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pencil-n-pen · 6 months ago

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TONGUES AND TEETH

₊˚ʚ 🌲₊˚✧ . °🍂 ೃ࿔*

jackson! joel miller x fem! loner! reader

masterlist | ko-fi

summary: Joel refuses to acknowledge the part of him that aches to be a protector. That is, until you come crashing into his life.

cw: canon-typical violence, reader had a rough go of things before Joel, nightmares, medical inaccuracies (oh the horror!) uhhh reader has a broken nose and it gets set, unspecified age gap, daddy issues but we all saw that coming and it’s vague, as an ellie lover and defender until the day i die, it pains me to say no ellie-au IM SORRY I COULDN’T MAKE IT WORK bella ramsey as ellie they could never make me hate you

tags/tropes: hurt/comfort as always, age gap, nightmare comfort, honestly just two messed up people loving each other

a/n: proof that i will find a way to write an eldest daughter fic for any fandom/universe

not officially writing for him !! just had this idea

another long(ish) fic. if you're here from my masterlist, now would be a good time to go pee, get some water, and maybe a snack or two :) same things for those of you scrolling. i see u

title taken from tongues and teeth by the crane wives (GO LISTEN TO THE CRANE WIVES !!)

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚🦴⋆｡°✩

Jackson living isn’t all Joel thought it would be cracked up to be.

Don’t get him wrong- objectively, it’s great. Running water, electricity, a clinic- three hallmarks Joel was sure he’d never see again. Not since the outbreak.

So by all means, he should be content. He goes out for hunting parties and patrols. Has his own house. Has a permanent place to keep his boots and his knives and guns and a bookshelf to make his way through. He has a bed. He has his brother.

But he’s restless.

Joel spent a long time walking. Searching. Surviving. You don’t quite slip back into easy civilian life just like that, no matter how perfect the conditions are.

At first, he solves this problem but going on more hunting parties, more patrols. He stays up late doing guard rotations and helps out his brother with projects when he can.

It doesn’t solve the itch, though. That sharp little thrumming, just beneath his skin: the need to protect. To have a job. To have something or someone to look after.

He denies this part of himself as much as he can, because he’s not that man anymore. Not after Sarah. He’s not. You don’t stay somebody dying to help and protect when you kill people. Because they’re still people, under the fungus. Under the parasite. Their brain’s still work. They still feel pain and anguish and fear.

He’s heard them cry before. Hunched over a corpse, body acting with somebody else at the reins, faces covered in blood and gore crying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

So Joel isn’t a protective guy anymore. Had to take out those parts. Replace them with solitary and meanness and a distinct lack of sympathy.

It’s turned him into an angry thing. Like a gaurd dog; snarling, circling an empty pedestal it refuses to acknowledge is there.

He knows Tommy see’s it. Try’s to involve him in things whenever he can, invites him over to dinner. Hangs out at his house. Makes sure Joel isn’t alone-alone.

So Joel really, really should’ve seen it coming when he and the scouting party find you in the woods.

You’re just as surprised to see them as they are to see you. They thought they were tracking a deer— although some of the tracks and patterns of disturbance in the underbrush didn’t add up.

They’d entered a clearing, guns poised, just to see you, handgun leveled at them, perched in a tree. Way higher up than Joel would’ve dared.

“Stay the fuck away from me.” You’d hissed, voice carrying on the wind and rattling just like the leaves on the tree you’re in. How you managed to scale a tree that high in a busted pair of Doc Martens and lugging a backpack clearly full of supplies is beyond him.

But he doesn’t need medical credentials to know you’ve clearly had a rough go of things.

You’re young. Not young-young, but young. Dressed in clothes clearly pilfered, you’re wearing a thick brown jacket that probably would’ve belonged to a construction worker or something like that. It’s a few sizes too big, and the cuffs are frayed and there’s a hastily sewn patch on the elbow he can see. Your face and hair is littered with tree and other plant debris- though if this is a new addition from your tree climbing escapade, he’s not sure. Your nose has dried blood crusted under it, your lip is split, and there’s a cut above your eyebrow. Your knuckles and hands are equally torn and split, old and new scars and scrapes littering your skin.

In short: you look rough. And feral, in that way that cats that live outside a little too long and a little too far away from people end up looking.

“I said stay back!”

He remembers, abruptly, that you’re probably scared out of your mind and the rest of the scouting team is still pointing their weapons at you.

He makes the motion for them to lower their weapons, and he lowers his own, raising both hands in the universal “we come in peace” gesture.

You don’t lower yours, but your grip on it is looser.

“We’re from the Jackson settlement,” He shouts, hoping you don’t hear the gruff anger in his voice that Tommy always complains he needs to work on. “There’s running water and electricity.”

“I’ve heard that one before,” Your hands have begun to shake on the gun, ever so slightly. “So what’s your guys prerogative, huh? Cannablism? Religion? You planning on burning me at the stake? Or did you have something else in mind? I am a woman.”

Joel takes a step forward but stops when a bullet hits the ground right where his foot was about to be.

“If you take one more step you’re gonna find out exactly why I’ve survived alone this long.”

“Look,” He says, dropping his hands to his hips. “You can shoot us, and one of us will shoot you, and it’ll all be fine and dandy—“

There’s a chorus of whispers behind him.

“Or you can stay in that tree and not shoot us, and we won’t shoot you, and that’ll also be fine and dandy.”

He turns, jamming a finger in the direction of the settlement. “Jackson’s that way. Go or don’t go. I don’t really give a shit, but you look like you could use a bandaid.”

He jerks his head, and the rest of the party follows his lead, leaving the clearing —and you— behind.

—

A few hours after he returns, somewhere in the late evening when twilight is starting to set in and the crickets are chirping, Tommy knocks on his door.

“There’s a girl here for you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Someone asked for me?”

“Well, not so much as for you. Her words exactly were “that gruff, mean looking asshole,” but I got the picture.”

He sighs, deep in his bones. A small part of him —the part that’s still connected to that dog, still circling— had hoped you would show up. However, it’s hopelessly overshadowed by the sheer exasperation of it all.

He’s silent save for non-committal grunts and hmm’s the way over to the front gates where the evening rotation’s guards have you standing between them.

You’re slightly worse for wear since the last time he saw you in that tree. Your jacket as a new rip in it, and your nose is sluggishly bleeding again. Up close, he notices it’s a bit crooked.

Gonna hurt like a bitch to set, He thinks absentmindedly.

He slows as he approaches you, hands in his pockets and shoulders back.

“See?” He huffs, gesturing with one hand behind him. “Not cannibals. Or whatever else you’re worried about.”

Your face is hard set as you look around. “That remains to be seen.”

“Hello!”

Joel looks back to see a pregnant Maria waddling over, a concerned Tommy at her side.

“I told you I’d handle it—“

“And I told you I’m fine. Now,” She props her hands on her hips. “Who’s this young lady now?”

You (hesitantly) stick out a hand to shake and introduce yourself.

She shakes your hand with a smile. Leave it to Maria to be able to read people with such ease. “I’m Maria Miller. I’m one of the settlement councilors. The golden retriever fussing next to me is my husband, Tommy, and the angry looking bear next to him is his brother, Joel. I understand a scouting party found you?”

You nod, eyes flicking this way and that, cataloguing the area.

“I’ve been on my own for… awhile. I don’t have any supplies to offer, but I’m smart and strong. I’m willing to work in exchange for a place to stay.”

Maria hums, assessing. “I’m sure we can work something out. You’ll need to come with me to speak to the rest of the council, for our safety and yours.”

You tighten your grip on your backpack but follow Maria and Tommy, only sparing one backward glance at Joel.

He spends the rest of the evening trying to forget the look in your eyes.

—

He fails spectacularly.

This doesn’t mean, however, that he’s anywhere near pleased when his nightly reading-as-a-poor-attempt-at-normalcy routine is interrupted by a knock on the door. One that sounds suspiciously like Tommy’s type of knock.

Only he hears two voices as he walks up to the door, and the other one isn’t Maria.

Joel opens the door with a glare already fixed on his face.

“There have to be other places.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “It’s only temporary. The council agreed to let her stay so long as she’s watched by a trusted Jackson member, and well. You vouched for her.”

“And when exactly did I do that?”

“In the woods, when you met. You told her where you were from and how to get there. Honestly, Joel, you’re getting off light here. Some of the council members were not happy you told a random loner —no offense— where to find us. Kind of defeats the whole point.”

You huff a quiet “None taken.”

He can’t help the way his body tenses. “So this is a punishment?”

“Yes and no.”

“I don’t—“

“Look,” you interject, clearly fed up with the conversation. “It’s not the end of the world. I’m not going to murder you in your sleep and I don’t leave dirty clothes lying around. It’s only for three weeks. Get over it.”

Another sigh threatens to release itself, but he stamps it down, figuring he’s hit his sigh quota for the day.

“Fine. But take her down to medical first. I don’t want her blood all over my house.”

Tommy shrugs. “No-can-do. Maria needs me back at the house. You know where medical is. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

And with that, Tommy leaves, abandoning Joel and you at the doorstep.

Joel scrubs a hand down his face. “Wait there. I’ll grab a jacket.”

The walk to the clinic is awkward and silent, and just when Joel thinks it can’t get any worse, one of the staff tells him that since he’s your assigned supervisor/watcher/whatever, he has to accompany you. To everything.

To your credit, you don’t look very happy about the arrangement either.

Still, you bear through all the exams, a grimace fixed firmly on your face. Apparently (and not surprisingly) you’re malnourished, dehydrated, running a small fever, deficient in several vitamins, have two cracked ribs (most likely, no x-ray machine) and some run of the mill scraps and bruises.

You’re cagey enough on the details of the cracked ribs and nose that the doctor eventually moves on to the fixing you stage of things.

It takes awhile. There are a lot of injuries to cover.

When it comes to resetting your nose, the second the woman pulls out a needle and syringe, you go rigid.

“No.”

The doctor blinks. “This is just lidocaine, it’ll numb the area so—“

“No.”

“You wanna feel all that?” Joel asks, the first time he’s spoken during your entire exam, “It ain’t gonna feel great. Crooked nose like that won’t set with one go.”

“No needles. No numbing.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “What, you got a pain thing or something?”

Your hands go white-knuckled on the exam table. “Fuck. Off.”

You’re shaking, he notes.

Ah, He says to himself. Not a pain thing.

Fear.

The doctor shrugs. “Not like I won’t take the chance to save what we have. You’ll want something to bite down on. Or squeeze.”

You wrap your fingers around your own hand, a pathetic attempt at self-soothing.

He decides annoyance is the emotion he feels at your small movement. Nothing else.

He rolls his eyes as he grabs your hand, maneuvering it in place of your own.

“Good luck breaking it.”

You don’t respond. He wasn’t really expecting you to.

He knows without looking the exact moment the doctor starts resetting things because your grip on his hand quickly turns from barely there to crushing. You make no sound.

The doctor, to her credit, works fairly quickly, though by the time she’s finished a single tear has carved a path through the blood and grime on your face.

He thinks about how someone learns to cry without sound.

The doctor moves on quickly, cleaning and bandaging the wounds that need it and telling you detailed instructions for how to take care of your nose and cracked ribs and what things you should be eating to avoid staying vitamin deficient. It’s all a lot of words Joel is glad he doesn’t have to memorize.

They stick in his head anyway.

You don’t let go of his hand. You’re no longer squeezing the life out of it, but you’re not holding its gently either. When you do finally let go (after the doctor’s left and you can leave) you practically tear your hand away, as if burned. Like you’d left your hand on a stove as it was heating up only you just now noticed it was hot.

He doesn't say anything about it. He figures you're liable to literally bite his head off, or some other violent action close to that.

Besides. This is all awkward enough.

The walk back to the house is just as silent and strained as the walk to the clinic. Only now your breath is just a little more labored. Steps a little shakier. Your hand's twitch at your sides like they're reaching for something, and you don't quite manage to hide the way you look around every now and then, a restless, nervous action.

He knows what you're doing. He was you, back when he first got to Jackson. Granted, he wasn't as twitchy as you are. He kept his distance, stayed mean and scary (as possible.)

He holds the door open for you when you arrive back to the house, because his mom raised him to be a gentleman no matter the circumstances.

You toss him a look of confusion and annoyance but step into the house, looking around the modest living room with something almost like wonder.

He toes off his shoes, sets them by the door, and takes off his jacket, hanging it on the hook. "Shower before you touch anything. You're filthy. And don't think I'm giving up my bed."

"I wouldn't have taken it even if you had," You sneer. "Where's the--"

"Down the hall on the left. You got clean clothes?"

"...I have less dirty ones."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Wait here."

He grumbles all the way upstairs, all the way through picking out clothes that'll fit you well enough until you either wash what you have or find something else.

He silently glowers as he comes down the stairs, thrusting the clothes out to you and turning on his heel when you take them.

"I'm going to bed. Don't wake me up."

When he lies in bed that night, he can't even pretend he's not thinking about you. In his defense, it's less about you and more about the new, strange, stand-offish person he's just supposed to live with for the foreseeable future. All because he had the bad luck of feeling bad for the battered, flighty, loner girl sitting in a tree.

He stares at his ceiling, internal clock (yes, he's old, he has an internal clock. Sue him) letting him know it is decidedly an hour he should be asleep. He refuses to go downstairs, on principle alone. He could get up and go find one of his books, but he knows that if you're anything like him, coming off of however long you spent alone, you're a light sleeper. You're probably awake now, listening to him toss and turn and being unnerved by the unusual silence of Jackson and the particular brand of night-noise it produces. That's what the first two weeks of Joel's life in Jackson consisted of, before he moved in here.

Maria had decided that Joel would stay with the two of them until he integrated in Jackson society. Perks of your brother marrying a council member, he guesses.

