#Hair Care Atlanta

[myninaross]

Top 05 anti-inflammatory foods!

[auroralwriting]

helping hands

spencer reid x fem!bau!reader

after a rough case, spencer offers to help your muscles relax

word count: 1.0k

warnings: no y/n, pre-established relationship, pure fluff, absolute comfort fic, one small sexual innuendo, it's a short one, but sweet!

from, anon: hello! i'm a little nervous to request something this is actually my first time doing it! but i have an oddly specific request that i felt you would be able to bring to life beautifully. i was wondering if u would maybe be write something for Spencer giving the reader a massage on their back to try and help? just lots of fluffy love and extra extra bonus points if you add lots of kisses

Physically demanding cases were the worst. Sure, dealing with psychopaths was tough, but chasing them down or fighting them was probably worse.

This specific case, the unsub was actually an award-winning tri-athlete. He put up a good chase, and then an even better fight. Usually, Derek took the brunt of these, but with him checking out the secondary location, it was you and Kate, who was pregnant.

Of course you weren't going to let a pregnant woman do all that work, so you kept her back and took as much of the brunt as she'd let you take. Thankfully, you both got out nearly unharmed, just with a few minor cuts, scratches, and bruises.

The one issue that you didn't account for was hurting your back, again. The last time you'd gotten hurt was during a case in Atlanta where you fell down a flight of stairs after being pushed by the unsub. You'd sustained some pretty nasty back injuries. Even after they had healed, some of your muscles overcompensated for the others, causing you to have back pain flare ups.

Normally, you could keep them at bay with simple stretches and some medication. This time, you realized that you'd done a number on your back during the fight.

Spencer took quick note of your posture during the flight home. You struggled to find a comfortable position, constantly trying to stretch your back or shoulder blades, seeking any form of relief from the pain. He knew how much you hated being put under a microscope, especially in front of the team, so he kept quiet until you arrived back to your shared apartment.

Walking in, you sighed as you kicked off your shoes, not caring how or where they landed on the floor as you bolted to the couch, flopping down on it. You were honestly too tired and in pain to care. Spencer chuckled in the background, and you could hear him set your shoes down on the shoe rack you had.

Your eyes, which had been previously shut, opened to see Spencer kneeling in front of you. "Hi, pretty girl." Spencer smiled at you, brushing some of your hair out of your face with a loving look gracing his features.

"Hi," you softly replied.

"You feeling alright?" Spencer now caressed your cheek with his thumb softly. "I noticed you stretching a lot on the jet."

With a small shake of your head, your lips fell into a soft pout. "I hurt my back, I think."

Spencer gently grabbed your arms and help you sit up. He carefully slid your coat down your arms with furrowed brows. "Did you get hit?"

"No," you answered, "I think I twisted my back wrong when I tried to jump in front of Kate. I think I felt it hurt then, but I had a lot of adrenaline."

"You were in flight-or-fight mode," Spencer nodded. "Now that you're safe and sound, you're gonna feel it more." His large hands slowly rubbed at your tense shoulders. He felt your body relax beneath his touch. "You want me to massage you a little, love?"

A sigh of contentment escaped your lips as his hands worked magic on your shoulders, "Please, Spence."

Spencer moved your body so you were laid down. He set a pillow beneath your head as you got yourself situated and comfortable.

Spencer had prepared for this moment for what felt like his whole life. You weren't dating when your first injury occurred, but after going out for a few dates, Spencer bought seven books, all on muscles in the back, massage techniques, and different pain relieving strategies all for this exact moment. You were careful with your injury, and Spencer trusted you, but he also understood that accidents and situations like these happen, especially in your shared line of work.

The sounds of your soft hums and sighs were a sign that Spencer was doing all the right things. You knew Spencer had magic fingers, but this was the best work they'd ever done. He worked out the kinks and aches in your back.

"Did you know that roses have been cultivated since ancient times, with evidence of their cultivation dating back to the Babylonians and the Egyptians around five-thousand years ago?" Spencer rambled, his voice quiet as he worked.

You loved Spencer's rambles, "Mm-mm." you hummed, "Why?"

"They were used for their fragrance and beauty. It lead to their association with the Egyption goddess, Hathor, and then to the Greek goddess Aphrodite, and so on." Spencer explained further.

Without warning, you turned over to look up a him. Spencer smiled down at you as you softly grabbed his neck, pulling him closer to press a kiss onto his lips.

"I love your brain," You commented with a smile, watching his face light up at the compliment.

"I'm not done yet, silly girl. Roll back over for me." Spencer chuckled.

Giggling, you rolled back onto your stomach as Spencer began to work into your back. You felt his hot breath over the back of your neck as he began to trail kisses downwards, down your spine. You shivered at the touch, smiling to yourself when he moved back up to press a gentle kiss onto your head.

"I don't think masseuses normally get this touchy," you joked.

Spencer shook his head, "They don't, but my client's just too pretty."

"Are you done yet?" You turned your head to look at him.

"Do you feel any better?" Spencer asked.

You sat up, moving your arms and gently twisting your back. "Mhm, thank you, baby."

"Then yes," Spencer smiled, "I'm all done. What's the rush?"

"I wanted to watch Doctor Who before we get too sleepy." You replied, then giving a soft roll to your eyes, "Or before we get called in again."

Spencer sighed, "Don't even say it. I don't think I can handle another case for at least two weeks." He took your hand as you leaned into him. He grabbed the remote and clicked the tv on. "But I'm never one to say no to Doctor Who and my girl."

"Thank you for helping," You lovingly said, snuggling into your boyfriend's chest.

"Anytime, lovely."

[whore-4-drewstarkey]

Surprise- dad!Drew Starkey x Fem!reader

Summary: In which drew surprises his daughter at her kindergarten holiday after being away for work.

Warnings: Angst, fluff, mean mothers 🥴, gossip

A/N: dad drew makes me melt 🫠 again idk how i feel about this. but oh whale. some friends wanted me to finish this so i did. NOT EDITED (bc i’m lazy asf)

Y/N and roslyn had just arrived to the elementary school located in the suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia. Y/N opened the drivers door to her Toyota Venza, walking to the back door behind the passengers seat, opening it to reveal her and drew’s daughter roslyn. roslyn looked up at Y/N, giggling lightly as her mom unbuckled her seatbelt, lifting her up and out of the car, and grabbing her pink unicorn backpack.

“you ready sweetheart?” Y/N asked roslyn sweetly as she grabbed her daughter’s tiny hand. “yeah but is daddy coming?” roslyn asked shyly, as she looked up at her mother with pleading eyes.

“baby, i already told you, he’s still working on that project in Charleston. i know he wishes he could be here for your school party, but you know he can’t baby” Y/N had bent down, caressing roslyn’s face as she’d told her baby girl the bad news.

“oh. okay then. maybe next time?” roslyn sweetly smiled back at her mama.

“yeah, maybe next time. just remember he loves you so much and hates being away” Y/N cooed back to her and drew’s creation.

as soon as the two were done with their discussion, they walked into the elementary school, and to roslyn’s classroom. roslyn was only five years old, and was the female spitting image of drew starkey. she had the beautifully straight, dirty blonde/brown hair and his piercing ocean blue eyes. but she got her mothers softness and care free attitude. the perfect mixture of the two.

“oh hello ms Y/L/N! and little miss roslyn! are you guys excited for the easter party today?” roslyn’s teacher, mrs. richmond, roslyn’s kindergarten teacher spoke with enthusiasm.

“good morning! she couldn’t stop talking about how excited she is for today the whole ride here” Y/N smiled sweetly as she played with roslyn’s pigtails. Y/N bent down to roslyn’s level and continued, “go put your bag up baby and go play with maisey before class starts” and with that roslyn obeyed, and went to find her friend.

“Y/N could you possibly help set up the decorations outside the classroom, like in the entry way and hallway? some of the other mothers are out there now” mrs richmond had asked Y/N sweetly. mrs richmond was an older woman in her mid to late fifties. she had dark brown hair that had started to turn grey and was decently tall.

“yes of course!” Y/N smiled as she sat her purse down, on the round discussion table in the back of the classroom, but grabbed her phone out of it, shoving it into the back pocket of her dad jeans which so happened to be a pair of drew’s old jean from set. but of course she had to roll them as his legs were so abnormally long to her as she was roughly 5’4.

as soon as she finished grabbing what she needed she walked outside of the classroom, to the hallway near the classroom entrance, being met with all the other mothers. compared to the other moms, Y/N was pretty young, at only 24-years-old compared to them who were around 30-34 years-old. she knew that she was judged for being a young mother, but she never let them get to her. there, however was one other young mother, maiseys mother, aka roslyn’s best friends mother; stella. stella had maisey when she was 20, so her and Y/N connected quite quickly. stella had been the only one Y/N had really ever communicated with outside of school events. that was her friend. Y/N had met drew when she was only just barely 19-years-old. drew had come to kent university one weekend to see his baby sister brooke, and his dad, todd, who was the head females basketball coach. Y/N had been roommates with his little sister brooke, and had become best friends with her instantly. Y/N had gotten drew’s number early on and as drew had visited more and more that year, they’d started dating, and shortly after they started dating she’d become pregnant with their sweet bundle of joy, roslyn.

“oh hey, Y/N? it’s Y/N right?” daniella, another mother asked Y/N as she attempted to not give Y/N a judgy look, but failed miserably.

“uh, yeah it’s Y/N. so what are we doing out here today?” Y/N smiled sweetly, telling herself she wouldn’t let her facial expressions affect her.

“you and stella can go hang these little floating easter eggs down the hall” daniella asked, well more so demanded Y/N and stella to do.

and with that, Y/N and stella made their way to the end of the hall entry way to hang the floating easter eggs from the ceiling.

“so, how’s drew? is he coming today?” stella asked Y/N knowing how much Y/N and roslyn had been missing him.

“i’m not sure. he said he had to stay in charleston another week for some voice overs for the fighting scenes. who knows. but i’m not gonna count on it, only because i know how busy filming has been and how anticipated season 4 has been” Y/N stated as she focused on stapling the string that had an egg attached at the bottom to the tiled ceiling.

“okay, do you guys think her rings real?” daniella blurted out in a loud whisper to the other moms, referring to Y/N wedding ring.

“um, what do you mean?” becky, another mother who was a part of daniella’s posse asked back.

“like do we really think she’s married? that ring is at least 50k. if it’s real, plus her last name is y/l/n and between us ladies, her daughters last name is starkey, so why are they different?” daniella ranted on about her suspicions about Y/N.

“hm, i never knew that. that’s definitely weird” tracy, another mom in the posse commented.

“yeah, and when have we actually seen this ‘husband’ of hers? never.” daniella continued.

“honestly, she probably got knocked up young, and gave her daughter the fathers last name” becky chimed in.

“wait, have any of you tried looking her up on facebook?” tracy asked out of curiosity.

“well, duh” daniella stated before continuing. “but like everything is private. plus, the only thing that isn’t is her relationship status, and it says married, but not to who. even tried instagram, same thing there. both profile pics are of her on the beach or something.”

ever sense drew had started acting in bigger roles, she’d turned all of her social media to private mode, as she didn’t want the hateful messages her way, nor the paparazzi. she didn’t need it and roslyn definitely didn’t need it. it’s something she and drew had agreed on the moment she found out she was pregnant. she never advertised her relationship with drew publicly. of course drew advertised his with her, but with her consent. plus none of the mothers there knew anything about his existence directly so it didn’t matter.

“oh my god, are they still going on about my marriage?” Y/N giggled down to stella as the two women listened in on the not so private conversation going on just a mere 10 feet from them.

“ugh, don’t you just wish drew would come in today, just to shut them up?” stella laughed up at her as she continued to staple the floating easter eggs up and across the hallway ceilings.

“more to see the looks on their faces actually” Y/N giggled out before continuing, “or to see roslyn’s face when she sees her daddy” and with those words coming out of Y/N mouth, stella chuckled to herself as soon as she saw the tall, lean actor round the corner of the hallway, sending her a smile, pleading not to acknowledge he was there.

drew slyly came up behind Y/N as she stood on a classroom chair, on her tippy toes and all due to her shortness, stapling even more floating easter eggs to the ceiling. drew, grabbed Y/N hips, speaking, “sees who’s daddy?” he’d chuckled. Y/N gasped, and jumped back, but didn’t fall due to drew’s strong, muscular arms, catching her from falling. she turned around, looking up, facing her husband of three years for the first time in person in over two months. he’d been wearing a crisp white tshirt paired with his favorite navy blue carhart jacket Y/N had bought him for christmas, along with his usual blue jeans and iconic vintage green stussy hat. Y/N took in the sight before her, seeing as his hair had grown out to its mullet form, and his facial hair had also started to grow longer during the early spring months.

“shut up. oh my goodness, you scared me! and to answer your question, your daughter” Y/N yelped out as she smacked drew’s chest. he leant down, whispering, “am i not yours too?” and with that Y/N smacked him again, “joseph andrew starkey!”

“okay, first off, no hug, no kiss, no ‘babe, i missed you! oh my god!’?

“well, yes, but i’m preoccupied love. also we’re in a school right now and people are lurking” Y/N chuckled lightheartedly, as she pointed up at the ceiling full of her work. as soon as she said the first half of that sentence, drew engulfed her in a huge hug, squeezing his wife tight, head resting on top of hers. his arms wrapped around her waist. Y/N had her arms wrapped around his neck, as she stood on her tippy toes.

as the two lovers hugged, just ten feet away the little mom posse was watching and listening very content.

“did she just say starkey? isn’t that what you said her daughter’s last name is?” tracy asked daniella.

“uh, yeah. wow he’s tall” daniella spoke as she stared at Y/N and drew hugging. she chuckled coldly, continuing, “wait a minute…. that’s her daughter’s dad? him? she got with him? how? have you seen her?”

“maybe they’re not married? maybe engaged? i literally don’t understand it” becky questioned, as the three stood in disbelief.

“i wonder how old he is” daniella spoke her thoughts out loud as stella had come over to join the older women to give the the couple some privacy.

“he’s 29 and they’re married. have been for over three years” stella spoke to the women matter-of-factly.

“wait, how much do you know?” tracy looked at stella quizzically.

“she’s my best friend. i know everything. they’ve been together since she was 19. you guys have absolutely no shot with him so give it up already. they’re soulmates. she’s been with him every step of the way, she’s known him before everything happened” stella chuckled at how dumb these moms were to her best friend’s relationship.

“what do you mean?” becky asked quizzically.

“yeah, not saying anymore” stella smirked at the moms again.

back over at the couple, they broke away, as they each held the others forearms. “i missed my girls, ya know that?” drew spoke softly to Y/N as he stared down into her eyes.

“i know and we missed you so much. roslyn can’t even sleep without the stuffed tiger you bought her. says it reminds her of you” Y/N softly spoke up at him. she soon continued, “and i cant sleep without one of your hoodies on. thanks for the attachment issues” she teased.

“awww that’s so cute oh my goodness, i cant wait to see my baby girl” he cooed at the thought of his daughter.

“what about you? were you able to sleep well away from home?”

“i mean not really, didn’t have your body against mine” he spoke quietly as he saw the mom posse staring at the two of them. “could barely survive without your touch” he whispered into her ear, earning a scoff from from her in return, but he continued to speak “had to bring out the old pictures in my hidden folder”

as soon as those words left his mouth, Y/N had a light blush covering her cheeks, as she knew exactly what he was talking about. “drew! we’re in a school, tone it down” Y/N spoke up in a normal tone on accident. drew looked down at her, as a warning to her loud tone, nodding his head towards the moms. she immediately understood and scoffed at the thought of them listening. she couldn’t wait to face them now.

“but babe, in all seriousness can i please just get one kiss? i know we’re in a school… but fuck it. right?” he began to plead.

“hmm, and have the mom posse over still watch the show?” Y/N asked as she placed her right hand under her chin, thinking. she came up with an answer and began to speak again, “sure, why not. fuck it” and with that drew gripped her jaw sternly but gently, tilting it upward, caressing it, and dipped his head down to Y/N level, since he towered over her. Y/N wrapped her arms around his neck as drew placed his lips onto hers for a slow, passionate kiss, in which she reciprocated. the two of them just giggled after a second during the kiss as they knew the moms down the hallway were sure to be saying something about it.

“oh my god they’re kissing? in a school? with children around?” daniella scoffed in jealousy.

“i wonder what they’re talking about” becky thought out loud to the other moms.

“probably something you don’t wanna know. catch you ladies in the classroom” stella smirked proudly, mainly at the fact at how jealous the moms were. she couldn’t wait to talk to Y/N about their reactions to drew’s appearance.

as drew and Y/N finished laughing, Y/N spoke up, “well hunny, as happy as i am to finally see you in the flesh again, i think someone else will be even more excited”

“oh my god take me to my little girl. lead the way babe” drew chirped out so happily as Y/N started dragging drew by the hand towards the classroom. not before being stopped by the mom posse first though.

“oh, Y/N who’s this?” daniella asked in a sweet tone.

“this is drew, drew, meet some of the other moms. daniella, tracy, and becky” Y/N introduced nervously. drew, however noticed early on how nervous she’d gotten, instinctively wrapping his left arm around her from behind, splaying his large left hand on her left hip, wedding ring exposed.

“hi, nice to meet you all. i’m roslyn’s dad, but i feel like that’s easy to figure out because she looks just like me” drew chuckled as he did a slight wave, as he’d said hi.

“so lovely to meet you drew! why haven’t we seen you around… like ever?” becky interrogated.

“well, i’ve been doing a lot of work stuff these past few months unfortunately. i have to go out of state for business a lot for long periods of time” drew spoke, beating around the bush; his job.

“oh so what do you do for work?” tracy jumped into the conversation to draw as much information out of drew as possible.

“uh… i’m actually an actor” he blushed as he became a bit nervous, letting random strangers know of his job.

“hey, uh if you don’t mind, we’re gonna go see our daughter. he hasn’t seen her in over two months and she really misses him” Y/N sassily spoke to the mean mom posse.

“oh- uh yeah. right” daniella stuttered out as she became slightly embarrassed in front of the couple.

“take me to my baby girl please” drew smiled down to Y/N, who in return started to walk away, grabbing his large right hand into her left and dragged him into the classroom.

as Y/N opened the classroom door slowly, she could sense how excited drew was to see his daughter again due to his urgency, softly pushing Y/N ahead. “hurry up baby” he urged softly into Y/N ear from behind her as he bent down to her level.

as drew neared his daughter, who’d been sitting in her tiny chair at her tiny desk, he spoke up softly as he squatted his large frame down, “hey angel, what are you drawing right now?” as he pointed to the piece of paper roslyn had been drawing on.

roslyn simply dropped her crayon, slowly turning to her right to be met face-to-face with her daddy who she’d been missing for the past two month. her mouth opened as it began to quiver, as fears brimmed her blue irises. “d-daddy? you’re home?!” she stuttered out as she began to sob, attempting to put her tiny arms around drew’s neck.

“aw babygirl, don’t cry. are you trying to make daddy cry too?” drew cooed as he lifted roslyn into his arms, standing up with her crying into her neck. drew’s heart clenched so type at the sound of his precious little girls happy cries. “and yes baby. i’m home. i got done with filming early” he continued to coo as he cradled her tiny head against his neck, shushing her weeps.

with that, roslyn lifted her brown head of hair to look up at her father as her tears began to dry up, only to be met with her father’s face. tears brimmed his striking blue eyes, making the tiny girl twist her face in worry, wiping away any tear of his that fell. “don’t cry daddy. please don’t cry” she pouted as drew let out a chuckle at her words.

“happy tears my little girl…. happy tears. i promise. i missed you so much. you’re my little princess. ya know that?”

“what about mommy? what’s she?” the young child asked her father. “well, she’s my queen, and you’re our princess. how does that sound?” he smiled right at her, as she wrapped her arms around his neck again.

“i love that. i want a puppy. don’t princesses have puppies?” she questioned as drew let his head fall back in laughter of joy.

“we will think about that. yeah?” he smiled down to his little girl again.

“mmhm” she hummed in response, as Y/N approached the two loves of her life with adoration filled in her eyes. she was most happy seeing her daughter and her daughter’s father reunite. every time she witnessed it her heart was filled with pure love and bliss. nothing could compare to how she felt when the two were together.

Y/N walked up behind drew and to his side, brushing roslyn’s light brown hair from her face and behind her ear, as she smiled at the two, who looked back at her. “you good drew?” Y/N asked as she smirked at her husband who still had a few years every now and then leak from his eyes. she brought her soft, dainty hand up to his face to wipe them away as he smirked at her, still cuddling their daughter in his arms.

he simply responded with a sincere smile, “i’m just happy to be back with my two girls”

Taglist @slut4drudy @runningfrom2am @maybankslover

[zweiginator]

omg ALSO i went to the open this week and can’t stop thinking about jannik sinner my real life art… and now im possessed by the thought of watching art from the players box and getting veeeeryyy nasty in the hotel room after he makes it to a slam final. breathing in his game sweat and using one of his many tossed away shirts as a cum towel. getting on top since he’s already done so much work today. him grabbing hard enough to leave lasting marks, biting on the skin of your breasts, being exhausted from the long match but helplessly cuntstruck and he cums the most you’ve ever seen. says what would really change his career would be knocking you up, getting to spot a pregnant you in the box. craving more sweaty game ATP tour artrick. dominating on the court but folding quick when clothes come off. jannik’s native is german too like atlanta art and his german coach😭😭 NEED IT 🫐

blueberry ive been thinking about this since you sent it...

just being so fucking needy with each other; fucking like rabbits after his big win. and you knew exactly what was going through his mind the second he won, arms stretched behind his head has he searched for you in the crowd. he celebrated, of course, but he was more focused on leaving this crowd. on getting you home.

art doesn't take a shower like he usually does. there's no time. he wants you now, and the feeling is mutual. you're clawing at his shirt, tugging on the hem. he peels it off and guides you to the couch in the hotel room. it's still light outside, and the floor-to-ceiling windows are far enough off the ground on the fifteenth floor that neither of you have to worry about people seeing. but neither of you would care if anyone did.

art sliding your dress over your head, a cute white number he bought you. cupping your cunt and god--you're so fucking wet.

sinking down on that pretty, pink cock. art grabbing the fat of your ass, your thighs, yanking your hair to pull you down to him. mushed together, your chests flush so you can feel your heartbeats as one. synchronized.

and art is muttering, half to you and half to himself.

"fuck--" his cock slips out but he doesn't waste a second sliding it back into your warm cunt. "wanna fucking knock you up."

he's tired; his eyelids are heavy. you can see that. but he wants to see you. lifts his head enough to watch your ass bouncing on his cock and he palms it hard, to fuck you on his dick.

he moves you both on your sides; he wants to watch how he fucks you. how your pussy swallows him, sucks him in. mouthing at your tits and holding your lower back, where your ass and thighs meet. drool pooling because he's so fucking turned on.

you suck and bite on his bottom lip, reaching down to feel how he slides in and out of you. the brush of your fingers over his balls makes his eyes flutter shut and he cums inside you. you feel each others' chests heave and art loves you so much it makes him dizzy.

[pinkbowsforhim]

Pretty Girl | D.D Drabble

Warnings: Suggestive. No mentions of y/n or y/ns Gender | 17+ Timeline: Around season 5-6

It was late, you and Daryl were cuddled up on the bed, the oh-so-soft bed you had come to love. After the Atlanta incident, and after days out on the road, the group had been welcomed to a community, Alexandria. It took a bit of time to adjust to everything, after so long trying to survive the weeks you've all spent without a stable shelter…

Well, thankfully you've now had a quiet place to sleep in, relax... and maybe do other things...

Once Daryl and you had gotten your own place, you neither had time to be intimate. Just playful touching and such; After all, you both never had enough time to finish what had started, so this undoubtedly left you both feeling very needy.

You were needy, and it showed, but you knew that Daryl didn't have time to take care of your needs as much, so you took advantage of this wholesome moment between the two of you. Slowly caressing his face, brushing your fingertips against his stubble; gently pushing back the hair that had seemed to bother his eyes.

"Whatcha doing'?" his voice came out hoarse, low and deep. It caught you off guard, yet you only smiled. "Nothing', what? I can't touch my boyfriend's face now? " You batted your eyelashes, while you still had your hand on that strand of Daryl's hair.

Daryl's face went red once you spoke up; it was rare to see him blush, but once you got a glimpse of his cute reactions, you couldn't help but cherish them and get giddy, smiling like a child.

"I didn't say that, I'm just askin' what ya doing' to ma hair.. task..." "Just relax Daryl, I won't do nothin'," well that was a bit of a lie. You wanted to do everything, you wanted to make him. You liked him in ways that you'd never think of before. Even though right now, you just wanted a small touch.

"Daryl.. Can you touch me? " You let out, this seemed to get Daryl's undivided gaze. Looking into your now hazy eyes, "Please Daryl.." you were never one to plead, so this, to Daryl was cute... concerning? Or maybe just out of character for you.

You trailed your hand down his shoulder, to his arms, to his rough calloused hands; now bring them to your lips, parting them and bringing them into your warm wet cavern. As you continued to hold onto Daryl's hand, slowly you wrapped your glossy plush lips around his thumb. The taste of saltiness and the roughness of his skin only made you want more.

"Nah-uh, pretty girl," before you could start sucking, he pulled away; bringing you closer to him with the same hand, his right hand, bringing in your chest against his much broader one.

"Ah!" you yelped. This made you flush, out of embarrassment. As he kept his hand at the lower base do your back, you felt that familiar warmth in the pit of your stomach.

As your chest was pressed against Daryl's, you could feel your body shivers, the hairs springing up, and the shivers slowly rising in your chest. And soon to your nipples. Your already sensitive buds, getting hard, and just with the smallest bit of friction, you feel the pleasure ring throughout your body.

"Daryl... I need it.." you were practically crying in front of him. Begging for the world to stop, and for him to give to the rest of what you need.

"Shh—shh, be quiet for me... just let me savor ya being this needy for me.. then I'll give you what ya need."

credits to @anitalenia for the dividers!

[ghostboneswrites2]

Can't Ruin That || One Shot

New account! @ghostbones was banned! Transferring all my work here slowly!

Summary: Fluffy little one shot. Daryl gives you a gift :)

18+ MDNI || WARNINGS: profanity

        "Found this for you." He said, holding out a small white box. You stared at it for a moment. You hadn't received a gift in so long that you didn't even know how to show gratitude for the gesture. Nowadays, in a life centered around survival, acts of gratitude usually included a curt nod and watching each others backs. That was how you showed each other you cared, not gifts.

        "I--"

        "Just open it." He cut you off.

        You pressed your lips together tightly and took the little box out of his hand. You took a moment to just feel it. The weight of it, the shape of it, the thought behind it. Then, you pulled the lid up and gasped. It was a petite sliver chain with a tiny star shaped medallion. You lifted the necklace out of the box and rested it in your palm, gently tracing your finger over it with admiration. 

        He found it at a jewelry store while looking for new watch chains since Glenn's had snapped. It reminded him of you, because you loved to sneak outside at night and lay in the grass in the courtyard, staring up at the stars. He'd catch you out there often when he'd step out for a smoke in the fresh air. 

        "Ain't nothin' special. Just reminded me of you." He shrugged.

        You looked up at him like you always did, in that way that just killed him. You were just so.. sweet. The way your eyes somehow got bigger and rounder when they landed on him, or the way you smiled so small, but it said so many big things about the way you saw him. Nobody had ever looked at him that way, with so much swoon.

        In the camp outside Atlanta, he was just the asshole they kept around because he could hunt. He was just 'the younger Dixon,' the one with the temper and the crossbow. At Hershel's farm, he was good for tracking, and Carol grew to care for him as he searched perilously for her baby girl. But it was just that, nothing more. After the farm, he was more respected as he grew closer to Rick, and there at the prison he was reminded almost daily how important he was. But you? You still looked at him like nobody else ever had. And damn it, did you make yourself cozy in that little soft spot he had formed for you, the one that grew bigger and softer and warmer every day. He couldn't have kicked you out of there if he tried.

        Looking down at you while you gazed up at him, with so much admiration, put him on top of the world. He began to realize he'd do anything, kill anyone, just to see that look in those eyes.

        "It's beautiful." You grinned. 

        He chewed at his inner cheek, biting down hard in an attempt to conceal that little triumphant  smile that begged to show itself.

        "I'll find a better one eventually. This one'll have to do 'til then." He said, as he scooped the necklace out of your hand. "Turn around."

