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nolita-fairytale · 1 year

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make my heart surrender | carmy berzatto x fem!reader | chapter three: thursday

pairing: carmen berzatto x fem!reader

warnings: lots of swearing, angst, use of she/her pronouns, allusions to sex, eventual smut, no use of y/n, second person pov, mentions of death/mikey's suicide

word count: 3.4k

summary: you and carmy finally find some time to catch up and carmy begins to realize that you're more similar than he thinks.

a/n: thank you to all who are reading, reblogging, and commenting omg. i'm so grateful that someone wanted to read this story. i wrote it in a week because i couldn't get these two out of my head. they were begging to be put on the page. i also have a companion playlist that i'll release when the story is done because i don't want to spoil anything! comment below if you'd like to be added to this story's taglist. i did presumptuously add a few of you i've interacted with, so please let me know if you'd also like to be taken off of it.

read: part two | masterlist

Thursday

You’re grateful that by day three, you’d been able to smooth over some of the tension between you and Carmy. You even looked forward to catching up with him, if the two of you can swing it. Instead of going home early, you had jumped on the line this evening. Ebra was out for the night and Marcus had asked to fly solo on prep so that you could give him some feedback before lunch service tomorrow morning.

It was an easy decision, to fill in and jump on the line. After all, you had checked your bag on the plane so that you could bring your knife roll with you, just in case. There was something about this kitchen – the energy and the people – that you wanted to stick around for. And it didn’t hurt that you got to spend a little extra time with Carmy. When he was in his element, expediting and leading this kitchen… he was… breathtaking.

“Damn, nice knife, Jeff” Tina comments, checking out the santoku you’re running through some parsley. She can hear the crisp, clean cuts you're making, which is what caught her attention in the first place.

“Jeff?” you question, shooting her a look.

“Long story, but trust me. It’s a term of endearment,” Sydney interjects, from her side of the prep station.

You chuckle, “She’s a beauty alright. My first fully Japanese knife. Though the steel is a bitch to take care of. That’s for sure.”

“What do you mean?” Tina questions further.

“Well, it’s just a kind of metal alloy that’s super prone to-,” you start, completing your sentence at the same time as Sydney chimes in.

“Rusting,” you both say in unison, sharing a look.

“Huh,” Tina sounds, suddenly losing interest. “I don’t get it. It’s more work to take care of? Our shit’s part-plastic and does the job just fine.”

“Oh but she’s so smooth,” you playfully swoon, referring to how beautifully the knife performs for you.

“It’s all about the performance, T,” Sydney adds.

Tina hums in response, still unconvinced by you and Sydney’s admiration for the fancy tools.

“So you and Carmy. How’d you meet Jeff?” Tina inquires further geturing her knife towards Carmy’s expediting station, and eliciting another laugh from you and Sydney.

“Uhhhh… we both worked at the same restaurant in New York. I came in to stage and the competitive jerk tried to smoke me. Thought he could show me it was his territory.”

“Like a little bitch,” Tina teases, the shade evident in her voice.

“And you kicked his ass obviously,” Sydney suggests, hopefully.

“Mhm,” Tina adds in agreement.

“Oh absolutely,” you answer, deviously. “I walked out with a job that night. Carmy and I are the classic kitchen staff case of… enemies turned good friends.”

You look up from your station, noticing an exchanged look between Sydney and Tina.

It’s the kind of look that says, Just friends, huh?

“Alright, alright. Enough with the girl talk, gossip girls. News flash: no one gives a shit about fuckin’ Tom Colicchio and Padma Whatserface over here,” Richie interrupts, referring to the you and Carmy, as he passes by with a few empty storage containers on the way to the dishwashing station.

“Asshole / Fuck off, Richie,” Sydney and Tina shout back at the same time.

“Hey! Listen up, everyone! Fire two spaghettis, two short ribs, one chicken,” Carmy calls out to the kitchen. You listen attentively, hearing the chorus of the entire kitchen repeat the order back to him, punctuating the order with a ‘heard.’

You smile to yourself, as you enjoy the feeling of falling into such a familiar rhythm.

You’ve missed working in the kitchen, and you’ve missed working in the kitchen with Carmy. This was so different than any of the bullshit you’ve been through together – even when he is arguing or yelling at someone. It’s not some sterile environment that looks more like a science lab or an operation room than it does a kitchen.

No, this place has soul.

Between the crass kitchen banter, the less than flattering nicknames, and its wild cast of characters, it’s only day three and you feel right at home. Dinner service flies by and you’re eager to check in with Marcus by the end of the shift. Before taking your apron off, you head over to his corner of the kitchen.

“Hey, how’s everything going, chef?” you ask, curiously.

“Good, chef,” he answers proudly. “I got the brioche covered and ready to rise overnight and I prepped the cake donuts so we’re ready to roll tomorrow morning. I went with a blueberry cake donut this time around.”

“Sounds great. I can’t wait to try it, chef,” you reply. “Need anything from me before I head out for the night?”

“Oh no, uh, I’m almost done here,” Marcus answers, inspiring confidence in his ability. “Just workin’ on a curd for the filling, chef. Just like you taught me.”

“Alright,” you chuckle, tickled by how excited he is. “Have a good night, chef.” You pause, wondering if your words will be totally lost on him. “And make sure you get some rest tonight, okay?”

He responds with a nod, as you leave his station.

You make your way to the locker area, hanging your apron up, and slipping off your kitchen sneakers, before taking a seat on the bench. It looks like most of the kitchen staff got a head start on you and have already left, or are out of their kitchen clothes and ready to head home. There’s a strange feeling in your heart. You haven’t felt this kind of… community… in a professional kitchen in a long time and you try your best to name what it is you’ve felt was missing.

“Hey,” you hear a voice say, pulling you from your thoughts.

“Hey,” you say to Carmy.

He removes his apron, folding it over his forearm. It sits further down his arm, right near his tattooed hand, you notice, as he leans his side against the lockers.

“Thanks for jumpin’ in… you know… on the line tonight,” he starts his gaze practically piercing through your soul.

“Yeah, it’s uh, no problem,” you reply, placing your knife roll and kitchen shoes back into your locker. “I had fun.”

“You uh, you still want to go for that drink?” he asks, shyly.

You smile.

“Yeah.”

“It’s fucked up,” Carmy shakes his head in disbelief.

“Oh please. What?” you groan, shooting him a look.

“You’ve been in my city for… what three days now and you already have a hookup at one of the hardest to get into bars here,” Carmy replies, eliciting a laugh from you.

“Oh my god,” you sigh with a playful eye roll. “I’m a New Yorker, asshole. You know that’s how we do it.”

He shakes his head again, before locking eyes with you, “You were always better at it than me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you, Carmen Berzatto, finally admitting that I’m better at something than you? Can you say it again, and I’m just going to-.” you tease, playfully, pulling out your phone as if you’re going to film him saying it.

“Oh shut up…” he shoots back, gently pushing your phone away from his face.

“I mean, you could always make friends with anyone. The bodega guy downstairs. The fuckin’ bodega cat. Our favorite butcher? ‘S why we always got the good cuts of meat when we cooked together on our days off.”

“Which is exactly why I do it,” you point out.

You had always been so magnetic to him. It’s something that he’s always admired about you – something that always reminded him of Mikey.

“No, I-, I used to be a regular at this bar when I was working at Gramercy Tavern – actually, I think it closed right before you came to New York. Anyways, found out my favorite bartender moved to Chicago and I sent him a message letting him know I’d be in town. Said he’d get us in even if they were booked up, and,” you gesture towards where the two of you are sitting together, “Et voila!”

Carmy takes a look around. He hasn’t been in a fine dining establishment since he left New York. It’s as if all the fancy awards and all the dues he’s paid cooking in the best restaurants in the entire world don’t matter anymore. He feels so out of place: the people, the over-the-top cocktails, the overpriced bowls of food called something fancy to justify the high price point.

“From the kitchen” your bartender had said curtly, a mere few minutes ago. He had placed a few plates in front of the two of you to share that you most certainly didn’t order.

You both had thanked the bartender, before digging into the large bowl of soup, stracciatella, and focaccia bread on the plate. You rip off pieces of bread, dipping them into the salty broth, popping them into your mouth. Carmy’s much more of a gentleman about it, using his spoon to try the soup first. You had only planned on drinking here, but your friend at The Aviary had really come through. You’re sure it doesn’t hurt that you’re here with Carmy, and that these guys definitely know who Carmy is.

“So…” you start, taking a sip of whatever fizzy strawberry gin thing you’d ordered earlier. “I feel like there are a lot of long stories I’d like to hear.”

Carmy makes a sound in agreement before taking a sip of his drink. It’s just bourbon on the rocks, and you wonder when he started drinking bourbon like this.

“I mean… we could start here. How the hell are ya?” you ask.

“I…” he starts, before trailing off. He buries his face in his hands, dragging his fingertips across his forehead. “It’s uh, it’s been a long couple of months. Christ. The restaurant was a goddamn mess, everyone hated my fuckin’ guts. And then Syd showed up and, well, she’s been a big help.”

You wait a beat before saying, “As much as I want to hear about the restaurant, Carm, I mean how are you doing?”

Your words stop him, and he looks up at you with those baby blue eyes. He takes his time thinking about it, shrugging before muttering something along the lines of, “I’m okay, I guess.”

He’s searching for the right words to explain how the hell he’s even supposed to answer that question.

“I don’t know. Guess I thought if I fixed the restaurant, if I could fix it-. Maybe I could fix him,” he drags out.

He waits a few beats before finally admitting:

“I miss him. Mikey. And I found out all kinds of shit about him that I-, well, shit I didn’t know. I think-, I think it’s why he kept me away. Why he shut me out.”

You listen as he begins to fill you in: about Mikey, the drugs, the debt he inherited that he now owes to Cicero, how hard it was to win over the kitchen staff that, come hell or high water, weren’t interested in changing their ways. And then he tells you about the meetings he's been going to -- the al-anon meetings. And you begin to understand. While he’s the same old Carmy, this isn’t the exact same Carmy that you knew in New York. The Carmy you knew in New York never would’ve gone to those meetings. He would’ve brushed it off and pretended there wasn’t a problem and taken as much punishment as he could in the kitchen instead of dealing with what he was feeling.

Mikey’s death, and coming home, and this restaurant, it’s all changed him.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s part of the reason why, after months of no contact, he reached out to you now, but he’s not sure if he should tell you that yet.

You’ve got to give it to him. If anything, he’s exceptionally talented at cutting people out of his life. It’s his M.O – the only thing that’s been consistent in his life – even when those people didn’t deserve it. It’s what he knows to do. It’s something he’s learned… from Mikey, from his dad…

But this… what he’s telling you, these are stories of connection and community.

“And Syd’s really helped me pull this shit together. She's kinda like... the glue, y'know? I- I don’t know where we’d be without her,” Carmy concludes.

You agree. Syd is brilliant. You can see just from having been in that kitchen that she’s been the biggest catalyst for the changes — even his.

“I know you only asked me to come for pastry but I’m glad you let me jump in on the line tonight,” you say. “It’s cool to see what you’re doing now and… I don’t know. I know it was a rocky start, but you’ve got something here. Something that could be really, really good, Carm. You’re making real fucking food. Like your mom’s chicken. I haven’t forgotten about that.”

“How can you remember that?” Carmy asks, a little surprised, his eyes lighting up. He’d almost forgotten that he’d once made it for you while you were both still in New York.

You nod, “Best chicken piccata I’ve had in my life.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Hands down.”

“You know,” you start, a mischievous tone in your voice. “If I recall correctly, you made me some pretty bomb meals back in New York. And didn’t I say something along the lines of you really shining when-?”

“Oh no,” he groans. “Not this again.”

“I’m just saying!” you justify, innocently. “When you cook the food you grew up with, Carm, you’re at your very best. And don’t get me wrong. You’re an exceptional chef, regardless of what you do but-.”

“So what? You’re gonna say ‘I told you so?’” he questions, shooting you a look.

You shrug, playfully, “I can’t help it if I’m right all the time,” earning an eye roll from him.

“Especially when it comes to you.”

He’s quiet for a moment, because you do know him. You’ve seen sides of him he’s barely let anyone else see. It feels good and terrifying all at once to be seen this clearly.

“Yeah, well, you always were a little more Mozza than French Laundry, huh?” he shoots back, referencing your difference in preference. While Mozza was more family style, The French Laundry, a restaurant Carmy had worked at once upon a time, was anything but.

“Yeah. Who knew one day we’d switch places?” you reply, a sadness in your voice. Were you… envious of what Carmy had? Was this what you were looking for?

“So uh, you gonna tell me what the hell happened with the restaurant?” Carmy asked, changing the subject – changing the subject to you.

You sigh, you raise your drink to your lips, finishing the rest of what’s in the glass in one go.

“That bad, huh?”

“No!” you’re quick to reply. “Well, yes. But no. But yeah….”

Carmy flags the bartender down, ordering another round for the two of you.

You’re not even sure where to begin in regards to the existential crisis of sorts that you’ve been having, so you just tell him what happened.

“I was juicing blood oranges one day. And-, you know we were going to take the juice and do all that fancy gastronomy shit with it… turn it into like, the same consistency of ‘dew in the early morning’…” you began to explain, quoting what your head pastry chef had said that day.

“And I’m sitting there thinking… what the hell am I doing? I mean, who eats food like this?! Who wants to eat a drop of blood orange juice that’s been turned into the consistency of dew in the early mornings? Like, why the fuck can’t I just make the best blood orange olive oil cake anyone’s ever had, and that be enough, you know?”

“And. I don’t know. It got me thinking a lot about the kind of food I want to make, and what that would mean, and what does any of this shit even mean? Fast forward to a week later, and I don’t feel like I have a fuckin’ clue about what I want to do with my life and I’m quitting the restaurant.”

You pause, noticing that he’s just been listening attentively this whole time.

“I’m tired, Carm,” you admit. “I mean. I’m burnt the hell out. I just. I don’t want to work this hard for something that- something that I’m not even sure I believe in anymore.”

Another beat.

“I know it sounds totally insane but-.”

“No! No, it doesn’t,” Carmy interrupts, quick to reassure you, as he reaches for your hand. Your eyes flicker from his hand on yours, the small tattoo above his wrist, then back to him, feeling the loss of body heat as he pulls his hand back only a moment later.

“I feel like I’ve been thinkin’ about a lot of the same shit,” he admits, empathizing with you.

“I just feel… kind of lost,” you say, and it’s the first time you’ve said it out loud. “I do. I-, I’ve been feeling really lost lately.”

In all the time he’s known you, never could he have expected you to feel lost. He wondered if he’d just put you on a pedestal. You had always been this stunningly charismatic, charming person that could walk into any room and in minutes, have everyone wrapped around your finger. For so long he denied any feelings for you because he knew you were unattainable – that someone like you could ever want someone like him felt impossible. Wouldn’t you be better off with one of those Wall Street assholes that came into the restaurant all the time – wining and dining their clients with their expensive wristwatches and fancy town cars?

But hearing you say it – that you feel lost – it reminds him that you’re only human too.

He waits another beat, guilt filling up his throat, before he speaks again.

“I should’ve been there for you. I’m sorry.”

There’s an earnestness in his voice that makes you want to trust him. Sure, it seems like he’s been apologizing to you for three days straight, but you want to listen.

You take another sip of your drink.

“I started volunteering at a Brooklyn community garden so I could like, pull my head out of my ass,” you share with him.

“Did it help?”

You shrug, “Yeah, a little bit.”

It helped, but it hadn’t fixed anything. You feel like you can confide in him, especially since he told you that he was going to meetings.

“My therapist actually encouraged me to come here,” you confess, gauging his reaction as the words flow from your mouth. “Get out of dodge. Get a change of scenery… give myself some time to think.”

“We both know you do a little too much of that,” he teases gently, and you chuckle.

Between Carmy’s avoidance, and your neuroses, you’re quite the pairing.

“Yeah.”

Carmy pauses, not sure if he has the words to give you the explanation you deserve, but he’s going to try.

“I had… a lot goin’ on. When I got back. And I didn’t know….” He pauses before continuing. “I didn’t know how to do it all at once. How to handle, you know… everything at the same time.”

And it’s just easier to avoid everything – to avoid you, to avoid the way I feel about you, he thinks to himself.

And it’s exactly what he did, he pushed you away, and pushed any and all feelings or thoughts about you into a dark hole, never to be acknowledged ever again.

Until you quit your job. Until his phone call with Tim. Until his phone call with you.

“I know, Carm. I know you’re sorry and I appreciate the apology,” you start, taking a breath. “It’s just that-. I need you to know...”

You pause, suddenly feeling like you’re in the middle of an anxiety dream where you realize you’re not wearing any pants.

“I need you to know that it hurt. It… it really hurt. Not hearing from you. Being cut out like that.”

“I know,” he admits, remorsefully. “I’m gonna be better. At least I’m trying to be.”

“I really want to believe that,” you say, softly.

But I don’t want to get hurt again, you think to yourself.

He looks at you, a soft, shy smile on his face, and it makes you want to take a chance on him.

Who are you kidding? You’d jump off of a bridge with him if he asked, even if it meant getting hurt all over again.

“Okay?” he asks, hopefully.

You’re not sure if he’s asking if it’s okay, if you’re okay, if everything is okay between the two of you, and you wonder if he means all three.

“Okay,” you answer, quietly.

“Okay.”

read: part four

taglist: @lazypeachsoul @bookwormvoyageuse @allthefandomstogether

#carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x you #carmy berzatto #carmy x oc #the bear hulu #the bear fx #jeremy allen white #carmen 'carmy' berzatto #the bear marcus #sydney adamu #the bear tina #richie jerimovich

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4dkellysworld · 9 months

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Self-realization vs derealization

I saw an ask @adadisciple about derealization and thought I'd add my 2 cents here as I have experienced derealization in the past and might be able to offer a bit more insight. I didn't want to reblog that ask for personal reasons and also the response is really long. Disclaimer: I am not a therapist either, my thoughts are based on personal experience alone so take whatever feels right and leave the rest. Also I can't speak from the perspective of full realization as I am not there yet but hopefully this helps in some way.

When I first found non-dualism, I also had similar concerns as someone who had experienced derealization, I thought: was this another thing that was going to induce it?

Let's start with the definition (thank you Google) for those reading who may be unclear:

Depersonalization/derealization disorder involves a persistent or recurring feeling of being detached from one's body or mental processes, like an outside observer of one's life (depersonalization), and/or a feeling of being detached from one's surroundings (derealization).

From personal (human/ego) experience, this condition is purely of the mind and body with blocked awareness (? not sure if this is correct terminology, I am not talking about pure awareness in this case but more mindfulness*) and is often just a symptom of another mental or physical condition/illness such as depression/anxiety etc. The mind and/or body are just completely detached however, there is clouded awareness (due to the mind/body) and you just feel like you are existing and floating around. You very much still feel a part of the world and identify as such (although feeling detached & disengaged) even if you have lost faith in everything you feel as real. It's sort of hard to put into words but if you have experienced derealization too, then hopefully you can relate and understand what I am getting at. When I experienced it, I didn't know of any truth. I just lost faith in the world and didn't know what was real anymore. So, I was completely checked out.

*Mindfulness is paying full attention to what is going on in you and outside you, moment by moment, without judgment. (thanks Google)

Ada made a really good distinction here (I suggest reading the full ask)**:

The point of this all was to let go of concepts, let go of believing in things, investigating their validity, experimenting. Disbelieving you are Vanessa and denial are not the same thing. Denial is when you deny reality to something you're already giving reality to. Disbelieving was meant as an experiment, you never thought yourselves to be anything but this body, what will happen if you did?

**Actually, re-reading that ask made me realize maybe a reblog of an exercise I recommended is not the best since it instructs denial of what ego believes to be real instead of disbelief and experimentation (eep, Vanessa is still learning and evolving!). See my edit on this post :)

Here is another relevant and helpful ask by 4dbarbie:

I don't teach to do anything to the 3D, not even deny it. Not seeing the world as it is, is an aversion to it. - Lester Levenson Your 3D is right and perfect, what you see is what you are so even if you're seeing what 'you' don't want, the 3D is not wrong in being what it is. Fearing it, trying to manipulate it, lying to yourself about it being something different - all useless and vain attempts. See it as it is and it will fix itself. And no, being delusional is not good, it leads you not to trust your own judgment OR senses. Which is not right, why shouldn't you? What is wrong with your vision? Being delusional from your ego self is really harmful, someone could be abusing you and you would go "i'm sure that's not right he loves me so much in my 4D!!!"

So lets clarify the distinction:

Derealization = denial of everything while still identifying as the ego (and the world as reality) although not wanting to => ego experiences confusion/chaos/mental condition/disorders

Self-realization = disbelief of current reality concepts => letting go of such concepts and quieting the mind => experiencing the true Self (the creator of the mind) => permanent identification with Self, not imaginary concepts (including the ego) => Knowing Reality, and therefore realizing full peace and freedom

Now let's move onto practicing non-dualism. The basis of the practice is let go of thoughts, quiet the mind and focus on being awareness/I AM. It is all about letting go, not denial.