So he's not going downstairs. Not going to walk down there just to see a person, an entire person in his house looking like, looking like--

Fuck.

He throws his blankets off and angrily (but not loudly) marches downstairs to get himself a glass of water and the book he knows he left on the table by the couch when he was so rudely interrupted by you. This is his house, dammit, he refuses to be put out by a random girl.

Woman, his brain corrects.

The living room is completely dark when he makes his way down the stairs and he truly, honestly wishes he was surprised when there's a whoosh of air to his right and a knife embeds itself in the wall about a half inch away from the side of his face.

The living room is still and silent.

"I thought they took your weapons when you got here."

"I lied about what I had."

He scrubs a hand down his face, yanks the knife out of the wall, and tosses it back. If you can throw it, you can dodge it.

He doesn't hear any screams, yelps, or grunts of pain, so he assumes you caught it fine. Or at least dodged it.

He makes his way over to the kitchen, grabs the teapot, and takes down two mugs.

"You know they can kick you out for harboring weapons during your probationary stay."

He hears a rustle of blankets behind him. The sound of you stashing your knife, no doubt.

"Are you going to tell them?"

He snorts, filling up the teapot. "No. There's been a knife in my boot since the day I got here."

He hears more rustling, and decides against turning around. He's not quite sure what you've been doing down here all night since it's clear that you weren't sleeping.

He doesn't hear any footsteps, but when does turn around to set the mugs on the table, you're sitting at it, knees pulled up and head resting atop them, your cheek smushed. Now that his eye's have adjusted to the darkness of the living room, he can almost make out your features. They're easier to discern, now that you're not covered in blood and grime. You look... softer. Haloed in the glow of moonlight shining through the gaps in the curtains.

Your face isn't the only thing glowing. The tell-tale glint of a knife --a different, smaller knife than the one you'd thrown at him-- shines from it's spot, resting oh-so innocently on the table.

Joel just huffs.

"No weapons on the table."

He blinks, and it's gone.

He doesn't ask why you're still awake or what you've been doing instead of sleeping. You don't ask why he's down in the kitchen at all.

"What are you making?"

"Tea."

He gently places a teabag in each mug. He isn't really sure why he's doing this for you. You've done nothing but hiss and spit since he's met you.

But tonight, right now, blanketed in the not-quite calm of the night and the apparent unease you both drown in--

It's tolerable. You're tolerable.

So he takes the kettle off the stove and pours the water and places the steaming mug on the table in front of you.

To which you ignore, and snatch the mug out of his hands instead.

"Did you think I put that one," He points to the mug in front of you, "There for giggles?"

You cradle the mug in your hands, seemingly entranced with the warmth and steam. "You might've poisoned mine."

"Maybe I poisoned both."

You take a sip, then grimace when the too-hot liquid hits your tongue.

"You don't look like the kind of person to have built an immunity to poison."

"You also watched me make both beverages."

"So? It's dark. You could've slipped something in. Or maybe it was already in the teabags."

"What use would I even have for you dead?"

You shrug. "I don't know. You tell me."

“You’re a deeply mistrusting person.”

“And you’re not?”

Touché.

Joel remains in the kitchen, leaned against a cabinet sipping your tea, while you stay hunched at the table, sipping yours.

If he removes the irritability and the uncomfortable-ness of everything that involves you living with him, the moment is almost… companionable. Pleasant, even.

It… soothes that nervous part of him. Not the sad nervous. The angry nervous. That built up crack of anger.

There’s another person in his home that is neither attempting to perceive his problems nor actively attempting to kill him. Your belief that he might poison you aside, you still accepted the tea.

He firmly believes that Tommy isn’t right about the loneliness thing though. His brother being right is just a world Joel can’t live in.

Besides. It’s too early to tell anything anyway.

—

Unfortunately, the following few days do not go… terribly.

That isn’t to say they go well, though. Since he’s looking after you (read: making sure you’re not an axe-murderer or something) he’s not allowed to go out on scouting or hunting trips. Or solo guard rotations he’s come to covet.

It’s boring, and having you around is strange.

It’s interesting, when he gets bored enough, because if he focuses hard enough he can guess what events happened to you based on your reactions to certain things. He’s pretty sure you were drugged at some point based on your reaction to the doctor with the lidocaine. You’re general skittish and flighty nature can be easily attributed to the conditions in which everyone in the world is living in, but your particular brand of distrust and aggression says that humans, not the infected, have been the ones to hurt you the most. Your general unease in open areas or areas with not easily accessible exits leads him to believe that there have been several extremely close calls in several points of your survival.

He knows you’ve been shot before, but that one was an accident. He’d come downstairs, rubbing bleary sleep from his eyes and accidentally stumbled across you changing. Well, finishing changing. He’d quickly closed his eyes and turned around, and thankfully you hadn’t startled, but he had caught a glimpse of the stretch of skin not covered by the long sleeve undershirt you favored. On the left side, just above your hip and a few inches towards your bellybutton, there’s a jagged, raised, circular scar. Still pink.

He knows you have a very slight, very subtle limp. He’s not sure what causes it, but he knows you have one. It tends to act up when you do a lot of strenuous exercise for an extended period of time. Some days you wake up and it’s worse. On those days, you’re a little more mean, and a little more skittish.

He’s yet to see you actually, legitimately sleep.

He’s starting to think you haven’t, since arriving.

Which is insane, because it’s been four days.

The bags under your eyes are horrific, even to him. You’ve gotten clumsier and clumsier, your attention span and memory are terrible, and he thinks you might’ve started hallucinating, if the times he’s seen you staring off into space with concerned, fearful, or twisted expressions on your face and mumbled rambles he can’t make out are anything to go by.

On day five, when Joel comes downstairs in the morning and the knife you throw at him bounces harmlessly off the wall and clatters to the ground and you just stare at it, eyes foggy and unseeing, he decides to talk to Maria.

“I don’t really care,” He says, because he has a reputation to uphold dammit, “But I’m not sure how much longer she’s gonna last, and what she’s gonna do when she wakes up.”

“Mmm,” Maria hums, hands clasped on the table and staring at Joel with her best ‘I don’t believe you don’t care’ look. She’s really perfected it, “Well the truth is, she can’t go forever. It’s fear keeping her up now. Happens a lot with the loners that come in. Especially the women. She’s afraid that no one’s there to watch her back and terrified she won’t be strong enough to fend off any attackers.”

Maria looks at her hands. “The fear is exacerbated by the fact that the council took most of her weapons.”

“You knew—“

“She was lying? Of course I did. So did several of the other members, I’m sure. But she’s not a threat. She’s scared.”

He thumbs the thin scar on his cheek from the knife came just a little too close to hitting the mark when he sneezed in the kitchen. “She’s got a funny way of being scared.”

“Fight or flight, Joel. She knows flight isn’t an option.”

“Why are you lobbying so hard in her defense?”

“I’m not. I’m explaining her actions. Also,” She gives a knowing smile, “You’ve started to care. Otherwise you wouldn’t be coming to me about this.”

“Yeah, yeah,” He grouses. “So what am I supposed to do? Just wait for her to pass out?”

“You could. It’ll happen eventually. She very clearly doesn’t have that many hours left in her. That’s probably freaking her out more. Or, you could subtly show her that she can sleep around you. She needs to know that she’s safe from whatever it is she’s running from.”

Joel keeps his eyes locked on the kitchen table, tracing the grain in the wood with an absent-minded finger.

“I know you pushed for her to stay with me.”

“The council wanted a punishment that fit the crime.”

“Look, I appreciate the thought—“

Maria’s expression flattens. “Joel. Do not sit at my table and lie about how you don’t need anyone and you’re fine on your own. You need this.“

“I don’t need this,” He scoffs, “She’s practically half-feral. No one needs that.”

Maria stands, shrugging. “Then I guess you’ll have to file for a name change, No-One Miller. Until then, make sure she’s not alone when she wakes up.”

—

He did leave you alone for the duration of his conversation with Maria, because fuck if he was bringing you to that, and he figured you both could use some time away from each other. He knows he can.

He’s not very surprised to hear the familar whoosh of a small, sharp object sailing through the air that tends to accompany his arrival into rooms you’re occupying (he’s pretty sure it stopped being a fear response after the first two times and now you’re just messing with him) but he is suprised to see that this time, the knife doesn’t even make it head height. Or to the wall.

It clatters uselessly to the ground near his feet. He stares at the metal between his boots and then up at you—

“Why are you sitting on the kitchen counter?”

“I don’t remember.”

He leaves the knife on the ground and makes his way over to you, watching with mock disinterest at the several-seconds-delayed flinch you make when he stands in front of you.

You look up at him, eyes glassy and unfocused and you just look so, so tired.

There’s a curl of protectiveness in his chest that keeps trying to spread, keeps trying to grow. Here, in the kitchen, your legs dangling over the edge of the counter, bathed in the glow of the mid-day sun, it takes root. Right in the center.

He looks down at your feet. “What happened to your other shoe?”

You scrunch up your face. “I don’t… I was getting in bed, I think. But it wasn’t my bed. I forgot that things aren’t—“

That things aren’t the same anymore.

He crouches down, untying the laces of your boot and shucking it aside somewhere.

“Alright, come on.”

You slide off the counter, clumsy and uncoordinated. He takes your hand in his, leads you up to the bedroom.

The stairs are difficult for your tired, barely working brain. He has to stop multiple times to physically lift your legs or stop you from falling over and cracking your head open.

You finally make it up there, though, and he realizes that you probably won’t want to sleep in your everyday clothes.

“One last step.”

He can’t help but notice how intimate the moment is. Not intimate-intimate, but. He instructs you softly to lift your arms so he can tug your shirt over your head and replaces it with a soft shirt of his own.

Staring into your eyes is too charged and allowing his eyes to wander is bad for obvious reasons, so he keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the junction of where your neck meets your shoulder.

He keeps his eyes there as he helps you out of your pants and into a pair of flannel pajama pants. The same ones he’d given you the first night you came. You’ve never slept and he’s never seen you go to any of the places he knows have extra clothes, so he’s almost positive you don’t have any pajamas at all.

His fingers work quickly to tie the drawstring on the pants, and even then, they hang low on your hips.

He doesn’t let his eyes linger.

“Come on,” He says taking your arm and tugging you toward the bed. “Time for sleep.”

“It’s the middle of the day,” You mumble, standing in place. “And I can’t, what if they—“

“I’ll be here the whole time. I’ll keep watch.”

You mull his words over in your head for a few moments before stumbling the final few steps into the bed. You practically collapse into it, shuffling for a just few seconds before your breath evens out.

You’re asleep.

He reaches over, adjusting the blankets a bit, before grabbing the book he’d left on the bedside table and settling down in the chair by the bed.

The hours tick by quietly, accompanied only by the quiet rustling of pages turning and your soft snores.

For the first time in awhile, he doesn’t feel restless.

—

You sleep for a full eighteen hours straight before you stir.

He’s a good portion of the way through his book before he see’s your body tense in the corner of his eye. Your breathes are still even and deep, so if he couldn’t see you, he probably wouldn’t notice you’re awake.

“You’ve been asleep for eighteen hours,” He says, voice rough and scratchy with disuse, “You got in bed voluntarily.”

“You changed my clothes.”

“You didn’t seem all that capable of doing so yourself and I didn’t think you wanted to sleep in jeans. You mind?”

“…No.”

“Good. Go back to sleep.”

“I can’t just—“

“You didn’t sleep for five days. If we’re going by the eight hours a night average needed or whatever, that’s forty hours. You’ve still got twenty-two left to catch up on.”

You roll over to face him with a grumble. “I don’t like how good you are at mental math.”

“Get better, then.”

You shimmy out from under the blankets, tossing him an “I have to pee,” as you make your way out of the room.

It’s early morning now, weak sunlight behind to strain its way through the curtains. He figures it’s a good enough time to make some food (and coffee) if you’re going to be going to back sleep, so he meanders down to the kitchen and throws together a small breakfast.

“Did you make us breakfast?”

He never really gets used to how quietly you move through rooms.

“Jesus— yes. Here.”

He hands you a bowl with oatmeal and a small plate with a slice of toast— toasted in a pan, because electricity aside, he doesn’t own a toaster. Why waste time scavenging for an appliance when something else works just as fine?

He sets a jar of jam on the counter that he’d picked up awhile ago in exchange for fixing the hinge on somebody’s door.

“You got any allergies?”

“None that matter.”

He nods to the table. “Go eat. Then get back in bed.”

“You’re so bossy.”

“And you’re annoying. Eat.”

You eat quickly and quietly, then wordlessly follow him back upstairs, climbing back into bed.

“Joel?” You whisper.

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

He tucks the blanket up over your shoulder. “Go to sleep.”

You obey easily.

—

Things between the two of you… soften after that. He slowly sees more pieces of your personality than the wild thing he met that day in the woods.

He learns that you love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but miss peanut butter and nutella sandwiches more than anything. He learns that on good days, you like drinking coffee straight black, but on bad days, you like it with milk and sugar.

He learns that your limp is the result of one careless mistake you’d made when you first surviving on your own.

“I thought the house was abandoned. It wasn’t,” You’d rolled up your pant leg to show horrific, deep, jagged scars circling your ankle, “Guy had set out a bear trap to slow down some of the clickers in the area. It was dark. Didn’t notice it until too late.”

He learns that you, despite your snide remarks and sarcastic comments, like having him around. He feels a bit like earning the trust of a stray cat.

You begin to grow more comfortable with life in Jackson, though not by much. He’s sure you weren’t a people person before the outbreak, much less so now that he knows some of the horrors you’ve been through before you got here.

He’s even started getting used to how quietly you move.

It’s easy to fall into a rhythm, from there.

He wakes up, goes downstairs. Sometime’s there’s a knife thrown at him, sometimes there isn’t. You’re usually sprawled on the couch, drool coming out of your mouth and grumbling incoherently about “old men and their stupid early mornings.”

