#apocalypse the risen

[rustedportal]

Coming Soon! AtR: Survivor Starter, a 5th Edition DND Compatible campaign starter for Apocalypse the Risen Campaign Setting. Follow now, back at launch for a free adventure pdf and 6 free Perilous Hunts, deadly encounters, 4 released weekly during the campaign.

[nest-being]

personally when the zombie apocalypse hits i'll probably immediately put on my favourite coord then stuff all my dresses into a backpack or something that i'll take with me everywhere. in the unfortunate case that i die i think it would be really funny if some survivor finds the backpack, opens it up and is just met with a bunch of frilly dresses. like sorry, no food here but y'know how you've always wanted to look like a lavish victorian child????

[the-priestess-of-dawn]

Reading your fics and the funniest idea came into my brain. Grima causes a zombie apocalypse by accident and joins up with Chrom, Lissa, Frederick, and the shepherds (who are survivors) to try to seem innocent but his knowledge of how zombies work makes Frederick get suspicious. Its just some shit like "Oh no dont worry about getting bitten, theyre insects" "How do you know theyre insects" "uuuh i like botany."

Oh, how fortunate, this one still has its mask intact. That means I should be able to control it...

—Wait, not in front of the Shepherds!

Cue Grima pretending he has NO idea what's going on with this one particular Risen that keeps showing up and being helpful. Frederick, of course, is suspicious of both it and the fact that Grima's plans all assume it will continue helping them and not go wild zombie like the others

[autisticshadowthehedgehog]

sonic the hedgehog tumblr dashboard simulator

0 notes

💠 extremegayr Follow

got held up in traffic today cause some noob couldnt drive the fucking loop-de-loop. lmfao fucking coward

15 notes

🎛 420zone Follow

ok but robotnik's kind of a dilf tho

🌫 wispgender Follow

he's literally a war criminal can we NOT do this tumblr

🎛 420zone Follow

📰 its-no-use Follow

@wispgender dont u literally simp for nominatus like who is one to talk

🌫 wispgender Follow

NOMINATUS ISN'T REAL????

🛜 viralsensation-destructorofworlds Follow

that you know of

🌫 wispgender Follow

what

10,672 notes

🔷 sonicinthewild

43,834 notes

☣️ lineinthesand Follow

saw sonic the hedgehog irl once. he showed up at my village, released 30 feral pickys in the town hall, paid the ice cream vendor roughly a thousand rings for a single chili dog, told me not to waste my life worrying about the little things, and then caused a fucking tornado

🧿 spiralhillspindash Follow

ok and??? you're not special

☣️ lineinthesand Follow

THIS WAS A PERSONAL POST GO AWAAAAY

173 notes

🌠 chaoinspace2electricboogaloo

sucks that sticks the badger hates all technology you know she would do NUMBERS on here

568 notes

☸️ r0u3e Follow

being an islander be like "are those the kind of eggsplosions i should worry about or the kind of eggsplosions that are gonna repair our crops, fix the economy, and bring my dead grandma back to life"

🌁 eggpawnkindathicctho Follow

being a continenter be like "oh great what primordial diety has risen from the grave to block traffic and fight a 15yo today"

🥭 chao-official

being a chao be like "chao chao chao chao chao"

🌁 eggpawnkindathicctho Follow

you said it my mans

579,056 notes

🏵 sprinkles-the-chao Follow

hold on if sonic the hedgehog is jewish then how is he santa claus

🤖 e123-omegaverse Follow

dont question him

85,628 notes

☣️ sparkygoboom Follow

hey guys real question are human/mobian relationships problematic

💠 extremegayr Follow

op is about to start the anthro church schism of the fifteenth year all over again

🛞 mobotropolis Follow

ok but in all seriousness did your mom never teach you that part of history

🎢 marxiobros Follow

someone doesn't know about the united federations public school system

🛞 mobotropolis Follow

what the fuck is a public school

⏭️ drowningmusic Follow

⚄ paradoxprism Follow

are we gonna talk about op's chaos radiation fetish

💠 extremegayr Follow

OP'S WHAT NOW

🏞 mobiancrossing Follow

ok but am i the only one who thinks that the public school system would be a good idea if handled right? like i know it's traditional to learn from your parents and then experience the world on our own from the ages of 7-13 but like combining all our knowledge and learning together doesnt seem like a bad idea

☠️ fabian-vane-number-1-hater Follow

bitch that's what the internet is for

🌅 s0leanna-apple-barrell

yeah where else am i gonna learn to make infinite chaos emeralds

❇️ freesurge Follow

"infinite chaos emeralds" that's called the phantom ruby

🏳️‍🌈 rainbowwispforgayrights Follow

everybody on this site has brain damage

❇️ freesurge Follow

yeah. from the radiation

603,573 notes

🐸 froggysfriend

caught this today

🏝 digginginthegroundfortubers

if anything happens to this blog i genuinely hope eggman blows us all up as punishment

950,420 notes

🐊 teamchaotixofficial

Hey guys! Sorry to do this again but rent's a little tight this month :( If we've ever solved a case for you guys or made you guys smile, please consider sending a ko-fi our way! we just need a few rings to get through the month <3

6 notes

🖼 give-the-koco-a-gun Follow

do we ever talk about that time the sky turned blood-red and shadow the hedgehog's demon dad descended from on high to murder us all and we only barely survived

❤️‍🔥 songoose4evr Follow

shadow fixed it it's fine

🎮 n0cturnity

yeah that was like twelve apocalypses ago move on

🎆 robotniksbignaturals Follow

kinda wanted to bang black doom tbh

🖼 give-the-koco-a-gun Follow

THE DEVIL???? FROM THE BIBLE????

🎆 robotniksbignaturals Follow

yeah. move over gayboy i'm boutta be shadow's new dad

856,301 notes

🗑️ berrybarry

starting a conspiracy that time hasnt moved since 2006

🗑️ berrybarry

why the fuck was i shadowbanned after posting this

8 notes

🤡 clownfinite Follow

tfw you finally save up enough rings for ice cream and you go outside and get hit by swatbot pieces and the rings just go fuckin everywhere

587 notes

🔷 sonicinthewild

34,452 notes

🌌 h-o-l-o-l-y-n-x

so did y'all see that genesis wave or was it just me

0 notes

🆙 planetsgiantcrack Follow

the virgin tweeter "if you use a bad word in the same tweet as the word 'cream' you get obliterated off the site" vs this chad site of "i want to put knuckles back in a microwave"

💟 presidentyaoi Follow

BACK????

69,849 notes

⬜️ chao-and-wisps-4-ever-so-cute-2 Follow

ok posting my first fanart to this site pls be nice! <3

2 notes

🌔 emeraldfwuitgummy Follow

why does tails look like he's always about to say "it fucken WIMDY"

🦊 miles-prower-official

Hello, @emeraldfwuitgummy!

I actually quote that image on a constant basis! Sonic thinks it's hilarious every time. He's quite the fan of memes, and it's nice to get a laugh out of him!

Formally,

Dr. Miles "Tails" Prower, PHD

🌔 emeraldfwuitgummy Follow

SO WAS ANYONE GOING TO TELL ME THAT TAILS WAS ON THIS FUCKING SITE OR--

🏅 iwishhumanswerereal Follow

do. do you not know he created tailblr. dude it's in the name lmao

🌔 emeraldfwuitgummy Follow

he

WHAT

🍭 milfwisp Follow

didn't eggman invent this site???

🪫 veganswatbot

THE EGG ABANDONED SCRAMBLR IN ITS TIME OF NEED AND THE FOX RAISED US FROM THE ASHES. YOU WILL NOT DISRESPECT HIM

🦊 miles-prower-official

Hello, @milfwisp and @veganswatbot!

Very good question! This site was Eggman's until I ate his bones. Thank you for engaging! :D

Formally,

Dr. Miles "Tails" Prower, PHD

🌔 emeraldfwuitgummy Follow

YOU

WHAT

🌭 sonicsays

what's not clicking

[vilentia]

Protecting What's Mine

Daryl Dixon x reader

The sun had just risen over the horizon, and the members of the prison community were already up and about. Daryl Dixon had been up for hours, scouting the surrounding area for any sign of danger, as was his duty. But now he had returned to the prison, looking forward to breakfast with his girlfriend, you.

Daryl and you had been together since before the apocalypse, and your relationship had only grown stronger since then. You had known each other since you were young, and your connection ran deep. Daryl loved you with all his heart, and he would do anything to protect you.

As he entered the mess hall, Daryl noticed a new face among the group. It was a man, around his age, who seemed to be trying to get your attention. Daryl watched as the newcomer flirted shamelessly with you, and his jealousy began to bubble up inside him.

You, oblivious to the man's advances, didn't notice how he was trying to get your attention as you perched on the very front of the chair. Daryl took a deep breath and walked over to you, sitting down in the empty space behind you. He wrapped his arms around you from behind and kissed your neck softly.

