#the water level also has risen | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

maknaeswrld · 7 months

Text

a life remembered | l.mh, h.js

wc: 4.6k

genre: soulmate au; reincarnation au; fluff; angst; poly!minsung x reader

cw: primarily Han pov; illusions to suggestive conversation; concert highs; anxiety/panic attack mentions; food/eating mentions; Bee (I feel like they need a warning lol, love them the most); arguing but bc they care (not between the soulmates); please let me know if I missed anything

part one: a life forgotten

Soulmates are a curious thing. Everyone has them, and someway, somehow, they always find each other.

When Lee Minho walked into JYP Entertainment for the first time, Jisung didn’t know what to do or how to react, and looking back on it now, it was comical. Minho was, in Jisungs opinion, one of, if not the most, handsome man he’d ever seen. It had struck a chord in him he’d chosen to interpret as jealousy.

When Chan told him he wanted to include Minho in the group he was creating, Jisung couldn’t decide if he was giddy or nervous. He’d met the other boy twice and couldn’t shake the overwhelming feeling that they knew each other. It wasn’t until their third meeting, the first one in an official capacity, to learn the song Chan wanted to showcase, that Jisung realized why.

The small space of the practice room they were designated to made the group circle a tight one, Minho rushing in and dropping to the floor in the open spot between Jisung and Felix, accidentally brushing against Jisung in the process and shooting them both headfirst into a memory both could swear wasn’t theirs.

Water surrounded them in every direction, the sounds of laughter filling the air. The ship rocked gently as the waves pushed it along steadily.

Minho took Jisungs hand, leading him to the edge of the ship.

“Where is your beautiful mind right now, my love?”

And although it didn’t feel like he was talking to Minho, and there was no response, Jisung’s smile lit up his entire face, his eyes twinkling in pure content.

“Come back to the group, love. The boys are going to start their whining if you ignore them for too long.” Minho groaned.

Again there was no response, as if a chunk of their memory for this specific moment was still missing.

“You know how your boys can get.” Jisung waved nonchalantly, hand grasping at thin air before the two turned back to join the rest of the crew.

Practice was immediately derailed as they were brought back to the present, everyone looking worried as they surrounded the pair.

“What just happened?” Changbin asked, holding Jisungs shoulder to keep him steady.

“I’m not entirely sure.” Jisung couldn’t stop himself from seeking out Minho’s eyes, which were already on him, holding the softest expression Jisung has ever seen in his life.

“Please tell me you saw the ship too.” Minho whispered, voice unsure, hand grasping Jisungs for dear life and all he could do was nod. Minho started nodding along with him, the two slowly morphing from shock to joy as smiles spread across their faces.

Tears pricked at Jisungs eyes the more the realization hit him.