It’s almost endearing.

Since Joel spends a lot of time helping Maria and Tommy get ready for their baby, you, in turn, get to know the both of them by being stuck with Joel. Maria set you on edge at first, Tommy slightly less so, but through continuous interactions your prickly nature smoothed.

One night, you were all seated on their couch after enjoying a dinner together —not the first and definitely not the last— having quiet conversation. You’re totally passed out on Joel’s shoulder, dead-asleep and quite content to use him as a human teddy bear.

Maria smiles over her mug of tea. “She’s grown on you.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. She’s not all bad.”

“High praise coming from Joel Miller.”

You have grown on him. And in turn, your relationship has started to grow into… something else. Sometimes his eyes linger just a little too long, and the looks you share feel just a little too charged.

Tommy sends him a look full of words only true siblings can understand.

“No, Tommy.”

“Oh come on Joel! You both clearly—“

“We are not having this conversation right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because—“

You fling an arm out wildly, smacking him in the side of his face and grasping around until your pointer finger finally finds his lips.

“Shhhh. M’ sleeping.”

He wraps his hand around your wrist, prying your fingers off his face. “You know that’s what bed’s are for. Or couches. Or any number of surfaces I’ve found you sleeping on.”

“You’re a surface I’m sleeping on.”

“I shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not a bed. Come on, up and at em’.”

You whine at the loss of warmth when he stands, scowling as you haul yourself to your feet. As he’s putting on his boots by the door, he hears you thanking Maria and Tommy for their hospitality, and he can’t help the little smile that twitches on his face. Seems like his parents weren’t the only ones who made sure he had manners.

You meet him at the door, hopping in place to put your boots on and getting frustrated when they don’t slide on immediately.

“You know, it would help if you untied the laces—“

“Fuck off.”

He blinks. That seems a little more mean than you usually say nowadays.

So Joel takes a step back. Watch’s your legs and your shoes and your hands—

There.

Your hands shake as you fumble with the laces, unable to get a good grip on the thin cords to untie and re-tie your shoes.

He shoos your hands away from the singular boot you haven’t managed to get on.

“Sit.”

He’s thankful that he built the shoe bench for Maria a few weeks after he got to Jackson. It serves Maria well for not having to stand while she attempts to put her shoes on while heavily pregnant, a feat she bemoaned a few times, and now it’s serving you.

You plop down on the bench with a huff, crossing your arms as Joel crouches, undoing the laces of your boot and sliding it on.

“I can do it.”

“I know you can.”

“Why’re you doing it?”

“Because.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He secures the tie on one boot and moves on to the next. “It is tonight.”

Once both shoes are on, you both bid Tommy and Maria good night, and make your way home.

If your hand find’s Joel’s, then that’s not anyone’s business.

—

He notices things after that.

You’ve started snapping at him more often. You’re not sleeping as much. You’ve started flat out refusing to go with him on daily chores as tasks, which either leads to an argument or the both of you staying at home all day.

It all comes to a head when you wake up screaming.

He thunders down the stairs, ducking on instinct for a knife that doesn’t come. You’re not on the couch. He whips his head around, the screaming stopped he can’t find you—

A thud. A panicked gasp.

He moves on slow, apprehensive feet towards the kitchen, crouching down to see you huddled under the table, knife clenched in your hand and pointed toward him.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on?”

Your eyes are wide and shining with tears.

“You died.”

“I didn’t. I’m right here.”

You shake your head, breaths coming short and shallow.

He settles on the floor, crossing his legs. “Here, take my hand. Come on.”

He extends his hand into the space between you two. Achingly slowly, you put down the knife, and take his hand in yours.

“See? I’m still here.”

Eventually, your breathing slows, and the fear begins to leave your eyes. You drop his hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

“No, no it’s just—“ You break off with a strangled noise.

He waits. Lets a few minutes tick by.

“Does this have anything to do with the fact you’ve been avoidin’ me?”

You look down. “You noticed?”

“I do have eyes, sweetheart.”

You grab the knife again, twisting it this way and that in your hands.

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of you.”

He tilts his head. “How come?”

You’re silent for a little while again.

“I feel… okay with you.”

“And that’s scary?”

“Yes,” You breathe, “You could leave, or die, and it scares me that I’m already attached to you. That having nightmare’s of you dying affects me so much. That they happen at all.”

He hums. “Seem’s were at an impasse.”

He taps a finger on his knee.

“It’s not all bad. To care.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Joel Miller?”

He huffs, shaking his head. “You know, against my better judgment, I’ve come to tolerate having you around.”

“Tolerate?”

“Mhm.”

“Nothing else?”

“No.”

“So you’ve never thought about kissing me?”

Heat rushes to his face. “Is that really a question you want to be asking right now?”

“Yes.”

“Mm,” He stands, “Well I don’t answer that kind of question at this hour. Come on.”

He reaches under the table and pulls you out.

You clamber to your feet, still a little shaky after your nightmare.

You turn to go back to the couch, but stops when he tugs on your arm.

“Mm-mm. No couch tonight.”

You look up at him, a question in your eyes he doesn’t know how to answer with words.

He steps forward, rough hands coming up to your face, thumb swiping the crest of your cheek.

“Tell me to stop.”

“I won’t.”

He leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss, soft and slow.

He pulls away after a few moments, searching your face for any sign of negativity or displeasure or disgust or, or—

You surge up, kissing him again, all the same fiery passion he saw the day you met.

“I suppose that answers my question.”

He chuckles. “You think?”

“I hope so.”

His hands slide down to your waist. and he can’t resist the little squeeze he gives the skin there.

“Alright. Back to bed, let’s go.”

“I forgot how tired old men get.”

“Please don’t call me an old man right after we kiss.”

He can hear your quiet snorting laughter as you climb the stairs, socked feet silent as always.

You climb into bed first, shoving yourself into the side by the wall and then making grabby motions for Joel.

“Am I just a pillow to you?”

“Yes. Come be a pillow.”

He rolls his eyes but slips into bed next to you and quietly relishes in the pleased hum you let out as you wrap your arms around his waist, practically smashing your face into his chest.

“You comfortable there?”

“Mhm.”

He curls one arm around you, his other hand coming up to cup the back of your neck. This close, he feels the shudder run through your body at the motion, and curious, he gives your nape a little squeeze.

Your reaction is instantaneous. You go limp- completely boneless.

“I got you, I got you. Go to sleep, now.”

It doesn’t take you long. And with you asleep so soundly in his arms, he follows right behind you.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

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whimsigod · 2 years ago

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9 people to get to know better

tagged by @nighthawkes !!

last song: Mad Lucus by the Breeders

currently watching: Adventure Time (always) and recently been only watching movies :)

currently reading: A Court of Mist and Fury and Another Country

current obsession: been reading so many aftg fics again

I quite literally have like 2 mutuals and barely follow anyone but i was happy to be tagged and wanted to participate anyway sooo tag urself❤️

#thanks nighthawkes!!#always love to read your tags on posts and think ur super cool #i neverr post on here except to reblog fanart so heres a little about me #love the breeders and seeing them live soon!!#haven’t been to a concert since pre covid 🥲#think you can tell i love adventure time and can’t wait for fionna and cake #i hated fionna and cake episodes but the new show looks good and i need more simon content #last movie i watched was daisies ❤️#reading acotar series in a book club actually!!#didn’t like the first book i hated tamlin sm i saw right through that freak #now rhys tho #another country by james baldwin has been a tough read for me #been on and off it for a few months but really love baldwins writing #OBSESSED with maydaykevin’s pirate au rn #rereading it rn #but also forgot how much i love aftg fics like actually some of the best fandom writing i’ve read #might just make a rec list one day #this is the most i’ve written on this blog actually ever #you’re a trooper if you read all that

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olgasaysso · 13 days ago

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The biggest lie majority of the fandom believes about Maomao is that she's unaware of how Jinshi feels towards her. That she's "oblivious".

Even some of my favorite creators who make content about tad seem to fall into that trap.

It's not true. Maomao might have been "oblivious" for a short time at the start of the story and it overlaps with Jinshi giving her his hairpin after finding out why she puts on freckles. She thinks "He's being real for once" because it was quite literally the first time when he showed his true self to her. So for a short period of time she's unsure about him and his feelings towards her.

But everything after? She knows. It's not that kind of knowing that's "definite" though. She pushes the possibility down, pretends it's not happening. But she's not oblivious or unaware.

In Light Novel 5 (spoilers, obviously) before he even reveals that she was his choice for a bride, she thinks this:

"The courtesans had a saying: once you know it, it’s hell.

But the men, too, had a saying: to know it was exactly why they went there.

That word, that simple four-letter word with its o and its e, was sometimes called vulgar, and sometimes turned out to be nothing more than a game—but some people said it was impossible to live without it."

No, she was not shocked and surprised or oblivious to what he was doing or how he felt. After she tells him he's good to marry Lady Lishu and the infamous scene, he says this:

"You can’t pretend you didn’t know that you were one of the candidates. As much as I’m sure you’d like to.” He wasn’t done, either: “Who was that man, anyway? I’m sure you’re not a dancer.”

So he had been watching them!"

And he's right. I think you can say she's unaware to a point (or rather pretends to be) where she doesn't want to presume anything and pretends like she doesn't understand how he feels towards her. But she's too smart for that. She noticed Jinshi watching her and Rikuson and pushed the possibility of him being jealous down.

Even the hairpin, as much as she acted like she thought it was Lahan who gave it to her, I don't believe she would wear a gift from him. She can't stand that guy and she knows him enough to know that he would be the type to confirm it immediately that the hairpin was from him.

Despite thinking that she's sell it all the time, she was weirdly fond of that hairpin in some moments and she noticed people looking at it. She knew. Or rather, she guessed who gave it to her, she just chose to pretend otherwise, even to herself.

And then again in LN5 before they kiss we have this part:

"They (Jinshis eyes) shone brighter than any star, and yet there was a subtle darkness to them. This was a man who’d had everything in life, and yet sometimes he seemed to hunger for something that he struggled to satisfy.

Why can’t he pick someone else?"

And the "why can't he pick someone else?" wouldn't be here if she was surprised by his intentions towards her. This was frustration. This is "I know whats been happening all this time and that he wants me but I haven't showed him the slightest sign that I want him back, so why can't he just give up already?"

#maomao #the apothecary diaries #jinshi #jinshi and maomao #jinmao

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mywritersmind · 8 months ago

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2 HANDS - LN4

summary : In a world where Lando was actually in Tate’s music video (except tate is y/n) Lando’s hands stray for a bit too long and the tension seems a bit too thick for them to be faking it.

listen up : SMAU!!! suggestive content! swearing. some mean things commented.

⋆｡‧˚⋆

You knew the music video would be good. You didn’t know it would be a worldwide hit and rack millions of views each day.

Lando Norris putting his ‘2 hands’ on you wasn’t just for show but the public didn’t know any better. But everyone knows the internet… they love to speculate.

YOURUSERNAME

yourusername 2 HANDS IS OUT NOW AHHHH!!!! Here’s some flicks from filming <33

username36 : SCREAMING IM SO OBSESSED

yourfan77 : F1 AND Y/N??? MY TWO WORLDS🧡🙈😭🙂‍↕️✨

username92 : the zoom on his TWO HANDS people died

↳ landofan44 : (it was me, i died.)

sabrinacarpenter : pop princess omg

landonorris : you said you wouldn’t post the last pic.

↳ yourusername : I lied😊

↳username55 : holy i need them together now.

landonorris : an honor serving an icon

usernamelame : How much do we think she paid Lando to be in her music video??🤣

↳ username15 : However much face card is

gracieabrams : QUEEN IM SO PROUD!!

carlossainz : @//landonorris the one time i’m going to tell you that you were sort of cool

username69 : IS THIS A HARD LAUNCH?? TELL ME THIS IS A HARD LAUNCH.

↳ username : if you have to ask that then it’s definitely not a hard launch.

↳ username23 : They’re together 10000% DID YOU SEE HIS HAND PLACEMENT???

INTERVIEW FROM THE BRAZILIAN GRAND PRIX

y/n ➡️ lando

LANDONORRIS YOURUSERNAME

DISCUSSED IN Y/NLANDO FANDOMS <3

username61 : I KNOW YOU GUYS SEE Y/NS STORY WITH THE ‘see you in vegas’ AND A HEART HAND. WITH WHO YOU MAY ASK?? LANDO NORRIS I KNOW THAT RING.

landofan772 : yeah they’re dating and i’m hella jealous but also happy

kikagomez : i ship it.

↳ username : KIKA???

↳ y/nfan : KIKA WHAT

username01 : the girl in his story?? HAS to be y/n.

↳ username27 : they could just be friends

↳ username92 : don’t ruin the fantasy and delusion of love.

y/nfan444 : THE FLOWERS!!! our girl deserves the world.

MAX FEWTRELLS STEAM

LANDONORRIS

landonorris LANDO NORRIS AND Y/N L/N MAKE THEIR OFFICAL COUPLE DEBUT!! Jk it’s just y/n and I looking hot and sexy together as two people very much in love. Proud of my girl 🧡

yourusername : hey that’s me!!

↳ landonorris :😁😁

yourusername : lover era!

↳ landonorris : MUAH

yourusername : fav pair of hands

↳ landonorris : 👏🏻

↳ carlossainz : WOAHH

↳ maxfewtrell : keep it pg you two.

username44 : IM ACTUALLY IN TEARS

y/nfanforever : LOVE IS REAL

↳ username61 : for them maybe, i’m still single af.

landofan78 : on MY cellular device??

romeobeckham : i knew you seemed happier recently

pietrapalio : DOUBLE DATE TIME!!

