#this is the most consistent I've ever been

[pearlessance]

Lust Among Thieves [part two]

[part one]

Summary: Fifteen years after escaping your captors, leaving them and the cabin in the woods behind, you end up in a community named Jackson and find yourself repeating the same old habits. Warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, angst galore, mild infidelity (Tommy is with Maria but he and reader share one [1] kiss), canon typical violence, mention of kidnapping, mention of blood, angssssttt but with a happy ending. NOTE: this is a cowrite i've done with my BFF joelmillersgirlfriend!! make sure to go and read her other stuff on A03! thank you guys so much for all the positive feedback on this one, I'm glad you guys are liking it! let us know what you think about the ending <3 [MASTERLIST]

The sun is so warm that it’s beginning to melt the snow, turning it from soft and fluffy to a wet sort of slush. A comforting relief, because the winter holds memories you’re better off leaving behind. Memories of scowls and whittling knives, of the taste of whiskey and lighthearted laughter.

After fifteen years, you thought you’d grow out of the feeling, that you’d grieve the loss and go on instead to appreciate the recovery of your autonomy. But every winter, without fail, you remember your time in that cabin. You remember them. 

You’d never grown out of the feeling and you’d never grown into the now tattered canvas coat. If you closed your eyes and imagined the burn of the winter snow grazing your skin, you could remember how Joel smelled. You could remember how Tommy’s lips tasted.

But years had passed. The memory was now a faint one and one that you tried not to dwell on for too long. You have met a lot of people over the years and had dangerous encounters daily. Why was this one different?

Joel and Tommy had turned you into a new person within the four walls of that cabin. You weren’t the same afterward, now you were sculpted into a being with a sharp tongue and a toughed exterior yet… the core of you was soft. If you dug deep enough, the creature that Joel and Tommy had created was still inside of you, tender and vulnerable. 

For a while, you considered what you would do if you ever encountered them again. You were so far away from the outskirts of the Boston QZ, the death of your father and the weight of the situation turning into a calloused scar instead of a leaking wound over time. Over the past fifteen years, you had made your way across the country, searching for something. Whatever that something was, you weren’t sure of yet.

If you saw the brothers, would you be angry? Would they? They were heavy on your mind that morning as you made your way through the abandoned, ice-covered streets of Jackson Hole Wyoming.

You had left a compound back in Nebraska weeks ago. The people there weren’t bad, but it felt like another washed-down version of living under FEDRA. Constant patrolling, ridiculous rules. It was no surprise that you felt trapped because you had always felt trapped. It was only a matter of time before you ran away. It was the only thing that you were good at. 

You jumped from house to house in Wyoming, occasionally spending a couple of days if you were tired of the constant headache of moving every day. Most of your days consisted of you laying on an old, lifeless mattress, staring up at the ceiling and asking yourself ‘What if I never left?’ Would you have more of a purpose now? Would you not be alone?

You practiced your regular routine of bouncing through dilapidated houses, grabbing what supplies were still left, which was practically nothing. For an area where you had encountered absolutely no one, the houses were surprisingly scarce. 

It was getting late in the evening, and you had picked a house to settle down in for the night. The house had a rough exterior, similar to yours, but the inside was surprisingly still in good condition. You crept through the house, picking through each drawer and cabinet to once again, find nothing.

Truly, the master bedroom should have been an indicator to leave, but you were always a sucker for taking things that did not belong to you.

Just when you were about to call searching the house quits and crack open a book from your bag, you noticed a shifted floorboard in the bedroom. You hummed to yourself in curiosity, reaching down to investigate the suspicious piece of wood. It came out of the floor easily, revealing the contents buried inside. 

Ammo, water, packaged food, medicine. 

But most importantly, a bottle of Jack. Jesus, how long had it been since you had seen one of these? You laughed to yourself when you pulled it out of its hiding spot, half empty but still the perfect amount for a lone wanderer. 

You grabbed your pack, slipping all of the things you had found into it before you heard the voices. 

Fuck.

Moving swiftly, you grabbed everything you could before glancing around the bedroom. Footsteps and conversations were coming up the stairs, and you couldn’t believe how stupid you were for not checking the perimeter of the neighborhood before poking through the houses. 

“Jesse, go get the stuff from the master. Maria is gonna be pissed that we weren’t able to find more. Might as well bring back what we can,” you vaguely heard a gruff voice say. 

Into the closet you went, quietly tiptoeing across the room. Your hands were shaking as you grasped the straps of your bag, praying that luck would be on your side, just this once. 

The second you faded into the darkness of the shadows in the closet, a man stepped into the bedroom. You could see him through the panels of the closet door, especially if you squinted in just the right way.

He appeared young, with long dark hair that fell into his eyes when he glanced around the room. You held your breath when his sharp, determined eyes shifted to look over at the closet momentarily. It didn’t last long, which you were grateful for. You could feel your pulse ticking in your neck as he moved away to check the floorboards, knowing that he wasn’t going to be pleased with what he found. 

He was turned away from you so you couldn’t physically gauge his reaction, but his voice told you all you needed to know.

“Uh, we have a problem here. Stuff’s gone!” he shouted, standing back up quickly to unholster his gun. He glanced around the room once more, waiting for his partner to shout something back.

The voice was distant when it spoke, most likely still downstairs, waiting. “What do you mean, gone?”

The man who was only a few meters from you sighed, shaking his head. “I mean, it’s gone, someone must’ve taken it!”

You could hear heavy footsteps, every movement clearly laced with annoyance as he climbed the stairs. And then they stop a short distance away, and you hear the familiar click of his gun. 

In the holster strapped around your thigh sits your pistol. You have only two bullets—enough to kill a clicker in a pinch, but not enough to fend off two grown men who are also armed. You tighten your fingers around the handle of the old knife, leather now cracked with age, formed perfectly to the hills and valleys of your fingers.

Heart hammering, you know and accept the fact that you’re going to have to take your chances and run. You could already see the shadow of the man entering the room, grumbling at having to come up the stairs. His back was to the closet, approaching his partner.

“It was here two days ago,” he began before quickly stopping. His hand reached out, gesturing towards the ground. Your eyes squinted, following the gesture down until you saw what he found. Wet footprints.

You lunged out of the closet before anyone could even move, and latched onto the man's back like a starfish. You looked at the first man, Jesse, before pressing your knife against the second man's throat.

“Just let me leave. Let me leave and I won’t kill him,” you said coldly, the tip of the blade pushing into your prisoner. 

Jesse’s eyes widened, his hands spread in an attempt to calm you. “Hey, wait a second. We’re not looking for a fight. It doesn’t have to be like this,” he spoke, loosely holding his gun in his hand. You glanced at it with hesitation, which was enough time for your prisoner to grab your wrist and whip you around.

He was much larger than you, probably almost three times your size. There was no way in hell you would’ve been able to keep him restrained for long.

You whimpered in pain at the feeling of your wrist being twisted, the knife dropping out of your hand and clattering to the ground below.

“Stupid girl,” the man said, turning slowly to face you. There’s something about the way the words sound in his mouth that twists up your insides, a timbre that makes your hands tremble and shake. “Shouldn’t make threats when you’re outnum—” He stops. 

And your heart does, too. “Joel?”

He doesn’t say anything. Just narrows his eyes and clenches his teeth, jaw feathering. His hair has gone a little gray and there are defined wrinkles around his mouth and a scar across his nose that didn’t exist the last time you’d seen him, but you’re sure of it. As sure as you are of the ground beneath your feet, you’re sure that a ghost stands before you. 

His eyes soften as the realization hits. You know you’ve aged, too—though perhaps not as drastically.

Jesse is the one who speaks. “Do you know each other or something?”

“Yes,” Joel says, in perfect time as you answer, “No.”

“O…kay.” Jesse shifts uncomfortably on his feet before he closes the space between himself and the place you and Joel stand in what seems to be an eternal face-off. He plucks your knife up from the ground and hands it to you, hilt first. “Here. We don’t want any trouble.”

The shine of the blade catches Joel’s eye, and he scoffs as he processes what he sees. He takes the knife from Jesse’s hand before you get a chance to do so. He raises it in front of his face, no doubt inspecting the two letters etched into the metal.

“T.M? Tommy?” Jesse’s brows furrow as he turns his attention to you. “Is this Tommy’s knife?”

Neither of you answer him. Your tongue is stuck to the roof of your mouth and sweat beads your hairline. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears and every cell in your body urges you to run as far and as fast as you can. 

“Joel,” Jesse says, voice a little more firm. 

“Just let me go,” you plead, staring Joel in the eye, trying to hide your fear. Not of him, but of the feeling that rises in you upon seeing him. The yearning, the desire, the familiarity. You’d convinced yourself it’d be gone by now, eviscerated. But feeling the warmth of his skin, smelling the pine scent of him—it all comes flooding back with a vengeance. “Please. Just give me the knife and I’ll walk away and we can pretend—”

“She’s coming back with us,” he tells Jesse. “Feed her. Get her some new clothes. If she wants to stay, there’s that empty house over by the cemetery. Fixed it up last week.”

“Stay? Where?”

“A town,” Jesse answers. He smiles at you and it’s warm and inviting, something you haven’t seen in some time. “A community.”

Your stomach growls at the thought of a decent meal, but your fear has you shaking your head. “No, I can’t. I’m—”

“You what?” Joel’s voice cuts through you. “Don’t got anywhere else to go. God knows how long it’s been since you last ate.”

You want to protest, to argue with him, to prove him wrong. But you can’t, because he’s right, and that fact enrages you more than anything else. 

Still, you agree. One night, you tell yourself. A good meal and a good night’s sleep and then you’d leave, never to be seen again.

Jesse helped you onto the back of his horse, leading the way back to the settlement while Joel followed. Every time you glanced back, unable to prevent yourself from looking at Joel, you saw his icy gaze watching your own. You swallowed nervously, pulling back into Jesse. You wondered what Joel was thinking. If he remember everything, if it meant anything to him.

Jackson was huge. There was food and people and walls. It wasn’t like the QZ. People lived like a family, working together for the better of humanity. It brought tears to your eyes to see. 

You felt overwhelmed as you trailed through the streets of Jackson, still mounted upon Jesse’s horse. Random strangers on the street greeted Joel as he led the way like he was some sort of beloved member of the community. All you could do was force a smile and nod during the random greetings, wondering if they knew who Joel really was.

“That jacket looks real familiar,” Joel spoke, gesturing at the worn coat swallowing your shoulders. It was large and had outlived its life, but you couldn’t let it go. It had been with you during some of the coldest winters, keeping you warm. 

“Looks a lot like the one my daddy gave me before he passed. I went crazy, thinkin’ I misplaced it. All this time, it was just you stealin’ shit that don’t belong to you,” Joel scoffed, but without malice. You stuttered, closing it around your body to cover your chest, a habit stemming from pure nerves.

It had been your jacket for years, your only source of comfort during cruel winters. It belonged to you just as much as it belonged to him. You were the one who had taken care of it all of the time.

Joel chuckled at your reaction, grinning down at you. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna ask for it back. I’m happy that you’ve gotten some use outta it.”

It was bewildering, how one sentence he spoke could come across filled with resentment, with ire, and the next be filled with something that felt sort of like relief.

But even back then, even fifteen years ago, you’d never been able to quite understand him. And though his anger was a kindred spirit to yours, Joel was so confusing. 

Once in the stables, Jesse helps you dismount. Before you even swing your leg over the horse, Joel’s handing his reins off to the stable hand and rounding the corner, disappearing from sight. 

