#mountain rug cleaning
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Giving me the Mountain Rug Cleaning treatment would fix me, I just know it
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youtube
think you're good at cleaning? check THIS out!
#mountain rug cleaning#unbelievable transformation#cleaning asmr#no seriously - this is satisfying AF!!#even if you don't get the tinglies - just the pure satisfaction of the results should wow you#Youtube
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youtube
For you cleaning ASMR lovers, this is by far one of the most satisfying channels the Youtube algorithm has blessed me with. He takes unrecognizable rugs and cleans them to perfection. Highly recommend.
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You like fancy rugs
unfortunately, i do not.
i have been watching 25-minute long rug cleaning videos on youtube though.
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Wake up boys, new YouTube rabbit hole just dropped
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Paired Wishes
When I came home with that lamp I bought from the charity shop we were both pretty surprised to find a Genie living inside.
The burly man explained that as we were both party to cleaning his lamp our wishes would be shared. One for each and one shared.
Taking a moment to discuss our shared wish we both turned to him.
"We wish to be wealthy enough to never have to worry about money ever again." We declared.
After accepting our wish the genie explained what to do for our personal wishes . He told us to close our eyes and say our wish silently in our heads.
Figuring that made sense we done so.
Suddenly our bodies began to heat up. My hair changed from its short dark brown state into a wavy, blond, youthful mop. My eyes flickering from their muddy brown into a vibrant piercing blue.
Meanwhile my body fat fizzled away, except of course my ass which ballooned with muscle and fat in all the right places. Lean muscle began to fill the rest of my body as I became a specimen both men and women would swoon for.
It seems that as my ass filled in my brain drained. I didn't ask for this but I guess it came with being blond. I was nothing more than a twinky blond himbo that focussed on little else other than cock.
You on the other went a totally different direction. Your body exploded with beefy muscle. Muscle that gave your body a rugged mountainous appearance. The landscape of your new abs and pecs were quickly turfed with thick black hair.
Not long after, the forest of hair stretched across your new face completing a magnificent beard.
To match your new dark hair your skin soon shifted from a pasty white into a light tan finalising the new Arab complexion.
Although my brains melted away yours grew. Now in possession of twice the knowledge than before you'd be doing the thinking for both of us. Which as it turns out was the Genie's plan.
To fulfill our shared wish of wealth you, now Hadi, had inherited your family's oil and gas company. The family business brought in millions every day from its various ventures.
Although you were Hadi to everyone else, to me you were Babi. My new rich Arab daddy.
It turns out the Genie played a bit with our wishes. You had wished to become a muscle Arab daddy with a thick cock. While I had wished to become a hot bubble butted twink with a hot daddy to look after me.
Seeing the compatibility of our wishes I guess the Genie took some liberties. You may not have wished to have been gay but you don't really seem to care now. In reality, as you bounced me up and down your thick shaft as I pleaded for your cum, we were both very satisfied with the results.
----
This was inspired by my new Babi @musclejedi7
#gay transformation#male transformation#gay tf#male tf#mental change#muscle tf#straight to gay#muscletf#race change#arab
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The Arm of a God (And Other Things)
Khonshu x Fem!Reader
Summary:
You take a week-long hiking trip alone, despite the warnings at the lodge from experienced hikers.
But were you truly alone?
No. Never.
The bears and mountain lions were the least of your concerns. In fact...
They never were to begin with.
TW/CW: NSFW, Smut, PiV sex, unprotected sex, size difference, reader is a size queen, needy(?)Khonshu, creampie, ngl it's a lot like the dude's a god and like 9 feet tall I refuse to believe every part of his anatomy isn't proportionate to the rest of him, like he has a breeding kink?? God of fertility hellooooooo
MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME
Taglist: @drinkingwithkhonshu @gingersforeverbox @manque-damour @nikkivenomized
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"Look, kid, no offense but..." The older man replied to you, his thick, bushy eyebrows pinched with concern for your well-being, "It's dangerous out there if you're alone. And compared to a bear, you're a small snack."
You smile at the old man, briefly taking in his far more rugged appearance. He looked every part of a human grizzly bear; large, imposing, muscular. He could probably take an actual grizzly bear in a bare-knuckle fight and come out even. He was an experienced hiker, a man born for the wilderness.
His concern for you was sweet. Compared to him, you were a tiny porcelain teacup; clean, and fragile. Sure you looked that way, but you trusted yourself and your abilities.
You looked small... but you weren't helpless. And you never had to worry in any of your travels.
"Thank you for your concern, but I'm covered." You chuckle sweetly, tapping the pendant around your neck. It was a small stone, scribbled with some sort of symbols, a crescent moon featured most prominently.
He squinted his green eyes at the necklace. He obviously couldn't understand what they said, but he understood it was some sort of religious object.
"Look kid, god can only do so much if a brown bear raids your camp in the middle o' the night." He says, clicking his teeth.
"Trust me. I got my bear spray, a good taser, a machete..." You begin listing off your protective items, some of which were bullshit. Most of your items in your pack were food and other important supplies.
He seemed impressed once you were done, stroking his thick beard approvingly. "All right, I s'pose. But since you've checked in here, there's a policy you tune into the lodge's frequency so if anything happens, we can come get ya."
To show how serious you took his advice--even if it wasn't needed--you pulled out your radio. It had about a 30 kilometer radius. An expensive purchase, to be sure, but a nice one. You tune it to the frequency he tells you and look at him as you clip it back to your pack securely.
"Anything else?" You chirp.
"Nope... Just... Be careful. The weather can get kinda crazy further up the mountain." He grunts.
You turn, giving a playful salute as you do, dragging deep into your lungs the air of the mountains after a fresh morning rain.
You weren't afraid for what the night brought. Not at all. But you knew that you've never had to be afraid when the moon rose.
Not when you had faith.
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You'd made good progress, only having to stop and rest a few times throughout the day, free-climbing a few boulders here and there, and to check your map. Your destination was an old burnt-down mansion that was destroyed in a bad storm sometime in the 1920s. So, over a hundred years ago.
Nobody really knew about them or bothered to find them because they were so far off the beaten path, but you marked your trail to find your way back. If you even got lost in the first place.
The first time you found out about this place was a small article written by a backpacker who explored forgotten ruins on YouTube. Yeah, they aren't as exciting as climbing a pyramid down in South America, but to you they were. You adored finding them and exploring them, touching pieces of recent history that were forgotten far quicker than ruins from thousands of years ago.
And when you found them, you tossed your pack down and did a happy little dance; they were amazing! The walls were made of river stone, joined by concrete and held up merely by their own sturdy construction. Some of the walls had fallen due to time, but you could easily make out a few old windows and doorways. Every inch of the ruins was covered in moss, shrubbery, and old and young trees embracing what was left.
You'd even climbed an old stairway you found in the back for fun; it may have led to the worker's lodgings, or.... hell maybe just another entrance to the second floor.
But now, the sun was gone, and you'd set up camp in the middle of the ruins, where a small pond had formed thanks to a depression in the ground. Perhaps the remains of a basement or cellar that had caved in due to the fire and passage of time.
Your fire crackled as you let your water purifier do it's job, your clean water dripping into your canteen with a steady "drip, drip, drip".
You finished off your pre-packaged meal--a nice packet of spaghetti and meatballs with some extra protein powder thrown in--and was now letting it settle, laying on your plush sleeping bag as you stared at the night sky, the moon fat as it hung from the stars; your fingers brushing and caressing the small pendant around your neck.
"I am not surprised to find you in a place like this." A heavy voice echoed off the stone walls.
You sat up on your elbows and lifted your gaze, smiling as you spot him--a large, lithe figure perched casually on the ruins, the light of the moon illuminating the eerie bird skull in place of his head.
"You know how much I love doing this." You remind him.
"Yes, I know." His voice said softly, his body moving in a blur. In a moment, he was standing above you.
You crossed your arms behind your head and grinned up at him. "It's been a month... Having fun with your Moon Guy?"
"My Moon Knight." He corrects, moving to sit next to you, laying his staff down on the remnants of the stone floor, little bits of grass and foliage peeking through the crags.
"Yeah, yeah." You snort, turning to roll on your side to grin at him again, resting your head in the palm of your hand.
"So... Read on the internet about some crazy shit going down in Egypt. And... It felt like you were gone. What happened with that?"
"Ammit and her cult. My Moon Knight and Taweret's Avatar stopped her. My Fist killed her Avatar." He said slowly. "And for meddling with the heavens... The Ennead imprisoned me, briefly."
You sat up fully, shocked by this news. "What? H-how... Why did--"
His fingers brush your lips to silence you, the touch feather light but enough to cease your speaking.
"It is settled, now. Don't worry." He says to you gently, his hand moving to cup your cheek, his warm palm heating your skin while his thumb brushes your cheek.
You close your eyes and sigh, frowning at him. "Damn you, old man... Don't worry me like that again, or I'll kill you."
"Of course. I wouldn't dare incur your wrath." He chuckled.
"Damn straight you won't." You sigh; his hand moved down your throat to encircle you, flattening on your upper back to pull you against him so you were astride in his lap.
You slowly slide your hands up his bandaged chest, feeling his heat bleed through your skin and warm you to your core. Your fingers toy with the large crescent moon fixed to his chest, brushing his flowing robes off to the sides.
"You are a force of nature," He hums, his other hand sliding down to completely encapsulate your ass and pull you tighter against him.
"One I have come to appreciate far more after my imprisonment."
You chuckle and watch as the strips of linen as soft as a moth's wing fall away into wisps of mist, leaving his almost searing hot skin bare to your touch.
His skin was a lifeless monochrome, ashen color, but it wasn't lacking in life at all, far from it. You could feel his godly heart thump in his chest, feel his muscles twitch as you touched him.
And already, you could feel the hard length of him pressing against you, swelling and twitching as it came to life as well.
It felt like his arousal flooded into you, spreading through your core and riling you up. You could already feel yourself soaking through your underwear, a dark stain soaking through your pants.
Sometimes you wished he could come to you at home; or in a motel room at least, so you can wear something nice for him, some lingerie or...
His fingers brushed your lips once again and he tapped them twice, signaling for you to open.
You obey silently, letting the soft pads of his index and middle finger part your jaws, caressing the muscle of your tongue, your eyes locking with his own eyeless gaze.
A rumble comes from him, and he groans as you roll your hips against his erection, the want and heat almost burning you inside and out.
One of your hands shoves down to undo your belt and unbutton your pants, and Khonshu withdraws his fingers from your mouth and almost dizzingly fast, his hand was shoved into your underwear, toying with your swollen clit.
You moan softly, your own small hands gripping at the gold collar on him for stability as one of his large fingers dips into your tight hole.
He grinds his palm into your clit as his finger curled and pressed against that overly sensitive spot on the walls of your cunt.
"Tight..." Khonshu growled, his other hand rolling your hips in time with his other hand. "You need to relax for me, love."
"T-Trying..." You pant, feeling the cool texture of his smooth dry beak caress against the blazing heat of your cheek.
"Hmmmh." He sighed and retracted his hands from you. "Get undressed. I need you to lie back."
You scramble off of his lap, watching his throbbing length bob eagerly as you peel your clothes off of you, lying back on your sleeping bag, spreading your legs for him to see every inch of you that was ready and waiting for him.
He had been gone for a month, and you knew on some nights, even when he wasn't there with you physically, you knew he would watch as you'd touch yourself to thoughts of him. No mortal man could ever compare to the love and carnal touch of a god, and he always felt a pang of guilt when he had to leave you for whatever duties he had.
But your reunions always ended this way, heat, lust and sheer want for companionship. You had started praying to him when you felt other religions didn't do it for you, finding that you being the wanderer that you were, would find more solace in prayer to a god who protected those like you.
And you certainly didn't expect to catch his eye, let alone capture his heart the way that you had.
His hand rests on your knee, thumb caressing the bones beneath the skin as he leans over you. He couldn't kiss you, but you always made sure that was never a problem, even now, as you tipped your head to place a soft kiss to the smooth side of his beak.
"Fuck--" You groaned, dropping your head back onto your travel pillow when his other hand rediscovered its place against your weeping sex, his thumb rolling small circles over your engorged clit while his other two fingers glide over your entrance; the muscles fluttering in anticipation of what was to come.
You squirm with impatience as each swipe of his fingers only serves to ignite a hotter flame burning low in your loins.
"Khonshu." You breathed.
When you said his name like that, it was always sweeter than any offering or prayer he has received. More uplifting than knowing his works uproots evil to protect the innocent, more delicious than watching Ammit and Harrow die at the end of Jake's gun.
"Just a bit more." He tightly reprimands, his other hand squeezing your knee to remind you to relax.
"You're such a damn tease." You whine, wiping one of your hands down your face, biting your lip and gripping your hair as his fingers inch slowly into your tight, hot hole.
Another deep, rumbling groan comes from him as he feels your body grip him like he was your reason for breathing; dragging, squeezing, pleading for him to just take you already....
But he wouldn't--couldn't--until your body had adjusted enough for this to be pleasurable for you as much as him. He was larger than a human man, and he knew your body was fragile compared to his.
Of course, he always felt smug and prideful when he acknowledged the fact he probably ruined you for any mortal man you may decide to bed one day. Because, honestly, now.
What mortal man can compare to a god in both love and in the bedroom?
You arched your hips up off the ground with a moan, whimpering out his name when his fingers curled upwards. But by bit he could feel your muscles ease up around him, your sweet body becoming slick and welcoming.
Sometimes he would get so mesmerized in how your body reacted just to his fingers that he neglected his cock entirely in focus on you.
He could feel your gummy walls press down on his fingers, fluttering around him as he pumped and curled them inside of you, fingering you open so you could take him fully.
He said your name so softly that it crackled like dry leaves on the wind, and you had to lazily drag your eyes open to look at him, the moon and stars shining above and behind him.
He was beautiful, in his own macabre sort of way...
Oh, if the Ennead knew he was fucking you, you both would probably be in heaps of trouble. But you always figured "bring it on" because you had some choice words for those bastards if you ever had the chance to meet them.
But those were thoughts for later, right now you were focused on your impending orgasm as his fingers scissored inside of you, pushing you closer and closer to that peak so when he pushed inside of you with his cock you wouldn't hurt (or bleed, as that has happened before when the two of you got overzealous).
And of course, right as you were about to cum, your whole body electrified to the point you actually thought you saw sparks in your peripheral vision... Khonshu pulled his fingers free of your wanting body.
You practically sobbed in frustration as your climax was taken from you so abruptly. It was a favorite thing of his to do to you; edging you like he does. But you knew it was for more selfish reasons than anything else.
He leaned over you, bracing his body on his forearms as he gently brushed your head with his beak--his closest approximation of a kiss--and you felt something warm and wet drip onto your belly.
Sparing a glance down, you pant softly as you watch the faintly glowing fluid drip from the tip of his cock; the very tip of it flushed the tiniest shade of pink on his otherwise colorless body. Maybe once upon a time his skin was a different color, but in his exile, it has become so dull.
"Are you ready." He grits out. More a statement than a question, really, as he knew your answer beforehand. But it was important to him that you never had any reservations.
He would not take without first receiving consent from you, without giving.
He was not Set, after all.
"Please." You breathe, reaching out to touch his cock, fingers brushing along the silky soft skin, smearing the precum over the tip with your thumb; earning a delicious groan from him.
He grunts softly, nodding as he lets you guide his weeping cock through your slick folds and to your hole.
It was always breath-stealing, the moment he pushed into you, his thick girth spearing you open and filling you so full you swore he was buried in your guts.
You kept your hand low, feeling him as he slowly slid further inside of you, a hiss coming from him. You were relaxed now, yes... but still so tight because of your comparative sizes that it knocked him off kilter; your heat enveloping him so welcomingly as though he was coming home again.
"K-Khonshu!" You hiccuped, your eyes rolling back into your head as you felt him fill you.
Khonshu's leg moves, pushing your thigh and nudging your legs open for him further; the both of you making low breathy sounds as your body squeezed him instinctively at the action.
"I'm... going to move, now." He snarls, reaching down to caress your thigh as he pulls back, your body desperately clinging to him, begging him to stay inside.
Your nails claw at his arms as you grit your teeth, sweat beading your brow as you feel him slide out inch by torturous inch before rolling his hips back into yours, filling you up almost as quickly as he pulled away.
"Oh--oh--" You whine, barely able to speak or form coherent thoughts as Khonshu starts arching his back and rolling his hips at the right angle to make your brain turn to mush.
The first time he had you, you thought you actually died. He had you ride his fingers until you couldn't move, and then he had you pinned, still thrusting his hand inside of you, coaxing and caressing your muscles to allow him entrance.
You did bleed, of course, because of his size. You'd had human bed partners, yes, but none compared to him in any way. You'd probably never be able to look at a human cock again and get as excited as you did when Khonshu teased you.
Oh, how strange it was... Gods often looked down at mortals because of their fallacies, not unlike their own in some ways... But lifetimes ago, the Old Gods of Egypt kept close relationships with their mortal followers. Of course... None had gone so far as to lay with them like Khonshu had done with you.
You'd tried to tease him, the first time you got intimate, that you were his first.
That's when he proved to you that just because you were his first human, didn't mean you were his first bedroom partner.
The way he made love to you was ethereal, almost entirely unreal. It was so good that sometimes you thought you'd dreamt it.
"Khonshu, I'm..." You moan, lifting your hips off of the ground to meet his thrusts as they picked up speed.
Khonshu watched you, his eyeless gaze boring holes into you as he studied your face, as beautiful as the most detailed works of art in human history as you came undone around him, soaking his skin as your body pushes every wave of your climax out.
His pace faltered, and he collapsed back onto his forearms as your legs locked around him, digging into the taut muscles of his glutes as your orgasm nearly knocked him senseless for a moment.
He gripped your sleeping bag tight in one hand as his pace quickened, desperate to taste his own release that threatened to swell up inside of him.
"Almost." He says, his voice wavering.
"Do it." You moan loudly, dragging your nails down his back desperately.
"Hrr--you--" He moaned back, his other hand moving back to grip your thigh so tightly you'd be feeling the bruises for days onward, even in his absence.
"Please."
"You... are... always... so... greedy." He snaps out with each thrust of his hips, the sinful sound of skin slapping skin and your cries filling the ruins.
"Is--Is it really being greedy if you--you want to--want--" Your voice breaks apart as he angles his hips up, his cock throbbing and twitching inside of you as he pumps you full, the sensation of being so utterly stuffed enough to push you into your second orgasm, forcing out globs of his glowing seed around his cock as he fucks you through both your orgasms, riding our your highs together in a blissful, mind-numbing spiral.
You were vaguely aware when he pulled his cock free of your body, barely grasping at the threads of consciousness as he looked down at you, his thumb pressing into your lower belly as he watched his divine seed drip from you.
He half wondered, if maybe you would get pregnant. Wondered what kind of child you would bear. A demi-god, surely, but what kind? In his pantheon, the children of their parents rarely shared the same aspects. Save for some overlapping connectivities, that is...
He could almost see your belly swell, nice and round... And felt something tug deep within his chest, a drive to see if this little thought bubble could burst--to see if his imagination would be a reality and bear fruit.
But, of course... His mind was dragged to the forefront of reality when your shaky little hand caressed the skull that was his head, your eyes drowsy and satiated as you smiled up at him, your god, your protector.
Your lover.
As he laid next to you, he curled your body with his and watched as the last embers of your fire burned away, leaving you only haloed in the soft, silver rays of his moon.
He couldn't believe he ever found you
#moon knight#khonshu moon knight#moon knight khonshu#khonshu x reader#khonshu x you#khonshu#khonshu smut
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A girl can get somewhere in spite of stringy hair
or even just a bit bowed at the knees
if she can show a faultless…personality!
—“Personality,” Johnny Mercer and the Pied Pipers (1946)
It Keeps Right On a-Hurtin’
#26 - Ring-a-Ding-Ding V
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Read IKROAH on Archive of Our Own
Notes / Original Pencils / Transcript:
Notes:
ohhhhh my god why did i make this script so long my hand hurts this took forever aaaaagh
Welcome to the Lucky 38! This is a script that has remained basically the same for a long time but went through COUNTLESS extremely small rewrites over the course of production just to really nail Mr. House's dialogue. He's a long-winded guy, this whole issue is basically just him doing monologues, and I wanted to make sure it was all interesting and non-repetitive. I think I took out at least three uses of "merely" from the first draft.
One of the biggest production decisions of this issue was whether or not to cut the scene with Agnes and Cass and Victor, which immediately follows the end of the previous issue. The reason to include it was because it very necessarily established the change in location from the Vegas Strip to the Lucky 38 penthouse, which would have been jarring otherwise; the reason to exclude it was that it the issue was already extremely long and I thought opening right on Mr. House would have been more impactful. Ultimately, I did keep it, which was a good decision, but only because of the literally issue-saving idea to convey it as closed-circuit television footage instead of actual panels. Every single attempt at overlaying them with the lead-in to Mr. House was way too busy, but that idea really tied the page together like a nice rug.
And lastly, the framing device of the tarantula and the tarantula hawk was actually an extremely late addition to the comic. I had already finished the first three pages when I thought of it. My problem was that Mr. House's constant monologuing and Agnes' sad expressions got pretty repetitive. I needed something to break the action up while adding thematic heft and artistic variety. I've become a real enthusiast for wasps and tarantulas over the last couple months, so this one really was just a stroke of luck. It took only minimal revisions to make room for the framing device, with the most dramatic change being the complete replacement of the last page (which was originally just a splash page of the Lucky 38 in Vegas; bookending the first and last pages is so much better). So you see, the only reason for weaving a scene into this issue of a skittish desert-wanderer getting paralyzed and dragged toward a certain demise by a predator almost perfectly evolved to destroy it was just that I like bugs a lot. That's the only reason, yep.
Original Pencils:
Due to all of the photo-collage in the final version of the comic, there's a lot of panels and details that I (thankfully!) didn't have to draw myself. Sorry that the pencil isn't blue on the last three pages, I've been on the move for the holidays so they got scanned in grayscale by accident.
I did experiment with drawing the tarantula framing device myself, but ultimately went with the photo-collage method because the artistic juxtaposition actually made it much more readable when interspersed with the proceedings in the Lucky 38.
Transcript:
EXT. DESERT OUTSIDE OF NEW VEGAS. The city glitters in the distance, nestled between the shadows of mountains, with the spire of the LUCKY 38 towering above all else.
In the wilderness, a TARANTULA emerges from its burrow.
EXT. THE NEW VEGAS STRIP. On closed-circuit television monitors, a SECURITRON ROBOT approaches AGNES SANDS and ROSE OF SHARON CASSIDY, saying
VICTOR: Well howdy, partner! Fancy meetin' again here in Vegas!
CASS: What the fuck?
AGNES: Victor?
Unlike the usual police units, VICTOR's robotic "face" is that of a cowboy.
VICTOR: And heck, ya clean up nice! Sure lookin' a lot better now than when I rustled ya outta the bone orchard back in Goodsprings*--
CAP: *As was explained to Agnes way back in IKROAH #2. --Lou
VICTOR: --so how's about ol' Vic skips the rigamarole, huh? 'Fore all my yappin' makes ya want to go back, heh-heh-heh! I'm the welcome wagon, see. I'm to come and collect ya.
CASS: Agnes--
VICTOR: Boss wants t'see you, is what I'm sayin'.
AGNES: Boss?
VICTOR: Only of all of Vegas, friend!
CASS: Agnes.
MEANWHILE, the TARANTULA crawls beneath the starlight.
VICTOR: So why don't we mosey on over to the Lucky 38? And your good pal can come along, too!
CASS: I need to know what the fuck is going on, right now.
AGNES: I...I don't know.
VICTOR: And y'know, boss ain't ever let a soul inside before, least for not as long as I've been rollin' around on my spurs, so this ain't just an everyday social call, mind...
On the closed-circuit television monitors, VICTOR escorts AGNES and CASS to the entryway of the LUCKY 38.