↳ yourusername : YAYAYAY

↳ landonorris : @//maxfewtrell say what now

username434 : I KNEW THAT MUSIC VIDEO WAS TOO DAMN SEXY FOR TWO PEOPLE WHO JUST MET

landoandy/nfan : thinking about how he felt her up in that car on camera FOR REAL

username000 : I feel so privileged that I live in a time where Y/n and Lando are together. A victorian child would never understand.

#fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #lando norris #lando norris fanfic #lando x reader #lando imagine #lando norris x singer reader #smau #social media au #lando norris social media au #lando norris x pop star

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kxsagi · 1 month ago

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HEYYYY I JUST CAME HERE TO SAY THAT I LOVE YOUR WORKS!! And also, are perhaps a fan of f1? If you are, can you please make a blue lock boys x f1 driver!reader? I think it’s a cool crossover and I haven’t seen a lot of them in the blue lock fandom so it would be nice to have new contents💗

“𝐯𝐚 𝐯𝐚 𝐯𝐨𝐨𝐦”

a/n: THANK YOU BABES!!!

i'm not a serious fan, but i do think that F1 is cool as hell and i would def be down to see the movie!

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, shidou ryusei, kaiser michael, karasu tabito, and barou shoei

isagi yoichi

isagi’s already obsessed with reading plays, so the moment he saw you overtaking two cars on a rainy track at 300 km/h, he short-circuited.

“did you see how she predicted that corner?? she didn’t even brake. she’s literally– oh my gosh i’m in love with her.”

he’s your biggest cheerleader. he wears your merch to blue lock practice. he made his own "driver! you x isagi" twitter account and keeps replying “W” under every race win post.

he tries to relate by talking about how football also requires good reflexes and team strategy… but you once let him sit in your simulator and he crashed in 0.4 seconds.

“yoichi, there’s a wall, don’t–” BOOM

refuses to let you drive him anywhere but gets incredibly flustered when you call him “slowpoke.”

“i’m not slow! you’re just– you’re literally trained for this!!”

when you bring him to a race for the first time, he wore noise-cancelling headphones, sunscreen, and packed three bottles of water. boy was acting like he was going to war.

itoshi rin

rin swears he doesn’t care, but he has your race schedule memorized down to the millisecond.

“you’re racing in monaco this week, right? i checked the weather. track’s gonna be tricky. don’t fuck it up.”

he says that with his arms crossed, standing outside your trailer with a bag full of fresh fruit and electrolyte drinks.

jealous of your car. not in a weird way, just bitter. “why does she talk to the car like that. i swear i heard her say ‘good girl.’”

you offered to take him for a lap once and he glared at you like you just insulted his entire bloodline.

secretly goes insane when he sees you in your race suit. he pretends not to look, but his eye twitches.

if anyone tries to flirt with you on the grid, rin is immediately in silent death glare mode.

“are they your engineer or something?” “that’s the FIA president.” “okay. and?”

itoshi sae

sae fell for you the moment you told a reporter to “grow a pair” when they asked if racing as a woman was “too dangerous.”

has a very dry but deeply supportive boyfriend style. posts one photo of you on his story like “podium again. cool.”

but he’s literally watching the livestream, checking your sector times, and texting your team principal like “she needs new tires. tell her.”

when he visits the paddock, everyone’s scared of him. it’s giving silent, rich, bored, and disgusted by most people.

you once threw your helmet in rage after a DNF and he simply picked it up, handed you a water bottle, and said: “you’ll destroy them next week. now stop sulking.”

secretly wants to kiss you after every race, but acts like he’s too cool for PDA.

when you crash for the first time (even if it’s minor), he FLIES out of his seat and almost decks a camera guy on his way to the medical center.

nagi seishiro

“woah, you drive go-karts for a living? sick.” “… it’s formula 1, sei.”

doesn’t know what’s going on most of the time, but loves tagging along because the seats are comfy and you keep winning.

he finds the speed kind of fun… until you take him drifting in a parking lot at night.

“okay i’m gonna throw up. i saw my soul leave my body.”

nags you to buy him team jackets in every color. now he’s got the full outfit: oversized jacket, hat, lanyard, and even a custom “NAGI” headset.

he once got bored during qualifying and fell asleep in the hospitality suite. woke up when you won pole and went: “yay, good job, babe.”

his phone background is you mid-race with your visor down. you asked him why and he went: “you look like a cool villain. i like it. run me over, next?”

mikage reo

THE MOST SUPPORTIVE BOYFRIEND EVER. he’s literally built to be a paddock husband.

walks around the grid with a rolex, sunglasses, and a laminated pass with “DRIVER GUEST - REO MIKAGE” like it’s the met gala.

screams when you overtake someone. leaps up in celebration like he just won the world cup.

“SHE’S P1! SHE’S P1, BABY, LET’S GOOOO!!!”

once tried to bribe your race engineer to let him wear your helmet for “just one picture.”

owns every possible merch item with your face on it. mousepads. pillows. tote bags. even a personalized coffee mug that says “#1 DRIVER GIRLFRIEND.”

he is so down bad every time you take your gloves off.

“how are your hands so hot when you just drove for 2 hours straight. what the hell. marry me.”

already planning a rich people wedding at a racetrack. he’s dead serious.

shidou ryusei

“babe. listen. let me ride on top of the car. just once. just while it’s moving. i need the rush.”

absolute menace in the paddock. he’s not allowed to touch anything anymore after he once tried to rev the engine mid-setup.

he finds everything about you so hot. the danger. the speed. the fact that you can do donuts in a $20 million car.

“yo that crash was INSANE– wait, you’re okay right? good. now that crash was SICK.”

wears your race suit around the house. nothing else.

makes out with you after every race like it’s the end of the world. doesn’t care who’s watching.

he yells your name from the grandstands. not even cheers. just: “I’M GONNA PROPOSE IF YOU WIN THIS!!!”

and when you do win, he’s already climbing over fences like a madman.

kaiser michael

he thinks you’re a goddess.

he first saw you doing a victory burnout and now refuses to shut up about it.

“do you know how fucking cool you are? i should be the one asking for your autograph.”

ultra cocky boyfriend energy but he melts when you call him your “pit crew” after a long race.

“pit crew? i’d change your tires with my teeth.”

literally flexes you like a trophy. has you as his lockscreen, home screen, and contact photo. your name in his phone is “speed demon 🏎️❤️”

gets super into the sport. buys your whole team dinner when you win. roasts rival drivers.

“that guy behind you? yeah. he’s shaking. peed himself probably.”

you let him sit in your car once and he wouldn’t get out. said “i live here now.”

karasu tabito

okay so karasu is OBSESSED.

he is a strategy nerd and immediately starts watching all your onboard footage, analyzing your corner exits like it's his life mission.

“babe, you’re literally the queen of late braking. who taught you that? marry me.”

wears a team jacket with your number embroidered on the sleeve. brags about you to everyone.

“oh yeah my girl drives 350 km/h for a living. no biggie. she could probably drift better than you walk.”

flirts with you while you're driving. always.

“focus on the road,” you say.

“oh i am, baby. especially when you’re in the driver's seat.”

you once did donuts in a parking lot while he stood in the middle hyping you up with his phone camera.

top commenter on all your socials: “she fast AND hot??? how is this legal???”

barou shoei

he thought you were insane. like clinically insane.

“why the hell would you drive that fast for that long. on purpose.”

barou is a control freak and hates the idea of not being in charge, so the first time he sat shotgun while you were driving he nearly screamed.

he clutched the seat. he held onto the door. he made you swear on your life not to drift again.

“I SAID TURN LEFT, NOT LAUNCH INTO ORBIT–”

but he deeply respects your work ethic and competitiveness.

says stuff like “don’t let those bastards pass you” while tying your gloves for you pre-race.

and when you win? he goes feral.

doesn’t even celebrate, just pulls you into his arms and says “that’s my girl.”

also the only one who glares at paparazzi until they get scared and run.

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ddejavvu · 1 year ago

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Spring Fling - Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Reader (Part One) (18+) | SERIES MASTERLIST

Summary: You should have known the ‘no refunds’ detail on the website for Spring Fling was a red flag. But you paid no mind to it, eager to be assigned a quick fuck for spring break. When the man that walks through your cabin door is none other than Jake 'Hangman' Seresin, your wildly infuriating fellow pilot, you have two choices: bicker the entire time and have a miserable spring break, or fuck.

Contents/Warnings: smut, minors dni. fem!reader, pilot!reader, enemies/rivals to lovers, lots and lots of arguing, could these two people be any less cooperative, sex seven ways to sunday and then some, seriously like so much smut it'll make your eyes bleed, makeouts, rough sex, oral (m+f receiving), penetrative sex, will add as i post

WC: 5.7K / navigation / inbox

A/N: if you've been on my blog anytime since last year and you've heard me mention 'my big hangman fic', this is it! I've been working on Spring Fling for almost a year now, and I'm so excited to share it with you. I hope you enjoy this, and I'm glad so many new people are making their way into our top gun fandom because of twisters and Glen's role in it. Welcome, and enjoy!

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

Phoenix had been the one to give you the final push, and right now you’re glad she did. You’d hemmed and hawed over the booking details for weeks, but when the cruise was only three weeks away, she’d insisted you finalize the paperwork and clinch one of the last available rooms.

“Come on,” She’d given you a knowing look, thin brows raised and lips curled into a smirk, “You need this.”

You do need this. Walking onto the cruise ship feels liberating, like you’re free from the shackles of the U.S Military and living a normal life. You’d been pleasantly surprised to have been granted leave by your commanding officer for the entire week, because Spring Break was a term typically foreign to the Navy. But your squadron's leave fell so perfectly in between late March and early April, so you’ll take the time off and enjoy it.

You’re really going to enjoy it. The cruise you needed oh-so-badly isn’t just an average, run-of-the-mill ship, it’s a program specifically targeted towards those wanting easy hookups.

A sex cruise.

You’d almost been scared away by the no refunds, no rearrangements notice on the cruise’s website, letting you know that you wouldn’t be offered the courtesy of a swap if your random roommate didn’t work out. After all, the point is to get over your reservations, and have a good time. But, you think, it’s only a week, and none of the people you’re seeing around the ship so far look like anyone you’d refuse to have sex with. Do you feel ashamed for signing up for a sex cruise? Slightly. But you can feel slightly ashamed after getting your back blown out by whoever you’re lucky enough to room with. Right now you just need sex, something hot and heavy and rushed, the fervent slapping of skin-on-skin to release the stress pent up inside of you for months now.

Work is tough. You’re no longer the starry-eyed aviator that you’d been at the beginning of your career. You’re older now, you’re starting to exit the honeymoon phase of your job, and to top it off, you haven’t been able to score in months.

You used to have no problem picking up a date here and there around the Hard Deck, but all of a sudden, it’s like Penny had shut off the tap of men pouring out into your lap. You can’t fathom why the entirety of San Diego suddenly decided hookup culture wasn’t for them, but you haven't been able to get laid in months, so you need this cruise. You’re partially terrified that word might get around to your squadron about your vacation, and that the slight shame you're feeling might multiply into something you'll never be able to face. Heaven forbid they change your callsign to Cruiser, or Hookup, or some other derogatory indicator that you're about to have the week of your life.

Hangman already teases you for not being able to take anyone home anymore, you can’t imagine what he’d do if he found out you got on a sex boat. You’ve always been able to bicker and banter with Hangman, dishing out as much as you take, but if he gets wind of what you’re doing this week, you might lose your never-ending stream of competitive banter once and for all.

You shove Hangman out of your thoughts; this is to get away from all of that. He’s a pest, the way he lays out teasing remarks with that saccharine grin on his face, like he’s the cheshire cat and he’s told you a particularly hard-to-decipher riddle. He’s a cheap rival at best, always poking and prodding about being number one, and how you’ll have to hike up your big girl panties if you want to be on his level, despite your record being neck-and-neck with his own. He’s never given you something you can’t return in full-force, but it takes effort to fire back the way that you do, and you’re eager to let your guard down this week and relieve your pent-up frustration.

You pass through the archway they’ve opened to the dock, big double doors angled inside over short, stubbly carpeting. It looks like what you’d find in an 80’s bowling alley, all clashing colors and wacky patterns. The railings to the stairs just in front of you are gold, and they spiral downwards elegantly over the 3 floors below you. They extend upwards 11 more, which is a scary thing to think about; being 15 decks high in the middle of the ocean. The carrier ships you’re used to aren’t small by any means, but their decks are mainly tucked away beneath the surface and shut in so that, if you ignore the rolling waves that toss you side to side, you can pretend you’re on land. Several mostly open upper decks are new to you, but if you’re lucky, you’ll stay centralized to your cabin, tucked away neatly on deck eight, getting your world rocked.

You’ve packed light, a single suitcase rolling behind you as your purse tucks over the handle. It’s an easy way to travel, and you thank basic training for the way that your muscles easily support your luggage as you drag it up a flight of the spiral stairs.

There’s noise everywhere, lights everywhere, people everywhere; it’s complete chaos. But it’s thrumming with excitement, with the promise of sex, and lust, and getting laid, and you fight to stop a grin from growing on your cheeks as you approach the registration desk.

There’s a man in front of you that’s arguing with the receptionist, something about incorrectly filed paperwork, which you don’t exactly blame the guy for. There had been about 35 forms to fill out, STD Test Results here and Consent Questionnaires there. You understand why they’re necessary on a sex cruise, and you’re glad they’re keeping their passengers safe, but they were a pain to fill out.

The receptionist sees you file in line behind the man, looking all too grateful for the distraction.

“If you could just step to the side here,” He gestures, waving the man to the left of his place at the counter, “I’ll call someone down to help you with that, sir.”

The man looks displeased to be put on hold, but you take the opportunity when it comes to you, handing over your printed email confirmation that’s got your room number inked in bold black lettering.