"Good morning," he whispered into your ear.

You smiled and turned around to face him. "Good morning, Daryl."

Daryl could feel the newcomer's eyes on them, but he didn't care. He held you close, marking his territory and letting the other man know that you were his.

The man seemed surprised to see you with a guy like Daryl, but finally he gave up and left you alone. Daryl felt a sense of relief wash over him as he watched the man walk away.

As you finished your meal, you noticed Daryl's tense demeanor and the way he kept glancing over his shoulder. You knew him well enough to sense when something was bothering him, and you had a feeling it had something to do with the new guy.

"Is everything okay?" you asked, placing a hand on his arm.

Daryl hesitated for a moment before finally speaking. "That guy, he was flirting with you."

You felt your cheeks grow warm as you realized how oblivious you had been to the man's advances. "I didn't even notice."

Daryl's expression softened as he looked at you. "I just don't like anyone trying to take you away from me."

You smiled and leaned in to kiss him. "I'm not going anywhere, Daryl. You're stuck with me."

Daryl's lips curved into a small smile, and he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close. "Good," he said, resting his chin on your head. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

You leaned in and kissed him softly. "I'm all yours, Daryl Dixon."

Daryl smiled, knowing that he would do anything to protect you, no matter what the future held.

[datura-tea]

this is ABSOLUTELY not meant to disagree with you or anything I've just been a little confused lately (plus love to talk about stuff like this). when you say that the fallout show or modern fallout doesn't understand the themes, what do you mean? Is it that they don't execute them as well/as cleanly, or are there things wholly missing that you'd expect in fallout media? and then bc i love your fallout takes: What are the things you'd want/expect?

hmm. the thing is that the first two fallouts + fnv (and fallout 3 and 4 to an extent) are about a post-post-apocalypse. the world has ended, and now a new world has risen from the ashes. new civilizations, new societies, new life. for me, the core theme of fallout has always been that people will always survive, always rebuild, even after such a catastrophic world-ending event, because that's just our nature. it's only a question of whether people will be rebuilding in the image of the old world or making something entirely new; whether they'll let go and begin again or be stuck with their old world blues

i know the series tagline is "war never changes" which has been taken to mean that society is doomed to violence and war forever and ever and ever but i want to point out that it has been rebutted by ulysses in lonesome road ("if war doesn't change, men must change, and so must their symbols. even if it is nothing at all, know what you follow, courier...") so i had really hoped the show and newer additions to the series would have moved on somewhat. but bethesda are married to their "recently post-apocalypse, violence is rampant, everyone hates everyone else" setting, so we'll be getting random settlement bombings explained away by someone solemnly saying "war never changes..." until they run the IP ragged

[angelkissiies]

high infidelity

abby anderson x reader

cw : cheating/infidelity ,, angst

wc : 1.7K

The funny thing about the apocalypse is the fact that the scariest thing isn’t infected, no they don’t even come close. To you, the scariest thing about the desolate world now was the repetitive knock on your bedroom door once all the lights had ceased. It was a girl, a tension, a fleeting intimacy. It was a ball of dread that formed every time you saw her with him. It was the ability to remember the soft brush of her lips but forget the fact that every time she left, she went home to him. Cruel and unusual punishment, stemming from the overwhelming love you carried for her, for a girl who’d never love you in the way you love her. 

“This isn’t right, Abs.” you cautioned, taking a small gulp as she inched closer to your lips. She had a boyfriend, there was no way she was thinking clearly. She loved him, right? There was no denying your heart racing, no matter how much you knew she’d regret it- regret you, all you saw was the way she stared at your trembling lips. “You’re with Owen.” 

The girl paused momentarily, almost as if she was debating it before she moved her eyes to your own. “I want to kiss you and I know I shouldn't.” She whispered, voice quiet as she pushed her previous activities with Owen to the back of her mind. For some reason, they didn’t hold a candle to the blossom of light she nursed in her chest as she felt your breath fan across her face. For some reason, the girl she’d known her whole life felt a whole lot like home. “Nobody has to know, it'll be only once.”

Words escaped you as you sat entranced beneath her, focusing on the heat that had risen into your face. She was everything you’d wanted, for as long as you could remember it had always been her. “O-okay. Just once.” You hummed, taking in a shaky breath as you followed her eyes, attempting to read her thoughts. 

Once turned into twice turned into a couple dozen times. That led to the moment you had her oh-so-familiar knock on the door of your bedroom, sending your stomach into a tight knot as you took longer than usual to get to the door- to allow her back into the vulnerability she’d dug out of you- to allow her in. It felt just like every other night, every other useless display of affection. The doorknob felt like lead, but you forced it to turn, opening the door wide enough to let her squeeze in as you made sure nobody saw her come in. It was a ritual, one that you performed under the false pretense that maybe she’d ever love you. 

“Hey, Abs.” You spoke quietly, shutting the door with a soft click before turning the lock. So far nobody knew of your infidelitous escapades, and you preferred to keep it that way. She looked beautiful, as she did most nights, but it was different today. Her hair was free of its usual fishtail, draped casually over her shoulders as she peeled off her jacket, and her eyes seemed brighter- glossier.

She threw a smile at you as she tossed the garment onto your table haphazardly, spinning around to face you in the compacted corners of your hallway. “Miss me?” She asked, beckoning you to follow her deeper into the room you called home. “Who am I kidding, you always miss me.” 

It was almost funny if the statement hadn’t been true. Despite the guilt you felt going into the situationship you found yourself in, you’d begun to anticipate the moments you got with the girl. Your reasoning being that you’d never get a chance like this again, soon she’d realize how much she’d fucked up and it would all be gone. The intimacy, the late-night calls, the remnants of your friendship. So hell, why not enjoy the thing you longed for the most before she’d never talk to you again. 

“What’ve you been up to?” You ask the girl, following in step behind her as she took a seat on the couch on the far side of the room. It was just like it was every night, the nervous tension that followed you around like a blinded haze as you anticipated her next moves. It was like a game of chess, she moved, you moved and somehow she always won. 

Abby shrugged, moving to untie her boots. “Nothing, just dealing with Owen’s bullshit.” She huffed, her words tightening as she mentioned his name. It wasn’t unusual for her to bring him up, but it hadn’t ceased to send a jolt of nausea through you. “Enough about me though. What about you? I feel like I've barely seen you around.”

‘For good reason,’ you thought to yourself, pulling your lip between your teeth as you pulled your sleeves down your arms to accompany the chill that had overtaken your body. Was there a good answer to this? Was there something you could say that would distract her from the fact that you’d locked yourself in your room all day, hiding from her watchful eye. No matter where you were, you could feel her gaze linger on you, sending a burst of color into your skin. And guilt into your consciousness. “I’m fine, just wasn’t feeling too good today.” You settled on, watching as the girls' brows furrowed, sensing deception. 

“Sick?” She asked, pushing the pair of heavy work boots to the corner. Abby wasn’t stupid, no not in the slightest. She knew something was up, from your separated stance and the hesitation in your words whence she spoke to you. “Come here, let me check your temperature.” This was her way of weeding out the truth, finding the real reason for your obvious off-pittance to her. 

You cursed yourself, not willing to break your train of lies, shuffling over to where she sat. “It’s probably not too bad, I just-” You began, but getting abruptly cut off by her strong hand coming up to pull you down onto her lap.

“Abby!” 

The girl laughed lightly, hands coming around to brush the now frizzy hair from your face. “(y/n), I know you're not sick.” She stated matter-of-factly, eyes trained on yours as she now attempted to read you. That was much easier for her, seeing as it was her job to know what everyone else was going to do before they did it, and you were no exception. Yet, when she probed deeper into the story your eyes had to tell- you ripped them away from her own. “Why won’t you look at me?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

“Abby..” Your voice was trembling, leading her to release her hold on you. You shuffled over to rest on the opposite side of the couch, avoiding looking at her. You already knew what you’d see, the hurt expression she carried like an open wound, the one that shattered your heart into a million pieces, the one she knew would bring you back to her. “I can’t do this anymore.” 

Abby furrowed her brows, lips parting as she struggled to find the words to say. Her chest felt tight, breathing getting heavier as she just stared. You were the only thing she looked forward to, her eyes finding you in a crowd before she could even find herself. The time she got with you was precious, she devoted herself to it. 

You took a shaky breath, glancing up at her before finding interest in the cushion of the couch. “Whatever this is, it’s-,” 

“Please don’t say it.” Her voice trembled, and the anxiety had twisted her stomach into knots, causing her breathing to go shallow as she fought the pricking tears. 

The room fell into silence as you halted, your heart hurting as you thought about the life you were throwing away. If it could only be as easy as asking her to choose, to stay here. To give him up. You couldn’t do that to her, you knew how much they’d been through together. 

The girl beside you slid off of the couch, coming to sit up on her knees in front of you. Her striking blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears as she peered up at you. It was her way of leveling with you, as that’s all she could think to do, hoping you’d change your mind. “Stay with me, please.” She whispered, hands resting on your knees gently. 