Jesse sees your attention follow him, no doubt reading the expression of confusion on your face. “Don’t worry about him,” he says. “Joel can be a bit of an ass sometimes.”

You think that might be the understatement of the decade, but you keep that to yourself. 

“C’mon. Let’s go meet Maria to see where we should place you for housing and then I’ll let you get settled in.”

As Jesse leads you through the streets of Jackson, you can’t help but feel a bit of shock at the way things operate here. There are so many people you can’t keep their faces straight. Children of all ages, people your age, and elders. A rare occurrence these days.

There’s electricity powering lights strewn between the buildings. A carpenter and a grocer and a bar. It feels like something out of a dream.

Jesse leads you into what looks like a cafeteria. There are a handful of tables with hundreds of mismatched chairs around them, and a low chatter that greets you the moment you step through the doors. 

You notice him in a second.

Tommy’s laughing. His hair has grown out long enough that he can tuck the dark blonde strands behind his ear now, curling just slightly at the ends. 

He’s got a couple more freckles and wrinkles around his soft eyes. And seeing Joel was jarring, but it’s Tommy and his boisterous laughter and that wide grin on his face that makes your chest crack wide open. 

You love him, and you’ve always known it. You love them both, but it’s the loss of Tommy’s warmth you’ve felt the deepest since escaping from that cabin. It’s taken you a long time to accept it, but you have—and seeing him brought back a burning feeling that you thought was long gone.

Tommy notices Jesse, waving at him wildly, looking past you as if you were transparent. He didn’t recognize you yet, which wasn’t surprising. You were standing a handful of meters away, and from what it appeared, you seemed to be a ghost from a past life. One that he never anticipated seeing again, with how settled down he appeared to be now.

“Jesse! You have to hear this shit, man! Get over here,” Tommy gestured, a shit-eating smile still filling his face. You noticed the way Jesse looked at you first, evaluating your reaction, which was little to none. You’d grown good at hiding your emotions over the years, a calloused exterior being your own personal form of protection. A shell.

Your brain felt like it was pounding against the walls of your skull when you followed Jesse over to Tommy’s table. You kept your eyes glued down at your feet and prayed, that maybe, he wouldn’t notice you. But, of course…

“Hey, Tommy. I think I found an old friend of yours,” Jesse starts off with, the bastard. Tommy’s soft eyes move over to you, staring blankly for a couple of beats. The noise from the cafeteria droned out as you looked into his eyes, locked on those deep irises that you had dreamt about for years.

The sound of Tommy’s metal chair scraping against the floor pulled you out of your haze. His arms wrapped around you, engulfing your frame - swallowing you in his own body. He was so warm and firm. You hadn’t touched another person for so long, not like this. 

But you still were so uncertain. Your hands wavered, shaking nervously as you considered hugging him back. Things were so complicated, incredibly taboo, and filthy. You shouldn’t want to hug him back. You opt on loosely hugging his waist, too nervous to match the pressure of his embrace.

He pulls back, his large palms coming up to cradle the sides of your face. It reminded you of that night all those years ago when you first kissed him. You could still taste the bottle of Jack on his lips, warm and heavy against your tongue.

Tommy was contemplating kissing you, you had seen the look before. It was all too familiar.

His eyes were heavy, but the look left almost as quickly as it had appeared. He awkwardly shifted back, pulling out of your incredibly loose embrace. Jesus, Tommy was just as conflicted with you. His remorse for what had happened was clear on his face, those heavy puppy dog eyes searching your face desperately, praying that you would forgive him. Forgive Joel.

It was all too much - your head was spinning and your tongue was stuck to the roof of your mouth. Tommy glanced over at the table he had jumped up from, directly at a woman who was sitting next to his seat. Her freckled face was etched with a frown, one that was full of confusion about the situation.

“Christ, you’re alive?” Tommy whispered, wavering away from you. His disbelief wasn’t one that you had expected, nor had Jesse. The young man was still standing beside you, watching the events unfold with wide eyes. 

“I’m not really hungry, Jesse,” you turned and said, needing to get out of there immediately. Something was unraveling deep inside, what that something was, you didn’t know. Your palms felt slick with sweat, your legs unintentionally pulling you back, protecting you from the conversation.

“Please,” Tommy begged, “Let’s talk. Settle in, get used to everything, but don’t leave town without comin’ to talk. And for the love of God, eat .”

You nodded, backing away from Tommy like a scared puppy. The sound of your heart beating filled your brain as you turned and walked away, Jesse hot on your heels. You heard Tommy’s voice speak, “Maria, come on, we gotta go over some things.”

The air is cool against your heated skin, and you greedily swallow the icy air. You press your palm against your sternum, trying to will your heart to slow and your blood to settle in your veins.

“Hey,” Jesse says, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder that makes you jump out of your skin.

When you turn to face him, you don’t even remember unsheathing your knife from the holster strapped to your belt. He has his hands held up in surrender, that friendly smile on his face, and guilt begins to trickle down your spine.

“Alright, alright,” he says. “I’m sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

You lower the knife quickly, returning it to its rightful place at your hips. “No, it’s fine. I’m sorry, too. Uhm…instinct, I guess.”

“I get it,” he says, and for some reason, you believe him. There’s such understanding in his voice that it’s hard not to. “Jackson is a lot to adjust to. Doesn’t happen overnight.”

You nod slowly in response. 

“There’s an empty house over by the cemetery. I can show you, and you can rest or look around or…you know, do whatever you need to. There’s hot water, you can shower, and some staples in the pantry if you feel like cooking. I can run to the community hall and get you some new clothes and drop them off if you want some space.”

The words sound foreign in your ears as if he’s speaking a different language. Cooking, showering, hot water …the thought crosses your mind that you’ve somehow died and this is all some kind of strange hallucination. 

But a moment along sounds like bliss, and a shower sounds like heaven, so you find yourself nodding and following him through the streets of Jackson. Jesse tries to make small talk, but you’re not in much of a talking mood and he seems to pick up on it and doesn’t press for much more information.

He tells you there are towels in the linen closet in the hall upstairs and promises to return in less than ten minutes with a basket of clean clothes. “I’ll set them just inside the door,” he said. ”Take what you want. If there’s anything that doesn’t fit, I’ll bring it back to the hall later.”

The house is nice, bigger than any of the places you’ve ever holed up in for a few days, and more secure, too. Upstairs there’s a massive bathroom and before you do anything else, you turn the handle to the hottest setting. The water spits and spudders and is freezing at first, but the second it begins to warm you’re stripping off your clothes and stepping beneath the stream.

And you’re not quite sure why, but the sensation of it brings moisture to your eyes, salty tears mixing with the warm spray from the showerhead. The water that pools at your feet is dark and grimy, ridding you of the dirt that clings to your skin. 

You scrub your skin raw and still don’t feel clean enough. But when the water runs cold, you leave wet footprints on the wood flooring of the stairs and find that Jesse stayed true to his word. 

Just inside the front door is a laundry basket full of clothes; denim and fleece, cotton t-shirts and undergarments, socks, and even a half-decent bra. You settle on jeans and a hoodie that’s just a little too big, but still hold tight to the old coat you’d stolen.

He also left a plate of food, which you assumed was from the cafeteria. Even though you didn’t think you could’ve eaten earlier, not after seeing Tommy, you were suddenly famished. The food was gone in under a minute. You couldn’t even remember the last time you had something fresh, rice, green beans, onions. It was life-altering.

There’s a big bed in the center of one of the bedrooms upstairs, and you tell yourself you’ll rest just for a few seconds. A few minutes. But the moment your head hits the pillow, you know it isn’t true and you don’t have the energy to convince yourself otherwise. 

When you finally wake, the room is dark, and the rays from the rising moon are silhouetting the bedroom in a blue haze. You sigh, relaxing into the bed sheets. It was crazy to reflect on your current circumstances. Just a day ago, you were starving, sleeping on an old rotted mattress with a gun held tightly in your hand. Now, you could hear the laughter and shouts of children from the street outside your window.

You rubbed the sleep out of your eyes as you stood up, deciding to leave the house and explore. It would be beneficial to know where everything is, you think. If for nothing else than to know the best escape routes, to become familiar with the routine of the watchers on the walls.

You brush your teeth before heading out, the night air rushing against your face when you step onto the front porch. Even though it’s late in the evening, the streets are still filled with people; families walking back home together, couples holding hands. It almost feels unreal.

Walking past the cemetery, you notice some people crouched at the gravestones, crying. Even when you were somewhere safe, you could never escape the horrors of loss.

It felt like you were floating through the streets of Jackson, an outsider peering in. The closer you got to the center of town, the more people you stumbled upon. Icicle lights were strung across the powerlines and street before you, random strangers greeting you in passing. 

You finally grew tired of the attention, the stares, the forced conversations. You ended up pulling up the hood of your jacket over your head, shielding yourself from gazing eyes. 

A small church was planted near the center of town, and the doors cracked, allowing you to glance in. Though it wasn’t entirely full, many people filled the pews and watched the priest give his sermon. You could pick up a few words from where you were standing, but you didn’t really care to hear. You gave up on a religion a long time ago. 

A couple of meters away was an open space that had a bonfire square in the middle, with a handful of picnic tables spread across the space. The hum of the people talking drew you in, despite not knowing anyone, or so you thought.

“Settlin’ in good?” you heard from behind you, the voice making you jump in surprise. You turned back to see Joel, his dark eyes watching you from a couple of feet away. Those dark eyes still made your palm sweat and your cheeks burn bright. He had always held something in him that made you docile. 

You cleared your throat, subconsciously pulling at the strings of your hoodie. “It’s surreal here. Not like the QZ.”

Joel huffs, nodding in agreement. “Thank God it ain’t.“

There is an awkward pause where you stand shyly in front of Joel, uncertain of what to say next. Making small talk with him was never your forte, because typically he never even wanted to speak with you. Now, here he is, actively trying to pull a conversation out of you. He had changed. 

“You’re not like how I remember,” you say, your lips moving quicker than your brain was able to think. Joel stiffened, rubbing the scruff of his beard.

“Yeah? And how do you remember me?”

It’s a test, one to see how you would describe your relationship with both him and Tommy. A mutual romantic bond? Or something much more sinister, much more taboo? You don’t fall for the trap because you aren’t even sure how you want to interpret everything. Not entirely.

“Quieter. Less gray hairs too,” you said, not expecting the warm sound of Joel’s laughter to hit your ears. He smiled down at you, the grin boyish and full of hidden memories. It made you ache for something you never even had. 

“It’s been a long time. When you left…” Joel trailed off, his expression morphing into a dark cloud. You knew that leaving would hurt both of the brothers, and it felt shameful to admit that sometimes you regretted your escape. Yes, you were free, but what difference did it make? You had lost companionship. Love?

“We both hated to see you leave, but we understood.” Joel was no longer looking you in the eye but was instead staring down at his feet. “What happened there? It wasn’t right, the things we did with you. I can be the first to admit. It was the actions of two desperate, lonely men. But I’m not here to make excuses.”

His eyes moved back to look at your face, to gauge your reaction. 

“I’m sorry. Tommy sure as hell is, he beat himself to death over all of it. You don’t have to forgive me or forgive either of us. But, please, just hear him out. He wants you to come over to dinner tomorrow so you can meet everyone. Then maybe we could all talk?”