“Ah, 838,” The man smiles, “Your roommate’s already gotten his key. Maybe you’ll meet him down there. But if not, you’re welcome to explore the ship. Here’s a map, we have plenty to do if you’re not quite ready to get started.”

The man hands you both a stiff key card, printed with your name and general information, and a map of the ship. It really is huge, and you marvel at how much there is to do besides sex. Maybe if your roommate doesn’t work out, you can hang out in the piano lounge.

The instrument makes you think of Rooster and his attention-grabbing routine at the Hard Deck, whenever he’s in the mood to go home with someone that night. Ladies love a piano player, and if this cruise doesn’t work out, maybe you’ll pick up the instrument yourself. If it were any other voyage, you’d probably be wishing your fellow aviator was on board to serenade the ship, but you’ll count your blessings that he’s not here to see your desperation.

You decide on the elevator rather than the stairs for the sake of your luggage, not wanting the suitcase to get battered hitting each step on the way up. There’s a crowd formed at the doors to the lifts already, humming with conversation and dripping with sex appeal. Two of the three men there are already shirtless and in swim trunks, and you hope you look half as stunning in the bathing suits you’d chosen to bring with you. One of them catches your eye as you sidle into the elevator and the quick wink he sends you lightens your mood. Even if your roommate doesn’t work out, maybe you can branch out and get Elevator Guy's number.

The ride up is cut off by someone on the sixth floor who manages to squeeze into your elevator. Then someone steps out on the seventh, and finally, you make your departure on the eighth. You mourn the loss of Elevator Guy, but you’re excited to meet your roommate, whoever he is.

There’s not a long walk from the elevator to your room, but it’s a bit of a maze figuring out which hallway to take. You’re the third door down the corridor furthest left, and you slide your key card into the door with excitement brewing in your stomach.

Will he be handsome? Will he be drop-dead gorgeous? Will he have a six pack? Will he have a dad-bod? Will he have a beard? Will he be a brunette? Will he… be invisible?

He’s most likely not invisible, which means he’s just not in the room. The door swings open to a lovely space, portholes showcasing the dock and a single, queen-sized bed against that wall. There’s a suitcase stacked against one side of the bed, but no passenger to accompany it, and the bathroom light is off, too.

There’s a hat resting on one of the pillows, a blue-and-white patterned thing you recognize as rooting for the Dallas Cowboys. It’s the team Jake won’t shut the fuck up about when the game is on, so you’re well accustomed to seeing the color combo. Jake always accentuates his southern drawl when he talks about the Cowboys, just to remind everyone that he’s a certified Texan, as if anyone might have forgotten in the time it’s been since the last game. You hope that whoever your roommate is isn’t just a fan, but a southerner as well, because Jake’s twang would be ridiculously attractive if it wasn’t coming out of his arrogant mouth. But the hat has no owner in sight, so you can’t analyze their accent, and for that you heave a sigh.

He’s not here.

You’re a little let down - does he not want to meet you? - but you suppose that gives you time to go find the buffet, as well as explore the ship. You’d elected to skip lunch on the way to the port and eat on the ship instead, hoping for a debrief with your roommate before you hit it off tonight. But eating alone isn’t the worst thing in the world, and you can muscle through one meal. You take a moment to admire the room, a bright, clean space that you’re going to love messing up. The sheets are crisp and white, but there’s an imprint of your roommate on one side, like he’d stretched out for a while before heading back out. The dip in the bed looks large, and blossoms of excitement bloom in your stomach: he’s beefy.

You deposit your suitcase in the closet, filling out the hangers with your outfits and setting your lingerie on the shelf. You want easy access; you’re probably not going to look very sexy rooting around in your suitcase on all fours for a bra.

You refrain from changing, already in a weather-appropriate sundress that’s a pretty mix of pink and baby blue. You do a quick check in the mirror: no flyaway hairs, dress laying right on your hips, gloss properly lining your lips. You make sure you don’t need to reapply deodorant, perfume, or any other nice-smelling substance, and then you’re off in search of the buffet, eager to see the soft serve machine they’d advertised on their website.

The ship really is crowded, and you appreciate the unique atmosphere that comes from everyone knowing they’re only there for sex. You’re there to fuck and be fucked, and it means you can ogle the man that emerges soaking wet from the pool, slicking his dripping hair out of his face as he prepares to dive again. A woman eating with who you assume is her roommate gives the hem of your sundress a once-over, catching on your thighs beneath the fabric, and glancing back up to your face to level you with a momentary smirk. Confidence flows through your veins as you make your way out towards the wood-lined deck of the ship, looking out over the bright ocean illuminated by sunlight.

A gust of wind blows the hem of your sundress to the left, but not enough to raise it, so you don’t bother catching it. The sea is beautiful, and you’re thrilled to have a relaxing time on one; you don’t normally get those on giant carrier ships.

There’s no runway here, no reserve of jet fuel, there’s just sun, fun, and lust.

“You wouldn’t happen to be in, uh, room 624, would you?” A voice pipes up from your right, and you turn to see a slightly younger man, clearly sun-drying from a dip in the pool. His hair hangs past his ears but he runs a hand through it backwards, and it means you get a better view of his face, adorned with an impressive scruffy beard, the same brown shade as his hair. However, there’s a ring of slightly lighter hair around his mouth that you hope is from what you think it’s from. His face is more squarish than long, skin a tone darker than the impressive tan Rooster sports after a day at the beach.

“Ah, no.” You laugh lightly, and the overexaggerated slump of his shoulders hints that he was expecting your answer. You take pride in the fact that he’d wanted to ask anyways, and you flash your key card at him, “838.”

“You mind if I remember that?” He leans against the railing of the deck, and once more you appreciate the open, bold atmosphere of the crowd you’re in, “If my roommate doesn’t mind not being exclusive.”

“I don’t mind at all,” You smile, feeling a slight flush come to your cheeks. This is going to do you a world of good. If your roommate has even half of this guy’s good qualities, his charming smile, his toned arms, his slight southern drawl, you’ll be more than happy to share your week with him.

“Daniel,” He sticks a hand out, fingers thick and rough-looking. You wonder what he does for work; something laborious by the look of his hands.

“Y/N,” You smile back, turning to shake his hand. He takes you by surprise by raising your knuckles to his lips, and you remind yourself once again that this cruise is geared towards romance. Or, at least lust, but you’re flattered he’s throwing in the extra component.

You try tamping down your obvious grin as you turn back to the ocean, “You haven’t met your roommate?”

“Nope,” He grabs a shirt from a nearby lounge chair, patterned with a faded band logo that you can’t place, what must be a waterproof watch gleaming in the sunlight that hits his wrist. “I was hoping to get lunch with’er. Hey, have you eaten yet?”

“Actually, I haven’t.” You straighten from where you’re leaning against the railings, “I was waiting for my roommate too.”

“Well,” Daniel holds out an arm, toned and muscular, and you hook yours through it, “Fuck ‘em.”

You laugh at his bold choice of words, still having to remind yourself that you’re in a strictly adult environment. You don’t need to worry about your sailor’s mouth, there’s no kids to overhear, nor parents to get upset.

Daniel’s arm is strong where he leads you to the dining area, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t fixating on the feeling of your bicep locked to his side by his own. The buffet is a little classier than you’d expected; instead of all-you-can-eat french fry stations there’s trays of pastas, stews, and meat for the taking, thin silver utensils laid out neatly over each container.

You keep it light with only foods you know won’t upset your stomach with the rocking of the boat. That’s the last thing you need, and you manage to find an open table while Daniel waits in line for pizza. You’ve barely had a chance to spread your napkin over your lap, your sundress putting forth a valiant effort to cover your upper thighs, when Daniel sits across from you and smiles through his beard.

“So, where are you from?” He questions, biting off the end of his pizza slice so that you have a chance to reply.

“I live here,” You attempt to pick up one half of your sandwich, lettuce and tomato making it slick and difficult, “I’m actually, uh- stationed here. With the navy.”

His eyes bulge for a second, and he swallows while nodding, “Wow. Okay, that’s cool. I’m guessing that’s why your arms are practically bigger than mine?”

You try not to spit out your sandwich laughing along with him, grateful for the flimsy paper napkin you’d snagged to hide a smear of tomato juice along your lip.

“You should see one of the other guys from my squadron,” You think of Jake- Jake who’d famously torn through a t-shirt (albeit, a flimsy one) by just flexing the muscles in his biceps, “I swear his arms are bigger than my neck.”

I’m sure you guys need ‘em,” Daniel muses, sipping at his drink. He’s listening to you with rapt interest, something men don’t usually do when they find out that your job is something traditionally masculine. He’s not boasting about his own job, he’s not rattling off gym stats: “So you’re a sailor?”

“Aviator,” You correct him, used to the misconception, “I fly.”

“I don’t think I knew the Navy had planes,” Daniel admits, crunching a potato chip between his slightly crooked teeth, “I thought that was just the Air Force.”

“Everyone thinks it’s just the Air Force,” You grin, stacking two pickles on the end of your fork that had somehow escaped your sandwich.

“Sorry,” Daniel looks bashful now, his smile sheepish, “I bet you’re tired of correcting people.”

“No! Don’t worry about it,” You’re absolutely tired of correcting people, but you’re not about to tell that to a man who’s mustache has lighter ends than the scruff of his beard against his jaw, “What about you, what do you do?”

“I just work at a post office, I sort mail.” He divulges, and you’re instantly more fond of him; a civil service worker who wears tight little shorts? You’re not quite sure if Daniel has a downside.

“Are you local?”

“I’m in Oceanside. Not too far,” He muses, “I only drove an hour here.”

So, he’s good in bed, he’s good in uniform, and you could easily make weekend visits. You’re starting to lament the fact that you’ll be sleeping with someone else for the week.

“Are you sure you’re not in room 838?” You tease, “Maybe they misprinted your card, or something.”

“Believe me, if I could get it reprinted, I would,” He confesses, setting his fork down to brace his elbows on the table. He leans forwards, his chin propped against his clasped hands, “I know they’re all strict about not changing roommates, but listen, if yours doesn’t work out, I’ll propose an arrangement to mine. And- uh, even if yours does work out,” He stifles a smirk, stuffing a chip into his mouth instead, “-ask him if he wouldn’t mind swapping for a bit.”

You both admire and appreciate his desperation. You’re used to aloof sailors, or men in bars who wish you had less muscle and more tit. Something about the way he’s leading the conversation, not forcing himself on you but begging for a chance, makes your stomach flutter.

“We’ll work something out,” You promise, nudging your foot against his beneath the table, “Coming straight out and asking is working on me, if I’m being honest.”

Daniel laughs, so you elaborate: “So many of the guys I meet try pretending like they don’t care. Or- or maybe they don’t, I guess, but it’s still frustrating. It’s nice that you care.”

“Of course I care,” Daniel blinks incredulously at you, cheeks stuffed as he struggles to swallow before speaking, “You could choke me out with your thighs, babe. I’m not stupid enough to lose that opportunity.”

Your cheeks burn. Evidently you’re still acclimating to the brazen atmosphere of the ship, and you struggle to hide your sheepish smirk as he kicks his foot against yours beneath the table, the same as you’d done to him.

Daniel’s only gaining more popularity in your mind when he takes your plate to the trash, scraping away the remnants of the lettuce and condiments from your sandwich and stacking his own on top of it where they’re about to be washed. He sends you a dazzling smile as he gestures for the doorway, and you’re honestly surprised that he doesn’t say ‘after you’ when he lets you go first.

“Eighth floor?” Daniel verifies when you step through the doors of the elevator, and it’s much less packed than when you’d been there before. You nod, and he presses only 8, not 6 for his own room. You’re almost nervous that he might try to come into your room with you, because you’re not sure whether your roommate is there, and you don’t know how kindly he’ll take to you bringing another man in without meeting him first. But you swallow your nerves as the doors slide shut, leaving you in the elevator with him alone.

You can feel him staring at you, and you meet his gaze with a smile. He smiles back, and you lock eyes for a tense moment, then all of a sudden you’re both lunging forwards, frenzied as something in the air tells you to jump each other. Your hands sling around his neck as his lips press to your own, the scruff of his beard grating against your skin. It stings slightly, but it’s delicious as his lips fit between your own, and your back presses to the cold metal wall of the elevator. You suppose you should be a little ashamed, letting your tongue ghost over his bottom lip, making out with a man you've just met in an elevator, but it appears everyone is either boarding or eating, and no one bothers you on your journey up.

To add yet another thing to Daneil’s list of perfect traits: he’s an excellent kisser. He lets you lead, and when he feels your tongue prod at his lips he groans, gladly licking over your top lip. You open your mouth, seized by the moment, and he ventures inside without hesitation, his tongue hot and wet as it laps over your own.

You’d moan if you could, spout some breathy expletive or test out his name on your drool-coated tongue. But you can’t, he’s a presence, an enigma, and you let him occupy your mouth so much that words won’t.

You’d been on the fourth deck when the doors had shut, and it’s not a long trip to the eighth. When the elevator jolts to a stop you reluctantly push Daniel away, not wanting to expose yourself to the hall of deck eight.

“Uh,” You breathe, wiping at a smear of drool on the side of your mouth, “Fuck, that was-”

“Yeah.” He agrees, similarly breathless as he runs a hand through his hair that you’d tousled slightly, “I’d love to do that again sometime.”

“Me too.” You laugh bashfully, “Uh, maybe not in an elevator, though.”

“Like- like in a bed.” He concludes as the doors slide open, revealing a safely empty hallway. “Or- or just a room, or something, like a- a couch, if you don’t want- not a bed.”

“A bed,” You assure him, endeared by his caution, “I’d love to do it again sometime in a bed, Daniel.”

“Alright,” He grins, reaching out to catch the doors before they can close on you as you depart, “838’s right there. I’d walk you, but,” He points at a door only two down from the one directly in front of you, and you wave him off with a grateful grin.

