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reasoningdaily · 9 months

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NEWBERN, Ala. — There’s a power struggle in Newbern, Alabama, and the rural town’s first Black mayor is at war with the previous administration who he says locked him out of Town Hall.

After years of racist harassment and intimidation, Patrick Braxton is fed up, and in a federal civil rights lawsuit he is accusing town officials of conspiring to deny his civil rights and his position because of his race.

“When I first became mayor, [a white woman told me] the town was not ready for a Black mayor,” Braxton recalls.

The town is 85% Black, and 29% of Black people here live below the poverty line.

“What did she mean by the town wasn’t ready for a Black mayor? They, meaning white people?” Capital B asked.

“Yes. No change,” Braxton says.

Decades removed from a seemingly Jim Crow South, white people continue to thwart Black political progress by refusing to allow them to govern themselves or participate in the country’s democracy, several residents told Capital B. While litigation may take months or years to resolve, Braxton and community members are working to organize voter education, registration, and transportation ahead of the 2024 general election.

But the tension has been brewing for years.

Two years ago, Braxton says he was the only volunteer firefighter in his department to respond to a tree fire near a Black person’s home in the town of 275 people. As Braxton, 57, actively worked to put out the fire, he says, one of his white colleagues tried to take the keys to his fire truck to keep him from using it.

In another incident, Braxton, who was off duty at the time, overheard an emergency dispatch call for a Black woman experiencing a heart attack. He drove to the fire station to retrieve the automated external defibrillator, or AED machine, but the locks were changed, so he couldn’t get into the facility. He raced back to his house, grabbed his personal machine, and drove over to the house, but he didn’t make it in time to save her. Braxton wasn’t able to gain access to the building or equipment until the Hale County Emergency Management Agency director intervened, the lawsuit said.

“I have been on several house fires by myself,” Braxton says. “They hear the radio and wouldn’t come. I know they hear it because I called dispatch, and dispatch set the tone call three or four times for Newbern because we got a certain tone.”

Not only has he been locked out of the town hall and fought fires alone, but he’s been followed by a drone and unable to retrieve the town’s mail and financial accounts, he says. Rather than concede, Haywood “Woody” Stokes III, the former white mayor, along with his council members, reappointed themselves to their positions after ordering a special election that no one knew about.

Braxton is suing them, the People’s Bank of Greensboro, and the postmaster at the U.S. Post Office.

For at least 60 years, there’s never been an election in the town. Instead, the mantle has been treated as a “hand me down” by the small percentage of white residents, according to several residents Capital B interviewed. After being the only one to submit qualifying paperwork and statement of economic interests, Braxton became the mayor.

Stokes and his council — which consists of three white people (Gary Broussard, Jesse Leverett, Willie Tucker) and one Black person (Voncille Brown Thomas) — deny any wrongdoing in their response to the amended complaint filed on April 17. They also claim qualified immunity, which protects state and local officials from individual liability from civil lawsuits.

The attorneys for all parties, including the previous town council, the bank, and Lynn Thiebe, the postmaster at the post office, did not respond to requests for comment.

The town where voting never was

Over the past 50 years, Newbern has held a majority Black population. The town was incorporated in 1854 and became known as a farm town. The Great Depression and the mechanization of the cotton industry contributed to Newbern’s economic and population decline, according to the Encyclopedia of Alabama.

Today, across Newbern’s 1.2 square miles sits the town hall and volunteer fire department constructed by Auburn’s students, an aging library, U.S. Post Office, and Mercantile, the only store there, which Black people seldom frequent because of high prices and a lack of variety of products, Braxton says.

“They want to know why Black [people] don’t shop with them. You don’t have nothin’ the Black [people] want or need,” he says. “No gasoline. … They used to sell country-time bacon and cheese and souse meat. They stopped selling that because they say they didn’t like how it feel on their hands when they cuttin’ the meat.”

To help unify the town, Braxton began hosting annual Halloween parties for the children, and game day for the senior citizens. But his efforts haven’t been enough to stop some people from moving for better jobs, industry, and quality of life.

Residents say the white town leaders have done little to help the predominantly Black area thrive over the years. They question how the town has spent its finances, as Black residents continue to struggle. Under the American Rescue Plan Act, Newbern received $30,000, according to an estimated funding sheet by Alabama Democratic U.S. Rep. Terri Sewell, but residents say they can’t see where it has gone.

At the First Baptist Church of Newbern, Braxton, three of his selected council members — Janice Quarles, 72, Barbara Patrick, 78, and James Ballard, 76 — and the Rev. James Williams, 77, could only remember two former mayors: Robert Walthall, who served as mayor for 44 years, and Paul Owens, who served on the council for 33 years and mayor for 11.

“At one point, we didn’t even know who the mayor was,” Ballard recalls. “If you knew somebody and you was white, and your grandfather was in office when he died or got sick, he passed it on down to the grandson or son, and it’s been that way throughout the history of Newbern.”

Quarles agreed, adding: “It took me a while to know that Mr. Owens was the mayor. I just thought he was just a little man cleaning up on the side of the road, sometimes picking up paper. I didn’t know until I was told that ‘Well, he’s the mayor now.’”

Braxton mentioned he heard of a Black man named Mr. Hicks who previously sought office years ago.

“This was before my time, but I heard Mr. Hicks had won the mayor seat and they took it from him the next day [or] the next night,” Braxton said. “It was another Black guy, had won years ago, and they took it from.”

“I hadn’t heard that one,” Ballard chimes in, sitting a few seats away from Braxton.

“How does someone take the seat from him, if he won?” Capital B asked.

“The same way they’re trying to do now with Mayor Braxton,” Quarles chuckled. “Maybe at that time — I know if it was Mr. Hicks — he really had nobody else to stand up with him.”

Despite the rumor, what they did know for sure: There was never an election, and Stokes had been in office since 2008.

The costs to challenging the white power structure

After years of disinvestment, Braxton’s frustrations mounted at the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, when he says Stokes refused to commemorate state holidays or hang up American flags. When the COVID-19 pandemic hit, the majority-white council failed to provide supplies such as disinfectant, masks, and humidifiers to residents to mitigate the risks of contracting the virus.

Instead of waiting, Braxton made several trips to neighboring Greensboro, about 10 miles away, to get food and other items to distribute to Black and white residents. He also placed signs around town about vaccination. He later found his signs had been destroyed and put in “a burn pile,” he said.

After years of unmet needs of the community, Braxton decided to qualify for mayor. Only one Black person — Brown Thomas, who served with Stokes —has ever been named to the council. After Braxton told Stokes, the acting mayor, his intention to run, the conspiracy began, the lawsuit states.

According to the lawsuit, Stokes gave Braxton the wrong information on how to qualify for mayor. Braxton then consulted with the Alabama Conference of Black Mayors, and the organization told him to file his statement of candidacy and statement of the economic interests with the circuit clerk of Hale County and online with the state, the lawsuit states. Vickie Moore, the organization’s executive director, said it also guided Braxton on how to prepare for his first meeting and other mayoral duties.

Moore, an Alabama native and former mayor of Slocomb, said she has never heard of other cases across the state where elected officials who have never been elected are able to serve. This case with Braxton is “racism,” she said.

“The true value of a person can’t be judged by the color of their skin, and that’s what’s happening in this case here, and it’s the worst racism I’ve ever seen,” Moore said. “We have fought so hard for simple rights. It’s one of the most discouraging but encouraging things because it encourages us to continue to move forward … and continue to fight.”

Political and legal experts say what’s happening in Newbern is rare, but the tactics to suppress Black power aren’t, especially across the South. From tampering with ballot boxes to restricting reading material, “the South has been resistant to all types of changes” said Emmitt Riley III, associate professor of political science and Africana Studies at The University of the South.

“This is a clear case of white [people] attempting to seize and maintain political power in the face of someone who went through the appropriate steps to qualify and to run for office and by default wins because no one else qualified,” Riley added. “This raises a number of questions about democracy and a free and fair system of governance.”

Riley mentioned a different, but similar case in rural Greenwood, Mississippi. Sheriel Perkins, a longtime City Council member, became the first Black female mayor in 2006, serving for only two years. She ran again in 2013 and lost by 206 votes to incumbent Carolyn McAdams, who is white. Perkins contested the results, alleging voter fraud. White people allegedly paid other white people to live in the city in order to participate in the election and cast a legal vote, Riley said. In that case, the state Supreme Court dismissed the case and “found Perkins presented no evidence” that anyone voted illegally in a precinct, but rather it was the election materials that ended up in the wrong precincts.

“It was also on record that one white woman got on the witness stand and said, ‘I came back to vote because I was contacted to vote by X person.’ I think you see these tactics happening all across the South in local elections, in particular,” Riley said. “It becomes really difficult for people to really litigate these cases because in many cases it goes before the state courts, and state courts have not been really welcoming to overturning elections and ordering new elections.”

Another example: Camilla, Georgia.

In 2015, Rufus Davis was elected as the first Black male mayor of rural, predominantly Black Camilla. In 2017, the six-person City Council — half Black and half white — voted to deny him a set of keys to City Hall, which includes his office. Davis claimed the white city manager, Bennett Adams, had been keeping him from carrying out his mayoral duties.