“I can’t be second to him anymore, Abby.” You admitted, shaking your head as you wiped the quickly escaping tears from your cheeks. You hadn’t intended to cry, wanting to break this off on a good note, but the universe had other plans. “I love you, but I just can’t.” 

She knew this would come one day, though she didn’t expect it to be so soon. Something inside of her wanted to give in to you, to march into her apartment right now and break up with Owen, but she couldn’t bring herself to throw away so many years of her life for something she didn’t know would last. As much as she loved you, she feared leaving the safety of familiarity. She spoke of her love in poetic terms but she found herself faltering on her follow-through as she slowly pulled her hands away from you. “I won’t leave him if that’s what you’re asking of me.” She murmured, casting her eyes down. “I love you but he’s my past.” 

You felt the sobs shake your body as you wrapped your arms around yourself. “Let me be your future.” You pleaded, words coming out broken as you battled the emptiness that had started pulsing in your chest. 

Abby felt your words pierce her heart, filling her with an indescribable sadness as she mulled over the things she’d be giving up by leaving you now. You were everything, but Owen used to be her everything, so how long until you turned into nothing just like him? Her face was tinged red, eyes gaining a hazy fog as she fought herself. It was eating her from the inside out. 

“I-I have to go.” She rushed, pushing herself off of her knees, grabbing her shoes, and heading for the front door. She was moving so fast that she forgot her jacket, barely even noticing it as she struggled to unlock the door. Her hands were shaking so badly it took her over a minute to get it open, practically vaulting herself outside before slamming the door closed behind her. 

You just stared at the door, stunned.

She just left. 

[thydungeongal]

Speaking of sandboxes with a bit more narrative content beyond just doing random location-based adventures, the Further Afield supplement for the OSRish fantasy RPG Beyond the Wall is an invaluable resource for that sort of gameplay in my opinion.

The supplement introduces the idea of Threats, inspired by Fronts from Apocalypse World, into its sandbox. The idea is that a Threat represents a major local threat that if left unaddressed can wreak a lot of havoc in the local environment. The supplement gives a couple of ready-made Threat Packs as well as guidance on how to make your own, but basically: every "campaign turn" (I think it was week in the context of Further Afield) the Threat has a chance to activate, based on its current level. If it activates something happens that has a visible effect in the campaign: villages get torched by the evil dragon, all random encounters for the week are with the risen dead, etc. There is usually a very clear way to combat the threat (kill the undead king, kill the dragon) but since these threats are already on the map at the start of the campaign they can't be addressed immediately. Instead, there are usually a number of intermediate goals that need to be addressed (gather the hilt and blade of the dragon-slaying sword, find the ritual necessary to reverse the blight polluting the area).

It's a really nice campaign framework that gives the players a clear goal from day one instead of leaving them to follow a trail set by the GM to figure out what the actual plot is, as well as giving them a lot of freedom in how to pursue the goal.

(Errant, another fantastic game, has a similar system, but notably much more abstract than the somewhat book-keeping heavy system of Further Afield. Errant is great in many ways and it's one of those games I eventually want to get to try out, but at least for the time being I can steal some procedures from it.)

[rustedportal]

Rusted Portal Games presents the AtR: Survivor Starter. The first expansion to the Apocalypse the Risen Campaign Setting.

FREE! All Backers within the first 48 Hours receive a Free PDF Adventure, 5E compatible What's Cooking (An Incident). This is a 4th Level Apocalypse the Risen one-shot adventure.

FREE! All Backers will receive a Weekly Perilous Hunt (Deadly Encounter PDF) during the campaign. Backers celebrating with us at the end will receive 2 addition FREE Perilous Hunts.

FOLLOW Now to be alerted when the campaign launches so you don't miss out on free adventures and the first Campaign Starter expansion for Apocalypse the Risen.

[whateverisbeautiful]

♥️ Ranking Richonne

#24: Family Fun Days (S9E03 & S4E15)

Grimes Family 2.0 has my heart eternally. 🥹 They are the best family to ever grace an apocalypse. And what’s so sweet is during their Family Fun Day in s9 and s4, it truly didn’t even feel like an apocalypse - that’s how much love and joy Rick and Michonne were admirably able to place in their and their kids’ lives. And while the fallen world turned Rick and Michonne into walker-slaying warriors, who they really are to their core are parents. (ours and their kids 😋) So the final Family Fun Day and the first unofficial Family Fun Day are a tie on this list for allowing Richonne to show why they're the greatest parents around...

Starting with the s9 Family Fun Day, one of my favorite parts is when Rick, Michonne, and Judith are walking hand in hand in ASZ. It’s so idyllic and so the type of rewarding happy life these three deserve.

I think back to s5 when Rick and Michonne were outside the gates of ASZ with Carl and baby Judith in the backseat of their car. I love that the leap of faith they took together in coming to this place has now turned into a stable home where they can fully enjoy being family.

I feel like words can’t fully even capture how much I love all this. Their smiles. Michonne cheering Rick on by saying, "come on, daddy." Judith skipping. Rick's countdown. And the way they lift her up and cheer Judith on. Somehow, I never noticed it until this rewatch, but after they lift Judith up, Rick and Michonne say “wow” at the exact same time. Always in sync those two. 🥰

And Rick and Michonne getting to just be parents is the best and so meaningful. After the devastating loss of children, the way Rick and Michonne have risen from those depths of despair and given Judith a beautiful cheerful life is so commendable. And, truly, it speaks to the strength of Rick and Michonne's impact on each other's lives that they can be this healed and happy now.

I’m choked up from just this initial moment and it only gets cuter with each of their activities. It’s clear that this is Judith’s favorite way to spend the day, but make no mistake, this is Rick and Michonne’s favorite way to spend the day too. And I love that Family Fun Days are something they seem to do often and look forward to. (also it's sweet that, throughout the series, we got several indicators that little Judith is a mama's girl 😊)

It was such a joy to see this side of Rick and Michonne, especially knowing we’d only have 2 more eps before Rick’s departure. I love that we got to see Rick just have so much fun as the best girl dad. He deserved to have so many more days like this with his baby girl. 🥲

Also, what I would give to have seen a family fun day that included Rick, Michonne, RJ, Judith, and Carl all together. 😭

The good thing is Rick and Michonne are going to do everything in their power to get home to Judith and RJ, and I have hope TWD's best parents will be able to have plenty more days like this to enjoy with their children whenever the four reunite.

(Side note: Since we're talking Grimes family in this post, can I just say I never understand the complaints about our sweet prince RJ being a regular kid doing regular kid stuff - like ??? To me, it's actually the biggest flex that Rick and Michonne's baby is living a normal life. A whole dang apocalypse hit the earth, and your kid is able to just read comics and ride bikes because, even in the most dangerous possible world, you managed to create some normal (as normal as it can be in that world) stability for your children - What a win. And rather than find him "boring" as a kid under age 10 just living life, I find it heartwarming that RJ Grimes got to be so normal. The mostly peaceful and regular way RJ is living is the very thing Michonne and Rick wanted and fought for. It's the very thing RJ's big brother Carl fought for too. How wonderful that they got what they wanted 🥰👌🏽)

And then the montage includes my absolute favorite visual with the three of them on a picnic blanket all relaxed, with a brief glimpse of Rick handing Michonne a pink flower as Judith seems to notice the way her dad loves her mom. Even in just a .5-second clip of Rick wanting to give Michonne that flower we see yet another example of how Rick so naturally shows love to his wife. 🥰

I love that in s9 especially, Rick was like if y’all don’t know nothing else about me, you’re going to know that I’m head over heels in love with Michonne. And he’s just so good at courting her even in their married era, and I adore how he’s always thinking of how to gift her.

Y’all, everything in this moment (& the deleted picnic scene where Rick expresses wanting more years like this with his wife and kids) gives me so much happiness and peace. Again, it’s so idyllic and tranquil and pretty. I wanted them to live in this moment forever.

The picnic shot is just beauty and I will always cherish it. It makes me think about Carl’s vision in s8, of their family playing hooky. I know Carl would be so proud to see the three of them essentially doing exactly that on this beautiful family fun day. Like this whole montage is truly what Carl wanted most for the three of them. 🥹

To this day, when I see Scott running over while the three are reading, I’m like damn it. 😫 Richonne deserved to have a day to be all about their family and nothing else and Rick and Michonne look like they really do agree with me in the way they both communicate with a wordless look lol.

They don’t want this family time to end, but they know the world is ready to start screaming again. I do like how Rick sees Scott coming but keeps reading tho. Like ‘maybe if we keep reading he’ll just jog past us.’ 😂 

Seeing Rick kiss Judith before joining Michonne and Scott is so sweet and so sad because it’s his final interaction with his daughter before he’s taken away for years. 😭

Rick and Michonne again wordlessly communicate upon learning about that murdered savior, and you can tell they’re both disappointed. And I'm disappointed that Family Fun Day was cut short too, but I also was like, I should've known...

