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miinatozakiii · 8 months

Text

(i love you) for sentimental reasons

kindergarden teacher!sana x fem!reader. (pt. 4)

summary: fate seems to love you and sana being alone together, so do your niece and jihyo.

wc: 8k

warnings: mentions of food ; slight (barely) suggestive(?) ; cursing

pt 1. pt2. pt3.

a/n: thank you all for the kind words and support on this series! it was fun writing it and the support on this has been amazing. thank you and enjoy :-]

“What would a young teacher usually order at a cafe.” You ask Chaemin, staring at the espresso machine and pondering. The taller, dark-haired barista looks at you, quirks a brow, then yawns.

“Do I look like I’d know what your five-year-old niece's teacher would like?” Chaemin mutters sleepily, “I’m tired, it’s early, and me personally I need something strong as hell to get me through this damn shift. Maybe she needs something strong since she has to deal with so many kids running around?”

“What if she doesn’t like strong, what if she’s more fond of something sweet? What if she prefers tea?”

“Well maybe you should’ve asked her or something, how do you not know what your dream woman likes.”

“I’m not gonna ask my niece to ask her what her favorite coffee is, that’s weird.”

“You already make Hana tell you about her teacher, I don’t think that would make anything different, y/n.” Chaemin sighs, “Look, I have to prepare for that fucker that orders six drinks and complains to me that they’re not made in two minutes every Wednesday morning. You have fun figuring out what to order for this wonder of a woman, but make it quick. I need to prepare at least 7 shots of espresso before that damn regular walks in.” He says, walking past you and over to the coffee bean grinder.

It’s 7:53 in the morning and the form said to meet in the lobby of the school by 8:30. You’re trying to get your daily caffeine in and decided to ask for an extra beverage to give to your nieces' teacher. Is getting a drink for a woman a form of flirting?

“I’ll just get my usual, and then I guess I’ll get something sweeter and I’ll ask her.”

“Okay, so what’s the sweeter thing gonna be?” Chaemin questions, weighing out the coffee grinds for your usual iced americano. You think to yourself for a bit as he tamps the grinds down and puts a filter on,

“Vanilla latte? Hot, since it’s cold out, maybe she would appreciate that.”

“Can’t go wrong with that I guess.” He sighs while pulling a shot of espresso over a cup of iced water.

You get to the school at 8:23 am, and by the time you’re all parked and in the lobby it’s 8:27.

The lobby is filled with at least sixty kids, probably more. There are four other kindergarten teachers, you assume they’re teachers from the lanyards they wear. At least ten parents are also present, scattered around the lobby with the teachers of their own students. It’s loud and crowded, you wonder if Hana had gotten lost until you look over to the corner to see Hana waving at you, and return the smile at her before making your way to the girl and her class.

Sana watches you with the two coffees in your hand and a smile spread across your face as you walk over to hug your niece, making sure not to spill the beverages. You’re wearing a patched, dark-blue denim jacket and a white t-shirt with a graphic that Sana can’t fully make out, and the t-shirt exposes some of your collarbone, Sana notes. The bottoms you wear are simple, yet effortlessly stylish. You have on washed, dark gray wide-legged jeans that compliment your top, along with black laced loafers to complete the look. Sana thinks you look amazing - Your casual, yet striking style is added to her mental list of what makes you so effortlessly stunning.

After hugging your niece, you make your way over to Sana, the grin that is plastered on your face seems contagious as it makes her grin back. You stand in front of her and greet her with a simple “Hi.” and somehow, her cheeks are already starting to warm up.

“It’s nice to see you, as always,” Sana greets, and you chuckle lightly,

“Yeah, likewise.” You start. The latte that was once about to burn your hands is now at a reasonable temperature, at least one that won’t burn anyone’s tongue (you hope). You look from the latte and back to Sana, “Do you prefer sweet or strong? I stopped by my work and I wanted to get something for you, I didn’t know which you preferred so…” You trail off, looking back at her with uncertainty.

Sana doesn’t know how you’re so perfect.

“Y/n,” She mumbles, looking at the drinks in your hands, “You didn’t have to.”

“I thought you might need some caffeine before working with so many kids you know.” You joke. Sana pauses, you think of her?

She wonders how often the thought of her crosses your mind (which is a lot), and it gives her a little hope in her heart.

“You’re so sweet, Y/n. What are the options?”

“I got a vanilla latte and iced americano. I mean you got an Americano when we ran into each other at the store, but I had to make sure there were options.” You explain, though you realize there are definitely not a lot of options. You'd bring her the whole cafe if you could, just to make sure she could have a beverage that she'd like.

“I’ll take the latte, I like sweet things.” sweet things like you, she thinks to herself. You hand her the warm vanilla latte with a grin before another voice joins in,

“Good morning Sana!” A shorter woman chirps. The woman with the bob has her own hot beverage in her hands, and she’s dressed warmly to fit the weather as it transitions from late fall to early winter.

“Jihyo!” Sana cheers, hugging the woman. You smile at the woman (although your jaw tenses a little. You want to be able to hug Sana like that), and she smiles back after pulling away from the teacher. You examine her outfit; she’s wearing a black coat over a dark form-fitting shirt, and casual blue jeans paired with white tennis shoes to finish the look. She also has a beige bag that is hung on her shoulder and a silver ring on her left ring finger.

Sana looks at the two of you, and she holds back a small giggle looking at your height difference. Jihyo’s head is angled upwards to meet your gaze and even though the woman is shorter – you can’t help but be a little intimidated by such a strong aura: it screams authority.

“Ah, Jihyo, this is Y/n,” Sana says a bit shyly, and the slightly shorter woman with the bob looks back at Sana with slightly raised brows,

“Oh? Is that so?” Jihyo says amusingly, looking back at your taller self. You seem a little smaller under her gaze, and it’s scaring you a little. Jihyo temporarily washes your worries away by sticking her hand out and grinning at you, “I’m Jihyo. Sana has told me a lot about you, it’s nice to meet you in person.”

“She has?” You question, a brow arching. Sana clears her throat and it stops Jihyo from exposing her, though you wanted to know more.

“Y/n, this is Jiyeong’s mom. We used to be roommates,” Sana quickly says. Jihyo just laughs and nods before Sana adds, “Y/n is Hana’s aunt.”

“Oh, you didn’t tell me that,” Jihyo responds with surprise. Jihyo knew your name and that Sana had a really big interest in you, but she didn’t know that you were her daughter's best friend’s aunt. Sana shuts her down before she can say anything more to make her cheeks redden.

You’re confused, to say the least. Sana talks about you? What does she tell Jihyo? Is she into you? You’re thinking a lot of things and you want answers to all the questions you have running through your mind, but for now, you'll have to wait. Sana walks off, face flushed, leaving you and Jihyo to chat with one another.

You look over from Jihyo to her daughter, who is talking to your niece and laughing as they converse.

“My daughter talks about your niece quite often,” Jihyo says, and she’s looking in the same direction as you while she sparks a conversation, “Hana seems like a sweet one, she makes my daughter very happy. It’s nice to meet the one who takes care of her, you must be as kind as Sana says.”

“Thank you,” You respond, turning to see her still looking at the two girls, “Can I ask… What else does Sana say about me?”

“You’ll have to find out yourself.” Jihyo simply states.

Aw, man.

“This is your chance to talk to Ms. Minatozaki alone! I can’t keep being the one to talk to her and then talk to you! I want to talk to Jiyeong too y’know.”

“Oh.”

“Papa was right, you need to be not shy for once,” Hana sighs, “I thought you said you had the cool genes!”

Ouch.

Hana had insisted that you sit with Sana after giving you a lecture, or was it her just scolding you? Same thing. You realize that you literally got lectured by a five-year-old, it humbled you a bit.

The conversation between you and your niece ended after she gave you a pat on the cheek, fist-bumped you, and let you run off on your own as if she was your own guardian – how ironic.

So, you make your way onto the big yellow bus, looking for the familiar face of someone who you think might be an angel. You wave to her and ask if you can sit next to her, she nods happily. Now you’re closer to Sana than you have ever been, all thanks to that five-year-old, and you’re not too mad about it.

You never fully noticed before, but she smelled really good, not in a weird way or anything – it’s just, she smelled like roses, fruit, and vanilla – it really fits her. Her shoulder was dangerously close to yours, and you figured you’d explode if you guys made even the slightest bit of contact.

Sana is dressed up warmly too; she wears a thick, dark gray cardigan with a white shirt under, and the hem of the shirt peaks from under the cardigan. She’s dressed in casual pants, they’re loose on her legs and just a shade lighter than the cardigan she wears, and to top off the whole look, there are white sneakers that she wears. Her hair is tied up into a ponytail, and some strands fall over her face. She looks beautiful, you might faint right then and there.

Sana looks at you again and tilts her head a bit,

“You’re not sitting with Hana?” She questions, and immediately regrets it after wondering whether it sounded like she didn’t want you next to her, because she definitely did want to be next to you; in fact, you were the only thing she had on her mind last night before she fell asleep. You turn your head to look back at your niece, who’s laughing with Jihyo’s daughter,

“Hana wanted to sit next to Jiyeong. I guess it’s not too bad that she didn’t want to sit with me if I get to sit next to you now.” You say boldly. Sana looks at your expression, you look unbothered and the way you just flirted with her was so smooth it had her blushing from ear to ear. You give her your signature, toothy smile, and she has to take a moment, it makes her look away for a few seconds,

“Your niece kicked you out?” Sana teases, trying to compose herself,

“They grow up so fast.” You sigh playfully. Sana giggles.

The bus driver gives the signal that he’s ready to start heading to the art museum, Sana stands up and starts to talk to the students.

“Alright everyone, I’m going to need you all to use your indoor voices for Ms. Minatozaki. If you do so, we’ll get to the museum quicker, alright?” She announces,

“Yes Ms. Minatozaki!”

“Thank you, everyone. We’ll be there in twenty minutes, maybe less if you all behave, so make sure to leave a good impression on the bus driver and make it easier for him to get there!” Sana finally says. The students respond with another “Yes Ms. Minatozaki,” and the young teacher counts all the kids on the bus, making sure she doesn’t miss anyone. After making sure everyone is all aboard, she signals to the bus driver that they’re all good to go. The bus shifts a bit as it starts, then it starts moving forward.

In an attempt to spark small talk, Sana decides to bring up the weather.

“It’s getting cold, huh.” She mutters, looking out the window. You hum in response, looking in Sana’s direction, but not at the window. Your look stays on Sana’s side profile, and you wonder how every feature on her face is so flawless, whoever made her took their time for sure. Her nose is angled perfectly, and her plump lips are just barely parted as she stares out the window, you could stare at her forever.

Sana turns her head back towards you and you quickly shift your stare to the window to avoid eye contact and to make it seem like you weren't admiring her for the last ten seconds. You clear your throat.

“Yeah, definitely.”

“Thank you for the latte, it was really good. It warmed me up.” Sana says. Eye contact is shared again and you bite the inside of your cheek,

“Anytime. I could uh, bring you more if you’d like?”

“It’s alright, I don’t want to make it seem like I’m using you for coffee.” She laughs, “But I appreciate the offer.”

“Well,” You start, “If you ever change your mind you can always tell me when you see me.” You shrug. Sana smiles at you again, nods, then gives you that look from your lips to your eyes that turns your heart into a beating mess. She looks out the window again and you have to stop yourself from admiring her the whole time.

A few words are shared between the two of you every time Sana spots something pretty, she talks about how it reminds her of things from her past or her friends. You learn a little more about her, she’s so pure and cute it’s heartwarming.

The bus ride goes well.

As soon as the bus comes to a stop, the kids are all rowdy again, however, Sana quiets them down with ease. She simply claps her hand in the same pattern as she would usually do to grab their attention, and they clap their hands in the same pattern back, all eyes are on the young teacher now.

“Alright everyone, we’ve made it! Now, in order for us to get started with our field trip, I’m going to need everyone to be patient and exit as I say. The grown-ups will exit first, then the kids. We’ll go by row and I’ll be the last one out, okay?”

“Yes Ms. Minatozaki!” The kids respond, and you admire how much they seem to trust and adore the teacher.

Getting everyone out of the bus was easy, each kid listened and Sana told the parents to keep them in a group once they had gotten out. Once the disembarking had finished, Sana made sure that everyone was present, taking another headcount. After knowing that no one had wandered away, she smiled and kindly ordered them to follow her.

After the guides had introduced themselves, given a brief description and synopsis of what the museum offered, and handed out maps, the class was split into groups of four. There were exactly twenty-eight students, seven guardians and/or parents, and Sana. With that amount of people, it was easy to make the groups.

Originally, Hana was set to be in the group that you and Jihyo would watch over, but Hana insisted that you switch with the parent paired with Sana. Jihyo and Hana talked for a few seconds, which you had noticed from the corner of your eye. They exchanged smiles and understanding nods, and whatever they plotted somehow allowed you to be with this wonder of a woman.

And so, you’re with Sana now.

Sana is happy to accept her new partner; in fact, she’s more than happy to spend time with the woman she’s been gushing over for weeks.

The groups decide to pick their own section in the museum to start at and make their way through the whole place from there, making sure to meet in a few hours.

Your group had seven kids, and each group did. You and the young teacher had stumbled across a certain section with an adult that would give the kids a thirty-minute detailed guided tour, leaving you and Sana to wait alone together and wander around the nearby exhibits. You two would’ve joined in on the tour, but of course, the max capacity was eight people.

You had insisted that Sana should go join, after all, it was her class. Sana, being the caring person she was, had assured you it was okay if she missed the tour and stayed with you. The tour guide had made sure that he would take care of the kids, after all, the exhibit was mainly for young kids like them, and he had dealt with many before.

Fate decided that you two spend more time together, and this time, alone.

“Have you been to this museum before?” You ask.

“No, you?”

“Once.” You mumble, “In high school.”

“You’ve lived here since high school?” Sana questions, suddenly invested. You nod and look at the painting in front of you,

“I’ve lived here since I was in fifth grade, but in the more suburban area, rather than here in the city.” You simply respond.

“Well,” Sana hums, “Maybe you could show me around sometime.”

“W-what?” You practically choke out, a blush creeping to your cheeks.

“I moved here at the beginning of the year, I’m still a bit new.”

“I see,” You begin, trying to recompose yourself, “Yeah, It’s a nice area. I wouldn’t be against the idea of showing you around.”

Sana smiles and turns to face you again, “Maybe you could start by showing me around the museum? We have twenty-five minutes.”

There’s a sudden nervousness that spreads throughout your whole body, as well as a warmth that spreads across your chest. Sana wants you to show her around, and she asks you like it’s a normal request (it is, but you figure it’s not because the person asking is particularly striking).

You nod your head and respond with a small, “Okay.” and her radiant grin grows.

The exhibits were all unique in their own way – some were filled with modern art, some with abstract art, and even some with Renaissance art. Each section had works that were all tremendously striking; however, the most beautiful thing in the museum had been by your side the whole time.

Sana makes her way to a pleasant-looking painting, something floral. Maybe it’s an oil painting? She can’t really tell, but it sure is a wonder. It’s detailed and vibrant, the colors complement each other well with such a diverse color selection. Each stroke seems to have been placed so carefully, every single swipe of paint complimenting the stroke next to it.

Sana stares at the painting with much interest, “This one is beautiful,” she says in awe.

“Very…” you hum, though, you aren’t observing the painting,

Your eyes are fixated on her.

The day goes by quickly, unfortunately.

You and Sana aren’t able to indulge in many conversations as you two were busy making sure everyone was still nearby and not running off.

The kids finish the painting activity that was scheduled for them at the end of the trip, and they leave the museum with their hand-crafted art. everything had gone by too fast, you wished it hadn’t, then maybe, you could admire Sana for just a few moments longer.

Sana helps everyone get situated on the bus, so you end up sitting down first and getting the window seat this time. You wait for her.

Sana sighs as she sits down next to you, a bit worn out from the day and keeping everyone in check.

You try to ignore the contact that her shoulder makes with yours when she shifts to get more comfortable in the seat, and you also try to ignore the fact that your knees touch a little, just for the sake of your sanity. Sana seems to be unbothered by the physical touch, and she looks at you innocently,

“I think the kids enjoyed it.” She says proudly, resting her head on the seat. She turns her head a little so that she’s looking at you with the most soft, tender look in her doe eyes, “Did you?”

“Of course.” You say, voice just above a whisper. Of course I enjoyed it, who wouldn’t enjoy their time with a woman like you? You think. Sana lets out another content sigh, and she rests her head against your shoulder a bit, not even bothering to think about how bold the action is, she's too tired and she figures you wouldn't mind – you don't mind at all.

“I’m glad.” she mumbles, and you hope she can’t hear your heart beating out of your chest, “Wake me up before we get back?”

“Of course.” You hum lowly. Her eyes close and her weight seems to shift onto your shoulder more. Your cheeks redden and you let out a small breath as you relax into the seat – you couldn’t be any happier.

The chaperones and their kids bid their farewells to Sana, though you stay a bit longer since Hana and Jiyeong want to hang out more. Your mind wanders a bit and you can’t help but stare into the distance, and your gaze somehow manages to land on Sana as you remember what she had said: Maybe you could show me around sometime? The words seem to replay in your head, a thought pops up in your mind.

Jihyo looks over to see you in a trance, and she chuckles to herself as she notices what – or, who your eyes are fixated on,

“Did you two have fun?” The shorter woman asks, a smirk tugging at her lips. Your head turns quickly to her in surprise, cheeks turning a bit red as you realize you’ve gotten caught staring. Jihyo laughs at you playfully, shifting her look towards the woman you had been admiring before, “Sana was really excited to be able to spend time with you today.”

“M-me?” You stutter out, mentally punching yourself for such a response.

“You two are oblivious, I could tell from the few interactions I saw.” Jihyo sighs.

You look back at Sana, who’s now walking over with a smile on her lips. She looks at you first, then at Jihyo when she meets with the two of you again,

“Everyone just left, sorry for making you wait, Jihyo.” Sana sighs. Her shoulders are drooping down a bit, and she seems ready to go home and rest again, though this time on her bed and not your shoulder (much to your dismay).

She turns to eye you again, and suddenly she’s full of life, as if the energy that had been squeezed out of her had suddenly come back.

“Ah, y/n. I’m happy that you were able to chaperone. I’ll see you…?” She trails off for you to respond, or in this case, finish her sentence, because she hopes to see you again this week.

“Um, I don’t think I’m picking up Hana for the rest of this week. My shifts go on until five because I took today off.” You explain, “So, next week.” You nod. There’s a familiar thought from earlier that crosses your mind, you avoid the woman’s gaze and try to forget about it.

Sana notices you biting the inside of your cheek and breaking eye contact as if you were about to say something to her. Sana decides to let it be.

“Well, we’ll be going now Y/n,” Jihyo says, almost sighing. She looks you dead in the eye and raises a brow, almost as if she could read your mind earlier, almost as if she were urging you to go through with your sudden thought.

“Yeah… Me too. Um, yeah.” Your words are tumbling off the tip of your tongue from nervousness, “Hana, let’s go. Your dad must be waiting at home.” You finally say, waving to the two women and Jiyeong.

As you depart, Jihyo looks at you slightly disappointed.

You’re back in the car after saying goodbye and you stare out the windshield while holding onto the wheel, simply thinking.

The sight of Jihyo and Sana catches your eye from the side-view mirror, and there’s a sudden rush of confidence that takes over.

“Hana, I’ll be back in a bit.” you quickly say.

Your fingers fumble with the seatbelt that refuses to unbuckle due to your nervousness, though you manage and hurry to open your car door, rushing out. You’re trying your best to prepare yourself for whatever the fuck it is that you’re about to do, your jaw tensing up and your hands trying to straighten up the denim jacket you have on. Self-consciousness and worry took over, but you ignore it, you can’t have Jihyo looking at you like you’re a big loser the next time you see her, can you?

So, here you are.

Jihyo notices you first and raises her brows in amusement, Sana notices you after seeing Jihyo’s expression shift.

“Hey, Sana,” You say with a surprising amount of confidence. You clear your throat and your eyes dart to anywhere else but Sana’s eyes, “Can I talk to you for a moment,” You ask, “Alone.” and you practically mumble that last word. Sana tilts her head and Jihyo smiles knowingly,

“I’ll be in the car,” Jihyo says amused, then grabs her daughter's hand with hers, urging her to come with and leave the two of you alone.