From a non-dualist perspective, derealization is just another mental concept/creation. When the mind is completely silent (and sustained) and pure awareness is realized and embodied, when Self is your permanent identification, when you (Self) know you are not your body not Vanessa feeling dissassociated from mind & body or just intellectually knowing it from learning concepts (important distinction!), it is not derealization, in fact it is the only reality, the only truth.

I have experienced short moments of experiencing myself as the pure witness where the mind was completely quiet and those short moments felt so peaceful, whole and true. There were no feelings of derealization in that moment because there was no active mind then. Right now, I do think my ego feels a bit derealized at times but this is because I have not fully identified with Self yet and it is also because my sense and understanding of reality is in the process of being recalibrated on this journey. When this happens, I sit in silence and go back to the one truth 'I Am' and feel myself into it and everything else melts away. The more you do this, the more you will feel the truth and peace until it becomes permanent (when you realize Self).

But no one can give you the whole truth but yourself.

Lester: Yes. However, knowing what you're telling me helps one let go of that obstacle of intellectual knowledge. I prod you in this direction, don't I? I say: “Don't believe anything. Start from scratch. Build up your knowledge on the solid foundation of proof, step by step.” Everyone must do this. Q: You can't take someone else's experience? Lester: Right, you would be working on hearsay, on what they have said, and the only useful thing is that which you experience. I relate it to driving a car. If I say I know how to drive a car after reading a book that directs you to turn the key on, start the motor, shift into drive and step on the gas, do I know how to drive a car? No, not until I experience it can I drive a car. It's the same thing on the path; we must experience everything. We must, of course, adopt the attitude that what the Great Ones say is so, that they have experienced it. However, you must check it out and prove it for yourself. And the basic Truth is that there’s only one Reality; there's only one absolute Truth, and that is that this whole world or universe is nothing but God, but better than that, is nothing but my very own Self. God could be far away; He could be miles and miles away in cosmic space, but my very own Self is right here, is something I know about, is something I can perceive, it is my very own Self! So, using Self as God is far more practical than putting Him out there, putting Him apart from us. But each one must start from the bottom and prove this whole thing for himself. As the proofs come, the more they come the more we accept until we experience the whole thing. - Lester Levenson, Session 11: Meditation with Quest - Keys to Ultimate Freedom

"And the basic Truth is that there’s only one Reality; there's only one absolute Truth" I literally didn't even read this excerpt before sharing it (searched the book for the keyword 'proof' because I was looking for another excerpt) but came to the same conclusion after practicing and experiencing it for myself. And that is what you must do if you want the truth too. Experience and then decide for yourself.

This perceived and experienced knowledge is the only knowledge that does us any good. We can read everything on the subject, but it doesn’t help. Our life doesn’t change much, and it doesn’t because we don’t integrate the knowledge into our beingness through realization. Realized knowledge is nonintellectual, although the means we use are intellectual. We use our mind, we direct our mind toward the answer, but you will discover that the answer does not come from the mind. It comes from a place just behind the mind. It comes from the realm of knowingness, the realm of omniscience. By quieting the mind through stilling our thoughts, each and every one of us has access to this realm of knowingness. Then and there you realize, you make real. You know and you know that you know. - Lester Levenson, Session 6: Realization - Keys to Ultimate Freedom

If you want to understand more about the process of realizing Self, I recommend reading my 4dbarbie remix post. If you have already read it, reread it, maybe even read some of the referenced posts/asks and see if you get any new understanding. Or better yet, just sit in silence and stillness, quiet the mind and focus on 'I Am'.

I must emphasise that in non-duality, letting go of the ego is the basic foundation of practice as it is very much a journey of self-transformation (this is just another concept to help the ego understand, but you are always, have always been and always will be Self, you just do not see it as you are currently identified as the ego).

If you (the ego) are not willing to do that, then come back when you are ready. It is not up to anyone to convince you to adopt this practice and way of life.

#writings #non duality #non dualism

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wwdits-kink-meme · 2 months

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WWDITS KINK MEME

Why not start a revival? Send in your prompts!!

This is an experimental format, so hopefully it works out!

SUBMIT A KINK MEME

FAQ (also under cut for mobile users)

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What content do you allow in submissions? All kinks are welcome - yes, even that one. We will reject submissions that are not WWDITS-based, are hateful in some way, or appear to be submitted in bad faith. Venting, character-bashing, or incomprehensible prompts will be deleted. Transphobia, racism, homophobia, antisemitism, ableism, etc will get you blocked. Due to the limitations of the mods, we are currently only accepting submissions in English or Spanish.

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Can I submit SFW prompts? Of course! Despite the name, kink memes aren’t just for porn.

Can I submit prompts with characters from the WWDITS movie, too? Absolutely!

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Can I submit RPF prompts? No, as we prefer that this kink meme focus on the characters in the show rather than the actors who play them. However, celebrities who have appeared in the show as themselves count as characters and are fair game (within reason)!

Can I submit crossover prompts? Yes, under certain conditions. This is a WWDITS kink meme, and we want to ensure those characters have the spotlight! So if your prompt is mostly about the crossover property, or if the WWDITS character is simply one of a medley of different characters, it may be rejected. No Harry Potter, please.

Can I make my own kink meme for a different fandom using this blog as a template? Of course! We encourage this - please bring kink memes back to fandom!!

Who are the mods? Just some adult fans who long for the insanity that was LJ back in the day.

Mod the Impaler - they/them ModMilla - she/her

#wwdits #wwdits kink meme #kink meme #writing prompts #art prompts #nandermo #lasja #polyvamps #laszlermo #what we do in the shadows #what we do in the shadows fx

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missjadesfics · 19 days

Text

Happy Valentine's, Mr Sandman

Morpheus x Reader dividers: @cafekitsune Request: Yes Summary: Y/n and Morpheus spend their first Valentine's together. Warnings: none; Morpheus just being cute Word Count: 1k Disclaimer: I don't own The Sandman or its characters, nor do I claim them as my own. Comments, likes, and reblogs are always appreciated xx

Morpheus had never made time for such an event that the mortals called Valentine’s Day. But in recent year he retrieved his helm and sand and restored the Dreaming. He felt that his affairs were in order; everything was where it should be. He visited the Waking world, strolling down the cobblestone path, his silver eyes wandering amongst the happy faces of adults and children. A slight tug appeared on the corner of his lips, seeing a little boy jump up and down at getting a lollipop from his mother. Morpheus tucked his hands into his coat pockets before stopping at a flower stand. He admired the various colours and arrangements of bouquets. He smiled, noticing some particular flowers; the vendor walked over with a smile. “Hello, how can I help you?” He asked Morpheus, who was admiring the flowers, “Yes, my friend, I am hoping to acquire some of your flowers for my beloved. You wouldn’t happen to have some wisteria, would you?” Morpheus asked curiously. The vendor clicked his fingers.

“I do happen to have some; I like to always have some on hand in case someone wants to add them to their bouquet” he knelt, grabbing a small crate filled with vibrant purple wisteria. Nodding in approval, Morpheus smiled. “I would like some along with others if you could make me something,” Morpheus said; the vendor nodded enthusiastically. “Of course. Are there any other favourites?” Morpheus’s eyes gazed around; he pointed out the other favourites as the vendor put them together, tying them with a ribbon. Delicately placing them in a decorative basket, Morpheus thanked the vendor and paid him before continuing his walk down the street. Morpheus found a chocolate stand and bought some specialty chocolates.

Looking at Big Ben, he wondered what the time was. “Excuse me, do you have the time?” He asked a gentleman passing by, “Eleven fifteen” Morpheus thanked him. He still had fifteen minutes, plenty of time to get where he needed to go. Picking up his pace, he came to his destination; he sighed, knocking on the door as he waited on the front steps. A girl opened the door. She had a big smile on her face “Steve-oh Morpheus, hi”, She laughed. Morpheus nodded his head. “Hello Jane, I was hoping Y/n was here?” He asked; hopefully, Jane nodded and moved aside. “She is so lucky and right in the living room. Y/n, your man is here!” Jane shouted as she waved goodbye to Morpheus, walking out the door, most likely to find Steve, her boyfriend.

Morpheus poked his head with a grin forming on his lips Y/n jumped up from the couch. “Morpheus! I thought you couldn’t make it,” Y/n gasped. Morpheus frowned. “If Lucinene can’t manage the Dreaming for at least one day for me. Then that is an issue.” He smiled, making Y/n’s heart flutter with his words. “And how could I not want to spend the day with you?” He handed her the flowers and chocolates Y/n and touched her mouth. “Oh, Morpheus, they are beautiful. Wisteria!? Where did you find this?” She admired the flowers. Morpheus smirked with a wink as he looked at the flowers, his fingers touching the petals gingerly. “I have my ways”, he murmured with a raised brow Y/n put the flowers in a vase with water and put them on the counter, sitting beside the chocolates. She wrapped her arms around Morpheus, hugging him tightly. “Thank you, I love them”, she kissed his cheek and clapped her hands. “I also have something for you.” She grabbed a small wrapped gift and put it in Morpheus’s hands with a cheeky smile.

Morpheus looked at it strangely and shook it; he grinned, making Y/n laugh. “Open it, you” She bit her lip anxiously, waiting as Morpheus unwrapped the gift, his eyes softened at the present. He looked up at Y/n, his lips parted, pulling out the small ruby stone. “I understand your other ruby was destroyed when you and that incident you don’t like to tell me about. My father recently returned from a business trip and came across this beautiful gem. I asked him to buy it for me so I could give it to you. Do you like it?” She asked nervously. Morpheus felt his heart skip a beat, putting the gemstone back in the box, and he nodded. “I do; I love it, thank you, my darling” He kissed her head and sighed. “I do have one more gift for you. Close your eyes,” He whispered Y/n did as he asked and closed her eyes. Morpheus pulled a ring out of his pocket and fell on one knee. “Can I open my eyes now, Morpheus?” Morpheus chuckled and spoke softly, “Yes” Y/n’s eyes fluttered open, and looking down, her eyes widened.

Morpheus cleared his throat. “Y/n, you know that I, as an Endless, have lived a thousand lifetimes. I have seen love grow and fall through time, and I have never felt the way I have with anyone as I do with you. I have seen your dreams and nightmares. I want to share every moment with you, the highs and the lows. I want you, all of you. My love, any kingdom can have a King, but a King is nothing without his Queen. The most important chess piece, the light of his life. The centre of his heart and affections. So, would you do me the honour of marrying me?”

Morpheus breathed a smile gracing his face Y/n felt tears in her eyes as she nodded. “Yes, Morpheus, oh my goodness, yes” “ she gasped. Morpheus slid the moonstone ring onto her finger, standing on his feet. “It’s so…beautiful, Morpheus” She gazed at the ring. Morpheus smiled. “It came from the Dreaming. Therefore, its connection with you will forever be bonded. And your connection with me comes within our hearts and souls. Wherever I am, near or far, I’ll always be there for you. A King’s duty is to his Queen; her heart and happiness come first. I will always make sure of it,” He whispered, his silver eyes staring into Y/n’s eyes. “I love you, Y/n, forever and always” Morpheus raked his fingers through her hair, and Y/n smiled. “I love you too, Dream of the Endless. Forever and always.” She brushed her nose with his as his lips softly pressed to hers, her arms wrapped around his neck. Pulling apart for air, Morpheus pressed his head to Y/n’s gently, looking into one another’s eyes.

“Happy Valentine’s, Mr Sandman” Y/n laughed lightly. Morpheus chuckled, shaking his head at her comment. His head tilted back, his eyes cast down as he raised a brow, humming lightly before murmuring, “Happy Valentine’s indeed.”

#fluff #morpheus #morpheus x reader #the sandman #tom sturridge #dream of the endless #dream of the endless x reader #missjadesfics #my fic #request #requests open

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thelastofhyde · 11 months

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ii. the revving of engines.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

synopsis. joel miller’s not made it this far in the age of the apocalypse just to die at the hands of some adrenaline-crazed, no-brain-having fool who barely knows where to place her hands on the steering wheel. hind-sight fully intact and ever-so eye opening, he should have said no before frank could even finish his question: can you teach the girl to drive? read part one, the likeability paradox, here !!

warnings. no use of y/n ( joel’s nickname for the reader is sol ), panic attacks, perv!joel, slightly dark!joel, soft!joel ( for like a second ), a smidge of fluff, gun violence, murder, smut ( unprotected piv sex- don’t be silly, wrap that willy-, public sex, car sex but also not, exhibitionism, possessiveness, murder kink [ kinda but not really, joel just gets... more enthusiatic at the thought of protecting the reader], mentions/implications of panty stealing, male masturbation, sex as a form of payment, glory-holes, dubcon. joel has a massive c*ck because i said so <3 )

word count. 16.7k ( my dumbass really thought this would be shorter than part one- )

hyde’s input. this took criminally too long to write but i did warn you that i’m a slow writer, so hopefully this makes up for the wait. think i may be a little in over my head with this one because, woof, there’s a lot going on. i’m still trying to wrap my head around how many people enjoyed the first part, i’m speechless. thank you for every like, comment, reblog, ask that has given me the motivation to not just write a second part but to turn this into a whole series. i’m really looking forward to sharing joel and his sol’s story, and i hope i’ll be able to write it in a way that not only conveys the love i have for these two idiots in love but will also make you guys fall in love and root for them too. more to come of these two soon ( soon = whenever hyde feels like it ) <3

taglist. @kayleezra , @newavenger , @luthienaliceisilra , @str84pedro , @baebee35 , @aheartgonewild ( if you’re crossed out, i couldn’t tag you for whatever reason ) + add yourself to the taglist here !

read on ao3. (capitalisation available )

the journey has been one of silence.

it all begins three days prior to arriving at their destination, with a dishevelled joel startling awake. sitting himself upright, a string of grunts and groans flow from him as several new pains in his back make themselves known, one for each year he’s lived. sleeping on the couch is no place for a man of his age, but it has become his abode more frequently as of late whilst tess has let herself get acquainted with the likes of a recently widowed woman.

why on earth the two women seem to insist on occupying his and tess’ shared mattress for their sweat-provoking and sheet-tangling endeavours when the widow’s own bed now harbours one less occupant, joel is none the wiser.

“you sly fox!” it occurs at an hour much too early for tess’ level of excitement, a spark of something in her voice he’s not quite heard in nearly a decade now, back when she’d let it slip that she’d made contact with someone over the radio. “keeping this all to yourself!”

blinking out the sleep-induced blur in his vision, his hands rub over them in a further effort to clear his sight. the couch squeaks beneath the weight of him as he leans forward, elbows coming to rest on his pointed knees. confusion leaves him in a questioning grunt.

“c’mon, joel, the jig is up!” she’s insisting on maintaining her enthusiasm, and the man has to wonder just how good her night must have been for her to be so chipper come barely an hour past sunrise. “so, who is she?”

with only the sparing of a clueless, sleep-filled glance, joel’s risen to his feet and shouldered past his companion. headed straight for the minuscule kitchen, where once he would have boiled a kettle and prepped himself a mug of instant coffee, nowadays he’s lucky to find enough water to fill a single unwashed cup. he does just that, watching the water fill only a third of the plastic before downing it in one gulp.

tess is hot on his heels, following him through their cramped living space. he sighs, resigning himself to the reality he’s faced with: this is not a conversation she will let him walk away from. be whatever it may be, the woman is hunting for some answers. “what’re ya talkin’ about? ain’t keepin’ shit from you.”

he’s reminded, much to his own dismay, of a time she’d accused him of cutting deals on the side without her, back when her distrust and his aloofness had kept their newfound partnership on edge.

“oh, really?” her voice never loses that sense of excitement, and he’s beginning to wonder whether he should be grateful or resentful of this. the smile on her lips spreads wider over her face. “then explain these, casanova.”

there, dangling over her extended pointer finger, lays a blur of lace.

it is a dainty little thing, a blush of some pastel colour that’s oh so feminine it makes his toes curl at the thought. a tangle of fabrics so delicate he fears they’d fall apart with just a taste of his calloused touch.

it is delicate, it is soft, it is dirty.

and it is yours.

was yours, till he’d ripped it down your legs and stuffed the fabric into the back of his jeans. it was a mindless action, at the time, and one he’d forgotten about, tucked away in the unmarked box in his mind where he’d learned to place most things involving you. sleep-filled eyes, and wine-stained lips, and serenity-inducing laughter, and heavenly-soiled lace. forgotten about, until he’d been stripping himself off at the end of the night and the garment stumbled to the floor at his feet, calling for him like tess’ lover cried her name in pleas of more.

he’d tasted the softness of lace that night, first on his lips and then around his cock, tangled in the unforgiving grip of his frantic hands.

the fabric had not been forgotten since, always within reach of the man. where some kept trinkets of silvers and golds as their symbols of luck, he kept your lace, tucked safely in the back left pocket of his jeans, awaiting his nervous fiddling in times when stress ran high and only the softness of the fabric would pull him back down to earth

“they ain’t mine.” still, he snatches them out of her grasp.

back left pocket, tucked back into safety.

“never said they were,” she has a point, but it only serves to frustrate him. because of course she wasn’t implying they were his to wear- never in a month of sundays would the likes of joel miller fit himself into such well-kept lace-, but she sure as hell believes they are his. “thought i’d be nice for once and clean some of your clothes, since you seem to have forgotten how to. they fell out your pocket while i was busy folding some trousers.”

convenient.

that’s what it is, considering that in their who-knows-how-many years of partnership, the woman has not taken the time to tend to his washing. he’d asked her, once, body recovering from a near-fatal stab he’d taken to the abdomen. she had not said no to his request. or, rather, she had not simply used the word no. ask me again and i’ll finish what those raider’s started.

every surface of the room captures his attention, from the ripped wallpaper to the tattered remains of what once were curtains, anything other than tess, who hovers at his shoulder like a fly to shit.

he needs something to do, to distract.

thinking of the days ahead, he begins a list of things they’ll need- gauze, food rations, water, more gauze. joel has still yet to sharpen their knives, displeased with them since the moment he’d noticed tess’ struggling to cut through a cable wire. did they have enough ammo? maybe he’d need to grovel for some more off of bill-

“who’ve you been fucking, sunshine?”

frozen where he stands. mind in disarray, heart pounding a thousand miles an hour, blood somehow both everywhere and nowhere in his body at once. all he can think is that tess knows. sunshine. she knows, she knows, she knows.

she knows and she’s going to tell frank, who’ll tell bill, who’ll place a target on joel’s head and hit bullseye the moment he so much as tries to step anywhere near you, and then where will joel be? back to facing only the dull grey skies and locking himself away in bone-chilling solitude.

clarity befalls him.

she’s teasing. sunshine. it’s not an answer to her question, it’s a name meant to mock him. tess has no clue, not a single incline to guess what events had transpired in the stillness of the night the last time she’d dragged them out to bill and frank’s. she doesn’t know.

“if you don’t want to tell me,” the words leave her in a sing-song tone, and for a moment he needs to remind himself this is a woman his own age, not a teenager. it would be easy to confuse the two. “i’ll just have to figure it out myself!”

he won’t be the one to tell.

“laura silver.” it’s the first name that comes to mind, and the image it paints in his head brings forth a repulsion unlike no other. he’d rather lick shit off a stick than subject himself to her company willingly. by the twisted-up look on tess’ face, she seems to agree.

“really? isn’t she a bit... chatty for you? and, like, way too happy?”

she has no idea.

the questioning glances only amplify once the two set off, each stop they make along the way- to eat, to sleep, to rest their deteriorating joints- punctuated with that feeling in the air that joel dislikes so much. the unsaid, the unfinished, the more. it makes his stomach lurch with anxious thoughts and his heartbeat cease under the stress they bring.

birds tweeting, wind howling, leaves rustling becomes the soundtrack to their travels, guiding them onwards with encouraging notes and filling the empty pockets of silence that sit between the four, five, six steps he walks ahead of her, fingers curled around a weapon and eyes trained on anything that moves the wrong way. the guts and gore of clickers stabbed and bloaters beaten wet their clothes in the early hours, yet they dry come noon, coating their every inch in a sickening syrup.

“you both got another thing coming if you think he’s gonna let you through the door like that.” joel had not experienced anything like it since the ages where he’d arrive home hours past his curfew, knees scrapped on gravel and clothes stained in mud, stood beneath the dimming porch light as his mother washed him.

only, it is bill who holds the hose instead of the woman who’d raised him.

freshly hosed down, a trail of dripped water marks the space he crosses through the house out into the backyard, losing tess along the way as she calls dibs on showering first- as if joel wouldn’t immediately put himself last in any scenario that involves her.

what he finds is a garden in gloom, infant rosebuds so young and new to life they’ve yet to lose that tinge of green that separates them from the rest of the bush they inhabit. it is the image of winter, casting its blue hue on everything it touches, from the leafless trees to the wolf-eyed dog, who’s tail begins a slow wag from its place upon the floor before the mutt’s jumping up all four paws and bounding its way over to him.

the german shepherd crashes into him like a wave, nearly sending him stumbling backwards. it’s grown in the past weeks, he realises, large paws a little more suited to the length of its stretched back. he fights a fearsome battle to contain the man within him who longs to clap his hands down on the dog’s fur, with an inhale of breath he hopes will drag down the words of praise and greeting aimed towards the pointy-eared creature, joel manages to dismiss the animal with a shrug.

it follows him, even so, as he takes another step out into the yard.

frank’s familiar figure sits within a chair. he’s calm, staring out at his decayed world as though he’s merely waiting for the passing of time to bring back the colourfulness his flowerbeds once possessed. his hair sits the same, his clothes look the same and, yet, something is off. joel can’t quite put his finger on it, all he knows is that this man is half the man he’d bid goodbye to weeks ago.

