#cheap apartments in boston

[lovesodakid]

shut up and listen

matt x fem!reader

summary: matt and y/n have had a certain rivalry for years. all the pent up sex frustration finally comes out one night at a party the triplets hosted.

warnings: smuttt…., drinking?, dom!matt (ish). don’t like, don’t read🤷‍♀️.

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influencers and random strangers fill the room as the sound of different songs thump and bounce off of the walls.

the triplets hit 6 million on youtube a couple of weeks ago, so naturally, they threw a party to celebrate. since they were in boston when they hit it, they waited until they returned to los angeles to throw it.

i’ve known the triplets since i moved to california around a year and a half ago. nick was the first one to notice me, he replied to one of my instagram stories one sunny friday afternoon, we immediately hit it off. once he heard i was moving to la, he practically begged me to come over sometime to meet his brothers, so after finally getting comfortable in my new apartment in the hectic city, i met them for brunch.

just as expected, nick and i instantly connected. we took up most of the conversations that happened that day. i hit it off pretty well with chris. we have a few of the same interests which allowed us to get along extremely well. matt on the other hand, didn’t speak to me at all. instead, he just glared at me the whole time. if looks could kill, you might as well have buried me feet under right then and there.

after that, the more i got comfortable enough with nick and chris the triplets, the more i began to hang out with them. in the beginning, matt would just vocalize how much he hated my outfit, my shoes, or how my hair was done that day. i wouldn’t give him the time of day, as i’d usually just ignore him.

over time, it became irritating how much he’d talk down on me, so needless to say, i began fighting back. which quickly led to us bickering back and forth all the time as we’d throw rude words and comebacks to each other, in hopes of hurting the other one enough to get them to leave the other alone.

which is what’s happening at this very moment.

-

“god you are so annoying!” i yell as i push him away from me, making my way to the kitchen. i need a drink if im going to be dealing with mr. ‘negative all the time’.

“it’s not my fault you decided to show up in a small ass dress.” matt shouts back over the music, seemingly following closely behind me.

“why does it matter what i show up in? it’s my body. so im pretty sure i have a say-so in what i choose to wear.” i shoot back as i grab a bottle of cheap vodka, pouring it into a plastic throwaway cup.

matt’s face scrunches up in disgust.

“you aren’t getting wasted at my party.”

“no, im getting wasted at your brothers party.” i correct him before patting his shoulder, making my way into the living room.

as i walk further into the living room, i notice nick and a couple of other influencers standing in a hurdle talking to one another. i cautiously make my way towards them in hopes i don’t interrupt on any conversations that may be going on.

“y/n! hey!” nick exclaims excitedly, ushering me over.

“hey!” i gleam back as i stand right beside him.

“are you having fun?” he asks, looking down at me.

“as much fun as i can with mr. ‘big mouth’ always having something to say.” i roll my eyes, obviously talking about matt. who else?

“yeah im sorry about him.” nick says as he gives me an apologetic smile.

i just shrug my shoulders in response as i take a sip of the alcoholic beverage in my cup.

i never really understood why matt didn’t like me. im convinced he’s hated me the second he laid his eyes on me. for what reason? i have no clue. i think he finds happiness in life from making my life miserable every second im around him.

-

as im freely dancing, enjoying the effects of the alcohol. i feel someone come up behind me.

“hey.”

i turn around to meet a cute guy, who looks kind of familiar, but i can’t really place it.

“hi.” i say back, giving him a soft, half lidded smile.

“i don’t think i’ve seen you before, what’s your name?” the blonde haired stranger asks.

“oh-im y/n,” i slur my words. “im friends with the triplets.”

“oh okay.” he nods, eyes scanning up and down my body. which almost immediately makes me regret wearing a dress that my ass hangs out of.

i push my lips into a thin line as i nod back, looking down at my hands as i fiddle with them.

“you wanna go somewhere more quiet? y’know to talk. i can barley hear anything in here.” he suggests, leaning down to hear my response.

it’s as if my body reacts before my brain can even process what the dude is saying before im already nodding and taking his hand for him to lead me to a “quieter place”.

he leads me towards the hallway. the hallway where matt’s bedroom, bathroom, and the laundry room is.

we stand outside the bathroom, my back pressed against the door as he stands in front of me.

“so where are you from?” he asks, putting one of his hands beside my head, leaning on it as he lowers his head.

“um…florida..” i answer, hesitantly.

“mhm..” he hums, moving his head closer to mine until his lips barely ghost over mine.

i clear my throat in hopes of sending him a message that im clearly not interested in making out in front of the bedroom of the person i despise the most. or just the fact im not interested in making out at all.

when i feel him backing up, i let out a sigh of relief until i notice he didn’t back up on his own, except with a little bit of help.

“hey there.” matt happily says. clear sarcasm coming from his mouth, as well as written all over the fake smile on his face.

“what’s up!” the blonde dude chirps back, clearly not noticing matt’s fake ass nice tone.

“not much man..you know,” matt glances at me before leaning over to whisper something in the dudes ear.

whatever matt told him, must’ve changed his mind about what he planned on doing for the rest of his life or some shit because the dude just mutters a quick “okay yeah” before practically sprinting back into the living room.

i furrow my eyebrows as i look at matt, who now stands directly in front of me.

“what the hell was that?” he shouts at me, pure anger written all over his face.

“what?” i ask in disbelief as i cross my arms.

“you were just going to fuck some dude while you’re drunk? at my house?” he spits, leaning down to my level. “not to mention right in front of my bedroom?”

needless to say, im shocked. completely and utterly shocked. because, why would mr. ‘i can’t stand you’ now suddenly care what i do?

“what the fuck do you mean?” i voice back. “i wasn’t going to fuck him! let alone fuck him here, and i’m not even that drunk matt.”

i notice a small wave of relief flashing across his face before it turns right back to anger.

“you’re drunk enough,” he begins. “who knows what would’ve happened if i wouldn’t have stepped in. oh wait, i do. you would’ve fucked him! then i would have to listen to you crying in the morning about how you screwed some dude you don’t even know.” he states in a matter-of-factly voice.

once again, i stare at him in disbelief.

“matt-no the fuck i wouldn’t-“ i try to say, before im completely cut off.

“oh my god y/n,” he starts. “won’t you just fucking shut up and listen (lol) for once!” he shouts angrily, his hand coming up to wrap around my throat.

if i wasn’t already fully pressed against the bathroom door, i am now.

“matt?” i squeak out, trying to ignore the pooling in my underwear.

“what?” he breathlessly chuckles, leaning closer to my face.

i don’t say anything, not that i even can. i just stare at him, complete confusion written on my face.

“got nothing to say now huh?” he speaks condescendingly, leaning his head down dangerously close to my throat.

for some reason, i don’t make any efforts to get him away from me. i don’t want to push him away for once in my life.

“hm?” he hums, his lips slightly grazing over the sweet spot right under my ear.

i clear my throat, in hopes of mustering up some way to speak before i feel his mouth harshly biting down on the spot.

“oh-fuck!” i slightly yell, more in surprise than anything as he continues sucking on my neck that’s going to more than likely leave a spot in the morning.

“mhmm.” he hums once again, sending vibrations through my throat.

he removes the hand around my neck to place it on my hip as he puts his other hand on the side of my face, moving his mouth to the base of my throat, planting kisses along the path.

“matt..” i whine breathlessly as he moves his kisses upwards.

they move up my throat. then up to my chin, then once they reach my mouth he stops. just hovering over them before he speaks.

“give me permission y/n.” he whispers.

i nod, almost to quick for my liking.

“words, i need words.” he whispers again, this time sounding a little more desperate as he stares into my eyes, moving his hand from the side of my face to under my chin, lifting it up.

those damn eyes.

“y-yes matt.” i barely get out before his lips are already on mine.

his lips are soft. insanely soft. his pace? not as much.

i can barley keep up with him as his lips move against mine in a rapid movement. both of his hands slide down my sides, wrapping around my back before moving down to gently to grab my ass, causing me to let out a quick gasp, in which he takes advantage of to quickly slip his tongue into my mouth.

he pulls me away from the bathroom door, walking me backwards towards his room. he opens the door and walks me in, kicking the door behind him, our lips not breaking contact once.

he continues backing me up until i feel the back of my legs hit his bed, in which he puts a hand on my chest, slightly pushing me back which causes me to collapse onto his bed. him wasting no time in crawling right on top of me.

“matt..” i whine, grabbing the back of his neck to pull him closer to me.

“what baby?” he coos. rubbing his hand on my face, pushing my hair off my forehead.

“i need you.” i speak softly, unable to ignore the continuous pulsing between my thighs.

which causes him to let a cocky grin spread across his face.

“i know.” he says, reconnecting our lips.

his hands run down my sides, before going lower, reaching the hem of my dress.

“god this dress..”, he huffs, looking down at it. “you look gorgeous baby, but i need it off.”

i quickly nod before he begins pushing it up further. once it’s scrunched up on my waist, my black laced thongs are on complete display for him.

he grins, running his hand down my lower abdomen, stopping right above panty line. which subconsciously makes me buck my hips upwards.

“hey hey..patient baby, okay?” he softly says, pushing me back down.

he continues pushing up my dress as i raise up slightly so he can push it over my head completely.

once its discarded somewhere on the floor of his bedroom, he leans up as he looks down at me. taking notice of my now matching black lace bra and thong.

“matt..” i whimper, needing something. anything.

“shh, let me look at you.” he runs his hands all over my body as he stares at me. like an animal does at its prey before completely demolishing it, eating it alive.

and with that he leans back down, placing his lips on my neck. he moves his lips down my throat, onto my collarbone. making a few pit stops to suck here and there, before moving down to one of my breasts, kissing the top of the exposed skin as the rest is covered by my bra. causing me to let out a breathless moan, arching my back into him.

it’s not covered for long though as he’s reaching behind me to unclasp my bra. once it’s off, he throws it somewhere behind him. focusing his attention back onto my breasts, admiring them.

“you’re perfect.” he whispers before leaning back down, taking my right nipple into his mouth.

“oh my- god matt!” i loudly moan at the sudden motion, reaching my hand up to entangle it into his hair.

he groans as he swirls his tongue around the bud. once he’s decided that’s enough for one side, he quickly moves to my left breast, showing it the same amount of affection.

he stays there for a second before lifting his mouth away from me to hover over me. locking eyes with me, he lowers back down, peppering kisses down the valley of my breast.

he makes his way down my stomach, painfully slowly. leaving soft kisses in his path. the further he gets down, he places his knees on the floor. as he reaches the top of my panties. he keeps his eyes on mine as he sticks his tongue out, licking across the top of my panty line, causing me to shudder and slightly buck my hips up once again. before he pushes them back down again.

“what’d i say about being patient baby?” he tuts before he leans back, getting a full view of my clothed pussy. he grins noticing a darker spot right in the middle of them. “so wet for me hm?”

he drags one finger over my covered folds. which causes me to let out small line of cuss words. he lets the most shit eating grin spread across his face before he’s hooking his fingers around the waistband of my panties. he slowly pulls them down my legs. once they’re fully off, he takes them in his fist throwing them, this time forward so they land on his nightstand.

“such a pretty pussy.” he muttered before swiftly putting his face in between my thighs.

he left a quick, sweet kiss on my clit, causing my body jump and a soft moan roll off my tongue. before his is swiping through my soaking folds.

he skillfully flicks his tongue against my clit in an up and down motion as his eyes are piercing into mine the whole time. in response, i throw my head back onto his comforter, allowing my back to arch as his name comes out of my mouth plenty enough times to make him groan into my pussy. sending vibrations, enhancing the pleasurable feelings.

i feel my climax building, fast, as my thighs squeeze around his head. my grip tightening on his hair.

“matt…im gonna-“ i try to warn him, before i feel him come completely off of me, backing away.

“not yet you’re not.” he says demandingly as he stands up.

i whimper from the loss of him. before he quickly begins to undress. taking off his shirt, then his pants, then finally, his boxers. his dick happily springs out. the tip completely reddened as it throbs impatiently. pre-cum slightly leaking from the hole.

i almost drool at the sight.

he climbs up me again, spreading my legs with his knee. i guess i had pushed them back together while he was getting himself undressed.

he leans back down, connecting his lips with mine.

our lips dance across one another’s before he slowly begins grinding down on me. his bare dick rubbing between my folds to collect my slick to use as lube.

“matt!” i moan again. his cock rubbing against my clit perfectly.

before he stops again, making me whine once again from the loss.

he reaches his arm out towards his nightstand, opening his drawer as he begins rummaging around for something.

both his hand and head drops in annoyance as he groans into the crook of my neck.

“i don’t have a condom.”

“it’s okay,” i smile. “im on the pill.” i inform him.

he springs up, the widest grin i’ve ever seen taking over his features.

“you have no clue how long ive wanted to do this baby.” he sweetly kisses my cheek.

he leans back, sitting straight up as he looks down at me.

“you ready baby?” he asks, rubbing my stomach in reassurance.

“yes matt.” i let him know.

he looks at me, analyzing my face for any signs that scream ‘i don’t want this’. once he doesn’t find any, he begins pushing his tip inside of me.

his jaw slacks, low moans falling out as he makes his way into me. my jaw mirroring his as my back lifts off the brown bedding.

once he bottoms out, he waits for my sign that he can begin moving. once i nod my head a few times, he’s pulling out, not fully as his tip stays in. he snaps his hips back into mine at a slow pace.

“mm-fuck! matt!” i moan loudly.

“fuck baby-so tight.” he grunts, his head falling back.

he keeps the slow steadily pace for a while. slick sounds and moans filling up the room. thank god there’s a party going on outside, or we’d definitely be caught.

“matt..go faster.” i whine, needing more.

almost in a second, his hips are snapping into mine at a harsh pace. his tip kissing that soft spongey spot causing my walls to pulse around him as lewd moans escape my mouth.

“you sound so fucking good baby.” he lets out in small breathes as he puts all of his weight on top of me, his mouth ghosting my ear.

“all for me, huh?” he asks, condescendingly as he manages to pick up his pace.

which only cause me to let out a loud shriek. he takes that as my response as he leans back up, eyes focused on watching himself slip in and out of me.

“matt! im gonna cum!” i squeal, warning him.

“come on, cum for me.” he groans, picking up his already rapid pace. lowering his hand between our bodies to rub circles on my clit.

almost on command, my walls begin contracting as i let go around his dick. pure euphoria coating my body as i hit my high.

he rides me through my orgasm as he inches towards his own.

“fuck-y/n-“ he begins as his hips sputter before he reaches his high, painting my insides white as i feel his warm liquid shoot inside me.

he collapses onto my chest. we lay there for a few seconds as we catch our breath, until he pulls out. both of us wince from the slight overstimulation.

“let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?” he whispers, leaving a sweet peck on my cheek.

as he gets up, he picks my hand up, leaving a small kiss on the back of it.

i just slept with the person i despise most.

or do i?

