dinner wasn’t exactly friend-date pricing.

He hadn’t wanted it to be.

Your eyes widen. “I mean, acquaintances. You know, more than co-workers. I wasn’t…just, like, casual friends,” you say, trailing off, looking back down at the cupcake.

He scoots his chair right up next to you, close enough that he can smell your honeysuckle perfume, and hooks a finger under your chin, tipping your face up to meet his eyes. “Sweetheart, if you’re thinkin’ I wanna be friends, I’ve done this all wrong.”

Warmth spreads through his chest at the dawning comprehension on your face, your lips parting as you exhale softly. He gazes at you for one long moment, giving you the time and space to back away if you like. He doesn’t think you want to, though.

“I think you might be the prettiest girl I ever saw,” he says, his eyes roaming over your face. “And I’d like to kiss you, if that’s all right.”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I’d like that a lot, Jack.”

He lingers just before his lips meet yours, one last deep breath before that leap forward into something he’s desperate to lose himself in, but you’re more impatient than he is. Or more courageous.

You close the gap between the two of you, and you’re everything.

Jack lets you lead, ignoring the way the soft whimper you let out goes straight to his cock. You taste like cream cheese icing and strawberry chapstick, and your lips are so much warmer than he’d imagined. He thought you’d be gentle; timid, even, but you press your mouth firmly against his, your hand sneaking up his chest to grasp at his shirt collar to pull him even closer.

He parts his lips—an invitation, if you’re interested. You accept, your tongue sliding between the gap in tentative exploration.

He can’t touch you the way he wants to, sitting like this. He pulls you up from your chair, his hands cupped around your jaw in an effort to keep your lips sealed to his. It works—you let out the sweetest whine, your tongue massaging his as he backs you into the wall, his hands free to roam your torso.

Jack settles them on your waist, squeezing and kneading you over your blouse in an attempt to be a gentleman, but the noises coming from you are making that hard.

Really hard.

Especially when you hook your fingers through his belt loops and turn the space between the erection straining his jeans and your hips into nothing. You gasp as he pushes against you, and can’t stop himself from rolling his hips, desperate for friction. His instinct is to bend you over the table and fuck you until you’re a whimpering, quivering mess on his cock, but he can’t do that.

He has to take his time with you.

“Darlin’,” he whispers shakily against your lips. It takes all of his self-control not to pull your skirt up and check if you’re just as turned on as he is. “Let’s slow down a tick.”

You still at his words and look up at him, shoulders slumping as you bring your arms to your side.

“Did…I do something wrong?” You ask, and his heart drops at the waver in your voice.

“No,” he says quickly, cupping your cheek and stroking it in what he hopes is a soothing caress. “No. You’re perfect, darlin’, but I don’t wanna mess any of this up or make you think I’m just tryin’ to get up your skirt.”

“All right,” you say, still sounding a little uncertain. You have a right to be, after all of his capricious behavior over the last year.

He sighs as he nuzzles his nose against your cheek, nibbling his way to your earlobe. Against his better judgment, he wraps his fingers around your wrist and pulls it down until your hand meets his clothed, aching cock.

You gasp, and he grins against your cheek.

“Feel that?” He asks. “Feel what you do to me?”

“Jack,” you murmur, squeezing him through his jeans.

“Let me take my time with you, sweetheart. My little cupcake,” he teases. “Let me take you out again.”

“When?” You ask, sticking out your bottom lip. Goddamn, you’re cute when you pout.

“Tomorrow? This weekend? When—”

“Tomorrow,” you say quickly. “Tomorrow is good.”

“Tomorrow it is,” he says, using the rest of his self-control to pull away from you. “Now come on. It’s late, and I want you to be here on time tomorrow so I can look at you all day.”

You giggle, and he can’t believe he’s wasted a whole year not hearing that.

The rain that’s threatened the area all day has started to fall as he walks you back to your car, and he kisses you one last time against your passenger side door, holding his hat over your head in an attempt to keep you somewhat dry. When he pulls away, you’re looking up at him, mouth half open like you’re thinking of saying something.

“What is it?” He asks.

“What changed?”

He thinks of asking what you’re talking about, but he knows. And you know that he knows. No need to play anymore games, he decides.

“I got over myself,” he says. “You deserve the chance to reject me without me decidin’ all this for you.”

A half-smile forms on your lips. “Why on Earth would I reject you?”

He swallows, throat dry as he considers it. He could list all the reasons he doesn’t deserve a woman like you, but something tells him you’ll rebuff every single one of them.

“Lots of reasons. But I’m not above admitting I was scared,” he says. “Am scared.”

“Don’t be,” you say. “I don’t bite. Unless…well, not always.” You grin, lightening the mood without dismissing him. He grins, too.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says.

“Shit, I don’t wanna go home,” you say, but you yawn at the same time and stretch your arms over your head, your cardigan falling to the side and revealing a peek of that lavender bra, and he stifles a groan.

“Go home and go to sleep, cupcake. I’ll bring you breakfast in the morning,” he says. “And we can decide where I’m takin’ you tomorrow night.”

You give a soft, shy grin. “Cupcake, huh?” “Cupcake,” he says, nodding. “You’re as sweet as one, and you taste just as good.”

“All right, cowboy, whatever you say,” you say.

Several rounds of “I don’t want to leave” later, he watches you drive out of the lot and round the corner. He leans his head back and on the seat and sighs like he’s just gone on his first date ever, heart thrumming with adrenaline and hope.

He has so many plans to make.

#fic rec #kingsman

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sushiwriterhereside · 2 years ago

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We’re slowly going up the Cowboy Mando

Belt here 👀

Fancy boots here

And the Space cowboy enamel pin Kickstarter

#this is sauurrrrrrrrrr #the mandolorian

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sushiwriterhereside · 2 years ago

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“x reader is so cringe.” to YOU. im reading this shit and having a ball ‼️

#me lol

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sushiwriterhereside · 2 years ago

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Fanfiction is becoming people’s primary form of entertainment right now because most media right now is so cheap, bland, recycled, and sponsored by people who love money more than the source material. Fanfiction is written for free by people who genuinely love what they’re writing about. That’s why it’s better. That’s why it’s more satisfying. Fanfiction is a home-cooked meal made for yourself and for your friends. Media today is junky fast food spoiled by too much grease and the knowledge that the people producing it are being criminally mistreated and underpaid.

#what a lovely sentiment

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sushiwriterhereside · 2 years ago

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This is literally so beautiful and the characterization is so incredible. I love this sm <3

Old soul

Summary: You're never quite sure of your place in Joel's life. Everyone else seems to know exactly what it is.

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: ~8.3k

Warnings: age gap (reader is mid-twenties), angst then fluff, slow-ish burn, smut-ish situations (m receiving oral), some insecurity, protective!Joel, emotionally distant reader and Joel until they aren't anymore oops, mentions of past death, canon typical violence, symptoms of dissociation and ptsd, mentions of depression, anxiety, and suicidal ideation, implied (nothing explicit or directly stated) past sexual assault

A/N: I'm really, really proud of this one, I hope y'all like it. Some of it is, ah, as close as I've ever come to putting something wholly me into a fic. Please be sure to read the content warnings! Thank you for reading! As always, I would love to know your thoughts! Please please please, be sure to leave feedback!

“Jesus,” your mother had once said. “Your soul is old. It’s like I’m raising a thirty year old.”

That is your oldest memory, the only one from before the outbreak.

You never minded the sentiment, not sure what it meant anyway. You were a quiet child, a darkness mucked your soul from the inside out, a hurt you never seemed able to find an origin to. The world was always too small, too large. And you didn’t fit into any of it.

You’re the kind of person better left in stories. Antisocial, mature, not fun. Big, night laden eyes that watched from behind the pages of a book, headphones slotted over unhearing ears.

“You’ll never have any friends your own age,” your mother used to say, like there were friends to make at all, like life wasn’t unbearable and too large and loud.

Though that heavy hurt landed in the back of your throat sometimes, a loneliness without origin, you were never a cruel person. The violence of the QZ you grew up in troubled you, but the dark spots in your memory trouble you more than anything, the things you can’t remember. The blank spots of things better maybe forgotten. Memories you can’t remember consume you, and no one ever cared enough to try to help you close them.

Your father leaving, the death of your mother, living with an aunt that hated you, that despised your mother for dying, those are memories so bright you can’t look away.

You were a child, no matter how mature, no matter what you saw with your vigilant, watchful eyes.

Kansas City was no place for anything you were, but then it all fell apart. It fell apart so suddenly, you’re sure you must have dreamed up the nightmare landscape in the first place.

You follow Henry and Sam, because you’ve known Henry a long time, and you’re nothing if not loyal.

When Henry and Sam die, you follow Joel and Ellie, taking their offer to go west. You only half trust them, and they only half trust you, but you aren’t sure what else to do. There’s no one left, nothing left.

You’d always hated Kansas City, and though things get hard, it's better than there. The only thing you miss is your rings, your father’s necklace, that you hadn’t had time to grab when you followed Henry. The last connection to your parents, broken.

It’s prettier at least, outside the city, even if food is in short supply and Joel watches you like he expects you to shiv him at any moment.

But time forges trust, and eventually he begins to loosen, to trust that you wouldn’t kill him in his sleep, that you were good for a rotation of watches through the night, that you could hunt and knew how to trap fish when the opportunity arose. He begins to trust that you would be good in a fight.