“sorry for dragging you guys out here again so soon,” his words are gentle, like always, yet his voice is ragged. joel wonders if he too had caught that damn cold. maybe him and tess brought it into the house, leaving behind a tally of germs for the three occupants of the home to choke on. maybe you’d caught it too. maybe you were in need of someone to make you soup and fret over the temperature your body keeps. maybe he should have returned sooner. “but i’m sure bill’s already filled you in.”

bill has done no such thing.

joel shakes his head. frank’s never one to push him to talk, accustomed to the likes of a man who’s short on words and spreads any dose of warmth his soul may posses sparingly. it’s a trait he appreciates, the patience to never expect more. frank talks, joel listens, both of them agree on this dynamic.

“we’ve got nothing for you this time, i’m afraid," joel swallows a snarky then what d’ya call us out for. he’s not subtle enough to go unnoticed by the man who’s known him too long, who chooses to combat the raising of his hackles and the frowning of his brow with calmly spoken words. “but we’ll owe you one. a favour, i mean.”

that recaptures his attention. his shoulders lower in tow with his hostility and the dog nuzzles its muzzle into his hand, forcing him to uncurl his fist. “what’s the catch?” he asks because he knows frank, and he knows that frank knows him, that frank chooses his words wisely when they’re alone. he wouldn’t be beating around the bush, keeping his words vague and his tone secretive, if it weren’t for the fact that joel, likely, will not enjoy partaking in whatever favour they’re about to ask of him.

“we’ve got a truck, in the garage,” he shares, like this is news to joel, like he’d never seen the vehicle in question. “and it’s been a while since it’s had a run-around, breaks are probably squeaky as sin, and-”

“get to the point.”

frank smiles, less uneasy as joel’s usual candor nature gets in the way of his brooding image, interrupting his silent streak with a rushed out jumble of words the man’s sure would sound harsher were they directed at anyone other than the friendly-eyed artist. “can you teach the girl to drive?”

joel’s ability is not being questioned, in truth, but rather his willingness.

the request is sensical, understandable for a girl your age- whatever that may be- to have no experience behind the wheel. the damned mushrooms had likely already taken hold of the world by the time you’d reached the legal driving age.

it is not a difficult task either, he supposes, with no need for every intricate little road rule to be passed down. so long as you can learn to spin the wheel, shift the gears and control the pedals, you’d be good to go.

agreeing to it would also, in theory, be agreeing to the prospective scenario where joel miller finds himself trapped inside the small, four-wheeled confines of a moving vehicle with someone who grinds his gears and haunts his thoughts. there’s so much room to suffer in the solitude of your presence, so much potential to think up what-ifs and if-onlys in his head as you stare back at him, eyes beaming rays of pure-heartedness. i don’t like you, joel. it’ll echo in the distance between you.

“bill can’t do it?” his question is met with a grimace, and he wonders if the man had already attempted. perhaps you are beyond teaching in his eyes and so they’ve settled for calling in joel to deal with your unsalvageable driving skills. perhaps they know you already dislike the man and figured there’d be no harm in giving you more reason to, when he loses his patience and scrutinises your driving skills.

“she won’t let him,” joel’s head snaps up from the floor, eyes shifting from the mutt enjoying the carding of his fingers over its head back to frank. the greys in the man’s hair seem to have multiplied, the wrinkles on his face a little deeper. joel’s struck, his stomach twisting up, with the reality of noticing his friend is growing old. “said she’d sooner trust a clicker behind the wheel than bill. she asked us to call you guys.”

you called.

you wanted him here.

you guys. sure, it may be the collective of both him and tess. but he’s still a part of that equation, meaning you’d willingly brought him close, beckoned his return to the heaven he’d left you in.

one shower later and he’s wadding his way out back, into the garage. hair still a mess of towel-dried curls, clothes fresh and a little unfitting- he’d stolen them from frank, after overhearing the man inform tess he’d taken the liberty of burning their blood soaked clothing.

he’d agreed to the deal, much to frank’s delight and his own shame, mind too enraptured by the prospect of solitude with you to judge the situation at hand clearly.

the door creaks, a beg for oil, and announces joel’s arrival far sooner than he would have preferred, stumbling upon the scene of you. more specifically, the back of you, doubled over. everything from the waist up digging through the backseats of the vehicle, seemingly searching for something, while everything downwards sits on full display for his starved eyes to feast upon. boot covered feet, the hem of the most nonsensical skirt resting upon bare calves, the curvature of thighs beneath silk, the stretch of tightened fabric against your ass.

joel thinks himself a strong man, but he is weakened by the sight.

you startle at his entrance, rushing to straighten yourself so quickly your head smacks against the top of the car’s door frame. a hiss and a pressing of a hand to your head is not enough to comfort the witness of your harm, crossing those three steps forward needed to grip your jumper-covered shoulders and spin you to face him, eyes immediate with their scanning of your features, frantic to confirm you’re not teary-eyed, nor pouty-lipped, nor in the beginnings of a concussion.

“i never heard-" you pause whatever you wish to say when one of his hands covers your own, cradling the back of your head. he’s well-aware this is too close, too unlike him, too noteworthy. but he can not seem to care enough to welcomed back the distance that so often sits between you. “oh, it’s you.”

“sorry to disappoint ya.”

he surely is.

disappointed, confused, conflicted. here you stand, no runny nose, no bloodshot eyes, no scratch in your voice, no need to be cared for. it’s a selfish thing, to feel his heart lurch at the fact you’re in full-health, no pesky cough in sight, but his distaste towards the feeling only makes it double in size.

“no! sorry, i just,” you’re the first to inch back, head tilting to meet his stare with your own. he follows suit, taking your unvocalised desires and stepping away from you, hands back by his own side and vowing to keep themselves there. “i thought it would be tess teaching me.”

so maybe you’d never called for him.

he’s just the tag-along, the con to tess’ pro, the consequence to tess’ presence. you view him like the sun views the moon: a small, dim, lifeless rock that sits in wait every waking day, orbiting around tess’ planet.

it is not news, yet it stings like it. a fresh wound added onto the litter of marks that ache his soul. the pain leaves him in the only way he knows how anymore; a face devoid of emotion.

“not,” you’re uneasy. thrown-off. squitterish. hands tuck up into the sleeves of your sweater and eyes glass over with worry. the possibility that he scares you both lights his soul on fire and sends it to drown in a lake made of his sorrows. “that there’s anything wrong with you! i just... figured you’d have better stuff to do.”

he doesn’t.

“yeah, well, i ain’t doin’ it for free,” his proverbial foot shoots into his mouth, slamming shut whatever small window of opportunity he’d stumbled upon to say the kind thing, to do nice by you for once. i don’t like you, joel. but he could change that, if he just changed his attitude. and his nature. and his sense of being. so, just about everything about himself. it would not be much for the promise of a piece of his sol. it’s much too late for that now and, so, he commits to the role life’s already chosen for him to play, the heartless bastard. “let’s get this over with.”

“jesus christ, sol, didn’t your daddy ever put ya behind the wheel?”

joel’s anger is unjustified.

he’s aware of this, in the back of his mind, yet any rational voices burn into silence at the heat of his ire. only twenty, or thirty, or forty minutes since you’ve hit the open road, since he’d buckled himself into the idea of being alone with you, and the car feels like it’s closing in on itself. every inhale a struggle for oxygen, every exhale a subdued desire.

perfectly manicured nails grip the steering wheel.

counting trees had worked, if only for a while, to keep his focus off everything occupying the driver’s side. the novelty wore off as you passed the thirty seventh in a row, where joel’s eyes finally drifted off from the view ahead to the one on his left.

a pair of lips sit parted in concentration.

he’d needed a new distraction, one he found as he popped open the glove compartment and found a man of his taste’s holy grail. well, at least the holy grail that was found in materials rather than between the thighs of- cds! rock, country, punk. the 70s, the 80s, the 90s. fleetwood mac, the rolling stones, johnny cash. that’s what he’d found, a collection bill must keep to hold an emblem of what the world once was: loud, rhythmic, lively. now static, quiet, lonely. not even a full verse into ring of fire and you’d switched the volume off. “i can’t concentrate with that crap playing.”

half a thigh, exposed by the slit up a skirt.

now he has nowhere to turn, to let himself run off to in thoughts that promise the sweet salvation of distraction. facing forward is not an option, the empty road ahead holding no ounce of his attention. focusing on the right as the world passes by outside the window holds no merit, and no amount of trinkets nor garbage that litter the nooks and crannies of the car helps. his eyes always find their way back to you.

breathtaking in the most painful way, you sit unaware of the effect you have on him. as you shift from third to fourth gear, as your thigh tenses to press down harder on the gas pedal, as nimble fingers unnecessarily practice using the indicators. you don’t see how his frown deepens and he scorns you with his stare.

“he was a bit busy making a name for himself,” you utter a reply minutes too late, when he’s already convinced himself you hadn’t heard him.

your focus is strict, eyes glued on the road as if you’re afraid an obstacle- be it something infected, or something animal, or something malevolent- will come your way. and all the while, joel’s sat in shock, pure fucking eye-widening shock, as the words you utter slowly seep into his brain. minute as it may be, it’s the first detail, the first piece of history you’ve offered of yourself. an absent father, the words cause a dull ache in the left side of his chest.

god, he’s being too quiet, he needs to ask more while you’re willing to answer.

you switch to fifth gear with a delay that would have cost you points back in the days of capitalistic civilisations. the gear-box makes an ugly noise of which the engine follows up with a growl of its own.

panicked, your hand shoots straight back to the gear-shift, curling around it so tight the white bones beneath your knuckles threaten to rip through your skin and put themselves on display. the car slows with the release of your foot off the pedal and he presumes you mean to lower the gears too- perhaps, you’ve thought it best to maintain the safety net provided in the third gear- but you must not be thinking straight, must lack proper motor-control over your body, as your hand pushes down on the stick and, slam!

the car comes to a complete stop.

the sharp pain that cuts up his neck as whiplash takes over, the weight of his upper-half flying forward and stopped only by the seatbelt that crosses over him, it becomes near non-existent as a strangled cry and a whimper of pain comes from the driver’s seat.

a scrambling of hands, a forceful push onto the pedal, a handful of panicked breaths and fearful mutterings of something involving bill and kill and will. none of it helps in the face of your problem. you’re stubborn, however, trying once more to push the stick forward, and getting nowhere. joel tells himself to remain delicate in his touch and composed in his heart as his hand clamps down on top yours, curling his longer digits around the gear-stick and giving it a tug upwards, effortless in his attempt to shift the car out of reverse and back into the first gear.

your eyes meet his. watery, and big, and full of fear.

“musician?” conversation, that will distract you in your moments of panic. he’ll talk you through the fierce currents of racing heartbeats and sweaty palms, till your waters are calm as can be.

the hand that still sits atop your own gives a soft squeeze.

“deep breath, sol,” he leads by example, filling his lungs with a sharp, deep inhale through his nose. you follow, nodding as if you’re in a trance yet you mimic him nonetheless. deep inhale, through the nose, inflate your chest. “atta girl. you’re fine. car’s fine. ya just stalled it, s’all. happens all the time.”

he’s hopeful to be helpful, but then the first tear wins the war over your composure, slipping down your cheek as you shakily exhale. another few- four, he thinks, but can not say for sure- follow suit, staining ugly cristaline rivers down the globes of your cheeks. another inhale from joel, another exhale from you. you breathe in tandem, as if relying on the other to remember such a human act is necessary for survival.

it’s purely instinctual, something as uncontrollable and unpracticed as the beating of his heart or the blinking of his eyes, the way his free hand captures ahold of your cheek. the rough pad of his thumb swipes over the bottom of your eye, so close that he feels the tickle of your lower lashes, collecting whatever tears threaten to fall next.

let them stain his skin instead of yours.

“ya dad,” maybe you need clarification, something to stall the rapidly speeding thoughts that race through your mind. “was he a musician?”

at first, silence. more deep breathing, less shaky exhales. your tears still wet his thumb but they no longer seem to be spilling down your cheek, collecting on your lashes like the dust on a shelf. he thinks of wiping the tears off the untouched side of your face, mostly to settle whatever part of him feels shaken at your distress, yet, as he slowly raises the hand that sits atop yours on the gear-stick, you halt him. fingers tangle messily with his own and squeeze so hard he feels the pressure deep in his bones, threatening to snap like twigs.

and, then, you shake you head.

no.

nonverbal, yet entirely understood by him.

your dad was not a singer. you hear him as much as you feel him. you’re slowly returning. to the car, and to a rational state of mind, and to him. a few moments pass, slipping between you with as much ease as his thumb stroking over your wrist, pushing down just that little bit till he feels the fading thrump-thrumps of a panicked heart. he speaks once you’re ready, once the slow rise and fall of your chest lulls his own self into a state of calm. “gonna need ya to turn the keys in the ignition, think ya can do that?”

you do as he says, inadvertently placing your trust in him and his words, and turn the key. when the car shudders yet fails to come alive, your head snaps right back to him, eyes a pleading mess for answers, guidance, help.

it does wonders to his ego, to that caveman mentality that sadly resides in some corner of his mind. needed, useful, protective. things he doesn’t get to feel with tess, doesn’t need to feel with tess. she takes care of herself, and him, and never asks for a damn thing in return. but you need him, need his calming words and his knowledge of vehicles.

for once, he’s a necessity instead of a casualty in your life.

“foot on the clutch, sol,” his pointed words hold no mockery, becoming a metaphorical rubber-dingy that he tosses your way, one more thing to pull you into the safety of a calm shore.

this time, the engine roars back to life.

you’re elated, a smile splitting up your cheeks even as you let the car crawl to a start, wheels turning slowly as you give the gas a light tap. he sees the way your shoulders sag, like a ten-ton weight has just been stripped off them.

“told ya, s’just a stall,” it’s the nicest i told you so he can offer, especially as the lingering of that nasty feeling still creeps over your actions, subduing you in a way he doesn’t quite enjoy. you should not be meek, nor placid, nor doubtful yet that is all he sees as he watches you hesitantly drive the car into second gear. “used to happen t’me all the time. at the worst times, too. like... intersections and shit. can’t count the times i got flipped off by some truck driver.”

you giggle. quiet, girlish, subtle. joel almost mistakes it for a tickle in your throat, a discomfort you catch yourself coughing over. but, no. your shoulders dance, your lips tilt up, rapid little breaths sneak out your nose. it doesn’t even matter that it’s at his expense, the fact he’s the one to rouse such a delicate reaction despite his rough voice, and rough words and, well, rough everything, it’s enough to settle his soul with a deep contempt.

you continue slowly, not daring to test the power of the car. he says nothing, not a word about the waste of bill’s fuel nor the painfully boring pace at which the world flies by outside the window. you’ll speed up, he knows it, once you get your momentarily lost confidence back. talking seems to be your first approach to easing the tension in your stiff arms. “actor.”

he hums in question, quirking a brow despite your gaze being fixated on nothing but what sits ahead.

“he was an actor. a wannabe actor,” you’re soft spoken, trying your best to keep that shake in your voice under control. “my dad. so... you almost had it right.”

“anything i might know him from?” he tries, and fails, to match the lightness of your voice, his own far too gruff, and dark, and jagged to replicate the smooth edges of your own.

“not unless you had a thing for cheesy teenage romcoms.”

the words seem to take control of him, forcing their way out before he can so much as recognise their existence. “i didn’t but my dau-” if you notice the way he halts himself, you say nothing.

“wanna know the most ironic thing?” he senses no real humour behind the few chuckles you let out, eyes lost ahead. joel wonders if you’re truly seeing the road, or merely looking at it, letting the world blur as your focus sits elsewhere. you await no response before continuing. “the only role he could never master was the present father.”

a father placing his dreams over his child, the idea is one he can’t quite wrap his head around.

joel had had big dreams, once. dreams that involved world tours, and golden records, and screaming fans. those dreams were shoved aside, not even a whisper to be heard in his mind, the moment he held his bundle of joy for the first time. screaming her little lungs off, tiny body covered in fluids he could never name, eyes staring wide back at him as she took in the image of her father for the first time. she became his new dream, his only dream. to hold, protect and love.

just like the stage, he eventually lost that dream too.

“i’m sorry,” he breathes the words out, quiet beneath the hum of the engine.

“why?” you’re not harsh with your delivery. in fact, you even glance momentarily in his direction and shoot him one of those smiles, the ones that steal the spotlight away from everything else and render him frozen beneath it’s shine. nonetheless, joel fears he’s done it once more, offended you without even trying. “it’s not your job to apologise for someone else’s mistake, joel.”

the silence which settles between you once more feels less like the awful quiet of drowning beneath crashing waves and more akin to the static of an untuned radio, with its antenna out of place and detecting no signals. it’s calming to sit like that with you and somewhere between the hum of the engine and the world passing by outside the windows, joel’s mind wanders off into dangerous territories.

territories where he thinks of this exact setting, you driving and him sitting in the passengers side fighting off the sudden languid feeling that grips his soul, only in his imagination it’s later, deep into the night. you’re not alone on the road, a collection of cars passing by and driving ahead, and the smell of cheap beer fills the car. snoring from the backseats, a sleepy girl finally given into the call of sleep after a long day. the image of his hand reaching over the console to find yours, matching silver bands clinking together as he lets himself entwine his fingers with yours.

he jolts up straight, head no longer resting on the window and eyes blinking away whatever make-believe daydream he’d inflicted upon himself, when a sound of anguish comes from your seat.

selfishly indulging in his silly fantasies, joel’d failed to notice your silence was not the same as his. while he bathed in warmth, you quivered in coldness. your nails now threaten to leave marks on the steering wheel, your lips point downwards in a frown, your thigh shakes nervously with each measly push of fuel you give the car.

it’s cruel of him to keep you driving in this state.

“there’s a gas station a few miles from ‘ere,” his words are punctuated by a defeated sigh, already beating himself up mentally for not noticing soon enough the state you’ve been sat in. “pull into it.”

if joel had a nickel for every time he’s seen you in this position, he’d have two nickels.

your chest heaving with every breath, your back pressed to his front, your closed legs stood between his own. flashbacks to the kitchen, all you’re missing is a knife in your hand and a counter-top for him to box you in against.

he’d believe the idea of popping the car’s hood and teaching you a little about the interior of a vehicle was a good one, a smart one, a chance to gain some knowledge that may prove itself useful. the plan was to show you where things sat- the engine, the dip-stick for the oil, the battery- and hope the momentary distraction would be enough to unravel your nerves, leaving you primed and prepped to drive you both back to the home joel would never share with you.

as marvellously innocent and simple as his plan was, he’d failed to take into account one important detail: you’re your own person, capable of things he’d never think to predict. so, when you’d stepped out the now parked truck a few minutes after him, sweater left behind and nothing but some flimsy, practically see-through white tank top, he’d just about felt all the blood drain from his face- and head straight to his crotch- while his eyes done little to hide the glaringly obvious staring at your breasts they indulged in, the blush of colour from pebbled nipples beneath the fabric enough to have him salivating at the thought of putting his mouth on them. “i’m not staining my favourite sweater with oil”, that had been your excuse for torturing him so cruelly.

he’s no better than the old perverts who used to drool over a woman jogging down the street.

“ok, so, this,” you shuffle forwards, feet crunching down on some crumbling gravel below. before joel can let relief flood over his senses at having just that slightest bit of distance between you both, you bend at the hip and lean across the vehicle, hands grabbing at a familiar yellow stick. “is the dip-stick?”

hearing your voice but rendered incapable of listening, he’s frozen. the fingers at his side ball into fists as that familiar beast seduces itself over his senses, flashing images in his mind of all the places he’s yet to place his hands. your neck, your waist, your thighs, the wanton desire to map out your every trace and burn it into his memory is endless, all-consuming.

your voice calls out his name.

he hums, you repeat your question, to which he huffs out an agreement, tongue too heavy to form words.