        You spun around as he said. He waited only a second for you to lift your hair for him before he gave in to the urge to do it himself when you hadn't. He brushed the hair over one shoulder, his calloused finger grazing lightly over your soft skin, sending a wave of goosebumps over you. He reached over your head and pulled either end of the necklace around your neck, clasping it together and puling your hair back the way it was. You turned back to him, blushing at his small but significant acts of affection. 

        You saw him for who he was, not what everyone else wanted him to be. He was kind. He was gentle. He was capable of great things. He just needed the right person to show him that it was okay to let his walls down sometimes, and you were determined to be that person.

        "Thank you." You said.

        "Weren't nothin'." He waved it off.

        "It is something to me." You corrected. 

        Neither of you were oblivious to the onlookers around the courtyard. You had greeted him at the gate when he came back from that run, so there were plenty of busy bodies all around you. Somehow the two of you always grabbed the attention from the others, especially when he doted on you in those ways. They all saw how you looked at him, and how he looked at you. He was shameless about it. He always hated when the world outside got even the tiniest peak inside, but he didn't mind when they saw how much you deserved his affections.

        "Are you too tired for a walk?" You questioned.

        "Nah." He shook his head. He nodded to Carl who pulled the gate open, and with just a few walkers to take down, the two of you faded off into the forestry. You loved those walks. They were always peaceful and comfortable.

        "I found something for us." You told him. 

        "Yeah?" 

        "Yeah." You nodded, pulling a single packaged Twinkie out of your jacket pocket. 

        "I'll be damned."

        "I know, right? I was wandering around the prison and found it in a desk drawer. Untouched." You gloated.

        "Shouldn't be wanderin' around by yourself like that. Ain't cleared everywhere inside yet." He scolded. You rolled your eyes, smirking a little.

        "So... You don't want half of the Twinkie?"

        "Give me that." He said, quickly snatching it from your hand. 

        "Hey!" You shrilled, reaching for it as he passed it to his other hand and held it far away from you, while using the hand closest to you to hold you back. 

        "You can have some when we find a spot." He said. You huffed with defeat as you marched along side him. He chuckled a little at your frustration.

        "That was my loot, Dixon." You complained.

        "Can't go showin' off like that if ya ain't prepared to fight for it." He teased.

        "Oh,  I'll go to war for that Twinkie." You retorted.

        "Here." He said, nodding to a fallen tree. The both of you took a seat beside each other as he tore the package open. Your jaw clenched a little as the sweet aroma of sugar and high fructose corn syrup hit your nostrils. He tore the little cake in half and passed you the side he thought was bigger, but you were too excited to notice that. In an instant the two halves disappeared down your throats. You moaned as you tasted it, and almost cried when it was gone.

        "I hated them damn things before all this." He admitted.

        "I wasn't such a fan either." You agreed. "More of a Zebra Cake gal."

        "Nah. Them little Christmas tree cakes was where it was at." He argued.

        "Those were good, but Zebra Cakes had a specific Play-Dough taste that I hated to love." 

        "Mm." He nodded. "The trees had the sprinkles, though. Need that crunch to pull the whole thing together."

        "But the Zebras didn't need the crunch, which is why they were superior." 

        "Agree to disagree." He said, but after a moment of silence; "You're wrong, though."

        "Wow. You suck at agreeing to disagree." You laughed.

        You two let some time go by, listening to the natural orchestra of birds and chipmunks and leaves tumbling around in the chilly fall breeze. You looked over at him. His mind was somewhere else, wandering. He only came back to the present when he felt you staring through him.

        "What?" He asked. You shrugged. You were simply admiring the golden halo of sunlight that illuminated the stray hairs on his head. But, could you tell him that?"

        "Just enjoying the view, is all." You shrugged. He scoffed and shook his head.

        "Yeah, right."

        "What does that mean?" You asked.

        "I'm covered in sweat and dry walker guts." He pointed out.

        "So?"

        "So, what?  You into that kinda thing or somethin'?" 

        You giggled.

        "I like how you look when the afternoon light hits you just right." You admitted. He fell at a loss for words. He didn't know how to take that, or respond to it.

        "Too bad ya can't see yourself right now." He mumbled. You almost didn't hear him, so naturally it took a second for you to process what he said, but when you did your heart melted. 

        "Maybe we can take each other's word for it." You smiled. Your eyes lingered on each other for a moment, before you found yourself leaning closer to him. He didn't move. He was unsure if you were doing what he thought you were, but when your lips brushed his and and stayed there for a short time, before you pulled away, he knew. 

        Panic set in. When was the last time he had kissed someone? Was he even supposed to be kissing you? Surely if the world saw him too comfortable, too happy, it would rip you away from him. He stood up abruptly, picking up his crossbow and speeding away. Your heart sank down to your stomach.

        "Wait!" You said, jumping up and jogging after him. "Wait! Please!" You pleaded.

        He stopped and spun around fast. You almost ran straight into him. He was breathing hard, shouldered raising up and down.

        "I--I'm sorry. I thought -- Look. If I misread, then we can just pretend it didn't happen, if that's what you want. I just... Please. Please don't shut me out. Don't close up. I didn't mean to ruin it." You begged, stumbling over your words.

        "Ruin what?"

        "Us! The way things are."

        His heated expression faltered, softening a little as your watery, panicked eyes searched his.

        "Can't ruin that." He relented, softly.

        "Then why'd you run away?"

        "I didn't run." He defended. "You just -- You walk slow."

        You scoffed.

        "That's not what I meant and you know it." You glared. He chewed at his bottom lip, shifting uncomfortably.

        "Just.." He shrugged, searching for the right words. He wasn't good at this, or at least he didn't think he was. Up until the point of walking away from you just then, you were always impressed with him, even though he didn't impress himself. He took a breath. "I'm sorry."

        "It's okay just don't shut me out okay?" You repeated. He nodded. The way he was looking reminded you of a puppy being scolded. You took two steps forward until you were close to him -- real close. "I'll stop of you tell me to." You whispered as you leaned in again, this time painstakingly slow, wanting to give him every opportunity to protest. He didn't, and if he wanted to, it was too late. You kissed him again, slow and sweet. His body was rigid, but he didn't fight. He didn't want to, but it did scare him. The more he cared, the more it would hurt if you were gone, but he guessed it was too late for that anyways.

        His unsure hands slowly found your waist as his lips began to loosen and find your rhythm. He realized this was like some kind of drug. It got him high, the feeling of something so intimate with you. You were such a prize, so delicate and worth protecting, something meant to be locked away in a glass case and never touched by unworthy hands. He knew in that moment why he was so afraid, and it was because his hands were unworthy. 

        To you, though, he was the only person you wanted to be touched by. You reached around his neck and hugged over his shoulders. He pulled you in closer and you ignored the scratchy feeling of his stubble against your skin. Your hands found their way into his sweaty hair and you wove your fingers through the strands, gently, but not so gentle that he couldn't feel how desperate you were for him.

[intoxicated-chan]

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑 ║ ❝𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐞, 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐩 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐮𝐦𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐡𝐲 𝐏𝐨𝐮𝐭❞

(A/n) ➳ Okay, I know I said I was gonna make this longer but I didn’t want to draw it out. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! Take care of yourselves!!

Word Count ➳ 1.7k

Content Warnings ➳ Sexual content, alcohol use (Not drunk), oral (F), swearing protective sex, p-in-v, motorcycle sex, spanking, overstimulation, little blood…

JUDAS Masterlist

THE RUMBLING OF THE MOTORCYCLE HAD COME TO A HALT.

You removed your arms that were wrapped around Daryl’s waist, and let out a strained moan as you stretched them.

You looked around as you dismounted, you were starstruck by the sight in front of you. “Wow.” You awed, your eyes widened.

Daryl had brought you to what seemed to be an abandoned parking lot but it had a breathtaking view that overlooked Atlanta.

The city lights shining in the distance, it looked like a photo in perfect resolution, and you found it difficult to believe what you were seeing was real.

Daryl joined you, standing by your side as he looked at the cityscape. “Pretty impressive, ain’t it?” He asked you.

You stepped closer to the edge. “It’s fuckin’ incredible.” You mumbled. “But how did you find a place like this? Doesn’t seem like your kind of place.”

Daryl shrugged, his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “Was riding’ with ma brother, figured it was a good for somethin’.”

Your head snapped in his direction. “You have a brother?”

“Yeah, Merle. He’s… He’s got his own way of doin’ things.”

“What else don’t I know ‘bout you, Judas?” You joked with him, poking at his arm.

“Plenty of things, darlin.” He chuckled, grabbing your hand and turning to you. He placed his hands on your hips, bringing you closer. “And yer gonna stick ‘round to find out.” He whispered in your ear. “Ain’t gonna have you runnin’ off.”

He began planting kisses down your neck, one of his hands tugging at your v-line blouse.

You hummed. “Goin’ straight to business, now are we?”

The vibrations of Daryl’s laugh made you laugh as well. “Got a present for ya.” He replied, moving away from your gasp.

He walked to his motorcycle, running through his tail bag. He took out a bottle of red wine, holding it up with a grin.

“Wine?” You questioned him.

“The present.” He approached you. You reached out to take it from him but he retracted. “For us both.” He corrected.

Your body burned pleasantly, feeling Daryl trailing kisses from your stomach, shoulder, up your neck and then on your lips.

The taste on his lips wasn’t the cheap liquor from the bar days ago, the wine Daryl brought was surprisingly expensive.

It seemed to be a waste when some of it spilled from the corners of his mouth whenever he kissed you.

His hands quickly stripped you of your skirt and underwear, he hooked your legs over his shoulder.

He brought his fingers to your throbbing core, he slowly pushed one finger inside.

Daryl latched his lips onto your clit. He pushed his finger in before slowly, nearly completely, out.

Your hands side into the strands of his hair, pulling at them. You yanked his hair, desperate for more but he seemed to be moving slower with each pull.

He took enjoyment in seeing you struggle for more.

With the added sensations of Daryl’s groans, he added another, quickening his pace.

His fingers found your g-spot, you gasped as he found it. Your eyes snapped open, pulling at his hair harder. “Come ‘ere.” You whined. “Please Daryl.”

Daryl withdrew from your cunt. “Ya taste better than the damn wine.” He said before attaching his mouth back on your clit, this time harder and faster.

“Fuck!” You screamed as you came, your thighs tightening around his hand as the coil snapped as your body shook.

Daryl stopped all movements, pulling back from your cunt and bringing his soaked fingers to his lips, licking them off one by one.

He unbuckled his pants, pulling himself out as well as a condom. “Need to have ya.”

His cock throbbing and red, his dark pubic hair traveling up his naval. It was wild but trimmed.

“Please.” You grabbed his jacket and got up, kissing him. “Please.”

His hands struggled to put the condom on but once it was on, he was inside you with one single thrust.

Daryl didn’t give you time to get adjusted around his size, not like he did any of the times before.

It was like the air was sucked out of you, choking on your air, fuck, it was so fucking good.

His lips barely grazed yours. “Ya fuckin’ amazing.” He hissed in between his clenched teeth, feeling your cunt clench around his cock. “Fuckin’ perfect. Like heaven.”

He wasted no time, quickly thrusting in and out, hitting your g-spot each time. Your hands remained on his chest, holding onto his jacket for dear life.

The surface of the parking lot dug into your skin, adding a little pain with the pleasure, sending ripples throughout your body.

You moaned and wailed, the asphalt probably cutting into your skin.

Daryl grunted as he roughly pounded into you, he kept a tight hold on your chin, forcing you to keep your eyes on him.

You didn’t hold back, why should you? Even if there were people around, they would know how amazing Daryl was.

“Daryl!” You screamed again.

He looked at you with lust filled blue eyes. “Gonna cum for me?” He panted, sweat running down his forehead.

And you did, the burning sentionsation shot throughout your body once again.

But Daryl didn’t stop, he showed no signs of stopping. “Third time’s the charm?” He chuckled.

Rick looked over at Shane which seemed to be the hundredth time, his food remained untouched on his lap.

Shane kept a furrowed brow as he drank from the straw of the fast food joint they went to for food.

Rick looked over at the time, it was now two in the morning.

Shane slurped up the last few drops of his soda through his straw which the straw annoyingly sucking the air.

He rolled down his window and snatched the drink, throwing it out the window.

“God dammit Rick-”

“What’s on your mind?” Rick asked him, the concern clear on his face and his voice.

Shane sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair as he leaned back in his seat. “...Did you know (Y/n) was seein’ some guy?”

Rick’s eyebrow shot up. “Really? I thought (Y/n) said she hasn’t been seein’ anyone.”

“She did!” The frustration was clear, Shane was jealous and angry about it. “A fuckin’ knife to the gut, can you believe that?”

Rick placed a hand on his shoulder. “Listen man, whatever is goin’ on between her and this guy, jus’ a phase. Like the rest of ‘em. You want to stay in her life? Start respectin’ her choices. Let her figure it out on her own.”

“And if somethin’ bad happens?” Shane clicked his tongue and his eyes remained on the dark street. “He could be hurtin’ her now!”

Rick shook him with the hand on his shoulder, snapping him out of his jealous rage. “Like before. We help her, he’ll eventually get bored. That’s when you swoop in and be her knight and shining armor. Jus’ stop being an asshole ‘bout it. Think you could do that?”

Shane hesitantly nodded.

“Good.” Rick sighed. “…Shouldn’t be hard to find his information.” Rick smirked. “Think you could get a name from her?”

Shane nodded again, quicker this time.

“That’s all I need.”

You bit on your lower lip, he had you laid on top of his motorcycle, on your back. It wasn’t comfortable but you could deal with it.

One of your legs were over his shoulder, the other were wrapped around his waist and had a fistful of your hair, tugging at it.

He licked his lips as he looked down at you, enjoying you under him.

He landed slaps against your thigh. “Ya gonna be the death of me.” He groaned, throwing his head back.

“M-More!” You stuttered. “I want more!” Your speech became slurred.

The noises you began to make were strangled and guttered, it was very embarrassing but your dignity was lost long ago.

“Becomin’ greedy?”

“Please! ‘M so close!”

“Yer gonna feel this for fuckin’ days.” He huffed. “Feel me for fuckin’ days and all ya could think ‘bout is my cock.”

He yanked you by your hair, pulling your back off the motorcycle and slammed his lips onto yours, then bit down on your lower lip.

The taste of blood filled both of your mouths. “Burn ma name in your skin.” He murmured. “Gonna remember me forever.”

It was nearly six in the morning when Daryl pulled up to your apartment. He helped you off the bike, one hand on your hip as you wobbled slightly.

“Was hopin’ ya couldn’t walk.” You smacked his shoulder as he laughed.

You leaned against him for support though. “Thanks for the ride.” You said.

“Anytime, darlin’.” He replied.

He helped you walk to your apartment door, you pulled your keys from your pocket and opened your door. “I guess this is goodbye.” A playful smile on your lips.

Daryl leaned in closer, his hot breath against your ear. “Not ‘fore I get my goodbye kiss.”

With a giggle, you listened. You pressed your lips against his for a brief but sweet kiss.

“Until next time, (Y/n).” He pulled away. “Keep ya phone on ya.”

“I’ll be waitin’ for you, Judas.”

Daryl headed back to his motorcycle. You watched him ride off, the smile still lingering on your lips.

You turned back into your apartment, closing and locking the door with a huff, you were going to sleep for the rest of the day.

“Mom! Look! A motorcycle!” Carl happily ran as close to the road as he could to watch the man in the leather jacket ride off. “Can I get one?!” He shouted, tugging on Lori’s hand. “Mom? What is it?”

Lori looked back at the man riding off and then at your door, back and forth, a couple of times.

She placed her hand on Carl’s shoulder, her glare hardening until the man was no longer in view.

With a heavy sigh, she turned away and dragged Carl with her, ignoring his questions and protests.

She was fucking angry.

© Intoxicated-Chan 2024, I do not allow my work to be copied, translated, modified, adapted, or put on any other platform without my permission.

Taglist ➳ @deansapplepie , @ladylincoln , @gamingfeline , @lady06reaper , @alanamarie , @daryldixmedown , @celtic-crossbow , @mrdixon , @itwasntaphasema , @duffmckagansbandana , @raspberryslxt , @itsrainingbisexualfrogs , @ingstadstarlight , @gamingfeline , @lor-geeked , @thegeorgiahuntsman , @snailss , @the-lonely-abyss , @number1bashbabe , @xmaeyonaise ,

⊰ Chapter 2 ⊰ » » YOU’RE HERE « « ⊰ Chapter 4 ⊰

[bookuce]

Change My Mind

SUMMARY: Josh and Alina are great friends most days. Other days, they want to tear each other apart. Some days, they’re in love with each other, but neither of them will admit it. 

*DISCLAIMER: This is a multi-part series. I do not own any of the characters in the writing except for the OC. The book uses actual names of wrestlers. Josh is Jey, Jon is Jimmy, Trinity is Naomi, and Alina is Alina. The book is not realistic and does not take place during real events, but some actual events (matches, storylines) could pop up in the story eventually. I DO NOT GIVE ANYONE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE OR REPOST MY WRITINGS ANYWHERE. THAAAAAANKS. *

PAIRING: Jey Uso x Black OC

TROPE: Friends to Lovers

WARNINGS: Language

WORD COUNT: 2,574

PART SIX

PART SEVEN

(1/2)

TWO WEEKS LATER

Wedding days were always hectic. When Cassie got married, it seemed like everything that could go wrong was going wrong. It rained on the day of her wedding, and it was outdoors. Lucky for them, they were able to find another venue nearby to get married. Though it wasn’t the dream wedding she had planned, it was unique to them—making the day even more special. Today’s wedding was sunny, not a cloud in the sky. The only issue now was that the hairstylist who was supposed to do Tasha’s hair today had to cancel—sick kid, she says. 

Finding a credible, available hairstylist in the metropolitan of Atlanta on short notice would be challenging, but lucky for Alina, Cassie was in charge of that. Alina was in charge of making sure everything stayed on schedule. With a clipboard tucked beneath her arm, she and Josh walked towards the Gentlemen’s Hall, where Michael and his groomsmen were. “I’ll come get you when I’m through talking to the decorators.” She says as they cross the yard to a small white house on the side of the winery.

“You do not have to worry about me,” Josh starts. “I’m a big boy; I can handle myself.” He promises. They stop on the porch steps, Alina now turning to him.

“I know,” She says, glancing towards the door. “I just want to make sure you’re comfortable.” Josh knew none of the men outside of Michael; he and Michael had only spoken a handful of times. 

“I’ll be fine.” He assures her. They exchanged stares for a moment before Alina slowly began to nod. 

“Okay,” She breathes, moving up the steps. Josh was close behind, his hand reaching out to open the door for her. Blaring music poured out of the house, with loud laughter following behind. She walks in, instantly greeted by the smell of cigars mixed with expensive cologne. She fans her hand in front of her face, looking at the Eight men peering up at Alina with grand smiles on their faces. A chorus of whistles would come in for the woman, but she ignored them. She was too distracted by the fact that the air was too damn thick in this room. “Damn, can y’all breathe in here?” She asks, making a face of disgust. 

Josh stood close behind her, his eyes scanning the room. For someone who interacts with strangers on a daily, he couldn’t help but feel a bit nervous. He wouldn’t admit this to his girl; she hoped he’d make friends with these men. For her, he would try. After all, they’ll have to get used to him being around for a long time. He wasn’t going anywhere. “It’s to keep the ladies out.” Samuel, Michael’s brother, says, making the men laugh.

“You’re doing a great job then.” She mutters. “Y’all need to make sure yall have this smoking shit wrapped up soon though. Tasha will throw a fit if she smells anything but cologne on y’all.” She says, pointing at the glass of liquor in Michael’s hand. He glances down at the glass, a slight grin on his face.

“I can’t calm my nerves?” He asks.

“With one drink.” She tells him. “You can get fucked up after the wedding. I don’t care what happens after, as long as my best friend is happy.” She tells him, earning a few groans from the men.

“Can always count on you to keep us in check.” A man says, his eyes finding Alina’s. There was a flirty grin on his lips while he spoke, his eyes trailing down her body. Josh notices the look, his brows furrowing slightly. She would peer over to that man, an unreadable expression on her face. She’d take in a breath, reaching behind her to grab Josh’s hand.

“This is Josh. I’m leaving him with y’all.” She points her index finger at the men, allowing it to go around the room. “Play nice.” She says before turning to her man. “Be nice.” She whispers to him. Before he could say anything, she leaned in to peck his lips. “Love you.” She says.

“I love you too.” He replies. With a wave, she spares the room one last glance before exiting the house. Josh watched as Alina left before turning his attention back to the men in the room. They were all quiet, staring at him. “What’s up?” He greets them with an upward nod of his head. Michael steps forward, his hand open for a dap up. Josh would close the gap, their hands coming together for the greeting and hug. 

“Make yourself comfortable, man,” Michael says, pulling back to look at him. “You want anything to drink? We got a cigar left.” He says. Josh shakes his head at the cigar offer. He didn’t care much for cigars. 

“I’ll take a glass, Uce.” He says, moving to sit in an open seat next to the man who eyed his woman. Josh and the guy briefly exchange glances before he returns his attention to Michael. The groom turned to the mini-bar behind him, pouring Josh a small glass of bourbon from the decanter on the counter. When he finishes pouring his glass, he turns to pass him the drink. Josh takes it, saying a small thank you to him. 

“No problem. Let me introduce you to everyone.” Michael says, lifting his hand. He points to a guy seated in a red recliner seat. “This is my little brother, Sam,” He moves on to the next. “My fraternity brothers, Calvin, Malcolm, Shawn, Kenny, Nate, and Theo.” He finishes, ending with the man sitting next to him. There was something off about Theo—Josh could tell, but he wasn’t sure what it was just yet. 

Josh nods once at everyone, giving them a slight smile. “Ay, nice to meet y’all.” He says. 

“So you and Lina, huh?” Shawn asks.

“Yeah, she’s a great woman,” Josh confesses. “I’m lucky to have her.” He adds. The eight men in the room looked after Lina, always ready to protect her. She was like a sister to most of them.

“How long have y’all been together?” Theo asks suddenly. Instead of looking at the man who asked him such a question, Josh glances down at the glass in his hand.

“A few weeks,” Josh answers. “We’ve been friends for two years, though.” Theo hums at the answer. Michael and Sam would exchange glances at the interaction, the brothers sharing some unspoken agreement. “How do you know her?” Josh asks. 

“Ex-fiance.” Josh becomes incredibly still at the answer. “Dated all through college, engaged for two.” Theo finishes. In the two years Alina and Josh have known each other, she had never mentioned that she was engaged. Josh swirled the brown liquid in his glass before bringing it to his lips for a sip. Michael and Sam both knew this conversation was going to happen eventually. It didn’t cross Alina’s mind that it would happen today. Josh was for sure going to bring it up to her later.

The brown liquid warmed Josh’s chest, causing him to clear his throat slightly and clench his jaw. He sniffles before turning to look at Theo. “I didn’t know she was engaged.” He says. Theo and Josh watched each other in silence for a bit.

“I’m surprised she didn’t tell you.” He says.

“Must’ve not been important,” Josh replies, his gaze becoming cold. Theo continued to stare at Josh, a faint grin on his face. The room became silent while everyone watched the two men tied to Alina McLemore stare each other down. The grin on Theo’s face made Josh’s blood pressure rise. He could feel his body warming by the second, his ears getting hot. 

Kenny’s eyes flickered between everyone before he leaned forward on the sofa he sat on. “So, Josh, what do I gotta do to get a few tickets to Smackdown?” He says, pulling Josh’s attention from the man next to him. Theo stands to his feet, walking to the kitchen. Josh’s eyes would flicker in his direction before moving back to Kenny.

“Nothing, what show you looking at?” He asks, giving him a grin. 

“Y’all got a show coming to Savannah later on.” Kenny answers.

Josh answers with a shrug of his shoulders and shakes his head. “It’s done. Just text Lina when the time gets close, and we’ll make everything else happen.” He instructs him. Theo walks back into the room, sitting down next to Josh again. 

“So you’re a…wrestler?” Theo asks, chiming into the conversation.

“Yeah, I fight,” Josh says, looking back at him. It was a subtle warning to the man next to him. Theo peers over, a smile coming to his face again. Warning received.

“And you and Lina work together?” He continues. “Wouldn’t that complicate things?” He asks, insinuating the relationship was due to fail. Theo was on a mission to piss Josh off to the point of no return, it seems. These are typical ex-boyfriend fiancé shenanigans. Josh and Theo would begin another stare-down before Josh looks away from him. Slowly, he put down his drink. He didn’t need that anymore. 

“You want to elaborate, Uce?” He asks, turning his entire body to face Theo. Samuel and Michael looked at each other once more before the youngest brother stood. He glances at his phone before glancing over at Josh.

“I think the DJ just got here. Josh, you want to come with me to grab him?” He asks.

Without breaking eye contact with Theo, Josh stands to his feet. “Yeah, I’ll go.” He says, finally looking away from the man. He looks over to Sam before heading out the door. Sam points at Theo.

“You’re an asshole, I hope you know that.” He says before following the man who just left. Fresh air hit Josh like a ton of bricks, making him close his eyes and gather himself. He wasn’t going to get out of character today. He will be on his best behavior, but that Theo character? Ooh, he ought to kick his ass. Alina had some explaining to do. “Ay, let’s go,” Sam says, appearing beside the man. They’d stepped off the porch together and headed towards the pavilion where the reception was taking place. “I’m sorry about that, man. Theo’s a jackass.” He says.

“It’s all good,” Josh says, his eyes fixated on the ground. “I’m sure he was just looking out for Alina—trying to see if I’m a good guy.” That’s what he planned to tell himself. Theo wasn’t grilling Josh because he was jealous and wanted his ex-fiance back. No, he just cares about her a lot. It’s not because he still loves her—he just cares about her like he does. Yeah, that’s it. Delusion is the solution. 

What he doesn’t see is the expression of concern on Sam’s face at his words. If he would have noticed, there was no telling what he’d do. Sam looks down at the ground briefly before looking off at the vineyard. “It’s not my place to speak on that,” He says finally. “But to my knowledge, Lina ain’t paid that man any mind in years. She just tolerates him because he’s in the friend group.” He explains. Lina is notorious for putting distance between herself and others when she doesn’t want to talk. Josh knew it firsthand. There had been plenty of times she had ducked and dodged him when she was upset. 

“I get it,” He sighs. He had nothing to worry about, really, but still. Four years is a lot of history to have with someone—especially when you almost married them. “I’ll have to ask Lina about it later,” Josh says.

“Ask me what?” Sam and Josh stop walking, their eyes meeting the woman standing on the steps. Alina had just stepped out of the side doors of the winery when she spotted Josh and Sam walking towards the pavilion. They hadn’t noticed her yet, but she spoke up when she heard her name. 

“About your ex-fiancé.” Josh says immediately. Sam looked away from her, his hand going to his neck. 

“I’ll get up with you, bruh,” Sam says, tapping Josh on the arm. He rushes off towards the pavilion, not wanting to be in earshot of that conversation. Alina glances down at the ground. She tucks her bottom lip in between her teeth before taking a deep breath.

“Josh—.”

“You set me up.” He says, pointing at her.  “You knew damn well that man was in the wedding party, and you ain’t say a damn thing.” He says, louder than he should have. Some of Tasha’s relatives had walked by, their eyes now on the couple. Alina glances around them before reaching to grab his hand. “Nah, man.” He pulls his hand back from her grasp, causing her eyes to widen.

“Can we not do this here?” She says through clenched teeth. She snatches his hand up, now pulling him inside the winery. They’d march through the halls of the old building, her eyes darting from left to right for an open room. When she finds a room, she pulls him into it, closing the door behind them. 

Josh leans against the desk, his arms clasped tight in his lap. “I should’ve known something was up with his ass the moment he looked you up and down.” He says, shaking his head. “If I would have knocked his ass through the wall,” He gestures to himself. “I would have been in the wrong.” Alina rolls her eyes at his words, moving to stand in front of him. She grabs his hands, unclasping them to fill with her own. He allowed her this.

 “Me and Theo haven’t been together in over ten years.” She explains. “We don’t see each other, we don’t talk to each other. He doesn’t know me anymore, Josh.” It was true. Who she was at twenty-two was not who she was now. She has grown and lived an entire life since then. 

“Shit, I didn’t know strangers look at each other like that.” A mix of jealousy and insecurity was getting the best of him. Even if it’s been ten years, there’s still something there. He saw it with his own eyes. Delusion has reared its ugly head to work against him.

Alina drops his hands, taking a step back. “Alright,” She chuckles. “You can go home.” She says, moving towards the door. “And I don’t mean my house; cross that state line.” She wasn’t about to argue with someone who wasn’t trying to listen to her. 

“Lina—.”