The next year, Davis, along with Black City Council member Venterra Pollard, boycotted the city’s meetings because of “discrimination within the city government,” he told a local news outlet. Some of the claims included the absence of Black officers in the police department, and the city’s segregated cemetery, where Black people cannot be buried next to white people. (The wire fence that divided the cemetery was taken down in 2018). In 2018, some citizens of the small town of about 5,000 people wanted to remove Davis from office and circulated a petition that garnered about 200 signatures. In 2019, he did not seek re-election for office.

“You’re not the mayor”

After being the only person to qualify and submit proper paperwork for any municipal office, Braxton became mayor-elect and the first Black mayor in Newbern’s history on July 22, 2020.

Following the announcement, Braxton appointed members to join his council, consistent with the practice of previous leadership. He asked both white and Black people to serve, he said, but the white people told him they didn’t want to get involved.

The next month, Stokes and the former council members, Broussard, Leverett, Brown Thomas, and Tucker, called a secret meeting to adopt an ordinance to conduct a special election on Oct. 6 because they “allegedly forgot to qualify as candidates,” according to the lawsuit, which also alleges the meeting was not publicized. The defendants deny this claim, but admit to filing statements of candidacy to be elected at the special election, according to their response to an amended complaint filed on their behalf.

Because Stokes and his council were the only ones to qualify for the Oct. 6 election, they reappointed themselves as the town council. On Nov. 2, 2020, Braxton and his council members were sworn into office and filed an oath of office with the county probate judge’s office. Ten days later, the city attorney’s office executed an oath of office for Stokes and his council.

After Braxton held his first town meeting in November, Stokes changed the locks to Town Hall to keep him and his council from accessing the building. For months, the two went back and forth on changing the locks until Braxton could no longer gain access. At some point, Braxton says he discovered all official town records had been removed or destroyed, except for a few boxes containing meeting minutes and other documents.

Braxton also was prevented from accessing the town’s financial records with the People’s Bank of Greensboro and the city clerk, and obtaining mail from the town’s post office. At every turn, he was met with a familiar answer: “You’re not the mayor.” Separately, he’s had drones following him to his home and mother’s home and had a white guy almost run him off the road, he says.

Braxton asserts he’s experienced these levels of harassment and intimidation to keep him from being the mayor, he said.

“Not having the Lord on your side, you woulda’ gave up,” he told Capital B.

‘Ready to fire away’

In the midst of the obstacles, Braxton kept pushing. He partnered with LaQuenna Lewis, founder of Love Is What Love Does, a Selma-based nonprofit focused on enriching the lives of disadvantaged people in Dallas, Perry, and Hale counties through such means as food distribution, youth programming, and help with utility bills. While meeting with Braxton, Lewis learned more about his case and became an investigator with her friend Leslie Sebastian, a former advocacy attorney based in California.

The three began reviewing thousands of documents from the few boxes Braxton found in Town Hall, reaching out to several lawyers and state lawmakers such as Sen. Bobby Singleton and organizations such as the Southern Poverty Law Center. No one wanted to help.

When the white residents learned Lewis was helping Braxton, she, too, began receiving threats early last year. She received handwritten notes in the mail with swastikas and derogatory names such as the n-word and b-word. One of theletters had a drawing of her and Braxton being lynched.

Another letter said they had been watching her at the food distribution site and hoped she and Braxton died. They also made reference to her children, she said. Lewis provided photos of the letters, but Capital B will not publish them. In October, Lewis and her children found their house burned to the ground. The cause was undetermined, but she thinks it may have been connected.

Lewis, Sebastian, and Braxton continued to look for attorneys that would take the case. Braxton filed a complaint in Alabama’s circuit court last November, but his attorney at the time stopped answering his calls. In January, they found a new attorney, Richard Rouco, who filed an amended complaint in federal court.

“He went through a total of five attorneys prior to me meeting them last year, and they pretty much took his money. We ran into some big law firms who were supposed to help and they kind of misled him,” Lewis says.

Right now, the lawsuit is in the early stages, Rouco says, and the two central issues of the case center on whether the previous council with Stokes were elected as they claim and if they gave proper notice.

Braxton and his team say they are committed to still doing the work in light of the lawsuit. Despite the obstacles, Braxton is running for mayor again in 2025. Through AlabamaLove.org, the group is raising money to provide voter education and registration, and address food security and youth programming. Additionally, they all hope they can finally bring their vision of a new Newbern to life.

For Braxton, it’s bringing grocery and convenience stores to the town. Quarles wants an educational and recreational center for children. Williams, the First Baptist Church minister, wants to build partnerships to secure grants in hopes of getting internet and more stores.

“I believe we done put a spark to the rocket, and it’s going [to get ready] to fire away,” Williams says at his church. “This rocket ready to fire away, and it’s been hovering too long.”

Correction: In Newbern, Alabama, 29% of the Black population lives below the poverty line. An earlier version of this story misstated the percentage

#alabama #Newbern Alabama #A Black Man Was Elected Mayor in Rural Alabama #but the White Town Leaders Won’t Let Him Serve #Patrick Braxton #AlabamaLove.org #black lives matter

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holy-puckslibrary · 4 months

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━ 𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐑-𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑

˗ˏˋ main masterlist ˎˊ˗

pairing(s) — counselor!JACK HUGHES x counselor!reader word count — 1.4k

note — i was (and still am) super proud of how i executed this concept, and i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoy re-reading it!

recommended viewing — friday the 13th (1980), fear street: 1978 (2021)

bingo squares and additional content warnings below the cut.

bingo squares — sex in water, risky location/exhibitionism, and fear play additional content warnings — a few jokes about death/dying and murder, rather short n tame ("vanilla") barely-there spice from me???, jack being a little shithead (and a little switchy omg), a smidge of angst, and spoopy ending... (kevin heimbach hive rise!)

“Y’know, for someone who is so paranoid about being caught, you sure scream like you aren’t.”

The lake smacks Jack Hughes’ chest just moments before the true expulsion of annoyance. The succinct burst of emotion is pre-packaged into a lame wave. One that only stokes his predisposition for button-pushing—hers being a personal favorite target of his.

“Y'know, for someone so desperate to get laid, you sure do everything to guarantee the only thing you'll be fucking is your hand."

Jack's jaw unhinges as if making ample room for whatever semi-clever perverted retort is bound to manifest, but it slams shut prematurely. His only response is a strained whimper accompanying an audible gulp.

Wide eyes bulging, his gaze never leaves the woody shore at your back.

"J-Jack, I'm serious. Cut it out. Right now."

Your blunt, conduct code-mandated nails slice their way through the sunburnt skin of his shoulders—the much-deserved consequence of brushing off the sunscreen you offered him prior to his afternoon shift at the canoes.

He hisses, mostly out of irritation, but keeps otherwise mum.

Unwittingly, further panic stirs in your gut at that, sending your tense face into his waiting chest.

"I-It's not funny—it never was. And it's absolutely not now, e-either. Please, Jack. Just, just knock it off, o-okay?"

"Or what, babe?"

His husky voice carries across the water and the trees rustle in response.

You loathe the way that innocuous noise shoves you deeper into his embrace, clutching onto his lithe, toned form like he isn't the instigator of your palpable distress.

"Stop pretending you see him, or I'll... I'll... —"

Any threat you could've come up with would've been hollow at best, you both know it. Even if you weren't strung out from a full day of covert teasing and stolen glances, your fear of what might lurk in the shadowy depths between you and the dock would be more than enough to keep you firmly planted.

Jack set himself up with yet another perfectly easy jump-scare, but as you helplessly cling to him like a soggy kitten at the mere implication of danger, he's presented with a better, more delicious opportunity to burrow under your thin skin.

Oh, how he lives to make you squirm.

Soft lips lower to your ear, "Is that really what you want? Because I don't think the lake's the only reason my dick is soaked."

"I-I don't know what you're talking about, Hughes."

You try and avoid his X-ray vision, but it doesn't matter. It hardly ever does.

"Really? Well, allow me to enlighten you, hm?"

His tone has you rolling your eyes even though he can't see them.

Jack holds you tighter, sharply bucking his hips until you whine, before he whispers, "I think you like when I scare you—or, at least, your pussy does. The poor thing, gushin' and squeezin' whenever you jump for me. Every damn time, babe. I damn near thought you'd squirted last time I got ya that good."

You grumble because he's right. Only about your physical reaction, of course. Definitely not the other things.

You definitely did not enjoy being scared shitless, and you definitely did not squirt when he pretended something—or someone—was pulling him under. You'd be damned if your first time doing that came at the hand of such juvenile flippancy.

"Quit talking and fuck me, Hughes. We don't have all night; Alice still isn't over the nightmares."

Every year, there was always one of those campers, and, this year, Alice was that one. A kid so freaked out by local legend that you have to wonder how their parent or guardian managed to get them up here in the first place. Or, why anyone thought sending them up into the mountains for the summer was a good idea to begin with.

It never takes long for the nightmares to start. Especially once the inaugural midnight bonfire passes and the sightings start making the rounds. Wind-carried screams, a flash of metal, the too-thick drip off of the leaves, torn flesh...

Everything in graphic detail, and every detail insomnia fodder at its peak.

If a camper lucked out, they had a counselor they could attach themselves to in the wee hours of the morning as they shook through waves of fear. Alice weaseled her way into your bunk every night this past week, bottom lip trembling as tears streamed down her face, always rambling about the same thing: a silent killer in a cheap mask wielding long, menacing blade.