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a/n: first time writing smut so i apologize if it sucks ass 😃. this took way longer than i’d like to admit but i hope u like it. i heavily advise you to listen to the song ‘shut up and listen’ with this. it’s so fucking good.

for the ones that wanted to be tagged: @imwetforyourmom @tillies33ssss

[typingcorgi]

can't quit you

rating: e (minors, please shoo. you will be blocked) word count: 4.1k+ pairing: joel miller x f!reader warnings: mention of age difference, tipsy sex, mutual pining, emotionally unavailable but totally fuckable joel, oral sex (f receiving), p in v, creampie, praise kink makes brain go brrr, taylor swift references if you squint, porn with plot, moody-ish joel, no use of y/n summary: joel miller isn't able to tell you what you mean to him, but he can show you. author's notes: this is probably the fic I'm most proud of (not that I've written very many) and if you read, i would absolutely love feedback, reblogs, or comments. tell me what you like! tell me what you hated (kindly pls lol). i am open to feedback and love praise can't you tell so enjoy reading your thoughts. now enjoy getting dicked down (respectfully) and thank you to @foli-vora for letting me pick your brain on some of the plot devices; truly appreciate it (:

Right now, you have two things on your mind: cheap whiskey and Joel Miller.

The former comes from the promise of your smuggler who’d agreed to deliver an unopened bottle of Rittenhouse in exchange for three or four cigarettes you’d hand-rolled that morning. Quality tobacco is a thing of the past, so you’re fine with offering up one lackluster product in exchange for another slightly less lackluster product. There’s a good chance the bottle will be half-empty by the time your visitor makes it to your meeting spot. No one is ever as good as their word anymore, and their word means virtually nothing.

You hold Joel Miller to his promises, though. He said he’d run out to barter for his own offering of supplies—he’s low on ammo for his shotgun, and he needs to find a good number of batteries for the two-way radios he’d stolen off a sleeper last night. He figures it might be a good insurance plan, a good backup just in case either of you split up in this next leg of the trip to Jackson. And while you don’t like the idea of him traveling alone—despite knowing he can very much take care of himself—you don’t fight him on it. He’s not wrong, and more significantly, if you try and argue with him, you’re probably going to be disappointed. 

You used to bicker more when you thought he hated you; when you were the annoying neighbor and not the escort out of Boston and downstate. You fought like cats and dogs when you lived next door to him in those mangy apartments, never liking the way you looked at each other—like both of you knew the other had an ulterior motive to force yourself out of the QZ, and you picked up on it, tapped into this common secret you hadn’t planned on sharing with anyone else. And while the proverbial walls with which Joel shields himself are crumbling at a painfully sluggish pace, it’s something. You’ll take something over nothing.

You’re hiding out in the basement of an abandoned convenience store on what was probably a main street in this New York suburb. There isn’t much by way of furniture; just a couple of rust-ridden folding chairs, a worn green couch, empty, dusty shelves, and a sink that probably hasn’t run clean water in fifteen years. Small privacy windows along the top of the walls offer little by way of natural light, and the angle of its golden rays tells you that it’s time to go. Your connect is waiting for you on the street’s southern corner. Or at least, that’s where you planned to meet right before sundown.

Joel’s left you with his smaller, quicker shot, a semi-automatic that he usually entrusts you with while you’re apart. He doesn’t say it, but you can sort of tell that he doesn’t like leaving you. And it’s probably not personal because yes, while Joel Miller is slowly coming out of the shell he’s lived in for the last twenty years, it’s not as though he’s developed some sort of overt attachment to you. In a life like this, attachment is almost as dangerous as the Infected. There’s no room for him—or for you—to seek anything beyond a sort of temporary comfort with one another.

Get him to Jackson. That’s it. And then you’re on your own again on your route back home.

You switch the safety on the rifle, then keep it tucked in the front pocket of your jeans while you head up the dilapidated stairs and push open the cellar doors. The sunset meets you right in your eyes and you squint, and then the same thought you have at almost every beautiful encounter sweeps through your mind. Am I seeing another sunset tomorrow?

With any measure of hope, yes.

You close the cellar doors behind you, careful to avoid stepping on any overgrown grass along the cracked sidewalk toward the street corner. You’ve been unusually fortunate to not run into any runners or clickers today, but that streak would come to a dreadful end if you’d stepped on any patch of cordyceps fungus hidden along the green. They’d come charging at you in an instant, and if their overbearing strength didn’t kill you first, the brain parasite would. Eventually.

A quick death sounds better. You can’t fathom slowly losing your mind as many have. You can’t fathom losing the memory of Joel.

Fuck. You’ve really got it bad for him, you’re fucking thinking about him when you should be on guard, when you should be looking out for—

“Girl,” a voice calls out from behind you. You don’t know this smuggler that well; it’s not as though he has a voice you’d recognize. Your shoulders jump and you try to downplay it as you turn around, rifle now held in your dominant hand.

“Yeah,” you say, unimpressed with his greeting. You notice the edges of a paper bag crumpled in his strong grip, and as you eye him, you take out a tin-wrapped package of cigarettes, holding them out for him to take. He accepts your barter and unwraps the foil, inspecting each product to ensure you’re not ripping him off.

“Yeah,” he echoes, then hands you the paper bag. It’s heavy, containing the glass bottle that he’d promised, but right away, you can tell its contents aren’t completely full. You don’t mention it. Some things aren’t worth the energy. And you’re fairly confident you’d start feeling it after a swig or two, considering your last drink feels like ages ago.

When you return to the cellar, you’re alone again. Concern and disappointment flood your veins as you realize Joel hasn’t returned. Fuck, now would have been a good time for those fucking walkie-talkies. Hey, Joel, you dead? No? Great, get back here in one piece.

You dig around your pack for something to eat, eventually settling on something that you think was a protein bar at one point in time, but now just tastes of slightly sweet dust. It’s unappetizing. It’s all this end-of-world can offer you, and while getting good and drunk on an empty stomach sounds like it would be a fan-fucking-tastic idea, you can’t afford to slow down tomorrow. You can’t afford the hangover.

It feels like hours have passed within the span of minutes, and you take a swig of Rittenhouse before you hear a clang at the cellar door. FEDRA wouldn’t wait for you to open up—they’d just bust the door open without hesitation. Joel. Maybe. It could be him, or it could be your smuggler coming back to collect, realizing now your flimsy cigarettes weren’t worth the trade.

Your shotgun is again in hand—someone told you long ago that alcohol and firearms aren’t a wise mix, but that was probably before they realized the world was eventually going to end—and after carefully walking up the wooden stairs, you push open the door, gun ready to fire.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel mutters, lowering your aim away from the space between his tired eyes. “You really are ready for anythin’, aren’t you, honey?”

He says it almost sarcastically, like he doesn’t mean it. Like he’s teasing you in an aloof sort of way that only makes total sense for the Joel Miller. And you know he doesn’t intend for your stomach to twist like it does when he says it—honey, fuck, you could just melt onto the cold cement floor—but it does.

“In times like these, you have to be,” you offer, leading you both down the stairs.

You sink into the couch, finally able to exhale that long-awaited sigh of relief as it hits you: Joel is back, and from what you can tell, he’s unharmed. He’s alive. You don’t give yourself much time to relish in the silent celebration of it, though. 

“How was it out there?” You ask. “Run into anything? Anyone?”

“Couple’a stalkers,” he replies, shrugging. “Shot ‘em before they could get close. Got the batteries for the radio, along with some other crap.”

Your smile is small but genuine. “That’s good. Anytime you don’t end up maimed or dead is a win in my book.”

He almost chuckles, and it makes your heart squeeze. “Yeah.”

—

The “other crap” Joel has brought back to you includes a used, but functional woolen blanket and a stash of beef jerky that’s likely way past its expiration date. “I don’t need you passin’ out from hunger,” he says as he hands one of the pieces to you. Your fingers brush and it feels fucking electric, but likely only to you, since you know Joel has shut himself off to any sort of emotional electricity long ago.

He sits next to you on the couch, and honestly, takes up a considerable amount of space. His legs are splayed open, his broad back resting on the cushion behind him, and the full extent of his intimidating size begins to sink into you. It’s not like you ever thought Joel Miller was small, but you’ve been with him long enough that sometimes you forget how he might appear to others: menacing. Threatening.

You’re passing off the whiskey bottle between you, taking swigs every couple of minutes to fill the silence that’s fallen between you. Your conversation started benign enough (if benign could be used to describe the next leg of your runaway route, now that FEDRA knows two of its civilians have escaped the Boston QZ), but then it’d taken a more personal turn. Suddenly you know a sliver more of Joel Miller’s past; you know he’d been separated from his brother since Outbreak Day. You learn he had a daughter.

“I’m sorry,” you say lamely. It doesn’t feel strong enough. I’m sorry is what you might have said had you accidentally closed the cellar door on Joel’s pinky finger. He doesn’t say anything back for a while. He just takes another swig of whiskey as he leans back into the couch, as though it fully catches the weight of his grief.

“Was a long time ago,” he says finally. “She would’a been close to your age by now. Maybe a little younger.”

You nod and immediately feel a little guilty. You’d somehow survived, against all odds, against losing your family—if not to the outbreak itself, to the violence it’d caused. Your family was collateral damage in a devastating blow. It could have been you instead of her—Joel would still have his daughter, and you’d be with your family in a place hopefully much better than this hell on earth.

“Still,” you try, still not feeling as though your words convey your true meaning. “I’m so sorry. Thank you for trusting me with that.”

Joel’s eyes flicker towards yours as if he’s only now realizing that’s what’s happening here: he’s trusting you. And whether it’s an effect of the whiskey, it’s something. Neither of you is full-on drunk, just loose enough to take the edge off, to put aside some of the overwhelming weight that comes with surviving the literal plague. It’s just enough to let some of the walls built between you begin to chip away, bit by bit.

You don’t leave him hanging out to dry, though. You can’t. Joel just exposed one of his deepest wounds, so the least you can do is mirror the gesture.

You tell him everything. You tell him about your life in New York, your escape out of before you’d barely begun to drive. You tell him about your family and the hit it took to your life to lose theirs. You tell him about your connection to the Fireflies (although you’re pretty sure he’d already picked up on that, considering your frequent interactions with Marlene and Kim). You tell him you’d needed a light to cling to in the everlasting darkness until you’d realized even the light was no good, even then, you’d come to accept the only risk worth taking was one that ensured your security and yours alone.

And now, as it happens, his, too.

He doesn’t say anything afterward. He doesn’t come out with a line like thank you for trusting me with that or anything gooey or empathetic. How you have the emotional space for such reactions is beyond even your understanding, so you understand why a complete stoic like Joel Miller just…sits there. Stoic, nodding his head a bit in an effort to communicate he hears you. He doesn’t say he’s sorry. Everyone is expected to live like this.

“You know,” you continue, the whiskey warming the blood swimming in your veins. “When you didn’t come back as quickly as I thought you would, I got worried.”

Joel exhales through his nose. “Yeah,” he replies. “What else is new.”

You turn your body to face him, legs crossed over one another as you adjust your seat. Your eyes widen with meaning. You’re like a kid with a secret to spill, a story to tell, and you’ll be damned if Joel Miller doesn’t hear it.

“I mean it,” you push. “I’d been thinking about you all damn day. You just come and go as you please, or at least, you think you do. You’ve only just started telling me where you plan on going, or how long you think it’ll take. And I stick by you despite it all. You know why?”

“Yeah, and why’s that?” Joel presses, but the sarcasm dripping from his voice signals that he doesn’t actually want to know. Wanting to know what you mean—and then actually knowing—translates to pain. And this sort of added pain, the one that comes from wanting too much, is just not something either of you can manage at a time like this.

Your pointer finger gestures between the two of you, and with a bolt of whiskey courage, you finally say what’s been plaguing your mind for months. “It’s you and me,” you admit. “That’s my whole world. I got nothing else worth saving or fighting for anymore. So when you leave, half of my world walks out on me. Half of my fucking reason for being here is just—”

He cuts you off, and you don’t fucking believe what’s happening. His kiss is harsh, biting, bordering on punishment for you to shut the fuck up and he knows yelling at you won’t work (when has it ever?) so he kisses you. He lunges for you, his broad palm and dirt-coated fingers covering your entire cheek, the pads of his fingers pressing slightly into the flesh of your face.

Stop.

He pulls back, and both of you are met with the heavy breathing of the other. Your eyes open, slow and dreamy. You wish you had something more articulate to say.

“What the fuck?”

He says nothing.

“No, really, Joel. What the fuck was that?”

He pulls back, observing you. The weight of his gaze is nearly paralyzing.

“Don’t make me say it,” he concedes. You lean back against the arm of the couch, waiting for something more satisfying.

“Had too much to drink,” he tells you, but you know for a damn fact that you’re the one that put most of that liquor away. You’d had a head start, after all, waiting for him to get back to you.

“Not buying it,” you argue, shaking your head. “Just admit to me that you feel something between us, too?” And there’s your index finger again, flicking between your two bodies, tracing a line over the invisible string that binds you to the other. “Admit to me that this isn’t just about getting to Jackson. That you need someone here with you, because you can’t carry the damn weight of the entire world on your shoulders anymore.”

He can’t tell you that. It’s as though the words simply don’t exist in the Joel Miller lexicon. Your gaze drops, casting downward at his thigh, though you’re not exactly looking at anything.

Finally, he says your name. It’s low and pleading. Stop.

He’s leaning into you again, and this time, you meet him halfway. It’s agonizing, the painfully short distance between your mouths before he kisses you again. He’s slow and hesitant this time, almost seeking permission for a kiss as biting as your first. Your tongue sweeps along the seam of his lips, and when he parts them, you kiss him like the world is ending.

You can’t fucking believe what’s happening. It’s as though you’ve manifested this moment within your dreams. On the nights you’ve fallen asleep alone, you’ve touched yourself thinking of this. You’ve played your own body like a harp, imagining every stroke and rub of your fingers belonged to him instead. Joel is kissing you, and you’re kissing him back. Joel’s hands are running up through your hair, and your hands are on his chest, bracing yourself for him to pull back when he inevitably realizes this is a bad fucking idea.

It doesn’t come. He pushes you down, a gentle press of his hand to guide your back along the couch. His lips move from yours toward your neck, his kiss a brand, declaring you as his for as long as he’ll have you.

For as long as you survive.

Your bodies dance between wanting to savor the moment and needing to feel the heat of the other. Joel’s fingers toy with the zipper of your jeans, eventually pulling them down your legs and discarding them toward the cement floor so he can better focus his energy on you. On pleasing you, of course, but maybe to also give into the desire he’s been repressing for so long.

“Joel,” you whisper. “Are you su—“

“Don’t,” he interrupts, and then his mouth is on your cunt.

It’s sudden and harsh, but fuck, your body needs this. Nothing about this man is subtle, and now you learn his sex isn’t either. His tongue traces patterns against your clit, eventually probing deeper to taste you from the inside. Maybe if you’d been a little more firm in your inhibitions, you’d tell him this was a bad idea. Maybe he wouldn’t be fucking you with his goddamn perfect mouth like this. But he is, and you’re here, beneath the twitching overhead light in this decayed basement until it flickers once, twice, and goes out.

You learn Joel is braver in the dark.

Your hands grip his hair while he eats you out. His fingers press so deeply against the flesh of your hips that you know it’ll bruise, but it’ll be a pleasant ache to remember a night like this. It’ll be proof that even for a moment, Joel Miller felt something for you, and he could show you even if he couldn’t tell you.

“Fuck, darlin’,” he mutters, pulling back to catch his breath. You crane your neck to glimpse at him. His lips and beard glimmer with evidence of your arousal, and he sighs into the flesh of your thigh. “Too—too old for this.”

“Fuck that.” You actually laugh at his unexpected comment. “Keep going.”

For a rare moment in your relationship, Joel listens to you. His head dips back between your legs, mouth returning to deliver your pleasure. He’s slower this time, but just as deliberate. His hands hold your legs apart to give his tongue the perfect space against your clit, and when you feel your body begin to crest in relief, you give a sharp inhale through your mouth.

