#so long spent yearning for somewhere and someone

[pandoraslxna]

hello! i’m literally terrible at requesting things lol, but i thought i would ask if you would be doing another part to Stepbrother AU? i absolutely love the way you write neteyam. maybe some sweet and soft smut?

Sweet dreams

adult stepbro Neteyam x female omatikaya reader

Words: 2.5k

Summary: It’s date night, the marui is quiet and Neteyam has you all to himself.

Warnings: explicit smut, stepcest (= they’re not related by blood), fluff, praise kink, p in v, soft sex, semi-public, biting

Notes: adult Neteyam art was made by @cinetrix 🩵

Translation:

syulang = flower

It’s date night.

Date night means, his parents will be away for the night. And that means, all responsibilities fall to him.

So Neteyam makes sure everyone’s fed, goes to hunt, skins the yerik with Lo‘ak and let’s Kiri help prepare the meat, while you’re out to give Tuk a much needed bath after playing in the dirt all day.

They all eat together, while mum and dad are out somewhere flying on their ikrans or swimming in a river, spending some much needed time away from their kids, even though half of them are grown already and can take care of themselves. These days, date night is more than a ritual that they decided to keep from the early years of their mating, than a day spent away from the rest of the family. The kids aren’t really kids anymore, they don’t fight like they used to, they don’t ask too many questions that make Jakes hairline thin out and they don’t stick to Neytiri like leeches anymore.

Except for little Tuk of course, because Tuk will most likely forever keep the status of the Sully’s baby, probably even when she has kids on her own.

Lo‘ak has grown too, but he’s still Lo‘ak. Has always been him and will never change the way he is. Unless Tsireya comes over– great mother help him, suddenly he’s someone Neteyam has never seen before and it makes him physically cringe. But who is he to judge and apparently the chiefs daughter seems to be into that 'oh my voice is naturally low and raspy and I definitely don’t deepen it just to impress you' type of thing.

Kiri is, well, she’s never been one to talk much, but since she’s reached the end of her what dad calls puberty and mother calls "a test to her mental strength" her head seems to be even more up in the clouds than it was before.

Neteyam himself has long reached that age where he would like to experience these domestic moments with his own little family, living in his own marui. But he can’t seem to peel himself away from here, from home. Not when everything he yearns for is right here.

Which brings us to you.

His pretty little syulang, the flower of his life, that grew roots so deep in his heart that they took up all the space and left no room for anything or anyone else, since the day his parents had decided to take you in.

Admittedly, it took Neteyam longer than he thought it would, to realize that the way he looked at you was different from the way he looked at his other siblings. He’s always been protective by nature, takes care of those who are dear to him. But not once had he felt the same kind of jealousy when Spider or Rotxo or whoever talked to his sister Kiri, than when boys came to talk to you. When it came to you, things were different.

Neteyam himself had started fooling around with girls his age relatively young. Kissing and touching, before he turned eighteen and realized how easy it is to get them on their hands and knees just for being the next olo’eyktan.

But when you came along, things took a sharp turn. Suddenly, those girls made him feel icky. Suddenly, he had never wanted to touch anybody as much as he wanted to touch you. But he knew that such a thing was out of the question, though, so he never tried to act upon his forbidden desires.

It was you, surprisingly, who came to him first. Crossing all lines of what Neteyam thought was considered right or wrong, just for you to confess a love that goes beyond what step siblings should feel for each other.

Anyways.

Date night means, all responsibilities fall to him. And while it’s usually dad that has trouble sleeping, that stays up until eywa know when, sitting in the space that’s reserved for crafting and such things to clean his assault rifle, it’s Neteyam who sits in this place tonight. Like being away for a night ultimately means that not being able to sleep is now his burden too.

Neteyam doesn’t know the reason to his. His stomach is full and he’s happy and content, should probably sleep like a baby. But he just can’t bring himself to rest.

He hears Lo’aks snoring pick up in the other room, and it makes him chuckle lightheartedly. He‘ll keep Tsireya in his prayers, once the two of them have finally mated and will share their own marui. Eywa help her find some sleep, once this snoring palulukan lays under her roof.

Neteyam smiles to himself. His fingers slowly grow tired as they move a woven thread back and forth, then through a pearl, tying a knot and repeat. At least some part of him feels the need to rest.

While his parents date night generally means that there will be more duties than usual in his daily routine, it also means that there is no one up in the middle of the night or in the early morning hours, giving him time and peace to be lost in his thoughts. And those thoughts roam around a certain someone, more than usual even.

Because date night also means, spending time with his precious syulang is now less risky than it is on any other day or any other night.

Quietly, Neteyam tips his head back to glance into the other room. He can vaguely make out your sleeping silhouette in the dark, laying in your hammock. Like a magnet to metal, he feels himself drawn to you, so he allows his body to move without his brain having much say in this.

Everyone‘s asleep and his parents aren’t there and it just feels good to act upon his desires without double questioning everything, wondering what fleeting touches he could allow himself without being looked at weird or having to find excuses to go to the forest together for at least some alone time.

The hammock dips, and then a warm body settles to lay behind you, curling around your smaller frame like you’re two fitting pieces of the same puzzle.

A soft sigh leaves your parted lips and Neteyam can’t help but press a kiss to the nape of your neck. His breath tickles your skin, and then you stir awake with a yawn.

"Teyam?", you murmur sleepily, glancing over your shoulder to be met with two half lidded, golden orbs staring back at you.

"M‘sorry, syulang", he whispers against the shell of your ear before pressing another kiss to your cheek. "Didn’t mean to wake you."

You mumble something incoherent that he can’t quite pick up, but then you’re stretching and your tail instinctively curls around his, and Neteyam knows you probably didn’t mean to– but your back arches into him, ass pressing against his crotch, and suddenly you’re not the one only stirring awake.

"Hmm, but since you’re already up, we could…", the words are muffled into the crook of your neck, followed by more, open mouthed kisses against your skin.

"Teyam", you giggle quietly, squirming when he nips at the lobe of your ear, "stop it."

Instead of listening, his arms close tighter around your middle, pulling your back closer to his chest. His hands skim over the bare skin of your stomach, over your thighs, your waist.

"You’re so warm", he mumbles, with both of his hands now sandwiched between your soft thighs. It makes you dizzy, the way he presses himself against you, how his hands can’t seem to stay still for even a second, roaming your body to caress and squeeze and grab whatever they can reach. Your breath hitches in your throat once you feel his fingertips brush the outline of your loincloth, following the cords between your thighs, hands cupping your cunt.

"T-The others", you finally find your voice again. Swallowing thickly, you whisper, "Lo’ak and Kiri, they will–"

But Neteyam is quick to cut you off, "The others are sleeping…" Another open mouthed kiss to your throat, tongue licking along your pulse point. "And I missed you. A lot."

It doesn’t seem like he was leaving you much room to argue, especially not, because his hands then dip past the waistband of your loincloth.

"I was with you the whole day", a smile pulls at your lips, eyes fluttering closed as you let yourself enjoy the feeling of his teasing fingers.

"Hmh, and I still missed my baby sister", he hums, "Missed kissing you… touching you…"

A gasp tumbles from your parted lips when one of his digits slides into you with ease, curling up where he knows it feels best for you.

"Always so wet for me", Neteyam whispers, "My perfect girl."

His breath is hot and damp against the skin of your neck, and he nudges his now fully hard cock against the small of your back and waits for the sign that tells him you feel the same want he does.

Neteyam can’t help but nuzzle up against the crook of your neck again, trace the edge of your ear with nose and lips, because he can never get enough of the way that sends a shiver through your body. Through his own body too, and then he presses the smallest, quietest kisses to your ear until you shivers again.

Neteyam is so close to you, that he can sense and know he caused the tremble in your limbs and breath.

Those small, trembling movements are what does it for him, the way you nudge your sleep-warm body against him, the arch of your back against his chest and crotch, the scrabble of delicate fingers as they fumble against his arm, looking for purchase, the brush of your soft hair against his cheek and the taste of your skin at the flick of his tongue against your throat, neck and shoulder.

"Teyaaam", you whine quietly, two of his slick fingers now scissoring you open and you writhe and squirm, pushing back harder against his cock in need.

This time, the shiver runs through him first and you gasp once, the sound quiet and sharp.

Neteyam knows that sound. Knows that means he could fit your bodies together even better, press himself inside you now. So naturally, that’s what he does.

It’s a clumsy mess of tangled limps, soft giggles and fleeting kisses before he manages to wriggle you and then himself free from any clothes. He keeps you flush against him, back pressed against his chest, angles your leg up and holds you open with a hand to the backside of your knee.

Neteyam slides into you easily. The stretch is familiar, good and pleasant, and you moan once he’s filled you entirely.

"Shh, I know", he coos softly, "but you have to be quiet for me, yes? Don’t want to wake the others, don’t you?"

You nod, then his hips move almost on instinct, back and then pushing forwards, thrusting into you. It’s slow and languid, with muffled groans pressed against your skin.

Neteyam wants it to last. Wants to stay like this forever, soft touches and warmth and the fond familiarity of your skin under his fingertips. But he can't resist that voice. Can't resist that desperate, pleading tone.

"P-Please Neteyam", you whimper softly, pushing back against him, "more, please. More, I want to come!"

He pushes forward, just that little bit harder, then shifts to clamp a hand over your mouth, shushing you when you’re unable to contain those little noises of pleasure.

"You feel so good, syulang, so good."

The slow drag of his shaft against your warm, wet and velvety-like walls makes Neteyams tail curl in enjoyment, and his eyes flutter close as he lets himself drown in the feeling of you. His teeth are clenched shut, biting down on his lower lip, because he was just as close to moaning out loud as you were.

But then you’re clamping down, hard, when his tip nudges against that special spot inside you and– just a little faster, his thrusts become just a tad harder, deeper.

There’s drool covering the inside of his hand, where he’s trying to keep your mouth shut, tongue lapping at his palm so he switches position, sticks two of his fingers into your mouth instead for you to suck on.

You’re so wet around him, wet around his fingers too now, sucking as eager as you would on his cock and the low groan that bubbles up his throat is almost too loud. Almost.

But Neteyam catches his breath quickly, busying his mouth with your throat instead, sucking and kissing and biting, never hard enough to leave any marks, but enough to keep himself from making too much noise.

Meanwhile your tongue swirls around his digits and he pushes them further in whenever he slides his cock out of you, then out when he thrusts forwards. It’s a constant rhythm, leaving you moaning around his fingers and squeezing around his cock.

Slow and steady, he repeats the words like a mantra, trying to calm himself. But his thrusts become deeper, harder as well. They knock the breath out of your lungs, little whimpers reaching his ears, until Neteyam has to cover you mouth again with a warning grunt.

All it would take was for Lo‘ak to wake and get water, and then he would hear the obvious, he would hear the faint squelching noises coming from the other room, would hear your little whimpers and pleas.

Neteyam wanted this to last, he really did. But the thrill of getting caught was a dangerous mix to the absolute heavenly feeling of your pussy convulsing around his length as you came. The soft squeak that you gave, the way that your legs trembled and your eyes rolled back, it was all that was needed to push him over the edge.

"Fuck, fuck, syulang, baby. I‘m– I‘m gonna come", he forces out, as quietly as possible. The hand over your mouth clamped down harder, like a warning before he started to thrust into you faster, barely able to contain himself anymore.

Just a few especially deep strokes were needed, and Neteyam felt his body and every last nerve in it fill with pleasure, before he came with a grunt, biting his tongue and pressing his face into the crook of your neck.

Taking his time, Neteyam lets his body come down slowly. He’s still pressing himself into you gently, continues to move a little, thrusting, and enjoys the slippery sensations this engenders. Traces kisses over your skin and tastes salt and sweetness on his tongue while he listens to the way your breathing slowly evens out.

A tender, "I love you", is whispered against the shell of your ear. Your response comes a little slurred, voice laced with sleep and barely incoherent, but it doesn’t really matter to him. There’s a smile on your lips as you fall back asleep, satisfied and content.

And finally, sleep tugs on his tired eyelids.

Neteyam suspects, as he drifts of to sleep, that in an hour or so, for the second time that day, he'll be the first to wake. He’ll have to get up and move to his own hammock, fall back asleep there, or not. And he’ll miss you again, from afar. Until date night comes around again.

#tw: aged up #neteyam sully smut #neteyam x omaticaya!reader #neteyam x na'vi!reader #neteyam x you #neteyam x female reader #neteyam x female reader smut #neteyam smut #neteyam x reader smut #avatar neteyam #neteyam sully #neteyam #neteyam sully x reader #neteyam te suli tsyeyk'itan #atwow neteyam #neteyam x human reader #neteyam x sister!reader #atwow #avatar 2 #avatar the way of water

[dontloooknow]

hungry, lonely, violent

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

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

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

Word count: 22k

Read on ao3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay, okay, think. What can I-

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

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

“Shit, Joel, she’s not infected!” 

“Wh- Christ!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frowning, you look between them in confusion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In so many words, you’re fucked.

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

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

“Jesus Joel,” the boy says.

“She told me to!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I guess not.” 

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

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

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

“Is this how all patrols are?” 

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

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

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

“No,” you repeat sourly.

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

“No.”

He exhales. “You say anything else?”

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, go ahead. Thanks Jesse.”

“Sure thing.”

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

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

“Yeah?” 

“Help me with this.” 

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

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

“Hold on tight,” says Joel. 

What other choice do you have? 

———-

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

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

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

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

Not unlike yourself, really.

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

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

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

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

What if he’s done something to it? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again, he nods. “You’ve heard of it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

In lieu of a reply, you just nod warily. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t shoot me,” he repeats sternly.

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

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

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

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

“Wait, before what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wow,” is all you can manage. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s so unfair. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” is all you get in reply. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod hesitantly. 

“How’s your head?”

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

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

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

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

Quizzically, he nods. “Uh, yeah.”

“Real food?”

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

“In a can?”

His expression softens marginally. “No.”

Fuck. Real fresh vegetables? 

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

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

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

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

Then, he heads into the kitchen. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How long have you been in here?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh. Yeah it’s okay. Thanks.”

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

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

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

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

Ellie Winter Clothes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You like it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was really good,” you reply hesitantly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” you agree quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” you demand, voice going sour.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhm. Yours?”

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

“How old are you, anyway?”

“Old. Yourself?”

“Not old. Not young, either.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You suddenly remember something you forgot to tell Joel. 

“I used your sponge,” you say abruptly.

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

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

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

“I rinsed it clean,” you tell him. 

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

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

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

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

“Dishwasher?” you ask, confused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Boston.” 

“Atlanta.”

“Heard that one ain’t a cakewalk.”

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

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

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

“Just not dishwashers.”

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

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

“I didn’t-“

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

“I left it upstairs,” you admit. 

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

“My room?” 

Your room, indeed.

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s a bed.

“Must’a been hard,” Joel notes.

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

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

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

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

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” he asks.

“What’s your last name?”

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

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

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

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

______________________________________________________________________

The days go like this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well...not completely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I shoulda locked the-”

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

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

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

His jaw tenses. “You look upset.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright,” Joel says, voice rough. 

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

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

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

“Okay,” you reply, swallowing hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

__________________________________________

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

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

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

“Look, you gotta eat, alright?”

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

“Is this about-”

“No, I swear.”

“Please?” 

It had been hard to say no to that one.

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

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

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

So, you toss and turn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod half-heartedly. “Yeah.”

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

“Okay, yeah.”

“Get some sleep.”

“Okay.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll choke her out,” one suggested.

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

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

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

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

After a while, you got hungry. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You remember knowing that you would never be okay again.

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

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

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

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

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

A burden.

Alone. 

Broken. 

“Hey.”

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

You gasp.

Alone. 

Burden.

Broken. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You exhale in a stunted whoosh.

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

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

“Attagirl, good job.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He allows you to part his mouth with your tongue, falling into one another as your noses bump. His grip tightens around you, and you’re awash in the smell of lemon soap and mint, the itch of the quilt beneath you, the squeak of a mattress underneath your combined weight. 

After a few seconds, your lips part. Your noses touch, the frame of your foreheads making a heart against the shadows of moonlight through your window. His hands cup your face, rough and calloused, yet unbelievably gentle all at once. It’s as though his grasp is a shield, impenetrable and solid. You’ve never felt so safe, so cared for, so protected. 

And so, so scared. 

Now that you’re here, safe and cocooned in this warm house, this gentle society, the arms of this incredible man… 

How can you ever let yourself love something that would hurt so badly if it were lost? You’ve done it before. You can’t do it again.

“D’you wanna talk about it?” Joel rasps, thumb still soothing small lines over your cheek.

You shake your head quickly, but the words spill out as if in spite of your body’s intentions. “Just… mm. My parents. My brother. Just-that’s all.”

“Oh,” he murmurs, “what…can I ask what-”

“Raiders. I was twelve.”

At this, he looks down at your face, brows furrowed. “You saw it?”

“Yeah, I got away. They let me go, I mean. After some debate.” You clear your throat, breathing settled and eyes drying with each word. You’re feeling grounded enough to be utterly humiliated. “Um, I’m really sor-”

“I know you ain’t about to apologize for havin’ a nightmare,” he interjects dryly.

“More for what happened afterward,” you mutter.

Joel’s fingertips tuck a lock of hair back behind your ear, even though it falls right back out again. “Now why on earth are you apologizin’ for that?”

Because I can’t stay.  

Limply, you shrug.

He laughs, that low, dry sound. It smooths from his chest like a bass drum, reverberating in your ears. And you smile in spite of yourself, a small, gentle pull of your lips. You love making him laugh. 

“Sorry I barged in,” Joel says, even though he’s still holding you in his lap like a stray dog.

“S’okay. Thanks for…thank you.”

“Don’t gotta thank me.”

“Be kinda rude if I didn’t.”

His lips twitch. “Can I ask you somethin’?”

“Okay.”

“Did you do that just now…kiss me…’cause you wanted to, or ‘cause you were upset?”

Swallowing thickly, you reply, “can it be both?”

“If it’s both, it’s both.” 

“That’s fucking vague,” you grouse.

“Pot, meet kettle.” He smirks down at you.

“I’m sorry I kissed you,” you say.

“Don’t be,” he responds, “I’m not.”

You have nothing to say to that.

“You oughta get some rest.” Joel squeezes you once, then moves like he’s going to get up and leave.