You stepped back, crossing your arms and shaking your head. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you tried to explain. The idea of being trapped in a house with people you didn’t know didn’t exactly sound appealing. Joel had apologized for both him and Tommy, truthfully, there wasn’t much of a point to even go now. What more was there to talk about?

“Joel!” shouted a voice from where the bonfire was taking place. Both you and Joel turned to watch a young girl run over to where you were standing. When she arrives you’re able to get a good look at her - pretty blue eyes and a smattering of freckles across her nose that reminds you of the constellations.

For a moment you considered that maybe he had a kid. She looked no older than sixteen - it could be possible. But she didn’t look like Joel, much too soft in the cheeks. Joel had strong features while this girl was the epitome of a cherub, her rounded lips turned up into a smile as she grinned at you.

“Joel. Is it alright if I spend the night at Cat’s? I don’t have garden duty until the afternoon so I’d have plenty of time to get back,” she explained. Well, if she wasn’t Joel’s daughter then she was certainly Joel’s something. The sick thought crossed your mind that maybe something was wrong here, but the moment Joel reached over to tousle her hair, you knew that you were wrong.

“Of course not, El. Be back by dinner tomorrow,” he said, shooting her away, back towards the crowd at the fire. She gave you a farewell wave, one that you returned, as she ran off to find her friend.

Your face was warm when you thought about how you had considered that Joel might’ve been in a relationship with her. Joel noticed your embarrassment, watched the way you huffed into your palm, and shook your head.

“What?” Joel questioned, the distant fire casting a fire over his face. It reminded you of the cabin, of the fireplace. Of his warmth.

“You kidnap her too?”

The small grin that he had on his face disappeared in an instant, replaced with rage and disappointment.

“Of course not,” Joel sputtered, scoffing at the accusation. “I would’ve never- I mean, she is just a child,” he hissed.

“And I wasn’t?” you whispered back just as angrily, pulling your hood off of your head. You wanted him to look at you, to see you. 

“I told you, I’m sorry. I’ve had fifteen years to reflect and I can admit that I was,” Joel pauses before snarling, “a goddamn monster back then. But, Ellie, she’s like a daughter to me. She gave me a purpose. With her, things were different,” he sighed, shaking his head in frustration. 

Tears were burning the back of your eyes, but you forced yourself to keep it together. You weren’t going to show Joel that he had hurt you. That you had missed him. 

“And why wasn’t it different with me?” you questioned, a genuine curiosity behind the words. 

Joel only stood, looking down at you with his lips pressed into a frown. This girl, Ellie, had broken Joel, but you hadn’t. What was so special about her that she was able to receive his empathy?

The answer to that question was easy. You knew that deep down, it was never about you. It was about Sarah. 

You hated that you weren’t able to watch him grow and change, to help him change. He never gave you the chance. 

“I’m going to go,” you said, turning to leave both Joel and the conversation behind. Before you could walk off the sidewalk, you felt a familiar hand wrapped around your arm. A heat rose in your chest and settled in between your thighs just by being touched by Joel. 

His dark eyes softened as he took you in, his gaze tracing the lines of your face, your body, your palms. His large hands dwarfed yours when he pulled you towards him, wrapping you in a hug. It was different from Tommy’s, one that was full of surprise and longing.

Joel’s was tender and soft, his large palms moving in small, gentle circles as if he was afraid he’d break you. 

“Is this okay?” Joel questioned, one that took you by surprise. He had changed, that’s for sure. You nodded, melting into his touch, practically cemented between the pressure of his arms. It had been so long since you had been touched, focused purely on survival. It felt good, to feel wanted.

“When you left we searched for you,” he spoke into your hair. “With the raiders and all, we thought that maybe more had come and taken you. Took us a little while to realize that wasn’t the case. We understood why you left, why you felt like you had to leave, but… fuck .”

He had pulled back now, unable to meet your eyes. “I didn’t realize how badly I wanted to be by your side until it was too late. I fucked up. We both did. But it was me who treated you badly, who excused it. So, I’m sorry.”

It was Joel’s third and final apology of the night. You had decided that you did forgive him, for all of it. There was no point in wallowing in anger forever. You had to let it go.

“I know,” you whispered, reaching to hold his palm in your hand. He wasn’t a bad man. He had never been, and it hits you only now that maybe you’ve always known from the very first moment that he’s not bad …he’s just like you. 

Quick to anger, quicker to self-preservation. Neither of you has ever seen the best in others before the bad, your psyche molded always to expect the worst, tragedy burned in like a bad memory.

“I know,” you say again. “And I forgive you.”

His shoulders deflate as if setting down something so heavy he’d become accustomed to the weight of it after all these years. He gives you this smile, but it’s sort of sad and the sight of it quietly breaks your heart. 

But Joel regains his composure quickly, casting his eyes away from you and clearing emotion from his throat. Your hand still sits in his, a firm, warm hold on you, full of surety, devoid of hesitation. You try not to think about how much it feels like home. 

“So, would you think about dinner then?”

You don’t know these people. You know Joel and Tommy but everyone else remains a mystery, and though nothing about Jackson raises any immediate red flags, there’s still a nagging warning that rings in the back of your mind. Don’t get close. This is only temporary. You don’t belong here. Yet still, you find yourself nodding, pleased with the look of further satisfaction that finds its way onto Joel’s face. “Okay. Dinner.”

When he releases your hand, it feels like a loss all over again. You swallow it down, bury it deep, pretend it’s not there like you’ve always done. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, then,” he says. “I’m going to try and get some sleep. Been a long day.”

You nod and force the words out of your mouth even though all you want is to beg him to stay, to wrap his big hand back around yours and pull you into his side. “Goodnight, Joel.”

Even though it makes you feel a little pathetic, you watch him walk away. But he’s turning back to face you, slowly walking backward as he quickly says, “You’re free to take any leftovers, by the way. No, uh…no thievery needed.”

It makes you laugh, the joy of the tender moment seeping deep between your bones. “Good to know,” you say. “I’ll keep it in mind, but don’t be surprised if I pocket a silver spoon or two.”

You hardly sleep the entire night. All you can think about it the weight of his calloused palm, of the timbre of his voice as he told you they looked for you.

No one’s ever looked for you before.

Just before sunrise, you allow yourself a moment to regret running. It’s the first time in all your life that you think maybe flight was the wrong response. 

Tommy knocks on your door early. He’s got on a pair of Levi’s and a black and red flannel, and there’s a long-barrel rifle slung over his shoulder with a scope attached to it. “Morning, sweetheart,” he says. The familiar sobriquet sends a warmth slithering down your spine. “Thought we could go out today. Just the two of us. That sound okay?”

Before you have the chance to think better of it, you're stepping outside and closing the door behind you. Tommy chuckles softly at your lack of hesitation and throws an affectionate arm around your shoulders. You can’t resist leaning into him, can’t think of another place you’ve ever felt safer. 

But then you think of that day so long ago, with Joel wrapped around you, his strong arms encircling your waist, and you think tucked into Tommy’s side might be the second safest place in the world.

The streets of Jackson are relatively empty compared to yesterday. The sun is up, casting orange shadows over the puddles of melting snow, and the lack of prying eyes makes you curious. “Where is everyone?”

“It’s Sunday,” he says simply. “For one day of the week, no one’s got any jobs to do.” 

Truthfully, the concept of a weekday or a weekend has been foreign to you for so long you’d nearly forgotten its existence. “Oh,” is all you can rebuttal. And then a few moments later, “Where are we going?”

“Hunting trip,” Tommy explains. “Just like old times. Joel says you still got my skinnin’ knife.”

The words hold some accusation, making you flush, but there’s a proud smile on his face and you know he’s not angry for your stealing. You can feel the weight of it at your hip, and pull it from the sheath attached to your leather belt. Slowly, you turn it in your hand, polished silver glinting. 

“Figured you’d taken it when I couldn’t find it. Looked everywhere for that thing. Looked everywhere for you, too. But…I just hoped it kept you safe. Wherever you were, I kinda liked the thought of, ya know…just being able to protect you somehow. I’m glad you had it.”

His confession cracks your chest wide open and leaves you bleeding. You think of all the times his knife had done just that; protected you, fed you, saved you.

“S’alright,” he says. “Go on an’ keep it. S’yours now, sweetheart.” 

You slide the blade back into its home on your hip and follow Tommy as he feeds and speaks softly to an all-black horse in the stables. He saddles it quickly and with precision before pulling you up onto the horse behind him.

Instinctually, you wrap your arms tight around his waist and rest your cheek against his spine, inhaling the familiar but long-forgotten scent of him. The watchers on the walls let the two of you pass with only a nod to Tommy, and you ride slowly through the wet grass until you come to a clearing in the woods.

There’s a tree blind, hidden at the edge of the brush. Tommy ties the horse’s reins to the post and he lets you climb up the ladder first. 

Once you’re both safely inside, the horse grazing on the grass below, Tommy sits the end of his rifle on the edge of the window before settling into one of the rickety wooden chairs that have been hauled into the blind. 

You take the one beside him. Even though you know a big part of hunting is the silence, a million questions press against the back of your teeth. After a few minutes pass by, you can take the pressure no longer and ask, “Who’s Maria?”

A smile climbs onto his face. Unsure of what to expect, it surprises you as he answers simply, saying, “My wife.”

“ Wife ?” It raises a plethora of new questions. How long have they known each other? Did Tommy ever tell Maria about their time in the cabin? Did the two of them build Jackson together? Why does his answer sting?

He seems to sense the confusion and reaches across the open space to squeeze your hand in his. “After you left. Jesus, I think both Joel and I had a moment of realization. I missed you like hell, the feelin’ of you, the warmth. To think that you had gone back out there, with raiders and God knows what else, because of me and Joel? Christ.”

Tommy sighs, pausing before staring out into the wooded distance. You could see how much he had on his mind, an unbearable weight that he had been holding for years. It was wearing him down, weakening his bones. 

“I know Joel talked to you, but I really can’t explain to you how sorry I am,” Tommy began. You glanced down at his palm which was still holding your own, large and heavy against your skin. 

“There’s no excusin’ it. You were so young, and innocent. Something that we hadn’t been around for so long. We had seen horrible things, had done awful things. We took advantage of you. I took advantage of you.” He turned to look at you, a deep sincerity held in his eyes. “Please, forgive me. I don't know how I’d be able to keep livin’ with myself if you don’t.”

There wasn’t anything to forgive. You had wanted everything that happened, at the end of the day. You had missed both him and Joel. 

“I’ll forgive you if you forgive me for stealing from you,” you said in an attempt to break the ice. You knew it worked from the way Tommy’s face broke out into a toothy grin. 

“You’re forgiven.”

Tommy explained to you what had happened after you ran away from the cabin. How he had gone back to the Boston QZ in search of you, eventually abandoning Joel there to join the Fireflies. From there he had ditched the Fireflies, deciding that their methods were too extreme, and then, he met Maria. She had saved him, washed him of all of his sins, and gave him a purpose again. 

“She’s a good woman. An amazing woman, Jackson wouldn’t even exist without her,” he said, but it felt like he was convincing himself and not you. Tommy looked over at you, a dark lust behind his eyes that you hadn’t seen since the last night you shared in that faraway cabin. 

“She is,” he breathed. “But… sometimes I think about how different things would’ve been if I made better choices back then. I’m happy here in Jackson, beyond happy, but-“

You closed the distance quickly, knocking your wooden chair into his own. His lips were warm and soft, just like you had remembered them. It was easy kissing Tommy, like second nature. He hummed into your mouth and didn’t push you away. There was no huge rush of passion behind it, but something much more important. Catharsis. A conclusion.