VICTOR: ...but heck, I reckon ya'll oughta get along like franks on a fire! So come on! Lift's in the lobby here, and up to the top floor--and we can get the formalities out of the way before ya'll get [cut off]
INT. THE LUCKY 38 PENTHOUSE.
AGNES stands awestruck, looking upward, bathed in electronic green light. With horror, she ekes out a single question.
AGNES: ...what are you?
???: A "Hello" would have been preferable, but it'll take more than a crude faux pas to tarnish this moment. Who I am, Agnes--
What AGNES is looking at is a gigantic SUPERCOMPUTER and terminal, flanked by closed-circuit television monitors and guarded on both sides by SECURITRON police units. On the supercomputer's massive screen is the green-lit image of a face. The face
MR. HOUSE: --is ROBERT EDWIN HOUSE. The President, CEO, and sole proprietor of New Vegas--and more to the point, the intended recipient of a long delayed package.
AGNES: Oh, you...you mean the platinum chip?
MR. HOUSE: Correct. It's a...very precious artifact of the old world.
MR. HOUSE: My world, once.
In the back of the room, beyond AGNES, is an oil painting of MR. HOUSE, standing outside in front of what must have been a very large robot.
MR. HOUSE: In that world, I was the founder of RobCo Industries--a titan of innovation. We created a litany of robotic solutions for diverse markets, such as the Securitrons that you see here, and even a line of consumer-grade devices like the wrist-mounted Pip-Boy. But the platinum chip was, more than any other, my design. It was my vision.
MR. HOUSE: But it never left the factory in which it was originally made. Before it could even cool off from its assembly...we had the Great War. An international, thermonuclear bombardment of unimaginable power that annihilated the world in all of two hours.
MR. HOUSE: But not the entire world. Not Vegas. Not my Paradise. From my fortress of the Lucky 38, I saw to that. But as for the rest of the world, and my platinum chip--it took generations.
MR. HOUSE: First for the scarce remnants of humanity to crawl out from under their rocks, and for the world to at least resemble a functioning society again in which to do trade. And then for the work itself--of countless scavengers, treasure-seekers, and the like, all contracted to comb over the wreckage of Sunnyvale. It cost millions of caps, and later, New California dollars. And a not insignificant piece of my pre-war fortune as well. I, quite literally, moved mountains.
MR. HOUSE: I do not believe in providence, Agnes, but I do believe in destiny. How else to explain it? It was pristine when it was found. Neither the bombs nor the passage of time had so much as scuffed its sheen. But still...its value far transcended the mere market price of pure platinum.
MR. HOUSE: Amusingly, despite the discovery, I was still only as close to acquiring the chip as I had been originally in 2077. A final ordeal remained for me: how to ensure the safety of the platinum chip en route to its destination, from Sunnyvale to Vegas, without broadcasting its preciousness to thieves, armies, and raiders--or worse, to heavily armed fetishists for pre-war technology like the Brotherhood of Steel?
MR. HOUSE: Misdirection. Through a network of anonymous liaisons, I contracted the Mojave Express for a batch of deliveries, all superficially similar knick-knacks, to various intermediaries of myself. All but one of the orders were totally worthless decoys. But your identity as the carrier of the one genuine item was somehow compromised, leading to you getting attacked, and to the second disappearance of the chip.
MR. HOUSE: But look around you. Look where you are. You've made it, haven't you?
AGNES, still staring up at the visage of MR. HOUSE on-screen, doesn't respond. She frowns, nervous. The SECURITRONS guarding MR. HOUSE observe her stoically.
MR. HOUSE: Let me clarify: I had nothing to do with Benny's ambush. Heavens no! It goes completely against my interests. It would have been a perfectly quotidian day's work for you if not for his, and I stress, unexpected involvement. The platinum chip...belies its significance. For Benny to have not only discovered its delivery route but possibly enough of that significance to motivate such an act, this constituted a very troubling breach of my security. And I had been looking into it...but in a way, the issue seems to have resolved itself. Hm?
MR. HOUSE: A wild card. Now removed from the deck.
AGNES' gaze sinks to the floor.
MEANWHILE, a small shadow blots out the starlight in the desert outside of Vegas. It flies over the exploring TARANTULA.
AGNES looks back up at MR. HOUSE.
AGNES: I killed him.
HOUSE: So you did. I only wish that we could have spoken before you went rogue on my former protégé: if this story breaks, I can grant you amnesty, but not without controversy. And your infamy as an assassin could make our further arrangements quite difficult.
AGNES: Um...I didn't think there would be more to it than delivering the--
MR. HOUSE: Oh! Of course, of course! My apologies. Two hundred years of anticipation and yet I'm still getting ahead of myself. Well--would you mind? I've been waiting a long time for my mail.
The SECURITRON closest to AGNES wheels forward with its claw outstretched. AGNES reaches her fingers into a pocket beneath the belt of her dress to produce it: the PLATINUM CHIP. She holds it in her hand for a brief moment.
MEANWHILE, the shadow descends; the TARANTULA HAWK engages the TARANTULA.
AGNES relinquishes the PLATINUM CHIP to the SECURITRON.
MR. HOUSE: Thank you--it's a relief to pay for this chip for the final time.
The SECURITRON inserts the PLATINUM CHIP into a slot in MR. HOUSE'S supercomputer, feeding it into the drive with a CLIK.
MEANWHILE, the TARANTULA is fighting the TARANTULA HAWK.
From behind AGNES, another SECURITRON presents her with a stack of NEW CALIFORNIA REPUBLIC DOLLARS, which she gingerly takes in her hand and looks over.
MR. HOUSE: And I trust that you're satisfied with the agreed-upon compensation from the delivery contract, yes?
AGNES: Yeah, it's...it's fine...I'll be going now. Thanks.
MR. HOUSE: Oh? But you've only just arrived. I insist that you make yourself at home.
SFX: KZZSZZZTTT
The faces on the screens of the SECURITRONS in MR. HOUSE'S penthouse suddenly change from policemen to soldiers. AGNES recoils and tries to step away.
AGNES: H-hey, uh--
MEANWHILE, the TARANTULA HAWK pierces the underbelly of the TARANTULA with its stinger.
SECURITRONS surround AGNES.
MR. HOUSE: You are the first guest ever through the doors of the Lucky 38, you know. Nobody has so much as checked a coat inside since the war, so this meeting confers you a significant level of privilege...and inevitable celebrity. The people of Vegas have always gossiped, after all. Many have even clawed at the door desperately with dreams of being where you now stand. Surely you can comprehend how this compulsion to leave after such a deliberate and remarkable invitation risks considerable insult--to both myself and my citizenry? And very deliberate this invitation was. Don't you realize: if handing off my package was all for which you were needed, why wouldn't I have just had Victor relieve you of the chip outside? No, no, you see, as necessary as its acquisition was, the chip is ultimately just a key, for unlocking a new frontier...of possibilities.
MR. HOUSE: Possibilities for prosperity, peace, and technological advancement that haven't been seen in two hundred years. Possibilities greater than anything the New California Republic or Caesar's Legion could dream of, let alone achieve, by playing pretend in the clothes of their forebearers and convincing everyone else that it's statecraft. Possibilities--which if they key is turned by human hands--become certainties.
AGNES (a whisper): Are you not human?
MR. HOUSE: Don't let the video screens and computer terminals fool you: I am a living human. No less so than you. I just live with a particular set of, well...handicaps.
AGNES: You said you'd waited hundreds of years to--
MR. HOUSE: One could argue that the world has been waiting hundreds of years for this moment. Waiting for me. For the chip. For the long-dormant doors of the Lucky 38 to finally open, to a single and specially ordained individual: you, Agnes. And there are tremendous things waiting for us, waiting for us to accomplish them, together. I certainly couldn't do them with Benny. What do you say?
MEANWHILE, the TARANTULA has become completely paralyzed by the TARANTULA HAWK'S venom. The TARANTULA HAWK seizes its prey.
AGNES: ...no.
MR. HOUSE: I'm sorry--"No?"
AGNES: Yes--I mean, no. No! I don't want to help you! I...
Tears well in AGNES' eye.
AGNES: ...I just want to go back home.
MR. HOUSE: ...I see. Hmm.
MR. HOUSE: How do I put this in a way you'll understand?
MR. HOUSE: The die is cast.
AGNES, crying, looks up at MR. HOUSE again. Fear bulges on her face.
MR. HOUSE: Throughout the long delivery of this chip, several precise plans and fortuitous coincidences have aligned in just such a way as to make you, you specifically at this exact juncture, an irreplaceable asset in the ongoing endeavor of this wounded world's recovery from otherwise hopeless ruin.
MR. HOUSE: Your cooperation going forward is not merely crucial to this endeavor's success, but it's utterly non-negotiable. Should you entertain the moral issue of what's at stake, it's obligatory, even. It's why your refusal comes as such a...genuine surprise. Can't you see?
MR. HOUSE: I'm not a fascist, Agnes--I would never force you. But given the circumstances, I'm entitled, wouldn't you agree, to at least a brief demonstration of my vision? The vision that the platinum chip promises? Victor has surely seen your companion to the presidential suite by now--my other Securitrons can escort you to the basement, where I'm sure you can make a...properly informed decision.
The SECURITRONS close in on AGNES, who screams in protest.
AGNES: No! I said no! I already delivered your chip, I--I killed Benny! I-- I-- ...what do you want with me!?
MR. HOUSE: Haven't you been listening? I want what's best for you--for us. I know it's a lot, but bear with me for one moment longer, and I can assure you--that this is the beginning of something very incredible.
MEANWHILE, the TARANTULA HAWK has dragged the paralyzed TARANTULA back to the entrance of its own burrow.
The TARANTULA HAWK shoves its helpless prey into the hole, and then crawls in after it.
The TARANTULA is not seen again.
#fallout#fallout new vegas#fnv#courier six#rose of sharon cassidy#victor#mr. house#agnes sands#ikroah archive#volume 02#26
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No. 50
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Hero and Villain, fake relationship
////
“How are you feeling, dear?”
“My ears keep ringing,” Hero sighed, tucking his icepack further into his neck, “and don’t call me dear. There’s not a soul who needs to hear that anymore. It’s just us.”
“Oh, it’s just us, isn’t it?” Villain smiled and leaned back their head, as if in bliss. The movement exposed a dark cleft of red. A cut ran like spilled wine down from their lips and to the gully of their clavicle, and it gleamed with a satin sheen, obscenely fresh. Hero averted his eyes.
“Yes, just us,” Hero agreed, indulging in Villain’s cryptic mood, “unless we’ve got ourselves a visitor you’re not telling me about.”
“I would tell you. I’ll always tell you,” Villain turned their head back down, leveling Hero with a stare, “this is our home after all.”
Hero stared back and wondered if his ears were ringing Villain’s words into nonsense. Beneath his gaze, Villain sprawled, languid and liquid as a cat, in their armchair.
They’d bought the chair–a chaise so high-backed it looked like it’d grown wings–the first week of their contract and displaced the original furniture that had come with the pre-furnished house. Quickly thereafter, they’d taken to redecorating the rest of their temporary rooms with utmost fervor. Decor spilled out, the chair its center point: fur rugs, velvet throws, glass-shaded lamps.
“You can keep the house,” Hero blurted, “it's not ours anymore. Contract’s over.”
“My, how generous,” Villain smiled wider, snake-like, and Hero feared they would bleed from the strain, “would you really leave this all to me?”
“Sure, you seem comfortable here,” Hero shrugged, “you put a lot of time into the place. I don’t want to get in the way.”
“You’ve decorated over the past year as well. Don’t give me all the credit, darling.” Villain waved their hand, nails flashing in the light. Following their fingers, Hero recognized his coat tossed over the back of Villain’s chair. Pens and papers, which he’d sworn to clean up, lay sprawled over the oil-dark coffee table.
“I only left a mess. That’s hardly decor.”
“It could never be a mess.” Villain reached a hand back and rested their palm over Hero’s coat. “I enjoy your additions. They make the place feel lived in.”
“Lived in,” Hero echoed, “guess it helped with our cover. Probably made this whole sham marriage look real enough.”
Villain’s face turned flat. The curl of their smile snapped like elastic, pinching into a terse line, and a bead of blood rounded their chin as they spoke.
“Why are you still wearing the ring?”
Hero let go of the icepack and it tumbled into a heap in his lap. “If it bothers you, I’ll just go on and take it off.”
“It does not.” Villain drawled, sweeping out their hand. “I am far from bothered.”
Their ring and its exquisite gem fluoresced upon their finger, a beacon casting its gleam over the mountain of their knuckles.
“It just, you know, feels wrong to take it off after so long.” Hero muttered, squeezing at his wrist. “I even have tanline from it.”
Villain smiled again, soft, but their skin still broke. Blood slipped along the underside of their jaw and Hero swallowed; he could almost feel it roll down his own throat.
“You shouldn’t have taken the bandage off.”
Hero glanced once more at his ring, before pushing himself off his chair. Pain shot like a bolt through his wrist. Staggering, he snagged a tissue from a box on the coffee table and then shuffled toward Villain, who met his approach with gleam in their eye.
“I don’t like being restricted.” Villain explained as Hero propped his hip into the chair arm and leaned over. “I couldn’t speak or move my head with that infernal contraption on.”
“Must’ve been hard for you to be so quiet.” Hero grabbed Villain’s chin and tilted their head back. “You had a long time for reflection in that hospital, didn’t you? Might be why you’re being so odd.”
“I didn’t need time to reflect,” Villain murmured, suddenly quiet, “I have considered this for a long time.”
“And what have you considered?” Hero set the tissue upon Villain’s skin, feigning focus, avoiding Villain’s gaze crawling shamelessly over his face.
“You.”
“Me?” Hero dabbed their throat, careful of the scab. He moved his steadying hand to the side of Villain’s neck.
“The both of us, [Hero].” Villain grabbed Hero’s wrist, draping their fingers and the gleaming ring over his arm, trapping Hero’s touch to his throat. Their carotid pulse drummed against his fingertips. “You see, my dear, I want to keep living in this house. I want to keep my ring. You must understand what I mean when I say this.”
“[Villain], you couldn’t possibly–”
“Will you stay?”
#writeblr#villain#writing prompt#hero#prompt#villain prompt#writing#hero prompt#hero x villain#drabble#fake relationship#fake marriage#hero and villain#heroes and villains#Hero and Villain team up#tw: blood#hero whump#villain whump#idk they’re both in pain
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hungry, lonely, violent
Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader
Summary:
Days, months, years you spent hungry, yearning.
How can a simple two weeks change what's been your life since the outbreak happened? How can one man mend the shattered pieces you never thought could be put back together?
How can Joel Miller be that man?
Tags: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Caregiving, Recovery, Healing, Trauma, Oral Sex, Creampie, Size Kink, Size Difference, Older Man/Younger Woman, Hurt/Comfort, Porn with Feelings, No use of y/n, Protective Joel
Word count: 22k
Read on ao3
The sunset is a blaze of orange over Jackson, Wyoming.
You’ve been all over the country at this point, a nomad by choice, who escaped the Atlanta QZ as soon as you had the ability and supplies to do so. There have been rumors of a safe place, a town out west where people live in a harmonious peace behind sealed walls. No infected breaking in, no raiders to rob you or do worse. No corrupt FEDRA agents to gun you down for looking at them funny.
As it turns out, it’s a lot fucking harder to find a place like that, than it is to imagine it.
You know you’re close; you saw the Welcome to Wyoming sign days ago. Your best guideline is an out of date map that you’d killed a handsy FEDRA guard for. It’s gotten you this far though, so you can’t be too frustrated.
Of course, it’d be nice if it wasn’t the dead of fucking winter, but you’ve never really had the best luck.
You know you don’t have long before you need to give up on this insane venture. No one ever actually believed the talk about somewhere safe hidden in the mountains; somewhere that life was meant to be lived and not merely endured. Somewhere that a person could feel like a person again, by way of basic dignity and small decencies.
You can almost feel it now, if you close your eyes and let yourself imagine. The steam of a hot shower; water beating down on sore muscles, wet hair plastered down your back as soap bubbles cascade across slick skin. A mug of coffee, or tea, hell you’d even take hot chocolate at this point. Something to soothe the coldness of your palms; something to warm your throat and belly. The crackle of a fireplace underneath a mantle; hardwood floors, a rug nestled underneath a sofa.
You were so young when the outbreak happened that you’ve never really gotten to experience these things. But you know them well. Stories from your parents, wishful tales of a life once lived in comfort and peace. An expanse of opportunity, safety to explore, create, enjoy.
In a world like that, there’s room for all sorts of things you haven’t been able to have. What’s always been a quick meal of ration blocks scarfed down in a hurry, could be a slow-cooking stew, complete with fluffy bread and a glass of clean water with ice. Maybe even a wedge of lemon for flavor, if you’re lucky. A slice of hot pie for dessert, an unneeded expense of greed and hunger, nothing beneficial for your health really except to make you happy. Socks without holes, pants without inner thighs so worn you can feel your cold skin chafing between them.
In a world like that, there’s room for things like delicacies. Things like…romance.
You have no illusions that this could ever be your future. Since you lost your family, things like safety and stability have been mere fantasy. You can’t remember what a home cooked meal might taste like, or a hug from someone who genuinely cares about you. The men and women you’ve been with have all been quick, dirty fucks, going through the motions to make eachother cum and breathe hollow noises of pleasure that are more for show than anything.
In a different world, maybe it could all mean something.
You take quick stock of your rations. A half-empty water bottle with a screw-on filter that’s quickly becoming unusable from strain. A can of green beans. A small pack of bandages that have lost most of their adhesive strength from time. One pair of underwear that’s hanging off your pack, wet from a wash in the creek. There’s nothing worse than going commando in sub-zero temperatures, but it’s a necessary evil for hygiene.
From your place currently hiding out in an abandoned gas station nestled in the mountains of what surely used to be some sort of thriving backwoods community, any hope of that fantastical world really does feel out of reach. For most of your life it felt that if dreams were enough to keep you alive, you’d surely be immortal. But lately, that negligent bit of hope is starting to seem like the flicker of a candle about to blow out.
And it’s funny, for someone who claims to have given up hope, how quickly you jump into gear when you hear heavy footsteps behind you. Your hands fumble; cold and nearly frozen from the frigid temperatures outside, clasping the grip on your gun. You only have a half-mag left, and with your hands as shaky as they are from the weather, you aren’t feeling confident about your ability to aim as well as needed to make that half-mag worthwhile.
Still, you have little other choice. In your condition, a hand-to-hand fight would be your undoing.
“I hear someone in there, breathing,” a gruff voice says. It’s low and careful, a slow southern drawl that you recognize as Texan, most likely. You met a few of them in the Atlanta QZ, and they all had this gentle drawl to them, the same way this man does.
It would be almost a calm, reassuring sound, if his proximity didn’t surely mean imminent death for you.
“A runner?” another voice asks, this one is younger. A man, or a boy maybe, a teenager.
Fuck. You’re outnumbered, even if these are the only two out here. You’re outnumbered by two men. You’re hungry, and half-frozen, and struggling to think of what to do next. It’s like your brain isn’t functioning at full capacity. Who could blame it, with the months of neglect on the road? When was the last time you even had fucking protein?
You try to listen, try to hone your ears to follow the footsteps of the man coming toward you. Surely he knows where you’re hiding, if he heard you breathing and assumed you were an ill infected. You must really sound like shit. You sort of knew that your lungs had a rattle from the cold and your nose was sniffly, but clearly it's worse than you thought.
Okay, okay, think. What can I-
Your train of thought is immediately interrupted by a large, thick arm circling around your neck from behind. You gasp as your body is wrenched into the air, a sturdy mountain of a man behind you. In your panic, you drop your gun and reach for his massive forearm, trying to pry it off your neck as your vision begins to go fuzzy.
Holy fuck, you’re going to die at the hands of some random Texas giant in this abandoned gas station.
“Shit, Joel, she’s not infected!”
“Wh- Christ!”
In a flat second, you’re on the floor, coughing and gasping as you clutch at your neck, trying to fill your icy lungs with desperate air. The floor is more like concrete, and with the layer of ice spread across it, there’s damn near no cushion for your fall.
The large man reaches out, you can hear his jacket shuffle and his body move, but you scramble away, reaching frantically for your gun.
The other one, the younger boy, comes into focus and reaches out to pluck up your gun before you can even make an honest grab for it.
“Hey, we aren’t gonna hurt you,” the boy says, looking down at you earnestly. It’s big talk from the teenager holding a revolver on you, but his eyes are genuine enough. “I’m sorry we scared you. We thought-”
Your vision whites out as you feel a large hand grab your arm. The big man, the giant Texan has grabbed your bicep and is trying to pull you up. Pure instinct takes over; reflex causing you to lash out with your free arm.
Your knife makes a decent slash in the skin of his hand, and he pulls back with a shouted curse of pain.
“Whoa whoa!” the boy tries again for a calming tone, still attempting some sort of diplomacy.
Ignoring his pathetic excuse for a ceasefire, you launch yourself at the large man, wielding your knife like it’s your last chance.
With him momentarily disoriented, it’s easy to hop on his back, effectively putting his body between yours and the boy with the gun as a human shield. And a gigantic one, at that. His shoulders are stocky, easy handholds for you as you settle your legs around his large waist. You press the tip of your knife against his throat, feeling the vibrations of his grunted breaths against your thumb bone.
This close, you can smell a soft aroma of lemon soap wafting off his wavy hair. It’s dark with streaks of silver dancing down through the ends, matching a well-groomed beard on his jaw. His jacket is thick brown leather, it looks heavy and surely adds bulk to an already impressively large man.
“Walk out, now!” You warn the boy with the gun, still pressing the blade into the man’s throat. “I won’t kill him if you leave me alone.”
You think it’s a pretty fucking generous offer, considering this giant just tried to choke you out.
The boy glances at the man, sighing. He shakes his head, holstering his gun. “Joel, just be gentle.”
Frowning, you look between them in confusion.
The man, whose name must be Joel, chuckles dryly. It’s a nice sound, a steady reverberation through his chest. In another circumstance, you think it might be a soothing noise. One of those laughs from a person who seems like they know the answer to every question, who's figured everything out. Someone who’d take care of you.
Then, he grabs your wrist so hard you feel bone press into flesh, wrenches the knife away from his throat as if you’re no more than a pesky mosquito, and flips your body over his shoulder.
Being effectively yeeted into a frozen concrete floor by a man three times your size would most certainly be a death sentence.
You feel the wind rush out of your lungs, the world spin upside down, and you’re preparing to hear a deafening crack of your skull against the hard ground.
Before the impact radiates through your body though, you realize he’s slowed your momentum by sliding an arm around your lower back, stopping you just before your body would’ve crashed into the floor. He kneels forward, holding you just above the ice, and you get a good look at his face.
It doesn’t feel like the right time to be thinking this, and you hate yourself a tiny bit, but he’s really fucking handsome. His nose is large and stately, his eyes framed by thick, dark lashes that brush his cheekbones, eyebrows pulled together so his forehead scrunches up. There are lines of age on his face, flecks of gray in his beard, yet the flush to his tanned skin and the light in his gaze tells you he’s in tiptop shape. This is a man who eats well, eats often, and probably isn’t sleeping on the hard ground every night as you’ve been for weeks.
Considering he just tossed you over his shoulder like a tiny bag of flour, this isn’t particularly surprising.
“If you’d quit tryin’ to kill me, little miss, then maybe we can have a conversation.”
With a growl of anger, you swing your fist. He catches your wrist in his hand so easily it’s humiliating, and gives you a disapproving look.
“We ain’t gonna hurt ya’,” he continues, “stop swingin’ on me.”
“We should take her back to town,” the boy says, still standing beside the two of you a little awkwardly, “she’s not well.”
At that, you pause, something icy running into your veins. You’ve run into more than enough fucked up little “towns” on your trip west. They always ended up trying to kill you or indoctrinate you into some demented cult ideals. You’ve fought your way out of more than enough situations like this to know that if you don’t escape now, it’s not going to end well.