You and Sana are alone now, in the middle of a barely filled parking lot.

“Did you need something?” Sana questions. You nod and it takes a bit for you to continue talking, the words in your mouth getting tangled in your tongue.

“Uh, well.” god, you really need to get a grip. “At the museum, you uh, you mentioned, well - you said, you said maybe I could show you around sometime? I mean I can. I hope you’re still up for it, I mean,” You close your eyes out of embarrassment and turn your head to the side a bit, and you really try to compose yourself this time.

“This Sunday, yeah. There’s always a flea market on Sundays, they’re on until around eight. We should go, I mean if you’d like. What I’m trying to say is I’d really like to show you around.” You finally say, you say what you’ve been thinking and you say it without tripping over your words.

“You’re asking me out?” Sana asks playfully,

“You implied that you wanted me to.” You simply say, making eye contact with her again. Now it’s Sana’s turn to be all flustered as she looks up at you. Your eyebrows are slightly raised as you wait for an answer, and her cheeks are dusted a faint shade of pink as you waited for a response,

“So?” You question again,

“I’d love that,” Sana says almost immediately.

“Really? I mean, yeah- yes. Okay, that’s,”

“You’re so cute.” is what Sana says, and it has your heart skipping a beat, Sana’s heart too, “Let me get your number, so you can text me the details?”

“Yeah, here.” You respond, handing her your unlocked phone.

You both exchange numbers, and before departing you can’t help but grin at each other, and you grin at each other for a while.

Mission success.

You agree to pick up Sana from her place in the evening around five.

Your fingers tap against the wheel of your car and you tap your foot anxiously as you wait. There’s a sound that’s heard from your phone as it vibrates against the cup holder, and you immediately check to see what it is. There’s a message from the young teacher and your eyes light up immediately as you open it,

Sana

I’m on my way out right now

Can’t wait

y/n

Take your time

Can’t wait to see you

You probably look like a fool who's in love as you read her message, reply, and hit send because you’re smiling at the screen and biting your lip slightly from the rush of excitement that courses through your veins.

Sana shows up a couple of minutes later.

Your eyes widen almost immediately and your cheeks are definitely tinted – no, fully crimson. Your grip on the wheel tightens, and it seems to do so every time you see the wonderful woman. Your heart does flips and beats at an unhealthy rate as you take in everything about her.

She wears something so striking, but slightly casual too. She has on a black blazer, almost a jacket, you think. It’s worn over a black shirt and the tops she wears are complimented by silver jewelry that loops around her neck, sitting just above her collarbone level. She’s wearing dark jeans that are just slightly loose around her legs, and casual sneakers to really top it off.

She’s so incredibly stunning that it makes you wonder if you’re dreaming.

Sana waves as she makes her way over and you’re trying your best to act normal – or at least act like this woman isn’t making you completely lose your cool.

“Hey.” She says, getting in your car,

“Hi.” You say in awe, “You look beautiful.” and that’s just an understatement. You’re unable to look away from her as if your eyes were a moth and she was the flame drawing you in. Sana simply smiles and she’s extremely flattered by your compliment, as well as the way your lips slightly part while you check her out.

“Thank you.” Sana responds as she puts on her seatbelt, “You look really cute.”

You’re going to explode.

“Thanks.” You mumble, quickly turning your head away and back to the steering wheel. Sana plays the passenger princess role too well, with emphasis on the princess part because her looks are something you would expect to see from a descendant of royalty, something in a renaissance painting that has the words 'do not touch' beside it. You adjust the rearview mirror for no apparent reason as it’s already been adjusted, but you’re doing anything to distract yourself from the jaw-dropping sight to the right of you.

As you drive toward the city, there’s the faint sound of a slow romance song playing. The mood is extremely intimate and romantic, you’re having trouble focusing on driving as your heartbeat ups its pace.

It takes about fifteen minutes to get to the flea market area downtown. Fifteen minutes of small conversation and Sana’s gaze on you every couple of minutes.

You two arrive and you turn off your engine, making sure to get out first and open the door for Sana. She gets out and smiles at you sweetly, which makes you smile back. You close the car door for your passenger princess.

The brisk winter air carries a hint of anticipation that invites everyone to immerse themselves in the weekly event. It’s early winter and darkness envelops the slightly crowded, dimmed, and busy streets. the sun had almost set completely, though there are bright lights that illuminate the areas which seem to be hidden away from the lamp posts that lighten up the main streets. Each store and vendor has its own uniqueness, selling different types of items, clothing, accessories, and more.

You and Sana walk towards the flea markets, the space between you two getting smaller and shoulders occasionally brushing every now and then. The two of you explore and interact with any vendor or stand that seems to have anything interesting, which helps you learn about one another.

Sana learns that you have an interest in old rings, silver ones specifically. You buy three silver rings, and it all ended up being ten dollars in total. She learns that you have a liking towards graphic t-shirts; in fact, you buy two while walking around. Sana had picked out both for you, telling you that you’d look cute in them, making your cheeks flush, though your cheeks might've been red ever since you laid your eyes on her.

You buy an old vintage camera and film for less than thirty dollars, and Sana thinks it’s so extremely cute how your face lights up after you purchase the two items, holding them up as if they were trophies you had won.

You learn that Sana seems to love jewelry, and she buys various bracelets and necklaces for herself and even buys one of each for you. You insist that it’s okay and you don’t need it, but you give in when she looks at you with those puppy eyes – you learn that you can’t say no to her. Sana buys a few samples of fragrances, and she explains that she’s always had a thing for collecting different scents, you think it’s adorable.

You’re the one who had asked Sana on this date, but she’s the one who ends up dragging you to every little section that manages to catch her attention. The knuckles that brush against each other lead to the intertwining of fingers and flushed cheeks.

After almost two hours of walking around and exploring, you two decide to relax and get ice cream, even in the cold weather because the two of you are warmed up enough from just being around each other, ice cream won’t hurt anyone.

“Have you tried this ice cream place before?” You ask Sana, who’s taking a picture of the dessert in front of her. She shakes her head,

“No, you?”

“Twice. Once in high school with Johnny and last year with Hana.” You explain, taking a bite from the sweet treat in front of you. It’s matcha flavored, though the sweetness is still there. The strength of the matcha is more prominent than the coconut base, just how you like it.

Sana melts as she takes a bite of her strawberry ice cream, her eyes lighting up and shoulders relaxing. You can’t help but laugh.

“What?” Sana questions,

“You’re just really cute.” You simply say, taking another bite of your ice cream. Sana’s heartbeat quickens. Sana tries to compose herself in front of you, changing the topic of the conversation,

“So,” She clears her throat, “What do you like to do? It’s a cliche and unavoidable question, but other than being a barista do you do anything else?”

“I actually write a little. I used to write for some art articles online, I still do it every now and then.” You explain, “You?”

“Just teaching.”

“Did you always want to teach?”

“Yeah, actually. I’ve always liked helping others and I don’t know, I like encouraging the kids.”

“That’s cute.” You mumble, “You’re so cute.”

The night goes on and you two learn more than just about your interests in occupations. Sana learns that you rock climb every weekend, which explains why you’re so unbelievably athletic looking and toned. She finds your love for cooking and making drinks extremely cute and admirable, it seems as if the more she learns about you, the more she falls for you. She learns that you moved to the city with Johnny when you were 18, and that was the same time Hana had been brought into your life, one of the best things the universe had given to you. You’re the type of person who lives life to experience the beauty the universe has to offer, she thinks that’s amazing.

You learn that Sana had moved with the help of Jihyo and that they had been friends since college, Jihyo was also the reason Sana had landed her current job. Sana shares that she’s an only child, and in contrast to you, she wasn’t the athletic type really. You notice how bubbly she is talking to you, her more professional demeanor had completely broken down and a new, lively side was revealed. Sana is incredibly talkative and she rambles a lot, you think – no, you know you could get used to this.

The night had gone by too fast, Sana is back in your car again and you’ve just reached her apartment complex.

It seems that time spent with Sana seems to go by too quickly, and you hope that there's a chance of being able to spend more than just a couple of hours with her.

“Thank you for everything y/n, I really enjoyed tonight.”

“It’s no problem,” You start, “I’m glad you liked downtown.”

“Maybe you could show me around again sometime? I’d really like to do this again.” Sana says, and her toothy grin is so bright it nearly outshines the lights in your car.

“I’m not against that at all.” and you think you might die right then and there from the way your heart beats, and you want this moment to last forever; just you and Sana together.

“I’ll see you then, text me.”

“Yeah,” you breathe out. She opens the car door and your heart breaks slightly, not ready for her to leave just yet.

Sana seems to have read your emotions because she pauses before she gets out and turns to you.

“Wait,” She begins, “I forgot something.”

Before you ask her what it is that she had forgotten, she seems to answer your question before you can even let any words out of your mouth,

her lips are suddenly on yours.

The contact is sudden and you’re a bit unprepared, but you easily grow accustomed to it and kiss right back, eyes fluttering shut. Sana’s lips are so incredibly soft on yours, and the scent of vanilla and fruit is takes over your senses. Sana pulls away and your lips chase for hers again, and when they meet again it’s like the oxygen from Sana’s lungs had been snatched. Your hand moves to cup her cheek and your shoulders relax in the moment because it feels as if nothing else in the world matters except for her, as if all your worries had vanished just like that. Sana moves her hand to your neck and gently caresses it as you two share a few more soft, slow, and steady kisses, there’s no rush as if this moment would last forever. You two are practically unable to pull away from how much you both like the feeling of each other's lips on one another.

You want to live in this moment forever.

You two finally pull away after what had seemed like forever, though your hands seem to linger on each other a bit and both of your lips are parted slightly. Your lips are still so close that they’re slightly brushing against each other, butterflies are in your stomach and you’re forgetting how to breathe, think, or even function.

“I’ve been wanting to do that ever since I saw you.” Sana mumbles against your mouth, “You’re so cute.”

If you were in a cartoon right now, you’d think your heart would be dramatically beating out of your chest, and your jaw would be on the floor. You pull away a bit and it’s almost impossible to make eye contact with Sana, but you manage to do so anyway.

“I think I might die right here right now.” You mumble, it’s the only thing you can say or think of in the moment. Sana giggles and presses another soft peck on your lips,

“Let’s do this again.”

“Yeah.” You breathe out.

the light from the car shows her flushed cheeks and warm smile as she leans away from you, opening the car door and smiling at you one more time as she closes it. She turns to leave and you’re left in the car alone, your heart beat slowly beating back to its normal pace.

You put a hand on the wheel and grip it tightly, still processing what just happened before smiling to yourself and driving away from the apartment complex.

Sana has you head over heels, and you want to kiss her again and again.

Chaemin had been teaching the new high school student that had been hired. He helped her measure out the espresso grinds, telling her how many grams would be needed for whichever drink, and she listened carefully.

“Hello.” A customer beams, Chaemin turns his head.

“Hello, I’ll be with you in a moment.” Chaemin starts, giving the woman a friendly smile, “Eunchae, just measure out the grinds and pull a shot. Give it a try and I’ll be back.” He says to the young, new employee.

Chaemin walks over to the register and taps at the screen. He gives the woman his signature smile and greets her,

“Hi, what can I get started for you?”

“Oh, I’m not ordering, I was just wondering if y/n was here?”

Chaemin quirks a brow, “Y/n?”

“Yeah, she should be off in ten minutes, no?”

“She’s off soon, just putting stuff in the back. You are...?”

“Sana.”

Ah.

“So you’re the woman she’s been gushing over.” Chaemin laughs, “God she has not stopped talking about you since she met you.”

Sana’s smile grows a bit from the sudden remark and she laughs,

“I see… That’s sweet.”

“You had her going insane for three months.” Chaemin jokes playfully, “I’m glad she finally found a way to ask you out. I haven’t heard her complaining as much about not being able to take you out for about two months or something, though she’s still always gushing about you.”

Sana and Chaemin talk about you for a bit, laughing at your antics and Chaemin decides to tease you here and there. The two get along very well, and Sana is very happy about that.

“You know one time, I think, maybe before you two started dating? She came in the morning and asked me what a ‘young teacher usually order at a cafe’ and I swear she almost-” Chaemin gets cut off when you push him aside, pushing his face away with your hand and squishing his cheeks. He groans.

“Alright that’s enough.” You say, embarrassed. “Whatever he said, do not listen.”

Sana giggles and it’s time for you to stop being annoyed by Chaemin and start smiling at the girl you’ve been with for almost three months now. Chaemin narrows his eyes at your sudden mood change, scoffing playfully.

“Hi, Sana.” You say all giddy, “You didn’t tell me you were stopping by,”

“I wanted to see you. It’s also Friday, maybe we could-”

“Yes.” You cut her off, “I’m down for whatever.”

Chaemin rolls his eyes at you, chuckling to himself, “You’re so-”

“Go back to teaching Eunchae.” You retort, narrowing your eyes and Chaemin can't lie you look scarier than usual, you are infatuated with this woman.

“I’m not letting this go.” Chaemin finally sighs, walking back over to Eunchae.

Your attention is back on Sana, who’s smiling at you, “Dinner?” she asks,

“Yeah.” you respond, “Where?”

“My place?” Sana suggests, you nod,

"Let me get my stuff and I can drive us."

"Okay." She beams.

You two grow extremely fond of each other after spending more time together as a couple. Three months of being together turned into four months, six months eight, and suddenly you’re together for a year. Each and every second that passed by while you were with her is another moment that you had fallen more in love.

You love Sana for so many reasons.

She's the only one you want to see when you roll over in the morning, the only one you want to kiss awake after intimate nights after seeing her with her oh-so-messy hair flowing down in different directions around her. You love to carry her to your now shared living room and set her on the couch while you make her coffee, her giving you the kisses you can never get enough of, ones that you reciprocate and smile into. You love her radiant smile and the way her nose scrunches up when she giggles at you for slipping and falling on accident, you love the sound of her high-pitched giggles so much that you would purposely slip and fall over and over again just to hear her laugh again and again.

As you grow more attracted and attached to Sana, the physical aspects of her seem to disappear for a moment, you fall for not just her outside beauty, but all the internal aspects. You’re in love with how comfortable she makes you feel – you can sit in silence for hours and there are no words that need to be said because you two simply just enjoy each other's presence. You’re in love with how caring she is, she naturally is a caring person, she always has been. She’s always looking after kids at her job, making sure they’re all satisfied and happy – then she comes home to you, making sure you’re loved, and you return the favor. She’s beautiful not because of the way her features fit perfectly on her face, but because she makes you feel so giddy and happy. She makes you smile and that’s the thing that really makes her so captivating.

You’re in love with all of her, from her physical beauty to her caring heart. She is the one who you love so tenderly, so warmly, you love her and it’s real, genuine, and you don’t think you could ever love anyone the way you love her.

Sana also loves you for many reasons. She’s been in love with you since the day she saw you – whether she knew it or not.

The first time Sana had woken up next to you she knew she wanted to be with you forever.

Her nose was buried in the crook of your neck and her arm was lazily thrown across your chest while her legs were tangled with yours. The only thing that was heard that morning was your slow, labored breaths, and Sana could feel your chest rise up and down with each one. A smile had formed on her lips as she traced your jawline, her heart fluttered and the moment was so simple, yet so soft. Sana wanted to live in the moment forever.

Sana loved you because you were there when she needed a pillar of support, you were her pillar of support. She loved you because you loved and cared for everyone important to you, whether it was your parents, Johnny, or Hana, you loved them all so deeply and it was so genuine that it made Sana so incredibly happy to realize that you would love her as much as you loved them – it’s almost as this love that you had for everyone you cared about was the most precious thing in the world, and she was someone you shared it with.

Sana loved the late-night drives with you, humming softly to the romantic music that would play. She loved the way you’d mumble sleepily in the morning, your cheek squished against the pillow, it was a cute sight. She adored you when you would pull her aside and serenade her to slow songs in the living room during the evening, and she loved when you'd cook or make coffee for her, how you’d kiss her as she fell weak to your touch, and so many other things that not enough words could ever describe.

Sana felt so lucky to have you in her life, she was so glad that your niece had her as a teacher because if she didn’t she wouldn’t have met you. You were so glad that Hana had helped you get to know her kindergarten teacher, you were so glad that Johnny had that business trip because it allowed you to meet Sana.

You’re so glad that a five-year-old helped you meet the love of your life, you're so damn glad.

#sana imagines #sana x reader #kpop x reader #twice sana #twice x reader #twice #twice imagines #minatozaki sana #sana twice

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captain-hawks · 3 months

Note

Hi 💝 yuta okkotsu + coffee + green

yuuta okkotsu x reader

c: timeskip yuuta, fluff, feels

It’s not the warm, gentle breeze filtering in through the window that stirs you from sleep—nor is it the insistent chittering of the birds perched in the tree nearby, or the bright morning sunlight that floods across your rumpled sheets.

—it’s the fragrant smell of coffee wafting through the house, your tired eyes flying open the moment the scent hits you.

You don’t drink coffee.

Throwing back the sheets, you stumble out of bed and dash out of the room.

You don’t drink coffee.

The laminate flooring squeaks beneath your bare feet as you skid to a stop in the kitchen, heart clumsily skipping a beat at the sight of the man leaning back against the counter, an ugly, green mug with a chip in it clutched in one hand.

It’s hideous, really—it looks woefully out of place amongst every other cup lined up in your cabinets.

It was presumptuous of whomever made it in the first place, to think someone would want to drink out of something such an unpleasant shade of green.

—that’s exactly what you said when you plucked it up off of the shelf in a flea market stall years ago, laughing so hard at the agreeing frown on Yuuta’s face that it went clattering to the ground. Still not quite past the boundaries of friendship at the time, you’d both been flustered when you bumped heads and brushed hands as you dove to the floor to rescue it before the old woman sitting at the register nearby could notice.

And naturally, rather than letting you sneak the ugliest mug in the world back on the unfortunate shelf from whence it came, Yuuta insisted on buying it once he realized that you’d chipped it.

It’s such a goddamn ugly mug.

—and you’ll keep it forever, probably.

He smiles at you conspiratorially over the rim.

You don’t drink coffee, but he does.

“You’re home,” you whisper, biting your lower lip to suppress the size of the grin spreading across your face as you look at Yuuta. “A week early.”

The black strands of hair that frame his face have grown longer in the months that he’s been away, and you step forward, unable to deny yourself the need to card your fingers through the soft locks. Yuuta hums, his posture relaxing under the weight of your familiar touch, the looseness in his shoulders at odds with the dark circles that linger below his lower lashes.

You’ve missed him so much—so much that it hurts, a splintering ache that’s settled deep in your bones.

“And you’re up early,” he muses, eyes sparkling with mirth as he reaches up and prods at a rogue strand of your sleep-mussed hair.

One of his hands comes to rest along the curve of your hip, the steady, seeping pang in your chest giving way under the warm pressure of his touch fluttering along your nerve endings.

You roll your eyes fondly and lament, “I just couldn’t resist the smell of hot bean water.”

Yuuta’s tongue darts out, passing over his lips, and he huffs, fingertips skating along your collarbone. A shiver dances down your spine as he drags them up the side of your neck, middle finger tracing the curve of your jaw before he finally takes your chin between his thumb and pointer finger.

“Morning breath,” you grimace, despite the emotions swelling inside of you at the soft promise of his mouth hovering inches away.

“Don’t care,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip. “Coffee breath?”

“Don’t care,” you echo.

Yuuta laughs, the noise reverberating through the kitchen and dripping like honey down the taut, yearning strings of your heart.

It’s a rich, beautiful sound.

One you’d do anything to hear.

One you’d trade for nothing—save for the quiet that follows when his lips finally find yours.

#yuuta okkotsu #yuta okkotsu #yuuta okkotsu x reader #yuta okkotsu x reader #okkotsu yuuta x reader #okkotsu yuuta #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen fanfiction #dee writes

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lila-lou · 21 days

Text

✨Nothing he couldn't handle Pt. 2/3✨

Summary: I hate summaries, so this is part 2 of "Nothing he couldn´t handle".

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader

Warnings: Language, touching and teasing, slightly anxious Reader, Ben being a dick, Ben being also a soft little bean

Word Count: 3121

A/N: English isn’t my first language, so please be lenient. 💙✨

As you woke up in Ben’s bed, a mix of emotions swirled inside you. Countless nights had passed with you longing for this moment, yearning for his touch, yet always holding back, afraid of what it might lead to. Ben lay beside you, his steady breathing a comforting rhythm.