“We’re soulmates.”

````

Five years.

In five years, so much had changed for Han Jisung. In just five years he’d met not only the love of his life, but also his soul brothers, a realization they came to some time after the soulmate realization, as Minho and Jisung saw the rest of the members in almost all of their past lives.

In five years Stray Kids had also risen to a level of fame not one of them had predicted. They were living a life their younger selves could have only hoped to dream of, and they were so beyond grateful and happy to be able to keep doing music together.

But also within those five years, Minho and Jisung had come to the conclusion that something was missing. They were absolutely positive that they were soulmates, of that there was not even a shadow of a doubt, but there were too many holes in their shared memories, conversations that felt one sided, moments in bed with a gap between them that shouldn't be there if they were at peace with one another. But the confirmation that they were missing a piece came in a memory that surfaced much later than the rest, one with Jisung storming up to Minho’s door, fist banging in anger, wedding band adorning his finger but not Minho’s.

That memory was one of Jisung being angry with Minho and not even knowing who he was, with Minho knowing of Jisung but not knowing him personally, of them both being in love with a person that wasn’t the other. Minho is positive he’d despise cheaters in every life, yet was accused of sleeping with a married person. Neither Jisung, nor Minho could remember Jisungs spouse's name, what they looked like, what gender they were, all they knew was that both of them loved them, and they both loved them as desperately as they love one another, and that was enough to convince them that the piece missing was a third soulmate.

They didn’t know how to go about it, they couldn’t even be allowed to share the truth of their relationship and thousands of Stays were claiming to be each members soulmates daily just for a chance of meeting them. The chances of finding their third and final piece was slim at absolute best.

People always say trust the soulmate connection and that time would bring them together, but that was hard knowing you couldn’t remember someone you love.

Han Jisung spent far too many concerts and fan meets searching the crowd in hopes that you’d be there, that he’d finally find you and the trio would finally be complete. Likewise, he’d spent just as many nights disappointed that you were nowhere to be found. With their fame came the higher likelihood of you being able to find them, but that also meant it’d be harder for them to find you. However, Chan and his soulmate, Riley, gave Jisung hope that he would find you.

Lee Minho wanted to find you just as badly, though he looked for you in the mundane. Whilst his partner expected you to reach out via their fame, Minho hoped more for bumping into you on the sidewalk or in a coffee shop, it made him feel more attainable. Minho knew that whilst Riley and Chan made it work, and even Bee and Changbin, there were just as many people that would be scared off by celebrity soulmates as there are seeking them.

Another concert, another night of Jisung daydreaming about finding you in the crowd and whisking you away after to finally meet you and remember you. Riley gave Chan a knowing glare, the parental figures of the group concerned about their younger friend. Ever since the two soulmates came to the conclusion they have a third one, which isn’t unheard of but is fairly rare, their friends have been doubtful to say the least.

No one likes seeing the kicked puppy look on Jisungs face whenever someone mentions that maybe there isn’t anyone else out there, or the way Minho gets defensive when they try to talk to him about the possibility of their memories just not having fully solidified yet. Both in the firm belief that five years connected at the hip was enough time to remember everything. But that didn’t stop the worried glances and strained smiles when they’d start talking about their ‘other soulmate’.

“They’re gonna be here tonight.” Jisung stated as if it were an absolute fact.

“You said that last night, Sungie.” Hyunjin muttered.

“Yeah, but I can feel it this time. They’re in the crowd right now, I’m positive of it.”

“Ji, you have an incredible soulmate already, why are you so eager to find another one?” Bee asked from their almost permanent place snuggled into Changbin. “I’m just saying, I can’t imagine dealing with more than one Binnie.”

“They’re not another Minho, they’re mine and Min’s missing piece.” Jisung argued. It was a conversation that felt all too familiar, and every time one of his soul brothers or other lifetime friends make comments, he feels himself getting just a little more hostile but also a little more defeated.

Maybe they were wrong, maybe there wasn’t a missing piece and they truly just haven’t had the best relationship in every lifetime. But Jisung couldn’t bring himself to believe that. Seeing how whole Bee and Bin, and Riley and Chan, were, how they didn’t have memory gaps or questionable moments and conversations, made him feel like there was no other explanation aside from another person to fill the void. It wasn’t like Jisung thought Minho wasn’t enough for him, he wasn’t seeking more from outside their relationship, he loved Minho with every fiber of his being, but he knew Minho wasn’t the only one he’d hold these feelings towards. And Minho knew it too, it was a long conversation to have, one that ended in tears but mutual understanding that they would always have each other and weren’t seeking out this third person for any reason other than them wholeheartedly believing they are also their soulmate.

As the time to go on stage got closer and closer, Jisung felt more antsy. He wasn’t sure why tonight felt different, but he couldn’t stop fidgeting. Minho tried to calm him down, but was just as on edge.

The concert went smoothly, they always did, but Minho and Jisung both spent far more time engaging towards one specific area than they ever had before. It’s like they couldn’t abandon the section for longer than a few minutes and they always ended up right back there the second they could. Jisung felt better than he had in a long time, adrenaline pumping through his veins and a smile plastered on his face. He felt good, he felt whole for the first time in a long time. Jisung couldn’t explain it, but that stage was the most at home he’d felt since he first found Minho.

As they said their goodbyes to Stay and made their way backstage, the overwhelming peace Jisung had felt slowly faded. He couldn’t think of any reason why, but as he watched Riley smother his leader with kisses and Bee put his best friend into a headlock, he felt himself growing more numb.

Minho wrapped his arms around him, nuzzling into his shoulder, relieving the aching feeling sinking in so fast it would have given Jisung whiplash if he weren’t already used to the other boys' affect on him, body and mind. Jisung could feel giggles bubbling up in him with each soft kiss placed on the base of his neck.

“You were radiant out there tonight, my love.”

“And you were very sexy.” Jisung giggled.

“Hey now! There are children present!” Riley scolded, breaking away from Chan to cover Jeongin’s ears. “Go foreplay somewhere else.”

“Yeah!” Bee shouted from Changbin’s back. “There’s dressing rooms for a reason!”

The look of absolute dismay Riley shot Bee was priceless, “That’s not what the dressing rooms are for.”

“It’s not? Did you know that bro?”

Changbins ears were red. “Please don’t call me bro while talking about this.”

“How about we just all get showered and changed and go grab something to eat?” Chan suggested in a tone that left no room for argument, clapping his hands together and pulling Riley back towards his body. “And stop babying Innie, he’s worse than Bee these days.”

“I will never stop babying my baby, but I am hungry.” Riley muttered in agreement. “If y’all take too long in the shower, we’re leaving without you.” Riley pointed at Bee and Changbin, who’s ears somehow got even more red. Bee just winked at their best friend, shiteating grin plastered on their face.

Twenty minutes later, Jisung piled into the van with his bandmates and additional soulmates, Seungmin and Hyunjin discussing what they wanted to eat whilst Felix snuggled into Bee’s side, the two looking at memes while Changbin pouted.

Jisung felt more drained than he had in a long time, his social battery past empty and moved on to completely fried. Minho pulling him into his side eased some of the anxiousness starting to well up.

“No panic attacks after amazing shows.” Minho whispered.

Jisung buried his head further into the other mans neck. “I’m trying.”

“I know.” He kissed the crown of his head gently, smiling softly while tightening his hold. “I’m seriously so proud of you.”

The ride was uneventful out to the opposite side of the city, in hopes less people would recognize them so they could have their meal in peace. Minho and Jisung were the last of the group to venture out of the vehicle and towards the restaurant. They didn’t get too far before a voice rapping along to Han’s part to All In stopped them dead in their tracks.

“Y/n, please, you’re in public.”

“You’re wasting your breath, you know how they are about their spotlight songs.”

Han’s eyes landed on the person rapping his line with such ease it was as if they’d written it themself. He felt excitement flood through him instantaneously, rushing over and joining them, singing along to the song playing quietly in the outdoor speakers overhead.

He watched your eyes light up as the two of you sang along together, ignoring your friends and focusing on one another. Not a thing in the world was registering to either of you as you both turned to Minho, watching as he rolled his eyes, smile already playing at his lips, joining in for the last parts of the song.

Your laughter filled the air as the song came to an end, and Jisung could swear it was already becoming one of his favorite sounds.

“Took you long enough.”

Your voice was laced with amusement.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“You know I don’t like singing by myself.” You nudged his shoulder lightly, causing him to wrap his arm around your shoulders and squeeze tight.

“But your voice is so nice!”

A blush lit up your cheeks in an instant, mouth opening to respond when someone clearing their throat behind you drew the groups attention.

“Y/n, um, what?”

“Min! Sungie! Hurry your asses up or we’re gonna eat without you.” Bee shouted from down the way, drawing Jisungs attention just long enough for you to slip out of his hold.

By the time he or Minho could focus back on you, you were gone. No trace of a person having been standing with them, as if you’d been a figment of their imagination.

“Sungie…”

“I know.”

“That was…”

“Yeah.”

Minho was staring off into the direction you had to have gone in, itching to run after you. Jisung stared at his hands, in disbelief that just moments prior he was holding the final piece of his puzzle in those same hands.

You, the random stranger unabashedly performing one of their songs in the middle of the street, were the one person Jisung and Minho had been looking for incessantly. The person they knew they couldn’t remember.

“Do you ever wonder what we’d be like if we didn’t find each other? What’d it’d be like if we don’t keep finding each other?”

Jisung was used to thinking these types of questions, but hearing you ask them out loud hurt more than him thinking them ever did.

“I’d rather imagine we’ll always find each other.” Jisung grumbled, tightening his hold on both of the bodies on either side of his.

“Okay but what if-”

“There are no what if’s, my love. We’ll always find one another, in every lifetime, even if some take a little longer than others. I don’t see a reason to dwell on the impossibility of not ending up right back here every single time.”

You snuggled deeper into Jisungs chest, hand squeezing Minho’s.

“I suppose you’re right.” You mumbled. Minho squeezed your hand comfortingly in response.

Jisungs arms shifted entirely around you, squeezing as he rolled over to toss you in the middle, both of your soulmates wanting to hold you close. You sighed in content, snuggling into your boys happily.

“I am so dead serious right now, you two. We will absolutely eat without you if you don’t- why do your faces look like that?”

“We found them.”

“Found who? Why are you being cryptic.”

“We found our other soulmate.” Jisung said.

Bee’s mouth dropped open and within moments all of their brothers and Riley were there, bombarding them with questions.

“Okay, so is no one surprised that they actually have another soulmate? Is that just me?” Hyunjin said, a smack from Seungmin following shortly after.