“No worries.” You laugh, “Thanks, Daniel. Uh- I hope I see you again.”

“Me too,” He smiles, and it might be the most charming sight you’ve ever seen, “Goodbye, Y/N.”

The doors slide shut on him, and you feel like the next appropriate step for you is to go into your room, close the door, and slide down the backside of it. You can’t fathom reacting any differently to the mind-blowing, butterfly-inducing kiss you’d just engaged in, especially with the excitement of doing it in an elevator. The desperation you’d felt and received back was exhilarating, and you’d be happy to get off the boat now and savor the feeling.

Coincidentally, the ship’s horn sounds, and an announcement comes over the loudspeakers, “Passengers, brace yourselves for some slight rocking,” You hold onto the wall, just in case, “Because we are on our way! We’ve just set sail, and for a day and a half, you’ll be at sea. Then we’ll dock on beautiful white sand beaches by Wednesday morning. I hope you enjoy yourselves, and I wish I was one of you, because I do not get a roommate. Unless- Rick, you feel like- no, no, okay! Okay,” The captain laughs, “My co-captain isn’t interested. Well, folks, enjoy yourselves, and please don’t make messes in the pools.”

You’re feeling generous, a bounce in your step from being kissed stupid in the elevator, so you let out a light chuckle at the captain’s humor. Any other time, you might have found it corny, but you’ve just been made out with, and everything seems better than it would have before. You hear muffled cheers from the rest of the ship, and dig into the pocket of your sundress for your key card. You retrieve the smooth plastic, slot it into the door labeled 838, and take a deep breath.

If he’s anything like Daniel, you’ll have a great time. And if he isn’t, you’ll see Daniel again.

With that, you push down the silver handle, hearing the door click with the motion, and you step inside.

The first thing you see is a pair of socked feet sticking off the end of the bed. The bed is perpendicular to the doorway, and the upper half of it is hidden by the bathroom. You clock the pair of toned, tan, mouth-watering legs that rest on the mattress, a sight you already want to sink your teeth into. You’re shocked that you’re bold enough to think that you wish he didn’t have briefs on, especially considering the sizable bulge in their fabric. You take a step closer, and a similarly toned torso comes into view, impossibly muscled and something that belongs in an art museum. There’s a pair of thick, bulky biceps raised above the man’s head, and when he turns his head to look at you-

Fuck.

Oh, fuck.

You freeze in your spot. One foot planted in front of the other, your weight distributed between them equally. Your eyes go wide, your stomach twists awkwardly, and you damn near drop your keycard.

“Hangman.”

Your fellow aviator's face is equally as shocked, but it curves into a familiar cocky grin all too soon, “What do we have here? Y/L/N?”

“No fucking way. Jake?”

“Y/N,” He matches your pattern with a hearty chuckle, “Oh, this is too good.”

“You’re in the wrong room.” You decide, “This is 838.”

“That’s what it said on my key card, darlin’.” Jake snatches the card from the sleeve stuck to the back of his phone, flashing it at you where you can see the clear print of the numbers, “Guess we’re fated or somethin’.”

“Shut up.” You snap, knees easily bending as you fall back against the loveseat opposite the bathroom, “Shut the fuck up, Hangman. There’s no way I’m staying here.”

“No room changes,” He grins, and you want to smother the expression off of his face with a pillow, “And no getting off, either. We just set sail.”

You bury your face in your hands. There’s no way you’re surviving this vacation. Not with Hangman- Hangman who acts like a toddler and pulls your hair whenever it’s not in the regulatory bun. Hangman who snatches food out of your hand if you hold it up for too long without eating it because you’re speaking. Hangman who delights in insulting you over the comms in the air, offering you flying lessons ‘’cause that move was pretty rusty, darlin’.’

There is absolutely no way in hell - which feels like your current location - that you’re taking a sex cruise with Jake Seresin, end of story.

“So, sex cruise, eh?” He muses from his spot on the bed, and you shoot him a glare so vicious you’re surprised he doesn’t drop dead.

“Yeah? You’re on it too, Hangman.”

“Easy,” He holds up a placating hand, “Wasn’t an insult. Just didn’t think you were the type.”

“To fuck?”

“To be desperate.” He shrugs, “Y’know, Y/L/N, if you wanted to have sex with me this bad, you could have just asked.”

“Stop it right now.” You insist, “This was not my doing, and so help me god I’m considering ripping that stupid porthole out of the wall and jumping ship. Clearly I’ve done something to upset the universe, so do not fucking expect me to enjoy this, Hangman.”

“You’re very pissy,” He notes, only making his observation more clear as your scowl deepens, “Relax, Y/L/N. I’ll give you a good time.”

“All you’re capable of giving me is a migraine.” You spit, a headache already brewing behind your eyes, “God, and why are you naked? Have some fucking class.”

“Class?” He repeats incredulously, a chuckle shaking his stupid, exposed chest, “This is a sex cruise! I’m near naked ‘cause I thought we’d fuck!’

“I’m not having sex with you.” You vow, pointing an accusatory finger at him, “I’ll cycle through this entire ship twice before I even think about letting you at me, Hangman. Do you understand?”

“I understand’ He salutes, and the tease pisses you off, “Y’know, Y/L/N, I think you should let loose. Live a little, don’t be so uptight the whole time.”

“I’m uptight because you’re sprawled out over my bed without clothes on.” You groan, and then your brain comes late to another earth-shattering conclusion, “Oh, fuck, that’s the only bed!”

Hangman laughs, the sound thick and full of that cockiness you despise, “Damn right it is, darlin’. You gonna snuggle up next to me tonight?”

“No!” You gush, readjusting yourself on the loveseat so that you’re curled up on its cushions, “There, see? This is my bed. I’m sleeping here.”

“Oh, relax,” He scoffs, patting the space beside him. He’s turned towards you now, propped up on his elbow and boring into you with his stare “There’s plenty of room here. I’m just messing around.”

“I’m not.” You insist, “I’m not sleeping with you, Jake. Either way.”

“Well, you called me Jake,” He notes, shrugging his broad shoulders and settling back onto his pillows, “I’ll take what I can get.”

“You’re getting nothing.” You hiss, turning onto your back on the loveseat, “Fuck, what did I do to deserve this?”

“A week on a sex boat with me? Must’a bought a homeless man some groceries, saved a starvin’ puppy, caught a runaway baby stroller, that kinda thing.”

“It must have been the time when I scratched that Tesla and didn’t leave a note,” You groan, “Karma’s a bitch.”

Jake’s never been one to take insults or teasing gracefully. He retaliates with his own, his eyes still burning holes against the side of your face, “So, Y/N. Seen the shops yet?”

“No.” You grumble, “Didn’t know they had any.”

“Oh, yeah. Real nice stuff,” Jake drawls, “Y’know, lingerie, vibrators, sex chocolates, all that stuff.”

Your cheeks blaze and you honestly think you’d rather be back on base than here, “Shut up, Hangman.”

“I’m not lying!” And to his credit, you believe him. But lying isn’t the issue, it’s teasing, and you’re not sure you can handle seven days of it non-stop.

“I wonder if Daniel’s seen the shops,” You grumble, maybe just a little smug that you’d already hit it off with someone, assuming Jake hadn’t had the time to make out with anyone in an elevator yet.

Your brag works, and the muscles in his jaw tighten ever-so-slightly, such a small movement that you wouldn’t have seen it if you hadn’t been studying him.

When he speaks, there’s a familiar tension in his eyes, one you're used to seeing when someone ignites his overinflated sense of competition, “Daniel? That the guy you tongued in the elevator?”

You let out an incredulous cry, as if he’s wrong, “What? What- how did you know that! We didn’t tongue,” You scoff, reminiscing on the heavenly feeling of Daniel’s tongue smoothing over your own.

“Mhm. Sure. That’s why your lips are all swollen and shiny. ‘Cause you two stood six feet apart.”

You feel judged opposite Jake’s narrowed eyes, and you retort, “Okay, fine. We kissed. Is that a bad thing? This is a sex cruise, I’m supposed to get lucky.”

“All I’m sayin’ is you were snappin’ at me to have some class, but I’m not the one who frenched someone in a public facility. Did you even wait for it to be cleared out, or did you just go at it in the crowd?”

“It was empty.” You huff, practically slamming your head back down onto the couch cushions, “Shut up, Hangman.”

“I bet he pushed all the buttons to make it take longer,” Jake snickers, “Or- or did he back you up against ‘em? Smash your back into the panel and light the whole thing up like a Christmas tree?”

“Shut up!” You gush, taking one of the cushions from the couch and jamming it over your head, blocking his irritating voice from your ears.

You’re fucked.

Actually, you’re not fucked, and that’s the problem. You’d rather be just about anywhere else right now, but if you had your pick, you’d be in a different room, with a different roommate. One who wants to spread your legs and feast on what’s between them, one that wants to jam your throat with his cock until you’re begging for air. But you’re here instead, bunched up on a stiff loveseat, an itchy pillow over your face, and enemy number one lounging on the bed you have to share with him tonight.

You’d rather be fucked.

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

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arkhamsknightz · 2 months ago

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STARLIGHT // SUPERMAN HEADCANONS. CLARK KENT & JOURNALIST!READER.

content: just fluff, pure pure fluff. It's the biggest vomit of love lmao im sorry but i'm in love at this time so deal with it. I don't dare to write smut yet (i'm very rusty lol), + we don't accept snyder fans!clark here — sorry not sorry — this is the clark who would rescue a kitten from a tree so....

word count: 0,4k (almost 500 words)

notes: i'm testing the waters in the dc fandom, even though it's been too long since I've written in it, but the superman trailer is my new obsession and I can't wait for july. the brat summer hits hard, but the superman summer hits harder.

divider: @bernardsbendystraws

☆ You keep pretending not to notice when he leaves your apartment, and five minutes later "Superman" shows up to make sure you got home safe from your late assignment.

☆ Clark literally melts whenever you call him "Superman" in a teasing tone. like—he’s supposed to be the man of steel, but his knees go weak the second you smirk and say, “What’s the plan now, Superman?"

☆ You learned pretty quickly that dating the man of tomorrow comes with random date night interruptions. But he always makes it up to you. Like one time he flew in from stopping a train derailment with pastries from Paris and an "I'm sorry I missed our dinner" post-it stuck to your laptop".

☆ He’s so soft for you. Like, he’ll listen to you rant about Lex Luthor and his stupid company for an hour and then say, “You’re incredible. Do you know that?” with the most adoring look in his eyes.

☆ He's ridiculously good at remembering everything. birthdays, deadlines, how you take your coffee, and your favourite quote. He once quoted your own article back to you when you were doubting yourself, and you cried. He freaked out. tried to fly to get flowers or something.

☆ One time you tried to surprise him by bringing him lunch to the Daily Planet, and he got so flustered he nearly knocked over his desk. “You... you brought me food?” He blinked like krypto when he acts like never been fed before. Now he talks about it like it was a grand romantic gesture and not just an stupid sandwich.

☆ You once told him, half-asleep, that flying with him felt like dreaming while awake. Now he always asks, “Wanna go dream?” before lifting you into the sky.

☆ He sometimes reads over your drafts while you're out cold on the couch. leaves little notes in the margins like “love this part,” “so proud of you,” or “you spelt ‘crimes’ wrong, but you’re still my favourite reporter.”

☆ He lives for when you adjust his glasses or fix his tie before a press conference. It’s the only time he lets the whole “Clark Kent” act drop just a little and looks at you like you’re his whole world.

☆ Sometimes when you’re deep into writing, completely zoned out, he lands silently on your balcony and just watches you work for a minute—arms crossed, head tilted, that soft “I can’t believe she’s mine” smile on his face. When you finally notice him, he acts like he hasn’t been standing there like a lovesick puppy for the last five minutes.

☆ On your worst days at the paper, when deadlines crush you and the world feels heavy, he wordlessly picks you up and flies you above the clouds. No noise, no pressure—just the two of you, floating in golden light. “All of that can wait,” he whispers. “You can’t.”

#dc comics #dc universe #dcu #david corenswet #superman #superman x reader #superman x you #superman fluff #clark kent #clark kent x reader #clark kent fluff #superman summer

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dontbelasagnax · 1 year ago

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I find as fandom has assimilated towards a capitalist mindset of consumption, there has been a larger focus on fanart and fanfiction- both in spaces that view creatives as "content creators" and spaces where creatives are seen as writers and authors but lauded similarly to celebrities or deities for gracing the common people with their creations.

This has produced a side effect wherein fanart and, primarily, fanfiction are seen as the Best Forms Of Transformative Works... which means that any other type of transformative work is thrown by the wayside.

There should be no hierarchy of fanworks - every single work is a labor of love (or spite... I see y'all throwing middle fingers to canon 😉) and should be recognized as such. Fandom is a community. It's not a transactional relationship. Everyone contributes and interacts out of shared passions and interests.

If you make podfics, gifs, photo edits, fanvids, fan binding, metas, fiber arts, jewelry, fanmixes, translate fics to another language, run/contribute to a fan wikia or compile lore and resources in other ways: I see, appreciate, and cherish all the hard, love fueled work you put into your creations.

Not to say that fanfic and digital art are over-appreciated (Since I do see that many people are allergic to pressing reblog. It's a community. We're supposed to share and communicate. Lurkers are valid but for the most part, interaction with like-minded people is what fandom is intended for.) but the pedestal they are placed on needs to be lowered. Your favorite artists and authors are real people with real lives. They piss and shit just like you. They work in retail and healthcare and are unemployed due to disability. There is nothing extraordinary about them and they are wonderful human beings all the same. No one is better than anyone else. We're all equals here on this playground.

That said, I think we need to uplift the underappreciated fanworks and creators and give them more attention so they are on equal footing with fanfic writers and fanartists. Reblog the gifsets and tell the creator you're in love with how they colored the gifs, keyboard smash in the tags when reblogging a plush doll someone crocheted of your blorbo, try listening to a podfic on your commute home instead of an audiobook and remember to leave a comment when you get home.