She spins around. “Don’t Lina me! You just accused me of having feelings for someone who cheated on me. That man got a woman pregnant behind my back and defiled my trust! He broke his promise, Joshua! I don’t give a damn about that man! I love you!” And there it was, the truth he wouldn’t allow her to speak. “That man—hurt me!” She says, her voice breaking. There was a lump forming in her throat, a sign that sobs were soon to come. “And you’re hurting me right now. I–I don’t have time for this right now. I don’t—.” She was not about to ruin her makeup over him. 

“Lina, I—.” He starts once again. Before he could finish, she had already run out the door, leaving him alone in this office. “Shit.” He hisses, running his hands over his face. 

He fucked up.

(2/2)

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A/N: Welcome to the Chaos! There are two parts to this chapter! So be on the lookout for the next half of it soon! I would like to attach what Theo looks like!

His name is Lance Gross for those who don't know him! Fiiiiine actor. Anywho, if you need an idea of what Alina's bridesmaid dress looks like, it's a spaghetti strap brown satin dress ruched on her left hip. I don't have a picture bc I imagined this lmao sorry

BUT ENOUGH ABOUT THAT. LETS CHAT

JOSH WHAT DID YOU DOOOOOOOOO!!!

🏷️ list: @thesamoanqueen @whatdoeseverybodywant @headoftheetable @mzv11 @southerngirl41 @yana3sworld @wanderingreigns @wrestlingprincess80 @siriuslycee @vebner37 @astridxxxxxx @alichesmi @tshepisho @scarlettnoir01 @brokenglassslippers @reignsboy19 @sayyestoheav3nn @cyberdejos2 @empressdede @sisinever @truefant4sy @paigereeder @tbmotw @fearlesschimera @venusesworld @usoholic @sageispunk @bebesobrielo @jstarr86 @vibessonvibes @issahyland 

[myninaross]

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[pinay12204]

I was reading abt the Book Of Heroes from PJO and the book , as we know , is being narrated by Percy so its kinda funny how when it came to the part of Atlanta , Psyche , and Perseus' love lives he is just basically projecting his healthy loving relationship with his girlfriend into these three stories

Case 1: Perseus , his literal namesake and one of the few heroes to have a happy ending and a happy marriage with his wife who he had tons of kids with , being tongue tied when meeting Andromeda and knowing it was true love whe she hugs him can be attributed to how many time Annabeth hugs him and him being tongue tied when Annabeth is around during their early years and quite possibly hoping the he would get this kind of happy ending with Annabeth once everything is at peace or less troubling in their lives.

Case 2: Psyche , that one line about Eros and Psyche thinking that they don't want their lover to see them in a dirty and messy state despite them both thinking that the other looks great despite the mess. NEED I SAY MORE? Percy even said that He had experienced the same situation with Annabeth, finding her cute even with a rats nest hair. (Also about how despite being in pain they both still love and care for each other)

Case 3: Atalanta- an amazing blonde, fierce, and strong princess and a prince who is LITERALLY a grandson of POSEIDON with DARK hair and GREEN eyes who immediately fell in love with the Atalanta finding her amazing as she killed her suitors and was insanely strong and wanting to be with her despite all those challenges. Percy a son of poseidon who has dark hair and green eye falling in love with Annabeth who is insanely strong and amazing and wanting to marry and grow old with her despite all the challenges. NEED I SAY MORE?

I know some maybe a bit of a stretch but all I can see is Percy giggling and kicking his feet while writing these three heroes love stories while thinking about Annabeth

(Also they have a monthly Argo II reunion party that he stated in the book and now that Jason is gone I bet their next reunion party is going to be a funeral)

[dontloooknow]

hungry, lonely, violent

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Days, months, years you spent hungry, yearning. How can a simple two weeks change what's been your life since the outbreak happened? How can one man mend the shattered pieces you never thought could be put back together? How can Joel Miller be that man?

Tags: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Caregiving, Recovery, Healing, Trauma, Oral Sex, Creampie, Size Kink, Size Difference, Older Man/Younger Woman, Hurt/Comfort, Porn with Feelings, No use of y/n, Protective Joel

Word count: 22k

Read on ao3

The sunset is a blaze of orange over Jackson, Wyoming.

You’ve been all over the country at this point, a nomad by choice, who escaped the Atlanta QZ as soon as you had the ability and supplies to do so. There have been rumors of a safe place, a town out west where people live in a harmonious peace behind sealed walls. No infected breaking in, no raiders to rob you or do worse. No corrupt FEDRA agents to gun you down for looking at them funny.

As it turns out, it’s a lot fucking harder to find a place like that, than it is to imagine it. 

You know you’re close; you saw the Welcome to Wyoming sign days ago. Your best guideline is an out of date map that you’d killed a handsy FEDRA guard for. It’s gotten you this far though, so you can’t be too frustrated. 

Of course, it’d be nice if it wasn’t the dead of fucking winter, but you’ve never really had the best luck. 

You know you don’t have long before you need to give up on this insane venture. No one ever actually believed the talk about somewhere safe hidden in the mountains; somewhere that life was meant to be lived and not merely endured. Somewhere that a person could feel like a person again, by way of basic dignity and small decencies.

You can almost feel it now, if you close your eyes and let yourself imagine. The steam of a hot shower; water beating down on sore muscles, wet hair plastered down your back as soap bubbles cascade across slick skin. A mug of coffee, or tea, hell you’d even take hot chocolate at this point. Something to soothe the coldness of your palms; something to warm your throat and belly. The crackle of a fireplace underneath a mantle; hardwood floors, a rug nestled underneath a sofa. 

You were so young when the outbreak happened that you’ve never really gotten to experience these things. But you know them well. Stories from your parents, wishful tales of a life once lived in comfort and peace. An expanse of opportunity, safety to explore, create, enjoy. 

In a world like that, there’s room for all sorts of things you haven’t been able to have. What’s always been a quick meal of ration blocks scarfed down in a hurry, could be a slow-cooking stew, complete with fluffy bread and a glass of clean water with ice. Maybe even a wedge of lemon for flavor, if you’re lucky. A slice of hot pie for dessert, an unneeded expense of greed and hunger, nothing beneficial for your health really except to make you happy. Socks without holes, pants without inner thighs so worn you can feel your cold skin chafing between them. 

In a world like that, there’s room for things like delicacies. Things like…romance.

You have no illusions that this could ever be your future. Since you lost your family, things like safety and stability have been mere fantasy. You can’t remember what a home cooked meal might taste like, or a hug from someone who genuinely cares about you. The men and women you’ve been with have all been quick, dirty fucks, going through the motions to make eachother cum and breathe hollow noises of pleasure that are more for show than anything. 

In a different world, maybe it could all mean something.

You take quick stock of your rations. A half-empty water bottle with a screw-on filter that’s quickly becoming unusable from strain. A can of green beans. A small pack of bandages that have lost most of their adhesive strength from time. One pair of underwear that’s hanging off your pack, wet from a wash in the creek. There’s nothing worse than going commando in sub-zero temperatures, but it’s a necessary evil for hygiene. 

From your place currently hiding out in an abandoned gas station nestled in the mountains of what surely used to be some sort of thriving backwoods community, any hope of that fantastical world really does feel out of reach. For most of your life it felt that if dreams were enough to keep you alive, you’d surely be immortal. But lately, that negligent bit of hope is starting to seem like the flicker of a candle about to blow out. 

And it’s funny, for someone who claims to have given up hope, how quickly you jump into gear when you hear heavy footsteps behind you. Your hands fumble; cold and nearly frozen from the frigid temperatures outside, clasping the grip on your gun. You only have a half-mag left, and with your hands as shaky as they are from the weather, you aren’t feeling confident about your ability to aim as well as needed to make that half-mag worthwhile. 

Still, you have little other choice. In your condition, a hand-to-hand fight would be your undoing. 

“I hear someone in there, breathing,” a gruff voice says. It’s low and careful, a slow southern drawl that you recognize as Texan, most likely. You met a few of them in the Atlanta QZ, and they all had this gentle drawl to them, the same way this man does.

It would be almost a calm, reassuring sound, if his proximity didn’t surely mean imminent death for you.

“A runner?” another voice asks, this one is younger. A man, or a boy maybe, a teenager. 

Fuck. You’re outnumbered, even if these are the only two out here. You’re outnumbered by two men. You’re hungry, and half-frozen, and struggling to think of what to do next. It’s like your brain isn’t functioning at full capacity. Who could blame it, with the months of neglect on the road? When was the last time you even had fucking protein?

You try to listen, try to hone your ears to follow the footsteps of the man coming toward you. Surely he knows where you’re hiding, if he heard you breathing and assumed you were an ill infected. You must really sound like shit. You sort of knew that your lungs had a rattle from the cold and your nose was sniffly, but clearly it's worse than you thought. 

Okay, okay, think. What can I-

Your train of thought is immediately interrupted by a large, thick arm circling around your neck from behind. You gasp as your body is wrenched into the air, a sturdy mountain of a man behind you. In your panic, you drop your gun and reach for his massive forearm, trying to pry it off your neck as your vision begins to go fuzzy.

Holy fuck, you’re going to die at the hands of some random Texas giant in this abandoned gas station. 

“Shit, Joel, she’s not infected!” 

“Wh- Christ!”

In a flat second, you’re on the floor, coughing and gasping as you clutch at your neck, trying to fill your icy lungs with desperate air. The floor is more like concrete, and with the layer of ice spread across it, there’s damn near no cushion for your fall.

The large man reaches out, you can hear his jacket shuffle and his body move, but you scramble away, reaching frantically for your gun. 

The other one, the younger boy, comes into focus and reaches out to pluck up your gun before you can even make an honest grab for it. 

“Hey, we aren’t gonna hurt you,” the boy says, looking down at you earnestly. It’s big talk from the teenager holding a revolver on you, but his eyes are genuine enough. “I’m sorry we scared you. We thought-”

Your vision whites out as you feel a large hand grab your arm. The big man, the giant Texan has grabbed your bicep and is trying to pull you up. Pure instinct takes over; reflex causing you to lash out with your free arm. 

Your knife makes a decent slash in the skin of his hand, and he pulls back with a shouted curse of pain. 

“Whoa whoa!” the boy tries again for a calming tone, still attempting some sort of diplomacy.

Ignoring his pathetic excuse for a ceasefire, you launch yourself at the large man, wielding your knife like it’s your last chance. 

With him momentarily disoriented, it’s easy to hop on his back, effectively putting his body between yours and the boy with the gun as a human shield. And a gigantic one, at that. His shoulders are stocky, easy handholds for you as you settle your legs around his large waist. You press the tip of your knife against his throat, feeling the vibrations of his grunted breaths against your thumb bone. 

This close, you can smell a soft aroma of lemon soap wafting off his wavy hair. It’s dark with streaks of silver dancing down through the ends, matching a well-groomed beard on his jaw. His jacket is thick brown leather, it looks heavy and surely adds bulk to an already impressively large man. 

“Walk out, now!” You warn the boy with the gun, still pressing the blade into the man’s throat. “I won’t kill him if you leave me alone.”

You think it’s a pretty fucking generous offer, considering this giant just tried to choke you out.

The boy glances at the man, sighing. He shakes his head, holstering his gun. “Joel, just be gentle.”

Frowning, you look between them in confusion.

The man, whose name must be Joel, chuckles dryly. It’s a nice sound, a steady reverberation through his chest. In another circumstance, you think it might be a soothing noise. One of those laughs from a person who seems like they know the answer to every question, who's figured everything out. Someone who’d take care of you.

Then, he grabs your wrist so hard you feel bone press into flesh, wrenches the knife away from his throat as if you’re no more than a pesky mosquito, and flips your body over his shoulder. 

Being effectively yeeted into a frozen concrete floor by a man three times your size would most certainly be a death sentence. 

You feel the wind rush out of your lungs, the world spin upside down, and you’re preparing to hear a deafening crack of your skull against the hard ground. 

Before the impact radiates through your body though, you realize he’s slowed your momentum by sliding an arm around your lower back, stopping you just before your body would’ve crashed into the floor. He kneels forward, holding you just above the ice, and you get a good look at his face.

It doesn’t feel like the right time to be thinking this, and you hate yourself a tiny bit, but he’s really fucking handsome. His nose is large and stately, his eyes framed by thick, dark lashes that brush his cheekbones, eyebrows pulled together so his forehead scrunches up. There are lines of age on his face, flecks of gray in his beard, yet the flush to his tanned skin and the light in his gaze tells you he’s in tiptop shape. This is a man who eats well, eats often, and probably isn’t sleeping on the hard ground every night as you’ve been for weeks.

Considering he just tossed you over his shoulder like a tiny bag of flour, this isn’t particularly surprising. 

“If you’d quit tryin’ to kill me, little miss, then maybe we can have a conversation.”

With a growl of anger, you swing your fist. He catches your wrist in his hand so easily it’s humiliating, and gives you a disapproving look. 

“We ain’t gonna hurt ya’,” he continues, “stop swingin’ on me.”

“We should take her back to town,” the boy says, still standing beside the two of you a little awkwardly, “she’s not well.”

At that, you pause, something icy running into your veins. You’ve run into more than enough fucked up little “towns” on your trip west. They always ended up trying to kill you or indoctrinate you into some demented cult ideals. You’ve fought your way out of more than enough situations like this to know that if you don’t escape now, it’s not going to end well.

You’re unarmed, you’re starved, you’re half-frozen, and the man above you is so large you swear you could strap a pair of reins to his shoulders and have him pull a carriage. 

In so many words, you’re fucked.

“Get the fuck off me!” you snarl, wriggling in his grasp and trying to free yourself.

“Alright.” The man releases you and you hit the cold ground, a surprised noise of pain slipping from your mouth as your head smashes into the ice.

“Jesus Joel,” the boy says.

“She told me to!”

This is your chance. You just need to get to your feet and run. Fuck the gun and the knife, you’ll find new ones. You’ve been without your supplies before. You can figure it out. You just have to get up.

An attempt to move into a sitting position proves futile, as your vision begins to swim and your head throbs. Your hands fumble weakly for purchase at your sides, but the ice is too slick to find a solid grasp.

“I think she’s gotta concussion,” the man, Joel, muses nonchalantly.

“I think she’s got a lot going on,” the boy replies, “should we put her on a horse? Seems like she wants to be left alone.”

“Ain’t the policy that we bring back injured travelers?” Joel asks.

 “Yeah, but normally they don’t…resist this much, right?”

Joel hums thoughtfully. “Normally they ain’t women all by themselves surrounded by two strange men.”

“I guess not.” 

“Let’s get her on a horse. Once she realizes she’s safe, maybe she’ll quit the murderin’ shit.”

“What if she comes to and tries to kill you again?” the boy worries.

At this, Joel chuckles again. “If she manages to kill me on the back of a horse with no weapon, then I goddamn deserve it, kid.”

“Is this how all patrols are?” 

“Nah. They usually ain’t this exciting.” Joel leans over you then, and you smell the lemon soap and a faint whiff of pine oil. “Hey there, you with us?”

“No,” you groan, though you’re not actually sure what you’re responding to.

“Listen, m’gonna have to pick you up and put you on a horse. Try not to gouge my eyes out. Think you can manage that?”

“No,” you repeat sourly.

“Excellent. You ever been on a horse before?”

“No.”

He exhales. “You say anything else?”

“No.”

“Alright then. When we get you up, just hold on to my waist, don’t let go or you’re gonna go flyin’ and that won’t be good for neither of us. You hear? No ain’t an option.”

You narrow your eyes which does nothing to help your already blurry vision. You feel your consciousness slowly starting to slip away on a delicate string, at a great danger of snapping and disappearing in the distance. 

“I think she bonked her head,” the boy says when you don’t reply.

“Good observation, son.” With that, Joel reaches for you. You tell your muscles to resist, to fight back, but they frustratingly don’t move.

He slides his arms underneath your prone form and lifts as if you weigh no more than a backpack. Surprisingly, his touch is gentle rather than rough as you’d expected. He moves slowly, gradually pulling your body into a sitting position. Your head spins and you let out an involuntary noise of pain.

“M’sorry honey,” he murmurs, “you got your bell rung, that’s for sure.”

“I don’t carry a bell,” you manage a weak reply.

He chuckles again, and you feel yourself being hoisted up. After a moment of adjusting, you’re lying in his arms bridal style, thick forearms underneath your body. He grips your thighs to keep you in place, shifting you upward to preserve the momentum as he gets back to his feet with a slight huff of effort. 

“Do you need help?” the boy asks, hovering.

“Nah, she don’t weigh more than one of them kitchen chairs in the mess hall. Just grab her stuff, m’sure she’ll be askin’ after it when she’s up and running.”

“Okay, okay got it. You want me to lead?”

“Yeah, go ahead. Thanks Jesse.”

“Sure thing.”

You’re moving then, you think. The world shifts around you, and your head lulls to the side, pressing into a coat. You shudder once, and find yourself transfixed on the even breathing of the man holding you.

“Cold?” he asks gruffly, and then sighs as if that’s a stupid question. “Jesse?”

“Yeah?” 

“Help me with this.” 

There’s movement, and your body is shuffled a bit, before someone drapes a thick weight over you, wrapping you up like a burrito in what appears to be a giant leather jacket. It smells of lemon and pine oil, the scent wafting off it with each movement. 

You’re confused, disoriented and overwhelmed. The weight of the jacket around you is enough to soothe the cold for now, even as you feel shuffling and adjusting and find your legs slung around the thick flank of a horse. 

“Hold on tight,” says Joel. 

What other choice do you have? 

———-

Somewhere between the gas station and here, you passed out. 

It shouldn’t surprise you, given the state you were in. It only makes sense your body would give up in some way. Obviously you wish it hadn’t been while you were pressed up against the large, broad back of a grouchy old Texan, but as you said you’ve never had the best luck. 

When you come to, you’re supine on a couch. It’s odd though, because from first glance, the thing isn’t musty and dusty like they usually are. It’s soft, squishy, and smells clean. There’s a blanket draped over you, some sort of fuzzy wool that keeps your limbs warm. It’s heavy too, the weight of it soothing. A crackling sound alerts your gaze to a mantle with a fireplace underneath, heat flickering off the orange licks of flames, well contained in the brick casing. Atop the mantle are framed photos, a girl with choppy hair and freckles on a horse, the man, Joel, at her side, smiling. 

It’s an odd expression on him, you think. Although handsome, it’s surprising to see the gruff man look so at ease, so happy. From your brief interaction in the gas station, you’d come to gather he’s a no-nonsense, quick-to-choke asshole.

Not unlike yourself, really.

And if there are photos of him and what looks to be his daughter, or a teenaged relative maybe, on this mantle, that means you’re in his house. That means you’re in grave danger.

Though...you are seemingly fine, wrapped in a blanket by the fireplace, clothing intact on your body. Beside you on an end table is a lamp, a glass of tepid water, and a few leaves of unfamiliar greens. 

You move to sit up, pressing your hands against your thighs in search of any of your weapons. Nothing. Your pack is gone too. 

As you adjust, you find that your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton, tongue swollen and dry. Your throat is aching, desperate for water. You run your fingers along the arm of the sofa, eyeing the glass of water longingly.

What if he’s done something to it? 

Before you can decide if it’s worth the risk, footsteps pad in behind you, and you whip around to see him entering the room. You stumble off the couch, legs wobbling, knees threatening to give out as you try to stand your ground.

“Easy,” Joel says in that slow drawl, “you’re alright, little miss. You’re safe.”

Your hands clench into fists. As if you’re stupid enough to believe him. 

“You know where you are?” he asks, like he thinks you won’t know. 

For a moment, you fumble. Where...are you? You know it’s snowing outside the windows of this little, quiet house. You know you came from Atlanta. You know you found yourself a little turned around in the backwoods of somewhere in Wyoming.

“Wyoming,” you say, forcing the word to come out assuredly, even as your voice cracks around it like a frail twig under a boot.

He nods once. “Good. You’re in Jackson. You hit your head and it seemed like you haven’t had a real meal in a while. We brought you back to get you feelin’ better. You passed out on the way.”

Blinking, you take stock of the room around you. You’re in Joel’s house, in Jackson. Can it really be true? Have you really found it? The place where life can be lived peacefully amidst the horrors outside the wall? 

“It’s real?” you find yourself asking. The crackling fireplace and framed photos seem evidence enough of a more content lifestyle than anywhere you’ve ever lived.

Again, he nods. “You’ve heard of it?”

“Just stories,” you admit, “didn’t believe them.”

“It’d be hard to,” he agrees gruffly. 

You allow yourself a moment to look him over. Here in his home, he’s shed his winter layers in favor of a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt with an unbuttoned flannel over the top. His hair is tousled from the wind, gray-lined dark curls framing his face. His shoulders, just as big as you remember noticing, fill out the fabric of his flannel so well it’s a little hard to look away. A quick scan of his body does little to reassure you of any chance you have to fight back if this goes sour. He’s large; his chest thick, thighs sturdy in his jeans, a faint outline of a comfortable belly underneath his shirt. You can see a cropping of dark hair just poking out of his shirt collar and the ends of his sleeves. He’s rugged in every sense of the word. Rugged, and huge. 

“I left you some water there,” he gestures vaguely to the end table, “some mint leaves to chew on, sometimes they help when I gotta headache. I dunno. Just in case. They didn’t have anywhere to put you yet, and the infirmary was pretty overrun so they-”

“What are you going to do to me?” you find yourself asking, hating the hollow note of fear in your words. 

Joel pauses, hands on his hips, eyebrows screwed together. “Do to you?”

In lieu of a reply, you just nod warily. 

It takes him a moment, you think, to register what you’re implying. When it hits him, his shoulders deflate, and his expression heaves into one of displeasure. He clenches and unclenches his fists before he speaks.

“You’re safe,” he says again, voice even and composed despite the clear discomfort on his face. “I ain’t gonna hurt you. Once they find somewhere else to put you, we’ll get you comfortable. But for now, if it’ll make you feel better.” He moves toward you, reaching for the waistband of his jeans.

Reflexively, you stumble backward, putting distance between the two of you. Your legs betray you, and you find yourself leaning against a table by the window with little wood carvings to stay upright. He halts instantly, expression neutral. 

“I was just gonna give you this.” He removes your gun from his waistband, presenting it matter-of-factly. “Loaded the mag for you. Don’t shoot me.”

With that, he sets it on the end table by the couch, halfway between the two of you, and steps back. 

“You got no reason to kill me,” he says, “I got no reason to hurt you. I wouldn’t. Ever. So take it. But I’d prefer not to have any extra holes by the time you leave.” 

You swallow noisily, eyes tracing the line toward the gun. It rests neatly beside the water and mint leaves, his gifts to you, comfort and safety all in one little package on the end table. 

Unsure of what to say, you slowly move toward the end table, picking up the gun. Hesitantly, you pull back the slide and see a round in the chamber. Then, you pop the mag out and see that he wasn’t lying. It’s fully loaded. 

You eye him warily as you tuck the gun into your own waistband, safety on. “Thanks?”

“Don’t shoot me,” he repeats sternly.

“Don’t give me a reason to,” you warn him.

At this, he scoffs. “Lady, if I wanted to kill you, I woulda done it with my arm around your neck.”

Your eyes narrow. “I never said you wanted to kill me.”

His nose wrinkles at that, eyes going dark. “You don’t have to worry about that. Listen, I’ll stay outta your hair. But they want me to get you healthy before you get set up on your own here. So-”

“Wait, before what?”

Another sigh, like he’s exasperated. “You’ll get assigned a house and eventually work duties and patrol schedules. They’ll go over all that with you. I’m just the middle man here.”

You’re shaking your head before he’s even done speaking. “Who fucking decided that for me?”

His eyebrow arches. “Ain’t that why you’re out here?”

Torn, you struggle to think of a reply. It actually is exactly why you’re out here, but you’re confused and suspicious at the easy welcome and acceptance of another mouth to feed, another burden on the resources. You don’t even know if he’s telling the truth. Maybe you’re not even in Jackson. Maybe this is some fucked up murder cabin and he’s playing you like a fiddle.

“How do I know you’re not lying?” You demand, fingers itching to reach for the gun now that it’s safely holstered away. 

Joel gestures to the front door. “Be my fuckin’ guest.”

Reluctantly taking your eyes off of him, you push off the table and move for the front entryway. You brush by him briskly, annoyed when he doesn’t move out of the way. Your shoulder nudges into his arm, and you’re struck by how thick and immovable he feels beside your feeble frame. 

You hate it. It would be so effortless to overpower you.

You dislike having him in your rearview, but you move toward the line of windows that overlook the front lawn. 

Your eyes take in a sight you could’ve only ever imagined. Snow-lined streets, little shops and markets with pleasant looking customers milling about. People with horses, waving to each other. Children running in the street and laughing loudly while gentle adults corral them back onto shoveled sidewalks. No FEDRA guards shouting about work duty or drills, no bomb warning sirens, no distant roar of infected outside the gates.

No weapons, no shouting or robbery, no children sobbing in the snow from hunger. Everything that had ever felt unattainable, apparently just outside your window. 

In utter disbelief, you slowly turn back to Joel, who’s watching you with mild interest. 

“Wow,” is all you can manage. 

“Yeah, you found the promised land and all that.” He shrugs. “Now they said they oughta have somewhere for you to stay on your own by end of week, provided you’re physically up for it. You’d better start with some water, kid.”

You glance at the glass on the end table, ruminating on the possibility of it being laced with something. 

“For Christ's sake.” Joel marches toward the glass, takes a few huge gulps, and then holds it out to you. “Where the fuck would I even get somethin’ like that?”

He has to know that these days finding drugs to crush up and ingest is infinitely easier than finding food. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe living here has made a soft, ignorant man of him. Maybe he always has been. 

You’re suddenly so angry. All of the years you’ve suffered, your family dying, FEDRA raids and Firefly bombings and attacks from hordes of infected. 

And here he is. Sitting by the fire, framed photographs smiling back at him, mint leaves between his teeth for a mild ailment. 

It’s so unfair. 

“You guys are pretty selfish, you know.” You ignore his outstretched hand with the water. “Keeping all this a secret. Keeping it for yourselves while the rest of us struggle.”

Joel rolls his eyes, and the flippant gesture is enough to make your teeth grind together. “Ah. We’re doin’ this? You wanna leave, go. Ain’t nobody holding you hostage.”

What are you doing? Your brain is screaming at you desperately. This is what you wanted. This is why you came. You’ve found it. 

You hadn’t realized what it would mean, actually seeing this oasis. Actually feeling the warmth of a fireplace and the soft fabric of a clean couch. Having mint leaves and bullets a plenty. How could you have ever expected the gaping hole it would punch through your chest, seeing what you could’ve had all these years, laid out in front of you like a decadent buffet. What your family could’ve had. 

What this man, Joel, is trying to offer you. 

“It isn’t fair,” you manage weakly, talking to no one in particular, eyes searching around the organized decor. “It isn’t fair.”

“I know,” is all you get in reply. 

You move away from the window, not exactly sure where you plan to go, but overwhelmed. Finally, your weak knees do give out, and you pitch forward.

Your arms shoot out to catch yourself, but as it turns out, you don’t need them to. Strong hands grip you under the armpits, pulling upward until your legs straighten out. You stumble into a big, warm chest, and Joel grumbles something you don’t catch under his breath. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, “gonna get you back to the couch.”

You’re too overcome to argue, though it is your first instinct. You allow him to lead your trembling body toward the sofa, jellylike legs carrying you only as his strength pulls them along. 

He slots you between two couch cushions, and you sink down in the fabric. Then, he picks up the water he’d set down in his hurry to catch you, and holds it out. 

“This would be a start,” he says earnestly. 

In shaky hands, you bring the glass to your lips, sipping delicately. The water is room temperature, somewhat warmed by the heat of the fire. It goes down your throat, soothing the ache there with much needed droplets of hydration. You finish the glass in record time, and before you can blink, Joel’s taken it from you. Your arm reaches forward pathetically, a plea to keep the glass as if you could suck the remaining moisture out from the bottom. 

“Hold on,” he says, but there’s no note of impatience or annoyance in the words. He leaves the room and returns a moment later with a glass full to the brim. 

Eagerly, you take it from his hands, too lost in the euphoria of fresh, clean water to consider the possibility of the first one being a trick. He’s got you comfortable. Now, he can do whatever he wants. 

You hadn’t realized how thirsty you were until the pain was soothed. 

It’s a funny thing, longing. You get so used to it that you start to grow numb. You yearn for something long enough, eventually you don’t feel like yourself without it. Hunger, thirst, pining, it’s all a part of who you are. Fulfilled, sated, you wouldn’t know who to be or how to move forward. 