You’re unarmed, you’re starved, you’re half-frozen, and the man above you is so large you swear you could strap a pair of reins to his shoulders and have him pull a carriage.
In so many words, you’re fucked.
“Get the fuck off me!” you snarl, wriggling in his grasp and trying to free yourself.
“Alright.” The man releases you and you hit the cold ground, a surprised noise of pain slipping from your mouth as your head smashes into the ice.
“Jesus Joel,” the boy says.
“She told me to!”
This is your chance. You just need to get to your feet and run. Fuck the gun and the knife, you’ll find new ones. You’ve been without your supplies before. You can figure it out. You just have to get up.
An attempt to move into a sitting position proves futile, as your vision begins to swim and your head throbs. Your hands fumble weakly for purchase at your sides, but the ice is too slick to find a solid grasp.
“I think she’s gotta concussion,” the man, Joel, muses nonchalantly.
“I think she’s got a lot going on,” the boy replies, “should we put her on a horse? Seems like she wants to be left alone.”
“Ain’t the policy that we bring back injured travelers?” Joel asks.
“Yeah, but normally they don’t…resist this much, right?”
Joel hums thoughtfully. “Normally they ain’t women all by themselves surrounded by two strange men.”
“I guess not.”
“Let’s get her on a horse. Once she realizes she’s safe, maybe she’ll quit the murderin’ shit.”
“What if she comes to and tries to kill you again?” the boy worries.
At this, Joel chuckles again. “If she manages to kill me on the back of a horse with no weapon, then I goddamn deserve it, kid.”
“Is this how all patrols are?”
“Nah. They usually ain’t this exciting.” Joel leans over you then, and you smell the lemon soap and a faint whiff of pine oil. “Hey there, you with us?”
“No,” you groan, though you’re not actually sure what you’re responding to.
“Listen, m’gonna have to pick you up and put you on a horse. Try not to gouge my eyes out. Think you can manage that?”
“No,” you repeat sourly.
“Excellent. You ever been on a horse before?”
“No.”
He exhales. “You say anything else?”
“No.”
“Alright then. When we get you up, just hold on to my waist, don’t let go or you’re gonna go flyin’ and that won’t be good for neither of us. You hear? No ain’t an option.”
You narrow your eyes which does nothing to help your already blurry vision. You feel your consciousness slowly starting to slip away on a delicate string, at a great danger of snapping and disappearing in the distance.
“I think she bonked her head,” the boy says when you don’t reply.
“Good observation, son.” With that, Joel reaches for you. You tell your muscles to resist, to fight back, but they frustratingly don’t move.
He slides his arms underneath your prone form and lifts as if you weigh no more than a backpack. Surprisingly, his touch is gentle rather than rough as you’d expected. He moves slowly, gradually pulling your body into a sitting position. Your head spins and you let out an involuntary noise of pain.
“M’sorry honey,” he murmurs, “you got your bell rung, that’s for sure.”
“I don’t carry a bell,” you manage a weak reply.
He chuckles again, and you feel yourself being hoisted up. After a moment of adjusting, you’re lying in his arms bridal style, thick forearms underneath your body. He grips your thighs to keep you in place, shifting you upward to preserve the momentum as he gets back to his feet with a slight huff of effort.
“Do you need help?” the boy asks, hovering.
“Nah, she don’t weigh more than one of them kitchen chairs in the mess hall. Just grab her stuff, m’sure she’ll be askin’ after it when she’s up and running.”
“Okay, okay got it. You want me to lead?”
“Yeah, go ahead. Thanks Jesse.”
“Sure thing.”
You’re moving then, you think. The world shifts around you, and your head lulls to the side, pressing into a coat. You shudder once, and find yourself transfixed on the even breathing of the man holding you.
“Cold?” he asks gruffly, and then sighs as if that’s a stupid question. “Jesse?”
“Yeah?”
“Help me with this.”
There’s movement, and your body is shuffled a bit, before someone drapes a thick weight over you, wrapping you up like a burrito in what appears to be a giant leather jacket. It smells of lemon and pine oil, the scent wafting off it with each movement.
You’re confused, disoriented and overwhelmed. The weight of the jacket around you is enough to soothe the cold for now, even as you feel shuffling and adjusting and find your legs slung around the thick flank of a horse.
“Hold on tight,” says Joel.
What other choice do you have?
———-
Somewhere between the gas station and here, you passed out.
It shouldn’t surprise you, given the state you were in. It only makes sense your body would give up in some way. Obviously you wish it hadn’t been while you were pressed up against the large, broad back of a grouchy old Texan, but as you said you’ve never had the best luck.
When you come to, you’re supine on a couch. It’s odd though, because from first glance, the thing isn’t musty and dusty like they usually are. It’s soft, squishy, and smells clean. There’s a blanket draped over you, some sort of fuzzy wool that keeps your limbs warm. It’s heavy too, the weight of it soothing. A crackling sound alerts your gaze to a mantle with a fireplace underneath, heat flickering off the orange licks of flames, well contained in the brick casing. Atop the mantle are framed photos, a girl with choppy hair and freckles on a horse, the man, Joel, at her side, smiling.
It’s an odd expression on him, you think. Although handsome, it’s surprising to see the gruff man look so at ease, so happy. From your brief interaction in the gas station, you’d come to gather he’s a no-nonsense, quick-to-choke asshole.
Not unlike yourself, really.
And if there are photos of him and what looks to be his daughter, or a teenaged relative maybe, on this mantle, that means you’re in his house. That means you’re in grave danger.
Though...you are seemingly fine, wrapped in a blanket by the fireplace, clothing intact on your body. Beside you on an end table is a lamp, a glass of tepid water, and a few leaves of unfamiliar greens.
You move to sit up, pressing your hands against your thighs in search of any of your weapons. Nothing. Your pack is gone too.
As you adjust, you find that your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton, tongue swollen and dry. Your throat is aching, desperate for water. You run your fingers along the arm of the sofa, eyeing the glass of water longingly.
What if he’s done something to it?
Before you can decide if it’s worth the risk, footsteps pad in behind you, and you whip around to see him entering the room. You stumble off the couch, legs wobbling, knees threatening to give out as you try to stand your ground.
“Easy,” Joel says in that slow drawl, “you’re alright, little miss. You’re safe.”
Your hands clench into fists. As if you’re stupid enough to believe him.
“You know where you are?” he asks, like he thinks you won’t know.
For a moment, you fumble. Where...are you? You know it’s snowing outside the windows of this little, quiet house. You know you came from Atlanta. You know you found yourself a little turned around in the backwoods of somewhere in Wyoming.
“Wyoming,” you say, forcing the word to come out assuredly, even as your voice cracks around it like a frail twig under a boot.
He nods once. “Good. You’re in Jackson. You hit your head and it seemed like you haven’t had a real meal in a while. We brought you back to get you feelin’ better. You passed out on the way.”
Blinking, you take stock of the room around you. You’re in Joel’s house, in Jackson. Can it really be true? Have you really found it? The place where life can be lived peacefully amidst the horrors outside the wall?
“It’s real?” you find yourself asking. The crackling fireplace and framed photos seem evidence enough of a more content lifestyle than anywhere you’ve ever lived.
Again, he nods. “You’ve heard of it?”
“Just stories,” you admit, “didn’t believe them.”
“It’d be hard to,” he agrees gruffly.
You allow yourself a moment to look him over. Here in his home, he’s shed his winter layers in favor of a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt with an unbuttoned flannel over the top. His hair is tousled from the wind, gray-lined dark curls framing his face. His shoulders, just as big as you remember noticing, fill out the fabric of his flannel so well it’s a little hard to look away. A quick scan of his body does little to reassure you of any chance you have to fight back if this goes sour. He’s large; his chest thick, thighs sturdy in his jeans, a faint outline of a comfortable belly underneath his shirt. You can see a cropping of dark hair just poking out of his shirt collar and the ends of his sleeves. He’s rugged in every sense of the word. Rugged, and huge.
“I left you some water there,” he gestures vaguely to the end table, “some mint leaves to chew on, sometimes they help when I gotta headache. I dunno. Just in case. They didn’t have anywhere to put you yet, and the infirmary was pretty overrun so they-”
“What are you going to do to me?” you find yourself asking, hating the hollow note of fear in your words.
Joel pauses, hands on his hips, eyebrows screwed together. “Do to you?”
In lieu of a reply, you just nod warily.
It takes him a moment, you think, to register what you’re implying. When it hits him, his shoulders deflate, and his expression heaves into one of displeasure. He clenches and unclenches his fists before he speaks.
“You’re safe,” he says again, voice even and composed despite the clear discomfort on his face. “I ain’t gonna hurt you. Once they find somewhere else to put you, we’ll get you comfortable. But for now, if it’ll make you feel better.” He moves toward you, reaching for the waistband of his jeans.
Reflexively, you stumble backward, putting distance between the two of you. Your legs betray you, and you find yourself leaning against a table by the window with little wood carvings to stay upright. He halts instantly, expression neutral.
“I was just gonna give you this.” He removes your gun from his waistband, presenting it matter-of-factly. “Loaded the mag for you. Don’t shoot me.”
With that, he sets it on the end table by the couch, halfway between the two of you, and steps back.
“You got no reason to kill me,” he says, “I got no reason to hurt you. I wouldn’t. Ever. So take it. But I’d prefer not to have any extra holes by the time you leave.”
You swallow noisily, eyes tracing the line toward the gun. It rests neatly beside the water and mint leaves, his gifts to you, comfort and safety all in one little package on the end table.
Unsure of what to say, you slowly move toward the end table, picking up the gun. Hesitantly, you pull back the slide and see a round in the chamber. Then, you pop the mag out and see that he wasn’t lying. It’s fully loaded.
You eye him warily as you tuck the gun into your own waistband, safety on. “Thanks?”
“Don’t shoot me,” he repeats sternly.
“Don’t give me a reason to,” you warn him.
At this, he scoffs. “Lady, if I wanted to kill you, I woulda done it with my arm around your neck.”
Your eyes narrow. “I never said you wanted to kill me.”
His nose wrinkles at that, eyes going dark. “You don’t have to worry about that. Listen, I’ll stay outta your hair. But they want me to get you healthy before you get set up on your own here. So-”
“Wait, before what?”
Another sigh, like he’s exasperated. “You’ll get assigned a house and eventually work duties and patrol schedules. They’ll go over all that with you. I’m just the middle man here.”
You’re shaking your head before he’s even done speaking. “Who fucking decided that for me?”
His eyebrow arches. “Ain’t that why you’re out here?”
Torn, you struggle to think of a reply. It actually is exactly why you’re out here, but you’re confused and suspicious at the easy welcome and acceptance of another mouth to feed, another burden on the resources. You don’t even know if he’s telling the truth. Maybe you’re not even in Jackson. Maybe this is some fucked up murder cabin and he’s playing you like a fiddle.
“How do I know you’re not lying?” You demand, fingers itching to reach for the gun now that it’s safely holstered away.
Joel gestures to the front door. “Be my fuckin’ guest.”
Reluctantly taking your eyes off of him, you push off the table and move for the front entryway. You brush by him briskly, annoyed when he doesn’t move out of the way. Your shoulder nudges into his arm, and you’re struck by how thick and immovable he feels beside your feeble frame.
You hate it. It would be so effortless to overpower you.
You dislike having him in your rearview, but you move toward the line of windows that overlook the front lawn.
Your eyes take in a sight you could’ve only ever imagined. Snow-lined streets, little shops and markets with pleasant looking customers milling about. People with horses, waving to each other. Children running in the street and laughing loudly while gentle adults corral them back onto shoveled sidewalks. No FEDRA guards shouting about work duty or drills, no bomb warning sirens, no distant roar of infected outside the gates.
No weapons, no shouting or robbery, no children sobbing in the snow from hunger. Everything that had ever felt unattainable, apparently just outside your window.
In utter disbelief, you slowly turn back to Joel, who’s watching you with mild interest.
“Wow,” is all you can manage.
“Yeah, you found the promised land and all that.” He shrugs. “Now they said they oughta have somewhere for you to stay on your own by end of week, provided you’re physically up for it. You’d better start with some water, kid.”
You glance at the glass on the end table, ruminating on the possibility of it being laced with something.
“For Christ's sake.” Joel marches toward the glass, takes a few huge gulps, and then holds it out to you. “Where the fuck would I even get somethin’ like that?”
He has to know that these days finding drugs to crush up and ingest is infinitely easier than finding food. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe living here has made a soft, ignorant man of him. Maybe he always has been.
You’re suddenly so angry. All of the years you’ve suffered, your family dying, FEDRA raids and Firefly bombings and attacks from hordes of infected.
And here he is. Sitting by the fire, framed photographs smiling back at him, mint leaves between his teeth for a mild ailment.
It’s so unfair.
“You guys are pretty selfish, you know.” You ignore his outstretched hand with the water. “Keeping all this a secret. Keeping it for yourselves while the rest of us struggle.”
Joel rolls his eyes, and the flippant gesture is enough to make your teeth grind together. “Ah. We’re doin’ this? You wanna leave, go. Ain’t nobody holding you hostage.”
What are you doing? Your brain is screaming at you desperately. This is what you wanted. This is why you came. You’ve found it.
You hadn’t realized what it would mean, actually seeing this oasis. Actually feeling the warmth of a fireplace and the soft fabric of a clean couch. Having mint leaves and bullets a plenty. How could you have ever expected the gaping hole it would punch through your chest, seeing what you could’ve had all these years, laid out in front of you like a decadent buffet. What your family could’ve had.
What this man, Joel, is trying to offer you.
“It isn’t fair,” you manage weakly, talking to no one in particular, eyes searching around the organized decor. “It isn’t fair.”
“I know,” is all you get in reply.
You move away from the window, not exactly sure where you plan to go, but overwhelmed. Finally, your weak knees do give out, and you pitch forward.
Your arms shoot out to catch yourself, but as it turns out, you don’t need them to. Strong hands grip you under the armpits, pulling upward until your legs straighten out. You stumble into a big, warm chest, and Joel grumbles something you don’t catch under his breath.
“Easy,” he murmurs, “gonna get you back to the couch.”
You’re too overcome to argue, though it is your first instinct. You allow him to lead your trembling body toward the sofa, jellylike legs carrying you only as his strength pulls them along.
He slots you between two couch cushions, and you sink down in the fabric. Then, he picks up the water he’d set down in his hurry to catch you, and holds it out.
“This would be a start,” he says earnestly.
In shaky hands, you bring the glass to your lips, sipping delicately. The water is room temperature, somewhat warmed by the heat of the fire. It goes down your throat, soothing the ache there with much needed droplets of hydration. You finish the glass in record time, and before you can blink, Joel’s taken it from you. Your arm reaches forward pathetically, a plea to keep the glass as if you could suck the remaining moisture out from the bottom.
“Hold on,” he says, but there’s no note of impatience or annoyance in the words. He leaves the room and returns a moment later with a glass full to the brim.
Eagerly, you take it from his hands, too lost in the euphoria of fresh, clean water to consider the possibility of the first one being a trick. He’s got you comfortable. Now, he can do whatever he wants.
You hadn’t realized how thirsty you were until the pain was soothed.
It’s a funny thing, longing. You get so used to it that you start to grow numb. You yearn for something long enough, eventually you don’t feel like yourself without it. Hunger, thirst, pining, it’s all a part of who you are. Fulfilled, sated, you wouldn’t know who to be or how to move forward.
Still, you finish the glass as quickly as the first.
“Better?” Joel asks, his voice lacking warmth but not particularly unpleasant.
You nod hesitantly.
“How’s your head?”
You touch your fingers to the back of your head, roving the pads across your tangled hair. You feel no bump, no cuts, nothing more than a rats nest of unbrushed locks.
“Fine,” you say, though it does hurt. You’re sure it’s nothing serious, but you definitely gave it a good bump.
“You feel like eatin’?” He asks, and the prospect of food is enough to make your chapped lips feel wet with salivation.
“You have food,” you tell him, more of a statement than a question.
Quizzically, he nods. “Uh, yeah.”
“Real food?”
“I got some venison in the freezer,” he says, “and some broccoli.”
“In a can?”
His expression softens marginally. “No.”
Fuck. Real fresh vegetables?
“Tell you what.” Joel cracks his knuckles loudly. “You go on up and take a shower, get yourself sorted. I’ll get started on some grub. ‘Bout dinner time anyway. Then maybe we can get you healthy enough to get outta my hair. How’s that sound?”
“Okay,” is all you can think to say, surprisingly amicable. In your defense, it’s been a while since someone offered you a hot meal and a shower. And you do have your gun...just in case.
Joel holds a hand out, and despite every instinct in your body begging you not to take it, you slip your palm into his. His hand is warm, calloused from exposure and rough on the pads of his palm, but there’s something familiar about his hold. It’s oddly comforting. It feels like a hand that knows hard work, not unlike your own, which you’re sure are twice as rough right now.
He offers you a small, barely perceptible smile before he releases your hand and says, “second door on the right.”
Then, he heads into the kitchen.
If you wanted to, you could quietly sneak in behind him, gun drawn, and put a bullet in his head. Right now, it would be so easy. He’s foolishly left you to your own devices in his home with a loaded gun. Who could blame you for second-guessing his motives and intentions?
But he’s also offering you a meal, a hot shower, the prospect of a life. And you’d come a very long way to find him. To find this, you mean.
You lean down and grab a mint leaf, sticking it between your teeth to chew as you ascend the stairs with a careful hand on the railing. It’s surprisingly tasty, the leaf, though it has a bite of burn that stings your tongue in an unfamiliar way. You press it between your teeth and tongue, feeling the sharp sting of the mint and breathing in the relief. You aren’t sure why, maybe it’s all in your head, but it feels like it is soothing your pain.
Your fingers trail along the wooden banister. It’s clean, well dusted, organized. There’s traces of life here, in the haphazard way his boots are strewn by the door, in the crumple of towels on the floor in the corner of the laundry room you pass by, in the photographs on walls and more tables. That girl with the freckles and choppy hair is all over his life, alongside a man with a beard and scrappy bun. A brother maybe? You can’t tell, but what’s clear in the multitude of photos is that Joel likes to keep his loved ones close. He likes tangible memories, reminders of those he cares for.
You find yourself in a large bathroom standing in front of a shower with a pastel yellow curtain. You grip the material in your fingers, pulling back on the curtain, enamored with the way it glides back and forth on the rod. The closest thing you had to this in the QZ was water boiled and poured into a tub for bathing. On the road, it was a nice cold creek when you could find it.
Curiously, you slide your fingers down the wall until they bump into a strange knob, delicate rounded designs poking out of the glossy finish. To the right, a little blue circle, to the left a little red one. You deduce they indicate the temperature of the water, and twist the knob until it’s halfway in between.
The water shoots forward out of a head at the top of the wall, spraying you in the face. You splutter, pulling back and coughing water out of your nose and throat. It’s a powerful stream, the droplets hitting your face with a velocity you hadn’t expected. You know the currents of lakes, oceans and creeks can be unpredictable. Waves are something otherworldly, a force to be reckoned with, never tempted.
You had no idea something so small could be so powerful.
You check once more that the door is locked, then you peel off your tattered jacket and undershirt. Your bra is barely held together by a stitch you keep doing and undoing in the back. The clasp broke a year ago. You slide your old jeans down your legs, face blooming red when you remember that your underwear was hooked onto the back of your bag to dry after a wash.
Where is it? Did they leave it in the gas station? It was your only pair.
Somehow worse...does Joel...have it?
Hesitantly, you step over the ledge of the tub into the stream of water, surprised at the feeling of the droplets crashing into your skin. It hurts a little, the pressure at which the water shoots out at you.
For a moment, you languish under the stream of water, feeling dirt and muck slide off your skin. It feels like you’ve been encased in a layer of grime for so long, you’ve almost forgotten what clean feels like. Though, you’ve never been clean like this.
You see a little sponge in a rack on the wall, and grab for it. There’s a bar of soap beside it, and you take that too, sudsing up the sponge as much as possible. It smells like lemon, the same faint aroma you’d noticed on Joel.
Then, it strikes you that this must be the sponge he washes his own body with.
You hesitate. Surely this violates some sort of acceptable hygiene norm. But also, your hand’s not gonna do the job. And you’d only be dirtying up his soap if you used that on its own.
In a confused moment of transfixion, you squeeze the sponge between your fingers, running the pad of your thumb over its gristly base. It wafts lemon, that enticing smell that Joel carries with him from a good wash in the morning.
You know it’s odd, and certainly not the time to be having these thoughts, but it’s a little distracting that this is his sponge. The same one he rubs all over himself when he’s naked, when the water is drizzling down his thick body, his sturdy chest and his soft stomach and the unmovable width of his thighs. You imagine he must like the way it feels after a long day, hot water sizzling on his skin, the sharp edge of a sponge cutting through dirt on his body, the smell of lemon in his nose and lingering on him.
You douse the sponge in lemon soup, and carefully slide it down your arm. The feeling makes you shudder; the rough texture of the sponge grating down your filthy skin. The sponge that Joel rubs on himself. The sponge that’s nestled itself between the bulging muscles of his chest, down the lines of his abdomen, all over his large arms. Down further...between his legs, maybe.
It’s been so long since you thought about a man this way; since you thought about anyone this way. On the road, there was no time for luxuries like sexual fantasy.
But now, safe and comfortable beneath a thick and steady steam of hot water, you allow your mind to wander a bit.
How thorough must Joel be, when he washes himself with this rough little sponge? To smell as good as he does even in the midst of a fight, even with adrenaline pumping, testosterone brewing, sweat surely slickening his underarms and legs. Still, he wafts pleasant aromas, the kind that make you lean into him, rather than pull away.
He must touch himself often, in depth. He must scrub the soap in between places on his large body that only he can see, only he can touch. Dripping little droplets of sweet-scented soap on to parts of him that would be so difficult to get to, unless he were naked in front of you.
Your fist clenches tightly around the sponge, expelling a myriad of soapy bubbles that drip down your legs into the drain. You blink, shaking your head, trying to come back down from those inappropriate thoughts.
Jesus. It’s really been too long. You’re gonna have to figure out something to do about that before you find yourself biting into this lemon-scented sponge.
Get a grip, you tell yourself. You have one hot shower and all of a sudden you’re ready and willing for the first person who will have you?
You’re sure it won’t be Joel, gruff and solitary as he seems, but maybe someone in this little safe haven is interested in relieving this ache.
Though, you’re no stranger to longing. It’s not as if you can’t take care of yourself.
Right now, you focus on washing. You scrub every inch of your body, including between your toes and in your belly button. You fight the layers of grime and grit until your skin is rubbed raw and red. Then, you take the syrupy bottle of liquid that’s labeled in marker “shampoo” and drench the crown of your head with it.
Scrubbing your hair takes more energy than you can expend. By the time the bubbles are rinsing down your back, your vision is swimming and you’re seeing black spots at the corner of your eyes. Your legs wobble, and you press a hand flat against the wall to steady yourself.
How long have you been in here?
Instead of tipping over and falling out onto the bathroom floor like an idiot, you slowly lower yourself to the shower floor. The tile is hot underneath your legs, and you realize you’ve turned the water all the way to the little red circle.
It burns, droplets of acid shooting into your skin like knives. It’s so hot, hotter water than you’ve ever felt cascading over your body. It burns nicely, melting away the road like you’re shedding skin to grow anew. The steam fills your nostrils, and you take a big breath, your lungs still rattly and weak from the cold outside, but soothed slightly by the thick warmth in here.
You lose track of everything on the shower floor. The water is so hot, the smell is so sweet, the confines of the tub feel safe and secluded. The door has a lock, the shower has a curtain, each sliver of a barrier between you and everyone else feels like more security than you’ve had in months. Or maybe ever.
Your knees press against the sides of the tub, knobby and thin, too sickly for anyone to desire. You don’t like the body you’re in, don’t like that you were mistaken for an infected today, don’t like that you’re more survival than person at this point.