“Joel, I’m—I’m going to—“

He doesn’t need to hear anymore. He drinks you in while you climax, your limbs tensing while stars explode behind your closed eyes.

You kiss him when you push yourself up, needing to taste your own lingering flavor—needing confirmation that all of this is real. Joel fucking Miller just ate you out in this dingy little basement, and you can’t be sure, but you think it’s because he might actually have developed some sort of feeling for you. Something beyond the need to run or hide or defend. And you reciprocate it, eagerly.

How inconvenient for you both.

He’s breathing heavily against your mouth, and you smile in the earnest afterglow.

“You’re really good at that,” you praise into your ear, and he offers something between a growl and a moan in response.

His jeans are dirty and stiff, but you’re just as impatient to pull them off his thick legs and experience him as he’s delighted in you—the weight of his body, the feel of his cock. You hold his length in your hands and immediately notice he’s fucking huge. You practically gasp at the realization, thankful that the dark room hides your growing blush.

You’re laying on your back, and Joel’s fingers slide against your entrance, priming you for his next move. He speaks again, and while you’d normally have a little internal celebration at any ounce of vulnerability he’d be willing to share with you, this time you immediately cut him off.

“You sure abou—“

“Never more about anything else,” you confess.

It’s all too damn much, the amount of immense sensation that comes from Joel teasing briefly with the head of his cock. He pushes into you, and it’s almost as if you can see the way his eyes roll back into his head. Your own body has to adjust to his size, and you bite your lower lip as you brace yourself through the sweet pain of his length filling you with all he has.

He groans against the warmth of your neck, eventually building up his slow thrusts to a rhythmic pace that causes your blood to dance.

“G—god damn it,” you choke out, your ankles hooked around each other along his spine.

In the darkness, you can make out the slight reflection of his tired eyes. His breathing turns ragged quickly and he hisses once or twice—whether out of pleasure or plain you can’t determine (especially because you’re certain you heard him grumble something about his damn knees while he slid out and pushed forward, but honestly, you’re so fucking spent that it’s hard to be sure).

“Feels good?” You ask, clenching your walls as he thrusts home. 

He groans. “Uh-huh.”

He pulls you to sit up on his lap, and it’s only then he realizes you’re both still too damn clothed. He hurries to pull your white t-shirt overhead, then pushes your bra straps off your shoulders before managing to unhook the thing with both hands. Hs teeth nip and lips suck at your nipple while he fucks you, while you softly bounce on his damn cock, and shit, you want this night to last for fucking ever. 

You’re fucking ecstatic. Your heart sings with the knowledge that you’ve managed to bring Joel pleasure, if only for tonight. Your body thrums like a guitar string plucked by his experienced fingers, and you pant against his lips, sweat forming along the hairline at your temples.

“I’m c—close,” you warn him. “I’m going to—”

“M—me too,” he stammers. “Let me feel you, honey. Just l–let go.”

And you do, you really fucking do. You feel his heat begin to spill inside you and it only intensifies the blinding orgasm Joel coaxes out of you. It reverberates within you, spanning from your fingertips down toward your toes, turning your spine to liquid.

He fucks into you slowly while you both come down, humming into your ear during the aftershocks.

“That’s it, darlin’. Did so fuckin’ good.”

The praise alone is nearly enough to send you over another edge. You suddenly want to bury your head into the crook of Joel’s neck, hiding any evidence of vulnerable relief along your expression. But Joel doesn’t let you. Instead, he holds your chin between his thumb and the crook of his index finger, and kisses you through it.

Joel falls asleep on the couch in his jeans and an old t-shirt. He lets you wear his flannel (though he tries telling you it’s dirty and bloodstained, but mostly everything you own is, so you don’t care).

He falls asleep with you resting behind him, trusting you to hold him while you keep each other safe. He kisses the inside of your wrist, lips lingering at your pulse point.

When you wake in the morning, he’s already gone. And your heart would completely sink had you not realized one of the two-way radios standing upright on the shelf across from you, low static playing through its speaker. There’s a little red light next to its antenna.

You feel as though you can breathe again.

Padding across the basement floor, you grab the radio with both hands, press the call button, and speak into the receiver.

“Joel?”

[corazondebeskar-reads]

ain't no rest for the wicked - chapter five

ain't no rest for the wicked series

five: way down below

series masterlist | prev chapter

Tess Servopoulos x f!reader x Joel Miller

words: 4k

summary: After sneaking out of Joel and Tess's apartment, you wake up in an unfamiliar place.

warnings: creator chose not to use warnings, dark-ish Joel and Tess, smuggler!Joel, smuggler!Tess, boston QZ, QZ life, poorly negotiated d/s-style dynamics, poor communication, enthusiastic consent, oral sex (m & f receiving), p in v, threesome, description of violence & wounds, canon-typical violence, canon-typical killing.

Welcome to the end, my friends. I omitted a specific warning due to spoilers. If you need to know before you read, DM me.

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

When you come to, head pounding, it’s on an old dining chair with cheap metal legs and a moth-eaten seat. Your hands have gone to pins and needles from the rope that burns when you try to flex them, bootless feet in a similar predicament. The cloth stuffed in your mouth tastes metallic, though you don’t seem to have bled.

You’re swimming through static. You think you might throw up.

Wherever you are is long abandoned, which doesn’t really help narrow it down. It was maybe a break room, once, with a shattered microwave and the cupboards askew.

A tall, spindly man in a Mets hat leans against the counter. He’s bundled in a jacket while yours is missing.

You take comfort in that it’s the only other piece of clothing you’re missing. You wiggle your toes, trying to coax a modicum of warmth back in them.

Ball Cap snubs his cigarette on the counter and leaves it there. “Nice to see you again,” he says.

You wish it wasn’t to you.

“What, don’t you recognize me?” he says.

You do, though. Of course you do. He was the one Joel beat the shit out of in that alley.

“You sure were a talker before. Aren’t you gonna give me that same offer? Your mouth for your life?”

You squeeze your eyes shut and try to think. Come on. Any time now, brain.

He seems to be alone. Could you take him? Probably not. Is he armed? Yes, definitely. He had struck you over the head with the butt of a gun last night.

At least, you think it was last night.

He stomps over to you and yanks your head back to look at him. “Aren’tcha gonna answer me, you little whore?”

When he sees the gag, he throws back his head and laughs. “Shit, right. Well, no point in this,” he tugs the knot loose and tosses the cloth to the ground. “Nobody’s gonna come help you, no matter how loud you scream. And kinda wanna hear it. Y’see, the boss man didn’t take kindly—”

You manage to hold your tongue, due largely in part to the tackiness of your mouth, but your lip curls a little. Is this guy for real? He’s fucking villain monologuing?

“Hey,” a nasally voice says. “Better not be starting without me.”

The newcomer is tall like Ball Cap, but beefier. He’d be more intimidating if he wasn’t sniffling and wheezing, his nose a constant faucet of mucus that pooled on his upper lip.

He coughs deeply for a minute, fist against his open mouth. The part of your brain that’s actively pretending you aren’t going to die tonight is worried about catching whatever he’s splattering across the room.

“Don’t you want to know what we want with you?” Slimy Mustache says.

“Not really,” you say before you can stop yourself.

You hear the rattle in his lungs as he steps closer. “No, you already know, don’t you?” His hand lifts, a finger stroking down your cheek. You flinch away, squeezing your eyes shut.

Slimy Mustache laughs. “Don’t worry, we’re not going to start the show without your friends.”

Friends? You don’t have—aw, fuck.

“Not my friends,” you say. “I didn’t—they were strangers, too.”

You hear it before you feel it, leaving you blinking in shock for a moment. Life may not have been great in the apocalypse, but no one’s actually hit you before.

Not like this.

Your cheek and eyes sting sharply. Ball Cap certainly hadn’t held back.

“Don’t lie. We’ve seen them coming in and out of your place, you stupid cunt.”

When he hits you this time, it’s less of a rage reaction and more for fun with a closed fist. You’re still reeling when you register the heat first, then the slick, sickening drip of blood from your nose down your lips.

“Knock it off, man,” says Slimy Mustache. “He said we had to wait for them. Ain’t gonna negotiate if she’s dead.”

“They’ll kill you,” you lie, grimacing as it invites the coppery tang into your mouth.

Ball Cap grins with a set of unusually shiny, straight teeth for a thug at the end of the world. “Nah, honey, that’s why we have you.”

You spit blood at his feet. He moves to backhand you, but Mustache tries to stop him, and it knocks him a little off course. His hand is decked out in gaudy rings, and the edge of one snags on your cheek. You gasp, and it turns into a whimper as the pain bleeds through.

“You better hope they show up soon,” Ball Cap snarls at Mustache. “Or there won’t be much left for them to find.”

It’s true, no matter how he means it. You’re not suited for this. You wish you were a secret badass with balls of steel, but you’ve given pretty much all the fight you had.

And you know no one’s coming for you.

When Tess wakes, the sun peeks through the window aggressively, and she has to shield her eyes to see Joel. He’s shaking her shoulder gently to let her know he’s leaving. He’s already bundled in his coat and hat, tugging gloves on. It’s unusual, but he doesn’t look distressed.

She sits up and stretches. “Where ya going?” she says, but she thinks she knows since the bed is empty and the apartment is quiet.

“Just gonna make sure she got home okay,” he says and kisses her. “Musta snuck out sometime in the middle of the night.”

“Yeah, I think I spooked her when I asked her to stay,” Tess admits.

“M’sure she’s fine,” he says, but he isn’t looking at her, and that’s when she realizes she misread him earlier. He is worried.

“I’m comin’,” she says, already on her feet. “You go on, take the long way, and I’ll meet you.”

He nods.

There’s only one lurking outside your apartment, but two in nearby alleys on standby. He takes them out first, silent as the falling snow, which melts as it lands in pools of hot blood.

He lets the third man catch him. There’s a pistol in his face, but he knows he’s not really in danger.

“Where’s the girl?” he growls.

“Don’t worry, we’re just showin’ her some of the same hospitality you showed my brother,” the man tells him.

He seems to think that by pointing a gun at Joel, he has the upper hand.

He doesn’t think that for long. Not when Tess’s knife sinks into his arm and twists, the gun clattering to the ground as he reflexively jerks. Joel picks it up and stuffs it in his waistband as casually as if he had just adjusted his belt. His jaw ticks as his hand wraps around the man’s throat.

“I suggest you listen real close,” Tess says, voice low and thick with danger.

“Tell us where she is,” Joel says before pointedly shifting his gaze to where Tess holds the knife buried, “and maybe you’ll be able to salvage that arm.”

He gives in so quickly he might have been able to, if they had left him alive.

“Think we made a mistake,” Ball Cap drawls. “They aren’t comin’ for this bitch.”

You don’t know how long you’ve been here, but you keep slipping in and out of awareness. Floating through something like a dream, but not enough to escape reality. Worse yet, you keep snapping back to the world, having been close to escape or rescue, a sick hope still brewing in your brain.

“That’s too bad,” Slimy Mustache says with an exaggerated pout. “I wanted them to watch.”

“Guess your pussy wasn’t good enough to save you,” Ball Cap says.

You keep your mouth shut. They’re still pretending they need a reason to hurt you, and you sure as hell aren’t going to give it to them.

They’re right, though. The late afternoon sun is dragging wearily through the clouds.

You don’t blame them. You knew the danger. You didn’t just open your door to let the tornado in; you had sex with the—no, okay, you have to retire this metaphor.

It’s okay. You knew what this was.

And what it wasn’t.

Still, you think. You’re not really keen on dying here and even less keen on what you’re pretty sure will precede it.

“I dunno. I still think we should find out for ourselves,” Slimy Mustache says.

“Not a fuckin’ chance,” someone snarls behind Slimy Mustache, a knife to his throat.

You must be delirious from fear and blood loss because your first thought is that motherfucking Batman is here. You’re at a point where you apparently genuinely believe, if only for a moment, that it’s more likely for Bruce Fucking Wayne to show up than Joel. Except why would Batman be in Boston?

There’s a gun resting against Ball Cap’s head; his namesake knocked to the dusty ground. Tess is on the other end of it. It’s hard to conflate her with anyone else; they never made a girl superhero more badass than Tess. Not that you’d say no to Wonder Woman, but who would?

You close your eyes. You’re not getting tricked by this dream again.

“That’s it, sweetheart, keep ‘em shut, okay?” Tess says.

There’s a lot of rustling fabric and soft, wet sounds muffled by agonized cries.

When hands touch your shoulders, you flinch.

“It’s just me,” she says. “Hold still just one more minute, okay? And don’t look.”

You squeeze your eyes shut tighter as she goes around the back of your chair, her hand never leaving your shoulder. It’s easier to breathe with her touch to anchor you, even through your swollen nose.

With one hand, she flicks open a blade and cuts through enough of the rope that she can tug the rest away. She doesn’t have to come up with a way to free your ankles without letting go, because Joel’s already cutting the knots.

“I gotcha,” he’s murmuring. “We’ve got ya, sunflower. Hey, look at me.”

You do, hesitantly opening your sore eyes. His broad body is blocking everything else, though there’s clear whimpering and groaning behind him. He cups your face in his hands, turning it to look at the cut on your cheek and survey the swelling.

“Don’t,” you mumble. “It’s not pretty.”

He ignores you. “We’re gonna get you home. But first, I need to know—you want me to drag it out or just kill ‘em now?”

You look up at his blank eyes. There’s viscera splattered on his shirt and face. When you crane your neck to look at Tess, still behind you with both hands on your shoulders, she’s soaked in gore.

“Not yours, right?” you say.

“Not a drop,” she promises.

You look back at Joel. “Now, please,” you whisper, even though it makes your stomach turn.

“Get her out of here,” Joel says.

“No,” Tess surprises both of you. “I’ll take care of it. I don’t think she can walk on her own.”

You remember Tess in the kitchen with the chef’s knife and how you thought she looked like an angel when you first met. They both do, now.

“I’ll meet you there,” she says, her tone offering no negotiation.

Joel doesn’t argue, though you think he looks disappointed. Like he wanted the kill.

You’re just barely aware that it should scare you. It doesn’t.

He scoops you up with no problem, as if it doesn’t strain his aging knees.

“I think I can walk,” you say.

He doesn’t dignify you with anything more than a shake of his head.

It’s not a long walk. The setting sun frames him in gold, the blood gone dark and sticky. You’re only a block from the alley you first met them in, which in turn is only two from your apartment. But by the time you get there, you’re asleep against his chest.

He sets you down gently on the bed, meaning to go looking for your first aid kit, but you dig your fingers into his shirt.

“I ain’t leavin’,” he says, gently prying them off. “Just gonna get you cleaned up, okay?”

It’s so hard to open your eyes, but you manage a few seconds to take him in. You nod and let go, but the deep pout is unshakable.

He opens the door to the bathroom and flicks the light on, stepping over the towel threshold and then nearly stomping on who, if he was forced to guess, is Georgie. Both mice scatter immediately, luckily into the wall instead of out into the open apartment.

He shuts the door to prevent an escape and rifles around your cabinet until he produces a mostly empty bottle of rubbing alcohol and some bandages.

You wake again when he sits on the bed at your side, booted feet still on the ground.

“Sit up for me, sunflower,” he murmurs, helping you up as you groan and popping a pillow behind your back. “Look at me.”

He waits until you do and hands you a glass of water. While you sip at it, he gets a better look at your nose.

“It’s not broken,” he says, and you sigh, shoulders slumping. “It’s going to be swollen for a few days, though.”