Still, you finish the glass as quickly as the first. 

“Better?” Joel asks, his voice lacking warmth but not particularly unpleasant. 

You nod hesitantly. 

“How’s your head?”

You touch your fingers to the back of your head, roving the pads across your tangled hair. You feel no bump, no cuts, nothing more than a rats nest of unbrushed locks. 

“Fine,” you say, though it does hurt. You’re sure it’s nothing serious, but you definitely gave it a good bump. 

“You feel like eatin’?” He asks, and the prospect of food is enough to make your chapped lips feel wet with salivation. 

“You have food,” you tell him, more of a statement than a question. 

Quizzically, he nods. “Uh, yeah.”

“Real food?”

“I got some venison in the freezer,” he says, “and some broccoli.”

“In a can?”

His expression softens marginally. “No.”

Fuck. Real fresh vegetables? 

“Tell you what.” Joel cracks his knuckles loudly. “You go on up and take a shower, get yourself sorted. I’ll get started on some grub. ‘Bout dinner time anyway. Then maybe we can get you healthy enough to get outta my hair. How’s that sound?”

“Okay,” is all you can think to say, surprisingly amicable. In your defense, it’s been a while since someone offered you a hot meal and a shower. And you do have your gun...just in case.

Joel holds a hand out, and despite every instinct in your body begging you not to take it, you slip your palm into his. His hand is warm, calloused from exposure and rough on the pads of his palm, but there’s something familiar about his hold. It’s oddly comforting. It feels like a hand that knows hard work, not unlike your own, which you’re sure are twice as rough right now.

He offers you a small, barely perceptible smile before he releases your hand and says, “second door on the right.”

Then, he heads into the kitchen. 

If you wanted to, you could quietly sneak in behind him, gun drawn, and put a bullet in his head. Right now, it would be so easy. He’s foolishly left you to your own devices in his home with a loaded gun. Who could blame you for second-guessing his motives and intentions? 

But he’s also offering you a meal, a hot shower, the prospect of a life. And you’d come a very long way to find him. To find this, you mean. 

You lean down and grab a mint leaf, sticking it between your teeth to chew as you ascend the stairs with a careful hand on the railing. It’s surprisingly tasty, the leaf, though it has a bite of burn that stings your tongue in an unfamiliar way. You press it between your teeth and tongue, feeling the sharp sting of the mint and breathing in the relief. You aren’t sure why, maybe it’s all in your head, but it feels like it is soothing your pain. 

Your fingers trail along the wooden banister. It’s clean, well dusted, organized. There’s traces of life here, in the haphazard way his boots are strewn by the door, in the crumple of towels on the floor in the corner of the laundry room you pass by, in the photographs on walls and more tables. That girl with the freckles and choppy hair is all over his life, alongside a man with a beard and scrappy bun. A brother maybe? You can’t tell, but what’s clear in the multitude of photos is that Joel likes to keep his loved ones close. He likes tangible memories, reminders of those he cares for. 

You find yourself in a large bathroom standing in front of a shower with a pastel yellow curtain. You grip the material in your fingers, pulling back on the curtain, enamored with the way it glides back and forth on the rod. The closest thing you had to this in the QZ was water boiled and poured into a tub for bathing. On the road, it was a nice cold creek when you could find it.

Curiously, you slide your fingers down the wall until they bump into a strange knob, delicate rounded designs poking out of the glossy finish. To the right, a little blue circle, to the left a little red one. You deduce they indicate the temperature of the water, and twist the knob until it’s halfway in between. 

The water shoots forward out of a head at the top of the wall, spraying you in the face. You splutter, pulling back and coughing water out of your nose and throat. It’s a powerful stream, the droplets hitting your face with a velocity you hadn’t expected. You know the currents of lakes, oceans and creeks can be unpredictable. Waves are something otherworldly, a force to be reckoned with, never tempted. 

You had no idea something so small could be so powerful.

You check once more that the door is locked, then you peel off your tattered jacket and undershirt. Your bra is barely held together by a stitch you keep doing and undoing in the back. The clasp broke a year ago. You slide your old jeans down your legs, face blooming red when you remember that your underwear was hooked onto the back of your bag to dry after a wash.

Where is it? Did they leave it in the gas station? It was your only pair. 

Somehow worse...does Joel...have it?

Hesitantly, you step over the ledge of the tub into the stream of water, surprised at the feeling of the droplets crashing into your skin. It hurts a little, the pressure at which the water shoots out at you. 

For a moment, you languish under the stream of water, feeling dirt and muck slide off your skin. It feels like you’ve been encased in a layer of grime for so long, you’ve almost forgotten what clean feels like. Though, you’ve never been clean like this.

You see a little sponge in a rack on the wall, and grab for it. There’s a bar of soap beside it, and you take that too, sudsing up the sponge as much as possible. It smells like lemon, the same faint aroma you’d noticed on Joel.

Then, it strikes you that this must be the sponge he washes his own body with.

You hesitate. Surely this violates some sort of acceptable hygiene norm. But also, your hand’s not gonna do the job. And you’d only be dirtying up his soap if you used that on its own.

In a confused moment of transfixion, you squeeze the sponge between your fingers, running the pad of your thumb over its gristly base. It wafts lemon, that enticing smell that Joel carries with him from a good wash in the morning. 

You know it’s odd, and certainly not the time to be having these thoughts, but it’s a little distracting that this is his sponge. The same one he rubs all over himself when he’s naked, when the water is drizzling down his thick body, his sturdy chest and his soft stomach and the unmovable width of his thighs. You imagine he must like the way it feels after a long day, hot water sizzling on his skin, the sharp edge of a sponge cutting through dirt on his body, the smell of lemon in his nose and lingering on him.

You douse the sponge in lemon soup, and carefully slide it down your arm. The feeling makes you shudder; the rough texture of the sponge grating down your filthy skin. The sponge that Joel rubs on himself. The sponge that’s nestled itself between the bulging muscles of his chest, down the lines of his abdomen, all over his large arms. Down further...between his legs, maybe. 

It’s been so long since you thought about a man this way; since you thought about anyone this way. On the road, there was no time for luxuries like sexual fantasy. 

But now, safe and comfortable beneath a thick and steady steam of hot water, you allow your mind to wander a bit.

How thorough must Joel be, when he washes himself with this rough little sponge? To smell as good as he does even in the midst of a fight, even with adrenaline pumping, testosterone brewing, sweat surely slickening his underarms and legs. Still, he wafts pleasant aromas, the kind that make you lean into him, rather than pull away.

He must touch himself often, in depth. He must scrub the soap in between places on his large body that only he can see, only he can touch. Dripping little droplets of sweet-scented soap on to parts of him that would be so difficult to get to, unless he were naked in front of you. 

Your fist clenches tightly around the sponge, expelling a myriad of soapy bubbles that drip down your legs into the drain. You blink, shaking your head, trying to come back down from those inappropriate thoughts.

Jesus. It’s really been too long. You’re gonna have to figure out something to do about that before you find yourself biting into this lemon-scented sponge.

Get a grip, you tell yourself. You have one hot shower and all of a sudden you’re ready and willing for the first person who will have you?

You’re sure it won’t be Joel, gruff and solitary as he seems, but maybe someone in this little safe haven is interested in relieving this ache.

Though, you’re no stranger to longing. It’s not as if you can’t take care of yourself.

Right now, you focus on washing. You scrub every inch of your body, including between your toes and in your belly button. You fight the layers of grime and grit until your skin is rubbed raw and red. Then, you take the syrupy bottle of liquid that’s labeled in marker “shampoo” and drench the crown of your head with it.

Scrubbing your hair takes more energy than you can expend. By the time the bubbles are rinsing down your back, your vision is swimming and you’re seeing black spots at the corner of your eyes. Your legs wobble, and you press a hand flat against the wall to steady yourself.

How long have you been in here?

Instead of tipping over and falling out onto the bathroom floor like an idiot, you slowly lower yourself to the shower floor. The tile is hot underneath your legs, and you realize you’ve turned the water all the way to the little red circle. 

It burns, droplets of acid shooting into your skin like knives. It’s so hot, hotter water than you’ve ever felt cascading over your body. It burns nicely, melting away the road like you’re shedding skin to grow anew. The steam fills your nostrils, and you take a big breath, your lungs still rattly and weak from the cold outside, but soothed slightly by the thick warmth in here.

You lose track of everything on the shower floor. The water is so hot, the smell is so sweet, the confines of the tub feel safe and secluded. The door has a lock, the shower has a curtain, each sliver of a barrier between you and everyone else feels like more security than you’ve had in months. Or maybe ever.

Your knees press against the sides of the tub, knobby and thin, too sickly for anyone to desire. You don’t like the body you’re in, don’t like that you were mistaken for an infected today, don’t like that you’re more survival than person at this point. 

And you can’t help but wonder, Jackson, Joel, this life here, would it be enough to change that? He says he can get you healthy, you can get your own place, a home. If you do as he says, follow his lead, can he really make that happen?

A place where you could lock the doors whenever you want. A place where you didn’t have to keep a loaded gun on you to feel safe. A place where you could drink the water without worrying it’s been spiked or it’s unsuitable. A life, a home, something meaningful.

All you have to do is get off the floor and go downstairs to it. 

With a huff of effort, you shove your body forward, bracing yourself on the side of the tub for momentum. You clumsily yank on the knob and crank it until the water stops flowing. There's a fresh towel on a rack by the shower, and you reach for it feebly.

You avoid your reflection in the mirror as much as possible; your skin is a mapping of cuts, bruises, scars. A lifetime of suffering delicately traced into lines on your body. There’s no hiding what you’ve been through, it plays out across your limbs like the scenes of a movie. Each moment of misery, each near-death experience, each trauma, a little piece of it left within you and etched into your physicality for everyone to see. 

Some people are born whole and become broken. Some are born whole and never lose enough pieces to say they aren’t complete anymore. 

You were born with missing parts, already deficient in a world that ensured it would hack every last bit of you away. You don’t know how you stand, how you breathe, how you live, without lungs to fill your throat with air or a heart to pump your blood. Your chest is a cavern, all your missing pieces scattered across the trails you’ve walked, and mirrored in your scarred flesh.

Reminders. Everything is fleeting, everything is futile, and contentment is an undeserved fantasy. 

Body wrapped in a towel, the cold air dimpling your flesh with goosebumps, you reach for your tattered clothes. They’re filthy, murky and bloodstained. You suspect Joel is going to need to thoroughly disinfect the couch you were lying on. 

You don’t want to put them on. You don’t want to slide your clean, scrubbed raw skin into the folds of clothing littered with horror. 

All you have is the cleanliness of your skin, and the mint leaf ground up between your teeth. Your first taste of comfort in...well, forever.

Reluctantly, you scoop up the pile of clothes and peer out into the hallway. You’re struck with a delightful smell; not the lemon soap, but something more tantalizing. Cooking meat, vegetables, the sizzle of smoke on a stovetop. You lean forward almost in a trance, your stomach growling ravenously, as you begin to descend the stairs. 

Your footsteps are featherlight on the stairs, toes carefully pressing forward down the cold hardwood. It squeaks underneath the pad of your foot, but you ignore it, moving languidly toward the enticing smell. 

He’s there, Joel, standing at the stove with his large back to you. He’s shrugged out of the flannel, leaving him clad in only his black t-shirt. The thin confines of the material give you more insight into the shape of him, the large, hulking physique of the man cooking vegetables. 

He doesn’t seem to notice your entrance, either too enthralled in his task, or you’ve been in the shower so long he’s forgotten you’re here. 

Carefully, you edge your way in a wide circle until you think you’re in his peripherals. He glances sideways, eyebrows shooting up as he observes you standing in his kitchen, only a towel around your body. 

“Do you have my underwear?” You ask, before something less humiliating can come to mind. 

Joel falters, something between embarrassment and amusement dancing across his expression before it smooths out. “Uh, yeah. I threw ‘em in the wash with some other stuff. Hope that’s okay.”

“Oh. Yeah it’s okay. Thanks.”

“I can take those too?” He jerks his chin toward the bundle of tattered clothes in your arms. 

“I have nothing else to wear,” you admit. 

At that, the corner of his lips twitch sideways. “I got somethin’ for ya’.”

He sets the pan down on the stove and gestures for you to follow him. You trail behind as he makes his way down the hall toward the laundry room you’d passed by earlier. He pauses in the doorway, looking around thoughtfully, before he spots a big tub in the back corner and reaches for it. It’s labeled with the same marker his shampoo was.

Ellie Winter Clothes

Joel brings the tub out into the living room and cracks open the lid, waving a hand for you to come in and examine the options.

You peer into the tub, surprised to find several neat stacks of folded up clothing. Jackets, pants, long-sleeved shirts and flannels. You look at Joel curiously.

“My kid,” he explains, “she just left last week to go on this tour of the west coast with her girlfriend. They just turned eighteen, all about gettin’ that freedom.”

You stare at him blankly. “You let your eighteen year old daughter leave on her own?”

Joel smiles wryly. “You ain't met Ellie. Anyway, she’ll be back at the end of next month. Just don’t lose nothin’ and I figure she won’t mind.”

You pick up one of the shirts. It’s soft fleece, navy blue, thick and warm to the touch. You purse your lips, doubtful it’ll fit you if it’s something a teenage girl’s wearing.

“I think it’ll fit just fine,” Joel tells you carefully, “‘least until we get some food in ya’.”

Warily, you slide the navy fleece over your head, keeping the towel upright with one hand and rolling the shirt down over the front of it. With dismay, you find the shirt fits nicely. It’s barely even snug.

And it’s so unfair that you almost cry in his living room. Because a girl ten years your junior shouldn’t be wearing the same size clothes as you. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep the emotions from swelling to the surface, blinking rapidly. 

Joel clears his throat. “Hey, why don’t you throw them clothes on, and meet me in the kitchen? Grub’s almost up.”

You’re quick to nod, scooping up a pair of leggings and socks before you shuffle across the floor into the downstairs bathroom beside the kitchen. You allow yourself a moment to let the tears race down your cheeks as you dress in the teenage girl’s clothes, sniffling while wiping at your red eyes. You hadn’t realized, alone on the road all those months, how much you’ve shrunk in on yourself. You’ve never been as big as you should be, stunted by lack of food. But at least in the QZ you had ration blocks. It’s been a lean few months of scavenging. 

You feel like something inhuman, something wrong, something unworthy. You don’t belong in this well-decorated, well-loved home. In this safe little town. 

Finally, you wipe the last of the liquid from your eyes and exit the bathroom, heading into the kitchen. Your footsteps are careful, cautious, each one placed with delicate intention.

Joel’s just finishing up as he sets a plate down on his circular kitchen table. There are two settings, each with glistening silver utensils and a mason jar full of liquid beside them. 

Joel spots you entering, and smiles hesitantly. He pulls out one of the chairs, which you assume is your cue to sit. You place your bottom in the chair, surprised when he pushes it in for you. He sits in the other chair and begins to eat unceremoniously.

Taking in the sights on your plate, you find a well cooked slab of meat, seared delightfully. The broccoli is steamed to a crisp, but not burnt, and there’s a slice of fluffy bread sliced beside it. You even see Joel dip a knife into a slab of light yellow paste and spread it over his slice.

“Is that...” your voice trails off in disbelief.

“That’s right,” he replies, “want some?”

You nod eagerly and hold out your bread. He smooths some butter over the top. He takes a sip from the mason jar beside his plate, and you can’t tell exactly what’s in it but, from the smell you think it’s alcohol.

You glance down at your own jar curiously, picking it up with a delicate hand. It’s a faded orange-ish brown color, but smells sweet when you bring it to your nose to inhale. No traces of booze, you don’t think. You’ve never been much of a drinker.

Tentatively, you bring the liquid to your mouth for a sip, eyelashes fluttering with surprise. It’s sweet to the taste, tangy and thin as it drenches over your tongue. The flavor is familiar, though you’re certain you’ve never had this drink. It’s tart and sweet all at once. 

“You ever had apple juice before?” Joel asks, watching you make love to the mason jar as you eagerly sip more.

Frowning, you shake your head. “Maybe when I was a kid, before the outbreak. I don’t remember it though.”

“You like it?”

Nodding, you tip the glass back and finish it off, exhaling with pleasure. Then, you get to work on the meal.

It’s been so long since you used silverware you’ve almost forgotten how to properly position the fork and knife to cut into the meat. It’s tender though, and easy to slice into. You spear a piece with your fork and take it between your lips, eyes going wide at the burst of flavor breaking in under your teeth. 

It’s like nothing you’ve ever had before. Juicy, tender, flavorful. It fills your mouth, satiates the hunger radiating through your teeth, goes down your throat in a smooth gulp. It settles in your empty stomach, a small portion of relief restored within you. 

It’s as if a switch has flipped. Once you get a bite of the meat, you think you need to have more or you might die. It’ll be impossible to stop. 

You start cutting into the meat like your life depends on it, ravenously shoving pieces into your mouth in a manner you’re sure Joel finds unladylike. You supplement it with bites of well-seasoned broccoli and soft, buttery bread.

Joel refills your apple juice and you wash down bites with it, practically moaning at the taste. When your bread disappears another is set on your plate, buttered and soft, ready to go. 

You barely look up to breathe before the plate is clean, the glass is drained for the second time, and Joel is still working on his first helping of it all. 

He smiles at you when you meet his eyes, suddenly feeling something like shame wash over you. You don’t remember much of what your parents taught you about manners, but you’re pretty sure coming into a stranger's house and eating their food like a feral dog doesn’t fall under the umbrella of polite dining.

“Um...m’sorry,” is all you can think to say.

Joel arches an eyebrow, taking a hefty bite of his own and chewing thoroughly before he asks, “sorry for what?”

“It was really good,” you reply hesitantly. 

At that, his smile grows, and he looks down at the plate to smooth his expression over. He nods once. “Good. M’glad. Glad you liked it. How’re you feelin’?”

“Like I want more,” you admit, though your voice is sheepish, “is that bad?”

He clears his throat, readjusting in his seat, and your face falls. Oh dear god. You’re humiliated. Clearly he’s uncomfortable with your gluttony and your request, you’ve made this weirder than it already was. Further proof of your fears; you aren’t made for a place like this. You’re wrong, broken, not-

“I’m real glad to hear that, darlin’,” Joel says, “maybe give it a few minutes. I bet you ain’t eaten that much in a while.”

Your face feels warm at the casual use of darlin’, but you ignore that and ask, “wait for what?”

“For it all to settle, make sure you still feel okay.” He shrugs, taking another bite of the meat on his plate, which you’re now noticing is much larger than the one you’d had. “Goin’ from as hungry as you look, to eatin’ like we do here...s’gonna take some time.”

It’s an interesting concept, the idea that there could be too much to eat, when all you’ve ever known is the opposite. You struggle to see how that could be a problem, but it’s his house, and his food, and you don’t want to make a scene.

“Okay,” you agree quietly.

Joel chews on his bottom lip thoughtfully, eyeing you as you wrap your arms around yourself, feeling as though your mere presence alone takes up too much valuable oxygen.

“Here.” He hands you another slice of buttered bread, holding it out in his large hand like a peace offering. “Can’t let you sit at my table hungry, darlin’. Just, take it easy, or you ain’t gonna feel too hot.”

Tamping down the glee that springs into your chest at the opportunity for more food, you accept the bread from his outstretched hand with a quiet thanks. You eat quickly, greedily, closing your eyes and letting out a small moan of  delight at the taste. 

Something funny happens as you eat that bread, a change in the way your stomach feels, a change in the way your body feels. A warmth, pooling in your belly, swelling through you up into your chest, softening your throat and relaxing your shoulders.

You’re full. For the first time in you don’t even know how long, the emptiness doesn’t persist. 

“Wow, that’s a sight,” Joel says, and you look over at his face to find a surprising expression of amusement there.

“What?” you demand, voice going sour.

He shakes his head, rueful. “You, smilin’ like that. Didn’t take you for the type.”

A scowl immediately overtakes your features, and your jaw clenches. “I’d have plenty to smile about if-”

His low, dry chuckle cuts off your train of thought. Your eyes narrow, and he shakes his head again, looking a little too amused by all of this for your taste.

“Will you settle down?” Joel teases lightly. “It’s just nice, is all. Glad to see you lookin’ happy about somethin’. We’ve made a lotta progress from you holding a knife to my throat earlier.”

You regard him with cautious eyes. “And you trying to choke me to death.”

“Ah. Yeah.” Sheepishly, he rubs the back of his neck. “M’sorry about that. I didn’t realize you weren’t...”

“A disgusting mushroom monster?” you fill in, lips twitching.

“I wasn’t gonna say that.” He frowns. 

“It’s fine. I know I look like shit. It’s been a rough couple of months.”

“I wasn’t gonna say that neither,” Joel replies dryly. “What I do wanna ask is…well, how’d you end up out there on your own? Ain’t you gotta family? Young woman like you-“

“I’m not young,” you bite back immediately. And it’s true. In this world, at your age, you’re considered lucky to still be here

“Alright,” he concedes, “woman like yourself, alone. How’d that happen?” 

“Everybody’s got dead people,” you reply, running your finger along the thin glass around the empty mason jar. It’s cool against your skin, sticky with juice remnants. It gives you something to focus on besides Joel’s scrutinizing expression. 

You don’t want to do this; pry open this bleeding wound in your empty chest and claw at the flesh until the pain subsumes you. Your family is dead, you’ve never had anything close to a  friend, you’ve never been safe enough to slow down in the way you’d need to fall in love. What is the point of rehashing this? What is the point of saying aloud all the scars he can see written plainly on your body?

“Where is your daughter’s mom?” you ask, hoping desperately to shift the subject off of yourself.

Joel clears his throat, sitting up a bit in his chair. “She’s dead. I actually adopted Ellie.”

“Oh, you aren’t her biological father?”

“No. I uh...I was though. My older daughter. Sarah.”

You look at him, the plains of his face, the aged lines around his deep eyes, the flecks of gray in his beard. His use of the word “was” needs no further elaboration. It’s clear, probably should’ve been since even before he showed you Ellie’s winter clothes, this man is someone’s father. 

You suddenly realize you’ve left your loaded handgun in the bathroom upstairs, abandoned with your discarded clothing. You suddenly realize, that’s alright. 

“I’m sorry,” is all you can muster in reply to such a harrowing admission. 

Joel nods once, a brief acknowledgement of your condolence. “Thanks. Was a long time ago. M’alright, these days. Life’s good.”

“Everybody’s got dead people,” you offer up again, a limp shrug to your shoulders. 

Arching an eyebrow, Joel replies, “that’s true. Your parents, then?”

“Mhm. Yours?”

He chuckles. “Long before the outbreak, honey.”

“How old are you, anyway?”

“Old. Yourself?”

“Not old. Not young, either.”

Nodding, Joel’s eyes dart up to meet yours. It’s quiet then, the sort of quiet that lingers between two people when they aren’t sure what the next move is. When they aren’t sure where to go from here, what the future holds, what they are to each other.

“How are you feelin’?” He breaks the silence, of course, with a concerned glance at your empty plate.

You hesitate. How are you feeling? It’s been so long since someone asked you that question. 

Yesterday, the answer would’ve been something as simple as an eye roll and a gesture to your ruined body. How are you feeling? Fucking bad. Is there any other way to feel in a world like this one?

Good feels like a stretch. Your head hurts from where you banged it on the floor, your stomach is so full now it’s starting to feel uncomfortable, your body aches and groans with each movement, and your mind is a torrent of uncertainty and confusion. 

But...you’ve certainly felt worse, haven't you? 

There’s food in you, and something delightful called apple juice. There’s a fire in the living room. There’s utensils, and plates, and warm clothes, and a shower with-

You suddenly remember something you forgot to tell Joel. 

“I used your sponge,” you say abruptly.

Joel blinks. Once, twice, then his brow furrows. “Pardon me?”

“Y-your sponge,” you splutter like an idiot as you realize this was not an appropriate time to bring up the sponge. “In the shower. I’m sorry I didn’t…it was the only one, so- ” 

“Oh.” Understanding passes over his face, and he looks taken aback for only a split second before he speaks again. “Oh, no. S’alright. I didn’t think about that before I sent you up there. Sorry. You’re good.”

“I rinsed it clean,” you tell him. 

He laughs a little breathlessly, and you think you see the tips of his ears hueing a bit red. Clearing his throat, he swipes his used silverware onto his empty plate and stands. The chair squeals across the floor with his sudden movement. 

“I ain’t worried about it,” he says, and moves to deposit his dishes in the sink.

Urgently, you scramble to your feet, collecting your own plate and following him. It’s your immediate instinct to take over and begin scrubbing the dishes; so long living on your own that every responsibility fell to you. 

You’re stopped by his gentle arm brushing yours, and he shakes his head. “I got the dishwasher workin’ last month. No need.”

“Dishwasher?” you ask, confused.

Joel gestures to a large white door embedded into the cabinets. He reaches down, smooths his large fingers over the material, and pulls. The door draws down, opening to reveal peculiar little rows of racks and baskets. 

“Whoa,” you breathe, kneeling down beside it with fascination, “that’s what these things do?”

“You were young when the outbreak hit,” Joel notes, not a question, but more of an observatory reminder. “I’ll bet there’s a lotta shit we used to have that you don’t remember.”

“We had one of these in the QZ,” you say, still transfixed by the inner workings of this dish washer, “but I didn’t know it opened. I thought it was just a weird design thing.”

At this, he bursts out laughing. It’s a bit more vivacious than the dry chuckle he’s been giving you all day, a genuine, pealing laugh that comes from deep within his belly. It’s nice, rumbling in your ears and soothing to your tense shoulders. The timbre of his pleased noises does something odd to you, something calming.

“It takes running water to use,” he explains once his laughter has died down, “that’s why yours never worked. If your QZ was like ours, that is.”

“You were in a QZ?” you look up at him, struck with how massive he seems standing above your kneeling frame.

“Boston.” 

“Atlanta.”

“Heard that one ain’t a cakewalk.”

You shake your head. “No, we didn’t have cake.”

His lips twitch. “You don’t know what-”

“I’m fucking with you.” Rolling your eyes, you get to your feet and cross your arms. “I’ve heard of expressions before.”

“Just not dishwashers.”

Annoyed, your hand flies to your waistband, an instinct. You remember your gun is upstairs. 

Joel follows the movement of your arm with a disbelieving noise of contempt. “You’re a violent little thing, ain’t you?”

“I didn’t-“

“Where’s the gun you were just reaching for?” 

“I left it upstairs,” you admit. 

Joel nods approvingly. “I’ll call that progress. Let me load the dishwasher here and I’ll take you up to your room.”

“My room?” 

Your room, indeed.

After the dishes have been loaded into this bizarre machine, Joel walks you up the stairs, past the bathroom you used, into a spare bedroom. It’s nice and clean the way the rest of the place is, neat lines and vacuumed rugs. There’s a dresser, and a bed with four posts, a colorful quilt, photos of horses on the walls. It smells like pine. 

You haven’t slept in a bed in a very long time.

You tell him as much, stroking the quilt beneath your palm as you approach the bed. It’s sort of itchy, the kind of fabric that has grit to it, but thick enough to keep you warm. 

Joel watches you as you investigate the room, perched in the doorway with his ankles crossed and his arms pressed into the frame. “So you made it all the way from Atlanta, to here, on your own?”

“Mhm.” You vault yourself up experimentally on the bed, feeling the mattress dip beneath your slight weight. It’s aged, squeaky springs and lumpy spots here and there. The quilt scratches your raw skin and you pull back slightly.

But it’s a bed.

“Must’a been hard,” Joel notes.

You nod in agreement. It was hard. Now it’s over. No use rehashing it.

“Well, m’sure you’re exhausted.” He clears his throat and backs off the doorframe, nodding in your direction. “I’ll be just down the hall if you need...if there’s anythin’ at all...just, I’m here, alright?”

“Thanks.” You offer him a small, unsure smile. 

He returns it with ease. “That’s two.”

“Huh?”

Holding up two fingers, he moves from the doorway. “Two smiles. Bet I can get three outta you tomorrow.”

With a scoff, you walk up behind him and place your hand on the door. “Good thing there’s no money for you to lose.”

He grins at this, crooked jaw and curled lip all wicked and teasing. There’s something mischievous about this expression, something so out of character for this stern, fatherly presence that it almost takes your breath away. You can picture him, twenty years younger, a rough-and-tumble young man with a teasing sense of humor and a sharp wit. It’s no surprise at all that someone loved him enough to give him a child, someone loved him enough to make him a father. 

Joel is confusing, but he’s also quite simple. 