But I adore that this scene, which ends up being Rick and Michonne's last time side by side in the present, does not end on disappointment.

Rick is quiet and looking at Michonne, and then he looks away frustrated and stressed, especially because this new development could jeopardize the unity and safety he and Michonne so badly want to build for their people.

It’s so clear how Michonne feels for him, knowing how much they both wanted to have this day to just be. And then the shot focuses on their hands with Rick’s fist clenched to further illustrate his frustration. 

But Michonne always knows how to offer Rick the exact right uplifting encouragement and so I love that she then takes his hand. The choreo of it is so good with her slowly sliding her hand into his. It’s symbolic for Michonne to be the one who could most help Rick release his fist, thus release the frustration, and hold onto what matters most.

And, of course, Rick is receptive and holds her hand. He can always receive the positivity Michonne instills in him. And so I love that Rick tightly holds her hand and allows that to be the note they can end on together. 

Richonne handholds are always a thing of beauty so I love that their final moment like this ends on that emphasized visual. Even when things fall apart, they’re still in it together. They’re still held together by their love.

Y’all, how do even their hands tell a compelling story? I mean they always have. From exchanging bullets in Clear, to passing mints and holding hands in their canon ep, and this significant final present moment between them. It really does highlight the strength, love, and unity of Richonne's relationship. 

It’s also sweet how Rick and Michonne's official romance began with a handhold, and their final moment ends with one too. And while their journey is about to devastatingly take them on separate paths for years, I really feel like this handhold right here actually never breaks.

In many ways, during their years apart, Rick and Michonne still embarked through life as though their true love was still with them, still holding their hand and supporting them because their love is neverending - as noted in both Rick and Michonne's sentiments during the TWD series finale.

(Side note: There’s this interesting contrast I think about - because with losing Lori, part of what made it so painful on Rick is knowing they never got official closure after they grew distant and their marriage fell apart. But then with “losing” Michonne after he was taken, part of what likely makes it so painful for Rick is that their marriage was in such a great spot. Rick and Michonne were so beyond close, happy together, and hopeful for their future just before Rick was taken away. And that’s a unique pain to just be abruptly plucked from the woman you were so longing to spend the rest of your life with. Where the Lori loss featured an element of mourning a clear closed door, the Michonne “loss” is an element of mourning all the doors he hoped he'd open with her. And I’m really curious to see how Rick has been dealing with that type of pain while away in TOWL)

This whole sequence of events in 9.03 is the definition of precious. And the song in the background pairs so nicely with this heavenly time. I love Grimes Family 2.0, and this was like a beautiful love letter to them.

It was a lovely reward for Rick and Michonne after all they've been through in this series. And I just appreciate how much joy was depicted in every moment Rick got with his girls in season 9. (their opening moment in the s9 premiere also gets an honorable mention cuz I absolutely adore it)

So I called this Family Fun Days plural because before Rick and Michonne so adorably had their day as mommy and daddy with Judith, they had another version of a family fun day out in the woods with Carl. And this moment, along with the s9 montage, are my all-time favorite Grimes Family 2.0 scenes.

This one in season 4 is so meaningful because during their s9 family fun day in ASZ they were enjoying merriment in the safety of their community - but here the golden trio of Rick, Michonne, and Carl are traveling while unsure of where they’ll get their next meal or where they’ll lay their head for the night…and yet they smile. 🥹 The levity found in this moment is so important and heartwarming to see. 

I love that Michonne was so effortlessly able to be a best friend to Carl and helped him have fun even in an apocalypse. I adore the opening of the scene as Rick talks about resources running low and turns around to see Michonne and Carl adorably preoccupied with their train track competition.

Rick turning around to see Michonne and Carl reminded me of the s9 premiere when the first thing we see of Rick is him opening the doors to watch Michonne and Judith.

I know Michonne’s bond with Carl and Judith means the absolute world to Rick. And I can only imagine how moved Rick would (and will) be to see her bond with their adorable son RJ too. 😭

(Again, I'll never get over the fact that Michonne really carried Rick's child. How extremely beautiful. 🥹And soon Rick is going to finally know all about the son he made with the love of his life. Won't He Do It! 🥳)

I always appreciate that Rick walks over to Michonne and Carl, letting them have the moment a little longer, and the way Michonne playfully tries to win their competition. Carl sharing the Big Cat because "we always share" is also just so sweet.

And, of course, you know I love the way that man Rick is grinning while watching and appreciating this wholesome family moment. 🥰The way he keeps sneaking glances at Michonne as he smiles - I forever stand by the fact that Rick has fallen in love with Michonne by this point.💯

Even despite their circumstances, the three seemed so happy in this moment cuz they’re together the way it was meant to be. And I love that Michonne and Rick both valued giving Carl a good childhood against all odds.

In Carl’s devastating final episode "Honor" he tells Michonne "Don't carry this - not this part," and I always like to think that this moment on the tracks is one of the parts of their journey Carl hopes Michonne holds onto instead. Cuz it was such a beautiful happy moment that cemented the three as a family.

And, clearly, she and Rick did choose to carry the good parts with Carl and even pass it on to Judith as they and their daughter so presently enjoyed a day of fun and games seasons later, where for a few hours they didn't have to be community leaders or fierce fighters. Instead, Rick and Michonne just got to be what they so cherished being - mom and dad. Grimes family forever. 🤍

[songoftrillium]

NEW on Storyteller's Vault: Hearthbound

I've published my first ever book! This is an early release of Dead Mountain content, is meant to help fund additional art for Dead Mountain, and it's Pay-What-You-Want!

Designed to bring some much-needed family ties, this Supplement is meant to give players and storytellers a framework for telling stories that confront the ugly sides of the Garou Nation.

Homecoming

Hearthbound gives you a new inclusive faction and multiple levels of intrigue to add to your Werewolf: the Apocalypse tabletop!  Long kept beneath the heels of the Garou Nation, Crinos-Born and Kinfolk have found solidarity in supporting each other, and have turned out en force to demand disruptive change from their Tribes.

Inside Hearthbound is a peek into the birth of a new kind of Tribe that venerates the ideals of Shantar, a patron of inventiveness and creativity, and keeper of The Loom. They are taking a critical look at the heart of the Garou Nation itself. Long sold on the lie that Kinfolk cannot raise Crinos-Born children, an awakening is happening within the Nation, where the families that raised these Garou, realize what they are doing to their Crinos-Born. This sparked a movement to help Crinos-Born looking to escape their Tribes come to be raised in Kinfolk homes. 

These Hearthbound, beholden to the people they love, act as judges of those Garou that abuse the Litany to systemically oppress each other. They are ambassadors to the spirits on behalf of their kin, Nannas to the Crinos-Born they help free, and Sorcerers capable of blending into societies and rewriting the Pattern Web itself.

There is a deep hurt within the Garou Nation.

The Hearthbound have risen up to protect those oppressed voices that have existed at the edges of the nation for millenia.

While this book is primarily written as a supplement for Werewolf: the Apocalypse 20th Anniversary Edition, all concepts and features of this emerging tribe can find its place in any edition of this game, new or old. There are also translation rules for utilizing these gifts in 5th Edition (if so inclined).

Hearthbound: Tribe Supplement Features:

The background and rules for creating a Hearthbound up to Third Rank!

No original art!   

New Gifts!

Expanded Tribe histories and faction dispositions!

Guidance on confronting the Litany and Renown!

Story seeds on how to incorporate Hearthbound into your chronicle! 

[maxbegone]

all so human with our guards down by maxbeonge (88.2k) — completed

“Constant fear is debilitating,” Alex tells him later on. The sun has risen, though it’s barely prominent through the dark clouds in the sky. “Even in the world we live in now, you need to find the things that make it feel…normal.”

Of course, Alex isn’t even sure that makes much sense, and he thinks about doubling back on what he just said with something stupid and word-vomitty, whatever pops into his head first, but Henry beats him to it. Much more suitable, and it puts Alex’s mind at ease:

“I’m starting to think you’re right.”

The world ended three years ago. No more all-night study sessions, no more drag brunch and mimosas, no more societal expectations.

But out of everything Alex was expecting from an apocalypse, Henry sure as hell wasn't it.

[maybege]

A Helping Hand

Summary: When one more omega is in the group, the suppressants aren’t enough for everyone and you end up getting your heat for the first time since the outbreak. (Part of The Weight of The World AU)

Pairing: alpha!Boba Fett x fem!omega!Reader

Wordcount: 5.1k | Rating: E (18+ only!)

Warnings: Modern AU, Zombie Apocalypse AU, A/B/O dynamics (scenting, heats, etc.), yearning, unrequited love (or is it?), a little bit of fluff, explicit sexual content, dry orgasm(?), pet names (princess, good girl, etc.), praise kink

Good morning everyone and happy weekend! I hope the summer is treating you well and that you are looking forward to the second half of this year. 🥰 It has been way too long since I delved into my love for Boba, so if you’re interested in a part two (perhaps he helps Reader out with her heat? 👀), let me know! I really hope that you enjoy this story and would be very very happy if you let me know what you think in a comment or a reblog!