Your fingers dart out to clench his shirt, gripping the soft cotton in vice like digits. Wild-eyed, you look up at him, terrified of being alone, terrified of seeing Andrew’s face again all night.

“Hey, easy.” Joel pries your fingers off his shirt. “You alright?”

“I-I-“ you stumble over the words, throat choking up. It’s all so confusing. You need to be away, pull back, stop this before it goes too far. At the same time, you’ve never needed to be close quite this badly. 

“I can,” he answers a question you didn’t ask, “if you want.”

Limply, you nod. 

“Go on then, scoot.” Joel gestures for you to make room on the bed, and you do. He adjusts the pillows and lies flat, opening his arm for you. You curl up at his side, cheek on his chest, listening to the steady heartbeat underneath the cotton shirt. He smells like lemon soap, and a faint musk of sweat from sleeping. It’s enticing, the mixture, and you don’t know why.

You press your face into his shirt, breathing in the security that this strange man somehow brings. You don’t know when the shift happened from him being a man you wanted to stab, to this, but it’s happened now. It’s too late to deny this: Joel means something to you.

“I’m sorry about what I said earlier,” you tell him quietly.

He hesitates. “You…didn’t say nothin’ bad. That was always the plan, for you to go out on your own darlin’.”

He’s right of course, that was the plan. For the past two weeks, all you’ve been doing is letting him take care of you. The end goal, ultimately, to help you become a functioning Jackson resident. 

“But can I ask?” He continues, voice low and soft in the dark bedroom. 

“Yeah?”

“Do you…do you want to leave? S’okay whatever you wanna do baby, just… that is what you want, right? To be on your own?” 

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

No, no, no I don’t want to be alone. Ever again. I want to stay with you forever. 

“Yes,” you lie. It’s a lie. You’re so afraid. Why can’t you just tell him the truth? Why can’t you just let someone in? If it’s gonna be anyone…well, it’d be someone like Joel. 

No. Not someone like Joel. Just Joel.

“So all that time on the road,” he adjusts your body slightly, tugging you up higher on his chest so that his chin rests on your head, “didn’t make you lonesome?”

An ache in your chest, sharp and spearing overwhelms you. “It-it did.”

“N’you like bein’ lonesome?”

The lie is on the tip of your lips before he says, “be honest, honey.”

“No,” you say, shoulders deflating.

“It’s hard,” he whispers, “lettin’ people in when you lost so much before. Believe me darlin’ I get that.”

“Then you know why I have to leave,” you tell him, desperate that he’ll understand, but also hoping that he’ll argue against it.

“I know why you think you gotta leave,” he corrects.

“This isn’t good for you anyway,” you’re shaking your head as you speak, fingers splayed out on his chest, “I’m a burden to you.”

At that, he manages a small, dry chuckle. You look at him, confused by what’s made him laugh. 

“Honey, havin’ you here…well, I think I needed it just as much as you did. You got no idea how much I like watchin’ you eat what I cook, listenin’ to you hum in the shower ‘cause you’re too shy to sing, watchin’ you curl up by the fireplace with that damn quilt around your head like a sherpa.” His fingers come down to cup your jaw, tracing the line of bone that leads to the curve of your chin, up to the bow in your lips. “How nice it is havin’ a pretty girl around to talk to, someone smart, someone funny, someone who’s like me.”

“Like you?” you inquire. 

“Mhm.” He presses the pad of his thumb against your lips, parting them slightly as he uses his finger to study the contours of your mouth. “Someone hurt, someone who thought they had no chance in this world. Someone who can get better, if she lets herself.”

Your throat feels tight. “I don’t know if I can.”

“You’re already doin’ it, baby.” He tilts your chin up with the meat of his palm, looking down at you through the silver streaks of moonlight. “Every day you get up, eat breakfast, and keep goin’. That’s all it is. Takin’ it one day at a time. Takin’ care of yourself. Letting yourself get better, slow n’ steady.”

You blink up at him, trying to process his words. You guess he has a point; two weeks ago you barely felt human, didn’t feel like you could ever belong in a place like Jackson, or somewhere like Joel’s home. But lately, through these routines of care, you’ve begun to feel…alive again. Still agonized by loss, still hopeless and confused and frightened, but something more than that too. 

“You don’t gotta stay,” he assures you, “not if you don’t want to. But don’t go just ‘cause you’re scared. Ain’t no reason to punish yourself. Not when I like havin’ you around so much.”

“What if you get tired of having me around?” you ask weakly. It’s no far stretch; every other short term partner you’ve ever had got sick of you after enough time. Every adult you roomed with in the QZ kicked you out sooner or later. Nothing is permanent, especially not people.

“You think I could at least get a chance to prove myself ‘fore you go ahead and write me off?” He smiles down at you, hand still cupping your cheek. “I actually ain’t all that bad a guy.”

“No, no,” you’re quick to reassure, “Joel, you’re the most amazing man I’ve ever met. You are- you are a good guy. It isn’t that, it’s-”

“It’s not you, it’s me, honey, that one’s a little played out.” There’s gentle amusement in his voice.

With a groan, you start to pull away. “You’re impossible.”

“Hey, m sorry.” he pulls you back in, gentle but demanding, and you concede, all too eager to lay against his warm chest. “All I'm sayin’ is, no one’s asking you for your hand in marriage or nothing. Just…stick around for a while. Let me make sure you’re real healthy, ready to go. Get some meat on these bones. Get you feelin’ good. Might take some time. Two weeks ain’t much.”

“I’ve got meat,” you defend.

He snorts. “Me too.”

“Joel-”

“S’gonna take time, that’s all I’m sayin’. Just, stay, alright? Let yourself…have this.” Joel presses a firm kiss to the top of your head.

Finally, you exhale and find yourself nodding. Although it’s against your instincts, and better judgment, you know he has a point. How can you ever get better if you don't give yourself the opportunity?

“I don’t really know how to do this,” you admit, “I’ve never really…been a person before. Y’know what I mean?”

He makes a quiet noise of consideration. “Gimme an example.”

“Like, the apple juice,” you explain in a rambly sort of voice, “or the dishwasher. I don’t know how to do things like you do. I mean, fuck, I walked in on you in the shower today.”

At that, he clears his throat. You must be imagining it, but you’re sure you can hear some sort of…something in the noise. 

“That kinda stuff takes time,” he replies quietly, “s’okay.”

You arch an eyebrow. “What else am I missing then?”

“You’d have to tell me that, honey.”

Abruptly, you remember his body, naked and wet from the shower. Something about him is so desirable; whether it’s simply the masculinity of his form; hairy and strong, the impressive endowment between his legs or something else, you aren’t sure. Could it be that he’s simply an attractive man, who’s kind and thoughtful and funny? Of course. 

Could it be that everything about Joel represents what you’ve always wanted? The security of this home he’s created, the warmth of his fireplace and the way he’d thought to set out mint leaves for you to chew on? The heft of his body; his large shoulders, his thick thighs, his soft stomach, well fed and dense with nutrition. He is whole, broken pieces glued back together painstakingly to build back up this incredible man. This beacon of recovery, healing, strength and happiness.

What are you missing? Everything that Joel has, it would seem. The chance to finally become the way he is… to be okay again.

And…well, it’s also been a while since you had a good fuck. That wouldn't hurt either.

The thought is so ridiculous, so sudden and inappropriate, that it makes you laugh. A real laugh; a genuine, deep-chested sound of amusement that has Joel pulling back with surprise. 

“Somethin’ funny?” he inquires, arching an eyebrow at you like you’ve lost your mind. 

“No, m’sorry.” You press your fingers against your lips in a pathetic attempt to stifle the laughter. “So stupid.”

“What?” he demands.

“No it’s- god Joel it’s so ridiculous I can’t-”

“Oh, just tell me damnit.”

“I was just thinking, you know, what might help make me feel normal again. Haven’t had it in a while…” you look up at him expectantly.

It takes a moment for the message to land in his brain, and his eyes widen slightly. “Oh. I-I see.”

“Yeah…” you clear your throat quietly.

“Well, shit honey. All y’had to do was ask.”

Your eyes widen. “Pardon me?”

He takes your face in his hand again, tilting your chin and gently pulling your body until you’re face to face, noses brushing. His lips twitch, eyelashes sweeping over his cheekbones as he studies your face.

“Like I said,” he murmurs, “ain’t nobody proposing marriage or nothin’. But there’s no reason you can’t…enjoy yourself. If you want to, that is.”

“You…we…are you sure?”

“Ain’t nothin’ you haven’t already seen,” he quips.

You groan. “Joel.”

A low chuckle in his chest. “Sorry baby.”

“If you’re just gonna tease me the whole time, then you can go fuck yours-”

Your retort is cut off by his lips pressing into yours, and you startle a bit, though you don’t pull back. Your body melts, tension leaking out of your shoulders at the feel of his gentle mouth on yours. 

And you’re consumed. There’s nothing else in that moment except for Joel.

His mouth on yours, his tongue pressing forward until it parts your lips. His body, thick and warm against your chest. The tangle of his graying hair, the way his breath grows more heavy when you intertwine your fingers with it and tug. His hands, one cupping your cheek, keeping you close, the other delicately beginning to roam your body. 

And maybe it’s wrong; hooking up with him on the heels of a horrific nightmare about losing your family, or doing it after you told him you were going to leave, or doing it at all considering you barely know each other outside of these serene, isolated two weeks of eating and sitting by the fire and laughing.

But you want him, and he’s good and you want to be a person again. You want to eat meals and drink tea and sleep with a quilt and fuck often. You want to ride a hard dick, suck on a thick, veiny cock, be caged in an embrace of big bulging arms, hear the guttural moan of a man in your ear as he cums.

It’s a hunger, like any other. The way your stomach growled and gnawed for the relief of a hot meal, your body yearned to be filled too. That warm, wet space between your legs, at times so empty and vacant you thought you might just die from the need. Fulfillment, desperate for it in all its forms. Yearning, hunger, pleas to live a life where such simple pleasures are not only permitted, but taken with ease.

It won’t make you whole, it won’t heal your scars or fix your wounds. It won’t change what’s happened or secure your future. 

But for a while, no matter how fleeting, it’s going to fill you up.

Isn’t that enough for someone who’s spent so long being hungry?

“C’mere,” he murmurs, so gentle, so soft, that it’s impossible not to do as he asks. You let him readjust you so you’re sitting on his lap, slender thighs spread around his thick ones, arms hanging off his neck, foreheads pressed together as he hungrily meets your lips again. He’s warm, heat radiating off his large body, and you instinctively lean in.

“Gonna make you feel good,” Joel’s words are muffled by the skin of your jaw as he leaves lingering kisses there, slowly traveling down to your neck. His tongue flicks delicately at the column of your throat, eliciting a small moan from your lips.

It’s been so long since you’ve been touched…

“God, you’re so pretty baby.” His fingers slide into the neckline of your nightshirt, which is really just one of his. It’s so large on you that you wear it as more of a dress, the only thing guarding your intimate areas from the outside world is your solitary pair of underwear, that’s been washed to death as you wait for more fabric to come into Jackson’s seamstress to make more. You’ve been going commando a lot.

It’s your immediate instinct to argue; you haven’t been pretty for a while, you’re not sure if ever. Survival is all you know; not caring for yourself or putting effort in to appear beautiful. 

But what’s the point, anyway? He’s here, he’s seen you for what you are, and he wants to make you feel good. What does it matter if you’re pretty?

Though… you do like the way it sounds coming off his lips. 

“Can I…” his lips explore the small patch of skin on your neck that’s exposed above the shirt, “can I take this off, honey?”

He’s tugging lightly on the shirt, asking your permission, even though in every way you’ve really already given it. You hesitate only briefly, concerned about the state of your sickly body. Then, you nod.

Calloused hands moving with a practiced tenderness, he bunches the shirt up at the hem and carefully slides it over your head, exposing your breasts and abdomen. You hear his sharp intake of breath, feel the warmth of it washing over your skin, and for a moment you’re paralyzed with fear.

He doesn’t like what he sees. How could he? You’ve become something inhuman. Scars, bones poking through flesh, discolored bruises. You’re something so ugly and unsightly that-

“Jesus, baby, you’re beautiful.” The pad of his hand smooths out to cup your breast, his thumb brushing elegantly over the bud of your nipple, which is rapidly coming to life from the sensation. “Lookin’ so healthy these days, so so pretty. You feel better?”

Robotically, you nod. “Y-yeah.”

“Love gettin’ to feed you, baby. Watchin’ you eat my food, gettin’ healthy n’soft.” He leans in, cradling your back to keep you upright as his warm lips explore the expanse of your chest, kissing down your sternum until he replaces his thumb on your nipple with his mouth. 

And he’s right, you think as you look down critically at your form. You’ve put on weight, surely not enough, not yet. But… you’re softer now, edges rounded out to a more gentle plush, knobby knees more full, bony hips more tender, slender thumb joints smoothed out. 

And you do feel better. Not dizzy or aching all the time, not sore or struggling to sleep from the pain, not burning from dehydration or growling from hunger.

You’re almost there, almost as full as a person can be. So, so close.

“I like it too,” you breathe, the last word pitching up with a surprised noise as his teeth graze across your nipple. A pleasant, but unexpected motion.

“That okay honey?”

“Mmm…yes…”

“Gonna make you so soft n’happy,” he murmurs, almost more to himself than you, you think, “gonna take care a’you.”

“Okay,” you whimper, pliant in ways you’ve never been with a partner before. 

You aren’t sure why, because he’s just sitting there, kissing you and holding you and telling you all of these kind things, but you feel the pooling of tension in your lower belly and the beginnings of a wet patch on your panties. It’s bizarre; other than teasing your nipple he hasn’t done much in the way of sexual advances, yet from his touch and his words alone, you need him.

And you didn’t imagine it, that his cock was big. You can feel it beneath your spread thighs, through his boxers and sweatpants, the thick girth and diamond hard weight of it pressing into the fabric. 

The heat between your legs feels almost unbearable now, the growing need and tension from his ministrations of your nipple spurring you on. Your fingers tangle in the wavy hair atop his head, and you feel his lips curve into a smile around your breast.

“Mind if I take this off?” he asks, removing his lips from your skin to tug at his own shirt. You nod quickly, eagerly, watching him slide it over his head.

In the soft glow of moonlight, the contours of his body are illuminated like the artful scenes of a movie. The tendons and muscle in his large arms, bulging and pulsing each way he moves, the clench of his jaw beneath his well-groomed beard, the mapping of dark hair over his thick chest. His stomach is full, wide and round and healthy, a sturdy man in every sense of the word. A big, meaty body to match that huge cock in his pants. It’s only fitting, you think as you admire the large score of his body. He’s scarred too, like you are, the lines and wrappings of a survivor beaten into his flesh.

“Ain’t as trim as I used to be,” he remarks offhandedly, though you think you sense a beat of hesitation in his words.

Your delicate fingers trail between his pecs, smoothing the hair down there until you reach the place beneath his belly button where the hair connects to his boxers. You tug experimentally at the hemline of his pants, eyeing the desperate thing there that begs to be freed. You watch his breathing pace up, his stomach and chest moving in synchrony with each hurried breath. 

So big, so full and warm and secure. Solid and strong, an impenetrable wall around you. 

“You’re perfect,” you tell him, and you don’t just mean his body. 

He ducks his head then, surely embarrassed by the praise, and buries his face in your neck once more. His lips and teeth graze the skin there, sucking and biting and kissing, leaving little wet spots as he moves along.

His large hands grip your hips then, lifting you with such ease it’s almost startling. He heaves you upward and then gently lays you on your back, head against the mound of pillows pushed up on the headboard. Your legs splay out before you and he positions himself above, careful not to lower his weight on to yours.

His lips return to your neck, dancing slowly down between your breasts, kissing the scarred flesh of your stomach and hips, teeth bumping into the cotton of your panties. His eyes dart up to you when he reaches them, eyebrow quirking. A question. He’s asking for permission.

You nod, too eager you’re sure.

“So pretty…” he breathes, pressing his lips to the wet fabric of your panties, eyes closing as he tastes the flowing liquid through the cotton. “‘Bout lost my cool when I saw these little things hangin’ off your pack, darlin’. Wondered what they’d look like on you, wondered what they’d look like off you…” He kisses the wet patch again, which makes your legs tense up, and slides his finger into the hemline, murmuring thoughtfully.

“Don’t fit so good anymore,” he notes, and you realize he’s right. There’s a pinch of fabric at your thigh that wasn’t there before, the mark of underwear too tight. It leaves little indents on your skin when he pulls at it, angry red marks that line the contours of your body. 

“You’ve been feeding me too much,” you manage.

He chuckles at this, deep and throaty. “I think we can do better, even.”

With that, he carefully glides the panties down your legs, the stickiness of your arousal clinging to the cotton until he finally separates it from your ankles. He holds it up, admiring the damp fabric. He balls it up in his hand, and then presses it to his nose with a deep, hungry inhale.

You blink, surprised. You’ve never had a partner…do that before. 

Joel’s eyes open, underwear still pressed to his nose and mouth. You can see the twitch of his jaw, the smile on his lips even though it’s hidden by your wet underwear, and it does something odd to you. 

He wants you so bad, is so hungry for you that he’s taking in every piece he can, breathing in your smell, your taste, even where it clings to the underwear that used to fit you and no longer does.

It makes you need, the way he wants you. It makes you ache desperately, makes you yearn and hunger for him too. Being wanted, being desired, it’s not something you’re used to.

“Smell so nice, honey,” Joel mutters, “bet you taste even better. So sweet, so wet.” He lowers himself between your legs, grabbing your thighs in his large hands, fingers pressing into the meat. 

It’s a reflex for your legs to tighten up, tension pooling at the sight of a relatively new man between them. He pauses, noticing your trepidation, and glances up at you without moving forward.

“Hey, you okay honey?” his voice is measured, composed. 

You nod.

“You sure? Talk to me baby, I gotta make sure you’re alright. You here with me?”

“I want you,” you manage, “please, Joel, I want it.”

“I’ll take real good care of ya’,” he promises you in that low, sultry drawl, “be real gentle. Treat you real nice.”

You’re nodding, already lost in whatever it is he plans to do to you. You feel a brief stab of insecurity for the state of your body hair, and you want to tell him as much, but you’re afraid it’ll kill the moment.

He doesn’t seem to mind, either way, lips pressing into your inner thighs, seeming completely heedless of the thick hair there. He pulls your body closer, gripping your hips in his strong hands, bringing your dripping cunt closer.

