guessimwritingficsagain

[guessimwritingficsagain]

Absolute must read !

Oooo baby! Happy 4K!! Hangman with “knowing their allergies and medical history while in the ER” please?? 💕

Thank you so much!! Here's some Jake for you! Enjoy!

4k Celebration Drabbles

Brother's Best Friend

Jake Seresin x Reader

You hobble over to the receptionist to get a clipboard with an intake form, wincing every time you put weight on the ankle you twisted missing a step when you tried to join your friends at the firepit in the backyard. To your great excitement, your brother’s best friend (and the guy you’ve been crushing on for the better part of your life), had been the only one in the group sober enough to drive you to the hospital. Unfortunately, Jake Seresin also spent the entire ride over reprimanding you for not turning on the light before coming down the stairs.

You take a seat in the waiting room just as he enters the building after parking his car.

“It’ll be a few hours,” you tell him. “You could just pick me up in the morning.”

Jake gives you an amused look. “And leave you here alone in your inebriated state?”

You grimace. “I’m not inebriated. Anymore.”

He hooks an eyebrow as he lowers himself into the seat beside you.

“Maybe your tedious lecture sobered me up,” you grumble.

Jake chuckles. “Sorry, I might’ve gotten a little carried away.”

You shrug, leaning away from him slightly because his arm brushes against yours when he rests his back into the seat. His shoulders are so wide that it’s impossible to sit beside him without making contact. You lean forward to start filling out your form.

Several moments later, Jake taps on the clipboard in your hands. “Didn’t you take ibuprofen for the pain?”

You glance up at him slowly, pulling the clipboard protectively into your chest. “So?”

“They need to know what you’re on.”

“What I’m on?” you say with a laugh. “It’s not like it’s meth, Jake.”

“Write it just in case,” he says. “And how much alcohol have you had?”

You roll your eyes and shift in your seat so that your back is turned toward him. “Let me concentrate.”

But Jake is already half standing to look over your shoulder. “Migraines, right?” he mutters, pointing at the list of existing conditions.

“Jake, do you mind?” you say. “This is private information.”

But Jake ignores your request entirely and starts tapping on the allergy section that you’ve left blank. “You’re allergic to cats,” he says. “Give me that!” He yanks the clipboard out of your hands.

“Jake!” you exclaim. “They don’t care if I’m allergic to cats. This is a hospital. They want to know if I’m allergic to any medications.”

“Shh,” Jake shushes you. “Let me concentrate.”

Read Part 2

[guessimwritingficsagain]

[guessimwritingficsagain]

"it's not that deep" it's never that fucking deep according to some of you. books? not that deep just enemies to lovers. films? not that deep just fun colors on screen. music? not that deep just ai generated lyrics. art? not that deep i could do that. and what if i want it to be deep for fucking once? what if i'm not content with surface level? are criticism and opinions and concerns to be dismissed in their entirety because you are happy floating on the surface never once wondering what's actually underneath? it's just a fun little thing it's not supposed to have big themes or ask the big questions well good for you but i'm asking

[guessimwritingficsagain]

This is the end.

My last fic was supposed to be something like 4 or 5 chapter longer but, as I said on Tumblr a few days ago, I have the feeling that this fic is not exactly liked and while I usually don't care about what's popular and what's not and I'm happy to not be popular, just happy to do my little thing in my little corner, I've been wondering about my place in the fandom, considering the patterns and themes that are more and more popular these days (and contrary to what some people think, I don't say this to shame anybody and what they like, I simply think that when a fandom has turned into a landmine because most of the popular tropes make you uncomfortable, you start wondering why your take is so different from everybody else's and what changed so much, either in yourself or in the fandom, then it's time to go).

And I know that when I start looking at the numbers and wondering why people don't like my work, it's that I'm uncomfortable, not in the right headspace.

Thank you to everybody who has engaged with my work, and even liked it.

Fanfiction is a place of experimentation on many levels. It's also a place of connection. I'm glad I got to write what I wrote, even though it didn't speak to many people. But connection doesn't seem to be in the cards for me here. It's nobody's fault. So I'm taking a bow. Thank you everybody. I might still reblog other people's works once in a while, but I don't think I’ll write, at least for a while.

I wish all of you the best.

[guessimwritingficsagain]

Falling First

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x female!princess! reader

Word Count: 1,842

Summary: It's your first time meeting the General and he leaves a lasting impression.

Author's Note: I'm having so much fun writing about these two and I'm so so thankful that others are enjoying it as well! Thank you for the continued support, it means so much! If you want to read the other stories they are all on my Pedro ML below, but this can be a stand alone. I wanted to write something for their initial meeting and I loved incorporating the book/poetry stuff! I have an idea for what comes next too! Thank you so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 😘

PS- If you would like to read the poem I reference you can do so HERE: It's called 'Be Patient" by Horace from his collection of books 'The Odes'

Warnings: The General should come with a warning of his own, tension, soft moments, mentions of battle and blood, poetry.

Pedro Pascal Character Masterlist

You're so absorbed in the words on the page that you almost don’t hear the burst of blaring voices as they ring out in cheer. On a gasp you sit up and press the book to your chest, grabbing the edge of your chair when your feet feel the vibrations of the stone beneath.

Forcing your feet to move you rush to the window and look out, shielding your eyes from the bright sun as it glints off the gold armor adorning the man that approaches. You can’t see much more but you know you should not be hidden away in the library.

Just when you walk out onto the portico, he ascends the last step and stands imposingly, addressing the royal family with a warm smile and a slight tilt of his head.

He catches your eye, and his gaze lingers before he greets the emperor. As if in a trance you move closer, slipping past the guards to get a better look.

As he speaks you watch him, noting the way his large body moves with precision and his dark eyes seem to consider everything that surrounds him.

His eyes flit back to you when he catches you staring, and you see the corner of his mouth lift slightly but as quickly as it happens his attention is elsewhere and you’re clutching your book more tightly to your chest.

You try to look away, but you’re completely captivated. The gold crown that sits atop his hair gleams against his dark curls and his tanned skin glistens in the heat of the sun. As your eyes wander down his broad back your breathing quickens, and you dare to drop your gaze lower.

His legs are thick and strong, spread wide to match the width of his shoulders, and when he turns to face you, his large and strong hands are clasped gently at his waist.

You hear your name being called but it seems distant and it’s not until your father steps into your line of sight that you’re shaken from your trance.

“General Marcus Acacius,” the emperor says, “this is my daughter.”

His penetrating gaze sweeps over you and he smiles while extending his hand.

You continue to stare until your father loudly clears his throat then remember yourself. He takes your hand in his and you feel warmth spread along your skin and when he lifts your fingers to his lips your breath catches in your throat.

“Princess,” he hums before brushing his mouth along the back of your hand. “A pleasure.”

“General Acacius,” you answer, your voice barely above a whisper.

He’s still holding onto your hand when his eyes fall to the book you grip in your other arm.

“May I?” he asks.

You look down, just now remembering you even had it. With an audible swallow you pass it to him. He drops your hand slowly and you mourn the loss of his touch.

“The Odes,” he murmurs as he reads the title. “A poetry lover?”

“I am,” you reply, waiting as he carefully thumbs through the book.

“Ah, here it is,” he says and takes a step closer.

He shows you the page with a poem titled “Be Patient,” and you give him a questioning look.

His head lowers until his warm breath tickles your ear.

“One of my favorites,” he whispers. “I would love to know what you think.”

When his eyes find yours once again, they are sparkling.

“You look surprised.”

You steal yourself and your eyes widen.

“No, not at all General Acacius. Forgive me. It is just…”

Your words trail off and you look down at your feet.

“Just what?” he asks, drawing your attention back to his face.

“I did not expect you to have a love for the written word.”

He huffs out a laugh.

“I have a love for many things and one of them happens to be poetry.”

You open your mouth to speak, hoping to correct your mishap and assure him you meant nothing demeaning but when he reaches for your free hand and kisses your knuckles the words die on your parted lips.

“I very much look forward to seeing you again, Princess.”

Your answer, filled with equal desire, is too quiet for him to hear but something in his expression tells you he knows exactly how you’re feeling.

You stare after him as he excuses himself and let out the breath you were holding then turn on your heel and run back to the library, already perusing the words on the page.

“Are you joining us for the entertainment?”

To your father’s question you lift your eyes from your book.

“Must I?” you ask.

Your father sighs. “If you wish to miss the General’s first fight then that is your own choice, but it will not look…”

“He is going to fight?”

The question rushes out of you and when your father’s eyes narrow you quickly compose yourself with an expected continuation of words.

“I did not realize that he would. I only thought he commanded the armies.”

“My sweet and naïve daughter. Perhaps if you spent less time reading about romance and love you would know more about what really goes on in this empire.”

You place your book down and stand, squaring your shoulder and lifting your chin.

“I will attend.”

As you follow your father you start to hear the deafening crowd, their cries ringing out in the hot open air and filling it with an ominous energy.

You sit and search the arena floor of the Colosseum and see nothing but gladiators.

“Where…?” You start to ask but the question dies on your lips when the crowd erupts into even louder chants.

The doors at the far end swing open and he walks out, his sword at his side. You watch with bated breath as he moves with powerful steps toward the line of gladiators. He lifts his sword to his shoulder and bows his head.

You barely notice the silence that now surrounds you, only hearing the heavy thumping of your heart as you wait and watch. Time seems to stand still before suddenly he lets out a battle cry and charges.

The sound of screams and clashing swords drift up to your ears and you try to track his movements, try to watch which weapon hits which man but it becomes too overwhelming, and you turn your eyes downward.

Your actions go unnoticed as your father is utterly entranced by the scene below, a wicked smile on his face.

It’s only when the crowd’s sound grows to an unbearable roar that you glance down into the arena to find the General standing tall, surrounded by the fallen gladiators.

“Oh, thank the gods,” you whisper.

Your father rejoices with those around him and then turns to you, smiling widely.

“Now that, my daughter, is a gladiator and the General of our armies!”

You nod in agreement and give him a small smile.

“Come! We must offer our congratulations and praise.”

Your father ushers you out of the Imperial Box and away from the crowds. When you’re back in the quiet of the palace you await General Acacius, your skin tingling and your heart still racing.

“Ah! There he is,” your father announces.

The General appears and steps forward, greeting your father. He’s immediately drawn into boisterous conversation, graciously accepting your father’s praise but always his eyes are drawn to you.

After what feels like forever the emperor walks off to continue his celebrating, leaving you and General Acacius alone.

You’re leaning against the cool stone wall when he steps into your space, filling it with the scent of Earth and the tang of blood.

“And what did you think of the entertainment today?” he asks.

You look up into his eyes, stray curls framing his face that’s still dusty with dirt and caked with smudges of dried blood, and your fingers itch to reach out and touch him.

“Do you want my honest answer?” you ask.

“Always Princess.”

“It was the first time I have ever witnessed a fight in the Colosseum. It was…difficult to watch.”

You look down, realizing that your words may come off as offensive and dig your teeth into your bottom lip.

Rough and calloused fingers graze your chin as he presses his fingers under it and lifts your eyes to his. He studies you, his eyes dropping to your lips before rising again.

“You came today…for me.”

It’s not really a question and you can see the light of triumph in his gaze.

“Yes,” you breathe out. “Although most of the time I was looking at my feet.”

His thumb delicately brushes your bottom lip.

“And why is that?”

“It is terrifying! I could barely keep up with you. One second, you’re here then there…swords are swinging- the screaming- the blood!”

Your words spill out louder than intended and by the time you finish talking you’re breathing more heavily.

“You need not worry for me Princess. I assure you I can handle anything they throw at me.”

He steps closer and you press yourself into the wall.

“Who said I was worried?”

For the first time you see a real smile on his face, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

It’s hard not to smile back and you find yourself giggling, the sound ringing out in the large hall. It only makes his own smile grow.

His fingers ghost along your jawline and he cradles your cheek in his hand. “Have you read the poem?”

“I have.”

“And you will give me your honest opinion of course.”

“I loved it,” you tell him. “His words are full of restrained passion, and I find them very enchanting. But patience…I often find it difficult.”  

His expression turns intense and his gaze wanders over your face.

“Yet it can bring such rewards,” he whispers.

He drops his head to your neck and lightly runs his nose along your skin, the motion making you tremble.

“General?” you sigh as your eyes flutter closed.

With a deep inhale his lips trail upwards and along your cheek. You dare not open your eyes and wait with your next breath stuck in your throat.

“Perhaps next time we can read it together?” he whispers against your mouth.

You nod and flatten your palms against his chest to steady yourself.

“Is that a yes Princess?”

“Yes,” you breathe out, opening your eyes.

His lips hover just above yours and he tucks his thumb under your chin, tilting your face so he can press a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. His lips linger, savoring the feel and taste of your skin before he draws himself away.

“I will be counting the minutes until then,” he says with a bow.

You wait until he’s out of sight and slump against the wall, pressing your fingers to the spot where the feel of his lips still burns into your skin, and try to find balance in the dizzying new world around you.

@hiddles-rose @blackwidownat2814 @lizette50 @tripletstephaniescp

[guessimwritingficsagain]

Tide

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Female Reader Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Summary: Frankie Morales is capable of almost anything... except not cumming in his jeans when he thinks about you, the pretty clerk at the grocery store he always buys his giant jugs of laundry detergent at. Warnings: Smut thoughts, Frankie's POV and internal monologue, premature ejaculation, so much cum talk, addiction recovery, laundry detergent, this is so ridiculous but I always tried to make it super sweet. Words: 1,200

A/N: I'd probably classify this is as a crack fic... but with heart. This is SOOOOO indulgent and ridiculous. I don't know what @luxurychristmaspudding unlocked in me but this is what's released. I know this is my *4th* story in a week, but I couldn't help myself. Also, shout out to the JM Discord and all of the tenants who join in the luxuriousness of this level of depravity.

Masterlist

🚁👖🤍Frankie🤍👖🚁

It keeps happening to Frankie over and over and over again. Recovery has been a challenge, abstaining from all of his previous vices means he’s no longer numbing his mind… and body. 

Nobody should ever cum during a prescription commercial and yet… he does. The swimsuit hugged the woman’s curves a little too close, plus she had the same color hair as you. His mind couldn’t help floating to thinking about you in a swimsuit.

Aye dios mio, get a hold of yourself man.