Nightly, while you've donned a brave face, it's been as genuine as the plastic allegedly worn by the personified cautionary tale. Because, once upon a time, you had been that camper, too—and Jack had a front-row seat to your adolescent terror.

To this day, he finds your ardent belief in the legend a point of amusement.

He won't be laughing, though, when Alice finds your bunk empty and runs crying to the supervisor cabin, thinking you'd been the latest victim—the first in thirty years.

If you're going down, you're dragging jack hughes down with you. He can explain to your parents why you're home two months early—and unemployed.

His forehead falls to your shoulder, wafts of damp hair tickling the bare skin as he groans. Jack never bothers masking his ire. "That snot-nosed third grader is the last thing I want to think about when I'm balls-deep. Total boner-killer, babe."

"Jason Vorhees is the last thing I want to think about right now, but you never seem to care about that, do you?" you growl.

Your ankles tighten around his waist at just the thought of the camp's very own boogeyman.

If you were smart, you'd stop hooking up with the one person dead-set on sending you to an early grave all for a laugh.

The apparent inevitability of your trysts wasn't for a lack of options. No, every year there was plenty. But every year, Jack Hughes was the only peer you snuck out for.

After that many midnights, you would think his recycled material would lose its edge. Unfortunately for you, that's yet to happen.

You tug on a fistful of hair at the nape of his neck. He nips at your throat in retaliation; you don't have the confidence to tell him you like that, too.

"Fine, fine," he laments, eyes pinched shut and wincing. "Truce?"

"Truce," you nod and relinquish your tight grip. "Now, make me cum."

"Yes, ma'am."

"See? I told you it was fine. No wandering campers, no prying Visors," Jack hums, an arm looped around your shoulders. "And no hockey masks or machetes, either."

Your soft, grudging giggle harmonizes with the cicadas.

When you reach your cabin, he pecks your damp temple. "You should trust me more often."

You knew once you caved to the lake idea, he'd never let it go, but you'd be remiss if you said it didn't turn you on just as much as it did him. That, however, doesn't mean you're eager for an encore any time soon.

Next summer, perhaps. If he played his cards right.

"Yeah, right," you snort while eclipsing the two meager steps with him on your heels.

His ego is beginning to rub you the wrong way as your post-orgasm bliss fades. Still, you can't resist pulling him closer now that no one else is around.

Kiss-swollen lips ghosting over his, you whisper, "Over my dead body."

His eyes go dark; a rare flicker of concern. "Don't say shit like that, babe, you'll jinx it... And i've still got so much planned for your body."

"Well, it's a good thing you've got an entire summer, isn't it?"

"Only because you won't let me touch you outside of Camp Nightwing," jack huffs, mostly under his breath. His jaw is too tight, but his voice is louder, "Just think of what i could do with the other nine months."

He doesn't bother disguising the bitterness weighing on his voice or his conscience, and that alone is enough to make you skittish. It hurts to swallow, and the mounting nausea certainly isn't helping, but it's a necessary evil to rid yourself of the lump clawing up your throat.

Jack Hughes talks a big game, but that's all it'll ever be. A game.

You won't make the same mistake twice.

"Get lost before you wake my campers, Hughes." You wave your hand dismissively as you take a step back—and out of his magnetic field. "We've got a big day tomorrow."

He drops the complaint as easily as he championed it.

"I'm going, I'm going." Jack raises his hands in surrender, laughing as he backs away from the porch. "Wouldn't want to rob the little boogers of their last moments of peace before my reigning Color War champs kick their asses—for the fifth consecutive year."

Your reluctant affection glimmers in the moonlight as you shake your head. "I hate you so much."

"No, you don't!" Jack calls over his towel-clad shoulder.

You're still smiling when the screen door smacks the dilapidated wooden frame.

As his jubilant footsteps fade down the path and you settle in your bunk, a large shadow slips between the moon and the cabin's front window.

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katiexpunk · 7 months

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28 Floors, Part 2 | Joel Miller x f!reader

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader Rating: 18+, minors DNI, don't make it awkward pls. Word count: 1.7K Series summary: You're a good girl. A senator's daughter who is always there to show your support to your father. What he doesn't know is that his best friend, Joel Miller, is practically the only real reason you show up to events to support him. Series warnings etc: [NO OUTBREAK/AU] We'll call him dad's best friend Joel from his time in the Army, fairly soft!joel, age difference (28/47), alcohol, sexual tension, slow burn...and eventually smut, like shitttt that's smut. Part 1 Part 2 - you're already here Part 3 Part 4 ?? Read on AO3 Chapter summary: Joel has his way with you on your ride up to the 28th floor. Chapter warnings: Slow burn; praise kink; fingering; pet names; pining; age gap; dbf!Joel A/N: I was so blown away by the love you all showed Part 1 - my first fic ever. Thank you so much! Your encouragement means the world to me. Expect the wait for part 3 to be shorter. If you like this, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment -- thanks, babes. Ilysm.

The elevator's low hum reverberates through the confined space, setting the stage for what's to come.

As he pivots to face you, his shoe emits a squeak against the slightly sticky floor.

In one fluid, almost predatory motion, his broad frame is closing the gap between your bodies.

Joel’s arms are by your sides, and the railing behind you becomes a lifeline for his grip, his knuckles straining as they bleach under the pressure.

His hips boldly assert themselves against yours, leaving nothing to the imagination as his suit and your delicate dress dance together in friction.

The sheer size of his growing cock against you takes your breath away.

It’s not like you didn’t already know that he would be big, you could have guessed as much given the size of the rest of him, but to have him on you like this was an undeniable testament to his magnitude.

A surge of desire courses through you like a bolt of lightning, your body responding with intensity.

Your nipples harden in response to the anticipation of his touch.

His presence engulfs you, bringing with it the intoxicating scent of his woody cologne.

The aroma leaves you weak-kneed, your legs trembling as if they were made of gelatin and he hasn’t even touched you yet.

Under the weight of him, you begin to melt, a chorus of electric tingles erupting in your belly. He exudes an undeniable heat, his gaze locking onto your face with an insatiable yearning.

Your cheeks flush with hot blood. His eyes, a seductive murmur, trace your features like a map, only stoking the growing fire within you.

“You look real pretty tonight, baby” he whispers.

"This body is gonna kill me one day” his voice offers, pressing harder against you.

He looks at you with hungry eyes.

A man starved.

But if looks could kill, you'd undoubtedly be the one to succumb, given the intensity of his gaze.

His right hand relinquishes its grip on the railing.

Yes. Touch me.

His knuckles delicately graze your cheek and the sharp edge of your jaw, sending shivers down your spine.

His large palm finally finds its place on the column of your throat.

You didn’t even notice, but you've been holding your breath, your pulse racing as dizziness swirls through your senses.

You can't help but wonder if he can feel the chaotic tempest he stirs within you.

Burning under the weight of his palm, you whimper, "Joel."

“Darlin’,” his eyes flint to your lips and back up to yours.

“I…we…I..” you sigh, your voice barely audible amidst the mounting tension.

“I know, baby. We really shouldn’t be doing this,” Joel weakly protests, his head tilting to the side.

His hand abandons your throat, sweeping your hair back before landing gently on your shoulder. Perhaps it's his feeble attempt to convince himself, and you, that this is a bad idea.

It isn’t.

Before you can respond, his lips find solace in the lobe of your ear, delivering a gentle, lingering kiss that seems to erase any doubts.

It's a silent promise of the passion and longing that have been simmering beneath the surface all these years, just begging, fighting, to come to the surface.

It’s a promise that neither of you can resist any longer.

“But I’ve just got to know what you’ve got under that little fuckin’ dress of yours,” he whispers into your ear, his warm breath sending delicious shivers down your spine.

His hand leaves your shoulder and the tips of his fingertips trace a teasing path down the full length of your exposed vertebrae.

Fuck.

His touch sears your heart with a heady desire that leaves you aching for more.

You're not just practically dripping for him, you're a dam on the verge of bursting under the force of your pent-up lust.

His strong, rough hand traces the contour of your ass, coming to rest with a firm grip on your thigh as he holds your leg to his hip.

Your dress bunches up under his possessive hold, as powerfully alluring as the promise of sin.

His lips, those damn lips, they don't just brush over your ear, jaw, and cheekbone. They blaze a trail of scorching kisses that leave your skin tingling in their wake.

Joel hovers over your lips but refuses to close the gap. He grins.

Bastard.

The sweet torture of the anticipation is enough to drive you insane, but you're not just some damsel in distress, waiting for him to make the move.

You're a woman who takes what she wants.

You grip his open jacket, use your strength, and yank him towards you. His lips crash into yours, and the connection is so intense it's like an explosion.

A cataclysmic release of years of sexual tension for your dad’s best friend.

His tongue explores the recesses of your mouth and you welcome it with a moan that rumbles from the very core of your desire, a primal sound that marks your territory.

He tastes of honey, whiskey, salt and… Joel.

This, this right here, is a kiss worth waiting for.

How did you not give in to this before?

“Joel… I want you,” you say against his lips.

He grumbles in response, and his palm traces up your thigh and he grabs a handful of your ass.