Your head rested on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall with each breath he took. A sense of contentment washed over you as you soaked in the warmth of his body and the comfort of his presence. Your cheeks flushed with a mixture of emotions as you traced patterns on his biceps, feeling the strength beneath your fingertips.

The sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow around the room. It was a moment of tranquility, a pause in the chaos of the world outside. Wrapped in Ben’s arms, you felt a sense of security you had never known before.

As the sunlight danced across the room, you heard Ben let out a soft chuckle, his eyes still closed but clearly awake. “Enjoying the view, are we?”, he teased.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Oh, absolutely”, you replied.

Ben finally opened his eyes, a mischievous glint dancing in them as he gazed at you. "Well, then, don't just admire from afar", he said, his voice laced with a hint of teasing arrogance. "Come closer".

You raised an eyebrow at his audacity but couldn't suppress the smile that crept onto your lips. With a playful roll of your eyes, you obliged, shifting closer to him.

Before you could react, Ben's hands slid down to grip your ass cheeks firmly, pulling you onto his lap as he lay there. His touch was possessive, his actions confident, and a part of you bristled at the display of dominance.

"You like that, don't you?", he murmured, his voice low and smug, as if he already knew the answer.

You bit your lip, torn between amusement and irritation. "Maybe a little", you conceded, playing along.

As you settled onto his lap, you couldn’t help but feel the unmistakable hardness of his erection pressing against you, sending a shiver down your spine. It was a tangible reminder of the desire simmering between you, adding to the charged atmosphere of the moment.

Beneath you, Ben let out a low groan, his grip on your hips tightening ever so slightly. “Feel that?”, he whispered huskily, his breath hot against your ear. “You do that to me, you know”.

Your cheeks flushed at his words, a mixture of arousal and uncertainty swirling within you. Despite the undeniable attraction between you, there was still a part of you that hesitated, that feared the consequences of giving in to desire.

But Ben seemed unfazed by your internal struggle. “So”, he began, his voice a low rumble, “now that you’ve lived through the night in my bed, does that mean we can finally fuck?”.

His blunt question hung in the air, challenging you to confront the tension that had been building between you for so long.

You couldn’t help but feel a surge of frustration and disappointment at Ben’s brash question. Crossing your arms over your chest, you looked down at him, your expression a mix of defiance and longing.

“Ben, can’t we just… I don’t know, take it slow?”, you asked, your voice tinged with a hint of pleading. “I want something more than just… this”.

But Ben simply looked up at you, his gaze unwavering. “Come on, sweetheart”, he retorted, his tone tinged with impatience. “I’m not here to play house with you. I’m not some pussy who’s gonna whisper sweet nothings in your ear all night”.

His words stung, hitting a nerve deep within you. You had hoped for something more from him, something deeper and more meaningful than just physical pleasure. But it seemed that Ben was unwilling or unable to give you that.

Your heart sank at his dismissive words, a mixture of hurt and frustration bubbling inside you. “Is that all you think I want?”, you shot back, your voice trembling with emotion. “Just some meaningless sex?”.

Ben’s smirk faltered slightly at the raw vulnerability in your tone, but his stubbornness remained unyielding. “Look, I’m not saying I don’t want you”, he replied, his voice softer now but no less determined. “But I’m not about to start playing games and pretending to be something I’m not”.

Your heart ached as you listened to Ben’s words, grappling with the realization that perhaps you had been expecting too much from him. But despite the pain, you couldn’t bring yourself to walk away just yet.

“Ben, it’s not about pretending to be someone you’re not”, you began. “I don’t want you to change who you are. I just… I need you to be a bit more caring when it comes to me”.

As you poured your heart out to Ben, hoping he would understand your need for emotional connection, his expression softened, but remnants of his stubbornness remained.

"I hear you, I do", Ben replied, his voice tinged with a hint of frustration. "But you gotta understand, sweetheart, I'm not built for all that mushy stuff. I'm a man of action, not words".

"But Ben", you persisted. "I'm not asking for grand gestures or declarations of love. I just want to feel like you care, like I matter to you".

Ben's gaze flickered with annoyance, his patience wearing thin. "Look, I've got a lot on my plate right now", he retorted, his tone bordering on defensive. "I can't be worrying about every little thing you need. You're a big girl, you can take care of yourself".

His words landed like a punch to the gut, leaving you feeling small and insignificant. Despite your best efforts to communicate your needs, it seemed Ben's ego and pride were too deeply ingrained to truly understand.

You scoffed at his dismissive attitude and pushed his hands away from your hips. “You know what, Ben?”, you said, your voice laced with frustration. “Forget it. If you can’t even be bothered to show a little bit of care and respect, then I want no part of it”.

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but before he could respond, you pushed yourself off his lap. “It’s a damn no”, you declared. “I deserve better than this”.

Ben let out a frustrated groan and rubbed his face as he got up from the bed, following you into the kitchen where the rest of the team sat, their eyes flickering with curiosity at the tension between you.

“What’s going on?”, Frenchie asked, his brow furrowing in concern as he took in the scene before him.

Ignoring the curious stares, Ben turned to you, his expression a mixture of annoyance and confusion. “Why are you being such a little bitch about this?”, he demanded, his voice laced with frustration.

You bristled at his words, feeling the anger bubbling inside you. “Excuse me?”, you shot back. “I’m not the one who’s incapable of showing basic respect and decency”.

But Ben remained defiant, his pride refusing to back down. “Oh, spare me the drama”, he retorted.

Your blood boiled at his dismissive attitude, and without thinking, you let out a sharp retort. “You’re such a fucking dick, Ben”, you snapped, the words leaving your mouth before you could stop them.

Ben’s jaw clenched, his frustration evident as he took a step closer to you, his eyes blazing with intensity. “You don’t get to talk to me like that”, he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

But you refused to back down. “Why not?”, you challenged, your voice trembling with defiance. “You talk to me like I’m nothing, like I don’t even matter to you!”.

As the tension between you and Ben escalated, Butcher, who had been observing the exchange from his place on the table, finally chimed in. “Oi, calm down, both of you”, he interjected, his voice authoritative yet tinged with concern.

“You want me to calm down?”, you retorted. “Maybe if someone actually showed a shred of respect around here, I wouldn’t have to get so worked up”.

With a frustrated groan, you turned on your heel and stormed out of the kitchen.

As you disappeared from view, Butcher let out an exasperated sigh, shaking his head in dismay. "Bloody hell, can't you two ever just get along?", he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair.

Ben rolled his eyes at Butcher’s comment, clearly uninterested in addressing the situation further. Instead, he decided to follow you to your room, his steps echoing down the hallway as he made his way to your door.

As he reached your room, Ben didn’t bother to knock. Instead, he pushed the door open without hesitation.

Inside, you turned at the sound of the door opening, surprised to see Ben standing there, his expression unreadable. “What do you want?”, you asked, your voice tinged with irritation.

“Are you in your fucking period or something?”, he blurted out, his tone dripping with disdain.

You couldn’t believe his audacity. Without a second thought, you grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at him, the fabric smacking against his chest.

“I’m not on my damn period”, you snapped, your anger boiling over. “I’m just pissed off that you ruined the whole damn morning”.

But instead of showing remorse, Ben just scoffed. “Well, maybe if you didn’t act like such a bitch all the time, we wouldn’t have these problems”, he shot back.

Ben's words hung in the air, a heavy weight pressing down on you as you struggled to contain your rage. But as you glared at him, you noticed a flicker of something in his eyes – a hint of regret, perhaps, or maybe even a trace of concern.

Sighing heavily, Ben took a step closer to you, his tone softer now. "Look, I didn't mean to… I just…", he began, his voice trailing off as he struggled to find the right words.

But you weren't in the mood to hear his excuses. "Save it", you cut. "I'm done with your bullshit".

Despite your harsh words, Ben didn't back down. Instead, he reached out tentatively, as if trying to calm a wild animal. "Come on, let's just… take a breath, yeah?", he suggested, his voice gentle.

You scoffed at his feeble attempt to pacify you, but deep down, you knew he was right. You were on the edge, your nerves frayed and your patience worn thin. And as much as you hated to admit it, you needed a moment to collect yourself before you said or did something you'd regret.

Ben stood in front of you as you sat on your bed, his arms crossed over his chest. There was a moment of silence between you, the tension palpable as you both wrestled with your emotions.

Finally, Ben broke the silence, his voice gentle yet probing. "What exactly do you need from me?", he asked, his eyes searching yours for answers.

You hesitated, feeling a lump form in your throat as you struggled to find the right words. "I… I just need to know where we stand", you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

His expression softened at your vulnerability, and he took a step closer, his gaze unwavering. "And where do you want us to stand?", he pressed, his tone earnest.

You swallowed hard, gathering your courage before speaking. "I… I like you, Ben", you confessed, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "But I don't want to be just another one of the many girls you've… you know…".

Your words trailed off, the admission hanging in the air between you. You braced yourself for his response, unsure of what to expect but hoping against hope that he would understand your fears and insecurities.

A faint smirk tugged at the corners of Ben’s lips as he watched your hesitant confession. “Oh, is that so?”, he teased, his tone light but with a hint of amusement.

You felt a flush of embarrassment wash over you, cursing yourself for being so transparent. “I-I mean, it’s not like I expect anything…”, you stammered, your words trailing off as you avoided his gaze.

Ben’s teasing demeanor softened slightly as he took in your embarrassed reaction. “Relax, I’m just messing with you”, he reassured.

You let out a nervous laugh, grateful for the shift in his demeanor. “Yeah, I know”, you replied, a hint of relief evident in your voice.

But despite the lighter atmosphere, Ben let out a heavy sigh, his expression tinged with concern. “Listen”, he began, his voice softer now as he took a step closer to you. “Are you still… afraid that I might hurt you?”.

Your heart skipped a beat at his question, and you couldn’t help but feel a pang of vulnerability wash over you. “A little”, you admitted, unable to meet his gaze as you stared down at the floor.

Ben's brow furrowed with empathy as he reached out to gently tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. "I won’t hurt you”, he said firmly.

His words resonated with you, easing some of the tension that had built up inside you. With a faint nod, you found yourself believing him, trusting in his sincerity despite your lingering doubts.

As you looked up at him, his gaze softened, and without another word, he leaned down to kiss you. Your heart raced like crazy as his lips met yours, sending a jolt of electricity coursing through your body.

In that moment, everything else faded away—the doubts, the insecurities, the lingering fear. All that mattered was the warmth of his touch, the intensity of his kiss, and the promise of something more between you.

As the kiss lingered, you couldn’t shake the nagging doubts that clouded your mind. Pulling back slightly, you mustered the courage to voice your concerns. “Do you really like me, or are you just… wanting to sleep with me?”, you asked.

Ben let out an exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes before straightening back up and looking down at you. There was a moment of silence as he seemed to weigh his words carefully.

Finally, he admitted, without saying the words directly, “Look, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care about you”.

You couldn't help but smile at Ben's admission, a sense of warmth flooding your chest at his words. "Thank you", you whispered, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders.

But just as the tension seemed to dissipate, Ben couldn't resist making a snide comment. "Don't get too carried away now, sweetheart", he teased, his smirk betraying the hint of affection hidden beneath his bravado.

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at his typical behavior.

You pulled back slightly from the kiss. “Hey, how about we watch a movie in my room tonight?”, you suggested.

With a smirk, he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. "If that means I finally get to fuck you, I'm down for a movie night", he replied.

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at his brazenness, but a small laugh escaped your lips nonetheless. "Always so charming", you teased.

But beneath the playful facade, a spark of something more serious flickered between you, a silent acknowledgment of the tension that had been building between you for so long. And as you exchanged a knowing glance, you couldn't help but feel a rush of excitement at the prospect of what the night might hold.

As the evening descended and the rest of your teammates were either out or already asleep, you returned to your room after a refreshing shower and a bowl of popcorn. As you stepped inside, you froze in surprise at the sight before you.

There was Ben, already lounging on your bed, a mischievous grin playing on his lips as he held up a red lace thong between his fingers. "Well, what do we have here?", he teased, his tone laced with amusement. "I was hoping to find something like this".

You felt your cheeks flush with embarrassment as Ben teased you with the red lace thong. Swiftly, you reached out and pulled the panties from his hand, giving him a playful swat on the arm as you settled beside him, making sure to leave a few inches of space between you.

Ben raised an eyebrow at your reaction, but his smirk remained firmly in place. "Getting shy on me, huh?", he teased.

Ignoring his comment, you focused your attention on starting the movie, placing the popcorn bowl on your lap as you leaned back against the headboard.

Ben chuckled, leaning back beside you as the opening credits began to roll.

As the movie's opening credits began to roll, Ben leaned back beside you, letting out a contented sigh as he reached for some popcorn from the bowl in your lap.

"So, which movie did you pick for us tonight?", he asked, his tone relaxed.

You glanced over at him, a playful glint in your eyes. "Oh, just a classic".

Ben raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "A classic, huh? Well, I guess I'll just have to wait and see", he remarked, popping a handful of popcorn into his mouth with a grin.

As the movie progressed, you couldn't help but notice Ben's lingering gaze on you. With every subtle movement you made—crossing and uncrossing your legs, shifting position, leaning back and forth—he seemed to watch intently, his eyes tracing the curves of your body.

Unbeknownst to you, each movement revealed a little more skin, stirring a primal desire within Ben. His gaze lingered on the exposed curves, the subtle hints of flesh igniting a fire deep within him. He tried to focus on the movie, but his attention kept drifting back to you, unable to resist the allure of your presence.

As the tension between you grew palpable, Ben shifted uncomfortably beside you, trying to conceal the growing arousal stirring in his pants. He cleared his throat, attempting to distract himself from the intoxicating effect you had on him.

Despite his efforts to remain composed, Ben couldn't deny the magnetic pull you had on him.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

Part 3

Taglist: @afro-hispwriter

#jensen ackles #soldier boy #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x y/n #the boys #billy butcher

111 notes · View notes

dontloooknow · 3 months

Text

hungry, lonely, violent

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

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

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

Word count: 22k

Read on ao3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay, okay, think. What can I-

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

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

“Shit, Joel, she’s not infected!”

“Wh- Christ!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frowning, you look between them in confusion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In so many words, you’re fucked.

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

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

“Jesus Joel,” the boy says.

“She told me to!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I guess not.”

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

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

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

“Is this how all patrols are?”

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

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

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

“No,” you repeat sourly.

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

“No.”

He exhales. “You say anything else?”

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, go ahead. Thanks Jesse.”

“Sure thing.”

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

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

“Yeah?”

“Help me with this.”

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

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

“Hold on tight,” says Joel.

What other choice do you have?

———-

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

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

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

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

Not unlike yourself, really.

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

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

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

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

What if he’s done something to it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again, he nods. “You’ve heard of it?”

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

“It’d be hard to,” he agrees gruffly.

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

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

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

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

In lieu of a reply, you just nod warily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t shoot me,” he repeats sternly.

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

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

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

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

“Wait, before what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wow,” is all you can manage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s so unfair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” is all you get in reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod hesitantly.

“How’s your head?”

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

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

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

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

Quizzically, he nods. “Uh, yeah.”

“Real food?”

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

“In a can?”

His expression softens marginally. “No.”

Fuck. Real fresh vegetables?

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

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

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

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

Then, he heads into the kitchen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How long have you been in here?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh. Yeah it’s okay. Thanks.”

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

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

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

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

Ellie Winter Clothes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You like it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was really good,” you reply hesitantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” you agree quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” you demand, voice going sour.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wasn’t gonna say that.” He frowns.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhm. Yours?”

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

“How old are you, anyway?”

“Old. Yourself?”

“Not old. Not young, either.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You suddenly remember something you forgot to tell Joel.

“I used your sponge,” you say abruptly.

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

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

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

“I rinsed it clean,” you tell him.

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

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

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

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

“Dishwasher?” you ask, confused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Boston.”

“Atlanta.”

“Heard that one ain’t a cakewalk.”

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

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

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

“Just not dishwashers.”

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

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

“I didn’t-“

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

“I left it upstairs,” you admit.

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

“My room?”

Your room, indeed.

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s a bed.

“Must’a been hard,” Joel notes.

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

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

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

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

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” he asks.

“What’s your last name?”

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

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

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

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

______________________________________________________________________

The days go like this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well...not completely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I shoulda locked the-”

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

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

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

His jaw tenses. “You look upset.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright,” Joel says, voice rough.

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

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

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

“Okay,” you reply, swallowing hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

__________________________________________

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

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

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

“Look, you gotta eat, alright?”

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

“Is this about-”

“No, I swear.”

“Please?”

It had been hard to say no to that one.

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

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

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

So, you toss and turn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod half-heartedly. “Yeah.”

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

“Okay, yeah.”

“Get some sleep.”

“Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll choke her out,” one suggested.

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

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

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

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

After a while, you got hungry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You remember knowing that you would never be okay again.

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

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

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

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

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

A burden.

Alone.

Broken.

“Hey.”

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

You gasp.

Alone.

Burden.

Broken.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You exhale in a stunted whoosh.

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

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

“Attagirl, good job.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Panic leaks into your veins, memories of the road, cold and lonely and frightening.

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

You want to tell him you’re afraid. You want to admit it; be forthcoming about just how damaged you are. You want to tell him just how heavily you’ve come to rely on his steadying presence, his warm food, his laugh, the way his eyes crinkle up and his teeth show when you make him happy.

You’re so, so scared. So alone, so petrified, not at all as tough as you’d like him to think.

But the last time you admitted you were afraid, you lost everything in the blink of an eye. Your own weakness, always your undoing.

“You’re okay,” Joel says into your hair, not realizing he’s speaking empty words into a hollow recipient, “I gotcha. You’re safe. I’m here.”

You can’t tell him how badly you want him to stay. That will only make him leave.

“Joel,” you repeat, breathless, unsure of what else to say.

“M’here honey.” He reaches down with one hand, cups your face in the rough of his palm, strokes his thumb over the delicate line of your cheekbone. And you feel safe.

Desperately, you lift your own trembling hands, taking his cheeks in them. He seems surprised, but doesn’t pull back, allowing you to explore with your own frail fingers. You trace the bridge of his large nose, the slope of his full lips, the broad jaw and stern forehead. His eyelashes flutter, and you move yourself closer, cradled in his arms, faces only inches apart.

“M’here,” is all he says. And you must be tired of hearing it, surely you must, but you can’t find that anywhere within yourself. All you feel is safe.

You don’t know exactly how it happens. Your face moves, his does too, hurried breaths and warmed air between you. His lips press into yours, soft and lush and tender. You don’t know who leaned in first, but you feel his caution, his carefulness as you deepen the kiss from something superficial to something that has meaning.

He allows you to part his mouth with your tongue, falling into one another as your noses bump. His grip tightens around you, and you’re awash in the smell of lemon soap and mint, the itch of the quilt beneath you, the squeak of a mattress underneath your combined weight.

After a few seconds, your lips part. Your noses touch, the frame of your foreheads making a heart against the shadows of moonlight through your window. His hands cup your face, rough and calloused, yet unbelievably gentle all at once. It’s as though his grasp is a shield, impenetrable and solid. You’ve never felt so safe, so cared for, so protected.

And so, so scared.

Now that you’re here, safe and cocooned in this warm house, this gentle society, the arms of this incredible man…

How can you ever let yourself love something that would hurt so badly if it were lost? You’ve done it before. You can’t do it again.

“D’you wanna talk about it?” Joel rasps, thumb still soothing small lines over your cheek.

You shake your head quickly, but the words spill out as if in spite of your body’s intentions. “Just… mm. My parents. My brother. Just-that’s all.”

“Oh,” he murmurs, “what…can I ask what-”

“Raiders. I was twelve.”

At this, he looks down at your face, brows furrowed. “You saw it?”

“Yeah, I got away. They let me go, I mean. After some debate.” You clear your throat, breathing settled and eyes drying with each word. You’re feeling grounded enough to be utterly humiliated. “Um, I’m really sor-”

“I know you ain’t about to apologize for havin’ a nightmare,” he interjects dryly.

“More for what happened afterward,” you mutter.

Joel’s fingertips tuck a lock of hair back behind your ear, even though it falls right back out again. “Now why on earth are you apologizin’ for that?”

Because I can’t stay.

Limply, you shrug.