He’s too embarrassed to bring it up to his doctor. The notion of ever mentioning it to the Delta Force boys terrifies him, although he knows deep down they’d lend a sympathetic ear. They’ve killed, fought wars, and climbed out of the lowest points of their lives together… but the thought of letting his secret out? Awful. He shudders at the thought of telling his fellow Narcotics Anonymous attendees: “Hi, my name is Frankie, I’m an addict and I can’t stop cumming in my pants.”

He tries to think of the worst things, mental images that should scar even the scariest of humans, thoughts about death, rotting produce, weird looking insects, and yet, it still happens.

___

“Hi, how’d you find everything today?”

He blinks towards your tag though he’s already memorized your name, it repeats through his mind whenever he climaxes… he wonders to himself how your sweet voice would sound repeating his name. 

Uh oh, quick, think of a bee sting, everyone’s going to die, burnt pizza. 

He shakes his head, the thoughts of you wrapped around him flying out of his head with each subtle knock. 

“Sir, are you okay?”

Fuuuuuuck, you really had to call me sir, didn’t you?

“Y-yeah, sorry, long day. My name’s Frankie by the way.”

Focus, don’t look at how her hand wraps around the shampoo bottle, soldier. 

“Hi Frankie, nice to finally have a name to the face.”

Of course you say his name in the sweetest way. He presses his fingers into the flesh of his palm as hard as he can withstand, he prays you don’t see the way his nostrils flare.

Be strong.

He’s been captivated ever since he first saw you working in the mom and pop market across the street from his apartment. You’re always friendly and smiling, he swears he feels your eyes on him every time he leaves yet he’s too scared to look back and confirm for himself. He wishes he knew how to small talk and somehow step over the threshold of this case of shyness he has with you. 

Why bother? I’ll just end up disappointing you, never leaving you fulfilled. 

He’s so ashamed. 

“That’s a big bottle of detergent, you must do a lot of laundry. You have kids?” 

“I do… a four year old, but she lives with her mom,” he answers, lifting the giant jug into his cart, his cock twitches when he feels your eyes on his biceps. 

Stay cool, you can do this, you’ve literally overcome worse… and cummed over less.

He wonders if you notice just how much laundry soap he buys… he’s confident that you have no clue you're the only reason why his washing machine is constantly working overtime. 

“Oh, I love that age,” you mindlessly muse scanning a cereal box. “Is she as cute as her dad?”

His spine turns to jelly… he feels the phantom getting closer. 

Trash compactors, mom and dad’s divorce, elephant seals.

“Everyone says she has my eyes.”

“Then she must be,” you wink.

Not a wink, not a wink, not a goddamn wiiiiink. 

He quickly pulls his head down, sticking his card in the chip reader, resisting the urge to think of his now aching cock pushing into you. 

STOP. STOP. STOP THINKING FRANKIE.

Focusing on the pin pad breaks his spiral. Relief spreads through his tense body knowing this run in will be over soon, he can go home in peace, his pants surviving this moment.

Your fingers brush against his hand when you hand him the receipt, his favorite part of buying groceries. He’ll stand in your checkout lane no matter the size of the line for the split second of skin to skin contact. It’s all he can afford to let himself have, any more would surely stain his jeans. 

___

“Hey Frankie!” 

He turns at your voice, his breath hitching when you walk over to him while removing your name tag.

“Want to go next door and grab a drink?”

“I’d love to… but I, uh,” he lifts his hat nervously tussling his hair, “I’m in recovery.” 

“Oh,” your voice and face falter, “I’m sorry, um–”

Don’t let this moment pass, you can do it.

“I know a really good ice cream place, a few blocks down, I can meet you there?” 

Ice cream means licking. Frankie, you're an idiot.

“Oh, um, that sounds amazing but I don’t drive.”

“I can take you… if you’d like.” 

“Yeah?” your smile grows wider. “That sounds amazing.”

“I just need to drop these off, and then I’ll meet you outside in twenty?”

“Awesome!” You squeeze his hand wrapped around the cart handle. “I’ll see you soon.” 

Your touch scorches his skin, he blinks watching your ass sway while walking through the doors to the backroom. 

1-2-3, a gush of hot liquid releases against his jeans, his knuckles turn white as they clutch the cart handle.

Jesus Christ.

Frankie picks up his bags, holding them close to his crotch and leaves the grocery store. He better hurry. Thank god he just bought more detergent. 

___

In hindsight, he’s thankful for his little grocery store indiscretion. He’s carefree and relaxed as he falls even harder for you over chocolate sundaes. You ask for extra rainbow sprinkles and laugh at all of his jokes. 

This must be what it’s like to live normally.

___

“That’s me,” you point to a small bungalow unbuckling your seatbelt. “Thanks for the ice cream Frankie."

“This was really fun,” he turns towards you, shocked at how close you’re leaning towards him. 

Kiss her. No, wait, don’t kiss her. Yeah, definitely don’t kiss her. 

“It was,” you lick your lips and lean even closer. 

He can smell you now, you smell divine. Like ice cream and floral perfume. 

You place a soft kiss against his lips and pull away.

Frankie’s body tenses, a pathetic whimper escapes his mouth, he spurts against the cotton of his briefs. Doe eyes rounded with embarrassment stare at you.

“Sorry,” whispers out of his downturned lips. 

“Oh,” your face fails at hiding a smile, “Frankie, it’s okay. Really.”

His head knocks against the headrest, face frozen in a grimace, his eyes squeezed shut. 

“Frankie,” your hand clasps his chin forcing him to look at you. “Honestly, it’s okay. It’s actually… kinda hot.”

Right then and there he knows he’ll never shop at another grocery store again. 

[guessimwritingficsagain]

Kintsugi (the golden roses will bloom prettily in the space between your ribs) Chapter 7

Summary : You'd met Joel a year ago. Then you learn he and Tess are gone from the Boston QZ. You go find Jackson on your own. (Change of summary incoming)

Warnings : Mature content, MDNI, murder attempt, pining, ANGST, canon violence.

Tags : Just ask, and if I've forgotten you, do not hesitate to remind me.

Special note (copied from AO3) :

This is the end.

This story was supposed to be something like 4 or 5 chapter longer but, as I said on Tumblr a few days ago, I have the feeling that this fic is not exactly liked and while I usually don't care about what's popular and what's not and I'm happy to not be popular, just happy to do my little thing in my corner, I've been wondering about my place in the fandom, considering the patterns that are more and more popular these days (I didn't say this in my Tumblr post because I was upset about something else and I would not have worded it right).

And I know that when I start looking at the numbers and wondering why people don't like my work, it's that I'm uncomfortable, not in the right headspace. So I'm killing the fic. This ending is not the on I had in mind but that was the only way I could end it.

Thank you to everybody who has liked it/engaged with it. It has meant a lot to me, especially considering that what was once a OS became a fic because some people asked for it.

Fanfiction is a place of experimentation on many levels. It's also a place of connection. I'm glad I got to write what I wrote, even though it didn't speak to many people. But connection, something I'd known in the glory days of ff.net, is not in the cards for me anymore. So I'm taking a bow. Thank you everybody. I don't think you'll see me around for a while.

Chapter 6

———

Life with Joel is strangely domestic, made of cups of coffee shared in the morning, when the light that shines through the kitchen window makes the curls on his head glow so beautifully you want to run your fingers through his hair. 

You don’t, afraid to touch him, to give those feelings of yours, feelings you’ve had for too long, something tangible to hold on to. If you’re afraid of them being rejected, you’re even more frightened of them being accepted. 

Soft, caring Joel scares you, because you don’t know him. 

He, though, is not as shy. Always the same, like it’s second nature for him. 

You’re drinking coffee, and the he comes up to you, and his fingers tangle into your hair, the nails slightly scrapping you. He doesn’t tug but his handle on you is firm when his mouth finds your temple, presses a kiss there, as he whispers :

‘You’ll feel better soon.’

You don’t know who he says it for : you, or him. It sounds like it’s for him, but even though you’ve been feeling fine, you’re always tired. Always wary of the front door, unable to bring yourself to leave the house. It’s like everything’s off kilter, like you’re missing something, like a shadow permanently in the corner of your eye that disappears every time you try and look at it. 

Like Joel knows something you don’t. 

Everyday Joel kisses you on the temple and leaves for the day. He usually tells you

I’m on patrol with Tommy, today. Missed the idiot, I haven’t seen him enough lately, but don’t go telling him that. 

Ellie drops by when she can, during the day, filling you in on the gossip around town. Sometimes she brings comic books, and reads them to you- all the better, she’s much better than you at doing the voices. 

Joel always come back quite late, but you’ve kept his food hot and you watch him as he eats and tells you about his day., your chair close to his, and he sometimes lets his thumb graze your cheek and this is what you wanted but-

It scares you, now that it’s here. 

It scares you because there’s a nagging feeling it won’t last, even though everyday you see more and more of your stuff in Joel’s house, like he’s moving you in. 

Tonight, he comes to bed and puts that vase you’ve repaired a long time ago, before he and Ellie got here, right on your nightstand. He gets under the covers and sneaks his arm around your, whispering in your ear :

‘I’ll find some nice flowers tomorrow.’

You hum, content, the pull of sleep too enticing to resist. 

You hear the thumping on the front door, feel Joel get up but you pay it no mind. He’ll be back soon enough. 

———

Joel closes the door behind him, carefully, as not to disturb you. When he turns around, Tommy and the doctor are looking at him, faces weary. It’s Tommy who speaks first, voice low as if the nurses around around discreetly listening in anyway. 

‘You can’t keep sleepin’ here, brother. Won’t help her wake up.’

Joel dismisses him with a shake of a head but the doctor :

‘She’s not getting any better, Joel. I think she’s not gonna wake up.’

Joel leans on the wall of the hospital room, arms crossed against his chest, deep breaths in an out because if he doesn’t calm down he’s gonna lose it and Tommy knows, by the way he holds himself, stern, hard, ready to strike should Joel want to make the doctor shut up. 

The back of Joel’s head hits the wall, and he sighs. 

‘Gimme’, he starts, and stops, and hates how his voice wavers. ‘Gimme tonight. Tomorrow I’ll go back home. But, just tonight, please.’

He’s begging, he can hear it and he hates that too. But it gets them to agree, gets them to leave, and for a second he thinks of going straight back to bed, back to you. Instead, he leaves, and walks, walks and walks, and he finds flowers he thinks you’ll like, muttering an apology here and there when he gets into someone’s garden, 

Sorry, it’s for-

He never gets to finish the sentence, the looks of sympathy enough. 

He makes his way back flowers in hand, looking like a young man going on his first date, awkward and nervous. He hopes- really hopes- you’ll like the flowers.

———

You hear them talking, downstairs, on the porch, but from the bedroom up here you can’t quite figure out what they’re saying. 

Doesn’t matter, you think, snuggling your pillow. Joel’s gonna come back and he’ll tell me. 

You fall asleep like that, waiting for him. 

———

It’s pretty, he thinks, looking at his work : the vase is an old thing, Patterns of white and blue that were once broken but now mended with gold that you put here. The flowers are mismatched but in the moonlight it’s almost as if they’re glowing and if thinks you’ll like it. You never minded a mess anyway. 

He gets under the covers, puts an arm around you, presses a kiss right below your ear and that’s when he hears it-

The silence. 

He doesn’t even panic. He doesn’t even- 

He doesn’t-

He presses a hand right in the middle of your chest and there’s nothing. 

He leaves his hand there, scoots the closest he can, and he holds you. 

He presses a kiss on the back of your neck, and then a second, and then a third, and then-

He cries. 

———

Taglist

@pedritobalmando @amidjarin @ajeff855 @justpedropascal @sara-alonso @sarahjkl82-blog @amidjarin @sara-alonso@justpedropasc@mrsbentallmadge @farfromjustordinary @hnt-escape @kirsteng42 @ace-27749 @pocket-of-possibilities @missladym1981

[guessimwritingficsagain]

spin me around | joel miller x f!reader

main masterlist

summary: you find a vintage record store full of rare finds, the man behind the counter the rarest of them all word count: 2,4k warnings: 18+ only, reader is able-bodied & wears a dress, way too much music talk, food & alcohol consumption, pet names, touching in public, dirty talk a/n: written for @secretelephanttattoo's Secret Springs challenge! i saw record store on your wheel and ran away with it - this is highly self-indulgent with the music references (like woah) but what better place for it than secret springs :) not beta'd, keep slaying

The stair treads creak as you head up to the second floor, blank CDs are fastened to the risers and old warped vinyl hangs from the ceiling. A faint melody floats down the stairwell that you don’t recognise, the instrumentals rising in a crescendo as you climb, the varnished railing worn and knotted.

You’d found this place online on your quest for a bargain, the secondhand vintage vinyl shop is situated on a fashionable street at the top of town with picturesque mountain views. After stalking their social media pages, you decided you’d just come and see it for yourself. Having mentally prepared yourself for parallel parking, it was unusually stress-free for a Saturday morning, the sun just beginning to warm the air.

Reaching the landing and glancing around, the room is essentially wallpapered with band posters, crates and crates of records are alphabetically organised, and a gallery of LPs sits on shelves behind the counter. A few customers are rifling through the various collections, one man perched on a barstool with headphones wired into a cassette player. The space is light and vibrant, it feels like a sacred haven.

What really catches your eye is the man behind the counter — unruly silver-streaked hair, trimmed moustache and greying beard, unreasonably broad shoulders that fill out his faded thin t-shirt.

“Mornin’!” He looks up as you round the bannister and flashes you a winning smile, his brown eyes sparkling in the light filtering through the windows. “Anythin’ in particular you lookin’ for?”

You greet him shyly as you enter the room, “Just came to look around, thanks.”

“No problem.” He turns back to his newspaper and you can’t help but stare, stuck in place as you think you’ve found far more than you could’ve imagined.

-

The sheer number of records fitted into the quaint shop is amazing, with some dividers spilling over into two or three boxes. Flipping through the S category, you find Sade, Stealers Wheel, Steppenwolf, Stevie Nicks, and countless others — a never-ending supply of artists and albums, some popular and some obscure.

Your eyes go wide at seeing Pretzel Logic, a favourite album by a favourite band. You’ve considered for weeks whether or not to just buy the damn thing online at full price, but you never did. Now you see why, some sort of divine intervention leading you here to snatch it up at a fraction of the cost — or it led you here for that man.

You’ve been peering over to him every time you move to the next crate — crinkles around his eyes, plush lips, deft hands. It’s almost unfair how beautiful he is, hidden away up here from the rest of the world. Admittedly you tried looking if he had a wedding band on, but you scolded yourself before you could complete the task, not wanting to get caught.