And you can’t help but wonder, Jackson, Joel, this life here, would it be enough to change that? He says he can get you healthy, you can get your own place, a home. If you do as he says, follow his lead, can he really make that happen?
A place where you could lock the doors whenever you want. A place where you didn’t have to keep a loaded gun on you to feel safe. A place where you could drink the water without worrying it’s been spiked or it’s unsuitable. A life, a home, something meaningful.
All you have to do is get off the floor and go downstairs to it.
With a huff of effort, you shove your body forward, bracing yourself on the side of the tub for momentum. You clumsily yank on the knob and crank it until the water stops flowing. There's a fresh towel on a rack by the shower, and you reach for it feebly.
You avoid your reflection in the mirror as much as possible; your skin is a mapping of cuts, bruises, scars. A lifetime of suffering delicately traced into lines on your body. There’s no hiding what you’ve been through, it plays out across your limbs like the scenes of a movie. Each moment of misery, each near-death experience, each trauma, a little piece of it left within you and etched into your physicality for everyone to see.
Some people are born whole and become broken. Some are born whole and never lose enough pieces to say they aren’t complete anymore.
You were born with missing parts, already deficient in a world that ensured it would hack every last bit of you away. You don’t know how you stand, how you breathe, how you live, without lungs to fill your throat with air or a heart to pump your blood. Your chest is a cavern, all your missing pieces scattered across the trails you’ve walked, and mirrored in your scarred flesh.
Reminders. Everything is fleeting, everything is futile, and contentment is an undeserved fantasy.
Body wrapped in a towel, the cold air dimpling your flesh with goosebumps, you reach for your tattered clothes. They’re filthy, murky and bloodstained. You suspect Joel is going to need to thoroughly disinfect the couch you were lying on.
You don’t want to put them on. You don’t want to slide your clean, scrubbed raw skin into the folds of clothing littered with horror.
All you have is the cleanliness of your skin, and the mint leaf ground up between your teeth. Your first taste of comfort in...well, forever.
Reluctantly, you scoop up the pile of clothes and peer out into the hallway. You’re struck with a delightful smell; not the lemon soap, but something more tantalizing. Cooking meat, vegetables, the sizzle of smoke on a stovetop. You lean forward almost in a trance, your stomach growling ravenously, as you begin to descend the stairs.
Your footsteps are featherlight on the stairs, toes carefully pressing forward down the cold hardwood. It squeaks underneath the pad of your foot, but you ignore it, moving languidly toward the enticing smell.
He’s there, Joel, standing at the stove with his large back to you. He’s shrugged out of the flannel, leaving him clad in only his black t-shirt. The thin confines of the material give you more insight into the shape of him, the large, hulking physique of the man cooking vegetables.
He doesn’t seem to notice your entrance, either too enthralled in his task, or you’ve been in the shower so long he’s forgotten you’re here.
Carefully, you edge your way in a wide circle until you think you’re in his peripherals. He glances sideways, eyebrows shooting up as he observes you standing in his kitchen, only a towel around your body.
“Do you have my underwear?” You ask, before something less humiliating can come to mind.
Joel falters, something between embarrassment and amusement dancing across his expression before it smooths out. “Uh, yeah. I threw ‘em in the wash with some other stuff. Hope that’s okay.”
“Oh. Yeah it’s okay. Thanks.”
“I can take those too?” He jerks his chin toward the bundle of tattered clothes in your arms.
“I have nothing else to wear,” you admit.
At that, the corner of his lips twitch sideways. “I got somethin’ for ya’.”
He sets the pan down on the stove and gestures for you to follow him. You trail behind as he makes his way down the hall toward the laundry room you’d passed by earlier. He pauses in the doorway, looking around thoughtfully, before he spots a big tub in the back corner and reaches for it. It’s labeled with the same marker his shampoo was.
Ellie Winter Clothes
Joel brings the tub out into the living room and cracks open the lid, waving a hand for you to come in and examine the options.
You peer into the tub, surprised to find several neat stacks of folded up clothing. Jackets, pants, long-sleeved shirts and flannels. You look at Joel curiously.
“My kid,” he explains, “she just left last week to go on this tour of the west coast with her girlfriend. They just turned eighteen, all about gettin’ that freedom.”
You stare at him blankly. “You let your eighteen year old daughter leave on her own?”
Joel smiles wryly. “You ain't met Ellie. Anyway, she’ll be back at the end of next month. Just don’t lose nothin’ and I figure she won’t mind.”
You pick up one of the shirts. It’s soft fleece, navy blue, thick and warm to the touch. You purse your lips, doubtful it’ll fit you if it’s something a teenage girl’s wearing.
“I think it’ll fit just fine,” Joel tells you carefully, “‘least until we get some food in ya’.”
Warily, you slide the navy fleece over your head, keeping the towel upright with one hand and rolling the shirt down over the front of it. With dismay, you find the shirt fits nicely. It’s barely even snug.
And it’s so unfair that you almost cry in his living room. Because a girl ten years your junior shouldn’t be wearing the same size clothes as you. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep the emotions from swelling to the surface, blinking rapidly.
Joel clears his throat. “Hey, why don’t you throw them clothes on, and meet me in the kitchen? Grub’s almost up.”
You’re quick to nod, scooping up a pair of leggings and socks before you shuffle across the floor into the downstairs bathroom beside the kitchen. You allow yourself a moment to let the tears race down your cheeks as you dress in the teenage girl’s clothes, sniffling while wiping at your red eyes. You hadn’t realized, alone on the road all those months, how much you’ve shrunk in on yourself. You’ve never been as big as you should be, stunted by lack of food. But at least in the QZ you had ration blocks. It’s been a lean few months of scavenging.
You feel like something inhuman, something wrong, something unworthy. You don’t belong in this well-decorated, well-loved home. In this safe little town.
Finally, you wipe the last of the liquid from your eyes and exit the bathroom, heading into the kitchen. Your footsteps are careful, cautious, each one placed with delicate intention.
Joel’s just finishing up as he sets a plate down on his circular kitchen table. There are two settings, each with glistening silver utensils and a mason jar full of liquid beside them.
Joel spots you entering, and smiles hesitantly. He pulls out one of the chairs, which you assume is your cue to sit. You place your bottom in the chair, surprised when he pushes it in for you. He sits in the other chair and begins to eat unceremoniously.
Taking in the sights on your plate, you find a well cooked slab of meat, seared delightfully. The broccoli is steamed to a crisp, but not burnt, and there’s a slice of fluffy bread sliced beside it. You even see Joel dip a knife into a slab of light yellow paste and spread it over his slice.
“Is that...” your voice trails off in disbelief.
“That’s right,” he replies, “want some?”
You nod eagerly and hold out your bread. He smooths some butter over the top. He takes a sip from the mason jar beside his plate, and you can’t tell exactly what’s in it but, from the smell you think it’s alcohol.
You glance down at your own jar curiously, picking it up with a delicate hand. It’s a faded orange-ish brown color, but smells sweet when you bring it to your nose to inhale. No traces of booze, you don’t think. You’ve never been much of a drinker.
Tentatively, you bring the liquid to your mouth for a sip, eyelashes fluttering with surprise. It’s sweet to the taste, tangy and thin as it drenches over your tongue. The flavor is familiar, though you’re certain you’ve never had this drink. It’s tart and sweet all at once.
“You ever had apple juice before?” Joel asks, watching you make love to the mason jar as you eagerly sip more.
Frowning, you shake your head. “Maybe when I was a kid, before the outbreak. I don’t remember it though.”
“You like it?”
Nodding, you tip the glass back and finish it off, exhaling with pleasure. Then, you get to work on the meal.
It’s been so long since you used silverware you’ve almost forgotten how to properly position the fork and knife to cut into the meat. It’s tender though, and easy to slice into. You spear a piece with your fork and take it between your lips, eyes going wide at the burst of flavor breaking in under your teeth.
It’s like nothing you’ve ever had before. Juicy, tender, flavorful. It fills your mouth, satiates the hunger radiating through your teeth, goes down your throat in a smooth gulp. It settles in your empty stomach, a small portion of relief restored within you.
It’s as if a switch has flipped. Once you get a bite of the meat, you think you need to have more or you might die. It’ll be impossible to stop.
You start cutting into the meat like your life depends on it, ravenously shoving pieces into your mouth in a manner you’re sure Joel finds unladylike. You supplement it with bites of well-seasoned broccoli and soft, buttery bread.
Joel refills your apple juice and you wash down bites with it, practically moaning at the taste. When your bread disappears another is set on your plate, buttered and soft, ready to go.
You barely look up to breathe before the plate is clean, the glass is drained for the second time, and Joel is still working on his first helping of it all.
He smiles at you when you meet his eyes, suddenly feeling something like shame wash over you. You don’t remember much of what your parents taught you about manners, but you’re pretty sure coming into a stranger's house and eating their food like a feral dog doesn’t fall under the umbrella of polite dining.
“Um...m’sorry,” is all you can think to say.
Joel arches an eyebrow, taking a hefty bite of his own and chewing thoroughly before he asks, “sorry for what?”
“It was really good,” you reply hesitantly.
At that, his smile grows, and he looks down at the plate to smooth his expression over. He nods once. “Good. M’glad. Glad you liked it. How’re you feelin’?”
“Like I want more,” you admit, though your voice is sheepish, “is that bad?”
He clears his throat, readjusting in his seat, and your face falls. Oh dear god. You’re humiliated. Clearly he’s uncomfortable with your gluttony and your request, you’ve made this weirder than it already was. Further proof of your fears; you aren’t made for a place like this. You’re wrong, broken, not-
“I’m real glad to hear that, darlin’,” Joel says, “maybe give it a few minutes. I bet you ain’t eaten that much in a while.”
Your face feels warm at the casual use of darlin’, but you ignore that and ask, “wait for what?”
“For it all to settle, make sure you still feel okay.” He shrugs, taking another bite of the meat on his plate, which you’re now noticing is much larger than the one you’d had. “Goin’ from as hungry as you look, to eatin’ like we do here...s’gonna take some time.”
It’s an interesting concept, the idea that there could be too much to eat, when all you’ve ever known is the opposite. You struggle to see how that could be a problem, but it’s his house, and his food, and you don’t want to make a scene.
“Okay,” you agree quietly.
Joel chews on his bottom lip thoughtfully, eyeing you as you wrap your arms around yourself, feeling as though your mere presence alone takes up too much valuable oxygen.
“Here.” He hands you another slice of buttered bread, holding it out in his large hand like a peace offering. “Can’t let you sit at my table hungry, darlin’. Just, take it easy, or you ain’t gonna feel too hot.”
Tamping down the glee that springs into your chest at the opportunity for more food, you accept the bread from his outstretched hand with a quiet thanks. You eat quickly, greedily, closing your eyes and letting out a small moan of delight at the taste.
Something funny happens as you eat that bread, a change in the way your stomach feels, a change in the way your body feels. A warmth, pooling in your belly, swelling through you up into your chest, softening your throat and relaxing your shoulders.
You’re full. For the first time in you don’t even know how long, the emptiness doesn’t persist.
“Wow, that’s a sight,” Joel says, and you look over at his face to find a surprising expression of amusement there.
“What?” you demand, voice going sour.
He shakes his head, rueful. “You, smilin’ like that. Didn’t take you for the type.”
A scowl immediately overtakes your features, and your jaw clenches. “I’d have plenty to smile about if-”
His low, dry chuckle cuts off your train of thought. Your eyes narrow, and he shakes his head again, looking a little too amused by all of this for your taste.
“Will you settle down?” Joel teases lightly. “It’s just nice, is all. Glad to see you lookin’ happy about somethin’. We’ve made a lotta progress from you holding a knife to my throat earlier.”
You regard him with cautious eyes. “And you trying to choke me to death.”
“Ah. Yeah.” Sheepishly, he rubs the back of his neck. “M’sorry about that. I didn’t realize you weren’t...”
“A disgusting mushroom monster?” you fill in, lips twitching.
“I wasn’t gonna say that.” He frowns.
“It’s fine. I know I look like shit. It’s been a rough couple of months.”
“I wasn’t gonna say that neither,” Joel replies dryly. “What I do wanna ask is…well, how’d you end up out there on your own? Ain’t you gotta family? Young woman like you-“
“I’m not young,” you bite back immediately. And it’s true. In this world, at your age, you’re considered lucky to still be here
“Alright,” he concedes, “woman like yourself, alone. How’d that happen?”
“Everybody’s got dead people,” you reply, running your finger along the thin glass around the empty mason jar. It’s cool against your skin, sticky with juice remnants. It gives you something to focus on besides Joel’s scrutinizing expression.
You don’t want to do this; pry open this bleeding wound in your empty chest and claw at the flesh until the pain subsumes you. Your family is dead, you’ve never had anything close to a friend, you’ve never been safe enough to slow down in the way you’d need to fall in love. What is the point of rehashing this? What is the point of saying aloud all the scars he can see written plainly on your body?
“Where is your daughter’s mom?” you ask, hoping desperately to shift the subject off of yourself.
Joel clears his throat, sitting up a bit in his chair. “She’s dead. I actually adopted Ellie.”
“Oh, you aren’t her biological father?”
“No. I uh...I was though. My older daughter. Sarah.”
You look at him, the plains of his face, the aged lines around his deep eyes, the flecks of gray in his beard. His use of the word “was” needs no further elaboration. It’s clear, probably should’ve been since even before he showed you Ellie’s winter clothes, this man is someone’s father.
You suddenly realize you’ve left your loaded handgun in the bathroom upstairs, abandoned with your discarded clothing. You suddenly realize, that’s alright.
“I’m sorry,” is all you can muster in reply to such a harrowing admission.
Joel nods once, a brief acknowledgement of your condolence. “Thanks. Was a long time ago. M’alright, these days. Life’s good.”
“Everybody’s got dead people,” you offer up again, a limp shrug to your shoulders.
Arching an eyebrow, Joel replies, “that’s true. Your parents, then?”
“Mhm. Yours?”
He chuckles. “Long before the outbreak, honey.”
“How old are you, anyway?”
“Old. Yourself?”
“Not old. Not young, either.”
Nodding, Joel’s eyes dart up to meet yours. It’s quiet then, the sort of quiet that lingers between two people when they aren’t sure what the next move is. When they aren’t sure where to go from here, what the future holds, what they are to each other.
“How are you feelin’?” He breaks the silence, of course, with a concerned glance at your empty plate.
You hesitate. How are you feeling? It’s been so long since someone asked you that question.
Yesterday, the answer would’ve been something as simple as an eye roll and a gesture to your ruined body. How are you feeling? Fucking bad. Is there any other way to feel in a world like this one?
Good feels like a stretch. Your head hurts from where you banged it on the floor, your stomach is so full now it’s starting to feel uncomfortable, your body aches and groans with each movement, and your mind is a torrent of uncertainty and confusion.
But...you’ve certainly felt worse, haven't you?
There’s food in you, and something delightful called apple juice. There’s a fire in the living room. There’s utensils, and plates, and warm clothes, and a shower with-
You suddenly remember something you forgot to tell Joel.
“I used your sponge,” you say abruptly.
Joel blinks. Once, twice, then his brow furrows. “Pardon me?”
“Y-your sponge,” you splutter like an idiot as you realize this was not an appropriate time to bring up the sponge. “In the shower. I’m sorry I didn’t…it was the only one, so- ”
“Oh.” Understanding passes over his face, and he looks taken aback for only a split second before he speaks again. “Oh, no. S’alright. I didn’t think about that before I sent you up there. Sorry. You’re good.”
“I rinsed it clean,” you tell him.
He laughs a little breathlessly, and you think you see the tips of his ears hueing a bit red. Clearing his throat, he swipes his used silverware onto his empty plate and stands. The chair squeals across the floor with his sudden movement.
“I ain’t worried about it,” he says, and moves to deposit his dishes in the sink.
Urgently, you scramble to your feet, collecting your own plate and following him. It’s your immediate instinct to take over and begin scrubbing the dishes; so long living on your own that every responsibility fell to you.
You’re stopped by his gentle arm brushing yours, and he shakes his head. “I got the dishwasher workin’ last month. No need.”
“Dishwasher?” you ask, confused.
Joel gestures to a large white door embedded into the cabinets. He reaches down, smooths his large fingers over the material, and pulls. The door draws down, opening to reveal peculiar little rows of racks and baskets.
“Whoa,” you breathe, kneeling down beside it with fascination, “that’s what these things do?”
“You were young when the outbreak hit,” Joel notes, not a question, but more of an observatory reminder. “I’ll bet there’s a lotta shit we used to have that you don’t remember.”
“We had one of these in the QZ,” you say, still transfixed by the inner workings of this dish washer, “but I didn’t know it opened. I thought it was just a weird design thing.”
At this, he bursts out laughing. It’s a bit more vivacious than the dry chuckle he’s been giving you all day, a genuine, pealing laugh that comes from deep within his belly. It’s nice, rumbling in your ears and soothing to your tense shoulders. The timbre of his pleased noises does something odd to you, something calming.
“It takes running water to use,” he explains once his laughter has died down, “that’s why yours never worked. If your QZ was like ours, that is.”
“You were in a QZ?” you look up at him, struck with how massive he seems standing above your kneeling frame.
“Boston.”
“Atlanta.”
“Heard that one ain’t a cakewalk.”
You shake your head. “No, we didn’t have cake.”
His lips twitch. “You don’t know what-”
“I’m fucking with you.” Rolling your eyes, you get to your feet and cross your arms. “I’ve heard of expressions before.”
“Just not dishwashers.”
Annoyed, your hand flies to your waistband, an instinct. You remember your gun is upstairs.
Joel follows the movement of your arm with a disbelieving noise of contempt. “You’re a violent little thing, ain’t you?”
“I didn’t-“
“Where’s the gun you were just reaching for?”
“I left it upstairs,” you admit.
Joel nods approvingly. “I’ll call that progress. Let me load the dishwasher here and I’ll take you up to your room.”
“My room?”
Your room, indeed.
After the dishes have been loaded into this bizarre machine, Joel walks you up the stairs, past the bathroom you used, into a spare bedroom. It’s nice and clean the way the rest of the place is, neat lines and vacuumed rugs. There’s a dresser, and a bed with four posts, a colorful quilt, photos of horses on the walls. It smells like pine.
You haven’t slept in a bed in a very long time.
You tell him as much, stroking the quilt beneath your palm as you approach the bed. It’s sort of itchy, the kind of fabric that has grit to it, but thick enough to keep you warm.
Joel watches you as you investigate the room, perched in the doorway with his ankles crossed and his arms pressed into the frame. “So you made it all the way from Atlanta, to here, on your own?”
“Mhm.” You vault yourself up experimentally on the bed, feeling the mattress dip beneath your slight weight. It’s aged, squeaky springs and lumpy spots here and there. The quilt scratches your raw skin and you pull back slightly.
But it’s a bed.
“Must’a been hard,” Joel notes.
You nod in agreement. It was hard. Now it’s over. No use rehashing it.
“Well, m’sure you’re exhausted.” He clears his throat and backs off the doorframe, nodding in your direction. “I’ll be just down the hall if you need...if there’s anythin’ at all...just, I’m here, alright?”
“Thanks.” You offer him a small, unsure smile.
He returns it with ease. “That’s two.”
“Huh?”
Holding up two fingers, he moves from the doorway. “Two smiles. Bet I can get three outta you tomorrow.”
With a scoff, you walk up behind him and place your hand on the door. “Good thing there’s no money for you to lose.”
He grins at this, crooked jaw and curled lip all wicked and teasing. There’s something mischievous about this expression, something so out of character for this stern, fatherly presence that it almost takes your breath away. You can picture him, twenty years younger, a rough-and-tumble young man with a teasing sense of humor and a sharp wit. It’s no surprise at all that someone loved him enough to give him a child, someone loved him enough to make him a father.
Joel is confusing, but he’s also quite simple.
He’s a man who cares, fiercely, for those he loves. He cooks, he cleans, he folds his daughter’s clothes up in a neat little bin in the laundry room. He scrubs with lemon soap and stokes a soothing fire in the mantle. He chews mint leaves when his head hurts, he washes dirty undergarments without being asked.
He also laughs, teases, chokes and leaves you to your own devices if you get on his nerves. Though, his patience seems admirable. He loaded your gun, handed it to you with a live round, even after you’d held a knife to his throat. He’d cooked you dinner, caught you when you fell, walked you to the bedroom so you could get proper rest.
You guess, if you were gonna end up getting choked out by some strange man, you’re glad it was Joel. Joel...huh.
“Hey,” you stop him before he can make for the staircase.
“What?” he asks.
“What’s your last name?”
Joel regards you curiously. “Miller. Joel Miller. What’s yours?”
You tell him your name, and he nods. It takes a quick beat of silence for you to continue, “it’s nice to meet you, Joel Miller.”
He smiles again, softer this time, more genuine. “Likewise, darlin’. Get some sleep.”
With that, he turns his back on you and descends the staircase.
______________________________________________________________________
The days go like this.
You wake up in a bed, scratchy quilt wrapped around your sore, aching body. You hadn’t realized how badly you hurt until you stopped pushing forward.
You climb out of the bed, and pad downstairs in the cold morning brisk of Joel’s house. He’s always up before you. He has a fire going in the mornings, heat wafting off the flicker of orange beneath the mantle, and you curl up beside it with the quilt dragging behind you. He’s out of coffee beans for now, but he makes the both of you a mug of hot tea with roots infused into it, and it’s close enough.
You hold the steaming mug to your chest, itchy quilt pulled up around your body like a coat of armor, and watch the fire. Joel asks why you sit on the floor when there’s a perfectly good couch right behind you.
You tell him you want to be warm. You’ve been cold for so long. He seems to understand.
You help him make breakfast, mystified by the seemingly endless supply of fresh produce he has available. He likes breakfast, says it’s his favorite of the day.
You watch as he cracks fresh eggs into a buttered pan; hear the sizzle of heat against runny yolk and whites, watch as the pools of liquid become firm and strong under the duress. Something soft and pliant, made durable through the forges of fire.
It’s so silly, but you relate to those tough little eggs.
You eat at his kitchen table some days, sometimes on the porch in the cold morning, waving to Jackson residents as they begin their work shifts. It seems like fair trades, a barter system built on community where everyone is taken care of in some way or another. It’s bizarre, unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. Joel’s brother lives here too, with his wife Maria who runs the council. It’s all very quaint, picturesque.
Joel says it works. He explains patrols, explains the work shift rotation, explains the mess hall and the greenhouses and the bountiful supply of food from gardening and hunting. He likes it here, you can tell, and why wouldn’t he?
He tells you about his life before, little bits at a time delivered while passing you a plate or tucking the corner of your sheet back down on your mattress. The damn thing insists on whipping up everytime he sits on the end of it to talk with you. He tells you about Ellie, how they came together, how she healed his broken parts.
You’re envious. Not of their relationship, but of the fact that his missing pieces somehow came back when you know your own are doomed to be lost forever. You don’t tell him about your past.
You eat. You eat like you’ve never eaten before. Eggs and bacon in the morning, fresh fruit and squeezed juices. Sandwiches for lunch; chicken and lettuce and tomato between thick slabs of bread that Joel makes in his oven. Cold, tart lemonade that tingles on your tongue and smooths down your throat. Hearty, tender meat with potatoes and veggies and soft baked bread.
Joel watches you eat with this look on his face that you can’t quite decipher. It’s an interesting mix between what you think is some sort of pride, tangled up with another confusing emotion that makes him watch you carefully. He eyes the fork as it slides between your lips, watches you sigh in pleasure, adjusts in his seat when you ask for seconds. You aren’t sure if it’s discomfort with you eating all his food or...something more confusing. Though, he says there’s no rush to get into your own place. The council will check in soon and see if you’re ready. But he says there’s no rush.
Either way, you’re full every day now, so full and satiated that you’re starting to forget what hunger feels like.