He laughs, that low, dry sound. It smooths from his chest like a bass drum, reverberating in your ears. And you smile in spite of yourself, a small, gentle pull of your lips. You love making him laugh.

“Sorry I barged in,” Joel says, even though he’s still holding you in his lap like a stray dog.

“S’okay. Thanks for…thank you.”

“Don’t gotta thank me.”

“Be kinda rude if I didn’t.”

His lips twitch. “Can I ask you somethin’?”

“Okay.”

“Did you do that just now…kiss me…’cause you wanted to, or ‘cause you were upset?”

Swallowing thickly, you reply, “can it be both?”

“If it’s both, it’s both.”

“That’s fucking vague,” you grouse.

“Pot, meet kettle.” He smirks down at you.

“I’m sorry I kissed you,” you say.

“Don’t be,” he responds, “I’m not.”

You have nothing to say to that.

“You oughta get some rest.” Joel squeezes you once, then moves like he’s going to get up and leave.

Your fingers dart out to clench his shirt, gripping the soft cotton in vice like digits. Wild-eyed, you look up at him, terrified of being alone, terrified of seeing Andrew’s face again all night.

“Hey, easy.” Joel pries your fingers off his shirt. “You alright?”

“I-I-“ you stumble over the words, throat choking up. It’s all so confusing. You need to be away, pull back, stop this before it goes too far. At the same time, you’ve never needed to be close quite this badly.

“I can,” he answers a question you didn’t ask, “if you want.”

Limply, you nod.

“Go on then, scoot.” Joel gestures for you to make room on the bed, and you do. He adjusts the pillows and lies flat, opening his arm for you. You curl up at his side, cheek on his chest, listening to the steady heartbeat underneath the cotton shirt. He smells like lemon soap, and a faint musk of sweat from sleeping. It’s enticing, the mixture, and you don’t know why.

You press your face into his shirt, breathing in the security that this strange man somehow brings. You don’t know when the shift happened from him being a man you wanted to stab, to this, but it’s happened now. It’s too late to deny this: Joel means something to you.

“I’m sorry about what I said earlier,” you tell him quietly.

He hesitates. “You…didn’t say nothin’ bad. That was always the plan, for you to go out on your own darlin’.”

He’s right of course, that was the plan. For the past two weeks, all you’ve been doing is letting him take care of you. The end goal, ultimately, to help you become a functioning Jackson resident.

“But can I ask?” He continues, voice low and soft in the dark bedroom.

“Yeah?”

“Do you…do you want to leave? S’okay whatever you wanna do baby, just… that is what you want, right? To be on your own?”

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

No, no, no I don’t want to be alone. Ever again. I want to stay with you forever.

“Yes,” you lie. It’s a lie. You’re so afraid. Why can’t you just tell him the truth? Why can’t you just let someone in? If it’s gonna be anyone…well, it’d be someone like Joel.

No. Not someone like Joel. Just Joel.

“So all that time on the road,” he adjusts your body slightly, tugging you up higher on his chest so that his chin rests on your head, “didn’t make you lonesome?”

An ache in your chest, sharp and spearing overwhelms you. “It-it did.”

“N’you like bein’ lonesome?”

The lie is on the tip of your lips before he says, “be honest, honey.”

“No,” you say, shoulders deflating.

“It’s hard,” he whispers, “lettin’ people in when you lost so much before. Believe me darlin’ I get that.”

“Then you know why I have to leave,” you tell him, desperate that he’ll understand, but also hoping that he’ll argue against it.

“I know why you think you gotta leave,” he corrects.

“This isn’t good for you anyway,” you’re shaking your head as you speak, fingers splayed out on his chest, “I’m a burden to you.”

At that, he manages a small, dry chuckle. You look at him, confused by what’s made him laugh.

“Honey, havin’ you here…well, I think I needed it just as much as you did. You got no idea how much I like watchin’ you eat what I cook, listenin’ to you hum in the shower ‘cause you’re too shy to sing, watchin’ you curl up by the fireplace with that damn quilt around your head like a sherpa.” His fingers come down to cup your jaw, tracing the line of bone that leads to the curve of your chin, up to the bow in your lips. “How nice it is havin’ a pretty girl around to talk to, someone smart, someone funny, someone who’s like me.”

“Like you?” you inquire.

“Mhm.” He presses the pad of his thumb against your lips, parting them slightly as he uses his finger to study the contours of your mouth. “Someone hurt, someone who thought they had no chance in this world. Someone who can get better, if she lets herself.”

Your throat feels tight. “I don’t know if I can.”

“You’re already doin’ it, baby.” He tilts your chin up with the meat of his palm, looking down at you through the silver streaks of moonlight. “Every day you get up, eat breakfast, and keep goin’. That’s all it is. Takin’ it one day at a time. Takin’ care of yourself. Letting yourself get better, slow n’ steady.”

You blink up at him, trying to process his words. You guess he has a point; two weeks ago you barely felt human, didn’t feel like you could ever belong in a place like Jackson, or somewhere like Joel’s home. But lately, through these routines of care, you’ve begun to feel…alive again. Still agonized by loss, still hopeless and confused and frightened, but something more than that too.

“You don’t gotta stay,” he assures you, “not if you don’t want to. But don’t go just ‘cause you’re scared. Ain’t no reason to punish yourself. Not when I like havin’ you around so much.”

“What if you get tired of having me around?” you ask weakly. It’s no far stretch; every other short term partner you’ve ever had got sick of you after enough time. Every adult you roomed with in the QZ kicked you out sooner or later. Nothing is permanent, especially not people.

“You think I could at least get a chance to prove myself ‘fore you go ahead and write me off?” He smiles down at you, hand still cupping your cheek. “I actually ain’t all that bad a guy.”

“No, no,” you’re quick to reassure, “Joel, you’re the most amazing man I’ve ever met. You are- you are a good guy. It isn’t that, it’s-”

“It’s not you, it’s me, honey, that one’s a little played out.” There’s gentle amusement in his voice.

With a groan, you start to pull away. “You’re impossible.”

“Hey, m sorry.” he pulls you back in, gentle but demanding, and you concede, all too eager to lay against his warm chest. “All I'm sayin’ is, no one’s asking you for your hand in marriage or nothing. Just…stick around for a while. Let me make sure you’re real healthy, ready to go. Get some meat on these bones. Get you feelin’ good. Might take some time. Two weeks ain’t much.”

“I’ve got meat,” you defend.

He snorts. “Me too.”

“Joel-”

“S’gonna take time, that’s all I’m sayin’. Just, stay, alright? Let yourself…have this.” Joel presses a firm kiss to the top of your head.

Finally, you exhale and find yourself nodding. Although it’s against your instincts, and better judgment, you know he has a point. How can you ever get better if you don't give yourself the opportunity?

“I don’t really know how to do this,” you admit, “I’ve never really…been a person before. Y’know what I mean?”

He makes a quiet noise of consideration. “Gimme an example.”

“Like, the apple juice,” you explain in a rambly sort of voice, “or the dishwasher. I don’t know how to do things like you do. I mean, fuck, I walked in on you in the shower today.”

At that, he clears his throat. You must be imagining it, but you’re sure you can hear some sort of…something in the noise.

“That kinda stuff takes time,” he replies quietly, “s’okay.”

You arch an eyebrow. “What else am I missing then?”

“You’d have to tell me that, honey.”

Abruptly, you remember his body, naked and wet from the shower. Something about him is so desirable; whether it’s simply the masculinity of his form; hairy and strong, the impressive endowment between his legs or something else, you aren’t sure. Could it be that he’s simply an attractive man, who’s kind and thoughtful and funny? Of course.

Could it be that everything about Joel represents what you’ve always wanted? The security of this home he’s created, the warmth of his fireplace and the way he’d thought to set out mint leaves for you to chew on? The heft of his body; his large shoulders, his thick thighs, his soft stomach, well fed and dense with nutrition. He is whole, broken pieces glued back together painstakingly to build back up this incredible man. This beacon of recovery, healing, strength and happiness.

What are you missing? Everything that Joel has, it would seem. The chance to finally become the way he is… to be okay again.

And…well, it’s also been a while since you had a good fuck. That wouldn't hurt either.

The thought is so ridiculous, so sudden and inappropriate, that it makes you laugh. A real laugh; a genuine, deep-chested sound of amusement that has Joel pulling back with surprise.

“Somethin’ funny?” he inquires, arching an eyebrow at you like you’ve lost your mind.

“No, m’sorry.” You press your fingers against your lips in a pathetic attempt to stifle the laughter. “So stupid.”

“What?” he demands.

“No it’s- god Joel it’s so ridiculous I can’t-”

“Oh, just tell me damnit.”

“I was just thinking, you know, what might help make me feel normal again. Haven’t had it in a while…” you look up at him expectantly.

It takes a moment for the message to land in his brain, and his eyes widen slightly. “Oh. I-I see.”

“Yeah…” you clear your throat quietly.

“Well, shit honey. All y’had to do was ask.”

Your eyes widen. “Pardon me?”

He takes your face in his hand again, tilting your chin and gently pulling your body until you’re face to face, noses brushing. His lips twitch, eyelashes sweeping over his cheekbones as he studies your face.

“Like I said,” he murmurs, “ain’t nobody proposing marriage or nothin’. But there’s no reason you can’t…enjoy yourself. If you want to, that is.”

“You…we…are you sure?”

“Ain’t nothin’ you haven’t already seen,” he quips.

You groan. “Joel.”

A low chuckle in his chest. “Sorry baby.”

“If you’re just gonna tease me the whole time, then you can go fuck yours-”

Your retort is cut off by his lips pressing into yours, and you startle a bit, though you don’t pull back. Your body melts, tension leaking out of your shoulders at the feel of his gentle mouth on yours.

And you’re consumed. There’s nothing else in that moment except for Joel.

His mouth on yours, his tongue pressing forward until it parts your lips. His body, thick and warm against your chest. The tangle of his graying hair, the way his breath grows more heavy when you intertwine your fingers with it and tug. His hands, one cupping your cheek, keeping you close, the other delicately beginning to roam your body.

And maybe it’s wrong; hooking up with him on the heels of a horrific nightmare about losing your family, or doing it after you told him you were going to leave, or doing it at all considering you barely know each other outside of these serene, isolated two weeks of eating and sitting by the fire and laughing.

But you want him, and he’s good and you want to be a person again. You want to eat meals and drink tea and sleep with a quilt and fuck often. You want to ride a hard dick, suck on a thick, veiny cock, be caged in an embrace of big bulging arms, hear the guttural moan of a man in your ear as he cums.

It’s a hunger, like any other. The way your stomach growled and gnawed for the relief of a hot meal, your body yearned to be filled too. That warm, wet space between your legs, at times so empty and vacant you thought you might just die from the need. Fulfillment, desperate for it in all its forms. Yearning, hunger, pleas to live a life where such simple pleasures are not only permitted, but taken with ease.

It won’t make you whole, it won’t heal your scars or fix your wounds. It won’t change what’s happened or secure your future.

But for a while, no matter how fleeting, it’s going to fill you up.

Isn’t that enough for someone who’s spent so long being hungry?

“C’mere,” he murmurs, so gentle, so soft, that it’s impossible not to do as he asks. You let him readjust you so you’re sitting on his lap, slender thighs spread around his thick ones, arms hanging off his neck, foreheads pressed together as he hungrily meets your lips again. He’s warm, heat radiating off his large body, and you instinctively lean in.

“Gonna make you feel good,” Joel’s words are muffled by the skin of your jaw as he leaves lingering kisses there, slowly traveling down to your neck. His tongue flicks delicately at the column of your throat, eliciting a small moan from your lips.

It’s been so long since you’ve been touched…

“God, you’re so pretty baby.” His fingers slide into the neckline of your nightshirt, which is really just one of his. It’s so large on you that you wear it as more of a dress, the only thing guarding your intimate areas from the outside world is your solitary pair of underwear, that’s been washed to death as you wait for more fabric to come into Jackson’s seamstress to make more. You’ve been going commando a lot.

It’s your immediate instinct to argue; you haven’t been pretty for a while, you’re not sure if ever. Survival is all you know; not caring for yourself or putting effort in to appear beautiful.

But what’s the point, anyway? He’s here, he’s seen you for what you are, and he wants to make you feel good. What does it matter if you’re pretty?

Though… you do like the way it sounds coming off his lips.

“Can I…” his lips explore the small patch of skin on your neck that’s exposed above the shirt, “can I take this off, honey?”

He’s tugging lightly on the shirt, asking your permission, even though in every way you’ve really already given it. You hesitate only briefly, concerned about the state of your sickly body. Then, you nod.

Calloused hands moving with a practiced tenderness, he bunches the shirt up at the hem and carefully slides it over your head, exposing your breasts and abdomen. You hear his sharp intake of breath, feel the warmth of it washing over your skin, and for a moment you’re paralyzed with fear.

He doesn’t like what he sees. How could he? You’ve become something inhuman. Scars, bones poking through flesh, discolored bruises. You’re something so ugly and unsightly that-

“Jesus, baby, you’re beautiful.” The pad of his hand smooths out to cup your breast, his thumb brushing elegantly over the bud of your nipple, which is rapidly coming to life from the sensation. “Lookin’ so healthy these days, so so pretty. You feel better?”

Robotically, you nod. “Y-yeah.”

“Love gettin’ to feed you, baby. Watchin’ you eat my food, gettin’ healthy n’soft.” He leans in, cradling your back to keep you upright as his warm lips explore the expanse of your chest, kissing down your sternum until he replaces his thumb on your nipple with his mouth.

And he’s right, you think as you look down critically at your form. You’ve put on weight, surely not enough, not yet. But… you’re softer now, edges rounded out to a more gentle plush, knobby knees more full, bony hips more tender, slender thumb joints smoothed out.

And you do feel better. Not dizzy or aching all the time, not sore or struggling to sleep from the pain, not burning from dehydration or growling from hunger.

You’re almost there, almost as full as a person can be. So, so close.

“I like it too,” you breathe, the last word pitching up with a surprised noise as his teeth graze across your nipple. A pleasant, but unexpected motion.

“That okay honey?”

“Mmm…yes…”

“Gonna make you so soft n’happy,” he murmurs, almost more to himself than you, you think, “gonna take care a’you.”

“Okay,” you whimper, pliant in ways you’ve never been with a partner before.

You aren’t sure why, because he’s just sitting there, kissing you and holding you and telling you all of these kind things, but you feel the pooling of tension in your lower belly and the beginnings of a wet patch on your panties. It’s bizarre; other than teasing your nipple he hasn’t done much in the way of sexual advances, yet from his touch and his words alone, you need him.

And you didn’t imagine it, that his cock was big. You can feel it beneath your spread thighs, through his boxers and sweatpants, the thick girth and diamond hard weight of it pressing into the fabric.

The heat between your legs feels almost unbearable now, the growing need and tension from his ministrations of your nipple spurring you on. Your fingers tangle in the wavy hair atop his head, and you feel his lips curve into a smile around your breast.

“Mind if I take this off?” he asks, removing his lips from your skin to tug at his own shirt. You nod quickly, eagerly, watching him slide it over his head.

In the soft glow of moonlight, the contours of his body are illuminated like the artful scenes of a movie. The tendons and muscle in his large arms, bulging and pulsing each way he moves, the clench of his jaw beneath his well-groomed beard, the mapping of dark hair over his thick chest. His stomach is full, wide and round and healthy, a sturdy man in every sense of the word. A big, meaty body to match that huge cock in his pants. It’s only fitting, you think as you admire the large score of his body. He’s scarred too, like you are, the lines and wrappings of a survivor beaten into his flesh.

“Ain’t as trim as I used to be,” he remarks offhandedly, though you think you sense a beat of hesitation in his words.

Your delicate fingers trail between his pecs, smoothing the hair down there until you reach the place beneath his belly button where the hair connects to his boxers. You tug experimentally at the hemline of his pants, eyeing the desperate thing there that begs to be freed. You watch his breathing pace up, his stomach and chest moving in synchrony with each hurried breath.

So big, so full and warm and secure. Solid and strong, an impenetrable wall around you.

“You’re perfect,” you tell him, and you don’t just mean his body.

He ducks his head then, surely embarrassed by the praise, and buries his face in your neck once more. His lips and teeth graze the skin there, sucking and biting and kissing, leaving little wet spots as he moves along.

His large hands grip your hips then, lifting you with such ease it’s almost startling. He heaves you upward and then gently lays you on your back, head against the mound of pillows pushed up on the headboard. Your legs splay out before you and he positions himself above, careful not to lower his weight on to yours.

His lips return to your neck, dancing slowly down between your breasts, kissing the scarred flesh of your stomach and hips, teeth bumping into the cotton of your panties. His eyes dart up to you when he reaches them, eyebrow quirking. A question. He’s asking for permission.

You nod, too eager you’re sure.

“So pretty…” he breathes, pressing his lips to the wet fabric of your panties, eyes closing as he tastes the flowing liquid through the cotton. “‘Bout lost my cool when I saw these little things hangin’ off your pack, darlin’. Wondered what they’d look like on you, wondered what they’d look like off you…” He kisses the wet patch again, which makes your legs tense up, and slides his finger into the hemline, murmuring thoughtfully.

“Don’t fit so good anymore,” he notes, and you realize he’s right. There’s a pinch of fabric at your thigh that wasn’t there before, the mark of underwear too tight. It leaves little indents on your skin when he pulls at it, angry red marks that line the contours of your body.

“You’ve been feeding me too much,” you manage.

He chuckles at this, deep and throaty. “I think we can do better, even.”

With that, he carefully glides the panties down your legs, the stickiness of your arousal clinging to the cotton until he finally separates it from your ankles. He holds it up, admiring the damp fabric. He balls it up in his hand, and then presses it to his nose with a deep, hungry inhale.

You blink, surprised. You’ve never had a partner…do that before.

Joel’s eyes open, underwear still pressed to his nose and mouth. You can see the twitch of his jaw, the smile on his lips even though it’s hidden by your wet underwear, and it does something odd to you.

He wants you so bad, is so hungry for you that he’s taking in every piece he can, breathing in your smell, your taste, even where it clings to the underwear that used to fit you and no longer does.

It makes you need, the way he wants you. It makes you ache desperately, makes you yearn and hunger for him too. Being wanted, being desired, it’s not something you’re used to.

“Smell so nice, honey,” Joel mutters, “bet you taste even better. So sweet, so wet.” He lowers himself between your legs, grabbing your thighs in his large hands, fingers pressing into the meat.

It’s a reflex for your legs to tighten up, tension pooling at the sight of a relatively new man between them. He pauses, noticing your trepidation, and glances up at you without moving forward.

“Hey, you okay honey?” his voice is measured, composed.

You nod.

“You sure? Talk to me baby, I gotta make sure you’re alright. You here with me?”

“I want you,” you manage, “please, Joel, I want it.”

“I’ll take real good care of ya’,” he promises you in that low, sultry drawl, “be real gentle. Treat you real nice.”

You’re nodding, already lost in whatever it is he plans to do to you. You feel a brief stab of insecurity for the state of your body hair, and you want to tell him as much, but you’re afraid it’ll kill the moment.

He doesn’t seem to mind, either way, lips pressing into your inner thighs, seeming completely heedless of the thick hair there. He pulls your body closer, gripping your hips in his strong hands, bringing your dripping cunt closer.

Joel’s head drops down, lips covering a delicate pattern on your lower belly, gliding easily over the soft hair on your pelvis, finding his mouth at your lips. Experimentally, he smooths his tongue over the wet slit there, glancing up when the action makes you inhale sharply.

His eyes are teasing, mouth quirked up in a small smile. Teasing, cocky, mischievous.

“You’re g-gonna have to do better than that,” you tell him with a small curve to your lips.

“There’s that smile,” he muses, before burying his face between your legs again.

And there’s no ability to think of anything else, because he’s there. His tongue, expert and well practiced, running whirlpool motions over the bud of your clit, sucking and kissing and licking hungrily at the dripping bellow of your opening.

Every sense is alight, each breath you take heavy with elation. The bundle of nerves between your lips is in overdrive, tensing and pulsing with desperate need as he gets you closer and closer. His tongue works miracles, the speed altering at just the right moment, switching his motions at just the right interval, lapping up your sopping liquids with his tongue like a starving man at a buffet.

“Taste so fuckin’ good, baby girl,” he groans into your wet folds, “such a pretty little cunt, so wet and soft for me.”

“For you…” you echo in a whine, fists gripping the sheet that’s come up off the mattress again.