Time slips away from you as you switch between scouring through everything and stealing glances at the mystery music man, your fingers cramping from holding onto far more records than you’d planned to take. You scan over the tables and check for anything you may have missed, slinking through the room and placing your selection on the counter. You rummage in your bag to find your wallet.

“Fan of Steely Dan, huh? Gaucho, Pretzel Logic, Countdown to Ecstasy… You’re cleaning me out here, darlin’.” You lift your head at his words, losing yourself at the endearment.

“Yeah, uh… couldn't help myself,” you huff a laugh, feeling heat under your skin as he keeps his attention on you, a half smile on his face. “I did pick out some others, too. For some variation, you know?”

He fans the records out on the table to see each one.

“Yeah, thought you might be a Fleetwood Mac girl, Eagles is a bit of a surprise, but a pleasant one… Steely Dan, though? Wouldn't have pinned a girl like you as a fan of ‘em.”

“A girl like me…?”

“Far too pretty.” He winks at you with a tilt of his head, that half smile now spread fully across his face before he moves to add up the total. Your mind races as you try not to stand and gawk like an idiot.

“I saw online you had Dark Side of the Moon… do you uh, still have it, by any chance?”

“Full of surprises… I’m afraid we sold that one already, noticed it’s a bit of an elusive find ‘round here.” He drums his fingers against the wooden top and looks at you briefly, his eyes warm.

Shuffling papers around, he picks up a notepad, big hands and thick fingers dwarfing the pages. “I can keep an eye out for you, if you’re okay giving me your number? Won’t bother you, just business.”

“Yeah, sure.” His fingers graze across your skin as you take a pen from him and write down your information. Tearing the page off, you slide it across the counter and tease him, “Wouldn’t mind if you bothered me.”

“Well then, maybe I will. I’d love to know what else you got in your carefully curated collection.” He doesn’t take his eyes off you as you pay for the records, and he slips them into a brown paper bag, folding and unfolding the top like he doesn’t want you to leave.

“There’s actually this nice restaurant—” he turns to look behind him, grabbing a small carton and repositioning it on the counter, stalling as he tries to find the words, “—they have uh, live music on Friday nights… if you’d be interested.”

“Sounds fun…” You mull it over, impressed by his boldness but still wary. “Can I let you know?”

“‘Course, no pressure, here,” he writes his own number on a new page and tears it off, holding on as you reach for it and brush your fingers over his hand.

“And you are?”

“Joel Miller.”

Joel Miller. You quite like that.

-

You’d stared at Joel’s number for days, a constant back and forth on whether or not you should go. On the one hand, you knew nothing about this man except his name and where he worked; on the other, you’ve seen just enough of him to be well intrigued… 

You caved and said yes, which brings you to the present day — it’s Friday afternoon and you’re pacing in front of your wardrobe, worried about what to wear. To avoid losing your mind over this, you text Joel for some insight.

You: So, what am I supposed to wear tonight? Joel: Place is smart casual, I guess

Smart casual — arguably the worst fucking dress code description in existence.

You: That doesn’t help me Joel: Just wear a dress or something nice? I’m sure whatever you choose will be perfect

Perfect? Well, that certainly raises the bar. You suspect that Joel isn’t impressed by material things, and isn’t phased by flashy appearances, but you still want to make an effort. He called you pretty once already and you’re hoping he’ll repeat it tonight.

-

Approaching the restaurant, the brick wall facade is lined with fairy lights, the stars just beginning to twinkle in the darkening sky, and muffled music sounds through the windows and glass doors.

Joel waits out on the pavement like a gift from God himself — black dress pants, a hint of chest peeking out from behind his button-up, a blazer hooked on one finger over his shoulder. You can’t help the way your gaze runs over him, noticing how his tummy just pokes out past the waistband of his pants, and just how well fitting those pants really are. You swallow to steady yourself.

“Hey.”

“Hi…”

You fall into silence as you take each other in — a low heat settles at the base of your spine and you drop your eyes to the floor, holding back a giggle like an enamoured schoolgirl.

“Shall we?” He pulls the door open and gestures for you to lead the way, eyes sparkling and a crooked but warm smile on his face, a guiding hand on the small of your back as you step inside.

Black-framed minimalist posters line the walls, the floors are polished dark wood and exposed brass light fixtures hang at varying heights from the ceiling. You pass a long, elegant bar lining one side of the room as you’re led towards the back of the restaurant — this place oozes sophistication, even the waitstaff are in fancy uniforms. Not smart casual.

Joel pulls a chair out for you as you reach your table, a small reserved card rests against a floating candle and two red roses bloom in a slender vase. 

“Do you mind if I take the wall?” you ask timidly, pointing towards the opposite bench.

“Not at all.” His gaze is soft as he shakes his head, eyes trained on you as you both take your seats.

“I just— I like being able to see, it’s uh…”

You smooth your hands over the tablecloth as your voice fades off, resisting the urge to make a game of blowing the candle out. You flit your eyes up to look at Joel, finding he’s already staring at you, candlelight flickering in his eyes. You drop your gaze to the table again, failing dismally at suppressing the grin that spreads across your face.

“You look gorgeous, by the way — if you don’t mind me sayin’. Knew you would, of course, but…”

It seems your outfit choice has paid off — gorgeous?

After hours of flinging clothes off hangers, you’d finally settled on a black, mid-length dress — a sweetheart neckline with white piping, the same white mirrored on the hem, a daring slit up one side of the skirt. There’s nothing casual about it, but seeing Joel dressed up and the finely decorated restaurant has calmed your nerves.

You don’t dare look at him again as the waiter returns and places two menus on the table. The night’s barely begun, and you hope it doesn’t end any time soon.

-

There hasn’t been a lull in the conversation once during dinner, a sharing dessert now in the centre of the table as Joel swirls what’s left of his whiskey around the glass. He held back all evening, fingers twitching and curling into a loose fist alongside yours on the table until he finally allowed himself to dance them across the back of your hand.

“How’d you get into all this record business?”

“Started workin’ there on weekends as a kid, wanted to earn some pocket money. The old man who owned it was like a mentor, he taught me all about the world. He left it all in my hands when he retired, and I’ve never looked back.”

A fond smile on his face as he retells his memories, you saw the first day you met how happy and comfortable he was in his charming shop, and it seems that charm bleeds over into him, too.

“And you get to meet all kinds of people — loud, friendly, aloof… pretty ones, too.” He gives you the same wink and devilish grin as before, continuing his stories as if you aren’t burning across the table.

-

Sometime during the night, he’d moved to sit next to you, claiming he ‘wanted to see the band’ — the arm draped on the bench behind you and fingers trailing across your shoulder says otherwise.

He mentioned at the shop that there was live music here on Friday nights — the one thing he didn’t mention? That tonight’s particular band was a jazz quartet — the slow, smooth, romantic kind of jazz, the kind that acts as the perfect backdrop for a night of cheeky flirting, lingering glances and desperate touches.

“Joel, can I ask something?”

“Shoot.”

You roll the edge of the tablecloth between your fingers. “Is this a date?”

“It can be, if you want.” You drop your hands and eye him, unimpressed by his response.

“Alright, I’ll admit, I was hopin’ for a date. I wasn’t really sure how to ask, didn’t wanna come on too strong.”

You’re silent for a beat, considering how to respond. “I mean, you could’ve just asked.”

“Well then, you wanna go on a date?” He tilts his head, eyebrows raised.

“I thought we were already on one.”

He chuckles at your remark, downing the last of his whiskey and momentarily tracing a finger along the rim of the glass. You focus on his movements, imagining his fingers tracing patterns into your skin instead.

As if he can read your mind, he twists himself towards you and plants that same hand just above your knee, fingers curled towards the inside of your leg as he scrapes his nails against you.

“And?” His voice is almost a whisper in your ear, “Has it been a good one?”

He glides his hand up your leg and into the slit of your dress as you nod, higher, higher, higher until his fingers brush against lace. You wonder if he can feel the fabric dampening.

“Y’know the Pink Floyd you asked about? It wasn’t sold, I kept it for myself. I’ll play it for you sometime.”

“You’re gonna talk about music? Right now?”

“What should I talk about instead? The delicate panties you got on? How wet they’re getting?”

Your breath hitches as he shifts his fingers, tucking them just under the edge of your panties and caressing your skin. Glancing around, the band are still playing low and slow, most tables having cleared out by now.

“Would love to see ‘em, if you’ll let me. I’d really love to see what’s underneath though. Pretty girl like you’s bound to have a real pretty pussy, too. Certainly feels like it, Jesus.”

He presses his fingers into you with more force this time and you turn your head to him. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide and not from the dim lighting. He glances down to your lips and back up to your eyes again and you close the distance between you. He repositions the arm around your shoulders, hand holding the back of your neck as you lock your legs together and grind yourself against him.

His lips are soft, beard and moustache tickling your skin as he swipes his tongue against the seam of your mouth. You moan into him as you part your lips, letting him lick into you and you can taste his whiskey. He pulls back and you whine, teasing you with just enough to leave you reeling for more.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“Take me home, Joel. Please, I need you.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart. Wanna hear the music you can make.”

comments & reblogs are hugely appreciated, forehead kisses to all 💜

dividers by @saradika-graphics

[guessimwritingficsagain]

Considering the way Kintsugi has been been received and reviewed recently (not well, if not at all, because the people who used to comment and had nice things to say about it disappeared), and considering my headspace right now, I think I'm gonna kill the fic. It should have gone on for at least five chapters but the next one will be the last, actually. I am thankful for that one (1) person who had something nice to say about the last chapter I posted.

When I'm done with this last chapter, I'll see you around, but not for a while.

Thank you everybody.

[guessimwritingficsagain]

AIN'T THAT A BITE

written for @studioghibelli's writing challenge

Fandom: The Last of Us (TV), The Last of Us (Video Game)

Rating: Mature

Central Characters: Reader, Young!Joel, Sarah

Central Relationship: Joel / Reader

Word Count: 6k

Pre-Outbreak & No-Outbreak AU

SUMMARY

It's the night of Jackson High's Sock Hop, the 8th grade dance which took you weeks to organize, and everything seems determined to go wrong. Thankfully, one student's dad—the handsome and brooding Joel Miller—comes to your rescue. READ ON AO3, if that's your jam!

Four weeks ago, volunteering to organize the eighth-grade dance committee had seemed like an excellent idea—a chance to make a solid first impression on the PTA and the chilly cast of your new colleagues while giving yourself a little excitement, some frivolous living beyond the usual boredom of your repetitive existence. Lesson plan, grade, report card, lesson plan, grade, report card—you love your job, but it gets old.

But now, on the night of Jackson High’s September Sock Hop, you know you’ve made a terrible mistake. Someone brought cookies with walnuts that had to be ceremoniously tossed, one of the speakers in the gym is crackling, three of your parent chaperones have bailed, and oh, yes—a sink in the girls’ bathroom has decided to spring a sudden leak and flood the place a mere fifteen minutes before the kids are due to show up.

Drenched and sweating, you make a hopeless attempt to mop the flood of water with the gym’s supply of linens, turning the tiled floor into a swamp of soggy towels that squelch beneath your shoes. It’s all a futile effort—the burst pipe beneath the far left sink is spewing water faster than the towels can sponge—but here you are, trying anyway, looking like you’ve just taken a long walk in a fucking monsoon. 

A row of square mirrors sits framed above each ceramic sink, taunting you with your reflection. Your red poodle skirt has gone burgundy with water and your once pristine white button-up clings to your chest, translucent, peek-a-booing your bra. 

Real professional. 

“Miss Green?” comes a voice on the other side of the door, followed by a weary knock. “Believe students are arriving now.”

With a sigh, you take a final glare at your reflection as if looking again might fix things, then call out, “Alright,” with as much patience as you have left to muster. Outside the calculus teacher is waiting in his pin-stripe vest with a sorry grimace. He agrees to lock up that bathroom from use and with a tired thank you you click down the hall towards the school doors, stomach raw with nerves.

As promised the first, eager attendees stand outside Jackson High’s wide glass doors, giddy to be let in for the night’s event. Kids are in everything from pastel poodle skirts to leather jackets and waitress get-ups—you even spot the Broderick twins in matching, vintage baseball uniforms striped with strawberry red. Behind them stand their parents, some smiling and others bleary-eyed, who you force yourself to smile cheerfully for as you let them in, a clipboard held over your chest to hide your bra.

You don’t miss how the parents stare at you—soaking wet and clearly befuddled—and you mutter your apologies as they shuffle into the school. All but the main hall has been blocked off, leaving the children a one-way path to the gymnasium for the dance. You check your watch quickly; maybe you can sneak in a quick smoke around the corner before the rest of the eighth graders arrive.

Outside the air is perfect: your one reprieve. Blue-dark clouds haunt the star-pocked sky and the balmy remains of the dying summer sweep through the parking lot as a breeze. You breathe easily for the first time in an hour, lift your face, and close your eyes, stitching yourself together in the calm. 

When you’re steady again, you decide against the smoke break. Too many parents pulling up in shiny cars with the kids. It’s enough to feel them in your skirt pocket—an escape hatch when you need them, a totem when you don’t. A nasty habit, your mother always says. But you only allow yourself two cigarettes a year. Not so bad, as habits go.

You’re about to turn back in and see if you can’t call a plumber at this hour when a pickup groans into the lot—steely-blue, bold text stickered on the side. It pulls not into a parking spot but the drop-off zone, right in front of you.

Miller Construction Ltd.

Maybe miracles are real after all.

As the passenger window rolls down and the cab light blinks on inside, you rush over, desperation rocketing your heart around in your chest. A girl in a lilac poodle skirt blinks up at you from the passenger seat, eyes wide with surprise. She’s got her hair pulled back in two big, curly pigtails ribboned with bows, and looks adorable—exactly what you’d pictured when you took on the behemoth task of putting this whole stupid evening together—complete with a matching neck scarf and shiny black shoes. You give her what you hope is a friendly grin and start rambling.

“I am so sorry,” you say, before you bother looking at the driver. “But we’ve got a plumbing emergency and if there is any chance you might have a few minutes to take a look at it, you’d be a—”

Your sentence drops off as you at last hunch down to make eye contact with the man in the driver’s seat through the open window. Dark-eyed and frowning, all curls and scruffy beard and thick flannel shirt: your type to a T. In your pause his daughter stifles a chuckle, and you shake your head to restart your brain. Focus. Sinks to fix, floods to mop.