“then this,” you stretch further, fingertips reaching for the top right corner. not quite reaching your desired object, you shuffle two steps back and send him into turmoil as your ass presses tightly into his crotch. like a wounded animal, he sucks air in through his teeth and clamps his hands down on your hips. initially he means to move you but, inevitably, he holds you against him. “must be the battery.”

the jeans he wears seem to have grown a little tighter. uncomfortably so. still, he can’t bring himself to care, nor to readjust them, grip only clamping itself down tighter on you at the sheer threat of removing them.

he’d thought back to that night, more times that he cares to admit to himself. at first, it was a means to an end, a memory of lustful images to drive him towards some quick pleasure and relieve the pressure of stress off his shoulders, giving him the chance to actually get some sleep. your taste on his tongue, your hands in his hair, the weight of your body keening back into him. he felt it for days. weeks, even, ghosts that haunted his skin.

then came the guilt, seeping in like rain through the crack in tess’ and his ceiling.

he had no right to touching you the way he had. here you are, a glimmer of light that brings warmth into the coldest of place, while there he is, a thunderstorm of emotions all wrapped up in the darkness of rain clouds, threatening to stain and dampen everything he puts his care into. his daughter, dead. his brother, gone. and, hell, even tess has nearly slipped through his weak hold countless times. so, how dare he subject you to the danger of his caress, mark you with the touch of death his heart seems to bring?

hours of tossing and turning, unwrapping himself from tess’ arms as he’d crawl out of bed in the middle of the night to go wear his footprints into the floorboards of their living room, pacing back and forth as withered hands ran through greying hair, searching for some solution to this... this swelling in his heart, ache in his bones, longing in his loins at the memory of you.

bill had asked him once, years ago, what his greatest weakness was. he’d been wise enough to gruff out a harsh nothin’.

his answer has changed, since then.

you reach into the darkness of his spiralling mind and drag him back with three words. “texas, you good?”

he doesn’t quite give you an answer. not a vocal one, at least, settling for giving each of your hips a squeeze when words fail him. he’s gazing in admiration and wonder, eyes trailing themselves over the way you’re struggling to stretch further, the tips of your fingers fighting to reach the object you’d been trying to identify. one moment, you’re huffing over the fight to touch the car’s battery, and the next, you’re sending two tidal waves down joel’s spine: panic and arousal.

maybe, you don’t mean to do it. it could be purely accidental, an action you don’t even take a second to consider after years of living solely in the presence of two men who bare no interest in bending you over any surface. but, you do it.

you whine.

it’s born from pain, your entire frame shooting upright while clutching your hand close to your chest. joel knows that alone should be enough to vanish any explicit thoughts from his mind. the hunger only grows though, his insides twisting up at the notion of you being hurt, needing comfort. a kiss to a bleeding wound, he’d deliver it no questions asked.

his hands are still around your waist. your bodies are still pressed together. he feels every shaky inhale, every heaved exhale. it’s a struggle to pry your injured hand away from the safety of your chest, pulling backwards till your elbow juts outwards and your open palm sits level with his mouth.

it’s your pointer finger, a dark, angry looking mark running halfway down your fingerprints.

“‘s the matter with ya,” worry has always been something joel expresses loudly. raised voices, frantic movements, heavy steps. his brother had called him out on it, the morning after his parental care led to a heated argument and the slamming of doors, from both the pre-teen and the adult in the miller household. it’s a flaw that’s only worsened, with time and circumstance, and it keeps him from saying what he really means. are you okay? “you some kind of idiot or somethin’?” i can’t stand to see you hurt.

“i didn’t think-”

“clearly fuckin’ not!” be more careful. “touchin’ the damn battery like the car ain’t just been stopped!” please.

he’s better with actions, gentle in the physical even as he berates you verbally. he pulls in air through his nostrils before blowing it out through his puckered lips, directly onto the mild burn imprinting itself on your delicate skin. you hiss as his cooling breath makes initial contact and your hand jerks back, fighting to stray away from him. joel fixes his grip, making sure you don’t get too far before he blows a second breath.

“i’m fine,” you’re an awful liar, the grimace on your lips doing nothing to reassure him. at least you’re smart enough to not waste any more energy on fighting against him, slumping forward to rest your hand on the truck’s open hood. “didn’t even hurt that much. i just wasn’t expecting it to be hot.”

with no acknowledgement thrown your way, he huffs out another couple of breaths, mind already running off in thoughts of what comes next. a superficial burn, it should heal in a matter of days. if you’re lucky, the injured skin will merely peal away to reveal a fresh layer. if you’re unlucky, a blister will swell in it’s place.

joel only aims to ensure your luck.

bowing his head and leaning down, he captures your finger between his lips. your breaths catches in your throat as this new angle, new proximity to your face allows his eyes to take in the way your own seem to roll back, lips parted with something unsaid. he drags the tip of his tongue over your wound, which pulses and burns hot beneath his muscle. his tongue flicks back over only for him to lick at the burn once more, this time with a flattened tongue, smothering it in his saliva.

the suckle his lips give is purely selfish.

“that kinda-” a fluttery sort of noise leaves you, a pleasant little thing that seems unable to decide if it wants to be a giggle or a moan. it settles for something in between, unknowingly spurring joel on to suck around your digit again. “it kinda tickles.”

the hand he holds against your hip travels north, halting abruptly as the top of his thumb reaches the swell of your breast. being so affected by a braless chest is something joel thought he’d left behind in teenage-hood. the way his cock twitches in his pants at the knowledge that yours sit bare beneath the thin cotton camisole gives him deja-vu.

in a rushed- and entirely unthought over decision- joel switches the direction of his trail of fingerprints to move south, slipping down past where cotton sits tucked beneath silk. the skirt is soft and inviting. all his sick mind can do is picture you lain across a bed with silk sheets, your naked curves, and pert nipples, and dribbling cunt a whole different kind of soft and inviting.

skin meets skin when he arrives at the top of the skirt’s slit. he wastes no time, fingers dragging themselves under the material to feel the recently discovered terrain of your full thighs. with supple skin, warm and pliable beneath his hold, he indulges himself in letting his grip dig in and squeeze the meaty flesh.

all the while, his tongue licks over your burn.

“otis does that too,” you’re struggling to keep your grip on the car, a delightful realisation for joel. you’d played the innocent for far too long last time, hardly exposing your desires till push came to shove and your knife went clattering out your hand. now you force yourself deeper into his touch, your finger applying pressure to his tongue as it pushes down on the muscle and tickles his tastebuds with the bite of your painted nail. the quiet voice of his subconscious wants you to push deeper, till your digit hits the back of his throat, his eyes sting with tears and he’s gagging around you. “tries to lick wounds better-”

the sight of you shutting up, lips parted in some unheard noise as his hand cups the entirety of your clothed pussy, sends a wave of heat to joel’s already burning loins.

the furnace of your two intertwined bodies shields you both to the slowly dropping temperatures, with no time to spare and no care to give to the grey skies that roll in while he rolls your concealed clit beneath two fingers, pinching once or twice, possibly thrice, in hopes of pushing his emotional aches onto you physically.

fighting against the tight squeeze of your underwear’s band around his wrist, two fingers, a pointer and a middle, smooth their way past your pubic bone, over your aching mound and dip down to swipe over your slit. a soaked mess, a warm and sticky coating, welcomes them as joel strokes the outer surface of your cunt in a lax manner, taking his time to admire how soft your lips feel, how warm your skin burns, how hard your entrance throbs, all the while he’s coating your cunt it’s own liquid pleasure. his mouth drops your hand, the grip his own has on it tightening once more. though, this time, it’s not from the need to keep you in place but from a primal, possessive desire that seduces his rationality. “quit comparin’ me to your fuckin’ dog.”

the hand down your pants has a mind of its own, trading the teasing strokes up the length of your seam for the tight squeeze of your walls around his fingers as they penetrate you- two at the same time, no consideration for the discomfort the sudden sting of breaching your entrance brings.

you seem to like the pain, enough to let go of the vehicle and melt back into joel. your head meets his shoulder as your eyes roll back and your mouth falls slack, legs writhing to fight for more friction. he remains frozen, face a stoic slab void of expression if not for the crease in his brow where his eyebrows have furrowed. the fingers in your cunt curl, slightly, testing your patience with the way they press into the spongy tissue.

“joe- ah...” you fail to say his name, your two lips barely getting the chance to touch as he curls his finger a second time. this time harder, with more certainty in the way he’s touching you. “move, please.”

your lips, parted in gasps and cries that threaten to cut his fun short with the way they likely have his cock staining his briefs in precum, become public enemy number one as he decides they need to be shut, silenced, occupied so that he can hold off blowing his load again before he’s even had the chance to feel you clench around his cock.

with your finger still drenched in his spit, a fat bead of it dripping down the back of your hand, he shoves it into your own mouth, disgustingly intrigued with the way you welcome it so eagerly and drink down the taste of his saliva.

now you’re silenced, joel gives an experimental thrust of his hand, dragging both his fingers out till only the tips tease at your entrance before slamming them back in. the moan you let out is muffled, a sound that titillates him yet no longer threatens his sanity. you find another way to ruin him, however, body jolting and ass rolling back into his form when he starts to set a steady pace to leisurely fuck his fingers into your cunt.

“tried to be fuckin’ good. kept my hands to myself, didn’t- fuck!” he must reach something inside of you, knuckles deep and slick spilling down his hand, that has you mewling, eyes no longer shut as you crane your neck to stare up at him and your hips roll backwards, momentarily smothering his clothed cock between the swell of your silk covered cheeks. “didn’t bring up anythin’ ‘bout the last time i saw ya. but you just ‘ad to go and ruin it now, didn’t ya?”

“leasehmm,” you hum the incoherent babble around your own finger and joel can’t stop himself from forcing it further into your mouth, laser stare sharp enough to burn holes into your throat as he watches you gag.

“c’mon, you can do it,” you’ve got him trapped between your legs, both your thighs and the walls of your cunt clenching his hand in a vice grip as he continues his ministrations, satiating the taste for warm flesh he’s been craving since he slammed the door to the kitchen and tried to fool himself into thinking he could simply make his way back to tess in her drunken state, crash down to sleep on the couch and wake up the next day as if everything that had transpired in the moonlight was just another one of his perverted fantasies. awakening with the taste of you still on his tongue threw all hope out the window. “use your words, pretty girl.”

with an awkward bend, the pad of his thumb brushes over your neglected clit in a gentle circling motion, coaxing you further and further to that ledge of ecstasy he aims to throw you off, plunge you into the heavens of a blinding orgasm. crooking his fingers and grinding his cock into the base of your spine become practiced movements, a kind of push and pull dance his body plays with yours, guiding you both to the beats of your erratic hearts.

“mmmoel,” bless you, really, for trying so hard to speak while chocking on yourself, yet making no attempt to shove his hand away. your well-mannered nature has never made him so hard- and, trust that it has done so plenty of times- as you melt yourself into a writhing mess in his arms, blown out pupils and spit dribbling out the corner of your mouth all the while you do as he bids. “mmhop.”

“‘s the matter, sweet girl? hmm?” you’re close, he knows it. feels it, when your free hand shoots down to grip his wrist through the soft skirt, nails biting flesh even through the layer of silk. he half wonders if this is it, this is where you’re going to rip him off you and slap him in the face with the harsh truth: you’re too good to be touched by the likes of him. only, you simply clutch onto him and let him continue to play you like he’d once played a guitar, fingers plucking at the right strings and pressing on the right cords to make you sing a melody so sweet even the angels themselves would cry at its sound. “cat got your tongue? feels good, i know. ‘s okay, you can let go f’me, not gonna hold it against ya. just gonna hold ya through it, yeah? keep ya real safe in my arms while this pretty little pussy of yours takes what she needs, m’kay?”

the longer you take to tell him to stop, the more debauched the images of you in his mind become. once wishes of butterfly kisses and sweet surrenders beneath his naked embrace, now desires to have you on your knees crying, begging, praying for him to smother you with his sins.

with another thrust, he fucks a third finger into your cunt, stretching you even wider and trying his damn best to ignore the fact you’re still so tight despite the thickness of his fingers. that’ll only lead to his thoughts derailing to how much tighter you’d feel clamped around the girth of his cock.

he’d been modest, back in his younger years, shrugging off the cries of past lovers regarding his well endowed state as nothing more than flirtatious fiction, the kind of thing women would tell their man to make him feel special. only a few years ago he’d started to second guess his assumptions as he began to chase his highs with faceless bodies and all kinds of holes- mouth, cunt and ass.

most of the time his concubines get no chance to truly see his cock, too busy having their face shoved down into gravel, or into some brick wall in a sketchy alleyway, or, simply, the darkness that consumed the walls of the cubicle which kept them from seeing just who exactly they were fucking would also take away their chance to know what they were getting themselves into, what was about to get in to them.

their first reactions always seem to be a crying sort of sound, a sick pleasure washing over him and having his balls tightening. then comes the complaining of too much, too fast, too good, their bodies at odds with themselves and unable to decide if being impaled by him is their worst nightmare or their sweetest dream.

before they can ever decide, he’s ripping away from them and fucking himself to completion with his own hand. a mumbled thanks and- if it was one of those kind of deals- a drop of a med kit or some food rations to their feet, joel would be tucked back into his worn jeans and out of their sight before they’re able to catch their breaths and realise he’d left them there, stretched open and fucked out with no orgasm to show for it.

with you, he’d be different though.

there’s no need for his own pleasure if it came down to choosing between it and your own. the sheer thought of nuzzling his mouth between your thighs and lapping at every inch of your pussy, till his muscle aches and his jaw locks, is enough to have him on the precipice of cumming untouched. so, to think of a scenario where he slips his cock inside your velvet walls and doesn’t leave you a spasming mess after several earth shattering orgasms, over and over till a ring of your mixed juices decorates the base of him and you’ve milked him dry, that feels impossible.

“wait, joel, ah! please, please,” your head thrashes to the side, ripping away from your burned finger. you’re trembling, feet pushing up onto their tippy-toes as he fucks higher and higher into you. the hand around your wrists finds a new home curled around your jaw and his thumb begins it’s torturous circling of your clit once more, pushing and guiding and bullying your aching cunt towards an orgasm that’s sure to leave you breathless and- “stop!”

this time, it’s joel who’s recoiling his scorned hands.

pants fill the air, a desperate fight for oxygen as you stand before him, legs shaky and perked nipples chafing against the see-through fabric of your camisole. thunder cracks above, a deep and trembling noises that joel can’t help but feel fits the ambience, turmoil in both the sky and his heart.

he knows its for the best, to have you put your foot down and put an end to this ridiculous pursuit of lust joel’s imposing on you. not only have you made it clear you do not like him, but you’re younger, full of life, heart too mellow for a soul as dark as his. still, disappointment floods his bones.

both hands back at his side, he clenches them. wrong move, only serving to remind him one of his hands is smothered in your wetness, a schlick squelch bouncing up to his eardrums. you’ve turned to look at him, at some point. he notices the slight swell of your lips and the blown-out pupils, try though he might to ignore it.

staring right at him, you seem to be almost waiting on a reaction.

“‘s gettin’ dark, should prolly think of headin’ back,” joel won’t give you the satisfaction of hearing him beg, not when he knows it’ll get him nowhere. the hood, that’s what he should be focusing on. he shoots a hand up and slams the hood shut, fighting the urge to let his stare linger on the stain his pleasure soaked fingers leave behind on the blue painted metal. “bill and frank’ll be wonder-”

you call his name.

he can’t look at you, fingers fidgeting with some scab on his hand.

you try again. louder.

a sigh of resignation. he turns to face you, leaning back against the truck. the quirk of his brow enough to encourage you to get on with it, say what you need to say. paint him in shame, call him some names and then let you both be on your way.

you seem to take it as an invitation to approach. one step, then two more when he fails to back away. with a final step, you’re stood right before him, forcing yourself between the space of his parted legs. he’s never had you this close before, at least not with you facing him, and it’s almost too much. the familiar anxious pit in his loins creeps back, leaving him all too aware of the sound of his own blood rushing through his veins.

you smell... christmassy. burnt wood, dusted cinnamon, mulled wine. warm.

he can’t remember the last time he even thought of christmas.

he jolts at the feeling of your hands on his thighs, the coldness of them burning through the rough material of his pants. he’s not sure when it happened but he somehow finds himself sitting on the truck’s hood, hands splayed out on either side of him and knees bent over the edge as he parts way for you between them.

your hands smooth up the muscles of his thighs, up and down in repeated motions. soothing, calming. his heart beats a little slower with each movement.

only to jackhammer against his ribcage as your touch begins to move higher.

“i didn’t mean stop as in, stop touching me,” you breathe out the words like they’re the most delicate of secrets, only for his ears and your own to know. fingers threading through belt loops. a pull or two. he’s vaguely aware of the sound of metal clinking as you release him from the strain of it’s buckle, and the biting sound of teeth unzipping. “just... just wanna see you... feel you this time, when i... if that’s okay with you.”

he’s nodding his head before you can even finish your words, nearly crumbling as your fingers brush against his bulge. “‘smore than fine by me. shit, that’s... yeah.”

a pathetic man, that’s what he’s become, a meek shadow to the man who moments ago had you on the precipice of cumming around his fingers while you babbled incoherently. you seem to have turned the tide, whether you’re aware of it or not, hand sinking beneath the withered band of his boxers.

you don’t give him the relief he wants- needs- instantly. instead, you tease, fingertips dancing down the underside of his shaft and following the trail of a vein he doubts you’re even aware of. sliding back up to his tip, you revel in the weakness he displays as you brush over heightened nerves, sensitive to your touch and stained in earlier excitement.

“you’re warm,” is not exactly what he’d expected you to say, if he’s honest. that doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy it, mind firing into overdrive as you fully wrap yourself around his cock. ignoring the chafing, you work your hand over him, grow familiar with the length of him, tip to base. “big.”

with your free hand, you do your best to peel back the layers of fabric till nothing stands in your path of gazing at his cock, heavy in your palm and red at the tip.

“yeah? ‘s bigger than you’re used to, ain’t it?” joel coos, you nod, tongue darting out to wet your lips as your eyes meet his. wide, glossy, intrigued, a mirror of the scared look you’ve worn when you’d stalled the car.

joel groans at the memory, the way he’d taken care of you, coaxed you back to a rational state of mind.

he wants more of that, more chances to protect you.

even if it’s against your own mind.

“‘s okay, sol, you’ll learn to take it,” you keen at his words, sinking closer to him, shoes scratching on the gravel beneath you. you squeeze your hand around him and he chokes on an inhale. “gonna teach ya to take it like a champ.”

he reaches behind him, tugging the gun out the back of his trousers. he was stupid to place it there in the first place, a rushed action he’d made when stepping out the vehicle. he hadn’t wanted you to see the weapon, to be reminded that the world outside bill and frank- the world joel resides in- is not safe, not from infected and certainly not from people.

before he can put it to rest on the hood, you snatch it out his hand.

you’re inspecting it like it’s the first you’ve ever seen, yet the way you perfectly wrap your hand around it and point past his shoulders tells him otherwise. there’s familiarity in your stance, like you’d once lived under rules where bill didn’t prohibit you from touching a firearm. it has him wondering, longing to know who you were before. where you’d come from, how you’d met the two men you share a roof with.

you play with the safety, snapping his attention right back to the present.

the sight of the gun in your hand fills him dread. and misery. and a sense of nausea. you’re far from weak, no matter how much he’d like you to be, but there’s just something fundamentally wrong with the image of you holding such a destructive weapon.

you should be holding otis’ lead. or a canvas depicting frank’s recent masterpiece. or the end of some wine bottle bill’s struggling to open.

or joel’s hand.

instead of speaking his mind, he pries it from you with a huff- from both of you- and lays it to rest somewhere towards his right, out of sight and out of mind. “‘s not some toy for a girl like you to be messin’ about with.”

“neither are you,” you make a point to rack your pretty nails over the untamed curls of his pubic hair, the occasional flash of silver a reminder of his aging state. you don’t seem to notice, or care, too busy bringing the attention back to his leaking tip.

a sound adjacent to a growl escapes him, feral and domineering. shame exists within him, for a moment, witnessing himself be at such a loss of control. when his hands find purchase on your waist, the feeling dissipates and what takes it’s place is pure adulterated need, throbbing in his very core.

he tugs you forward, closer, catching the way you’re struggling to reach him, hand gripping his thigh for support.

“y’gonna hurry on up ‘ere,” impatience punctuates the soul, driving him off the cliff of sanity and plunging head first into the rocky territories below. “or d’ya need me to do all the work? lay ya down, nice and pretty on the hood so i can fuck you?”

you deny his offer with actions, clambering your way into his lap, legs splayed out either side of his thighs. the skirt bunches awkwardly between you both and steals his view as you rest down against his stiffness and smother it in the warmth of your clothed cunt.

there’s dampness on your panties, teasing him as you give an experimental roll along his cock, holding it tight between both your bodies.

“shit, joel,” a hiss through your clenched teeth and your face twisting up in something- pain? arousal? both? he can’t quite pinpoint it. your hips roll again, this time reaching higher, teasing him with a visual of what’s to come. “feel so thick, don’t know how i’m gonna-”

“didn’t i already tell ya-” he grabs at your skirt, irritation clear in the way he rips it up the length of your legs, exposing your skin inch by inch. “you’re gonna learn to take it?”

your hand dives under the fabric before his can, fingers curling around his cock once again and giving him a salacious stroke, taking your time gliding over the smooth skin and sensitive head. “mhmm. you gonna teach me?”

he nods, affirmative.

the next few minutes are nothing but messy grinding. like a pair of hormone-crazed teens, you explore the joys of rubbing up on each other. two pieces of wet wood searching for that spark in between. you make the most effort, working the muscles in your thighs to slide up the length of him and to grind back down, the wet patch in your panties growing with each stroke. joel sits back, allows himself the rare luxury of being taking care of. the last time he had a pretty girl in his lap, she had solace in her eyes and a couple twenties stuffed down her sparkly bra.