Please note that “Sunshine” is essentially Reader from the Paz version but I had to give her a nickname somehow to make sure she is still part of this.

masterlist | crossposted on AO3

When Charlie presented as an omega, everyone in the group knew you were fucked.

There was no better way to say it.

“We don’t have enough suppressants,” Paz said out loud what everybody knew already, “They are harder and harder to come by and the last pharmacy didn’t have any. Chants is already on half a dosage, I am not sure how we can stretch them more.”

“What’s that? Suppressants?”

Din turned to the little boy that had snuck his way into the conversation. “Something for grownups, buddy, c’mon let us talk in peace.”

You smiled when Grogu shrugged, completely unbothered, and returned to where he had been playing with Pan and Jarno.

Sometimes you envied the kids in your group for the semblance of innocence they could still afford to have. And then you felt bad because this was not the childhood you wanted for them. Stars, you knew about babies being born and the thought that this was the only kind of life they would ever get to know made your stomach hurt and your heart ache.

Yet, they did not have to deal with problems like you were now. The adults of the group had come together, standing together and saying nothing but muddling over the same thing. Deep down, you knew that there was only one solution and you were pretty sure that almost everyone had come to that conclusion.

Almost.

“Maybe I don’t need suppressants,” Charlie piped up, shifting nervously next to his mother, Bernie, “I could pass my heat just like that.”

“No, you can’t,” Briggs said flatly, the old man crossing his arms in front of his chest. He had not been here the longest, only joining the group a few months ago when Paz had found him and Sunshine fighting off a horde of zombies. But despite his recent status in the group, he had risen in rank quickly, his advice and opinion honoured by those you had chosen as unofficial leaders.

One of these leaders was Boba who was standing right across from you. Like Briggs, he had crossed his arms in front of his chest, his biceps bulging and you swallowed, trying to keep your staring as subtle as possible.

With the late summer now cooling down, he had started to wear flannel again and you were a little embarrassed to admit that fall had not only become your favourite season because of the harvests you could make but also because you got to see the alpha stroll around with rolled up sleeves.

Trying your best not to look too long at him, you glanced back at Charlie.

“But what if I –“

“Charlie, dear,” Moira piped up, her voice gentle and kind. It was the same voice she had used to comfort Bernie this morning after she had made the discovery that her son’s scent was not as beta-like as she had hoped. “Briggs is right,” the older woman explained, “You will need your suppressants more than anyone else in this group.”

More than you.

You swallowed heavily, trying to get enough oxygen into your lungs to fool your heart into believing that you were not about to have a full-blown panic attack.

Charlie’s light eyes met yours and you knew him well enough to know that he was feeling the same way.

“Come on, Charlie,” you heard yourself say, stepping forward, “Let’s go for a walk.”

Everyone else let you pass without a word of protest and Paz nodded at you in approval. Bernie looked like she had about a thousand different things on her mind and you could not blame her. The outbreak was the least ideal place to be an omega – much less discover being an omega. And to see that your child had to be an omega in this cruel world? You could not imagine the pain she was going through.

The tree line was only a few steps away from where you had stood, the clearing only barely big enough for you to set up camp, and so it only took a few more steps until the thick trunks provided you with some privacy. With the summer nearing its end, the leaves filtered the sunlight a light gold and you took a moment to appreciate the pure beauty and peace of it.

In the last few years, there had not been enough moments like this.

You watched as Charlie started to pace from tree to tree, bouncing off them like the DVD logo on the sides of the screen. There were a lot of things you wanted to say, a lot of things you wanted to assure him of. But you also knew that he was not prone to listening right now and you could not blame him.

 “I don’t want to take your suppressants away from you,” the boy started, tears of anger running down his cheeks, “I – I don’t want to be an omega and I don’t want to have heats and I don’t want everyone to look at me like I am a fucking failure!”

His voice got louder and louder and in peak teenage fashion, he kicked his foot over the ground, sending a bunch of leaves up in the air and sailing down to the mossy floor.

Your brows rose in surprise.

“They are not my suppressants,” you corrected him gently, “They are for those in the group that need it most. And that is you.”

Charlie huffed, still not looking at you.

“It’s okay to be scared,” you said, “And it’s okay that you are unhappy with your presentation. Stars knew I always wanted to be a beta. But,” you stepped closer to him, “We don’t always get to choose what happens. And while it speaks to your character that you don’t want to put me in an uncomfortable situation, Briggs is right. Everyone is. You don’t know what a heat is like, especially your first one. It is too dangerous. At least I had mine already, I know what it is like.”

“That was years ago,” he protested, “Before the outbreak.”

“Yes, but it is still more experience than you have,” you added.

That seemed to get him thinking but he still did not look very happy. Deep down you knew it was not your fault that he was feeling this way or your responsibility to make him feel better. But you remembered how terrified you had been when you had your first heat and how terrified he must feel now.

“Look,” you took a deep breath, “We always knew that there would come a point where we have to choose who gets the suppressants. We were just lucky until now. Lucky that Chants has an implant and that Moira doesn’t get her heats anymore. And we got especially lucky when Sunshine mated with Paz before she could need them,” you said glancing over at where the giant man was gazing at his omega like she hung the stars in the sky.

The gaps in the trees afforded you the perfect view of the camp and when you saw the couple, so very in love with each other, something tugged at your heartstrings. You had never been interested in Paz that way but something you stung when you saw the way he looked at his mate. You wanted someone to look at you the way he looked at her.

You wanted someone to love you.

Charlie’s shaky breath snapped you out of your thoughts.           

“Anyway,” you sighed, putting your hand on his shoulders, “If you are feeling like you take the suppressants from me – you are not. I know what I am getting into.”

“I always thought I was going to be a beta,” the boy finally said, revealing the true reason for his upset, “Like mom … and like dad.”

Your heart ached.

“You’re not less like your parents just because your presentation is different,” you assured him, “You will always be their son.”

“I know but … I feel like I disappointed her,” his shoulders slumped, his head “Mom, I mean.”

“Oh honey,” you pulled him in for a hug, “She is not disappointed. She is just worried about you.”

He wrapped his arms around you and you pretended not to notice the way his body was shaking or how his hot tears soaked your shirt.

Minutes passed like this and you could see the birds flying in the crowns of the trees, the leaves and canopy shaking and throwing intricate patterns on the forest floor. You wished you could stay here forever, in this little, safe corner of the world that seemed so far away from everything that wanted to kill you.

But you knew you never stayed in a place too long and it would be time again soon to move somewhere else.

“Thank you for that,” Charlie mumbled and pulled away from you, “Can – Can I be alone for a bit?”

“Sure thing, kid,” you smiled, “Don’t stay too long or else Briggs will send a search party out.”

He nodded and you smiled before making your way back to the camp. The leaves crunched under your shoes and you spotted a little squirrel rushing its way up a tree.

Your head was spinning as you approached the group, the reality of the situation really sinking in. Then again, it really should not be a problem at all. There was no reason to be nervous. After all, you were in a somewhat protected environment and you were an adult. You should be able to face a heat alone. Right?

Everyone was busy doing something (your heart warmed at the sight of Grogu, Pan and Jarno listening completely enraptured to Moira and Briggs retelling a Shakespeare play) but you could not find it in yourself to join anyone.

“All good?” Chants asked you, looking up from where he was working on one of the cars with Din.

You nodded, “All good.”

There was no reason to tell him that you felt like your heart was about to explode from fear or that you could feel your palms get sweaty at the thought of stopping to take the pills immediately.

*

That night, the entire group sat by the fire, seeming like the issue from this morning was long forgotten. Briggs, Paz and Din were bowed over a map they had placed on the hood of Altarf’s truck, probably planning the safest route to take when it was time to change camps.

Altarf and Sluice had been on dinner duty today and the stew they made still sat warm in your belly. The night air had cooled down significantly so you had remained at your place by the fire, amicably chatting with Sunshine and Bernie. You could see Grogu and the kids playing in the dirt by some of the cars.

Chants and Moira were off collecting the hanging laundry of the day and you already looked forward to wearing some freshly washed clothes. 

How lucky you were that even years later you could all go to bed with a full stomach and the knowledge that you would wake up in the morning. Somewhat safe, somewhat sheltered, and surrounded by people who had become family.

“Wisconsin would take us right by Minneapolis,” Paz said, drawing a line with his finger. You smirked when you noticed how Sunshine immediately zoned out of the conversation, all her attention on her alpha.

“We are definitely not heading to Washington,” Din protested, “Heard that corner is a powder keg waiting to explode.”

“North, then?” Briggs asked, “If the tracks we found are anything to go by we would need to get a few days’ distance between us and here.”