“Fuck" you feel him – cock hard and firm – straining against you, begging to be released from the confines of his pants.

Your hand wedges into the space between your bodies, as you paw his length through the fabric.

He lets out a moan, and the sheer thrill of his little noise, and the satisfaction it brings you, has you grinning right into the heated kiss.

“You need me, huh," he coos, taunting.

In a swift, sudden move that leaves you breathless, he flips you around.

Your back is now snug against his chest, his arms caged around you on your hips in a firm hold.

The change in position, the feeling of him solid and real behind you, kicks up the thrill just a notch higher.

“Gonna let me fuck you right here, sweetheart? You that desperate for my cock?” He murmurs into your ear, his voice a devilish purr that goes straight to your cunt.

You are.

He knows you are.

His hands find a new path, boldly tracing over the soft silk on your body as if to claim you.

His breath greets your neck in a hot whisper as he gathers the hem of your dress and slowly pulls it up, all while pressing his hardness into your back.

The confines of the elevator seem to shrink, the air thick with anticipation as he waits for your response.

“Answer me,” he rasps.

“Yes – yes, please fuck me right here, I need you, I don’t want to wait,” you plead.

His hand ventures further, delving into uncharted territory; a soft gasp slips from your lips as he brings his fingers to your aching core and spreads you.

You’re so wet, you were wet for him the second you saw him at the bar waiting for you.

He lets out a low growl, “Fuck, baby…you’re soakin’ f’me.”

Your breath stutters into a pleasured groan as his fingers slide languidly through your slick, finding your sweet spot.

“Dirty girl. What would the guests down there think? The Senator's daughter, begging his best friend for his cock in the elevator, hmm?”

Shit. His mouth is filthy, but he’s right.

“Too risky,”

“Plus, ‘m gonna take my time with ya,” he reaffirms, and his grip tightens.

Desperate for something to anchor you as heat builds in your body, one arm flings back to the back of his head, your fingers winding themselves into his messy hair. Simultaneously, your other hand latches onto the railing at your hip.

“Joel, I…fuck, ahh..”

You meld into him, and he serves as a sturdy pillar, his hold on you unwavering as you grind against the rhythm of his hand.

His fingers remain relentless, stoking the rising heat within you as you buck against his hand.

“You gonna come f’me, baby?”

Your response is a whimpered mess of “Yes, yes…Joel, make me come”,

Your breathless moans echo in his ear, face tight as your body coils under him, then unravels in a rush of sticky sweetness.

“There you go,” Joel whispers, lips against the back of your head, “There’s my good girl.”

His good girl.

A shudder of ecstasy leaves your body, and your heavy breaths fills the small space of the elevator.

Joel’s expression mirrors your own; eyes still dark with desire, cheeks flushed, and lips swollen.

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he leisurely pulls his hand away from you and turns you to face him.

God you must look wrecked already.

He lifts his glistening fingers to your lips, presenting a silent invitation. As your lips part slightly, he ventures deeper, the tip of his finger wet with your release teasing your tongue.

You’re sucking his finger when with a soft lurch and a chime, the elevator comes to a sudden halt.

His hand drops as he glances up at the indicator.

Floor 28.

"Let’s go, sweetheart,” he reassures you.

He looks so composed, almost innocent in his part of just unraveling you.

He plants a kiss on your forehead, “I wanna fuckin’ ruin you.”

He grabs your hand and guides you past the threshold of the elevator doors to his room.

His words ring in your ears. A threat. A promise. A need.

The elevator doors may have closed, but this night is far from over.

Part 3

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #the last of us #joel miller #elevators really are hot tho

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haste-waste · 10 months

Text

Waiting

In which Link has it bad.

For @zelinkcommunity 's Zelink Week 2023 day one prompt: Yearning. Read on AO3 here.

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

"What do you think?" she asks.

Zelda sits at the table as he prepares their dinner in advance. She's removing rice from the stalk to complement the humongous mushroom cap he's fileting in their kitchen. It's a nice afternoon in Hateno Village, and she is here, living with him like it was the most normal thing in the world.

He's still not used to this. She's asking him what he thinks? Even after one hundred years it still amazes him. She is one of few people who takes his thoughts into consideration and values his words, whether they be eloquent or otherwise.

He ponders her request for a moment, and switches to a smaller knife to remove the woody ends of the mushroom stem. "I think that's a proposition for Purah."

"I respectfully disagree. You've had far more practical field experience with the Sheikah Slate than she has. But if you truly think so, I will ask her."

Zelda wants to implement "stress tests" to the slate. Not the actual body of the slate, mind, but the potential and scope of the runes.

The conversation lulls for a short time. Then, she says something he doesn’t expect: "In all actuality, your observational skills are beyond my own when it comes to kinetics. Of course, your skills as a warrior are a factor. Your inherent ability to manipulate a multitude of objects with such precision over distances great and small is absolutely fascinating."

He scrapes the sliced mushrooms into the cast iron pan with the unsharpened edge of the knife. They sizzle enticingly and absorb the oil as he tosses them around the pan with a wooden spoon.

He's a bit taken aback by Zelda's commentary. It's not that big of a deal, it's just something he does. Things move all the time. With enough practice, she could fell a deer across Retsam Forest with the right equipment or skip a stone across Hateno Bay. She's a quick learner, a trait he greatly admires.

But he doesn't know what to say, so he shrugs. She gives him a long look. He knows she's planning something by the way her eyebrows shift. Then she grabs a dinner roll from the basket on the table and tosses it to him. Unthinking, he catches it.

He gives her a dry look, but she has other things in mind. "How fortunate that the door is open. I challenge you to hit Karson in the head with this from the doorframe."

"Do you have something against Karson?"

"Not at all! He does tend to laze about our front lawn, though. Maybe a delicious surprise will do him some good."

Something in his chest flutters at the sound of "our front lawn." So, he acquiesces. He takes the pan off the heat. Then, he gives a playful smile as he struts to the door and eyes his target. Karson sits cross-legged near the cooking pot by the towering oak tree. 10 meters, perhaps? That was manageable.

He yeets the bread perfectly—too fast to make a clear, sailing, parabolic arch, but not hard enough to leave a bruise. He hears Zelda gasp excitedly (Oh!) as the roll bounces with a thonk off of Karson's forehead.

"Hey!" he shouts. They both freeze in anticipation. Uh oh. He sees the both of them standing dumbly in the doorway, obviously watching.

He looks down, seemingly in slow motion. Then, his face lights up like a child at winter solstice.

"Thanks for the bread!" he calls, giving a friendly wave. Amusingly, Bolson attempts to snatch it from him as Link gives a half-hearted wave and shuts the door. Satisfied, he returns the still-hot cast iron pan to the stove and continues sautéing the mushrooms.

"I cannot believe you actually did that," Zelda says, heaving the rice pot into place on the stove. Anything for you, he thinks. He moves out of the way as she stokes the coals within, shutting the door with a clang. Then she brushes her hair out of her face. It frames her chin beautifully. "It was a perfect throw. Excellent work!"

"I try," he says, flustered by her continued praise, and extinguishes the urge to kiss her cheek.

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

He wants to kiss her all the time.

Goddesses, does he want to kiss her.

He wants to kiss her when she finishes writing in her journal and beams at him from the loft. Or, when she makes tea in the morning and groggily places a cup on the end table near his armchair, made just how he likes it. He'd love to after she makes a sudden breakthrough with her research, or when she is always surprised to see a cup of water after she cuts firewood. He wants to kiss her when she gives him that look, like she's been gazing at him for a while over a book cover but tries to be nonchalant. He wants to when she is reminded of something from before and she clings to him as proof he's still here and breathing. He wants to after their ancient tech hijinks and she's laughing maniacally after something of Purah's inevitably breaks or explodes. Or when she leans on his shoulder after listening to him share his thoughts and feelings. Or, when she holds him after he remembers something from before or has a fleeting, vivid nightmare. But especially when she smiles warmly at him while he cooks, and just does his thing.

But the moment never seems right.

He fears that it may be the wrong time, or she doesn't want to, and a whole other list of reasons that involve her comfort and boundaries. The few times they had were brief, either on the cheek, forehead, or the exceedingly rare chaste goodbye kisses they share when one of them leaves on a journey somewhere. Besides the one wonderful time on Tuft Mountain where he confessed and she reciprocated, it's been slow. Which is fine, truly. He's happy to have her in his life at all, so he won't complain. He doesn't want to, or even need to complain. He is happy, but he's also curious at the same time. Those two ideas can coexist, right?

Was it the right time to be more romantic for her? How does he even go about this, the whole idea of kissing her?

What would it be like, though?

He's pondering this as they walk back from the Hateno ancient tech lab. The nights are growing chillier as they enter autumn proper.

"Can you believe it? Purah was thrilled to have the data we collected from the slate. We're one step closer to making another one! Oh, I'm so excited—"

She's sunny, a contrast to the dusk which settles around them. They pass a blue flame lantern, and it casts wonderful shadows on her face that emphasize her jaw. He'd like to kiss her there too, if he's allowed.

"We'll have to gather more, of course. Are you alright with that? It may be more extreme, like hurling boulders and the occasional moblin, if there are any left."

Any left? She sees his confusion. "You're incredibly thorough when it comes to pest control."