The noises are obscene, the wet squelch of his tongue against your body, the almost frantic way he devours you. Hands holding your trembling legs in place despite the way you tense and move from the sensations, face buried against your wet center, the mess of liquid dampening his face and your thighs and the sheets underneath.

You cum with a whining cry, a noise you didn’t know a person like you could make. It’s an innocent sound really, despite the debaucherous context. A noise of pure, primal pleasure, ripped from deep within your chest, a release and elation you haven’t felt in…you’re not sure if ever.

Knees clenched around his head, you’re expecting him to pull back now that you’ve gushed more fluid onto his face. But dutifully, he keeps eating. He drinks you in, the overstimulated, swollen clit beneath his lips is begging for relief, pleading to rest, but he doesn’t let it.

Joel is hungry, and he won’t leave until he’s satisfied. Until you’re both satisfied.

“Taste so good when you cum for me,” he breathes when he pulls his lips back for air, “so sweet n’wet. Cum on my face, darlin’, do it again. Wanna eat you, all of you. So wet f’me baby.”

You think you cry his name, you aren’t sure, but you rip your fingers through his thick hair, tighten your thighs around his face, tears budding at the corners of your eyes from the ruthless sensation between your legs.

Then, a thick finger, gentle and careful probing at your entrance. He slides it in just a bit, moving with caution and curiosity. You buck your hips toward him eagerly, the desperate clench of your wet cunt around nothing is almost too much to bear.

Slight relief as he glides his finger in all the way, pumping it gently in and out, back and forth to get a feel for the tightness of your slick walls. It’s been so long since anyone touched you this way, since you had anything substantial inside you, and Joel’s got the biggest fingers of any man you’ve ever met.

“That feel good baby?” he grunts as his lips ghost over your pulsing clit and his index finger smooths inside of you, “hurtin’?”

“No, good, good,” you pant.

“Good girl, attagirl.” He kisses your clit again and your hips buck once more, but he pins them down with his other hand. A second finger inside of you, matching the pace of his first, stretching you around the thick width of his digits. Preparing you for what’s to come, the massive, hard cock that’s going to spear you against the headboard.

Fuck, fuck.

“Joel,” you groan his name, feeling his fingers curl up in a crude little gesture inside you, coursing against your walls, brushing up against that place that makes you feel like you’re going to erupt. “Joel, Joel….”

He hums a low sound, lips and tongue still violently, rhythmically devouring your wet cunt. Between the pulsing thickness of his fingers, and the circular motions of his tongue on your clit, it’s not long before you white out. The pleasure is too intense, too sudden and overwhelming. It’s too much, too much, more than you’ve ever had before.

Tears track down your cheeks against your will, your chest heaves with desperate, panting breaths. Your fingers have gone numb from their vice grip on the sheets, legs aching as they spread around his head to give him easier access, not a shred of resistance in your body as you submit to his expert touch.

And it happens again, more intense this time. A black film teases the corners of your eyes, a devastatingly intense pooling in your stomach and through your cunt, a pulsing, thready explosion of pleasure bursting through you.

You soak his face, legs jerking, hips convulsing, voice raw from crying out. The feeling is so intense that it dizzies you, your head floating off your body and spinning into a whirlwind somewhere in outer space.

Joel licks it all up, tongue dragging across your drenched inner thighs, gliding across the shimmering wet slit of your lips, sucking on the raw skin until it’s nearly unbearable. Then, his wet mouth is moving, kissing up your thighs, the slope of your hips, your stomach and your breasts, sucking on your nipples and cupping them in his rough palms.

Once he reaches your ear, teeth grazing the lobe, voice gruff, he whispers, “you with me, baby?”

You whine a small sound, feeble and needy. You feel the curve of his lips into a smile where they’re pressed into your ear, and he kisses your temple, lingering there.

“M’gonna take these off, hm?” he slides a hand down toward his sweats, where you can see the large, intimidating shape of his hard dick outlined.

God, you need it, you need it like you’ve never needed anything in your life. So many years spent hungry, never realizing just how painful it could truly be to want something and be empty of it.

Your pulsing, desperate pussy aches for him, dripping with the evidence of his prowess. Your thighs clench around nothing, pleading, begging, needing to be filled with whatever he can give you.

Joel slides the pants off, boxers following suit, and your eyes widen a bit at the sight of his large cock springing forward. There’s a well-groomed crop of hair at the nape, heavy, even balls framing the thick protrusion of his shaft. The tip, angry and red, dripping with his need.

“Joel, let me-” you make a move to take it in your mouth, but he stops you with a gentle shush.

“No baby, just you tonight.” He lowers himself back above you, the hard tip just barely brushing your sopping cunt.

A synchronized moan fills the air, both of you shuddering at the teasing contact. Holding himself upright on his thick, powerful arms, he lowers his forehead to yours, noses bumping. His lips ghost against your own, and you kiss him greedily, whining into the touch as his dick presses against you once more.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, “you wan’ me to fuck you, honey?”

You nod desperately.

“Talk to me, honey.” His lips press delicately right beside your mouth, smoothing his large nose over the supple skin of your cheek. “Tell me what you want, hm?”

“I-I want you,” you croak, voice frail and shattered, “want you inside me, Joel. Want you to fuck me. Fill me up, fill me with you. Please, please. I need it.”

He smiles down at you, no trace of teasing or mischief there, only a genuine, earnest warmth. Gradually, his hips roll into you, pushing just the slightest bit of him inside. You shudder, gasping at the beginning of the stretch.

“Gotta go slow, honey,” he breathes, eyes closing as if in concentration, “don’ wanna hurt you.”

“N-no, I don't care,” you insist.

“I do, baby. Gonna take care of you, promised. I got you. I got you. You’re safe with me.” His lips warm against your collarbone, kissing wetly there as his hips inch forward, shoving more of himself inside.

The stretch is intense, painful despite how wet and glistening you are for him. The head of his cock, fat and dripping, grunts into you with restrained desperation. His thighs push forward, hips moving slowly, slowly, giving you time to adjust, giving you all the focus and care and attention.

Finally, mercifully, he bottoms out, both of you groaning out a noise of agonized want. Your thighs are speared apart by his wide body, balls of your feet digging into his lower back. His arms cage you in, one hand flat on the mattress to prop himself up, careful not to put any of his massive weight on your light frame, the other touching you. Your breasts, your cheek, your hair, your lips, every part of you he can see he explores while he allows you to adjust to the heavy weight of his dick inside of you.

It’s huge, spreading you and stretching you so intensely that you’re grateful for his godlike patience. You feel it bumping up inside, tip scraping the mouth of your womb, almost enough that you swear you could touch it through your belly.

“So big, Joel,” you tell him, your voice a thready imitation of your usual cadence, “so big n’strong…so nice…”

“I got you baby,” he cups your cheek, bending his body down to kiss you lightly. The movement sheaths his cock forward inside, and you both groan.

“Please,” you beg, “please fuck me…please fill me up. Want you to fill me with your cum. Keep me full forever.”

“Fuck, fuck, honey girl,” he bites at your lip, pulling hard between his teeth until he draws blood. He licks across the soft pink flesh, taking more of you into him; the thin red line decorating his tongue before he swallows it up like a good boy.

Then, his hips grind into yours and you let out a shrill noise, a wounded animal crying out. He moves, slowly at first, allowing your body to stretch around him, getting used to the impact of his impressive girth.

Quickly, he picks up the pace.

You’re begging at this point, nails raking down his thick back, teeth gritting into the hot meat of his shoulder, feet forcing his hips into you. He grunts your name, spits curses into the soft flesh of your neck, grinds and pounds his hips against yours so hard it feels as though he really could split you in two.

But split, you do not. Rather, you become more. Full, whining and screaming his name, sated and hungry all at once. Desperate and satisfied simultaneously. A hungry, soaking little mess underneath this massive man. This man who at first glance, had tried to kill you, a favor you quickly returned.

A man who’s done nothing for the past two weeks but try to make you whole. A man giving you all the pieces of himself he can spare to try and mend your broken ones. A man who knows what it’s like to fall apart and be put back together again.

He sees you; scarred flesh, fear, loneliness, all your worst, all you have, and he takes you as his own.

“Goddamnit,” he growls into your skin, “so fuckin’ tight baby, so good…so wet f’me…so tight, fuckin’ gripping me baby.”

Your nails dig deeper into his back, which only seems to spur him on. His hips somehow continue their breakneck pace, pounding against your deepest point so hard that it makes your head feel floaty all over again.

“Feel so good, you okay baby?” his lips against your skin are slurred, sloppy and greedy.

You nod, nod your head so fast you feel dizzy, and he laughs a little breathlessly. Then, you feel the rough pad of his thumb move from your face down to your clit.

You do white out then, with the combination of his hard, massive dick spearing you against the pillows, and the grind of his thumb against your swollen clit. The sensations are overwhelming, so intense, too intense. Your legs clench around his waist, and you let out a low, guttural scream.

“Fuck,” Joel gasps, eyes shutting as his rolling hips grow sloppier, less rhythmic, “fuck baby, fuck, fuck you just came all over my cock. God, so fuckin’ tight, so good so good honey, m’gnonna-fuck-”

And you’re full. The hunger, the emptiness, it all fades away in that instant.

Joel empties himself inside you, cock jerking and pulsing against your throbbing walls. He groans deep in his throat, cursing and grunting as he fills you up, liquid gushing out over your pelvis and thighs.

It takes a few moments for both of you to come down, his spent cock still sheathed inside your warmth. He hovers over you, and you feel one of his hands cup your cheek, fingers tracing slow lines across the bridge of your nose.

“Baby,” he breathes raggedly, “talk to me.”

“M’fine,” you assure him, though you feel like you’re on another planet.

“You sure? Everythin’ okay? Didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“You’re stupid,” you tell him.

At that, he snorts. “Yeah, you’re fine.”

He moves to detangle himself from you, but your legs clench around him, arms clasping desperately around his neck. He’s so warm, so solid and safe, and you’re so full.

“They used to have a word for this,” he muses quietly, jerking his chin toward the cage of your legs around his waist, “think they called it baby trappin’.”

“As if you couldn’t get off right now if you wanted,” you mutter.

“Already did that, sweet.”

“Okay, you know what, get the f-”

He presses into you again, and you’re silenced by the low moan that slips from your mouth at the pressure of his heft inside you, even soft and spent. He smiles, teeth digging into his lower lip as he looks down at you with admiration.

“M’gonna make you a real nice breakfast tomorrow,” he says matter-of-factly.

“That so?” You arch an eyebrow, amused at the ridiculous attempt at conversation he’s making with his dick literally still inside of you. “What’s the Joel Miller Morning After Special look like?”

“Waffles, homemade batter ‘course. Blueberries, the ones we been savin’. Big ole jug of apple juice, just for you.”

“Just for me?” You smile faintly at him.

“Just for you,” he confirms, “whatever you want, just for you.”

A small laugh drifts from your lips. “Well, that’s very nice of you.”

“So you ain’t leavin’?” he asks, a note of hope in his voice.

“No.” You shake your head. “Think I'll stick around and annoy you for a while.”

He brushes a lock of hair behind your ear with the pads of his fingers. It stays put this time.

“I’d like that, darlin’.” His teeth flash white in the darkness again. “Think I could go for a little somethin’ now actually. You need anything? Some water?”

You nod, fighting the instinct to get up and get it yourself. Maybe, just maybe it’s okay to let someone else take care of you once in a while. Even if it’s something as simple as a glass of water.

“Sounds great,” you admit, wincing slightly at the pull as he finally slides out of you with a sopping noise. You don’t even want to look at the mess on the sheets.

“How about a snack?” he asks. “You hungry?”

And you look at him, sliding his t-shirt on over his sweat-slicked body, reaching for a towel on your rack to pass toward you. So gentle, so caring, so tender and pragmatic all at once.

You aren’t alone. You’re warm, and full, and for the first time in a long time, you’re happy.

“No,” you tell him in earnest, “I’m not hungry.”

“You sure?”

You nod, managing another smile for him. Surely, he’ll add it to his annoying internal tally.

“I’m sure. I actually…I actually feel pretty full.”

What a wonderful feeling it is.

#dontlooknow #joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #pedro pascal characters #tlou #the last of us #joel tlou

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vinciwolf · 1 year

Text

Morning Bean

Miles Quaritch x (fem)Reader

Warnings: NSFW, sexsomnia, fem masturbation, p in v, morning sex, soft sex, somnophilia, morning bean, fem fingering, female reader (y/n can be Recom or Human... it isn’t specified, so pick your fav).

Summary: Miles helps you wake up from your morning glory haze...

Miles' tail brushed underneath the sheets covering his form as he pinched his eyes open to the morning light filtering through the window.

His heart raced for a few seconds, but with a slow inhale through his nose, he calmed down, ears folding backwards. It wasn't a matter of him waking up that startled him. That would be silly coming from a Marine. It was what sound being made that was getting him to wake so early.

His ears flicked around, honing in on the strange echoes. Eyes then widened with a brow raised. Those noises were coming from over his shoulder. They were so close it felt… right next to him actually.

Taking a quick whiff of the air, he could smell the drip coming from between your folds. You smelt good. Ripe. It excited his senses to the slow morning like greeting him with warm breakfast in bed.

Your soft panting, troubled and sweet, had the mauve tip of his cock dotting with white as his back faced the writhing body behind him. He listened to the melody of your desperation carefully, ears now fully awake, while his tongue swirled around a canine feeling his shaft grow frustratingly stiff. Your little mewls went straight to his cock having him grip his pillow.

Not to startle you, he turned without much noise under the rustle of sheets as his weight shifted to behold you. Your eyes were still closed, but your legs were most definitely not, one bent a little higher than the other. Like flower petals spreading for the light, you blossomed apart where the sheets tented at the apex of your thighs.

The obvious was clear as your hand shuffled up and down causing a smirk to form on Miles’ face as he watched you play with yourself. The muscles in your neck flexed as your body tensed to the motion at your clit. Your head craned ever so slightly with a quiet blow of air escaping your mouth that turned into a tiny whine, eyes dancing underneath their lids.

Did you know how pathetic yet adorable you looked?

Gasping in your sleep, all needy and aroused.

Your breath hitched when a little too rough of a circle rubbed into your mound that had your hips rolling with larghetto. It had your body shuttering to the trigger of heat your fingers set off. A coo left your body, almost in pain, yet your legs willfully surrendered to the sensation, indicated by the further spread of your knees beneath the sheets.

Miles soaked in every move you made, twitching with want each passing second he continued to stay still. You touched your clit so helplessly under the control of your own arousal that made him eager, made his cock so hard he felt like he’d burst with how much he was leaking at this point.

His urges made him shift onto his stomach… which was probably the worst idea he ever made. The sheets tickled his painfully mushroomed head causing him to pause and seethe through gritted teeth before making his way over to your side of the bed.

The blankets pooled at the Recom’s backside when he sat up on his haunches below your parted legs, exposing the morning light onto both bodies. His cock stood upright while he feasted his eyes on your naked form, so clueless to the one watching you from above. You leaked heavily from your puffy folds, drowning with glossy slick that perfectly dripped a line down your crack.

Miles carefully leaned over you. The smell of your neediness seduced him even more as he got closer to your scent, weight from his hands indented the bed as they slide under your shoulders gently.

He pressed his mouth to your neck right under your chin. His tongue sucked not too harshly along the tender flesh, but just firm enough to ease out a whimper from you. He swore you would wake up now any moment, but your eyes remained closed, fluttering open just a bit as your eyes twirled from the pleasure at your neck and below.

The Recom could feel on his lips your heartbeat thundering through your skin, warm and alive, as he kissed the length of your pulse. Yet he still couldn’t peg why you were still dreaming despite his efforts.

Then his eyes caught the white-capped, orange bottle atop your dresser. The Marine’s tail swatted behind him. You had discussed with him your bad sleeping habits and how you needed something to get you to sleep every now and then. The corner of his mouth pulled into a bold smirk. You were going to wake up glad you took those pills last night.

Getting onto his knees again, Miles gazed down to where you rubbed your clit.

Snaking his fingers below yours, he was able to replace them with his own. Your thick mess in no time coated his calloused digits that eventually slid lower to play with your folds. They were so fun and pliable around his large fingertips. Then, using two to spread you open, the head of his cock plugged the entrance to your slit…before pushing forward with massive relief groaning from his chest.

Your eyes were heavy and slow to open while your mind climbed out of the haziness of sleep.

Stretching your arms above your head and curving your spine, you felt wonderful… until you also felt the cold touch of air tickle your breasts. Nipples pointed hard while you still arched your back, leaving you to wonder why your blanket had decided to abandon its sole purpose. Despite the chill dancing along your chest, everything was fuzzy and warm, making you release a pitched hum in satisfaction.

As you were approaching clarity, the world started to piece together with you noticing first the bend of your knees, to how your thighs were spread, feeling full inside your pussy as the room bounced to the motion propelling you from below.

There was a massive cock slipping in and out of your throbbing cunt.

Immediately, your walls grasped around the welcomed intrusion, mind reeling over how it curved with timed thrusts right where your body craved the most. Every push, every shove, every pass the shaft made set your core ablaze. Soft, winded patterns – ha, ha, ha – left your body being rocked along the bed, legs laid out wide with cock gliding effortlessly into your hole.

"Oh, Miles..." you praised, line creasing between your brow.

Now all you need was something for your–

Two fingers were already digging into the swollen nub. Your cunt fluttered tighter around Miles while his hand brought your erection to full blossom, the head of your clit poking out completely from under its fleshy hood.

You were well aware of your surroundings now as your eyes adjusted to the person on top of you.

Miles propped himself on his knees while holding the back of yours in order to drive deep and hard, huffing slightly. Then he leaned down and caged you under him. His face hovered over yours, breath tickling along your cheek that had you crack a loving smile.

"My girl..." he whispered. "G'mor'nin~"

He thrusted a little slower, saddling your legs around his lower half.

"M-Miles," your voice faltered softly under his weight.

A spark set off inside the Recom hearing his name repeat over your lips so pitifully. He took smug pride in it as you were unable to form any other coherent thoughts, only spewing out his name over those desperate vocals calling just to him. Only him.

Your arms slinked over his back and raked down the cords of muscles. You expected an alarm clock to be your wakeup call… but this was way better.

Miles then propped his head up to find your blushing face, only causing a deeper hue to form across your nose as his eyes bore deeply into yours. You shut your eyes tightly squealing and hid your face in his shoulder. The only response you got from him was a throaty chuckle. Jerk. But you were too cock drunk to care.

Then the knot in your stomach grew tighter as the heat between your legs roared like a wild ocean made of flames.

Miles could feel the sweat of your skin rub into his stomach and chest. He took the sign, and his own release building, and sped up his thrusts. All he knew was he was close, trying to keep in control as he felt his tip begin to leak heavier shots of pre-cum into your walls.

Your body shuttered at the feeling and arched to the swelling balloon ready to pop inside your lower belly any given second. The pants and moans filling the tiny space shared between your faces exploded the nerves along your skin.

Flesh squelched together as fluids merged and squeezed out around the girth that rammed your hole, overflowing down your crack and staining the bedsheets.

Numerous were your cries while your nails dug into the body that held you close. The waves of pleasure violently crashed harder and harder into you as your orgasm neared feeling the biggest one about to wash you away.

Miles’ lips brushed over your ear. “Ssshh, come for me, pretty thing~”

Tears flooded your vision when the final wave toppled over and took you mercilessly. The room filled with the sweet release of your voice as your pleasure seized your body, cunt milking the Marine when he eventually came undone too. You were flooded with cum and nearly fainted as time seemed to drag out.

Everything eventually released perfectly having you collapse breathless, not knowing who or where you were.

“Fuck… me…” you groaned.

“I kinda just did,” Miles grinned, kissing along your face and brow.

You giggled at his corny joke.

Both of you stayed joined for a while, not caring how much time passed while making out and feeling along each other’s skin before having to break apart for air. Then from your dresser, your stupid alarm beeped its annoying song briefly before a large, blue hand smacked the snooze button to shut it up.

“Thank you for waking me up,” you mumbled happily into Miles’ neck as you held him close to you, legs wrapping tightly around his hips.

“Don’t worry about it…” he pecked the edge of your mouth lovingly.

You would have to remember to take your medicines more often.