“Which direction did they go? We need to find them!” Jeongin said, already shifting from one foot to the other as if he were ready to sprint in any direction in a moments notice.

“We didn’t actually see what direction they went in because somebody distracted us.” Jisung glared at Bee.

“Oh, I’m sorry I’m hungry and didn’t know.” They huffed.

“We were facing that way so they definitely couldn’t have gone in that direction.” Minho cut in, knowing a grumpy Jisung and a hangry Bee is never a good combination. They loved each other like siblings but damn could they argue until they both turned blue.

“Alright, everyone pick a direction and let's find our boys’ soulmate.” Chan said, “Go in pairs and meet here in one hour, no exceptions. Even if everyone comes back empty handed, we have to at least try.” Turning to his first and last children, his eyes and tone softened. “Is there anything we can use to recognise them?”

Jisung immediately jumped into a full description, followed by Minho simply saying, “Ask if they know ‘All In’. They were singing it with us just now.”

Nods all around as people started pairing up.

“Okay, I’m going with Ji.” Riley stated, looping their arm through Jisungs. “Channie, you take Min. Bin and Bee, separate. I am not dealing with soulmates getting distracted and off mission right now.”

Before Jisung could even think about protesting, he was being swept away by Riley in the first direction he would have guessed you ran in. Jisung struggled to keep up with the pace set by Riley as they ducked into shops and restaurants, checking bathrooms and fitting rooms as they went. Riley wanted to cover as much ground as possible in the one hour timeframe given, which Jisung was appreciative of. However, Jisung hoped Minho and Chan were having better luck, or anyone else for that matter.

He wanted to find you more than anything. Knowing he had you in his arms was enough for him to get addicted to you, and if he stopped for a moment and focused on his memories, he was sure you were already fitting yourself into almost every single one..

Every one sided conversation suddenly being completed, all those nights spent with an unnecessary space between himself and Minho being filled by you. Your presence for those four minutes he got with you had already led to a downward spiral of need to be close to you, to hold you in his arms once more.

In combination with the presence of you in old memories, as if you’d always been there, there was also a small onslaught of new memories, ones without Minho but including you. Ones that further solidified your rightful place within his life.

As another memory flashed behind his eyes, he took a seat on a bench outside of a small corner store.

“Are you okay?” Riley asked, always a mother hen.

“I’m fine, just, check this one without me, I need a moment.”

Riley seemed to understand and didn’t ask questions as they pat him on the back and wandered into the store.

“Do you believe in soulmates?” A voice whispered in your ear as hands made their way around your waist. “Because I feel like we’ve met before and I’d like to get to know you again.”

You could smell the stench of alcohol emanating off the stranger feeling you up in the middle of the dance floor. Rolling your eyes, you ripped his hands off you, turning around and shoving him back for safe measure.

“I do believe in soulmates, and you sure as hell ain’t mine. But the guy who is doesn’t really take kindly to strangers touching what's his.”

Before the idiot could open his mouth again, Jisungs arm slid into place across your shoulders, pulling you in for a downright make out session right in the middle of the bars dance floor.

When he finally pulled away, the dude was nowhere to be seen.

“Took you long enough.” You said teasingly.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” He smiled gently, and then led you to the booth he’d been watching you from.

You shook your head as you splashed water on your face in the bathroom, your best friend, Lia, pacing behind you.

“I thought you wanted to avoid them?”

Lia was the only person you’d confided in after coming to terms with the fact that your soulmates were not one, but two international superstars.

“I did, but, I don’t know. It was like being like that with them was so natural I didn’t even register that we don’t know each other. It felt right.”

“Do you think they know?”

Sighing, you lightly tapped your head against the wall, eyes squeezed shut. “I don’t know. If they don’t yet, we’ve met now, it’s only a matter of time before I start filtering into their memories.”

“Do you want to keep hiding from them? Y/n/n, they know now, there’s no avoiding them not remembering you anymore. Don’t you think avoiding them now will just cause unnecessary pain?”

“I know that! I do. But, I’m not sure I could handle being in their world, and what if they end up resenting me for ruining the good thing they already had? They’ve been together for so long, and then I just blindside them with my existence? What if they didn’t even know they had a third soulmate?”

“Then they do now and they’re probably looking everywhere for them. Those two don’t seem like the type to resent you for coming into their lives, but they might if you enter it just to disappear forever. I get the feeling now that they know, they’ll never stop looking for you. Do you understand that?”

You opened your mouth to answer when the door to the bathroom swung open.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just looking for someone.” The stranger looked flushed, as if they’d been running, but even so you could tell they were stunning. “Um, neither of you happen to know the song All In, do you?”

You and Lia shot each other confused but nervous looks, which seemed to be enough for this stranger who finally let the bathroom door shut behind them, leaning against it and eyeing you both.

“So which one of you is the runner?”

“What do you mean?”

“One of you just met your two soulmates and then booked it while they had their backs turned, which was it?”

Lia threw her hands up in defense, pointing at you in the process and backing up.

“Traitor.” You mumbled, causing her to stifle a laugh.

The stranger blocking the exit landed their gaze on you, “I ran too.”

Of all the things you were expecting them to say, that was definitely not on the list of possibilities.

“It’s scary,” They continued, pushing off the door and walking towards you. “But the separation is worse. I promise you, it’s better than you can possibly imagine. The company takes good care of us, and while we aren’t allowed to be public, we go pretty much everywhere with the boys if we want to. They don’t do anything to risk our relationships.”

“I’m sorry but, who are you and what do you mean by our?”

“Oh! I’m Riley, I’m Chan’s soulmate. And Changbin found his as well, their name is Bee. I went through the running and being scared of falling for someone in the industry but Bee was already in the industry themself when they found Bin, so it was slightly easier for them. Sorry, I’m rambling, but my point is we’re both here for you and we both understand how you’re feeling. And that those men you just left in the dust are two of the best I’ve ever met, and they’ve been looking for you for a long time.”

That comment shocked you to your core.

They’ve been looking for you.

“How could they be looking for me, they couldn’t have even known about me.”

Riley seemed to hesitate. “To be honest, none of us believed them. For a while we really just assumed that they found each other at such a young age they’ve never experienced anything but one another, so the whole third soulmate thing was just sort of a way to come to terms with the fact that they wanted a change of pace or something. But, here you are, and we stand corrected.

“They may not have known you, or known how to find you, but they’ve been searching for their ‘missing piece’ about as long as I’ve known them.” Then Riley quirked their head in a very parental like motion. “You already knew, didn’t you.”

It was phrased as a question, but was completely an irrefutable statement.

“How long have you known?” Where you were expecting harshness or judgment, you received only the sound of sheer curiosity.

“Almost a year now.” You mumbled, arms wrapping around yourself for a sense of security.

Riley blanched. “A YEAR?!”

You just nodded.

“Damn hun, I would’ve lost my mind if I’d known who Chris was for a whole year. How the hell did you manage that?!”

“By convincing themself that Minho and Han were already happy and better off without them, that they’d just throw a hitch in their lives that they didn’t need.” Lia stated, you could practically hear her rolling her eyes at you. Riley’s eyes softened at her words.

Grabbing your hands in one hand, Riley brushed a stray piece of hair out of your face, gently cupping your cheek. “I know exactly how you feel. When I found Chris, I ran too. I didn’t think I could survive his work schedule, the expectations placed on him, all the fans claiming him, but he is so worth every single difficulty and so much more. I know you’re scared right now, and it’s probably worse for you because it’s just Chris and me, but Min and Ji already adore you, they could never be happier without you than they will be with you, I can promise you that much.

“I understand if you’re not ready yet. I wasn’t ready for a long time myself, so if it’s okay with you, I want to give you mine and Bee’s numbers, you can reach out to us with any and all questions, concerns, whatever. Heck, if you just want to use them to get to know us, that’s fine too. I didn’t have anyone to help me, but you have us, we’ll help you all the way. Think about it, okay? All three of you will be so much happier together. You aren’t meant to be apart.”

You felt tears stinging your eyes again. You knew Riley was right, you’d always known you’d be happier with them, but you also knew there was no way for you to get their attention, no way for them to actually find you, now that you had, now that they knew you, you were truly out of logical reasons to avoid taking your place by their sides.

Because soulmates are a curious thing. Everyone has them, and someway, somehow, they always find each other.

next part: a life eluded

a/n: ahhhhhh part two, I feel like it’s been done for a while but I’ve been like nervous about it idk, anyways I hope you enjoyed!! I know it’ll run for at least two more parts with potential for spin off(s) on the others finding their soulmates or even ‘prequels’ of Riley and Chan as well as Bee and Changbin🫣🤭 please feel free and encouraged to leave your thoughts and opinions and also lemme know if you’d be interested in being tagged in upcoming parts? ciao!! 🫶

271 notes · View notes

alwritey-aphrodite · 6 months

Note

okay I also wanted a love note with Jamie with the prompt

"c'mere you" and "saying 'I love you' between kisses"

As fluffy and lovely as possible. Maybe a dash of emotional hurt/comfort? Whatever you want babes

Hehehe I actually love this (and you) so much

The world had a lot of assumptions about Jamie Tartt, that he was self-centered and arrogant and rude, that all he cared about was money and fame, that his only redeeming qualities came from his abilities on the pitch. Anyone who knew Jamie knew that was all wrong, that he was sweet and sensitive and sometimes a bit of a prick, that he cared about his friends and family more than any paycheck, and that his football career was the least of his good qualities.

You had a special kind of knowledge about him, seeing him first thing in the morning and last thing at night, on his best days and on his very worst. He tries to ignore the things said about him in the papers, tries to smile and brush it off like it’s no big deal, but you know their words hurt him more than he lets on.

With the lackluster season from Richmond, Jamie’s taken the brunt of the blame, both from the media and from himself. No matter how many times you tell him that it’s a team effort, that everyone and no one is to blame for a loss, he still blames himself, says that if he was only a little bit faster or a little bit stronger, he could have played better and they would have won.

It hurts when he gets like this, sulking and upset and unwilling to talk about it because even though he’s done so much work to get better, his father’s voice never really leaves his mind, and you know that the voice that tells him he’s the reason they lost sounds just like James. It tears you up inside to see him like this, but you’re never really sure what to do.

Even now, when Jamie should be cherishing a rare and well earned break, he’s trying to slip out of bed before the sun has even risen to train, probably with the hope that you won’t notice his absence.