“what d’ya bring me ‘ere for,” he’d berated his younger brother after, his anger seemingly coming across as unserious to a giggling tommy, “was fuckin’ depressin’. kept lookin’ at those girls and thinkin’ bout if their poor dads knew what they were up to.”

he can’t help but wonder if bill and frank know what you’re up to.

“hey, hey, wait,” the words tumble out of him erratically as he catches up to your actions, the hand around his cock suddenly holding it still as you raise your hips. his hands pull and grab at the fabric of your skirt, a frustrated grunt slipping out of him as he hoists it up past your waist. this time, you’re covered by a shade of baby blue cotton instead of lace, less sultry yet far more appealing in his eyes. comfortable, that’s what they look like, the kind of pair he’d find you wearing stood in a kitchen in the early hours of the morning, one of his wrinkled old t-shirts the only thing keeping your frame concealed. joel’d always had a good imagination, and it serves him well, decorating his mind with several images of a domestic bliss he’d never get to share with you. “lemme see.”

you’re a smart girl, it’s one of your best qualities, and so you need no further instructions to understand what joel’s asking for.

he watches like a hawk as your fingers tug your panties to one side, a pretty window of slick covered skin that has him involuntarily jutting his hips up off the truck, his head slipping up your seam and pressing into your clit, an action that sparks the reaction of your own hips grinding down. you recover quick, hand back on the task of gripping his base and holding him, while your over reaches back to grip his knee, giving you a grip to steady yourself on as you straighten your thighs.

“this what you want,” your voice calls through the lustful haze in his mind as he takes in the sight of you sinking down onto him, the head of his cock fitting snuggly between your velvet walls. it’s almost enough to make him cum on sight. “to watch? me sitting on your dick?”

joel wonders if you’re trying to shame his desires. ultimately, he’s too lost in the way you cling around him to really care. if anything, he almost wants you to be disgusted by him, making the act of devouring your pleasure that much more sinful.

hands grip at your hips, with moon-shape indents forming around where his nails dig into your flesh. patience is a virtue he scarcely possess but he forces it on himself, fighting back the need to slam you right down on him and carve a home out for his hot cum inside your empty womb. he can’t allow himself the fast-paced indulgence he’s used to, not when he sees the deep breaths you need to take or the pained wrinkle in your brow with each inch you sink deeper and deeper down on him with.

he let’s you take your time, eyes starring with a crazed expression at the point your bodies meet. once he’s fully nestled inside the warmth of your cunt, your forehead rests against his own and he’s forced to look into your eyes and once again notice the way your pupils sit dilated in lust.

it’s a sight he’d like to get used to.

“kinda regretting this,” dread plummets through his heart and a ball forms in his throat. your walls hold him in a vice grip that seems to contradict your statement, until you clarify. “thinking i could take it like this. i’ve never, you know, in this position before-”

“you’re doin’ great,” joel’s own voice sounds pained, straining beneath the buzzing energy that’s begging him to relinquish control to his lust. it would be so easy, effortless even, to grip your hips and fuck you down onto him like you’re nothing if not a hole to get himself off in. unfortunately, his heart stands in the way. “shit, fuckin’ better than great.”

neither of you keep time of how long you sit like that, pelvis to pelvis, his cock buried into the hilt and a puddle of your wetness collecting along his pubic bone, the bristle hairs providing a rough friction for your clit.

eventually, initiative is taken, and you work up the nerve to roll your hips.

the view he’d been enjoying is stolen as your skirt slips back down to pool around you both, his hands too occupied gripping at your waist as your own find home on his sturdy shoulders.

another roll of of your body, slow and steady, lighting every nerve in his cock on fire with the sweet burn of your cunt fighting to keep him inside, refusing to let him slip too far out before you’re filling yourself back up again. your lips fall open in a pathetic moan, the sweet smell of your breath hitting his nostrils as you sit forehead to forehead.

and joel wonders if there’ll ever be a part of you he’s not enamoured by.

your confidence grows as you begin to set a pace, bouncing yourself up and down in his lap as joel grips here, there and everywhere on your body. a pinch to your hardened nipples, a trace of your hidden thighs, a cradling of your face. there’s not an inch of you he wants to neglect, staining his fingerprints all over you with every frantic touch.

this is nothing like the back-alley exchanges of body heat he’s grown accustomed to, this is nothing rushed and everything felt. it’s a carnal hunger for the feel of flesh and the taste of sweat. it’s feral, and lustful, and downright intoxicating. it’s the need to get his fill of you over, and over, and over again, till the fountain of your velvet warmth overflows with his seed and has nowhere else to run but down the length of your full thighs and dripping onto his emptied balls below.

“joel, please,” he decides he likes you much better like this, your whole body gripping itself around him-arms, legs, soaked cunt- in search of a sweet salvation only he can bring as your usual bright smile and quick tongue become reduced to nothing but whimpered breaths and desperate prayers. “i’m- god, i can’t-”

your thighs tremble as he tightens his hold, keeping you steady when the exhaustion of exhilarating yourself on top of him begins to take a hold of you. the need to take over becomes primal, blunt nails tearing into the meat of your thighs and bouncing you down on him with an effortless look he hopes will fool you out of noticing he’s seconds away from blowing his load prematurely, mind and body too close to the edge of nirvana from simply having the weight of you on him.

he just needs to get you there first.

“hate this fucking skirt,” the grumble was meant to be a thought he keeps to himself, but the giggle it rouses out of you makes it worth the slip-up, your own hands delivering the mercy of helping him drag the length of it farther up, marking a clear path for his own to sneak under and find your pulsing clit. “don’t wear it again.”

a few tight circles with just the right amount of pressure has you melting deeper into him, your arms curling around him as your head lays itself to rest upon his shoulder. your every breath delivers a brush of heat against his already burning skin and he wishes there were no plaid shirts nor camisoles resting between your heartbeats.

“but it’s so,” he must have struck gold, found some hidden gem in the combination of the pressure of his fingers on your clit and the rhythm at which he’s fucking you down onto his cock, for you clamp down on him so tightly he worries you may cut off his circulation. “soft and, oh, yes! and it- it fits me so perfectly-”

“not sure if you’re talkin’ bout your skirt or your pussy,” he grunts out, a teasing smirk on his mouth that dies the instance his lips press to your neck, nose chasing the scent of your lingering shampoo.

“you’re so-” he’s so, what? you don’t get to finish, hand fisting into his hair and moans falling from your lips like autumn leaves.

“tsk, look at ya,” he certainly is, and loving every inch of you he sees, hips rolling down with the guidance of his hands, head tucked safely away from the world in the crook of his neck, hands gripping any part of him they seem to reach. if art is subjective, then you’re the damned mona lisa, the starry night, the birth of venus. “can’t even fuckin’ speak properly, mouth’s good for nothin’ when you’re full of cock.”

you nod into him, hips moving faster, nails digging deeper, moans getting louder. he’s got you so close, a few more thrusts till he’s sure to have you flying off the handles and cumming around him.

you whine his name.

he meets the roll of your hips with the raising of his own.

a pull of hair, a bite of skin, and then you’re-

“oh shit, ain’t this a pretty sight.”

joel’s blood runs cold.

you’re frozen against him.

just past your shoulder, directly in joel’s eye-line, by the gas station’s entry stands a man. he’s younger than joel, maybe even younger than you. his clothes are stained in all sorts- sweat, dried blood, mud- and are tattered, as if he’s been wearing the same thing everyday. the strap of a backpack sits over one shoulder and he seems to be carrying no weapons but the hunting knife in his belt.

the intruder- if he can even be called that out in the openness of the world- takes a couple steps closer but they’re not full of confidence. if anything, his frame seems just as shaken as you both, fingers fidgeting with the adjustable cord of the bag’s strap.

“please, don’t stop on my account,” he seems to be trying to play it cool, but fails to let out the light-hearted chuckle he intends to, a noise more similar to a choke taking its place. “heck, give me a little performance even”

joel’s not sure what’s gotten into him- if it’s the fact he’d been moments away from making you cum, or the dropping temperatures that have you sinking deeper into his warm body, or the sheer desire to possess you so intimately under someone else’s knowledge- but he finds himself rutting up into you again.

you don’t join in, limbs still locked in shocked, yet a moan is breathed into his neck.

“shit, man,” the stranger sounds amazed, as if not even he thought joel would gift him such a sight. his hands find something new to fidget with, struggling to undo the buckle of his tattered leather belt. “pull up her skirt, lemme see how she’s taking you.”

he obliges and bunches the fabric up in his hands, exposing the sight that lays beneath. it’s not the explicit sight the man must be hoping for, the snug fit of his cock inside your cunt mostly concealed by your pushed-aside panties.

unable to stop himself, joel wonders if this man would prefer you in something more scandalous than the blue cotton that he so deeply adores.

“sorry- fuck! just, it’s just been a while,” the buckle comes undone at last, a button and a zipper follow. one hand dips beneath the waist band of the man’s boxers. “swear i’m not trynna be a creep, or nuffin’. can you... could you squeeze her ass? wanna see how much of a hand full she is.”

this time around, you let out a sound that’s less pleasant to joel’s ears, a far cry from pleasured as he so greedily cups a handful of your ass. the realisation that, though your body may contradict you with the canting of your hips into his or the continued arousal you drip between your pelvises, you’re not enjoying this, hits him like a truck.

you’re not moaning in pleasure, you’re whimpering in fear. you’re not shaking because you’re cold, you’re shaking because you’re scared. this man is scaring you.

joel is letting him scare you.

“swear i’ll just- a few minutes and i’ll be out your hair, ok?” the man’s fumbling, bag dropping off his shoulder down onto the floor as he works over his cock. joel wonders if it’s uncomfortable, stroking himself without the help of spit to ease the slide, and scoots his hand over to his right, fingers slipping over the hood in search. “just really need this, man, you’ve no idea how it gets out here on your own-”

nothing usually crosses joel’s mind when he pulls a trigger.

becoming numb to it, blanking one’s mind, treating it as normal. it’s the only way to come out the other side of it without it weighing on your conscious. it was built over time, the first few months a struggle to even touch a gun after what happened on outbreak day. shooting humans had always been the easy part, reminding himself there’s an evil in them he doesn’t need to meet to know it exists. the infected, he’d struggled, compassion sinking deep into the pit of his stomach as he’d glance at their once-alive eyes, now nothing but a breeding ground for some mushroom.

the shot rings out, moments after the bullet hits its target and, this time, you cross his mind.

defenceless, shaking, clinging onto him. it’s shameful to admit that it turns him on, has his balls throbbing with unloaded cum, to protect you. to play the role of saviour, supporter, guardian to the fearful girl in his lap.

he doesn’t even care enough to spare the dead man a look, eyes back on you.

you’re already staring right back at him, shock written all over your face. “you... you killed him.”

“he was holdin’ a gun, sol,” he’s not sure if it makes you feel any better. you do, however, seem to shuffle closer to him, chest to chest as you take in what he’s telling you. “was gonna fire a few rounds into me and then where would that leave ya, huh? free for the taken.”

thunder roars above your heads.

your brows furrow, conflictive expressions taking over you while you assess what’s just happened. he tries not to think too much about the fact his cock is still very much nestled inside your soaked pussy, throbbing with the impending release life keeps stealing away from you both.

“you killed him.” you repeat, more sure in your words this time.

“i did.”

lightning lights up the darkening sky.

“i should be scared of you.”

“you should.”

one last rumble from the storm clouds.

“but i’m not.”

the heavens above seem to open as cold, thick drops of water fall from the sky, quickly soaking everything they meet. the gravel, his shirt, your hair. the rain seems to have no boundaries, slipping between you both and filling the little gaps it manages to find.

neither of you move from where you’re seated, letting the cold overtake your bodies. you both use it as an excuse to move closer, arms tangling around one another as you stare each other down with judgement, assessing what either will do next.

you call the shots, experimentally rolling your hips, testing the waters to see where he’s at.

joel meets you just where you want him to, touches more frantic than before and far more sloppy, neither of you conscious of the goosebumps that line your skins as you indulge in one another’s bodies, fucking beneath the pouring rain like some silly scene out of a romance film.

“i was protectin’ you,” he breathes onto your neck, mouthing at your flesh and enjoying the thudding of your pulse beneath his tongue. “keepin’ you safe, sol. ‘s what i do, what i’ll always do.”

it’s unclear if the words are meant to assure you or himself.

it doesn’t take long till you’re both back at the edge of glorious relief, the unmet orgasms from earlier rearing their heads all at once and flooding over both of you. one of his hands snakes it’s way under your skirt to rub at your clit, while one of your own threads itself in his hair and tugs sharply, till he feels a sting in his scalp.

what a sight it is to behold as you cum, eyes rolled back, lips parted in a mute scream, soaked hair sticking to your forehead and every other place it touches. joel wants to see you through to the very end, hold you while you shake and break completely on his cock, but the warmth that creeps up his loins takes that priviledge away.

only as the first spurt of thick cum shoots out of him does joel manage to rip you off him, jostling you further up his lap and providing him with the friction of your ass cheeks to sooth over his spasming member as he paints your lower back and inner skirt in his pleasure.

he watches you falling apart in the heat of your orgasm and his bones ache a little less, his soul feels a little lighter, his heart seems to beat a little better.

joel never manages to put his thoughts into words quite properly.

“you’re not,” he breaths out, shaky. you’re still rutting against his limp cock, soaking him with your slick and whimpering into his shoulder as his head bumps against your aching clit, the come down from your orgasm hitting you harder than his. he’s vaguely aware of how tightly he’s gripping you, arms holding you flush, anchoring you down against him as the rain continues to pour. “you’re not real.”

you’re mumbling something but it falls on deaf ears as joel fails to reel his thoughts in, eyes skittish as they jump from watching water crash against the windows of the deserted gas station to the limp body of the stranger, cock still in his hand and a bullet straight through his forehead, a sick red washing away along the gravel.

“...here. i’m real, joel,” a kiss pressed to his forehead. you’re gentle with him, whispering into his good ear and he wonders if you know he can hear you better on this side, he’d never mentioned it. a hand coaxes his own off your waist and guides it upwards, pressing against the left side of your chest. rapid thumps. you mimic the movement, hand pressing against his own heart as you rest your forehead against his. “i’m here. we’re both here.”

joel drives back.

there’s no prior discussion where you agree on this. he simply cleans you both up- to the best of his abilities-, sits you down in the passengers seat and walks his way round to the driver’s side. it’s silent, and this time it’s the uncomfortable kind. the kind that wrestles with his mind and puts discomfort in his heart. there’s something unspoken between you both and he does not know how to begin to talk about it, not without the risk of messing it all up.

you don’t protest this time around when he turns on one of bill’s old cd’s, and, so, billy joel sings you all the way home.

at some point, he convinces himself you’ve fallen prey to sleep, eyes closed and head slumped to the side, searching for the safety of something to rest itself on. slowing to a stop, he takes his time undoing your seatbelt and maneuvering your lax limbs till your head meets his shoulder. the drive onwards is slower, more careful as he drives over any bump in the road and each turning he takes less sharp.

“i owe you a thank you,” you eventually mumble, weight still leaning against him and eyes very much shut.

he nods, though you do not see it. “okay.”

it’s all he can think to say, unsure what a girl like you could ever thank him for. all he’s done since the moment he met you is dampen your shine and stain your kindness with rough hands and a rougher heart.

“for, you know, not telling tess,” your response brings more questions than answers. not telling tess what? “i just... she’d hate me, if she knew, and she’s some of the only family i have left. i couldn’t stand to lose her over a few... mistaken moments between us.”

joel wonders if he’s part of this short list of family you have.

he doubts it.

“don’t see why she’d care,” he’s choosing to ignore that word, mistaken, yet it’s not enough to stop his fingers from twisting tighter around the wheel, tension in his wounded heart.

“of course you wouldn’t,” you wrestle down a yawn and nestle your head deeper into the crook of his neck, body hunched in a position he can’t imagine to be too comfortable. he keeps this thought to himself, decidedly enjoying this false image of tender touch. you ground him, weight down on his paper-thin mind-state like a rock that promises to keep all his pages in place. “you’re careless.”

there you go again, displaying such casual cruelty.

you’re careless.

how twisted life is to give him everything he’s worked so hard to be- a man feared, untested, unmessed with- only for his every want become his waking nightmare as it sits on your own lips.

i don’t like you, joel.

“‘s that why ya don’t like me?” he can’t help himself, even if he wanted to.

“i don’t like you because you-” a pull of breath. an opening of eyes. a raise of a head. you don’t make it far before he’s raising a hand off the wheel to encourage you back down to rest upon him, half-worrying he’ll be strown apart by the next gust of wind should he lose the weight of your head on his shoulder. “i can’t tell you.”

“why not?”

“you never brought me that dress.”

there’s no answer he can give that won’t incriminate him and steer you on the clear path to see just how caring a man like him can be. every fabric he’s seen the wrong colour, the wrong length, the wrong style for you. the closest he’d gotten to finding a dress worthy enough of slipping down your skin was stripped from the corpse of a woman joel’d been tasked with disposing of. in a moment of weakness, he’d nearly taken it, till his skin began to crawl with the implications of gifting you a dead woman’s dress, the last piece of clothing she’d worn while her blood was still warm and her lungs filled with air.

you fall asleep, for real this time, not even stirring as he maneuvers himself out of his jacket and drapes it over your damp figure, body sinking deeper into his own- as deep as the console between you allows.

night has taken hold of the sky by the time he pulls into the fenced community, headlights lighting up the path back into the garage. pulling the car to a stop, joel eases your weight off him and steps out the car, mindful of how he closes the door over. he makes his way around to the passenger side and pries the door open to find you still sleeping, peaceful as can be, the dull army green of his jacket contrasting the pastel shade of your skirt.

he takes a moment, sinking to his knees, and let’s himself indulge in the image of you like this a little longer, before the watchful eyes of bill or the curious glances of tess stand between the ways joel longs to look at you. softness greets his thumb as it brushes over your cheek. you seek out his warmth, chasing it even as he moves downwards to swipe at the dribble of spit threatening to spill out your slacked lips.

if he were a better liar, perhaps he’d claim this was his way of attempting to wake you up.

“what happened?” frank is the first to greet him, eyes blown a little wider than usual as he takes in the sight of you curled against joel, one arm round your back and another under your knees keeping the weight of you off the ground. “is she okay?”

“nothin’s happened,” the man’s reactions to joel’s return to the house has brought on more pairs of eyes, tess and bill flooding out the kitchen to catch a glimpse of him in the hallway. “she’s just tired. ‘s been a long day and-”

“your clothes are wet.” bill’s eyes are glaring, tearing apart every detail they can pick up: the gentle grip he holds you with, your sweater thrown over his shoulder, the peaceful manner in which your sleeping form sinks into his warmth, the jacket that’s slowly slipping down your form to reveal bare shoulders and soaked cotton.

his tongue feels heavy, his mouth turning to sandpaper as the anxious feeling of being watched dries up his senses. hardly aware of it, he’s straightening his spine and puffing his chest, staring the older man down before flickering over to where tess stands, face much kinder looking as she watches you sleep. “you just gonna stand there, or are ya gonna show me her room ‘fore my back gives out?”

that seems to get the ball rolling, all questioning and staring left behind as frank guides him three doors down and slips the door open, stepping aside to let joel in. he doesn’t bother hitting the light, a part of him not wanting to pick up any details to linger on around your room, using what little light the moon provides to find his way over to the bed. frank’s gaze is burning a hole in joel’s back even as he drops you down onto the mattress, and it’s almost like he can hear the buzz of energy radiating from everything the man wants to ask him.

it’s not till the four of them sit the dining table and joel’s shovelling a fork-load of food into his mouth that the next question comes.

“why was her sweater dry?” it’s tess who asks, punctuating it with an obnoxious sip from her glass.

all eyes are on Joel, a spotlight she’d shun directly on him and leaving him on display. bill, in particular, seems to be clinging to his every movement, anticipating his answer with the clenching of fingers around the steak knife in his hand.

“what?” it’s all he can manage without the fear of saying too much.

“your clothes were all wet. but her sweater, on your shoulder, it was dry.”

how had tess even noticed that?

“she took it off,” it takes a couple minutes to answer, a pause he tries to play off as simply his need to chew on the food he shovels into his mouth at last. it feels heavy, slipping down his throat, like he can already anticipate it’s return to the surface alongside his bile. “said somethin’ bout not wantin’ to get oil on it when i told her i was gonna show her the different parts of the engine.”

silence.

eyes shooting back and forth.

tess looks at frank.

frank looks at bill.

bill loathes at joel.

and then, “oh.”

tess says it like it’s the start of a sentence, an audible ellipses that she’s refusing to elaborate on.

“oh.” joel parrots, hoping they’ll drop the topic and allow him to go back to the raging waters thrashing around in his thoughts.

luck is not on his side.

“that makes sense,” the woman continues, attempting to cut the tension with an airy chuckle and a shrugging of her shoulders, as if doing so will shake the tension out of everyone else’s. “was worried that poor girl was running around with her tits out in front of the likes of you.”

bill grips tighter around his cutlery, knuckles white under the dining room light.

straightening up, a momentary lapse of judgement and a foolish flash of red hot possession shoots over him, embarking him on the road to saying perhaps the dumbest thing he’s ever said.