“For closure,” you whispered into his lips. Tommy nodded, kissing you once more before leaning back in his seat, his hand still holding yours.

“For closure.”

On the way back, Tommy fills you in on Joel’s relationship with Ellie. They met in the QZ, where he agreed to take her across the country to Salt Lake City. When you ask why, Tommy insists it isn’t important, that if it was he would tell you. “It’s Ellie’s secret to tell, anyway,” he says.

You let it go, far more interested in something else entirely. Your arms are wrapped around his waist on the back of the horse and you’re breathing a little easier now as you ask, “Does she make you happy? Maria?”

There’s a moment of hesitation. Or rather contemplation, perhaps. But then he nods slowly and says, “Yeah. Yeah, she does.”

You’re glad to hear it. Truthfully. Even with all that’s transpired, you’re thankful Tommy was able to find this slice of bliss in the hellish affairs of the world. 

“Does she know? About what happened?” you asked shyly. Tommy sighed, nodding.

“She knew bits and pieces but not at all of it. After Joel and Jesse found you, I told her everything. It wasn’t fair for her not to know.”

You would’ve guessed that he told her. He seemed to really love her, to trust her. If Joel even trusted her, then that showed the strength in the relationship. It didn’t bother you that she knew. It was for the best.

“And…Joel? Do you think he’s happy?”

This time it’s definitely hesitation. Tommy’s throat bobs as he swallows hard. He lets out a long breath, misting in the cool air. “He hasn’t been the same since…”

“Since Sarah, right?”

Tommy shakes his head. “No. I mean, yes, but…”

There’s something he’s holding onto, and you’re not sure if it’s for your sake or for Joel’s. Either way, this is the secret you decide you need to uncover. “Tell me.”

“When you left…I mean, I know I already said it was hard but it was different for Joel. I had the Fireflies and then I had Maria and Jackson, all things that filled the emptiness but Joel…I don’t know. S’like he never came back from it. From losin’ you.”

You can see Jackson in the distance now. A silhouette of a town, of a home. Your stomach turns, thinking that all this time you’ve both been suffering from the same plight and the cure has simply been forgiveness. 

But can you live with entirely forgiving Joel? Completely? He advocated for your death, held you hostage, and shot you in cold blood. You can acknowledge and accept the fact that he’s changed, that you all have, that you’ve grown and matured and established a firm line between what’s right and what’s wrong, something the three of you once lacked.

You’ve finally found closure enough to move on from this, but if you let go of your anger, let it dissolve into nothing, what would be left of what you feel for him but longing?

If you let it all go…there would be nothing left inside you for Joel Miller but love, and you’re fairly certain that that would be even more difficult to navigate than your anger. 

Once back in Jackson with nothing to show for your hunting trip but ease in your shoulders, Tommy secures the horse back into the stables and offers to walk you home. You laugh and joke the whole way and it feels natural, just like old times but perhaps even better now that you’re here of your own volition. 

Once in front of your house, Tommy takes your hand in his and kisses your palm. “I’ll always care for you,” he whispers, dancing around a word far more intense. Once again, you’re not sure if it’s for your benefit or for his, or if it’s for Joel’s.

You lift his hand to your face and lean into his caress, feeling the warmth on your cheek, the roughness of his skin brought on by age and hard labor. “Me too,” you admit. And then quieter, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you. I know it was…”

Tommy shakes his head. “No, sweetheart—don’t you ever apologize for that.” He used his free hand to thread his fingers through your hair, not dissimilar to the way you’d first touched him all those years ago. “You needed it. I needed it.” 

He wraps his arms around you and you lean in close, soaking up his warmth, his safety.

You share so much in one embrace—longing, lust, regret, forgiveness. And when he pulls away, it all fades into the ether, leaving nothing behind but this deeply rooted fondness for him, a desire for him to be happy above all else. 

“If you need anything, and I mean anything, come and find me. We live next to the daycare. Maria said to be there after nightfall tonight,” Tommy spoke, knocking his shoulder across your own playfully. “I hope you’re ready for a home-cooked meal. How long has it been?”

You stand, truly considering his question. Eating in the QZ wasn’t exactly pleasant. Typical meals consisted of stale bread and watered-down soup. You couldn’t even remember your last fresh meal.

“Too long,” you sighed. Tommy smirked, his warm smile making the skin of your cheeks burn.

“Soon enough. See you tonight.”

The day goes by quickly. You fill the empty space with exploration, walking through the greenhouses, around the buildings, and through the one currently being constructed in the northwest corner within the walls.

The people begin to emerge a little after midday, socializing with one another, smiles on their faces and ease in their shoulders. You see Jesse at one point while you’re walking the perimeter, checking for weak spots, and he waves at you and it feels so strangely normal that it startles you. 

When the sun begins to set behind the heavy clouds, you find the house beside the daycare and stand a few feet away. You can see through the open windows that you’re likely the last to arrive—and for a second, you consider turning back and running as far away as you can. 

Because beneath the yellow light, they all look so happy. Maria, Ellie, and someone else you can’t put a name to, all work together setting the table, six place settings with mismatched cutlery.

Joel and Tommy can be seen in the kitchen, sharing a few concerned looks between warm smiles, once in a while knocking the neck of their glass bottles together. They’re all at home here and have all curated a routine, a familiarity. 

And you know without a shadow of a doubt that if you walk in there, you’re going to disturb it. You’re going to break the tranquility they’ve worked towards, you’re going to be the odd one out, the sore thumb in their causal, familiar cacophony. No matter what, you’re not going to belong. 

The only hope you have is trudging through the unfamiliarity until it becomes familiar, hoping to integrate yourself into their already established lives. 

But after all you’ve done since leaving that cabin, after all the blood on your hands, is that the sort of thing you’ve earned?

It’s not. You know it. You turn to leave.

The front door swings open, yellow lighting silhouetting his familiar frame.

He must see the terror in your eyes, must see the flight response kicking in because he’s off the porch in a second and taking your hand in his. 

You’re shaking your head and your breath feels stuck in your throat, amassing into a stone of instinct that sits heavy on your chest. 

“Tell me,” is all Joel says.

The words come spilling out, mechanical, one after another. “I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve this. I don’t belong here. I’ve killed people. I’ve lied and stolen and—”

He takes your face in his strong grip and forces you to look at him, the sight of adoration in his eyes like a balm to your heart. “It doesn’t matter if we deserve it,” he says. “Do you want it?”

More than anything.

Tommy’s voice cuts through the intensity between you and Joel. “Dinner’s ready,” he says. “Come eat, sweetheart.”

You do. Maria’s made a whole platter; roast and vegetables and some sort of broth soup with rosemary. There’s red wine and whiskey and sweet tea. Joel sits beside you at the table. Ellie sits across from you, beside her girlfriend who you learn is named Dina.

They’re all incredibly nice, asking you questions about your life before Jackson, never pressing too much, sensing when a topic is brought up that you don’t particularly want to recall and quickly changing the conversation.

The chemistry flows far easier than you’d imagined it would. You find you even like Maria, and you especially like that fond look in her every time she glances over at Tommy. 

The food is delicious and you’re bringing a forkful of roast to your mouth when Dina asks, “So, how did you meet Joel and Tommy?”

The table goes quiet then, and Dina and Ellie share a confused glance. You chew slowly, hoping someone else will answer the question or, better yet, ask something else entirely. 

But then Ellie jokingly says, “What? Did guys kidnap her or something?”

You nearly choke, Tommy lets out a long breath, and Joel is stone still apart from the feathering of his jaw. Even Maria looks uncomfortable. 

Ellie sees the unsaid words and quietly mutters, “Oh shit.” She turns to Joel then, eyes narrowed into slits. “You kidnapped her?”

“It wasn’t like that,” you supply. “Not exactly. I stole from them first. Back when food was a lot more scarce.”

“So you held her captive,” Ellie corrects, unrelenting.

“A story for another day, maybe?” Maria suggests. “How’s the soup, El?”

You can tell she’ll circle back to the conversation the moment she can, but for now, Ellie lets it rest. And you’re thankful for it, because you’re not sure how to explain a moment of your time spent in that cabin even to yourself, let alone someone else.  

After dinner, you help Maria clean while the brothers drink beer out on the back porch and watch Ellie play guitar. From the kitchen you can see Dina stretched across the wooden floor, propped up against the rails of the porch. The sound of Ellie missing a couple of strings makes Maria hum in amusement. 

“Joel’s been teaching her for a couple of weeks now. She picks up quickly,” Maria informs you, taking a now cleaned dish from your hand to dry it. It didn’t feel weird, being around her, despite the fact that you had kissed her husband just a couple of hours ago. 

“Yeah. She seems like a good kid.”

Maria places the plate into the cabinet before turning to you. She leans against the counter, taking a moment to look you over. 

“You weren’t how I imagined you when Tommy told me about everything.”

Her words didn’t feel rude or passive-aggressive. They were more so honest, and revealing. 

“How did you imagine me?” you asked, continuing to wash the dirty dishes in the sink. Focusing on the soapy suds melting off the plate the more you scrubbed it distracted you from the conversation. You knew that Maria was trying to understand you, but it made you feel anxious either way.

Maria sighed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Not so quiet. Fiery, like Ellie. I suppose you are, deep down, especially if both the Miller brothers like you.”

You used to have more of a spark inside of you, but over time, it had slowly fizzled out. You had killed too many people, done too many awful things. After your father was murdered, you lost the majority of the fire that was meant to burn in your chest. You learned how to be a drifter and not get attached, because getting attached meant losing them someday.

The only exception were the brothers who you could hear laughing loudly from the back porch. Even after all this time, after leaving them, they had found a place to call home where they could love freely. 

“They both care a lot about you. You had Joel pacing back and forth, wondering if you’d actually show up.”

A warm blush washed across your face and didn’t stop until it reached the bottom of your spine. Joel was waiting for you? How was it that he had shut you off, practically hated you all those years ago, but now, suddenly was worried about you? What had changed?

As if she could read your mind, Maria spoke. “Ellie helped him open up a lot. According to Tommy, she’s got that same spitfire energy as Sarah. Maybe back then, it wasn’t the right time. Joel was too far gone. But now, it could be different. You could take advantage of his weaknesses this go around if you think it would make you happy.”

You understood why Tommy loved Maria. She had created this town, a haven, and even cares about people she doesn’t know. She allowed her husband’s people to be her own.

“Maybe,” you agreed, focusing your attention back on washing the dishes. Maria didn’t pry and instead moved back into the pattern of taking clean dishes from your hands. 

Once you finished, you followed Maria onto the back porch, trailing through the sliding doors. Ellie and Dina were so focused on singing a Foo Fighters song that you hadn’t heard for years (that you were sure Joel introduced them to) that they didn’t notice your approach. Tommy and Joel did, Tommy smiling at Maria before extending his arms. She walked to where he was sitting and joined him, sitting on the edge of his lap. 

You were glad that you didn’t feel anything but happiness to watch the intimacy of the couple.

Joel’s eyes were watching you, dark and full of thoughts you wished you could understand. You wondered how he would react if you closed the space and sat on his lap - not that you had nearly enough courage.

“I think I’m gonna get ready to head home. I gotta organize the pantry in the morning,” you said, glancing over at the two girls who had moved on to singing some song you didn’t recognize.

All three of the Millers looked disappointed in your confession. “At least let me walk you back,” Joel begged, but you shook your head.