Hearing them talk about moving camp made you anxious. When would your heat strike? Would you be so unlucky to have it while you were on the move? You had been on suppressant for so long that you hardly remembered what it felt like to go into heat. Would you really survive several hours in a car with your mind occupied with being fucked seven ways to Sunday?

“You okay?”

You flinched, looking up at the alpha that had just joined you.

“Boba,” you chided the man who gave you the hint of a smile.

He sat down next to you, the fire illuminating his features and you allowed yourself to look at him a little longer than usual.

Boba Fett was … He was …

Boba Fett was the kind of man you had dreamt about before the outbreak. And, to be honest, after the outbreak. The way he held himself so full of confidence and competence had always attracted you and you found that with each day that passed, you had another little thing you loved liked about him.

One day, it had been the way the crow’s feet on his eyes showed when he laughed. It was a rare sight but that made it all the more special, seeing him joke around with Din or Paz or one of the kids.

Another day, it had been exactly that: the way he was with the kids. At first, you had expected him to be a grumpy loner but there was a kindness there when he taught them about the dangers of weapons and made sure to show them to properly handle one if they ever came across a rifle.

Then there had been his hands. Stars, his hands. Thick long fingers and palms weathered from work. You knew he hadn’t been a mechanic like Din but that he had helped him out and he still did now, fixing cars and engines right and left in that week when all of your vehicles had started making problems, threatening to get you stuck in Northern Arizona.

That was another thing: his competence. It made you weak in the knees and your panties wet to see him be so knowledgeable about so many things. Sure, it started when you had seen him, hands greasy and white tank top stained, fix one of the trucks like it was nothing. But it had continued when he had disassembled and cleaned his guns and put them back together again like it was no big deal. Or that one night where you had crossed a group and had spent dinner together and one of them had a guitar. You remembered it like it was yesterday, the surprise on (almost) everyone’s faces when Boba had asked for the guitar and played a few songs for the group.

Another day it had been his jaw and the stubble that grew when he went a few days without shaving. You wondered what it would feel like on your neck or between your thighs and you woke up more than one morning, vivid dream memories in your minds of how he had scented you with a stubble jaw like that.

Yes, Boba Fett was the alpha that made your voice stutter, your heart race and your pussy feel so very empty. Only that you were too shy to ever do anything about it. With Paz and his mate, it had been obvious to everyone (except for them) that they were meant for one another and it had taken barely any time for them to figure it out, too.

But you and Boba … You had been part of this group almost for the entirety after the outbreak. If anything were to happen, it would have happened by now. You were sure of it.

Realizing that you had stared at him for a little too long, you cleared your throat and looked at the glowing ambers of the fire.

“You okay, Princess?” he asked you quietly, “You’ve been quiet today.”

“Oh, you know,” you shrugged, trying to ignore how that made your cheeks feel suspiciously hot, “Just thinking.”

“You’re worried about the suppressants, aren’t you?”

You did not say anything which, apparently, was confirmation enough.

“We won’t let anything happen to you,” he stated, calm and confident and it was so easy to just believe him when he continued, “You’ll be the safest you can ever be, omega. It will be over before you know it and then we can see if we can some more suppressants up in Wisconsin.”

“Charlie’ll need them,” you said, your hands fidgeting, “I won’t get suppressants any time soon, Boba, we both know it.”

When you turned your head to look at him, you were met with brown eyes gazing at you so intimately, it made you want to crawl right into his arms. It made you want to curl up in his lap, tuck your face into the crook of his neck and just breathe him in until everything was right again in the world.

He opened his mouth, ready to say something and you saw his hand twitch like he was about to reach out to you.

“Now now, what are we whisperin’ about?” Moira laughed, sitting down on your other side. Sluice and Chants were with her and you watched as Sunshine walked over to Paz, being greeted with a grin and a soft kiss.

“Nothing of importance,” Boba replied, still looking only at you but straightening up. Only now did you notice how close he had been, how his knee had brushed against yours, and now with him standing up, how it left you cold and alone. “I think I’ll head over to Din … get the details of the route we’re taking.”

You wanted to ask him to stay with you a little longer but your shyness made the words dry on your tongue and you watched him leave.

“Hey there, princess,” Sluice grinned, sidling up to you. You knew she was just teasing you. It was the running joke in the group that Boba kept calling you princess like it meant something.

Of course, it didn’t.

(But stars knew you really wanted it to.)

*

It took four days for you to notice that something was wrong.

There even was a moment where you had had the slightest hope that maybe you wouldn’t get your heat. That you had taken the suppressant for so long that your body has just decided to skip them altogether and make your life that much easier.

But of course, it didn’t.

It started with you feeling more restless than usual. Whereas the kids’ shenanigans previously amused you, they now surprised you. Even more so when they would jump from behind trees but fake scare you only for it to end up really scaring you. They laughed at first at your surprised squeal and the little jump backwards you made, good-natured as kids were, but by the fourth time it happened, a stern Boba rushed over, his hand on your back, and telling them off on how it was mean to keep scaring you like that.

Then your temperature rose. Only at night at first. Despite the evening cooling down and Chants getting, you kicked off your blanket more and more, wishing you could just take off all your clothes and bathe in a cool stream. Then it happened when people touched you. Altarf brushed your hand once when giving you a few dishes and it felt like your skin was on fire, making you flinch. The same happened with Paz, the big man frowning with concern when you jumped away from him when his hand landed on your shoulder.

(It didn’t happen with Boba. Or at least it didn’t happen like that with Boba. Boba’s touch caused a warm fire in your belly that spread outwards until your entire skin was gently tingling with the need to be touched by him. Which was perfectly normal, you tried to tell yourself.)

You flinched away not only from but from everyone who had not approached you loud enough or anyone who touched you. No, your clothes started to feel scratchy, ill-fitting and just way too thick. Sluice started to tease you about how you were always fiddling with the collar of your shirt, trying to get the cool late summer air onto your body.

Not to mention the smells.

Stars, the smells.

You had never really bothered with how the others smelled. Sure, you had been faintly aware of how Paz’s scent had changed when Sunshine had first joined and how they both had become more prominent. Or how Charlie, now having his own presentation, had gotten his own scent. Or how musky and woodsy and comfortable Boba smelled. But that was nothing compared to the stench they now all emitted – except for Boba.

It was like you could no longer stand being around them. The only people you tolerated were the kids and Bernie. But the person you sought out the most was Boba because he smelled divine.

If he noticed it, he did not show it but the important part was that you noticed. And you knew you didn’t have long until things would get serious for you.

Only that you had not expected it to get serious so soon.

The night was dark and quiet when you had snuck out of the truck. You tried to tell yourself it was because you could not sleep but deep down you knew it was because you were way too hot and even Chants – Chants! – started to reek so bad you could no longer spend even a minute in that truck with him.

You knew it wasn’t his fault. If anyone’s, it was yours. But so, you snuck out, into the cool night air that made your skin feel normal again and that was free of any stench because everyone was fast asleep in their cars. If you focused enough you could even hear Altarf’s snoring.

Being outside helped, you found, but as quickly as your body cooled down from the heat wave, just as quickly did it reach a temperature that had you shivering. Debating if you wanted to risk getting back to the truck to get you something warmer or if you could –

Your thoughts were interrupted by pain so bad it made you double over.

A split second of confusion gave way to the realization that you were starting your heat.

The muscles in your abdomen cramped up again and you gasped, falling to all fours as you tried to gather the strength to press your palm against your belly. The touch helped minder the pain a little but it also made you aware of how you were yearning to be touched.

You wanted to feel hands on you – in your – and your pussy to be filled and someone to sink his teeth into your neck and mark you his.

Who were you kidding you didn’t want someone, you wanted Boba.

Tears of frustration and fear stung in your eyes and you tried to even your breathing.

This was okay. Everything was okay. It was not the first time you had your heat and it would not be the last time and hell, if you had gotten through it before, you would get through it again. Didn’t matter if it felt like your body was burning up from the inside and the only thought that made it better (and then much worse) was that of an unattainable alpha claiming you.

“Shit,” you cursed, furiously wiping at your cheeks, “Shit shit shit shit!”

Someone’s shoes appeared in your field of vision.

It was none other than Boba.

A breeze rustled the trees and his scent filled your nose, sending a wave of calm through your body. Closing your eyes was involuntary but you did not mind because your body felt so much lighter now. It was like a weight had been lifted off your chest and you could breathe.

He smelled even better than before, the scent of pine wood and something you could not yet pinpoint driving you crazy. You could feel your temperature rising a few degrees and suddenly it all came rushing back to you. The frustration, the fear, the panic, the desire.

“You okay?” Boba asked, sounding very concerned.

You could not help the way your bottom lip trembled as you allowed yourself to admit that –

“No,” you breathed out, “I’m terrified, alpha.”