As a final note, I want to give a warm hug to anyone who has sat refreshing tumblr or ao3 hoping that maybe someone will tell them they did a good job. To anyone who has considered quitting their fandom endeavors because their posts or works never get as much attention and love as the rest of the artworks or fics in the fandom tags, your creations are worth making and sharing. Numbers do not equate to quality, nor can they convey how loved your creations are by a given person. Only you can bring your unique sparkle to fandom and your presence is absolutely welcome no matter how big or small, grandiose or inconsequential, important or worthless you think it is.

#lasagna rambles #ao3

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crushmeeren · 5 months ago

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イ JEALOUSY

⋆ note ; having rampant thoughts about alucard so….. yeah, here i am. still procrastinating my other fic, continuing to insert myself into this fandom lmao. don’t ask where this idea came from, cuz I’d say I pulled it from my ass.

⋆ suggestive-ish content, cursing.

master list

Studying Alucard, at the irritated scrunch of his nose, at the expression that displays his holier than thou attitude — well, you determine that jealousy looks good on him.

The menacing air that surrounds him, the sharp fang poking out over his bottom lip, you’re sure it’s scaring everyone within his vicinity. He’s sulking, but he’s still terrifying.

You’d thought bringing your husband to the bar tonight would be a good change of pace. Alucard spends so much time of his free time holed up inside, acting every bit like the centuries old half vampire he is, you wanted him to live a little.

Convincing him to ditch his black coat and put on a silky white button up was, surprisingly, the most difficult part.

Somehow you’d ended up on the dance floor. Alone. Putting on a show for Alucard, encouraging him to join the crowd and dance with you while he sat pretty in a torn up booth. You’d been so eager for him to let loose. To slide up behind you, grab your hips like a lifeline, and place hot kisses all over the side of your throat until he got so worked up he’d drag you home and shove your face in the sheets.

You’re on the verge of hooking him, the heavy beat of the music thumping in your chest, when strange fingers circle around your outstretched wrist. You jump, gasping as you whip towards the unknown source. A man with shaggy brown hair tugs you closer, a silly smile pointed at you.

The man raises his voice to be heard over the speakers. “Why’re you all alone doll? Need a partner to grind that sweet ass against?”

You twist your wrist free, brows shooting up at the blunt statement. What the fuck? “Uh no, I’m not alone. My husband is here. So please leave me the hell alone,” you reply, tone firm in your rejection. You take a step backwards, creating some distance.

He follows, crowding in way too close for comfort. “Ya sure about that? I don’t see him anywhere.”

That’s when you choose to shoot Alucard a look asking for help. That’s when you notice his furious features and your stomach lurches with heat, flipping upside down.

Your husband is positioning himself between you and the stranger before you can blink, pushing his chest roughly with a look of disdain, a nasty curl to his lip.

“Adrian,” you start. “He’s not worth your time.” You grab his elbow but Alucard holds up a hand, directing his attention to the other man, who’s now staring at him in disbelief.

“What the hell man? Who do you think you are Adri—,”

Alucard cuts him off with a hiss. “Do not utter my name, you filthy fucking animal. If you dare lay another hand on my wife, I’ll rip the limb from your body. Do you understand?” he threatens, destroying the distance between himself and the stranger.

You’re on the tips of your toes, eyes darting between both men. The unwanted stranger, who appears to retain some sense about him, snaps his jaw shut and raises his hands in surrender. He spins in the opposite direction and scurries out of sight.

Alucard remains frozen in place. You side step him, then shift until you’re face to face. He rolls the tension from his shoulders once your hands settle on his chest, meeting your burning gaze and flushed face. The intensity in his eyes lights you up inside, the tips of your fingers tingling.

No other thoughts come to mind besides “that was so hot, my husband is so fucking hot. i want him.” And you tell him so.

He chuckles, lifting one hand to cradle your cheek, thumb running across your bottom lip. “Did I make you ravenous for me, my love? I was unaware my possessive nature appealed to you so sweetly,” He teases, leaning in to kiss your cheek.

You nod, desperate to go home. “Adrian,” you plead. “C’mon, stop teasing.”

He places his lips against your ear and murmurs “If that’s your desire, then we shall leave this place. I’ll show you that you’re completely, utterly, mine.”

イ here’s the real question…does anyone want an nsfw part 2?

#alucard x you #alucard x reader #alucard #adrian tepes x reader #adrian tepes #castlevania x you #castlevania x reader #adrian tepes x you #jealous alucard #fem reader #suggestive

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theonottsbxtch · 11 months ago

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Can we get oscar x teacher smau since school is starting over here in America?

Professor Piastri? | OP81

an: thank you so much for this request! i had so much fun with it. i had to remake this three times because tumblr kept deleting my progress 🫠. good luck with the start of school soon!

fc: pinterest

requests: open

messages between oscar and yn

oscarpiastri

liked by landonorris, logansargeant, mclaren and 983,836 others

only 34 days left 🙃

*tap to load comments*

userone: I WANT MORE B&W PHTOOS 💳💥💳💥

usertwo: what is op81 doing in a library?

landonorris: summer break is in 15 days you muppet

oscarpiastri: i know, i can count

landonorris: right and i’m world champion

userthree: i need more photographer oscar content

logansargeant: i swear it was 28 days the other day?

oscarpiastri: no ☹️

userfour: what does logan know🤨

userfive: me 🤝 oscar, both having important things in 34 days

usersix: ooh what’s yours!!

userfive: school break!

twitter

imessage between oscar and yn

ynprivate

liked by yourbestfriend, oscarpiastri, logansargeant and 19 others

getting to see the hubby live at work 🥰

*tap to load more comments*

yourbestfriend: HOW DOES IT FEEL FHAT OSCAR PIASTRI, YOUR HUSBAND, IS NOW A GRAND PRIX WINNER

ynprivate: SHUT UP SHUT SHUT UP I CANT EVEN CELEBRATE WITH HIM

oscarpiastri: you can celebrate with me in the hotel room

logansargeant: ew get a room

oscarpiastri: i’m trying to

yourcoworker: THIS is why you didn’t want to meet up for coffee and mark papers?!

ynprivate: 😅🤭

logansargeant: my favourite secret wag i swear

ynprivate: how many secret wags do you know?

logansargeant: 🤐

twitter

f1wags

liked by userone, usertwo, userthree and 981,264 others

BREAKING‼️

the shock. the disbelief. the dismay for some. oscar piastri married?! today the world is shocked to find out that one of the grid’s most charming drivers has been secretly married for years! that’s right, married. the news was bought to us after a screenshot was leaked on twitter from yn (his wife)‘s private instagram where she was seen posting him with the caption “getting to see the hubby live at work🥰”. the woman identified as yn ln, still goes by her maiden name was a girl he met while at boarding school.

yn ln is currently a teacher in england, and the couple has managed to keep their relationship entirely under the radar. sources close to the couple reveal that they chose to keep their marriage private due to her career in education, wanting to protect her from the intense public scrutiny that comes with being associated with an f1 star (hence the reason she has kept her maiden name)

the screenshot, which shows a sweet picture of oscar looking into her camera, has sent the f1 fandom into spirals!

despite the sudden exposure, oscar and his wife have yet to comment on the leak. the secrecy surrounding around their relationship only adds to the intrigue, leaving fans and media outlets waiting with bated breath.

who is oscar piastri and what more is he hiding?

*photos credit to yn’s instagram*

oscarpiastri

liked by ynprivate, landonorris, logansargeant and 923,746 others

cats out the bag now, mrs piastri everyone. only 11 more days until her summer break!

*tap to load more comments*

userone: that’s what the countdown was about 🥹

usertwo: oh hell nawh they both hot

userthree: how long have they been together what?!

logansargeant: married for two years but together for much longer, i’ve known since 2019☺️

landonorris: oscar we are NOT friends

oscarpiastri: i am sorry, i had to respect the mrs’ wishes

landonorris: LOGAN HAS KNOWN FOR SIX YEARS THAT YOU HAD A PARTNER

landonorris: i was low-key starting to think you were gay mate

ynprivate: i’m so sorry!! i just didn’t want work and private life to get mixed up

landonorris: i guess i can somewhat forgive him

ynprivate: yay! maybe we can meet for coffee to get to know you better, osc talks so much about you :)

landonorris: he talks about me 🥹

userfour: i think they broke the internet for good this time

userfive: helpppp lando in the comments 😭😭

usersix: imagine your teacher being oscar piastri’s WIFE

userseven: i hope nicole didn’t find out through instagram

nicolepiastri: no, but i did find out he got engaged three weeks after it happened!

alex_albon: @/landonorris take this L and hold it you dweeb

landonorris: 🖕🖕

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bucksaiga · 3 months ago

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Hello. Me again. My post warning people about bots cloning posts broke containment a bit and my good friend @xofemeraldstars and I have been doing a little investigating.

If you look at this cloned post carefully, you'll notice a teofilo.io link beneath the cloned gif. Read More also leads to the same URL.

I did a URL scan, and the link itself leads to some live streaming website.

Kya and I tested a theory and filtered teofilo.io in our Filtered Post Content settings.

Then, we briefly checked the tags of a few affected fandoms and noticed the cloned posts had been successfully filtered out.

This does NOT solve the problem, but it does make it easier to figure out which posts to ignore and which blogs to block on sight. So I suggest you go to your settings and filter out teofilo.io

I'll be on the lookout for other links and update this post as needed. Feel free to reach out to me if you've seen other links too.

ALSO I don't know if this is connected for sure, but it may be ideal to go to the settings for all of your blog(s), scroll down to visibility, and turn ON prevent third-party sharing for that blog. (This is not a proven theory at all! Just a little preventative measure doesn't hurt)

And until this stops, accounts without icons/blank blogs...you are not off the hook. Please put something on your blog so we know you're real.

Btw this post will probably get filtered out once you filter the link so please don't block me lol

UPDATE:

Here is a list of post cloning bots that you should block. I will update the list if I come across more, or someone sends me another url

openlyhauntedspy

adamantdestinyluck

4/25/25 Update: The previous blogs were deleted and new blogs are popping up

#if you see this you can tag it with your fandom if you're experiencing this #not tagging any fandoms in case someone has a fandom tag filtered #so if you see this please signal boost

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newmoonlover009 · 5 months ago

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Distracted - Charlie Swan

“Just kiss me.”

Charlie Swan x Fem!Reader

Summary - Bella tasks you to keep Charlie distracted as she battles her new "sickness." You do as she says. In more ways than one.

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: 18+, sexual content, age gap (reader is 23), lying, subtle angst, quickie, fast-paced, kissing, slight grinding/dry humping, neck kissing, unprotected piv sex, a bit of cock warming, cream pie, the use of the words "cunt" and "cock," and the pet name "baby."

(Let me know if I missed any.)

Disclaimer: Apologies for any potential spelling errors or grammar mistakes. Twilight au—details won’t be accurate to the films or books—they are rewritten to fit the story.

a/n - yippee, my first post on my multi-fandom account. In all honesty, I did not proofread this one shot as thoroughly as I usually do. So, apologies in advance if it seems rushed. Enjoy <3

Truth be told, you know of Bella’s… “condition.”

Why she entrusts you with her secret—you don’t know. You’ve only known Bella briefly, having moved to Forks just a year before her return. When word spread that she’d be coming home, Charlie asked you personally to become her friend—a mentor of sorts, even. With long hours at the station, Charlie didn’t have the time to hover, even when he really wanted to.

Bella liked to think Charlie didn’t hover, but he did. Even now.

“Good morning, Chief Swan!” You yelled from your porch, greeting the Chief like you did every chance you got. The two of you had been neighbors for quite some time now since you moved in right across the street into the smallest house in the neighborhood with your mom.

“Mornin’.” Charlie’s gruff voice carried across the street. Usually, he’d disappear into his lonesome house, and only leave when he was called to the station. This time, however, he paused at his door in thought. You watched curiously as he turned around, immediately locking eyes with you, and cautiously approaching your quaint porch.

“I hear your daughter is coming to town, Chief. That’s big news.” You offered conversation, still curious as to why he was purposely approaching you. Charlie was a kind man, and sometimes even friendly to outsiders, but he was still closed off. Perhaps it was your age that prompted him to maintain his distance—two decades is a large difference. Younger people probably freaked him out, you figured.

“Yeah, I’m real excited.” Though, his unenthusiastic tone said otherwise. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk about.”

“Oh, okay.” You remained an open mind, waiting for an elaboration of sorts. “What about?”

“In all honesty, I need you to do me a favor.” His tone was serious, not asking, but rather telling. You would’ve agreed either way.

“Of course, what’s up?” It seemed as though he struggled to find the words to ask, his brows furrowed as he thought intently.

“Bella hasn’t lived here since, well, a long time. She visits, sure, but other than that, she doesn’t know anyone here.” That didn’t surprise you, especially since you hadn’t seen her once since living there. What he said next, however, did surprise you. “I need you to keep an eye on her for me. I know it’s a lot to ask, but you’re close in age, right? Maybe you can provide some… input in her life that I can’t.” Well, not quite close in age. She was 17. You were 21.

“Oh, Chief Swan, I—”

“Charlie.” He corrected you.

“Charlie.” You repeated. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Bella doesn’t know me, and quite frankly, I don’t know her. You do, though.”

“Please?” He looked defeated—embarrassed that he had to enlist the help of his neighbor to welcome his teenage daughter. After seeing the silently begging look on his face, you couldn’t say no.

So, when she called you once the plane landed, returning from her short-lived honeymoon with Edward, your vision blurred and hearing rang as she whimpered the words “vampire” and “pregnant.” She informed you that tensions were high between the Cullens; debating whether she should keep it or… “get rid of it.” Alice, Edward, and Jacob strongly advocated for the latter. You, however, only knew that Bella needed a friend.