He supposes so. The tangible delight of freezing moblins mid-swing with Stasis and watching them careen through the air by their own club is entertaining, to say the least. Or, that one time he blasted a boulder from Hyrule Plateau all the way to the desert. He'd like to see her do that, why hasn't he thought of mentioning that yet?

"That'd be fun." He means it, and she is delighted. "But make sure I'm not a test subject this time."

Her entire body cringes. "That pains me still. I've never regretted anything more in my life."

"I mean, it was only a few feet. I've had worse." He shrugs, remembering the small explosion after an ancient tech malfunction. One time he slipped while shield surfing Mount Hebra and fell for nearly a mile. He still wonders how he's still alive, Mipha's grace or otherwise—

She's oddly quiet. "I bet you have."

Oh. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"No, it's quite alright. Forgive me," she says gently. Then she smiles to herself. "Even before, you took heavy hits. You tend to fly like a rag doll. It's still a shock to see, but you're unfathomably resilient."

He laughs. That was true. Again, he wonders how he's not dead but stops as she shivers.

This is one of the rare instances where she actively walks in front of him instead of by his side. So, he closes the gap, concerned. She stares off into the distance for a moment.

"Are you alright?" His voice is soft.

"Yes, why?"

"You were shivering."

Her expression before was one of remembering. He can tell something's bothering her, but what?

"It's a bit chilly this evening, that's all," she says while rubbing her hands together. "I was so excited to get to the lab, I forgot my cloak." Her tone is lighter, so she likely means it. "But yes! On my life—" his heart pangs at that, "—you will not be an accidental test subject. Unless you want to be a test subject, but that is your sole decision and we will have to adjust the experiment to keep you safe—"

She pauses as his cloak settles over her shoulders. "Here." He can't have her being cold, she's sensitive to it. Besides, they're not far from the house. He continues walking and stops when she doesn't follow.

Several scenarios come to mind as to why she hasn't. He instinctively checks their immediate surroundings. His hand itches for the sword on his back. Focus. No humanoid shadows in the trees. No monsters in the field or above their heads. He angles his head and sees nothing suspicious. Then, back to her.

Is she blushing? It's hard to tell. For one so open with her thoughts, she can be hard to read at times. Maybe there's a hint of one at the corners of her cheeks. But maybe he's wishing for it. Who knows. If he places his hands on her cheeks like he's been wanting to for months, he could find out...

"Thank you? That's very kind of you. But won't you be cold?" she asks, hesitant to adjust it properly around her.

Seeing her in his clothes makes him feel far warm enough. So, he walks back to her and fastens the cloak around her neck—another place he'd love to kiss—bundles her up and turns to continue forward toward home where stew should be ready. He hopes she likes it. It's a mix of lentils and roasted mushroom, with a gravy made from the unsweetened milk of a palm fruit. It's savory and filling, which is something they both tend to enjoy. "I'm fine. Besides, we have a warm meal waiting for us at home."

"Ah yes, priorities." Her steps are as light as her demeanor. To his complete surprise, her hand wraps around his own as he watches her settle into the cloak. Satisfied, she matches his pace, and they continue the walk home in comfortable silence.

She's been quiet since they arrived. The kitchen is bathed in golden light from the overhead lanterns. Their home is far more comfortable since her arrival. Well, his home. He'd like to call it theirs, but he'll have to ask her about that at a later time. For now, he hums part of a tune that Kass would play in the evenings at Rito Village as he stirs the stew, waiting for the rolls to warm again in the clay oven.

He turns, and the table is set. "Thank you for loaning me your cloak," she says, placing down a final dish for some butter. "I'll hang this up."

He nods. "Dinner's almost ready," he announces after eyeing the stew.

"—Oh! Right." Confused by her tone, he turns, but she's already in her seat across the table. Two patches of red hint at the corners of her jaw as she draws her hair behind her ear, fidgeting.

...Cute.

He gives her an eyebrow and sets the stew on the table. He savors the look on her face when she takes the first bite, nodding slightly with her eyes closed. She gestures with her spoon, then digs in. Success. They enjoy a quiet dinner.

He hums again while they do the dishes. He places the iron pot back on the stove for it to fully dry. He's charmed to see Zelda with her sleeves pushed up, scrubbing away. She has nice arms. She has nice...everything. Something's on his mind, though. Zelda has been notably quiet since the walk home.

"What are you thinking about right now?" he inquires. She's the one who usually asks that question.

A dish is placed in his hands. She's digging at the stubborn film of dried gravy that lines their bowls. Her eyebrows knit in concentration.

Then a wonderful smile graces her face. "Honestly? I'm incredibly happy to be here with you."

It takes a moment to process this. By now, she's finished with the dishes and hauls the water outside.

Upon her return, she takes the towel from his hands and dries her own. She's so close and he just wants to…

—What she just said was so nonchalant, like it was a definite fact, a universal truth.

"Same here," he says far too inarticulately. She looks down at him in vague confusion as he stands directly in front of her. "I'm happy that you're here too." And her smile returns. So lovely. He can't spit the rest out. He's getting better at saying what's on his mind, but he stumbles when he wants to most. I'm happy to be anywhere with you. She squeezes his wrist with her slightly damp hand.

She's up in the loft now, continuing her mission for the past few weeks—pouring over several years of Purah's research notes. He can tell that she was itching to get back to work. He doesn't know how she can do that for hours. Sure, ancient technology is fascinating and filled with secrets. Purah's handwriting, on the other hand, while flawless, is tiny and the pages are dense. Reading that for hours would give him a migraine. He’s happy that he researches the ancient histories instead.

He watches her from below as she writes. He visualizes the ancient gears turning in her head. How she fits so much knowledge in there, he doesn't know. She is like a sponge, soaking up information from anywhere and anything. He's only seen brief glimpses of her journal, but it's just as detailed as their long conversations as they travel, work, and live. There's a word for people like her, and like her mother. Was erudite the term Mum used for the Queen? He frowns, trying to remember. Zelda definitely has her mother's brains.

She brushes her hair behind her ear again, contemplating for a moment. He's drawn to the elegant slope of her neck. What would it be like to kiss her there, just below her ear? Would he be able to discern the subtle notes of fragrance from the soap she uses? Would he hear her heartbeat? The sound of her sighing?

...He needs to empty his head.

"I'll be out back," he calls upstairs.

"Have fun!"

He heads outside, taking his cloak to fend off the chill. He goes to put it on but stops as he realizes that it smells different. It smells like her. Clean, fresh. Floral, like blue nightshades. Before, it didn't smell like much of anything. Now, he can't stop thinking about it. Every time he moves he can smell her. It's really nice, actually.

He goes to the small stable by the house and checks on their horses. Epona is out grazing near the small pond behind the stable. Equs, the chalk-white descendant of Zelda's old horse, mows down his pile of hay. He gives his snout a pat and continues on. He was a pain to tame, but now he's a likable and reliable horse. Epona likely whipped him into shape. She's a good influence.

He returns to the yard. Epona trots over and butts her head into his chest.

"Hey! Whoa, girl—" it's almost like he can read her. She's sniffing around his pockets. "No apples today. But I do have this for you and the big guy." He presents a humongous, tasty looking carrot. She takes it happily and chomps away. She follows him back to the stable as he stocks it up for the night, giving the other carrot to Equs in the meantime.

"Goodnight," he calls. They look at him, almost like they know the meaning behind his words. It's a nice thought, but they're still horses.

Next, he investigates the apple tree behind the house. It looks like he picked most of them, but he wants to be thorough before the frost sets in. He finds a few up on the highest boughs. Then, he clambers down to a lower, sturdier branch and sits.

It's quiet. It's a bit chilly. All in all, a beautiful night. The air is crisp, making a wonderful rushing sound through the leaves that will likely begin to drop in a week. He can't smell winter in the air. He can only smell the traces of her lingering on his cloak. He wraps it around him a bit more, closes his eyes, and listens.

Nights like these are great for clearing the head. It's easier and also harder to bring his mind to the earth, especially since Zelda lives with him now. They're living together and experiencing what "normal life" is like. He never would have dreamed of this a century ago.

Not even in his wildest fantasies did he ever think of peaceful domesticity. He didn't have much time, if any, to fantasize about any sort of future with her. He could only replay scenes in his head where she gave him affection, like the time on death mountain where she pushed his bangs back, and when she held his hands after giving him custom made gloves for his birthday.

His other fantasies involved a life outside of fighting. He once wanted to own and run the pub with his grandparents. Or be a ranger, like Mum. Or be in the royal guard, like Dad. Well, he was the latter, in a way, but with Zelda as his Queen. Maybe he would settle down with a husband or a wife outside of his duty in that future that is now the past.

He finds himself reminiscing. He had a partner once, a fellow knight named Pietr a few years before he became Zelda's chosen knight. He was from Lurelin, his first kiss, and his amicable (and only) ex. They were young, still children, and they were happy. Pietr was wise to break it off because of their changing duties. Not even a year later he found himself becoming Zelda's chosen knight. At least Pietr survived the Calamity. It sounds like he had a good life, actually: his great-grandson Tauro is living proof of that.