He’s a man who cares, fiercely, for those he loves. He cooks, he cleans, he folds his daughter’s clothes up in a neat little bin in the laundry room. He scrubs with lemon soap and stokes a soothing fire in the mantle. He chews mint leaves when his head hurts, he washes dirty undergarments without being asked. 

He also laughs, teases, chokes and leaves you to your own devices if you get on his nerves. Though, his patience seems admirable. He loaded your gun, handed it to you with a live round, even after you’d held a knife to his throat. He’d cooked you dinner, caught you when you fell, walked you to the bedroom so you could get proper rest. 

You guess, if you were gonna end up getting choked out by some strange man, you’re glad it was Joel. Joel...huh.

“Hey,” you stop him before he can make for the staircase.

“What?” he asks.

“What’s your last name?”

Joel regards you curiously. “Miller. Joel Miller. What’s yours?”

You tell him your name, and he nods. It takes a quick beat of silence for you to continue, “it’s nice to meet you, Joel Miller.”

He smiles again, softer this time, more genuine. “Likewise, darlin’. Get some sleep.”

With that, he turns his back on you and descends the staircase.

______________________________________________________________________

The days go like this.

You wake up in a bed, scratchy quilt wrapped around your sore, aching body. You hadn’t realized how badly you hurt until you stopped pushing forward. 

You climb out of the bed, and pad downstairs in the cold morning brisk of Joel’s house. He’s always up before you. He has a fire going in the mornings, heat wafting off the flicker of orange beneath the mantle, and you curl up beside it with the quilt dragging behind you. He’s out of coffee beans for now, but he makes the both of you a mug of hot tea with roots infused into it, and it’s close enough.

You hold the steaming mug to your chest, itchy quilt pulled up around your body like a coat of armor, and watch the fire. Joel asks why you sit on the floor when there’s a perfectly good couch right behind you.

You tell him you want to be warm. You’ve been cold for so long. He seems to understand. 

You help him make breakfast, mystified by the seemingly endless supply of fresh produce he has available. He likes breakfast, says it’s his favorite of the day. 

You watch as he cracks fresh eggs into a buttered pan; hear the sizzle of heat against runny yolk and whites, watch as the pools of liquid become firm and strong under the duress. Something soft and pliant, made durable through the forges of fire. 

It’s so silly, but you relate to those tough little eggs. 

You eat at his kitchen table some days, sometimes on the porch in the cold morning, waving to Jackson residents as they begin their work shifts. It seems like fair trades, a barter system built on community where everyone is taken care of in some way or another. It’s bizarre, unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. Joel’s brother lives here too, with his wife Maria who runs the council. It’s all very quaint, picturesque. 

Joel says it works. He explains patrols, explains the work shift rotation, explains the mess hall and the greenhouses and the bountiful supply of food from gardening and hunting. He likes it here, you can tell, and why wouldn’t he? 

He tells you about his life before, little bits at a time delivered while passing you a plate or tucking the corner of your sheet back down on your mattress. The damn thing insists on whipping up everytime he sits on the end of it to talk with you. He tells you about Ellie, how they came together, how she healed his broken parts.

You’re envious. Not of their relationship, but of the fact that his missing pieces somehow came back when you know your own are doomed to be lost forever. You don’t tell him about your past.

You eat. You eat like you’ve never eaten before. Eggs and bacon in the morning, fresh fruit and squeezed juices. Sandwiches for lunch; chicken and lettuce and tomato between thick slabs of bread that Joel makes in his oven. Cold, tart lemonade that tingles on your tongue and smooths down your throat. Hearty, tender meat with potatoes and veggies and soft baked bread.

 Joel watches you eat with this look on his face that you can’t quite decipher. It’s an interesting mix between what you think is some sort of pride, tangled up with another confusing emotion that makes him watch you carefully. He eyes the fork as it slides between your lips, watches you sigh in pleasure, adjusts in his seat when you ask for seconds. You aren’t sure if it’s discomfort with you eating all his food or...something more confusing. Though, he says there’s no rush to get into your own place. The council will check in soon and see if you’re ready. But he says there’s no rush.

Either way, you’re full every day now, so full and satiated that you’re starting to forget what hunger feels like.

Well...not completely.

Days turn into a week, and a week to two, and it’s on this two week marker that you walk into the bathroom without knocking.

It’s your fault. The door isn’t locked, but why would it be? Joel’s been living on his own since Ellie moved to her little shed apartment in the backyard. Your presence is a recent one, two weeks not enough time to get out of a routine of comfortability in his own home. 

And you, so many months alone on the road, any semblance of privacy was a lost venture. You’ve peed behind trees, bathed in streams, found yourself naked by the fire on late summer evenings while your clothes air-dried. Knocking on doors has taken some time to get used to.

So when you push it open haphazardly, not expecting to see the fully naked man stepping out of the shower, it’s a slight surprise.

Joel freezes, hand on the towel he’s reaching for, body dripping with warm water. It’s a split second, just a moment before you fumble out a frantic apology and slam the door shut.

But not quick enough that you didn’t see everything. Everything. 

You stand outside the door, hand on the knob, eyes wide, chest heaving. You try to clear your head of these thoughts, but there’s only one thing you can really focus on.

Joel. 

Naked. Droplets slowly dancing down his weathered skin; clinging to the dark hair on his chest, the slope of his full belly, gliding down toward his pelvis. His thick legs, muscled and bulging, arms the same. All of him, wet, breathing hard, and...and not just breathing hard. 

God, you’ve never seen one so big before. 

Everything about Joel is big. He’s a massive presence. His shoulders are broad, hips wide, thighs sturdy. His neck is thick and lined with veins, same as his wrists and hands. His stature towers over you, and his form exceeds yours in every possible sense. 

But...well, you’ve never seen one so big. 

It had been too quick, to really be able to tell if he was truly sporting a post-shower boner. You think, maybe a little. But you also think...maybe it’s just that big. 

The hair was well groomed, you noted that, though you aren’t sure why. It makes you feel...feral. You haven’t had a shave in months, legs thick with coarse down, the slope of your pelvis protected by a soft bush of hair. Razors were hard enough to get in the QZ. On the road? Non starter. You’re a fuzzy decoration of body hair. Joel’s not exactly smooth, but he looked...groomed. 

Why are you self conscious? Why do you care what he might think of the haphazard way you look naked? Why are you comparing your road-torn body to his strong, healthy one? 

Why are you imagining what his might feel like against yours? How the scruffy beard on his jaw might scratch and tickle yours like that stupid quilt. How his hands, thick and massive, would cradle your flesh, the pads of his rough thumbs leaving lines of desire down each tendon. How his voice, low and gruff, a buttery drawl, would whisper in your ear. Tell you you’re beautiful, tell you he likes having you here, tell you this is permanent. 

That’s enough to snap you out of your stupor. You release the door handle like you’ve been burned, stumbling back away from it. Your breath hitches, eyes feeling warm and wet. 

Before you can make a hasty exit, the door opens, and Joel appears under the arch. He’s fully dressed now; dark washed jeans and an olive green t-shirt that clings to his large chest and arms in a way that’s almost unbearable. 

For a beat, there’s this silence between the two of you that feels almost tangible. Your throat sticks with it, clogging up any pathetic attempts at breaking the tension. You look at him, fumbling for something to say, something to do, fuck to even move.

“M’sorry,” he begins, averting his eyes, “uh, I-”

“My fault,” is all you can squeak out.

“I shoulda locked the-”

“My fault!” you repeat, like a real eloquent genius. You force a laugh out of your lips, but it sounds more like a manic cry than anything. 

Joel’s brow creases, his eyes settling on you with clear concern. “No, s’okay. M Sorry, again. Are you...alright?”

Another manic laugh. “Joel, you’re not that special, I’ve seen naked men before.”

His jaw tenses. “You look upset.”

This is too much. This is all too fucking much. He’s got you all twisted up, all confused. Eating his food, using his sponge, sharing tea with him in the mornings and a leaf of mint at night. Letting him worm his way into your mind, make you feel safe and secure. 

This is how pieces go missing; get hacked off. This is how a person becomes whole, and then utterly incomplete.

“I’m… fine,” you manage, “gonna… actually, was just going to tell you. I’m gonna talk to Maria today. Let her know I’m ready to be on my own.”

And it shouldn’t affect you, the way his face falls completely at these words. The way his shoulders deflate, his eyes go soft, his lips draw down and his eyebrows flatten. 

You’ve hurt him, you’re hurting him. You don’t know why or how, but this hurts him. Despite the quick composure he sweeps over his expression into one of neutrality, you know. And you shouldn't care. It’s two weeks of nothing. You’ve been on your own most of your life.

“Alright,” Joel says, voice rough. 

And it shouldn’t hurt you, the way he easily accepts this. The way he doesn’t fight. You don’t own him, he doesn’t own you, you don’t belong to each other. 

Two weeks of meals, late night talks, healing. It’s nothing. To either of you, clearly.

But it does hurt. And that’s exactly why you have to leave.

“Okay,” you reply, swallowing hard.

“Council’s closed today, Sunday,” he explains dryly. 

“Then I’ll do it tomorrow,” you snap back, voice going a little defensive. “I can find somewhere to sleep for tonight.”

At that, he rears back like you’ve hit him. “What?”

“To get out of your hair,” you explain, gesturing vaguely. 

Joel rolls his eyes, crosses those big arms over his chest, and looks down at you disapprovingly. You shrink a little under his stern gaze, hating yourself for doing it. 

“You ain’t in my hair,” he snarls, “I told you there’s no rush. Talk to her tomorrow. Sleep in your bed tonight.”

“It’s not my bed.” You don’t even know why you say it, why you’re arguing. You’re just afraid, angry, at yourself more than anything. 

His eyes darken. “Do whatever you want, then.”

He brushes past you and heads down the stairs, not bothering to look back up.

__________________________________________

You do in fact, sleep in your bed that night.

The quilt is scratchier than ever, an incessant discomfort that has you tossing and turning all night. It’s never stopped you from sleeping before, but for some reason, tonight is unbearable. You roll on your side, roll on your stomach, bury your face in the pillow and try not to scream.

You’d skipped dinner tonight, for the first time in two weeks. You didn’t want to see Joel, even when he knocked on the bedroom door to tell you it was ready. Even when you said you weren’t hungry, and his worried voice came through the wood.

“Look, you gotta eat, alright?”

“Not hungry, Joel. Thank you though. Really.”

“Is this about-”

“No, I swear.”

“Please?” 

It had been hard to say no to that one.

Now, you lie in a suffocating mess of pillows, stomach growling, feeling utterly pathetic and weak. You used to go days with this feeling, gnawing, desperate hunger in your belly, and you persevered. Now, you’re so fucking spoiled you can’t even go to bed without dinner. 

You don’t recognize this person you’re becoming. She’s a stranger, a woman of luxury, of contentment, dare you say happiness. She is not you, but some foreign intruder who’s taken over your body in an attempt to finally rid you of your last intact pieces until you’re nothing. Floating in essence, vanquished into an eternity of emptiness.  

You rely on him, you depend on him. He feeds you, worries about you, watches you from the corner of his eye to make sure you’re alright. And you don’t know what to do with that. It makes you feel small, futile, like a burden. You know how to take care of yourself. It’s all you know. 

So, you toss and turn.

When sleep comes, it brings with it dreams. Haunting memories, things you’ve tried to keep buried deep inside that small little cavern of your brain where bad things go. 

The men come, late at night, in a group of six. You’re young, twelve you think. The outbreak has been going on for four years, and you think you’ve got it all figured out now. You’re going to get to this quarantine zone in Georgia, since your own fell. It’s all gonna be fine. Mom and Dad and your big brother Andrew, they’re here and it’s okay. 

You’re trying to sleep, burrowed and shivering cold in your thin sleeping bag. Andrew is sitting beside you, one hand on your upper back, shushing your whimpers quietly. His sixteenth birthday was last week. Mom and Dad couldn’t do much on the road, not like you all used to when there was cake and candles and Spiderman gift wrap. Still, he seems older somehow, the last four years have aged him far more quickly than regular life did before the outbreak. 

You’re close to the border, your parents say nearly out of South Carolina. It’s southern here, supposed to be warm, but the nights are brutal and unforgiving in the winter. You’re so used to the cold now you’d think you wouldn’t mind, but it aches your bones, freezes your limbs into a stunted position curled around yourself. You hate the cold, always have. 

“You’re okay,” Andrew murmurs quietly, trying not to wake Mom and Dad. It’s his turn to watch. They’ve done rotating shifts for days now, until he put his foot down and demanded they both sleep substantially. 

“M’cold,” you whine. You know you’re being a crybaby, and maybe once upon a time he would've teased you for it, but not now. You’re bundled up in your layers and sleeping bag while he sits upright against a tree, his thin windbreaker the only barrier between him and the cold. His gun is laid on his thigh, safety on, facing the opposite direction. Guns are a permanent part of your family’s accessorizing these days.

“I know,” he whispers in reply, “it’ll be warm in Atlanta. Just try to sleep.”

“I’m afraid,” you say, even though you’re embarrassed to admit it.

“Me too,” Andrew says, “but we’re all gonna be fine. We’ve made it this far, hm?”

You nod half-heartedly. “Yeah.”

“As long as we’re together, we’ll be okay. Alright?”

“Okay, yeah.”

“Get some sleep.”

“Okay.” 

That’s the last thing you ever said to him. 

They appeared from the trees, too quiet, too well hidden for Andrew to spot them in time. By the time one of the men got close enough to reach out and yank your sleeping bag up with you in it, he was out of time.

Andrew shot, blindly. He nailed the man who’d scooped you up, and you both fell to the ground. He cried your name, rushing toward you, and then another shot rang out. Andrew hit the dirt with a spurt of red liquid that splattered across your face.

 You remember screaming. You remember your parents waking up, frantic. You remember fumbling around on the ground and grabbing Andrew’s gun, only to feel a vice grip on your arm. One of the men grabbed you, while your parents shot and fought off the others. Your mother screamed, and a body hit the ground. You struggled against the man’s hold as his greedy, chapped hands combed your adolescent body to see what of value you had.

“Nothin’ on this one!” he’d shouted, tossing you to the ground like you weighed nothing. Your head hit the hard dirt, and you found yourself even with Andrew’s face. Well, what was left of it. 

“The lady had some ammo, there’s some stuff in these packs,” another man replied. 

“What do we do with this one?” asked the man who grabbed you.

“Eh, she’ll die out here on her own anyway. Might as well put her out of her misery.”

That was the moment you knew you were going to die. 

“Hold it,” another man said, “she’s a fucking kid, just leave her. We got what we needed.”

“Yeah she ain’t worth the bullet,” chimed in another man.

“I’ll choke her out,” one suggested.

“Just leave her,” a more commanding voice ordered, “grab this shit and let’s get going.”

You remember lying there in the darkness, watching the bits of chunky red substance leak from Andrew’s eye socket, waiting for someone to tell you what to do. Waiting for your parents to sit up and give you an order. 

The night grew colder. You weren't strong enough to bury them, even move them on your own. For a long time, you just lay there, staring at Andrew. The image burned into your brain forever. 

By the time the sun rose, your bones were so cold, lips blue, eyelashes stiff, you felt like you’d died right with them. Four corpses lying unceremoniously on a campsite. Rigor mortis set in early for you, a paralyzing terror of the next steps rendering you utterly immovable.

After a while, you got hungry. 

Isn’t it funny, how that’s what motivated you to push your small body away from your brother’s hollowed face? Your own selfish need, your own emptiness, always threatening to swallow you whole.

The walk to Georgia left you breathless a lot. You stumbled, more than walked. Drank from streams the way your parents taught you, foraged for food as best as you could with no weapon besides the little knife holstered in your sock. You hid from infected and more raiders, using your small body to your advantage as much as possible. 

When you finally made it to the giant cement wall of the QZ, it felt like you’d lost your breath forever. Your lungs rattled, air came in short, quick bursts, your throat ached from dehydration. Your legs didn’t work, not how they were supposed to.

You remember the FEDRA guards holding guns at you, a scanner to your neck, shoving you through the gates roughly. You remember telling them your family was gone. You remember lasting a week in the orphanage before you ran away, doing odd jobs for older QZ residents in exchange for places to stay. 

Mostly, you remember Andrew’s face. You remember the biting cold contrasted with the warm splatter of blood on your face, you remember his insides leaking out, you remember wishing you could scream, but not having enough power in your lungs.

As long as we’re together, we’ll be okay.

You remember knowing that you would never be okay again.

The remembering hurts, restricts your lungs into a tiny little ball in your chest. You struggle to inhale, struggle to fill your sternum with necessary oxygen. It burns, the hunger for air with no satisfaction. The emptiness consumes you. 

You gasp, you see Andrew’s face, it hurts, everything hurts. 

Alone on a campsite, alone in the woods, alone in the QZ, alone on a cross-country trek, alone in a cold gas station.

A warm fire, mint on your tongue, tart lemonade down your throat, food in your belly. A dry chuckle in your ears, a steadying hand on your back, a comforting presence beside you. 

Alone. Afraid. Broken. A burden. Couldn’t save your family, could barely save yourself-

A burden.

Alone. 

Broken. 

“Hey.”

A voice, low and urgent. Familiar, gentle but concerned. 

You gasp.

Alone. 

Burden.

Broken. 

“Hey,” more insistent this time, “hey, wake up honey.”

You gasp, your body freed from its rigor mortis as you bolt upright, air circulating through your lungs like a broken fan blade. Your hands fly out, a desperate attempt to shield your face from whoever is currently saying your name. 

“...breathe, breathe,” he’s saying to you, a little frantic, “s’okay, you’re okay, breathe.”

“Please,” you wheeze, but you don’t know what you’re begging for. There are tears in your voice, a fragile broken blossom of desperation. 

“I know, I know baby, s’okay,” he’s touching you now, delicate fingers tracing up and down the protruding knobs of your spine. “Listen to my voice, darlin’. Take a deep breath for me, s’gonna be okay, I promise.”

You try to follow his example, try to steady your breathing to an even pace. He’s doing it for you, showing you how, patiently inhaling in a slow motion and letting it go in one soft exhale. 

“I-I can’t,” you gasp, feeling hopeless, helpless, pathetic and like a burden in every sense of the word. 

“Shh, yes you can honey. In, with me now, in.” 

He inhales, slow, lowering himself to look up at your trembling frame perched on the bed. The sheet’s come up, the fading cream color of the mattress almost too bright in the dark room. Pale moonlight illuminates Joel’s face, scruffy beard, wrinkles around his gentle eyes, broad nose. His lips part, and he breathes in, keeping gaze with you. 

You follow suit, inhaling in a choppy, half-hearted attempt at the smooth breath he’d accomplished.

“That’s good darlin’,” he nods at you, even though you know it wasn’t good. “You’re doin’ so good. Breathe out.”

You exhale in a stunted whoosh.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, “keep goin’.”

With his hand on your back, rubbing slowly, delicately, you fight to steady your breaths. Your eyes are wet, your lips trembling, his voice soothing in your ears. He’s saying all these things, all these nice, lovely, wonderful things that people don’t say to you. 

“Attagirl, good job.”

“S’okay honey, you’re doin’ good, just breathe.”

“You’re okay, you’re safe, promise, I ain’t gonna let nothin’ hurt ya.”

Mercifully, you come back into your body, chest expanding the way it’s supposed to. Your fingers unclench from the tangled up sheets, aching from how tightly you’d been gripping. 

Through a curtain of hair, you draw your eyes to him. He’s still there, rubbing your back, murmuring sweet nothings, keeping his own breathing steady. 

Still there. He’s still there. You aren’t alone.

“Joel,” you gasp, and he moves toward you in an instant.

Large, warm arms pull you in. His chest, thick through his t-shirt, the steady thrum of his heartbeat a rhythm in your ear. His chin at the crown of your head, his breath in your ears. You curl up like that useless little girl in a sleeping bag, and cling to his shirt. 

“M’here,” he whispers, “you’re okay, honey. Was just a dream.”

He’s here. He’s warm. He’s here and you’re safe and not alone. Four walls around you, a quilt underneath your cold legs, a kitchen full of food just down the stairs.

Panic leaks into your veins, memories of the road, cold and lonely and frightening. 

As long as we’re together, we’ll be okay.

You want to tell him you’re afraid. You want to admit it; be forthcoming about just how damaged you are. You want to tell him just how heavily you’ve come to rely on his steadying presence, his warm food, his laugh, the way his eyes crinkle up and his teeth show when you make him happy.

You’re so, so scared. So alone, so petrified, not at all as tough as you’d like him to think. 

But the last time you admitted you were afraid, you lost everything in the blink of an eye. Your own weakness, always your undoing.

“You’re okay,” Joel says into your hair, not realizing he’s speaking empty words into a hollow recipient, “I gotcha. You’re safe. I’m here.”

You can’t tell him how badly you want him to stay. That will only make him leave. 

“Joel,” you repeat, breathless, unsure of what else to say.

“M’here honey.” He reaches down with one hand, cups your face in the rough of his palm, strokes his thumb over the delicate line of your cheekbone. And you feel safe. 

Desperately, you lift your own trembling hands, taking his cheeks in them. He seems surprised, but doesn’t pull back, allowing you to explore with your own frail fingers. You trace the bridge of his large nose, the slope of his full lips, the broad jaw and stern forehead. His eyelashes flutter, and you move yourself closer, cradled in his arms, faces only inches apart.

“M’here,” is all he says. And you must be tired of hearing it, surely you must, but you can’t find that anywhere within yourself. All you feel is safe. 

You don’t know exactly how it happens. Your face moves, his does too, hurried breaths and warmed air between you. His lips press into yours, soft and lush and tender. You don’t know who leaned in first, but you feel his caution, his carefulness as you deepen the kiss from something superficial to something that has meaning.

He allows you to part his mouth with your tongue, falling into one another as your noses bump. His grip tightens around you, and you’re awash in the smell of lemon soap and mint, the itch of the quilt beneath you, the squeak of a mattress underneath your combined weight. 

After a few seconds, your lips part. Your noses touch, the frame of your foreheads making a heart against the shadows of moonlight through your window. His hands cup your face, rough and calloused, yet unbelievably gentle all at once. It’s as though his grasp is a shield, impenetrable and solid. You’ve never felt so safe, so cared for, so protected. 

And so, so scared. 

Now that you’re here, safe and cocooned in this warm house, this gentle society, the arms of this incredible man… 

How can you ever let yourself love something that would hurt so badly if it were lost? You’ve done it before. You can’t do it again.

“D’you wanna talk about it?” Joel rasps, thumb still soothing small lines over your cheek.

You shake your head quickly, but the words spill out as if in spite of your body’s intentions. “Just… mm. My parents. My brother. Just-that’s all.”

“Oh,” he murmurs, “what…can I ask what-”

“Raiders. I was twelve.”

At this, he looks down at your face, brows furrowed. “You saw it?”

“Yeah, I got away. They let me go, I mean. After some debate.” You clear your throat, breathing settled and eyes drying with each word. You’re feeling grounded enough to be utterly humiliated. “Um, I’m really sor-”

“I know you ain’t about to apologize for havin’ a nightmare,” he interjects dryly.

“More for what happened afterward,” you mutter.

Joel’s fingertips tuck a lock of hair back behind your ear, even though it falls right back out again. “Now why on earth are you apologizin’ for that?”

Because I can’t stay.  

Limply, you shrug.

He laughs, that low, dry sound. It smooths from his chest like a bass drum, reverberating in your ears. And you smile in spite of yourself, a small, gentle pull of your lips. You love making him laugh. 

“Sorry I barged in,” Joel says, even though he’s still holding you in his lap like a stray dog.

“S’okay. Thanks for…thank you.”

“Don’t gotta thank me.”

“Be kinda rude if I didn’t.”

His lips twitch. “Can I ask you somethin’?”

“Okay.”

“Did you do that just now…kiss me…’cause you wanted to, or ‘cause you were upset?”

Swallowing thickly, you reply, “can it be both?”

“If it’s both, it’s both.” 

“That’s fucking vague,” you grouse.

“Pot, meet kettle.” He smirks down at you.

“I’m sorry I kissed you,” you say.

“Don’t be,” he responds, “I’m not.”

You have nothing to say to that.

“You oughta get some rest.” Joel squeezes you once, then moves like he’s going to get up and leave.

Your fingers dart out to clench his shirt, gripping the soft cotton in vice like digits. Wild-eyed, you look up at him, terrified of being alone, terrified of seeing Andrew’s face again all night.

“Hey, easy.” Joel pries your fingers off his shirt. “You alright?”

“I-I-“ you stumble over the words, throat choking up. It’s all so confusing. You need to be away, pull back, stop this before it goes too far. At the same time, you’ve never needed to be close quite this badly. 

“I can,” he answers a question you didn’t ask, “if you want.”

Limply, you nod. 

“Go on then, scoot.” Joel gestures for you to make room on the bed, and you do. He adjusts the pillows and lies flat, opening his arm for you. You curl up at his side, cheek on his chest, listening to the steady heartbeat underneath the cotton shirt. He smells like lemon soap, and a faint musk of sweat from sleeping. It’s enticing, the mixture, and you don’t know why.

You press your face into his shirt, breathing in the security that this strange man somehow brings. You don’t know when the shift happened from him being a man you wanted to stab, to this, but it’s happened now. It’s too late to deny this: Joel means something to you.

“I’m sorry about what I said earlier,” you tell him quietly.

He hesitates. “You…didn’t say nothin’ bad. That was always the plan, for you to go out on your own darlin’.”

He’s right of course, that was the plan. For the past two weeks, all you’ve been doing is letting him take care of you. The end goal, ultimately, to help you become a functioning Jackson resident. 

“But can I ask?” He continues, voice low and soft in the dark bedroom. 

“Yeah?”

“Do you…do you want to leave? S’okay whatever you wanna do baby, just… that is what you want, right? To be on your own?” 

As long as we’re together, we’ll be okay.

No, no, no I don’t want to be alone. Ever again. I want to stay with you forever. 

“Yes,” you lie. It’s a lie. You’re so afraid. Why can’t you just tell him the truth? Why can’t you just let someone in? If it’s gonna be anyone…well, it’d be someone like Joel. 

No. Not someone like Joel. Just Joel.

“So all that time on the road,” he adjusts your body slightly, tugging you up higher on his chest so that his chin rests on your head, “didn’t make you lonesome?”

An ache in your chest, sharp and spearing overwhelms you. “It-it did.”

“N’you like bein’ lonesome?”

The lie is on the tip of your lips before he says, “be honest, honey.”

“No,” you say, shoulders deflating.

“It’s hard,” he whispers, “lettin’ people in when you lost so much before. Believe me darlin’ I get that.”

“Then you know why I have to leave,” you tell him, desperate that he’ll understand, but also hoping that he’ll argue against it.

“I know why you think you gotta leave,” he corrects.

“This isn’t good for you anyway,” you’re shaking your head as you speak, fingers splayed out on his chest, “I’m a burden to you.”

At that, he manages a small, dry chuckle. You look at him, confused by what’s made him laugh. 

“Honey, havin’ you here…well, I think I needed it just as much as you did. You got no idea how much I like watchin’ you eat what I cook, listenin’ to you hum in the shower ‘cause you’re too shy to sing, watchin’ you curl up by the fireplace with that damn quilt around your head like a sherpa.” His fingers come down to cup your jaw, tracing the line of bone that leads to the curve of your chin, up to the bow in your lips. “How nice it is havin’ a pretty girl around to talk to, someone smart, someone funny, someone who’s like me.”

“Like you?” you inquire. 

“Mhm.” He presses the pad of his thumb against your lips, parting them slightly as he uses his finger to study the contours of your mouth. “Someone hurt, someone who thought they had no chance in this world. Someone who can get better, if she lets herself.”

Your throat feels tight. “I don’t know if I can.”

“You’re already doin’ it, baby.” He tilts your chin up with the meat of his palm, looking down at you through the silver streaks of moonlight. “Every day you get up, eat breakfast, and keep goin’. That’s all it is. Takin’ it one day at a time. Takin’ care of yourself. Letting yourself get better, slow n’ steady.”

You blink up at him, trying to process his words. You guess he has a point; two weeks ago you barely felt human, didn’t feel like you could ever belong in a place like Jackson, or somewhere like Joel’s home. But lately, through these routines of care, you’ve begun to feel…alive again. Still agonized by loss, still hopeless and confused and frightened, but something more than that too. 

“You don’t gotta stay,” he assures you, “not if you don’t want to. But don’t go just ‘cause you’re scared. Ain’t no reason to punish yourself. Not when I like havin’ you around so much.”

“What if you get tired of having me around?” you ask weakly. It’s no far stretch; every other short term partner you’ve ever had got sick of you after enough time. Every adult you roomed with in the QZ kicked you out sooner or later. Nothing is permanent, especially not people.