“would that be so bad?”

a hand smacks down on the table. a chair scrapes, another following right after.

“bill,” frank’s tone is nothing if not a warning, hand on the man’s forearm as he soothes his thumb over his skin.

“it’s late,” it comes after a deep breath, the kind a shrink would teach you to use in times of stress, or fear, or anger. bill isn’t even acknowledging tess, fully focused on joel. “you should get going.”

plates half full, bellies half empty, the four of them step away from the table. tess slips on a jacket, one she’d not had prior to arriving, and passes joel a loaded bag. he figures she must have had her pick around the old clothes shop, loitering whatever was left that could either fit them or keep them warm through the remainder of the cold months.

he throws it over his shoulder without question.

the air has shifted, a tense feeling floating around the atmosphere that exists between him and bill. tess and frank are seemingly unaware of it, laughing and talking amongst themselves as the group makes their way to the front door.

joel is the last to step out and, in doing so, he pauses, glancing backwards into the open doorway.

he calls out to tess, all three heads turn.

“need a piss.”

“take your time,” it’s the friendlier of the two men who responds, threading his arm around bill’s and dragging him along with him. it reminds him of why he likes frank more. “we’ll walk tess to the gate.”

he watches the three figures fade away into the dark of the street, carefully stepping back into the house once he feels the safety of distance. he tries to keep his footsteps light, suddenly aware of how quiet the place feels without the panting of a dog or the rustling of someone in the kitchen. he counts the doors as he goes- one, two, three- and turns the handle of the third.

the room is still dark, but that’s okay. he’s used to darkness. his eyes carefully scan the floor with each step he takes closer to the bed, watching out for any discarded dog toy or worn clothing splayed across it. at some point, his steps meet carpet instead of cold floor. he’d not noticed it earlier, but then his sense had been rather focused on the precious cargo he carried.

he finds you where he left you, hair a mess upon your pillow and chest rising steadily in the breaths of deep sleep. only, you’ve gained a companion, the unmistakeable beady-eyed stare of the german shepherd meeting joel’s in the dark. the dog makes a noise, half whimper half whine, and the tip of its bushy tail begins to beat against the mattress, matching the rhythm of joel’s heart.

like before, he lets his hand brush your cheek. instead of wiping saliva, he brushes a few stray hairs away from your peaceful face. you shift and he panics, fearful you’ve awakened, only to relax as you sink deeper into the pillow.

his hand lingers longer than necessary.

another whine from the mutt gives him the will to at last pull away from you, trading your soft cheek for the smooth fur along the dog’s head. his fingers card through it, nails digging a little to scratch at otis’ scalp.

“you take care of her,” for me. “alright bud?”

he must be losing his mind, for he swears he feels the dog nod.

the steps he takes on his way out are less careful, though he’s slowed by the amount of times he seems to insist on turning back to glance at the bed. maybe it’s for comfort, the peace of mind of knowing he’d brought you back safe and sound.

maybe it’s with longing, his aching joints begging for him to crawl his way in beside you, cocooning you between himself and the ball of fluff behind you.

shaking his head, an array of self-aimed insults plough through his mind, joel curls his hand around the wooden frame of the door, steadying himself to glance back one last time.

“joel...” he freezes, caught in place. how long have you been awake? how do you know it’s him? how are you so softly spoken when your voice is hoarse? “turn the lamp on,” a yawn. he hears rustling and imagines you readjusting yourself into whichever position brings you most comfort. the thought of if it ever gets lonely, sleeping with no one to hold, crosses his mind. he refuses to let it linger. “don’t wanna wake up to the dark.”

he shuffles over to where he sees the outline of a lamp, fingers sliding around in the dark till they hit a switch and a lovely orange hue overtakes the room, bringing it to life. little trinkets, scattered papers, a couple pictures in frames line the desk in front of him. he’s seen too much for comfort, avoiding looking at anything else in your space till he finds you, curled up in the bed too big for one, otis’ head resting on your hip.

you still have his jacket over you, ignoring the warm comforter you lay upon.

he thinks he musters up a smile. if he does, you’re returning it, eyes sleepy and lips lazy in their movement. it’s a peaceful moment, the kind joel doesn’t get many- if any- of these days. he won’t waste it by speaking what’s on his mind. your eyes slowly drop once more, surrendering to exhaustion.

the bedroom door creaks behind him on the way out.

#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller oneshot #joel miller fic #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #pedro pascal smut

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lam-ila · 1 year

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Big Spoon || Cole Caufield

Summary: Four times Cole was the big spoon and one time he was the small spoon.

Word Count: 1,840

Warnings: none (please let me know if you find any that i should add)

Maleeha’s Masterlist

a/n: this is gender neutral. hope you enjoy this! feedback is appreciated

LIKES ARE GREAT, REBLOGS ARE BETTER ♡

You and Cole had been friends for a few years and had been pining over each other. You met through some mutual friends and had formed a friend group with them and Cole. About once a month, your friend group would plan movie nights at someone’s place and this month, that someone was you.

You had planned everything thinking you were accommodating for everyone’s schedules, but the only person who could make it to the movie night was Cole. You didn’t mind that and neither did Cole, you two were extremely close and hung out with each other whenever you could.

You enjoyed the movie night, maybe a little too much as it was well past midnight and too late for Cole to go back to his place, so you offered to let him stay the night. You gave him a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt to wear, which he graciously accepted. After he changed, you watched him rearrange some throw pillows on one of your couches, creating a make-shift bed.

“What are you doing?” you asked, a confused expression on your face.

“Going to sleep.” Cole answered in a matter of fact way.

“Oh no, if you’re gonna sleep on one of my couches, then so am I.” You gathered two of your throw pillows and started to do the same thing as Cole did, but on the neighbouring couch.

“This is your place. Sleep in your bed.” Cole argued.

“I don’t want you sleeping on the couch by yourself.” You argued back. You knew neither one of you would get anywhere bickering like this, so you came up with a solution that hopefully Cole would agree to. “We’re grown adults, let’s both sleep in my bed, alright?”

“Okay.” He quietly said. “As long as it doesn’t bother you.”

“Cole, I wouldn’t have offered it if I wasn’t okay with it.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” He laughed softly. “I’ll, uh, let you get changed.”

Once you got changed into your pyjamas, you brought Cole into your room and you both awkwardly made your way into your bed. You both laid down, Cole facing you and you facing away from him, lost in thought. Taking a deep breath, you prepared for yourself to talk to Cole about what was on your mind.

“Hey Cole?” He hummed in response. “Can I talk to you about something?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“So,” you paused, not completely sure how to continue. “I have this friend who, uh, well, they like their friend who they’ve known for a few years and, well,” you did your best to try and hide the fact that you were talking about yourself. “they don’t exactly know how to tell their friend that.”

“Okay, um, I think they just need to sit their friend down all tell straight up them how they feel.”

“The thing is, they don’t want to just tell their friend what they feel because they’re afraid their friend doesn’t like them back.” He chuckled, catching on to what you were trying to say.

“I think their friend likes them back.” You turned to face him, confused at what he was admitting.

“Wait, what do you mean?”

“I understand what you’re doing.” Cole explained. “And I like you too.”

After some confessions and forehead kisses, you laid down facing away from Cole again, but this time with a slight smile on your face, your back pressed up against his front, and his arms around you. Unbeknownst to you and Cole, this was all due to your friends purposely being busy so that you two could possibly confess your shared feeling towards each other.

—————

On your one year anniversary, Cole asked if you wanted to move in with him and you happily accepted the offer. The first few months were amazing, but one day in your third month of living with Cole, you both were having a terrible day, Cole upset with how his practice went and you upset with the amount of work you were given, and you were both snapping at each other.

By the end of the day, you and Cole couldn’t stand to face each other, but neither one of you wanted to sleep on the couch, so you built a wall out of pillows in the middle of the bed. You faced away from Cole, eyes wide open, reminiscent of the first night you shared a bed with Cole. You hated being separated from him, even if you were mad at each other for snapping at one another. Right as you were about to turn around to destroy the pillow wall, you felt the pressure of the pillows be replaced by Cole’s body pressed up against your back and his arms wrapped around your waist.

“I thought-” you started.

“Shhhh…” Cole cut you off. “I love you too much to not hug you.”

—————

The day after yours and Cole’s not so great day, you had to actually do the crazy amount of work that you were being given. You had been doing your work throughout the entire day, only taking breaks to eat food, make coffee, and go to the washroom. Cole had a home game that night, which you desperately wanted to go to, but you had to do more work, so you decided to put on his game and sit on one of your couches while doing your work.

Throughout the first period, you continued to get no work done. Instead, your eyes were glued to the tv screen. You had gotten a bit of work done during the first intermission, but once the second period came back on, your attention had gone back to the game. Deciding to focus on your work, you lowered the tv’s volume took a large sip of your coffee you were drinking.

Despite the amount of caffeine you had consumed, you found your eyelids getting heavy and you were finding it harder to do your work. You set your laptop aside on the couch you were sitting on, placed a pillow behind your head, and wrapped yourself in a blanket. Okay, maybe you had overworked yourself, a five minute break couldn’t do you any harm.

After the game, Cole entered your home, expecting you to be sitting on the couch and waiting for him like you normally do when you don’t go to home games. Instead, he found you fast asleep in your make-shift bed. Your exhaustion caught up to you and you had missed the rest of the second period and the entire third period. Cole chuckled lightly as he made his way over to you. He closed your laptop and placed it on the coffee table.

Kissing you softly on the forehead in attempt to wake you up, he mumbled against your skin “Hi, I’m home.” Your stirred against his touch, not completely wanting to wake up. Upon noticing that Cole was the one waking you up, your eyes widened, remembering that you missed most of the game.

“I’m sorry,” you admitted. “I didn’t go to your game and then I missed most of it because I fell asleep and I didn’t even get all my work done and-”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re exhausted.” Cole helped you to your feet and brought you to your shared bed. He fished out your pyjamas and gave them to you, motioning for you to change. Once changed, you got into bed, Cole following you. After laying down, Cole pressed his front against your back and placed his arms around your body.

“Cole, I really am sorry about-”

“Don’t.” Cole cut you off a second time. “There’s plenty of other games you can go to.” He kissed the back of your head. “Goodnight, I love you.”

“I love you too Cole.”

—————

The night before Cole leaves for away games were always difficult. The day before the most recent away game stretch wasn’t as difficult as usual; you and Cole spent the entire day, minus his practice, together at your shared place. Normally, it was you who had a difficult time towards the end of the day about him leaving, but this time, it was Cole.

You usually made sure that Cole got to bed early, so he wasn’t tired the morning he had to travel, but you found yourself laying awake and facing the wall at one in the morning with a wide-awake Cole behind you, facing your backside, blabbering on about anything that his mind could think of.

“Cole, honey,” you started. “I love listening to you talk, but please stop talking.”

“Okay, I’ll stop talking.” He agreed to part of what you said, however, instead of talking, he wrapped his arms around you and began kissing your cheek that was facing the ceiling.

“That’s not what I meant! You need to sleep!”

—————

The next home game you went to ended not so greatly. The Habs lost terribly and Cole didn’t score or assist a single goal. The commute back to your shared place was silent. You could tell Cole was having an argument with himself in his head and you needed to assure him that the loss wasn’t his fault, but you also wanted to give him space to feel the emotions he was feeling.

Once you got to your place, you and Cole did your typical routine after coming home from a game, but this time, there was barely any conversation. The two of you got into bed, you facing Cole and Cole facing away from you. This wasn’t usual and you knew you had to say something.

“Cole, I-” you started before being cut off by Cole.

“I played so badly today.” He stated. “If I didn’t play so terribly, we would’ve-”

“Cole.” It was your turn to cut him off. “That’s not true.”

“But-”

“Just listen to me, alright?” Cole said nothing in response, prompting you to continue. “You weren’t the only player on the ice. How could it be entirely your fault if there was an entire team who played tonight?” You scooted forward so that you could press up against Cole’s back. Wrapping your arms around Cole, you softly pressed your lips against his head. “It was one bad game. You guys will figure out what went wrong and play better in the next game.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” You could tell Cole didn’t entirely believe you, but he understood what you said, so that was a start. After a comfortable silence, Cole spoke up again. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For making me feel better. I normally would’ve just moped around and felt bad about myself.”

“Of course Cole.” You kissed him on the back of his head again. “And no need to thank me. I’m your partner, that’s my job.”

“I know, but I still want to thank you.” You smiled at his words, knowing that he truly appreciated you. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You closed your eyes and fell asleep, feeling Cole’s abdomen rising and falling against your arms as he gently breathed.

——————————

NHL taglist: @readyfreddy @jostystyles @emptyflowerpots @typical-simplelove @2manytabsopen @11livpangburn @calermakar @lifeofpriya @fallinallincurls

join my taglist here

#maleeha writes #cole caufield #cole caufield x reader #cole caufield imagine #hockey fanfiction #hockey fic #montréal canadiens

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things-about-cars-in-posts · 6 months

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Miata Mod Master Mᴉsɥlᴉsʇ

[I had to spell Wishlist upside down to keep the alliteration going]

So, here's my first original post in quite a while. Apparently, the last one was a whole hundred followers ago - immense thanks to all 400 of you!!! And also, Tumblr informed me I got 1000 likes and kindly generated a picture for me to thank y'all for them with!

Given that's 2.5 likes per follower, I assume they mean 1000 likes just on my original posts, which would track considering most of my posts are additions, and liking all of those either counts towards that tally as just one like to my original post, or if you liked it through a reblog potentially nothing at all, because maybe likes to reblogs aren't counted even if they're reblogs of my own posts. But don't think I'm a numbers-chaser, this is just me wondering. Really, the only reason I even look at the activity chart of my blog is because I started trying to make that line as straight as possible for giggles (and then some of my posts blew up and ruined it, ecksdee). The thought of someone having enjoyed what I wrote has me smitten every time I see it, and I can barely even comprehend the idea that it happened a literal thousand times. I still can barely wrap my head around four hundred people all having decided they actively want to hear more from me. (Usually it's the opposite, har har.) I love all of you for it. The freaks, the puritans, the children (wait I just said that OOH GOTTEM), the adults, the uncomfortably weird, the hyper-organized users that use different blogs for each one of their passions, the hyper-random users that reblog my posts right after diaper fetish art. (And if you thought that was some whiplash, imagine the guy who followed a diaper fetish art blog getting shown me.)

But this is just me buying time, isn't it. Alright alright, let's talk about the wishlist, beginning with its premise.

This is not advice. This is not a list that makes sense at all, really - most of these items are way far down the list of things I'd do with the money they cost and/or the effort they'd take. This is a dream, where those aren't a factor. Just like some people's dream car is a ten million dollar hypercar that was built directly into the bodies of five Middle Eastern oil moguls, my dream car is a Miata with exactly these bits. (And a Seven, but I really need to stop confusing y'all with them being tied for the favorite car top spot.)

This list is based on a note I started in middle school for the fun of it (which is hopefully understood as the driving motive behind this all) and gradually updated through high school and sort of left behind after that, having kind of run out of bits to add to it. It's split into six sections:

Exterior

Interior (i.e. cabin, trunk and engine bay)

Drivetrain (i.e. anything that plays a role in making the wheels spin)

Chassis and suspension (i.e. chassis and everything that connects the wheels to it)

Electronics (i.e. electronics/microcontroller-related features)

Miscellaneous

This will be a chance for me to check the prices of all the things I listed and, at the end of it, tally up their total cost and feel feelings about its enormity. But of course, we'll need to start with a thing that was not in the note, as it was a given to me: the base car. So that will be the subject of my next addition to this post.

Because I can't make this a single post. Absolutely no chance. Even just any workaround to the image limit being about a fifth of the length of this list would be a nightmare for me to execute and for y'all to navigate. And frankly, the length of the task would make me, if not outright give up, at the very least skimp on the kind of explanations and discussions that I must assume are why you're all here. So I will need to make additions to this post (in the form of a reblog, of course) each going over one section at most. But truth be, even doing one reblog per section presents those problems, so some sections would need splitting in a number of parts. Or I could go to the other extreme and made one post per item (or when appropriate group of items), which would allow me to expand upon every which one as little or as much as appropriate while still keeping a tidy presentation. But to do this I would need to hide all the information bar the name under a Read More, because if I put as little as one picture before it by the time I'm at the end of the list every time this post appears in your dash you'll have to scroll past some hundred pictures to get to the bottom of it; also, of course, this would mean this post showing up in your dash upwards of a hundred times - though of course you could just ignore it a bunch of times and when you feel like it go through all the parts you've not read yet at once.

Right now I'm leaning towards the one post per item approach, which would allow me to work towards the completion of this abomination in small daily steps rather than in age-long parts which would also help addressing your other submissions. But it's very hard for me to figure out what y'all would prefer, as it's kind of hard for me to figure out who would actually want to read through the entirety of this. So, y'all are welcome to leave your feedback in the replies or through this non-binding format poll.

Links in blue are posts of mine about the topic in question - if you liked this post, you might like those!

#i would have set something like two or three days but since day and week are the only options week it is #tumblr milestone #thank you #i am pretty sure those were tags included with the post but you know what I feel them so let's leave them in #mazda miata #mazda mx-5 #eunos roadster #miata mod master wishlist

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caffeinated-coffin · 1 year

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At what point are you too far removed to reconnect with your ancestor’s culture?

(This is my first post that wasn’t a reblog, so sorry if the formatting is garbage)

This is a question for the general witch community, but I’ve been thinking about it recently. I was listening to my favorite witch podcast, Books and Broomsticks, and I believe it was one of the Italian Folk magic episodes where they were discussing reconnecting to one’s culture. They were talking about at what point is someone too Americanized to be able to reconnect, if that’s possible, etc etc. This is just me asking for other peoples opinions. For example, if you have, let’s say a great grand parent or a great great grandparent that immigrated from Finland and once they immigrated they didn’t pass down traditions. So although your ancestor is from that country, since you weren’t raised around it, it would be similar to an outsider coming in. Or would it be a reconnection process of finding yourself again?

Also there are no wrong answers! I just want to hear everybody’s opinions and have a thoughtful discussion. Especially since a lot of witchy creators on tumblr have been complaining of a lack of content/discussions, so hopefully this adds a little something.

Hopefully this post will allow other posts like this to pop up and we can have some good ole fashion discussions. Hopefully everyone reading has a great day :)

#witchblr #witchcraft #pagan witch #eclectic witch #green witchcraft #kitchen witch #hearth witch #death witch #folk witchcraft #folk magic #ancestor veneration #ancestor work #discussion post

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jadeylovesmarvelxo · 2 years

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You Belong With Me

Summary; Y/n has helped Eddie work up the courage to ask Chrissy out but Chrissy rejects him and y/n's own feelings for him come out in the process...

Warnings; angst with a happy ending.

Reblogs, comments, etc are very much appreciated! ❤💞 I do not give anyone permission to copy my work.

"So will you do it?". Eddie asked hopefully and she nods. Only because Chrissy deserves someone nice after that prick Jason and Eddie was sweet.

"I just think that Chrissy is beautiful, I'd treat her way better than that dickhead Carver ever could".

She agrees to help him. Chrissy would have a nice boyfriend in Eddie and everything would be fine. What could go wrong?

She didn't know that one conversation would bring her so much heartache.

Now she couldn't stop crying. No matter how much she tried. Eddie's disappointed face keeps playing back in her mind.

Why did she have to confess how she felt? He wanted Chrissy, not her. When Eddie came to her and asked her for help in asking out Chrissy she never expected to fall for him.

Yet, they spent so much time together, that they got to know each other and she found that he was kind, funny, sarcastic yet sweet, he was easy to fall for.

But after Chrissy turned him down and she comforted him those feelings came out and ruined everything.

Eddie was nervous as he waited for Chrissy to give her answer. He had just asked her out after much help from y/n and he was anxious for what she was about to say.

Turns out it's what he expected.

"Oh, Eddie you're a sweet guy but I don't feel that way about you and I'm back with Jason, so sorry". He kinda feels like he's been gut punched it hurts but it's not as bad as he expected.

"I am sorry, also y/n is my best friend and shes the other reason that I wouldn't date you". He's confused now.

"Why would us dating bother y/n?". She gapes and looks at him like he is an idiot.

"Eddie how can you not know?". He is still confused and decides to ask y/n.

Eddie was quiet after speaking to Chrissy, unfortunately, she hadn't been there for the entire conversation but Chrissy had let him down gently but she could tell that Eddie was hurt by it.

"Kinda expected it you know? Why would she want to date a freak?". He mutters and sets up for Hellfire and she softens. Desperately wanting to say something to help him feel better.

"Don't do that Eds, you're a great guy. I'm sorry Chrissy doesn't see that, that she is back with Jason now but someone will see it". Someone already does, she adds as an afterthought but doesn't say it.

"Yeah, but Chrissy is a cheerleader, Queen of Hawkins high, the ideal you know?". The ideal. Her heart sinks and she nods.

"Right, ideal". He stares at her confused and stops what he's doing for a second.

"You okay?". She nods and feels quite nauseated, what happens when there's another Chrissy? When she has to see Eddie fall for someone else? It makes her heartbreak to think about it.

He's her friend now though and she can't be selfish but at the same time, she knows she can't torture herself either.