You flinch back from his touch but try to work through it. “Okay,” you whisper.

He cleans your face, murmuring to you all the while about what he’s doing. You hiss when he wipes the gash on your cheek, tears welling up at the sting.

There’s a familiar knock at the door, but Tess doesn’t wait for anyone to answer; she just slips inside.

“Not gonna need stitches, either,” he says. “You got real lucky.”

“Don’t feel lucky,” you mumble. Your eyes dart to the horseshoe. Both of theirs follow yours, and they exchange a look.

“Think you can take a bath?” she asks.

You shake your head.

“What if I get in there with you?” she offers.

You think about it, biting your lip, and nod.

Joel gets the tub filling while Tess gently peels you from your battered clothes. When he comes out of the bathroom, he’s scrubbed the blood from his skin and has his shirt hanging up to dry.

Your bath isn’t very big, but you make it work, nestled close between her legs. It’s maybe the least sexually charged moment you’ve had with them. Joel kneels on a towel and washes the blood from both of you. None of you speak.

It does help. Having it cleaned from you, having it be them who do it. Joel’s firm hand scrubbing the blood and dirt away, Tess’s steady embrace keeping you grounded.

Joel helps you each out of the bath and dries you off, swatting away your hands when you try to do it yourself. The look in his eyes is still kind of distant, so you stop protesting and let him do what he needs to do.

No one bothers with clothes. There’s no point. While the bath may not have been sexual, whatever is happening now definitely is.

You’re on your back in bed, wet hair splayed out on your pillow. Joel is on your left, and Tess is on your right, and their hands are everywhere. You clutch at them in return with each of yours.

They’re passing you back and forth for kisses, deep, consuming things with teeth and tongue and spit. You understand the “beast with two backs” thing now. Except, how would it work with three backs? Are you some kind of mutated monstrosity squished into a triangle? A pyramid of flesh and sweat and moans?

“Stop thinkin’ so much,” Joel growls against your neck, and you’re inclined to obey when his fingers find your clit. Thoughts aren’t super useful right now, and you’d like to keep most of them at bay anyway.

Even that’s a little too close, and you must tense because Tess nips at your ear and whispers, “Just focus on us, okay? Just us.”

They make it easy to lose yourself in their hands and warm mouths. You genuinely can’t tell who touches you where until you end up with three fingers in Tess’s cunt.

Joel rolls your lower half and yanks your legs where he’d like, leaving you contorted with your top half focused on Tess. He plunges into your pussy while you mouth at her tits. One of her hands cups your head to her breasts, and the other gropes at your own.

Neither of them are being rough with you, but they aren’t treating you like glass, either. You really fucking appreciate it, even if you don’t register it right away. Even while he fucks into you, Joel can’t stop his hands from roaming, smoothing over your hips and thighs and stomach.

They play you like a harp, keeping you trapped between their legs and plucking pretty sounds one after another from your taut body. There are a lot of orgasms all around, and you’re not even trying to keep track. Your head is blissfully empty, each climax wringing your brain like a sponge.

At some point, you push Joel off so you can suck his cock. Tess helps herself to feast from your cunt while you do, and somehow, when you look up, Joel’s buried his face in her as well. The circle shifts and warps but never breaks.

Eventually, they get you on your back again, and after a bit of whining on your end, Tess sits on your face while Joel has your cunt again. He switches between licking and fucking, and you actually pass out a bit this way.

When you wake, it’s to Joel getting out of bed and pulling his clothes back on. He catches sight of the look breaking across your face and shakes his head.

“I’ll be back. Runnin’ over to get her some clean clothes ‘n stuff.”

You settle back down. Tess slides an arm over your waist, and you roll over to snuggle up to her.

The next time you wake up, it’s because of the nightmares. You jerk awake with a cry, and she’s right there, rubbing your back and coaxing you to lie down.

“I know, sunflower. I’m so sorry,” she murmurs as you cry.

“I was so scared,” you whisper in the safety of the night, voice wavering.

“I know, baby. You were so brave, though.”

You don’t feel like you were very brave. You feel like you let the creeps crawl into your skin and ruin everything.

When Joel gets back, you’re still awake.

“Good,” he says. “I didn’t want to have to wake ya, but I need you to eat.”

“M’not hungry,” you say. Tess is up and getting dressed in a soft tee and sweats. She tosses you another set, and you put them on without thinking about your own clothes in the dresser.

“I know,” she says. “But you need to. It’s nothin’ much; just need to get something in ya.”

“I brought something for the pain, but you can’t have it on an empty stomach,” Joel says.

You give in and unscrew the thermos he hands you. It’s chicken noodle soup, and he presses warm bread, wrapped in cloth, into your lap.

Once you’ve satisfied their expectations, Joel drops a round white pill into your hand. “I can only give you one,” he says, laced with raw guilt. “But I got some ibuprofen for ya, too, for later.”

He hands you a glass but pauses. “It’s gonna make you sleep,” he warns.

“Okay,” you say and chase the pill with a swig of water. “I trust you.”

He winces a little, almost imperceptibly.

“I’m going to run out and talk to someone ‘bout the mess we made,” Tess says.

Joel scowls. “Can’t it wait ‘till later?”

“You know damn well it can’t,” she hisses like she doesn’t want you to hear.

“I’m sorry,” you say. They both look at you, and you sniffle. “I’m sorry I’m trouble, I’m s—”

“You cut that out right now,” Tess snaps, but her face softens right after, and she comes to sit on the bed beside you. “It ain’t your fault. We should be apologizing to you.”

“Please don’t,” you whisper.

She and Joel exchange a look.

“Alright,” she concedes. She kisses your forehead. “I’ll be back soon. Joel’ll stay with ya, okay?”

You sniffle again but nod.

They share a significant glance when she reaches the door, but say nothing. Joel locks it behind her and slides back under the covers. He tugs you to his chest, and you melt into his warm, broad shelter.

They phase in and out of your apartment all night, but never both at a time. You wake just a little at each changing of the guard, just enough to snuggle into whoever slips in and holds you.

There are murmurs and whispers; you don’t catch most of it. Just huffed breaths, a few sharp snips, and lonely words with no meaning—dawn, you hear once, and for. Or four. Or fore, you suppose, but it'd be strange to be talking about golf. Anyway, there’s no context.

They don’t break through your slumber as anything more than a soft breeze.

When morning comes, you’re alone.

It’s painfully obvious. Your tiny studio is occupied by only yourself and the ghosts. The towel is neatly stuffed against the bathroom door, betraying its vacancy.

There’s a bottle with a handful of painkillers on your kitchen counter next to a glass of water. You can tell there’s a note and something wrapped in cloth. But if you stay here, stay tucked into bed where they left you, you don’t have to see it.

It could say that they’re cleaning up the mess and they’ll be back later. It could be instructions for when to come over next.

But it’s not going to be. You don’t need to read it to know. The truth’s been trickling into your lungs since you woke up. Since last night, really.

You get up anyway, shaky legs on autopilot. You take the pills first, sipping the water, and stare at the paper. It’s bigger than their usual scraps, and neatly folded. Someone’s drawn a little flower on the outside. You wish you knew who.

When the water is gone, and you’re out of excuses, you pick up the paper with a trembling hand.

Rough capitals take up most of the page. “Be good.” You close your eyes, choking down the acid in your throat.

At the bottom is a neater, slanted scrawl. “It’s the iron.” You blink stupidly for a moment and then reach for the cloth.

It’s a flannel Joel brought over last night, clean and soft. When you pick it up, something clatters against the countertop and falls to the ground.

It’s a fucking horseshoe.

You sit, right where you had stood, legs folded and the flannel clutched to your chest with both hands. Your head droops so your nose is buried in the fabric, and you stare at the gift and let the tears burn down your cheeks.

You don’t change out of their clothes for three days.

The note gets tucked between the pages of “An Unsuitable Job for a Woman.”

The horseshoe sits on your table for weeks until you shove it under the bathroom sink. Half of you wants to bury it somewhere, afraid it might actually work.

But it’s just a horseshoe, and they’re just human. They only wanted you to think it would work—that it might protect you.

The flannel lives tangled up in your blankets. The smell of them fades fast.

You don’t return to their apartment. You think about it. Think about haunting it like they haunt yours. Think about banging on it until they tell you why.

But you know why. You saw it in the fear in their eyes that night. You had become something they could lose, and so, they had to. Quick and sharp, like their knives at the throats of those men. How could you blame them? Hadn’t you run away for the same reason?

On your loneliest nights, you think of them. You hope they’re okay. It’s never a guarantee in this world. You like to think they’re wrapped up warm and safe in bed.

On cold, sleepless nights under the starry sky, Joel likes to think the same of you.

Thank you all so much for coming along on this journey.

I hurt my own feelings with this one, y'all. Please feel free to yell/vent/talk with me about this because I am not okay.

*title from "Heaven Knows" by the Pretty Reckless.

[cinnamongorll]

a fragile line - chapter 1

read on ao3! (111k words) | next chapter | masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female OC

Story summary: three years ago, Juliet escaped her father's religious survivor camp, ending up in the Boston QZ. Juliet created a life for herself in Boston, desperate to forget the trauma of her upbringing. One day, Juliet arrives home to find a mysterious letter which forces her to return to her home town. Juliet can't travel the harsh post-apocalyptic landscape alone, so she enlists the help of the grumpy and, at times, frightening man she works alongside: Joel Miller.

Tags: extreme slow burn, age gap, older man/younger woman, protective joel, jealous joel, hurt/comfort, pov third person, mutual pining, angst, sexual tension, friends to lovers, canon-typical violence, feral joel, parental abuse.

Word count: 2k

Chapter 1: ‘Marked for Death’

Death coated the back of Juliet’s throat.

This was not unusual. The aroma of rot and decomposition was commonplace in the body disposal department of the Boston QZ. However, if Juliet could actually taste it simmering on her tongue, it meant one thing: she needed a new mask. 

The threadbare fabric tied tight around her nose and mouth was singed earlier in the day when her shift partner tossed a body, with more force than necessary, into the large fire pit in the middle of the square. A few wayward sparks had settled on her mask, gradually burning through the cheap material. 

Juliet often wondered how the sickly sweet smell of decay could still remain when fire and smoke cleansed the air.

It didn’t surprise her, though: death always lingered. 

It was hour eight of her usual Tuesday shift. One more hour and Juliet could collect her ration cards, find her way to the nearest fabric stall then drag herself back to her tiny apartment. Exhaustion weighed heavy on her today, settling in her bones and restricting her movements. Her shift followed a pattern: walk to the loading truck, pick up a body, place it in the fire and try not to look as the skin blackened and blistered. 

The same task, the same people, every week, every month and every year of her residence in the Boston QZ. Every day was a repeat of the previous but she was safe and she was hidden, which was all she could hope for. 

More bodies, more fire and her shift was over. Another day completed. Juliet used the stained fabric of her t-shirt to wipe the ash from her hands and forehead as she joined the ration queue. She was in line behind Joel Miller, a man who had worked at body disposal as long as she had, probably longer actually.

Tall, with broad shoulders and dark brown hair speckled with grey and ash, Joel Miller towered above her with more than his height. He was impressive, intimidating. Juliet watched as he stretched his neck to the side and wiped the sweat beading on his skin, his shoulders were tight, his stance solid. 

Joel had a presence difficult to ignore, being around him always felt like the air had a little less oxygen, as though he took up a bit more space than everyone else. He didn’t talk much, or ever really, just a few grunts and hard instructions grumbled under his breath to whoever was partnered with him on shift. 

Juliet found herself drawn to Joel, despite their lack of interactions. Her eyes would follow his movements as they worked, observing his cool indifference as he performed their grim duty. She would notice him around the QZ, too. He was a ghostly presence, often found haunting street corners and disappearing in a blink of an eye. 

Juliet knew little about Joel, only that he sold drugs to her weird neighbour who had drunkenly offered her some while attempting to break into her apartment the other night. She added another lock to her door after that.

“Next!” barked the ration officer, shaking Juliet from her thoughts. 

She took a step forward and watched as Joel disappeared around the corner, shuffling ration cards in his smoke covered hands. Juliet wondered if he, too, had grown entirely numb to their gruesome occupation.

Juliet wondered if something worse, something more ghastly, haunted his daily life. 

After collecting her ration cards and buying a new mask, Juliet made her way home to her crumbling one bedroom apartment. Home was perhaps a strong word, what with its peeling twenty-year wallpaper, mould stained ceilings and less than ideal neighbours. But it was her’s. 

Turning the corner onto her street, Juliet’s eyes landed on a hunched form on the front step of her building. Juliet let out a sigh, quickened her steps and forced a smile onto her face. Margaret was waiting for her.

Margaret was her eighty-five year old neighbour who lived on the bottom floor of their building. She enjoyed long conversations, hard liquor, and gossiping about the inner workings of her neighbour's lives. 

“Juliet!” Margaret gasped out.

“Hi, Margaret,” Juliet called as she approached, her plastered smile beginning to falter as Margaret struggled to stand.

Juliet moved to hold the woman’s frail arms, she was frantic, her hands grasping at Juliet’s shoulders, desperate to gain her full attention.

“No, you must listen,” Margaret began, before doubling over, releasing a series of strangled coughs and gasps.

“Someone,” she coughed. “Someone was here…” croaked Margaret while pointing her shaking hand behind her, towards the door. 

“What? Who?” Juliet asked, she had never seen Margaret so panicked before. 

“Oh it was awful,” Margaret began, once again clutching Juliet’s arms, her arthritic fingers formed in a vice-like grip. 

“I was knitting at my dining table, working on my sweater… I must show you Juliet, it’s looking so wonderful, I used…”

“Stay focused,” Juliet interrupted, her voice soft and pleading. “What happened?”

“Yes! So, then I heard what sounded like someone marching through the hallway,” Margaret continued, her words quick and tense. 

“I knew it wasn’t yourself or Kenny because you were both working. So I got up and looked out my peep-hole.” Margaret’s voice had grown quieter, now almost a whisper.

“And I watched as two men with dark jackets walked past my door and headed upstairs”

“Next thing I know, I hear this horrendous crash. Now, I know it must have been bad because I could hear it! And you know how terrible my hearing is.”

Shock covered Juliet’s features, their apartment building had always been quiet, always lucky to avoid the crime raging the Boston QZ. 

“Did you see them leave?” Juliet asked, her voice urgent.

“Yes, thank god,” Margaret answered. “But dear… I think it was your apartment they went into, and by the sound of it, they surely broke down the door.”

Fuck, Juliet thought. Her heart now feverishly pumping the familiar blaze of fear throughout her body. “Stay here,” Juliet ordered, her voice hard as she moved to release her arms from the old woman’s grip. “I’ll go check it out.”

“Please be careful,” Margaret urged, clasping her hands together in a silent prayer. 

Stepping into the building, Juliet paused, listening. So familiar with the hum of her neighbours’ usual routines, Juliet could recognise any foreign noise. But no sound was unusual, nothing was amiss… that she could hear anyway. 

Feeling somewhat certain no strangers were lurking in the building, ready to emerge from a dark corner and grab her, Juliet decided to keep moving.

Climbing the steps to the first floor, her body was on high alert; any weariness from her gruelling shift was gone, adrenaline now coated her muscles. Only a sharp, steady focus remained. 

Reaching her apartment, Juliet stopped, her feet frozen. The door lay open with three of her four locks fractured, surrounded by splintered wood and chipped paint. The fourth lock lay on the floor by her feet, where it must have fallen after being brutally pried from the door. Juliet felt a sinking feeling deep in her gut. Each lock had become an emblem of her security in the Boston QZ. Now they were shattered. A stark reminder that her safety was never guaranteed. 