Ellie sheds her wariness first. She bombards you with questions, wears you down with a strange sweetness you haven’t known in a very long time. When it's cold, she presses herself into your side and closes her eyes, strangely affectionate.

You teach Ellie how to set snares one day, months on from the formation of your little group, and when you glance up, he’s staring at you.

The smile you hadn’t realized had graced your face, fades, slides off your skin. Ellie’s hands are cold when they touch yours, asking about the particular way you’d tied one of the knots in the wire Joel had found for you.

Joel doesn’t exactly soften to you, but he eases into a trust.

He ties you up in knots, braids something better left unsaid into the core of you. Even grumpy and stoic, there’s something behind the way he patiently listens to Ellie tell jokes from the little book in her backpack.

Something in the way he finds her new boots and extra layers to pad beneath her jacket, but never wears even a hat himself and duct tapes his boots. He gives you and Ellie first rations of whatever food you find or hunt or trap. He hands you a scarf with elastic in the band that can be drawn up around your nose and mouth without comment.

Joel provides, listens.

You do your best not to step on his toes, still not sure of your place with them.

And Ellie does her very best to step everywhere she can.

With him. With you.

She forces you into conversation with each other, and you don’t exactly mind. He gradually warms to you, in slow increments that test your own walls. You always ignore him when you feel the heavy cut of his gaze on you, watching you so carefully.

You’ve never been around someone like Joel, who exudes the brutality you’re used to, but in a way that doesn’t make you wary, at least not when you get used to him. There’s a gentleness under his skin that sometimes bubbles to the surface, in small ways.

Once, you run into a couple of infected in a rundown warehouse you’re going through for supplies. Joel takes down one, then another, but the rest zero in on you. You’re covered in something sticky when you rip your knife out of the skull of the last one you take down.

You swipe the blade on your jeans, proud of yourself, because they can finally see first hand you can pull your weight, that you’re capable on your own. But you don’t even have time to flick the knife closed because Joel is there, his hands gripping your forearms in tight fists, his voice in your ear, demanding to know if you’ve been bitten.

He reprimands you, says you cut it too close. You can’t bear to look at him because no one has ever been that concerned about you, and you certainly hadn’t expected him to care in that way.

Check you over for bites, sure, but only to know if he had to put you down if one got you.

He holds onto you, iron grip bruising your skin, for just a few moments too long.

That’s the day you begin to really worry, that you think things are getting too close, because he had not been reassured until he checked you over himself. And then, the stark, revealing, relief in his features as he corralled you and Ellie out of the building.

You don’t let yourself think about it too much, can’t entertain the possibility.

But, one cold night, several weeks on from then, when the stars are bare above you and the wind has died down, he asks you about Kansas City, about your life there.

It’s the first time he’s asked you directly something about yourself. Everything else he knows about you is by proxy of Ellie’s prying questions.

You don’t want to talk about it. The blood soaked violence of that place, but you tell him anyway. As distrustful as Joel is, you’re the same. You hadn’t slept at all your first few nights with them, curled on your side, the handle of a blade clutched in your fist.

You don’t tell him everything, just broad strokes.

“Wasn’t like that in Boston,” he says. “It was bad, but not like that.” Joel’s voice holds something hard, something regretful. You aren’t sure where to place it, that he sounds irritated that he hadn’t been able to protect you from something that he wasn’t even around for.

Ellie is sleeping near you. Her mouth is parted, hands folded beneath her face. Her breaths are slow and long, and when you brush your fingers over her forehead, she leans into your touch. “Bad is bad,” you say simply, not prepared to speak on it anymore.

You tell him, despite every trauma honed instinct telling you to shut up, about how the only thing you really miss is your jewelry. The rings always came in handy in a fight, the way a punch could hurt just that much more, dig scars and draw blood, how it had been good indirect protection. And, though you don’t say it, they had been the only pretty things you owned.

Instead of answering, Joel passes you a flask.

You take a tiny sip, and hand it back.

You won’t have more. Because Joel is looking at you, accessing you, with those dark eyes that saw everything and said nothing. Because he’s beginning to want to protect you, and you want to let him.

Because, despite it all, there’s a space growing inside your heart for him. Ellie is already lodged there, in a different way, with a different kind of love.

That’s easy.

But the feelings drawing delicate shapes over the curves of your veins that Joel inspires, well, that has never been easy. The kind of want that Joel inspires terrifies you. It brings out a kind of feral territorialism in you too, of your own heart and body, the kind that makes you want to snap your teeth at him and tell him to fuck off.

It’s the kind of thing that breaks and sears.

Still, the drop of amber from the flask warms you from the inside out. It makes you sleepy and weak, and you know you’re in too deep when that feeling doesn’t make you panic.

It makes you feel safe.

Joel only kisses you for the first time when he tries to leave you in Jackson, when he tries to leave you and Ellie in Jackson.

You both hear him when you weren’t meant to, talking to Tommy.

The community hall with its movie and people and happy buzz had grated on you and Ellie. Neither of you are sure how to sit still through something like that. Your neck had prickled with unease, your body tensed for a fight that was never coming.

You try to get Ellie to walk away from the door, to stop listening to Joel at his most vulnerable, but she won’t leave.

Tears blur your eyes. A terrible tearing in your heart, that already feels like separation.

And then Tommy asks about you.

Joel scoffs, the sound self deprecating. “I’m no good for her,” he says. “I was never good at that type a’ thing anyway. I can’t give her what she needs.” His voice is so soft. It’s a reverent, grieving soft.

“Are you-,”

“I don’t know, Tommy,” he answers, his voice pained. “She’s young. I never thought on how it looked ‘til we got here-,”

Before you can hear more, you turn away, you walk away, you leave Ellie there beside the door.

It never seemed to matter while you were traveling, your difference in age. It doesn’t matter. You aren’t young, not with the things that darted behind your eyes. You’re almost thirty for fuck’s sake.

You never thought about how it looked either. Joel is just Joel, that’s it.

Later, you hear his and Ellie’s raised voices, and you feel everything within you fracture along hairline faults. The quaking, shattering, shaking leaves your teeth gnashed together, your hands over your ribs, your voice stuck in your throat.

Never, you never should have followed them. It could only lead to caring too much, to this.

Joel has his own room but he arrives at your door. Because they hadn’t been sure, Tommy and Maria, of your relationship with each other. You hadn’t known if that was a good thing or bad, but now you’re glad for it.

You’re torn when you open the door, not sure if you want to hit him or kiss him. Not sure if you want to slam the door in his face. “You heard me,” he says. “It’s better this way.”

“You’re breaking us,” you reply, voice flat. “Whatever about me, Joel,” you continue viciously. “I don’t matter. I never have. But Ellie does and I won’t pretend I understand you leaving her behind.”

He stares at you, eyes dark and shadowed, shoulders tensing harder beneath his flannel. You’ve seen him in a rage. You’ve seen him violent and unforgiving. You’ve never seen the kind of despair currently lodged in his eyes.

“It’s for the best,” he says. “I can’t protect her. I can’t protect either of you.”

You step forward and stab a finger into his chest, “And who’s going to protect you? You can’t hear on one side. You’ve been falling asleep when it's your watch. I know you’ve been having panic attacks. You can’t fucking breathe. That’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it? Getting old and soft.”

He steps into your space, shoves you gently back and nudges the door closed with his foot. You don’t retreat, instead rooting your feet to the ground.

“You think I need you.” His voice is cruel now. “Some kid?”

You snort, “Please, Joel, let’s not pretend I’m that.”

“But you are,” he growls. “No matter what I tell myself, no matter what you do.”

A flash of fury burns through you. You never thought you’d miss being called an old soul. “I’ve seen more in my twenty-six years than you saw in all yours before the outbreak happened. Don’t pretend I’m some innocent idiot. About anything. I’ve got my head on my shoulders, my brain is fucking developed. I know what I’m doing.”

“And what is it that you’re doin’?” He snarls, taking another step forward.

You don’t back away, but your breath hitches in your lungs. “Maybe I am stupid. But it's for thinking you cared. Not anything else.” You plant your hands against his chest and shove. He doesn’t budge. “I’m not staying here though. You can fuck off wherever you want. Ellie can go with Tommy. But I’m not staying here.”

You finally step away. “No,” he says, voice softened, inexplicably hoarse. “No-,”

“If you aren’t staying with me,” you say. “With either of us, you’ve got no goddamned say, Joel. I can’t do it like they do here. I’m not cut out for watching movies surrounded by people that every instinct in me is telling me are going to jump me first chance they get.”

Joel doesn’t answer, like he can’t accept that you’re rejecting his sacrifice. And unlike Ellie, you aren’t a child. He can’t make you accept it whether you want to or not. He can’t make you stay within the walls of Jackson.

You shake your head. “Forget about me. Ellie deserves better, Joel. She deserves you. Now get out. I made my choice.”

He stares at you for a second longer before stepping close to you again, the scent of him clean, freshly showered and raw. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what, Joel?”

Instead of answering, he cups a hand against the back of your skull and crashes his mouth against yours. His teeth hook into your bottom lip, tugging you open. His tongue parts your lips, drags a moan from the pit of your stomach before you lurch back, breathing hard.