Joel’s head drops down, lips covering a delicate pattern on your lower belly, gliding easily over the soft hair on your pelvis, finding his mouth at your lips. Experimentally, he smooths his tongue over the wet slit there, glancing up when the action makes you inhale sharply.

His eyes are teasing, mouth quirked up in a small smile. Teasing, cocky, mischievous. 

“You’re g-gonna have to do better than that,” you tell him with a small curve to your lips.

“There’s that smile,” he muses, before burying his face between your legs again.

And there’s no ability to think of anything else, because he’s there. His tongue, expert and well practiced, running whirlpool motions over the bud of your clit, sucking and kissing and licking hungrily at the dripping bellow of your opening. 

Every sense is alight, each breath you take heavy with elation. The bundle of nerves between your lips is in overdrive, tensing and pulsing with desperate need as he gets you closer and closer. His tongue works miracles, the speed altering at just the right moment, switching his motions at just the right interval, lapping up your sopping liquids with his tongue like a starving man at a buffet.

“Taste so fuckin’ good, baby girl,” he groans into your wet folds, “such a pretty little cunt, so wet and soft for me.”

“For you…” you echo in a whine, fists gripping the sheet that’s come up off the mattress again.

The noises are obscene, the wet squelch of his tongue against your body, the almost frantic way he devours you. Hands holding your trembling legs in place despite the way you tense and move from the sensations, face buried against your wet center, the mess of liquid dampening his face and your thighs and the sheets underneath. 

You cum with a whining cry, a noise you didn’t know a person like you could make. It’s an innocent sound really, despite the debaucherous context. A noise of pure, primal pleasure, ripped from deep within your chest, a release and elation you haven’t felt in…you’re not sure if ever.

Knees clenched around his head, you’re expecting him to pull back now that you’ve gushed more fluid onto his face. But dutifully, he keeps eating. He drinks you in, the overstimulated, swollen clit beneath his lips is begging for relief, pleading to rest, but he doesn’t let it. 

Joel is hungry, and he won’t leave until he’s satisfied. Until you’re both satisfied.

“Taste so good when you cum for me,” he breathes when he pulls his lips back for air, “so sweet n’wet. Cum on my face, darlin’, do it again. Wanna eat you, all of you. So wet f’me baby.”

You think you cry his name, you aren’t sure, but you rip your fingers through his thick hair, tighten your thighs around his face, tears budding at the corners of your eyes from the ruthless sensation between your legs.

Then, a thick finger, gentle and careful probing at your entrance. He slides it in just a bit, moving with caution and curiosity. You buck your hips toward him eagerly, the desperate clench of your wet cunt around nothing is almost too much to bear. 

Slight relief as he glides his finger in all the way, pumping it gently in and out, back and forth to get a feel for the tightness of your slick walls. It’s been so long since anyone touched you this way, since you had anything substantial inside you, and Joel’s got the biggest fingers of any man you’ve ever met.

“That feel good baby?” he grunts as his lips ghost over your pulsing clit and his index finger smooths inside of you, “hurtin’?”

“No, good, good,” you pant.

“Good girl, attagirl.” He kisses your clit again and your hips buck once more, but he pins them down with his other hand. A second finger inside of you, matching the pace of his first, stretching you around the thick width of his digits. Preparing you for what’s to come, the massive, hard cock that’s going to spear you against the headboard.

Fuck, fuck.

“Joel,” you groan his name, feeling his fingers curl up in a crude little gesture inside you, coursing against your walls, brushing up against that place that makes you feel like you’re going to erupt. “Joel, Joel….”

He hums a low sound, lips and tongue still violently, rhythmically devouring your wet cunt. Between the pulsing thickness of his fingers, and the circular motions of his tongue on your clit, it’s not long before you white out. The pleasure is too intense, too sudden and overwhelming. It’s too much, too much, more than you’ve ever had before. 

Tears track down your cheeks against your will, your chest heaves with desperate, panting breaths. Your fingers have gone numb from their vice grip on the sheets, legs aching as they spread around his head to give him easier access, not a shred of resistance in your body as you submit to his expert touch. 

And it happens again, more intense this time. A black film teases the corners of your eyes, a devastatingly intense pooling in your stomach and through your cunt, a pulsing, thready explosion of pleasure bursting through you. 

You soak his face, legs jerking, hips convulsing, voice raw from crying out. The feeling is so intense that it dizzies you, your head floating off your body and spinning into a whirlwind somewhere in outer space. 

Joel licks it all up, tongue dragging across your drenched inner thighs, gliding across the shimmering wet slit of your lips, sucking on the raw skin until it’s nearly unbearable. Then, his wet mouth is moving, kissing up your thighs, the slope of your hips, your stomach and your breasts, sucking on your nipples and cupping them in his rough palms. 

Once he reaches your ear, teeth grazing the lobe, voice gruff, he whispers, “you with me, baby?”

You whine a small sound, feeble and needy. You feel the curve of his lips into a smile where they’re pressed into your ear, and he kisses your temple, lingering there. 

“M’gonna take these off, hm?” he slides a hand down toward his sweats, where you can see the large, intimidating shape of his hard dick outlined.

God, you need it, you need it like you’ve never needed anything in your life. So many years spent hungry, never realizing just how painful it could truly be to want something and be empty of it. 

Your pulsing, desperate pussy aches for him, dripping with the evidence of his prowess. Your thighs clench around nothing, pleading, begging, needing to be filled with whatever he can give you. 

Joel slides the pants off, boxers following suit, and your eyes widen a bit at the sight of his large cock springing forward. There’s a well-groomed crop of hair at the nape, heavy, even balls framing the thick protrusion of his shaft. The tip, angry and red, dripping with his need.

“Joel, let me-” you make a move to take it in your mouth, but he stops you with a gentle shush.

“No baby, just you tonight.” He lowers himself back above you, the hard tip just barely brushing your sopping cunt. 

A synchronized moan fills the air, both of you shuddering at the teasing contact. Holding himself upright on his thick, powerful arms, he lowers his forehead to yours, noses bumping. His lips ghost against your own, and you kiss him greedily, whining into the touch as his dick presses against you once more. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, “you wan’ me to fuck you, honey?”

You nod desperately.

“Talk to me, honey.” His lips press delicately right beside your mouth, smoothing his large nose over the supple skin of your cheek. “Tell me what you want, hm?”

“I-I want you,” you croak, voice frail and shattered, “want you inside me, Joel. Want you to fuck me. Fill me up, fill me with you. Please, please. I need it.”

He smiles down at you, no trace of teasing or mischief there, only a genuine, earnest warmth. Gradually, his hips roll into you, pushing just the slightest bit of him inside. You shudder, gasping at the beginning of the stretch.

“Gotta go slow, honey,” he breathes, eyes closing as if in concentration, “don’ wanna hurt you.”

“N-no, I don't care,” you insist.

“I do, baby. Gonna take care of you, promised. I got you. I got you. You’re safe with me.” His lips warm against your collarbone, kissing wetly there as his hips inch forward, shoving more of himself inside.

The stretch is intense, painful despite how wet and glistening you are for him. The head of his cock, fat and dripping, grunts into you with restrained desperation. His thighs push forward, hips moving slowly, slowly, giving you time to adjust, giving you all the focus and care and attention. 

Finally, mercifully, he bottoms out, both of you groaning out a noise of agonized want. Your thighs are speared apart by his wide body, balls of your feet digging into his lower back. His arms cage you in, one hand flat on the mattress to prop himself up, careful not to put any of his massive weight on your light frame, the other touching you. Your breasts, your cheek, your hair, your lips, every part of you he can see he explores while he allows you to adjust to the heavy weight of his dick inside of you.

It’s huge, spreading you and stretching you so intensely that you’re grateful for his godlike patience. You feel it bumping up inside, tip scraping the mouth of your womb, almost enough that you swear you could touch it through your belly. 

“So big, Joel,” you tell him, your voice a thready imitation of your usual cadence, “so big n’strong…so nice…”

“I got you baby,” he cups your cheek, bending his body down to kiss you lightly. The movement sheaths his cock forward inside, and you both groan.

“Please,” you beg, “please fuck me…please fill me up. Want you to fill me with your cum. Keep me full forever.”

“Fuck, fuck, honey girl,” he bites at your lip, pulling hard between his teeth until he draws blood. He licks across the soft pink flesh, taking more of you into him; the thin red line decorating his tongue before he swallows it up like a good boy.

Then, his hips grind into yours and you let out a shrill noise, a wounded animal crying out. He moves, slowly at first, allowing your body to stretch around him, getting used to the impact of his impressive girth. 

Quickly, he picks up the pace.

You’re begging at this point, nails raking down his thick back, teeth gritting into the hot meat of his shoulder, feet forcing his hips into you. He grunts your name, spits curses into the soft flesh of your neck, grinds and pounds his hips against yours so hard it feels as though he really could split you in two.

But split, you do not. Rather, you become more. Full, whining and screaming his name, sated and hungry all at once. Desperate and satisfied simultaneously. A hungry, soaking little mess underneath this massive man. This man who at first glance, had tried to kill you, a favor you quickly returned. 

A man who’s done nothing for the past two weeks but try to make you whole. A man giving you all the pieces of himself he can spare to try and mend your broken ones. A man who knows what it’s like to fall apart and be put back together again. 

He sees you; scarred flesh, fear, loneliness, all your worst, all you have, and he takes you as his own.

“Goddamnit,” he growls into your skin, “so fuckin’ tight baby, so good…so wet f’me…so tight, fuckin’ gripping me baby.”

Your nails dig deeper into his back, which only seems to spur him on. His hips somehow continue their breakneck pace, pounding against your deepest point so hard that it makes your head feel floaty all over again.

“Feel so good, you okay baby?” his lips against your skin are slurred, sloppy and greedy. 

You nod, nod your head so fast you feel dizzy, and he laughs a little breathlessly. Then, you feel the rough pad of his thumb move from your face down to your clit. 

You do white out then, with the combination of his hard, massive dick spearing you against the pillows, and the grind of his thumb against your swollen clit. The sensations are overwhelming, so intense, too intense. Your legs clench around his waist, and you let out a low, guttural scream.

“Fuck,” Joel gasps, eyes shutting as his rolling hips grow sloppier, less rhythmic, “fuck baby, fuck, fuck you just came all over my cock. God, so fuckin’ tight, so good so good honey, m’gnonna-fuck-”

And you’re full. The hunger, the emptiness, it all fades away in that instant. 

Joel empties himself inside you, cock jerking and pulsing against your throbbing walls. He groans deep in his throat, cursing and grunting as he fills you up, liquid gushing out over your pelvis and thighs. 

It takes a few moments for both of you to come down, his spent cock still sheathed inside your warmth. He hovers over you, and you feel one of his hands cup your cheek, fingers tracing slow lines across the bridge of your nose.

“Baby,” he breathes raggedly, “talk to me.”

“M’fine,” you assure him, though you feel like you’re on another planet.

“You sure? Everythin’ okay? Didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“You’re stupid,” you tell him.

At that, he snorts. “Yeah, you’re fine.”

He moves to detangle himself from you, but your legs clench around him, arms clasping desperately around his neck. He’s so warm, so solid and safe, and you’re so full. 

“They used to have a word for this,” he muses quietly, jerking his chin toward the cage of your legs around his waist, “think they called it baby trappin’.”

“As if you couldn’t get off right now if you wanted,” you mutter.

“Already did that, sweet.”

“Okay, you know what, get the f-”

He presses into you again, and you’re silenced by the low moan that slips from your mouth at the pressure of his heft inside you, even soft and spent. He smiles, teeth digging into his lower lip as he looks down at you with admiration. 

“M’gonna make you a real nice breakfast tomorrow,” he says matter-of-factly.

“That so?” You arch an eyebrow, amused at the ridiculous attempt at conversation he’s making with his dick literally still inside of you. “What’s the Joel Miller Morning After Special look like?”

“Waffles, homemade batter ‘course. Blueberries, the ones we been savin’. Big ole jug of apple juice, just for you.”

“Just for me?” You smile faintly at him. 

“Just for you,” he confirms, “whatever you want, just for you.”

A small laugh drifts from your lips. “Well, that’s very nice of you.”

“So you ain’t leavin’?” he asks, a note of hope in his voice.

“No.” You shake your head. “Think I'll stick around and annoy you for a while.”

He brushes a lock of hair behind your ear with the pads of his fingers. It stays put this time. 

“I’d like that, darlin’.” His teeth flash white in the darkness again. “Think I could go for a little somethin’ now actually. You need anything? Some water?”

You nod, fighting the instinct to get up and get it yourself. Maybe, just maybe it’s okay to let someone else take care of you once in a while. Even if it’s something as simple as a glass of water.

“Sounds great,” you admit, wincing slightly at the pull as he finally slides out of you with a sopping noise. You don’t even want to look at the mess on the sheets.

“How about a snack?” he asks. “You hungry?”

And you look at him, sliding his t-shirt on over his sweat-slicked body, reaching for a towel on your rack to pass toward you. So gentle, so caring, so tender and pragmatic all at once. 

You aren’t alone. You’re warm, and full, and for the first time in a long time, you’re happy.

“No,” you tell him in earnest, “I’m not hungry.”

“You sure?” 

You nod, managing another smile for him. Surely, he’ll add it to his annoying internal tally.

“I’m sure. I actually…I actually feel pretty full.”

What a wonderful feeling it is. 

#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

[film-in-my-soul]

another regular appointment | 906 | softestpunk / @softest-punk

Summary: The bricks of The New Inn, slick with rain, bite into Dream’s back even through the insulating layer of his coat, but any momentary shock of pain is instantly swallowed up by the warm sanctuary of an eager mouth. It is unprofessional, of course, making repeat visits to the dreams of a particular dreamer without proper cause.

Recompense | 1,445 | Lilibet

Summary: In hindsight, pressing the King of Dreams, an endlessly immortal being of unfathomable power, against the wall of The New Inn is probably not one of Hob’s best ideas.

verdant, fertile, and blooming | 1,893 | softestpunk / @softest-punk

Summary: The Dreaming enjoys Hob's visits very much—to Dream's increasing distress.

lonesome nights are over | 1,934 | thewalrus_said / @thewalrus-said

Summary: Hob's restraint broke at the one-year mark, six months since the start of their odd, circumstantial friendship. "Tell me truly, Dream, have you ever paid for a drink in your life?" Dream blinked, looking down at his half-empty glass. "What?" he asked, a rare loss of words from him. "Every month, someone pays for your drink for you, and you've never taken them up on it," Hob said. "Were you really not interested in any of them?" "Interested?" Dream's brow furrowed, like he was trying to understand and couldn't. "Interested in what?"

let me in before the rainy season starts again | 2,633 | tiltingheartand / @tiltingheartand

Summary: “Oh shit,” he says, eyes wide. And then, “oh fuck,” as he’s scooting backwards as quick as he can, “sorry, sorry, I’m sorry,” because what else can you say when you realize, oh, that’s not just a version of your friend that your brain conjured up, that’s your actual friend, the anthropomorphic personification of dreams, in your actual dream. The dream where you’re naked and waiting for him to come be naked with you.

Please see below for more recommendations!

all i want is to be a bit warm for you | 7,848 | im_not_corrupted / @im-not-corrupted

Summary: Upon escaping Fawney Rig, the King of Dreams does not feel anything. His skin is numb to feeling. Desperate to feel something other than the cold that became a constant companion since he was so cruelly caged, he makes himself bleed. Still, he doesn’t feel it. During one of their weekly meetings, Hob notices. And he watches as it becomes a pattern. Concerned, he inevitably brings it up, only to learn more about where his friend had been in their century apart than he expected.

How Adam Loved Eve | 9,761 | Moorishflower / @moorishflower

Summary: It's said in the Bible that when the Lord took the rib from Adam and used it to craft Eve, there upon her breast, where the rib rested beneath her skin, was Adam's name writ in the old language of angels and higher powers. Hob wonders, sometimes, if Adam bore Eve's name somewhere upon his person, or if she spent the rest of her life wondering if God had chained a man to her that would never love her back. Everyone is born with the name of their soulmate as a mark on their palm. Hob Gadling is born with a thousand titles in looping scrawl on his arm and a name on his palm that no one can see but him.

Real People | 9,781 | spqr / @andthepeople

Summary: Desire’s blood red lips curl into a smile so knowing and devious that Dream’s heart drops into his stomach. “I know,” they say, nearly purring. “As an apology, dear brother, I’ll give you the one thing you want most in the universe. The thing you don’t even know you’re yearning for.”

À Cœur Vaillant | 10,156 | WyvernQuill / @wyvernquill

Summary: The young man turned, and asked, determination and cowardice both flickering in his eyes, “Professor, do you think it’s wicked to help the devil?” For a moment, Hob thought - and tried to not let his mind dwell overly long on an entity he had long thought demonic. Is it wicked to help the devil? Less than to love one, surely.

What Manner Of Creature | 13,727 | Myrocongridae (Anguilliformes)

Summary: Hob's had a number of theories about his strange friend over the years. They are all, of course, completely incorrect.

Terms of Endearment | 13,871 | BeholdingTheGaytimes / @beholdingthegaytimes

Summary: It’s been somewhere between two or three months, he reckons, since Hob started consistently having domestic dreams about a man he hasn’t seen in about a hundred and thirty years. It’s only a bit mortifying. Dreams and the subconscious are odd, and he’s not going to start judging himself now for any wanton desires.

Hope and Stubbornness Endure | 14,028 | icarus_chained

Summary: There are consequences to being caught in nightmares not your own, in the tormented memories of beings infinitely more powerful than you. Hob Gadling doesn't care. Nightmares can't kill him. And if this was ever real, he has no choice but to try and fight it now. To show ... to show his friend that he would have rescued him. If he'd known. He would have tried, no matter what it cost.

I have lately learned the difference | 18,085 | Chthonion / @chthonion

Summary: While Dream is imprisoned, Hob dreams of prisons, until, one by one, all of them take the same shape: a glass cage. Hob doesn't realize why until he meets Dream again, and the dreams don’t stop afterward.

In the Arms of Morpheus | 18,473 | Kavute / @mashumaru

Summary: In the year 1916 the sleepy sickness struck the world. Over the years millions of people were affected with no real cure or known cause. Hob Gadling, currently known as Robert Gadlen, a respected neuroscientist, uses his time to try to solve the mystery of sleepy sickness and missing dreams. When the old familiar Stranger returns to his life, Hob's understanding of the world shifts once more.