But if Mipha knew about Pietr or his feelings for Zelda before the Calamity, she would have been devastated. But there's nothing he could do. She was his calm, poised, and far cooler partner on the battlefield and childhood friend. He loved her too in many ways, yes, but marriage? He's thought long and hard about this before during his travels. Not marriage. He wouldn't be able to provide what was required by her birthright. He would have died far before she did. She was his first love, but that changed as soon as the sword called to him at 13. Why Mipha is on his mind, he doesn't know. It's not painful anymore. She's gone, it's the past, and he's moved on. He hopes, wherever she is now, that she's happy and at peace along with Urbosa, Daruk, Revali, and his loved ones.

About a half hour later, he drops down from the tree, his thoughts released to the earth and the wind. He feels a bit lighter.

After practicing some swordsmanship, he investigates their firewood reserves beside the house and is proud to see Zelda's handiwork. They'll be set for several weeks. The stars glimmer above him and he spots a shooting star.

He doesn't wish on it; he has everything he could possibly want. Someone else can have that wish.

It's very dark now. He heads back inside.

"Hullo," he says, kicking his boots off near the door.

"Hi," he hears from upstairs, her tone less enthusiastic and more tired. She’s always one to keep busy.

He hesitates before removing his cloak, wanting to smell her for a little while longer.

He relaxes in his reading chair and reads a heavy book that Paya loaned him on ancient Sheikah tales. The lore of Hyrule has always fascinated him. He's glad it also helps Zelda with her research. Her specialties are within the royal family, while his is broader. It's the opposite with ancient technology: he’s all too familiar with the royal guard class of weapon while she knows practically anything about everything. He's glad that they find ways to help each other to solve some ancient mysteries.

The candle is burning low by the time he finishes a long chapter about a third Yiga invasion several hundred years ago. He's a bit tired, but not enough to sleep. 100 years of sleeping will do that to someone, he supposes.

It's nearly silent in the house now. His ears strain, trying to pick out the faint sounds of Zelda's wax pencil or beloved green ink being scratched against a page. He turns down the lanterns from the ceiling (the contraption Zelda made to do this is genius) after getting ready for bed.

He heads up to the loft.

Zelda has fallen asleep at the desk. Her face is squished against the open pages of her journal, and her wax pencil barely stays within her relaxed grip. The flicker of the candle gives her hair and face a warm glow. His heart melts.

Her hair is woven gold, a crown upon her head—even though she refuses to wear her birthright.

…Just like she refuses to rest when she needs it most.

He's hesitant to touch the gentle slope of her shoulder, but he does anyway.

"Zelda?" His voice is soft. She doesn't respond. He gives her a tiny shake. "It's getting late."

"Hm?" Her grip on the pencil returns.

"It's almost midnight," he says.

"Just a bit longer—" she slurs, rubbing her face with her arm and righting her posture. "I have to get this done."

"Don't push yourself too hard," he adds, squashing the urge to kiss her cheek.

He goes to his Kakariko-style futon on the floor, with Zelda's nearby. Part of him wonders if her bedding smells like her too.

...He's more tired than he thought.

It's kind of funny. Even though they live together and have confessed their feelings to each other, they don't share a bed. They don't share much affection, really. He doesn't mind, though. In fact, his actual bed hasn't been used since the few days before they defeated Ganon together. He wanted her to have it when she moved in from Kakariko, but she adamantly refused. Neither of them would budge, so this was the best compromise: two comfy futons on the floor. The bed is for guests. Besides, if she took the bed, he wouldn't be able to see from a distance how serene she is when she sleeps, just like a century before. It might be nice, though. But that's for a future time.

He takes out his hair tie and brushes his hair back, putting the comb back on top of the bedside table. He hears a thud.

Ah, she's fallen asleep again, judging by her posture. She jolts awake, shakes her head, and stubbornly continues to work.

"You should sleep," he says, resting his forearms on top of his knees. He perches his head on them to watch her.

"There's still so much—" she replies after a while. "The more I do, the closer we are to understanding things."

Something in her tone reminds him of before. It's the same determination that almost made her freeze to death or drown in the sacred springs. Her tone is the same from those quiet nights in her study, using the little time they had to try to stop Ganon's return. Is their project eating away at her?

"I'm losing time," she says, picking up her pace. This confirms his worries.

He pads barefooted across the floorboards to the desk. He's tired too, but not as much as she is. She was up before dawn this morning. He allows his fatigue to lessen the iron grip on his affections.

He's standing to her right. He drapes his left arm across her shoulders and lightly pulls her into his side.

"There's always tomorrow."

He drifts his thumb across her shoulder. He's delighted when she relaxes into him. He can catch hints of her floral soap from here. It's a comfort. He stares at the stack of books and the flickering candle, enjoying the warmth and the closeness.

"There's always tomorrow," she asserts after a time.

He continues drifting his thumb, trying to memorize the feeling of her weight resting against him. She sighs, relaxing even more, almost as though she melts into him.

"Come on, time for bed," he says, but she doesn't respond. He looks down at her.

She's asleep.

Aww!

He makes a mental note to keep an eye on her on late nights like these. He doesn't want her late night working to become a bad habit.

"Zelda," he says playfully, giving her a little shake. She doesn't awaken. Her breathing pattern confirms it. He's learned to keep an eye on that during the nights he doesn't feel like sleeping. Usually her breathing changes before a nightmare. Since the project started, she's had more than usual, the ones where she tosses and turns, but never enough to wake. The waking ones were far worse—the first few months after Ganon's defeat were brutal on her. He's been worried, but they don't seem to affect her when she wakes. He secretly fears that they do.

Fortunately, her breathing is slow and measured. It would be a shame to ruin this rare chance at deep sleep by waking her.

She's completely out. So, it wouldn't hurt for him to try something he's been wanting to do for over 100 years.

He moves the chair out from the desk as gently as he can. Carefully, he scoops her up into his arms. Her head rests between his collar and shoulder. Her breath flutters on his neck and all he can smell and feel is her and wow—he can't help pressing his face into her soft, sleek hair.

He stands there, just for a moment, and takes everything in.

This is far better than he imagined.

As much as he wants to, he doesn't overstay his welcome. He takes a few steps over to their futon and kicks out her comforter with his foot. He begrudgingly rests her down on the mattress. She's still in her day clothes. He tucks her in, admiring the delicate curves in her wrists, the shadows under her eyes, and the serenity on her face.

What a marvelous gift it is to have her here. How wonderful it is to share each day with her in peace and safety. All the hardships they faced over a century were worth it. Everyone in Hyrule can rest as easily as they can now. All thanks to her. He just tossed Ganon around a bit before she obliterated and sealed it off for eternity. The thought makes him smile.

He's stretched his luck far enough today. He could stand to stretch it a little more.

Sneakily, he places a kiss upon her hairline.

I love you, he wishes to tell her. He thinks about it instead. She'd never hear it, even if he said it aloud. She must know by now. He doesn't know why he hasn't said it to her again after all this time. Maybe because the time wasn't right? Anyways—

Satisfied, he blows out the candle on the desk and returns to bed. He watches her chest rise and fall as moonlight emphasizes her silhouette. His eyes close.

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

When they open, it is still dark outside, likely just before dawn. There is a low, golden glow beside him. He rubs his eyes. Did he leave the candle burning? No...he's immediately suspicious and worried, and turns to Zelda.

Her breathing is ragged. Her bedding is a twisted, constricted mess around her. She's curled on her side with an arm partially extended toward his mattress. Her hand flickers with golden, holy light.

Oh no.

He hasn't seen her like this in months, since the springtime right after Kakariko at the very least. Alarmed, he immediately crawls over to her just as she begins whimpering under her breath. He has to wake her up. Not doing so prolongs her suffering. He catches whispers of phrases and her hand glows more intensely. She looks sickeningly pale, the thin sheen of sweat on her brow worsening in the washed out moonlight.

She tosses and turns, lying supine. Her jaw is rigid and her face does not hide her distress. "Link—" her voice is filled with despair as she thrashes and shudders. "—Save yourself." He falls to his side, supporting his weight with his elbow, and leans near her in an attempt to reach for her shoulder. He doesn't quite make it—she jolts awake with a pained gasp. "NO!"

Her eyes darted frantically around the room, disoriented and terrified.

"Are you–augh!"

She crushes him against her chest.

She clutches blindly and a trembling hand lodges itself in his hair, keeping him against her. It does not hurt. The side of his face rests on her pillow, away from her own. She shudders, holding him like he might be snatched from her arms at any moment.

"Link." Her voice is utterly broken.

Tension radiates from her. Her shoulders shrink inward. "You're really here," she asserts, seemingly trying to convince herself about reality. His heart breaks.

"You're really—"

She begins to cry. It's barely audible even while he's against her. Her grip tightens, and he’s thankful that his entire body weight isn't on her. Her free hand grips and bunches fistfuls of fabric from his shirt.

He lays there for several moments. He's worried about suffocating her, so he pushes himself up with his left arm and she follows, refusing to let go. He wraps his other arm around her and sits them up. She pushes herself into the empty space within his lap instinctively, draping her legs together across his thigh to lessen her weight on him. Her chin rests over his shoulder as he adjusts them. Finally, she's secured in his arms, and he relaxes a fraction.

"You're safe," he breathes. "It's over now."