It burns you, that this is the first time.

When you tongue the inside of your lip, you taste blood.

He stares at you, dark eyes wild, hands still cupping your face. “You can’t put that on me.”

“You’re putting it on yourself,” you say. “You don’t have to give a fuck.”

“I wish I didn’t,” he presses you back into the wall. One hand cups your chin and jerks your head up. “I wish I didn’t feel a fuckin’ thing.”

“Lair,” you snap, baring your teeth at him. “Lie to yourself, not to me.”

He swallows, eyes darting over your face, the pits of his eyes devouring you whole. He brings your face closer to his, gaze lingering on your lips. The second press of his lips is softer, gentler. You find it hard not to melt, even if his fingers are making your jaw ache. “My mind’s made up.” Joel’s breath is warm when it fans over your chin. He’s panting a little, he sounds so desperate.

“So is mine.”

He releases you with a huff. “Goddamnit,” he mutters again, stepping away from you until he crashes down onto the bed, the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes. “D’ya know what it does to me?”

“What?” You ask, touching your fingers to your lips when you follow him to the bed. The flesh feels bruised, and you scrub harder. “Us?”

“You heard me,” he says. “Don’t act like you didn’t. You heard what I was sayin’ to Tommy.”

You hum and sit next to him. The bed dips beneath you.

It’s the first time you’ve truly been alone with Joel, bar Ellie across the hall. You look at him, watch the rise and fall of his chest. “I know,” you say, your voice gentle. “I understand. That doesn’t mean I have to agree with you. Especially when I’m the one getting left behind.”

“I ain’t-,” he grits his teeth, a muscle in his jaw jumping. His hands fall away from his face. “It’s not like I’m abandoning-,”

You cock an eyebrow at him, fingers twisting invisible rings. Joel’s eyes trail briefly to your hands and you force yourself to stop. “I get if you wanna dump me. I’m extra weight. You didn’t mean to pick me up in Kansas City. But doing that to that kid-,”

He sits up and braces his forearms on his knees. His jaw works for a moment, like he’s swallowing back words. “You aren’t extra-,” he stops himself, grinds the words to dust between his teeth. “I can’t do it.”

“Okay,” you agree, exhausted. “If you can’t, you can’t.”

You’re twenty-six and you’re so tired. There’s a hardened pit in your heart that says it would be better to go bury yourself under the snow banks outside and let sleep claim you forever.

“It’s not like I need you Joel,” you say quietly. “But I want to. I’m not saying age doesn’t matter. It does. But how much does it matter between us?” You pat his hip and stand. “Goodbye,” you don’t turn. “If I don’t see you in the morning.”

It’s supposed to be your room but you can’t really bring yourself to care. They were just bedrooms to you, not a house that mattered, and the other one is as good as the one you were currently in.

Maybe better, since it didn’t have Joel in it.

You only manage to take a step before Joel’s fingers hook around your wrist.

You want to say it's not enough, that one night isn’t enough and it's unfair of him to pull you down next to him in the low, yellow light of a bedroom that isn’t yours.

But he smells nice, and his heart is pounding hard under your hand. And you realize that Joel is just as afraid as you are.

Just one night isn’t fair, but you accept it.

He flicks the light out, his mouth is soft against yours in the dark, and when his fingers pry your thighs apart and he groans into your mouth, you don’t stop him.

You do end up seeing him in the morning, even though you made a point to sneak out of that bedroom to the other one after he fell asleep.

He’s in the stables, also trying to steal a horse.

“I’m givin’ her a choice,” he says, not looking at you, fiddling with the straps on the saddle.

You nod, “Good.”

The mare you select is gentle, nosing carefully into your palm. You don’t really expect him to continue. You don’t want to say goodbye again.

“You deserve a choice too. Shouldn’ta treated you like I did.”

You work on saddling the horse. You don’t look at him. “Yeah,” you agree.

He shifts. You can tell he’s trying to catch your eyes. “I want you to have one too.”

“I already made my choice, Joel. Whether you were giving me one or not.”

He gives a curt nod when you finally glance up. “Alright.” Then, frustration creeping into his tone, “So fuckin’ hardheaded - I’m offerin’ anyways. I’m givin’ it to you anyways.”

You stare at him for a long moment, assessing him, when Tommy and Ellie arrive. She chooses him in an instance, not even giving him a chance to finish his offer, as you’d suspected. To your surprise she whips around and glares at you. “You coming or what?”

Something tells you not to say no, not to Ellie, not about anything.

“I guess I am,” you tilt your head at her.

“Great,” she says, her voice still made of steel, trying to seem like she doesn’t care one way or another.

Tommy doesn’t say anything about you taking the horse, just lets you lead her out behind Joel and Ellie’s.

The second time you find yourself in Jackson, you can’t decide what to make of it.

It’s spring, flowers bloom in window boxes, vegetables grow in fertile clusters in the community garden. There’s a little market in the center of town.

The myriad of animals are having babies.

The air is clean and cool, the sun warm.

School children dart by in little clusters, laughter on their lips.

For all intents and purposes, you figure Jackson is what a normal town must have been like.

There’s a clothing shop, a bar, a movie theater, a salon.

You can’t breathe as you take all of it in. It’s overwhelming. It’s alien to you.

There are people everywhere. It’s crowded.

You’ve only been around Ellie and Joel for months on end, aside from the fucking cannibals you’d encountered in the woods, aside from all those fireflies Joel had gunned down in Salt Lake City.

Even still, back in Kansas City, crowds meant trouble, meant someone was probably about to launch tear gas at you.

Maria is talking you through something, something about working in the garden, in the stables, with the horses, baking, something, something, something -

“-I know we put you up with Joel and Ellie,” she says.

You blink, tuning back in. You can feel the hollows under your eyes.

Maria has her hands on her hips. She’s watching you carefully. The ringing in your ears dies down. Instead you hear the hum of voices, the hammering of nails into wood, some new construction going up.

You slip a hand up to your throat, to clutch at a necklace that was no longer there.

“We can find somewhere else for you,” she says, her eyes glued to your face. “If you don’t want to stay there.”

You blink. “Why wouldn’t I?” Then, “Did Joel say something?”

“No, he didn’t,” Maria says with a shake of her head. “Just figured you might want your own space. I wanted to ask you directly. Without Joel around.”

You don’t answer her, not sure how. Her tone is concerned.

It won’t be the first time someone gets concerned about you and Joel. You never thought you’d miss the cloak of an old soul. Never thought you’d miss the accusations of not fun, too mature, dark, anti-social.

You aren’t sure what to say anyway, not sure what she’s thinking.

You’re a year older than you were the last time you were in Jackson, and you still aren’t sure what it is you and Joel are.

After all the things you’d done together. All the time you’d spent together.

He’d moved heaven and earth to find you and Ellie. He’d almost died. You’d almost died. Ellie nearly had.

He’d held your hand in quiet moments, without comment, when Ellie explored ahead of you a little, never out of your sight. You were never alone, not that you minded. The most things ever came to between you the last few months were stolen kisses and linked hands.

Well, you were more than roommates.

Or, so you hope, now that you’re back in Jackson.

They hadn’t forced you to start working right away, or participating in the community, because, well, you must have looked like hell. You needed a couple weeks to settle in, Tommy had said, Maria eyeing the pack of you warily.

Fair enough, you had thought. You should be under someone’s supervision.

You remember fire, the blur of snow and trees, the sound of gunfire, being trapped in a patient room in a hospital, gunfire ricocheting in the distance. Nails bloody when the door finally opened, when your voice was hoarse from shouting. His eyes had been blank, unseeing, Ellie cradled in his arms.

You still aren’t really sure what happened in Salt Lake City.

The first few nights in Jackson had found you, Ellie, and Joel mock camping on the living room floor of the house you’d stayed in before. It felt better that way, to be together, to know the door was barricaded and that each of you was within reach.

Only after a week had you finally moved to the bedrooms. Joel never asked if you wanted to share, he was just there, mouth between your legs, hands everywhere they could reach, breath caught in your lungs, stickiness between you.

That was only once, weeks ago, though you slept in the same bed each night.

Maybe, now, here, where there were beautiful people, unworn by time, and untraumatized, he’d find someone else. Someone closer to his own age, that his own brother’s wife didn’t have to corner and question to make sure she wasn’t in distress.

“You should ask Joel what he wants,” you find yourself saying, a vicious kind of satisfaction bolting through you in putting it back on him to define, to talk about. “So, am I working in the kitchen?”

Maria assesses you for just a beat too long, clearly trying to discern something from your words. “Yeah,” she answers eventually. But she seems to relax at the iron tone of your voice. “Or the garden. Or both. It’s up to you.”

“I’ll do both,” you agree. “I can pull my weight.”

She opens his mouth, but you’re already walking away.

“What did you say to Maria?” Joel asks you that night.

You’re undressing in the bathroom that’s adjoined to the bedroom you share with him. His voice is muffled through the door. You stare at yourself in the mirror over the sink. You blink, not sure how long you’ve been standing there.

A scar, long and puckered, cuts across your shoulder and over your collarbone. More litter your biceps, the curve of your waist.

You try smiling at yourself, but it feels wrong, like you have jagged teeth in your mouth. Maybe if you were prettier and softer and easier, Joel would say what you are. Maybe then he wouldn’t be so afraid of claiming you.