“No, stay. Don’t wanna miss out on this,” you said, glancing back over at Ellie and Dina singing. 

There was something like hurt that flashed across his face, but it didn’t linger long. 

“Feel free to come back any time,” Maria said.

“For anything,” Tommy adds. 

Joel says nothing, even though you linger there on the porch for several seconds, secretly hoping he would. But you nod silently, thank them for all their hospitality, and compliment Maria on the food, before parting ways to the soft sound of Ellie’s strumming on the guitar. 

For several days, you find yourself grappling with a decision. Should you stay, or should you do what feels most natural and flee? 

Fleeing would be what you’re used to. A rehearsed, calculated event. Premeditated. You’d been thinking about it from the moment you set foot in this place. Take a backpack full of supplies; food, medicine, water. You’d probably even get away with taking a horse and a couple of guns from the armory.

You’d do it first thing before the sun rises on a Sunday morning when the whole of Jackson is sleeping apart from the watchers on the walls. You wouldn’t say goodbye because you know Joel and Tommy both would convince you to stay. 

Instead, you’d leave a note on the table in your kitchen. One Saturday night you even sit there with a pen in your hand, but all you can manage to scribble down are the words I’m sorry. 

You trash it before sunrise. And that morning, Ellie stopped by to ask if you’d help her tend to the greenhouse. “It’s an eight-hour shift,” she explained. “Four with an extra set of hands. They have that dance going on tonight, down at the community hall. Dina really wants to go.”

Of course, you agree. And as the hours tick by, you understand Joel’s attachment to her. Ellie is probably the funniest kid you’ve ever met. Intuitive too, and so smart it’s jarring. You like her, mostly because she reminds you a little of yourself when you were her age. 

She talks briefly about her journey with Joel to Salt Lake City. Says he started out as this gruff, overbearing man, but towards the end, he was the only source of comfort remaining in her grasp. She says Joel saved her life but then gets really quiet for a while afterward. 

You don’t pry. The silence is comfortable, the dirt between the creases of your palms and beneath your fingernails is warm, and you realize that fleeing is going to hurt an awful lot more than you thought. 

After your shift in the greenhouse with Ellie, you begin to consider staying. Jackson is a good place, a safe place. One without the tyrannical rules of a standard QZ.

The following weekend, a fight breaks out between two men at the Tipsy Bison. One is drunk and sloppy and he has a knife strapped to his belt. You watch from a far distance as the drunken man stabs his opposition between the ribs, blood pooling in the mud beneath his feet. 

You don’t see Joel right away, too focused on the commotion that breaks out over the event, but the moment he steps in he’s hard to miss. He has that strong, domineering energy about him. He breaks up the fight in a second and has the man with the knife unclenching his fist, silver glinting in the pool of blood as the weapon drops to the ground.

Maria and Tommy arrive a short moment later and the man with the stab wound gets carted off to the infirmary. Joel towers over the man with blood on his hands but says not a single word.

You’re not sure why, and you’re too exhausted to attempt unpacking it, but the way he just… controls the situation so easily has your thighs pressing together.

Joel and Tommy take the man someplace, but you don't stay around long enough to find out where. You half expect them to make some scene of it; whippings in the center of the town, a public execution as a display of power. You’ve seen such things before in the QZs you’ve drifted through. 

But nothing like that happens, and all anyone can talk about is Rick’s miraculous recovery and what they plan to bring to him in the infirmary. 

You ask Jesse what happened to the drunken man who stabbed him, wondering if they killed him someplace away from prying eyes. 

Jesse laughs and shakes his head. “No, we didn’t kill him. He was exiled.”

You’re not sure why it surprises you, but it does. 

The next time you see Joel, he’s in the stables. The first taste of summer has presented itself, spring slowly giving way, the earth thawing further each day. He’s wearing a navy t-shirt that stretches tight across his biceps and a good-fitting pair of blue jeans, and you watch from a safe, non-conversational distance as he moves haybales from one end of the stables to another, making room for the new ones loaded into the back of Tommy’s truck. 

A light sheen of sweat coats his sun-kissed skin, and it makes your mouth water. All you can think about is that first time with him, how he’d gripped your hips with calloused fingertips, how he’d kissed your lips until they were swollen, how he’d pressed himself between your spread thighs.

You run home so fast you’re out of breath when you close the door, and the moment you make it up the stairs and to your room, you're slipping your hand beneath the waistband of your jeans to alleviate the ache that has settled and made a home between you legs. 

Telling yourself it was a fluke, you don’t think of it again. In fact, you try very hard not to think about that day in the cabin, you try not to think about the way he looked at you before leaving you and Tommy in the bed on that last day, you try not to think about the way his muscles flexed in the stables. 

You fill your time with chores. The greenhouse, watch, patrol, shifts at the Tipsy Bison. Anything that keeps your mind from Joel you greet with ready and willing hands.

But it happens again. Of fucking course it does.

It’s raining hard and has been for several days. The western wall begins to flood, and it’s an all-hands-on-deck situation, moving sandbags from one end of Jackson to the other. Everyone is running around, moving as fast as they can, piling them into the back of one person’s truck and then someone else’s the moment one pulls away. 

Maria woke you up in the middle of the night with a yellow raincoat in her hands, and of course, you didn’t waste a moment before you put on your sneakers and ran out the door with her. 

She stations you at the western wall with a handful of others, unloading the sandbags and stacking them as high as possible to detour the pooling water.

Joel stands two feet away from you, yelling orders over the sound of the rain, commanding the situation in that way of his. You’re shivering, even with your raincoat, and as Joel’s hand brushes yours when he helps you lift a sandbag onto the pile, it sends an electric jolt down your spine. “Jesus,” he huffs. “Here. Take off your jacket real quick.”

You do, in time with him as he removes his canvas coat, soaked through with water. He pulls his flannel off and hands it to you, and normally you would argue he needs it more considering your dry t-shirt, except you’re freezing.

The soft fabric is warm and it’s a little too big but it’s the most comfortable thing you’ve ever worn. It smells like him, like pine and rain and Joel. For a moment you consider not returning it back to him and adding it to your collection of clothes you’ve taken from him. But for now, you relish in its heat, in its softness. 

He goes right back to instructing others after shrugging his coat back on, as if the act of kindness was nothing, as if he’d give just anyone the shirt off his back. And maybe he would, but you’ve never stuck around long enough to find out. 

It’s still dark when you finish, sunrise still a while away. Maria and Tommy thank everyone for their help and send you home, telling everyone to try and get some extra sleep, that shifts will start an hour later than normal. 

You do as she says, noting the way the muscles in your back ache from strain but finding it strangely satisfying, feeling less like you’d lost sleep and more like you’d protected something that was worth protecting. 

Joel’s flannel remains on as you climb back into bed. And though you’re exhausted, all you can think about enveloped in his scent is how he would feel beside you, on top of you, between your legs. Heavy and warm, strong and so incredibly safe.

It doesn’t even feel like there’s a choice when you wiggle your fingers beneath the elastic of your panties. And even though it only takes a matter of minutes to make yourself reach the pinnacle of bliss, it feels unsatisfying. Like it’s not enough, like it’ll never be enough.

You still wear Joel’s flannel while on patrol with Jesse later in the day. You vow to return it, promising yourself this is your chance to change. To be a better person, to reinvent yourself here in Jackson, to stop running, to stop thieving. 

But you don’t return it. Several days go by and you practically live in the goddamn thing.

You lost count of how many times you squirmed against your pillow with the flannel pressed against your lips, imagining that Joel was there. 

“Just like that, baby girl,” Joel would say gruffly, his strong palms pressed against your thighs to make your hips rock. “Missed listenin’ to those little moans.”

If you squeezed your eyes closed just enough, you could feel him on you, guiding you. You prayed that he still thought about you, but you were scared to know what it meant if he did. It would mean that Joel reciprocated your lust, your feelings.

One evening you walked past Joel’s house after a long, tiring day of helping create concrete for the expansion of the South wall. The summer project was to create space for new houses. Jackson was growing day by day, getting stronger. 

You stopped outside the concrete steps, looking at the path to the front door. Would you have the courage to walk up that intimidating trail and knock on Joel’s front door? Would you have the courage to ask him to kiss you, to show you how much he missed you?

Your question was answered once Joel’s front door opened, and a dark-haired woman stepped out. She was turned back, telling Joel something that you couldn’t quite make out. The steps of your sneakers crunched across the gravel of the road, your feet carrying you as far away from Joel’s house as possible. 

One last glance back allowed you to witness the faraway silhouette of Joel passing something over to the woman, something that you were much too far away to see. You had done something stupid again - assumed that Joel was single. You weren’t trying to jump to conclusions but Tommy was married after all. It would make sense that Joel had found someone too, someone to settle down and raise Ellie with. 

The happiness that you felt seeing Tommy and Maria together was not what you felt when watching Joel with another woman. A big, ugly, green monster bubbled inside of you and threatened to crawl out of your throat. 

You hated this feeling. You hated it so much that you’d ended up going to Joel’s house later that, shortly after his bedroom light had turned off. The streets were completely empty except for the night shift patrollers walking towards their posts, the day saying its last goodbyes in the same way you meant to. A basket with Joel’s flannel and his original jacket from fifteen years ago was left on his porch. They were rejected and discarded, like how you felt. 

The basket mocked you when you walked away from his porch, a visceral reminder of what you were actually returning. Your devotion. 

It was impossible to sleep that night, too many rampant thoughts running wildly through your head. You stayed up the remainder of the night, a scratchy wool blanket tucked beneath your chin as you sat on the couch.

The moonlight streamed in through your living room window, painting colorful silvers and purples across the peeling walls. It was eerily peaceful to watch the earth sleep.

A stark opposite to the peaceful moonlight was the sudden rough knocks banging against your front door. You couldn’t help the way you jumped up, your bloodshot eyes glancing over to watch the wooden frame shake with each knock. 

You move over the back of your couch to glance out the front window to see who is pounding at your door. The top of your head peeks over the blanket, your eyes straining to see. It’s Joel, of course, it’s Joel, and seeing him with that frantic look in his eye has your heart in your throat.

When you open the door to ask what he wants, you see both his flannel and his coat clutched in a knuckle-white grip. “Is this your way of saying goodbye?” 

Your brows furrow. “What?”

“You’re leaving again, aren’t you?” You open your mouth to speak but he raises his free hand and stops you. “An’ don’t lie to my face, don’t…don’t look at me and tell me you’re staying just to disappear in the middle of the night.” There’s a kind of aggression in his voice you’ve never heard before, even when he shot you. “You’re leaving.”

It’s not a question this time. And you know he’s reliving it, remembering every moment in that cabin, the same way you’ve been since setting foot in Jackson.

The urge to comfort him rises in you, to promise to stay, but you can’t. Not when all you can see is that dark-haired woman on his doorstep. So, you swallow thickly and cast your eyes away, staring at the clothes you’d return instead. “It doesn't matter. Keep them, Joel.”

“It does matter,” he insists. “How can you say that?” He pushes into your house, this desolate place that suddenly comes to life with him in it. “After everything we’ve done, after everything we’ve seen… it matters. This place matters. You —”

Your breath catches at his near confession. It’s the first you’ve heard it from anyone, and the young girl you were fifteen years ago silently begs for him to finish it. She begs to be seen, cared for, and loved. 

But you’ve spent so long shoving her into a box in your heart that it’s second nature when you do it this time. Joel shakes his head. He begins to speak, stops, and tries again. “I…you…”

“What, Joel?”