"I'm fine Eddie". He frowns not convinced and his hands interlace through hers.

"Sweetheart?". Hot tears burn in her eyes and she wipes the tears away.

"I wish you wouldn't put yourself down Eddie, you're amazing, kind, handsome. I just wish you could see yourself through my eyes".

He blinks stunned.

"Y/n, Chrissy didn't feel the same, she told me that but she also said she didn't want to because of you. What did she mean by that?".

Shit... Chrissy had suspected for a while that she had feelings for Eddie, and as much as she tried to deny it Chrissy wasn't dumb, she figured it out.

"Eddie, it's nothing". He looks annoyed now and it breaks her heart in two.

"I thought you were on my side y/n? Were you? or were you belittling me to Chrissy behind my back?". What the fuck?

"No! All I've done is help you, Eddie, every damn day".

"Then why is Chrissy saying that then?". She groans.

"Are you really going to make me say it? Chrissy might not have fallen for you but I did". There's silence as he gazes at her, she doesn't want to see the disappointment in his eyes and gets up feeling shaky.

"What?" He whispers in disbelief and she swallows the sick feeling getting worse.

"I know that you don't feel the same. I get it, sorry to disappoint you that it's me who's fallen for you and not Chrissy, I'll leave you alone Eddie". He gets up and grabs her hand.

"You don't have to leave I..." She turns to him and sighs sadly.

"Eddie, it's been so hard trying to hide how I feel, I didn't expect to fall for you. I didn't but I did. It's Chrissy now and then it will be someone else then someone else and I... I want so badly to be your friend but how do I protect my own heart from breaking every time?".

The rest of Hellfire comes in at that time and Eddie strokes her cheek.

"Princess...

"You can't force feelings, Eddie, don't feel like you need to. I know you don't feel the same and I have to deal with that. I just need some time to deal with these feelings, they'll go away".

He freezes.

"Time. You mean away from me?". Heart heavy she kisses his cheek and the tears come again.

"I'm so sorry Eddie". She rushes out and to her car cursing herself for falling for him so deeply.

It had been a few days since speaking to Eddie and she missed him more than anything.

She had to get over these feelings quickly but she didn't know how.

All she knew is that Eddie would never feel the same way and she needed to move on from that at some point.

Eddie didn't expect to miss y/n so much but he did. He didn't expect there to be a deep ache in his chest when he looked at her but there was.

He didn't expect to finally accept what Dustin ( the little butthead) and Gareth have been telling him for weeks now.

"You know you're falling for y/n right?". Dustin told him one night after Hellfire when he invited y/n to join them and she asked so many questions and got so invested in the campaign.

Gareth teased him for looking at her with a big dopey grin on his face all-night.

"I don't have feelings for her, she's just a friend, she's helping me with Chrissy". Dustin just stared at him disappointed.

"Dude, the perfect girl is right in front of you. You need to wake up and realize that before it's too late".

And the shrimp was right. Chrissy was the ideal he told y/n but now he was starting to see how wrong he was.

What the fuck does he do now? He broke her heart, she has always liked him and he broke her heart. She thinks he's disappointed because it's her that has feelings for him and not Chrissy.

Jesus H Christ this is a mess, he asks Jeff and Gareth for advice and Dustin rolls his eyes.

"What is it Henderson?".

"Dude seriously? Go and tell her how you feel and stop being a huge asshole. You're over Chrissy right?".

"Yes, yes I am". He's been falling for y/n for weeks now. Things with Chrissy would never have worked out even if she did say yes. He gets that now.

"Henderson is right man, go and get her". He nods and rushes out of his seat. He knows exactly where she will be.

It's nice being in nature, deep in the forest near Hawkins High, this was Eddie's spot but she hadn't seen him near here today so she relaxes.

It's been hard without Eddie, she misses him a lot. Then suddenly if by magic he appears looking like he's ran all the way here.

"Eddie?".

"Jesus H Christ, I shouldn't have run that fast". She gets up and helps him catch his breath.

"I knew you would be here". He murmurs relieved and his eyes soften as he looks at her.

"Are you okay?". She asks him concerned and he shakes his head.

"No, I'm not. I miss my girl. I'm an idiot because it took me so long to realise what she meant to me even though my friends constantly told me".

She stares at him stunned. But he likes Chrissy? It's always been, Chrissy.

"What about Chrissy?".

"We wouldn't have worked out. I know that because she's not the one that I'm meant to be with. It's you. I'm falling for you and I can't stop and this week has been hell, please tell me you still feel the same and I haven't made an ass of myself".

She can't believe it, she didn't expect this at all and she doesn't waste any time, she gets up and kisses him which he returns pulling her closer to him.

"Of course I do Eds, I haven't stopped". He kisses her forehead and then drops down to his knees while taking her hand.

"Princess. Would you do me the honour of being my girl. Officially". She giggles and he kisses her hand, then gets up and his lips meet hers once more.

❤💫

#eddie munson angst #eddie munson/reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fluff

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aisquaredchoco · 3 months

Text

Yay...my internet's back! Erm, actually just switched to another provider because the previous one's been refusing to repair for months..

Also, a long message coming ahead. If you're not a fan of lengthy sentiments in the form of a wall of text I'd tell you to skip this.

Well here goes one last rambling...a lot of realizations came to mind during those days of inactivity so...

I realized I've been expecting too much from this community, when in reality I have not much of a place in it. I'll wholeheartedly accept that I'm only up to this point of achievement. Less expectations, less disappointments. No more whining, hopefully.

This is not a farewell post however, but just to let you guys know that I have decided to no longer put too much effort so as not to expect anything in return, and therefore will not be doing as much cc as I have been doing before, just so I would expect less from people and to make sure that the things I'd love to have in my game are the ones being shared publicly. One reason is that I was thinking that I might be doing things in rush that their quality might also have been compromised and that some of you might have been quietly critical of it (though I accept such feedbacks you know). Another reason is that I have to learn to not expect anything after giving something as I've said above, because I admit I had an ambition of becoming a 'household name' in the simblr community and thought one way of achieving such status is that you have to give something to the community so that they recognize you as someone who adds something useful in their games. I apologize for having this way of thinking, I only realized now how greedy (for attention and fame) I became after being able to learn making cc thinking these efforts should become recognized. I know I should rid myself of that mentality and as others have pointed out in some of my 'whiny' posts I must make things I want for my game and share them out of heart not because you're only expecting good feedback from people. And that might be the reason why I suddenly felt 'tired' from creating, because I've been stressing myself out from those said above.

But I will not completely disregard the good things some of you have said to me, reassuring that my efforts don't go wasted by telling me you love what I make and put them to use in your games (though I know I'm asking for too much if I was expecting them to be shown off on your game screenshots). I want to tell you that every like, reblog, and nice remarks that you were giving are very much appreciated. You have done so so much to me, although I admit I took them for granted. Apologies as well if I seemed ungrateful with how you show support on my works.

And also, because I also handle xto3conversionsfinds, I have a looooooot of backlog to catch up on so that will take a hell lot of time queuing conversion cc posts before making time for me to sim.

So see you around folks...even though I'll be just a lurker most of the time. I hope 2024 will be a better year for me, and everyone!

#nonsims #one last #rant #i hope

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thoughtsandbones · 11 months

Text

Bubbling to the surface, slowly but surely.

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!MedicDoc OC (codename: Blue) 💀💙

WARNINGS: Mention of profanity, fluff, medical inaccuracies and just getting the POV of our friendly neighbourhood masked menace.

Plot: Doctor Ruhari Hari Kaur (OC is South Asian ☺️) joins the 141 again, but this time as their doctor. After the betrayal of Shepherd and Graves, Task Force 141 begins their hunt on his whereabouts and locating Makarov.

PLEASE reblog and like! Hope folks are enjoying the series, I am building up characters and plots, cos I have a lot ideas and just been enjoying writing :D

Song inspo: 99 luftballons - Nena, Moves - Milo Greene,

Word count: 2K...

A/N: Flashbacks are getting messed up when I am indenting them and I am getting lots of errors when publishing the work, please bare with some mistakes and spelling issues.

I grew up with the OG MW2 game, so there are some references to the old one, so kind of a mix of both the OG and the new timeline... (Also I'm ignoring the OG Shepherd betrayal and keeping in line the one with the new timeline..)

spelling and some grammar mistakes as I am bad at times... :/

(FYI: bold sentences... that are like this... are supposed to describe redacted data/info to the plot... ;] .. )

Please do let me know how you all are finding this fanfic! :D

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 7, PART 8, PART 9, PART 10 and PART 11

Part 12

Price waved over at a blonde woman who was walking off a helicopter, carrying a small overnight bag over her shoulder and a laptop bag in her right hand. As she approached Price, she raised her sunglasses to the top of her head.

"Great to see you John" Kate Laswell says shaking hands with Price

"Good to see you too Kate" He responds shaking her hand and then giving her a pat on the shoulder.

"We've got a lot of work to do in locating Makarov." Laswell says as she followed Price up to his office.

"Understood, no leads on Shepherd?" Price asked, bracing himself for the answer he already knows

"Nothing." Laswell says, look at Price dead in the eye. "Whatever he's done to disappear, he's done it well." She adds

Price gruffs

"When is the mission brief?" Laswell asks Price, moving to sit down on the sofa, Price follows her move.

"Hour from now." Price says checking his watch. "Need to talk to you about somethin'" He adds leaning close to Laswell

"Uh oh, I know that look" Laswell smirks

"Our new doctor, Hari, she went on the mission to Siberia with Captain MacAlasdair" Price whispers

Kate leaned back, taking in this new information. Not much was known at what happened there...

"If it was the mission to track down intel from that satellite, that could hopefully tell us what Shepherd hid." Price said

"And where he could be" Laswell continued. "Have you asked her?" She added

"No, she needs time to settle in. But she has been thinking about the Captain" Price says

"How is she in the field?" Laswell asks

"Not been in the field, but has the capability" Price said

"She's not operating on this mission?" She asks

"No, too new and she's actually been fixing up the infirmary" Price responded

"Ah, someone capable of actually mending you all when you're broken?" Laswell laughed

"Shall see after this mission" Price chuckled "Cup of tea? he adds

"Of course" Laswell smiles

Mission brief

Price headed to the infirmary, as he approached the open door, he could here the rapid typing coming from inside, he stood in the doorway and looked at you, concentrating on the laptop, eyes narrowed, muttering to yourself.

"How were the health checks?" Price said

You look up and slightly smile.

"Good, all med-kits are checked and ready, everyone is good..." You trail off.

Ghost's blood pressure... You contemplate whether or not to tell him.

"Yeah?" Price exclaims

"Yes, all good" You say, snapping back from your thoughts.

"Briefing time?" You assume, as Price stares at you. You finish off the last part of the report, and click save. You look up and he nods

"Yes, sort of, Kate Laswell wants to meet you" Price says, giving you a smile

A smile appears on your face.. "Okay, I'll come now" you say saving your reports and locking your laptop.

Getting up, you follow Price, going up the stairs until you reach the 5th level. You've never been here before..

Prices opens a glass door and gestures you to walk in. Doing so you see a slim blonde hair lady wearing a pantsuit, you looks up at you a smiles. You scan to your left and notice Lieutenant Ghost also in the room leaning back on a chair.

"Dr Kaur, nice to meet you" Laswell says, coming up and shaking your hand.

"Nice to meet you ma'am" You say, Laswell laughs

"Call me Laswell, please" she says heading back to her laptop. You take a seat two spaced away from Ghost, he looked at you and nodded, you nodded back. Price sits opposite you.

"I've spoken to Kate about getting you on our next mission, you'll need to get trained up" Price starts

You lean forward and listen and nod along his words. "Yes sir"

"Ghost will be overseeing your training" Price says, awaiting your reaction, he watches you look over at him.

"As long as that's okay with the Lieutenant" You say

"'Course it is" Ghost said, looking over at you, your eyebrows burrowed as if you were still unsure of him.

"That's settled then" Price says smiling at Laswell, Ghost and then you.

At that moment Soap and Gaz walk into the briefing room, Gaz sits next to Price, and Soap sits besides you, giving you a nod.

"Alrigh' Doc?" Soap says grinning slightly

"All good" You say, tilting your head back, knowing exactly why he is grinning trying not to think of his naked torso. But you can't help yourself, Soap's naked torso flashes in your mind.

You bite the inside of your lip, trying your hardest not to smile, but you feel your cheeks go pink. In the corner of your eye you see Ghost staring at you, looking down at your left wrist, you note the second hand moving past the number 2 on the dials.

How many seconds will it be this time Lieutenant? You think to yourself as you look forward to Kate who has begun her briefing, but you angled your head slightly more to Ghost who was still looking at you.

You look down briefly at the second hand on the watch, 30 seconds...

C'mon Lt can we make to over a minute You think as you look back up.

Laswell begins explaining about how the team will be dropped into Urzikstan, and then will make their way on foot to Al Mazrah to try an intercept an arms deal with AQ and Russian Ultranationalists.

You see you Ghost break eye contact with you when Laswell click on her laptop and the slide appears of a map of Urzikstan and Al Mazarah. Looking back on your watch, 58 seconds.. not bad...

There was a line in red across the map highlighting their route. Laswell changes the slide. A picture of a their guy they're after appears, brown black spiky hair, blue eyes and he had a snark expression on his face. Under the image, was his name V. Makarov

Your eyes widen and lips part slightly.. Could it be the same person? The image of the a Fire Disk flashes in your head with the name Vladimir Alexei Makarov in black marker on it.

Eye flickering between Laswell and Price as she continues to talk about the briefing, Price chiming in every so often.

No... Yes.. maybe.. It doesn't hurt to ask. You fret in your head, you feel your heart rate increasing.. That would mean talking about Siberia..

You left hand reaches up slightly, Price takes note

"Got a question?" Price asks

You look at him and then Laswell who stopped talking, all eyes and bodies shifted towards you.

"Is that Vladimir Alexei Makarov?" You say slowly

Laswell and Price both look at each other.

"That is one of his aliases" Laswell says

"You know him?" Price asks, eyes widening greatly

"No, just..." You trail off " What do you know of Siberia 2010?" You add looking at Price and leaning closer in the chair.

Ghost looks up straight at you, along with Soap and Gaz. Is this finally it? he ponders and looks at Price then back you.

"Apart from Captain MacAlasdair's death, nothing" Price said, eagerly awaiting you to open up about a mission that he knew little about. He sensed your hesitation and a sudden fear coming across your face.

You take in your Captain's name. The fact he died and you could've saved him.

"Shepherd blacked out the report then?" You scoffed

Ghost looks at you, your eyes now looking down at your fingers nails.

"7 words on the report. 2 pages." Ghost said monotonously

You look up at him in shock, eyes narrowing.

"No witness report?" You say, raising your voice slightly.

Ghost shook his head

"Bastard" You hiss

"Hari, tell us what was the mission?" Price said slowly, and gave you a reassuring look

Looking at Laswell who had now sat down, and nodded towards you, giving a slight smile of encouragement.

"The Allen-Hibino satellite had intel that contained military weapons advancements from a Japanese and American coalition from the 1990s to 2009" You said

"Allen-Hibino?" Laswell says bringing her laptop closer to her and taking out the cable that linked to the projector. The slide read loss of signal and she began typing away on her laptop.

"Yes, it was supposed to have re-entered in the Pacific near Japan, but ended up further down somewhere and the Russians got to it" You say.

"Nothing about the mission on the Gusev satellite?" Price asks

Looking back him with a confused face, eyebrows joining closer together.

"You knew there was a satellite?" You ask, wondering what he actually knew about the mission.

Price leaned back a bit, raising his left hand

"Kate and I found out that Makarov has been interested in satellite parts that crash landed in the early 2000s and that the Russian military had it in an undisclosed base in Siberia" Price said "We thought it could be related to the Siberia 2010 mission" He added

Ghost turned and looked at Price. He thought he knew everything there was to know about Makarov and this mission. He then turned to you, taking in that stern face, but your eyes, they told another story. You were full of regret and pain that comes along with relieving that moment of knowing you could've done more he thought.

"We were only told about the Allen-Hibino satellite" You croke, a pit forming on your throat.

Ghost looked on at you, watching you try and remain calm.

"CIA reports the Allen-Hibino hitting its target re-entry point and taken for decomission." Laswell says, stunned at the report staring in front of her. Fully fabricated.

"Shepherd" Price snarls, crunching his fist tight

A heaviness that had been planted in your inner being since you chose not to take that damn shot grew and your felt your insides become tighter.

"How deep does his betrayal go?" Gaz spits out, you look at him and see his face scrunched up in anger, he looks at you and his face softens. You divert you gaze down.

"He's got the intel" you whisper not looking at Price, but you could feel his and everyone else's gaze on you.

"It's not your fault" Laswell says. "I worked directly with him." She said

"Does this change our upcoming mission?" Soap says, curious as to how this new intel, well, resurfaced intel, could effect what could happen next.

"Not really." Price says looking at Laswell

"We still go ahead, but our next mission will be different" Laswell speaks up and then looks at you "Dr Kaur, when we can, I want to talk to you about Siberia."

"Kate, I don't thin-" Price starts as he looks at her and then at you.

"I don't remember much after Captain MacAlasdair and I were compromised" You say bluntly "There's a 5 page witness report missing or destroyed that detailed what happened" You add

You look down at your nails again, picking at the skin around the edge of your nail on your forefinger with your thumb.

"I've tried to remember, but then I -" You stumble. Inhale for four, holding for four and then out for four... That does it. You clear your throat, still feeling all eyes on you, you continue to look down at the table.

"I understand" Laswell says, finally accepting your defeated demeanour. She clears a throat and plugs the cable back in, the slide resumes.

You look and see Price looking at you, he gives you a sympathetic smile before looking at Laswell who was

"Alright this mission on Urzikstan is reliant heavily on Farrah's forces..." Price starts.

You hear him talk and go on, but a high pitched ringing enters your left ear again, making you feel light-headed. Drowning out the voices surrounding you, you concentrate on your breathing, in for four, hold for four and exhale for four.

Watching the minutes go by on your watch, the meeting was soon over, Price held you back as Laswell, Ghost, Soap and Gaz left the room.

Ghost watched you remain stoic, as he got up from his chair, his casual glances hoping there was some change in expression, but nothing. He felt a sharp pain in his chest, he wanted that silly face to appear again that you did when you were teasing him, throwing up the jazz hands. A small remnant of your past self. He closed the door behind him and followed Soap.

"You alright?" Price sighed, leaning closer to you despite the clear table being barrier.

Looking up at his face and you clear your throat, trying to get rid of the feeling of the lump.

"Yeah, yeah" You said

"Look, it's hard revisiting the past" Price begins "But, I- we- are here for you, but you have to be honest" Price finishes, he lets you make it your turn to talk.

"Yes sir, I understand" You say, trying not to sound to blunt but keep a level of strength about you.

Price looks on at you. He understood how hard it would be for you the go back rethink about a moment that made you leave this life. Even more difficult now that the weasel who sent you, all of them, on these missions and had good people die for the benefit of him and his agenda.

"Captain Price, I will try and to remember" You say, forcing yourself to give him a smile, but you knew he could see right through you.

"Hari, I will be by your side, as will the rest of the team" Price says getting up from his chair and walking over to you. He sits on the chair once occupied by Soap and put his hand on your left shoulder.

"Survivors guilt is hard, I know" Price said, his hand gripping your shoulder a bit tighter, somehow trying to let you know that you can't blame yourself.

Yet it was. I should've taken the shot

Price gives you another pep talk, and you reply simply with a yes sir, of course sir... Leaving the meeting room, you head back down to the infirmary.

Siberia.

Take it slow, take your time, no rush you pander to yourself as you let yourself back int he infirmary, you leave the door slightly open and head back to finish the reports.

After about hour of work you give up. Instead you turn your chair to the right slightly, placing your feet up on the edge of the desk and begin the gaze as the Sun descends to the horizon, embracing the myriad of colours made in the sky.

....

Ghost walked into his room and sat on the edge of his bed, taking off his mask, and placing it on his bedside table. Running his hands through his hair, he could feel the grease sliding across his fingertips. As his fingers reached the back of his neck, Simon gently fell back on his bed.

Closing his eyes, he went through a check list of things he and the team needed to do before the mission. His mind then ran through what each task Soap and Gaz needed to do. Then you.

Simon felt that same tinge of pain hit his chest and then ripple through his body again. You were so deadpanned.

Guilt had been bubbling up within him. Each time he was alone with you he had the opportunity to expose himself to you. But he was apprehensive.

Training with her again will be interestin' he thought Maybe you'd recognise somethin' and you'd figure it out during trainin'

Simon rolled his eyes That's fuckin' stupid

Johnny was right, he can't keep it up for long. It'll eventually catch -There was a knock on his bedroom door suddenly.

"Just a minute" He gruffled loudly, rolling over to his side and finding his mask, putting it on. He got up and headed to his door.

There you were, standing a few paces back..

"Lieutenant, have you taken your tablet?" You ask

Ghost had forgotten about the small pill you gave that was his in pocket, his brought up hand up and fidgeted around his pocket until he found it.

"Sorry doc, forgot" He adds. Did you just come up to check if I'd taken my medicine

"Ah, good!" You say smiling. Ghost was taken aback a bit.