Get Lonely | 19,058 | Moorishflower / @moorishflower

Summary: It has been four months and two weeks since Orpheus died. Struggling to come to terms with his role in the death of his son, newly-divorced ghostwriter Dream Murphy finds solace in an ASMR YouTube channel run by a kind, faceless man. When he starts to feel more than gratitude for the man to whom he credits his recovery, he must make the difficult choice between standing sentinel over his son's memory, or moving forward with his life.

string of pearls (by fate's design) | 21,642 | youcanseethecosmos / @youcanseethecosmos

Summary: He knew of Roderick Burgess. Every man, woman, child, and dog has heard of The Great Collector and his labyrinth of mythical creatures. Hob had never been rich enough to get invited to the shows and parties Burgess would throw at his mansion. Nor was he ever sneaky enough to attempt pretending he was a nobleman. But Hob knew what happened at those parties by observing others. Listening in on drunken rambles of the aristocracy who enter The White Horse to escape their totally miserable lavish lives. What a bunch of cunts they are. But again… a job is a job.

Master Reclist · Personal Masterlist · Blog Nav.

#dreamling #dream/hob #dreamling reclist #reclist #fanfic reclist #the sandman reclist

[cannibalcleaver]

I know they were gonna run off to cuba but. do you think their bodies were ever found? found clinging onto each other and brought onto shore by the icy, cold waters. easily identifiable due to their serial killer tattle crime fame, if they weren't in the water long. and if there wasn't anything trying to eat at them. do you think the forensic team believes that will is ok and he just ran off somewhere in the world with hannibal, because they cannot fathom that the man they used to work with would take his own life to be with someone he so openly despised before? do you think jack is content with laying in bed late into the night without his wife by his side, thinking of will, how him pulling will back into the fray ended up in his fall from the top, to the bottom with the devil himself, hannibal lecter? do you think alana and margot sit together on the couch and think about all the rights and wrongs both hannibal and will have done to them both, and to each other? do you think frederick lays in wait, slowly recovering from his injuries due to the red dragon, just waiting.. waiting for either news to somehow pop up about those murderous lovers, since they've scraped by death many times while knowing each other? do you think freddie is still writing, but she feels as if her passion has turned into a job and that it's growing dull, that she'd love to jump on the opportunity to photograph the two "coming back", and that she has a title picked out on a piece of paper stapled to her corkboard? do you think that both hannibal and will knew that they weren't gonna make it to cuba about halfway down, and they accepted that, and lived truly free for 3 seconds before the cacophony of the weight of their bodies melted together shattered the surface of that water that hannibal had spent many days looking out at? do you think hannibal smiled about the weight of the word "beautiful" resting on the lips as the last words of the man held tightly to his bloody, warm chest? do you think will took in the scent of that rich, silky cologne that the monster he yearns and aches for, that he smelled hannibals blood and it only comforted him before it dawned on him that its finally over, that it's all done? do you think they're happy together, wherever they are? or are they both laying in an inky, black darkness feeling a crippling sense of warmth and yearning within their rib cages, feeling urges to tear open the insides until they find a heart to give to the other?

#you're insane. #ignore me please j miss them so bad #hannigram #i love them so much they're tragic #will graham #hannibal lecter #frederick chilton #jack crawford #dr. alana bloom #alana bloom #margot verger

[barbeygirl]

Roofless Love

Eugene Roe x fem!reader

Summary: Eugene yearns over a nurse.

Warnings: A little obsessive maybe? Unrequited love. I wrote this a month ago in a weird mindset. She/her pronouns used for reader

Words: 250

Eugene’s eyes followed her movements. She was bringing water to the wounded and stocking up the stashes after the far too long awaited supply drop. Tonight the sick would go to sleep with food in their stomachs and with clean bandages. And she would be able to rest, along with the other medical personnel, without the stress of trying to heal someone without anything to give them. And you did seem calmer.

Gene wonders if it’s because of said stress and constant rush. The sleepless nights they’ve spent as new men are carried inside in the night’s shielding darkness. Is that why she never really gives him the time of the day? Her mind seemingly always somewhere else as he holds her close. Eugene tried to understand, he really did. He found so much comfort in you. He’d soothe himself to sleep with pretty thoughts about you. What were you thinking of? If not his touch, what did you find your comfort in?

Still, she never pushed him away. She lets him hold her hand and bring her head against his chest. They had spent a night together in a roofless, former factory building, sharing warmth. Eugene would share so much more if only she’d let him. He hadn’t felt anything like he had that night, in that old aid station, when he felt her body relax in his arms. He had looked up at the night sky and wished the sun would never rise again. 

#can’t tell if i hate this or not #it’s kinda all over the place but it makes it kind of feel like a flow of thoughts #idk #eugene roe #band of brothers #band of brothers fanfic #eugene roe x reader #band of brothers x reader #hbo war #doc roe #Spotify #x reader

[eksvaized]

[ Previous ┃ Next ] part 7

After coming home, Simon headed straight to his office. It was the only room in the house that he locked. He rarely had guests, but just in case someone came over, he wanted to stop them from snooping around. His office contained not only important work documents, but also his secrets — all the mementoes he had collected over the years during periods when his obsessions consumed him.

He retrieved a black box from behind the books on a tall shelf and sat at his desk. The box, although small and a little old, contained a plethora of items. Carefully placing the lid on the table, he reached for his notebook and began perusing its pages — he had nothing to add to it yet. His eyes skimmed over his own handwriting as he examined your schedule once again, which not only encompassed the things you liked, and your behaviour patterns, but also the names of your friends, and the addresses of the places you went to the most. He wanted to figure out how he ended up overlooking your early return home.

He set the notebook aside.

In the box, there was also a receipt from the first time he met you and paid for your coffee. On top of it was a flower. At the club, you kept fidgeting with the napkin. Perhaps you were nervous. But once you finished folding it over and over again, and were satisfied with the result, you showed it to him, telling him it’s one of your special skills. Simon thought little of it, but at the end of the night, while you were distracted and not paying attention, he discreetly scooped up the flower and put it into his jacket pocket.

Now, he had one more thing to add to the box. Your panties. His fingers ran across the smooth fabric, his eyes glued to it as his imagination spiralled and his mind conjured up scenarios for him to enjoy, in which you wore nothing but these. With his body yearning for release, he hastily reached down into his pants, only to be interrupted by the vibration of his phone. He wasn’t planning on answering, but when the screen flashed with a new notification and he saw it was a message from you, he knew he had to reply.

‘Something came up and I’ll be busy on Friday. Does today work for you? Same place, same time.’

After reading your text, Simon arched his brow. He had expected to have you for the entire Friday. He clicked his teeth, his eyes grazing over the words on the screen repeatedly. Simon wanted to be irritated, as he disliked when things didn’t go according to plan. However, he couldn’t be mad at you. After all, you hadn’t completely ditched him; instead, you proposed to meet today. So, he sent you a brief reply, saying that he is looking forward to seeing you later.

He spent the rest of the day getting ready. First, he took a long shower, scrubbing his body thoroughly and standing under the running hot water until the steam made breathing difficult. Next, he shaved his stubble. As the razor glided over his skin, he studied his reflection, noting his bloodshot eyes and weary expression. Lastly, he ate a hearty meal and went to bed, hoping a quick nap would help to diminish the dark circles under his eyes. Once he woke up, it was time to go.

6:34 PM.

Simon was standing outside the coffee shop, a little further from the entrance, waiting for you. He wanted to take you somewhere nice. Maybe to your favourite restaurant, which he knew was a quaint and charming place not too far from your home (you had posted about it several times). However, when you suggested meeting at the coffee shop, he had to agree. If the place where you first met felt the safest and most comfortable for you to see him again, he was fine with having your first unofficial date there. You deserve nothing but the best. But he was determined to give you time to get to know him before taking you out on more extravagant dates to fancy, luxurious restaurants.

You were four minutes late. But Simon was unconcerned. From his observations during the time he had spent following you, he had come to understand that you tended to lose track of time. You were often late, and not once while stalking you, had he seen you slowly walk down the street - you were always practically running.

Another ten minutes passed, and he was starting to lose patience. After five more minutes, he was about to send a message to ask if you had changed your mind about coming. Thankfully, exactly two minutes later, he saw you and put his phone back in his pocket. You were walking down the sidewalk, your eyes searching for him. As your gaze met his, Simon saw your lips curl into a smile. You gave him a small wave, which he responded to with a nod and a smile of his own.

“Sorry, got stuck at work.” The moment you approached Simon, you apologized, the words tumbling out in a hurry.

His dark eyes settled on your face. He noticed the shimmer of your lips, lightly glossed. His gaze then shifted to your black lashes, generously coated in mascara. He watched as you blinked a few times before turning his attention to your hair, neatly tied in a ponytail. Biting the inside of his cheek, he allowed himself to get lost in his thoughts for a moment, imagining how it would feel to bend you over, curl his fingers around your ponytail, tug at it and force you to tilt your head back to look at him.

After he was done playing out the short scenario in his head, which involved him fucking you in public, he examined your outfit. You were wearing a pretty blouse, a thin jacket and ripped jeans that hugged your figure just right, making him drool whenever he caught a glimpse of your backside. Simon couldn’t resist envisioning introducing you to his friends while you looked like this. Sure, he had only a couple, and most of them were from work, but the thought of them gawking at your adorable face made him grin like an idiot.

His lips parted subtly and he was about to compliment you, but then he noticed a brown shopping bag in your hand. A question almost slipped out of his mouth when he realised that your comment about being late because of work was a lie. However, he held his tongue back and said nothing about it.

He was curious about why you hadn’t told the truth, but he knew that if he hinted at your dishonesty, it could lead to you becoming flustered and stumbling over your words in an attempt to salvage the situation. Embarrassing you and making you uncomfortable would be an awful way to start the date.

“Don’t worry about it, it’s fine,” he replied, a faint smirk playing on his lips. He checked you out again, unable to pull his gaze away. This time, however, you caught him in the act. After realising what he was doing, you lowered your eyes, and the heat rushed to your cheeks, colouring them in a delicate shade of red. “But,” he continued, his voice soft and low as he rubbed his hands together. “I’m freezing over here... and that cup of coffee you owe me would come in quite handy right about now.”

Upon entering the coffee shop, you instructed Simon to pick a table and sit down. You knew that if he lingered by your side as you approached the counter, he might step in to pay. You didn’t want him to do that as you were determined to repay him for the first time he saved you, and all the cocktails he bought you at the club.

“Black sweet coffee, right?” You asked before leaving. He nodded, pleased that you remembered what he ordered last time.

After you rushed off to place an order, Simon subtly glanced into the bag, which you had carelessly left unattended on your chair. Inside it was a bottle of cheap red wine and a small box of condoms. A swarm of questions flooded his mind. Were you planning to sleep with someone? Who? Was that person the reason behind your rather insistent request to meet him today?

Jealousy bubbled up within him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Darkness began to seep into his veins, urging him to confront you and demand answers. Yet, he knew he couldn’t lash out at you, couldn’t let his emotions control him. He swallowed his fury, buried the questions deep in his mind, and forced himself to keep his mouth shut.

He slumped back in his seat, his shoulders drooping and his hands falling onto his lap. Absentmindedly, he cracked his knuckles, each pop satisfying. Although he tried to shut off his mind, one persistent thought refused to leave his head: were you seeing two guys at the same time? This didn’t seem like your style. He didn’t want to believe you were the type of woman who could do that. But maybe, just maybe, there was a side of you that Simon wasn’t aware of, a side he still needed to discover.

He was brought back to reality when you returned and handed him a cup of coffee.

You two talked. A lot. And once the conversation started, little by little, he directed all his attention towards you. By doing so, he found temporary relief from what was previously bothering him, if only for a moment.

Simon told you about himself, only choosing to share elements of his life that painted him in a favourable light. He started with his experiences in the military, a time that he said was transformative for him. He spoke of how it shaped him, moulding him into the man he is today. Then, he also mentioned that he’s currently on a break, casually omitting critical details. Specifically, he left out why he had to take this break - it was not by choice, but because he had nearly ended a recruit’s life.

When it was your turn to share, you chose to tell him about your friends first. You admitted Mindy and Liz, like any other person, had their own set of imperfections. You acknowledged their quirks and flaws, but then you made it a point to emphasise that no one is flawless, and if you genuinely care about someone, you learn to accept and love them for who they are. After this, Simon couldn’t help but smile. He didn’t interrupt you, but his thoughts turned inward, hoping that as you got to know him, you’d grow to love him, too. And even if you someday discovered his darker side, you wouldn’t leave him.

“So, are you single?” Simon finally dared to ask. The conversation had somehow shifted towards the topic of relationships, and the two of you had found yourselves swapping stories about awkward dates and the strange individuals you’d encountered along the way.

“Yes, and no,” you replied, your teeth lightly gnawing at your bottom lip. There was a pause, a momentary hesitation, as if you were debating whether to continue or not. After taking a slow, deliberate sip of your coffee, you decided to elaborate. “I’m not in a relationship, per se, but I’m seeing this guy. We had lost touch for a while, but he recently moved back to the city, and we reconnected over old high-school memories.”

Simon’s jaw clenched, and his shoulders tensed. He felt a sharp pang of something akin to jealousy, but he quickly composed himself, not wanting you to see his irritation.

“So you are two-timing us,” he retorted, maintaining a light and playful tone. He tried to make it seem as though he was just joking. “In the morning, you go on a date with me, but if I turn out to be dull, you’ll leave him for me. I must admit, I feel hurt.” Simon chuckled and pressed his palm to his chest for added dramatic effect, continuing his charade.

“No, but... Hold on. Are we on a date?” You returned, joining in on his playful banter. You decided it would be better to keep the mood light and not take it too seriously.

Both of you ended up laughing, and after a few minutes, the conversation naturally shifted to a different subject. However, Simon’s mind was in turmoil. He continued to talk with you, feigning interest and pretending to be present in the moment. But his thoughts were elsewhere - he found himself consumed with a burning desire to know who this other man was.

The realisation dawned on him as you shared amusing memories from your high school days. He figured out who was his competition. Matt. This was a problem, a huge one. He couldn’t make you fall in love with him if you had your eyes set on another man. Matt had to be removed from the equation, and Simon was eager to take on the mission of eliminating that jerk from your life. He was ready to do anything, absolutely anything, to ensure your happiness and well-being, and in order for him to accomplish his goal, he had to erase Matt from the picture.

#simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #writing #ghost x y/n #cod #call of duty #ghost x you #PO2 #ghost call of duty #ghost cod #ghost #cod ghost #cod x reader

[clovermarigold]

MK Oneshots: Titan Fujin x Titan Gender Neutral Reader

Requested by Moonchhu on AO3

Defeating Kronika had been your most difficult battle yet. Free to reshape time in whatever image you desired was daunting at first. But after millenia of careful craftsmanship, you were content with your creation. Your perfect little Garden.

Diligently you plucked the weeds from your garden; Shang Tsung and Quan Chi to name a few. You clipped every stray leaf that defiled your neatly kept hedges; Shao khan and Rain. And in your diligence you found peace.

Peace….

No

You never knew peace. You spent every lonely second awake and hovering over your timeline, paranoid and possessive over the last bit of control you had over your life. You had never wanted this, to be a keeper of time. But what choice did you have, Kronika had damaged your timeline far too much to be without a time god. And there was certainly no one you could trust with the hourglass.

Except… Your Fujin. Oh how you longed for him, how your soul yearned for its other half. The one who softened your strict and cold nature.Who were you kidding, you weren’t tending a garden. You were wardening a prison. Holding your subjects to a script and removing any that dared to say as much as a line wrong. Without free will your timeline was miserable, and so was its keeper.

You spent the first thousand years attempting to recreate your Fujin. But how could you? How could you ever fall in love with a cheap imitation? No matter how hard you tried, your creations couldn’t act like him, not as accurately as you knew he would. And the ones that did… you could only see for the copy they were. Attempt after attempt you failed, growing colder and returning to your previous self. 

Today you stand in your temple, staring loathfully at the hourglass you were so ruthlessly tasked to guard, in the timeline you were forced to steward. The glass reflected your sour grimace, taunting you for all your shortcomings. You debate with yourself, unknowing of what to do next. Should you continue this unfair timeline of tyranny and absolution? You could always restart the timeline with a…. Gentler touch, if you were even capable of that. But wouldn't that make you just as bad as Kronika. Destroying and restarting the timeline whenever you see fit regardless of what your mortals thought. 

By the elder gods, you weren’t cut out for this. Here you are, a time god, the primordial titan with more power than any other in the world, sulking on the steps of your own temple and praying to gods you created purely from a habit formed millennia ago. Perhaps you should have given the hourglass to someone else. Fujin would make a far more suitable time keeper. Had he not disappeared before your battle with Kronika you would have.

Just another reason to curse the mad titan you suppose. The hourglass began to rattle, sand reversing its flow as particles soared through the glass without shattering. Standing to attention you attempted to force it back in, to no avail. The golden flakes grappled themselves to your hands and arms, before painlessly taking bits of you back with them into the hourglass, “What is this?!”. The barrage of gold and lights spread up your arms, eating away at you and pulling more and more into the hourglass, until it spread to your neck. Your vision goes blank when you feel your physical form dissipate, being dragged who knows where. 

But just as quickly as it happened, your vision returned…. Somewhere new. You know this place, you had spent day after day here much to Lord Raiden’s disapproval, basking in his brother's presence. The sky temple, it was different, however, a large silver and blue hourglass similar to your own in front of you. Looking at your surroundings was when your heart stopped, there in front of you was a Fujin. “What is this? Where am I?” you demanded.

“You are safe, my heart” he held up his hands to calm you as he approached. Your chest panged at hearing his name for you after so long. But you dared not hope, you would not tempt yourself with another cheap imitation. “We are in the sky temple. In my timeline ” he explained, stopping when he noticed your stiffness and unease, “Your timeline?”.

“The battle for Kronika’s hourglass has fractured time. Where there was once one timeline there are now many. In your timeline, you defeated Kronika, in mine, it was me. Every one of us has defeated Kronika and in turn created our own timeline”. Multiple timelines? Of course, that’s how he was able to pull you through your hourglass, he’s a timekeeper. But if he was a keeper of time, then that would mean that he was… your Fujin.