Joel says your name when you don’t answer.

He was different after you left Jackson, all those months ago. Softer around the edges with Ellie, with you. He’d become talkative and animated.

He’d started smiling.

He smiles in Jackson, now that you’re starting to settle in. He’s looser. He has his brother, and Ellie, and a community that might embrace him and his.

Joel repeats your name, a line of tension under the syllables of it. “Joel,” you answer, the fog around you clearing just a little, the buzzing in your ears dying down. “What’d you say?”

“What’d you say to Maria?” The doorknob rattles.

You turn and unlock it.

When the door swings open, Joel’s eyes stay latched onto yours, not drifting down your bare torso. “Nothing,” you answer, “What’d you say to her?”

Joel stares at you, brows drawn together, eyes assessing. “What’d you want me to tell her?”

“The truth.”

His expression softens inexplicably. He steps over the threshold and shuts the door behind him. “Yeah,” he agrees. “And that’s what I did.”

“What is the truth to you, Joel?” You ask, shivering when his calloused hands anchor on your hips.

His knuckles skim up your sides, but he doesn’t answer. You scoff and pull away from him. “So you can say it, just not to me.” You lean over to turn the shower on, waiting for it to warm with an impatient hand under the spray. “That’s just fucking great, Joel.”

Once that water is lukewarm and you can no longer stand Joel’s silence at your back, you strip out of the rest of your clothes and step into the spray.

You shiver but don’t make a noise. That there is any heated water at all is something of a miracle. You’ve taken your fair share of ice baths over the years. “If you’re ashamed,” you say just loudly enough to be heard over the sound of the spray. “Just fucking tell me. We can end this now.”

There’s a long minute of silence where the water goes hot against your skin. You don’t move, listening to the sudden sounds of Joel undressing.

You lock your teeth together, irritated at him. He’s going to rip back the shower curtain and crowd you. He won’t admit a damn thing. He’s just going to touch you and whisper sweet words that don’t mean anything, not really.

Instead, his fingers curl into the shower curtain and pause. “Can I?”

You hesitate for only a second, surprised. “Yeah,” you answer.

The curtain slithers back and closes again, and then his arms curl around you. You look down at his skin against yours, the wet press of your chest against his forearms. His skin is scarred, not so different from your own. There are a few age spots, but otherwise, the only thing you see is strong, muscled flesh. You see hardened, capable hands.

You feel, despite everything, the safety of him.

He’s warm against your back. “I told her,” his mouth brushes the curve of your ear and you close your eyes. “That you’re mine.” He pauses, lips skimming over the side of your neck, “She seemed to think I might be holdin’ somethin’ over you. But I think you convinced her plenty that you don’t do anything you don’t want.”

Your heart does a somersault over your ribs. “Yours how?” You ask, a hot fist closing on your throat.

“Goddamnit,” he says, turning you in his arms, “You know how.” He cups your face, “You know.”

You search his eyes, and don’t answer, eventually tipping your head up to kiss him.

Joel meets your mouth without a noise of complaint, wet fingers slipping down your body, divoting into the flesh of your ass. “Maria said you seem like you can put me in my place,” he mumbles, while your eyes are still closed, his breath warm against your parted lips. “She ain’t worried about it anymore.”

“Well,” you shift your hand between your bodies, fingers grazing the base of his cock. “Don’t I? Put you in your place?”

He nods, dipping his head to capture your mouth again, his tongue pressing between your lips. His exploration of your mouth is slow, gentler than it ever has been before.

Maybe because he has the time, maybe because he’s finally accepting that the feelings he harbored for you were okay, with the acceptance of Tommy and Maria.

Either way, you like the way he moans into your mouth when you draw your hand down his cock, pumping him slowly in your fist. His breath sounds caught, strangled. “Y’do.” He swallows thickly around a groan. “Y’know you’re the one in charge here, right? Ya always have been.”

You hum and kiss him again. The bathroom turns foggy with humidity, Joel’s hands never stop moving over you, caressing the curves and dips of your body, his mouth open against yours. He doesn’t stop you, doesn’t try to guide you at all.

When you kiss him with teeth, nipping at his lip, something like a pained moan slips past his lips. “Joel,” you murmur.

“You’re mine like this, ain’t ya?” He asks, rutting forward into your hand. “Just like this.” His voice is low and raspy. “Every single way. Just like I’m yours.”

Something in that ice cold center of your heart preens, chips and breaks and shatters against the solidity of him.

You don’t like that. You hate that Joel makes you vulnerable, and you hate even more the desperate whine it draws out of you.

“That’s it, darlin’,” his hands slide to the plush curve of your ass again, his thumb slipping between the backs of your thighs. “I got you.”

You jerk away, and twist your fist over his cock. He hisses and you sink to your knees instead.

You stare up at him through the spray of water from overhead. He’s panting, a flush from the heat of the room high up in his cheeks, on the tips of his ears. You can’t look at him, at the naked affection and need blowing his pupils wide.

Instead you jerk him in your fist and watch a bead of pearly white drip from the slit. He groans when you take him into your mouth.

He cups his hand at the back of your head, not to shove you down, but to guide, the pressure light. Your eyes flutter closed, the loud parts of your brain going suddenly silent and still.

There’s only you and Joel and the warm water.

Most people in Jackson don’t give a damn about you and Joel, but some do.

You’ve learned to live with it, the little comments and questions, mostly from the concerned women you worked with in the garden and kitchen.

Voices that ask if you’re alright, that occasionally condescend to you, that treat you with kid gloves.

You want to scream, didn’t they see. Don’t they see how he looks at you? Why couldn’t they see how he treated you, reverent and with respect? Didn’t they know you saved his ass way more times than he’d saved yours?

Don’t they know you’re tough and capable? You were no one’s damsel, you were no one’s little doll. And Joel tended to live by your rules, when he figured out you wouldn’t live by his. He’s said it himself, you’re in charge, he follows you.

The more crude comments don’t reach your ears anymore, the ones uttered at the bar around drinks about why Joel really kept you around. You’d put a stop to hearing it when you’d nearly gutted a man on Main Street, knife from your back pocket pressed to his throat as you asked him to say it again.

You’d been reprimanded for that, and since then you’ve done your best to clip your more violent thoughts. You still think about it sometimes, harbor the fantasy for the next time someone might dare.

Joel had laughed when he heard. “Atta girl.” He’d told you then, too, that he liked that about you. Your sharp dark eyes, and protective violence clenched in your fist.

Still you know the whispers among some persist. That you’re nothing more than a youthful cunt. Somewhere nice and warm for Joel to stick his cock, pleased by anything and willing to do anything to keep a roof over your head, to be a pretty little housewife.

You aren’t that. You’ll never be that. Though you do feel like you’ve been declawed.

Most, though, seem to take you exactly as you are, a little family.

The word makes you uncomfortable sometimes, because you’ve never really had a family and neither has Ellie. Not in this way at least. Though you aren’t really old enough to be her mom, you fall into it anyways, if a little clumsily.

You like having people to care about.

And Ellie, she seems to like it too. She seems to like visiting you in the kitchen or the garden during her lunch breaks at school. Joel is usually still out on patrol, so she sits with you and eats.

Some days she’s quiet, and you never have to wonder what’s on her mind.

“Do you think we’ll always be together?” She asks you one afternoon.

She’s sitting on a bench in the community garden watching you harvest.

“Hope so, kiddo,” You answer honestly, a basket of tomatoes on your hip when you stand, because Jackson is starting to make you just a little soft. It’s domesticating you, taking the teeth out of your mouth, the blood off your hands. You feel tranquilized and lethargic after months there, at the same time that you feel you’re finally seeing who you’d have been without a world of cordyceps.

You get to read again, and this time it's from love and not to hide from your reality. You take up knitting and stitching and you have a good steady hand for it. Joel teaches you and Ellie to play the guitar when he finds one.

Ellie nods, fidgeting with the sandwich in her hands. “Not hungry again?” You ask, setting the basket down. You take a seat next to her on the bench in the late summer sun.

She shakes her head. “Alright, well, how about we split it then? Half is easier than whole.” And it would still get some food in her.

Ellie blinks at you, looks at the sandwich again. “Yeah, I can do that.” She passes you half and you eat it in silence. “Thanks.” You don’t respond, matching the pace of her bites so you’ll finish at the same time, so it won’t overwhelm her.

You hesitate for a moment, not sure if you should say something to her, but you also aren’t sure you can let her feel so alone. You know why she doesn’t sleep, why sometimes she didn’t want to be touched and eating became a chore.

You look away from her, over the community garden.

Fat bumblebees float along over the stems and vines of the plants. The faint buzz of insects hum in the grass, matching pace with the low chatter of the others tending the garden. The air is tangy with ozone and wet earth from a recent rain.

You think of that hole inside you, black with memories blocked by your mind.

“When I was - when I was younger, I went through something like you did. I want you to know that. In case you ever want to talk.”

The words are like grit in your teeth, like gravel churning in your lungs. You’ve never been good at talking, about speaking what lives inside you - it's why you understand Joel and Ellie so well, they didn’t always communicate with words either. And you’ve never spoken about this, not ever.