Well...not completely.
Days turn into a week, and a week to two, and it’s on this two week marker that you walk into the bathroom without knocking.
It’s your fault. The door isn’t locked, but why would it be? Joel’s been living on his own since Ellie moved to her little shed apartment in the backyard. Your presence is a recent one, two weeks not enough time to get out of a routine of comfortability in his own home.
And you, so many months alone on the road, any semblance of privacy was a lost venture. You’ve peed behind trees, bathed in streams, found yourself naked by the fire on late summer evenings while your clothes air-dried. Knocking on doors has taken some time to get used to.
So when you push it open haphazardly, not expecting to see the fully naked man stepping out of the shower, it’s a slight surprise.
Joel freezes, hand on the towel he’s reaching for, body dripping with warm water. It’s a split second, just a moment before you fumble out a frantic apology and slam the door shut.
But not quick enough that you didn’t see everything. Everything.
You stand outside the door, hand on the knob, eyes wide, chest heaving. You try to clear your head of these thoughts, but there’s only one thing you can really focus on.
Joel.
Naked. Droplets slowly dancing down his weathered skin; clinging to the dark hair on his chest, the slope of his full belly, gliding down toward his pelvis. His thick legs, muscled and bulging, arms the same. All of him, wet, breathing hard, and...and not just breathing hard.
God, you’ve never seen one so big before.
Everything about Joel is big. He’s a massive presence. His shoulders are broad, hips wide, thighs sturdy. His neck is thick and lined with veins, same as his wrists and hands. His stature towers over you, and his form exceeds yours in every possible sense.
But...well, you’ve never seen one so big.
It had been too quick, to really be able to tell if he was truly sporting a post-shower boner. You think, maybe a little. But you also think...maybe it’s just that big.
The hair was well groomed, you noted that, though you aren’t sure why. It makes you feel...feral. You haven’t had a shave in months, legs thick with coarse down, the slope of your pelvis protected by a soft bush of hair. Razors were hard enough to get in the QZ. On the road? Non starter. You’re a fuzzy decoration of body hair. Joel’s not exactly smooth, but he looked...groomed.
Why are you self conscious? Why do you care what he might think of the haphazard way you look naked? Why are you comparing your road-torn body to his strong, healthy one?
Why are you imagining what his might feel like against yours? How the scruffy beard on his jaw might scratch and tickle yours like that stupid quilt. How his hands, thick and massive, would cradle your flesh, the pads of his rough thumbs leaving lines of desire down each tendon. How his voice, low and gruff, a buttery drawl, would whisper in your ear. Tell you you’re beautiful, tell you he likes having you here, tell you this is permanent.
That’s enough to snap you out of your stupor. You release the door handle like you’ve been burned, stumbling back away from it. Your breath hitches, eyes feeling warm and wet.
Before you can make a hasty exit, the door opens, and Joel appears under the arch. He’s fully dressed now; dark washed jeans and an olive green t-shirt that clings to his large chest and arms in a way that’s almost unbearable.
For a beat, there’s this silence between the two of you that feels almost tangible. Your throat sticks with it, clogging up any pathetic attempts at breaking the tension. You look at him, fumbling for something to say, something to do, fuck to even move.
“M’sorry,” he begins, averting his eyes, “uh, I-”
“My fault,” is all you can squeak out.
“I shoulda locked the-”
“My fault!” you repeat, like a real eloquent genius. You force a laugh out of your lips, but it sounds more like a manic cry than anything.
Joel’s brow creases, his eyes settling on you with clear concern. “No, s’okay. M Sorry, again. Are you...alright?”
Another manic laugh. “Joel, you’re not that special, I’ve seen naked men before.”
His jaw tenses. “You look upset.”
This is too much. This is all too fucking much. He’s got you all twisted up, all confused. Eating his food, using his sponge, sharing tea with him in the mornings and a leaf of mint at night. Letting him worm his way into your mind, make you feel safe and secure.
This is how pieces go missing; get hacked off. This is how a person becomes whole, and then utterly incomplete.
“I’m… fine,” you manage, “gonna… actually, was just going to tell you. I’m gonna talk to Maria today. Let her know I’m ready to be on my own.”
And it shouldn’t affect you, the way his face falls completely at these words. The way his shoulders deflate, his eyes go soft, his lips draw down and his eyebrows flatten.
You’ve hurt him, you’re hurting him. You don’t know why or how, but this hurts him. Despite the quick composure he sweeps over his expression into one of neutrality, you know. And you shouldn't care. It’s two weeks of nothing. You’ve been on your own most of your life.
“Alright,” Joel says, voice rough.
And it shouldn’t hurt you, the way he easily accepts this. The way he doesn’t fight. You don’t own him, he doesn’t own you, you don’t belong to each other.
Two weeks of meals, late night talks, healing. It’s nothing. To either of you, clearly.
But it does hurt. And that’s exactly why you have to leave.
“Okay,” you reply, swallowing hard.
“Council’s closed today, Sunday,” he explains dryly.
“Then I’ll do it tomorrow,” you snap back, voice going a little defensive. “I can find somewhere to sleep for tonight.”
At that, he rears back like you’ve hit him. “What?”
“To get out of your hair,” you explain, gesturing vaguely.
Joel rolls his eyes, crosses those big arms over his chest, and looks down at you disapprovingly. You shrink a little under his stern gaze, hating yourself for doing it.
“You ain’t in my hair,” he snarls, “I told you there’s no rush. Talk to her tomorrow. Sleep in your bed tonight.”
“It’s not my bed.” You don’t even know why you say it, why you’re arguing. You’re just afraid, angry, at yourself more than anything.
His eyes darken. “Do whatever you want, then.”
He brushes past you and heads down the stairs, not bothering to look back up.
__________________________________________
You do in fact, sleep in your bed that night.
The quilt is scratchier than ever, an incessant discomfort that has you tossing and turning all night. It’s never stopped you from sleeping before, but for some reason, tonight is unbearable. You roll on your side, roll on your stomach, bury your face in the pillow and try not to scream.
You’d skipped dinner tonight, for the first time in two weeks. You didn’t want to see Joel, even when he knocked on the bedroom door to tell you it was ready. Even when you said you weren’t hungry, and his worried voice came through the wood.
“Look, you gotta eat, alright?”
“Not hungry, Joel. Thank you though. Really.”
“Is this about-”
“No, I swear.”
“Please?”
It had been hard to say no to that one.
Now, you lie in a suffocating mess of pillows, stomach growling, feeling utterly pathetic and weak. You used to go days with this feeling, gnawing, desperate hunger in your belly, and you persevered. Now, you’re so fucking spoiled you can’t even go to bed without dinner.
You don’t recognize this person you’re becoming. She’s a stranger, a woman of luxury, of contentment, dare you say happiness. She is not you, but some foreign intruder who’s taken over your body in an attempt to finally rid you of your last intact pieces until you’re nothing. Floating in essence, vanquished into an eternity of emptiness.
You rely on him, you depend on him. He feeds you, worries about you, watches you from the corner of his eye to make sure you’re alright. And you don’t know what to do with that. It makes you feel small, futile, like a burden. You know how to take care of yourself. It’s all you know.
So, you toss and turn.
When sleep comes, it brings with it dreams. Haunting memories, things you’ve tried to keep buried deep inside that small little cavern of your brain where bad things go.
The men come, late at night, in a group of six. You’re young, twelve you think. The outbreak has been going on for four years, and you think you’ve got it all figured out now. You’re going to get to this quarantine zone in Georgia, since your own fell. It’s all gonna be fine. Mom and Dad and your big brother Andrew, they’re here and it’s okay.
You’re trying to sleep, burrowed and shivering cold in your thin sleeping bag. Andrew is sitting beside you, one hand on your upper back, shushing your whimpers quietly. His sixteenth birthday was last week. Mom and Dad couldn’t do much on the road, not like you all used to when there was cake and candles and Spiderman gift wrap. Still, he seems older somehow, the last four years have aged him far more quickly than regular life did before the outbreak.
You’re close to the border, your parents say nearly out of South Carolina. It’s southern here, supposed to be warm, but the nights are brutal and unforgiving in the winter. You’re so used to the cold now you’d think you wouldn’t mind, but it aches your bones, freezes your limbs into a stunted position curled around yourself. You hate the cold, always have.
“You’re okay,” Andrew murmurs quietly, trying not to wake Mom and Dad. It’s his turn to watch. They’ve done rotating shifts for days now, until he put his foot down and demanded they both sleep substantially.
“M’cold,” you whine. You know you’re being a crybaby, and maybe once upon a time he would've teased you for it, but not now. You’re bundled up in your layers and sleeping bag while he sits upright against a tree, his thin windbreaker the only barrier between him and the cold. His gun is laid on his thigh, safety on, facing the opposite direction. Guns are a permanent part of your family’s accessorizing these days.
“I know,” he whispers in reply, “it’ll be warm in Atlanta. Just try to sleep.”
“I’m afraid,” you say, even though you’re embarrassed to admit it.
“Me too,” Andrew says, “but we’re all gonna be fine. We’ve made it this far, hm?”
You nod half-heartedly. “Yeah.”
“As long as we’re together, we’ll be okay. Alright?”
“Okay, yeah.”
“Get some sleep.”
“Okay.”
That’s the last thing you ever said to him.
They appeared from the trees, too quiet, too well hidden for Andrew to spot them in time. By the time one of the men got close enough to reach out and yank your sleeping bag up with you in it, he was out of time.
Andrew shot, blindly. He nailed the man who’d scooped you up, and you both fell to the ground. He cried your name, rushing toward you, and then another shot rang out. Andrew hit the dirt with a spurt of red liquid that splattered across your face.
You remember screaming. You remember your parents waking up, frantic. You remember fumbling around on the ground and grabbing Andrew’s gun, only to feel a vice grip on your arm. One of the men grabbed you, while your parents shot and fought off the others. Your mother screamed, and a body hit the ground. You struggled against the man’s hold as his greedy, chapped hands combed your adolescent body to see what of value you had.
“Nothin’ on this one!” he’d shouted, tossing you to the ground like you weighed nothing. Your head hit the hard dirt, and you found yourself even with Andrew’s face. Well, what was left of it.
“The lady had some ammo, there’s some stuff in these packs,” another man replied.
“What do we do with this one?” asked the man who grabbed you.
“Eh, she’ll die out here on her own anyway. Might as well put her out of her misery.”
That was the moment you knew you were going to die.
“Hold it,” another man said, “she’s a fucking kid, just leave her. We got what we needed.”
“Yeah she ain’t worth the bullet,” chimed in another man.
“I’ll choke her out,” one suggested.
“Just leave her,” a more commanding voice ordered, “grab this shit and let’s get going.”
You remember lying there in the darkness, watching the bits of chunky red substance leak from Andrew’s eye socket, waiting for someone to tell you what to do. Waiting for your parents to sit up and give you an order.
The night grew colder. You weren't strong enough to bury them, even move them on your own. For a long time, you just lay there, staring at Andrew. The image burned into your brain forever.
By the time the sun rose, your bones were so cold, lips blue, eyelashes stiff, you felt like you’d died right with them. Four corpses lying unceremoniously on a campsite. Rigor mortis set in early for you, a paralyzing terror of the next steps rendering you utterly immovable.
After a while, you got hungry.
Isn’t it funny, how that’s what motivated you to push your small body away from your brother’s hollowed face? Your own selfish need, your own emptiness, always threatening to swallow you whole.
The walk to Georgia left you breathless a lot. You stumbled, more than walked. Drank from streams the way your parents taught you, foraged for food as best as you could with no weapon besides the little knife holstered in your sock. You hid from infected and more raiders, using your small body to your advantage as much as possible.
When you finally made it to the giant cement wall of the QZ, it felt like you’d lost your breath forever. Your lungs rattled, air came in short, quick bursts, your throat ached from dehydration. Your legs didn’t work, not how they were supposed to.
You remember the FEDRA guards holding guns at you, a scanner to your neck, shoving you through the gates roughly. You remember telling them your family was gone. You remember lasting a week in the orphanage before you ran away, doing odd jobs for older QZ residents in exchange for places to stay.
Mostly, you remember Andrew’s face. You remember the biting cold contrasted with the warm splatter of blood on your face, you remember his insides leaking out, you remember wishing you could scream, but not having enough power in your lungs.
As long as we’re together, we’ll be okay.
You remember knowing that you would never be okay again.
The remembering hurts, restricts your lungs into a tiny little ball in your chest. You struggle to inhale, struggle to fill your sternum with necessary oxygen. It burns, the hunger for air with no satisfaction. The emptiness consumes you.
You gasp, you see Andrew’s face, it hurts, everything hurts.
Alone on a campsite, alone in the woods, alone in the QZ, alone on a cross-country trek, alone in a cold gas station.
A warm fire, mint on your tongue, tart lemonade down your throat, food in your belly. A dry chuckle in your ears, a steadying hand on your back, a comforting presence beside you.
Alone. Afraid. Broken. A burden. Couldn’t save your family, could barely save yourself-
A burden.
Alone.
Broken.
“Hey.”
A voice, low and urgent. Familiar, gentle but concerned.
You gasp.
Alone.
Burden.
Broken.
“Hey,” more insistent this time, “hey, wake up honey.”
You gasp, your body freed from its rigor mortis as you bolt upright, air circulating through your lungs like a broken fan blade. Your hands fly out, a desperate attempt to shield your face from whoever is currently saying your name.
“...breathe, breathe,” he’s saying to you, a little frantic, “s’okay, you’re okay, breathe.”
“Please,” you wheeze, but you don’t know what you’re begging for. There are tears in your voice, a fragile broken blossom of desperation.
“I know, I know baby, s’okay,” he’s touching you now, delicate fingers tracing up and down the protruding knobs of your spine. “Listen to my voice, darlin’. Take a deep breath for me, s’gonna be okay, I promise.”
You try to follow his example, try to steady your breathing to an even pace. He’s doing it for you, showing you how, patiently inhaling in a slow motion and letting it go in one soft exhale.
“I-I can’t,” you gasp, feeling hopeless, helpless, pathetic and like a burden in every sense of the word.
“Shh, yes you can honey. In, with me now, in.”
He inhales, slow, lowering himself to look up at your trembling frame perched on the bed. The sheet’s come up, the fading cream color of the mattress almost too bright in the dark room. Pale moonlight illuminates Joel’s face, scruffy beard, wrinkles around his gentle eyes, broad nose. His lips part, and he breathes in, keeping gaze with you.
You follow suit, inhaling in a choppy, half-hearted attempt at the smooth breath he’d accomplished.
“That’s good darlin’,” he nods at you, even though you know it wasn’t good. “You’re doin’ so good. Breathe out.”
You exhale in a stunted whoosh.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, “keep goin’.”
With his hand on your back, rubbing slowly, delicately, you fight to steady your breaths. Your eyes are wet, your lips trembling, his voice soothing in your ears. He’s saying all these things, all these nice, lovely, wonderful things that people don’t say to you.
“Attagirl, good job.”
“S’okay honey, you’re doin’ good, just breathe.”
“You’re okay, you’re safe, promise, I ain’t gonna let nothin’ hurt ya.”
Mercifully, you come back into your body, chest expanding the way it’s supposed to. Your fingers unclench from the tangled up sheets, aching from how tightly you’d been gripping.
Through a curtain of hair, you draw your eyes to him. He’s still there, rubbing your back, murmuring sweet nothings, keeping his own breathing steady.
Still there. He’s still there. You aren’t alone.
“Joel,” you gasp, and he moves toward you in an instant.
Large, warm arms pull you in. His chest, thick through his t-shirt, the steady thrum of his heartbeat a rhythm in your ear. His chin at the crown of your head, his breath in your ears. You curl up like that useless little girl in a sleeping bag, and cling to his shirt.
“M’here,” he whispers, “you’re okay, honey. Was just a dream.”
He’s here. He’s warm. He’s here and you’re safe and not alone. Four walls around you, a quilt underneath your cold legs, a kitchen full of food just down the stairs.
Panic leaks into your veins, memories of the road, cold and lonely and frightening.
As long as we’re together, we’ll be okay.
You want to tell him you’re afraid. You want to admit it; be forthcoming about just how damaged you are. You want to tell him just how heavily you’ve come to rely on his steadying presence, his warm food, his laugh, the way his eyes crinkle up and his teeth show when you make him happy.
You’re so, so scared. So alone, so petrified, not at all as tough as you’d like him to think.
But the last time you admitted you were afraid, you lost everything in the blink of an eye. Your own weakness, always your undoing.
“You’re okay,” Joel says into your hair, not realizing he’s speaking empty words into a hollow recipient, “I gotcha. You’re safe. I’m here.”
You can’t tell him how badly you want him to stay. That will only make him leave.
“Joel,” you repeat, breathless, unsure of what else to say.
“M’here honey.” He reaches down with one hand, cups your face in the rough of his palm, strokes his thumb over the delicate line of your cheekbone. And you feel safe.
Desperately, you lift your own trembling hands, taking his cheeks in them. He seems surprised, but doesn’t pull back, allowing you to explore with your own frail fingers. You trace the bridge of his large nose, the slope of his full lips, the broad jaw and stern forehead. His eyelashes flutter, and you move yourself closer, cradled in his arms, faces only inches apart.
“M’here,” is all he says. And you must be tired of hearing it, surely you must, but you can’t find that anywhere within yourself. All you feel is safe.
You don’t know exactly how it happens. Your face moves, his does too, hurried breaths and warmed air between you. His lips press into yours, soft and lush and tender. You don’t know who leaned in first, but you feel his caution, his carefulness as you deepen the kiss from something superficial to something that has meaning.
He allows you to part his mouth with your tongue, falling into one another as your noses bump. His grip tightens around you, and you’re awash in the smell of lemon soap and mint, the itch of the quilt beneath you, the squeak of a mattress underneath your combined weight.
After a few seconds, your lips part. Your noses touch, the frame of your foreheads making a heart against the shadows of moonlight through your window. His hands cup your face, rough and calloused, yet unbelievably gentle all at once. It’s as though his grasp is a shield, impenetrable and solid. You’ve never felt so safe, so cared for, so protected.
And so, so scared.
Now that you’re here, safe and cocooned in this warm house, this gentle society, the arms of this incredible man…
How can you ever let yourself love something that would hurt so badly if it were lost? You’ve done it before. You can’t do it again.
“D’you wanna talk about it?” Joel rasps, thumb still soothing small lines over your cheek.
You shake your head quickly, but the words spill out as if in spite of your body’s intentions. “Just… mm. My parents. My brother. Just-that’s all.”
“Oh,” he murmurs, “what…can I ask what-”
“Raiders. I was twelve.”
At this, he looks down at your face, brows furrowed. “You saw it?”
“Yeah, I got away. They let me go, I mean. After some debate.” You clear your throat, breathing settled and eyes drying with each word. You’re feeling grounded enough to be utterly humiliated. “Um, I’m really sor-”
“I know you ain’t about to apologize for havin’ a nightmare,” he interjects dryly.
“More for what happened afterward,” you mutter.
Joel’s fingertips tuck a lock of hair back behind your ear, even though it falls right back out again. “Now why on earth are you apologizin’ for that?”
Because I can’t stay.
Limply, you shrug.
He laughs, that low, dry sound. It smooths from his chest like a bass drum, reverberating in your ears. And you smile in spite of yourself, a small, gentle pull of your lips. You love making him laugh.
“Sorry I barged in,” Joel says, even though he’s still holding you in his lap like a stray dog.
“S’okay. Thanks for…thank you.”
“Don’t gotta thank me.”
“Be kinda rude if I didn’t.”
His lips twitch. “Can I ask you somethin’?”
“Okay.”
“Did you do that just now…kiss me…’cause you wanted to, or ‘cause you were upset?”
Swallowing thickly, you reply, “can it be both?”
“If it’s both, it’s both.”
“That’s fucking vague,” you grouse.
“Pot, meet kettle.” He smirks down at you.
“I’m sorry I kissed you,” you say.
“Don’t be,” he responds, “I’m not.”
You have nothing to say to that.
“You oughta get some rest.” Joel squeezes you once, then moves like he’s going to get up and leave.
Your fingers dart out to clench his shirt, gripping the soft cotton in vice like digits. Wild-eyed, you look up at him, terrified of being alone, terrified of seeing Andrew’s face again all night.
“Hey, easy.” Joel pries your fingers off his shirt. “You alright?”
“I-I-“ you stumble over the words, throat choking up. It’s all so confusing. You need to be away, pull back, stop this before it goes too far. At the same time, you’ve never needed to be close quite this badly.
“I can,” he answers a question you didn’t ask, “if you want.”
Limply, you nod.
“Go on then, scoot.” Joel gestures for you to make room on the bed, and you do. He adjusts the pillows and lies flat, opening his arm for you. You curl up at his side, cheek on his chest, listening to the steady heartbeat underneath the cotton shirt. He smells like lemon soap, and a faint musk of sweat from sleeping. It’s enticing, the mixture, and you don’t know why.
You press your face into his shirt, breathing in the security that this strange man somehow brings. You don’t know when the shift happened from him being a man you wanted to stab, to this, but it’s happened now. It’s too late to deny this: Joel means something to you.
“I’m sorry about what I said earlier,” you tell him quietly.
He hesitates. “You…didn’t say nothin’ bad. That was always the plan, for you to go out on your own darlin’.”
He’s right of course, that was the plan. For the past two weeks, all you’ve been doing is letting him take care of you. The end goal, ultimately, to help you become a functioning Jackson resident.
“But can I ask?” He continues, voice low and soft in the dark bedroom.
“Yeah?”
“Do you…do you want to leave? S’okay whatever you wanna do baby, just… that is what you want, right? To be on your own?”
As long as we’re together, we’ll be okay.
No, no, no I don’t want to be alone. Ever again. I want to stay with you forever.
“Yes,” you lie. It’s a lie. You’re so afraid. Why can’t you just tell him the truth? Why can’t you just let someone in? If it’s gonna be anyone…well, it’d be someone like Joel.
No. Not someone like Joel. Just Joel.
“So all that time on the road,” he adjusts your body slightly, tugging you up higher on his chest so that his chin rests on your head, “didn’t make you lonesome?”
An ache in your chest, sharp and spearing overwhelms you. “It-it did.”
“N’you like bein’ lonesome?”
The lie is on the tip of your lips before he says, “be honest, honey.”
“No,” you say, shoulders deflating.
“It’s hard,” he whispers, “lettin’ people in when you lost so much before. Believe me darlin’ I get that.”
“Then you know why I have to leave,” you tell him, desperate that he’ll understand, but also hoping that he’ll argue against it.
“I know why you think you gotta leave,” he corrects.
“This isn’t good for you anyway,” you’re shaking your head as you speak, fingers splayed out on his chest, “I’m a burden to you.”
At that, he manages a small, dry chuckle. You look at him, confused by what’s made him laugh.
“Honey, havin’ you here…well, I think I needed it just as much as you did. You got no idea how much I like watchin’ you eat what I cook, listenin’ to you hum in the shower ‘cause you’re too shy to sing, watchin’ you curl up by the fireplace with that damn quilt around your head like a sherpa.” His fingers come down to cup your jaw, tracing the line of bone that leads to the curve of your chin, up to the bow in your lips. “How nice it is havin’ a pretty girl around to talk to, someone smart, someone funny, someone who’s like me.”
“Like you?” you inquire.
“Mhm.” He presses the pad of his thumb against your lips, parting them slightly as he uses his finger to study the contours of your mouth. “Someone hurt, someone who thought they had no chance in this world. Someone who can get better, if she lets herself.”
Your throat feels tight. “I don’t know if I can.”
“You’re already doin’ it, baby.” He tilts your chin up with the meat of his palm, looking down at you through the silver streaks of moonlight. “Every day you get up, eat breakfast, and keep goin’. That’s all it is. Takin’ it one day at a time. Takin’ care of yourself. Letting yourself get better, slow n’ steady.”