With a tight grin, you tuck a stray hair behind your ear. “Would be a lifesaver if you could, I don’t know, take a look. Even if it’s just to tell me we’re fucked and need an emergency plumber. We had a bunch of parent chaperones bail last minute, so we’re a little short on hands.”

Now the kid snorts, giggling. Shit—your teacher-voice has slipped. 

You close your eyes, horrified. Seems there’ll be no end to your embarrassment today.

Sighing, you step back to open the passenger door so the girl can hop out. “If you promise not to tell any grown-ups I swore in front of you,” you tell her. “I’ll give you all As when you get to my class in a couple years.”

“Deal,” the girl says, grinning at you. “But I’d probably get an A anyway.”

Despite yourself, you smile—this time for real.

“You ain’t her teacher?” comes the driver’s voice. Deep and coarse, all Texan. When you glance back, he’s still frowning, eyes narrowed at you.

“Tenth grade English and History,” you say. 

“And you’re workin’ the eighth-grade dance,” he says.

You shrug. “I’m new. Thought it’d go over well if I came in eager and offered to plan the thing.”

He hmphs, expressionless, his skin golden under the overhead light, eyes glinting with amber. You’re almost glad the kid’s not in your class; parent-teacher interviews would be torture. Sitting across your desk from this man, forced to pretend you don’t want him to ruin you. 

Beside you on the sidewalk, the girl shoots her dad a daggered look and crosses her arms. “He’s free,” she says. “He can do it.”

“Sarah,” the man hisses. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she snarks. ��Do you suddenly have a social calendar I don’t know about?”

After a brief stare-down which Sarah seems to win, he huffs and mutters a cranky one second before pulling out of the drop-off zone to park. 

“I like your skirt,” Sarah says when he’s gone. Streetlamps have you both in a cloak of shadow, and the pale light radiating from the school’s front doors doesn’t quite reach this spot, but her inquisitive expression is unmissable in the dark. 

“It’s a little ruined,” you say sheepishly. “But I like yours.” 

Pleased, she gives you a little twirl, purple fabric blooming from her waist. “Thanks,” she says, when she stills again. “My dad sewed on the poodle.” 

Across the lot you hear the harsh slam of a car door cracking shut and spot her glowering father stalk across the asphalt, silhouetted by a distant streetlight, his shoulders unfairly broad. You nod toward the front doors. You’d never admit it to anyone, but the thought of this surly figure lovingly stitching a felt poodle to his daughter’s costume makes you a little weak in the knees.

“You can go on in,” you tell Sarah, and she waves at her dad before running inside.

Then he’s walking up the pavement, growing closer. Of course he smells good—like patchouli and something earthy and skin. Of course he’s rolled up his sleeves, baring his tanned forearms, one tensed by the toolbox clutched in his hand. You manage a stiff grin as he approaches, no teeth, to which you receive only a curt nod in reply. 

In silence, you walk him through the glassy doors, heels clicking as swing music crackles from the gymnasium some distance away. You catch, in the corner of your eye, the shape of his head turning as he watches Sarah running full-speed down the main hall to catch up with a group of girls that must be her friends. She launches herself at them, and even at this distance you hear the shrill of their joy, the sugar-high laughter, and smile to yourself.

“She’s sweet,” you say, guiding him into a branching hallway, away from the main event.

He grunts, then mumbles, “Pain in my ass is what she is.”

You chuckle. When you dare to look back at him again, you see his begrudging tone doesn’t match his expression. You swear his eyes flit quickly away as if you’ve caught him already looking at you. Hard to be sure, you think, in this dimmer light. But his cheeks almost look pink.

After a beat too long, you realize why.

You’ve dropped your clipboard to your side without thinking, unveiling your water-logged shirt, which clings sheerly to your skin. Grimacing, you cover yourself again. “Not much of a plumber,” you say quietly.

Once you’ve grabbed the keys back from your colleague, you drag this poor, probably busy dad to the girls’ bathroom and unlock the door, glancing down at his boots before you open it. “You don’t love those shoes, do you?” you ask.

His eyebrows lift, jaw tensing. “Sure they’ll be fine, darlin’,” he grunts.

You push into the bathroom before your brain has the chance to recover from darlin’. You’ve been in Texas all of six months and you still aren’t used to the pet names. Everyone here seems to call each other everything. Even the old woman who works the till at the grocer by your apartment calls you honey or angel, and you wouldn’t exactly describe her as the friendly type. Darlin’ isn’t even irregular. Bus drivers call you that. 

Difference here is that it’s this man saying it—which is to say, someone gorgeous with a voice that could melt you if you let yourself listen close enough. Your heart purrs, thrilled.

The bathroom is a calamity. Though the drains in the center of the tiled floor have meant no water has flooded into the hallway, there’s still an inch or so blanketing the tiles wall to wall. Under one of the mirrors, the guilty sink continues to spew: a graceful font of silver gushing from a fault in the pipe.

Over your shoulder you hear Sarah’s dad clear his throat before you step out of his way.

Fearless, he trudges through the mess unfazed, dodging the tides of boggy towels like this is the most natural habitat to find himself in. His boots and the ankles of his jeans blacken with water, and though you’re in some stupid, clacky pair of heels to go with your outfit, you follow him into the shallows anyway, riddled with shame. At the slosh of your footsteps behind him, Sarah’s dad turns to give you a cutting stare you cannot read and you freeze, caught.

“What?” you say.

“No reason you gotta be in here for this,” he says. “Might be wise to dry off a little, don’t you think?”

Does the corner of his mouth twitch upward, or do you imagine it—you can’t decide. “Right,” you manage. “Sorry. Thank you, seriously.”

You pivot to leave him to it, splashing weakly as you go, your skirt bunched in one hand to keep it safe from the splatter. In the doorway you can’t help but look back, and see him kneeling in the mess, tool in hand, his toolbox open and shelved on a not-broken sink. He spots you looking and this time, you don’t imagine it. He lets slip half a grin. 

“Got it from here,” he says.

You nod but don’t move and you don’t know why.

Well, that’s not true. You do.

Sarah’s dad cocks one dark eyebrow at you, bemused, maybe, by your hesitation. “You really have chaperones bail?” he asks, voice low.

“Three,” you say.

He grunts, then turns his attention back to the spitting sink, and you step out into the dim hallway without goodbye.

You slip into the bathrooms in the teacher’s lounge to stand under the hand dryer for a bit, letting your shirt dry out. When it’s no longer see-through, you stand in front of the long mirrors looking at yourself, fussing. You retouch your lipstick—red, like your skirt, like your nails—though the hair’s a lost cause. The best you can do is run a hand through the end bits and say an empty prayer.

Then, finally, you emerge, and take off with a sidelong glance thrown at the closed door of the flooded girls’ bathroom as you pass.

You volunteered four weeks ago, and you spent three of those weeks working on the decorations in tiny pockets of time between the school day, your commute home, and all the hours you spend every evening and weekend on lesson plans and marking. Maybe it’s only September, but the whole staff has been working since August and it’s no slower now than it will be in the spring. Still, you gave up sleep. Gave up seeing friends. Gave up proper, home-cooked meals and reverted to the habits of your college days, eating boxed mac and cheese straight from the pot over the stove. 

Now, it all pays off. 

The gymnasium’s a goddamn ritz. Ribbons of twinkle lights droop from the rafters, sparkling above the scatter of a disco ball. You thrifted huge, vintage neon signs—with your own money, thanks so much public school district—that cast pools of candy-colored light on the shiny floor. Gingham tablecloths sheath the drink stands. You had to bribe the theater department to let you repurpose an old bartop set from some long-gone play. Painted that sucker with black and white checkers, even scrounged up some round, pleather bar stools to match. Instead of a bar-bar, it’s a snack bar—pastel cupcakes and dairy-free milkshakes and huge metal bowls of nut-free, everything-free snack mixes displayed behind the bar. Kids all get three snack tickets ‘cause the PTA had strong feelings about sugar intake, but hey. All the bar stools are full; the kids seem to love it.

Despite the last-minute disasters, you’re tempted to cry with relief. Slept three hours last night, painting the last of the stars that hang overhead, but they look like magic now. Glossy and twinkling while Elvis plays. It looks pretty close to perfect. And the kids, by some miracle, are dancing. The gym teacher comes out to show them some simple swing steps, and as clumsy as they all are, it’s fucking adorable.

“Hope you’re willing to do this for all the dances,” one teacher mutters to you as you pass. 

You flit from table to table, refilling and wiping down and checking in with chaperones—twenty minutes zing by in the blink of an eye. When the gymnasium door creaks quietly open, the dark shape of Sarah’s dad appears in the doorway. You set down your punch glass with a grin and scurry over. 

But he’s looking up when you make it to him, starstruck by twinkle lights, his face pink and blue with the neon light. Christ, he’s easy on the eyes. Facing this way, with none of the gym or kids or decorations in view, you can almost imagine that you’re standing in a bar looking up at some handsome stranger you might have a shot in hell at taking home. 

“Everything okay?” you ask, when he still hasn’t looked down, his hand flat and broad on the door to prop it open.

He blinks, wakes from his daze, and the look of wonder that just now softened him fades, his face stiff again. You step into the hall and the door slides shut behind you. The honeyed voices of The Isley Brothers muffle.

In the direct light of the hallway you can see he’s soaked—jeans wet to the tops of his thighs, his whole flannel clinging to his chest. One curl lays flat and damp against his forehead. He would’ve had to kneel right in the spray to work on the sink. Might as well have set a hose on the poor man.

Jesus, you must have ruined this guy’s whole fucking night. 

“Oh my god,” you say, eyes wide with horror. “I am so sorry—”

He lifts one hand as if to say stop and your mouth snaps shut. “Just water,” he grumbles. “Sink’s fine now. Joint was old and brittle. Had a part in the truck that’ll hold you over till Monday, but you’ll need someone to do a proper repair next week.”

You run a hand over your face, so grateful to him that all logical thought and processing flutters right out of your head. “Jesus, I could kiss you—thank you so much, seriously,” you start to say, hand still over your eyes as you stutter to a halt, realizing your mistake.

Heat boils in your face as you split your fingers to peek at him through your hand, but he doesn’t look horrified. He just rolls his eyes, a little playfully you think, and shakes his head like you’re being ridiculous. “Not necessary,” he says. 

You let your hand drop. “I’d insist that I’m normally the epitome of professionalism, but there’s no way in hell it’d be convincing,” you say, grinning sheepishly. 

Shrugging, he remains silent. Maybe you should take your friends up on their offers to set you up—you clearly need to get laid. Just him shrugging is doing things to you. Nevermind the tiny flick of his tongue that graces his bottom lip as he looks off down a roped-off hall. 

“Still short on chaperones?” he asks, not looking at you. 

“Yeah,” you admit. “But we’ll make due.”

Another shrug. “Could help out—‘m already here.”

Your eyes round. Though part of you wants to refuse, insist he’s done more than enough already, that he ought to get home and into dry clothes and forget about this mess, you don’t. It’s definitely selfish, almost greedy, but you don’t want him to go. Even if you only get to look at him across the gymnasium without saying another word to each other the whole rest of the night, you’d like him to stay.

A grin squirms across your face before you can stop it; you have to look away to smother it as you tap one foot against the floor. 

“Okay,” you say coolly, returning your gaze to him once you’ve gathered yourself. “But you can’t go in there looking like this.”

The theater department’s costume room gives you the creeps. Has since the first day you stepped foot in this place back in August when you got the grand tour—anywhere with this many mannequins is cursed, frankly—and it turns out it���s even worse in the dark. When you swing open the door, pale light from the hall slants against the black floor, and you reach blindly across the wall for the switch as your heart patters with dread.

Then finally: light. Weak, stuttering, yellow, but light all the same. You breathe.

Regardless, stepping into the costume room feels like being squeezed. Cramped alleyways have been formed by clothing racks stuffed well past their capacity—gowns of past Shakespeare productions hang beside the gothic frocks of Morticia and Wednesday Addams—forcing you to inch between racks, grazed by a parade of empty sleeves.

Sarah’s dad, bless him, hardly fits at all, and has to shuffle through the aisles sideways to follow you on what must seem to him like a blind mission without any destination. 

But you’ve been in this place. You know exactly what you’re looking for. Turning a corner, the next section is too narrow for the man to fit through, so you point out a chair across the room by the mirror and tell him to wait. 

“And you can ditch the flannel,” you call out as he goes. “Can hang it over the heaters to dry.”

Though you hear the low thunder of him mumbling, you miss the words.

When you emerge from the dusty racks, unnerved by the looming, half-dressed mannequins standing guard over their lot, Sarah’s dad is sitting where you asked him to wait, stripped out of his flannel, left in a slightly damp white t-shirt, his shoulder blades faintly visible in the stuttering light. If him shrugging was doing something to you earlier—this is likely to kill you. 

You clear your throat as you approach and he quickly straightens his posture. When you’re close enough, you hold out the hangers to him, even give them a little shake when he cuts his eyes at you, doubtful. You roll your own in reply. “Come on,” you insist. “Sarah will love it.”

That gets him to stand, albeit with a scowl, but it still makes you grin. With a grumpy hmph, he takes the hangers from you and you duck between racks again to give him some privacy. Sure, maybe you’d like a peek as he strips off those wet jeans, but even you know better than that. So you stand in the disordered aisle of costumes and listen instead. 

For a long time you hear nothing, like he’s hesitating. You did have to guess the sizes, but you worked plenty of retail jobs in your early twenties. Aren’t so bad at guessing. Every breath in this room, now that you’re silent, feels agonizingly loud. Not just yours, but his. The swelling of his chest with air. 

Then finally—clink. A belt buckle slacking open. Your eyes slam shut even though you’re looking in the opposite direction, at some 60s-style dress from what must’ve been an old Hairspray production with construction paper polka dots duct-taped on. He lets out a soft grunt. There’s a shuffle of fabric. Then a wet slop as his jeans hit the floor.

Your whole body throbs with heady, certain want.

Yes, you definitely need to get laid. This is humiliating. 

When you hear the belt buckle’s metal clink again, signaling he’s got the new, dry jeans on, you feel it’s safe to speak again. “I never asked you your name,” you say, still staring at the costumes. You hear him set the next hanger on the chair and even though putting it on requires no further undressing, you’ll stay exactly where you are until he’s done. Don’t trust yourself not to leer.

More shuffling, this time of sturdier fabric. “Joel,” he gruffs, and after a pause adds bitterly, “I look ridiculous.”