Ellie’s head whips to the side to stare at you. “You - you mean -,”

“Yeah,” you cut her off, not glancing over. “I don’t remember it though. It’s like this big black hole in my memory. Everything goes in, nothing comes out. Anyway, I know how it can make you feel. So, I just want you to know that.”

You sense more than see Ellie nodding next to you. She slides just a bit closer to you, and some tension falls away from your shoulders.

You lean back in your seat and wish for a hat, the way the sun glares down at you. “Making any friends at school?” You change the subject when it's clear she’s not going to say anything, content with your presence.

She shakes her head, taking another tentative bite of the sandwich. “Are you trying to?”

“Why the fuck should I?” She says. “I have you.”

You should probably tell her she needs friends her own age. But that’s not what she needs to hear at that moment. That wasn’t what you ever needed to hear as a child. “You have me,” you confirm, bumping your shoulder into hers. “Everything else alright though?”

“Yep,” she nods. “Fine. Normal. I mean, I think it's normal.”

You nod and touch her hand briefly before standing. “I’m not the best person to ask to gauge what normal is.”

“You’ve settled into it better than I have,” she replies, gesturing at you as though it explained everything.

You lift your basket and shake your head, a scoff on your lips. “No. I’m just distracted.” You fidget with your hands, wishing for the millionth time that you had your rings back.

You’re just doing your best not to cause problems, for Ellie or for Joel. You’re trying not to be antisocial and vicious, trying not to scare away potential friends with feral teeth. Trying to prove you were better than threatening to gut someone on the street.

Sometimes your place in Jackson feels tentative, like at any moment Joel could realize you’d never fit in, that there were easier options open to him. Easier and prettier and kinder than someone like you, someone who didn’t constantly glance over her shoulder, who wasn’t filled to the brim with the sludge of old memories. Especially now that you aren't traveling anymore and you have the opinions of others to contend with.

He could pick something easier.

“Go back to school for me.”

You start to walk away when her voice calls you back. “Can I stay with you for the rest of the day? Just for today?”

Again, you know you should say no, pack her off back to school. But you have a feeling she wouldn’t go anyway. She’d get lost somewhere between the kennels and the stables and never make it there.

“Sure. Just for today. For finishing your lunch.”

She bolts up behind you when you hold out a hand and trails you for the rest of the day. She holds the basket for you, pesters you with questions you’re all too willing to answer.

“I never asked you,” she says, “But how’d you know all that stuff? About trapping and hunting and-,” she gestures at the garden. “This. You grew up in a QZ. I didn’t know shit about this stuff.”

“There are ways,” you lean down, plucking a few weeds while Ellie stands by your shoulder. “My dad was a poacher. I went with him. You know the right people and give them the right stuff, they turn a blind eye.” You swallow. “‘Til they don’t anymore.”

“Fuck. I’m sorry,” she says, her hand fidgeting with the collar of your shirt. You cover her hand and squeeze, before going back to your work.

When the end of the day nears, you let her lead you to the stables to wait for Joel to return from patrol.

There’s a light in his eyes when he sees you waiting for him that defies everything you’d been through together. You can’t help smiling at him, watching the way Ellie visibly relaxes at his return.

The two of them, Jackson, feels like the closest you’ll ever come to having a real home.

It plants a cold seed of doubt in you about whether it could last, but the warmth in your soul tells you something else.

That the hand Joel steadies against your back is there to stay, in defiance of anything that tried to follow you or pry you apart.

It’s only later that night when you’re getting ready for bed that you notice Joel’s knuckles are bruised, the skin across the top split open. “Hey,” you pick up his hand when he’s pulling back the sheets. The flesh is cracked, red, the bloom of violet beneath, like a summer rain cloud. “What happened?”

To your surprise, he chuckles, the sound homely and warm. “What?” You snap, not letting go, the iron clasp of your heart snapping closed at the sound.

“Nothin’,” his voice is amused, and it only serves to make your hackles raise further. “You just get this look when-,”

You drop his hand and spin around, going to the bathroom to root through a cabinet for the first aid kit instead.

When you return, he’s waiting for you. Joel sits on the edge of the bed, hand held loosely on his knee. He doesn’t protest when you sit down and pick it up, your thumb running over his scarred fingers.

You clean his wound without a word, carefully taking care of it despite your irritation with him.

Since you’ve been in Jackson, Joel’s patience has grown tenfold. He’s gentle where it matters. He’s always concerned. You think he’s closer to what he might have been like before the outbreak, a patient, enduring father.

“You just get this look,” he continues his earlier thought, even when you stiffen, “when you’re worried. Like you’re liable to go burn somethin’ down.”

You grit your teeth and wrap a bandage over the wound. “I guess I would.” You glance up, cup your palm over the bandage. It’s warm beneath your touch, pulsing, and you know it must hurt more than he lets on. “So what happened?”

Joel holds your gaze for a long moment before he nods and glances away. “Nobody says anythin’ to ya, do they? Gives you a hard time about me and you?”

“Not usually,” you say with a frown. “And not anymore, not really. It’s all died down. Only those ladies at the garden sometimes.”

He nods. “I don’t want anyone givin’ you the idea you don’t matter to me.”

You raise a brow and wait.

He clenches his jaw, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “One of the guys I was on patrol with made the mistake of talkin’ about you.”

You blink, surprised. Though the people of Jackson had come to embrace Joel, he still carried a reputation. “What’d he say?”

“Just that I was wastin’ my time,” he admits. “Young thing like you, you’re bound to get bored. Move on, now there’s younger guys around. Especially now you don’t need my protectin’ so much. Only they don’t know you never needed it.”

You imagine that whatever he’d actually said was much cruder than that. You’d thought that those comments were one-sided, directed at only you.

When the shock wears off, you squeeze Joel’s hand. “You know I’ve heard the exact opposite, right? You’re only chasing after my pussy and that you’ll get bored of me and ditch me when I stop being fun.”

He snorts, “Is that right? Can’t be right, y’didn’t almost stab someone over it once.”

“Ha ha,” you deadpan. “They still don’t know I’m not any fun, I guess.”

Joel huffs a laugh under his breath. “You’re plenty what I need. Fun and all.”

You tilt your head, “How’d I come up exactly?”

Joel hesitates, and his voice is cagey when he continues. “I’ve been tryin’ to, uh, find somethin’ for you. Haven’t come across it yet, so don’t ask.”

You decide to leave that be for a moment. Despite yourself, your heart flutters in your throat. The sentiment is enough, even if he never finds whatever he’s searching for. Because it's for you. “So you punched this guy?”

“I won’t hear talk about you like that.”

You nod and pat his hand again, carefully releasing his grip. “Alright. Up,” you shift, nudging him up so you can get beneath the sheets he’d so carefully drawn back.

Joel chuckles and turns out the light, tucking himself next to you in the dark. “Joel,” you reach for his hand. “Just so - just so you know, I don’t want anyone else. You know that right?”

It’s easier to be honest in the dark, safer.

“Yep,” he slides one arm behind your back. “I did get that impression.”

You hum, your fantasy of sticking your knife in the next person to say something to you about him flashing behind your eyes. You might actually do it, if someone says something to him about it in your presence. “It’s true.”

A heavy silence settles, the creaking of the house settling the only sound. “You have to tell me, you know,” you say as his hands travel down your back to flirt with the hem of your underwear.

“Tell you what?” He asks, hands dipping beneath the fabric. His hands are hot against your skin, and when he squeezes the flesh you wriggle closer to him, throwing one leg over his hip. His hands cup your ass and pull you impossibly closer, until you’re practically molded against him. “What am I supposed to tell you?”

You roll your eyes and tip your chin against his, shifting your head back and forth so the scrape of his facial hair rubs against your skin. His dark eyes shine in the shadows, latched onto yours. “What you were looking for that got you in trouble.”

His hands, large and soothing, drift back up your spine. His fingers dance over your ribs, counting the ladder of them, pressing into your flesh to feel the bone buried beneath. Your heart wings against his hand. “Promise you won’t laugh.”

“Never,” you coo, sliding your nose along his jaw. “Tell me, Joel. So you didn’t punch someone for nothing.”

“I didn’t punch him for nothin’,” he replies. You laugh into his neck, relaxing your body against his. “I’ve - I - if this is, uh, outta line, just tell me,” he hesitates. “We’ll never talk about it again. But I’ve been lookin’ for somethin’ nice for ya. Jewelry. Necklace, maybe. Since you lost all yours. Said you miss it.”

It’s unexpected. It makes tears burn behind your eyes. You’d said that to him months ago, lifetimes ago.

You take a long time to respond to him, but Joel doesn’t say anything else. When his breathing starts to quicken, you push one hand under his shirt, soothingly running your fingers over his back.

“You don’t have to do that,” you croak and then try to clear your throat.

“Sure I do,” he answers. “I want to. Maybe you can come along sometime. Look for yourself.” He chuckles, and then jokes, “Get your brass knuckles back.”

Your throat is too tight to answer, so you just nod.

Silly, how you’d been worried earlier that he’d look for easier and prettier and kinder.

He likes your teeth, your darkness, just fine.