You blink up at him, trying to process his words. You guess he has a point; two weeks ago you barely felt human, didn’t feel like you could ever belong in a place like Jackson, or somewhere like Joel’s home. But lately, through these routines of care, you’ve begun to feel…alive again. Still agonized by loss, still hopeless and confused and frightened, but something more than that too.
“You don’t gotta stay,” he assures you, “not if you don’t want to. But don’t go just ‘cause you’re scared. Ain’t no reason to punish yourself. Not when I like havin’ you around so much.”
“What if you get tired of having me around?” you ask weakly. It’s no far stretch; every other short term partner you’ve ever had got sick of you after enough time. Every adult you roomed with in the QZ kicked you out sooner or later. Nothing is permanent, especially not people.
“You think I could at least get a chance to prove myself ‘fore you go ahead and write me off?” He smiles down at you, hand still cupping your cheek. “I actually ain’t all that bad a guy.”
“No, no,” you’re quick to reassure, “Joel, you’re the most amazing man I’ve ever met. You are- you are a good guy. It isn’t that, it’s-”
“It’s not you, it’s me, honey, that one’s a little played out.” There’s gentle amusement in his voice.
With a groan, you start to pull away. “You’re impossible.”
“Hey, m sorry.” he pulls you back in, gentle but demanding, and you concede, all too eager to lay against his warm chest. “All I'm sayin’ is, no one’s asking you for your hand in marriage or nothing. Just…stick around for a while. Let me make sure you’re real healthy, ready to go. Get some meat on these bones. Get you feelin’ good. Might take some time. Two weeks ain’t much.”
“I’ve got meat,” you defend.
He snorts. “Me too.”
“Joel-”
“S’gonna take time, that’s all I’m sayin’. Just, stay, alright? Let yourself…have this.” Joel presses a firm kiss to the top of your head.
Finally, you exhale and find yourself nodding. Although it’s against your instincts, and better judgment, you know he has a point. How can you ever get better if you don't give yourself the opportunity?
“I don’t really know how to do this,” you admit, “I’ve never really…been a person before. Y’know what I mean?”
He makes a quiet noise of consideration. “Gimme an example.”
“Like, the apple juice,” you explain in a rambly sort of voice, “or the dishwasher. I don’t know how to do things like you do. I mean, fuck, I walked in on you in the shower today.”
At that, he clears his throat. You must be imagining it, but you’re sure you can hear some sort of…something in the noise.
“That kinda stuff takes time,” he replies quietly, “s’okay.”
You arch an eyebrow. “What else am I missing then?”
“You’d have to tell me that, honey.”
Abruptly, you remember his body, naked and wet from the shower. Something about him is so desirable; whether it’s simply the masculinity of his form; hairy and strong, the impressive endowment between his legs or something else, you aren’t sure. Could it be that he’s simply an attractive man, who’s kind and thoughtful and funny? Of course.
Could it be that everything about Joel represents what you’ve always wanted? The security of this home he’s created, the warmth of his fireplace and the way he’d thought to set out mint leaves for you to chew on? The heft of his body; his large shoulders, his thick thighs, his soft stomach, well fed and dense with nutrition. He is whole, broken pieces glued back together painstakingly to build back up this incredible man. This beacon of recovery, healing, strength and happiness.
What are you missing? Everything that Joel has, it would seem. The chance to finally become the way he is… to be okay again.
And…well, it’s also been a while since you had a good fuck. That wouldn't hurt either.
The thought is so ridiculous, so sudden and inappropriate, that it makes you laugh. A real laugh; a genuine, deep-chested sound of amusement that has Joel pulling back with surprise.
“Somethin’ funny?” he inquires, arching an eyebrow at you like you’ve lost your mind.
“No, m’sorry.” You press your fingers against your lips in a pathetic attempt to stifle the laughter. “So stupid.”
“What?” he demands.
“No it’s- god Joel it’s so ridiculous I can’t-”
“Oh, just tell me damnit.”
“I was just thinking, you know, what might help make me feel normal again. Haven’t had it in a while…” you look up at him expectantly.
It takes a moment for the message to land in his brain, and his eyes widen slightly. “Oh. I-I see.”
“Yeah…” you clear your throat quietly.
“Well, shit honey. All y’had to do was ask.”
Your eyes widen. “Pardon me?”
He takes your face in his hand again, tilting your chin and gently pulling your body until you’re face to face, noses brushing. His lips twitch, eyelashes sweeping over his cheekbones as he studies your face.
“Like I said,” he murmurs, “ain’t nobody proposing marriage or nothin’. But there’s no reason you can’t…enjoy yourself. If you want to, that is.”
“You…we…are you sure?”
“Ain’t nothin’ you haven’t already seen,” he quips.
You groan. “Joel.”
A low chuckle in his chest. “Sorry baby.”
“If you’re just gonna tease me the whole time, then you can go fuck yours-”
Your retort is cut off by his lips pressing into yours, and you startle a bit, though you don’t pull back. Your body melts, tension leaking out of your shoulders at the feel of his gentle mouth on yours.
And you’re consumed. There’s nothing else in that moment except for Joel.
His mouth on yours, his tongue pressing forward until it parts your lips. His body, thick and warm against your chest. The tangle of his graying hair, the way his breath grows more heavy when you intertwine your fingers with it and tug. His hands, one cupping your cheek, keeping you close, the other delicately beginning to roam your body.
And maybe it’s wrong; hooking up with him on the heels of a horrific nightmare about losing your family, or doing it after you told him you were going to leave, or doing it at all considering you barely know each other outside of these serene, isolated two weeks of eating and sitting by the fire and laughing.
But you want him, and he’s good and you want to be a person again. You want to eat meals and drink tea and sleep with a quilt and fuck often. You want to ride a hard dick, suck on a thick, veiny cock, be caged in an embrace of big bulging arms, hear the guttural moan of a man in your ear as he cums.
It’s a hunger, like any other. The way your stomach growled and gnawed for the relief of a hot meal, your body yearned to be filled too. That warm, wet space between your legs, at times so empty and vacant you thought you might just die from the need. Fulfillment, desperate for it in all its forms. Yearning, hunger, pleas to live a life where such simple pleasures are not only permitted, but taken with ease.
It won’t make you whole, it won’t heal your scars or fix your wounds. It won’t change what’s happened or secure your future.
But for a while, no matter how fleeting, it’s going to fill you up.
Isn’t that enough for someone who’s spent so long being hungry?
“C’mere,” he murmurs, so gentle, so soft, that it’s impossible not to do as he asks. You let him readjust you so you’re sitting on his lap, slender thighs spread around his thick ones, arms hanging off his neck, foreheads pressed together as he hungrily meets your lips again. He’s warm, heat radiating off his large body, and you instinctively lean in.
“Gonna make you feel good,” Joel’s words are muffled by the skin of your jaw as he leaves lingering kisses there, slowly traveling down to your neck. His tongue flicks delicately at the column of your throat, eliciting a small moan from your lips.
It’s been so long since you’ve been touched…
“God, you’re so pretty baby.” His fingers slide into the neckline of your nightshirt, which is really just one of his. It’s so large on you that you wear it as more of a dress, the only thing guarding your intimate areas from the outside world is your solitary pair of underwear, that’s been washed to death as you wait for more fabric to come into Jackson’s seamstress to make more. You’ve been going commando a lot.
It’s your immediate instinct to argue; you haven’t been pretty for a while, you’re not sure if ever. Survival is all you know; not caring for yourself or putting effort in to appear beautiful.
But what’s the point, anyway? He’s here, he’s seen you for what you are, and he wants to make you feel good. What does it matter if you’re pretty?
Though… you do like the way it sounds coming off his lips.
“Can I…” his lips explore the small patch of skin on your neck that’s exposed above the shirt, “can I take this off, honey?”
He’s tugging lightly on the shirt, asking your permission, even though in every way you’ve really already given it. You hesitate only briefly, concerned about the state of your sickly body. Then, you nod.
Calloused hands moving with a practiced tenderness, he bunches the shirt up at the hem and carefully slides it over your head, exposing your breasts and abdomen. You hear his sharp intake of breath, feel the warmth of it washing over your skin, and for a moment you’re paralyzed with fear.
He doesn’t like what he sees. How could he? You’ve become something inhuman. Scars, bones poking through flesh, discolored bruises. You’re something so ugly and unsightly that-
“Jesus, baby, you’re beautiful.” The pad of his hand smooths out to cup your breast, his thumb brushing elegantly over the bud of your nipple, which is rapidly coming to life from the sensation. “Lookin’ so healthy these days, so so pretty. You feel better?”
Robotically, you nod. “Y-yeah.”
“Love gettin’ to feed you, baby. Watchin’ you eat my food, gettin’ healthy n’soft.” He leans in, cradling your back to keep you upright as his warm lips explore the expanse of your chest, kissing down your sternum until he replaces his thumb on your nipple with his mouth.
And he’s right, you think as you look down critically at your form. You’ve put on weight, surely not enough, not yet. But… you’re softer now, edges rounded out to a more gentle plush, knobby knees more full, bony hips more tender, slender thumb joints smoothed out.
And you do feel better. Not dizzy or aching all the time, not sore or struggling to sleep from the pain, not burning from dehydration or growling from hunger.
You’re almost there, almost as full as a person can be. So, so close.
“I like it too,” you breathe, the last word pitching up with a surprised noise as his teeth graze across your nipple. A pleasant, but unexpected motion.
“That okay honey?”
“Mmm…yes…”
“Gonna make you so soft n’happy,” he murmurs, almost more to himself than you, you think, “gonna take care a’you.”
“Okay,” you whimper, pliant in ways you’ve never been with a partner before.
You aren’t sure why, because he’s just sitting there, kissing you and holding you and telling you all of these kind things, but you feel the pooling of tension in your lower belly and the beginnings of a wet patch on your panties. It’s bizarre; other than teasing your nipple he hasn’t done much in the way of sexual advances, yet from his touch and his words alone, you need him.
And you didn’t imagine it, that his cock was big. You can feel it beneath your spread thighs, through his boxers and sweatpants, the thick girth and diamond hard weight of it pressing into the fabric.
The heat between your legs feels almost unbearable now, the growing need and tension from his ministrations of your nipple spurring you on. Your fingers tangle in the wavy hair atop his head, and you feel his lips curve into a smile around your breast.
“Mind if I take this off?” he asks, removing his lips from your skin to tug at his own shirt. You nod quickly, eagerly, watching him slide it over his head.
In the soft glow of moonlight, the contours of his body are illuminated like the artful scenes of a movie. The tendons and muscle in his large arms, bulging and pulsing each way he moves, the clench of his jaw beneath his well-groomed beard, the mapping of dark hair over his thick chest. His stomach is full, wide and round and healthy, a sturdy man in every sense of the word. A big, meaty body to match that huge cock in his pants. It’s only fitting, you think as you admire the large score of his body. He’s scarred too, like you are, the lines and wrappings of a survivor beaten into his flesh.
“Ain’t as trim as I used to be,” he remarks offhandedly, though you think you sense a beat of hesitation in his words.
Your delicate fingers trail between his pecs, smoothing the hair down there until you reach the place beneath his belly button where the hair connects to his boxers. You tug experimentally at the hemline of his pants, eyeing the desperate thing there that begs to be freed. You watch his breathing pace up, his stomach and chest moving in synchrony with each hurried breath.
So big, so full and warm and secure. Solid and strong, an impenetrable wall around you.
“You’re perfect,” you tell him, and you don’t just mean his body.
He ducks his head then, surely embarrassed by the praise, and buries his face in your neck once more. His lips and teeth graze the skin there, sucking and biting and kissing, leaving little wet spots as he moves along.
His large hands grip your hips then, lifting you with such ease it’s almost startling. He heaves you upward and then gently lays you on your back, head against the mound of pillows pushed up on the headboard. Your legs splay out before you and he positions himself above, careful not to lower his weight on to yours.
His lips return to your neck, dancing slowly down between your breasts, kissing the scarred flesh of your stomach and hips, teeth bumping into the cotton of your panties. His eyes dart up to you when he reaches them, eyebrow quirking. A question. He’s asking for permission.
You nod, too eager you’re sure.
“So pretty…” he breathes, pressing his lips to the wet fabric of your panties, eyes closing as he tastes the flowing liquid through the cotton. “‘Bout lost my cool when I saw these little things hangin’ off your pack, darlin’. Wondered what they’d look like on you, wondered what they’d look like off you…” He kisses the wet patch again, which makes your legs tense up, and slides his finger into the hemline, murmuring thoughtfully.
“Don’t fit so good anymore,” he notes, and you realize he’s right. There’s a pinch of fabric at your thigh that wasn’t there before, the mark of underwear too tight. It leaves little indents on your skin when he pulls at it, angry red marks that line the contours of your body.
“You’ve been feeding me too much,” you manage.
He chuckles at this, deep and throaty. “I think we can do better, even.”
With that, he carefully glides the panties down your legs, the stickiness of your arousal clinging to the cotton until he finally separates it from your ankles. He holds it up, admiring the damp fabric. He balls it up in his hand, and then presses it to his nose with a deep, hungry inhale.
You blink, surprised. You’ve never had a partner…do that before.
Joel’s eyes open, underwear still pressed to his nose and mouth. You can see the twitch of his jaw, the smile on his lips even though it’s hidden by your wet underwear, and it does something odd to you.
He wants you so bad, is so hungry for you that he’s taking in every piece he can, breathing in your smell, your taste, even where it clings to the underwear that used to fit you and no longer does.
It makes you need, the way he wants you. It makes you ache desperately, makes you yearn and hunger for him too. Being wanted, being desired, it’s not something you’re used to.
“Smell so nice, honey,” Joel mutters, “bet you taste even better. So sweet, so wet.” He lowers himself between your legs, grabbing your thighs in his large hands, fingers pressing into the meat.
It’s a reflex for your legs to tighten up, tension pooling at the sight of a relatively new man between them. He pauses, noticing your trepidation, and glances up at you without moving forward.
“Hey, you okay honey?” his voice is measured, composed.
You nod.
“You sure? Talk to me baby, I gotta make sure you’re alright. You here with me?”
“I want you,” you manage, “please, Joel, I want it.”
“I’ll take real good care of ya’,” he promises you in that low, sultry drawl, “be real gentle. Treat you real nice.”
You’re nodding, already lost in whatever it is he plans to do to you. You feel a brief stab of insecurity for the state of your body hair, and you want to tell him as much, but you’re afraid it’ll kill the moment.
He doesn’t seem to mind, either way, lips pressing into your inner thighs, seeming completely heedless of the thick hair there. He pulls your body closer, gripping your hips in his strong hands, bringing your dripping cunt closer.
Joel’s head drops down, lips covering a delicate pattern on your lower belly, gliding easily over the soft hair on your pelvis, finding his mouth at your lips. Experimentally, he smooths his tongue over the wet slit there, glancing up when the action makes you inhale sharply.
His eyes are teasing, mouth quirked up in a small smile. Teasing, cocky, mischievous.
“You’re g-gonna have to do better than that,” you tell him with a small curve to your lips.
“There’s that smile,” he muses, before burying his face between your legs again.
And there’s no ability to think of anything else, because he’s there. His tongue, expert and well practiced, running whirlpool motions over the bud of your clit, sucking and kissing and licking hungrily at the dripping bellow of your opening.
Every sense is alight, each breath you take heavy with elation. The bundle of nerves between your lips is in overdrive, tensing and pulsing with desperate need as he gets you closer and closer. His tongue works miracles, the speed altering at just the right moment, switching his motions at just the right interval, lapping up your sopping liquids with his tongue like a starving man at a buffet.
“Taste so fuckin’ good, baby girl,” he groans into your wet folds, “such a pretty little cunt, so wet and soft for me.”
“For you…” you echo in a whine, fists gripping the sheet that’s come up off the mattress again.
The noises are obscene, the wet squelch of his tongue against your body, the almost frantic way he devours you. Hands holding your trembling legs in place despite the way you tense and move from the sensations, face buried against your wet center, the mess of liquid dampening his face and your thighs and the sheets underneath.
You cum with a whining cry, a noise you didn’t know a person like you could make. It’s an innocent sound really, despite the debaucherous context. A noise of pure, primal pleasure, ripped from deep within your chest, a release and elation you haven’t felt in…you’re not sure if ever.
Knees clenched around his head, you’re expecting him to pull back now that you’ve gushed more fluid onto his face. But dutifully, he keeps eating. He drinks you in, the overstimulated, swollen clit beneath his lips is begging for relief, pleading to rest, but he doesn’t let it.
Joel is hungry, and he won’t leave until he’s satisfied. Until you’re both satisfied.
“Taste so good when you cum for me,” he breathes when he pulls his lips back for air, “so sweet n’wet. Cum on my face, darlin’, do it again. Wanna eat you, all of you. So wet f’me baby.”
You think you cry his name, you aren’t sure, but you rip your fingers through his thick hair, tighten your thighs around his face, tears budding at the corners of your eyes from the ruthless sensation between your legs.
Then, a thick finger, gentle and careful probing at your entrance. He slides it in just a bit, moving with caution and curiosity. You buck your hips toward him eagerly, the desperate clench of your wet cunt around nothing is almost too much to bear.
Slight relief as he glides his finger in all the way, pumping it gently in and out, back and forth to get a feel for the tightness of your slick walls. It’s been so long since anyone touched you this way, since you had anything substantial inside you, and Joel’s got the biggest fingers of any man you’ve ever met.
“That feel good baby?” he grunts as his lips ghost over your pulsing clit and his index finger smooths inside of you, “hurtin’?”
“No, good, good,” you pant.
“Good girl, attagirl.” He kisses your clit again and your hips buck once more, but he pins them down with his other hand. A second finger inside of you, matching the pace of his first, stretching you around the thick width of his digits. Preparing you for what’s to come, the massive, hard cock that’s going to spear you against the headboard.
Fuck, fuck.
“Joel,” you groan his name, feeling his fingers curl up in a crude little gesture inside you, coursing against your walls, brushing up against that place that makes you feel like you’re going to erupt. “Joel, Joel….”
He hums a low sound, lips and tongue still violently, rhythmically devouring your wet cunt. Between the pulsing thickness of his fingers, and the circular motions of his tongue on your clit, it’s not long before you white out. The pleasure is too intense, too sudden and overwhelming. It’s too much, too much, more than you’ve ever had before.
Tears track down your cheeks against your will, your chest heaves with desperate, panting breaths. Your fingers have gone numb from their vice grip on the sheets, legs aching as they spread around his head to give him easier access, not a shred of resistance in your body as you submit to his expert touch.
And it happens again, more intense this time. A black film teases the corners of your eyes, a devastatingly intense pooling in your stomach and through your cunt, a pulsing, thready explosion of pleasure bursting through you.
You soak his face, legs jerking, hips convulsing, voice raw from crying out. The feeling is so intense that it dizzies you, your head floating off your body and spinning into a whirlwind somewhere in outer space.
Joel licks it all up, tongue dragging across your drenched inner thighs, gliding across the shimmering wet slit of your lips, sucking on the raw skin until it’s nearly unbearable. Then, his wet mouth is moving, kissing up your thighs, the slope of your hips, your stomach and your breasts, sucking on your nipples and cupping them in his rough palms.
Once he reaches your ear, teeth grazing the lobe, voice gruff, he whispers, “you with me, baby?”
You whine a small sound, feeble and needy. You feel the curve of his lips into a smile where they’re pressed into your ear, and he kisses your temple, lingering there.
“M’gonna take these off, hm?” he slides a hand down toward his sweats, where you can see the large, intimidating shape of his hard dick outlined.
God, you need it, you need it like you’ve never needed anything in your life. So many years spent hungry, never realizing just how painful it could truly be to want something and be empty of it.
Your pulsing, desperate pussy aches for him, dripping with the evidence of his prowess. Your thighs clench around nothing, pleading, begging, needing to be filled with whatever he can give you.
Joel slides the pants off, boxers following suit, and your eyes widen a bit at the sight of his large cock springing forward. There’s a well-groomed crop of hair at the nape, heavy, even balls framing the thick protrusion of his shaft. The tip, angry and red, dripping with his need.
“Joel, let me-” you make a move to take it in your mouth, but he stops you with a gentle shush.
“No baby, just you tonight.” He lowers himself back above you, the hard tip just barely brushing your sopping cunt.
A synchronized moan fills the air, both of you shuddering at the teasing contact. Holding himself upright on his thick, powerful arms, he lowers his forehead to yours, noses bumping. His lips ghost against your own, and you kiss him greedily, whining into the touch as his dick presses against you once more.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, “you wan’ me to fuck you, honey?”
You nod desperately.
“Talk to me, honey.” His lips press delicately right beside your mouth, smoothing his large nose over the supple skin of your cheek. “Tell me what you want, hm?”
“I-I want you,” you croak, voice frail and shattered, “want you inside me, Joel. Want you to fuck me. Fill me up, fill me with you. Please, please. I need it.”
He smiles down at you, no trace of teasing or mischief there, only a genuine, earnest warmth. Gradually, his hips roll into you, pushing just the slightest bit of him inside. You shudder, gasping at the beginning of the stretch.
“Gotta go slow, honey,” he breathes, eyes closing as if in concentration, “don’ wanna hurt you.”
“N-no, I don't care,” you insist.
“I do, baby. Gonna take care of you, promised. I got you. I got you. You’re safe with me.” His lips warm against your collarbone, kissing wetly there as his hips inch forward, shoving more of himself inside.
The stretch is intense, painful despite how wet and glistening you are for him. The head of his cock, fat and dripping, grunts into you with restrained desperation. His thighs push forward, hips moving slowly, slowly, giving you time to adjust, giving you all the focus and care and attention.
Finally, mercifully, he bottoms out, both of you groaning out a noise of agonized want. Your thighs are speared apart by his wide body, balls of your feet digging into his lower back. His arms cage you in, one hand flat on the mattress to prop himself up, careful not to put any of his massive weight on your light frame, the other touching you. Your breasts, your cheek, your hair, your lips, every part of you he can see he explores while he allows you to adjust to the heavy weight of his dick inside of you.
It’s huge, spreading you and stretching you so intensely that you’re grateful for his godlike patience. You feel it bumping up inside, tip scraping the mouth of your womb, almost enough that you swear you could touch it through your belly.
“So big, Joel,” you tell him, your voice a thready imitation of your usual cadence, “so big n’strong…so nice…”
“I got you baby,” he cups your cheek, bending his body down to kiss you lightly. The movement sheaths his cock forward inside, and you both groan.
“Please,” you beg, “please fuck me…please fill me up. Want you to fill me with your cum. Keep me full forever.”
“Fuck, fuck, honey girl,” he bites at your lip, pulling hard between his teeth until he draws blood. He licks across the soft pink flesh, taking more of you into him; the thin red line decorating his tongue before he swallows it up like a good boy.
Then, his hips grind into yours and you let out a shrill noise, a wounded animal crying out. He moves, slowly at first, allowing your body to stretch around him, getting used to the impact of his impressive girth.
Quickly, he picks up the pace.
You’re begging at this point, nails raking down his thick back, teeth gritting into the hot meat of his shoulder, feet forcing his hips into you. He grunts your name, spits curses into the soft flesh of your neck, grinds and pounds his hips against yours so hard it feels as though he really could split you in two.
But split, you do not. Rather, you become more. Full, whining and screaming his name, sated and hungry all at once. Desperate and satisfied simultaneously. A hungry, soaking little mess underneath this massive man. This man who at first glance, had tried to kill you, a favor you quickly returned.
A man who’s done nothing for the past two weeks but try to make you whole. A man giving you all the pieces of himself he can spare to try and mend your broken ones. A man who knows what it’s like to fall apart and be put back together again.
He sees you; scarred flesh, fear, loneliness, all your worst, all you have, and he takes you as his own.
“Goddamnit,” he growls into your skin, “so fuckin’ tight baby, so good…so wet f’me…so tight, fuckin’ gripping me baby.”