Chuckling, you squeeze out of the aisles and find him standing before the full-length mirror wedged in the corner of the room, into which Joel is sneering at his reflection. 

Also, he’s dead fucking wrong.

The jeans are a little tight, but frankly they’re better this way. His thighs taut beneath denim, his calves hugged. He’s a little bow-legged. So Texan. From the waist down he might as well be a cowboy. From the waist up, however, he looks like he’s just strutted off the set of Grease, putting even 1978’s Travolta to shame. His white t-shirt sits crisply beneath the black leather jacket, which he snaps to adjust the lapels. Fits him perfectly, like it was made for those shoulders, and he’s raked back his wet hair, giving it the look of being gelled, one stray curl rebelling over his forehead.

He catches your eye in the mirror, mouth twitching again, but it doesn’t become a grin or a frown. You raise an eyebrow at him. “Don’t know what you’re looking at,” you say. “But you do not look ridiculous from where I’m standing.”

His nose scrunches as he breaks his eyes from yours in the reflection, ducking his head to rub the back of his neck. Seriously, you’d crawl all over this guy if he weren’t the dad of one of your students. Future students—whatever. But you’ll save yourself the humiliation, gotta get this show on the road, and so you jut your chin in the direction of the door. “Let’s go. Got kids to supervise, hands to keep from wandering.”

Joel balks, hands flat to fists in an instant, ready to kill.

“Oh please,” you tease, and wave one hand dismissively as you make your way to the door. “Like you weren’t thirteen once.”

You listen as he stomps after you, muttering a cranky, “Gonna have to be at all these fuckin’ things,” that makes your head fall back with a sudden laugh.

The moment you return to the gymnasium, you’re needed by everyone—so and so needs to know where the extra ice is; what’s-her-face is concerned about the sugar content of the fruit punch; and some parent wants to talk about their kids’ English grade like this is the appropriate venue for such a conversation. You immediately lose Joel to the call of teacher-slash-host duties, and he slips past you, hugging the wall as he strides over to man the drink table which, in your absence, has stood without supervision. The man might as well be a saint—you manage to catch his eye and mouth a silent thank you across the gym, to which he half-grins from a pool of neon pink glow, setting you ablaze.

Most of the night you spend running around like a madwoman, responsible for switching in new music as each CD ends, refilling snack bowls, and pulling one student off another when you catch them kissing in the hall. Thankfully neither of them is Sarah, but you do have to give the kids a talking-to.

Late in the night, you’re chatting to some of your colleagues against the gymnasium wall and watching the kids shimmy to Rock Around the Clock, poodle skirts billowing like spinning tops, when you spot Sarah rush across the floor toward Joel—apparently only spotting him now. You’re too far to hear them, too far to read their lips, but Sarah’s runaway smile is obvious at any distance. She hops in place, delighted, and forces Joel to do a little spin for her. 

Though smaller, you catch his smile too. The dimple in his cheek as he fails to restrain his contentment at her approval. How he shakes his head, embarrassed to be fawned over. Adorable.

When the Spanish teacher makes his rounds with the school’s camera, snapping flash photos of the kids’ eager smiles and costumes as they pose with their milkshakes or friends, you tap him on the shoulder and point in Joel and Sarah’s direction. “Get one of them, would you?” you whisper, and he nods, shuffling off.

Joel spots him coming a mile off, camera in hand, and immediately frowns. He makes eye contact with you across the gymnasium like he knew exactly where you were standing, and shakes his head as if to say no way. You smile, wicked, and mouth yes. One of his hands balls to a fist. 

But when Sarah spots the photographer a second later, she wraps an arm around Joel’s waist to pose and his resistance crumbles. When you were thirteen, you’d have been humiliated to be seen posing with your parents in front of your classmates, but Sarah doesn’t seem to mind at all. Her adoration is obvious, abundant. Anyone can see how much she loves him—you can see, too, Joel’s love for her. Once the Spanish teacher raises the camera to shoot, he throws his arm around Sarah’s shoulders, looking down at her with a soft, grump-less grin. The white flash snaps in the dark gymnasium, photo taken, then Sarah returns to her friends.

You cut your eyes away when he starts to turn his head in your direction, returning your gaze to your colleague. Don’t need him catching you staring. Your dignity has suffered plenty tonight.

You cave about twenty minutes before parents are due to pick up the kids at the end of the night—not due to stress, just exhaustion—and sneak out into the black night to smoke. Tucked just out of view of the parking lot and doors, you sink onto a wooden bench and light up, letting the tension unwind from your body. Gray smoke tendrils as you exhale a half-formed smoke ring. Never could get those right, but it’s fun to try while crickets croak unseen from the shadows, braiding their eerie melody. With every drag, you relax into a kind of trance, at one with the night. 

Eyes shut, you don’t hear him coming. It isn’t until he clears his throat that your eyes snap open and you realize someone’s caught you smoking.

“Shit,” you mutter, adjusting your posture to sit up straight.

Joel stands over the bench, caliginous in the dark. His hair has dried, curls loosening from each other. You hear a low chuckle that must come from him, but you can’t quite make out his face until he lowers himself onto the bench beside you—then you see he’s smirking. 

You tap ash onto the sidewalk beside your feet, away from him, unable to look him in the eye. “Not worth trying to defend myself, is it?” you joke sheepishly.

He adjusts his position, thighs spread just a touch, and crosses his arms over his chest. The leather jacket is practically criminal, it fits him so well. 

“That’s alright, darlin’,” he replies. “Don’t need to.”

You bring the cigarette to your lips to smother your impulse to smile, the filter stained crimson by your lipstick. You risk a glance at him. “You want one?”

Shaking his head, the corner of Joel’s mouth tugs. “Quit when Sarah came around,” he admits.

“Very responsible,” you say, and though you really shouldn’t flirt, it comes out a little snarky, like you’re teasing him. “Quit after college, but I get to indulge twice a year.”

Joel quirks an eyebrow at you, though doesn’t question the obvious flaw in your logic. “Miss it?” he asks.

You shrug and exhale a thin stream of smoke from the corner of your mouth. “Always think I do,” you say. “But it’s so much grosser than I remember. Can’t believe I used to smoke these everyday.”

He lets out a deep hmph, not quite a laugh. 

“I’m serious,” you say, grinning now. “These things are vile. They reek and make kissing gross. I might as well burn the clothes I’m wearing after this. Don’t even like it anymore—it’s just nostalgia, I think.”

Shifting again, Joel’s legs spread a little wider, though from the other side of the bench you’re still nowhere near touching. As you click one lacquered nail against your cigarette, ash rains softly to the ground. 

“Never minded,” he mumbles. He’s looking out at the dim street, not you. Streetlamps dot the street with coins of gold between cedar elms that have already begun to drain their color. The breeze is next to perfect, whisking your smoke politely away from Joel.

“Minded what?”

“Kissin’ someone who smokes,” he says matter-of-factly. His tone isn’t flirtatious—nor is his expression, his face still profiled to you—but goosebumps scale your arms all the same.

“Hm,” you hum in reply. 

Best not to dwell in this breath of quiet. The long pause in which you feel yourself want. You shift on the bench, cross your legs, and prepare to change the subject—but Joel beats you to it. 

“Looks good in there,” his voice rumbles, and in your periphery, he turns to look at you for just a moment, handsome and leather-clad. Practically put on this earth to punish you. You hold your breath until he turns his head away again. “Impressive.”

Your heart squeezes like he’s crushed it in his fist, but you tilt your head back and forth nonchalantly. “Guess it doesn’t look so bad,” you admit. To your surprise, this drags a quiet chuckle from Joel, and your eyes drop quickly to his hand where it hangs from his still-crossed arms—a brief and discreet glance, you think—and see no ring. It shouldn’t make a difference, but you're glad.

“Gotta be more subtle than that, darlin’,” Joel mumbles, despite the fact that he’s not looking at you.

You feel your face rash with heat. “Fucking eagle eyes,” you mutter, pinching the last of the cigarette to your lips for a final drag. You hold the smoke in your lungs as Joel laughs again, this time with more warmth.

He shakes his head. “Could’a just asked,” he says.

“You’re not even looking at me,” you say, smiling despite your embarrassment. You bend over to crush your cigarette against the bottom of your shoe, then pocket the spent filter, disappearing the evidence. “How the hell did you even catch that.” It isn’t so much a question as it is a whine. 

Joel shrugs. “Don’t have to be looking at you to be watchin’,” he says.

You can’t decide if you’re glad or disappointed that the moment you both look at each other, the whole of his face finally visible in the murk of nightfall—warm eyes, summer skin, that stubbly beard you’d like to nuzzle into—a caw of noise erupts inside the school and shatters the moment. The sound of students emerging from the gymnasium into the hall draws Joel’s attention first, and you allow yourself a long look at the back of his head to study his curls, just beginning to thread with gray, before you let the noise draw your attention, too.

“That’d be our cue,” you say, and you both rise from the bench.

As Joel starts shrugging off the leather jacket, you put a hand on his bicep to stop him and shake your head. So solid. Warm. He freezes under your touch, black leather slumped part-way down his arms, until you withdraw your hand. 

“Nu-uh,” you say. “You’re keeping that.”

He frowns. “Not sure I like the idea of stealin’ from Sarah’s school,” he says. 

You roll your eyes, wave one hand dismissively. “You saw where it came from, they’ll never miss it. There were at least half a dozen more in there.”

When Joel narrows his eyes at you, you narrow yours back stubbornly. Finally, he sighs and snaps the jacket back over his shoulders—a gesture that turns you to honey—and shoves one hand into the back pocket of his jeans. The also-stolen jeans. You’re gonna make him take those too. Not like anything that fits him is gonna fit any of the students here. You don’t even know why the theater department has costumes this size. 

“Least take this and sign me up for,” he gestures vaguely with one hand as he pulls something from his pocket and holds it out to you. “Whatever. More chaperonin’.”

Pinched between his fingers is a crisp business card bearing the same logo stickered to his truck. Miller Construction Ltd—Joel Miller, Co-Owner. His phone number is printed squarely at the bottom. You take it, running your thumb across the printed text. 

“Very generous,” you tease, and Joel looks down at you and grins, one dimple creasing his cheek. When you smile in return, his dark eyes slip down your face, landing on your lips.

As you make your way back up the path to the school, he walks close enough that his arm brushes against yours just once. Your body purrs with want, made worse when he smirks and leans toward you, lowering his voice. “Trust me,” he rumbles quietly. “Offer’s entirely selfish.”

Then, entirely composed, Joel yanks the front door open for you and winks.

Moodboard created by @studioghibelli!

[guessimwritingficsagain]

Kintsugi (the golden roses will bloom prettily in the space between your ribs) Chapter 6

Summary : You'd met Joel a year ago. Then you learn he and Tess are gone from the Boston QZ. You go find Jackson on your own. (Change of summary incoming)

Warnings : Mature content, MDNI, murder attempt, pining, ANGST, canon violence.

Tags : Just ask, and if I've forgotten you, do not hesitate to remind me.

Chapter 5

———

A hand grabs your shoulder, thumb sliding underneath the loose collar of your shirt, as you try to grab one of the coffee cup that sit on a higher shelf. You’re not exactly small but every time you stretch, you feel the pull of your stitches.

His body is warm behind you, and his thumb presses against your collarbone as he hums, grabbing the cup for you. You watch as his hand sets the cup on the counter, grabs the coffee-maker, pours the warm liquid, grabs another cup, for him, and 

‘Joel’ you complain. ‘I could do this myself’

He hums again, his breath hot against your ear. 

You like this-

You really do. 

You don’t notice he’d grabbed a knife instead of a cup until you felt the burn of the blade between your ribs. 

———

A hand grabs your shoulder, thumb sliding underneath the loose collar of your shirt, as you try to grab one of the coffee cup that sit on a higher shelf. You’re not exactly small but every time you stretch, you feel the pull of your stitches.

His body is warm behind you, and his thumb presses against your collarbone as he hums, grabbing the cup for you. You watch as his hand sets the cup on the counter, grabs the coffee-maker, pours the warm liquid, grabs another cup, for him, and 

‘Joel’ you complain. ‘I could do this myself’

He hums again, his breath hot against your ear. 

You like this-

You really do. 

You freeze. 

‘Nightmare ?’ Joel asks.

You nod, words stuck. 

‘Coffee’s not good for you.’

He takes a bottle, hidden behind the cups.

‘That’s better.’

You turn your head, smile at him. His thumb grazes your throat and you like this-

You really do.

The first sip goes through your throat and your stomach like lava. 

‘It burns.’ You manage-

———

A hand grabs your shoulder, thumb sliding underneath the loose collar of your shirt, as you try to grab one of the coffee cup that sit on a higher shelf. You’re not exactly small but every time you stretch, you feel the pull of your stitches.

His body is warm behind you, and his thumb presses against your collarbone as he hums, grabbing the cup for you. You watch as his hand sets the cup on the counter, grabs the coffee-maker, pours the warm liquid, grabs another cup, for him, and

‘Joel’ you complain. ‘I could do this myself’

He hums again, his breath hot against your ear. 

You like this-

You really do. 

You freeze. 

‘Nightmare ?’ Joel asks.

‘Yeah’, you mumble, voice raspy by disuse. ‘Mind getting me an orange ?’

Joel nods and the hand leaves your shoulder long enough for you to open a drawer and grab a knife - how lucky are you, you think, that the first drawer you opened had a knife in it?

When you turn around he’s got a gun pointed at you, he says

‘Oh, darlin’’

And moves the barrel to shoot you in the ribs and it burns. 

———

A hand grabs your shoulder and you jump

‘Sorry’ grumbles the voice of Joel Miller.

You turn around and take him in.

He’s not quite awake, one hand rubbing the sleep off his face, the other - the one on your shoulder a second ago - scratching the softness of his belly above his shirt. 

He looks good like that. Soft. 

‘I’m glad’ he starts.

‘Glad you’re finally able to get up and everythin’ but-‘

He sighs. 

‘Wake me up ? Next time. I mean, I should be runnin’ to the doctor, now, ‘cause you’re finally awake.’

But- he doesn’t say.

‘I had those horrible dreams. You tried to kill me.’

One of his hands reaches out for you, fingers not quite touching your cheek.

‘I would never- 

‘I know.’

And you mean it. You know because-

‘You found me.’ You add.

‘I was looking for you.’ Is what he answers.

I was looking for you.

‘Just let me get a glass of water and we can go back to bed.’ 

Joel doesn’t answer, just gets a glass, fills it, and hands it to you.