“C’mere,” you tell him as he emerges from the bathroom, reaching your arms out for him. He gets close enough for you to grab onto the waistband of his shorts, and you use them to pull him even closer.

“What?” He whispers, as if you’re still asleep, but maybe he’s hoping he can just give you a kiss on the forehead and be on his way, explaining it as a strange dream when you question him later.

Instead, you just smile up at him until he gets the hint and squats down by the side of the bed so you’re finally at eye level. Gently, you card your fingers through his hair, pushing it back and letting it slip through your grip like water, reveling in the absence of any products.

Jamie is perfect all the time, and you’d never stop loving him, but this has got to be your favorite version of him, where he’s still a little sleepy and pliant and hasn’t had time to spend far too long choosing an outfit or styling his hair because he knows he doesn’t need to impress you. He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, and you wish he’d let you help.

You do what you can, though, pulling him closer so you can kiss him properly, whispering your love to him between each kiss, over and over until he gives in and crawls back into bed, finally allowing himself the rest he needs and deserves. You can go back to sleep, tucked up against Jamie, knowing that for once, his mind might be a little bit quieter.

#jamie tartt #jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt x you #jamie tartt imagine #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt fic

188 notes · View notes

nohoney · 1 year

Note

I have an idea, can we get siren (merman) Hawks and can it be smut/fluffy...please

-👁

i’ve never been one to be able to write about any fantasy creatures whatsoever but this was actually kind of fun (๑˃ᴗ˂)

warnings: oral sex (receiving), fingering (receiving), some dirty talk (imagined by the reader), a little bittersweet at the end sorry

The air is warm, sunlight peeks through the breaks of the trees, and you walk further down the path to the lake that you’ve been visiting since the beginning of spring last year. A picnic basket is carried by your side, it’s contents slightly rattling as you walk the paved dirt path. The straps of your dress fall down your shoulder every once in a while and you think that once you stop to rest that you should tighten the bows a little bit so that you’re not always adjusting them.

You break into a little jog once you see the end of the path despite your flip flops not being meant for more than a leisurely walk.

A small pond with a little waterfall is your destination. There’s a wooden dock that you can tell has been standing strong and shows no sign of giving way anytime soon. Perhaps in another fifty years it will start to show some wear but right now, it’s sturdy.

You sit at the very end of the dock, making sure to take your flip flops off first and setting your basket aside next to you. The water level has risen; you know this because last year the water only reached your ankle when you dipped your feet in and this year, the water is up last your calves. There was a lot of rain and while you’re grateful for it, you also don’t want it to submerge the dock either.

Kicking your feet in the water, it creates ripples and disturbs the water lilies nearby.

A head of blond hair pops out from the surface of the water, yellow eyes trained on you swimming beneath the surface to approach. “There you are,” you greet to your friend, “I brought a picnic for us today.”

The head disappears beneath the surface, leaving you alone for a few seconds, the splash of water and wet hands grip onto your calves. When you look down, you see the handsome face of man but beneath the surface of the water, he’s mythical.

Last year, you discovered him.

You moved to town two years ago in the winter and hadn’t made any friends yet. Loneliness settled heavily on you as you struggled to connect with the folks of this town but it’s hard to break into the inner circles of a place where the population is only used to knowing each other. In trying to make conversation with the townsfolk, you heard a lot of talk of avoiding the lake in the middle of the forest. That apparently some parents tried to drown their child in the lake and it came back as a ghastly creature to haunt the water and the surrounding shores of it as well.

You took their little fairytale as a bunch of hooey and decided to walk to that lake.

When you walked the path, it was no different than any trail you had been to before. However coming closer to the break in the trees, you saw a dock and someone swimming in the water. There was some wariness from you when you saw it was a man. Only his head popped up from the water and he seemed very focused on something in the tree branches that reached over the water.

You peered quietly at first, following his line of vision to see a hawk just perched on a tree branch.

When you called out, it startled both the bird and the young man. The hawk took flight and the man in the water was frightened by your presence. He was quick to look back at you before going into the water. You ran to the dock, shouting that you were friendly and your eyes were searching for air bubbles to find him. Your immediate action was to jump in after him.

It was the day you discovered that mermaids… or rather a merman was real.

He had a beautiful tail of red scales that shimmered underneath the sunlight and he seemed to have a liking for the hawk that circled the lake.

So you named him Hawks.

Unusual name for a sea creature but he responded to it once he had gotten used to your presence.

“Here, I brought you an egg today. Hard boiled this time.” You offered to Hawks, already having peeled the shell off. Last time you tried to give him soft boiled but he hated it. He looks reluctantly at it and shakes his head, a gesture that you had taught him since you found he had very little communication. “Oh don’t worry, it’s not runny like last time.”

To prove it, you bite into the top half of the bed. The yolk is firm and a little dry as you chew, but it’s for your friend and not yourself.

Hawks is still reluctant.

“If you don’t want it, that’s okay. But it just means that you won’t get your favorite,” you sing the last word and watch how he perks up, “chicken.”

Hawks grunts and pats his hand at your knee, almost as if he were a child. His hand reaches towards you, eager at the mention of his favorite food. You place the half eaten egg in his palm before pushing his hand back to him. You giggle when he pouts at the egg and looks back up at you; you can tell he feels a little betrayed.

“Just try it, okay? You know how to show me if you don’t like something right?”

You taught him small ways to communicate, often with simple hand gestures. If he doesn’t like something, he’s supposed to cover his mouth with his hand. If he does, he taps his lips twice and then points to what he likes.

Again, like a child, he takes the egg and chews with puffed up cheeks. As you wait for his evaluation, you reach for the plastic container inside the picnic basket but you don’t quite bring it out just yet. He needs to properly tell you whether he likes something or not.

Hawks seems to mull it over before putting his hand over his mouth.

“Okay, I won’t bring you eggs anymore then.” You say with a little confirming nod. The container from the picnic basket is brought out and Hawks bounces in the water in excitement. The little, excited grunts he makes make you shake your head with a smile. You hand him a hearty piece of cooked chicken and it’s practically snatched from you.

Nothing that you haven’t been used to for a good while now.

You give him pieces of chicken with one hand and feed yourself with a sandwich the the other. The sun is warm on your skin, the water is cool, and Hawks is nuzzling your shins as you finish feeding yourself once all the chicken was gone.

Slowly you start to pack up everything inside your picnic basket. You wished that you didn’t have to go, truthfully you hated leaving him by himself, but you still had a life to attend to. Plus also needing to cook his favorite foods as well. “Okay Hawks, I’ll try to see if I can stop by in a few days?”

You start to lift your legs out the water but Hawks hugs your legs to keep you in place.

When he does that, you know it’s because he’s feeling a little lonely.

“I’m sorry Hawks, I know you’re sad that I have to go. I’ll try to come the soonest I can, okay?” You apologize to him, reaching down cup his cheek. He leans into your palm, affectionately humming but whines sadly when you retreat your hand back. He taps his lips twice and points to you. “I like you too Hawks.”

Slowly, he parts your legs and pushes the skirt of your dress up. Again he taps his lips twice and points to in between your legs, this time sticking his tongue out.

“Oh… I don’t know about today.”

Aside from keeping his actual presence a secret, this of course stays strictly between the two of you. Not that Hawks had the capability of saying anything or anyone knew of his presence. Sometimes you laid in bed at night thinking about him, reminiscing how curious he is about your body and how you let him explore his curiosity.

Hawks repeats his action, his brows furrowing and insisting with a pout that is working its magic on you.

He ends up getting what he wants when he presses a kiss to your knee, looking at you through his eyelashes and humming.

“… Okay.”

You discard your dress and fold it neatly before setting it aside. Hawks has a smile on his face that you pretend to not see as you slip your underwear off your body. Your calves are used to the temperature of the water but you still let out a little squeal as you join him in the water.

Hawks swims up to you and shows how happy he is by giving you a hug, affectionately nuzzling your cheek. Even though you hadn’t necessarily planned to have this type of visit with him, a part of you is flattered that he has these kinds of feelings for you and wants to act on them.

He pulls back, only to give you a quick kiss on the lips, smiling at you before sinking beneath the water’s surface. His lips kiss at your tummy before sinking lower, his hands carefully holding your hips and pats your butt as a signal.

I’m going to start now.

You gasp when he shyly licks at you as just a little tease, focusing on the view ahead of you and at a water lily floating on the water. “Oh…” you whisper quietly as closes his mouth over your cunt, licking away at you with the same eagerness he was displaying before. “H-Hawks… oh fuck.”

If only there was some way for you to be able to breathe underwater with him. To see his face and what kind of expressions as he eats you out. He’s beautiful so you know that if you were to see him look up at you as he ate you out, he’d set the butterflies in your tummy fluttering.

When you first let him explore his curiosity, he was just as shy as you were. You could tell by his touches and he could tell by the way you’d jerk whenever you were unprepared to receive his touch. But at this point of your bond, the two of you were definitely used to each other.

Not to say that he didn’t make you flustered sometimes.

Hawks seemed to be able to express himself just fine without words and without difficulty. Something in his nature or perhaps you happened to sync well with him, the two of you were able to understand one another clearly. How was it the best communication you had in a relationship, it was with someone that couldn’t speak any discernible words at all?

“Oh god!” You gasp again before you let out a small moan. Hawks licks you enthusiastically, carefully pushing a finger into your pussy, something that he learned after observing you in the early stages of the two of you showing interest in one another. You remembered how you shyly opened your legs while sitting at the dock one day and confessing to him that you dreamt of him. You remember his curious eyes watching your fingers dip into your dripping cunt and just how fascinated he became.

Your head falls back and you dip one hand beneath the water to grasp at Hawks’ hair. You bite your bottom lip to try to keep your noises in even though you were more than sure that no one else except him would hear you.

Sometimes you wonder what he’d sound like if he was able to speak. You imagine his voice would be smooth, pleasing to your ears and that he could make you laugh. In your selfish little mind, he says all the right things that make your heart race.

You’re a good girl, my wonderful girl…

The tip of his tongue prods against your clit and you let out an audible moan into the air.

The way you sound is so sexy, I fucking love it!

Your hips rock into his mouth, almost like you’re riding his face. His hands are secure on holding your waist to help keep you afloat. Sparks of pleasure go up and down your body, your thighs slightly shaky as your orgasm starts build higher.