Your nails dig deeper into his back, which only seems to spur him on. His hips somehow continue their breakneck pace, pounding against your deepest point so hard that it makes your head feel floaty all over again.
“Feel so good, you okay baby?” his lips against your skin are slurred, sloppy and greedy.
You nod, nod your head so fast you feel dizzy, and he laughs a little breathlessly. Then, you feel the rough pad of his thumb move from your face down to your clit.
You do white out then, with the combination of his hard, massive dick spearing you against the pillows, and the grind of his thumb against your swollen clit. The sensations are overwhelming, so intense, too intense. Your legs clench around his waist, and you let out a low, guttural scream.
“Fuck,” Joel gasps, eyes shutting as his rolling hips grow sloppier, less rhythmic, “fuck baby, fuck, fuck you just came all over my cock. God, so fuckin’ tight, so good so good honey, m’gnonna-fuck-”
And you’re full. The hunger, the emptiness, it all fades away in that instant.
Joel empties himself inside you, cock jerking and pulsing against your throbbing walls. He groans deep in his throat, cursing and grunting as he fills you up, liquid gushing out over your pelvis and thighs.
It takes a few moments for both of you to come down, his spent cock still sheathed inside your warmth. He hovers over you, and you feel one of his hands cup your cheek, fingers tracing slow lines across the bridge of your nose.
“Baby,” he breathes raggedly, “talk to me.”
“M’fine,” you assure him, though you feel like you’re on another planet.
“You sure? Everythin’ okay? Didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“You’re stupid,” you tell him.
At that, he snorts. “Yeah, you’re fine.”
He moves to detangle himself from you, but your legs clench around him, arms clasping desperately around his neck. He’s so warm, so solid and safe, and you’re so full.
“They used to have a word for this,” he muses quietly, jerking his chin toward the cage of your legs around his waist, “think they called it baby trappin’.”
“As if you couldn’t get off right now if you wanted,” you mutter.
“Already did that, sweet.”
“Okay, you know what, get the f-”
He presses into you again, and you’re silenced by the low moan that slips from your mouth at the pressure of his heft inside you, even soft and spent. He smiles, teeth digging into his lower lip as he looks down at you with admiration.
“M’gonna make you a real nice breakfast tomorrow,” he says matter-of-factly.
“That so?” You arch an eyebrow, amused at the ridiculous attempt at conversation he’s making with his dick literally still inside of you. “What’s the Joel Miller Morning After Special look like?”
“Waffles, homemade batter ‘course. Blueberries, the ones we been savin’. Big ole jug of apple juice, just for you.”
“Just for me?” You smile faintly at him.
“Just for you,” he confirms, “whatever you want, just for you.”
A small laugh drifts from your lips. “Well, that’s very nice of you.”
“So you ain’t leavin’?” he asks, a note of hope in his voice.
“No.” You shake your head. “Think I'll stick around and annoy you for a while.”
He brushes a lock of hair behind your ear with the pads of his fingers. It stays put this time.
“I’d like that, darlin’.” His teeth flash white in the darkness again. “Think I could go for a little somethin’ now actually. You need anything? Some water?”
You nod, fighting the instinct to get up and get it yourself. Maybe, just maybe it’s okay to let someone else take care of you once in a while. Even if it’s something as simple as a glass of water.
“Sounds great,” you admit, wincing slightly at the pull as he finally slides out of you with a sopping noise. You don’t even want to look at the mess on the sheets.
“How about a snack?” he asks. “You hungry?”
And you look at him, sliding his t-shirt on over his sweat-slicked body, reaching for a towel on your rack to pass toward you. So gentle, so caring, so tender and pragmatic all at once.
You aren’t alone. You’re warm, and full, and for the first time in a long time, you’re happy.
“No,” you tell him in earnest, “I’m not hungry.”
“You sure?”
You nod, managing another smile for him. Surely, he’ll add it to his annoying internal tally.
“I’m sure. I actually…I actually feel pretty full.”
What a wonderful feeling it is.
#dontlooknow#joel miller#joel miller smut#joel miller x reader#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller x you#pedro pascal characters#tlou#the last of us#joel tlou
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Utopia
The sun was beaming down mercilessly on Trax as he climbed up the dusty rocks of the badlands. It didn't help much that his clothing was torn to rugs after the long journey or that his hands were calloused from the countless hours of climbing and shoving rocks and dirt. Still, the muscular and rugged man did not stop and climbed on, determined to reach the top of the hill. He didn't have too much choice. His water canteen was almost empty, only holding enough liquid for another half a day of hiking.
Trax stopped for a moment to wipe his brow and dry his hands on the very few scraps of clothing that were left from his shirt. Trax tried to control his breathing. His friends would surely have called him crazy, going into the badlands like this: Without preparation, without equipment and alone. Perhaps one or two of them would even have insisted on coming with him, to make sure he wasn't just throwing his life away. His friends really were awesome guys, Trax thought before correcting himself. No, that wasn't right. His friends had been awesome guys. Past tense. Another twinge of sadness darkened Trax' already bad mood. Truth be told, if his friends would still be around, he wouldn't even have considered taking on this crazy journey. But that was in the past. When the raiders on their bikes and trucks attacked Trax' settlement, many of the men, including every damn single one of his friends had been massacred. It had been a blood bath and Trax had only survived because he was out at the time, scavenging the industrial ruins nearby for supplies.
Having been born after the calamity and the subsequent wars, Trax knew fair well that surviving in the central European wasteland was difficult under the best circumstances. Having been heavily decimated by raiders, however, with most of the men dead it was nearly impossible. Most women and children had decided to leave, hoping to find a new place to settle or perhaps to find another settlement, where they might have a chance at a normal life. Not so Trax. Pretty much everyone had heard the story of Utopia. Utopia, the city of legends. Utopia, the safe haven. Grasping at straws, he set out for the badlands, in search of the mythical place.
Sighing, Trax got back to climbing, scaling the rest of the hill a bit more energetic now. After another half an hour, he finally reached the top of the hill, only to be rewarded with a wide view over a valley between the barren mountains. More importantly, though, Trax could hardly believe his eyes. Taking most of the space of the valley was a glass dome surrounded by a massive concrete and metal wall. Under the pristine glass that was reflecting the sunlight like a jewel, Trax could see a city. Not any city, mind you! Trax could see the green of trees and bushes between the high-rising spires, and the glittering of running water. He was able to make out some slight movement under the dome, probably from vehicles or even flying cars, and the air itself had a clean shimmer, almost like he imagined it when he heard the stories as a child.
Trax was mesmerized by the view, but at the same time, he didn't quite believe what he was seeing. He had really done it. He had reached the city of Utopia!
As fast as he could without breaking his legs, Trax scrambled down the hill and towards the impressive fortification. With each step, another thought became more and more prevalent. He had been so focused on finding the city that he had not yet thought of how to get in. From what he knew from the stories, Utopia had been a project of corporations and remnants of governments alike. A safe haven in the post-apocalyptic hellscape the continent had become. Of course, even though there were considerably less people than before the calamity, a single city would never be enough to house all survivors. So, the corporations chose a simple, yet proven concept of controlling who could get in: You had to pay for entry. It was ridiculously expensive, an amount of money Trax could not possibly earn in a hundred lifetimes. Enough to buy a bunch of settlements the size Trax' old home was. Of course, in the settlements, slums really, money didn't have too much meaning anymore. It was used for trading with other settlements, but apart from that, the concept of wealth had mainly meaning in the remains of the big cities. Even there, only a very elite few had been able to buy themselves entry into Utopia.
And now that *he* was here, standing in front of the massive concrete walls, it seemed like a stupid idea anyway. Who was he, a nobody, a mere scavenger, to try and demand entry to the city of dreams?
Well, he had to try. The gate in the concrete wall was massive. At least 20 meters tall and made of sturdy metal. Nobody was there, no guard or anyone really, which was not too surprising: Trax could hardly imagine anyone wanting to stand guard here, in the middle of nowhere, in the searing heat. Inside the huge gate was a smaller door, made from the same sturdy metal, with a computer console next to it. When Trax stepped closer, the terminal lit up. Trax was able to read, a skill that was sometimes necessary when scavenging the industrial ruins. However, he didn't have too much practice, so it took him a moment to decipher the three words on the surprisingly clean display: "Enter Entry Ticket".
Trax cursed. There was nothing else to be read, and even if there were, he would not have had any clue as to what he was supposed to do. He banged his fist against the door, and the sound reverberated off the nearby hills. However, there was no answer. Apparently, the entry in the city was fully automated and without an expensive ticket, there was no way to get in. Climbing up the concrete walls was pretty much impossible, and even if he managed to, he would only stand in front of the mighty glass dome.
Defeated, Trax slumped against the wall. It didn't make sense. He had made it all this way, had seen the city, had touched the very walls and yet, the city was still not within reach.
That's when he noticed another path, almost invisible under layers of dust and dirt. The main gate was well maintained and cleaned, but this path, going along the wall, had clearly not been used in decades. Perhaps there was still a chance to get into the city after all.
Trax followed the path for a few dozen meters before he noticed a faded writing on the concrete. The yellow paint was huge but aged and showed an arrow to the left. Under the arrow, Trax could read the words: "Lottery Winners, This Way".
Lottery winners. Something stirred in Trax' memory. Lottery. Yes, he remembered that part of the story. Of course, after announcing that only the richest of the rich were granted access to the city of dreams, there had been an outrage. Following that, and to soothe the masses, there had been a huge lottery where one thousand souls from all over the country were able to win a place in the city. It was said that whoever won the lottery left for Utopia and never came back - understandably so.
Apparently, the way he was following now was meant for the lottery winners. Trax felt a twinge of hope. Perhaps there was yet another way of getting into the city. It was a faint chance, but it was a chance.
Trax followed the path that was winding around the big walls until it ended in an archway that led down into the foundation of the concrete structure. It was a gaping black hole in the light concrete, but, and that was both surprising and like a miracle to Trax, not barred by a door.
He carefully entered the archway and waited for his vision to adopt to his now darker surroundings. There was enough sunlight coming in through the entry to discern that he was now standing in a long, concrete corridor, tilted a little bit downwards. Trax could vividly imagine a thousand people standing in queue in the broad corridor, but now his steps echoed from the blank wall. After a little while, electric lights flickered to live as he was nearing a fork in the corridor. It split into two, left and right, where the left was adorned with a black figure wearing a skirt, while the right one showed a similar figure wearing pants. The universal signs for male and female, as they were found on old restrooms as well. Without thinking too much about it, Trax turned right and went down the "male" path. After only a few more steps, he passed a heavy metal door, which stood widely into a medium sized room.
The room wasn't well maintained, but it was clear that this was a part of the technological marvels that kept the city running. It was crammed with pipes and cables, tubes and huge towers of technology that Trax couldn't really place. However, everything in here seemed dormant. There were no blinking lights, no beeping sounds or sound of liquids running through the pipes. Dormant, with one exception. In the center of the room, there stood a huge block of machinery, with two notable features. The first was a large screen at about eye level that was dark. The second thing was a hole in the block with a diameter of about 5-6 centimeters in diameter 80 centimeters above the ground, surrounded by a blue plastic ring. This ring was lit by some internal light source and was blinking slowly, as if it was breathing. Curiously, Trax stepped closer.
As he approached the block, two things happened at once. With a faint whirring sound, the machinery in front of him came alive and the display lit up. At the same time, a loud bang sounded from the entrance and the heavy door slammed shut, closing Trax in.
Trax could feel panic rising up but fought it down again quickly. Whatever was happening here was just standard procedure for the lottery winners. There was probably nothing to worry about. Instead, he looked at the screen. In big white flickering letters on green background, it read:
"Welcome Lottery Winner! Please enjoy yourself!"
Trax couldn't make sense of the message, so he took another look around the room. There was another, considerably larger door on the other side of the room, but it was closed shut as well, with no discernable way of opening it. While the room was crammed with technology, the only active thing Trax could see was the central block with the hole and the screen. "Please enjoy yourself!". What was that supposed to mean?
Trax cocked his head and took another long look at the block. The only other notable feature was the hole surrounded by the blue ring, about one leg length from the ground. Trax squatted down and took a closer look at it. The blue ring was still blinking, the hole itself was dark. When Trax looked into it, he could only see blackness. Carefully, he felt it with his finger and was surprised to find a smooth malleable surface that quickly warmed to the touch, not unlike silicon. When he extended his index finger deeper into the hole, he could feel the walls of the hole suddenly starting to move in a slow, wave-like motion.
Trax quickly withdrew his finger and the motion stopped. He cocked his head again. That surely couldn't be right. "Please enjoy yourself!". It couldn't possibly mean...
On the other hand, there were a lot of indicators. The hole in the block was at exactly the right height and had the right diameter. The message could very well be interpreted that way. This was a room designated for male lottery winners. And the doors closed, allowing for some privacy. Trax shook his head. This was crazy. What possible reason could there be that the designers of the city wanted the lottery winners to... jerk off before entering the city?
On the other hand, perhaps it wasn't even too stupid. Getting your rocks off, possibly after a long journey would help the newcomers to relax and see things calmer and more rational. It was unusual, sure, but possibly not a bad idea.
"Enjoy yourself!" the message still read.
"Fine!" Trax said. "If that's what you want, let's do this!"
He undid his belt, pulled his torn trousers and even more threadbare underwear down, and grabbed his soft dick. With a few quick strokes, he got it first half-hard, and then, when he was rigid enough, he directed his cock to the waiting hole. It wasn't too difficult to get hard to be honest. Trax hadn't had time to jerk off since the attack on his settlement, and now that he was finally safe and relaxed, he was able to unwind a little bit. He could feel his blood rushing down, and his dick got stiffer and harder, until the head of his dick was throbbing and ready to enter the tight hole.
Trax was panting and gasping as he shoved his dick forward, penetrating the warm, slick tunnel. He couldn't believe how good this felt. The hole was so soft and malleable and so very tight! Immediately, the movements started again, and Trax moaned with delight as his dick was surrounded by waves of pulsing, squeezing pressure. His cock was swallowed whole and pressed on the tight tube as if it wanted to milk his dick. Trax gasped again. There was absolutely no doubt that this device was meant for exactly this purpose. He stepped even closer to the block, until his shaft was buried in the masturbation aid to the hilt. Slowly, he pulled his dick back, feeling every inch of the wet, warm and tight sleeve until the head was resting against the entrance. Then, with a grunt, he shoved it back, making the machine squeal and his body shudder with the intense sensation.
This time, there was another whirring sound inside the machine, and the hole became a lot tighter as a strong suction became active around his cock.
"Fuuuuck..." Trax groaned. His legs were shaking as his shaft was being sucked on with incredible strength. This was so much better than jerking off! He tried to pull back to thrust his cock back in with force but found himself unable to. The suction was so strong that it just didn't allow any movement of his dick. So, all he could do was to stand there, trembling as the machine was milking his cock. He used both his hands to grab onto the machine block in order not to be too overwhelmed. Trax was so enthralled by the experience that he didn't notice the technology in the room turned itself on one by one. Before long, Trax was surrounded by whirring, squealing and clicking noises from all directions.
However, Trax did notice when both of his wrist where suddenly grabbed by cold metal grabs and jerked apart until his arms were forcefully extended left and right of his body. He tried to pull free, but the machine held him firmly. A second later, a metal strap shot out of the block, and forced his legs apart until his whole body was spread-eagled. Then, with a clang, the two straps were bolted to the floor.
Trax was unable to move, except for his hips, which were still being pleasured by the amazingly tight machine sleeve. Was this some kind of intruder detection? Still, the machine pleasuring his cock felt incredible and hadn't it been for the sudden attack of the machinery, he would already be close to cumming. Right now, however, Trax was looking left and right to the strong metal arms holding his wrists in place in increasing confusion and panic.
Then, something new happened. Accompanied by a mechanical whirr, Trax felt a prodding sensation at his exposed ass. Then, without much more of a warning, a silicon replica of a large cock rammed itself into his ass. Trax had secretly always fantasized about being intimate with another man, and, more importantly, to be fucked by another man, but he didn't expect to experience this sensation for the first time here, in all places. He didn't even have the chance to prepare himself, to stretch himself open. The cock, that was clearly made out of the same material as the masturbation aid, was thick and hard and the sudden penetration took his breath away and made him moan both from pain, surprise and pleasure.
The dildo was moving back and forth in a rhythmic pace, slowly, but with a steady mechanical strength. Despite the helpless situation, Trax felt he was in, the combined sensations were too much to bear. With a cry, he came, hard, into the machine, injecting spurt after spurt of his cum into the mechanism.
At the same time, he felt the dildo in his ass release a thick liquid into his intestines as well, leading to a strangely full feeling in his behind.
Trax' faint hope that now the machine would surely release him, however, quickly vanished. After his dick had spent the last drops of his load into the machine, the machine began to move alongside his dick again, the movements now accompanied by the slick feeling of his own sperm in the device. A moment later, the rhythmic fucking of his ass began anew. There was one change to before, though: The screen in front of him no longer showed the "Enjoy yourself" message but instead flickered with lightning fast strings of zeros and ones, each one displaying for little more than a millisecond.
Trax felt the strangest sensation as the dildo continued to fuck his ass. The semen, or whatever the machine was pumping into his bowels, was now acting as a lubricant and his ass was being fucked in the most pleasant way. At the same time, he felt a tingling sensation all over his body. He watched in amazement as all the little dark hairs on his body one after another fell to the ground like specks of dust. Trax had barely time to notice, though, as another grab from behind fixated his head to the screen in front of him.
Still, the strange sensation didn't stop there. Trax couldn't see it because he was unable to turn his head now, but he could almost feel his skin turning an unnatural gray - no, silver color. At the same time, his skin became harder and colder.
Trax groaned as his body suddenly expanded. He had been a fit, lean man, but now, his body changed so quickly it was almost like magic, accompanied by a churning feeling from within him. Again, he came, and again, more thick liquid was deposited into him as well, just as his bod became more and more bulky.
Trax' head was swimming. Somehow, the strings of binary numbers almost made sense to him. It was clear that something was planted into his brain, but he couldn't make sense of what exactly it was. However, there was one thing he could make sense of.
Trax had to serve Utopia. The thought appeared so quickly and so forcefully Trax couldn't help but say it out loud: "Serve... Utopia". What was going on?
He didn't have time to think about it further as his body expanded even more. His cock was still being squeezed and the dildo was still fucking him, and his muscles were burning from the constant strain, but the tingling sensation had not yet stopped. The skin on his arms and legs split open at the joints now. Around the parts that didn't need to move, cold and rigid metal plates formed now, while the joints were becoming flexible plastic. Trax could almost *feel* his bones become metal and his muscles being replaced by powerful servo motors. His chest had barreled out and the skin became a large metal casing. Inside, a whirring and clacking noise took place, before several valves formed at the side of his torso, leading to an internal oil tank.
Trax was acutely aware of all of that, but he couldn't react to it. His eyes were glued to the screen and with every passing number, Trax felt his own will being pushed away, replaced by a cold calculating logic, primed at a single motive.
"Serve Utopia", Trax said again and this time, his voice sounded different, almost artificial. The old Trax was still there of course - even as his head turned into the cold metal skull and his face was replaced by a red visor containing his sensory equipment, Trax original personality was perfectly preserved. He just couldn't help it. He had lost all control over his body, his voice and even his thoughts. He was being converted and there was nothing he could do. One last spurt of cum, the last remains of his human nature left his cock just before it turned into a set of tubes and electric connectors. The connector in his rear port deposited a last portion of nanobots and withdrew from the port after that. With that, the restraints holding his arms and legs released him at once. Unlike his flesh body from before however, Trax' new metal body didn't slump in on itself but stood unmoved due to its strong internal structure.
Trax wanted to turn around, to run away, but his body wouldn't obey his commands. Instead, another clear, pristine thought formed in his mind. "Connecting", Trax said in his new, mechanical voice.
Then, all of a sudden, his mind exploded and expanded. He was now *connected* to the city, to Utopia. Even more so, he was becoming a *part* of Utopia, one mechanical drone to serve the wealthy inhabitants of the city.
"Receiving new designation.... TRX-1001".
TRX-1001 quietly observed as the doors to the room sprung open. It withdrew its frontal groin connector from the conversion unit and stomped towards its assigned maintenance task.
As TRX-1001 entered the city of Utopia, Trax, who was still inside, was overcome by mixed feelings. He had really done it. He had reached the city of dreams. He had even become somewhat immortal, but at what cost. He had been reduced to little more than a subroutine in one of the thousand and one autonomous drones serving the city, toiling away day after day.
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you send me
— pairing: negan smith x fem!reader
— type: ficlet
— summary: negan comes to see his "favorite" girl in alexandria, only to find out she's incredibly sick and that denise has absolutely nothing to help her as she slowly slips away
— tags: negan pining, negan worrying, negan trying to annoy you bc like a little boy he can't just admit he has feelings for you, there is a flashback of the two of you dancing bc i'm a sap
— tw: rocky mountain spotted fever is mentioned, vomiting, medication being forcefully administered
— word count: 2,602
— a/n: in my canon, denise never dies | my twd masterlist | sam cooke song that's mentioned
The house is silent, as usual, when Negan comes through the front door. "Where is my favorite girl?" He asks with a chuckle, but the words float into thin air, no response coming back to greet him.
The only reason he even bothers coming to your domain anymore is simply to annoy you. Maybe get under your skin by making the offer for you to join his harem of wives...again.
In hopes of pissing you off a few weeks ago, he'd taken a batch of cookies you'd just boxed up fresh from the oven with a wink, saying it was 'property of the saviors now' and 'hope they taste just as sweet as you are'. He'd even rummaged through your fridge, stealing a Tupperware container of leftover pasta, before whistling to himself as he walked out the door, not bothering to close it behind him, Lucille slung over his shoulder.
You'd been none-too-pleased the afternoon you came home to find him napping on your couch. You knew the saviors were once again 'visiting', but hadn't been aware that Negan had come with them.
He'd been rudely awaken by you vacuuming the rug directly in front of him.
Not that he hadn't then made some comment about 'going upstairs and getting cuddly under the covers'. You'd yelled that you couldn't hear him before deciding you wanted to try the vacuum against your hardwood floors next.
He never bothered taking anything of true use to you anymore, though. For one, it was due to the fact that his men had all but wiped out the whole of Alexandria the first time they'd come. But the most significant reason? The real one? The first time he'd met you, you'd been the only person to call him out on his bullshit straight-away. And with no fear, at that. Well, none that you clearly showed to him, at least.
He'd entered your neat and tidy little home, you emerging from the hall, doing your utmost to hide just how afraid you were as he looked you over for a moment.
"S'cuse me, doll, but," he leaned in toward you, despite being halfway across the room. "Your husband home?"
You crossed your arms over your chest out of a desperate attempt to hide your shaking hands. "I don't have one."
His brows raised then. He set himself on a barstool, setting Lucille atop your recently-cleaned countertop. "Really?" He asked with interest.
You hadn't replied. You'd simply opted for standing there instead, and staring. Afraid of saying the wrong thing.
"Not much for talking, huh? I like that in a woman," he said with a brilliant smile.
You briefly thought that perhaps he was just a male chauvinist. But that didn't seem...quite right to you. No. This behavior—it wasn't real. It was a defense. Just a façade. Right?
You walked over to the sink, starting on the dishes you'd left soaking overnight. You had a dishwasher, but pods for them were rationed. And, while Eugene had even taken a shot at it, he hadn't quite perfected the formula for them to not create kitchens full of suds just yet.
Negan watched you, taken aback by your lack of attention toward him. "Well, guess I'll just take myself on a trip upstairs and start lookin' through your-"
"Are you always like this?' You asked quietly, scrubbing a pan.
"Pardon me?" He asked, pretending to be curious as to what you meant.
"It's an act, right? Just a persona you've created to make yourself seem like someone other men might want to follow. To make yourself feel powerful."
A muscle in his jaw feathered. "Maybe this is just my natural form, darlin'."