He watched as your guard drops and your face softens, piecing together the truth of what he was trying to say. “Then.. that would mean.. That you’re?-” He closed the gap between the two of you, “It is me, my heart”. His hand held your face as he looked down at you with all the adoration you had missed from so long ago, “I wanted to give you the hourglass, but you were gone. Where were you?”.

“Kronika confined me to a prison with Shang Tsung and Nightwolf, fearing our interference. Do not dwell on the past, we are here now, and I will never leave your side again”. You hard slowly cupped over his, “Promise?”. Fujin smiled, pressing his head against yours as you looked in each other's eyes. “For as long as my heart beats, it shall do so only for you. And so long as you permit me, I will never leave your side”. 

You were never good at tending gardens, but that was ok. You were never a fan of them anyways.

#mk1 2023 #mk11 #mk1 #mk fujin #fujin x reader

[nhlclover]

betty | quinn hughes

summary: you break up with your boyfriend following a fight, but you contemplate giving him a second chance.

request: yes / no

warnings: (kind of?) cheating, angst, bad boyfriend behaviour

a/n: based on ‘betty’ by taylor swift. i was doing way too much world-building for a blurb lol.

word count: 1.9k

The lake was my happy place. 100%.

I have been coming here every summer since I was born with my family. My cousins and I would spend all day in the water or going into town and going to the movies. In the winter, I would yearn for the lake and all that comes with it. Another amazing thing that came with the summer and the lake was Quinn.

I met Quinn one day when he and his brothers stumbled upon me and my cousins by the tire swing at Sellers Point. We became fast friends, all of us being around the same age. We hung out every day that summer and every summer after. They were my best friends, the Hughes brothers. But Quinn…there was something different about Quinn. He was someone you could never get enough of. Every little thing he did had me entranced.

I thought about him all winter and looked forward to him every summer.

Every summer, from the one we met when we were 14 to now, our families have poked at the idea that Quinn and I are destined to be together. That we are two sides of the same coin. Quinn and I would always say that we didn’t see each other like that, but I knew that wasn’t true.

I would sneak glances at him whenever possible, I would get butterflies whenever he would laugh at my jokes, and cared a little too much about what he thought of me. I always wondered if Quinn was also lying when he said he didn’t see me like that.

When the Canucks missed the playoffs this year, that allowed Quinn to come to the lake slightly earlier than his brothers. This left Quinn and me alone at the lake, spending a lot of time together. Somewhere along the way, I got bold enough and admitted my feelings for him. To my surprise, he shared them.

We spent the whole summer together, experiencing first dates and first kisses. Even though we were having firsts of all kinds, it felt like Quinn and I had been dating for years. We were so comfortable with one another and wanted to spend as much time together as possible, even if that meant hanging out in each other's room while you did chores.

Quinn was wrapped in my blue patchwork quilt on my bed, while I put clothes away into my armoire. When I put my last sweatshirt away, I turned back to Quinn who was looking back at me, a slightly sad look on his face. I climb on my bed and crawl to him.

“What’s with the frown?” I ask him softly as he lifts the quilt for me to crawl under.

“I’m just thinking.” He says.

“Bout what?”

“Just… the end of the summer.” He says quickly. “But I don’t want to think about it.”

I furrow my brows. “What do you mean, Quinn?”

“I mean, I’m going back to Vancouver, you’re going back to work in Detroit. I don’t want us to end.”

I sit up out of his embrace and look at him. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, we’re gonna be living in two different countries, y/n, I don’t see how we can even work.” He explains.

“So you’re just fine with us ending? Just like that? Without even trying?” I ask.

Quinn sits up, placing his hands on my waist. “Babe, c’mon.”

“No.” I shake my head climbing out of my bed. “I don’t understand. At the end of the summer, you’re just going to say bye and that’s it? You’re not even going to try and make us work?”

He sighs, putting his head in his hands. “I didn’t want to think about it but… let’s be real here. I’m in a new city almost every week, you’re going to start working full time. You can’t tell me you didn’t think about this when we started dating.”

I scoff. “No Quinn, I didn’t. I’m sorry I didn’t think about how we would break up because you can’t do long distance.”

“Y/n-”

“No. You knew you were going to break up with me, so what the fuck was this all for? This whole summer? If you knew we were going to end why did you even bother? This was just for shits and giggles for you?”

Quinn climbs out of my bed, still wearing his board shorts as we were on the boat earlier today. He stops in front of me, examining my face. He opens his mouth to speak but I do before he can.

“No, just go. I don’t want to look at you anymore.” I wave him away, opening my bedroom door, indicating he should leave.

“Y/n, come on. Let’s talk.” He objects.

“No! This is what you wanted all along, right?” I look into his eyes. They show nothing but remorse but I can’t find it in me to let him stay right now.

He looks as though he wants to say something but doesn’t. He gives me a soft kiss on the forehead before walking out of my bedroom. I hear him say a quick goodbye to my parents, who offer for him to stay for dinner, but he politely declines. When I hear the front door shut, I retire to my bed, wrapping myself in my quilt. Quinn’s scent is still lingering on the blanket. The tears begin to fall and don’t stop until I fall asleep.

The rest of the week is filled with rare days inside, not finding the energy to go outdoors. All I want to do is lie in bed and distract myself with reality shows. My parents take notice and let me sulk for a few days before deciding they’d had enough and forced me to go to the pier with my cousin.

Inez and I spent some time perusing the shops before we sit down at the Honey Duke diner for lunch.

“How are you?” She asks me when we’ve sat down and ordered our food.

I let out a dry laugh. “Not great.”

She sighs and eyes me. “Listen, I know this is something you probably don’t want to hear but I think this is something you should know.”

I roll my eyes. The one thing my cousin is known for is gossiping. I normally don’t take much of what she says seriously because often times what she tells me is just a rumour.

“So yesterday I was hanging out with Michael, and Michael was telling me that a few days ago Quinn was out for a run when Augustine, y’know the girl that just moved into the Russell’s old place? Well she pulled up next to him as he was on his way home and was like ‘Quinn, get in, let’s go for a drive’ and he did. And one thing led to another and apparently they slept together.”

I didn’t want to believe what she was saying but the story made my face heat up and a nervous, nauseous feeling arises in my stomach. “Why should I believe what Michael told you?” I challenge her.

“Because it happened just outside of his house! He saw him get in her car.” Inez says. “And he ran into her the next day at the grocery store and she told him they had sex.”

My stomach churns as I picture my boyfriend in bed with another girl. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. We’re broken up, he is free to do whatever he wants.” I say, putting on a front.

“Girl, you’re allowed to be hurt.” Inez says, grabbing my hand that was resting on the table to comfort me. “What he did was super shitty. You just need to try and forget about him.”

I smile and nod at her. However misguided she may be when it comes to spreading rumours, she truly wants nothing but the best for the people closest to her in life.

“Listen, parents are leaving the lake early this year, how about we throw an end-of-summer party?” Inez suggests.

“That’s going to be a pain in the ass to clean in the morning,” I say.

“But it’ll be fun in the evening.” She smirks.

I reluctantly agree and Inez immediately goes into planning mode. She planned the party for a week later, spreading the word to the others in the area. When the night of the party rolled around, the family lake house was packed with people.

Despite being at a party, and drinking with my close friends, a despondent feeling was hovering over me. The end of the summer was upon us and in a few days I was going back to Detroit. The same feeling I get at the end of every summer rolls right back in, a feeling of sadness sitting passenger seat of my emotions.

I excuse myself from the conversation I was having with my neighbour, slipping out back and down to the garden my mum keeps. A small path is configured through the plants using cobblestone, moss growing through the cracks. I bend down, smelling a bundle of dahlias my mum had planted, inhaling the slightly bitter scent.

“Hey.”

I stand up, whipping my head to the left where Quinn is standing. My despondent feelings about summer ending are replaced by despondent feelings brought on by Quinn.

“Go fuck yourself.” I say, almost coming out automatically.

“I had a feeling you would say that.” He says. “But please hear me out.”

I deliberate with myself whether or not I should hear him out or not. The downcast look on his face, accompanied by a tired demeanour forced me to give in. I sit down on the bench, leaving room for Quinn to sit as well. He sits down but doesn’t speak right away, so I do.

“Inez told me.” I say. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

I don’t even need to be specific. Quinn’s head bows down and I feel my heart break a little bit.

“Please,” He starts, placing a hand on my knee. “Trust me when I say it was just a summer thing. It didn’t mean anything. I was sad and she was there. I thought I had lost you forever cause I’d been an idiot. And then I was an idiot some more. I fucked up I know that.”

His voice is breaking as tears start to fall from my eyes. Every part of me wants to just take him back but I still feel hurt by our argument about long distance.

“And I know I was dumb about dealing with long distance but I was so scared about losing you that I just figured I would end it before long distance.”

I let out a dry laugh at Quinn’s way of dealing with it.

“If you’re willing, I want to try long-distance.” Quinn says.

My eyes snap up to his. Truly all I want is to try long distance but I’m not sure how I can when I’m not confident that this is what Quinn wants. As if he senses my uncertainty, he takes my hands into his.

“Y/n, all I want is to be with you. I’m willing to do whatever, I don’t care, I’ll fly you to Vancouver every weekend, I’ll come see you when we play in Detroit, I’ll-”

I cut off Quinn’s rambling by pressing my lips to his. He melts into me, his calloused hands finding me, one going to the back of my head and the other wrapping around my back. When we break apart I pull Quinn into my arms, just wanting to hold him.

“Please make this work.” I whisper.

“It’s all I want.” He whispers back.

#quinn hughes #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes imagine #vancouver canucks #nhl imagine #nhl #angst #luvzegras

[argisthebulwark]

I see your posts about Miraak getting off on tld saying his mantra but what about him panicking instead cuz no no no not you, you were supposed to be the exception, please please snap out of it

Miraak had been bored for a very long time.

Everything was going a little too well - no one on Solstheim was able to get rid of the All-Maker Stones, the civilians were slowly coming to his aid, his mantra had spread across the island. Of course there were holdouts but that was to be expected. He had been frustrated, bored.

But then you came along.

You washed up on the shores of Raven Rock, a spring in your step and all-too willing to stick your nose where it didn't belong. Through all the annoyance Miraak knew there was a kernel of something he hadn't felt in more years than he could count - he was excited.

Every waking moment was spent watching you, the one he soon learned was Dovahkiin. He heard others refer to you as the Last Dragonborn, had so much time truly passed? He knew that he hadn't aged correctly, that being in Apocrypha had somehow removed him from the flow of natural time, but he'd lost count of how many others had lived and died in his absence.

Soon enough you even invaded his dreams. He blamed the connection your shared Dragon blood allowed for such thoughts but he did nothing to shake them. He saw that dimpled smile and the endearing way you twirled at your hair when you were deep in thought. Miraak itched for more and found ways to insert himself in your life, tired of watching and waiting for you to come to him.

Oh how he relished the hatred in your eyes when he stole that first Soul. He liked the smile he saw from a distance but being so close to you, feeling your presence and seeing that rage screw up on your face was glorious.

No one had dared to go against him in ages.

Miraak kept at it. He craved your anger, yearned for the hatred you flung his way every time he appeared. He could only appear in your plane for a few moments before his strength was sapped but it was more than worth it to see you. That sick sense of glee welled up in his chest when he saw you chuck a sword in his direction, snarling and threatening him. He was thankful for the mask as it hid the smile on a face he feared seeing in the mirror.

Stealing Dragon Souls was fun and gave his power a boost but he found himself itching for more. He dreamed of returning to Nirn and visiting you as more than a shadow of himself. Would you make good on all your threats? Would you tear him to shreds or shove a sword through his chest as you'd claimed during your last few meetings? Something was oddly intriguing about finding someone who could finally stand up to him, who saw through the illusions he'd so carefully curated.

When you found the first Black Book he felt it. He felt you in his realm, somewhere far off and untouchable but he felt you all the same. Mora's maze kept him miles away from wherever you'd ended up but he caught fleeting glimpses of you scurrying through traps and slashing your way through the books.

It was addictive. Even after you left Apocrypha he searched for any trace of you left behind. When he found a footprint in the grimy dust of an often ignored library his heart froze, senses focusing entirely on the proof that you'd been close.

He was frazzled when he watched you cleanse the Wind Stone. Part of him was terrified that you were going after the years of work he'd done while the other was thrilled. You knew where he was and you were strong enough to go up against him. Finally there was someone else with his powers, someone who understood how badly it had fucked him up to be the Dragonborn.

Miraak watched in his mingled state of horror and fascination as you cleansed the next All-Maker Stone. He fell into a deeper sleep than he'd had in years that night, dreams of you taunting him. In some you joined him, dark magic twining you together until he wasn't sure where he ended and you began, powers from Mora and Akatosh himself twisting into one unbeatable force. In others you held a sword to his throat and finally ended his impossibly long existence. He didn't know which scared him more.

"Here do we toil."

Miraak shot up in his bed, brain filled with images of you. Horror dawned on him when he saw you mindlessly stumbling around one of the remaining All-Maker Stones you had left for the next day. He remembered hearing you tell some companion that you were exhausted and needed rest to tackle the next one, exhaustion slowing your steps until you fell into a seat at Raven Rock's tavern. He'd watched you order a drink and laugh at something that sell-sword had said, hating the jealousy ripping through his chest.

"That we might remember, by night we reclaim."

No.

Those words he'd chosen so carefully sounded perverse in your voice. He knew the power your voice held, his apparition had been destroyed by a few of your Shouts. It wasn't supposed to sound that empty.

Miraak wanted to tear the world to shreds to make you stop. His fingers tore through the parchment on his desk with a devastating need to destroy. He would bring the world to its knees just to see the hatred he loved so much in your lifeless eyes.

"Our eyes once were blinded. Now through him do we see."

You were supposed to be stronger than him. You weren't supposed to get sucked in. You were the Last Dragonborn. You were his last hope, the one who was going to save him or kill him. You were destined to be the end of his life one way or the other.

He'd never appeared on Nirn without relying on absorbing a Dragon Soul but he didn't think. Miraak projected the weaker aspect of himself to Solstheim before he could blink, hands ghosting through your shoulders in an attempt to stop you. There was no recognition in your gaze, no simmering anger or threats. There was nothing left.

"Snap out of it." He pleaded, voice echoing from somewhere far away. You shoved through his ghostly form toward the Beast Stone without sparing him a second glance. Panic stole the breath from his lungs and he was gasping, begging you to show him there was still a spark of you in there somewhere. He couldn't feel you anymore.

"And when the world shall listen."

"Please." He reached for your face but there was nothing there, his hands shimmering and unable to touch.

"And when the world shall see."

"I'll do anything." He was desperate, willing to make deals with whatever god was still listening to get you back. "I'll end it all just please come back to me Dragonborn."

"And when the world remembers."

"You were supposed to be stronger than this!"

"That world shall cease to be."

#miraak #skyrim #writing #asks #anon #miraak/dragonborn

[a-little-unsteddie]

tw: major character death (but like it’s happy i promise)

Most of the time, Eddie loved his job.

Eddie loved listening to the people’s life stories, loved learning about what they did for a living, what their favorite colors were, anything that they were willing to share with him. He knew the exact way to ask to get them to open up to him, loved that everyone had something to share with him as they passed. He walked hundreds, thousands of people into the afterlife, encouraging them to go into the Great Beyond, a place he was never going to see.

Eddie called it his job, but really, he kind of stumbled into his predicament unintentionally.

After he had died, he kind of just wandered, for what felt like eternity, but was likely only a few years—decades, centuries—aimlessly. In his wandering, he crossed paths with a myriad of different people, learned about their loved ones, their passions, their history. Eddie had figured out that he was dead somewhere along the way, but it wasn’t really something he was aware of until he helped a little girl pass into the Light. She was holding his hand as they walked closer to what awaited her in the Beyond.

“Will I see you there?” She asked, looking up at him with big, wide eyes that told more stories than half of the souls he talked to. Eddie smiled sadly, and shook his head.

“I’m not meant for what’s Beyond,” Eddie explained. He had tried to cross once, years—maybe decades ago.

The girl frowned, hugging him tightly. “One day I will see you there, and I’ll say ‘I told you so’.” She had said, which had shaken him to his core. She was adamant that he had his own Great Beyond to look forward to, and no matter how much he insisted he was okay, he secretly yearned for it.

Some days, the loneliness of his existence was overwhelming. When he bad one of those days, he would think back to what that little girl told him, and just hold onto it. He also thought of the boy who had told him that his soul wasn’t ready to rest yet. That it was still waiting. Eddie wasn’t sure what it was waiting for, but hoped that it would find it soon.

It was after one of those days—weeks, months years, maybe—that Eddie met him.

He was a boy with chestnut hair and eyes of milk chocolate or caramel or some other sweet thing because the boy was as sweet as any of them. If not more.

He didn’t remember his name right away, which Eddie knew, after years—decades, centuries—of this existence meant that he had died in a traumatic event, which just made Eddie ache for him.

“Your name will come with time,” Eddie assured him, refraining from touching the other soul, knowing from experience that it could be difficult to accept touch after dying. “For now, tell me what you do remember.” Eddie encouraged, heart in his throat. The boy began speaking, telling Eddie about anything and everything that came to his mind over the next few hours—days, weeks—they spent together. He spoke about a boy he knew, once, but the way he was talking Eddie knew that the soul was talking about himself. He knew it was easier to process trauma if you pretended it was someone else it happened to, and so just listened.

Eddie was told many stories about this lonely, lonely man. He grew and watched those around him find their people while he remained alone. Yet, he wasn’t lonely. Quite the opposite, it seemed. He told Eddie of the kids he used to babysit, a look crossing his face that was so heartbreaking Eddie had to take a deep breath to stop himself from saying anything stupid. He told Eddie about Dustin and then Max, who he vaguely recognized as the girl he had spoken to months—years, decades—ago. He moved on to tell Eddie about Robin and Nancy and Jonathan and everyone he ever knew. Eddie wondered how this man survived for so long, having lost so many close to him. It wasn’t all about loss, though. By the end of the week—month, year, decade, maybe—Eddie knew everything there was to know about this man, except for his name. The one bit of information he was still unable to recall.

So he asked about Eddie in return.