“You think I could at least get a chance to prove myself ‘fore you go ahead and write me off?” He smiles down at you, hand still cupping your cheek. “I actually ain’t all that bad a guy.”

“No, no,” you’re quick to reassure, “Joel, you’re the most amazing man I’ve ever met. You are- you are a good guy. It isn’t that, it’s-”

“It’s not you, it’s me, honey, that one’s a little played out.” There’s gentle amusement in his voice.

With a groan, you start to pull away. “You’re impossible.”

“Hey, m sorry.” he pulls you back in, gentle but demanding, and you concede, all too eager to lay against his warm chest. “All I'm sayin’ is, no one’s asking you for your hand in marriage or nothing. Just…stick around for a while. Let me make sure you’re real healthy, ready to go. Get some meat on these bones. Get you feelin’ good. Might take some time. Two weeks ain’t much.”

“I’ve got meat,” you defend.

He snorts. “Me too.”

“Joel-”

“S’gonna take time, that’s all I’m sayin’. Just, stay, alright? Let yourself…have this.” Joel presses a firm kiss to the top of your head.

Finally, you exhale and find yourself nodding. Although it’s against your instincts, and better judgment, you know he has a point. How can you ever get better if you don't give yourself the opportunity?

“I don’t really know how to do this,” you admit, “I’ve never really…been a person before. Y’know what I mean?”

He makes a quiet noise of consideration. “Gimme an example.”

“Like, the apple juice,” you explain in a rambly sort of voice, “or the dishwasher. I don’t know how to do things like you do. I mean, fuck, I walked in on you in the shower today.”

At that, he clears his throat. You must be imagining it, but you’re sure you can hear some sort of…something in the noise. 

“That kinda stuff takes time,” he replies quietly, “s’okay.”

You arch an eyebrow. “What else am I missing then?”

“You’d have to tell me that, honey.”

Abruptly, you remember his body, naked and wet from the shower. Something about him is so desirable; whether it’s simply the masculinity of his form; hairy and strong, the impressive endowment between his legs or something else, you aren’t sure. Could it be that he’s simply an attractive man, who’s kind and thoughtful and funny? Of course. 

Could it be that everything about Joel represents what you’ve always wanted? The security of this home he’s created, the warmth of his fireplace and the way he’d thought to set out mint leaves for you to chew on? The heft of his body; his large shoulders, his thick thighs, his soft stomach, well fed and dense with nutrition. He is whole, broken pieces glued back together painstakingly to build back up this incredible man. This beacon of recovery, healing, strength and happiness.

What are you missing? Everything that Joel has, it would seem. The chance to finally become the way he is… to be okay again.

And…well, it’s also been a while since you had a good fuck. That wouldn't hurt either.

The thought is so ridiculous, so sudden and inappropriate, that it makes you laugh. A real laugh; a genuine, deep-chested sound of amusement that has Joel pulling back with surprise. 

“Somethin’ funny?” he inquires, arching an eyebrow at you like you’ve lost your mind. 

“No, m’sorry.” You press your fingers against your lips in a pathetic attempt to stifle the laughter. “So stupid.”

“What?” he demands.

“No it’s- god Joel it’s so ridiculous I can’t-”

“Oh, just tell me damnit.”

“I was just thinking, you know, what might help make me feel normal again. Haven’t had it in a while…” you look up at him expectantly.

It takes a moment for the message to land in his brain, and his eyes widen slightly. “Oh. I-I see.”

“Yeah…” you clear your throat quietly.

“Well, shit honey. All y’had to do was ask.”

Your eyes widen. “Pardon me?”

He takes your face in his hand again, tilting your chin and gently pulling your body until you’re face to face, noses brushing. His lips twitch, eyelashes sweeping over his cheekbones as he studies your face.

“Like I said,” he murmurs, “ain’t nobody proposing marriage or nothin’. But there’s no reason you can’t…enjoy yourself. If you want to, that is.”

“You…we…are you sure?”

“Ain’t nothin’ you haven’t already seen,” he quips.

You groan. “Joel.”

A low chuckle in his chest. “Sorry baby.”

“If you’re just gonna tease me the whole time, then you can go fuck yours-”

Your retort is cut off by his lips pressing into yours, and you startle a bit, though you don’t pull back. Your body melts, tension leaking out of your shoulders at the feel of his gentle mouth on yours. 

And you’re consumed. There’s nothing else in that moment except for Joel.

His mouth on yours, his tongue pressing forward until it parts your lips. His body, thick and warm against your chest. The tangle of his graying hair, the way his breath grows more heavy when you intertwine your fingers with it and tug. His hands, one cupping your cheek, keeping you close, the other delicately beginning to roam your body. 

And maybe it’s wrong; hooking up with him on the heels of a horrific nightmare about losing your family, or doing it after you told him you were going to leave, or doing it at all considering you barely know each other outside of these serene, isolated two weeks of eating and sitting by the fire and laughing.

But you want him, and he’s good and you want to be a person again. You want to eat meals and drink tea and sleep with a quilt and fuck often. You want to ride a hard dick, suck on a thick, veiny cock, be caged in an embrace of big bulging arms, hear the guttural moan of a man in your ear as he cums.

It’s a hunger, like any other. The way your stomach growled and gnawed for the relief of a hot meal, your body yearned to be filled too. That warm, wet space between your legs, at times so empty and vacant you thought you might just die from the need. Fulfillment, desperate for it in all its forms. Yearning, hunger, pleas to live a life where such simple pleasures are not only permitted, but taken with ease.

It won’t make you whole, it won’t heal your scars or fix your wounds. It won’t change what’s happened or secure your future. 

But for a while, no matter how fleeting, it’s going to fill you up.

Isn’t that enough for someone who’s spent so long being hungry?

“C’mere,” he murmurs, so gentle, so soft, that it’s impossible not to do as he asks. You let him readjust you so you’re sitting on his lap, slender thighs spread around his thick ones, arms hanging off his neck, foreheads pressed together as he hungrily meets your lips again. He’s warm, heat radiating off his large body, and you instinctively lean in.

“Gonna make you feel good,” Joel’s words are muffled by the skin of your jaw as he leaves lingering kisses there, slowly traveling down to your neck. His tongue flicks delicately at the column of your throat, eliciting a small moan from your lips.

It’s been so long since you’ve been touched…

“God, you’re so pretty baby.” His fingers slide into the neckline of your nightshirt, which is really just one of his. It’s so large on you that you wear it as more of a dress, the only thing guarding your intimate areas from the outside world is your solitary pair of underwear, that’s been washed to death as you wait for more fabric to come into Jackson’s seamstress to make more. You’ve been going commando a lot.

It’s your immediate instinct to argue; you haven’t been pretty for a while, you’re not sure if ever. Survival is all you know; not caring for yourself or putting effort in to appear beautiful. 

But what’s the point, anyway? He’s here, he’s seen you for what you are, and he wants to make you feel good. What does it matter if you’re pretty?

Though… you do like the way it sounds coming off his lips. 

“Can I…” his lips explore the small patch of skin on your neck that’s exposed above the shirt, “can I take this off, honey?”

He’s tugging lightly on the shirt, asking your permission, even though in every way you’ve really already given it. You hesitate only briefly, concerned about the state of your sickly body. Then, you nod.

Calloused hands moving with a practiced tenderness, he bunches the shirt up at the hem and carefully slides it over your head, exposing your breasts and abdomen. You hear his sharp intake of breath, feel the warmth of it washing over your skin, and for a moment you’re paralyzed with fear.

He doesn’t like what he sees. How could he? You’ve become something inhuman. Scars, bones poking through flesh, discolored bruises. You’re something so ugly and unsightly that-

“Jesus, baby, you’re beautiful.” The pad of his hand smooths out to cup your breast, his thumb brushing elegantly over the bud of your nipple, which is rapidly coming to life from the sensation. “Lookin’ so healthy these days, so so pretty. You feel better?”

Robotically, you nod. “Y-yeah.”

“Love gettin’ to feed you, baby. Watchin’ you eat my food, gettin’ healthy n’soft.” He leans in, cradling your back to keep you upright as his warm lips explore the expanse of your chest, kissing down your sternum until he replaces his thumb on your nipple with his mouth. 

And he’s right, you think as you look down critically at your form. You’ve put on weight, surely not enough, not yet. But… you’re softer now, edges rounded out to a more gentle plush, knobby knees more full, bony hips more tender, slender thumb joints smoothed out. 

And you do feel better. Not dizzy or aching all the time, not sore or struggling to sleep from the pain, not burning from dehydration or growling from hunger.

You’re almost there, almost as full as a person can be. So, so close.

“I like it too,” you breathe, the last word pitching up with a surprised noise as his teeth graze across your nipple. A pleasant, but unexpected motion.

“That okay honey?”

“Mmm…yes…”

“Gonna make you so soft n’happy,” he murmurs, almost more to himself than you, you think, “gonna take care a’you.”

“Okay,” you whimper, pliant in ways you’ve never been with a partner before. 

You aren’t sure why, because he’s just sitting there, kissing you and holding you and telling you all of these kind things, but you feel the pooling of tension in your lower belly and the beginnings of a wet patch on your panties. It’s bizarre; other than teasing your nipple he hasn’t done much in the way of sexual advances, yet from his touch and his words alone, you need him.

And you didn’t imagine it, that his cock was big. You can feel it beneath your spread thighs, through his boxers and sweatpants, the thick girth and diamond hard weight of it pressing into the fabric. 

The heat between your legs feels almost unbearable now, the growing need and tension from his ministrations of your nipple spurring you on. Your fingers tangle in the wavy hair atop his head, and you feel his lips curve into a smile around your breast.

“Mind if I take this off?” he asks, removing his lips from your skin to tug at his own shirt. You nod quickly, eagerly, watching him slide it over his head.

In the soft glow of moonlight, the contours of his body are illuminated like the artful scenes of a movie. The tendons and muscle in his large arms, bulging and pulsing each way he moves, the clench of his jaw beneath his well-groomed beard, the mapping of dark hair over his thick chest. His stomach is full, wide and round and healthy, a sturdy man in every sense of the word. A big, meaty body to match that huge cock in his pants. It’s only fitting, you think as you admire the large score of his body. He’s scarred too, like you are, the lines and wrappings of a survivor beaten into his flesh.

“Ain’t as trim as I used to be,” he remarks offhandedly, though you think you sense a beat of hesitation in his words.

Your delicate fingers trail between his pecs, smoothing the hair down there until you reach the place beneath his belly button where the hair connects to his boxers. You tug experimentally at the hemline of his pants, eyeing the desperate thing there that begs to be freed. You watch his breathing pace up, his stomach and chest moving in synchrony with each hurried breath. 

So big, so full and warm and secure. Solid and strong, an impenetrable wall around you. 

“You’re perfect,” you tell him, and you don’t just mean his body. 

He ducks his head then, surely embarrassed by the praise, and buries his face in your neck once more. His lips and teeth graze the skin there, sucking and biting and kissing, leaving little wet spots as he moves along.

His large hands grip your hips then, lifting you with such ease it’s almost startling. He heaves you upward and then gently lays you on your back, head against the mound of pillows pushed up on the headboard. Your legs splay out before you and he positions himself above, careful not to lower his weight on to yours.

His lips return to your neck, dancing slowly down between your breasts, kissing the scarred flesh of your stomach and hips, teeth bumping into the cotton of your panties. His eyes dart up to you when he reaches them, eyebrow quirking. A question. He’s asking for permission.

You nod, too eager you’re sure.

“So pretty…” he breathes, pressing his lips to the wet fabric of your panties, eyes closing as he tastes the flowing liquid through the cotton. “‘Bout lost my cool when I saw these little things hangin’ off your pack, darlin’. Wondered what they’d look like on you, wondered what they’d look like off you…” He kisses the wet patch again, which makes your legs tense up, and slides his finger into the hemline, murmuring thoughtfully.

“Don’t fit so good anymore,” he notes, and you realize he’s right. There’s a pinch of fabric at your thigh that wasn’t there before, the mark of underwear too tight. It leaves little indents on your skin when he pulls at it, angry red marks that line the contours of your body. 

“You’ve been feeding me too much,” you manage.

He chuckles at this, deep and throaty. “I think we can do better, even.”

With that, he carefully glides the panties down your legs, the stickiness of your arousal clinging to the cotton until he finally separates it from your ankles. He holds it up, admiring the damp fabric. He balls it up in his hand, and then presses it to his nose with a deep, hungry inhale.

You blink, surprised. You’ve never had a partner…do that before. 

Joel’s eyes open, underwear still pressed to his nose and mouth. You can see the twitch of his jaw, the smile on his lips even though it’s hidden by your wet underwear, and it does something odd to you. 

He wants you so bad, is so hungry for you that he’s taking in every piece he can, breathing in your smell, your taste, even where it clings to the underwear that used to fit you and no longer does.

It makes you need, the way he wants you. It makes you ache desperately, makes you yearn and hunger for him too. Being wanted, being desired, it’s not something you’re used to.

“Smell so nice, honey,” Joel mutters, “bet you taste even better. So sweet, so wet.” He lowers himself between your legs, grabbing your thighs in his large hands, fingers pressing into the meat. 

It’s a reflex for your legs to tighten up, tension pooling at the sight of a relatively new man between them. He pauses, noticing your trepidation, and glances up at you without moving forward.

“Hey, you okay honey?” his voice is measured, composed. 

You nod.

“You sure? Talk to me baby, I gotta make sure you’re alright. You here with me?”

“I want you,” you manage, “please, Joel, I want it.”

“I’ll take real good care of ya’,” he promises you in that low, sultry drawl, “be real gentle. Treat you real nice.”

You’re nodding, already lost in whatever it is he plans to do to you. You feel a brief stab of insecurity for the state of your body hair, and you want to tell him as much, but you’re afraid it’ll kill the moment.

He doesn’t seem to mind, either way, lips pressing into your inner thighs, seeming completely heedless of the thick hair there. He pulls your body closer, gripping your hips in his strong hands, bringing your dripping cunt closer.

Joel’s head drops down, lips covering a delicate pattern on your lower belly, gliding easily over the soft hair on your pelvis, finding his mouth at your lips. Experimentally, he smooths his tongue over the wet slit there, glancing up when the action makes you inhale sharply.

His eyes are teasing, mouth quirked up in a small smile. Teasing, cocky, mischievous. 

“You’re g-gonna have to do better than that,” you tell him with a small curve to your lips.

“There’s that smile,” he muses, before burying his face between your legs again.

And there’s no ability to think of anything else, because he’s there. His tongue, expert and well practiced, running whirlpool motions over the bud of your clit, sucking and kissing and licking hungrily at the dripping bellow of your opening. 

Every sense is alight, each breath you take heavy with elation. The bundle of nerves between your lips is in overdrive, tensing and pulsing with desperate need as he gets you closer and closer. His tongue works miracles, the speed altering at just the right moment, switching his motions at just the right interval, lapping up your sopping liquids with his tongue like a starving man at a buffet.

“Taste so fuckin’ good, baby girl,” he groans into your wet folds, “such a pretty little cunt, so wet and soft for me.”

“For you…” you echo in a whine, fists gripping the sheet that’s come up off the mattress again.

The noises are obscene, the wet squelch of his tongue against your body, the almost frantic way he devours you. Hands holding your trembling legs in place despite the way you tense and move from the sensations, face buried against your wet center, the mess of liquid dampening his face and your thighs and the sheets underneath. 

You cum with a whining cry, a noise you didn’t know a person like you could make. It’s an innocent sound really, despite the debaucherous context. A noise of pure, primal pleasure, ripped from deep within your chest, a release and elation you haven’t felt in…you’re not sure if ever.

Knees clenched around his head, you’re expecting him to pull back now that you’ve gushed more fluid onto his face. But dutifully, he keeps eating. He drinks you in, the overstimulated, swollen clit beneath his lips is begging for relief, pleading to rest, but he doesn’t let it. 

Joel is hungry, and he won’t leave until he’s satisfied. Until you’re both satisfied.

“Taste so good when you cum for me,” he breathes when he pulls his lips back for air, “so sweet n’wet. Cum on my face, darlin’, do it again. Wanna eat you, all of you. So wet f’me baby.”

You think you cry his name, you aren’t sure, but you rip your fingers through his thick hair, tighten your thighs around his face, tears budding at the corners of your eyes from the ruthless sensation between your legs.

Then, a thick finger, gentle and careful probing at your entrance. He slides it in just a bit, moving with caution and curiosity. You buck your hips toward him eagerly, the desperate clench of your wet cunt around nothing is almost too much to bear. 

Slight relief as he glides his finger in all the way, pumping it gently in and out, back and forth to get a feel for the tightness of your slick walls. It’s been so long since anyone touched you this way, since you had anything substantial inside you, and Joel’s got the biggest fingers of any man you’ve ever met.

“That feel good baby?” he grunts as his lips ghost over your pulsing clit and his index finger smooths inside of you, “hurtin’?”

“No, good, good,” you pant.

“Good girl, attagirl.” He kisses your clit again and your hips buck once more, but he pins them down with his other hand. A second finger inside of you, matching the pace of his first, stretching you around the thick width of his digits. Preparing you for what’s to come, the massive, hard cock that’s going to spear you against the headboard.

Fuck, fuck.

“Joel,” you groan his name, feeling his fingers curl up in a crude little gesture inside you, coursing against your walls, brushing up against that place that makes you feel like you’re going to erupt. “Joel, Joel….”

He hums a low sound, lips and tongue still violently, rhythmically devouring your wet cunt. Between the pulsing thickness of his fingers, and the circular motions of his tongue on your clit, it’s not long before you white out. The pleasure is too intense, too sudden and overwhelming. It’s too much, too much, more than you’ve ever had before. 

Tears track down your cheeks against your will, your chest heaves with desperate, panting breaths. Your fingers have gone numb from their vice grip on the sheets, legs aching as they spread around his head to give him easier access, not a shred of resistance in your body as you submit to his expert touch. 

And it happens again, more intense this time. A black film teases the corners of your eyes, a devastatingly intense pooling in your stomach and through your cunt, a pulsing, thready explosion of pleasure bursting through you. 

You soak his face, legs jerking, hips convulsing, voice raw from crying out. The feeling is so intense that it dizzies you, your head floating off your body and spinning into a whirlwind somewhere in outer space. 

Joel licks it all up, tongue dragging across your drenched inner thighs, gliding across the shimmering wet slit of your lips, sucking on the raw skin until it’s nearly unbearable. Then, his wet mouth is moving, kissing up your thighs, the slope of your hips, your stomach and your breasts, sucking on your nipples and cupping them in his rough palms. 

Once he reaches your ear, teeth grazing the lobe, voice gruff, he whispers, “you with me, baby?”

You whine a small sound, feeble and needy. You feel the curve of his lips into a smile where they’re pressed into your ear, and he kisses your temple, lingering there. 

“M’gonna take these off, hm?” he slides a hand down toward his sweats, where you can see the large, intimidating shape of his hard dick outlined.

God, you need it, you need it like you’ve never needed anything in your life. So many years spent hungry, never realizing just how painful it could truly be to want something and be empty of it. 

Your pulsing, desperate pussy aches for him, dripping with the evidence of his prowess. Your thighs clench around nothing, pleading, begging, needing to be filled with whatever he can give you. 

Joel slides the pants off, boxers following suit, and your eyes widen a bit at the sight of his large cock springing forward. There’s a well-groomed crop of hair at the nape, heavy, even balls framing the thick protrusion of his shaft. The tip, angry and red, dripping with his need.

“Joel, let me-” you make a move to take it in your mouth, but he stops you with a gentle shush.

“No baby, just you tonight.” He lowers himself back above you, the hard tip just barely brushing your sopping cunt. 

A synchronized moan fills the air, both of you shuddering at the teasing contact. Holding himself upright on his thick, powerful arms, he lowers his forehead to yours, noses bumping. His lips ghost against your own, and you kiss him greedily, whining into the touch as his dick presses against you once more. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, “you wan’ me to fuck you, honey?”

You nod desperately.

“Talk to me, honey.” His lips press delicately right beside your mouth, smoothing his large nose over the supple skin of your cheek. “Tell me what you want, hm?”

“I-I want you,” you croak, voice frail and shattered, “want you inside me, Joel. Want you to fuck me. Fill me up, fill me with you. Please, please. I need it.”

He smiles down at you, no trace of teasing or mischief there, only a genuine, earnest warmth. Gradually, his hips roll into you, pushing just the slightest bit of him inside. You shudder, gasping at the beginning of the stretch.

“Gotta go slow, honey,” he breathes, eyes closing as if in concentration, “don’ wanna hurt you.”

“N-no, I don't care,” you insist.

“I do, baby. Gonna take care of you, promised. I got you. I got you. You’re safe with me.” His lips warm against your collarbone, kissing wetly there as his hips inch forward, shoving more of himself inside.

The stretch is intense, painful despite how wet and glistening you are for him. The head of his cock, fat and dripping, grunts into you with restrained desperation. His thighs push forward, hips moving slowly, slowly, giving you time to adjust, giving you all the focus and care and attention. 

Finally, mercifully, he bottoms out, both of you groaning out a noise of agonized want. Your thighs are speared apart by his wide body, balls of your feet digging into his lower back. His arms cage you in, one hand flat on the mattress to prop himself up, careful not to put any of his massive weight on your light frame, the other touching you. Your breasts, your cheek, your hair, your lips, every part of you he can see he explores while he allows you to adjust to the heavy weight of his dick inside of you.

It’s huge, spreading you and stretching you so intensely that you’re grateful for his godlike patience. You feel it bumping up inside, tip scraping the mouth of your womb, almost enough that you swear you could touch it through your belly. 

“So big, Joel,” you tell him, your voice a thready imitation of your usual cadence, “so big n’strong…so nice…”

“I got you baby,” he cups your cheek, bending his body down to kiss you lightly. The movement sheaths his cock forward inside, and you both groan.

“Please,” you beg, “please fuck me…please fill me up. Want you to fill me with your cum. Keep me full forever.”

“Fuck, fuck, honey girl,” he bites at your lip, pulling hard between his teeth until he draws blood. He licks across the soft pink flesh, taking more of you into him; the thin red line decorating his tongue before he swallows it up like a good boy.

Then, his hips grind into yours and you let out a shrill noise, a wounded animal crying out. He moves, slowly at first, allowing your body to stretch around him, getting used to the impact of his impressive girth. 

Quickly, he picks up the pace.

You’re begging at this point, nails raking down his thick back, teeth gritting into the hot meat of his shoulder, feet forcing his hips into you. He grunts your name, spits curses into the soft flesh of your neck, grinds and pounds his hips against yours so hard it feels as though he really could split you in two.

But split, you do not. Rather, you become more. Full, whining and screaming his name, sated and hungry all at once. Desperate and satisfied simultaneously. A hungry, soaking little mess underneath this massive man. This man who at first glance, had tried to kill you, a favor you quickly returned. 

A man who’s done nothing for the past two weeks but try to make you whole. A man giving you all the pieces of himself he can spare to try and mend your broken ones. A man who knows what it’s like to fall apart and be put back together again. 

He sees you; scarred flesh, fear, loneliness, all your worst, all you have, and he takes you as his own.

“Goddamnit,” he growls into your skin, “so fuckin’ tight baby, so good…so wet f’me…so tight, fuckin’ gripping me baby.”

Your nails dig deeper into his back, which only seems to spur him on. His hips somehow continue their breakneck pace, pounding against your deepest point so hard that it makes your head feel floaty all over again.

“Feel so good, you okay baby?” his lips against your skin are slurred, sloppy and greedy. 

You nod, nod your head so fast you feel dizzy, and he laughs a little breathlessly. Then, you feel the rough pad of his thumb move from your face down to your clit. 

You do white out then, with the combination of his hard, massive dick spearing you against the pillows, and the grind of his thumb against your swollen clit. The sensations are overwhelming, so intense, too intense. Your legs clench around his waist, and you let out a low, guttural scream.

“Fuck,” Joel gasps, eyes shutting as his rolling hips grow sloppier, less rhythmic, “fuck baby, fuck, fuck you just came all over my cock. God, so fuckin’ tight, so good so good honey, m’gnonna-fuck-”

And you’re full. The hunger, the emptiness, it all fades away in that instant. 

Joel empties himself inside you, cock jerking and pulsing against your throbbing walls. He groans deep in his throat, cursing and grunting as he fills you up, liquid gushing out over your pelvis and thighs. 

It takes a few moments for both of you to come down, his spent cock still sheathed inside your warmth. He hovers over you, and you feel one of his hands cup your cheek, fingers tracing slow lines across the bridge of your nose.

“Baby,” he breathes raggedly, “talk to me.”

“M’fine,” you assure him, though you feel like you’re on another planet.

“You sure? Everythin’ okay? Didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“You’re stupid,” you tell him.

At that, he snorts. “Yeah, you’re fine.”

He moves to detangle himself from you, but your legs clench around him, arms clasping desperately around his neck. He’s so warm, so solid and safe, and you’re so full. 

“They used to have a word for this,” he muses quietly, jerking his chin toward the cage of your legs around his waist, “think they called it baby trappin’.”

“As if you couldn’t get off right now if you wanted,” you mutter.

“Already did that, sweet.”

“Okay, you know what, get the f-”

He presses into you again, and you’re silenced by the low moan that slips from your mouth at the pressure of his heft inside you, even soft and spent. He smiles, teeth digging into his lower lip as he looks down at you with admiration. 

“M’gonna make you a real nice breakfast tomorrow,” he says matter-of-factly.

“That so?” You arch an eyebrow, amused at the ridiculous attempt at conversation he’s making with his dick literally still inside of you. “What’s the Joel Miller Morning After Special look like?”

“Waffles, homemade batter ‘course. Blueberries, the ones we been savin’. Big ole jug of apple juice, just for you.”

“Just for me?” You smile faintly at him. 

“Just for you,” he confirms, “whatever you want, just for you.”

A small laugh drifts from your lips. “Well, that’s very nice of you.”

“So you ain’t leavin’?” he asks, a note of hope in his voice.

“No.” You shake your head. “Think I'll stick around and annoy you for a while.”

He brushes a lock of hair behind your ear with the pads of his fingers. It stays put this time. 

“I’d like that, darlin’.” His teeth flash white in the darkness again. “Think I could go for a little somethin’ now actually. You need anything? Some water?”

You nod, fighting the instinct to get up and get it yourself. Maybe, just maybe it’s okay to let someone else take care of you once in a while. Even if it’s something as simple as a glass of water.

“Sounds great,” you admit, wincing slightly at the pull as he finally slides out of you with a sopping noise. You don’t even want to look at the mess on the sheets.

“How about a snack?” he asks. “You hungry?”

And you look at him, sliding his t-shirt on over his sweat-slicked body, reaching for a towel on your rack to pass toward you. So gentle, so caring, so tender and pragmatic all at once. 

You aren’t alone. You’re warm, and full, and for the first time in a long time, you’re happy.

“No,” you tell him in earnest, “I’m not hungry.”

“You sure?” 

You nod, managing another smile for him. Surely, he’ll add it to his annoying internal tally.

“I’m sure. I actually…I actually feel pretty full.”

What a wonderful feeling it is. 

[waywardxwords]

Chapter 8 - Save Me

Summary: After a random encounter introduces you to Dean Winchester, you can't shake the magnetic pull you feel towards him. For years, you've felt like everything in your life is under control--a promising career, financial stability and no real responsibilities. Dean's a hunter; it's his life and job. But somehow when you meet, your worlds are flipped upside down and you have to decide if it's a chance worth taking.

Chapter Warnings: Slight language; there's a ton of dialogue in this one but I feel like it's necessary to prep for the chapters ahead

Pairing: Dean Winchester x female!reader

Word Count: ~3k

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If you were being honest with yourself, you didn’t know how you felt about going to Kansas for the unforeseeable future. While it wasn’t like you went into an office everyday and you could really work from anywhere within the United States, you had still built your life in Virginia. You had friends—especially Jen—and it felt weird leaving her here, unable to defend herself. But Dean had assured you she would be taken care of, and you knew that you were unable to defend yourself against these monsters Dean and Sam knew how to fight. 

“You about ready?” Dean asked as he tapped softly on your opened bedroom door. 

A heavy sigh fell from your lips as you looked at your packed-to-the-brim duffel bag and backpack. Dean said it was important to pack as light as possible, but without knowing when you’d be back, it was hard to be selective in what you brought. 

“I think so,” you mumbled, your lip caught between your teeth yet again. You released it as Dean stepped into the room. 