Sweet, precious thing… I adore you.

Your hand clenches into a fist and grabs a fistful of Hawks’ hair while your mouth drops into a silent ‘oh’. Your eyes flutter as you experience your high, still caught off guard over how well Hawks has learned how to make you cum. He was intelligent enough to discern that you were experiencing pleasure, smart enough to see if you were sad over something, and he always seemed to be looking into you just as you were looking into him.

He always looked like he was in wonder whenever he stared at you too long.

Hawks comes up from the water and you loop your arms around him in a hug, pressing a kiss to his cheek and just hanging onto him like a sloth. You were wanting to catch your breath. He doesn’t seem to be done with you just yet, sliding his hand between your bodies and pushes two fingers into your pussy. “Oh… you’re not done?” You ask but have difficulty keeping conversation when you’re still sensitive from an orgasm and he keeps curling his fingers into you.

Your body shudders as you let him finger you, a part of you wondering if he liked the feel of his fingers inside your warm cunt. More than a few times he’d point to in between your legs and hold up his middle and index finger up as a signal and pointing at himself. Eventually you had learned that it was his way of saying that he wanted to finger you.

“H-Hawks… are you done? I have to go back soon.” You whimper as he continues to tease his fingers against that spongy spot that makes you see heaven. Your cunt squeezes around his fingers and a big part of you wishes that he had a cock so that you could know what it was like to fuck him.

You could see him being a little whiny as he cums in you, lying back to let you take control as you ride him. You’d milk him dry and make a creamy mess on his dick, wanting to make him just as over sensitive in the same way he does it to you.

You wished that you could fuck Hawks.

Cumming a second time by his fingers, you pat at his shoulder and he retreats from you. This time, he returns your hug and holds you close. Your legs cross around his waist and you stay for a small moment just holding one another.

A kiss is pressed to your forehead.

I miss you already.

In return, you do the same to him.

I always miss you.

You wished that he could come with you.

You try hard to not look at him as you begin to get ready to leave because of the sad look in his eye. There are days that he seems to be okay as you head home, but others he makes it very known when he’s sad. And you know that the more time you spend together, each goodbye will get harder and more forlorn.

“Okay Hawks, I’m going to go now. I’ll try to visit soon.”

He nods his head, watching from the water as you take your picnic basket and the straps of your dress fall off your shoulder. You walk ahead and make sure to keep looking forward, eventually hearing when he dives under the water and you can let out the sad sigh you were holding in.

“I’ll visit you again soon.”

#i hope you liked 👁️ nonny!#my inspiration was somewhat drawn from the film ‘the shape of water’#i wanted to keep it a little simple for this lil piece and i’m quite happy with it!#sorry for the lil bit of sad at the end i couldn’t come up with a fluffy ending (￣▽￣*)ゞ #hawks x reader #takami keigo x reader #hawks smut #k.inbox

196 notes · View notes

mariacallous · 4 months

Text

Alexei Navalny returned to Russia in January 2021. Right before he boarded the plane, he posted a film titled “Putin’s Palace: The Story of the World’s Largest Bribe” on YouTube. The video, nearly two hours long, was an extraordinary feat of investigative reporting. Using secret plans, drone footage, 3-D visualizations, and the testimony of construction workers, Navalny’s video told the story of a hideous $1.3 billion Black Sea villa containing every luxury that a dictator could imagine: a hookah bar, a hockey rink, a helipad, a vineyard, an oyster farm, a church. The video also described the eye-watering costs and the financial trickery that had gone into the construction of the palace on behalf of its true owner, Vladimir Putin.

But the power of the film was not just in the pictures, or even in the descriptions of money spent. The power was in the style, the humor, and the Hollywood-level professionalism of the film, much of which was imparted by Navalny himself. This was his extraordinary gift: He could take the dry facts of kleptocracy—the numbers and statistics that usually bog down even the best financial journalists—and make them entertaining. On-screen, he was just an ordinary Russian, sometimes shocked by the scale of the graft, sometimes mocking the bad taste. He seemed real to other ordinary Russians, and he told stories that had relevance to their lives. You have bad roads and poor health care, he told Russians, because they have hockey rinks and hookah bars.

And Russians listened. A poll conducted in Russia a month after the video appeared revealed that one in four Russians had seen it. Another 40 percent had heard about it. It’s safe to guess that in the three years that have elapsed since then, those numbers have risen. To date, that video has been viewed 129 million times.

Navalny is now presumed dead. The Russian prison system has said he collapsed after months of ill health. Perhaps he was murdered more directly, but the details don’t matter: The Russian state killed him. Putin killed him—because of his political success, because of his ability to reach people with the truth, and because of his talent for breaking through the fog of propaganda that now blinds his countrymen, and some of ours as well.

He is also dead because he returned to Russia from exile in 2021, having already been poisoned twice, knowing he would be arrested. By doing so he turned himself from an ordinary Russian into something else: a model of what civic courage can look like, in a country that has very little of it. Not only did he tell the truth, but he wanted to do so inside Russia, where Russians could hear him. This is what I wrote at the time: “If Navalny is showing his countrymen how to be courageous, Putin wants to show them that courage is useless.”

That Putin still feared Navalny was clear in December, when the regime moved him to a distant arctic prison to stop him from communicating with his friends and his family. He had been in touch with many people; I have seen some of his prison messages, sent secretly via lawyers, policemen, and guards, just as Gulag prisoners once sent messages in Stalin’s Soviet Union. He remained the spirit behind the Anti-Corruption Foundation, a team of Russian exiles who continue to investigate Russian corruption and tell the truth to Russians, even from abroad. (I have served on the foundation’s advisory board.) Earlier this week, before his alleged collapse, he sent a Valentine’s Day message to his wife, Yulia, on Telegram: “I feel that you are there every second, and I love you more and more.”

Navalny’s decision to return to Russia and go to jail inspired respect even among people who didn’t like him, didn’t agree with him, or found fault with him. He was also a model for other dissidents in other violent autocracies around the world. Only minutes after his death was announced, I spoke with Sviatlana Tsikhanouskaya, the Belarusian opposition leader. “We are worried for our people too,” she told me. If Putin can kill Navalny with impunity, then dictators elsewhere might feel empowered to kill other brave people.

The enormous contrast between Navalny’s civic courage and the corruption of Putin’s regime will remain. Putin is fighting a bloody, lawless, unnecessary war, in which hundreds of thousands of ordinary Russians have been killed or wounded, for no reason other than to serve his own egotistical vision. He is running a cowardly, micromanaged reelection campaign, one in which all real opponents are eliminated and the only candidate who gets airtime is himself. Instead of facing real questions or challenges, he meets tame propagandists such as Tucker Carlson, to whom he offers nothing more than lengthy, circular, and completely false versions of history.

Even behind bars Navalny was a real threat to Putin, because he was living proof that courage is possible, that truth exists, that Russia could be a different kind of country. For a dictator who survives thanks to lies and violence, that kind of challenge was intolerable. Now Putin will be forced to fight against Navalny’s memory, and that is a battle he will never win.

68 notes · View notes

thelastofhyde · 1 year

Text

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

385 notes · View notes

linnoya-writes · 1 year

Text

Zutara “unexpected father-in-law” canon-compliant AU

It’s interesting how, in the ATLA finale, there’s no real indication that Katara actually got to see Ozai before he gets imprisoned for war crimes.

In the finale, everyone, including Toph, gets to throw their own personal jab at Ozai. Not Katara. And part of me likes to believe that she chooses not to see him intentionally. Because it’s her rough spot. Not just because this was a man who waged war and destruction for years... but also because she has a hard time processing that the young Fire Lord she finds herself falling in love with is the son of this horrible, cruel man.

She doesn’t want that to be true.

She doesn’t want to accept that Ozai and Zuko are the same blood. And it takes years…. decades… for Katara to finally come to terms with that hard truth, and she pays a visit to her now elderly father-in-law in his prison cell.

His face is gaunt and hollow at first sight, but when he looks up to her, the flaming, brilliant golden eyes are very much Zuko... and she holds her breath.

Ozai is also speechless, and only manages a grin to mask that curiosity.

Over the years, he’d only been lucky to catch glimpses of his aging brother before his passing and been visited occasionally by Azula. Zuko, however ironically, had been the one to visit the former FireLord the most frequently… promptly at the first of every month. It became Ozai’s personal passage of time. At first his son had come with tea, and as the months went by… he came with news: about reconstruction of their FireNation governments, the peaceful republic of Earth Kingdom colonies encouraged by Avatar Aang, the new alliances and trade agreements made with the Southern WaterTribe. Zuko mentioned all of this to him not as an insecure boy seeking advice, but as a learned man -- one who’d risen from countless mistakes and had eventually found his own diplomatic resolve.

It was a kind of confidence Ozai had no idea existed within his son, and it was in this way that Zuko announced in that cell that this young Fire Lord would finally be married.

“Who is she?”

“Her name is Katara, of the Southern Water Tribe.”

“A Water Tribe peasant,” Ozai muttered, amused. Appalled.

“Oh, if you knew even half the things that woman has done for this world, you wouldn’t think the FireNation even deserved her.” Zuko glances down, a shy smile forming. “She is unbelievable. You’d be lucky enough to meet her. I hope she’ll come around.”

And Zuko leaves before Ozai can say anything regarding a tainted mark or brittle branch that will result of this marriage within Fire Nation royal history.

Over the years, Ozai hears about this marriage, the political alliance that formed from it, the mixed daughters birthed between a peasant and a prince. When Ozai asks the guards if his granddaughters were borne firebenders, the prisoner doesn’t receive an answer. Instead, he receives a visit from the children themselves in their royal garb, along with their father. Ozai sees the familiar golden flame in the girls’ eyes, despite the tanned complexion of their WaterTribe mother.

The girls take a fire-bending stance, and the old man gets hopeful.

But it’s when ribbons of blue begin to dance around the girls alongside the fire-bending movements that Ozai’s smile disappears.

The blue he sees is not Azula’s Fire. It’s actually not fire at all.

And when the girls end their routine and smile at their grandfather, Ozai turns his back away from them. Confused and sad, the girls turn to Zuko and ask if they did anything wrong, and their father kneels down to their level, hugging them tightly… and assures them they did not.

Zuko’s visits become less frequent after that, only coming in to disclose important decrees and updated policies to the former sovereign. Ozai hears about his granddaughters through Zuko, year after year, learning about their favorite foods and colors… their interests beyond bending, their worldly education fueled by their parents’ influence as well as the youthful, progressive Avatar.

When the girls become teenagers, they finally visit their grandfather again-- this time, on their own… and ask Ozai about the war… if their family was indeed responsible for it.