Eddie didn’t hesitate, knowing that sometimes it was helpful to just listen to the life story of someone to settle the mind. It was why Eddie did any of this. Eddie told the soul about Wayne, about Gareth and Chrissy, and everyone else he had ever loved, hated and felt absolutely nothing for. Told him about growing up so utterly hated, eventually hunted down and killed for a crime as stupid as being himself.

Even after the stories run dry, Eddie and the soul kept talking. He learned that his name was Steve Harrington and that Eddie was in love with him. Every little story or comment solidified this feeling in his soul and he knew that when Steve was ready to move on that it would completely wreck him.

Except. Except.

Eddie could see the Light.

That had never happened before. Even when he had tried to cross all those years—decades, centuries—ago, he hadn’t seen it.

“Do you see it, too?” Steve had asked, holding Eddie’s hand. “I won’t go unless it’s with you.”

“I see it.” Eddie breathed, eyes wide with awe. “It’s beautiful.”

Steve smiled.

With their hands laced, they both stepped into the Light.

#idk what this is #i was abt to go to bed #and this happened #idk #tw mcd #tw major character death #happy ending #light angst #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #stranger things #st #unsteddie writing #fluff

[bonezone44]

‘No b o d y’

Joel x afab!Reader

image credit

Word Count: 1348

Summary: A phone call with your mom goes poorly and Joel attempts to comfort you. (no use of Y/N)

Tags: childhood trauma, childhood sexual assault (vague but likely triggering), familial neglect, mommy issues. Angst. Grief. 

A/N: Possibly the same mother for Muddy Waters' Reader ?? I'm undecided. Also, I know Reader's trauma is specific, but oh well. Turning this into 3rd person wouldn't have the same effect. 🙏

stand-alone but could be read with 'Stages of Grief'

+++++++

You weren’t like other girls. Weren’t like most other people, you realized. Their loneliness could be turned into romantic tunes–songs about longing, loving and losing. Their yearn for love could be placated by a friend. Woven into a conversation among other pains and tender spots that ailed them. They could use their voices to share their dismay and people listened. People nodded in understanding. In sympathy. In connection. 

They weren’t given wide, fearful eyes and uncomfortable silences—leaving them wondering if they said too much. 

Other people had lungs in their chests. Hearts. Organs. Blood. They could breathe deep, allow their whole torsos to rise and fall with clouds of fresh air. They could find relief by walking outside, enjoying the green of nature or the loud chatter of civilization. They weren’t overwhelmed by crowds or small groups or even the presence of a single other human being. Alone in a room. 

The walls didn’t close in on them. They didn’t suffocate. They might be tense or awkward or do something silly.

But they didn’t try to sit so quiet and so still in the hopes that they would disappear completely. That maybe, just this once, they really could teleport to somewhere so far away and new and start life all over again. ‘I’ll get it right next time. I promise,’ they’d pray to their angry, unforgiving god. ‘I won’t make the same mistake again.’

—--

You weren’t like other girls.

You were barely human, to be honest.

You felt frozen in time. Frozen into the dirt on the ground.

Your arms and legs were there, you assumed, flailing and uncooperative. But your entire chest cavity was caved in. Charred. A gaping nothingness in place of a soul.

“What is wrong with her?” Your mother said. “She is too old to still be actin like such a baby.”

Your whole family was standing tall, facing away from you, discussing your behavior as if you weren’t there. As if you couldn’t hear them.

As if it wasn’t brutally fucking obvious that you were missing the entire center of your body.

“I don’t know, but she is actin ridiculous,” you heard your mother say as she and the rest of your family walked away. 

Leaving you alone.

Unprotected and exposed to the elements.

You didn’t bother crying for help. You had gotten used to being ignored. Left to deal with the nothingness on your own.

—-

Most people ignored you when they walked by anyway. Too caught up in their own lives to acknowledge your presence. Some gawked and stared at your open wound before scurrying away.

Others looked at you with pity—recognizing your pain, but unable to do anything about it.

Because any time someone tried to help, tried to get close enough to address the issue–you’d snap at them with your teeth. Lash out and attack with words so vicious and so precise.

Because you hadn’t been just lying there, waiting pathetically for someone to save you. You had spent your time studying the other humans. Their motivations. Their lifestyles. Their insecurities. You didn’t have a body, so your words were your weapons.

You weren’t going to let anyone get close enough to hurt you again. 

Not like the ones who had scooped out your insides to begin with.

Taunting you as they held you down. Laughing as you tried desperately to break free.

You weren’t like other girls who dreamed of their wedding days and who wanted attention from the cute boys at school and who got all excited about losing their virginity.

Yours had already been taken from you.

Ripped away by teenage boys who thought you’d be too young to remember. Who thought their actions wouldn’t have consequences. (Boys will be boys!) Who got away with it, too, because anytime you’d try to tell someone or show somebody that new thing you learned about, they’d stare at you shocked and upset. Blood drained from their faces. They’d slap you and beat you and tell you to ‘Never ever do that again!’

—--

You were too young to know that what happened shouldn't have happened.

—--

Denial was strong in a mother in a small town who couldn’t fathom anything so horrible happening to her daughter. By people she knew to be cruel and twisted.

It was strong for a woman many considered to be a healer, a progressive-thinker, an intuitive. 

Clairvoyant.

Clear seeing.

Claircognizance.

Clear knowing.

For how well she could see someone’s future—she couldn’t see her own daughter’s present. Couldn’t see the blatant agony you faced day after day after day.

“What is wrong with her?” she wondered.

Eyes and ears ignoring all the tell-tale signs.

“Why is she like this?” she asked.

—

You were lying in bed on your side, body half-wrapped in blankets. 

Joel stepped into the doorway, footsteps heavy on the hardwood floor. He sighed. “Guessin the phone call didn't go so good.”

You threw your hand up. Sniffed.

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah, sure,” you murmured, scratching your cheek. You could barely breathe–your nose all stopped up from crying. 

Joel climbed into bed and laid behind you. His body cradling yours. His chest was warm against your back. He rubbed his hand up and down your arm. He kissed the back of your head. 

“I just… I want her to hurt,” you began through your tears. “I want her to hurt like I hurt.” 

“I know, darlin.” He squeezed your bicep and rubbed his thumb back and forth across your skin. 

“It's not fair. It's not fair that she can just say she didn't know. She had to know. She had to.”

“I know, baby.” He kissed the back of your head again. You felt his breath as he spoke. “You wanna take her number out your phone?”

“What? I can't do that to my mom.”

“Yeah, you can,” he said. “You don't owe her anything. You don't owe her your love or your forgiveness. You don't owe her a phone call or a birthday card. You don't owe her shit.”

“But she had it hard, too,” you argued. “Her mom was so much worse.” You shook your head. “She was awful to them.”

“Don't matter.” You felt him shrug behind you. “Don't matter what she went through. You don't have to be her friend. You don't have to be a daughter. She doesn't have to be anything to you.”

“But it's my mom,” you pleaded.

“So what? You're on your own now. You can do whatever you want. You don't need anythin from her anymore.” He wrapped his arm around you and pulled you close. “I got you now.”

You sighed. “Thank you, Joel,” you said with your hand on his arm. “I… appreciate you.”

It wasn’t going to be that easy. Wouldn’t be that simple to cut this woman out of your life and out of your mind. You two were so alike, so aligned, so many parts of yourselves tied together.

But… Joel was right. You were on your own now. You didn’t live under her roof. Didn’t live in the same town or same state anymore. You didn’t have to go to Sunday dinners or help her with the groceries. You didn’t have to do anything. 

She could call you but you didn’t have to answer.

She could try to plan a visit, but you could say you had other plans.

Maybe next time.

Maybe next year.

Maybe next life.

And it felt good to let go. To start severing that connection inside your gut that begged for her approval and attention and affirmation.

You felt a tingling sensation in your stomach. You felt yourself firm up.

It took years but you had rebuilt your chest cavity. You got all your organs together and tossed back inside your ribs. Poured back in a whole bucket of blood. You had found people you could trust. You had found ways to let others get close without you biting off their hands. 

Maybe you could start over in this life. Right now.

Maybe Joel could be your new family.

But maybe you just needed more time.

+++++++

#joel miller x afab!reader #joel miller x reader

[dino-thunder-green]

"Don't worry, I got you."

Fictober Day 2

Jason Lee Scott x Reader

Description: Crushes come from unexpected places sometimes, such as the Youth Center. And you couldn't help yourself but fall for Jason. however, your feelings may not be as one sided as you'd think. {1.7k Words}

A/N: WOW THIS IS STRANGELY LONG. I like this one, I don't know if y'alls will like it as much as I do but here, enjoy. Hes such a himbo sfhakjflkjslkdfsj

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

Truth be told, you had a crush. It was different then anything you had felt before, a feeling that filled you up and made you feel like everything would be all right. A feeling of yearning, the want to just see his face, hear his voice, see him smile. And if it was you he was smiling at? You were doomed. Dead meat. Blushing so hard that you were nothing but a smoldering pile of feelings on the floor. 

It was unlike you to harbor such strong feelings of liking. Especially towards guys like him. Yes, Jason Lee Scott truly had you in a predicament.

Usually what you looked for in a guy… wasn’t that. Jason was always at the gym, he was very talented at martial arts. Usually sporty gym rats like him repelled you. They were supposed to be self centered - with an ego larger than their head. They were supposed to only spend time with like-minded people, like other jocks or cheerleaders. They were supposed to be assholes. 

And yet he was so overwhelmingly kind. He was nothing like you had expected him to be. 

You two had been in the same class for a long time. Most of that time was spent not talking, not looking at each other, not knowing each other. But one day at the Youth Center he had bumped into you, causing you to drop your smoothie all over the floor. Even though none of it got on you, he seemed to feel terrible and bought you a new one. On top of that he even stayed and talked a bit. All it took was one conversation and you knew that you were a lost cause. He was too good for you. And that’s why you liked him.

After that short encounter he began waving at you in the hallways at school, sometimes his friends would wave too. Sometimes he’d say hello, and if he had enough time he would ask about your day. Life carried on like this for a very long, stagnant period of time, but it was enough for you. 

The next major interaction you had was at the school. You had been planning a tennis tourney for the community and you had all of your work laid out in front of you, trying to make sense of it and organize it in the best way when-

“Did you do all of this?”

You jumped slightly. Turning, Jason stood to your left, scanning over your work with a fascination. There were piles of the sign up sheets, piles of possible sponsors, court assignments, a tentative schedule for the day, and even planning for concessions. You had truly put your best effort into it.

You smiled, “Yeah, I’ve had so many people tell me how excited they are, and I just want to make it the best I can.”

“And you did this yourself?” You could have sworn he leaned in closer to you, even just a little.

You shrugged, “Mostly. If I had realized that it was so much work I would have asked for help.”

Jason picked up one of the sign up sheets. “Is it too late to sign up?”

“Technically the cutoff was last Friday, but if you know someone who’s interested, I can get you a form.”

He nodded, “Can I get a few? I’m sure my friends would love to do it too.” You turned and walked to another table, picking up some blank forms.

“Would you want to be my doubles partner?” Jason’s voice came from behind you.

Your heart dropped but your expression didn’t sway. Handing him the forms you said, “I’d really love to play with you Jason but I’ll be too busy running the tournament.”

“What if somebody helped run it?”

“It's fine.”

“It's not fair. You planned the entire thing and you don’t even get to play.” He took the forms and looked over them. An alarm on his watch went off.

Jason looked disappointed as he said, “Sorry, I have to be somewhere.” He looked at you,  “But I’ll see you at the tournament?”

You smiled, “of course!”

And off he went. You didn’t see him much in the next week. You were so busy planning that you didn’t have time to seek him out for the sign up forms. You just created enough slots to fit in a few last minute entries in case he turned them in. If you thought about it, you would have realized that you hadn’t seen Jason around at all, even at times you normally would. 

The night before the tourney you stopped by the Youth Center to get a smoothie and take a break from your work. Ernie placed the cup in front of you.

“Ernie, I ordered a medium.”

“Yeah but I’ve heard how hard you’ve been working. Accept it as a little gift from me.”

“I haven’t had time to keep up on the news. Anything about the Power Rangers?”

Ernie gave a small sigh, “They’ve been fighting a lot this week”

You heard a group enter the building. Looking back you saw Jason. His face lit up in a grin when he saw you and he quickly made his way to sit by you. He pulled a  wad of folded sheets from his pocket. 

“Is it too late to give these to you?”

You took the sheets and unfolded them. The first sheet had Jason’s name under it and underneath was a large red X in the doubles spot. Next to it he wrote in your name to be his partner. 

You flipped through the sheets under it. Each one had an X marked under singles and doubles with “volunteering” written in. You couldn’t help but smile a little wider as you saw the names.

You looked up at Jason who had been waiting for you to get through them expectantly. His friends had also made their way over and were grinning at you, proud of what they had done. 

“Aw, you guys… thank you!”  You got up and hugged them one by one. 

As you got to Jason he laughed, “You should know, I’ve never played tennis before.”

You laughed too, giving him a big hug, butterflied erupting in your stomach, “That’s ok, I can teach you a few things.”

They all ended up getting smoothies too as you explained forehands and backhands to Jason, trying to get the basics down. You stayed there until Ernie kicked you out.

The tournament the next day started with a bang. Everyone was super excited to play, and many people who weren’t playing came to watch. Zack was managing court assignments. Billy and Trini ran concessions. Tommy was collecting scores and Kimberly was doing the various other small tasks such as giving players new balls and refilling water bottles. 

You and Jason were set to start fairly late in the day due to signing up as late as you did. As you stood watching Bulk and Skull get their butts kicked at doubles, Jason bumped you lightly with you shoulder. 

“Thanks for agreeing to play with me.”

You bumped him back, “Thanks for giving me a break.”

You glanced over at him to see he was already looking at you, with a soft expression on his face. 

“You know, I really…”

“You really…?

“I need you to know that I-” He didn’t get to finish his phrase as a gang of putties flooded onto the court. 

You had no idea where they came from, but all you knew was that where there were putties, there was usually something much worse. You made a beeline for the court, beginning to usher teams away from the danger. Putting yourself between some classmates and a putty, you took a hard kick to the ribs. The impact point erupted in a stabbing pain and you fell to the ground clutching your side.

You waited for more attacks, holding your eyes shut and steeling yourself in preparation, but none ever came. You squint your eyes open to see the red ranger standing before you, a pile of putties knocked out at his feet.

Another moment and he turned, crouching down to check on you. “Don’t worry, I got you.” The voice rang out, strangely familiar in your mind. A momentary peace consumed your mind.

Too shocked to respond, you stayed silent and nodded as he helped you up with a gentle hand. 

Across the court you saw the other rangers facing a much larger, much scarier creature. The red ranger pushed you lightly in the other direction. 

“Get yourself to safety. We’ll handle this.”

Again, you nodded dumbly and made your way towards the school, which was nearby. Upon arriving, you found that most of the people from the tourney were here. Except… Jason wasn’t. Upon further examination you found out that neither of his friends were either. You sat down, exhausted, and you began to fear that they were still out there. Maybe some putties had gotten them. Maybe that monster had gotten them. And they were out there possibly in danger and you had run away?

The ground trembled slightly as an explosion went off outside.

What was Jason going to tell you? Were you ever going to get the chance to hear it? Were you ever going to tell him how you felt? 

You weren’t sure how long you sait there spiraling, full of what if’s and fears and regrets until-

“You’re ok!”

Jason ran up to where you sat, relief painted all over his features.

A million thoughts ran through your mind but none were stronger than the relief as you pulled him in for a giant hug.

“... the tournament was ruined.” you mumbled, still hugging him. 

You could have sworn he held you a little tighter, “I’m just glad you’re ok.”

Pulling back you looked at him, “Yeah, I was lucky the red ranger showed up when he did. I’m also lucky everyone else is safe, especially you.”

He smiled at you.

“By the way… what were you going to say before?”

Jason laughed softly. “I was just going to say that I really like you...”

Your face flushed and you could have sworn that your heart may have exploded. He actually felt the same?

“... and I was wondering if you’d like to go out with me sometime?”

You broke into a giant smile and gave him a small kiss on the cheek.

“I’d love to!”

“Perfect, I’ll pick you up on Friday.”

#fictober23 #power rangers #mmpr #jason lee scott #jason scott x reader #jason lee scott x reader #jason scott

[julietashton]

it’s hard to be anywhere these days (when all i want is you) - six

part one. // part two. // part three. // part four. // part five. or  read on ao3

warning: smut, 18+

six.

The roof ended up being her choice of hiding spot like he knew it would. They had spent countless nights there, the both of them, talking about everything and nothing. It had been those moments the ones Peter had missed the most during his self-imposed isolation, and the main reason why he’d had trouble sleeping at night—because he’d wished he was up there on that roof with her.

The door wasn’t locked but it was evident she wasn’t expecting him to follow her, because her shoulders tensed when she heard him.

The night was chilly but clear, or as clear as New York City’s sky would allow it. It was nothing like the farm, where it was dead silent and the stars were bright. The city was restless beneath them but Peter still preferred it, and he knew Sophia did too, even if she was hugging and rubbing her arms to protect herself from the cold.

He went to take off his jacket to give it to her, but before he could, Sophia spoke.

“Don’t,” she snapped sharply, without even turning around. She kept her gaze firmly on the skyline and her back to him.

Peter stopped dead in his tracks. “You’re freezing.”

“I’d rather freeze to death than accept anything from you right now.”

He knew she lashed out when she was angry but it still hurt. He wanted to be stubborn about it but decided to respect her wishes and keep his jacket.

“Why don’t we go and talk somewhere else then?” he suggested softly, going to stand next to her on the edge.

Sophia growled. “I don’t want to talk to you, Peter. Didn’t I leave that clear tonight?”

“Yes, very clear,” he huffed. “But you never said the reason why.”

She let out a dry laugh. “How annoying, isn’t it? When you try to communicate with someone and you keep crashing into a wall because they don’t want to.”

Peter observed her profile; haughty chin, elegant neck, red cheeks and nose from the cold. He felt that stab of longing again and he wondered how he’d managed to stay away from her for so long. No wonder he’d felt like he’d been dying slowly all this time.

“I know I deserve it,” he said quietly. “And if I could, I’d let you ignore me, but I can’t.”

That made her finally look at him; her expression full of irony.

“You can’t?” she scoffed.

“No, I can’t.”

“You were happy to be ignored a few months ago—”

“You hadn’t kissed me a few months ago.”