Tags: @thegrandimperfection @blue-bluee @mileswifefr @deliwrites @ikranwings @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed @avatar-lover @justasimps-blog @mechformers @whereireid @whxre-bxby @miscellaneousfantasies

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elryuse · 15 days

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Hey can I ask for yandere xiaoting ?

Devil In Disguise

YANDERE XIAOTING X MALE READER

Xiaoting, a vision of flawless beauty sculpted by stylists and fueled by caffeine, pushed open the familiar door of her favorite cafe. The air, thick with the aroma of roasted coffee beans, was a welcome escape from the sterility of her practice studio. But today, the enticing scent was overshadowed by a different kind of allure.

Behind the counter stood a boy with hair the color of dark chocolate that seemed to absorb the warm light filtering through the window. His eyes, a deep brown that held a warmth that sent a shiver down her spine, were focused intently on the espresso machine. He was handsome, yes, undeniably so, but it was his smile – genuine, unburdened by the pressures of fame that she carried like a second skin – that truly captivated her.

"Can I get you something?" he asked, his voice a pleasant baritone that rumbled in a way that made her knees weak.

"Hmm," Xiaoting purred, leaning against the counter. Her stage persona, a mix of icy cool and smoldering sensuality, came naturally. It was a shield, a carefully crafted armor that protected her from the emotional onslaught of constant scrutiny. Here, though, in this tiny cafe with its worn wooden tables and mismatched mugs, it felt heavy. "Idk.. Surprise me."

He chuckled, a low rumble that sent shivers down her spine once more. "Coming right up," he said, his smile widening. As he worked, she stole glances, memorizing the way his brow furrowed in concentration as he steamed the milk, the way his fingers danced across the espresso machine with a practiced ease. Finally, he slid a steaming cup towards her, a playful glint in his eyes.

"Here you go," he said, his voice warm and inviting. "Hope it surprises you pleasantly."

"I'm sure it will," Xiaoting said, her voice a husky murmur. "By the way, I'm Xiaoting."

He smiled, his name tag reading "Y/n. Nice to meet you, Xiaoting. So, what brings a beautiful girl like you to my humble cafe?"

The question was simple, but it sent a jolt through her. Rarely did people see beyond the mask she wore for the cameras. An idea, delicious and dangerous, sparked in her mind.

"Just looking for a little escape," she said, her voice tinged with a calculated vulnerability. They talked for what felt like hours, but in reality, it was only a stolen half-hour between customers. She learned about his dreams of becoming a musician, his love for classic novels that she'd only ever seen adapted into movies, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed at a particularly bad joke she told. It was intoxicating, this taste of normalcy, of genuine connection.

But as she went to leave, her heart plummeted.

"Hey," Y/n called. "I don't usually ask this, but…" He fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a napkin. "Would you like to keep in touch?"

A thrill shot through her. This was better than she could have hoped for. But then, a girl, blonde and bubbly, linked arms with Y/n, planting a kiss on his cheek.

"Hey babe, sorry I'm late!"

Xiaoting's smile froze, the warmth in her replaced by a chilling emptiness that spread through her like ice. "Girlfriend?" she croaked, her voice devoid of its usual playful lilt.

Y/n's face fell. "Oh, right. This is…" His eyes darted between them, confusion etched on his face. "This is Xiaoting, and…"

"No need to introduce me," Xiaoting cut in, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness that tasted like ash in her mouth. It was a performance, a carefully crafted mask once more, but this time, it was fueled by something far more potent than practiced charm. "It's lovely to meet you. Y/n tells me wonderful things about you."

The lie flowed effortlessly, a seed planted in the fertile ground of the girl's insecurities. Later, alone in her luxurious apartment, the mask shattered. Rage contorted her face, a terrifying transformation that would send shivers down the spine of anyone who witnessed it. A mere pop star, a nobody, dared to have someone she desired? The thought was an insult, a challenge to her carefully constructed world.

The following days were a blur of activity. Xiaoting, the master manipulator with a team of loyal and discreet individuals at her beck and call, orchestrated a flawless plan. A carefully placed photo, an anonymous tip to the tabloids that fueled the ever-hungry gossip machine, and a manufactured public meltdown on Y/n's girlfriend's part did the trick. Days later, Y/n, heartbroken and confused, found himself sitting across from Xiaoting in her opulent apartment, a stark contrast to the cozy cafe.

Y/n stared at Xiaoting, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy. Tears had carved glistening tracks through the caked-on makeup his ex had insisted on before their "emotional" break-up video.

"It's all a lie, isn't it?" he rasped, his voice raw with betrayal. "The cheating, the whole thing."

Xiaoting, perched on a plush velvet sofa, her designer dress impeccably styled, reached out and squeezed his hand. Her touch, usually electric, felt cold and calculating. "Oh, Y/n," she cooed, her voice dripping with manufactured sympathy. "Don't listen to the media vultures. They just want to create drama."

Her practiced smile didn't reach her eyes. Y/n, however, blinded by grief and the subtle shift in her demeanor, clung to her words like a lifeline.

"She seemed so genuine in the video," he mumbled, his voice thick with despair. "She even had… proof."

A flicker of triumph passed through Xiaoting's eyes, masked by a concerned frown. "Proof that can be easily fabricated, darling," she purred. "You know how these things work."

Y/n nodded numbly, his mind reeling. Xiaoting leaned in, her voice a seductive whisper. "You deserve better, Y/n. Someone who will cherish you, who understands you. Someone like me."

He looked up, his gaze searching hers. In that moment, a flicker of something dark, something possessive, glinted in her eyes. But Y/n, lost in his emotional turmoil, missed it.

"I don't know what to believe anymore," he whispered, defeated.

Xiaoting's smile bloomed, genuine this time. "Then believe in me," she said, her voice laced with a dangerous possessiveness. "Believe that I can make you happy."

And in that vulnerable state, Y/n did. Blinded by the illusion of comfort and the toxic sweetness of her words, he allowed himself to fall into her carefully constructed web.

Days turned into weeks, then months. Xiaoting, the idol with a seemingly perfect life, became his haven. But the haven was a gilded cage, its bars disguised as luxury and affection.

His phone calls with friends became "intrusions into their healing." His attempts to pursue music, his long-held dream, were dismissed as "unrealistic distractions." The outside world became a blur, filtered through Xiaoting's carefully curated narrative.

One evening, amidst a candlelit dinner, Xiaoting casually mentioned a camera crew arriving the next day to film a "day in the life" segment.

Y/n froze, a flicker of unease crossing his face. "A camera crew? Here?"

Xiaoting, all innocence, feigned surprise. "Oh honey, didn't I mention? It's a surprise! They want to showcase our beautiful love story."

His unease morphed into terror. The manufactured reality she'd created suffocated him. But before he could protest, she reached for his hand, her grip a vice.

"Don't worry, darling," she purred, her voice laced with a chilling sweetness. "It'll be perfect. After all, the whole world deserves to see how happy we are, right?"

Y/n's pleas were drowned out by the manufactured sweetness of her voice. Trapped in her gilded cage, his future stretched before him, not a haven of love, but a prison built on lies and a terrifying obsession.

The camera crew bustled around the apartment, their presence a suffocating weight on Y/n's chest. Every stolen glance at Xiaoting confirmed his growing suspicion. Her smile, practiced for countless interviews, seemed strained around the edges. Her eyes, usually sparkling with manufactured cheer, held a glint of something manic.

As they filmed their "candid" interactions, Y/n fumbled for words. Xiaoting, ever the professional, filled the silence with fabricated anecdotes about their whirlwind romance, peppered with possessiveness disguised as affection.

Later, after the crew departed, the air grew thick with a suffocating tension. Y/n, his hands clammy with unease, finally found his voice.

"Xiaoting," he started, his voice barely a whisper. "It felt… staged. Everything."

Xiaoting's smile faltered for a brief moment, then reappeared, wider and somehow colder. "Staged? How silly, darling. It was just a little awkwardness, that's all."

He wasn't convinced. The way she'd hovered over him, her touch lingering a beat too long, the way her gaze flickered to the phone whenever it buzzed – it all screamed control.

"Can I… can I call my friends sometime?" Y/n asked, his voice small.

A flicker of annoyance crossed Xiaoting's face, quickly masked. "Oh, honey, you know how the media is. They'd twist anything into a story. We wouldn't want them to paint a wrong picture of our perfect relationship, would we?"

Y/n swallowed the retort that rose in his throat. He felt a growing sense of isolation, a gnawing loneliness that her constant presence couldn't fill.

Days blurred into weeks. Phone calls became a distant memory, replaced by Xiaoting's curated schedule of "romantic outings" and "couple interviews." He was a prop in her meticulously crafted narrative, his own dreams and desires pushed further and further out of reach.

One night, while Xiaoting slept, Y/n stumbled upon her phone. A morbid curiosity gnawed at him. He knew it was wrong, but the need to understand his situation overpowered his conscience.

His breath hitched as he saw text messages exchanged with a private number. The messages were cold, calculating, filled with instructions about manipulating interviews and maintaining their "perfect" facade.

But what truly sent chills down his spine was the final message: "Target successfully isolated. Phase two: public declaration."

Y/n's blood ran cold. He wasn't Xiaoting's lover; he was a pawn in a twisted game orchestrated by a woman consumed by a possessive obsession. Fear, sharp and primal, clawed at his throat.

He knew then that he had to escape. But how? Xiaoting controlled everything – his access to the outside world, his finances, even his reputation.

He spent the next few days formulating a plan, a desperate gamble fuelled by a newfound strength. He started subtly leaving messages for his old bandmate on social media, hidden in plain sight within innocuous comments. He pretended to be enthusiastic about Xiaoting's upcoming album release, subtly planting seeds of doubt about their relationship in interviews.

The night before the album release party, Y/n finally made his move. He waited until Xiaoting fell asleep, then packed a small bag with essentials. He knew she'd wake up soon, so he had to be quick.

He tiptoed towards the door, his heart hammering in his chest. Just as he grasped the knob, a cold voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Going somewhere, darling?" Xiaoting stood there, her eyes blazing with a terrifying fury.

Y/n's mouth went dry. "Xiaoting, I… I just need some air."

"No," she said, her voice a steely whisper. "You're not going anywhere. You belong to me now."

Y/n knew then that reasoning was futile. He had to fight his way out. He lunged for the door, but Xiaoting was faster. She grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly strong.

A struggle ensued, desperate and brutal. Y/n, fueled by a surge of adrenaline, managed to break free and sprint towards the window. He threw it open, the cool night air a welcome shock.

"Y/n don't!!" Xiaoting screamed, her voice laced with a chilling desperation.

He didn't look back. He scrambled onto the fire escape, adrenaline masking the fear threatening to consume him. He descended quickly, ignoring the burn in his legs, until he reached the ground and melted into the night.

He knew this was just the beginning. Xiaoting wouldn't give up easily. But for the first time in months, he felt a flicker of hope. He was free, and he would do He sprinted through the deserted streets, the rhythmic pounding of his feet the only sound in the night. Glancing back every few seconds, his heart hammered a frantic tattoo against his ribs. He didn't see Xiaoting, but the chilling memory of her desperate plea sent shivers down his spine.

Reaching his old friend's apartment, he pounded on the door with shaking hands. Relief flooded him when the familiar face of his bandmate, Mark, appeared. But before Y/n could explain, a car screeched to a halt outside, its headlights momentarily blinding him.

"Y/n!" Mark gasped, pulling him back inside just as the apartment door splintered. Xiaoting, her face contorted with rage, stormed in, a gaggle of security guards flanking her.

"There you are!" she hissed, her voice laced with venom.

Y/n's frantic pleas for help fell on deaf ears. The security guards, well-versed in the art of celebrity wrangling, subdued him with practiced ease. Mark, powerless against the tide, could only watch in horror.

Back in the gilded cage, Xiaoting's rage had morphed into a chilling calm. Gone was the facade of the loving girlfriend. Y/n sat across from her, his wrists bound with silk scarves, the very picture of a dethroned king.

"You shouldn't have tried to leave," Xiaoting said, her voice devoid of emotion. "Now, things will have to change."

A cold dread filled Y/n. He knew then that escape was no longer an option. Xiaoting wouldn't simply lock him away; she would control him. His career, his reputation, his very identity – all would become pawns in her twisted game.

The following days were a blur of media manipulation. Xiaoting, the heartbroken victim, spun a tale of a troubled boyfriend on the verge of a breakdown. Public sympathy flowed freely, further isolating Y/n.

He was allowed to keep his phone, but under constant surveillance. His band, ostracized and pressured by Xiaoting's powerful team, reluctantly distanced themselves. The world he once knew crumbled around him.

Weeks turned into months. Y/n became a ghost of his former self, a talented musician reduced to a silent shadow beside the ever-smiling Xiaoting. He was forced to participate in interviews, his every word carefully scripted.

One day, during a live performance, a flicker of defiance sparked in his eyes. As Xiaoting launched into a love song, he reached for the microphone, his voice hoarse but resolute.

"This isn't real," he rasped, the words catching in his throat. "She's keeping me prisoner."

The music screeched to a halt. Shock rippled through the audience. Security guards rushed the stage before Y/n could utter another word.

But the damage was done. The carefully crafted facade had a gaping hole. Whispers turned into accusations. Public opinion shifted, a seed of doubt planted.

Xiaoting, however, remained unfazed. Public scrutiny was a game she knew how to play. She painted Y/n as delusional, a victim of his own mental breakdown. Her carefully calculated tears and veiled threats of self-harm swayed the narrative back in her favor.

Y/n, isolated and silenced once more, sank deeper into despair. He knew he might never truly escape Xiaoting's grasp. She had woven a web of control so intricate, so pervasive, that it had become his reality.

The story ended not with a dramatic escape or a heroic rescue, but with a slow, suffocating descent. Y/n remained a prisoner, not behind bars, but within the gilded cage of a twisted obsession, his music and his dreams forever silenced by the chilling melody of Xiaoting's love song.

#xiaoting #kep1er #kep1er xiaoting #yandere x reader #yandere roleplay #yandere blog #yandere stories #kpop #kpop x reader #kpop x y/n #x male reader #beautiful #apreciation post #update #yandere #social media #lost media #media

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kiwisbell · 8 months

Text

Security Details: Chapter 2 [frankie morales]

Frankie’s long-time friend enlists his help. He's more than eager to accept the job. The problem is that he's in love with her.

chapter 1 | chapter 2

pairing: francisco "catfish" morales x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags and warnings for entire fic: abusive relationship (not between frankie and reader), murder, violence, BAMF frankie, protective frankie, possessive frankie, soft frankie, mutual pining, yearning, reader is not named but has a call sign (fox), frankie is dumb but he's got the spirit, angst, smut, fluff, partners to friends to lovers, happy ending, frankie spends most of this fic in his feelings, telltale signs of a fic written by a hopeless romantic, unprotected piv, breeding kink, creampie, oral sex, consensual somnophilia, english and spanish dirty talk, frankie going feral to keep his girl safe, possessive sex, blood and injury, undefined age gap

tags and warnings for this chapter: unrequited love becomes requited, unprotected piv (don't follow my lead), oral sex, frankie eating pussy like a king, blood and violence, frankie is unhinged, protective frankie, possessive sex, consensual somno, creampie, breeding kink, frankie morales fucks

word count: ~ 9k

chapter 2: oh, but i'm singing like a bird about it now

It takes him two hours to tell the entire story of what happened in Peru. It happens over dinner: the most disgusting canned ravioli he’s ever eaten and the most tolerable canned green beans. They sit opposite one another at the tiny two-person dining table, basking in slats of orange sunlight that filter through the closed blinds. He can’t risk anyone seeing her here now that she suspects someone is following her.

“That’s…” She blows out a breath, poking some beans with her fork. “Jesus, Frankie. I’m sorry. That sounds like a really shitty few weeks.”

Sorry? All the shit he’s just confessed to doing for some pathetic fucking bags of money, and she’s sympathising? He must look bewildered enough to make her giggle, if a bit hysterically. “It’s just…” She drops her chin into her palm. “Two hundred and fifty million.”

He stares at her for a moment. The golden light on her face and the way her eyes glimmer. “Yeah.”

“And you got on the boat with five.”

He’s beginning to understand. “Yeah.”

“And…” She bites down on her lip. “You signed away your earnings.”

He doesn’t think either of them are able to pinpoint what causes the laughter, but soon they’re both in tears, choking and wheezing over something that is probably not funny at all. Tears are streaking down their faces and the tiny home is filled with the sound of cutlery clanging as they shake uncontrollably. Their minds are not their own, and when the laughter ebbs, they are left smiling at one another. It feels like it did before, for a wink.

“What would you have done with it?” she asks.

He sips his beer—the fridge is still stocked from his last stay here. “Two years ago, it would have been an Aston Martin or a lifetime’s supply of cowboy boots.”

“And now?” She’s drinking, too, but she dug around the stores for a bottle of red wine and poured some into a mostly-clean mason jar.

“Now…” Frankie sighs. “Lifetime’s supply of diapers and baby food.”

“I don’t know, Frankie. I like your cowboy boots.”

“Nah, see, now I know you're lying.”

“What the fuck are those?”

“What?” Frankie looked down at his boots. “You don't like ‘em?”

She covered her mouth with her hand, but it didn't shroud the shaking of her shoulders. “No. No, Frank, I don’t.” She touched her hand to her heart. “I looove them.”

“Don't be mean, Foxy,” piped up Santiago from the back. “Those bastards were paid for with blood money.”

She gasped. “Don't tell me…”

Santiago hoisted Frankie’s arm into the air and whooped. “Divorce does wonders, folks!”

Frankie flushed hot while Fox bit down on her lip. He felt dirty—wrong—for being glad about the split, for wanting the woman in front of him for far longer than he ever wanted Lisa. He felt like a cheater. “Cálmate,” he grumbled to Pope.

She just laughed, rubbing a knot out of his shoulder. “If we're going to set a good example for your daughter, we have to teach her honesty. I think your boots are hideous. And yet”—she swigged her beer and kissed him on the cheek—“you somehow pull them off. You must teach me your ways.”

Frankie watches a car speed by through the blinds and makes sure it disappears from sight. “You ever notice him acting strangely?”

“He would miss dinner or come to bed late,” she says, “but I assumed he was working late, like he told me. Or cheating.”

Frankie frowns. “You wouldn't have cared?”

She scoffs. “Please, Frank. Of course I would care. It’s not like he would let me leave. I knew he was a recreational user, but I started to notice calls on the phone logs and missing links in email chains to and from a man named St. John—Matt said he was a higher-up at his company, but I think it's an alias. Started to feel like he was hiding something more than just another woman.” She rubs her brow. “Had a lot of thinking to do while I was… away. And things add up.”

“He got put away,” says Frankie. He only speaks to remind himself of the truth. He won't hurt her again.

“Only because of this.” She points to her face. “I know it sounds paranoid—”

“I believe you,” says Frankie. “Like you said, you've never steered me wrong.”

She smiles. “We should sleep. You drove all day, and I had to listen to your music all day.”

“Hey.” Frankie points at her. “Driver picks music, Foxy. Don't insult Metallica.”

“Go to sleep,” she says again, disappearing back into the hallway where she'll stretch out in that twin bed. He putters around in the kitchen, scrubbing their plates a little too hard, arranging the cushions and blankets on the couch with a little too much force. Lying with his eyes fixed on the yellowed popcorn ceiling, the old ache in his back throbbing up his spine, Frankie loathes this house. He detests the colour of the walls and the way the floors would creak under your weight even if you weighed eighty pounds. He hates the uncomfortable furniture.

He hates that she has to be here.

He hates himself for letting his head get stuck so far up his own ass he never mustered up the courage to tell her how he loved her: that her smile makes him ache, that he craves her presence the way he used to crave nicotine, that she's it for him. He hates that she's been wasting her time with assholes who only hurt her while he's been wasting his time yearning but not acting. If he's too much of a coward to tell her, he'll show her.

He’ll show her exactly how worth it she is. He’ll make sure she knows that he'd die for her the way she nearly did the day she took that bullet.

They're used to waiting in a profession like theirs. She's accustomed to hours and days upon rooftops and inside inconspicuous vans. She's used to the way it makes her joints creak with disuse and her eyes sore from rarely blinking. They've been in this safe house for a week, and they're out of food.

“No.”

“Frank—”

“No, Fox.” He’s frowning in frustration. It's a different frown than his concentration frown, which is altogether different from his needy frown—the one he gets when he's neglected. Her favourite grumpy dog. “It's too risky.”