“Hey, I know this is a lot to take in,” Dean started slowly. Both of the boys kept treating you like you were made of glass, which was a little bit annoying but also made sense. It felt like you were all waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“I’m okay,” you said out loud for him, but also for yourself. “I’m not really a big fan of the unknown…I’m a planner.” You mumbled as you looked around at your things.

“Not big on taking chances, huh?” Dean chuckled softly as his eyes watched you move. Again, it was like he was waiting for it all to set in and for you to crumble.

“Nope,” you sighed as you finally looked back at him. “Rule follower, remember?” You managed a half-smile as you remembered the first time you met in Atlanta.

“Oh, I remember,” Dean smirked back. He took a few steps towards you and you both sat on the edge of your bed. “Just keep in mind–this doesn’t have to be forever.” Your head had dipped a bit, so he moved his to find your gaze. 

“I get that,” you nodded. You didn’t want to offend him; this was his life. He was used to packing an ‘oh shit’ bag and getting out of town. He was used to all of the things that went bump in the night. You, on the other hand, were still trying to wrap your mind around it all. “I just wish I could circle a date on the calendar and know when I could come home.”

Dean nodded as he processed your words. “Tell ya what,” he started. “How about we take it one day at a time, for now,” he paused but you waited for the ‘and then’ part. “Once we get back to Kansas, we can sit down and come up with a plan. Figure out what it looks like so we can get you back home.” 

You didn’t want to be presumptuous, but there was a tone in his voice that almost sounded like he wasn’t looking forward to that. But since everything had happened, you really hadn’t been given a moment to figure out what this was between you and Dean.

“That sounds fair,” you answered honestly. Dean smiled and seemed hesitant, but leaned over and kissed the side of your head anyway.

“Good,” he seemed okay with your answer. He sighed and looked around at the rest of your room. “Anything I can do to help?”

You pushed your hair behind your ears and followed his gaze as you, too, looked around. “I don’t think so,” you said softly. “I’ve packed just about everything that will fit into my bags. I’m just worried I’m forgetting something.” 

“We do have stores in Kansas, ya know,” Dean winked as he stood and reached for your duffel. “Jesus, woman.” He muttered as he slung it over his shoulder. “You got a dead body in here, or what?”

You managed a laugh as you stood to follow him and slung your backpack up on your shoulders. “No, Dean, I think I’ll leave the dead bodies to you.” You patted him on the shoulder and walked just beyond him, but you heard him laugh as you rounded the corner into the hallway.

“Everything locked up?” Sam asked as you closed up the front door and headed to meet the boys in the driveway.

“Yep,” you sighed and readjusted your backpack a bit. “I mean, it probably doesn’t matter when it comes to demons, right? They can get through locked doors, I’m guessing.”

They didn’t answer you directly but nodded slightly. “I’m guessing you want to bring your car to Kansas?” Dean asked as he eyed your garage door.

“Oh, absolutely,” you answered quickly. “I just figured I would follow behind you guys, if that’s okay.” You said as you used the keypad on the side of the garage to type in your PIN number that opened the door. 

Sam and Dean stared at you, confused for a minute. “Sam’s flying back to Kansas,” Dean said. “This is a rental so I figured I’d drop it off on the way and hitch a ride with you, if that’s alright.” His words made you turn around slowly and your brows pulled together in confusion. 

“Wait,” you started carefully. “You flew here?” 

Dean caught why you were so surprised and flashed his white teeth in a small smile. He pulled at the back of his neck as Sam watched you both look at each other. “Sweetheart, I don’t own European cars. Don’t drive ‘em either, if I can help it.” He shrugged as he thumbed to the Volkswagen Jetta in your driveway. 

“Okay,” there was more you wanted to say but you decided not to rub in how much Dean hated flying in front of Sam. You weren’t familiar with their dynamic at all, but Dean had told you that he didn’t like being afraid, and that he always tried to be strong for his brother. You didn’t want to embarrass him or say something you shouldn’t in front of Sam. “Do I wanna know why you have to get back to Kansas quickly?” You turned your gaze to the younger Winchester. 

Sam chuckled softly and shook his head. “Work…related,” he mumbled. “So probably not.”

You nodded once and turned back to your car. “Okay, then,” you breathed. “I’ll follow you to the airport and wait for you to drop off the rental.” 

You loaded up your backpack and Dean tossed your duffel bag in the car.  As you both turned away, you faced each other, maybe a foot apart. 

“I’ll see you at the airport,” he said softly. 

“Be safe,” you said back as you studied his features and tried to read what he was thinking. He nodded, and after one more look, he went to walk back to the rental car. 

Before he could step away, you took a chance. You reached for his jacket and tugged so he turned back to you. With his jacket still between your fingers, you pressed your lips to his in a rather quick, but hard kiss. For a moment, he paused but then his hands cupped your face as he kissed you back. 

As the pop echoed around you, you didn’t notice how Sam had turned to give you some privacy and scratched awkwardly at the back of his head. “What was that for?” Dean asked as his eyes looked between yours. 

“To say I’m sorry, again, for not believing you,” you started softly but continued before he could say anything. “And for saving my life.” A small smile tugged up the corner of his lip just enough for his dimple to appear. 

“I don’t want you to apologize to me again, got it?” His thumb caressed your cheek gently. 

“No more apologizing from either of us,” you stared into his eyes until he nodded. 

“Deal,” he agreed, though somewhat hesitantly. 

“Okay,” you pulled back and waved at Sam. “Thanks to you too, Sam.” You called after him. He turned back around and nodded. “And I guess I’ll be seeing you in Kansas.”

“I’ll see you there,” he nodded as he waved. “Drive safe.”

You nodded and watched Dean walk back to the car. Just before he climbed into the driver’s seat, he called out after you. “And I’ll be seeing you soon.”

Even after everything, you couldn’t help the heat that radiated in your cheeks or the way a smile pulled across your lips. 

Dean had dropped Sam off at the drop off area at the airport. Once he had gathered his backpack, you followed Dean to the rental car return. It only took a few minutes before you popped the trunk to your Toyota Camry and waited for Dean to toss in his duffel bag. 

He pulled open the passenger door and leaned down. “You want me to drive?” He asked carefully. Dean seemed like the kind of guy who preferred driving, but you smiled and shook your head ‘no’ anyway. 

“How about I take the first shift? And then we can switch,” you suggested. He seemed content enough with that response and climbed in. “Sorry it’s not the Impala.” You offered with a small smile. 

“Ah, it’s alright,” he sighed as he pulled on his seatbelt. “I’ll get you in a Chevy or Ford, eventually.” He smiled back. You chuckled softly and shook your head as you pulled away from the airport. 

“What’s the address?” You asked as you toyed with the navigation on the dash. 

Dean grumbled, something about fancy cars and shitty navigation systems but you just rolled your eyes. He plugged in an address for Lebanon, Kansas. 

“Jesus,” you mumbled, as the screen totaled your drive time at 20 hours and 32 minutes. 

“Buckle up, sweetheart. Hope you’re ready for a long drive,” Dean chuckled. It was already late into the evening, pushing midnight by now. 

“It’s weird, I feel like I’ve been up for days at this point,” you muttered as you adjusted the air and your seatbelt. 

“You sure you don’t want me to drive?” He eyed you carefully. That was the thing about Dean’s gaze: you could feel it even when you didn’t see it. 

“I’m alright. We can switch when we stop,” you shifted the car into drive and eased on the gas. Dean unbuckled his seat belt to pull off his jacket before he buckled it again. “I’m supposed to call Jen tomorrow. I’m not even sure what to say to her, she recognized you from the photos we found online.” The sound of your voice was anything but strong as your stomach flip-flopped. 

“I’m guessin’ the truth isn’t an option?” Dean asked. 

You shook your head no. “And say what? She got possessed by a demon named Meg, her eyes turned black and she flung me against the wall a few times? Yeah, I’m pretty sure she’d have me committed,” you fell into a comfortable speed as you got on the interstate and hit cruise control. 

Dean half chuckled and shook his head as he glanced out the passenger window and then back to the windshield, his features illuminated by the headlights of drivers coming down the other side of the highway. “That probably wouldn’t go over too well. It’s a lot for anybody to take in.”

You muddled over a thought before you said it out loud. “How did you take it when you first found out?” You asked him as you glanced between him and the road ahead of you. 

His brows kind of pulled together and you took that as his thinking face. “I don’t really know how to explain that,” he started softly. “It’s all I’ve ever known, really.”

Shock had to have graced your features but you tried to calm your expression. While you recognized this was all new to you, it wasn’t to Dean. And you certainly didn’t want to offend him. 

“When did you find out about the things that go bump in the night?” You asked him carefully. 

“When I was four,” he didn’t look at you when he answered. Instead, his gaze went out the passenger window again as he watched the trees pass by in darkness. 

“Four?! Dean, you were a baby,” you breathed. And then you remembered. “You were four when your mom died…”

There was a moment of silence that you took as his acknowledgment that you had the right idea. But then, he continued. 

“My Dad kind of went into overdrive at that point. Trying to find what killed her,” he explained. You nodded as you tried to absorb it. When he didn’t offer up anything additional, you broke the silence. 

“You were just a kid, Dean…” you felt a pang of sadness for the man next to you. It made you angry, even. “No kid should ever have to go through that.”

“No kid should have to lose their parent to some supernatural asshole, either,” he said back firmly. You somehow knew he wasn’t upset with you by the comment, just trying to make you understand. “Seeing my Dad go through that, and having to make sure Sammy was okay…” he shook his head as he trailed off. 

The dots started to connect for you. Dad was busy fighting the monsters, Dean had to take care of his brother, you kept your thoughts to yourself but made a mental note. He had to be strong—couldn’t be afraid. 

“Anyway,” he cleared his throat and resituated himself in his seat. “All that to say, I don’t know what it’s like, really, to be thrown into this world that I live in. But I know it can’t be easy.”

“I don’t want you to worry about me, Dean,” you answered quickly, and you meant it. It seemed as though Dean was worried about protecting everyone in his life and being strong through it. “I don’t want to burden you with that.”

“Sweetheart, I’m gonna worry about you whether you’re sitting right here next to me, or you’re thousands of miles away in another state,” he looked at you when he spoke. “And it’s not a burden.”

“Can I ask you something?” Your bravery to ask the hard questions surprised you. Something about being in the car with him for almost a full day made your usual resolve soften. 

“Shoot,” he stole another glance at you. 

“Do you like it? Fighting…monsters?” You asked, for lack of a better word. 

Dean mulled it over before he answered right away. “I like helping people,” he said simply. “I like being able to save people so they won’t have to go through the same thing we did.”

“But who saves Dean Winchester?” Your eyes found him in the dark car once again.

“I don’t need saving, sweetheart,” he smirked again, a hint of confidence to his tone.

“Everybody needs saving sometimes, Dean,” you answered softly.

The only noise around you came from the hum of the engine.

“I guess Sammy does,” Dean looked out the window. You could tell he didn’t want the conversation to continue at that point, so you switched gears slightly.

“Does it ever scare you?” The idea of fighting monsters terrified you, but you were curious if Dean was ever afraid. 

He seemed to process the question like it was something he had never been asked, which shocked you considering the line of work. “I mean, I guess sometimes. Usually when one of us is in trouble.” You nodded, but he continued. “When one of us is knockin’ on death’s door, I guess that scares me.”

Each new fact you found out about this life Dean lived in brought on a new wave of shock. “Death?” You asked him as you looked between him and the road. 

Dean chuckled, but you could tell it was from him being a bit uncomfortable. “Let’s save that one for another day,” he shifted in his seat. 

Maybe that was a good idea. You redirected the conversation slightly. “Where does your fear of flying fall on the scale of being scared?” You smirked. 

“Oh, that one’s still at the top of the list,” he winked with a wide smile that reflected the light from the streetlights as you drove, welcoming a lighter conversation.

“But you got on a plane anyway. To get to me,” you stole another glance in his direction. 

“Well, yeah,” he said simply. “Sam said I should let it go, that something must have made you change your mind. But when I couldn’t reach you…” he shook his head. “I just had to be sure you were alright.” His words caused a flutter to form in your stomach, and you smiled, but that was shortly followed by a yawn that tugged at your jawline. “Getting tired?” Dean asked.

You shrugged a bit but couldn’t help the nod that followed. “It’s been a really long day,” you sighed. “I guess I was more tired than I thought.”

“That’s what happens when shock starts wearing off,” he reached to place his hand just above your knee over your denim jeans. It was obvious it was meant as something comforting as his thumb traced small circles on the fabric there. “Why don’t we pull off? I can switch with you.”

“Dean, you need sleep, too,” you argued.

“We can stop eventually if I get tired, too. But I’m alright, sweetheart,” his voice was gruff and raspy–you could sense the exhaustion there, but you obliged.

There was a rest stop up ahead and you took the exit slowly. Once the car was in park, you opened the driver’s door to switch with Dean. As you both got settled in your new seats, Dean pressed a quick kiss to your temple before he adjusted the mirrors. 

“You just get some rest,” he said gently. 

You nodded against the headrest of the seat and closed your eyes. “Night, Dean.” It wouldn’t take long for sleep to find you.

A/N: Happy Thursday, friends! I know this chapter probably felt a bit "filler" with the dialogue, but it was important for the development of future chapters. I promise things will get more interesting in the next chapter!

Let me know what you think! I appreciate all the likes, comments & reblogs more than you know!

Chapter 9 will be posted on (or maybe before, TBD) Thursday, 4/25!

Chapter 9 Preview:

One blink, then two. The hum of the engine and vibration in the seat of the car reminded you where you were. There were so many emotions that coursed through you as you remembered: demons, monsters, Dean. 

Your nose twitched as you smelled the air and your eyes were drawn over to Dean. The sun was out now–high in the sky.

“Dean?” You cleared your throat as you shifted in the passenger seat to sit up fully. He did a double take and you saw the smile spread across his lips.

“Morning, sunshine,” the gruffness to his words and the look on his face made your stomach flip–or was that hunger? You settled on a mixture of both. 

“What time is it? Where are we?” You asked as blinked a few more times to try to take in your surroundings. 

“It’s about 8:30,” Dean answered as he glanced at the clock. “And we’re about an hour outside of Louisville, Kentucky.” 

“Jesus, I slept for eight hours, Dean! You should’ve woken me up,” you rubbed the sleep from your eyes and felt around your hair inconspicuously. You didn’t want to give away that you were slightly concerned with what you looked like after passing out in the passenger seat. God, what if you drooled?! You swiped your fingers across your mouth quickly. 

“Nah, you needed the sleep,” he answered simply. “You had a rough few days there.”

“Thanks,” you breathed. Suddenly your stomach groaned and you hoped he couldn’t hear it. “I’m starving. How about we stop and switch off again?”

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[bananafire11]

Oh, Tents

A sequel to my previous one-shot, Squirrels, Squirrels, and More Squirrels Summary: Reader's having tent problems and ends up sharing Daryl's tent. TW: none!

Today was really not your day. Of course, living in a zombie apocalypse wasn’t really ideal all things considered, and while things were scary and new to you, but you'd held your chin high and tried to deal with it. Keep going forward, and stay alive.

Today, though, was a mess. First, you’d woken up with a splitting headache, then you’d slipped right into the chilly creek nearby, and had to withstand the embarrassment of Carol getting both you and your clothes dry. The icing on the cake to finish the day was you tripping over a stone and falling onto your tent, collapsing upon it and ripping a ginormous gap in the fabric. So yeah, your day was going great.

________________________________________ You put off what to do about your predicament until after dinner. The least you could do was cook alongside Carol, who unknowingly calms your nerves enough to keep you from exploding half the time. Her easy-going mood mingled with your jumbled nerves, smothering the fire in your mind to ashes. Your cooking didn’t turn out to be a complete disaster, at least. After all, the amount of dead squirrels hadn’t exactly decreased. Daryl still left them for you and you used the meat to cook up something good for the group. It was routine now. The arrangement didn’t particularly mean you saw him much. He was mostly glued to his older brother's side or off on a few-days long hunt. It was pretty obvious he didn’t care much for human interaction, only smarting off to those who approached him or avoiding the spotlight of topics. This left a lot to be desired, which frustrated you to no end. You glanced up from your spot on your selected log around the smoldering fire pit and scanned the surrounding faces, finding yourself subconsciously looking for a certain head of ashy-blond hair and blue eyes. You knew a good chunk of the campers had gone on the supply run into Atlanta, but he hadn’t been one of them. It didn’t surprise you that he hadn't shown up for dinner though. You’d saved a bowl of food for him regardless. After you finished your helping, you slipped off into the darkness with his bowl and away from any onlookers wondering where you were headed. Daryl’s tent was set up farthest from the fire, shrouded by darkness and instead illuminated by moonlight. Merle’s tent was a few feet away, thankfully vacant. Your converses crunched through the fallen leaves and you knew if Daryl was in his tent, he’d definitely heard you by now. You paused in front of the entrance, staring at the glimmering zipper. The meat in your stomach seemed to come alive again with nerves, throat closing up. You gulped, breathing in once and then twice before calling out, “hey, uh. Daryl?” You listened over the faint sound of the group at the firepit laughing about some unheard joke and the everlong blaring of insects and critters in the surrounding trees. Sure enough, the light rustling of fabric could be heard inside and the zipper pulled toward the sky, revealing the mussed profile of the hunter. His hair stuck to one side of his face, flattened against his cheek. He’d most definitely been asleep and you’d woken him up. You pushed the thought that the image was cute because, what the fuck, this was Daryl Dixon, and glanced down at the steaming bowl in your hands. “I, uh. Well, I brought you your dinner, but I see you’re..busy sleeping so…,” you shuffled a step away before he blinked at you and held a hand up as if to tell you to stop, so you did. “Gimme,” he grumbled. You stared at him before processing what he’d said and quickly came closer, handing the bowl off to him, fingers brushing his in a fleeting moment. Daryl shuffled back on his knees and you scrambled for words. “Wait–” you choked out, watching as he paused and peered up at you from underneath his lashes. Here goes nothing, “my tent, well, it’s got a big hole in it and I don’t have anywhere else to go.” His eyebrows furrowed, but you pushed the idea that that was just his thinking face to the front of your mind and watched him chew his lip. “Can’ crash wit’ anyone else?” came the low mutter and you weren’t sure if your heart did a flip for his sweet morning voice or the possibility of rejection. You swallowed, chewing the interior of your cheek, “I don’t think anyone else has room,” you glanced back at the fire where most of the residents had gone to their respective shelters. “Otherwise I’d ask.” Daryl huffed, “Alrigh’, c’mon, ‘fore I change mah mind,” and he retreated back into his lair, food still in hand. Your mind raced because, underneath all your hoping you really hadn’t believed he’d cave and let you in.

You crawled in beside him, the space just big enough for the both of you. The smell, which you’d describe as deep forest and woodland, was all entirely Daryl. The man sat back against the sheets, legs crossed underneath him as he set the bowl down onto his lap. You scooched over to sit beside him with a good foot separating you two. You sat there as he downed the food you’d made and took in the off white walls and the dark covers you both sat upon, cushioning you surprisingly well. Your eyes roamed over to the prone weapon that was his crossbow set in a pile of bolts in the corner.

The scraping of the metal fork hitting the bottom of the empty bowl brought you out of your head and you looked over at the man, watching him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. He hummed, and your chest filled with warmth that he must have enjoyed your cooking.

He leaned forward and set the bowl down beside his crossbow, the utensil clinking against the rim. Daryl shifted back, lifting his hips to pull the covers out from underneath him and you fumbled to do the same. Fuck, could you stop being so damn jittery.

He lay back and you did the same, the two of you staring up at the tent ceiling, gazing at the shadows of the trees overhead, casting you both in a soft light. You glanced over at the man beside you to find his eyes drooping, and you raced out a, “thank you,” before they shut completely. He turned his head toward you, cheek pressing against the old, cigarette-burned pillow in a way you found endearing.

You held eye contact with him for a long few seconds, taking in the smokey blue of his eyes. He grunted, “yer welcome.”

You allowed a small smile to cross your features and his eyes flickered down to your lips for a brief moment before he looked back up at you, eyelids looking oh so heavy again. You pulled your gaze away and turned onto your side, facing him. You pulled your limbs in, knee nudging his hip for a moment.

You stole small glimpses of his face as he drifted off, one hand over his belly and breath evening out into deeper inhales and exhales.

Maybe today wasn’t so bad after all.

[hanjisunglover]

𝐏𝐀𝐏𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒 - han jisung

pairing: han jisung x chubby fem!reader

genre: fluff :(

summary: just you finding your boyfriend sleeping in the couch.

When Jisung asked to be your boyfriend he created 100 paper hearts, inside them, he decided to confess 100 reasons about why he loves you. You, melted.

He always been sweet and caring with you, comforting you with every doubt or insecurity about yourself and your choices. Always been by your side, not judging in anything, he's just the one.

You try to support him, in everything and for everything, never stopped loving him for a second, even when he doesn't answer your texts after hours.

[ y/n 18:03 ] hey, I know you're in tour, but how are you? :( just miss you a lot, I love you

That message is waiting an answer since two hours ago, you never forced jisung with texting and stuff like that, you know that he's busy. Busy, but you miss him. You miss his touch, his voice, his cute cheeks, his eyes, even his bad jokes.

He's busy and you can't stop thinking about him.

You walk silently inside your apartment, a small one, the first thing that you can see from the main door is the kitchen, that it's weirdly clean, that face to the little living room with a big window on the streets of Seoul. When you told Jisung that you wanted a small apartment, to have a quiet love nest with him, he was so happy. No more chaos with the members, a refuge for him when he needs you, to escape his 'too much' reality.

With a big sigh you walk in, turning on the lights and you can hear a groan from the couch, you immediately turn with a scream, "who's there?"

"fuck, me baby, it's me," jisung with a sleepy and deep voice sits on the couch, his hands with the sleeves of his big hoodie that cover most of his face, his hood put on covering his hair, he looks like he was sleeping there for a while.

"why? why are you here? you should be.. you should be in Atlanta now!" you walk closer, you sounds like you don't want him there but he knows that it's totally the opposite, you loves his job. You know that he deserve the love and the support that fan - like you - gives to him. So why he's skipping the Atlanta concert?

Jisung sigh and he looks up at you, his bangs cover his eyes and he chuckles weakly, "really? you want me to go?"

"no! I mean, yes! you should be there! why.. why you came back?"

Your boyfriend looks tired, almost dizzy as he squeeze his eyes, relaxing his back on the couch, "I missed you, and I didn't felt good, I'm hiding here because I need you." His voice sounds so fragile now, he mean it, he needs you in a way that other people can't.. can't give him. You sit next to him, stroking his hand with a nod.

you can hurt me, I don't care, you can burn me Unlike those who run away from you, I'll embrace you.

author note: needs some attentions and love, this couldn't lives in my drafts for this long ;(

[scarisd3ad]

A really cute 'n playful Carl x fem reader cuddle sesh in his room? Like with reader laying on his chest (or vise versa) And they're playing with each other's hair, giving sweet, gentle kisses and being all adorable and in love 🥺.. (bonus if Rick walks in on them asleep together, gets Michonne and they're both standing there for a minute like 'awwww young love 😭❤')

Promptober day 22 - cuddles

Pairing - Carl grimes x reader

Warnings - none

A/N - this is the same reader from day 7 so Glenn and Maggie are like readers guardian/parents.

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Carl's and i's hands are interlocked as we walk into his house. our footstep are cautious and quiet just in case one of his family members are home right now. It's not like we were going to do anything bad. It was just embarrassing at our age to be caught doing anything romantic. "Dad?" carl calls out into the house as he lets go of my hand. "Michonne?" no answer, so he grabs my hand and drags me back to his room.

I've never really been in his room, ever. Most of the time we hung out outside away from the others, so they wouldn't catch us. No one knew about us, as far as everyone else knew we were just really good friends, and nothing else. Well, that was the truth until a few weeks ago when we kissed and there was no going back after that.

I sit down on his bed as he kicks his shoes off. "soo what are we gonna do?" I ask. I was clueless about the whole relationship thing. The world ended when I was twelve and at twelve, I hadn't even held a boy's hand yet, and ever since then there wasn't time for a boyfriend or to even have a crush until now. I didn't know what boyfriends and girlfriends did when they hung on. I barely even knew how to kiss. "Just hang out," he says with a smile, "like we do all the time," he adds as he sits down next to me. My heart pounds against my chest as he grabs my hand. No matter how many times he holds my hand or kisses me, it always makes me flustered.

We end up on his bed, laid down, with his arm wrapped around me as he read a comic book. He carefully wraps and unwraps my hair around his finger, leaving the strand in a weird-looking curl. I'm nervous, and i think he can tell because he looks down at me before pressing a kiss to my forehead. My head lays flat against his chest so I can see what he's reading. We both end up falling asleep, arms wrapped around each other, and legs tangled together.

knock, knock, knock

We both quickly wake up and turn around, eyes wide in panic. We're both met with rick leaning against the doorframe with a tiny smirk on his lips. "dad get out!" carl shouts as he gets up off of the bed. He pushes rick out of the room and slams the door shut. I sit up so my legs are dangling off the bed. I didn't know if rick would tell Glenn and get me in trouble. I didn't know if what we did was worthy of getting in trouble for, but despite that fact, it still mortified me.

"I think I should go," I whisper as I wrap my arms around my body. "yo-you don't have to go, I don't think my dad cares that much anyway," I shake my head. "Glenn's probably worried I should go," I whisper as I walk out of Carl's room. ricks in the kitchen like he was waiting for either carl or I to come out. "Are you going to tell Glenn?" I ask my voice quiet and meek, terrified of what his answer was going to be. Glenn was always going to see me as that terrified little 12-year-old he had found abandoned on the streets of Atlanta. I just knew if he found out about carl and I dating he'd probably try to kill carl.

"Why would I?" Rick furrows his brows as he stares at me. "I just-I just don't want Glenn to know yet," I whisper as I cross my arms over my chest. He was overprotective, especially when it came to boys. I understood to a certain degree I was like his daughter. He's known me since I was 12, but he needed to let go a little. Rick walks over to me and places a hand on my shoulder. "Its alrigh' kid, tell him when you're ready."

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[chippedshake]

Dally Winston didn’t have many possessions. A side effect of never staying in one place for too long, he supposed. Even if he stayed in the same city, he would sleep wherever he could, and most folks’ hospitality didn’t extend past the week.

He was a constant flight risk. Too many people had woken up one day to find him fifteen miles away and nowhere to be found. And when he ran, he didn’t come back; he brought all he could need with him: the clothes on his back, the blade in his pocket, and the shoebox under his train seat.

The shoebox would be wrapped inside of his sweater – no matter if he ran away in August or December – and the only thing anyone could see if they somehow got close enough to open it would be candy bars and Kools, and maybe a shirt or two.

While he was in Cleveland, some guy in his gang – Joe or John or something about as interesting – tried to nab one and nearly got his head beat in.

That same night he’d caught a freight to New York. He wasn’t about to explain himself to a group of wannabe gangsters who couldn’t throw a punch and didn’t want him around anyway.

Crouched in almost complete darkness, the train jostling him around as he opened his shoebox, the twelve-year-old made sure nothing was out of place underneath the bars and packs. He let out a small sigh of relief at the four plastic bags, perfectly intact. It was too dim to see the actual handwriting, but he knew each one had a city name on it.

The keys to his father’s house and his sister’s comb from Austin.

Houston was where he met the first girl that actually mattered to him – Kathy – and her number was the only thing in that bag.

He’d taken his first job as a waiter in Pittsburg, and the navy blue button in that bag reminded him of his boss, the first one to look at him and see a scared boy with nowhere to go instead of a hood in the making.

Maybe he was both.

He didn’t need to open the Cleveland bag to know it was empty. Hadn’t been there enough to have anyone to remember.

It wasn’t the first time he’d left a city without anything to care about. Atlanta and Nashville had been crossed out to make space for other names, but he’d only been there for a couple weeks.

He’d been in Cleveland for almost a year.

Squinting to make anything out in the near-darkness, Dallas took the permanent marker in the corner of the box and crossed out Cleveland, replacing it with New York in as good handwriting as he could manage.

It was legible at best, but no one else was meant to read it, so he figured it didn’t much matter.

When he left three years later it was the fullest bag he had.

It was a bit of a struggle to keep the bag covered inside the shoebox, but he managed.

When Dallas got to Tulsa, he was far from optimistic. He’d been in New York for the longest yet and had actually managed to get close to a couple boys there before the fuzz got a bit too familiar with him and he knew he needed to skip town again. Before that happened, he’d thought he’d finally found somewhere he could stay long-term, until the greaser life inevitably caught up with him and gave him the greaser death he’d known was coming for him since he was nine and on a train away from Austin.