💞 Thank you for reading! Comments and feedback are so appreciated. 💞

#fic rec #the last of us

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sushiwriterhereside · 2 years ago

Text

glory

pairing: adam parrish x ronan lynch summary: An exploration of Adam Parrish as religion. rating: teen + up word count: 5.7k warnings: catholic guilt, Tad Carruthers mention, mild physical violence (mention of Robert Parrish) notes: ao3 crossposting! this is my first fic since 2020, but please tell me what you think! excited to get back into creative writing/etc. i'll definitely write more TRC but I also have some other stuff planned. <3 ❧

Ronan’s love was biblical—Adam, made of dirt and dust; Adam, borne of the earth, the cracked, sun-bleached earth swirling beneath trailer park steps; Adam, Parrish. If Ronan was to describe his love for Adam Parrish (if), it would be in grand sweeping statements, quiet burning passion for finally being able to be near Adam. Don’t let the gruff demeanor, the harsh lines of his face and the ever-present scowl fool you. He would ask you to imagine looking upon the majesty of Pieta, of the grandeur of David, of the quiet intensity knowing you are standing in front of history millions of others have witnessed. And yet, Adam is a work of art unto himself, one he would like to keep in a personal collection.

Let others put their loved ones on display, for curators to analyze and write about, for conservators to swirl their brushes over and prod at—Ronan Lynch would keep Adam Parrish at the Barns for the rest of their days if he could (if he knew it wouldn’t kill him). He would watch Adam blossom under lush green foliage, watch the freckles populate his cheeks and shoulders, let the feeling of love and being loved settle deep in his bones. He would watch the Barns become a dedicated exhibition to all things Adam Parrish that the rest of the world was not allowed to see: a favorite mug drying by the sink; socks mixed in with Ronan’s in the laundry hamper in the bathroom; highlighters and textbooks strewn across the table a stone’s throw from the kitchen counter; pieces of himself that only Ronan had the privilege of viewing.

Blue had once remarked that only Ronan Lynch would know he was in love at first sight—only a boy born to a dream and a Dreamer, a marriage so idyllic yet false, would believe in true love. Ronan was not a liar, so he did little else but scowl and redirect the conversation toward Gansey and his coming back from the death. Bless his lack of conversational tact when his brush with death was mentioned, giving Ronan countless outs of being forced to admit his love for Parrish. Ironically enough, that conversation had happened before them, fortune for once turning in favor of letting him breathe. Adam had flushed slightly but failed to chime in, instead letting the sound of Gansey’s excited chatter cover the gap in the window to the budding thing they held close to their chests.

But she was right: it hardly mattered that Aurora was a false deity, that she was made of the same stuff Matthew was (perhaps too harsh to call it a lie)—she was made of dreams. Aurora was pancakes on Saturday mornings, skirts swirling and flowers picked off bushes hanging low with their fruit, hushed consolations and sickly sweet love. She was imbued with her purpose–to love Niall, to be his perfect yang, to be everything he desired and could not be all at the same time. Above all, Aurora had eyes only for Niall.

It wasn’t necessarily that Ronan was under any delusion that Adam had eyes for him only, he wasn’t a fool. But that wouldn’t stop that quiet, dark part of him from wishing that one day Adam would look upon him with the same intensity that he looked at applications for scholarships for college, that week’s paycheck: all longing and hunger, for more.

When someone would ask years later if he knew, when he knew, Ronan would not have a simple answer. How do you confess to someone that you knew from first sight and not sound like a cheesy cliche?

“Thanks for giving me straight teeth.” As if Ronan was capable of dreaming the creature that is Adam Parrish.

Everything began to fall into place after Adam’s father hit him for the last time. Ronan remembered little other than blinding rage, the knowledge that for once a problem could be, and would be, solved with his fists. He had few other choices, tunnel vision focused on Gansey’s latest pet project on his hands and knees in the burnt earth of that fucking trailer park. No matter how hard he tried, the sight of the blood running out of Adam’s ear would never leave his mind's eye. Something sickly twisted in his stomach every time he closed his eyes. Ronan couldn’t even bring himself to care about getting kneed in the stomach, about the black eye he would no doubt get shit for from Declan. All he knew was that no one would ever set a hand on Adam Parrish in anger ever again.

Let the lawyers paid for by Declan’s DC paycheck debate charges of assault, self-defense (“You’re lucky they’re not trying to charge you with felony trespass.”)–Ronan would sleep like a lamb at night knowing that he got the last word between him and Robert Parrish.

Perhaps Ronan’s viewpoint was too black and white, god knows Declan had hassled him countless times before to ‘be more flexible.’ But Declan was a hypocritical prick, a liar, and a thief of the highest order. Sometimes it was funny to Ronan that he was Niall’s favorite, it was Declan after all who was a spitting image of their father in all but appearance. Ronan Lynch could not lie to save his own skin; Declan Lynch lied about what he ate for breakfast. So Ronan settled on his course of action being the right one, if Declan wanted to guilt trip him for beating the crap out of Robert Parrish, he could carry that on his own conscience.

The apartment above St. Agnes simply fell into place like out of a dream.

“Thanks for giving me air conditioning.” Adam would have said.

And so it was: the two central poles of Ronan’s life suddenly concentrated on one square block of Henrietta. What was it then, that made him pause each time for just a moment outside his door? Clench his father’s keys in his fist, just a little tighter? He was a creature of projected confidence, and so he hid moments of pause behind a faltered breath, a cracking of knuckles.

Adam never sent him away. It didn’t matter if Ronan appeared at 4pm or 4am, whether Adam himself was present or not. Adam would simply adjust his orbit to the second point of gravity.

Once, Ronan lay on Adam’s floor, and let himself sink into the thoughts of what it all meant. Sleeping on his floor; bringing snacks and groceries that, for a time, would spark petty arguments (“I’m basically living here, Parrish, and dollar store wheat thins definitely do not cut it.”); making space for himself. If the women of Fox Way ever decided to scry and take a peek at St. Agnes, there sitting would be Niall Lynch’s BMW, shark nosed and all–or at the very least the trace of Ronan throwing the car into gear while glancing in the rear view one last time. There would be images of Adam running his hands through his hair and Chainsaw tearing old essays to shreds (“I was proud of that paper, Lynch.”).

Ronan knew that Adam did not let people make themselves space in his life—to be part of Adam Parrish’s life was to pass a million different little tests you never knew were occurring. Ronan sometimes felt like he was in a play he knew neither the lines nor the choreography for–what had set off that particular moment of intense silence, an argument half formed, he couldn’t be sure. Sometimes it was Ronan’s abrasiveness about money (because what else), sometimes it was the absence of an extra shift, the sting of a lighter paycheck too much for the sleep-deprived Adam. But ever a creature of intense self preservation, Adam would never let someone in if he didn’t feel they deserved it. Was Gansey, or Blue for that matter, sleeping on the faded wood floors of the second floor St. Agnes apartment Adam insisted on paying rent for?

Instead of letting the train of thought run away from him, Ronan simply turned on his side to find Adam wide awake. The clock behind Ronan had blinked 12:08 AM last time he had looked, what felt like 4 hours ago.

“Go the fuck to sleep, Parrish.” (Rest, love, rest.) His chest ached, and his fingers twitched with a not yet gained muscle memory dedicated to tracing the slope of Adam’s nose.

Breaking eye contact, Adam let his eyes slide shut without argument for once. If Ronan could have it his way, he would make sure Adam never had to work another day in his life. He’d sign his entire life away, to sleep at night (ha!) knowing Adam Parrish had a roof over his head and a full belly. What was the point of wealth, then, if those you love are not fully rested and unable to sleep in on a Saturday morning?

Ronan Lynch was fire and fury, the earth remaking itself in his image. Screw the laws of thermodynamics, Ronan Lynch could make the soil birth the dead. And yet, he found himself feeling more mortal than ever looking at the barely resting face of Adam. How do you make a man of a Dreamer? Greywaren, Lynch, Ronan—what did it matter who called him what, if for a moment he could match his breathing to Adam’s.

There were times when Ronan felt as if he was made from one of Adam’s ribs, feeling each inhale and exhale. Extra shift at Boyd’s because Gansey was gone for the weekend—inhale. A on his paper—exhale. Get in an argument with Ronan—inhale. Stare at Ronan as he pretends to sleep—exhale. Let his fingertips skim the top of Ronan’s hand when he’s in those fleeting seconds between dream and wake—inhale. Eat the food Ronan bought—exhale. Fight with Ronan–inhale. Catch Ronan staring–exhale. He wondered if Adam held his breath in those moments like he did.

More often than not, Ronan would watch with rapt attention as Parrish seemed to be oblivious to those around him throwing themselves at his feet for even a moment of his attention. Gansey was King, but Adam was Magician. The dead woke when Gansey spoke, and Ronan would follow him to the ends of the earth and back. But Ronan would remake the Nile River into dust with his bare hands if Adam wanted dry land to walk on. Even in a school of all boys, uniforms and flashy cars, Adam’s peers lusted after his attention. And he thought himself simply a man made of dirt.

“Tad is a creepy fuck.” Ronan had once said mildly to Adam as they were lounging about outside during their lunch hour. Well, Ronan was lounging–Adam was doing homework. Ronan had caught Tad openly staring at Adam no less than ten times in the first half of the day.

“I don’t know why you even bother to pay attention to him.”