Juliet reached out, her fingers grazing the fractured wood as she gingerly pushed the door all the way open, moving into her apartment. A deep breath and a long exhale later, Juliet stood in her dining area, eyes now locked on a piece of folded paper on her kitchen table. 

She moved closer, Juliet’s body had lost its stamina, her limbs weighed her down. Each step towards the yellowed piece of paper was like wading through dark, chilled water. 

When she was close enough to recognise the handwriting, everything stilled. The air, the room, her beating heart… all slowing around her. A chorus of no, no, no, no, no, surged through her mind, spiralling inward, forming a shield around the memories threatening to resurface at the sight of that familiar scrawl. 

One hand gripped the edge of the table, tangled in the tablecloth, while the other tentatively lifted the paper. ‘My sweet Juliet’ it read in writing she knew so intimately it could have been etched on her heart. Carved with a sharp, brutal knife. 

A high pitched ringing enveloped her mind, numbing all sound apart from the echo of her shallow breaths. Juliet’s ash caked fingernails traced the edge of the worn paper, she pulled it apart to reveal a message: 

‘Juliet, 

How does it feel living so far from home? Surrounded by strangers. 

I admit I was shocked that night you left, I wondered what more you could desire, out in the wasteland of our world, that I had not provided you with? I imagine you have come to the conclusion, by now, that there is nothing else worth living for than the love of our lord. You see, I have eyes and ears in places you could never imagine. My men know the power of our lord and live with his blessing every day. I sent these men to find you, Juliet. I sent them to bring you this message. 

I have your friend Ethan in my care now, he has taken your place until you return to me. I have every hope that will be soon my dear, Juliet. He, too, screams when the judgement of our lord is upon him.  

Travel safely; the lord does not bless the sinners of this earth, 

Your father.’  

Ethan… No.  

Three years, three blissful years only focused on her own survival, liberated from the torture of her childhood. She left Ethan behind, she thought he would be safe. She was wrong, so very wrong.

Why, though, had her father waited so long to find her? To threaten her with Ethan’s safety? His life? She must have hidden well, burrowed herself so deep in the mundane of everyday QZ life, that even her father’s men, dotted about the country, had not found her for three years. 

Yet now her nameless existence had come to an end, slaughtered in a matter of seconds. Juliet’s hand clenched, crushing the paper within her palm. 

She had to go back. For Ethan, she would go back. 

The thought alone made her choke on her breath, gasping for air in the silent room.

Experience had taught her not to take her father’s threats lightly. 

Her journey to Boston was monstrous. Juliet witnessed sights which forever scarred the insides of her eyelids, appearing before her on dark and sleepless nights. Could she travel that distance again? Alone? Knowing what’s out there? No… she would die and so would Ethan. 

Juliet stumbled to her moth-eaten couch and sank into the decaying cushions. She reached her shaking hands to her eyes and pressed her fingers to her eyelids, pushing harder until only a dark nothingness remained. Her life in the Boston QZ was over…for Ethan she would return to the man who haunted her every step, his existence always reminding her she would never be fully free. 

Reluctance acceptance washed over her. For Ethan she would return to her prison, almost assuredly never to escape again. 

Removing her hands from her eyes, Juliet released a trembling sigh. Accepting her powerlessness brought a distance from her emotions. The thought of Ethan and the immediacy of the situation had started to drown out her terror and regret, leaving behind a cold numbness. 

In her emotionless stupor, Juliet started to plan her way out of the QZ.

A loose floorboard hid a map and a variety of makeshift weapons, including a switchblade which Juliet liked to keep sharp. Both were now on the coffee-table before her, Juliet hunched over the map tracing her journey with the tip of her blade.

There was one problem she couldn’t solve: this was not a journey she could make alone. Juliet survived her journey to Boston on sheer luck and willpower. She would risk her own life, but not Ethan’s. She had to get there alive.

Her blade stilled, its tip pierced through the rough paper into the hardwood table. Juliet’s racing thoughts had settled on the one person she knew had both spent a significant amount of time outside of the QZ and had a route out…

Joel Miller. 

Fuck.

[boggie-things]

At five years old, Robin Buckley says her favorite color is pink when asked by her kindergarten teacher.

It seems like the right answer, it's what all the other girls say (except for a few who say purple, but Robin thinks of the flowers at her grandma's funeral earlier that year that were a sickly shade a mauve), so it must be hers as well.

She doesn't mind wearing it, but she thinks it's bright, easy to call attention to. She gets scolded in second grade by Tammy Thompson when she says it's really just a shade of red, after that she decides she doesn't like it as much anymore.

In fourth grade she says it's green when her mom asks for a color to paint her room. It's the color of outside and Robin likes to play there.

Her favorite shoes are forest green and she sits in the green section at lunch with her best friend Barabra Holland. It's a good fit.

But in sixth grade Tommy Hagan tells her it's a boy color and if she likes it then she's a boy. And so Robin changes it again. This time it's yellow.

Yellow is a safe color, neither gender seems to claim it and it's the shade of the sheets on her bed where she spends most of her time now that Barbara seems to prefer hanging out with Nancy Wheeler.

Yellow is the color of the stray cat that she feeds eyes and the shade of the lamplight she likes to read under at night.

She changes it to red in tenth grade when she hears Tammy Thompson say she likes it (even though she got mad at Robin for her earlier suggestion of pink being a light shade of it), and she really thinks it's the right one too.

It's the color of her beloved converse and the shade of the only makeup she owns, the scarlet lipstick her aunt got her for her fifteenth birthday.

It's a color of her Scoops uniform and the dry erase marker she uses to mark down Steve Harrington’s numerous fails at flirting.

It's the color of blood staining her shirt and dripping from Steve's face on the Fourth of July, 1985. The color of fireworks being thrown at a monster made up of red flesh and the color of the ambulance lights that flash as she sits in it.

After that she doesn't have a favorite color. It changes whenever someone new asks, alternating between the ones of her past.

It's green to Steve and pink to the mother renting a movie for her daughter. Yellow for Dustin and for a project in English class.

It's never red though.

But then 1986 rolls around and it's suddenly blue. The color of the sky and her favorite shirt is navy. The color of a denim jacket and the waters of Lovers Lake.

The color of Nancy Wheeler’s eyes looking at her in the library. Cerulean in the sun and cobalt as they trek through hell.

Bright azure when reflecting fire and the sparks of flying bullets. Soft maya blue under hospital lights.

They're shining admiral when they meet hers outside the Wheeler house two weeks after it all. Her tears match the rain when they kiss. Baby blue when they finally part.

It's blue when Nancy asks as they lay together in their apartment just outside of Boston. She jokes it's for the ocean that they had visited that summer, but later she tells her it's for her eyes.

It's blue like the ring she proposes with, cheap but full of meaning. Blue like the lilies of the Nile and bellflowers of Nancy's bouquet she tosses in the air.

Sapphire like their daughter's name and the chair Robin sits in when she reads to her. The color of her cookie monster cake for her first birthday and the rims of Nancy's reading glasses.

Blue like the dress she's buried in.

Blue like the flowers on their side by side graves.

[marzipanandminutiae]

I don't know, man...there are Eastlake fireplaces...

western Mass: it's me, girl; I'm the cheap Victorian houses- speaking to you from out in the middle of nowhere with wildly unreliable public transit

western Mass: YOU NEED ME GIRL YOUR MORTGAGE WOULD BE LESS THAN RENT FOR A 1-BEDROOM APARTMENT IN BOSTON

[mydemonsdrivealimo]

Halloween (chapter 3)

Book: Open Heart

Chapter: 3/7

Character(s): Jensen Valentine

Rating: Teen

Words: 947

Chapter Summary: A glimpse at Jensen's med school graduation

A/N: sorry

Lyrics:

I'm leavin' this town and I'm changin' my address I know that you'll come if you want It's not Halloween, but the ghost you dressed up as Sure knows how to haunt, yes, it knows how to haunt

The loud sound of the tape ripping from the roll echoed across his apartment. He flattened it to the box, flipping it around and setting the tape to the side. In went yet another pile of clothes, perfectly folded and flattened to fit. He taped up the other side just as fast, grabbing the marker from the floor which was buried under a pile of bubble wrap and film from his bass, and quickly labeled the top and sides of the box.

Kicking it over with the others, he grabbed his glass off the table, half empty with some shitty, cheap whiskey and ginger ale. He continued to shove all the packing supplies into one corner. His former roommate was already gone, and he had to be out in two days, but keeping it clean was still easier than having to clean before his flight.

Everything he owned was packed away into a box besides one side-table’s worth of shit. He had space left in his suitcase for all of it, and the rest of the boxes would be dropped at the post office tomorrow. He only had a handful of them, namely filled with clothes and the few hobby-related items he kept, but any furniture or large items were sold.

It meant the apartment was mostly empty. There was that one side table that he was going to leave, and his bed was just a mattress in the middle of the floor now. Not that it was bad. Especially in comparison to some of his other living situations.

The only other thing in his room was his suitcase, which he rolled out to the open space that used to be the living room and kitchen. Stepping into the latter, he poured the rest of the soda and whiskey into his glass, mixing them around with one of the plastic butter knives left at the bottom of the former silverware drawer. 

There had been a number of parties and events he was invited to for the night but turned them down. He had a one-way flight to Boston in two days, and had to ship all his belongings in one.

His phone had been blowing up with graduation pictures, family dinners, after parties, and announcements all night. Picking up his diploma from the table, nestled on top of his cap and gown, he carefully tucked it inside his suitcase. He used a few shirts to cushion it before zipping it up once again.

Only a couple hours ago he had received it. He waited through all the other announcements until he was finally free to leave, and he practically had to fight through the crowds to get there. There were so many parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, cousins of cousins, and more clustered in groups around the large arena. 

He might’ve had some friends that would’ve been willing to go out with him to celebrate, but it was easier to go home and finish packing. 

It was easier to say his isolation was necessary rather than involuntary.

Just like it had been four years ago, undergrad graduation, when he sent an invite over text that got ignored

Just like it had been eight years ago, high school graduation, when he was told, to his face, that she’d be there, and then he never saw her again.

And maybe she was part of the reason why he thought it was so easy to be alone. She’d given plenty of practice—plenty of fucking disappointments. Maybe he should’ve invited her, but he didn’t want to set himself up again.

Every fucking picture on his feed made him want to vomit. Or scream. Or maybe just forget it was happening at all. All his peers celebrating with their families, out for dinners and probably home for the weekend, too.

What a thought: home for the weekend. Did they get homesick? Did they miss the people waiting for them? Or did they not have a place to be homesick for? Did they even have people waiting at all?

Home for the fucking weekend. Maybe it wouldn’t sound so foreign if she had bothered to tell him where she moved to after taking off the minute he was out of her hands.

He had narrowed it down to somewhere on the west coast, given sporadic posts about family vacations—fucking family vacations.

She traded him out for a new set of kids and a husband that lived in some beach house mansion even though she never took him to the beach because she hated it. 

But, you know, maybe it was just him, given how fast she ran away.

He put the phone down—maybe threw it—after blocking her account. Not for her sake, of course, but for his. For once, it was for him.

Standing up from the floor, he used the bottom of his shirt to wipe his nose and eyes. Not that he had really cried in over ten years, but anything close felt like some sort of success. Some sort of way to beat the “boys don’t cry” notion out of himself.

He would bet money that she never thought of him. Probably too worried about her new kids and her new perfect life and forgetting everything she left him with. Years of therapy, several failed medications, a sealed record, a public trial, the worst mental break of his life, a failed career as a musician, a high school graduation, bachelors, doctorate, accepted residency position, and a fucking partridge in a pear tree.

Maybe it was better like that, though. Finally letting the fuck go, finally acknowledging that some parasocial relationship stalking her Instagram posts wasn’t normal. Maybe it’d be easier.

tagging: @jerzwriter @cariantha @kyra75 @gutsfics @inlocusmads @choicesficwriterscreations

[soundsliketeenspirits]

tate and violet but its 1995 and they live in adjacent apartments. tate (who has never been influenced by evil shit, thank you very much) has just moved out of his mom's house. he's subleasing half of a little 2-bed place for cheap and his roommate is some rich college fucker that sells coke to freshmen. tate "honest worker" langdon keeps getting fired from customer service jobs.

violet's parents are freshly divorced, with her mom having moved back east and her father staying in LA. she's fresh out of junior year and has been guilt-tripped into visiting ben for the summer (its how vivian keeps her for all major holidays) with the promise of touring colleges.

they meet outside on their way-too-close little balconies one night and get along like a house on fire. violet eventually starts climbing over the railings to sit on his porch in the saucer chair he dragged from his room just for her (its navy blue to match the giant beanbag chair that's already permanent fixture). they're four floors up and this scares the shit out of them both but they play it cool. august sees them up til 2am every night for a week, high as shit and watching tv in his bed, just in time for violet to go back to boston for the fall.

[liaromancewriter]

Valentine Memories

Premise: When Alan finds a box of childhood memorabilia, Cassie teases Ethan about his romantic past.

Book: Open Heart (post series) Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Cassie Valentine) Rating/Category: General. Fluff. Words: 1,625

A/N: This is based on an ask I received from @jerzwriter. Submission for @choicesmonthlychallenge To Be prompt "XOXO"; @choicesholidays Valentine's Day prompt "Be my valentine"; @choices-february2023, Day 14 prompt "Valentine's Day"; @choicesficwriterscreations Valentine's Day event.

It was a bright blue winter day with freshly fallen snow dotting the flat green landscape around Interstate 90. They left Boston late enough to avoid the weekend crowds heading off to ski lodges in the vicinity but early enough to make a day of it in Providence.

When the car turned toward I-95, the south-easterly sun’s harsh rays bounced off the windshield. Briefly blinded, Cassie Valentine pulled the visor down and silently cursed.

She meant to grab her sunglasses before leaving the apartment, but she’d overslept and had been in a rush. The last thing she wanted was for Ethan to give her a look that implied he hadn’t truly expected her to be ready on time.

The delectable Dr. Ramsey could be a real troll on occasion.

“Here.”

Cassie looked over to see Ethan holding out a pair of sunglasses with dark plastic lenses. His own were parked on the bridge of his nose, hiding his laser-blue eyes. So she wondered where these had come from. She arched one brow as she put them on, relieved when her eyes no longer squinted against the sun.

“You never seem to have a pair on you when you need them,” he explained, reading her thoughts perfectly. “I picked up a couple of cheap drugstore ones to keep in the car.”

Annoyed at his superior tone, Cassie harrumphed and folded her arms, only to unfold them seconds later as she chuckled at the implication. This wasn’t the first time she’d forgotten her glasses, so she really couldn’t blame Ethan.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” She shook her head in amusement.

“Top of the class, Valentine,” he drawled.

Cassie rolled her eyes and turned up the volume instead, singing along to the chorus of The Black Keys’ Wild Child.

They drove in companionable silence towards his childhood home for Ethan’s monthly visit to see his father. Cassie had insisted on coming even though she had made plans to go couch shopping with Bryce. Her friend understood the last-minute notice.

The more their relationship progressed, the more she was determined to make Ethan stop compartmentalizing their lives. Visiting Alan was an important part, especially since Ethan was heartily welcomed into her own family.

As they neared Providence, Ethan exited the interstate and joined traffic winding through the city streets. The scenery outside gradually changed from gentrified neighborhoods to middle-class subdivisions until he turned down a familiar road.