He runs an exasperated hand down his face. Whatever it is he’s trying to say is bothering him, an irritation dug in deep like a tick. “Don’t…”

You know you shouldn’t. You know it’s none of your business, yet you still find yourself crossing your arms over your chest and saying, “Should you even be here right now? Isn’t there someone else you should be giving the pleasure of your company to?”

Confusion sinks in quickly. “What are you talking about?”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, so I can’t lie to you but it’s fine if you lie to me? Typical, Joel. You’ve always been a hypocrite.”

"Hypocrite? What are you talking about? I’m here, trying to convince you to stay in Jackson because it’s safe. Even if you want nothing to do with me, if you want me to…to stay far away, that’s fine. But this place needs people like us and we need it.”

“Jesus Christ, Joel—I saw her. Don’t fucking play dumb.”

“Saw who? ”

You throw your hands up, anger rising to the surface of your skin. “I don’t know! And I don’t want to know! She was leaving your house with a really big smile yesterday so I guess I should say congrats, right? To you and Tommy both, for finding whatever it was you were looking for in me fifteen years ago.”

Joel shakes his head. “No, no—you’ve got this all wrong. It’s not like that.”

“Right,” you say indignantly. “Because that’s believable.”

He closes the space between you and wraps his hand around your elbow, holding tight enough to bruise. Joel stares at you with his eyes filled with intensity, so much of it that you actually start to believe him when he says so quietly, “There’s been no one. No one since you.”

“Oh, so it’s just the start I interrupted then? My bad, Joel, should I apologize?”

“Will you stop?” His jaw ticks, and you can see his irritation as it rises, a near palpable thing. His neck flushes, and his eyes narrow. “She’s Dina’s mom. She came over to meet me formally since Ellie’s been staying over there so often. She doesn’t mean anything. Not like…”

“Like what, Joel?”

“Not like you,” he finally says. It feels like a breath of fresh air, and you think he must feel that way, too. Because his grip on your elbow loosens, his shoulders drop, and his eyes soften instantly. “You…you mean something. To me. An’ I don’t…I want you to stay. I’m…I’m askin’ you to stay. Please.”

In all your life, in all the places you’ve passed through…not once has anyone ever asked you to stay. Not once has anyone seen you like this, seen and known you well enough to know when you’re tempted and have enough time to deter your decision. 

Well, until now. Until Joel. 

“Don’t do that,” you say, shaking your head, trying to clear the moisture that pools in the corner of your eyes. 

He takes your face in his hands, calloused palms rough and warm against the tender skin of your jaw. “Stay,” he says. And again, softer this time, a plea. “ Stay.”

“Don’t say things you don’t mean, don’t give me false hope.”

Joel presses his forehead to yours. “I mean it,” he promises, and you want so badly to believe it, so you do. “Do you have any idea how long I looked for you? And even when I stopped lookin’ I saw you everywhere. Saw you in everything. That first winter without you…Christ, couldn’t think about anythin’ else.”

All you manage to say is his name like an escaped breath. Your skin prickles at his closeness, and you’ve never been good at resisting your impulses so you don’t even try to keep yourself from pressing your lips to his. 

His hands slide into your hair, pulling you in closer, his tongue running across your bottom lip. You grant him access in the form of a moan that he echoes the moment he tastes the inside of your mouth. 

You forget everything. Everything. All you know is the way this feels, and you suddenly think that maybe all this time you weren’t running from anything. Maybe you’ve been running to him. 

“It’s always been you,” he says against your lips. His hands trail down your spine, gently caressing your soft curves.

The pad of his thumb brushes against the bare expanse of your spine where the smallest bit of your shirt has ridden up, but you feel the touch like lightning skittering across your skin. You wrap your hands around his neck, anchoring yourself against him, and it feels like second nature when he pulls you closer and lifts you off your feet. 

In fifteen years nothing has changed—you still melt against him, defenses giving way, legs wrapping around his waist. You break the kiss long enough to whimper direction, saying, “The bedroom is upstairs, second door—”

“On the left, I know. Tommy and I fixed it up a couple months ago. Talked about you the whole time,” he says. And you’re not sure why but the knowledge has your heart flipping in your chest.

It’s almost like he knew, like they both did. Like they could feel you somehow, out there, wandering, finding your way back to them.

Joel lays you down and strips your clothes off slowly, fingers familiarizing themselves with every inch of your skin as if he’s learning it for the first time. He kisses your lips until they’re swollen, leaves marks in the shape of his mouth down your chest, and leaves moisture from his tongue over the hardened peaks of your nipples.

When he parts your thighs and tastes you, he’s still fully clothed. And you begin to feel exposed, like the two of you are standing on uneven terrain, but then he lets out a feral-sounding moan and you think maybe he’s suffered in your absence even more than you yourself have. 

His tongue is soft and hot and makes your back bend off the mattress. Twice he makes you come undone with nothing but his mouth. And when he rises to his knees, peering over you, he looks sated. Relieved, somehow. As if being this close to you has healed him, stitched up some long-opened wound. 

Unhurried, he begins to discard his clothes onto the floor beside yours. His flannel first, and then his t-shirt, and you let out a pathetic moan as you drink in the sight of him. His scarred, masculine hands working at the metal buckle of his black leather belt, his toned arms and his soft tummy, and that trail of thick, dark hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his jeans. 

Everything about him ignites you, calling to you like some sort of beacon. Your skin prickles as he discards the remainder of his clothes. 

And before you have a chance to speak aloud your fervent need, he’s settling between your thighs and pressing the head of his cock to your entrance. He cradles your face in his hands, gently smoothing your hair away from your face, and there’s so much devotion in his voice that it makes you tremble as he says, “You were made for me, little girl. Do you know that?”

You think you do. You think you’ve always known it, always known that whatever god-like, mystical being that resides in this world had crafted you with Joel in mind. All you can do is nod and bask in the moment, in the sanctity of your creation, in the wickedness of his. Carefully, he pushes his cock into you. 

The stretch is painful at first, even with how wet he’s made you. But it’s a bearable pain, a sweet ache, especially with the way he whispers in your ear and presses soft kisses to your cheek with each breath. “S’okay, you can take it. I know you can. See? There you go. So fuckin’ proud of you, baby. You’re so perfect. Perfect for me.”

Joel rocks his hips against yours at a gradual pace. There’s nothing rushed about it, no aggression in his movements. It’s so different from the last time but the change in him just brings the two of you closer. Your orgasm builds like a fire in your belly, burning more and more with each thrust, heightened by the gruff moans that escape him, by the pressure of his body on top of yours. 

He’s so warm and he feels like home. A sensation you’ve never felt since leaving that cabin, a safety like you’ve never known since. You love him. You forgive him. And so you tell him.

And as the words escape your lips, as you make that final confession that will alter the course of your life forever, his breath stutters in his chest, and that fire that’s been building in your belly reaches its full height, flames licking at your skin. He says, “I love you, too, little girl,” and it tips you over the precipice.

You reach the high of bliss together, at the same exact time, and everything but this feeling fades into nothing. All that remains is you and Joel and this otherworldly closeness. There’s nothing left to forgive, nothing left to navigate. As one, singular soul, you simply are. 

He takes the time to clean you up afterward. You shower together, and he massages body wash into your skin, relieving the ache from your muscles. You don’t ask him to stay because you don’t need to; he just does. Because he knows you like no one else ever has. 

You fall asleep quickly. It’s late and you’re exhausted, but for the first time in fifteen years, you feel stable. He holds you through the night. 

But when he shifts just slightly, it wakes you a few hours before sunrise. His eyes are wide open and bloodshot, clearly straining to stay awake.

Shifting on your elbow to lean up, you ask, “What’s wrong?”

Joel just shakes his head and gives you a small smile. “Nothing,” he says. “Just go back to sleep. Get some rest.”

It’s clearly a lie. Something is tugging at him, and you’re determined to fix it. “Tell me,” you say.

He hesitates for a moment, working over his words in his head. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it, and tries again. And then he says quietly, unable to look you in the eye, “I wanted to be able to talk you out of leaving. If you changed your mind again.”

The words break your heart, cracking open your ribcage and allowing a trace of bitterness to settle there. It’s your fault, you know. Your fault he worries about you leaving so much, that he allots time to talk you down from a ledge you’re not quite sure even exists anymore. You swallow down the tears that threaten and crawl into his lap. You kiss his face a hundred times, leaving no space untouched until you’re both quietly laughing. “You can sleep easy tonight,” you say.

He nods as if he believes you, but you can tell there’s still anxiety lingering within him. It’s quiet for a long time. He just holds you tightly, arms wrapped around your middle. You think he may have fallen asleep, but then he whispers into your hair, “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. Just don’t leave me behind again. Please.”

It’s a plea. He’s begging, in his own way. You kiss him hard, and in only moments he’s snoring with his arms locked around you.

You only wiggle out of his grip when the sun rises, yellow and orange hues cast across your bedroom through the glass pane of the window. You pull Joel’s t-shirt over your head and make your way down the stairs as quietly as you can.

This will be the most difficult thing you’ve ever done. You know it will be. You know Joel will pull things out of you you’ve been shoving down deep, know he’ll poke and prod in an attempt to heal all within you that’s been broken. 

Because that’s the kind of man he is; one who takes care of those he loves, who sacrifices his own comfort for others. You don’t deserve someone like him and you know it. No matter how much you forgive, no matter how many times you try to wash your hands clean, you know it’ll never be enough for his devotion. 

You stand in the middle of the kitchen, eyes glued to the front door. It would be easy to leave, you know. Second nature. Instinctual. You wouldn’t have to face all you’ve done, wouldn’t have to unearth all you’ve buried, wouldn’t have to open that closet with all those skeletons. 

Hands trembling, you try to catch your breath. Try to make that final decision, try to forgive a little more. Not to forgive Tommy or Joel, but to forgive yourself. 

The longer you stand there in the kitchen, the less you believe you’ll ever possess that sort of absolution.

But it’s worth a try, isn’t it? To find mercy in a place it’s never existed.

You take a slow breath.

And then you put on a pot of coffee.

taglist; @arizonadreamingg @sirendyes @untamedheart81 @pinkiec6-rubi @galway-girlatwork

[utilitycaster]

Do you think the god debate and narrative around it in C3 would be more compelling if Ludinus only focused on killing the Betrayer Gods a la Cassida? As many pointed out, the impact that Primes have on mortals is largely positive. Aside from cool abilities, they give healing, meaning and comfort to their followers. Up until very recently (Braius) we haven't seen Betrayers do much of that and their followers are, more often than not, people who would cause great harm to others.

I actually do not. There's multiple questions in here, and honestly I could probably write 5000 words on any of them, which I'm not going to do, but I will split this up into components.

First: I don't think Ludinus is the problem at all. He is unambiguously the villain, but he is always narratively compelling. It is fun to make fun of him because he is genuinely a fantastically crafted villain. When I dunk on villains who are boring, it's nowhere near as fun because all you can say is "wow what do you even do. boring-ass" whereas Ludinus is full of interesting possibilities and hooks to be like how can you be so smart and have lived for so long and seen so much and come to the fucking worst conclusions. There's a reason why people have been side-eyeing him consistently since at least his first speaking appearance in Campaign 2, if not his first appearance ever, in Felderwin, and it's because he's a great character who I hope dies horribly. So his motivations are fine. I'm not saying the possibility you suggest wouldn't be a very interesting different story, but my complaints about narrative and the gods debate do not require anything different from Ludinus, who has been a consistent bright spot within the muddied narrative by being a consistent blot on Exandria and also sometimes the moon.