———

It’s in the darkness of the room that it occurs to you. You don’t turn around : you might be sharing the same bed but Joel is facing one way and you, the other. But you still have to ask :

‘How come I’m in your house?’

Silence, first. Silence so deep you think Joel might be sleeping. Then, a sigh. 

‘They wouldn't let me stay. You were- It was bad, and they let me stay when it was really fuckin’ bad but after-‘

Deep breath.

‘You weren’t wakin’ up, and it wasn’t a coma or anythin’ that bad and they told me but-‘

Deep breath again. 

‘And your injuries were fine but you were just sleepin’ a lot but I was-‘

Silence.

Silence so dark and deep it could swallow the both of you.

‘So you basically bullied the fine people of Jackson so I could stay with you ?’ You laughed- and coughed. 

Joel turned around, hands feather-light on your ribs.

‘You’ alright ?’ He asked, voice urgent. ‘I should have gone to the doc’’

‘I’m fine, Joel. Let’s stay like this.’

Like this was his is his fingers grazing your ribs through you shirt, the rest of his body not touching you but close enough that you could hear him breathing, feel the warmth of him behind you. 

———

Taglist

@pedritobalmando @amidjarin @ajeff855 @justpedropascal @sara-alonso @sarahjkl82-blog @amidjarin @sara-alonso@justpedropasc@mrsbentallmadge @farfromjustordinary @hnt-escape @kirsteng42 @ace-27749 @pocket-of-possibilities @missladym1981

[guessimwritingficsagain]

FIRST LOVE IN THE LATE SPRING AIR

a/n: guess who is back on her joel miller shit again. i had the image of young joel possibly in love and just starting out and had to run with it. after not writing for him for some time, i really did miss this grumpy man. i do have a few fics in the works for him so hopefully this fixation lasts some time. this is an unedited jumble of words so enjoy! divider by the incredible @saradika-graphics.

summary: in the late spring air with summer setting like the sun, life with joel suddenly becomes clear.

word count: 1.6k+

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

warnings: not explicit, fluff, domesticity, she wrote something without angst y'all, allusions to possibly an apocalypse but not really, mentions of pregnancy (don't worry), joel miller being a fucking softie, they're just so in love it's sick.

His sheets clung to your already warm body, molding to the bare skin that scratched along the wrinkled cheap cotton. You asked why he never bought something better, he claimed he didn’t mind how it felt. Of course, that’s how it usually went. Your questions, answered with sarcasm layered in anguish. He never bought more because he never thought he deserved it.

You ignored it for his sake—never pushing further than necessary; he felt like a stone wall at times, and you were the person searching for his cracks. A place to set your hammer into place and swing.

The sun cast shadows in the darkened room, his curtains pulled away to expose the already open window. He was helping his mom fix the air conditioner; you were sweating beneath his covers. The dichotomy felt wrong—too domestic for you to swallow. Yet you drank it down like cold water straight from the tap, already addicted to the way it chilled your insides and pooled in your stomach.

It never occurred to you that the things you did for love would feel silly in ten years time.

But that was in ten years. And this was now.

“I can feel you,” he mumbled into his crushed pillow squished between his arm and cheek. 

You’d been scooting away from him for the past ten minutes. Not because you desired distance—quite the opposite—you couldn’t fathom the way his skin gave off heat. He was a fire waiting to burn you, singe the hair on your arm and beg for more to consume. You were merely asking for reprieve from the suffocating way he felt atop you in the middle of the night.

Spring in Texas was promised to be cool. Sunny air, bright dispositions, and weather you’d find in a luxury brand’s catalog. The kind his mother kept around for you when they arrived in the mail. Yet as soon as May set in, welcoming humanity with open arms and blooming flowers, the heat shoved its way forward. Settling into the air with a vengeance. A promise that you’d suffer through the next few months until you felt defeated enough to beg for winter.

“It’s hot,” you whined, shoving the thin gray sheet off your body. “I need a cold shower.”

“Mm.” His arm slid beneath the covers, tanned skin and already rough fingers reaching out to find you. “Sounds like a good idea.”

You bit back your smile and scooched even closer to the edge of the mattress—your leg halfway off and nearly to the floor. “I meant for me.”

The mess of rumpled brown hair shot up from his pillow, hazy brown eyes catching you in the snare of their web. “You’d leave me outta that?”

“Joel—”

“Cold water and you naked?” He shook his head, flipping onto his back and sitting up before you could get both feet on the floor. “Sorry darlin’. Ain’t happenin’.”

“You’ll distract me.”

He smiled all lazy and warm. Enough to have you considering your chances of braving the overheated bed sheets that still clung to your thigh. Joel in the morning wasn’t a sight to forget so quickly. He looked like he’d been dragged from sleep roughly, as if he’d rather spend hours more in the unconscious state than out with the real world. But when he gazed at you like this—eyes glassy with sleep and lips curled into a soft smile—you finally understood why people died for the ones they love.

“That’s the point.”

How could you argue? When he practically pleaded with you through his gaze alone. His hand grabbed ahold of your upper thigh, fingers digging into the warm flesh in order to yank you closer. Fighting his strength was no use when you were lazy with sleep yourself. Still halfway past the waking point and a dreamland that housed an image of a man who looked oddly like Joel.

Just a few years older.

“What time do you work today?”

He grunted. Awake enough to comprehend you naked, but still far too delirious to realize he’d have to be up in an hour to make it on time. He slept less than he wanted, but on days where the sun was warm and spring beckoned life forward, he didn’t mind so much.

Tommy being away didn’t help the loneliness that had settled on his shoulders within the past few months. His younger brother—the troublemaker. More fuckin’ trouble than he’s worth. Were words Joel was spouting two months ago the night before Tommy’s leave; you caught the pain in his eyes, the dull emptiness that chewed away in his chest.

Despite the multiple jests and bickered words that never quite stuck like they used to—now that they both knew there’d be no time to make up with cheap beer snuck into the backyard and cigarettes Joel claimed weren’t his—Joel would miss his brother.

“Two hours,” he mumbled, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eye.

“Then go back to sleep.”

His gaze narrowed. “You’re gonna have to get back in.”

“Why?” You rolled your eyes, already reaching for his t-shirt tossed to the side last night when silence gave way to heady looks and soft promises beneath the light of the moon.

“Can’t sleep when you’re not here,” he huffed, falling back into the mess of sheets. “Need to feel you.”

An ache pricked at your heart, barely a nick in the fleshy organ, but you knew you’d feel it in a year's time. When life looked different. When life shined a bit brighter and Joel finally started up his business. When those promises came with a feasible future.

Wordlessly, you climbed back underneath the too warm sheet that immediately settled over you like a muggy cloud. But Joel’s hands sliding around your waist, tugging you closer, appeased whatever discomfort that attempted to push through. As if his touch was a promise of protection against the weather’s strange antics. A warning to be careful not to fall in too deeply. Lest you wind up left with a broken barely beating heart and a hollow space where he once occupied.

“What are you doin’ today?” he breathed, his leg sliding between yours, ankle hooking around the back of your calf.

Your hands found their way into the tendrils of his hair that stuck up in the back—curling with the heat. “The diner opens at ten.”

He hummed. “I’ll be there for breakfast.”

“Mr. Miller, what on Earth will people think of us?”

“That you’re my fuckin’ girl.” His eyes fluttered open, lashes longer than yours yet still dainty against his face. “Besides. We always have breakfast together.”

You hummed, bliss soaring in your heart as you shifted closer. Life with Joel must resemble this. Simplicity in such a small bubble of privacy you already created together. Mornings filled with coffee over a shared newspaper, lunch on the phone, dinner in a kitchen that always needed cleaning. Nights on the couch until one (or both) of you fell asleep, until Joel eventually woke, leading you to the mattress that would engulf your hopes and dreams with open arms.

The promise of domesticity with the knowledge that it would always be more.

“I have a question,” you whispered.

“Uh oh.”

An audible groan echoed in the room when your elbow met his stomach lightly. “It’s not a bad one.”

“Then shoot darlin’.”

“Romantic. Cowboy,” you scoffed. “What’s our life gonna be like in five years?”

He stilled. The hand sliding gently along your hip in soothing motions suddenly a heavy press against your waist. And you could feel the weight in your chest begin to sink like an anchor, settling in your stomach with force. Lead, cannonballs, the pain of intestines twisting and twining. It all hit you like a hurricane rushing to the shore, wiping clean every bit of life in its path. There was no swimming away from it, no catching the path of the torrential waves that sucked you under.

You could only wait, breaths measured and heart racing, as he processed your words.

“Got somethin’ to tell me honey?”

The gravity in his eyes nearly floored you—his meaning slamming into you with enough fervor to make you lose your breath. “No! Fuck. No, no, no, no—”

The solemn way he watched you never wavered, even as you breathed a laugh in the hopes of moving on quickly. “Definitely not that.” You sucked in a breath, lighter than before. “I just meant…what will we be in five years?”

His lips twitched, hand sliding even lower in order to cup your ass. “Hopefully that.”

“Joel—”

“I love you darlin’.” Something familiar—warm like the soothing balm of the sun caressing your skin in the afternoon—bloomed in your chest. Enough to make you nearly tear up. “That ain’t gonna change in one year or five or ten or even twenty.”

“Yeah?” you murmured, curling in so close your lips brushed his. “You sure you won’t get sick of me?”

He huffed, lips capturing yours briefly as his eyes slid closed. “Can’t get sick of somethin’ I’m addicted to.”

You laughed into the kiss, eyes daring a glimpse at his serene expression. “I’ll hold you to that in twenty years Miller.”

“Good.” His face dug into the crook of your neck, body wrapped around yours. “Means you’ll be around.”

The sheet lay above your heads, forming a haven you had no desire to leave. A space that breathed whispers of a future you could finally form a picture of. What once existed in a dreamscape you often habited on nights spent grasping for more than simply one spring and summer, now turned physical. Slowly shaping that malleable past that led you to right here.

[guessimwritingficsagain]

Kintsugi (the golden roses will bloom prettily in the space between your ribs) Chapter 5

Summary : You'd met Joel a year ago. Then you learn he and Tess are gone from the Boston QZ. You go find Jackson on your own. (Change of summary incoming)

Warnings : Mature content, MDNI, rape attempt (not from Joel, though), pining, ANGST, canon violence.

Tags : Just ask, and if I've forgotten you, do not hesitate to remind me.

Chapter 4

———

It is a beautiful thing, the world, you think, lying on the grass, looking at the sky. 

The sun is setting, and you wonder :

Why does the moon chase the sun ? 

There must be an explanation, something about science. But you’re not interested. You want to know about the poetry behind it. Surely, there must be more than science : because the moon catches the sun, sometimes. And that’s when science becomes poetry, you think. Because the meeting of the two, one blending into the other : that’s something the human eye cannot stand. You can’t look at an eclipse without glasses on. 

Here’s a fact :

You can’t watch the sun and the moon be together.

Your little human body can’t take that. Your eyes can't.

Yet, it’s resilient, this body of yours.

The cabin is near, you could see it if you slightly turned your head. So pretty. Warm. There’s some work to do, of course- you’ll have to find some paint, and some of the furniture needs to be replaced. But even from here, it looks cosy, in a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit kind of cosy. And warm, so warm.

You like it. 

You really really like it. 

You fall asleep at some point, because everything here is so peaceful, so quiet. And warm.

You sleep and you dream-

And in your dream the woman is faceless but she’s kneeling next to you. She’s whispering words, sweet words, kind words as she lifts a bucket and pour its content on your naked chest. 

It burns. 

It burns and you scream, something so atrocious you didn’t think it could come out of you. 

When you look down, liquid gold is slipping into your skin, in between your ribs and even though you’re sort of aware that this isn’t real, that you’re dreaming, dream-you is ready to fall asleep again. 

Then there’s a shake on your shoulder.

You wake with a gasp. 

You grab the knife you’d dropped and stab, somewhere painful judging by the sound the man - you assume - makes.

You try to get up but your knees just won’t cooperate, your whole body feels like it’s not yours and there’s- you don’t know. There’s something wrong. It’s warm. So warm. 

It’s when you manage to get on your knees that you see all of it- 

At first you don’t understand. 

Flames, everywhere. Right in front of you. Your little hobbit hole. 

Two corpses on your left.

One man on your right, alive, a knife - yours, you assume - lodged into his shoulder. He looks familiar but you can’t place him until he speaks and then-

Then you hear that southern accent and everything becomes real again. 

‘Darlin’, darlin’ listen to me. I need you to put pressure on that wound, okay ? You’re bleeding real bad here.’

Joel’s on you, and your hands are pushed on your ribs, on the right side. The touch makes you scream in pain so bad you don’t acknowledge your fingers are getting soaked in blood the second they make contact with the wound.

He still had your knife in his shoulder when he says : 

‘You focus on me, okay ? I’m gonna take care of you. Get you safe, okay ? But you gotta focus on me, right ? Say you understand.’

You mutter a 

Yes.

There’s a wet kiss on your left cheek as his whole body shakes-

He’s crying, you vaguely realize. 

‘It’s okay’, you whisper. 

Your body feels so much like it’s not your own anymore that it takes all you have to bring one of your bloodied fingers to curl into his hair. 

‘You’re my eclipse.’ You add. 

And he is. His shadow is bigger than the light from your burning house but you can’t bear to look at him. You can’t. 

So you do the only thing you can do.

You close your eyes.

———

Taglist

@pedritobalmando @amidjarin @ajeff855 @justpedropascal @sara-alonso @sarahjkl82-blog @amidjarin @sara-alonso@justpedropasc@mrsbentallmadge @farfromjustordinary @hnt-escape @kirsteng42 @ace-27749 @pocket-of-possibilities @missladym1981

[guessimwritingficsagain]

Kintsugi (the golden roses will bloom prettily in the space between your ribs) Chapter 5

Summary : You'd met Joel a year ago. Then you learn he and Tess are gone from the Boston QZ. You go find Jackson on your own. (Change of summary incoming)

Warnings : Mature content, MDNI, rape attempt (not from Joel, though), pining, ANGST, canon violence.

Tags : Just ask, and if I've forgotten you, do not hesitate to remind me.

Chapter 4

———

It is a beautiful thing, the world, you think, lying on the grass, looking at the sky. 

The sun is setting, and you wonder :

Why does the moon chase the sun ? 