He feels the fabric on his shoulder become damp with her tears, and it pains him that she's had to endure so much. He rests his head against her own and holds her, shielding her from the world as long as he can. She’s done the same for him when he has nightmares. He can't shield her from her past experiences, as much as he desperately wants to do so; he hopes this is good enough. It's seemed to work so far since she returned from her imprisonment.

"Thank you," she weeps bitterly. He ignores her thanks and holds her tighter. She's safe. He will do anything to keep her that way. His own anxieties lessen as he holds her.

Someday, he will tell her how much he loves to hold her—not just when she's crying. It makes him feel relied upon, trusted, and like he's providing for her somehow, even though they are equals. But now isn't the right time.

At some point, he starts running his hand up and down her back. It's something she has always done when he's in a similar state of mind. It seems to help. Her shuddering slowly subsides.

Her breathing relaxes just as the sky begins to lighten, turning from deep purple to that particular shade of blue green. Soon, she delicately removes her fingers from his hair and nestles her face into his collar, completely exhausted.

"I'm alright now," she breathes into his neck.

He nods as best as he is able. He assuages his anxieties about not helping her enough by continuing to run his hand along her back.

What must she be feeling right now? He can't imagine the horrors she had seen during a century of isolation with the embodiment of evil. Her grip on his shirt returns.

"I was doing so well," she says dejectedly. She releases her grip, continuing to hold him. "It's been so long since I…" her voice fades for a moment, "...since I reacted this severely."

"You are doing well," he affirms.

"I don't want to be doing well if it means I'm watching you die in my dreams."

His hand pauses halfway down her back. "Since when?"

"Since Ganon. I hadn't been remembering my dreams for quite a while."

Since Ganon? Damn…he remembers her saying that they had stopped happening a few months ago. It’s a shame they returned to haunt her.

Something else is weighing on her. He's determined to find out what.

"Do you know why they came back?”

She shakes her head. "I don't."

He sits and ponders their conversations from yesterday, rubbing her back again, trying to find a source that triggered her dreams.

"Did you put me to bed?" she says after a time, drawing him from his thoughts.

He nods. "You work too hard."

"I don't work hard enough,” she says, deflated.

He frowns. "That's not true."

"It is, Link. The last time I didn't work hard enough you died. And now, you could easily die again if I'm not careful. You were already injured with the new Sheikah slate project. I must work as hard as I can to achieve our goals and keep you safe."

With that, he remembers their conversation on the walk home from the lab. It all clicks in the span of a second.

"I am safe."

She freezes in his arms. "I know, but…"

"I don't want you to die again," she professes. "I could barely handle it before. I don't know what I'd do if it happened now." He can feel the tension and panic building within her. "But what if it does? What if everything goes to pieces again? What if you get hurt? Hurt enough to die? What if you can’t be healed? What if I'm the one who hurts you? The person I care for most will be dead and it will be all my fault—"

"Stop."

She jolts a bit at his tone.

He cuts her off before she can apologize for her words by adjusting her head to rest near the center of his chest.

"Listen," he says, pressing her into him. "I'm alive.” He taps his chest, and breathes slowly, keeping his heartbeat as steady as he can.

He doesn’t plan on dying anytime soon. Staying alive makes her happy. And he likes making her happy. It’s a win-win scenario.

"—And I'm not going anywhere. I'm certain of it."

"How?" she interjects. "You can't possibly know that."

He releases his grip around her. She sits up and stares at nothing in the general direction of his mattress. Her eyes are glossy and irritated red.

The words come naturally to him, as though they are plain as day. He thanks the goddesses for that.

"Zelda, you kept me safe for over one hundred years." He takes her hand and holds it to his chest. "I know that you will never stop protecting me, just like I will never stop protecting you." He hopes this statement is the most obvious thing in the world.

She seems to move to object. To his surprise, she stares at his hand and nods, swallowing thickly. Then, she takes a long, slow, and deep breath. When she opens her eyes, he continues. She's listening—she always is.

"Yesterday, you told me that on your life, no harm shall come to me. I said the same thing about you to your father and Urbosa when I became a Champion at your side, an oath I still hold to this day."

He stops, thinking for a moment. "I can't promise that I won't get hurt. You can't promise that to me either, before and now. I almost died...a lot. You were tortured by Ganon. It gave you actual scars." He takes his spare hand and brushes the white scar that's like shattered glass across her collarbone. "As much as we tried, we couldn't keep each other completely safe. But your determination to keep me safe regardless is exactly why I am certain, just how you are certain with me."

He briefly squeezes her hand for emphasis.

She seems despondent, then sighs. "That's fair," she says after a moment. "I didn't think of it that way. You described it so eloquently."

This strengthens his resolve. "And besides," he continues, "you said it yourself: I'm unfathomably resilient."

She smiles the smallest of smiles. "That I did."

"I'm not going anywhere," he affirms, gently and assuredly. "And neither are you."

They sit quietly for a while. She sits with her eyes closed as she collects herself. He watches her carefully, taking in every minor detail, like the tiny movements in her shoulders as she breathes, how her hair barely touches the neckline of her tunic as she slouches, and how warm her hand feels against his chest.

He breathes in slowly, deeply, and feels her hand press back against him.

The sun begins to rise, casting warm beams of light throughout the house.

Her hand slips from his grasp. She rearranges both of his hands and holds them, resting them on her lap, and stares intently where they meet. Her hands are warm, strong, and lightly calloused, something he's never had the opportunity to notice before. She's always wearing gloves when they travel.

"Thank you, again." She runs her thumbs across the rippling scars on his hands. There's a wonderful softness to her expression; the deep orange hues of dawn cast over her face and mollifies any traces left from the evening. He's captivated. "I appreciate you more than anything." Her sincerity is undeniable to him, an expert in second guessing.

Warmth blossoms in his chest at that.

"You must really like me or something," he muses.

She looks up at him and her eyes are stunning, like emeralds in the morning light. "Love," she amends, and it takes his breath away. "I really love you."

He rests his forehead against her own and breathes her in.

"I really love you too."

Her hands remove themselves from her lap and rest on his cheeks, her thumbs drifting across his cheekbones.

How badly he wants to kiss her.

But she's had a rough night, and could use some sleep.

"Are you up for a little more sleep?" he asks gently. Her hands withdraw from his cheeks, and he already misses their warmth.

"I'm a bit scared to. But if I do not, it will just get worse."

She eyes her futon and sighs. "I should change, too." She gets up and walks across the loft, shrugging off her blouse in the process. Part of him would be startled to see her in her sheikah underthings but that didn't matter at the present. He's seen them before in plenty of different mundane contexts. How many times has she seen him shirtless? How many times have they swam together or spearfished in only their underthings, the only clothes they owned that were waterproof? And besides, it doesn't matter anyways. People need to change before bed. He needs to stop being weird.

While she's gone, he eyes her futon, thinking. When she returns, she wears a thin, dusty blue tunic that he got her in Lurelin, and she stops short.

Their mattresses are pushed together. He adjusted and turned down her linens while she was away.

"I thought it might help," he says sleepily.

"That's kind."

She crawls into bed. To his amazement, she continues crawling until she's right beside him, nestling into his chest. Luckily, his arm is already underneath his pillow. He gets a lungful of her—

"Is this alright?" she whispers.

Goddesses, yes it was. He pulls her closer and promptly falls asleep before he can second-guess himself.

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

His eyes open briefly, and he sees her peaceful, sleeping face. Relieved, he closes them again as sleep beckons.

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

He's somewhere between dreaming and waking and it's pleasantly warm. His comforter is the perfect weight, and there is a wonderful smell around him. He doesn't want to wake up. The pillows are so soft, and something's gently caressing his cheeks.

…Someone is caressing his cheeks. It feels nice. He remembers the circumstances, and opens his eyes to see her.

"Good morning," Zelda says.

"Morning," he responds groggily, thoroughly pleased.

“More like afternoon, now,” she adds sheepishly, removing her hands from him. “Did you sleep well?”

She is golden in the sunlight. Her smile could make flowers grow. The shadows under her eyes have returned to their normal shade, much to his relief. He can’t hide the smile on his face. He hasn’t moved the entire morning, apparently, since she’s exactly where she was when he fell asleep: in his arms. But she smells even better, and her hair looks slightly damp and towel-dried. She must have washed up, then. She runs her thumbs across his cheeks again. He leans into her touch. She makes a quiet noise of content at that.

He nods, not knowing how to sum his feelings (I slept very well and maybe we should sleep like this every night and I love to hold you and—)

If he could paint, he’d paint a portrait of her right now, with all her beautiful hues of gold, apricot, green, and the dusty blue of her tunic. He’s still a bit sleepy. He’s lost the want to hold a grip on his affections.

Then, she seems to realize what she’s doing with her hands. She removes them and glances at him cautiously.

"What are you thinking about right now?" she inquires, staring into his tunic and echoing his own question from the day before. She's avoiding eye contact for some reason. It's a shame—he could easily get lost in her eyes, as sappy as that sounds.

Then, she peeks at him over the edge of his bedsheets endearingly. It’s rare for her to act like this, so shy and meek. While she is quieter now in general, she’s much more self-assured than she was before the Calamity. She’s so cute!

"I want to kiss you," he thinks automatically. He goes to say something innocuous but stops when he sees her eyes widen.

Her face blossoms into a light shade of pink.