The narrative and the god debate are intertwined - the issue is a dull indecision that plagues both of them - so I'm splitting this one up a little differently.

What do I as a viewer think is the most reasonable stance regarding the gods based on my understanding of the worldbuilding of Exandria?

What is interesting to watch?

And therein lies the problem. I, as a viewer, think that killing the gods is a bad idea, and I've articulated this in various spaces and am not going to write another 5000 words about it right now, but between the events of past campaigns; the events of this campaign including Downfall; who within the narrative supports the choice to not kill the gods; and the complete uncertainty regarding the fate of existence let alone mortaldom should they be killed or chased away I have come to this position. Any counter-argument tends to rely either on entirely false statements, or a nebulous "a better world is possible" without any assurances that the allegedly better world is, in fact, probable. Ironically enough, I am not willing to take a leap of faith.

But as for what's interesting to watch? That's an entirely different story. My issue with the the gods debates is that they are endless, circular, indecisive, and between the least informed group of PCs we've had by a large margin. They say the same 5 sentences in different words over and over. It's like watching a bunch of high people while you're sober. It only hits hard if you're stupid. For more on this see here and here. If Bells Hells had decided 30 or 40 episodes ago to side with Ludinus, or to try to only kill the Betrayers, or to oppose Ludinus but kill the gods? Great. Fantastic. I'm not saying I wouldn't have had my critiques of it given the worldbuilding setup as described above, but I think it would have held up infinitely better as a standalone story, at least, than it does now. My problem is that instead they had endless circular indecisive conversations during a bunch of (comparatively much more interesting) fetch quests, finally came to some kind of conclusion that gave the end game some structure and direction like 4 episodes ago, and then had yet another wrench thrown at them. And convention panels and Cooldown have consistently confirmed my suspicions about the lack of planning in the places where this campaign really needed it. In my conversations after the latest episode, multiple people independently used the term "sludge" to describe their feelings about the plot.

In actual play, I want characters who have clear conviction and make bold and decisive moves because handwringing forever in such a slow-moving medium is excruciatingly boring. Like, do I think Percy in the Briarwoods arc is making good, informed decisions that make him a moral person? Absolutely the fuck not. Do I think the story where he's shooting first and asking questions later is infinitely superior to one where Vox Machina can't decide what to do for 50 episodes? Yeah.

The god debates are ultimately a symptom of this narrative aimlessness. The lack of an answer is the problem, not what the answer is.

[expectopatronum18]

Hot take on Lily's characterization in this fandom

Ik I've written abt this before but I really cannot understand y this fandom insists on limiting lily's characterization to being good and right all the time and making the narrative sympathetic towards her even when she isn't coz ppl don't want haters for her. And this makes sense coming from the new marauders fandom coz they see all of their favs as incapable of being wrong. But I can't understand y the traditional marauders fandom acts this way too coz they tout themselves as being oh so progressive, but they write lily exactly the way rowling wrote her but in a different sense

Rowling wrote all the women in the franchise with the lens of what she sees as an 'ideal woman', but imo lily gets hit by this the most. She exists to further the narratives of other, more important characters, everything we ever hear abt her r positive attributes (harry goes thru tht phase in ootp where he realizes tht his father whom he looked up to so much was a flawed person, for whatever reason his mother is exempted from this), and the highlight of her life was dying for her son(despite the fact tht james did the same and we do know quite a bit abt him).

The conventional view of women has progressed beyond this now, but i d argue tht the underlying issue hasn't been resolved. I get tht fandom is a space for relaxation and fun, but then y do ppl hv a problem with lily being a tad bit flawed in a bad way when the boys r literally out there murdering each other and becoming fascists? The fandom sees her with the modern lens of what an ideal woman is(intentionally or unintentionally)- she's a perfect sjw who starts off with all the right values and has nothing to learn and grow from- she's an ideal feminist, she's always understanding, sympathetic and accepting, she accepts remus instantly, she's the moral voice in the marauders vs snape debate, she always stands up for the underdog, she doesn't let societal prejudices influence her views and waver her morals, etc etc. And while these r undoubtedly very fine qualities to hv, thts not how things work. Ur not being progressive by writing a woman who has no growing and learning to do like a normal person, and who's never allowed to be wrong in a way tht hurts others without making her sympathetic

Let lily be a catty bitch in a way tht can be interpreted as 'cheeky and vivacious' from an outsider's pov. Let lily not hv any proper female friends because she was a popular, well liked girl in high school who wasn't really a girl's girl. Let her be hated by ppl for reasons outside being a muggleborn and being friends with snape. Let her be friendless coz she's just a bad friend, she literally almost smiled when her best friend was being assaulted. Let her be homophobic coz it was the 70s and her social circle consisted of ppl lyk teenage snape and petunia. Let her not be accepting of remus immediately coz the whole ww was prejudiced against werewolves and she's new to it. There r infinite possibilities and none of them need to take away her good aspects in canon, much lyk they don't with the boys

LET HER BE FLAWED AND COMPLICATED AND CONTRAVESIAL COZ WHO CARES, SHE'S NOT FUCKING REAL

[shyphonics]

Salad Days Chapter 3: When I was born, my mama cried, and picked me up with gloves.

(babypunk!Rodrick Heffley x reader)

part one | part two | part four

I wanna be stereotyped

I wanna be classified

I wanna be a clone

I want a suburban home

Suburban home

Rodrick wakes unusually early, 8 AM, still feeling weird. The rest of the band are still asleep. He grabs a beer from the fridge because, fuck it, nobody can tell him not to.

Getting shows is harder than he’d expected. He’s nervous, but he has to keep up a front, for the sake of the band. If he tells them he’s worried that they’ll never get a show, they might just give up. He can’t let on that there’s any negativity in his mind. He has to be a fearless leader. This has to work. This is their life now. It’s gonna be fucking amazing.

There are seven missed calls from home on his cell phone, and he decides to ignore them a little while longer. He doesn’t feel like talking to his parents, he knows they’d just be disappointed in him. He'd just have to hear about so-and-so from down the street who just got into law school. Or medical school. Or whatever the fuck kind of school.

No matter what he does, he knows he's a failure in their eyes.

Rodrick hadn't had any interest in higher education. He'd figured he didn't need it for the kind of life he was after. No matter how much his parents had guilted him.

He'd felt maybe a teeny, tiny bit guilty when everyone around him got their college acceptance letters. People started cliquing up based on which schools they'd gotten into and everything.

I hope we're dorm mates!

Are you taking psych 101?

Wow, you got a full scholarship?

Fuck off.

At one point, his dad had even caved and said, you can major in music theory!

And what, Frank? Show up to venues all like, here’s my degree! My masters in drums! Give me a show, please?

Yeah, right.

At least he'd had the rest of the band. Through everything, they'd always been on the same page. Always plotting a way out.

He takes a deep chug of his beer and pops his laptop open. He checks The Strike's website, and notices a radio feed in the top corner.

A nasally man's voice comes through his headphones. He's mid-rant, "-because they didn't understand us. And they never have, and they never will. My parents thought I was the devil. My dad loved The Eagles. I hated The Eagles with every fiber of my being. If I could say one thing to my father- and Glenn Frey- right now, it'd be: suck it. Punk never dies."

Rodrick suppresses a laugh as a song starts. He's pretty sure he recognizes it, and the words are really resonating with how he's felt since he left home.

Clicking through The Strike’s event calendar, he almost does a spit take. Friday night. They’ve got a show.

Suck it, Frank and Susan!

“Wake up, fuckers!” he yells, causing bodies to stir around the living room.

“Dude, shut up.” Ben groans from the couch.

“You shut up! We have a show! In 2 days!”

That does the trick, and everyone is up and shouting in celebration, drowning out their downstairs neighbor hitting the ceiling with a broomstick.

His email blinks with a new message:

Let’s see what you got, diaper boy.

~

Gettin’ high with your friends

On the basketball court

Sunglasses on when you sleep

Yeah, that's a sport

They're absolutely decked out. Denim, leather, patches, and studs as far as the eye can see.

You recognize Rodrick from your post at the bar, dressed like an aging member of a hair metal band, desperately clinging to his youth. He’s fumbling with his ID and a pair of dark sunglasses while Jimbo, the bouncer, impatiently crosses his arms. The rest of his band, you assume, make it through easier.

“The show’s in two days! What are you doing here?” you shout, drying a glass with a rag.

They look like a child biker gang, hopped up on sugar.

“Making ourselves known!” one of the others replies. He’s got a high pompadour, and a leather jacket that is entirely too small for him. You chuckle as they all take a seat.

“What’re you havin’?” You toss the rag over your shoulder and meet Rodrick’s eyes.

“Beer?” He says, unsure.

“Type?”

“Uh. Cheap? Cheapest, please.”

“Natty Light. Two bucks. Plus tip.” You wink, rooting around in the fridge under the bar.

“Tip? You got it out of the fridge.” Rodrick raises an eyebrow.

“And I opened it,” you pop the beer open, setting it down hard to make your point.

“Okay, okay. Uh, what’s a tip on that?” He looks panicked, digging in his wallet.

“I’m fucking with you. It’s a two dollar beer.”

He sheepishly hands you three singles, and you tuck the third into your bra. You hate to say it, you really do, but he’s kinda cute. All dressed up to drink shitty beer with his friends. He’s got a nice nose, despite the visible break, and enough eyeliner on to join a family of raccoons. It suits him.

He takes a sip and flinches, “This is awful.”

“If you hadn’t said cheap-est, you woulda had more options!” You laugh.

The rest of the guys order a round of PBRs, a four dollar option, and well whiskey shots.

“Ooh! Classy,” you mockingly fan yourself, “What fine young gentlemen.”

“Hey, how come it’s empty in here?” One of them asks.

“It is…” you check the clock behind the bar, “four pm.”

They stare at you.

“Broad daylight.” You deadpan, setting four shot glasses down on the bar.

The Strike is an old building, all chipped red paint and rickety metal. Rodrick’s eyes linger on a giant sculpture of a flaming match above the bar. Posters from their heyday line the walls: Agent Orange, Circle Jerks, Violent Femmes, Adolescents. There’s a weird song playing; the chord progression seems all out of whack, and from what Rodrick can tell, the singer is chanting suicide, suicide.

“What song is this?”

“You don’t know? it’s your favorite,” you tease, smirking at him.

He’s got nothing. You figured.

“Dead Kennedys, ‘Straight A’s.’ Come on, man. It’s a good one, too. Sixteen on the honor roll, I wish that I was dead. That was me!”

“Whoa. What? What happened?” One of the others asks. He’s got flat ironed blonde hair and big hipster glasses, and his mouth is hanging open.

“Well,” you tilt your head, “Let’s just say my hair and eyebrows have fully grown back, and my parents don’t know my whereabouts. The punks took me in, and I never looked back.”

“What do you mean they took you in?” The one with the shaved head looks at you with genuine concern.

“Okay, so like, this is a bar. People play here. People also play empty buildings, and shitty old houses.”

They’re hanging on your every word.

“I used to run the doors for house shows, collect the five bucks or whatever, stop fights, and then I could sleep in the houses. Then they started paying me, I met my band, I met Mike… and now I’m here!”

You pose, attempting to look successful.

“That’s really cool, but also, like, sad. You don’t talk to your parents?” One of them asks, eyes glittering.