There must be an explanation, something about science. But you’re not interested. You want to know about the poetry behind it. Surely, there must be more than science : because the moon catches the sun, sometimes. And that’s when science becomes poetry, you think. Because the meeting of the two, one blending into the other : that’s something the human eye cannot stand. You can’t look at an eclipse without glasses on. 

Here’s a fact :

You can’t watch the sun and the moon be together.

Your little human body can’t take that. Your eyes can't.

Yet, it’s resilient, this body of yours.

The cabin is near, you could see it if you slightly turned your head. So pretty. Warm. There’s some work to do, of course- you’ll have to find some paint, and some of the furniture needs to be replaced. But even from here, it looks cosy, in a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit kind of cosy. And warm, so warm.

You like it. 

You really really like it. 

You fall asleep at some point, because everything here is so peaceful, so quiet. And warm.

You sleep and you dream-

And in your dream the woman is faceless but she’s kneeling next to you. She’s whispering words, sweet words, kind words as she lifts a bucket and pour its content on your naked chest. 

It burns. 

It burns and you scream, something so atrocious you didn’t think it could come out of you. 

When you look down, liquid gold is slipping into your skin, in between your ribs and even though you’re sort of aware that this isn’t real, that you’re dreaming, dream-you is ready to fall asleep again. 

Then there’s a shake on your shoulder.

You wake with a gasp. 

You grab the knife you’d dropped and stab, somewhere painful judging by the sound the man - you assume - makes.

You try to get up but your knees just won’t cooperate, your whole body feels like it’s not yours and there’s- you don’t know. There’s something wrong. It’s warm. So warm. 

It’s when you manage to get on your knees that you see all of it- 

At first you don’t understand. 

Flames, everywhere. Right in front of you. Your little hobbit hole. 

Two corpses on your left.

One man on your right, alive, a knife - yours, you assume - lodged into his shoulder. He looks familiar but you can’t place him until he speaks and then-

Then you hear that southern accent and everything becomes real again. 

‘Darlin’, darlin’ listen to me. I need you to put pressure on that wound, okay ? You’re bleeding real bad here.’

Joel’s on you, and your hands are pushed on your ribs, on the right side. The touch makes you scream in pain so bad you don’t acknowledge your fingers are getting soaked in blood the second they make contact with the wound.

He still had your knife in his shoulder when he says : 

‘You focus on me, okay ? I’m gonna take care of you. Get you safe, okay ? But you gotta focus on me, right ? Say you understand.’

You mutter a 

Yes.

There’s a wet kiss on your left cheek as his whole body shakes-

He’s crying, you vaguely realize. 

‘It’s okay’, you whisper. 

Your body feels so much like it’s not your own anymore that it takes all you have to bring one of your bloodied fingers to curl into his hair. 

‘You’re my eclipse.’ You add. 

And he is. His shadow is bigger than the light from your burning house but you can’t bear to look at him. You can’t. 

So you do the only thing you can do.

You close your eyes.

———

Taglist

@pedritobalmando @amidjarin @ajeff855 @justpedropascal @sara-alonso @sarahjkl82-blog @amidjarin @sara-alonso@justpedropasc@mrsbentallmadge @farfromjustordinary @hnt-escape @kirsteng42 @ace-27749 @pocket-of-possibilities @missladym1981

[guessimwritingficsagain]

aren’t you gonna tuck me in? (j.m.)

masterlist

pairing: brat!reader x joel miller

prompt: goodnight kiss

a/n: a lil sumn for @janaispunk’s 1.5k kisses challenge!!! with a bit of a grumpy x sunshine dynamic smirk smirk... congrats babes 💕

“You crazy old motherfucker!” Your screams were tinged with laughter as Joel slung you over his shoulder, carrying you out of the Tipsy Bison. 

“Who’re you calling a crazy old motherfucker?” Joel grumbled, locking his arm tight around your thigh and kicking open the door as he pointedly ignored your friends’ whoops and whistles. 

You blew them a kiss before they disappeared behind the swinging door, at which point you gestured to the desolate road Joel had carried you out onto.

“Don’t see any other crazy old motherfuckers around.” 

The slice of light that fell upon the road from the open door reduced into nothingness as it swung shut, leaving you and Joel awash in blue moonlight. 

“If I’m crazy, it’s only ‘cause you drove me to the brink-” He paused in exasperation, landing a smack to your thigh that prompted a delicious, ticklish pain to shoot up your leg, and peals of laughter to come falling out your mouth,“will you stop wiggling up there?” 

“Sure thing.” The saccharine words dripped off your tongue before you halted your movements, muscles slackening as you draped your dead weight over his shoulder. 

“Jesus,” He huffed, suddenly exhausted as he had to literally shoulder the burden of your lax body. “Y’know what, just get down.” He said, quickly lowering you to the ground. 

“Joel Miller, you are quite the party pooper.” You chuckled, stumbling to your feet. 

He had stormed into the Tipsy Bison, locking eyes with yours as he pushed past a crush of people, causing your lips to twist into a smirk and your heartbeat to quicken in time with the beat of the warbling song blasting from the jukebox. He had barely given you time to shoot off a sly remark before he tossed you over your shoulder and whisked you away, an act much more interesting to you than the drunken conversation you were enjoying with your friends. 

“I did not poop any parties.” He said, watching you stifle a laugh as you walked beside him. “Maybe you don’t recall, but we’re on patrol together tomorrow, and I am not gonna play nurse to you when you’re hungover on a horse.” 

When Tommy had first put the both of you on patrol together, he had thought his brother was pulling some sick joke. He probably was. You had taken a particular interest in Joel whenever you saw him around Jackson, never failing to deliberately bump into him and engage in some teasing that would render Tommy helpless with laughter as Joel stood on, unamused. 

As much as Joel hated to admit it, and as much as he felt he really was being driven crazy on his patrols with you, he had almost come around to it.

The gleam of your smile in those dark forests as you told him corny jokes around a crackling fire. Like sunlight peeking out from behind a dark cloud.

He pushed the thought away. Maybe you really were driving him to the brink. 

“Please,” you rolled your eyes, gait leisurely besides his focused march down the road, “I’ve been hungover on that horse before and you never had to baby me. I just think you hate fun.” 

“I do not ‘hate fun’.” He said, his monotonous drawl sounding pretty fun-hating, “...But maybe you were having too much fun. ‘Specially with that boy of yours.” 

He regretted letting the words slip as soon as he said them, but he couldn’t deny the flare of heat that simmered under his skin when he entered the bar to see you laughing your head off with one of the guys that always seemed to trail after you around Jackson. 

“Oh. My. God.” You said, a thin sheen of dust rising around your boots as you screeched to a halt. 

“What?” Joel said, heart pounding as he whipped his head around.

“You’re jealous!” 

“I am not-“ Joel spluttered, heat blooming across his collar. 

“I’m walking home with a green-eyed monster!” You grabbed him by the jaw, and Joel prayed you couldn’t feel the heat from his cheeks searing the pads of your fingers. You turned his head, prompting him to look in your eyes. He had to fight off the urge to melt against your touch under the intensity of your stare, his jaw clenching beneath your fingers.

“Nope. Not green. Still shit brown.” You said, killing the moment with a grin. 

Joel shook you off, quickening his pace rather unsteadily as you continued to walk beside him. 

“You’re obsessed with me. First, you’re carrying me out of the Tipsy Bison, and next, you’ll be carrying me over the threshold after our wedding." You laughed.

That made even more heat blossom in his cheeks, and he tried to push that image out of his mind as he cleared his throat, biting his tongue as he let you carry on.

“Don’t be too jealous, Joel.” You purred, slipping your arm through his, nuzzling up to him in a way that made blood roar in his ears, “That guy’s not really my type. I like older guys.” You placed extra emphasis on the last phrase, making Joel’s head swim. 

After making him squirm under your gaze for a couple seconds, you burst into laughter.

“As mean as you look, you get flustered so easily. It’s adorable.” You said, punctuating the sentence with a coddling pout. 

“I’m glad you think it’s funny.” Joel grumbled, eyes trained straight ahead. 

“It’s hilarious.” 

Your footsteps trailed off as the both of you arrived in front of his house, staring at its squat silhouette in the dark. 

You turned to grin at him, Joel shooting a sideways glance at you, debating whether or not to take the bait. 

“What?” He mumbled, taking the bait. 

“Miller, you devil. You could’ve at least bought me a drink before bringing me back to your place.” 

He rolled his eyes, walking up the porch steps as you trailed behind him. 

“Your place is all the way on the other side of Jackson. So you can either sleep here tonight, or we’ll spend another hour walking around in the dark.” He said, opening the door. 

“Excuses, excuses.” You clucked your tongue, shaking your head with false disapproval, "As much as I'd like that long, romantic, moonlit walk, I am getting a little sleepy. I'll stay the night."

He held the door open for you, gesturing for you to head inside, a motion that you simply returned with an expectant stare.

“What?” He said, trying not to shift under your gaze.

“Aren’t you gonna carry me over the threshold?” 

“Get your ass in the damn house.” 

Your laughter rang, clear as a bell, through the sparse rooms of his house as you kicked off your boots, flouncing up the stairs as if you were right at home. 

He heard the sound of his shower turning on and the syrupy hum of your voice over the splash of water.

He reached for your shoes, overturned and muddied, before straightening them and placing them next to his. Staring at the both of them next to each other, your voice ringing in his ears as you sang a discordant melody in the shower, a flicker of strange emotion shot through him. 

The realisation he wouldn’t mind picking up after you, putting your shoes next to his. They would have a place next to each other, where they belonged, whenever you came home. 

The realisation that he wouldn’t mind if your voice filled up every room in the house, where once he thought he was content with silence. 

As he poured a glass of water for you and began carrying it up to his bedroom, he realised he wouldn’t mind bringing up a glass of water for you every night, and a cup of coffee every morning. 

“I’m going insane.” He muttered to himself, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. 

“You decent?” He called out, knocking on his bedroom door. 

“Hardly ever. Come in!” You sang. 

The scent of his soap hung in the air, clinging to your skin. You grinned at him, a soft glow haloing you from his bedside lamp as you towelled water out of your hair, one of his flannels hanging off your frame.  

“Is that mine?” He swallowed, the words flying out of his mouth so quickly they almost sounded accusatory. 

“Yeah.” You turned to look at his furrowed brow. “What? I can give it back to you if you want.” You said, beginning to unbutton it.

He averted his eyes, that familiar heat shooting under his skin again. “Jesus- just- you can keep it on.” 

You burst into laughter as Joel rubbed the back of his heated neck.

“You can sleep in my bed tonight. I’ll sleep on the couch.” He mumbled. 

“Thank you, Joel.” You whispered, your sincerely grateful, soft voice sending his walls tumbling down.

He cut his eyes at you one more time, a vision in his worn, old flannel, before making a move to leave. 

You cleared your throat, the noise exaggeratedly loud in the quiet room. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” 

He looked at you, his deep brown eyes wide in confusion, a furrow set in his brow. 

“Aren’t you gonna tuck me in?” 

His cheeks reddened as he stared at you, swallowing thickly. 

Hiding his trepidation behind an exasperated eye roll, he crossed the room. His hand, the skin rough in contrast to the soft blanket, pulled the fabric over your body, covering you. You smiled up at him, that evil glint in your eye that drove him crazy shining up at him. 

“Goodnight kiss?” You whispered with feigned innocence, glancing up at him through thick lashes. 

“Christ.” He whispered, heartbeat pounding in his ears, his heart somewhere between wanting, annoyance and restraint. 

“Please?” You whispered, lips turning up at the corners into the sweetest smile he’d ever seen. 

He felt his resolve crumble to pieces, and he couldn’t resist. He leaned in, heartbeat kicking in his chest as he pressed a chaste kiss to your cheek. 

He felt dizzy as he felt your hot breath against his ear, the soft skin of your cheek nuzzling into the scruff on his cheek. 

“Oh, c’mon,” you whispered, lips ghosting his cheek, “you can do better than that, can’t you?” 

He melted against your touch, barely able to formulate a smart retort before he felt your teeth digging into his cheek. 

“Jesus!” He recoiled, the bite radiating with a dull pain. 

“That’s for pooping my party, Miller.” Laughter bubbled from your lips as you watched him run his fingers over the grooves your teeth left in his skin. 

“You’re fucking crazy.” His wounded tone just made you even more amused, your smile growing on your face. 

“Don’t sulk.” You pouted, hand reaching up to skim a thumb across his cheek, and he couldn’t help leaning into your touch. “Let me kiss it better.” 

He let you press a kiss to the quickly fading bite mark, his head swimming as your tongue darted out, giving him a playful lick before you laughed against his skin, breath fanning out over his cheek. 

He turned his head, forehead pressed against yours as his nose brushed yours, his eyes screwed shut.

“You’re driving me crazy.” He mumbled. 

“I know.” 

He pressed his lips to yours, that strange, floaty feeling he had felt downstairs washing over him. You held him close, fingers entangling in the soft curls at the nape of his neck as you pulled him onto the bed. 

Lying on his back, he let you press your palms against his shoulders. He stared at the ceiling, feeling barely there, as if he could have just slipped away, your hands the only thing pinning him to earth. He felt it with every kiss you pressed to his lips, when your lips ghosted the line of his jaw, his neck. You were everywhere, and he wanted to keep it that way. 

“All better?” You said, voice barely audible over the roar of blood in his ears. 

“Yes.” 

“Y’know,” you whispered, tracing the line of his jaw with your lips, “I just realised something.“ You looked down at him, the smile that meant trouble returning to your face. “We have a really early morning tomorrow. Goodnight, Joel!”

Just like that, you had rolled off of him and turned off the light, plunging the both of you into darkness. He laid there, barely registering what had just happened, his body already missing your warmth. 

He turned to look at you, your face slackened with sleep as your breath evened out, completely calm in the embrace of sleep as his heart still pounded in his chest, giddy as he turned back to stare at the ceiling. 

He was definitely going crazy.

[guessimwritingficsagain]

Kintsugi (the golden roses will bloom prettily in the space between your ribs) Chapter 4

Summary : You'd met Joel a year ago. Then you learn he and Tess are gone from the Boston QZ. You go find Jackson on your own.

Warnings : Mature content, MDNI, rape attempt (not from Joel, though), pining, ANGST.

Tags : Just ask.

Chapter Three

———

You sit quiet when he’s done. Joel’s body is slumped on the couch in front of you, a man at the end of his rope. He’s looking at the wall, just waiting. Waiting to finally be left off the hook except-

He told you the when.

He told you the where.

He told you the how.