This part of town was older, the streets lined with modest houses, all a bit worse for wear, snow covering pitched roofs and small yards. Cassie spied four young boys in a small park up ahead, throwing snowballs at each other, their laughter ringing through the air.

“Did you ever do that?” she asked, tilting her head to indicate the boys.

Ethan followed her gaze, and his face softened in nostalgia. “As much as possible. You can’t live in New England and not have snowball fights.”

As they neared his father’s house, he slowed the car and parked along the curb.

“My friends and I would pray for a snow day,” Ethan continued, switching off the ignition, his eyes still on the boys. “And when we got one, we spent all day outside building a snow fort and engaging in all-out war. We had complicated hand signals and code words, the whole shebang.”

“Max and I always save the first snowball fight for Tony. Team Double Trouble, you know.” She grinned wickedly. “If he can beat us, he can join a twin activity. Otherwise, it’s Twin Time, Butt Out.”

She laughed in recollection as they exited the car. “Tony hasn’t managed to beat us yet, much to his chagrin.”

Alan must have been watching out for them. Cassie saw him come outside on the porch, rubbing his arms against the cold temperatures. Ethan walked around the front of the car to join her on the sidewalk, taking her hand in his.

“Welcome, welcome,” Alan greeted as they walked up the short steps.

Father and son hugged briefly while Cassie took Alan’s outstretched hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Let’s get out of the cold,” Alan said, waving his hand to have her precede him, with Ethan bringing up the rear. “Had a feeling you’d be near, so I put on a fresh pot of coffee.”

Cassie and Ethan took off their winter boots inside the door, hung up their winter coats in the hallway closet and joined Alan in the living room.

The scent of brewed coffee and lemon furniture polish hung in the air, making Cassie’s nose twitch in appreciation. The furniture was old but well cared for, and there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere.

She always liked how Ethan’s place was neat and tidy. It looked like this was another trait he had inherited from his father.

Soon they were enjoying their coffee and cookies. Alan caught them up on his happenings, and they did the same. When the talk turned to Ethan’s relatives, Cassie leaned her head on Ethan’s shoulder and settled in to enjoy this glimpse into his life.

A short while later, Alan got up from his seat, reached behind the armchair and lifted a cardboard box off the floor. Ethan’s name was scrawled on the outside in black marker.

“I was cleaning out the attic and came upon this box of your old stuff,” he said, setting the box down on the coffee table. “Thought you might want to go through it, son, and see if there’s anything you want to take back to Boston.”

Brows furrowed, Ethan lifted the flaps slowly. “I’m sure it’s nothing worth keeping.”

“Not so fast, babe,” Cassie cut in, reaching in to grab a thick folder. “Ethan’s report cards, grades one to three,” she read out loud. “Pay dirt.”

Ethan tried to grab the folder, but she simply moved her hand out of reach. She quickly scanned a couple of report cards and nodded in confirmation. She looked over the top of the folder, her green eyes sparkling with laughter.

“Gold stars? Not surprising,” she teased, sticking her tongue out at him. “But it says here, ‘Highly intelligent. Needs to think before speaking.’”

“It does not say that,” he protested, swallowing back the rest when she shoved the report card in front of his face, the words clearly written in red pen. “Oh.”

“Never had to worry about his grades,” Alan told Cassie, smiling as his eyes tracked between her and Ethan. “However, I can’t tell you how many parent-teacher meetings ended with, ‘Mr. Ramsey, your son is a gifted student, but he needs to learn to show more respect to his fellow classmates and teachers.’”

Alan mimicked the last, making Ethan utter “Christ!” under his breath and pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah…,” Cassie mused, tapping one finger against her lips as she watched Ethan with a considering look. “That sounds about right. He might be Chief Ramsey now, but his people skills haven’t improved.”

Alan winked conspiratorially at Cassie and picked up the tray with their used coffee cups and plates to carry into the kitchen.

Ethan snatched the file out of her hands and shoved it back inside the box a little too forcefully, causing a thick paper pink card to pop up from the folds. He groaned when Cassie’s eyes lit up, and she tugged the card out before he could stop her.

“Did you make this Valentine’s Day card in class?” Cassie teased, turning the card over, glitter shimmering on her fingertips. “How come you never made me one?”

“You don’t celebrate the thing, remember?” he said, shoving his fingers through his hair. “Certainly makes my life easier, having a girlfriend that doesn’t want the fuss or muss.”

“Au contraire, Dr. Ramsey,” Cassie scoffed, flipping the card open. “I expect both the fuss and muss, just not on the Day That Shall Remain Nameless. You have three hundred and sixty-four days—three sixty-five during a Leap Year—to spoil me rotten.”

She guffawed when she read the message inscribed in purple pen, more glittery hearts sprinkled inside. “Dear Ethan. Please be my valentine. I heart you. So much. XOXO. Melanie.”

Cassie looked up from the card and shared a teasing glance with Alan, who walked back into the room and sat down in the armchair.

She schooled her features and threw Ethan a disgruntled look. “You’ve been holding out on me, babe. Who’s this floozy Melanie? And why does she think she can put the moves on my man?”

“The hell if I know,” Ethan growled. “I don’t even know what grade this is from.”

Cassie examined the card. “Based on the style, glitter usage and mix of cursive and block writing, third or fourth grade would be my guess.”

“Another thing Ethan was never short of,” Alan added, nodding sagely, chin propped on the heel of his hand. “The stories I could tell you about girls dropping by the house, calling at all hours, trying to get his attention. There are probably a few Valentine’s Day cards tucked inside that box. ”

“Not helping, Dad.” Agitated, Ethan shoved off the couch and towered over her, hands on his hips. “And what the hell, Cassie? I didn’t even know you then!”

Ethan knew he’d just been had when Cassie and his dad shared a look and then burst into laughter. She clutched her belly and doubled over, her body shaking with mirth, gasping for air with tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

Ethan did the only thing he could think of to shut her up. He tugged her off the couch and into his arms, framed her face between his hands, and kissed the laughter away.

----------------

All Fics & Edits: @a-crepusculo @annfg8 @bluebelle08 @coffeeheartaddict2 @crazy-loca-blog @doriopenheart @genevievemd @headoverheelsforramsey @lucy-268 @jamespotterthefirst @jerzwriter @lady-calypso @mainstreetreader @takemyopenheart @potionsprefect @queencarb @quixoticdreamer16 @rookiemartin @socalwriterbee @tessa-liam @trappedinfanfiction

Submissions: @openheartfanfics

Ethan & Cassie only: @cariantha @custaroonie @hopelessromantic1352 @mrs-ramsey

[rhaenys-queenofkhyrulzz]

Mctna modern au headcanon

This is so ooc but pls forgive me 🙏🙏

A 32 year old Seon-ho sits down in the corner of a bar by himself. It's barely past 9 but most people have already left. The ice in his drink had long since diluted whatever cheap alcohol he'd ordered. He closed his eyes as a band started up on the makeshift stage, losing himself in the music and his memories.

And I met her downtown in the slums of Austin Once we were sober, she said "I'm from Boston" I told her, "I couldn't give Massa-two-shits" Luckily, she likes guys that treat her like

Third-year uni student Seo Hwi gives in to his friends Mun-bok and Beom to at least attend one party before graduation. It's not that he doesn't like them- in fact everyone agrees he'd probably be the life on them. He just doesn't see the point in partying with a massive group of strangers when he'd much rather just have a good time with his friends.

Enter Nam Seon-ho. He's in the same year but mainly keeps to himself. Still, that doesn't stop him from stealing glances at that one handsome, always-smiling Culinary Arts student. He decides to go to this party and get blackout drunk 'cause once he graduates, he'll be stuck back at home with his dad learning the ropes of his company.

They reach the venue (a rundown off campus house with shitty LED lights all over the place) that night. Mun-bok quickly leaves Hwi to chat up a pretty girl by the drinks table and one of Beom's other friends beckons him away. Hwi feels a bit stranded so he gets his own drink.

He makes small talk with some people but an hour later he's bored. He goes to get another drink when he sees Seon-ho, the 'kinda beautiful actually' business major he sometimes sees walking around campus, chugging back some disgusting mix of drinks like there's no tomorrow.

Help me, everyone calls me Mickey Just wanna be your darling

Hwi wants to approach him but Seon-ho talks to him first, thanks to some good old liquid courage. They hit it off really well even if Hwi makes one too many corny jokes. One thing leads to another and then they're making out in the corner before stumbling their way into Seon-ho's apartment. Sung-rok curses when the door to their dorm slams open and throws a book at Hwi who barely dodges it. He's grumbling something about 'damn self-destructive tendencies' as he makes it out of the room just before they're making out again.

A couple months pass and they're actually a couple now. They graduate and move back to Seoul. Seon-ho takes up a job at his dad's company while Hwi is now a new hire at some fancy restaurant. Things are good for the while. They're happy and making time to see each other. In fact, they're almost unhealthily dependent on each other.

So, listen, I know you're probably with him And maybe for good reason But, you don't fuckin' need him I warned you

But as the years go by, they're getting busier and Seon-ho is getting more stressed at work because of Nam Jeon. He starts drinking more and more. It doesn't help the fact that the owner of the restaurant Hwi works at, Yi Bang-won, has started to take an interest in him. This gives way to lots of arguments between them. Why talk it out when they could just fight and fuck instead? Plus, Seon-ho gets to the point where he's almost always drunk when he's off work and has even started to get high.

Maybe stop getting your advice from the guy you get your high from

Hwi can't bear to see the love of his life- because they both know; that's what they are to each other- destroying himself day by day. Especially when it puts Yeon in danger because of it.

How can I love someone that can't stand The thought of loving me back? Why do I think I need that? I know you, pick me But one day, babe, you'll thank me For teaching you how to leave A piece of shit just like me I warned you

They break up.

Everything goes to shit. Seon-ho is convinced Hwi hates him and that Bang-won had a role to play somehow. Seon-ho overdoses. Nam Group gets involved with this huge drug scandal. In the midst of this all, Seo Geom passes away in jail after wrongful imprisonment and Yeon develops epilepsy. Hwi's mind is so clouded with worry, grief and anger, he's convinced that the Nam family was responsible for those fake charges. Seon-ho and Hwi hate each other.

Yeah, I remember when you said how you wish that I was dead So, I tried to kill myself Swallowed way too many pills And god the tummy-ache was shit But not enough to kill the kid

Against his will, Seon-ho survives. Nam Jeon shipped him off to rehab, telling his failure of a son to keep his head down and listen to him. For the next 6 years, the only confidant he has is Sung-rok. He and Hwi don't talk anymore, even if they both hate and yearn for each other each day.

Sometimes I wish I didn't live But I'm so fucking glad I did I remember what you said You were wishing I was dead Now, you're wishing me the best 'Cause my song's stuck in your head

In the present day, miles away, Hwi is listening to the same song on the local radio station as he's washing wares in his kitchen sink. He'd uncovered the truth about Bang-won about 2 years ago. By then, all forms of communication between him and Seon-ho had been cut. He felt such horrible guilt for blaming Seon-ho for getting Seo Geom imprisoned after their breakup as some horrible form of revenge. He'd sunk to the floor, tears welling up in his eyes when he recalled the last words he'd hurtled at him, "You pretend to be so different from him but you're just like your father!"

As Hwi puts a dish on the drying rack, he sighs deeply to himself . His heart constricts painfully in his chest. Even though he can't forgive Seon-ho for getting Yeon hurt those years ago, he hopes that he's doing well wherever he is. He just wishes he could make things right between them.

I'm so glad I still exist Just so I can rub it in

In the bar, Seon-ho gets up to leave, the condensation from his unfinished drink pooling at its base on the table. He wonders what Hwi would think of him if he saw him now. When he realised he was all alone in this world, he'd made it his mission to at least quit getting high out of sheer spite.

You were perfect and I'm so sorry I'm such a dick But you still love me I still regret letting you leave me Don't you forget you used to need me

Now, Seon-ho knows that they'd both had parts to play in the train wreck of their relationship. They were both argumentative near the end and were never willing to compromise their own values for the other. At his lowest points, he'd wondered what would happen were he to lose his wretched pride. He and Hwi could've talked to each other. The heavens knew they were so fundamentally flawed and yet, they understood each other in ways no one else could.

Seon-ho looked up at the stars and shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. Hwi, if you can hear this...I'm sorry.

In his home, Hwi's heart suddenly felt a bit warmer.

For as much as both men had and still hated each other, they'd always loved each other far more.

[rogersevans]

Enchanted | IIII

Summary: You didn't expect filling in for your colleague would have the most successful man in Boston besotted with you.

18+ Content Below the Cut, Minors DNI

masterlist | one | two | three

“He what?!” Lizzie shrieked through the speaker as your moved around your kitchen, pouring yourself a large glass of wine whilst the food you had in the oven cooked.  

“Don’t make me repeat it.” You grumbled, rubbing your temples to dull the headache that was currently working its way behind your eyes. “It’s like I have a stalker, but without the creepiness.”

“It’s still fucking creepy. It’s like he has this hold on your life, all he needs now is a basement in his house to keep you there.” The blonde shrieked through the speaker and Ari’s low chuckle could be heard on the other end. “I can totally see him making you his basement wife. Did you know that was a thing?!”

“I don’t think you’re helping.” You appreciated the striking contrast in his tone compared to Lizzie’s, even if it did have the tiniest hint of disapproval to it.  

“She isn’t.” You grumbled back, resting your phone on the counter as you bent down to check on your cheap oven meal you grabbed on your way home from work. You don’t know how Ari had become a part of your daily life, but here the beefcake was providing you advice and guidance on how to deal with your... situation.  

“Did you respond to him?” You didn’t, too angry to think of a witty response. The anger never left you all day or two weeks after the fact. It still burned inside of you, making your skin feel hot and prickly with how bothered you became whenever you thought too much about it. You’d spent the past two weeks stomping around the office, muttering to yourself as you watched in envy as Ellie flitted about attending endless interviews.  

Especially when she’d been given the opportunity to interview Mrs Mackie. The one name on top of your bucket list to interview. Your boss fully aware of this, but still held eye contact with you during the morning briefing as she alerted Ellie of the good news. A slick smirk tugging at the corners of her lips, like she was enjoying it.

Ellie had approached you, tail between her legs, hat in hand and the biggest puppy dog eyes she could muster. You liked Ellie, you found her to be bubbly and eager to please. You’d worked next to each other for the past year and she was the least annoying co-worker in your office. But there was a reason she worked on the fashion, she was a fumbler, constantly tripping over her own words. You almost lost your temper when Ellie danced around the subject of asking you for help in preparing for the interview with the most powerful woman in Boston. But you knew it wasn’t her, more like your boss advising her to do so.  

So, you stayed late all that week to help her prep for the Friday interview. You were convinced Ellie had your number on speed dial by this point.  

Your boss was surprised when you sent over your finished articles by Thursday afternoon, a day earlier than she’d asked. Convinced you’d fail meeting the deadline with Ellie relentlessly pestering you. Like she wanted you to fail, like it was your fault Chris Evans had reprimanded her in the first place.  

Three texts from Chris sat in your messages, and all three had gone unanswered. But, of course, left on read. You found yourself re-reading them as Lizzie waffled on about her day in the background:

Chris: Enjoy your first day back, Princess.

Chris: What? No thank you?  

Chris: Go to dinner with me.  

The third text had you faltering, blinking at your screen in shock. It had come through earlier on your walk home. Almost two weeks of blissful silence from him.  