Her bruises have mostly healed, along with the cut on her lip. But he'll never forget them. He’ll never forget seeing her walk into the kitchen in Santiago’s home, the terror that flooded him.

“Everything’s risky if I’m being stalked,” she reasons. “I can't hide forever, Frankie. Especially not if we don't have any leads.”

His nostrils flare, and she knows she's in for more arguing. “I can go. You should stay here.”

“I know you can, Frank.” She gestures toward the windows. “Has anyone followed us here?”

“Not that I’ve seen,” he begins, “but—”

“I’m getting cabin fever.” She folds her arms over her chest. “I know you are, too. That's why we're arguing.”

He huffs. “We’re not… arguing.”

She smiles. “Good. Isn’t it better that we don't split up, anyway?”

He gets pissed off when his friends are right, sometimes. Whenever he's arguing with Santiago about something easily Googleable (she'll do just that—look it up and wait patiently with the phone screen turned away until they're finished their shouting match), he'll grind his jaw and sulk for a bit when he's in the wrong. Then, he'll slap Santiago good-naturedly on the cheek and they’ll move on. Being wrong about such trivial things leads to being wrong in the real world. Making the wrong call. Getting someone hurt.

He's always been a bit of a worrier.

But he doesn't get mad when she's right. Because she makes it sound so sweet, so gentle, and all he can do is laugh. Of course she's right. He was stupid to argue with her in the first place. It's much safer if they travel together. He can keep her safe. He can.

He fucking will.

“Get one of my sweatshirts,” he says. “Don't take off the hood.”

She rolls her eyes but does as he asks. Indulging him. He will earn the right to be indulged again. The sweatshirt is his, an old and too-large grubby thing, blue (his favourite colour), and it swallows her. He waits until she crosses the room to collect his wallet and plants himself by the window, rubbing a hand down his face and splashing some cold water over it for good measure. Jesus. Get yourself together. Fucking asshole.

They slip into the truck and he pulls out of the driveway after making triple-sure no one lingers nearby. She draws a knee up to her chest so she can rest her chin on it, always detesting the feeling of her feet on the ground. It’s as if she can taste the tremors in the ground on her tongue and needs reprieve from them.

“Those jeans aren’t yours,” he says after a too-long silence. He hopes she isn’t put off by him memorising the articles in her closet.

“Matt’s,” she says idly. “Got blood on mine. I felt like I wanted to fuck him over in some small way. Taking his pants probably wasn’t the best method.”

He says nothing, but he sets his jaw and turns into town. It’s small enough that it borders on a hamlet, really; there’s a single Food World and a gas station, which are connected to one another. He can see every single home from here, stuck in the middle of nowhere on this lonely country road. It’s almost pleasant.

“What’s your favourite piece from my closet, Frankie?”

Shit.

She says it teasingly, a smile tugging on one corner of her mouth. It’s the kind of smile she gets when she’s trying not to, biting down on her bottom lip. He can’t quite grasp the depth of his own want, the way his chest lurches and his fingers twitch toward her. His body knows him before he does. He wants to lunge across the truck bench and put his mouth on hers, slide his hands up her—his—sweatshirt, and feel her: her strong, soft, capable body, her scars and bruises he’s memorised in their years together. He wants to hear her gasps and whimpers, different from any cries of pain he’s heard from her lips before. He wants to make her feel good. And she would feel so fucking good.

“You really wanna know?” he says.

She’s already looking at him when he parks at the Food World. “Yeah, I do.”

“That blue sundress,” he tells her, “the one you wear for the Fourth of July every year.”

Her brows lift a little in the middle, stretching the scar on her nose, and she’s so adorable sometimes it makes him hurt, makes him forget that she’s killed people with those fingers twiddling in her lap, makes him keep talking even though she already fucking knows what her dress looks like. She’s the one who wears it.

“It’s got these… I don’t know, these fuckin’ bows. Yeah, they’re bows. On the shoulders. You have to re-tie them when they get loose. Your face scrunches up when you concentrate, the way it does when you’re on a roof, watching a target through your scope.” Frankie watches her eyes scan his face, every inch, every freckle, like she’s trying to memorise it before a test. “It kinda—sorta flutters when there’s a breeze, y’know? It’s… nice.” He clears his throat and turns his head away, looking through the windshield. “You look nice in blue.”

Recalling the way her hips curve in that flowy fucking dress, the way she glows and shines and makes everyone shield their eyes from the glare, Frankie knows why his favourite colour is blue.

And Christ, the way she looks at him after his humiliating admission… The weight of her gaze, the slow blinking, the way her lashes brush her cheeks, the sheer power she imposes upon him when she watches him like that. He feels like he’s the biggest and smallest thing in the universe. He feels like suffering too long under that look will turn him to ashes.

“Frank,” she says, a name shoved out, dreamlike in quality. “If you’d told me you liked it so much, I’d wear it every day.”

He lets himself laugh. “Even in winter?”

“I have snow boots and a parka for a reason.” She lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Haute couture, no?”

He needs to get out of this truck. He needs to get out before he does something he’ll regret. “C’mon,” he says, “let’s make this quick.”

The Food World is mostly deserted. There are two cashiers, one drumming his fingers on the counter and the other resting her chin in her palm. People mill about the aisles, mostly in similar dress to theirs, sweatpants and sweatshirts and ratty jeans. Muzak crackles through the overhead P.A. systems. Nothing immediately prickles at his instincts. Frankie lets her walk ahead, lingering behind her. He doesn’t like people at his back, never has: an old soldier’s itch. Even waiting in lines makes him sweat a little above the brow. She’s never been that nervous, but she understands. She reaches backward every so often and squeezes his hand to make sure he’s still with her.

From here, he can’t exactly help but look at her ass in those too-big jeans, the flare of her hips, her legs. His hood is secure atop her head, morphing her into a stranger to the world, no longer the beautiful beacon with the cuts and bruises on her face. Frankie, in his own jeans and his grey T-shirt and his olive green button-up, cap snug on his head, looks just as unassuming—save for the permanent frown on his face.

“We need these,” she says when they reach the empty baking aisle, though he isn’t sure why they’re in the baking aisle. Until he sees her hold up two boxes of cake mix. Chocolate and birthday confetti.

“We do not need those.”

“Cat,” she says, her voice dropping low, nearly a fucking purr. Does she know what she’s doing? What she does to him? “You are too grumpy to function. It’s your birthday in a couple days. What if we’re still in that stupid house because of me? You’ll have no cake to celebrate.”

“I don’t want to celebrate getting older,” he says, gently plucking the boxes from her hands. It makes her eyes widen, a deliberate, dirty goddamn move, until she schools her face to look like she’s about to cry. He flicks her on the nose. “And that… is a rotten play, Fox.”

Her pouting mouth makes him want to pounce, to shove her up against the shelves of boxed mix and wipe that look off her face with his mouth. His fingers. His cock. God, he needs to get a grip.

“You aren’t old, Frankie,” she says softly. She reaches for him and gently pries his fingers, one-by-one, from the box of chocolate mix. He lets her. “Your life deserves to be celebrated. We’ll do chocolate, okay? It’s understated.”

But he feels old. He remembers the first day she was introduced to the team: her fresh-faced and bounding with energy. He, mid-thirties at the time, was hesitant to accept a new member of the team. He and the guys had already gelled, known one another for years in Basic before they were slapped together, and Frankie didn’t know what to make of the sniper, the stunner. But she slipped in, made them laugh and silenced any doubts with that perfect fucking aim, and made him feel like an asshole for ever thinking she wasn't the perfect choice. She's always the perfect choice.

Your life deserves to be celebrated.

“Okay,” he relents. “Chocolate. Now get out of this aisle before you convince me to buy whipped cream.”

She beams up at him and it's worth giving up his pride. “And don't give me any of that shit about this being your fault,” he says, guiding her toward the produce. “It's his. You know it.”

“It was my decision to rope you in, Frank. You're the only one I trust with my life like this.”

It's such a vulnerable, soft thing that escapes her mouth. Absently, his hand finds her waist, squeezes. She looks up at him, her face obscured by half a shadow thanks to the hood, and he's worried he's gone too far. But her lips part, her breath leaves her in a sigh, and she whispers, full of conviction: “I mean it.”

Frankie tries to rein in his breathing, shifts the cyclic stick back toward the space between two walls, his lungs. Overrides the spin-out by looking in her eyes. “I know you do,” he says. “I know, baby.”

She brings his knuckles to her mouth and kisses each one. He loses control again. Fuck, he's not even scanning his surroundings. He's lost himself in her, in that gentle smile she gives him. There's solidarity in that smile. Forgiveness, almost. “For the record,” she says, “it wasn't a hundred guys.”

Just like that, he wants to slap himself all over again.

You've been fucking around with a hundred other guys because you wanted me? Tell me how that makes sense, honey, because it doesn't make a goddamn inch of sense to me.

He hates himself. He hates himself so much, and he'll never be good enough to—

She's laughing.

Why the fuck is she laughing?

“You have a tendency to get mad,” she says, still snickering a little. “And when you get mad, you run your mouth. I was hurt and drained and fucking humiliated from being the bitch dumb enough to date him for two years. And what you said hurt. But I shouldn't have walked away.” She shrugs. “Wasted so much time already.”

He shakes his head, vaguely unable to comprehend what she's saying. “How…” He clears his throat. “How can you say that? I was a fucking asshole. I called you—”

“You didn't call me anything.” She picks up a lemon and inspects it. “How do you feel about lemon meringue?”

“I've never had it.” He grasps her wrist. “What are you saying, Fox?”

“I’m saying that we've both been idiots. How have you never tried lemon meringue?”

“Mom never made it.” He slips his hand under her hood and cradles the back of her head. Look at me, he wants to say. Don't stop looking at me. “I’m sorry, Fox. I’m sorry for everything I said. I pressured you. I was so angry for what that dickhead had done to you, and I was so desperate for you, I didn't give you the space you needed. I am… so. Fucking. Sorry.”

He shakes his head and shifts his thumb to trace the edge of her jaw, eyeing the nasty bruise. “You took a bullet for me. You and your infinite fucking wisdom. Jesus, you’re perfect. Knowing how much the world has burned you… It kills me, baby. I never wanted to hurt you, too, and I did. Don't forgive me. Please.”

Don't forgive me until I’ve earned it. I’ll never earn it. You're too good for this world, Foxy. You're too good for me.

She lifts her hand to his, her fingers curling gently around his wrist. She hasn't stopped looking at him, her breaths coming a bit shorter, a bit bruised. “Frankie,” she whispers. “There's someone watching us by the doors. Don’t look.”

His stomach plummets. He threads his fingers through hers and keeps her tucked to his side as they bypass the produce and head straight for the canned food aisle. “Grab what you need,” he says. “Make it heavy.”

A good makeshift weapon: a bag full of cans. He doesn't have his gun on him. It’s in the glove box. Fuck. She begins to swipe canned corn, beans, and ravioli into their reusable bag and he never lets go of her hand. “Relax,” she says, hoisting the bag up onto her shoulder and rubbing his arm in soothing lines. Up and down. Up and down. “It's okay, Frank. You're with me.”

He wants to believe her, but he's panicking. “Got everything?” he asks, trying to keep his posture casual even as his mind shifts gears. Keep your eyes open. Be ready. Keep her safe.

For the love of all good things, keep her safe.

“I’m ready,” she says easily, not a hint of her anxiety translating to her face. “Could’ve used that lemon, though.”

“If you want to bake for me so badly, honey, just tell me,” he says, not looking at her, keeping his head on a swivel for the someone she was talking about. “Describe him to me.”

“Tall, white, wearing all black,” she says quietly. They make their way toward the checkout. He wants to grab her hand and run to the truck, but they can't exactly smuggle out a bag filled with clanking metal cans.

She reaches the counter first and smiles at the man behind it, immediately rushing to place all their items on the belt. “The man in all black,” she whispers to the man, never once dropping her smiling façade, “he’s got a gun. Please call the cops. I think he's following us.”

They both crowd together to shroud the cashier from view as he carries on bagging their groceries at the same time he reaches under the counter and presses the panic button. “How will you be paying?” he asks, all-too easily.

Frankie looks behind him. The man, not facing them, rings out a single banana at the opposite register. The woman behind it looks polite but faintly rattled. He gathers the girl at his side a little closer, tucking an arm around her waist and slipping his hand into the pocket of the sweatshirt she wears.

“Thank you,” says the cashier when she hands him a folded handful of bills. Frankie guesses he's thanking them for more than the money. “Have a great day. Stay safe out there.”

They both nod their thanks and walk as briskly as they can out of the store without drawing suspicion. Frankie doesn't hear any footsteps behind him, but he still fumbles with the keys in his rush to get her in the vehicle.

She's got one foot still planted on the side step when she hazards a glance toward the doors of the Food World, and screams, “Frankie, down!”

He ducks at the same time he drops his shoulder to tackle her to the ground. He can't quite manoeuvre them quickly enough to prevent her from slamming hard into the ground; he watches her slam her shoulder against the asphalt at the same time the gunshot goes off. Frankie lands hard on his back, but they're both scrambling to get behind the truck. There isn't time to lick their wounds. The cans have spilled from the bag under the truck. One, filled with baked beans, nudges Frankie’s foot and rolls to a stop.

He keeps his hand pressed against her back as they move, grounding himself in her. She's still alive. He's going to keep it that way. “Fuck,” she says, daring to peek around the truck. “It’s him. Plus another guy at our eleven o’clock.”

“Get in the bed of the truck,” he says, handing her the can. “Smash the back window and crawl inside. Get the gun from the glove box. I’ll be right behind you.”

She nods, clinical in her analysis of the situation. Her face is grim, but she knows it’s their only option. Frankie unlatches the tailgate and pushes at her thighs to help her up while keeping her body as low as possible. She cracks the window with the edge of the can, but it takes three total hits to break the glass. It seems only one of the men is armed, the one who had followed them into the Food World. The other is making his way around the vehicle to flank them. Frankie ducks low to avoid one shot in particular, and he can hear it whizz past his ear. She’s inside the truck, crawling toward the glove box and wrenching it open. She flicks off the safety, leans out the broken window, and aims for the man closest to Frankie: the one holding the gun, who’s currently trying to kill him.

It makes his ears ring. The shot fires hardly a foot away from his left ear, but he knows who’s fired it, so he doesn’t flinch. Next to him, he hears a body topple and flips onto his back. She hops out of the truck and checks to make sure the man is dead before she circles the truck to accost the other.

Only he isn’t there.

“Frank?” she says, not meeting his eyes, still scanning her surroundings. “Where—”

It happens too quickly. Too quickly, even, for Frankie to bark a warning. He can only watch in terror as the man springs out from behind the gas pump and tackles her to the ground. She loses her grip on the gun in the tussle, her head smacking hard against the pavement. Visibly dazed, eyes unfocused, she reaches blindly for the man’s throat, but he pins down her arms at her sides, his thighs bracketing her writhing legs as she tries, unavailingly, to kick him in the balls.

Frankie doesn’t think when he acts. Terror and rage flood him. They are thick and cloying in his throat. They cloud the reason. The methodical soldier flees.

He’s bigger than the man atop her. He’s also angrier. His body barrels into him, knocks him aside, sending them both rolling across the ground. Frankie doesn’t reach for the gun. He doesn’t even try to. He just balls his hand into a fist and breaks the man’s noise.

Blood sprays, splattering the man’s face and Frankie’s knuckles as he yelps, a gurgled, helpless cry. But Frankie doesn’t stop. He can’t. He won’t. He punches, again and again and again. The face is a target, a pinkish round thing with eyes and a crooked nose and a mouth. The nose splits at the bridge, blood seeping. The whites of the eyes stain red. Blood vessels snap. Lips swell. At some point, the target stops crying, stops moving. He’s piloting, he’s in control, he’s so fucking out of control he can barely see.

Cyclic stick. Window panes. Rotor blades. Scope. Rooftop. Stars. Laughter. Her.

“Frankie.”

The target is red now. Blood and skin and bone. His own split knuckles, beginning to hurt. His senses sharpen at the sound of his voice, but he doesn’t stop. Only slows down. He can’t stop. What if he gets back up?

What if he hurts her again?

Faintly, he registers her stumbling toward him, hands and knees, desperate. Clawing at him. “Frankie,” she says. “Frankie, he’s down. Please. You’re done. It’s done.”

Finally, he pitches backward, as if someone has thrown him off the body beneath him. It’s the only way he can imagine stopping. He wants to go back for more, but her hands are there: one on his chest, pressing against his heart and calming the erratic beating, and the other cupping his face in her palm, like he’s something to be cherished.

“You did it,” she pants. His hands fly backward, slapping against the asphalt to keep himself from tumbling onto his back. She’s still holding him.

There’s a thin dribble of blood on her temple. It’s minimal. It’s nothing. But his hand flies to the nape of her neck. “You’re bleeding,” he croaks.

She laughs again, a bit raspy, a bit hysterical. “So are you.”

“He…” Frankie swallows, thick, smoke and fire and fear. “I didn’t see him.”

“Neither did I.” She kisses him on the forehead. It’s gentle, so gentle, and when it’s over, she rests her forehead on his. “Hear that?”

He does. Sirens. The police have arrived. “Means we need to get up,” she says. “Are you all right, Frank? Can you get up?”

She shifts back to help him stand, but he blurts out, “Wait. Wait.”

Panic flitting across her face, she returns to him. “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head vaguely, not really feeling it, his vision sharpening to her. Her eyes are her mouth and her mouth is her nose and her nose is her ears. She’s whole and she’s here, in front of him, and he needs her to know.

“I love you,” he says.

The smile creeps up slow, but when it arrives, it knocks the breath from him. “Sounded just as good out loud as it did in my head.” Her fingers find the collar of his button-up, and she grips it hard. Her eyes bury him deep in the earth. “I love you, Francisco. But you knew that.”

“Wish I knew it sooner,” he huffs, leaning in so he can finally, finally, kiss her the way he’s wanted to for so long.

But a shadow looms over them, and a policeman awkwardly clears his throat. “Sir, ma’am, are you able to stand up?”

One policeman was all the department could spare, apparently. She and Frankie rose to greet him, explaining the situation as best they could. The man, unconscious but not quite dead on the ground, did not help Frankie’s case, but the cashier corroborated their story, having seen the entire affair through the windows of the Food World.

They were questioned for too fucking long at the station. They were supplied with a bag of ice for his knuckles, and another for the gash in her temple, as if to make up for keeping them there for ten hours. The bloodied man confessed, once he woke up from his Frankie-induced nap: a lackey for a trafficking ring who was enlisted to kill her for getting too close. Frankie, too.

He drives them back to the safe house instead of St. Augustine. Frankie has too much to do, too much to say. He can’t stand any more car rides in total silence.

“So,” she sighs when she follows him inside, “that was a total fucking—mmmph!”

With a grumbling sound from deep in his chest and a faint shake of his head—why fucking wait?—Frankie crowds her, the door closing at her back, and slants his mouth to fit hers.

Her hand flies up to cup his cheek, keeping him close, the other at his back. His strong back, his broad shoulders, the scruff of his patchy beard. Fuck, she can feel all of it. Frankie keeps it gentle, holding back, his hand finding a home at the back of her neck. He just kisses her.

She smells like oranges and blood and… fuck, like him, still wearing his sweatshirt. And kissing him. His head is spinning, his chest tightening, her perfect fist wrapped around his heart, squeezing until it pops. He wants it to. He wants to die here. He's finally here, and he's kissing the girl of his dreams. Love taps at the barricade of his skull, knocking at his ribs, asking to come in. He opens all of him.

“I love you,” he says, grinning against her mouth. “Fucking love you.”

She laughs breathlessly when their teeth clack together, but neither of them can hold back their smile. “You saved my life,” she says, lifting the cap off his head so she can tangle her fingers in his hair, too-long since its last cut. “The scales are balancing, Francisco.”

He laughs, too, somewhat delirious from the taste and the smell of her, nudging his nose against hers. “Can you feel it?” he asks, placing his palm over her years-old bullet wound.

“I feel it everywhere,” she says, angling his head so he can't help but look her in the eye. Good. He wants to see all of her, all the time. “Tell me again.”

He puts his forehead to hers and kisses the tip of her nose. “I love you. Te amo. Can’t fucking help it.”

She scans his face, eyes pleading. Outside, a bird chirps. He's surprised to discover that life exists outside the two of them.