(How he murdered all of these people to keep Ellie from dying and that’s what she doesn’t know but suspects).

But he didn’t tell you the why.

So you ask, a third time. One last time.

‘Why did you bring her to some people who wanted to kill her ?’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘Yeah, okay, but why-‘

‘I’m not tellin’ you.’ He’s looking at you, now, eyes hard, jaw clenched, and you recognize the look- you’ve been the recipient of it many times. There’s no arguing with him now. Holding his gaze, you think about your bag, still made, waiting.

He musts see something on your face, then, because he jaw unclenches and his arm reaches for you but you’re already getting up. 

‘Well, I’m glad you’re safe, Joel. And I’m sorry about Tess.’ 

You walk to the front door and hear him follow. A hand grabs one of your arms

‘Hey, hey !’ Joel’s voice is frantic. ‘We’re back together, now, we can-‘

You wrench your arm out of his grasp, turn, and look him in the eye. You think about your bag, ready to go, an old thing that you’ve patched up so many times, faded forest green, still reliable because of the care you’ve shown it. You see his eyes, Joel’s eyes, warm brown, pleading to listen, to stay. You think of the most important thing you have, a secret, the only thing that is just yours.

———

‘Jesse ? Jesse where are you ?’ You screamed. 

You knew the area was safe, you’d scouted it every day for the past week. Same patrol, same route, every day, with Jesse. I-could-be-Indiana-Jones Jesse. 

Fuck Tommy and his stupid cold. 

You’d been off the trail for at least fifteen minutes when you saw it : a little cabin, right in the middle of the woods. Out there, it was just clean air, the sound of your horse’s hooves, your own breathing and birds chirping, up in trees so tall you could barely see the sky. 

You dismounted, gun at the ready. Crouched, advanced, slowly. 

The hand opening the door to the cabin was not as steady as you’d wished. 

The place was empty, and there was nothing of value, and you were ready to leave when you saw it-

A vase. 

Pretty. 

Broken. 

It cut your finger when you touched it. 

You heard your name being shouted, in the distance,, shut the door, got back on your horse and left. When Jesse asked where you’re been you just answered :

‘Lookin’ for you, idiot. Don’t stray, next time.’

You never mentioned the cabin, and no one ever asked, because no one ever asked you anything.

———

‘There’s no we, Joel.’

You think about the bag. 

‘There never was.’

You think about the cabin. 

You don’t think about his eyes, boring into yours. 

‘I was always alone. Always.’

As he takes a step forward, you realize that you don’t know if this feeling inside your chest means you don’t care anymore or if it means you care too much. You can’t be bothered to find out so you repeat- and add :

‘I was always alone, but I was the loneliest when I was with you.’

——— 

When Tommy opens the door and see you with your backpack he jokes :

‘Goin’ on a trip or somethin’ ?’

‘I’m leavin’, I need you to open the gates for me.’

Tommy just- stares. And gapes. He looks like a fucking idiot fish, you think, as Maria, always the smart one, joins in, little Lucas in her arms and asks : 

‘Can’t it wait until we talk about this ?’

Your no is as final as a nail in a coffin. Maria nods, gives Lucas to her husband and motions you to follow her, despite her husband’s pleas of wait, wait, is this about my brother ? We can work this out, wait, please-

The walk to the gate is peaceful, you greet the people who greet Maria as you walk by. 

‘If you need a horse, we can give you one.’ She offers.

You shrug.

‘I know where I’m goin’, I don’t need one. It’s gonna take longer but I don’t wanna take away from you guys.’

You’re almost at the gates when Maria asks :

‘Why are you leaving ?’

You turn to her, and she’s very pretty, like that, the curls of her hair catching the sun, her skin shining in the morning light. You could have been friends with her, you think.

Once upon a time.

‘Why did you take me off patrol ?’ You answer.

She doesn’t answer but even a woman as strong-headed as Maria has tells.You see it in the way she briefly clenches her fists, the way her jaw locks. Her eyes leave yours, in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of way, but it’s enough. 

The gates open. 

You’re feeling a lot.

You’re feeling petty. 

Wallflower.

Sunflower.

Rose.

Thorns.

You turn to her one last time. ‘You’re letting me go very easily.’ 

You adjust your bag on your shoulder. You add :

‘Y’know, for someone who claims to give a shit.’

———

Two hours and a half later, give or take, Joel Miller did exactly what Ellie was afraid of and rode off to find you. 

The only difference was 

Ellie asked him to do it.

———

Taglist

@pedritobalmando @amidjarin @ajeff855 @justpedropascal @sara-alonso @sarahjkl82-blog @amidjarin @sara-alonso@justpedropasc@mrsbentallmadge @farfromjustordinary @hnt-escape @kirsteng42 @ace-27749 @pocket-of-possibilities @missladym1981

[guessimwritingficsagain]

Give Me Tonight | Joel x f!reader

Summary: Joel has to leave. Rating: 18+ Word Count: 2k Warnings: a fuck ton of angst (sorry) A/N: This is a tiny one-shot for the lovely @janaispunk and their 1500 Kisses Challenge ... Thank you for giving me the inspiration and the ability to celebrate your milestone!! xoxo

Masterlist | Ko-Fi

Things between you and Joel were strictly physical. You fulfilled each other's needs and parted ways at the night's end, no questions asked—no kisses exchanged. That was an unspoken rule both of you had decided: you didn’t kiss. Kissing was romantic. Emotionally charged, if you wanted to be more specific. Nothing about your relationship with Joel was emotional; you were okay with that. For the most part, at least. 

There were times, however, when Joel had his body pressed against you that you so desperately yearned for his lips on yours. When his face twisted up in pleasure, and the beads of sweat rolled down the curve of his nose…that is when you wanted to kiss him the most. Amidst the carnal need driving the force of his endeavors, you noticed a hint of softness in his eyes. It was most prominent when the moon crested over the sky and you were saying your goodbyes. Joel lingered a few moments too long at the door when you turned to leave, almost hesitant to see you go. If he asked you to stay, the answer would always be yes.

But the question never came, and the answer was never given. 

One night in particular, much later than expected, Joel showed up at your small apartment. Given the circumstances within the Boston QZ, it was run down and rather barren, which is why you favored Joel’s place over yours. You could only count a handful of times Joel appeared at your place, and that night had been a shock. After a sharp knock on your door, you opened it wearily, scared it was to be a band of raiders coming after you. God knows it was bound to happen at some point. But luck was in your favor, and your time hadn’t run out. Joel stood before you, a plain denim button-up stretched across his sturdy frame and his hair disheveled. 

“What are you doing here?” You asked. There was something unreadable in his eyes, a swirling emotion swimming in the chocolate pools you hadn’t seen before. 

“Can I come in?” He asked.

He was halfway over the threshold before he asked the question, inviting himself in like any other time. You closed the door soundly, following him into the living room—if you could call it that. There was only one dingy sofa against the wall, along with a half-broken coffee table and a radio that sat near the window. Joel stood in the middle of the room, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. 

“Joel,” you cautioned. “What is it?”

“I’m leavin’ tomorrow.”

He didn’t even turn to look at you as he said the words—three words shaped into a weighted knife that slid right between your ribs. You couldn’t articulate why it hurt, but it did. It was the end of whatever this was between you, the end of warming each other's beds, and the constant need to fill a void left inside both of you. Joel wasn’t a man of many words, but you knew the grief he harbored from losing his daughter twenty years ago. You had lost people you loved over the years, as well, and you craved the connection only Joel could give you. 

“Leaving where?” You asked. 

“Marlene’s asked me to do somethin’.”

“Are you going to tell me what she’s asked you to do?”

Finally, he turned to you, an amalgamation of emotions swimming across his features. You’d never seen him so conflicted, as though the weight of the world balanced on his shoulders. Whatever Marlene was asking of him, the price must be high. Joel wasn’t one to give his help freely, yet here he was, tormented by a nameless job he could not reveal.

“I can’t,” he admitted. 

Static buzzed between your bodies, a teether vibrating in the wavelengths of denial that neither of you sought to unfurl. Too many nights had you spent under his body, mapping the constellation of scars that marred his skin. He could argue it all he wanted, but Joel had also memorized yours. The deep understanding of each other's bodies had become something rooted further than just physical. You couldn’t hide from that truth, nor could he.

“When will you be back?” You asked.

You saw the answer so plainly on his face: the clench of his jaw, the averting of his gaze. He didn’t know. Or worse, he knew and didn’t want to say. Saying it aloud meant it was real. 

“I only came to say goodbye.”

“Oh.”

What else could you say? Truthfully, you didn’t want to say anything at all. You wanted to stay in this moment and savor the time you had left. Even if it meant standing feet apart and staring at each other helplessly. He’d go, and you’d stay. You had no place in his life, only the purpose of warming his bed and giving him release. 

“You didn’t have to,” you offered. “I would’ve figured out you were gone. You don’t owe me anything.”

“That ain’t fair to you. Y’deserve a goodbye.”

You looked down at your hands, your nails digging into the skin of your palms. You weren’t used to Joel speaking so much, let alone in such a solemn way. 

“And I wanted to see you,” he added. “Just one more time.”

Under the weight of your eyelashes, you tracked the shadow of his body growing closer. He would swallow you whole if you let him—and you would. Whatever emotion this was that you refused to acknowledge, it had latched itself so tightly to Joel you feared it would never come undone. You’d live your days without seeing him again and learn to be okay with it. You survived this long with the loss of your loved ones; you could do it again. 

“You’ll be okay, right?” 

You lifted your head, though you were afraid of the truth staring right at you. He nodded, but you saw through it. He was lying. 

“I don’t—.” You swallowed your words. Try again. “I don’t know what to say.”

Joel stepped forward, his calloused and rough hands molding around your face. Never once had he touched you so carefully—never had you realized how desperately you ached for it. He tipped your face up, your eyes steady on his. 

“Then let’s not say anythin’,” he whispered.

You stared, wide-eyed, as Joel dipped his head towards yours. A slight tilt, an exhaled breath, and his lips were colliding with yours. You froze under his touch, letting the movement of his lips on yours guide you through your uncertainty. You didn’t trust yourself not to fall apart in his arms. If you cracked under the weight of your emotions, would he catch you?

Joel’s fingers flexed around your cheekbones, coaxing you silently to give way to your control. Keeping your distance would at least save you the massive heartbreak in the end, but he was gifting you this one moment. Why would you deny yourself that?

Parting your lips, you welcomed Joel’s tongue into your mouth. A slow, languid kiss that deepened every time your lips met. You melted into one another, consumed by a heavy grief that wrapped around your bodies. It was just you and Joel, locked in each other's embrace while the world tore itself apart around you. Your trembling fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt, fumbling over each as they popped open. Joel’s hand came to rest on yours, halting your exploration.

“Not tonight,” he muttered, breaking from your mouth.

Crestfallen, you pulled away. What were you without your body? That’s what Joel wanted, wasn’t it? It was all you had left to give, and even at that moment, he turned you down. Joel curled a finger under your chin, tipping your face up until you swam within the stormy chocolate waves inside his eyes. 

“I just want this,” Joel confessed. “Just give me this. It’s all I need tonight.”

Words failed. They evaded you, though you searched for them and came up empty. Joel took your silence as an invitation to continue his feverish search for solace upon your lips. A broken cry stifled your breathing as you let Joel slip his tongue over yours. Tender strokes overlapping with pitying cries, you resolved to nothing but a heap of devastation. 

Joel tangled a strong hand in the tendrils of your hair, guiding your head in whichever way he chose fit. Control fell to the wayside, and you allowed him to overtake the moment. Whatever he wanted, you’d give him. He could ask you to break apart your ribs and rip out your heart, and you’d ask him for his hand to hold it. 

This kiss was your undoing. 

“Joel,” you whispered.

“Hmm?”

“Promise me you’ll come back.”

He pried away from your swollen lips and rested his forehead against yours. You looked up through tear-drenched eyelashes to see the crease between his brow furrowing deeper. He carried so much pain in his expression. 

“I can’t make promises like that.”

Honey-sweet tones of his voice were replaced by an emotionless staccato—a monotone-sounding blade slicing through all hopes you harbored inside your chest. 

“Stay with me,” you pleaded. “Just for the night.”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?” You argued. 

“It’s better if we leave it like this.”

Joel broke from the cocoon of denial you both had built, the walls tearing down and crumbling around your feet. He strode toward the door, his fists clenched and his back hunched with tension. 

“Joel!” You called out. 

Your body moved on its own accord, crashing into his large frame the second he twisted around at the sound of your voice. He wrangled you into his arms, hauling your body up until your legs strained to wrap around his hips. His hands found their place against your body, one gripping the back of your neck, the other pressed to the base of your spine. 

Joel brushed his nose against yours, his eyes drifting shut as he inhaled your aroma. You tempted him into a soft kiss, a subtle coax of your lips hovering over his. 

“Kiss me goodnight, Joel,” you whispered, your words spoken over the curve of his mouth. “Kiss me goodnight and give me hope there will be more. I can’t accept that this is it.”

“I can’t give you hope,” he lamented, his mouth moving against your skin.

“Then give me tonight.”

Joel crushed his lips against yours, a ferocity awakening inside him that hadn’t been there all night. You shaped yourself into his form, arching into every hard ridge of his body; no space between you was left unfilled. Joel’s fingers flexed around the curve of your neck, his hand sliding over its shape until his palm rested against your throat. The familiarity of his possessiveness sprung into place, a simple reminder of what you meant to him.

Whatever that may be. 

The room spun around you as Joel walked you both toward your bed. He laid you out gently, piecing apart your clothes until you were bare beneath him. His clothes followed, and you returned to his heavy embrace once again. 

He took you slowly, every thrust and moan shared between you becoming the only noise inside your small apartment. Terminal moments faded away into the late hours until you both lay side by side in morbid silence. You expected Joel to leave when he finished, yet his body stayed glued to the bed. 

Rolling onto your side, you traced a path down his arm, allowing your brain to catalog every inch of his skin and the marks he bore. Years of pain ingrained themselves into his body, and he would collect so many more as time passed. Time that did not include you. 

Joel eventually turned his head in your direction, his tired eyes barely holding their weight. You hummed softly, hoping to guide him to sleep. Reaching for his hand, you lifted it to your mouth and kissed each of his fingers, tears rolling down your cheeks as you made your way over each knuckle.

“Goodnight, Joel,” you whispered.

You stirred awake, turning over to see the dent in the mattress beside you.

He was gone. 

Joel wasn’t coming back.