He sank down to his knees in front of you. Your eyes immediately fell to his crotch and you were ashamed to admit that the first thought you had was to reach out and undo his zipper, to try and see what he

Thick arms wrapped around you and pulled you out of your thoughts and into his chest. His body exuded warmth that yours had been missing and you relaxed into him. His hands were on the back of your neck and your lower back and his touch caused pure warmth in you. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, just like you had dreamt of, and breathed in his scent.

In a movement so small, you barely registered it, his nose brushed over your neck and you gasped softly.

“I know,” he said, his lips moving against your skin, “I know, princess, I can smell how scared you are.”

“What if I fuck it up?” you gasped into him, trying to hold the tears at bay. Your hands grasped at the back of his flannel, the fabric not feeling as repulsive as your own clothes, “What if – what if Chant can’t sleep because of me and we get attacked and he cannot defend himself and – and what if it is all my fault?”

A sob wrecked your body and you huddled closer to him.

For the longest moment, Boba did not say anything, merely holding you to him as you tried to gather yourself. Having him so close, with his hands on your body and your nose pressed against his neck, made it that much easier to calm down. You felt safe with him.

“You will sleep in my truck,” he stated, then, “I can bunk with Chants.”

“But – but –“

“Omega,” he interrupted you warmly and your mouth snapped shut, your brain short-circuiting at him calling you that, “You will have your heat, there is no question about it. You need rest and a safe place to nest and soft things. My truck has that and all the privacy you could desire.”

“Okay,” you nodded, swallowing back the tears that threatened to form in your eyes (again), “Thank you, alpha.”

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you remembered that calling someone by their presentation was something intimate, something special. But it felt right, calling Boba that. Because if anyone was your alpha, it would be him. You could not imagine anyone else having the effect on you that he did. And you did not want anyone, except for him, to have that power.

His nose brushed over your scent gland again, this time right behind your ear, properly scenting you.

“Oh,” you whimpered, feeling a trickle of arousal gather in your panties. You clenched your thighs, he

Boba growled, his chest rumbling against yours, “Fuck, I’m sorry, omega, I shouldn’t have –“

He pulled away, ever so slightly, his hand cupping the side of your neck and the trickle became a wave when his rough fingertips brushed over the sensitive spot.

“No!” you protested quickly, a little too loudly, maybe, but you did not care if it meant you could have him scent you again, “Please … I – one more?”

The alpha in front of you froze and your eyes fluttered closed when his fingertips continued to caress your neck.

“You want me to scent you?” he asked and you were too far gone to notice if he sounded surprised. But what you did notice was how his thumb rubbed gentle circles onto your neck, how his eyes seemed a little darker in the light of the moon and how his scent seemed to get just a little bit stronger.

Shyly, you nodded, deciding to throw all caution into the wind. “Yes please, alpha.”

There was that rumble in his chest again, the one that made your pussy pulse and your thighs clench. But you could not even pretend not to be affected by his ministrations. Not when his nose, making your body break out in the best kind of shivers.

“That okay?” he asked against your neck and the fact that his lips were touching your skin now, the hint of his tongue peeking out again the patch of skin, made you almost feel blind with lust. “That feel good, princess?”

“Uh huh,” you brought out, tilting your head back so he had better access.

“Sweet little omega,” his lips grazed your ear before he moved his mouth back to where you needed it most, “Good little omega.”

His hand moved back to the back of your head, holding you against him and keeping you this and that way so he had the best angle to lavish your neck with attention. You allowed him to manoeuvre you as he needed, knowing instinctually that you would be rewarded in the best way.

And oh stars were you right about that.

“Smell so fucking good,” he grunted, his hips snapping against yours, “Bet you taste even better”.”

You did not know what made you come. His filthy words, the idea of his mouth, the feeling of his teeth on your skin, threatening to mark you or the outline of his hard cock against your flimsy sleep shorts, pressing right into your clit.

Maybe it was a combination of all of those things that had you stifling your moan against his neck and your vision going white. That had your pussy pulsing and clenching around nothing and your folds getting even wetter with your release.

You knew the first orgasm of a heat was the hardest to achieve. Which made it all the more surprising that it had been so easy with Boba. You were so stunned that you did not even have it in you to feel the slightest bit of shame at how needy you were. How you had just come undone in front of him like it was always meant to be.

“Good girl,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss behind your ear before gently untangling himself from you, “Feel better now?”

You nodded quietly, still reeling from what had happened but also feeling drunk on his pheromones.

“C’mon,” he murmured, his hands helping you stand up onto shaking legs, “Let’s get you into bed, sweet thing, wouldn’t want to keep you from your nest for too long.”

You could only hope that he would join you.

[thelastofhyde]

ii. the revving of engines.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

synopsis. joel miller’s not made it this far in the age of the apocalypse just to die at the hands of some adrenaline-crazed, no-brain-having fool who barely knows where to place her hands on the steering wheel. hind-sight fully intact and ever-so eye opening, he should have said no before frank could even finish his question: can you teach the girl to drive? read part one, the likeability paradox, here !!

warnings. no use of y/n ( joel’s nickname for the reader is sol ), panic attacks, perv!joel, slightly dark!joel, soft!joel ( for like a second ), a smidge of fluff, gun violence, murder, smut ( unprotected piv sex- don’t be silly, wrap that willy-, public sex, car sex but also not, exhibitionism, possessiveness, murder kink [ kinda but not really, joel just gets... more enthusiatic at the thought of protecting the reader], mentions/implications of panty stealing, male masturbation, sex as a form of payment, glory-holes, dubcon. joel has a massive c*ck because i said so <3 )

word count. 16.7k ( my dumbass really thought this would be shorter than part one- )

hyde’s input. this took criminally too long to write but i did warn you that i’m a slow writer, so hopefully this makes up for the wait. think i may be a little in over my head with this one because, woof, there’s a lot going on. i’m still trying to wrap my head around how many people enjoyed the first part, i’m speechless. thank you for every like, comment, reblog, ask that has given me the motivation to not just write a second part but to turn this into a whole series. i’m really looking forward to sharing joel and his sol’s story, and i hope i’ll be able to write it in a way that not only conveys the love i have for these two idiots in love but will also make you guys fall in love and root for them too. more to come of these two soon ( soon = whenever hyde feels like it ) &lt;3

taglist. @kayleezra , @newavenger , @luthienaliceisilra​ , @str84pedro , @baebee35 , @aheartgonewild ( if you’re crossed out, i couldn’t tag you for whatever reason ) + add yourself to the taglist here !​

read on ao3. (capitalisation available )

the journey has been one of silence.

it all begins three days prior to arriving at their destination, with a dishevelled joel startling awake. sitting himself upright, a string of grunts and groans flow from him as several new pains in his back make themselves known, one for each year he’s lived. sleeping on the couch is no place for a man of his age, but it has become his abode more frequently as of late whilst tess has let herself get acquainted with the likes of a recently widowed woman.

why on earth the two women seem to insist on occupying his and tess’ shared mattress for their sweat-provoking and sheet-tangling endeavours when the widow’s own bed now harbours one less occupant, joel is none the wiser.

“you sly fox!” it occurs at an hour much too early for tess’ level of excitement, a spark of something in her voice he’s not quite heard in nearly a decade now, back when she’d let it slip that she’d made contact with someone over the radio. “keeping this all to yourself!”

blinking out the sleep-induced blur in his vision, his hands rub over them in a further effort to clear his sight. the couch squeaks beneath the weight of him as he leans forward, elbows coming to rest on his pointed knees. confusion leaves him in a questioning grunt.

“c’mon, joel, the jig is up!” she’s insisting on maintaining her enthusiasm, and the man has to wonder just how good her night must have been for her to be so chipper come barely an hour past sunrise. “so, who is she?”

with only the sparing of a clueless, sleep-filled glance, joel’s risen to his feet and shouldered past his companion. headed straight for the minuscule kitchen, where once he would have boiled a kettle and prepped himself a mug of instant coffee, nowadays he’s lucky to find enough water to fill a single unwashed cup. he does just that, watching the water fill only a third of the plastic before downing it in one gulp.

tess is hot on his heels, following him through their cramped living space. he sighs, resigning himself to the reality he’s faced with: this is not a conversation she will let him walk away from. be whatever it may be, the woman is hunting for some answers. “what’re ya talkin’ about? ain’t keepin’ shit from you.”

he’s reminded, much to his own dismay, of a time she’d accused him of cutting deals on the side without her, back when her distrust and his aloofness had kept their newfound partnership on edge.