They ask about it not in an accusatory way, but more an assertive way… wanting to understand for their own sake, their future, and how the world might see them as either a blessing or a threat. How delicate their position truly is.

Over time, Ozai grows accustomed to the water he sees and the stories about the WaterTribe he hears with each of his granddaughters’ later visits. They become women before his eyes, esteemed princesses of two cultures… and when they leave the palace independently, Ozai hears through news of the guards how these girls- much like their parents before them- are making a difference, changing the world, falling in love outside of their borders.

It brings the old man to tears.

The days become quieter, shorter over time. Nobody visits him anymore, and even Fire Lord Zuko has dedicated his time more to other important matters. Time runs glacially, erratically. Ozai combs his now silvery mane of hair with lanky fingers to pass the days, and the last thing he expects is a new visitor approaching his cell.

Sandwiched between two palace guards is this petite, middle-aged woman he’d never seen before, wearing royal red and blue garb. He recognizes her face instantly, from the ones of his granddaughters.

An old grin passes his face. “I’m impressed the heat of our country never compelled you to flee, highness.”

Katara grins firmly, finding her breath. Her eyes are glistening.

“I can handle the sun, thank you.”

Despite having spent most of her life adapting to royal Fire Nation courts, Ozai can still hear this woman’s humble origins.

He looks away in his cell, straightening up in only the way a former Royal can.

Katara nods to the guards, reassuring that she’s okay and they turn on their heels to give her some time alone with the prisoner.

Slowly, she pours the old man some Ginger tea in the same delicate way Uncle Iroh had taught her. She doesn’t hand him the cup, but rather places it down past the rails, which he takes, and watching her then pour a cup for herself. She’s just beginning to graze her fifties, he thinks, noticing the sternness to her brow, the overworked draping to her lids… and yet, it’s the blue of her eyes that makes this woman seem timeless.

It’s a patient, firm, kind and tranquil blue that Ozai doesn’t understand, but the old man can already sense he will spend his last decade feeling both eased and haunted by it.

It’s quiet for a long time, sipping their tea.

Ozai shifts uncomfortably in his sitting. “To what do I owe this honor? Are you here for some kind of absolution?”

“No. It’s pointless to do that now.”

Ozai stares at her. “Hmm. Then I suppose you found the urge to gloat over the irony of all this, how the tables turned so beautifully for your people. I can imagine the spirits of your ancestors are celebrating some kind of victory, is that right?”

Katara looks at him. “I can see how you’d think that, but no.”

Ozai stares again. “Are you waiting for me to beg for forgiveness?”

Katara shakes her head even before he finishes asking.

Ozai can only look at her, then. Katara waits a long moment and gives him a look that could’ve made any instinct of his prepare for battle forty years earlier.

It’s in that moment where Ozai remembers the advanced, lethal Waterbending technique he’d heard talked about in the palace halls— how it had returned after so many years of outlaw and imprisonment of waterbenders, thanks to women like her sitting in front of him. Ozai heard that this same woman had managed to master the technique for healing purposes… but looking at her face now, Ozai wondered if she wasn’t against making an exception.

“Are you here to kill me?”

He asks this not afraid, exactly, but rather…. tired, alone.

Defeated.

Her look only lasts a moment, and he sees the woman take a long, deep breath from her center. She sets down her tea and says “no” looking at him square in the eye, and in her softest voice.

It leaves Ozai uncomfortably impatient. “Then, why are you here?”

Katara looks away, then shrugs, feeling the old skin of a naive, stubborn teenager stir beneath her as she looks back to him.

“Because I love your son. And… that makes you my family.”

Ozai hums incredulously, looking out past Katara’s presence for a long quiet moment, and laughs on the way an old man only can.

She chuckles as well, because it’s funny. It’s messed up. But it’s funny.

The room becomes quiet again as they sip their tea. Katara pours her father-in-law another cup, gently handing it to him through the cell bars. Ozai receives it.

And that’s how their long-overdue conversations begin.

#zutara #katara #katara of the southern water tribe #prince zuko #fire lord zuko #avatar the last airbender #zutara fic #zutara ficlet #Zutara week 2023 #Zuko #Fire lady Katara

313 notes · View notes

strangercarla · 10 months

Text

Her - Velma Dinkley x Fem! Reader

Genre: University AU! fluff 💞

Warnings: None

Velma Dinkley is known for many things, being Coolsville University's top student as she is unbelievably smart, taking pride in her education & of course "monster hunting" as her friend likes to describe it.

What she is not known for is romance. That is not necessarily a bad thing, but most people just put it down to her dedication to her work.

On the opposite hand there is Y/N L/N, a good friend to Velma. She is the complete opposite to her, she is known to be the life of the party & less focused on her studies & more so on her music.

It is another day on campus, the sun is beaming so naturally majority of students decide to sit on the benches, or the grass.

Velma & the Scooby gang sat underneath a tree with just enough shade to keep cool. Fred & Daphne chat amongst themselves, Shaggy & Scooby are goofing around, whilst Velma has her head in a book.

Y/N approaches the group kneeling down to their level, throws her arms around Shaggy & Velma causing her to drop her flyers.

"Hello my monster hunting gang!"

A chorus of hellos echo eachother. Shaggy picks up the flyers about to hand them to Y/N when he notices something.

"Whoah check this out, Y/N & her band are throwing a gig in the campus park!" Y/N smiles, taking the flyers.

"Yup for one night only!" She winks. "We are raising money to keep our society running, apparently the University has ran out of funding & can no longer, she pauses. "fund it."

"Well that sucks, we'll be there." Fred nods, which was followed by hums & yes of courses.

"Velms I especially hope to see you there because I have a surprise for you!"

Velma blushes. "You know I'll be there, I love supporting your band." She pauses. "& well surprises are exciting."

Day of the gig -

It is the morning of the gig & Y/N was stressed, so Daphne invited her to the campus cafe for some breakfast.

"Daph, I cannot believe I am saying this but I have never been so nervous about performing. I mean what if she hates the song & I embarres her because she doesn't feel the same way?"

She places a hand on her arm & smiles. "Look, I have known Velma for a very long time & I have never seen her this, how do I put this? This giddy but also nervous with any girl before. She is crazy for you, she has to be."

"You think?"

"Of course! She couldn't hide her feelings if she tried. Now that we have cleared that up let's see what you're wearing tonight!"

Y/N pulled out her phone & shown her outfit for the evening. Daphne clasps her hands.

Gig Time -

The sun had gone down, the moon has risen & the band have set up. Now all that's left to do is wait until people arrive.

Now the Scooby gang are the first to arrive & mange to get front row, besides Velma she has friend of the band privileges. Not to say the gang aren't her friends, just she had always been the closet with Velma.

Y/N is sat backstage awaiting their entrance, she has her pink bejeweled mic in her left hand & a bottle of water in her right.

Velma approaches her. "Are you okay?" Y/N nods, thinking to herself that she's not okay knowing she's about to express how over the top in love she is with her best friend, with a song, in front of an audience. But there is no turning back now.

"Let's here it for Y/B/N!"

The four enter the stage & make way to their designated spots. Velma watches from the side of the stage, she knows she should be watching everyone but she can't take her eyes of Y/N.

They are halfway through the set finishing their current song & Y/N speaks into her microphone.

"How are we enjoying the show everyone?" Cheers & applause fill the air, Y/N can not help but grin. She then looks to her left to someone passing her an acoustic guitar in replace of her electric guitar which to no surprise are both pink.

"If you don't mind we're going to slow it down for you folks." She pauses. "This next song is dedicated to someone very special to me. She is very near & dear to my heart, she is my everything. She is my best friend who I have fell in love with."

Roars & cheers are even louder than before, Velma stayed in the same position but all she wanted to do was run on stage & kiss Y/N. But instead she stood still & grinned to herself.

Y/B/N finished their set with a bang & they exit the stage. Velma left her previous position on the side stage & waited elsewhere.

Y/N took a huge gulp of water & looked around for Velma. Did she scare her off? But before her mind could wonder she appread.

Before Y/N could utter a word Velma placed her lips onto hers & kissed her gently. She kissed back smiling into it.

"I love you."

#scooby doo #velma dinkley #velma scooby doo #daphne blake #fred jones #shaggy rogers #velma x fem! reader #velma x reader #scooby doo x reader #au #imagines #Spotify

79 notes · View notes

arazialotis · 10 months

Text

Get Him to the Con - Part 8

Pairing: Jensen × Reader

Word Count: About 4900

Summary: The reader stumbles into Jensen at her favorite bar, a very drunk Jensen. She soon realizes Jensen was booked for a con this weekend and has to be eight hours from town in only two.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

Warnings: Language, the Spicy level is turning up, also I'm mean, mention of drugs

Although this is an RPF, these are fabricated characters and should not reflect back IRL. I intend no hate or ill wishes to him or his family. This is purely just for writing and wasting my time as a coping skill. Maybe some of you will enjoy it too. I apologize in advance for any mistakes or grammatical/spelling errors. I appreciate any feedback or suggestions!

---

Water patted against the tiled floor, and steam billowed through the room, fogging the glass. Suds lathered your skin as you finally uncovered Jensen’s iconic scent, locking the product in your memory so you could immediately purchase some upon your return home. The warmth soothed the deep aches in your muscles, relieving the built-up tension you had been carrying with you all day. You could have stayed there all night, soaking up every ounce of relaxation. But you had a date to catch that started at 10:00 PM. Having risen at an ungodly hour this morning, you hoped to sneak in a quick nap to revitalize yourself further. God forbid you doze off in the middle of a momentous conversation.

The metallic squeak of the handle cut the water off, and you stepped onto the fluffy rug. The plush towel wrapped fully around you, a rare occurrence in hotel accommodations, especially considering where you stayed these past few nights. The mirror squeaked as you wiped away the condensation. With a second towel, you wrung out your hair, and only then did it hit you while looking for a brush. In the haste of chasing down Jensen, you had left your suitcase in the car. For the time being, you combed your fingers through your hair, hoping to avoid tangles. Instead of panicking, you thought it through and remembered the gray sweats he had donned the other night. Borrowing a few pieces of his clothing could get you where you needed to be. And to your knowledge, only Casey and her friends would be able to recognize you. It was a solid plan.

As soon as you stepped out of the bathroom, the steam escaping with you, Jensen stepped into the hotel room. You both stood frozen, like deer in a headlight. His restraint was visible, but he lost the inner battle as his gaze roamed over your figure. You smirked triumphantly, remembering how he had put you in a similar situation at the motel in Kansas. Payback’s a bitch. Then he faltered a step forward, and your arrogance shattered.

“I thought you had autographs?” You broke the silence.

“I do.” He answered, followed by a lengthy pause. He blinked rapidly as if escaping a trance. “In fifteen minutes. I wanted to make sure you had everything you needed and brought you some food.” He held up what remained of their takeout, knowing you’d be hungry despite your earlier denial.

“Thank you.” You squeaked.

He set it on the console and then turned around to prevent his gaze from further wandering. He was about to head for the door when you stopped him, lessening the gap.