“I want you to show me,” she says.

And he will. God, he will. She is the air he breathes. He kisses her like it, dipping his head low to catch her mouth again, harder and firmer, opening up her mouth for him. He slides his tongue against hers and swallows every needy sigh she loosens from her chest. His hand slides from her hip to her back, splaying his fingers underneath his sweatshirt and pressing her to him.

“Frankie,” she whispers. The force of such a gentle plea tears at him, rends all his limbs apart, and catches on what's left of his restraint. A fish hook. It tugs until he bleeds, an open wound for her.

He pulls away just long enough to grasp at the sweatshirt. “Take it off, Frankie,” she says, breathless and panting. He does. He'll do anything she asks.

It lands in a heap by the door. Underneath, she's wearing the shirt she wore this morning, a simple white tee, and he grunts in frustration. “Too many clothes,” is vaguely what comes out of his mouth as he tugs it up over her head and revels in the way her pupils dilate. He may as well go the whole nine yards, he figures, unclasping her bra and bearing her to him. Her back arches and her tits press up against his chest, keen and wanting.

He stares for a moment, his cock an aching and persistent presence in his jeans. He doesn't know what to do first. He's obsessed. He wants to possess her, be possessed by her, sink into her until it's unclear where either of their bodies begin. “You're fucking perfect,” he says.

“You can take a picture if you want,” she teases, pushing up against him and lifting her arms around his neck. He really fucking loves the sound of that: a small printed picture he gets to look at whenever he can't have the real thing. “But kiss me first.”

He finally gets his mouth on her again, sated and not altogether. His calloused hand finds her rib cage, fingers brushing the swell of her breast. He's too rough for her; she's delicate, smooth, perfect. He’s got a pilot’s hands.

“Jesus. You’re so soft,” he grunts into her mouth, kissing her until her lips are bruised. He shifts to the corner of her lips, her Cupid’s bow, the gentle curves of it that fascinate him. He finds her jawline and traces it with his lips, enjoying the way her breathing begins to go shallow as he moves to her ear, biting the lobe before sucking and licking at the spot below it.

“Frankieeee,” she mewls, grinding against him. He makes a gruff noise into her throat as he breathes her in deep, breathing in the scent of her the way a drowning man sucks in air at the ascent.

“I know, baby,” he mumbles, slipping his hand down to her jeans and toying with the button at the same time he kisses her shoulder.

“Want to undress you,” she says, pushing her hips up against his hand. “Please.”

Frankie’s never heard begging sound so good. He nods against her skin and pulls away, only to hoist her up and wrap her thighs around his hips. He swells a little with pride at the needy whimper that leaves her at the show of strength. “Bedroom,” he says into her ear, nipping at her lobe again.

She nods frantically. He lowers her onto the bed and she lifts herself up to grab at his shirt. He laughs at the eagerness, but it sobers to hot and heavy arousal at the sight of her concentration, her devout eagerness to get his clothes off. He helps her shrug him out of his button-up and lifts his arms for her as she takes off his shirt. Her lips part, her pupils dark and wide, and he's stunned. Stunned by her blatant desire, her inability to hide it. “Never thought…” She trails off, chest heaving.

“What is it, baby?”

“Never thought I’d get this,” she says earnestly, thumb stroking his jaw. “You.”

He kicks off his shoes and socks, holding her firm around the waist. She stands on her toes and kisses him, deep and true. “You've got me,” he tells her, breathing it into her mouth. “I’m yours, baby. I’ve always been.”

“Frankie.” Her lips are on his jaw, licking at the patch of skin that breaks his beard, then his throat, tasting and licking him the way she wants to. “I love you so much.”

He curses. She's revelling in him, and he loves it. He can't let go of her, can't stop himself from parting his lips and squeezing his eyes shut at the way she lavishes his throat with her mouth. She begins to make her way down his chest, sitting down on the bed so she can travel all the way down to his navel. His breathing is jagged, torn at the edges. He needs her so badly. She needs him so badly.

“Baby…”

She hums, busy pressing kisses to his ribs, fumbling with his belt, the button, the zipper, at his jeans.

Frankie bends down and notches his hands at the back of her thighs, half-tossing her farther up the bed. He pulls off jeans and boxers and briefly allows himself to grin at the sight of her sucking in a breath when his cock slaps against his stomach, hard and leaking. He isn't an idiot. He knows he's big. And it feels fucking good to know she wants him.

He crawls up her body and tilts her chin up so he can kiss her. “I want to taste you,” he says. She gasps when he cups the heat of her through her jeans.

“Please,” she says, writhing against him. Frankie yanks those godforsaken jeans down with little mercy, and she chokes out a laugh. “You really hate those things.”

“They're his.” Frankie tosses them across the room. “I want you to walk out of here forgetting he ever touched you… His fucking hands on you.”

She grounds him with a thumb brushing over his chin. “I’m yours,” she says. “Yours, Francisco.”

He grabs her ankle and locks it around his hip, forcing her legs to spread wide. The wet spot on her pink panties is unmistakable. “Mine,” he says under his breath, pressing his palm against her clit through her underwear. She whines his name. “Fuck, honey. You’re mine, huh?”

She nods, lifting herself into her elbows to watch him peel her panties down her legs. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I am. Please…”

Frankie’s cock twitches at the sight of her glistening core. He shifts onto his stomach and, without warning, spreads her folds with two fingers and flattens his tongue against her slit. “Ohhh!” she cries, thighs trembling at the first touch. “Fuck… Frank…”

He flicks his tongue against her clit and presses his hips into the mattress to relieve some of the ache in his cock. Her moan is long and low, her hands grabbing, needy, nestling in his hair and holding on. He groans at the taste of her, the sweetness, nectar and sharp tang, so wet for him. For him.

Frankie can't get enough. She tastes so good, and she moans so loudly for him, out here in the middle of nowhere, that he can't find it in himself to pull away from her cunt. Instead, he wraps a hand around her thigh as the other presses down against her belly to keep her still. He licks her clit until she's quivering and shifts to her entrance, circling it with his tongue before plunging inside and lapping up the slick that pours from her. She cries out with pleasure when his thumb circles her clit.

“Your fingers,” she pleads, brows drawn up in the middle. “Want your fingers.”

Her face, flushed and needy, might make him come on the mattress. “You want my fingers, baby?” he says softly, still swiping her clit while his lips occupy themselves with kissing her inner thighs, the so-soft skin there.

“Wanna know how it feels… to be one of your helicopters,” she says with a breathless laugh.

He hums, bringing her clit into his mouth and sucking hard. She screams his name. “You're not a machine,” he says.

“You fly them like you wanna fuck them,” she gasps, writhing as he suctions his lips to her clit again.

He smacks the side of her thigh. “Only wanna fuck you. If you'll stay still.”

“Oh, please.”

He can't tell if it's a genuine plea or her smart mouth, but he wants to see her come so badly he doesn't respond. He dives back in, sucking and lapping at her clit as two fingers trace her hole and sink in to the knuckle, prodding at her front wall. “Fucking wet,” he mumbles against her, but it's lost in the vibrations that make her cry out from the stimulation.

“F—fuck, Frank, I…” Her eyes are unfocused, but he keeps his on her nonetheless. “I’m gonna… fuck—!”

He presses his fingers up against that spongy spot and laps at her clit while she comes, drenching his fingers in her hot slick. “Fuck,” she croaks, her body melting into the mattress. “That was…”

“Not over.” He sits up and leans over her, locking her leg around his hip and kissing her deeply. She’s boneless and pliant in his arms as he manhandles her hips up onto his thighs, sliding his cock through her wetness. She shivers. “I need you, baby,” he rasps. “Need you so fuckin’ bad.”

“Want you inside me, Frankie,” she says. “Fuck me, please. Make me yours.”

It's all he needs. Frankie pushes the head of his cock past her entrance and squeezes his eyes shut at the hot tightness of her. “Jesus.”

“You're big, Frank,” she says with a strained laugh. “Fuck, you're so—big!”

He pushes more of himself inside and groans at the unrelenting grip of her walls around him. It's airtight, it's wet, it's fucking heaven. He's died. He must have.

“I can take it,” she moans, her foot pressing at the small of his back, trying to pull more of him inside her. “I can, Frankie.”

She's so determined, so adorable in the way her brow scrunches, and he's so in love. He pushes inside until their hips are flush together and feels embarrassed by how good it is, so soon. It's been too long since he's buried himself inside a woman’s body, and hers is sending him fucking soaring. “Fucking… Hold still, honey. Can’t—fuck, you're so tight. Don't move. Just give me a second.”

She grins, head falling back into the pillow. “Can't… do that… to a helicopter.”

Frankie pulls out halfway and thrusts inside her sharply, hissing at the spark of pleasure that ricochets off his spine. “Smartass,” he grits out, relishing in the way she blindly reaches for the bedsheets and curls them in her hands.

“Frankie, honey, fuck me,” she says, rocking her hips against his.

He does. Of course he does.

Frankie begins to move inside her, establishing a rhythm that gets her moaning under him. He fucks her the way she wants; he fucks her to make her his, forever. He gets so deep inside her he feels his head prod her womb, and it doubles him over.

He drapes his body over her and humps her like an animal, kissing her until their mouths can barely fit together with the harsh thrusts that shift her body up the bed. His lips latch onto her jaw, nipping at it, then her shoulder, holding her body with the reverence it deserves, fucking into her until she's crying on his cock.

Frankie lifts her legs up onto his shoulders and bends her in fucking half. “Fuck!” she screams. “Frankie!”

“Hold on, baby.” She brings her hands around her thighs, and the angle deepens deliciously. He fucks her hard, biting the flesh of her calf, grunting about how good she is, how good she takes him, wrapped around his cock.

She drinks it in, swallowing thickly. “Wanted you… so long…”

He's punching the breath out of her, and he gently unwinds her hands from her thighs so they fall back down around his hips. He hooks a foot in the crook of her knee and rolls them over until she's on top. He places his hand on her belly. “Feel me?” he says, bucking his hips up into her.

She chokes on whatever she was about to say and lets her head fall back. When her eyes meet his, they're lidded, lashes spidery on her cheeks and her gaze heavy with lust. “I feel you,” she says. “Fuck, you're so big. So deep.”

He plants his feet on the mattress and holds onto her hips, grinding her against him. She shudders, grasping his shoulders, when her clit rubs up against his navel. “No fuckin’ idea,” he grunts, “how long I’ve been picturing this.”

“You ever dream of me?” she asks, her hair falling over her shoulders. The one and only deity he’s ever believed in. “I dreamed about you,” she confesses, squeezing her breasts in her hands. Frankie can’t believe what he’s seeing or hearing, even though he’s balls-deep inside her. “Touched myself thinking about you. Thought about you taking me… Fuck, I think I’m dreaming.”

He takes two handfuls of her ass and bounces her hard on his cock. She yelps, nails digging into his shoulder. “That feel like a dream, baby?” he says. “You have any idea how crazy you make me? Every time you fucking touched me, smiled at me… Jesus, eres tan… so beautiful.”

“Frankie,” she moans. “It was so hot watching you beat the shit out of him for me.” She glides long and slow up and back down his length, guided by his hands bruising her hips. “Fuck, you’re so strong.”

Frankie is lightheaded from the admission. He threads his fingers through her hair and pulls her down to him by the back of her head, baring his teeth against her cheek and he fucks up into her. It’s deep and she’s helpless in this position, taking his cock and clinging to him with cries of his name. “You like me protecting you?” he rasps into her ear. “Like me getting all bloody for you?”

“Fuck—yes!” she gasps.

“Show me how much you like it,” he says. “Ride me.”

And oh, she rides him. It's like she's possessed, a feral little fox, lifting her hips until he's barely inside her and twisting on the way back down. His vision goes white with the feeling of it. “Fucking… Muy bien… No puedo… Baby, you're so good.”

She rocks on him, grinds, bounces, until he's seeing stars burst behind his eyes. It's good. It's really good. She just keeps going, riding him hard, the shitty mattress squeaking under their bodies. He squeezes her tits in his rough hands, pinching her nipples. Her moans turn to whimpers.

He sits up and pulls out of her abruptly. She protests vaguely, but she’s so cockdrunk she can barely form words as he flips her onto her stomach and secures a pillow under hips. He has the perfect view of her ass from her, her head turned as far toward him as she can manage, cheek pressed into the mattress. He places a hand on the small of her back. Frankie slides into her from behind, and her moan is so loud, so desperate, that he begins to fuck her without mercy, without abandon.

“Ohhhhh… Frank—fuck, I can’t… fuck!”

“Yeah, you can,” he coos, grinding deep, pressing up against her front wall. Her ass arches up against him. “Are you my girl?”

She nods frantically, her cheek scratching the mattress as the force of his thrusts rock her entire body. “I’m your girl. I’m your girl.”

“Nobody fucks with my girl.” He pounds her so hard the room echoes with the sounds of his hips slapping against her ass, the squelching of her wet cunt around him. “My—perfect—girl.”

“Fuck. ‘M gonna come, Frankie,” she moans, face-down, fisting the bedsheets.

He can feel it. She’s squeezing the life out of him, trapping him inside her, begging for his cum. “Where?” He barely manages to push out the question.

“Inside,” she pleads. “Fuck, inside me, please. I want your cum.”

He can’t refuse her. He doesn’t want to. “I’ll give it to you, baby. Come for me.”

She stiffens and shudders, moaning his name and pulsating around his cock. He works her through it, thrusting shallow and urging himself toward his own peak, until she collapses onto the mattress and mewls like a fucking cat. “I love you, Frankie,” are the words he hears.

He does, pushing himself all the way inside her until he can’t even see his fucking cock anymore. He drowns her cunt in his hot cum, spilling deep and groaning her name, all while her pussy flutters around him and urges more, more, more out of him. When he finishes, he collapses on top of her, a canopy over her back, his lips finding her shoulder. He can’t muster the energy to pull out of her, let alone move, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“My big strong man,” she giggles.

He huffs against her skin, moving to the crook of her neck, where he buries his face. “Fucking Fox.”

“Yeah, baby, you just did.” She’s still giggling, and it’s infectious. He grins into her throat, laughing until he’s wheezing.

“Jesus Christ,” he manages, certain he’s smearing tears of laughter all over her. “We should probably eat dinner.”

“Are you hungry?” she asks. “Can you move? Because I’m not. And I can’t.”

He’s still chuckling. “I’m on top of you, baby. ‘Course you can’t move.”

“Good. Keep it that way.” She reaches around his head and scratches her fingers at the nape of his neck. He purrs against her. “We’ll eat when we wake up. Go to sleep, Frankie. I’ll be here when you open your eyes.”

He shifts off her slightly, pulling out of her as he moves onto his side to look into her eyes. He tucks her hair behind her ear. It’s matted with sweat and his manhandling. “I love you,” he tells her, just because he can. Because she loves him, too.

She grins, sleepy and worn. “Wake me up,” she whispers, her fingers lovingly tracing the grey in his beard, “whenever you’d like. However you’d like.”

He can’t help but squeeze her ass where his hand rests on it. “You serious?”

“I’m always serious, Francisco.” Her eyes flutter shut, and he doesn’t say another word.

He lets her sleep and watches until he follows.

He blinks awake to her hair tickling his nostrils, her soft back flush against his chest. He's seen her asleep before, memorised the way she looks when her lips are slightly parted and her even breathing gently rustles the hair in her face. He's so familiar with it. But he's never seen it so close, never felt the way her warm naked body curls gently into his, never been able to smell the lingering scent of citrus and sweat that clings to her. He's never been able to lean in and kiss her shoulder the way he does now.

She's yours.

Frankie is aware of his hard cock, slotted against the cleft of her asscheeks, needy for a wet, hot place to bury itself inside. He's aware of the way her body looks so tempting, so sweet. As his brain comes slowly to life, he becomes aware of the words she said last night.

Wake me up however you'd like.

He bites back a groan when she shifts in her sleep, her ass rocking back against his erection. Frankie reaches between their bodies and swipes two fingers through her folds. She's wet. No, she’s fucking soaked.

I dreamed about you.

Maybe she still does.

Still slick with his cum and her own arousal, she’ll take him so easily. It's blinding. Frankie's mind goes hazy with need, his body acting independently of his mind. He lifts her thigh and hooks it back around his hip, slotting his cock at her entrance. In her sleep, she hums, and the gentle sound rattles around in his head as he slides his cock inside her until he bottoms out.

He has to let out the rumbling sound that tears at his throat, so he buries his face in her throat and begins to fuck her from behind, pushing out little breaths of exertion into her skin.

“Mmmmmfrankie,” she mumbles, her eyes still closed, body still limp and malleable.

It’s deafening. She grips him so tightly, her walls sucking at him, begging for him. Frankie kisses the spot below her ear, sloppy and desperate, coaxing her awake with each languid drag of his cock.

“Frank,” she gasps, her eyes cracking open, her head turning, her lips seeking his, desperate and fuzzy with desire.

“Needed you, baby,” he groans, fucking her harder now that she's awake. She whispers his name, her voice crackling with sleep, still not coherent but grabbing greedily at his cock with her cunt. “So fucking good. Wet for me even in your sleep, huh? Muy hermosa, can't take you anywhere.”

She whimpers, head resting on his shoulder, lifting her arm just to bring him closer to him, fingers threading in his messy hair. He gravitates to her, lips on her ear, her jaw, her shoulder, every-fucking-where. “Gonna… gonna keep me locked up here?” she says, throat clicking with drool. “Fuck me whenever you want?”

Frankie grinds, making her cry out, gasping with the effort of taking him so deep, pressing up against the spot he knows will make her crumble. Stardust on his fingers. “Maybe I will,” he muses. “Nobody can fuckin’ touch you that way.”

“Frankie!” she screams, but it's muted, croaking with disuse. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”

She's a mess around him, debauched and so beautiful, pinching each knob of his spine with the pleasure it gives him to see her break because of him. It’s disarming.

He hooks her leg higher, securing his arm around her thigh, pulling it back, fucking her harder. Deeper. He's so deep he knows it’ll take. It’ll fucking take, and—

It won't. She's got an implant. But fuck, Frankie imagines, rutting into her like a fucking monster, pressing up against her womb and giving her a piece of him that connects them forever. He reaches around her body and rubs her clit because he's about to come, and she comes first. She has to.

She does. Crying out his name, grabbing at him with her needy hands, she soaks his cock. Fucking soaks it, her slick sticky on his thighs and making it oh, so easy to take her harder, deeper still. The sounds are filthy and obscene and wet, and he tangles his fingers in her hair to pull her head backward. She's squirming and squeezing around him, begging for him to come inside her.

He does. Spurt after spurt of hot cum finds its home at the deepest part of her, and there's so much it dribbles out around his cock and mingles with her own wetness. Frankie groans into her ear as he comes, rocking shallowly, not stopping until he's given her all of it. The slick noise as he pulls out makes his cock twitch even more, but they're both tired, spent, and in need of a shower.

“Oh my God,” she mutters into the pillow, panting. “I can't walk.”

Frankie chuckles, sliding off the bed and tugging on her ankle. She protests with a little whine. “You're cute, baby, but don't be lazy. Gotta clean you up.”

“Don't wanna,” she says, wiggling her ass at him, giving him a glimpse of the cum slipping out of her hole, the mess he made of her body.

He covers her body with his and bites the flesh of her asscheek. “Frankie!” she squeals.

“Get up,” he says, giving the bite mark a gentle smack.

She finally turns over and, pouting, follows him into the bathroom. “You think it's over?” she asks him, locking the door behind them even though nobody else is in the house. Force of habit.

Frankie turns on the shower and places his fingers underneath the stream to test the temperature. “If it isn't,” he says, “we’ll figure it out.”

She smiles up at him. “You need a haircut, Francisco.”

“Lost my favourite hairdresser for a bit,” he says, pulling her naked body up against him. “Made some mistakes.”

“Maybe she'll take on her favourite client again,” muses his girl, brushing his hair away from his forehead with her fingers. “We waited so long, Frankie.”

Her voice holds melancholy, the drip of knowing misery that they've wasted years yearning. But Frankie kisses her forehead and cradles the back of her head. “You and your infinite wisdom, baby. Don’t you have something for me?”

She laughs, and it's like the bells at midnight. “I’m fresh out,” she whispers, resting her cheek against his chest. “But maybe my wisdom is that I love you. It’s the best choice I’ve ever made.”

THE END.

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