Well, that’s if you don’t count the younger looking man that had been seen outside of your apartment and office on numerous occasions. His blue eyes would ungracefully look elsewhere whenever yours met them.  

On the third night of his watchful presence, you startled him when you rapped your knuckles against the blacked-out window, a Tupperware of something in the other. You learnt his name was Jake, that he worked for Chirs, unofficially, too scared to ask him to elaborate you handed him the Tupperware before darting back into your apartment building.  

Now you felt used to his presence. You’d built up a routine with Jake. You’d learnt that he wasn’t the smoothest of talkers, he fumbled a lot, made a lot of references you didn’t understand. A techy genius. Every night at 6pm on the dot, you brought him down some food. Every night something different.  

You remember hearing Jake call out to you when you stopped dead in the street, making sure you were ok. The sound of him cutting the engine brought you back to the present to stop him from getting out of his car. Dismissing it as reading something you read online.

It took you a few minutes to regain composure, your eyes re-reading the message when you stepped into your apartment building. Your fingers twitching to reply to him, something snarky perhaps? Anger mixing with something you weren’t sure of. Something that felt a lot like... Butterflies? That’s when you felt it, your heart hammering against your ribs, winding you. Your palms sweaty as you reached to press the button for your floor in the elevator. A warm feeling blooming in your chest, making your cheeks flush.  

As you re-read the message now you couldn’t stop your mind from picturing what he would wear to a date. Would he be dressed in a perfectly pressed suit? Or would it be more casual? Does he even own a pair of jeans? Wait, hold the fuck up. Did you want to go on a date with him?

Before you could answer your own question the sound of another call coming through had pulled you from your reverie. Your mouth going dry and the sight of the name.

Chris.

“Shit.” You mumbled, suddenly flustered as you stood from your bent over position.  

“What? What’s wrong?” Lizzie asked, ignoring how you interrupted her story.

“Nothing. I’ll call you back.” Was all you said before deciding to end the call and accepting Chris’s. “Evans.” You greeted him curtly, placing your palms on the counter top, starring ahead of you.  

“There you are.” He called through the speaker, his voice deep and soft. His tone indicating that he was happy to finally hear from you. “I was beginning to think you were ignoring me, princess.”  

“I just answered to tell you to fuck off.” You spat, earning a low chuckle from him. “Stalking can land you five years of prison time, as well as a hefty fine.”

“You don’t seem to have a problem with it. What was it tonight? Casserole? Very domestic.” Chris hummed in response. Of course, Jake had told him you’d been feeding him.  

Rolling your eyes, you spun on your heels to turn the oven off before turning back to your phone. “Oh yes, Jake, I like him, he’s very charming.” You purred into the speaker, smirking when you hear him huff in annoyance. “He knows how basic human communication works. Unlike you.”

It took him a couple of minutes before he could respond, calming his nerves. You were trying rile him up and it was working. He hated the effect you had on him, the hairs on the back of his neck sticking up with irritation.

“Go out with me. Just one date.” He gently purred at you, causing your heart to flutter furiously.

“My answer is still the same. No.” No matter how much your heart rate increased around him, how nervous he made you. The answer will always be no. No matter how much you felt yourself wavering with each no.  

“You’re going to make me beg, aren’t you? Don’t make me beg.” He pleaded softly, his tone light.  

“Oh please, have you ever had a women say no to you before?” You couldn’t stop the roll of your eyes thankful he couldn’t see you as you found yourself leaning into the call. Resting your elbows on the counter and your chin in your palm. Genuinely interested in his answer.  

“Well-”

“On second thought, don’t answer that question.”  

“Common darlin’,” he drawled, his accent coming out thick as he spoke and rendering you weak in the moment. “I’ll beg, don’t think I won’t. Is that what you want? Get me on my knees?”

You didn’t mean to stay silent you had the perfect response lined up. But his accent caused the words to fizzle out on your tongue, your mouth opening and shutting a few times before he spoke up again.

“Say the word and I’ll be round within the hour, on my knees baby.” He cooed from the other end, a deep chuckle rumbling through his chest when he heard your squeak of a you wish in response.  

Sebastian watched from his seat next to Chris, his eyes lighting up in delight when he heard you hang up on his friend. Not being able to hold back his laughter. “You’re fucking whipped, you know that right? And she won’t even give you the time of day.” His fist now balled up and covering his mouth to hold in his laughter.  

“Shut it, Stan.” Chris snarled, twiddling his phone between his thumb and index finger before sliding it into his pocket. His mind on your response and how your voice had become higher in pitch when you spoke.  

“I think it’s sweet, Evans finally got himself a girl. Who knew you were capable of human emotion? Me and the Mrs had bets on when the time would come, she doubted you.” Anthony mocked from his chair, sat opposite his friends. They’d been having a meeting when the topic of conversation had changed to you, Chris doesn’t even remember how it happened. But one daring comment from Sebastian about how Chris didn’t have the balls to ring you and ask you out had him dialling your number so quick he almost stuttered when you answered.

“Damn straight I did.” Came a fourth voice, a lot softer than their deeper ones, making all three men turn their heads in the direction of the door.  

Mrs Mackie. Anthony’s girl. She had been somewhat of an enigma over the years, rarely seen in the eyes of the media, but her presence was strong within their world. She and Chris had been friends since they first opened their eyes, born days apart from one another, her being the eldest. A fact she liked to remind the Bostonian of. She had more experience in their field of work then all three combined, her father being the head of the biggest crime family in Boston. Something that rivalled the Stans.

A thing of beauty, she had every man she met falling at her feet. Including her husband. They met when they were teenagers, Chris had shielded her from his friends at first. Until she had him pinned, giving him a mean Chinese burn, forcing his hand. Like she always did.  

Anthony was 18 when they met, two years her senior, and he still remembers the feeling of butterflies erupting through his entire stomach when he first laid eyes on her. He became enamoured with her, spent time getting to know her, driving her to school, showing up at her bedroom window unannounced in the middle of the night, they’d spend hours talking. It took him three months to get the courage to ask her out, he remembers it perfectly, she’d cornered him in her room. Demanding to know when he was going to ask her out.

“There she is.” Sebastian cooed with a beaming smile, ignoring Anthony’s eye roll.  

“You doubtin’ me?” Chris greeted his longest friend, his tone light and teasing as he stood to plant a gentle kiss to her cheek, giving the small of her back a gentle rub.

“Don’t I always?” She quipped back, giving his arm a quick squeeze before moving round to greet Sebastian with a tight hug. “Someone needs to keep you in check.”  

Both men watched as she sauntered around Anthony’s desk, resting her hand on his shoulder before giving his lips a quick peck and shoving his shoulder for him to move. It never ceased to amaze them how soft he was for her. It shouldn’t shock them how he lifted himself up from the chair with ease in seconds and holding the chair out for her. But it did.  

From the moment they met they knew he was a goner. From the across the room, she had him in the palm of her hand, then her eyes met his and he was falling so deep they struggled to pull him out.  

“Now, who’s this poor girl and what have you done to her?” Leaning back in the chair, she smiled when she felt Anthony’s hands rest on her shoulders.  

“You told her?” Chris directed at Anthony, his brows shooting up in surprise.  

“Not everything.” He clarified with a wave of his hand. “I told her there’s a girl. But I thought I’d let you fill her in.” Smirking across at him, earning a huff from Chris.

Chris began explaining the whole story, from the first day he met you in the elevator to now. Too caught up with his story and finding himself becoming frustrated at how things had transpired between you both. The hard stare, one that if looks could kill he’d be 6ft below quicker than he could blink, coming from the fiery female directly opposite from him going unnoticed by the frustrated brunette. Her annoyance growing the more Chris spoke.  

It happened all at once, like a blur of colours as she stood from her seat, her hands firmly pressed against the desk as she leant over and lifting one to smack him upside the head. Everything about the woman might be tiny in comparison to the bulky, and pure muscle of the three men in her presence. But make no mistake, her strike was powerful.  

It had Chris faltering mid conversation, leaving him to rub where she’d just smacked him and mumbling a quiet, what the fuck. Blinking at her as he watched her sit back down, leaning forward and her nostrils flaring. “What the hell are you doing?” Silence is her answer, Chris becoming confused quicker than his brain could catch up. “Let me get this straight,” she continued, holding her hand up to silence his ramblings when he did deicide to speak. “You cornered this poor woman in your office, encouraged to talk about something you knew you’d have a problem with, then have the audacity to get her suspended?!” Shaking her head in anger, mumbling something about how dumb men are.  

“I got her, her job back!” Chris tried to reason with her, his hands going up in surrender. Anthony and Sebastian both tittering to themselves at this point, standing off to the side. Anthony loved seeing his wife in action, nothing got the blood rushing to his dick quicker.  

“Don’t even get me started on that.” Her voice now low as she snarled. She had a lot of passions in her life, a lot of things she cared about. The main one being her family, specifically her daughter. Which lit the fire within her to create a more equal society for her to grow up in. She fought hard for women and their rights. “You do realise women have to fight so much harder than men, just to be heard? Do you think I got to where I am because of my talent or dedication? No, but I worked hard to make people see past my last name.” Taking a deep breath through her nostrils, she allowed her eyes to flutter shut, taking the time to calm down before she opened them again. “You took her job away from her and then gave it back! Do you have any idea of how powerless that made her feel?”

“Baby.” Anthony cooed, taking a step towards the desk tentatively, wanting to help his friend out. Watching the 6ft man cower under her stare, knowing how intimidating his wife can be.

“Don’t defend him,” she demanded with finality, her head whipping in his direction and her brow arched. “Or do you want to spend the night on the couch?”  

“You’re on your own on this one, man.” Was all Anthony said before he ushered Sebastian out of the room, ignoring his protests and whines of Evans is having his ass handed to him right now and I’m missing the show.  

“Now,” she continued once the door clicked shut, taking in Chris’s sheepish demeanour. “You like her, don’t you?” His opened, then closed, then opened again. He did this a couple of times before she interjected. “I thought you did. Although, it’s a funny fucking way of showing it.” She huffed, relaxing back into the big leather chair. “This isn’t the 40’s. You can’t just throw your weight around, act like an alpha male and bang your chest to get her attention.”

“I don’t do that.” Chris defended weakly, his chest puffing out in defence and brows frowned. Oozing alpha male attitude.

“You’re such a fucking ape.” She grumbled in return, making Chris snort in retaliation. The tension suddenly easing in the room. “But you’re my best friend and I love you, Evans.” The soft smile that now graced her lips, had his unspoken anxieties settling in an instant. Not that he would ever admit it, but she scared the shit out of him. He remembers how she used to pin him with one hand when they were kids, no underestimation that she could still do that now. No matter their age.  

“So, out of pity. I’m going to help you.” He beamed across at her and she couldn’t help but return it back to him. “But,” she warned, dragging the word. “You do as I say, none of that CEO energy bullshit. You want the girl; you listen to me. Got it?”  

Chris couldn’t have nodded quicker, almost giving himself whiplash. On the edge of his seat, listening intently to every word she spoke. Detailing her plan.

Sundays were your favourite day. You always took the morning to tidy your apartment and then spent the rest of the day on couch, it was your re-set day. Everyone knew this. Which is why you couldn’t help the confusion in your tone when you answered the call from Scarlett.  

“Scarlett? Hey...” She never rang you. She hardly rang her own sister at times, she was more of a texter you’d come to learn over the years. Always claiming to be too busy to call people.

“Are you dressed? If not, throw something cute on, we’re going a BBQ.” She greeted with a cheer.  

“A BBQ? What? Scar, its Sunday-”

“I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.” She sang through the speaker before the line went dead, leaving you confused.

Ten minutes later you found Scarlett letting herself into your apartment, key in hand as she pushed the front door open with her hip and lifting her sunglasses so they rested on top of her head.

“How the hell did you get a key?!” You shrieked, pushing yourself off the couch to rest your hands on your hips, your brows shooting up in shock.  

“What? I got one cut.” She explained simply with a shrug of her shoulders. “I have one for Lizzie’s as well, just in case of emergencies.” You’d normally find the sentiment sweet, knowing Scarlett wasn’t one for tender moments. But you were to irked that someone had the nerve to disrupt your Sunday routine.  

“Scar-”

“You’re not dressed! Come on dingus! I gave you strict instructions, we’ve got places to be, people to see!” Not giving you time to protest she marched over to you and started pushing you towards your bedroom. “Now, you go shower and I’ll sort you an outfit out.” Opening your bathroom door and shoving you in before closing it behind you, not giving you room to interject. Leaving you stood in your bathroom, shocked and confused as hell.  

20 minutes later you found yourself in the passenger seat of her car, things had been silent since you left your apartment. The baby pink sundress she had picked out for you rested mid-thigh on you, the hem tickling your skin whenever you moved. The white high-top converses complementing the outfit nicely.

“Wanna tell me what we’re doing?” You finally asked, eyeing her suspiciously from your seat.  

“I told you, going to a BBQ.” Remaining tight lipped about the situation, you felt ambushed and flustered. You didn’t like surprises, in fact you hated them.

“Ok,” you huff. “Where is this mysterious BBQ?”  

“The Mackie’s.” She mumbled, her eyes never leaving the road in front of her.

“What!?” You shrieked, making the blonde across from you wince. “Are you kidding me?!”  

“Don’t panic, alright? I know his wife, she’s a good friend of mine. Total sweetheart. Until you piss her off. But you won’t, because I’ll be there!” What else didn’t you know about Scarlett? It's like she led this double life. The version you and Lizzie were involved in, and the other where she had dealings with the seedy underworld of crime. How flippantly she explained that she was ‘good friends’ with Mrs Mackie, like she was just some regular Joe she’d met at work.  

“Why am I even invited? This is weird. I don’t know them.” You whined once you took in the mansion Scarlett had parked outside of, mumbling a quiet ‘fuck’ to yourself. It was like something out of a murder mystery, like you’re about to step onto the set of Downton Abbey. The pink blossom trees surrounding the property making it seem less, off with your head.  

“Mackie liked you, plus she wanted to meet you.” The blond shrugged simply, grabbing her bag from the backseat and jumping out of the car with you shortly following behind.

“Meet me? Why?” Rounding the front of the car, your hands smoothing down the hem of your dress. Now you wondered if the dress you were forced to wear was too short, too casual. But as you took in Scarlett’s casual denim shorts and loosely tucked in AC/DC shirt, that had seen better days, the uneasy feeling settled within you slightly.  

“She heard what happened at the club, and everything that happened with Chris.” Her hands coming to rest on your shoulders, giving them a comforting squeeze. “Stop asking so many questions and just enjoy the day.” Not giving you another second to protest, she grabbed your hand and lead you around the side of the property, clocking the guards protectively dotted around the property and covering every exit.  

You hadn’t even rounded the corner of the side gate when you were greeted by hostess in question, her arms tightly wrapping around you and smile stretching to meet her eyes. “I can’t believe your powers of persuasion worked Johansson.” The rare photos of her circulating the internet had nothing on her beauty in person, there was no hair out of place on her head and her makeup had been applied perfectly. You know the barley there look, that leaves you wondering? Yeah, she nailed it. Her height towered over you only slightly, and her embrace felt like you’d known one another for years.  

She was doing nothing for your confidence.  

“I’ve heard so much about you.” She teased, reaching over to hug Scarlett, her hands rubbing up and down her back.  

“Weird. I haven’t heard a thing about you.” You quipped back, your eyes playfully narrowing in on Scarlett when they released one another.  