The worst part of Ronan was glad for Adam not seeing the side eyes, the head-to-toe pass overs when Adam finally began to stand a little straighter, shoulders a bit fuller, in his secondhand sweater. Let Carruthers stumble over his own feet in attempts to catch Adam’s attention, let the underclassmen stare in awe at Gansey and his Court. Let Adam’s broad shoulders and arms lithe with hard-earned muscle be Ronan’s secret; information pulled from half-lidded, used-to-be shameful gazes.

He knew what Adam looked like as a god—and he was no worshiper of false prophets. But how else do you describe Adam Parrish and his hay-yellow hair illuminated from behind by the LED-bright lights of the apartment bathroom? What other name do you give to the feeling of watching Adam Parrish stretch his arms over his head in the dead of night, or at dusk, but the desperate need to worship at the pedestal of the highest deity?

Let God be the arbiter of Ronan’s sins after death. “Had Moses seen how my friend’s face blushes when he is drunk, and his beautiful curls and wonderful hands, he would not have written in his Torah: do not lie with a man.” Ronan was a Catholic boy through and through, all inherited guilt and practiced tradition. He could bring life forth, could bring light to darkness, could bring death to the living—who was God to say that Ronan could not long for the soft touch of Adam’s hands, for the firm press of his lips to Ronan’s? What use did a man who could create something from nothing have for religious guilt?

Ronan knew everything was changing when Adam began pausing when he would move into his space, as if weighing the change in gravity. There were more glances from under lashes, soft hums of thought when Ronan let his eyes rest–greedily, selfishly wanting Parrish to drink his fill in open stares. Ronan Lynch was a creature of desire—never in the way that Adam Parrish was, all hunger and starving gasps. Ronan was more cool lemonade on a summer day where the breeze was nowhere to be found, practiced, knowing, and expected; Adam was the desire to flee, to move, to be more than what he was (what more is there to be than everything?).

Ronan considered it a selfish indulgement in this desire to let Adam stare, let Adam touch. It gave him precious material in moments alone, to imagine what Adam’s calloused hands dragging over his skin would feel like. Ronan thought his fingertips might burn another permanent mark into his skin—this time instead of black ink underneath, a trail of light and lust burnt into his chest, his back. If he chose to spend his time with his arms stretched above his head to feel the weight of Adam’s eyes on the strip of ivory-toned skin below the hem of his tank top and above the waistband of a loose pair of sweatpants–well then, that was his sin alone.

There was perhaps a touch of irony for a Dreamer to be obsessed with another’s hands. Hands made, they fashioned, worked, created. Dreamers made without the use of hands–yet Ronan came to Boyd’s with the Pig in tow just to watch Adam twirl a wrench absent mindedly as he inspected the garishly orange car’s insides.

Sometimes, it was all too much, and Ronan found himself in his own head. Was he imagining the lingering gazes and the thigh pressed against his own beneath the worn wood of the Nino’s tabletops? But there is little chance to explain away the firm press of Adam’s hand on Ronan’s kneecap when he slides in the booth, only for the palm of his hand to stay where it was. There is little alternative reasoning to Adam invading Ronan’s personal space (as if you could label a welcome advance an invasion) for no reason other than to just press himself into Ronan when he laughed or rolled his eyes.

Even Gansey noticed, ever oblivious, ever involved with his Jane. Was it the twisting of pinkies together in the backseat of the Pig? The King must devote time to the politics, comings and goings, of his Court—of course he would notice. Sometimes Gansey gave knowing looks to Ronan: when he would cajole Adam into eating his lunch (he didn’t really want it anyway); when he would give Adam rides (this was now a given); when he would just stare, and stare, and stare. Sometimes he imagined himself going blind staring at the sun.

The day that Ronan got to fulfill his desire was overall mundane. He felt nothing as he dressed himself at the Barns and ate a simple breakfast before heading out to do barn chores. He didn’t notice the sun shine brighter or the birds sing louder. Niall’s BMW still purred in the same gentle way when he started it, the clutch was still just a bit stiff as he moved it into fifth gear; Ronan still wondered why his dad dreamt a faulty car. Tad was still trying to flirt with Adam as he gave one-word replies.

But Adam did smile sharply as Ronan pulled into the parking space next to the Shitbox, brushing Tad off. He let Ronan buy him lunch without complaint; the usual back and forth was absent.

That day, Adam didn’t have work, didn’t have mountains of homework. So the Court and their King went exploring. Or, rather, they would have if Adam didn’t politely decline and look pointedly at Ronan as he spoke of needing to rest. He would have felt pressured into offering to stay back with Adam if Gansey didn’t offer first, if he wasn’t already twirling his keys around his fingers.

Ronan drove them to St. Agnes out of habit, grabbed Adam’s backpack out of habit, climbed the stairs and threw the door open out of habit. He watched as Adam made himself comfortable in his own space, and Ronan let himself pull off his jacket to roll up and place on the ground as he lay on the floor.

“I wasn’t kidding, you know, about needing to rest.” Adam said from the bathroom where he was washing his hands and splashing water on his freckled face.

“I’m already asleep Parrish, stop disturbing my peace.” Ronan could feel the hardwood digging into his shoulder blades where they were poking out as his hands were folded behind his head. At least Adam’s mattress, the one that Gansey somehow managed to talk him into taking, had some degree greater of back support. Curse the builders of St. Agnes for not considering that Ronan Lynch may one day rest upon the wooded floors (curse the builders of St. Agnes for not considering that worship was not just on his knees, but on his back in Adam’s bedroom–but what is worship without suffering).

Ronan only heard Adam move to lay down, almost afraid to open his eyes. What would happen if he broke the quiet spell hanging over the apartment, the tacit agreement to simply dance around the elephant in the room? It was simply easier for him to pretend that they could spend forever hurtling towards the inevitable. Ronan wouldn’t ever consider himself the first to openly opine his feelings, and he wouldn’t start now. There were moments he worried about startling Adam like a newborn deer–beating his father, an eye for an eye, was one thing; confessing a deep, bone chilling love was something else.

“Wake me up in an hour, I want to go for a drive.” Adam murmured, and Ronan opened his eyes.

The moment was still as blue met green. For a split second, Ronan thought Adam would kiss him. Or maybe he would kiss Adam. He thought they would both be able to give up the pretense of a tacit agreement to simply let whatever happened, happen. Yet, Adam simply closed his eyes without making a move.

It was Ronan who pushed across the invisible boundary they had set for themselves, let himself have instead of simply wanting. He gently touched Adam’s hand that was hanging over the edge of the bed, closest to Ronan. Adam’s eyes fluttered but didn’t open. He traced the veins running up Adam’s arm like a vine, and a funny thought flitted by–maybe Adam should get a tattoo of a vine wrapping around his delicate forearms. Perhaps it would serve him well to carry a visible, permanent reminder of what he had been, what he was.

Ronan wasn’t sure if whatever six-figure salary paying, starched suit career Adam would inevitably pick out would be comfortable with their star employee having tattoos on his forearms. He let himself wish for a moment that he could keep Adam for himself.

Ronan’s fingers moved beyond his arm, but Adam’s eyes stayed shut. He exhaled softly.

When Ronan lifted his fingers from Adam’s arm, perhaps to touch his face, Adam’s lips parted, “Why’d you stop?”

Adam’s accent made him stretch out the o in stop like warmed taffy, slow and gentle. Ronan thought about how he himself sometimes sounded Irish, about how perhaps that was baked into his genes–proud, Irish Catholic blood. He thought about how Adam would hate the idea that an accent could be passed down like that, and how he knew that Adam would try and lose the accent when he finally was able to flee.

He put his fingers back to Adam’s skin and let the hour waste away tracing invisible patterns over Adam’s hand and arm. And when the hour was up, Ronan decided it would be out of character for him not to wake Adam so he pulled his arm back and reached over to shake Adam.

“Wake up, Parrish. The beemer beckons.” Ronan shot up like he’d been electrocuted when Adam sleepily grabbed his wrist.

He turned his face into Ronan’s wrist and mumbled, “Five minutes, Lynch. ‘M cold.” His lips pressed ever so gently into the place where Ronan’s pulse hammered five-hundred-miles-a-minute under his skin. He’d never imagined planning a chapstick run, the ways he’d sneak the tube into Adam’s backpack, the thrill of the impending argument about spending money on Adam (“I’ve gone this long without it why do I need–” “Your lips felt like the Sahara, don’t shoot the messenger.”), of seeing his lips go from chapped to smooth.

Ronan steeled his resolve, “C’mon Parrish. You can cosplay Sleeping Beauty in the car, I’m jittery.”

And so the two stormed down the stairs from the second floor, Adam sleepily pulling a flannel over his shoulders (was that Ronan’s? He had lost his favorite two weeks ago.) and Ronan not bothering to put his jacket back on. The beemer was warm enough in the fall air. Above their heads, Chainsaw called out with a piercing shriek.

“There you are, shithead.” Adam said lovingly, as she landed on his shoulder and made herself comfortable by digging her claws into his skin.

“Hey, she’s a lady.” Ronan threw the car door open and threw himself into the drivers seat with an equal amount of abandon.

“I can’t even repeat some of the things I’ve heard you call her, Lynch. Aren’t you supposed to be the Catholic one?”

“Catholic guilts’ a limited resource, Parrish. You might not know that as a filthy heathen. Spent almost all mine calling Declan a dickhead and the rest on the gay thing.” Ronan grinned at him.