“I forgot my suitcase,” You explained. “Is it okay if I borrow a few clothes to go grab it?”

Jensen glanced back over his shoulder. “Yeah, of course.”

He took a step to leave, and you stopped him again. “You don’t have a first aid kit, by chance?”

That caught his attention.

He turned fully back to you, voice brimming with concern. “I thought you said you were okay?”

He didn’t wait for your reply and rushed to his suitcase, digging for his toiletry bag.

“I’m fine.” You assured. “But I’d like to get an antibiotic on my leg now that the excitement of the day is over.”

“Sit down,” He instructed, fishing through the bag.

You looked around the room and sat on the closest option, the edge of the bed. “I can take care of it later.”

He eyed you disapprovingly, letting you know the topic was not up for debate. As he kneeled in front of you, the towel felt less and less spacious than you had initially thought. You wrapped it tighter around you and pinched your legs together as if it could contain the strain pulling in your very center.

Jensen seemed oblivious to your quickening heart and growing need. He was honed in on your injury as if his sole intervention could heal it instantly. After finding what he had been searching for, he gently rubbed a layer of ointment across your tender skin. A sharp inhale and gritted teeth suppressed a greater hiss, but after first contact, the sting lessened. Jensen wiped his fingers clean with a tissue and took your ankle gingerly in his grasp to turn your leg, ensuring he hadn’t missed a spot. That’s when he caught sight of the bruise on your thigh sprawling past your hip. Without thinking, his hand reached right under it, turning it inward to inspect it fully. It was blooming from shades of red to violet.

“Jesus, Y/N.” He whispered.

You squinted your eyes shut, trying to concentrate on anything other than his thumb pressed firmly against your inner thigh. The intoxicating scent of cedar and rosemary swam around you, doubly potent from your shower and his closeness.

“It’s not as bad as it looks.” You managed to sputter out.

“Is the skin cut up here too?” He leaned forward, and you jumped back, your ribs the only thing caging your heart from bursting forth.

Jensen looked up at you, confused at first, and then, as his prefrontal cortex reconnected with more animalistic instincts, his eyes widened. He quickly pulled away, his hand grazing the underside of your thigh as he did.

“I’m sorry, I…” He started to apologize.

“Don’t,” You stopped him.

His eyes stayed locked onto yours, searching for meaning, for intention.

“Y/N?” He whispered.

“Jensen.” Your answer was as much of a call for him to return.

His heart matched yours, dancing on the edge of a cliff, a vastness awaiting below if either of you were to fall.

“We should take things slowly.” He wasn’t sure who the words were for.

You nodded your agreement. “If that’s what you think.”

Granted, it was what you had thought thirty minutes ago, but now that nothing was separating you aside from an unsecured sheet of cotton, thinking of the next time you would have the opportunity, let alone the next time you would see him, you weren’t so sure. The forest green of his eyes faded as his pupils dilated.

He remained frozen, afraid to make even the slightest move. “And what do you think?”

God, you weren’t sure he was ready for the thoughts flowing through your mind. He licked his bottom lip. But then again, how he had woken pressed against you mornings before. Perhaps he had dreamed of it as you had. And wasn't it lack of communication that set you apart in the first place? You didn’t answer verbally. With eyes never leaving him, you slightly parted your legs, expressing both permission and desire. In response, he sat higher on his knees, leaning closer to you. This time, you did not pull away. His fingers took a damp strand of hair, twisting it once before tucking it behind your ear. He deeply studied your features as his fingertips traced your cheekbone and across your jawline as you leaned into his touch. They trailed down your neck, over your gold necklace, and across your collarbone, sending a shivering shockwave throughout your being, calling every sense to alert. He paused at the edge where the towel was tucked in on itself, searching for permission, knowing that if this line was crossed, there was no taking it back.

You gripped his jaw in your grasp, stopping him. His hands dropped, hovering against your calves as he waited for your command. The scruff of his beard, now a few days grown out, pricked the tips of your fingers. His freckles splashed across his face like a night sky shining full of stars. Your thumb ran over his plush lips as they willingly parted for you, taking in a shuddering breath.

Pulling his mouth to yours, you crashed into each other. Your lips were hungry and desperate to know each other fully. Jensen pounced from the kneel to straddling over you. As he did, you fell back into the mattress, the comforter and sheets enveloping you. He followed you down, his lips never parting from yours. His hand cradled the back of your neck, pushing you further into him. Your hands wove through his hair, matching his fever. The boundaries of where you ended and he began blurred as you entwined together.

His hips rolled against your core. The towel gave way and rose as he continued the movement. The rough denim scraped against your soft heat. A wordless praise formed on your lips, allowing his claiming kiss further passage. Tongues danced together as your hips surged to meet his hardening length. His lips trailed down your neck, taking the delicate skin between teeth.

“Jensen.” You softly cried, one hand pressing him closer against your throat. The other winding down his shoulder and gripping as if he alone could save you from drowning.

He pulled away, his hips pinning yours as he sat. Momentarily, you both gasped for shallow breaths. Dire to know his skin against yours, you frantically went for the buttons of his denim shirt. He matched your frenzy. As you both fumbled, chuckling sheepishly at the graceless effort, his impatience grew, and in one fell swoop over his head, he had it off. A simple silver chain revealed itself underneath. Somehow, both opposite and similar to yours in every way. Like the sun and moon guiding the earth both day and night.

Jensen didn’t stop there. Rapidly, he went to undo his belt, and you were right behind him, undoing the button of his black jeans. His lips had been too long apart from yours, and he leaned back down to reclaim them. The cool metal of the chain brushed against your skin, still warm from the shower. His lips didn’t last long in one spot, familiarizing themselves with the taste of your neck. Heightened awareness of every touch, every movement, you could feel Jensen slowly pushing his pants down. Soon, nothing would separate you. Yet, somehow, you still managed to find logic.

“Jensen?”

“Hmm?” He hummed into your neck.

“Condom?”

He stopped. Fuck. But your panting hardly ceased.

“I didn’t plan for this.” He explained, laced with apology.

And why would you have expected him to? You certainly hadn’t. His eyes met yours again, sorrowfully, but knowing you’d have to wait to fully savor each other.

“I’m clean.” You offered.

Okay, so maybe logic wasn’t as fully present as you thought.

“Same.” He echoed.

You pulled him back down, and his hand snaked up your bare thigh to your hip, bracing his weight over you.

He paused again and, looking at you, searching for sincerity. “Birth control?”

You shook your head no. “Morning after pill?”

He nodded his head, settling for the alternative.

Your fingers settled on the waistband of his briefs. But you paused before going any further—Jared’s words ringing in your head.

“NDA?” You asked, still unsure what those details would entail.

His eyes rolled, thinking it over, but came to a satisfying conclusion. “We can backdate it.”

You nodded, and he grinned, both sighing from relief at the reasonable resolutions. He was ready, as were you. This was it. His hand went for the towel that separated your chest from him.

A knock on the door sounded. He stopped before you were revealed. You clutched the towel against your chest and shimmied it down to cover your bottom half in case the intruder would burst in at any moment—another knock.

“Shh,” Jensen instructed you as if whoever it was would be fooled to look elsewhere for him.

The red numbers of the clock burned into your vision. Thirty minutes had already passed. Time had sped up in your brief moments together. He was late.

“Jensen. Open up.” Clif’s voice called from the other side. “I know you’re in there.”

“Say something.” He whispered in your ear with a mischievous goad.

“I’m already in enough trouble with him as it is.” You hissed back.

Jensen licked his bottom lip and leaned down to stroke the base of your neck with his tongue. A hand rubbed over your breast, your nipples already hard for his devotion. A silent curse caught in the back of your throat as your hips lurched against him. Even though you knew exactly what he was doing, he won.

“He’s not here!” You called out to Clif. “‘Only me!”

“Don’t you dare start covering for him, Y/N,” Clif warned from the other side of the door.

Jensen’s thumb circled the fabric around the peak of your breast. Your eyes rolled back, fully intoxicated.

“I have a key!” Clif threatened as a last straw.

Jensen stopped, collapsing against you. “Fuck,” He worked to catch his breath. “Alright, alright. I’m coming!” He yelled at the door.

He sat up, still straddling you, and assessed the state of the moment. You panted, breasts straining against the towel. Jensen looked around and grabbed his shirt.

“Now, Jensen!” Clif’s irritation was building.

“Give it a minute.” He responded with a crack in his voice, pulling his shirt over his head.

“You. Stay.” Jensen paused between each word to plant a kiss in his favorite spots thus far. “Right. Here.”

The sheets rustled as he parted from the bed. His belt clattered as he readjusted his pants, taking breaths as he strained himself back in. His teeth gritted as the zipper uncomfortably contained him. Careful to keep yourself covered, you rose. You didn’t want to be the sole reason Jensen backed out of autographs altogether.

“I will be back as soon as I can.” He assured breathlessly.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” You teased. “You still owe me a date.”

He shook his head at you, ready to wipe that smirk off your face.

“Jensen!”

He clicked his teeth and shot you with a finger gun before hoping and rushing to the door.

“I know, I know.” You overheard him making up an excuse to Clif as both their voices faded before the door snapped shut.

You flopped back down on the bed and sighed, wondering if you would ever come down from the high.

The main lobby’s fountain trickled in a constant stream, immersing you in your book as if you were in the aquarium with the characters Tova and Marcellus. As with the title Remarkably Bright Creatures, it would be remarkable if you finished this book on this trip as you originally intended, but perhaps you would find time on the plane ride home. The plane ride that was coming so soon and you had avoided thinking about so far. The crisp pages flipped between your fingers.

A figure approached, but you were engrossed in Marcellus’ narrative.

“You are not where I left you.” A stern voice disdainfully scolded.

In shock, you nearly jumped out of the seat but smiled widely upon finding Jensen towering over you.

“And in far more clothing than I had hoped.” He kept his voice very low as your surroundings were far from private.

Your tongue peaked out between your teeth. “I found it prudent to visit a convenience store.” You winked. “How were autographs?”

“Good, good.” He stated. “Lots of congratulations and questions about you.”

You shoved a postcard between the pages before closing the book and giggled. “What did you say?”

Jensen shoved his hands into his pockets. “I said nothing is official. I still have to take you on a date and pop the question.”

You pinched your lips together, eyeing the clock on the stone wall behind him. It was already later than anticipated. The earlier rendezvous had not aided the timing. Jensen adjusted a cuff on his shirt.

“You know, we could circumvent the formalities and skip ahead to finish what we started.” You suggested parting your legs slightly as if to remind him. “We can hash out the details later.”

“Y/N?”

“Yes, Jensen?”

He rubbed a hand over the scruff of his jaw. “Will you be my girlfriend?’

“I think you already know the answer.”

Jensen held out his hand to you. “Then let’s get the hell upstairs.”

You eagerly took it as he pulled you up.

“There he is!”