It kills you to keep a secret of this magnitude from Charlie—who’s been pacing back and forth since you arrived. Bella asked you to keep an eye on him—a trend in the Swan family, it seems—and to keep him distracted so he wouldn’t drive to the Cullen house himself and demand answers.

“Charlie, please—”

“What do you mean I can’t see her? Is she okay?” His tone is frantic; worried.

“She’s fine. She just contracted a virus and didn’t want to worry you. Clearly, it’s not working.”

“So why can’t she call me? Why are you the one telling me?” Because he’ll know something is wrong by the sound of her voice.

“Because she wanted the information given in person. She thought you deserved more than a phone call.” You deserve the truth, you think to yourself, but you’ve made a promise to Bella.

“Where’s this medical facility? I’ll go there myself–” There is no medical facility. She’s shacked up at the Cullen house just miles away.

“No, Charlie, you can’t. She didn’t even tell me, so there’s no way of you knowing.” You hate how the lies roll off your tongue with ease. He huffs in frustration at your answer, finally taking a seat on the couch while you stand just feet away in front of the television. Sorrow settles like a brick in your gut, so you sit in the empty spot just beside him, your hand landing on his shoulder to offer support. “I’m really sorry, Charlie, but you know she’s in the best hands. Edward–or Carlisle–won’t let anything bad happen to her.”

“I know…” His voice trails off, uncertainty clear in his tone. He knows you’re right, but you also know that the protective dad in him can’t sit idly by. Your heart aches to see the way his eyes glaze over, his brows in a perpetual frown since Bella left for her honeymoon. The poor man hasn’t been the same since the wedding.

His house is empty again and his routine has fallen back into what it was before she came home; working every chance he gets and ordering takeout every night. His incessant sullen gaze has returned; his eyes are no longer softer like they were when Bella was here. You feel her absence as well. The house is eerily quiet–colder than usual–and the smaller things that accumulated in their shared spaces have been packed away and moved. Alice took the liberty of packing Bella’s things.

Your relationship–or rather acquaintance–with Charlie has nearly withered since her departure. There’s no need to speak to him unless it’s to relay a message, like the unfortunate one you’re delivering now. Still, you greet him with a good morning, afternoon, and evening when you see him; which is rare. You quite enjoyed being a part of Charlie’s life, even if it was through Bella, and you felt as though you had finally cracked the man who would hardly speak to you since you moved in.

“She’ll be okay. I promise.” It’s a stupid promise to make when you’re unsure of the outcome yourself.

“I guess you’re right.” He lets out a heavy sigh, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his face falling into his hands.

You gently nod to yourself, taking that as your sign to leave. You’ve done all that you can at the moment; told him of Bella’s “sickness,” given him peace of mind, and ensured that he wouldn’t attempt to see her in person. All things Bella instructed you to do. You feel terrible knowing Charlie’s original plan was for you to watch over Bella, and now it’s been completely flipped in the opposite direction.

“I should get going.” You announce, patting his shoulder and grabbing his attention once more. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything else from her.”

Charlie nods, his warm eyes finding yours. He lifts himself from the couch with a gentle huff and stands to walk you to the door, as he always does. As you mirror his movements, the two of you face each other, subtle awkwardness creeping into the space between you. He’s decently taller than you, forcing your head to tilt back as you match his gaze. His eyes are masking a million different emotions, just screaming to be let out, so you provide the only form of comfort you can think of. Lifting your arms from your sides to reach toward him, his watchful eyes observe your actions as you lazily wrap them around his waist.

His body freezes, stunned by your affection, as you rest your head against his broad chest. Your cheek lays against his cotton T-shirt, saturated in his warm scent—woodsy, cinnamon, and smoky–as if he had just built a fire to combat the slowly approaching frost. A beat passes before you feel his arms wrap around your shoulders, his head craning down to rest his scruffed cheek on the top of your head. His heart is pounding in his chest, the muffled sound knocking against your ear. As if to absorb his hurt, you hug him more firmly, your hands interlocking behind him as you adjust your grip.

“Thank you for coming over.” His defeated voice finally speaks above you, and a hand soothingly rubs your shoulder. “It was nice seeing you again.”

The feeling's mutual. The last real conversation you had with him was the wedding night. It hurt your feelings a bit; further confirming that Charlie was only interested in talking to you about Bella, nothing more. Sure, that was the deal, but you had hoped for more. Whatever “more” was, you still aren’t sure.

“Of course.” You breathe out, leaning back to look up at him, your arms still wrapped around him. “I hope to see you again soon. Under better circumstances.”

“Me too.” He lets out a defeated chuckle, the humor absent. “Let me walk you out.”

Although, neither of you moves. His hands stay spread on the expanse of your back as his conflicted gaze bores into yours. An unspoken magnetic pull lures you to him, his eyes locking yours in a curious trance. Your stomach flips when he swiftly leans in, capturing your lips in a chaste kiss. Mere milliseconds pass before his lips are ripped away; just as quickly as they had come.

Your eyes widen and the grip you have on him releases as you take a precautionary step back. Jaw falling slack, your lips part in utter shock, and your eyes blink rapidly as if you’re in a haze. Your face has surely turned crimson, the heat creeping up your neck and settling in the peaks of your cheeks. The look on his face, however, is just as shocked as you are–like he couldn’t believe he did that. He looks… ashamed. It’s almost visible on his face–the way his thoughts race–his voice catching in his throat as if to offer an explanation.

“Charlie…”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have–”

“Kiss me again.” You rush out, “Please.”

“Are you sure–”

“Just kiss me.” You nearly groan. Unable to wait a moment longer, you step forward to close the short distance between you two, your arms finding their way around his neck and feet standing on their tippy-toes. Your lips crash onto his, your eyes fluttering close as his hands snake around your waist, desperately gripping at your clothed skin. A low hum purrs from his throat while he deepens the kiss, dipping his head lower to accommodate you and satisfy his fast-growing hunger. His mustache and the stubble on his chin rub against you, adding to the pleasurable sensation pooling in your gut.

This was not what you intended when you were tasked with keeping him distracted, but you can’t find a part of you willing to stop. Not when he pulls you in closer by the waist, his fingers digging deeper into your heated flesh, grasping at you so you can’t pull away–like you ever would.

Taking the initiative, your tongue darts from your parted lips, swiping along his bottom lip and eliciting a groan from Charlie. The sound is like music to your ears, only fueling you further when your hands find his loose waves, gripping gently and tugging at the roots. Following your lead, his tongue combats yours, invading your senses with his taste, his smell, him.

Without breaking the persisting kiss, Charlie moves you both and pulls you with him as he lands on the couch in a seated position. Instinctually, your legs straddle him–your skirt lifting and bunching at your hips–and you finally lean away from him to catch your breath, your chest heaving in response. Through parted lips, Charlie lets out quick huffs, his back slowly leaning against the couch to allow his eyes to rake over your appearance; flushed cheeks, kiss-swollen lips, and hooded eyes that silently beg for more.

The sight of him is ungodly; sitting man-spread, hands now lazily resting against your hips, and eyes that flood with lust–the chocolatey irises being swallowed by dilated pupils. You need more of him.

Slouching slightly, you lean into him as your lips connect with his neck, leaving sloppy open-mouth kisses along the sensitive skin. His head tilts to the side to grant better access as a strained noise collects on the tip of his tongue. Your hips absently move against him and a surprised sound comes from you when the bulge of his jeans lines up with your aching core. The dull sensation urges you to seek more friction, making Charlie’s hands grip your hips to assist in your efforts.

Soft, satisfied sighs brush past your lips as you continue your work on his exposed neck, pulling small grunts from him and subtle jerks of his hips.

“Are you sure you want this?” His drawn voice calls to you, letting you know you can stop while you’re ahead. The thing is, you don’t want to.

“So sure.” You mumble against his skin. “Are you?” Asking sincerely, you stop what you’re doing to catch his gaze.

He only nods, his eyes darting to your lips and hands absently squeezing, encouraging you to continue. Slowly, you roll your hips against him, building the previous friction back up. The feeling is deliciously teasing, only reaching a certain level of fulfillment before it becomes unbearable. You hold his line of sight, watching as his face gently contorts into a frustrated frown, needing more as much as you do. His brows furrow, creasing the skin between them, and a low grumble gathers in his chest as his legs shift restlessly beneath you.

Releasing your grip from his hair, your hands lay flat as they palm at his shoulders, spread across his chest, and travel down his abdomen, pausing just above the waistband of his jeans. You halt your hip movements, letting your fingers tease at the zipper before asking, “Can I?”

“Please.”

It’s the only word he can muster before you undo the zipper at a tantalizing pace, the soft noise only adding to the fluttering feeling gathering in your lower belly. You quickly unfasten the jeans button, folding the rough denim fabric over to expose his boxers beneath. His jaw clenches when you tug the waistband of his jeans down just enough to reach into the stretchy material and firmly grip him. His stomach visibly tightens through his shirt, a low grunt exiting with a shaky breath as you free his hardened cock. Impressive.

Your closed fist works up and down his length a few times, admiring the way precum leaks from the reddened tip, pouring over onto your hand. Charlie struggles to show restraint as his hips shift upward to match your rhythm. You’re eager as well, feeling wetness gather and soak into the cotton fabric of your underwear.

Impatience gets the better of you when you release him, smirking at the sound of protest from him as your hands find the bottom hem of your skirt and tug the clothing item upward to gather around your waist. His mouth clamps shut when your soaked underwear comes into view, exposing the absolute arousal he elicits from you. Usually, you’d opt for more foreplay, but you need him–you need him now.

Unwilling to waste time, you pull your underwear to the side, using your other hand to grasp Charlie once more. With a little maneuvering, you scoot closer to him, lifting yourself slightly to align him with your cunt. He sucks in a sharp breath when you run the tip through your velvety folds, gathering every ounce of arousal before stopping at your dripping entrance.

Slowly, you lower yourself, allowing your hips to sink onto him and inch his way into you. Neither of you dares to breathe as your walls stretch around him, welcoming him and swallowing every inch until you’ve sunken completely. Both of you gasp–for air, and because of the way his cock twitches and your walls squeeze around him. He’s filled you entirely and you bite back the moan that begs to release. Without even moving, the feeling itself is euphoric.

“I need a minute.” He admits, his voice gravelly and forcing self-control.

“Me too.” You breathe out, your hands resting against his waist for support.

Staying put, you lean forward, capturing his lips in a leisurely kiss. The moments leading up to this one have gone by in a blur, having happened so fast. You savor him, enjoying the way he can’t control the soft groans you swallow as your lips work against his, your walls pulsing in response.

Your hands travel from below you, your fingertips ghosting over his lower stomach, his ribs, and his chest before settling on the sides of his face. His stubble scratches the surface of your palms as you deepen the kiss, humming in satisfaction when he invades your mouth with his tongue. Growing impatient, you feel Charlie’s hands grip tighter, urging you to lift your hips.

The kiss is unbreaking as you follow his lead, letting him raise your hips and pull you back down onto his length. You moan into his mouth as he repeats this action a few more times before you decide to take over. Heavy breaths blow through his nose as you speed up, creating a steady rhythm that satisfies the both of you. You’re unsure how long you’ll last given the coil that’s been wound up tight since grinding against him fully clothed, which technically, you still are.

With your breath picking up, you break the kiss to focus solely on lifting and lowering your hips. The pace is growing quicker, and you notice Charlie’s hips moving to match your efforts. Resting your forehead against his, you lock eyes as you allow an uncontrollable string of moans to push past your plump lips, your eyebrows scrunching in pure pleasure.

“I’m so close.” You confess, feeling your walls flutter around him in that familiar rhythmic pattern.

“Keep going, baby.” His encouragement and use of the pet name through clenched teeth signals that his climax is nearing as well.

Preserving energy and seeking release, you grind your hips instead, and you nearly cry out when your swollen clit rubs against him. It’s enough to bring you to the edge, your climax teetering and waiting to be pushed over. With a few more passes of your grinding hips, it doesn’t take long, and your head flies back to let out a drawn-out moan.

“Oh god, Charlie.” Your voice points to the ceiling as your eyes squeeze shut, your hips sputtering against him. Your cunt pulses frantically around him as you continue your movements, riding out your crashing orgasm and urging Charlie to do the same.

From the force of your climax, Charlie isn’t far behind. His name leaves your lips in an exasperated whimper, being repeated like a mantra. When your head falls forward, and your spent stare captures his, it’s enough to send him over the edge. With a choked groan, you feel his cock twitch inside you, coating your walls with hot cum as he stares deeply into you. Determined to wring out his orgasm, your hips move languidly despite the overwhelming sensation it creates for you, watching as his stomach flexes sporadically.

He lets out a choked noise when he’s finished, the grip on your hips loosening and prompting you to slow to a stop. The mixture of your releases drips out of you, pooling at the base of his cock. Both of you breathe heavily, your chests heaving in harmony as your eyes bore into each other.

You expect a feeling of regret to wash over you, but it never comes.

Instead, Charlie’s hands slide to your waist and pull you closer, his lips peppering gentle kisses along your jaw, hairline, and lips. He reaches over beside him, grabbing a flannel he left draped over the back of the couch. Carefully, he drapes the patterned material over your shoulders, and your hands drop from his face, letting you lean forward and rest your head against his chest. You aren’t necessarily cold, but having shared an intimate moment with him, Charlie feels the need to cover you–to make you feel less exposed and to provide care.

“We should get cleaned up.” You mumble against him, feeling him soften inside of you.

“Okay…” His voice trails off, as if deep in thought. A beat passes before he speaks again, his gruff voice rumbling against your cheek from deep within his chest. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

You smile, genuinely in what feels like forever, “I’d love to.”

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