"Are you free then?" You ask, smiling slightly again

"Yeah" Ghost said clearing throat of coarseness

"Want to see something cool?" You ask

Ghost narrowed his eyes slightly and checked his was 21:10pm, what would you be showing him?

"Sure.." He said slowly and stepped forward, you stepped back and turned.

He followed as you walked away, he locked his door and then caught up to you in a few short strides. He led you into the infirmary, the lights were off..

You head over to the window and look back and see Ghost was standing in the doorway, as he always seems to do.

"Come over here" You say gesturing towards him. Ghost walked over to you by the window. He notices the flood lights lighting part of the ground of base, he scans the sky, orange mixed in with blue. He turns to look at you, still confused as to what you were showing him

"Do you see it in the sky?" You say nodding your head up a bit. Ghost looks up and sees a single bright speck shining in the orange-blue hue.

"That star?" He asks and looks back down at you

"That's not actually a star, that's the planet Venus" You smile, looking up at the planet again

"That's a planet?" Ghost says, his eyes drift back from you to the planet again. "Venus, like that Roman goddess?"

"Yeah, named after the Roman goddess of love and beauty" You explain "But what they didn't know was that it's atmosphere is so deadly and has volatile volcanos"

"It's so bright" Ghost says entranced by the brightness of the planet in the night sky. The longer he looked, the less he felt troubled, he felt how small his and the world's problems were. For the first time, in a long time, he felt small.

"Second brightest object in the night sky." You say, "Mood is just on the other side of the building"

Ghost looks down at you again, you continue to look up at the planet, smiling. You looked so happier, he savoured the smile on your face.

Always were a nerd, glad you're still a nerd he thought as he remembered how you once said you loved those Star Trek films and shows, and the idea of exploring space.

A soft ping rang through his chest, giving his body a nice warmth, he felt the corner of his lips curve up, he could feel the little dimple form on his right cheek. He looked back at Venus, so far away and so calming.

"Lieutenant, can I ask you something?" You say turning your head to him, Ghost looks back at you

"Sure" He says

You take inhale sharply here we go

"Did you know about Siberia?" You say.

Ghost took in your expression of concern, your eyes glistened against the dim light coming in from the remnants of the sun but mostly from the floodlights.

"I knew there was a mission to Siberia with the Captain, didn't know what the details of the mission were."

He watches as you take in the information and nod, face going stoic again.

"You said the report had 7 words" You ask him

"Yeah, no witness report attached to the file" He gruffed

"Foul play" You mumble

Ghost grunted in agreement and looked back out of the window. Both of you standing there, looking out the window at Venus, 108.28 million km away from you both, yet still managed to capture them with it's burning beauty.

In the corner of his eye, Ghost looked down at you, still looking up. He enjoyed the quietness with you, both of you alone together in the silence... It was strangely comforting for him.

You looked up to Ghost and smiled, it was nice sharing quietness with him. He looked down at you, locking his blue eyes with your brown eyes. There was still a sense of familiarity hidden within his eyes, like you've gazed upon those eyes eons ago... Narrowing your eyes, you wished you could remember, but the black paint coated on his skin made it difficult to see any distinguishable moles or markings.

Whomever you are, you do not want to be known.

Checking your watch you release it nearly 10pm.

"You should take your tablet and sleep" You say reminding him

"Yeah, should head back" Ghost says, grunting slightly "Training tomorrow, what time are you free?"

"6am?" You say

"Hold ya to tha'" He says he takes out the pill from his pocket, takes it out the packet, and then you move over the the water tank and grab him a cup of water. He takes it from you and takes the pill.

"Need to check your blood pressure at some point tomorrow sir" You add

He nods at you as he swallows some more water. "'Course doc" He says. You both leave the infirmary, Ghost watches you lock up.

"Have a good sleep" You say to him "Good night" You say smiling

"Goo' Nigh'" Ghost says, turning to walk back to his room.

You return to your own quarters. Lying flat on the bed, sighing heavily.

The ringing in your left ear starts again, the lightheadedness wafts over you and you hear faint yelling in the back of your head.

"Get the disk and get out Blue" Captain MacAlasdair echos from your left ear into your skull.

Shivers of sweat swell from your glands on your skin, bringing your knees close to your stomach you hug yourself, trying to soothe yourself.

"Get the disk and get out Blue"

#modern warfare fanfiction #simon ghost riley x doctor #simon ghost riley x medic #simon ghost riley #angst #fan fic ideas #cod fanfic #cod mw soap #cod fluff #cod ghost #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x oc #simon riley #x oc #simon ghost riley x original character #simon ghost riley x female oc

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kenjakusbrainstem · 9 months

Text

Someone Else's Birthday (Kenjaku x Gojo Satoru)

Contains: rape, somnophilia, anal.

Hello! This idea has been in my mind for a while and I finally decided to write it. Hopefully it's as enjoyable to you as it is to me. I just love thinking about things from Kenjaku's perspective so to add in even more angst with Gojo deciding to drink with Shoko in an attempt to be with a friend and drown his sorrows was fun. Comment and reblog if you enjoy, lmk what you thought about it~ Crossposted to ao3 under the same name and shared to twt as kenjakusbrain!

Over the years, Shoko had adjusted to the walk home after a night out drinking. While her trips to the bar had become less frequent since the friends and coworkers that accompanied her had started dropping like flies. It was hard to have a good time as a sorcerer when new recruits just wanted to drown their sorrows. She generally resigned herself to staying home for a drink instead of going out.

So when Gojo had approached her and mentioned that they should go grab a drink, Shoko was rightfully surprised. Gojo actively didn’t drink and had vocalized his dislike for it many times. Surprised as she was, it didn’t take long for Shoko to realize why Gojo wanted to. February 3rd was always a day the two of them spent together, though usually it was just to grab lunch or dinner and sometimes talk about their youth. Other years it was a day where they just sat in silence, neither one of them willing to talk about why the person who’s birthday it was wasn’t with them.

This year was different, not even two months had passed since Geto’s death and it seemed that had put a twist on their yearly plans. Shoko knew Gojo well enough to know that his suggestion was a form of self harm. As his friend, the right thing would be to turn him down. Shoko couldn’t stop him if he wanted to drown his sorrows though, and it would be much better for Gojo to not be alone on a day like this.

That was how Shoko ended up with Gojo’s arm slung around her shoulder as she guided him back to his home. He had attempted to match her drinks, but straight whiskey was not the best drink for someone with as big a sweet tooth as Gojo. So double cocktails and more shots than she could keep track of made their way across the bar to the strongest sorcerer. If it had been anyone else, she would have been worried about his tab, but the only thing as deep as Gojo’s well of sorrow was his wallet.

Fortunately, the trek back to Gojo’s home wasn’t long. The hardest part had been keeping the larger man upright, but Shoko had plenty of experience lugging around large, dead weight bodies. She hadn’t expected it to be an easy feat with Gojo’s Limitless ability active, but it seemed that at some point during the night, he had either willingly disabled it or the alcohol in his system muted his abilities. Whether Gojo knew this would happen or not was beyond Shoko, but she was glad that she didn’t leave him alone and intoxicated without the veil he normally kept around him at all times.

Gojo’s apartment was always a surprise to Shoko, she never expected it to be as clean as it was. With Megumi and Tsumiki out of the house, it made sense considering the amount of time Gojo spent anywhere other than home. Closing the door behind her, she led him into his own bedroom, which was also nearly spotless save for the unmade bed. Feeling a bit tired herself she let Gojo drop onto the bed in a less than delicate manner. He barely responded to the rough treatment, simply groaning and pressing his face into his pillows. Rolling her eyes, Shoko left him and headed into his kitchen. A glass of water and some aspirin would be needed, even for the strongest sorcerer after the night he’s had.

She sat them down on the bedside table next to a small framed photo of the three of them in high school. Pulling the blankets up and over him, she made her way over to the window, cracking it slightly to let some fresh air in. There wasn’t much more she could do for him in this state, so she resigned herself to a short walk to the Jujutsu High Campus. It was closer than her apartment and it wouldn’t be the first time she’d slept in her office. Hopefully she would be awake by the time Gojo strolled into the school. She was a little worried that this could impact him negatively, but he was stronger than that.

It wasn’t unusual for Kenjaku to keep tabs on Gojo Satoru, but he generally made a point to not get too close to the man. His plans hinged on a few specific things, and Gojo not seeing him until the moment he was ready with the prison realm was one of them. So it could almost be considered foolish for him to be in his current position, standing over Gojo’s bed as he slept fitfully.

Kenjaku wasn’t one to throw away his plans on a whim, but he also wasn’t one to ignore his own curiosities. He had known that the connection between his vessel and the six eyes was a solid one, but he hadn’t expected more than a normal mourning period from Gojo Satoru. What a surprise he had found upon entering Geto Suguru’s body, the connection between the sorcerers was more intimate than he had anticipated. Not only was this discovery inspiring for Kenjaku in regards to potential plans, but it also pulled him toward Gojo like a magnet. He didn’t need to be this close just to observe the man’s behavior, and yet there was no place he would rather be in this moment.

Observation from afar hadn’t been enough on a night like tonight. As he followed the two friends through the streets silently, not detected by the all seeing six eyes. Kenjaku wasn’t quite sure at what point he noticed Gojo wasn’t using his abilities, but he was sure the man was too drunk to notice him when he was pulled out of the bar, slumped over Shoko’s shoulders. Once they had made it back to Gojo’s home, he simply waited for her to leave. It was a gamble, they’re close, it would have made sense for her to crash on Gojo’s couch. Luck was on Kenjaku’s side tonight, it seemed.

The barrier he put up over the faint one surrounding Gojo’s apartment would undoubtedly go undetected by anyone other than the six eyes himself. After that it didn’t take long for Kenjaku to find his way in through the window that Shoko had so thoughtfully opened. That was how he found himself here, standing over the unconscious man in the bed. The strongest sorcerer, the greatest threat to his plans, completely defenseless in front of him. This would be the perfect chance to seal Gojo, if only his plans had progressed far enough. Since there was still work to be done that would have to wait, but there was no reason not to take advantage of the state of the man before him.

Reaching out his hand, Kenjaku traced his fingers softly along Gojo’s forehead, traveling down to cup his face. His skin was warm to the touch, feverish even in his unconscious state. It seemed the alcohol had affected more than just Gojo’s mental facilities, his lack of reaction showed Kenjaku just how unconscious he was. The smile that spread across his face was one of malicious glee, it had been years since he’d been able to touch a six eyes user like this. Granted the last time they had been far too young for his tastes, he’d just killed them and continued on. He couldn’t quite remember a time where he’d had this ample of a chance to prey on someone so strong.

There were few people in Kenjaku’s long life that affected him on a scale that caused him to regard them as an enemy of sorts. The six eyes was the closest thing, even if it was a one sided relationship, as they had no way of knowing the interactions their ancestors had with him. Even if they had tried to stop his plans in some way, it hadn’t been done out of a grudge but merely to keep the peace in their respective lifetime. Due to his own body swapping, he knew any incidents were seen as unrelated and prevented any awareness of him looming over their heads. Even if Kenjaku was always building to help his plans come to fruition, they were none the wiser.

That grudge of sorts was a large part of the draw he felt in this moment to defile the man before him. Kenjaku knew that killing Gojo would only set his plans back once again, so he’d use this vulnerability as an opportunity to get out some of his frustrations.

However, there was another reason Kenjaku felt so drawn toward Gojo Satoru, his vessel’s memories of the man were so bright in comparison to the memories of the other vessel’s he had inhabited. Their relationship had such a profound effect on Geto Suguru that it had burned itself into his very soul.

The hand that cradled Gojo’s face applied a little more pressure, gripping his chin and squeezing his cheeks together. The continued lack of reaction assured Kenjaku that he would likely have ample time to get out his own frustration and his vessel’s desires. Though the thrill of potentially ruining his plans just for a quick release amused him greatly. Regardless of what happened, Kenjaku just wanted to have some fun, it was his vessel’s birthday after all, why not celebrate?

Leaning down, Kenjaku pressed a soft kiss to Gojo’s unmoving lips. They were soft and tasted sweeter than he expected for someone that had been drinking all night. His tongue trailing the crease between Gojo’s closed lips, as if searching for some kind of reaction. Squeezing his cheeks a little more, Gojo’s mouth opened just enough for Kenjaku to kiss his way into it, tongue tracing along the roof of his mouth.

Kenjaku suppressed a small groan at the feeling of his tongue rubbing up against Gojo’s, it had been some time since he had been close enough to someone to kiss them. He didn’t often seek out intimate partners, so the sensations felt all too hot, especially in this new vessel. Kenjaku hadn’t quite worked out what parts of his newest body were sensitive, but the shiver down his spine told him his vessel approved of the action.

His hands left Gojo’s face, slipping down to take the blankets off of his body. The soft kisses he’d been placing on the man’s lips slowed to the slightest touch before Kenjaku lifted his face up. Looking down he could see Gojo was still fully dressed, not entirely surprising that Shoko hadn’t undressed him. Kenjaku didn’t mind though, he did like the idea of unwrapping his own present.

Sitting back, he once again took in Gojo’s appearance. The man had just worn a black turtleneck and what appeared to be the same dress pants he wore to the school that day. A simple outfit, but with a personality like Gojo’s, Kenjaku assumed he didn’t need flashy clothing to draw attention to himself. Especially the way the turtleneck hugged his muscles, it made Kenjaku want to open this present faster even if it did risk waking him up. He was nothing if not patient though.

There was no need to be too patient however, Kenjaku thought to himself as his hands drifted further down Gojo’s body. He didn’t want to waste the time that the six eyes would be unconscious on just observation, so maybe he did need to act a little faster. Deft fingers undid the button on Gojo’s pants, it didn’t take too much effort to pull them down either since there was no resistance from the man.

Kenjaku’s hands slowed to slip Gojo’s pants over his bare feet before dropping the clothing to the ground beside the bed in a messy lump. Perhaps to Gojo it would look like he had just become too hot in the night and pulled the clothing off himself. Pushing Gojo’s legs up to bend at the knees, Kenjaku settled himself between them. His face nestled right between the man’s thighs, mouth watering at the sight before him.

Gojo, to no surprise, wasn’t aroused. His cock soft as Kenjaku looked at it fondly, that wasn't what he was looking forward to though. Pushing Gojo’s knees up toward his chest revealed the man’s tight ass, the real present for Kenjaku. He didn’t have to reach too far back in his vessel’s memories to find a time where that cute ass was wrapped around his cock, he couldn’t wait to feel it for himself. The last man he’d fucked he had been in a woman’s body, so the interaction had gone much differently, this was a feeling he supposed he did miss.

Adjusting himself, Kenjaku moved forward slightly, closing the remaining distance between himself and Gojo. The hands that held up his legs slid down Gojo’s strong thighs just far enough to be able to spread his cheeks, revealing Gojo’s hole to him. Bringing his face forward, Kenjaku brushed his tongue against the ring of muscle.

He watched, trying to keep track of any reaction from the strongest sorcerer above him. So far there hadn’t been any movements, but with all the attention he was giving such a sensitive area, anything could happen. Slow licking turned into Kenjaku pressing his tongue past the tight ring, just before slipping it out and allowing his finger to enter slowly. Pacing himself, Kenjaku started working the muscle to allow for another finger to fit in alongside.

It was quite the sight, being able to watch this closely as he fingered Gojo and prepared him for his vessel's thick cock. He knew that it was something Gojo was used to taking, but he knew it had been some time since they had fucked. It shouldn’t take much more prep though, their bodies seemed to fit together so well if his vessel’s memories were anything to show. Thinking about fucking Gojo into the mattress in the body of the man he loved had Kenjaku holding back from grinding his hard cock against the bed for some kind of relief.

Kenjaku wasn’t normally the kind of lover to take things slow and easy, especially when his lust was fueled by the need to defile the man before him. He just wanted to avoid waking Gojo at all costs. So he slowly, carefully worked his fingers, making sure to not force his way inside all at once. It was almost hypnotic, watching Gojo’s body suck his fingers further inside. As he slid a third finger he knew that this was as ready as he would be able to work Gojo.

Gojo had barely moved during all of Kenjaku’s toying, the only indication that the man was still able to feel anything was his slowly hardening cock right in front of Kenjaku’s face. It seemed Gojo’s body, even when unconscious, was still very responsive to his ministrations. Slipping his fingers out of Gojo’s tight hole, Kenjaku slowly repositioning himself above the six eyes.

This view of looking down at Gojo, lewdly posed with his legs held up and ass open to him, wasn’t a new sight to this vessel. Kenjaku could see many memories of his vessel and the six eyes in this position, the only difference was in the others, Gojo was pleading for more. A very willing participant, in contrast to his still and unaware visage now. It did spur Kenjaku on more to see just how worked up his vessel could make Gojo, his cock throbbing as he slid down his pants just enough to expose himself.

Lifting Gojo’s legs a little higher allowed him to align himself with Gojo’s entrance, the head of his cock slipping inside with a small thrust. The tight heat felt familiar to his vessel, but having the six eyes wrapped around him was a new feeling to Kenjaku. Slowly he pressed his way into Gojo’s body, the preparation he’d done just enough to allow only a small amount of resistance. Bottoming out, Kenjaku felt his balls press up against the swell of Gojo’s ass. If he had thought Gojo’s face was feverish, the heat around his cock was something else, intoxicating even as he found himself unable to move for a moment. It felt so good to be buried inside Gojo Satoru.

Kenjaku slowly started fucking into Gojo’s tight core, each thrust measured to bring himself the most pleasure. Gojo’s body had been nothing but a toy to him all night and now was no different. The steady, deep thrusts felt like heaven to Kenjaku, it was as if their bodies were made for one another with just how well Gojo took his vessel’s thick cock.

Sliding a hand down from holding Gojo’s leg up, Kenjaku’s fingers brushed along Gojo’s now fully hard cock. It bounced with every thrust, begging for a little attention from Kenjaku. Even in this state Gojo’s body had still found a way to beg for his vessel, Kenjaku thought it was almost endearing. At the brush of his fingers, Kenjaku felt Gojo tighten around him, the sensation pushing him closer to the edge.

The new pressure felt too good for Kenjaku to want to slow down. He fucked into Gojo harder than he thought safe, it just was too much pleasure for him to want to drag it out any longer. Kenjaku’s hips slamming against Gojo’s ass as his cock was being squeezed so tightly by the six eyes. He was so focused on bringing himself closer to the edge that he barely noticed a small noise from below him.

Kenjaku’s eyes snapped up and away from watching himself fuck into Gojo’s body. He hadn’t noticed Gojo had moved, his hands up by his face as small whimpers spilled from his lips. The thrusts from Kenjaku hadn’t stopped, he kept his pace steady as he watched the involuntary movements from the man below him. Gojo’s eyes were screwed shut still but his mouth was open and panting, it seemed the pleasure was getting to him as well.

He knew that it was dangerous to keep this up with Gojo so reactive now, but Kenjaku just couldn’t stop now. Each thrust was harder than the last, reaching so deep within the six eyes he was sure the next one would wake the man. Kenjaku knew he was a few moments away from filling Gojo, he wanted to make them count. This was not the time for holding back.

Unexpectedly, Gojo’s body tightened around him like a vice, making it almost impossible to thrust without using more force. Kenjaku was too close to slow down, fucking harder into the six eyes body. He watched as Gojo’s barely touched cock twitched as it came all over his chest, some even reaching up onto the man’s face. Gojo’s eyes still shut as a single name started to fall from his lips.

“Sugu-” Kenjaku’s hand covered Gojo’s mouth before he could speak any further. Not wanting the man to wake himself up by speaking or ruin his own orgasm.

Fucking into Gojo’s twitching hole, Kenjaku felt himself finally snap, emptying himself deep inside the six eyes. He rode out his orgasm silently, teeth biting into his lip to prevent a noise from escaping. The blood pooled in his mouth as he finished, thrusts slowing finally. Kenjaku slowly slipped his spent cock from Gojo's body, quickly wiping himself on the bed sheets before tucking himself away one handedly.

Removing his hand from Gojo’s mouth, Kenjaku silently got up from the bed. Gojo had somehow still not fully woken up, his hands coming up to his own face again in some comforting gesture to himself. Kenjaku was almost tempted to wake the man up just to get more of a reaction to what he had done. He considered himself lucky that this risky plan had worked out, the post orgasm endorphins mixing with his pleasure at defiling the six eyes brought a malicious smirk to his face.

Kenjaku knew Gojo wouldn’t be able to remember this even if part of him had woken up while he was buried inside the man. He would have loved to see the look of betrayal and despair on Gojo’s face at the realization that he’d been used like this. That would have to wait, it would be worth it in the end to be able to trap Gojo and get a reaction out of him later. For now he was more than happy to live knowing he got to take advantage of the strongest sorcerer in the most intimate way, all with him being none the wiser.

Slipping out the window he’d entered and back into the cold, Kenjaku left quite a mess and many questions for Gojo upon waking in the morning. For him, it was just another way of adding confusion and chaos to the world around him.

#kenjaku #gojo satoru #kenjaku x gojo satoru #kengo #jjk smut #satosugu angst

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