Wait...shit. Shit. Did he just say that out loud? The one time he needs to moderate his thoughts he doesn't. He instinctively covers his mouth with his hand. He just ruined everything oh goddesses someone execute him shit shit shit shit shit SHIT

He's still panicking when she meets his eyes again. The corners of her jaw are the most flushed he’s ever seen them. Their gaze holds for an agonizing and overwhelming moment.

"By all means," she breathes, her meekness immediately changing into relief.

No way. Is she serious?

"Are you sure?" he questions, immediately doubting himself, suddenly very nervous. He doesn’t want to overstep or make her uncomfortable or be selfish or—

"I wondered if you'd ever kiss me again," she responds ruefully. "So yes, I'm quite sure."

He registers her words and the guilt sinks in. She waited for him? Didn’t she wait a hundred years for him already? And now he’s unintentionally withholding something from her that makes her happy? He just wanted to respect her wishes and not overstep any bounds!

He wants to hold her tight, but she continues speaking, likely finding something in his expression to comment on. “You are not required to do so if it is against your wishes, or if it makes you uncomfortable. Or if you don’t see me in that way. I have a tendency to jump to conclusions.”

Comfortable? Jumping to conclusions? Of course she”jumped to them”, he literally confessed his feelings to her! He’s been going insane trying to hide his affections. It was easier a century ago, but definitely not now. Definitely not when she’s in his arms and she wants him to kiss her. He definitely owes her an explanation. He does his best to do so. Of course, it doesn’t come out the way he intends.

“I was waiting for you.”

Zelda’s absolutely astounded. She makes a choking noise and grips into his shirt near his shoulders. “I’ve been waiting for you!” she asserts, giving him a little shake as she speaks. “I assumed that you were not partial to physical affection or still becoming used to it.”

The sheer ridiculousness of all of this comes to a head. They were waiting for the exact same reasons, for each other's comfort. It’s kind and considerate on her end, really, but…

“I like physical affection,” he finds himself saying, “if it’s from you.”

Zelda’s eyes light up, and it’s his turn to feel relieved. “Thank the goddesses,” she says. “It has been a challenge to get by without your affections,” she adds honestly.

Now what does that mean? “Get by?” he says, intrigued, and pulls her the tiniest bit closer.

She's incredibly and adorably flustered at his question and their increased closeness. "Well, I suppose I—"

"Suppose what?" he goads, pulling her in just a bit more, feeling bold enough to tease her.

“I…was not the most expedient in preparing the table for dinner last night.”

That doesn’t matter. The table was set, wasn’t it? Who cares about speed? He raises an eyebrow at her, and her blush deepens.

"I only wanted to smell your cloak one last time before I hung it up!" she admits.

He feels his eyes widen, remembering as she fidgeted at the table just before dinner. He doesn't have time to ask for an explanation. She gives one readily.

"I didn't know the next time I'd be able to wear your cloak." She hurriedly continues: "And it smells like you. You smell absolutely wonderful. So I did, but I thought you caught me in the act! Goddesses this is embarrassing—"

Her ink stained hands cover her face for a moment as she curls into his sheets, avoiding his eyes.

She’s never been like this before. Normally, she states things plainly, kindly, and somewhat literally, refusing to conflate her ideas with subtle emotional cues that are hard for him to catch and vice versa. They both take things literally. So, he takes this literally. She is literally so cute. And intelligent. And beautiful and wonderful and a whole bunch of other adjectives.

"What? That's adorable!" He can actually feel the heat casting from her. The thought of her sneaking away just to smell his cloak doesn't help his constant need to kiss her. She's still panicking. He can't help but laugh. "Zelda, seriously, it's fine."

"But don't you think it's odd?" she says, shamefaced, clouded by his bedding.

Why is she mortified by this? "No way. It makes me really happy." He gently takes her wrists into his hands. She looks at them, then back up at his face as he continues. "Wear it whenever you want, I don't mind."

"Alright." Her response is meek but accepting.

He feels an urge to squeeze her for some reason. "I don't mean to say this to invalidate your feelings, but you're adorable when you're flustered."

She makes an indignant sound, her face still somewhat flushed. "What if I do feel invalidated?" she says playfully. "What if I desire retribution?"

"I'd be terrified."

"Terrified?"

"Well yeah," he runs his thumbs across her knuckles. "You could easily grind my bones to dust."

"I could not!"

He laughs and pulls her even closer. “You really could, though,” he insists softly. She’s the only one who could ever curb-stomp the embodiment of evil. If her powers worked against him, she could handily beat him, without a doubt.

He’s been a chatterbox this morning. Holding her wrists should shut him up for a bit. She half-heartedly wrestles away from him, just enough to look at him.

“And you could easily kiss me,” she counters, bringing the conversation back on track.

His heart sprints in his chest as he stares at her, the weight of her request pinning him to the floor. He can't move. Why can't he move? He's never been unable to move, not even when he was terrified for their collective safety on the battlefield.

He just stares at her, dumbfounded.

No way. No way. Seriously? He has permission? She wants this? He wasn’t overstepping? AaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAA. Of course, he knows his face is completely blank. He wishes it weren't so she could see that he's trying to move—

But then she grins. "Come here. Please?"

Well, she asked nicely. She laughed, too. It must be alright then. He gets a grip on his senses, and wraps his arms around her, pulling her even closer to him. He sees the anticipation on her face.

Like all the best things in life, he will savor this. He's here with her, safe, and the world isn't burnt to ashes. She wants this. She wants him.

He's imagined countless scenarios where this happens, where he finally gets to kiss her again. This is far more than ideal. There are so many ways to go about this, though, but it's all what he desires.

"This is—" he stammers,"—Is there any way you want me to?" he asks.

"Hm…" she supposes. "Will you kiss me how you've been wanting to kiss me?"

Oh boy, would he! He's surprised how level his voice is. "Gladly."

She’s a work of art. She’s quite literally a goddess in the flesh. But beyond that, she's just Zelda, a normal person, who's just letting him kiss her.

He tucks a loose piece of hair behind her ear. Wow, it's so soft. How does she make it like that? No matter. Savor this.

Now that he's here and he has permission, it's still hard to allow himself to do the things he's been wanting. To do the things she directly asks of him. He takes a deep breath.

His thumb trails across her cheek. She leans into his touch along with a quiet hum of content. Heat radiates into his palm, centered from the corner of her jaw. So she is blushing. Her eyes flutter closed as he places his other hand on her cheek. She's so close.

Goddesses, does he want to kiss her. All he has to do is lean in.

He finally does.

He's slow, kissing her like he's wanted to for months: gently, languidly, reverently, learning the feeling of her. He's never loved anyone like he loves her. He wants to show that. She makes a relieved sound, and he feels the tension throughout her ease a fraction.

They break apart for a moment. She's speechless, dazed, and the most beautiful person in the world. Their foreheads rest against each other as he continues to trail his thumbs across her cheeks. Her breath graces his skin. Zelda.

Slow, but deeper. He tries to show her how he feels, his yearning for her, all those secret emotions he’s hidden away until now. He angles her head, and he feels her sigh into him. Her cheeks are ever warmer. The pressure and softness of her lips against his own, that electrifying feeling tingling in his chest—especially since she's completely in his arms in his futon—is amazing.

He doesn’t want to stop, but he does anyway, just to see her. Just to ask her a question.

He looks at her shyly, adjusting her in his arms so her face is level with his own. It's easy since she's taller than him. "Was that…?" he trails off, unsure.

She just makes a quiet, needy noise, and pulls him in for more.

…Well then.

"Weren't you going to the lab today?" he finds himself whispering dizzily near her neck a few moments later. She shivers in response.

"There's always tomorrow," she states plainly. He can't help it, he laughs. But then he's absolutely touched.

Ancient technology and helping others is her passion. She's willing to put off her work for an entire day?

"Are you sure?" he asks quietly, with a smile on his face.

"I could do this all day," she says earnestly. Perfect, that makes two of them.

She glances over him. “Your hair—” she grins, running her fingernails through his fringe. A shiver runs down his spine at her touch. Her hair is askew, and her tunic is wrinkled from sleep. Basically, she's absolutely gorgeous. He's holding a brilliant, yet completely normal person who could turn him into ash. He loves that about her. He eyes her blush, wondering what it would feel like against his hands, or more intriguingly…

He moves to the corner of her jaw, finally being able to feel her flush for himself.

"Link, that tickles!"

He smiles against her skin, kissing her again. He can feel her laughing in his arms. Carefree, he places his lips on her neck, right beneath her ear.

She gasps and makes a faint, incredible sound he's never heard before.

He's very relaxed at this point and exceptionally intrigued at her response. It'd be nice to hear that again. He kisses her there once more, and she quiets, her hands gripping to his head a tad.

"Good?" he whispers against her throat.

"Wonderful," she breathes. “Consider my retribution waived. Unless…"

He looks at her. She's planning something, isn't she?

"Unless you're a glutton for punishment," she speculates.

He beams at her. "I am a glutton."

He cuts off her resulting laugh with a kiss.

And with that, any productivity they planned for the afternoon practically flies out the window. They spend the rest of the day making up for lost time. And if there’s not enough time today?

Well, there’s always tomorrow.

#zelink week 2023 #yearning #one-shot #fluff #hurt/comfort #mildly suggestive but nothing too serious #post botw #pre totk #they're idiots in love your honor

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