She blinked at that, surprise flashing across her face at his bluntness; he usually wasn’t so direct. It even seemed as if she was blushing too, but she was quick to recover and frown.

“Oh, so a kiss was all it took to get some sense into you? Please, don’t be cliché—”

“No, it wasn’t all it took. I almost died again, remember?” he pointed out. Sophia stiffened at the reminder. “I just—I was already flaking, Soph. Being so isolated from everyone I love… You were right—of course you were right. I don’t have to tell you because you already know you were and you knew what it would do to me.”

Sophia simply stared at him, and he took it as a good sign that she wasn’t arguing or storming out.

“I really thought I was doing the right thing,” he confessed quietly and sincerely, ashamed by his ingenuity. “I really thought I could keep you all safe by staying away. That was all I really wanted—for you all to live.”

She didn’t say anything and he didn’t keep talking. The murmur of the city was the only sound.

“I know,” Sophia whispered eventually. “And I think the world of you for that, but it’s also stupid.”

Peter couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, you left that very clear too.”

She rolled her eyes but her lips twitched again, the same way they had done back when they were having dinner. She was trying not to smile and his heart fluttered as he looked at her, the yearning getting unbearable.

“It was killing me,” Peter blurted out without even thinking. He realised the whole thing was choking him, and he would explode if he didn’t let it out. “I would spend days without speaking to anyone. I would sit in May’s hospital window and stay there for hours, and I lost count of how many times I hacked into FRIDAY’s system to see how Tony was doing. I stalked Ned’s socials every day, too.”

Her eyes softened, and she was about to say something, but she couldn’t hold back a sneeze. Peter frowned at that, taking off his jacket and placing it on her shoulders with determination. He took it as another good sign that she didn’t complain and actually snuggled into it, appreciating the warmth.

“Thanks,” she mumbled almost resignedly. “And me? Did you stalk me too?”

Peter shook his head. “No, not you.”

He saw the hurt and disappointment in her expression, so he quickly explained himself:

“I couldn’t—I couldn’t do it with you, Soph. It hurt too much to even think about you. If I had seen you even on Instagram on a daily basis…it would’ve broken me.” He shook his head. “The one time I did was for your graduation, and just one look at you from afar almost made me throw it all away.”

At that, Sophia drew in a sharp breath, her eyes widening and glistening.

“You went to my graduation?”

Peter nodded timidly. “Of course I did.”

Many emotions crossed her face but they were so fast that Peter couldn’t follow them all. He thought she would lower her guard even more after that confession, after he’d shown her he’d tried to be present for her in his own way, but once again, Sophia surprised him.

She growled and took his jacket off her shoulders, to then throw it at his shocked face.

“DO YOU EVEN KNOW HOW MUCH I CRIED BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WEREN’T THERE?” she cried.

Peter blinked. “I’m—”

“I THOUGHT YOU HAD SEEN MY INVITATION AND STILL HAD DECIDED TO IGNORE IT AND NOT SHOW UP!”

“But I did,” he whispered weakly, but she ignored him.

“I THOUGHT YOU DIDN’T CARE ABOUT ME, YOU MASSIVE TWAT WITH A MARTYR COMPLEX—”

Peter winced but couldn’t really find anything to refute that, because he was a twat with a martyr complex and he had hurt her. He hated that he had, especially now that he was seeing the pain in her eyes and the deep sorrow in her expression. He wished he could take it all back, he wished for that more than anything, but he couldn’t.

He could only make up for it—and he needed to start making it up to her now.

So, Peter kissed her.

It caught her off guard; Sophia gasped against his mouth, both shockingly and angrily. But when he wrapped his arms around her back and brought her closer to him, she closed her eyes and responded with a bruising kiss. Peter shivered against her, moaning when he felt her fingers pulling at his hair, his mouth burning against hers.

He traced her lips with his tongue, desperate to savour her, and feeling delighted when she opened her mouth to him. He pushed his tongue in and brushed it against hers, greedily stealing the sigh that slipped from her when they tasted each other.

His head was spinning, his ears were buzzing, his blood was singing, and Peter simply couldn’t get enough of her. His hands gripped her, palming her, drawing them impossibly close as Sophia kissed him into insanity.

“I’m still mad at you,” she mumbled against his mouth, clutching at the neck of his shirt and pulling him closer. She bit his lips and nibbled on them, making him moan.

He stumbled forward and pinned her against the balcony.

“And I’m madly in love with you,” Peter rasped out, cradling her face in his hands and boring his eyes into hers. “If I have to spend another minute without you, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Sophia blinked up at him in surprise, her chest heaving up and down.

“Peter…”

“Please, give me a chance,” he whispered, pressing their foreheads together. “I know I screwed up, but if you feel even remotely the same way about me, I need us to—”

“Peter,” she cut him off softly, placing her hands on top of his and looking at him with a smile. It was the first smile she’d given him in so long that his heart skipped a beat. “I love you too.”

He gaped at her, unable to believe his own ears.

“You—do?” he asked, feeling as if his heart was going to burst inside his chest. “You love me?”

“Of course I do. I have for a long time,” she huffed, rolling her eyes fondly, only to give him a serious look a second later. “Just—don’t push me away ever again.”

“Never,” he promised in a breath, locking their lips together again. “Never, never again.”

He felt her smile and he couldn’t help but melt into her, sighing when her cold fingers curled in the nape of his neck and played with his hair.

“You’re freezing,” he muttered, surrounding her body with his arms. “You shouldn’t have taken off my jacket.”

“It was the only thing I had to throw at you,” she mumbled back, withdrawing her mouth from his to pepper kisses on his jaw and neck. She sucked on his pulse point, earning another moan from him, before he felt her hot breath on his ear. “But we could go to my room.”

Peter’s senses went haywire at the implication, the closest to being high he’d ever felt.

“O-Okay,” he choked out.

Sophia stared at him. “We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”

He breathed out a laugh. “If I don’t want to? Really? I want to do everything with you.”

She smiled, her cheeks getting pink. “You look a bit scared.”

“Scared that I’m dreaming,” he corrected, placing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Not of what we could do.”

“We’ll have to be careful to avoid everybody,” she commented, her smile widening, already slipping away from his embrace to begin walking towards the door. “Or else we’ll never hear the end of it.”

Peter shuddered at the mere idea, especially when he thought of Tony possibly catching them sneaking into Sophia’s bedroom. They were adults alright, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t be awkward—or traumatising for both parties.

He caught her hand and pulled her back into his body. He smiled at her confused face.

“I have a better idea.”

***

“Do you reckon the neighbours could see my knickers if they looked up?” Sophia giggled in his ear.

“You practically own the building, you don’t have neighbours,” he pointed out, half-amused and half-offended by her temerity.

She was on his back like a monkey while he climbed a building of 400 feet with just his web-shooters, after all. Perhaps she should have been concerned by other things—for instance, her safety and holding tightly onto him.

Not that he would ever let her fall. He’d rather be split in half than let that happen.

“Well, but imagine I did have them,” she insisted cheerfully.

“I’d kick the ass of anyone who tried,” Peter grumbled as he pushed her bedroom’s window open.

He heard her snort as he landed on her bedroom floor. Once she climbed down his back, he turned to look at her, finding her grinning that grin of hers that made him feel ridiculously warm inside.

“That would be very unheroic,” she said, cocking an eyebrow playfully at him. “Abusing your powers like that.”

The room was dark, but the street lights and the pale, weak moonlight coming from the window were enough for her face to be illuminated ethereally. She looked breathtakingly beautiful, and Peter was having a hard time believing the situation he was in.

“Maybe I’m not as good as you think I am,” he said quietly.

Right then, it was impossible to believe he would ever deserve her.

At that, her playful expression changed into a more grounded one, and he hated himself for ruining the moment. Before he could try to go back to it though, Sophia took the few steps that separated them and placed one hand on his shoulders, using the other one to cup his jaw softly. Peter couldn’t help but lean into it, starved for her touch.

“You’re the best person I know, Peter Parker,” she whispered. “And even at my angriest, I could never think the worst of you.”

He shook his head. “I’ve done—I’ve done very questionable things in these past two years, Soph.”

“Like what, for example?”

“I’ve—I’ve been more cruel than I needed to because I was frustrated and lonely,” he confessed guiltily. “I trusted people I shouldn’t have. I’ve punished people that didn’t deserve it. I’ve acted like I had the higher moral ground when I knew damn well I was doing it just because I was hurting.”

Sophia observed him for a while, her expression unreadable. After a while, she simply shook her head once and brought one of her hands to his hair, to push it back gently. Her eyes were kind and warm as she spoke.

“You may have superpowers, Peter, but you’re still human,” she told him. “No one expects you to be perfect all the time, or to have the clarity to judge properly all the time. You’re allowed to make mistakes, you know?”

“With the level of responsibility I have, I shouldn’t be.”

“Love, you don’t owe anyone anything,” Sophia stated firmly. “I know it’s hard for you Avengers to wrap your head around that, but really, you do enough as it is.”

It was quite a notion what she was suggesting. His younger, more idealist self would have thought of it as selfish and cowardly; now, he wasn’t sure he completely agreed with it, but he wasn’t ready to discard it so easily either. It certainly helped to make life less burdening. He had fought and sacrificed a lot—hell, he’d been ready to give up having the people he loved in his life just to make the world a safer and better place.

Peter looked at her, and the love he felt for her, particularly at that moment, was overwhelming.

“You’ve just called me love,” he blurted out without thinking.

Sophia scoffed. “Was that all you got from what I’ve just said?”

“No, but…” he smiled, feeling shy but ridiculously warm. “I like it when you call me that. I remember you also did it in London.”

She looked embarrassed about it, even looking flustered by the memory of her slip, which only made his smile grow. He took advantage of their closeness and leant in to kiss her again, sighing at the sensation.

“This conversation isn’t over,” she mumbled, but she threw her arms around his neck.

“I know, but we can talk later.”

They had kissed moments ago but he just couldn’t get enough. His hands feel heavy on her hips, his thumbs trailing along her stomach down to her pelvis. Sophia’s hips canted forward and she began unbuttoning his shirt, her fingers touching his skin as she exposed it, making him dizzy with want. Peter dared to slip his hands underneath the hem of her dress and pull it up so he could touch her skin too.

She whimpered against his mouth when his fingers brushed across the front of her knickers, the sound getting him all hot and impatient, especially when she pushed his shirt off his shoulders and her hands began exploring the expanse of his back and chest. He heard her slip her heels off and, without thinking, he lifted her up with one arm. She gasped in surprise but her legs surrounded his waist naturally, allowing him to carry her to the huge bed.

Gently, Peter placed her on the bed, and Sophia looked up at him with those bright eyes of hers as she laid down on it, waiting for him to join her.

His breath caught as he took her in. He could see her perfectly even in the darkness; dishevelled hair, pink cheeks, swollen lips, ruffled dress—he could see the straps of her bra, and her smooth thighs were on full display. He’d dreamed about her like that countless times but he’d never thought it would ever become real.

“Do you even know?” he heard himself asking; his voice a pant.

Sophia tilted her head in confusion. “Know what?”

“How much I want you.”

At that, she smiled and sat up until she was kneeling on the mattress. Holding his stare, she unzipped the back of her dress and slipped it off her, leaving her in only her black—and lacy—underwear.

Peter drew in a sharp breath; his fingers and cock twitching at the mouth-watering sight, desperate to be in contact with her in any way.

“I want you too,” she whispered. “Are you going to keep me waiting?”

By all answers, Peter leant forward and pulled at her knee so that she fell on her back again. Sophia let out a surprised giggle that quickly turned into a sharp exhale when he started crawling up her body to kiss her hard on the mouth. He kissed her until all his nerve-endings were on fire and she was writhing underneath him, digging her nails on his back as he explored and gripped every curve of her body.

Her hands found his belt and undid it, pushing at it frustratedly until Peter stopped kissing her and moved so she could take his jeans off. Once they were gone, he attempted to find her lips again, but Sophia surprised him by tackling him over so he was lying on his back as she straddled him, sitting right on his strained cock. She reached behind her and unclasped her bra before throwing it to a forgotten corner of the room.

Peter’s eyes popped out, completely amazed and enraptured by the sight of her wonderful tits.

“Fucking hell,” he rasped out, sitting up like he’d been electrified and curling his hands around her ribs; his fingers brushed the sides of her breasts and she shivered. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Can I—Can I touch you?”

Sophia smiled before bringing her lips to his ear. “You don’t even have to ask.”

And just like that, his brain shut down, especially when she began to suck on his neck. She was going to leave a mark there, and the thought awoke wild and primal instincts that he couldn’t control. His hands grabbed her breasts and he took them into his mouth, almost coming at the sound that left her lips when he did.

Peter kissed, sucked and licked, driving Sophia incoherent. She writhed above him, rubbing herself against his hard cock; their remaining underwear the only thing between them. It was just fortunate his endurance was remarkable, or he would have already come embarrassingly fast in his pants.

When his teeth grazed one of her nipples and he sucked on it, her fingers pulled at his hair so hard that he stopped and looked up at her. Her pupils were blown wide.

“I need you to fuck me,” she heaved. “Right now.”

Peter nodded, unable to find words. His head and senses were fogged by lust and her—by all of her; her hot and soft skin, her intoxicating smell, her addictive taste. He could die right then and he would go happily.

“Like—Like this?” he stuttered out.

Please, say yes, say yes.

“If you want,” Sophia replied, already moving to get rid of her knickers. “Do you mind me on top?”

Peter breathed out a laugh. “Do I mind you riding me like I’ve been imagining since I was sixteen years old? No, I don’t think so.”

She grinned but instead of saying anything, she kissed him hotly as he slipped off his boxers. When there was nothing between them any more, Peter’s hands gripped her hips and she shifted until the tip of his cock brushed her entrance.

Both of them shivered at the sensation and held their breaths, pressing their foreheads together and staring into each other’s eyes. For a quiet, charged moment, they shared air, time and space.

And then, Sophia moved and took him in with a gasp, without breaking their gaze.

“Oh my God,” Peter groaned, desperately searching for her mouth, to distract himself from the blinding pleasure that shot through him. “Sophia…”

She whimpered and tugged at his hair, raising her hips to slip him out, to then sit down and take him back in with a moan. Peter simply couldn’t take it.

“Fuck.”

“Peter…” she panted against his lips.

“Yes, baby,” he rasped, surrounding her waist with his arms and helping her move. “I’m here.”

His words seemed to encourage her, because she began to ride him like a goddess after that. She had one hand tangled in his hair and the other one gripping his shoulder for leverage. She bounced and ground her hips; she bit his lips and kissed him and Peter could only watch in amazement. The sensations were too much, and he tried to stay as still as possible to let her take control, but it proved to be impossible when he took one of her nipples in his mouth and she let out the sexiest sound he’d ever heard.

He lost it after that.

He gripped her backside and stilled her on top of him, so he could pound into her deep and hard, without stopping the assault on her breasts.

Sophia cried and let him, digging her nails on his shoulders and biting on his lobe to stop herself from being too loud. 

“Peter, I—” she began after a while, only to interrupt herself.

She cried out and clenched around him, coming abruptly and holding tightly onto him.

The squeeze tormented him, and stars appeared behind his eyelids; his heart raced and his thrusts became erratic and desperate.

“I love you,” she sighed softly once her high ended.

It was like a switch. The pressure snapped and the dam broke, and he let himself be taken over by this tsunami of pleasure that blinded him. He forgot how to breathe, and Sophia snaked her arms around his neck, anchoring him to her, taking him through his high.

She was the only real thing in this world, the most important thing. Nothing else mattered but her.

“I love you too,” he whispered, before they fell back into the mattress, absolutely exhausted.

The End. 

Epilogue? 

#peter parker #peter parker imagine #peter parker x you #peter parker x reader #peter parker x ofc #peter parker fanfiction #tom holland imagine #tom holland fanfiction #mcu!peter x reader #mcu!spiderman x reader #mcu!peter parker #peter parker x stark!reader #marvel fanfiction #mywriting

[scribbledghost]

Bring Me Home

Pairing: Agent Whiskey x Reader (no Y/N, gender neutral)

Rating: G

Word Count: 1,529

Warnings: none

Notes: Some good old-fashioned comfort to open up the old blog again. Again, this blog will strictly be my writing blog. My main blog is still @wanderrghost! Gif by massivecolorspygiant.

The clear Kentucky morning gave him a perfect blue sky, a light breeze, and the scent of home. With his tires on whiterock and his engine rumbling from disuse, he drove down the long and winding lane that took him back to where he belonged.

The trees were greener than when he’d last seen them; leaves full and healthy as they wafted in the wind. The grass, now soft and thick compared to the coarse and dead that it’d been when he’d left, beckoned to him. Perhaps once he finished settling back in and unpacking, he’d sit beneath his favorite shade tree next to the pond. It had been frozen the last time he’d been near it; he could only imagine the life it held within now.

Jack Daniels had been away from home for a long time.

As he pulled into his usual parking spot in front of his garage, he attempted to gather his thoughts. How long had he been gone? It was the dead of Winter when he left, and it was the middle of Summer now. Six months? That sounded right, but he’d stopped counting the exact amount of time ages ago.Could’ve been more for all he knew, or cared, in that moment.

He’d hated being away from home - away from you - for so long, but it couldn’t be helped. Agent Champagne had made him an offer he couldn’t have refused: this one last major, dangerous, undercover job, and he’d get to be on regular desk duty from here on out. Officially retire from the field, be home in time for dinner every day, get weekends off. The whole “white picket dream” he’d been yearning for since before you’d even moved in with him years ago.

He finally had it, and he couldn’t wait to tell you all about it.

Of course, if you were even still around for him to tell. It was not lost on him that he hadn’t heard from you the entire time he was away, despite his numerous messages to you telling you he was alright and talking about how much he missed you. Tequila telling him you “must have found someone else” as a joke certainly didn’t help matters.

The walk to the front door was a short one, yet he could feel his legs growing more weary with each step. The flight back home had been a red-eye, overnight from some far-flung country, and he’d spent most of it doing his post-mission reports so as to get them out of the way. The agency had offered him a bed when he’d gotten onto the tarmac, but he’d turned it down. He had somewhere much more important to be and he’d spent long enough away from it.

The front door latched quietly behind him, the sound of it largely drowned out by the sound of running water coming from the kitchen. The sigh of relief that expelled from his lungs was palpable. Running water meant there was someone else in the house. He just hoped that someone was you, sans anyone else.