Her laugh reached your ears and you swore you’d never heard anything more poetic. No one had a perfect laugh, you knew this, if you laughed too hard, you’d snort. Lizzie’s genuine laugh was more of a wheeze and Scarlett’s was more of a cackle. But no. The woman stood in front of you right now had laugh that sounded like it had been crafted by angles.  

Ok. Maybe that was a bit dramatic. But you were finding it hard to believe this woman had any flaws.  

“My husband told me you were funny.” Anthony spoke about you? Does that mean Chris speaks about you to him? “I’m glad you could make it.” Her tone genuine and her eyes sincere, distracting you from your thoughts. 

“I didn’t have much of a choice.” You grumbled, again, your eyes playfully narrowing in on Scarlett’s green ones, earning an eyeroll from her.  

“Would you like a drink? Beer? Wine? Cocktail?” Her brows waggling at the last suggestion, her eyes dancing between you and Scarlett. You’d never felt so out of place somewhere.  

“Beer is fine.” Was your only reply, Scarlett agreeing with you. You both watched as she spun on the heels of her flip flops, sauntering through the crowd of people, her smile never faltering.  

You took the time to actually look around the back garden, if you want to call it that, it more resembled three soccer pitches together. It was beautifully decorated, fairy lights strung throughout, a BBQ- which looked like something they’d bought from the space station, situated by the backdoor, a bar sat beside it with 2 freaking bartenders behind it muddling drinks. A massive pool sat in the centre of it all and off to the far right, a giant children’s climbing frame. The garden was packed with people, some faces you recognised and some you didn’t. The sight of children running around and laughing was something you would’ve picked out of a movie.  

“Where’s my favourite girl?!” You heard a gravelly voice call from behind you, looking over your shoulder you caught a glimpse of Chris, your brain going still in the moment.

He wore a navy-blue t-shirt and matching trunks, sunglasses rested on the bridge of his nose shielding his eyes from you. He was crouched and his arms open wide and the corners of his lips reaching his eyes in a beaming smile as a young girl ran into them, knocking him back and landing on his ass, both finding the interaction hilarious as he held her close, one hand holding her head and the firmly wrapped around her tiny frame.  

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” You grumbled, turning back to face the rest of the party. There were those pesky butterflies again, fuck you butterflies.  

“Oh, don’t tell me. You’re going soft on him?” Scarlett teased a knowing smirk now evident as her elbow nudged your side. “What? You see him with a kid and suddenly your legs are spread?”  

“You’re disgusting.” You huff in annoyance.  

“And you’re only human.” She quipped back quickly before Anthony’s wife could hear as she approached you both, three beers in hand. Resisting the urge, the look over your shoulder again, a warmth blooming in your chest at the sound of his laughter.

This was going to be a long day.  

[salvadorbonaparte]

Hi! I go to UMass Amherst! I'm in my third year of undergrad so take all of this with the consideration that my experience will be quite different than a grad student's, but I have certainly got some things to say about public transportation and the area :)

Main thing: despite the fact that public transport /exists/, it's.... not great honestly. People make it work but a car will make your life 10 times easier.

As a UMass student you'd get free access to the PVTA buses run by UMass transit, which can generally get you around campus, most places in Amherst itself, and some surrounding towns like Sunderland (more residential) and Hadley (quite a few grocery stores/chain restaurants). UMass Transit don't ask to see ID, either. You just hop on and go. However, this means that buses are often really crowded at rush times and especially so during rainy or snowy weather. These buses also do not consistently run on time, so you would not want to rely on the scheduled times; instead, look at the tracking apps. I have a few friends who live off campus without cars and they make it work, but it does often mean planning classes/work around the busses. It's certainly not CONVENIENT.

During the academic year you would also be able to get to Northampton and Springfield free with your student ID. They do charge fares over school breaks. The bus to Northampton leaves hourly and is much more consistent with timing than the UMass transit busses. The bus to Springfield, the closest "bigger" city, runs (I think) every two hours. All these busses are run by the PVTA as well, but not under the UMass transit umbrella.

From Springfield, you can catch Amtrak trains -- the Northeast Regional runs there, as does the Vermonter, and I'm sure I'm forgetting some. Springfield is also the home base for Peter Pan buses which operate frequent buses to NYC, Boston, Hartford, and other locations in the general Northeast.

There is a bus to Worcester, where you can catch an Amtrak or connect to the Boston commuter rail to get to Boston pretty cheap, but it is /crappy/. Due to PVTA driver shortages they usually run it as a van, not a full bus, and frequently passengers will be left behind even after people squeeze onto the floor of the van and sit in the back or in the aisle for the 2-hour ride. It costs about $9 to go from UMass's transit hub to Worcester. Once I got stranded in Worcester and had to uber back to Amherst because that van only runs about 3 times a day and not every day of the week, last departure around 4 pm.

The Amherst area has a housing crisis right now as UMass consistently admits increasingly more undergrads than it can house, and therefore once those undergrads finish their first year and are no longer guaranteed on-campus accommodations many of them move off-campus to Amherst and its surrounding towns. The best, cheapest, and most convenient housing is usually locked down by returning students the winter before an August move-in for the fall semester. This pushes many new grad students to the surrounding towns like Sunderland, South Deerfield, etc, where buses are a bit of a crapshoot and campus is no longer within reasonable walking distance. Housing's also pretty expensive for the semi-rural location. I'm looking at off-campus housing for next year and will be happy if I can find a place where I'll pay less than $1000 a month (usually, this covers a room in a shared apartment or house).

All this said, the area itself is beautiful, and I've had a great experience with the academics here. I have heard really good things about the translation and linguistics programs and I'm sure you'd be able to find a great niche. You'll also be in close proximity to 4 other great schools (Smith College, Mount Holyoke College, Amherst College, and Hampshire College) and have the ability to take classes, work with profs, etc from those schools through the 5 college exchange program. I don't know what PhD program you're thinking of applying to but I'm in the comparative literature undergrad program (complit encompasses a lot of our translation classes, undergrad and grad level) and have nothing but good things to say about the faculty, the grad student instructors I've had, and the program as a whole.

Feel free to reach out for more information if you'd like!!

Thank you for the info!

Unfortunately I can't drive (never learned) so I'd have to rely on buses. The bus system in Ireland was surprisingly bad (almost daily delays and I lived an hour away from campus) and in Spain I lived on a mountain in the middle of nowhere so grocery shopping took up to 5h but minimum 3h so by now my standards are pretty low. I'd love to travel a little while I'm there (Boston, Salem, Maine, Buffalo etc) so I'm just glad there's buses and trains at all. A free bus system that's kinda crappy is still better than one that doesn't exist or one that's crappy and expensive (shout out to Ireland's 2€ bus fares and Hannover's 8€ metro tickets)

The housing situation is a little worrying but I'm not above a flatshare and I'd get a scholarship so I'm sure I'd find something?? But I'll start looking as soon as soon as I know where I'm moving to because the housing situation is bad in those cities too.

I know something who went to Smith and someone who went to Mount Holyoke so I heard good things about the general region and landscape etc.

The professors I talked to (German Department) were really nice and it sounds like a really cool phd program. Even though Amherst is not as prestigious as two of the other unis I'm applying to it's a very good school and I'd be happy to go there if that's the one I get accepted by/the one I pick.

[rose-in-a-fisted-glove]

How to budget for traveling and travel on a budget (East Coast USA)

Right, so I’ve seen enough posts lamenting that travel is for the old, the rich, or for schooling to realize this is not something Known.

There’s a third group of travelers in the United States. People who make enough money to not be paycheck-to-paycheck, but not enough to save for say an apartment/house or to buy a car straight out.

This first set of examples is for a 9 day (7 days on the ground) vacation to Europe from the United States. You’d want around $2,000 for this sort of trip. How I used to do it was by saving $60/month for 2 years and then add tax returns to make up the last of it.

 FLIGHT

$1,200 in the post-Covid world will get you from most parts of the East Coast of the USA to most parts of Western and Central Europe (I choose Boston to Frankfurt as an expensive to expensive option).

LODGING

A nice clean safe hostel is going to cost an average of $30- $50/night for a bed in a dorm room. Personally, I like to go with either 6 or 8 bed dorms for a good mixture of savings and not feeling like you’re in a barracks. If we go with the higher end of $50, a 8 night stay would be $400

FOOD

Now, most hostels have breakfasts included in the room costs.

A cheap lunch of street food or at a sandwich shop is usually $10-15, there’s also the option of going to the grocery store and making picnic lunches to go, if your hostel has a fridge option. Assuming you’re buying a lunch every day,, that would be about $70- $105

An entree and a beverage at a sit down but cheaper restaurant is going to be an average of $30- 35. Assuming you’re buying dinner at the higher end, that would be $200- 250

Some notes here: This is the higher end of budget that I’m talking about. It certainly is possible to get pizza every night or go to the grocery store and cook food at night. I just find eating the local cuisine to be a part of the trip that’s very enjoyable. If it’s not for you, dinners cooked in the hostel kitchen is a very good way to save money

A second note, in some countries, you can get larger lunch specials for less money and make that your main meal instead of dinner. But! The benefits of saving should be countered against the benefits of time saved not eating in the middle of tourist time mid-day.

OTHER

At this point, you should have anywhere from $50- $150 left on the 2,000 depending on how you budget food.

Tickets are harder to budget for in general because a single attraction tends to range anywhere from free to $40+. To give some examples from the top of my head:

The Louvre is $20, The Parthenon is $20, Pompeii is $15, Hagia Sofia is free, Prague castle is $10, The German Federal Parliament Building Dome is free (and was seriously 100% a highlight of my trip to Berlin), Most walking tours in most cities should be around $10-15, and so on.

Questions?

[fulmis]

Home - Part III (Joel Miller x F!Reader)

Summary: A minor accident leads to Joel helping you stitch a wound.

Warnings: mentions of violence (canon typical), mentions of needles, a hint of angst, very quick reference to an age gap between Joel and reader

A/N: I’m off work and school this week, so I’ve had extra time to write. Hope you enjoy this part and have a good night (:

Word count: 1.2K

Joel wasn’t a particularly affectionate person, you and pretty much everyone who met him knew that. He didn’t mean to be affectionate; shit, he didn’t even mean to be liked. Very rare was the occasion where he talked about his life before the outbreak, to strangers he’d just usually mention his hometown of Texas and he happened to be outside of Boston he’d say which QZ he usually stayed in. From scattered conversations you had come to know small details here and there that he offered to you during late night conversations, where you did most of the talking, but you were careful never to pry.

You took Joel as he came to you, with his ever-present moods and often lack of communication. Shimmering glimpses were all you got, few and sparse, that you collected gladly whenever they presented themselves. It was a game you played with yourself, how much you could do on the days both of your tempers were steady enough to try and get a laugh out of him. Few things eased your soul like seeing the creases by his eyes take hold of his expression to gift you the most valuable present they could give.

Some nights, the ones you had keep watch while on the road, you allowed yourself one or two minutes to admire the way his face relaxed under his sleep. Little moments before he frowned again, words slipping beneath his breath. A common occurrence in your opinion, there was never one of those nights you didn’t hear him talk in his sleep. It took you a while to understand the name he’d call sometimes. Sarah. 

At first you wondered who she might be. You all had families, friends, acquaintances. Tess had told you once she had been married, though never mentioned her husband’s name. On a different occasion, when you mentioned the weight killing a loved one could bear, she admitted she had been unable to kill her son after he became infected. You had no words to give her back. The truth was, it wasn’t a matter of whether you’d lost someone but whom you had lost. That much you knew, and just like Joel, you often wondered why it hadn’t been you that was dead.

The story of Sarah was brought up some time later, when you unknowingly asked about his watch. You tried to back out of it, to change the topic, because once again you knew no words you could offer were a good answer to such a story. Joel didn’t add much, only that Sarah enjoyed cooking just like you did, that maybe you could have taught each other a thing or two.

On a cold winter night in Boston, you sat in Joel’s apartment. Your back against a wooden chair while you he held a needle and thread. A couple of minutes before you had been with him in an alley, Tess had sent you two to retrieve some cartridges while she took care of dealing some supplies for your next smuggling run. Turns out, the guys in charge or delivering you the cartridges thought it was a good idea to push Joel for a higher payment, threatening to sell the cartridges to some Fireflies instead. That didn’t end well for them, although one proved lucky enough to cut your arm with a scrap knife, hence your visit to the best nursing room in town. 

“I’m almost done,” he said slowly, voice barely above a whisper.

You breathed out through gritted teeth, your free arm reached for the bottle of amber liquor that stood on the table. The burn of the cheap liquid soothed the sting of the needle momentarily, although you’d definitely felt worse pains in your life. Your eyes turned to Joel’s calloused hands as they made a knot and cut the thread with a pocketknife.

“There. Not as clean as your stitched, but it’ll do…”

“You’ve definitely gotten better since the last time, the scar on my shoulder from that bullet wound still makes me laugh”. The remark made him huff out a smile, one more point for you.

“It’s been years since that, you have gotten clumsy. I told you to stand back.” Joel didn’t say it, but you had a feeling he would’ve added “kid” at the end of that sentence if you hadn’t threated to call him old man a couple of years ago.

“And let you have all the fun? I know I’m not nearly as strong as you, but Tess also sent me.”

“You know, you sound just like Tommy…”

“Was he also an incredible asset in your team?”

“He was a pain in my ass.”

You rolled your eyes at that, you had never met Tommy, but the stories sufficed. Often times, you wondered how much of it was actually true and how much was muddled in Joel’s older brother eyes.

“He can’t possibly be that bad…”

“He’s the reason we needed the cartridges in the first place. As soon as Tess finds the battery, we’ll see if we can find his ass in God-knows-where.”

You let out a sigh, despite your best attempts to lighten the mood, that was the reason you had gone out tonight. The three of you had been trying hard to find all the things you’d need to get to Wyoming, most crucially, a car battery to get there. Your hope was to find it before next summer and with luck make it there before next winter.

“We’ll find him,” you lifted the hand in your injured arm and put it atop Joel’s, a smile adorning your lips. “Thanks for patching me up”.

Brown eyes looked at you under the weak light of the room, heavy eyebrows softened his expression. Worry was all over his face, you had no idea how he did that. The lines on his forehead were only accentuated with the yellow glow of the lamp, his golden skin covered in dust and sun marks. Like this, his doe-eyes felt piercing against your soul. Your heartbeat picked up, and you wondered if he could actually see through you.

Joel usually didn’t say much outside what was necessary, but his eyes often betrayed his tongue. Just moments ago, he was someone else. The softness in his gaze was replaced by something as cold as gunmetal. You were familiar with that look too, grateful when it came in moments of need, sharp and unrelenting stare. To be on the other end was scary, those who dared to test what he was made of when his eyes gleamed dark usually didn’t enjoy what came after.

You prided yourself with how far your abilities had taken you, how well you’d learned to use a gun, a scrap knife, anything. Close calls taught you to be ready at all times and never let your guard down, but Joel, he never had close calls. Almost like a switch was flipped, he took men down before your eyes. The crack of bones sounded like egg shells under his knuckles, and the targets that took you years to ace took him barely a glance to hit.

The traces of that man were still evident in the one in front of you; you knew they were both the same. The softness wasn’t the only part of Joel that sparked a fire inside you, a feeling of awe when you were in the presence of his strength. The duality of his heart captured you, all consumed by everything he was and every way he cared for you, whether he was tending to your wounds or breaking jaws by your side.

—————

Part 4 coming soon!