The exclamation broke your trance as two hands came from behind, slapping Jensen on the chest, knocking the wind from him.

“I’ve been looking all over for you.” The hands shook Jensen, and then from behind, none other than Misha Collins stepped out from behind him. “All the fansies are talking about how you, my friend, are a fish caught on a hook. Which we all already knew, but she finally reeled you in, eh?”

Jensen rolled his eyes. “Misha, this is Y/N.”

“Oh my god!” Misha pulled you into a tight embrace, producing a huff from your lungs. “Y/N! I’ve been waiting so long for this.” He pulled you back to inspect you further. “Ever since Nashville. You should have stayed for the convention. If you could have seen him…” Misha chuckled. “Oh, you must tell me about your time with Nesnej.”

You felt like an overstimulated cat. “Nesnej?” You weren’t sure you heard him correctly.

“Jensen backwards. It’s what we call him when he gets wasted out of his fucking mind. But you can tell me all about it on the way to the after-party. Are you ready? Let’s go.” He linked his elbow through yours and dragged you out through the lobby.

“Mish,” Jensen grabbed his shoulder. “I think we’re going to call it a night.”

Misha linked his elbow through Jensen too. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re going to Golden; it’s going to be, well, golden.”

Before you knew it, cast and crew alike had piled into two hotel shuttles and headed west. Either by accident or, as you suspected, conniving scheming, Misha coaxed you into a van separate from Jensen. Ruth, Rob, and Briana were present, along with some crew. Much to Misha’s encouragement, they playfully interrogated you, ensuring you wouldn’t be one to break Jensen’s heart and worthy of his affection.

Misha commandeered the van and made a pit stop at a party store, filling two coolers with drinks. You were confused as you assumed you’d be traveling to a bar, but maybe he was picking up drinks for a second after-party. Luckily, you used this opportunity to purchase a Red Bull, not knowing if you’d stay conscious much longer without it. The confusion only built as you turned from commercial businesses to residential homes. Winding around the roads, you had lost all sense of direction.

“There.” Misha pointed ahead to the white van that had arrived minutes before you, thanks to the drink detour.

People spilled out of the van to join those waiting in the street. Jensen parted from Jared and was quick to find you among the crowd. Misha and Clif came out from around the trunk, each with a cooler. Jensen surveyed the area, just as lost as you were.

“You showing us your summer home, or what?” Jensen directed at Misha.

The full moon and headlights illuminated Misha’s smile. “When have I ever given you the impression I’d be that borning?”

“Then what are we doing out here?” Ruth chirped in. “All I wanted tonight was a dry martini in one hand and a karaoke microphone in the other.”

Apparently, Misha had left it a surprise to everyone. Misha shoved the cooler into Jensen’s hand and fished through a fanny pack, pulling out a flashlight. He clicked it on under his face as if he were going to tell a ghost story.

“We, my friends, are going on a night hike.” He squeed with excitement at the end.

There was a mixture of groans and whoops of excitement. Your heart sank, and your legs whined in protest. The Red Bull wasn’t going to cut it. Jensen saw the defeatedness in your eyes.

“Hey, we can stay back.” He whispered lowly to you.

“You could have warned us to dress for the occasion.” Briana looked down to her leather pants and heels.

Misha addressed the naysayers. “Stop it. It’s thirty minutes at most to the top and probably worth it. Now, the trailhead should be around here, ah!”

Misha meandered to the trailhead between a break in the fence, consulting his paper map and the posted signs. Some snapped a picture of the sign, not that it would do much good if you got lost in the dark.

“Don’t let him pressure you into it if you're not feeling it,” Jensen advised. “You gotta set boundaries with him.”

“Jensen,” Jared called back, already starting at the base of the trail. “You coming, man?”

You sighed. You weren’t sure what you had done to cause Jared to be so cold with you earlier. He was probably just tired or jetlagged, but you wouldn’t give him another reason to resent you further. You nodded your head in their direction and started off. Jensen followed in tow, not missing the fact that he got conned into lugging the cooler.

“Y/N,” Misha called and backtracked so he could walk by you. He threw an arm over your shoulder. “As I said earlier, I run this little scavenger hunt called Gishwhes.”

“Oh,” You cut him off. “That is how you pronounce it.”

“You’ve heard of it!” He exclaimed. “Great. I’m always looking for creative…”

Jensen chuckled as the two of you left him in the dust. He didn’t know whether he should be more concerned about Jared’s hostility towards you or Misha’s immediate adoption. Jared, he could work on; he was convinced. Jared simply needed to get to know you. Over time, he’d come to see you as Jensen did. He was just being overly brotherly, thinking he was protecting Jensen. They’d both been that way for each other before. Misha, on the other hand. With Misha’s prompting, the two of you would become an unstoppable tornado of mischievous chaos. And, depending on how it ended, Misha could end up more heartbroken than he.

“Tired?” Clif asked, pulling Jensen from his thoughts.

“Just waiting to make sure you don’t get left behind.” Jensen readjusted his grip on the cooler.

“Shut up.” Clif snipped and passed Jensen.

The climb to the top went faster than expected, either from Misha’s ceaseless conversation or the pressure that you felt you needed to keep up with him. Thankfully, South Table Mountain was a foothill compared to what you tackled this morning. There was a steep incline for a moment that wasn’t your favorite, but the struggle quickly subsided as the trail evened out. You had no idea of your surroundings in the dark, but the trail seemed to end as the group spilled out onto rocky terrain overlooking the city of Golden. The soft glow of lights pulsed below, and to the east, you could make out a sleepy Denver. Above, stars hung in the navy-hued sky and dipped below the shadows of the mountains to the west.

“Two drinks per person,” Misha called over the crowd. “I mean it. Nesnej,” He pointed. “I’m looking at you. I don’t need anyone tumbling off the plateau.”

Jensen placed the cooler down before throwing his hands up in feigned offense. Someone took out a Bluetooth speaker and started an Oasis album. Cans of beer cracked open, and there was a dank smell. A spark of embers clued into the scent’s source, though the owner was too far away to make out. Honestly, the more you felt out of place among this group, the more appealing a puff or two sounded. You would have to remember to bring your stash next time. For emergency purposes only. Suppose there would even be a next time.

Jensen was slapping shoulders with friends and coworkers, celebrating the end of another successful con and blowing off steam before diving back into his demanding work schedule. Jared’s figure stood out in the crowd. Even in the dark, you could see his towering presence. As he went for a drink alone, you sought your chance, determined to try again.

“Hey,” You rushed to the cooler, grabbing something inside for yourself. “How’d the weekend turn out for you?”

Open-ended, no assumptions, showing interest. It was a well-crafted question that would hopefully prompt further conversation. You were close enough to him that you could feel his eyes roam. Not as Jensen’s had earlier. No, this felt like he was sizing you up. But you held your ground, not ready to roll over and submit.

Jared cracked his beer. “Yeah, it was fine.”

Still cold. So, the impression you got earlier was accurate. That’s okay. Thanks to Jensen frequently talking about him, you were full of questions and conversation starters that might spark some common ground.

“Any plans for the rest of the week, or are you headed back to Vancouver quickly?”

“Y/N? Was it?” Jared asked, and you nodded. “Listen, I appreciate your effort for small talk and the distraction you are providing Jensen, but let’s not pretend this isn’t what it is.”

A pit dropped in your stomach. What had you done to offend him? You were going to ask him to elaborate his statement further, but he called over for Mark and went to join another group, leaving you alone. You looked around and had lost sight of Jensen. You searched for another familiar face but then realized you didn’t know any of these people. Not truly. You were the outsider. Your chest tightened, and your breaths became shallow. You tried to remind yourself you were very tired, and that was likely not helping your emotional state. You could have misread things with Jared as you had this whole week with Jensen. But you weren’t able to convince yourself. You needed space; you needed to breathe.

A while had passed when heavy footsteps approached you from behind, unsettling the dust beneath them. Jeans rustled as the figure sat beside you, legs dangling off the plateau's edge. You knew it was Jensen instantly. Maybe from a combination of his closeness, his scent, or how the panic subsided in his presence.

“I couldn’t find you.” He said, concerned. “What are you doing over here all by yourself?”

You sighed and leaned into him. You didn’t want to cause a rift between him and Jared. So, you let go of the heaviness and focused on the positive.

“Admiring the view.”

Jensen didn’t buy it. “Of the Coor’s factory?”

It was a beautiful sight, lighting the world below you. You could barely hear the factory's low hum over the group's music and chatter.

You chuckled and mumbled into his shoulder. “You sound like some kind of beer snob saying it like that.”

He wrapped an arm around you, drawing you closer to him. He took a sip of beer and let out a fake hack.

“You know what, you might be right.” He finally admitted. “This shit taste like La Croix's newest flavor. Essence of hops and bread.”

You chuckled again, but it was half-hearted and defeated.

Jensen’s brow knit together. “Are you okay?”

“I’m just so tired.” You whined.

“That’s right. You’ve had a long day, which I still need to hear about. In particular, a few texts, buddy.” He snipped out that last word.

It finally clicked. “Oh, shit. That’s why you think I friend-zoned you. Cause I used the word buddy? Sensitive much?”

“That and how you thanked me for kissing you like you wanted to let me down but didn’t know how.” He explained. "I am a Pisces, after all."

“Mmhmm.” You hummed, not buying that he believed his own excuse. “Will you let me try again?”

He inhaled sharply, the starlight reflected in his eyes, before pressing his mouth against yours.

You pulled away. “Thank you.” You moaned, completely satisfied.

He huffed a laugh and breathed deeply as he kissed you again, constricting his arms around you. You could taste the yeast of the beer on his lips. As you drank in the other, the crowd disappeared around you, transported to the same fever as hours before.

“Fuck, Y/N.” He breathed out.

You smiled against his lips. “Thank you.”

“Wait until we get back, I'll properly thank you.” He placed his lips below your ear, and you arched into him.

“Save it for the hotel.” Someone yelled over the crowd, and someone followed it up with a catcall and a, “Get it, Jensen!”

You scooched away from him as lava flooded your face.

“Mind your business,” Jensen shouted back and then scooted to you so there was no distance. “Don’t be embarrassed; they’re only having fun.”

But the moment was over, and you went back to swinging your feet back and forth off the ledge, avoiding his gaze by picking out constellations in the sky.

You pointed. “There’s the two dippers and the W,” You traced with your fingers, “That’s Cassiopeia. It’s too bright to see, but Andromeda should be right there.”

“Oh.” You both said in unison as a white flash streaked across the sky, disappearing behind the shadow of a mountain.

“Make a wish.” Jensen prompted.

His smile warmed the air around you.

“I wish for the contentedness of this moment to always stay with me.” You nudged his leg with yours. “You?”

“I wish for this.” And he kissed you again.

You didn’t last long on the ride back to the hotel. Jensen refused to part from your side again. You leaned your head on his shoulder and closed your eyes. The jostling of the van lulled you to sleep against him—his words echoing in your ears. I wish for this.

---

Continue Here to Part 9

Tags: Everything Jackles: @akshi8278

GHTTC: @maggiegirl17 @foxyjwls007 @djs8891 @deans-spinster-witch @tmb510 @ghostofjoharvelle @ellen-reincarnated1967

#supernatural #spn #spn fandom #spn fanfic #jensen ackles #jensen x reader #jensen x y/n #jensen x you

59 notes · View notes