Adam’s laugh was a free and unrestrained thing, breaking out of his chest and startling Chainsaw as he buckled his seatbelt. Ronan wanted nothing more to make an entire collection of cassette tape Sing-alongs with just that noise. Thank Niall for the console that could play whatever medium Ronan could put his mind to.

“Alright Parrish, you made me disturb your beauty sleep for a drive. Where the hell are we going?” The beemer didn’t need gas anyways, Ronan could drive to LA (though why the hell would he do that?) and not stop once.

“Anywhere but here.” For a moment, Adam looked wistful, as if in the first few weeks of their senior year Ronan could simply drive him anywhere but Henrietta and they could just be there. Screw the grades and the recommendation letters and the letters of interest, they could just be two people in another place, another time. Ronan’s gut twisted with guilt thinking about what Gansey would do.

So Ronan drove. He left the St. Agnes parking lot and drove past Monmouth towards some interstate he couldn’t remember the name of. It was still the mid-afternoon, something about Senior Fridays meant it was only about 4 in the afternoon. Plenty of time to drive to the end of the earth and back.

They drove in relative silence, Chainsaw cawing occasionally begging for treats and eventually bullying Adam into rolling down his window as Ronan tore down the interstate at a speed that was past reckless. The wind carried Chainsaw high into the sky and Ronan thought he could feel the freedom of the wind under her wings in his chest. What was a Dreamer if he could not give life and liberty to his creations? What did it mean to keep dreamt things confined? If Ronan had dreamt Adam, he knew he could not keep him here. He let the moment steal his breath and he pressed his foot down harder.

Eventually Adam told Ronan to pull over for snacks, and didn’t complain when Ronan paid for the haphazard collection of items that could barely pass as a meal. They pulled into a fast food restaurant next. Ronan felt like they were preparing for a road trip and the thought of it stole his breath.

Keep moving, he thought to himself.

“Will you take me to the Barns?”

And so Ronan drove, cutting across Virginia, avoiding Henrietta on their way back. If Adam noticed, he didn’t mention it, he just kept tossing fries into his own mouth and laughing at Ronan when he asked him to toss one his way.

“I’m not losing a fry to the depths of this car, Ronan. You want some scrawny Aglionby asshole to have to go fishing for it?”

Ronan felt himself flush at Adam saying his name, but found it in himself to laugh sharply. The thought of someone like Tad or Gansey even, digging around in the depths of his father’s BMW only to find knobs and buttons not found in any other BMW in town, and a center console that would play any radio station you wanted, from any time period you could think of. More realistically it would be Adam, insistent that he could somehow smell last week’s fast food adventures, armed with Boyd’s industrial vacuum and a sharp reprimand about cleanliness.

“I’ll just get this guy at Boyd’s to do it, I heard he’s good with his hands.” Ronan’s grin mirrored the shark nose of his car tearing down the road.

The moment was broken for a brief spell–Ronan didn’t need to turn his head to see Adam’s momentarily startled expression until he grinned, smile matching Ronan’s.

“I’m telling Tad you’re interested in him on Monday.” Was Adam’s only response as he laughed harder than he had that whole afternoon; moment fixed. “See if he can fix the beemer.”

“The day Tad gets his hands on my car is the day I get my hands around his neck.”

It felt natural to look at Adam in his passenger seat. Beyond all of the moments Ronan had carefully cataloged in his memory of driving Adam to and from school and work, there were hundreds of moments in the future he had yet to experience. The knowledge of that kept him going.

Somewhere along the way to the Barns, Adam told him to pull over in a field flush with wildflowers. Ronan’s heart stilled. They climbed out of the car, hearing it settle as Ronan tossed Adam the keys over the hood of the car. It was darker now, closer to dusk, washing Adam in a gentle gold that made him look godly. This was an altar Ronan would gladly kneel at, parables about false prophets and golden calves be damned.

Adam observed Ronan as he grew restless, both of them leaning against the hood of the BMW. Its black paint had warmed in the afternoon sun, and Ronan gladly soaked up the heat as the sun began to hide itself behind the tree lines.

Ronan broke the silence first. Or at least he planned to. Instead, Adam turned to look at Ronan in the eyes from where he had walked out a few steps in front of the car and cocked his head as if making some sort of decision. Ronan never got to ask what the hell he was doing, the easy quip he had on the tip of his tongue dying at a moments notice.

The kiss seared through him, and Ronan thought for a split second he might burn up from the inside out. Sin, it turned out, was pleasure and desire and hope and love rolled all into one. Maybe this was why Niall laughed about how his father wanted him to join a convent, and Aurora would blush and scold him for talking about that in front of the children. Maybe this was why Ronan could no longer bring himself to feel that deep sickly shame when he stepped through the archways of St. Agnes–what was it about the way Adam’s hair felt under his fingers and the way their breaths mingled that could possibly be an offense to God? This was worship unto itself, blessing the flesh and heart of the First Man, Adam.

Looking back, something was different about that day. But Ronan hadn’t noticed it in the moment, hadn’t noticed all the small things that had shifted around him to make space for the knowledge that Adam would be finding a permanent place in his life. Not that Ronan wasn’t aware of all the ways he could fuck this up, all the ways Adam could fuck this up, but in the same breath in a different moment that Blue had told him he was the only fool around who believed in love at first sight, she had also told him that she knew him well enough to know that when he got Adam, he would never let him go. Ronan had called her a maggot and moved on, but her speaking it aloud had planted a seed of deep, deep, hope in his chest.

Ronan had let his religiosity wane because he never had a saint to pray to, never found one that matched his calling as a god and a man rolled into one mess of a body. Never could quite put into words the way that prayer made him feel. And yet, in that moment, Ronan could have said a thousand Hail Mary’s, prayed a million rosaries, and it would never hold a candle to the way Adam’s hands felt gripping his waist, nails scratching softly against the buzzed hairs at the base of Ronan’s neck, the way his lips parted to exhale into Ronan’s mouth.

This was what dreams and vows were made of: the quiet screech of the insects at their feet, the gentle hum of the ley line below them thrumming with each of their pulses, the knowledge that there was no need to think of tomorrow or three years in the future.

At some point, it occurred to Ronan that the cat and mouse game was over. He didn’t want the dynamic to change, wouldn’t let it, though. They could very well leave the late night calls and sighed names to Gansey and Blue. There was no need for that, they could stay Ronan and Adam.

“Is this for real?” Adam broke the kiss to press his forehead into Ronan’s collarbone. “Or is this just another dream?”

All Ronan could say was, “You dream about me?”

He felt as though a carpet had been pulled out from under his feet. Adam dreamt about him? How could this be anything but real? Maybe he hadn’t meant for Ronan to react, so he simply combed his fingers through Adam’s hair and pressed his lips to the crown of his head, relishing the heat of his skin and the smell of something distinctly Adam.

Adam pulled back with a sly grin, cheeks flushed with the fulfillment of a promise made the first time Ronan laid eyes on him, “What, only the Dreamer is allowed to have dreams? Seems a bit elitist don’t you think?”

“Oh don’t quote Blue at me, you asshole.” Ronan paused, wanting to give a real answer, unfiltered by sarcasm and a desperate need for self-preservation above all, “I’ve been wanting to kiss your stupid lips for a long time, Parrish.”

“Well if you think they’re so stupid, maybe I won’t kiss you again.” And Adam attempted to pull himself from Ronan’s grip.

Ronan locked his arms firmly where they were crossed over Adam’s waist and shoulder blades. Like hell he was going to let Adam go now.

“Damn you and your rich people muscles.”

They tumbled through the door of St. Agnes, shoes and coats falling to the ground as Ronan grabbed blindly for Adam’s wrists, waist, anything. In a moment, Adam’s mouth was on his. This kiss was different from earlier, no less searing, but the feeling in Ronan’s chest swelled with an undercurrent of something other than pure warmth. Perhaps lust was the best moniker, but at the same time, plain desire did not even come close to what Ronan felt in that moment. Adam gently let himself fall backwards onto his mattress and Ronan climbed after him.

“Stay the night.” Adam gasped as Ronan worked his way down Adam’s neck with his lips and teeth.

Adam tasted of sweat and something sweeter, tinted by his dollar store body wash and lotion. Ronan barely registered what he had said, singularly focused on making up for time lost to petty quarrels (he would later have at least enough self insight to recognize those moments as some sort of convoluted courting dance).

“Hm? I stay over all the time.” Ronan breathed, not wanting to extricate himself from his current passion project of licking and biting across each square inch of Adam’s exposed skin after pushing the cotton t-shirt over his head moments before.

Adam groaned in lieu of a proper response and his nails scratched across Ronan’s scalp. Then, he shivered. Ronan decided he liked that response best.

“In my bed. Stay, in my bed.” Adam gasped out, back arching as Ronan bit particularly hard at a spot just below his left collarbone.

Ronan had the decency to pretend to be scandalized, “Adam Parrish, are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” Ronan hoisted himself up above Adam on his elbow so he could look at him in the fading light. “I’ll have you know I’m a good Catholic boy, Parrish, and I will not have my purity–!”

Adam had apparently decided that that evening was no time for Ronan to get his kicks from laughing about his Catholic upbringing. He had, instead, grabbed Ronan by the scruff of his neck and dragged him down so that their lips would meet. Ronan felt his heart settle in his chest.

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