Then he met a group of boys, one of them hardly in middle school, who thought themselves a gang even though they couldn’t do anything but grease their hair back. And yet, somehow, even though the kid was obnoxious and his brothers were overprotective over him and one of them seemed to be constantly sucking on a lemon, Dallas found himself strangely drawn to them.

They might not have been as tough as the packs in New York, but there was something else about them.

It might have been how Buck, who hardly knew him, let him stay above the bar almost free of charge. How he would patch him up whenever he came back from a stupid fight and scowl whenever he saw a new bruise. How he would wordlessly direct Johnny to Dallas’s room whenever he appeared unannounced and made sure none of the drunks gave him any trouble. How he would give Dallas advice about anything he asked about, even if most of it was terrible.

It might have been how Johnny always came to him for help and didn’t seem scared of him for a moment, even when they didn’t know each other and he had every reason to.

It might have been how Steve would skip school with him to watch cars speed by and comment on everything from the engine to the paint job.

It might have been how Soda embraced him wholeheartedly, despite how perfect his life was and how ugly a stain Dallas was on it. How he listened in silence when Dallas finally broke and told him about Holly and how he’d never forgive himself for leaving her alone with that bastard. How he told him it wasn’t his fault.

It might have been Mrs Curtis and her disapproving looks when he told stories about his battles and conquests. How she never stopped believing in him anyway.

It might have been how he knew that, despite all of their fights, Tim would never betray him when it mattered. How he’d been the one to first call him Dally.

It might have been how Darry always explained football terms to him when he told a story Dally wouldn’t understand and how Ponyboy wouldn’t stop yapping about his favourite books and how Two-Bit went to every part with him to make sure he didn’t do anything too stupid.

It might have been how, more often than not, Dally went home with something in his pocket to put away in his shoebox.

It’s been two days since Dally crumpled under a streetlight while his friends watched – except Buck wasn’t there, he wasn’t there, and part of him wonders if maybe he could’ve stopped him if he was – and Buck knows that it’s well past time to clean out his room because despite what he told Dally, he really does need the rent money.

It’s just washing the sheets and taking out any clothes he might have collected – not even three years he’d been there, and Buck’s life has a hole in it now that he’s gone and if this is anything like how Dally felt with Johnny, maybe he can understand his decision a bit more – and then he’s ready to rent the room out.

But it isn’t just washing the sheets and finding something to do with his clothes, because they won’t fit Buck because Dally was just a kid.

It’s accepting that the kid’s gone. It’s accepting that he’s not going to open the door with a scowl on his face. He’s not going to start complaining about Sylvia. Buck isn’t going to pretend not to care and give him barmy advice he doesn’t even believe himself.

The kid’s going to lie – still, cold, dead – in his make-shift grave and Buck’s going to stop crying because he’s done his fair share of that for a grown man and a greaser. And they’re just clothes.

Clothes that smell like the first kid Buck had cared about enough to take care of. Clothes many of which Buck himself had gotten Dally. Clothes that hold more memories of Dally Winston than any other place in town.

Just clothes.

And, apparently, a shoebox.

When he opens it, Buck isn’t expecting much beyond some unsavoury magazines and maybe a candy bar.

Instead, he finds five plastic bags with city names written on them in the chicken scrawl that only almost three years of living with Dally had taught him to read.There are a couple Twixes thrown on top as a half-hearted cover, but they don’t do much to hide the bags.

Three are almost empty. One is half full.

The last one is overflowing.

The Curtis brothers rarely received letters beyond bills or some routine ones from the state. They didn’t have many people that couldn’t just talk to them if they wanted to tell them something. At most they got some half-hearted birthday cards from distant relatives a couple weeks late.

They never received packages, though.

Except now their mailbox has a plastic bag stuffed inside of it and a shoebox sitting on the ground next to it, holding their usual letters and four other bags.

As they have for the last two nights, the whole gang – or, rather, what’s left of it – eats dinner together. No one says it, but they’re scared to spend too much time alone. Loneliness eats at them, even when they’re all together, and they’re the only thing keeping each other from going insane.

Darry clears his throat, breaking into the silence that settled down on them two days ago and has only thickened since.

“We, uh… we got a letter from Buck together.”

Two-Bit looks up from his plate with a raised eyebrow, and there’s something desperate in the way that gesture, that used to be casually playful and fun, comes from a Two-Bit who hasn’t smiled since Pony walked in the door two nights ago.

Steve and Soda share a glance before looking at Darry, but Pony doesn’t even bother. He just keeps pushing the food around on his plate as if it’ll make it disappear.

"What's it say?" Soda's voice sounds clogged up from lack of use.

"Apparently he– uh... Dally–" they ignore how his voice breaks on Dally's name "– he had stuff from all of us. Kept 'em in a box under his bed. Buck found them when he cleaned his room out. Sent 'em to us. He had stuff from where he's been before, too." For all Darry tries to seem casual, he can’t stop the unspilled tears of the last few days from seeping into his voice.

"I–" Steve trails off before clearing his throat and starting again. "Let’s see it then, yeah?"

It’s a well-known fact that Ponyboy’s too sensitive to be a greaser. Sodapop calls himself a bawl-baby and seems to somehow feel everything stronger than everyone else. Two-Bit’s an emotional drunk and hasn’t cracked a joke in two days. And Darry’s been suppressing everything he’s felt for nine months and is bound to burst at some point.

And yet Steve is the first to break.

He’s holding a small piece of metal – his DX name tag – that presses coolly against his skin. Dally always used to swipe it and play with it in front of him, laughing as Steve made mad grabs for it. He doesn’t even know why he tried; he knew he wouldn’t get it back until Dally got bored. He stole it a bit over a year ago, and Steve always figured that it was just to mess with him.

He sinks into his chair with a wet, choked sob.

Dally comes in on the one day Steve gets stuck at the counter. He’s messing around, sitting on the counter, his legs dangling off it, with Steve’s name tag, trying to goad him into some sort of stupid argument. Steve doesn’t even bother trying to grab it back anymore; Dally’ll give it back whenever he feels like it, and it’s no use trying to get it back before.

"You going to the drive-in today?"

"Nah, Soda'n me're goin' to the races."

"You takin' the kid?"

"Sure hope not."

Dally stops playing with the name tag for a moment. He swivels ninety degrees to face Steve and crosses his legs on top of the counter.

His eyes have always been off-putting, but now it feels like they’re piercing through Steve’s mask of uncaring and putting his soul on display for all the world to see. Steve looks away.

"Don’t do that, man."

Steve looks at him in confusion. "Don’t do what?"

"Don’t pretend like you hate the kid. You're not foolin' anyone but him, an' someday it'll be too late."

They stare at each other for a couple moments in a heavy silence. There are thousands of questions running through Steve’s head and he doesn’t know where to start.

"I gotta split."

Dally jumps off the counter and walks off, completely nonchalant, as if they’ve just had a normal conversation.

Steve doesn’t notice his name tag is gone until Soda asks him about it when he calls him over for help later.

He thinks a lot about Dally’s advice during the next year. Maybe he’s right. He does care about Pony, deep down. Somewhere. He’s an annoying piece of shit, but Steve cares about him.

But he’s been pretending not to for so long that he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to show him. Because if there’s one thing Steve knows, it’s that he’s not about to have a heart-to-heart with the little shit.

What he usually does when he can’t figure something feelings-y out is ignore it: block it out until it stops bothering him. But Dally won’t let him. His voice has needled a hole in his head, interfering with his every thought.

And the worst part is that Dally’s right. It’s not even just the kid that doesn’t know he really cares.

No one does.

No one but Soda and Evie really knows that he cares about them. And that’s really just Steve assuming they can read him well enough, because he’s not exactly one for baring his heart to someone and declaring how much they mean to him.

Logically, he should be the closest to Johnny, since none of the others really gets what it means to want to be anywhere but home, but Johnny would rather have to try and explain it to Pony than really talk to Steve.

Paying just the slightest bit of attention makes him realise that his stupid little sarcastic comments during Two-Bit’s stories actually hurt him, but for some reason Two-Bit chose not to tell him and Steve’s only just noticing now, after years of it.

Somehow, Steve managed to hide how much he wanted to be like Darry between ages seven and twelve, but now Darry thinks he hates him and obviously doesn’t know about the part of that hero worship that Steve still harbours.

Not even Dally, who acts like he can see right through him, knows about how Steve wants him to teach him to fight and about how he feels like Dally just… gets him better than anyone else.

But anger is how he processes everything. He can’t have a conversation without a sarcastic comment mixed in with it and would much rather brawl than talk something out. He doesn’t know any other way to work through things because no one ever bothered to teach him.

He wonders whether he could have asked Dally for help. Whether Dally would’ve laughed in his face or taken him under his wing and taught him how to feel things like a normal person.

Steve still hasn’t changed. He knows he should. Regret at Johnny and Dally never knowing how much he cared curls up inside his stomach, wrapping around and suffocating him. It’s only a matter of time before someone else’s monster is added in – no such thing as an old greaser – and Steve can feel it watching him, waiting until it can curl around his throat and start squeezing.

It’s too late for Johnny and Dally to know that he cares about them. It’s too late for Dally to see him take his advice to heart.

But Johnny and Dally aren’t the part of the gang that’s left.

So, for the first time, Steve looks around at his friends and tries to really see them. He tries to see the part of them they leave to subtext and interpretation, hoping someone will understand what that blink or that twitch meant.

Soda winces, he’s in pain. He’s holding something tightly in his hand, something sharp. But he has that faraway look in his eyes that he gets when he thinks about Sandy sometimes, so Steve knows not to talk to him. He’s going through something he needs to process alone.

Darry’s smiling in a bittersweet way that tells Steve that he’s remembering something good, something happy, and being brought back to the present will be infinitely more painful if it’s at someone else’s hands.

Two-Bit trails around the room, restless as ever, twirling a pencil around his fingers. Steve’s never felt like he knows Two-Bit. The walls of defensive humour and beer always seemed impenetrable and, honestly, Steve never really tried.

Finally, his eyes land on Ponyboy, sitting at the head of the table, a drawing between his hands. He’s trembling and blinking away tears.

“Golly, Pony, you oughta show Dal.” Pony looks up at Johnny, surprised and slightly incredulous.

“Yeah, right. Dally’ll laugh right in my face.”

“‘Course he won’t. Might not get it, but he won’t laugh atcha.”

If Pony didn’t know any better, he might say Dally’s face softens when he shows him the drawing.

Most people wouldn’t notice it, the subtle way his eyes stop being so sharp, like a shard of ice that melts just the smallest bit at edges. The way the corners of his mouth quiver ever so slightly as he tries to suppress a smile. The sharp exhale through his nose that replaces how most people would gasp.

Ponyboy didn’t even know he knew Dally that well. He didn’t know he could read him so easily, notice the smallest changes in his face and deduce his feelings. Most of the time, Dally still feels like an enigma.

“This ain’t too shabby, kid.” He looks up at Ponyboy. “When’d you make it?”

“It took me a coupla days, but I started when Two stole your switch to open a meat packet.”

Dally tsks almost fondly, shaking his head. “‘Course you did.” Before Ponyboy can ask what he means, Dally lifts his gaze – piercing, ice blue – and fixes it onto him. “You mind if I keep it?”

“Yeah– I mean, sure. I don’t mind.”

He looks at Ponyboy strangely for a moment before reaching forward and ruffling his hair. “You’re an okay kid, Pony.”

The memory doesn’t last much longer. Pony’s mom calls them to dinner a couple moments later and Dally never mentions it again. Pony had mostly forgotten about it until he’d opened that bag and found it, folded into careful eighths.

Now, as he thinks back to that moment and all the ones that were around it, he can’t help but wonder why he thought that Dally hated him. Why he thought Dally only ever loved Johnny. He’d thought Dally was hardened too much to feel anything, but from someone else’s point of view, maybe Ponyboy’s like that right now.

Maybe wanting privacy and being alone sometimes can make someone think he doesn’t care.

Maybe life punishing him for caring in the past makes him try to suppress it, or express it in almost imperceptible acts of fondness.

Maybe his own absolute conviction that Dally was nothing more than a hood made him ignore the clear signs.

He thinks about Steve telling him not to walk home alone, and Tim making sure he has a blade whenever he goes out with Curly, and Angela off-handedly asking where he’s going. He thinks about Darry hugging him at the hospital and the two of them chasing Soda in the darkness and Two-Bit making jokes even when Dally’s covered by a white sheet.

Has he been really seeing people, or has he just been seeing what he wants to see?

Steve’s slumping in a chair, looking at his nametag and then letting his gaze roll around the room. Darry’s playing with a deflated football, a bitter smile on his lips. Soda has his fist closed tightly around something, eyes closed as he takes deep breaths. Two-Bit is alone on the couch, staring at a tiny pencil in his hand that’s been bitten almost down to the point.

Ponyboy makes eye contact with Steve, who jerks his head towards Two-Bit and the two of them go over to him, Steve sitting down next to him with a back too stiff to possibly be comfortable, and Pony standing on his other side, a hand on his shoulder.

“I can’t remember.” Two-Bit’s voice sounds genuinely broken, and Ponyboy is sent back to when he stumbled into the house after catching a ride with a stranger from the hospital. When Two-Bit said that even Dally had a breaking point. That years of hardening himself so he wouldn’t hurt had been for nothing when Johnny died and made him reach it.

Is Two-Bit at his?

“All o’ you, you’re there, with something, and you’re remembering. ‘Cause you bothered to make memories with him. Me, I was too busy getting drunk –” his voice breaks and it seems like he’s about to cry “– I was too busy getting drunk to remember anything from him.” He holds up the pencil. “This was mine. I know ‘cause I’m the only one that chews pencils, all y’all find it disgusting, and he kept it so it was important and he took it at some point and I can’t remember–”

Two-Bit fully breaks at that point, folding in on himself, grabbing onto the pencil with a death grip.

Steve looks at Ponyboy, completely at loss as to what to do, and for all Pony may be more “sensitive” or more in touch with his emotions, he doesn’t have any more ideas on how to comfort Two-Bit.

Maybe they’re not supposed to. Maybe they just have to leave him to cope and come to terms with himself. Maybe they have to let him hate himself like Ponyboy’s done on so many occasions.

Maybe it’s what they’re supposed to do, but it’s not what Ponyboy wants.

“I can.” Two-Bit looks up at him, eyes slightly glazed.“I remember it. You got me to skip a couple years ago, remember? We found Dally, and me and him smoked but you just chewed on your pencil. It was when he told us about… about Holly. I guess he musta taken it and we didn’t notice.”

Steve’s looking at him curiously, as if he knows he’s lying. Ponyboy just hopes that Two-Bit doesn’t notice.

“Yeah…” Two-Bit starts nodding slowly, “I think I remember that.”

Steve’s still staring at Ponyboy, looking like he’s trying to solve a particularly tricky puzzle. He sends him one final confused look before turning to Two-Bit.

“Look, Two…” Steve hesitates for a moment “you– you still got four friends. You ain’t alone. There’s a lotta opportunities to get more memories – not with- with them, that’s true, but with us – and we want you to remember ‘em. ‘Cause we’re not gonna be here one day, and all that’s gonna be left for you is what you can remember, and Pony here ain’t gonna be around to remember for ya.”

Steve looks like the effort of being sincere is damn near killing him, but he powers through, not noticing that Sodapop and Darry are looking at them and listening in.

“And we– we need you to remember. An’ not to be hungover every day. ‘Cause it’s hurtin’ you and it’s hurtin’ us. An’ maybe this ain’t the time to tell you, but it’s the time I’m usin’, and we can help you if you want it. If you don’t, too, we don’t care none.”

“He’s right,” Soda says, getting up and walking towards them, something clutched tightly in his hand. “You aren’t just hurting you, you’re taking us with ya. Which means that you don’t gotta get better all alone neither. We’ll help you and distract you and whatever you need to get over it.”

Darry doesn’t get up from the table where he’s sitting, but nods as he watches Two-Bit carefully.

A year ago, Darry wouldn’t’ve hesitated at getting up and hugging Two-Bit, or telling him that he’ll be by his side, helping him over his twisted addiction. He would’ve sat down next to him, wrapped an arm around him and told him everything would be alright. That they would work together, and he’d get over it and everything would be okay.

Only it isn’t a year ago, and if Darry does any of that, the whole gang’ll look at him like he’s insane.

Darry’s parents died on a Saturday. He’d had three hours of sleep because he was out with Two-Bit ‘till the early hours of the morning, and then Ponyboy had gone and literally started jumping on his bed to get him up at eight – partly to be a little shit, partly so they could play football.

Since then, Two-Bit has invited him out too many times for him to count, but Darry’s never been able to. He treasures his hours of sleep more than he does the box under his bed with his savings, and wasting them on partying seems unthinkable.

But it’s not just going out at night. Darry hasn’t had a real conversation with Two-Bit in nearly eight months and the realisation has glued him to his chair.

It isn’t Two-Bit’s fault that he didn’t have to grow up like Darry did, and it’s not even a bad thing, but that doesn’t mean Darry can’t or didn’t resent him for it, just a bit. He’s only a little over a year older than Two, but their lives have grown to be so different that it seems like an insurmountable gap.

And they were too close for Darry to fall into the fatherly role he’s fallen into with most of the gang, so over the weeks they grew apart, and now Darry hardly knows the boy that used to be his best friend.

And now, as he watches Two-Bit cry over a bitten pencil and swear he’ll do better, for them, Darry feels the distance like a knife in his chest, twisting with every comforting word his brothers can provide when he’s forgotten how to.

It feels ironic, then, when his hands come to rest on the table, and hit the stupid deflated football Dally left him that doesn’t just mark when he realised Dally was a real person with real feelings who cared about his friends, but also marks when he got his head on straight and started the most important friendship of his life.

He should’ve known. Soda’s pitying glances and Ponyboy always asking him to stay behind, the way Steve always glared at them, hell, even Two-Bit had warned him.

But he’d been delusional enough to believe they might see beyond how much money he had and genuinely like him as a friend. In the end, all it’d taken was graduating.

He’d like to pretend like it didn’t hurt.

Like he didn’t care that all his friends from high school were hanging out without him just a couple weeks after graduation and hadn’t bothered to invite him. Like he didn’t care that when he’d gone over to talk to them, they’d acted like they’d never been friends. Like he didn’t care that none of them seemed to care, none of them but Paul Holden, whose face flickered with a semblance of regret – or pity – for half a second before his expression hardened back into bored disinterest.

The pillow that’s currently taking a beating he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy begs to differ. He throws it against the door, which opens a couple moments later, showing an unimpressed Dally standing behind it. He just raises an eyebrow, asking a silent question.

“I’m fine,” Darry grumbles, fully aware of how childish he sounds as he walks forward to grab his pillow.

“You do get why I don’t believe you, right?”

Darry grabs the pillow and rolls his eyes. “Why bother asking, then?”

“Thought you might wanna talk to someone who won’t say ‘I told you so’.”

He looks at Dallas in mild interest. “What makes you think anyone else’ll say ‘I told you so’?”

“You had a picture of the football team on the wall, before, but now it’s ripped into pieces in the trash can in the kitchen. An’ you’re hacked off at somethin’ and the team’s you an’ a group of Socs. I ain’t stupid.”

Darry’s walking away from him, punching at the pillow. He doesn’t respond.

“You should prolly talk about it, man.”

Dally’s right, he probably should. But who’s he gonna talk to? The fifteen-year-old midget lecturing him when he’s known him for just over a couple months? His brothers, who’ll just say they knew it would happen? Two-Bit, who’ll probably just make it into a big joke? Steve, who Darry’s almost sure hates him? His mother will just look at him in pity and his father will give him a pat on the back and tell him not to let it bother him.

The only person Darry walks to talk about this with is Paul, and that just leads him back to the start.

He still doesn’t say a thing.

“Alright, maybe you don’t gotta talk about it. Don’t you want a better distraction than a shitty old pillow?”

“Like?”

Something hits him in the back and Darry whirls around. Dally stands smugly a couple steps further into his bedroom.

There’s a football at Darry’s feet.

“That was a pathetic throw. It’s not supposed to turn like that.”

“Teach me, then.”

They spend the rest of the day in the field nearby, Darry teaching Dally the basics of football. Everything from how to throw the ball (he seems to be messing up on purpose) to basic strategies his team used to use. As the day wears on and some of the other members of the gang start showing up, they join in, and when Mrs Curtis calls them in for dinner, they’re in the middle of one of their usual scrimmages.

Darry claps a hand on Dally’s shoulder as they walk into their house.

“Thanks.”

Dally looks up at him, a glint in his eye. “Nah, man, thanks for teaching me.”

The ball had landed on a nail, somehow, a couple weeks later, and they’d all chipped in for a new one. No one had wondered where the old one ended up, assuming it had been thrown out somewhere.

Darry had always wanted to find it somehow. He didn’t like that some nail had left him without the only physical reminder he had that Dallas Winston was a decent human being, and maybe even cared about him.

And it’d been just a couple days later that he’d started hanging out with Two-Bit more often.

Now that he had it back, though, he wasn’t entirely sure how he was supposed to feel.

Dally had thought that that moment was important enough to warrant keeping a reminder of it, a reminder of Darry.

A hand is placed on his shoulder. He looks up and finds Soda looking down at him, worry written across his face.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, Pepsi-cola, don’t worry about it.”

Darry’s smile is strained and forced but Soda doesn’t say anything about it.

He sits down next to Darry at the table, grip tightening around the pin in the palm of his hand. He doesn’t know who to thank for the fact that the gang had let him open the bag first, but if anyone else found it before him, he doesn’t know what he would’ve done.

He wonders what exactly the point of this whole experience is. Of looking at painful reminders of one of the people they lost not three days ago and remembering all they went through together only to wake up and realise he isn’t there. They won’t get anything, they won’t get to see him again, they’ll just get a painful ache in their chest.

The pin is simple enough that if someone doesn’t know exactly the right information, they wouldn’t think too much about the pink triangle on a black background.

The gang would know, though. Maybe not all of them, but at least one of them would, and they’d figure it out.

News stories flicker through Soda’s head – boys killed, beaten, kicked out of their homes.

He’s not even sure why he told Dally.

It’s at least partially because Dally got him drunk. He’s also not entirely sure what kind of cigarette he was given.

But for some reason, Soda finds himself sitting on Dally’s bed as the other boy rummages around the room. He’s blabbering and any sort of filter he’s had before has been completely erased.

“There’s just… something, y’know? Like, I like Sandy just fine, but it’s like Steve’s eyes glow, man. And have you seen him when someone has a car that’s real messed up? His nose scrunches up all cute-like. I like Sandy more, though, I think, Steve’s just my friend. You dig, right, Dally?”

“Sure, man.” Dally locks the door. “You’re staying here tonight, right? There ain’t no way I’m bringin’ you home like this.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright.” He throws himself backwards onto the bed and ends up in a starfish position. “Maybe I don’t like her more’n Steve, I dunno. It’s weird, ain’t it, how everyone thinks I gotta like Sandy more’n Steve? I don’t think I do, but I should. Why can’t I like Steve more?”

Sodapop wakes up the next day and doesn’t really remember much besides the fact that he told Dallas Winston he was a queer and the boy proceeded to sleep in the same bed as him without hesitation.

It takes him only a couple more seconds to realise this is the first person he’s told.

“Hey, Dal…”

Dally yawns as he opens his eyes. “Yeah?”

“You won’t tell anyone about what I told you last night, right?”

“I mean, you could use some help getting with Steve, but sure, I’ll keep quiet.” Dally’s wearing his crooked grin, the one he always has on when he’s just messed with some Socs.

“I ain’t jokin’, Dallas,” Sodapop says, his voice hard.

“I ain’t either,” Dally says defensively “I won’t tell anyone, so don’t go worryin’ your pretty little head about it.”

They stare off for a couple seconds before Soda relents. He grabs his jacket off the floor and walks out. Maybe he stalks, maybe he storms, maybe he strolls. He’s not entirely sure, but he’s not around long enough to find out.

The next day, Dally walks into the DX and slides the pin over to Soda.

“You got no idea how hard it was to find someone I could swipe this from.”

It takes him two seconds to recognise it and just one more to cover it with his hand and look around frantically.

“Dally,” he hisses, calming down a bit once he realises no one’s around.

“What? I made sure no one was in here.”

Soda just glares at him, but Dally seems undisturbed, slouching and drumming his fingers on the counter.

“What’s this even for, anyway? S’not like I wanna go around tellin’ people ‘bout it.”

“Aw, c’mon man, I swiped it an’ everythin’.”

“That’s not my fault. You know what’d happen if Pony found this? Darry? Steve? Sandy?”

“Fine, fine.” Dally takes the pin back. “You wanna be a coward, go ahead.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk.”

“You callin’ me a coward, Curtis?” Dally raises an eyebrow, and under any other circumstance, Sodapop would’ve made a comment about him turning out like Two-Bit.

“That’s what it sounds like, ain’t it? ‘Cause there’s only one kinda guy that’d sleep next to a queer an’ it sure ain’t a straight one.” The last bit comes out a bit whispered and Sodapop looks around the DX again, making sure no one’s there.

Nothing about Dally’s stance until now had made the conversation seem anything but casual. A lazy smile had rested on his lips, and he was slouching, relaxed, his hand resting idly on the counter. Now his face has hardened, eyes turned to shards of ice.

It’s an expression Soda has never seen directed at himself, only at Socs. Under normal circumstances, he’d be terrified.

“Shut your mouth.”

“Who’s the coward now? You think I ain’t seen how little you care about Sylvia? You think I ain’t seen how you look at Johnny? Don’t you go tellin’ me how to live my life when you’re just as much a coward as me.”

“The difference is I don’t deserve anythin’ better’n a dirty broad that two-times me every time the fuzz picks me up, and Johnny don’t deserve anythin’ less’n the‘ntire world, which I ain’t exactly in the position to give ‘im, as you mighta noticed. You’n Steve, on the other hand, ‘re just about made for each other. So don’t you go actin’ like we’re the same ‘cause you know damn well we ain’t.”

Soda hasn’t had enough time to process half of what Dally’s just said before he storms out of the DX, pin in hand.

Later that night, at dinner, when Mrs Curtis notices the hole in Dally’s palm, he says he accidentally pushed himself up on a nail.

Soda doesn’t know why Dally chose something that reminded him of the only fight they ever had. They never acknowledged it afterwards.

But then, when he thinks about all the other times he interacted with Dally – and with everyone else in the gang, he realises – he can’t think of a single one where he was completely honest. He hasn’t ever told Pony that his constant singing annoys him or asked Darry to cook the meat just a little bit more because it gives him a stomach ache when it’s so undone.

And part of that is just because he doesn’t like to make people upset, so if he can swallow his emotions and just pretend to be happy, he’ll do it every time.

But he also hasn’t told Steve he loves him or told Pony that his drawings are spectacular or told Darry that he admires him because he could never do everything he does or told Two-Bit that his way of seeing life probably got him past the hardest week of his life. And he didn’t tell Johnny that he was such a fucking warrior for putting up with everything life had thrown at him, that he was an absolute angel for everything he’d done for Ponyboy. He never hugged Johnny goodbye.

He never told Dally that he cared about him and didn’t resent him for the pin. He never apologised for what he said. He never told him that he deserved Johnny and Johnny deserved him and they should give it a shot.

He always put on a mask, however light, to make himself simpler. More palatable.

Except for then.

When his secret was threatened, when he realised he wasn’t alone, his mask had broken and he said exactly what he thought. Had Dally managed to notice that? Had he known when Sodapop was lying, pretending like he was okay when there was a gaping hole in his chest?

Or did he just run on anger, on violence, and enjoy the memory of Sodapop being angry more than any of the memories of him being happy?

It doesn’t matter, Soda realises as the rest of the gang – five is such a small number – sits down around the table, each of them with their object in their hands. Because Dally isn’t around anymore, and they can drive themselves crazy trying to figure out what he meant or why he did things, but they’ll never really know.

And Soda doesn’t know if it even matters, if they somehow manage to find out.

Because even if Dally kept it because he liked seeing Soda riled up, or because he just liked the pin, or because he got it from a boyfriend or hookup, it made Soda realise that he’d only ever been true once in his life. It made him realise he’d been going through his life as a lie, and that if he didn’t want to have a thousand words unsaid, a thousand loves unrealised, a thousand regrets on his deathbed, something had to change.

The point wasn’t to go through the pain of remembering. The point was to think about Dally and about what he thought. About what he would have wanted.

Not necessarily to do it exactly, but to think about it. To let him impact their lives for just a little longer.

Let him live for just one more minute.