“Don’t need ‘em.” You try to smile reassuringly. You hadn’t meant to bring the vibe down, but hey, they’d asked.

Rodrick’s eyes are fixed on you. His expression is strange. You decide to break the tension.

“You gonna drink that, baby boy?” You tap your fingernail next to his shot.

He looks up at you, lips trembling like they’re trying to form words. His friends are cackling.

“Uh, y-yeah, totally.”

Oh. He’s never taken a shot. None of them have, you realize, as you look down the line and see full glasses.

“C’mon, losers! Take ‘em down! What are you here for?” You holler, channeling your best drill sargent, “I’ll do it with you, fuck it!”

You pour yourself a shot of shit whiskey, raising it in the air, “Let’s go!”

They mirror you and raise their glasses.

“Here’s to Big Rod and The Diapers!”

Gulp. You look around. They’re all puckering their lips and tearing up. You have a brief moment of recovery as well.

You exhale heavily, “Yeah, that’s what happens when you get well liquor. Does a body wrong.”

They laugh, still groaning.

You turn the music up from the big stereo behind the bar, and the guys are all chatting amongst themselves. They seem to be having a great time, and you’re prepping the back of the bar for the small crowd about to pour in at five.

The whiskey hits Rodrick’s head, and he feels pretty goddamn proud of himself. This place is awesome. They have a show here. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and decides he's finally going to call home. Hearing your story had made him actually miss his mom. Maybe she’d even be proud of him.

“I'll be right back,”

His friends wave him off, and he heads into a doorway where the bathrooms are. He dials the number and sighs heavily, shaking off his nerves.

“Hello?”

“Hey, uh, hey mom,”

“Rodrick! Oh, thank goodness, did you change your mind? Are you coming home? We can start applying to colleges again, and…”

“What? No, I… I got a show! At a real venue.”

“Oh.” She sounds disappointed, “Are you getting paid?”

“Wh- I don't know! It's in two days. I'll let you know. Nice to know you're still so supportive, though.”

“I'm just worried about you.”

Rodrick frowns, refusing to speak.

“Do you want me to put dad on?”

“No,” Rodrick scoffs, “tell Greg I say hi.”

He hangs up, standing there, sulking for a moment. Why the hell was he expecting anything different? Don’t need ‘em.

He hears a commotion towards the front of the bar. He peeks around the corner, and sees the bouncer restraining a short, stout guy with a shitty little mustache.

“Lemme go, Jimbo!” he struggles.

“Tony! We told you not to come back here!” You march around to the front of the bar and put your hands on your hips.

“What did I even do?”

“You got broken glass and blood all over the dance floor! You know who had to clean it up?” You're right up in his face, taunting him.

Tony is part of a small group who only come to shows to beat the daylights out of each other. They're sweet when you get to know them, but reckless, and horrible for the bar ecosystem. Last Saturday had been hardcore night, and Tony and his buddies had managed to turn a very respectful pit into an absolute bloodbath.

He's still squirming. The bouncer has him in a full Nelson at this point, he's not doing himself any favors.

“I had to clean up your fucking blood, asshole! That's a health hazard!” You land a light flick on his nose and he grumbles. It's probably broken, and you feel just a little bad. “Not cool!”

Jimbo carries him outside like a child and dumps him on the curb. Rodrick is slowly creeping to the front of the bar, eyes wide. He's cautious, but part of him can't help but think how cool you are.

“Dont come back! Remember what I said, I can put the Hell's Angels on your ass in a second!" The bouncer’s voice booms.

The rest of the band notice Rodrick’s presence and they share a frightened look. This is getting serious.

Jimbo shuts the door and laughs. He's a huge man, mountain-like even. He's got long hair with a beard to match, adorned with rings, like a viking. His laugh does not match how scary he is. He sounds like Santa Claus.

You're laughing too. Jimbo is the perfect bouncer; strong and intimidating, but a total softie underneath. He's the honorary uncle of everyone at The Strike.

“You're a Hell's Angel?!” Ben pipes up, shocked.

“Nah,” Jimbo chuckles, “I just have a beard and a bike. Little fuckers like Tony scare easy, though."

Rodrick feels his heart hurt a little less as everyone around him laughs. He could get used to this. It feels like being in a weird little family.

“Oh boy,” you say quietly, hearing the familiar sound of fuck, fuck, fuck! coming down the stairs. It's Mike.

“What’s goin’ on, Mike?” you ask, grabbing a glass and filling it with seltzer water, topping it with a lime.

“Fuckin, booze delivery Saturday, show Friday! Spring break! Fuckin… frat boys!" His voice is high and nasally. Rodrick immediately recognizes his voice from the radio show earlier.

He chugs the water in one go, and slams it on the counter.

“Mike, we got plenty. All the bottles are at least half full, and the walk-in has, like, fifteen cases of beer.” You say, refilling his glass.

“Frat. Boys.” He repeats, running a hand through his tall, silver hair.

Rodrick grimaces. He really, really hopes none of those frat boys will be from back home.

“Isn't this a punk bar, though?” Ward asks.

Mike moves his head like a meerkat to look at Ward, squinting through his Buddy Holly glasses.

“Who are you? And they don't care! They'll go anywhere there's noise and booze!”

“Alright. Focus. Ideas, solutions,” you try to recenter your neurotic boss.

“They said we could come get it, but that delivery’s not gonna fit in a goddamn ‘94 Corolla.”

Ben leans back from the bar and looks at Rodrick, raising his eyebrows. Rodrick gets it, and smiles back, pointing at Ben.

“We have a van!”

Mike whips around to look at Rodrick.

“Who are you?”

“We’re Löded Diper, uh, sir?” he cringes at his own words.

“Ew. Don’t do that.”

“I don’t know why I did,” Rodrick’s eye twitches, “but we’ll totally get your booze.”

Mike gives him a suspicious glare, then ducks behind the bar to grab a notepad. He scribbles furiously and waves Rodrick over to show him the paper.

“That’s where you go. That’s who you talk to. That’s our order. Be there at 11 AM tomorrow, get it here by 1.”

“We’ve totally got it!” Chris shouts from the bar, making Mike jump.

“Don’t fuck me over!” Mike turns to point at Chris, then makes his way back up the stairs.

You look at Rodrick, mouthing nice! and giving him a thumbs up. He nods, giving you a big grin. It’s the first real smile you’ve seen from him, and it gives you a little flutter in your chest.

Pretty cute.

~

Hold my head, make me warm

Tell me I am loved

Give me hope, let me cry

Make me feel

Give me touch

The guys are all passed out for the night. Rodrick finds the radio feed from earlier and puts his headphones in, laying back on the couch. This time, the host is different.

"This is 98.7, your last independent radio option in a hundred mile radius." A calm, warm voice greets his ears, and he has a pang of recognition.

Is that...?

"I've been thinking about this song a lot today," the host says, "this one's for whoever needs to hear it."

Brain death. Mind death. School damage! Straight A's!

Rodrick sits up. Holy shit. It is you!

He closes his eyes and lets the song take him over. For how dark the lyrics are, it's oddly comforting. Today had really made him feel less alone.

Life isn't just bullshit for him- he'd known that, of course- but now he knows it. He's seen it. He's not a disgrace for going after his dreams.

He's finally in a place where that's not such a crazy idea.

If you're okay, if four other bands are okay... he's gonna be okay. He doesn't need anyone's approval. Fuck 'em.

He lays back as the song ends and another begins, a sense of relief washing over him. Eventually, he falls asleep to the sound of your smooth radio voice mixed with crunchy, old punk demos.

Everything is gonna be okay.

He knows it.

[mimimar]

i've been completely charmed by witch hat atelier♡

(art prints)

[turtlespancake]

me when i write a character who is prone to dooming themself and then they run off and doom themself. core traits are stubbornness and a willingness to disregard their own humanity gET BACK HERE IM NOT DONE WITH YOU

[lock-my-feelings-in-a-jar]

Please BE EXCITED about stuff you like/ want to be excited about 💞 That's what life supposed to be about, finding joy in the smallest things, in the things we enjoy and love. And the people that judge us for having that joy in our hearts lose their own life, because they spend too much time judging someone else's life instead of doing something with their own. FUCK them

this is one of my favorite asks and i love you

[swampndn]

Um, y'all. I think I'm the main character now or something.

Story time.

So, I'm teaching a class this semester. It's cool. It's great. I love it. Anyway, last week I was walking out with a student, and I was telling her the ways I like to stay grounded in this city, i.e. going to the water as much as I can, finding ways to be on the land. She's also Native and was struggling adjusting to this city. We part ways, and I walk out of the building with a random man who was leaving the same time we were. He opens the door for me, introduces himself briefly, and asks me if I teach here regularly. I tell him I do, just the one class though. He tells me that usually he teaches visual art at a local high school but was guest lecturing on his work in Afro-Futurism and public art for a friend's class. It's pleasant. He's nice. No weird vibes. Felt really normal. He walks me to my car out front. We part ways. Entire exchange lasted maybe 2 minutes.

Well, fast forward to today. He reaches out to me on Instagram. He says that he was thinking about me all week, and he wanted to get to know me better. We go back and forth. He's really sweet, funny, clever, charming, wicked smart, and matches my energy (which is RARE) - he also ain't said a single sexual comment to me. The respect. Also, I ain't gonna lie. He's tall, muscular, and fucking hot. And an artist??? Say less. I wouldn't have been mad about some explicit advances, although my traumatized ass probably would have reacted poorly (involuntarily), so good on him.

I give him my number after he makes a silly little joke that Facebook told him his soulmate is an Aries, and I said that he's in luck because I'm an Aries. Then boom. Dropped the number. (I still got it.)

Tell me why the first thing he texted me was a silly gif of John Cena strutting around then said "this me walking into your life as the luckiest man alive", then asks me on a FULLY PLANNED DATE: a PICNIC AT A LAKE NEAR A BOTANICAL GARDEN because he overheard what I was talking about to my student about last week, AND THEN I learn that he's also Native!!! That's really important to me, and he was telling me all about his family (we're here on his ancestral land, actually). And also he's asking me all about my work, and then straight up broke down how he was feeling about me in such a clear, direct way. He laid out his intentions. He may or may not have said he's gonna marry me, but he was trying to be chill about it 😅🫣

Anyway. This has never happened to me before. I'm like what the literal fuck is going on? Am I too traumatized for this? What is happening???

[weirdnerdygoat]

Oh look, a younger ford blushing picture...

I... may or may not be making something...

[give-me-one-good-reason]

I pretty much never draw Luigi with his hat, and this is not due to design preferences but my complete inability to draw hats with brims. Baseball caps and flatcaps (the Mario Bros.' hats seem to be a middle ground) are the bane of my existence.

[audioaujom]

Sorry gang, no stardew update this week ://

Been too busy getting my CollegeHumor Tangled AU started and also being sick. Oh, and I have no ideas or backlog. But mostly the being sick thing

[starmotte]

Lazarus de Santis... twin brother to Domiziano, though they haven't spoken in a few years. People tend to go quiet around him, and give him space, almost like they're afraid of him. Wonder why...

[byanyan]

hhghghbhbhh wanted to do more than two things tonight, but. two things is still better than nothing, so we take it. i'm sure i'll catch up on things eventually l-lmao...

[youremyonlyhope]

Not me legitimately looking up flights to Ireland for a last minute near-mental-breakdown solotrip...

[dallonwrites]

i love not counting word count literally only just found out that lover boy is past 10k. just a fun thursday night revelation