Jack hung his hat and jacket by the door, a habit he hadn’t practiced in the months since he’d been gone, but one that instantly returned with him. He untucked his white button-down shirt before loosening his tie as he walked across the room. He quietly observed the place as he did so - it seemed to be the same as when he’d left, with photos of the two of you still on the wall and his own objects on the shelves.

He thanked what little higher power he still believed in that Tequila’s premonition seemed to be incorrect.

Once he was in the doorway to the kitchen, he crossed his arms and leaned against the frame for a moment, simply observing as you washed dishes.

“Hey there, sugar.”

Jack watched as you startled, dropping the plate in your hands. The ceramic crashed to the tile, spreading shards of itself across the floor, and without thinking he immediately began to make his way to you, concern etching itself in his features.

“Jack?” you said, a tinge of disbelief in your voice as you stared at him with wide eyes. “I… what-”

“Easy, honey, easy,” he said softly, holding his hands out as if to ease a spooked animal, “don’t move. I’ll get it. I don’t want’cha steppin’ on any’a this.”

His boots crunched across the remains of the plate as he fetched a brush and dustpan from beneath the kitchen sink. He felt your hands, gentle on his back as he bent over to retrieve his items.

“Jack… I - I thought you were… I mean, I didn’t hear from you and it’s been so long, I… I thought-”

He stood back up, his chest inches from yours as he looked into your gaze.

It was as if you’d seen a ghost.

“You thought what, darlin’?” he asked, brows furrowing as he rested a hand on your cheek.

“I thought you were gone.”

“Gone?” he asked. “I mean, yeah, this last mission was a long one, but -”

“No, I mean… I mean gone.”

The way you said it punched him in the chest.

You’d thought he was dead.

“Didn’t’cha get any of my messages?” he asked softly, thumbing away an errant tear on your cheek, “I tried to send ‘em as often as I could, but I never heard nothin’ back. I thought… I thought maybe you’d just… up an’ left.”

“Messages?” you asked in a watery tone, “No, I never got anything, I sent you plenty of them too but never got a reply. I thought something had happened to you and they’d just kept it under wraps. Or that you’d left me and no one had the heart to tell me.”

“No, honey, never,” he said, his hand sliding to the back of your head as he pulled you to him. “I’d never do that to you, sugar.”

Your arms wrapped around his middle as you took shaky breaths into the fabric of his shirt. Meanwhile, Jack’s mind drifted elsewhere as his brow furrowed. 

He’d never had any issue getting messages to you before, nor you to him. This was a new development, and considering it was during one of the longest missions he’d ever been on, it had an air of… intention to it. Somebody somewhere knew something, he was sure of it. He was reasonably sure he knew who that somebody was, but he sat the thought aside for later perusement. It wasn’t his priority now.

Jack gently pulled your head away before leaning in for a kiss. It was slow, methodical, and everything he’d thought about for months.

“Let me get this plate cleaned up, then we’ll talk, alright?”

You nodded, letting him go so he could sweep up the broken pieces of ceramic that lay scattered across the kitchen floor. 

He was tired. Between the flight and the creeping worry that you’d vanished from his life and the sudden realization that someone was sabotaging the two of you, he was tired. True to his intelligence habits, he began to quickly compartmentalize what he could: the flight was over, you were still here, and he could pinpoint the saboteur tomorrow. For now, he could direct his focus to the task at hand, then he could take you into your shared bedroom and sleep the past six months away in peace.

The gentle swish-swish-swish of the brush on the kitchen tile plus the feeling of your hand on his shoulder soothed him. He leaned into you as much as he could, resting his head against your thighs every so often as he continued to clean. 

Just a bit more. Just a few more areas of scattered debris, and he’d be done. Just a few… more…

Jack handed the brush and dustpan to you before pushing himself to stand. His joints cracked and popped and protested, but he paid them no mind as you sat the items on the kitchen counter and pulled him to you in another embrace as soon as he was upright. He reciprocated without a second thought, clinging to the lifeline you’d thrown to him as he treaded water out at sea. He let you reel him in, let you bring him ashore.

He let you bring him home.

“I missed you so much,” you said, the sound muffled by his shirt.

“I missed you too, baby,” he murmured, “more’n I can say.”

The quiet settled over you both once more, and before he knew what he was doing, Jack found himself gently swaying back and forth with you, dancing to a melody only he could hear. His eyes closed and he reveled in the feeling of having you in his arms. Then, again before he could stop himself-

“I’m so tired, darlin’.”

“Why don’t we go in and have a nap, then? Together.”

Jack only hummed in response, a sleepy smile creeping onto his face. 

“I think I’d like that a lot.”

You pulled from him then, stealing one more kiss from him before taking his hand and guiding him away.

Finally, after far too long, Jack Daniels was home.

#agent whiskey #agent whiskey x reader #if y'all could give this some love I'd deeply appreciate it #likes. reblogs. comments. anon asks. something/anything to make me feel like reopening this blog wasn't a colossal waste of time lol #ghost scribbles

[wildmelon]

mina for @latteaki's too hot to handle! 🥝

good | perfectionist | ambitious

mina woods (she/her) is a 26-year-old model from del sol valley. she is pansexual. her hobbies include guitar, wellness, and dancing. here are some of her outfits, her download has the rest of them!

would she hit on bruce: she will hit on anyone she thinks is hot, but will not escalate unless she is 99.9% sure it could really go somewhere.

her favorite food is kiwi

she trained as a ballerina but retired when she was 20 due to injury

she's weirdly good at skiing even though she's only been once (probably due to her excellent balance)

mina hates winter holiday music. she never celebrated winterfest growing up so it annoys her to no end.

she's a libra sun, taurus moon, and virgo rising

she can't stand social media and won't become a simfluencer no matter how much her agent wants her to

longer bio under the cut! 🖤

born and raised in del sol valley, mina spent most of her childhood in the dance studio. her mother, a single parent and highly successful businesswoman, had not planned on children and didn't really know what to do with mina. she received little attention from her mom and spent a lot of time alone. mina became highly independent and driven, and her perfectionism served her well both in school and in ballet. at 18 she achieved her dream and was offered a place in the del sol valley ballet.

mina was quickly promoted to soloist and was on track to have an exceptional dance career until a knee injury ended her career abruptly 2 years later. she felt like her entire life had imploded and realized she had almost no one to lean on, as she hadn't spoken to her mother in a long time and her friends in the company didn't understand. mina watched as they went on without her, feeling increasingly isolated and unable to bear their gossip about casting and choreography. she worked tirelessly on her rehab but felt restless and lost until she was scouted by a modeling agency.

at 21, she discovered a love for modeling and even began dabbling in photography. her life took a turn for the better as she found a new community of artists in dsv*. she took up wellness to cope with the residual depression and anxiety ballet had left her with, and started guitar lessons. eventually, she was able to dance again just for fun.

mina's incredibly stylish and charismatic. she'd made a great simfluencer, but she considers herself an artist and doesn't want to be associated with simstagram models. she only does cool stuff like runway and editorial modeling ok. that's why she's not really ~famous~ even though she's very successful.

mina's a flirt but hardly ever takes things past that. she has a deep-seated desire for love but is very guarded both physically and emotionally. she's had one very serious relationship from ages 18-21, but it pretty much fell apart after she was injured and he stayed in the company. it definitely broke her heart. mina yearns for someone trustworthy, caring, and dependable who will provide her with safety and stability.

*fun fact: she is besties with my sim vivienne, a super famous actress, and probably vivienne's only true friend. but no one really knows that since mina's so private.

#sorry this got long af lmao #ts4 edit #sims 4 edit #ts4 cas #sims 4 cas #create a sim #sims 4 portrait #ts4 portrait #my sims #ts4 #sims 4 #ts4 too hot to handle #sims 4 too hot to handle #ts4 thth #sim: mina woods #wm: ts4

[stationintern]

Rêverie

Draco Malfoy spends an afternoon ruminating on first meetings, vengeful houses, and moments spent twirling a landline cord. This fic is inspired by Bless The Telephone by Labi Siffre.

When Scorpius only measured up to Draco’s waist, he’d climb up onto the left side of the piano bench and situate himself next to his father.

Those stubby fingers would run over the keys in a childish imitation of Draco’s years of practice, and soon, a cacophony of chaos would drift throughout the house, filling every room with its imperfections. Pansy said, while they were expecting Scorpius, that Draco would get tired of the noise after a while. In truth, the opposite happened– he was tired of it from day one. Every day after was spent learning to love it.

Now, he’s learning to miss it.

During long sessions of ruminating on life, replaying old memories like slideshows in his mind, Draco likes to play Rêverie.

His muscles do the unconscious work while he, once again, wonders why Scorpius had to study in the states, of all bloody places. He’d promised that it had nothing to do with being across an ocean from his parents, but said parents had their doubts, and despite all of Scorpius’ protests, feelings of failure and pride still battled it out in their hearts. Failure, because their only son wanted to go somewhere so removed from them. And pride, because he had the desire to explore, to learn.

So, missing his son as the battle rages, Draco plays alone.

His childhood tutor had been stern and critical, hampering any growing love for the instrument he could have had. It took years, once he reached adulthood, before he finally sat himself down in front of one again– before he learned to let the music move him, instead of forcing it to move for him.

It fills his empty house with melody, and though it’s comforting in its own way, Draco yearns for the harmony of Scorpius’ chaos.

Though, chaos still comes in a new form today, as a repetitive ringing from the kitchen cuts his playing off mid-chord.

The old landline has stuck around, a reminder of a time when cell phones spontaneously exploded in the hands of wizards– more than a minor safety hazard. Once the technology was adapted for use around magic, they kept it for the sake of nostalgia. It kept them off their cell phones unless absolutely necessary, and there’s something sweet about wrapping a phone cord around your finger while you lean against the wall, chatting with someone you love. It keeps you in place, devotes you to the conversation at hand.

Cell phones are the norm now, and only one person calls the landline number anymore.

“Malfoy-Potter residence,” Draco says,  because old habits become inside jokes sometimes.

“Very formal,” Harry’s low chuckle crawls through the crackling line, “Hello, love.”

“Hi, dear,” Draco replies, and his greeting comes out more as a sigh of relief than actual words.

“How are things with you?” Harry asks, and Draco wishes he had that kind of power– the ability to fill the empty pit in Draco’s stomach that forms when he’s by himself, to clear away all those meandering thoughts and replace them with a warm feeling of ease, all in a single line.

“I’m good. A bit lonely,” he admits, wrapping the phone cord around an idle finger, twirling it, “It’s nice to hear your voice. How’s the office?”

“Hectic,” Draco imagines Harry hunched over his desk, twirling a phone cord of his own while the office whirls around him, papers flying in the air, “Can’t talk long. Just wanted to tell you that I love you, and make sure you take a break from playing all those sad songs by yourself.”

“I love you, too… and they’re not sad songs.”

“Whatever you say. Chinese tonight?” The end of his sentence tips upwards with excitement– an excitement that Draco shares. Another long day coming to a close, spent in the company of one another.

“Sounds good. Love you.”

“Love you.”

With that, they hang up, and Draco’s loneliness creeps back in as the phone clicks back into place, but he knows that Harry’s words will ward it off for a few moments more. He’s developed a routine after these calls. He puts on a record– today, it’s All Things Must Pass– and turns it all the way up, until it can be heard from every corner of the house. 

Then, he wanders.

Up the stairs and down the hallway, he peeks out onto the balcony to watch the cars pass for a bit, before turning back inside. The door stays open behind him, letting the morning breeze whisper life back into the stale hall where Scorpius’ room lies.

Pale blue walls surround him as he meanders, remembering the time spent renovating this house– the one they bought after Grimmauld Place began rejecting Scorpius.

It seemed the house was cruel enough to terrorize a five-year-old. First, there were bad dreams. Then, stairs that would melt the soles of his shoes. The whole ordeal proved too much when a bush in the garden tried to kidnap him, and neither Draco nor Harry thought holding onto a shitty, endlessly deteriorating heirloom could possibly be worth the lifelong trauma it would cause for their son.

They tried to move without feeling defeated, ejected. The townhouse in Balham became a fun project, and they’d done most of the renovations magic-free. It was a good lesson for Scorpius– that working with your hands could be just as fulfilling, if not more, than using magic– and a bit of a challenge for his parents.

The real problem with the move was timing.

Renovating a home was interesting and new, until they all got sick of sleeping on transfigured couches, living on takeout, and plumbing that only worked five out of seven days of the week. In January, they opened up the kitchen, then the entire first floor by June. Their migration throughout the house felt like a city expanding, creeping along the hills, building new bridges over rivers.

The last room they finished was the library, and, incidentally, it’s now Draco’s favorite room in the house– with oak shelves that touch the ceiling, squashy chairs, and the lantern they’ve affectionately named Tinkerbell that follows you around after dark. 

Harry’s desk sits comfortably, in front of a window that overlooks the street below, with a familiar, faded photograph perched in its left side. Draco doesn’t need to crack open the frame to know what’s scrawled on the back in Harry’s chicken scratch.

Gutman Publishing House Christmas Party, 2003.

They’d just begun dating, still had a youthful glow about them, and didn’t yet know what it was like to be awoken in the middle of a night by a baby that actually belonged to them. Harry’s hand is resting on Draco’s lower back as he places a misfired kiss on his nose.

It all started a few months prior in a crowded, stuffy elevator.

They said nothing to one another, at the time. Harry had recently earned his own office, and it just so happened to be on the same floor as Draco’s editor, who was finalizing the edits on his first novel. Neither were aware they had business in the same building, since Harry handled children’s books, and Draco very much didn’t write those under a pseudonym– his novels were pretty much the opposite of children’s books.

The fifteen-story building handled the majority of wizarding publishing in the UK, so they blame their crossing of paths on fate.

Draco remembers what it felt like in that elevator, the oppressive heat that rose to his cheeks when he saw Harry, with his messy hair, skewed tie, and dark under-eyes, squished between two strangers. At the time, they both thought they had it all figured out, didn’t they? That they were on the cusp of become true adults. They were wrong, of course. They made the same false assumption after Scorpius was born, after they finished the house, and after countless other achievements that opened doors to new aspirations, new lessons.

They still haven’t figured everything out, but they’ve survived, and, more importantly, Scorpius seems to have turned out all right. 

After that elevator, their office run-ins became more frequent, and Draco would admit– years later, drunk– that he’d pass by Harry’s office on purpose, despite his editor being on the opposite end of the floor. Awkwardness soon turned into a quiet truce, then almost-friendly nods, until one day, when Harry stopped Draco with a hand on his bicep and said:

“Hey, I got my hands on your manuscript.”

And Draco, ever so eloquent, replied:

“Oh.”

“Don’t ask how,” Harry continued, mildly frantic, “But, I just wanted to tell you that I liked it. A lot. I loved it, actually.”

And maybe it was the compliment, or the way Harry’s glasses were more than a little crooked, or that he openly admitted to reading Draco’s smut-filled novel to his face, but Draco fell for him right there. Not quite as hard as he eventually would, maybe just a trip-up of love. Still, it was a start.

It’s a bit funny. Draco always liked to imagine himself as an instigator, a charmer. But, Harry was the one who started every conversation, pressed through during the lengthier ones, despite the awkwardness or outright animosity. Harry was the one who, on a cloudy Thursday in September 2003, asked Draco if he’d like to get a coffee once he was done at the office for the day.

Draco agreed. That evening he waited, shivering– half from the chill, half from nerves– outside the building for half an hour, but lied to Harry and said he’d only just come back. They didn’t have much to say as they walked to the café, keeping a respectful distance between them as they traded pleasantries and comments about impending rain. 

The tension broke when Draco did, as he awkwardly admitted in words that stumbled over each other that he actually didn’t drink coffee after dark, citing caffeine and trouble sleeping. Harry stopped his ramblings with a laugh, and told him he was smart. They got hot chocolate instead.

Warm cups turned cold, and the sky opened up, late, as if telling them to run on home. And run they did, sprinting through the onslaught back to Draco’s flat, ignoring Apparition and choosing romance instead. Harry took off his coat, held it high above their heads, as Draco told him that the gods were angry, that of course this would happen.

Harry said he didn’t care what the gods would think about them, and when he kissed Draco on the stoop, he tasted of peppermint and cocoa.

***

Harry gets home sometime around six, just to find Draco sitting on his piano bench, right where he’d left him that morning. He drops his hands on Draco’s shoulders and begins to knead.

“Have you been sitting here all day?”

Draco doesn’t stop his playing– he’s chosen something light, relaxing, and all for Harry after a long day of work. A love song, in its own way.

“No,” Draco leans back into his touch, rolls his shoulders, “I took a walk, read a bit. I always end up here, somehow.”

Harry drops a kiss to the top of Draco’s head, “Well, this song isn’t very sad.”

Draco lifts his fingers off the keys, shy, and cranes his neck to look at his husband, “It’s a love song.”

“A love song,” Harry repeats, and smiles– it’s broad, unencumbered by past pain, yet forged in darkness.

Draco nods, kisses the corner of his mouth.

“I’m very much in love with you,” he murmurs into the crease of Harry’s cheek.

Harry laughs and kisses him fully– once, twice, three times.

“I’m very much in love with you.”

“How was work?” Draco asks, rising from the piano bench, resting his hand on the small of Harry’s back as he throws his arm around Draco’s shoulders.

“Tiring. How was writing?”

They move towards the coat rack in tandem, easing into a familiar, practiced pre-dinner brief.

“Nonexistent.”

Harry chuckles, “You’ll get back into it soon. Jameson rejected the Garrison manuscript without consulting with Faulkner.”

“No,” Draco gasps, disentangling from Harry to wrestle his arms into a coat.

“I’m serious. You wouldn’t believe…”

They slip into the street, where the rain is light, and the sun has just set over the horizon, and Harry tells him all about how Faulkner reacted, and Draco tells him that maybe they should just take a trip to the states to see what Scorpius’ fuss is all about. The loneliness ebbs, though Draco knows it will flow again someday.

But, none of that really matters, because Harry’s there to poke him in the side, there to say, in a voice so soft and low, “Draco,” and bring him back from his wandering thoughts.

Harry’s there, and just a word or two from him, or a quiet night spent eating Chinese, has always been more than enough.

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#drarry #draco x harry #self rec #drarry shortfic