You'd set the pan aside to dry on your dishrack, then you glanced at him over your shoulder. "I hardly believe you were...whoever this is before."
You felt tempted to start making guesses as to what, exactly, he did before the outbreak, but knew that was not a good idea.
"Think you know me?" He'd asked, voice a tad more serious.
The pot in your grip nearly slipped from it. Afraid of him hearing your voice shake, you'd instead merely shrugged.
He got down from the barstool, sliding Lucille off of the counter—you knew he'd just covered it in scratches—before coming to stand beside you. So close you could feel his body heat.
"Go ahead, take a guess. Try and read me."
You look up at him and he's looking down at you with an amused smirk.
Your next question catches him completely off-guard. "What happened to you?" You'd asked it barely above a whisper, brows furrowed.
His features shifted, his smile disappeared at the look of pity in your eyes when you gazed up at him. He leaned in close and it took everything in you not to step back and away from him. "You're on thin fuckin' ice, girl."
The two of you had stayed like that for awhile, him staring you down—you could swear he'd glanced at your lips, but it'd happened so quickly that you weren't sure—you doing your utmost to understand what the hell was wrong with him, until he'd finally turned his back to you, slamming your front door behind himself.
You felt lucky the small glass windows on it hadn't shattered from the force.
As Negan heads down the hall, he hears voices drifting down from upstairs. He tells himself that, if it turns out you're busy hosting male company, he won't care. But his hand still tightens around Lucille's grip, images of beating someone's face to a bloody pulp in his mind.
Heavy boots thump against the stairs, until he's reached the top step and sees Denise and Rosita standing on either side of the doorway to your bedroom. He nearly makes an inappropriate joke, until Tara leaves, walking past without even acknowledging him, as she wipes a tear from her cheek, going downstairs.
A heavy feeling settles into the pit of his stomach.
As he gets closer, Rosita blocks the doorway. She may be half his size, but she won't just let him in. Won't let him near you. Not while you're barely hanging on as it is.
"Get. Out." She spits at him.
He merely pushes her out of the way, not turning back as she shouts "Hey!".
Everything moves in slow-motion as he takes you in. Your emaciated form, the pallor of your skin which is covered in a rash, the sheen of sweat on your face, the shallow breaths escaping your lips, the rapid rise-and-fall of your chest, and your eyes as they keep opening and closing every few moments, your pupils seemingly dilated.
Denise walks over, checking your pulse, then glancing to the doorway—to Rosita—shaking her head.
"What's wrong with her?" Negan's voice—his tone as serious as anyone in Alexandria has ever heard it— breaks the silence.
"She's sick, pendejo," Rosita replies with vehmence.
He lets the insults slide. He has more pressing matters at-hand.
He shouldn't have waited so damn long to come visit you again.
Why had he waited so long?
He sits on the edge of your bed, gently, as if he's afraid any sudden movement may harm you. He looks at Denise, waiting for an answer.
"She went on a run a few days ago. She said she just...wanted to get outside...for whatever reason. Didn't seem like herself. And not long after coming back...she developed a rash, a fever, headache-"
She's interrupted by you doubling over the side of the bed and Negan quickly picks up the empty trash can you're aiming for, but all you manage to do is dry-heave.
Denise continues, arms crossed. "Vomiting—but because she can't keep anything down now, she refuses to eat. Hasn't done so in two days"
He sets the trash can back on the floor, smoothing hair away from where it's now stuck to your damp forehead.
"She has Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. She must've gotten bit by a tick. Something so small..." She trails off. "She doesn't have long left without medication."
Daryl, Rick, Michonne, Rosita, Abe, along with a few others, had torn apart what local pharmacies they could find, but the drug was scarce—nowhere to be found.
Negan turns back toward her. "What does she need?" He asks, tone harsh.
"Doxycycline. We used to keep it in-stock here."
"Why the hell don't you anymore?"
Rosita replies with a sneer. "Because your people took all of it!" She shouts, unable to hide her contempt for the man.
A pained look flashes across his features. He then turns back to you.
This was his fault.
If you died...your blood would be on his hands.
He won't let that happen.
He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, not caring if they see. As he pulls away, he sees that your eyes are now closed. "Just get some rest, sweetheart. I'll be back soon."
As he exits your room, he grabs Denise by the elbow. "Tell me what you need and I'll make sure you get it." He looks at her. "No strings attached."
Not that you'd ever know, but as you slowly recovered, Negan had been on a damn tear at the Sanctuary. Once he'd had the medication you so desperately needed delivered to Denise—along with anything else she asked after for you—he demanded to know, from his men, why they had taken so damn much, leaving you all with nothing to help yourselves with.
They'd told him it's what he had wanted—what he'd ordered. He really just wanted someone else to blame for you nearly losing your life over needing a damn antibiotic.
He'd gotten a lot of use out of Lucille against some walkers near the back fences for a couple of days.
He had delivered the medication himself, and watched as she began to administer treatment to you, even if you fought her at first, thinking she was trying to feed you again.
He'd had to—reluctantly—help hold you down as she practically forced the pills down your throat.
You'd stared at him wide-eyed and terrified, no sense of recognition in your gaze as you looked up at him. Something about that—you having no idea who he was—broke something small inside of him.
He'd merely muttered that he was trying to help. That you'd get better soon and this would all make sense. That it would all be okay soon.
He hadn't left until you'd fallen asleep once it was dark. Had nearly told Rosita to shove it when she'd come to check on you and saw him there at your bedside, watching over you.
After that night, Negan had to be away for a few days, tending to business elsewhere, even if he'd been chomping at the bit to get back to you.
When he finally came through Alexandria's gate, however, he'd pulled up right outside of your house, practically bounding up the steps to get up to your bedroom.
And when he did, his knees nearly gave out from the sense of utter relief that washed over him.
You were sitting up in bed, eating—a tray in your lap with vegetable soup and crackers on it, a glass full of juice next to it—your free hand holding a novel open as you read.
A natural flush now graced your cheeks, your rash all but gone, and you looked well-rested.
You set your book down, looking at him leaning in the doorway, a small smirk on his lips.
"See you're all better."
"I hear I have you to thank for it."
He'd merely shrugged, pulling the chair that'd been returned to its rightful spot across the room in front of your desk, around to the side of the bed once more.
He rested an ankle over a knee. "Just a bottle of pills."
"And food, water, juice, and anti-nausea-"
"Going to list off your whole damn inventory here?"
"All of that came from yours," you replied, taking a sip of your soup, licking your lips.
He tells himself seeing you do that does nothing for him.
He doesn't reply to that statement. Merely looks at the window across the room, then back to you. "Just glad you're recovering."
"Are you?" You take another sip.
His brows furrow. "Why would you ever think otherwise?"
You shrug. "You like to pretend you don't care about anything—not individuals, at least—so-"
"Maybe you're the exception," he states, completely serious.
You'd only ever seen him so deadpan one other time.
He'd come over late, the sun just beginning to set.
You'd been sitting at your dining room table, pushing food around your plate, lost inside your head. You hadn't even noticed he was inside your house until he sat down across from you. "Not gonna make me a plate?" He asked, leaning back.
You hadn't even looked at him.
Instead, your features had darkened, and you'd retreated further inside yourself.
He'd known by the look in your eyes that something was deeply wrong.
He'd leaned toward you then, forearms resting upon the table. "Talk to me, Y/N. What happened?"
"Go away," you'd said quietly, but firmly.
Leaving you alone like that was the last thing he intended to do.
"And leave you to brood all on your lonesome? Not likely."
A tear slipped from your eye and you'd quickly wiped it away in irritation. "I don't want you here."
His lip had twitched. "Join the club."
The both of you had been quiet for a moment until he'd spoken again. "Listen, I don't know if it's something that happened today, or a long time ago, but I'll listen if you-"
You'd picked up your plate then, stood—your chair scraping against the floor—before smashing it on the ground.
You sat back down, slumping forward, elbows resting on the tabletop, burying your face in your hands as you began to cry.
He'd stood after a moment, walking over to the record player in your living room, browsing your selection of music until he settled on a particular song.
He'd walked back over, shrugging off his leather jacket before holding out his hand toward you. "Dance with me."
You'd quieted, looking up at him, giving him a look like he was insane. "What?"
"Give me your hand."
Instead of waiting for an answer, he'd reached down, sliding his palm against yours, pulling you up from your seat.
Just as he'd gotten you halfway to the living room, you'd pulled your hand free from his.
He'd turned back to you, but you'd merely began beating your fists against his chest. And he let you. Let you push him, slap and punch. He could take it. Wanted to if it made you feel better—by any extent.
Until, finally, you'd calmed enough that he pulled you against him, wrapping his arms around you as the two of you swayed back and forth.
You'd cried against his chest, small sobs wracking through your body as Sam Cooke sang about wanting to marry and take someone home.
Finally, you reply to Negan's comment about you being an exception to him.
"I bet you tell that to all your girls."
"No. Because none of them are."
The two of you sit in silence as you finish eating, him taking your tray as you lie back down to rest.
You swear you hear him say something quietly about missing you as he stands in the doorway—about to head back downstairs—but you don't catch it as you fall off to sleep.
#fic: twd (negan smith x reader)#negan x reader#negan x you#negan x y/n#twd x y/n#twd x you#twd x reader
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He Came From Hawkins
The day Steve Harrington's afterlife changed forever.
Ghost!Steve Harrington x Witch!Reader
Series Masterlist
750 words
The patter of rain against your bedroom window lulls you as you sit in front of an unorganised stack of books, the rug underneath you tickling at your thighs. You’d come upstairs looking for a particular book. One of your oral histories of the music scene in New York, but you can’t remember which, or even particularly why and now you think you might just take a mid-morning snooze.
Not an actual nap, just a moment or an hour to close your eyes and listen to the rain. You’re just about to get up from the floor, the soft cotton of your sheets calling you when you hear a noise downstairs.
It sounded like a voice, deep and confused.
Your front door is unlocked; there are no threats in your witch’s coven up in the mountains, but it wasn’t common for any of your sisters to come in uninvited. Everyone knew you valued your privacy. An introvert who wasn't always up for company.
You make your way downstairs, the wood creaking under your light steps as you descend slowly.
“Uh, hello?”
“Jesus fucking christ.” You stumble clutching at your heart that’s rapidly increased in pace. A young man is standing in your living room. “Wh–who are you?”
“Steve Harrington.” The boy reaches his hand out as if offering to shake yours before faltering and placing it back in his pocket. “I think I’m in the wrong place.”
“No shit.” You take him in, this boy who allegedly broke into a witch’s house in the middle of a well-established, secret coven. Your eyes flick from the moles on his exposed neck, the perfect quaff of his thick hair and widened hazel eyes, finally noticing the slight translucency to his form as he stands before you. “Oh, you’re a–“
“Ghost? Yeah.” He holds up a hand, face squinting as if to say what are you gonna do about it? “I was supposed to be like moving on to whatever comes next I guess.” He scratches his jaw, “I was just in this trailer back in Hawkins, saying goodbye. This witch, a good witch, was helping me say goodbye–and now I’m here.” He looks around your house. “This isn’t it is it? Like, the afterlife?” His eyes fall back on you, giving you a once over before smirking, “Not that I’m complaining, it’s just not what I expected.”
“No, you’re still in the land of the living…kind of.”
He nods, taking you in again, “You don’t look that shocked.”
Your shoulder shifts in a slight shrug, face showing little emotion, “I’m a witch too.”
“Oh, cool.” He smiles wide, a sureness in his features that prickles at your skin. “Do you know why I’m here?”
“No,” you shake your head, and he bites his lip. “I don’t see what business you could have here I’ve been borrowing this land for eight hundred years.”
“Right, well I just died last week so…where are we?” He looks around again, trying to get a glimpse of any recognisable landmarks outside of your window.
“Uh, Catskills.”
“Never been.” He frowns.
“Right.”
The ghost of Steve Harrington didn’t leave that morning, or the next. He wasn’t sure where he was supposed to go so, he stayed.
It was weird, even for a witch familiar with the unexplainable nature of the world. You didn’t really know how to help him, your experience of communing with spirits lacking. Steve said he didn’t mind. Told you with that disarming smile of his that he’d just hang out until he figured out what to do.
So, he did. He hung out.
He hung out while you pottered about your house, cleaning the kitchen, doing laundry, reading by the window with the afternoon light. He hung out as you cooked dinner and settled in front of your staticky TV in the evenings. He hung out as you watered your garden, looking on from the window as you nervously smiled at fellow coven members passing by, his gaze burning the back of your neck.
The ghost of Steve Harrington wasn’t leaving. In fact, he seemed pretty settled, growing in confidence every day with the amount he stared at you, unabashedly and with a smirk that made your body tense.
“Is there a problem?” You didn’t have to look up from the book you were reading to know he was doing it again.
“No. Just admiring the view.”
You shake your head, hiding your fluster with a look of agitation, “Any closer to figuring out your next move?”
“Nope.”
You bite your lip at the evident smile in his voice. “Great.”
#steve harrington#steve harrington fanfic#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington x you#stranger things fanfiction#stranger things au#ghost!steve harrington#witch!reader
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Orland and Ophelia P2
Media - House Of The Dragon
Character - Aegon Targaryen
Couple - Aegon X Reader
Reader - Shela (Fleabottom Smallfolk Girl)
Rating - Sweet AF + Scary Ending
Word Count - 1645
Aegon picked the children up, giving them both kisses on the cheek. He was so happy. Now he just needed to prove to them that he was going to be the best father ever. He turned to Shela and gave her smile as well, possibly the first genuine one he'd given her in all of their time together.
"I won't forget about you either. We're going to be a family now. All four of us. No one is going to separate us ever again."
"Orland has some legitimate concerns Aegon, you're the heir to the throne you can just come running off to see us all the time and you stay here too long the king's guard or the city watch will come after you. And what is to happen when your father dies? Surely you will be king, so you visiting us will become even less likely and if anyone was ever to know of your bastard children they'd have to kill them to ensure your legitimate children succeed you"
Aegon knew she had a point. But he was not going to let that fear be a reason as to why he could not be with his children. Even when King he would make sure he was present in their lives. He would never let them go again. There were a lot of complications but he was going to make it work. He was going to have to.
"I'll figure something out. I'll make something work. I'm not going to let this be a reason as to why I can't spend time with you. I'm their father. I'll make it work. I promise."
"alright, if you're sure" Shela smiled giving him a kiss "Come on you two, how about you take daddy downstairs and show him your toys?"
He smiled and let his children lead him out of the bar area and downstairs to their living quarters. He was quite curious about what toys they owned thinking back to his piles of toys as a young boy, mountains of play swords and shields, dragon toys to his heart's content but that is not what he found. The downstairs was a small apartment with a bathtub toilet and sink on one side, a double bed on the other and in the centre a rug covered in small plushies, wooden dragons and a table with a small model of king’s landing no bigger than 30cm square, that was all the place had but the children so excited showed him all their small toys. The place was small but clean, the toys sweet clearly Shela didn’t have much money to spoil the twins but still did her best to give them everything they wanted.
He couldn't help but smile as he saw them proudly show him all their toys. It was such a wholesome sight. To see his children so excited to show their small collection of toys and plushies. They were so sweet and gentle, the opposite of what he could ever be. He felt the warm feeling inside of him grow.
"May I ask you a question, children?"
Ophelia nodded as she hugged her bunny plushie Orland was busy having his wooden dragonfly around the red keep model, as Shela came down too and sat on the corner of the bed to watch them play together,
He looked at both of them for a few seconds. "I wanted to ask you both if...you would mind...if I lived with you permanently."
both children jumped with excitement and hugged him tight almost throwing him to the floor they were so happy and excited,
He was surprised by their reaction. He thought the question would be one that they’d hesitate a lot to answer. But they were already saying yes and showing him affection. Just the sight of them made it clear he had missed so much. The sight of them hugging him and smiling at him was enough to make him want to tear up and he almost did. He did not expect them to be so happy to have him. He should’ve asked this question sooner.
after calming down the children go back to playing with their toys and as Aegon glances around it's obvious how little his children have but he can't blame Shela as she has been doing everything she can to give them a good life on the money a barmaid must make
Shela must have so little. And the fact that she gave his children a good life, a love filled home and a warm affection that they obviously reciprocated with their mother made him appreciate her even more. He understood so much now. He felt a wave of guilt wash over him again.
He looked at his children play and he felt so ashamed. He was disgusted by the person that he had been before. He’d made his children live here in so much poverty. His children, his beautiful children. He had left them before and left them to fend for themselves. And for what? A meaningless drunken life? A life where the only thing he did was drink himself to oblivion? How had he allowed himself to reach such a low?
"Daddy?" Little Ophelia came closer with her bunny plushie in hand
“Yes, sweetheart?” He replied with a soft smile, looking down at her. She was such a sweet little girl.
"Mummy said once that you had a dragon, do you think we could ever see the dragon someday?" She asked and immediately Orland perked up too coming over to listen excitedly wooden dragon toy in hand
For a moment his heart froze at being confronted with the question so quickly. This was going to be a tough topic. He did have a dragon, a dragon he had ridden for years. But he wasn’t sure if these little children would be able to understand the complexities of such an issue and he didn’t want to worry them. But he had to be honest with his children.
“I do have a dragon, yes. Named sunfyre. I may be able to take you for a ride one day.”
both giggled excitedly at such an idea
"Could we get dragons someday!" Orland asked
"I wanna dragon!" Ophelia jumped
"I wanna call mine firestarter!" Orland yelled
"I wanna call mine starlight!" Ophelia jumped
He laughed softly at this. The names were so innocent. They had no concept of the power of dragons. They were just small kids wanting to have fun and ride dragons like in the many stories. He wished he could let them ride dragons, but it was just so dangerous. But he couldn’t say that. He wanted to feed all the little hopes they had right now.
“Of course you can, my little ones. But promise me that you won’t ride them yet. You’re still too small and you could get hurt.”
"Can we ride on Daddy's dragon? Please can we! Can we ride with you Daddy!" They both beg
He sighed and looked down at them. “How about we do this, you can ride my dragon but I’ll be holding you both during the flight, okay?”
both scream with excitement jumping up and down happily
He smiled and gently scooped them both up. He was still amazed by how small they were. But there was a bit of an issue right now. They were a bit too small. They were both three years old now, and although they were a bit on the shorter end of the spectrum he still knew that to be able to ride a dragon, they needed more time to mature physically. He gave them each a kiss and let them continue playing. The rest of the morning he spent so happily in their arms, that he played dragons with Orland telling him about the dragon pit, about bonding with a dragon, about the many large and impressive Targaryen dragons all of which fascinated Orland so much. In between dragon tales, he sat on the rug with Ophelia as she set up her favourite plushies and her well-treasured wooden tea set, he sat with her happily and plaid along with her showing her some royal etiquette for her princess tea party, most of which she ignored because of course she is the princess and what she says goes. He peppered both of them with as many kisses as they could stand, fed them as many compliments and words of praise as he could think of, giving them all the love and attention he had craved at their age.
And he didn’t leave Shela out giving her kisses and praise too whenever he could often telling her she made the smartest, most beautiful children as she cooked them some lunch.
Suddenly a loud heavy knock comes from the tavern door upstairs,
“Oh? I wonder who that could be,” Shela dusted her hands off on her skirt,
“Don’t worry about them, it's family time. They can wait.” Aegon smiled taking Orland in his arms and sitting him on his lap and playing with his dragon toy,
“As well as that is, it might be family time but still.” she says, “Orland, Ophelia, you both stay here with daddy while I head upstairs.”
“You sure I’ll go and you can stay down with them?” He asked,
“No, it's okay,” she smiled giving him a kiss which he happily gave her back in return,
“Okay, call if you need me.”
She nodded and headed up the stairs so he happily cradled both the children in his arms giving them cuddles and kisses until a loud bang came from upstairs like a table being turned over and chairs being thrown around with the gentle sound of a short scream.
Aegon immediately panicked he kissed both the children and told them he loved them both before he ushed them under the bed and went to the stairs to head up but he was stopped as he saw his brother Aemond.
Aemond waltzes down the stairs his arm around Shela a knife to her neck to stop her from squirming, “Found you brother,”
#hotd smut#hotd fanfiction#hotd fandom#hotd fanfic#hotd#hotd aegon#hotd imagine#hotd season 2#house of the dragon#aegon smut#aegon ii targaryen#king aegon#aegon targaryen x reader#aegon x reader#aegon the second#aegon ii#aegon targaryen#house targaryen#house of targaryen#house of the dragon season 2#house of the dragon x reader#house of the dragon fanfic#house of the dragon aemond#house of the dragon aegon#aegon fanfic#Aegon imagine#house of the dragon aegon targaryen
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something something papas and ghouls taking care of you when you’re sick send tweet
primo - herbal remedy king (homemade, naturally) but understands the power of vick’s vaporub. will feed you tinctures and tonics while his weathered hands gently rub the goop on your chest. doesn’t mind when you cough in his face while you sleep.
secondo - #1 pastina maker in the abbey, has his own special recipe. will feed you so much goddamn broth you feel like you’re going to explode but when you open your mouth to object, he simply gives you the Secondo Emeritus Look™️ and you shut right up and pick up your spoon.
terzo - wholly unphased by how gross you look/sound/feel. to him you are always his amore, even as he’s holding your hair and you’re emptying your stomach in the toilet for the fourth time that night. will always make sure you’re hydrated.
copia - the ultimate fussy guy. when you first mention you don’t feel so good he’s already got the thermometer in hand, herding you into the bedroom. he’ll cluck and mutter to himself in italian as he frets over you until you finally tell him to please come to bed, bello, you are wearing a hole in the rug with your pacing.
cumulus - oh lord she’s comin and she’s got the goods. lulu will get her hands on every medication available in the abbey and go over all the symptoms every one helps in order to pick the best one for you. rubs your back soothingly and peppers your face with kisses, regardless of how clammy you are.
cirrus - firmly but gently reassures you that no, you’re not dying it’s just a virus and this does happen to humans on occasion. is the most sensible of the ghouls when you’re sick and like terzo, always holds your hair for you. will strip you down and bathe you all by herself with no complaints.
sunshine - big time cuddler. completely unphased by your grossness and will pull you into her embrace and gently stroke your hair while kissing the top of your head. giggles a little when you thank her in a nasally voice.
aurora - queen of channel surfing. when you get tired of watching the price is right all morning she’ll snag the remote from you and put on a juicy lifetime movie. her commentary makes you laugh so hard you go into coughing fits but improves morale greatly.
swiss - when you show up in his doorway and hoarsely proclaim you don’t feel so good he’s already halfway dragging you to bed. after he gets all your garments off this man is making you a nest to end all nests. you WILL be cozy.
mountain - brings you tea with honey on such a constant rotation you have to beg him to stop or you’ll wet the bed to which he calmly tells you he’ll carry you to the toilet every time if that’s what it takes. cleans up your used tissues with zero bitching.
phantom - this bug is a panicker. he’s relatively new and doesn’t get what the flu is so he automatically assumes you’re dying. you end up comforting him more than the other way around. if you do a sinus rinse he’s at the sink next to you, watching and absolutely fascinated.
rain - the gentlest of all the ghouls when you’re sick. unlike the others, he knows when to give you space to heal and be alone. doesn’t mean he neglects you though - like cirrus will absolutely bathe you with no complaints and get you back in fresh pajamas.
dewdrop - speaking of complaints, this guy will bitch on your behalf til there’s no tomorrow. he’ll hold your giant water bottle up to your mouth, proclaiming how fucked up it is that you’re suffering and he can’t really do anything about it. always validates you and your feelings, even if you are being a little whiny baby.
aether - like secondo, he is making you a hearty soup the instant he hears a sniffle. he’s happy to make grocery store runs for your sick staples and comes home with way more than you’ll ever need. when you’re restless because your illness won’t let you sleep, he slings an arm around your waist to ground you and maybe, just maybe uses a little quintessence magic to lull you to sleep in his arms.
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