“oh, really?” her voice never loses that sense of excitement, and he’s beginning to wonder whether he should be grateful or resentful of this. the smile on her lips spreads wider over her face. “then explain these, casanova.”

there, dangling over her extended pointer finger, lays a blur of lace.

it is a dainty little thing, a blush of some pastel colour that’s oh so feminine it makes his toes curl at the thought. a tangle of fabrics so delicate he fears they’d fall apart with just a taste of his calloused touch.

it is delicate, it is soft, it is dirty.

and it is yours.

was yours, till he’d ripped it down your legs and stuffed the fabric into the back of his jeans. it was a mindless action, at the time, and one he’d forgotten about, tucked away in the unmarked box in his mind where he’d learned to place most things involving you. sleep-filled eyes, and wine-stained lips, and serenity-inducing laughter, and heavenly-soiled lace. forgotten about, until he’d been stripping himself off at the end of the night and the garment stumbled to the floor at his feet, calling for him like tess’ lover cried her name in pleas of more.

he’d tasted the softness of lace that night, first on his lips and then around his cock, tangled in the unforgiving grip of his frantic hands.

the fabric had not been forgotten since, always within reach of the man. where some kept trinkets of silvers and golds as their symbols of luck, he kept your lace, tucked safely in the back left pocket of his jeans, awaiting his nervous fiddling in times when stress ran high and only the softness of the fabric would pull him back down to earth

“they ain’t mine.” still, he snatches them out of her grasp.

back left pocket, tucked back into safety.

“never said they were,” she has a point, but it only serves to frustrate him. because of course she wasn’t implying they were his to wear- never in a month of sundays would the likes of joel miller fit himself into such well-kept lace-, but she sure as hell believes they are his. “thought i’d be nice for once and clean some of your clothes, since you seem to have forgotten how to. they fell out your pocket while i was busy folding some trousers.”

convenient.

that’s what it is, considering that in their who-knows-how-many years of partnership, the woman has not taken the time to tend to his washing. he’d asked her, once, body recovering from a near-fatal stab he’d taken to the abdomen. she had not said no to his request. or, rather, she had not simply used the word no. ask me again and i’ll finish what those raider’s started.

every surface of the room captures his attention, from the ripped wallpaper to the tattered remains of what once were curtains, anything other than tess, who hovers at his shoulder like a fly to shit.

he needs something to do, to distract.

thinking of the days ahead, he begins a list of things they’ll need- gauze, food rations, water, more gauze. joel has still yet to sharpen their knives, displeased with them since the moment he’d noticed tess’ struggling to cut through a cable wire. did they have enough ammo? maybe he’d need to grovel for some more off of bill-

“who’ve you been fucking, sunshine?”

frozen where he stands. mind in disarray, heart pounding a thousand miles an hour, blood somehow both everywhere and nowhere in his body at once. all he can think is that tess knows. sunshine. she knows, she knows, she knows.

she knows and she’s going to tell frank, who’ll tell bill, who’ll place a target on joel’s head and hit bullseye the moment he so much as tries to step anywhere near you, and then where will joel be? back to facing only the dull grey skies and locking himself away in bone-chilling solitude.

clarity befalls him.

she’s teasing. sunshine. it’s not an answer to her question, it’s a name meant to mock him. tess has no clue, not a single incline to guess what events had transpired in the stillness of the night the last time she’d dragged them out to bill and frank’s. she doesn’t know.

“if you don’t want to tell me,” the words leave her in a sing-song tone, and for a moment he needs to remind himself this is a woman his own age, not a teenager. it would be easy to confuse the two. “i’ll just have to figure it out myself!”

he won’t be the one to tell.

“laura silver.” it’s the first name that comes to mind, and the image it paints in his head brings forth a repulsion unlike no other. he’d rather lick shit off a stick than subject himself to her company willingly. by the twisted-up look on tess’ face, she seems to agree.

“really? isn’t she a bit... chatty for you? and, like, way too happy?”

she has no idea.

the questioning glances only amplify once the two set off, each stop they make along the way- to eat, to sleep, to rest their deteriorating joints- punctuated with that feeling in the air that joel dislikes so much. the unsaid, the unfinished, the more. it makes his stomach lurch with anxious thoughts and his heartbeat cease under the stress they bring.

birds tweeting, wind howling, leaves rustling becomes the soundtrack to their travels, guiding them onwards with encouraging notes and filling the empty pockets of silence that sit between the four, five, six steps he walks ahead of her, fingers curled around a weapon and eyes trained on anything that moves the wrong way. the guts and gore of clickers stabbed and bloaters beaten wet their clothes in the early hours, yet they dry come noon, coating their every inch in a sickening syrup.

“you both got another thing coming if you think he’s gonna let you through the door like that.” joel had not experienced anything like it since the ages where he’d arrive home hours past his curfew, knees scrapped on gravel and clothes stained in mud, stood beneath the dimming porch light as his mother washed him.

only, it is bill who holds the hose instead of the woman who’d raised him.

freshly hosed down, a trail of dripped water marks the space he crosses through the house out into the backyard, losing tess along the way as she calls dibs on showering first- as if joel wouldn’t immediately put himself last in any scenario that involves her.

what he finds is a garden in gloom, infant rosebuds so young and new to life they’ve yet to lose that tinge of green that separates them from the rest of the bush they inhabit. it is the image of winter, casting its blue hue on everything it touches, from the leafless trees to the wolf-eyed dog, who’s tail begins a slow wag from its place upon the floor before the mutt’s jumping up all four paws and bounding its way over to him.

the german shepherd crashes into him like a wave, nearly sending him stumbling backwards. it’s grown in the past weeks, he realises, large paws a little more suited to the length of its stretched back. he fights a fearsome battle to contain the man within him who longs to clap his hands down on the dog’s fur, with an inhale of breath he hopes will drag down the words of praise and greeting aimed towards the pointy-eared creature, joel manages to dismiss the animal with a shrug.

it follows him, even so, as he takes another step out into the yard.

frank’s familiar figure sits within a chair. he’s calm, staring out at his decayed world as though he’s merely waiting for the passing of time to bring back the colourfulness his flowerbeds once possessed. his hair sits the same, his clothes look the same and, yet, something is off. joel can’t quite put his finger on it, all he knows is that this man is half the man he’d bid goodbye to weeks ago.

“sorry for dragging you guys out here again so soon,” his words are gentle, like always, yet his voice is ragged. joel wonders if he too had caught that damn cold. maybe him and tess brought it into the house, leaving behind a tally of germs for the three occupants of the home to choke on. maybe you’d caught it too. maybe you were in need of someone to make you soup and fret over the temperature your body keeps. maybe he should have returned sooner. “but i’m sure bill’s already filled you in.”

bill has done no such thing.

joel shakes his head. frank’s never one to push him to talk, accustomed to the likes of a man who’s short on words and spreads any dose of warmth his soul may posses sparingly. it’s a trait he appreciates, the patience to never expect more. frank talks, joel listens, both of them agree on this dynamic.

“we’ve got nothing for you this time, i’m afraid," joel swallows a snarky then what d’ya call us out for. he’s not subtle enough to go unnoticed by the man who’s known him too long, who chooses to combat the raising of his hackles and the frowning of his brow with calmly spoken words. “but we’ll owe you one. a favour, i mean.”

that recaptures his attention. his shoulders lower in tow with his hostility and the dog nuzzles its muzzle into his hand, forcing him to uncurl his fist. “what’s the catch?” he asks because he knows frank, and he knows that frank knows him, that frank chooses his words wisely when they’re alone. he wouldn’t be beating around the bush, keeping his words vague and his tone secretive, if it weren’t for the fact that joel, likely, will not enjoy partaking in whatever favour they’re about to ask of him.

“we’ve got a truck, in the garage,” he shares, like this is news to joel, like he’d never seen the vehicle in question. “and it’s been a while since it’s had a run-around, breaks are probably squeaky as sin, and-”

“get to the point.”

frank smiles, less uneasy as joel’s usual candor nature gets in the way of his brooding image, interrupting his silent streak with a rushed out jumble of words the man’s sure would sound harsher were they directed at anyone other than the friendly-eyed artist. “can you teach the girl to drive?”

joel’s ability is not being questioned, in truth, but rather his willingness.

the request is sensical, understandable for a girl your age- whatever that may be- to have no experience behind the wheel. the damned mushrooms had likely already taken hold of the world by the time you’d reached the legal driving age.

it is not a difficult task either, he supposes, with no need for every intricate little road rule to be passed down. so long as you can learn to spin the wheel, shift the gears and control the pedals, you’d be good to go.

agreeing to it would also, in theory, be agreeing to the prospective scenario where joel miller finds himself trapped inside the small, four-wheeled confines of a moving vehicle with someone who grinds his gears and haunts his thoughts. there’s so much room to suffer in the solitude of your presence, so much potential to think up what-ifs and if-onlys in his head as you stare back at him, eyes beaming rays of pure-heartedness. i don’t like you, joel. it’ll echo in the distance between you.

“bill can’t do it?” his question is met with a grimace, and he wonders if the man had already attempted. perhaps you are beyond teaching in his eyes and so they’ve settled for calling in joel to deal with your unsalvageable driving skills. perhaps they know you already dislike the man and figured there’d be no harm in giving you more reason to, when he loses his patience and scrutinises your driving skills.

“she won’t let him,” joel’s head snaps up from the floor, eyes shifting from the mutt enjoying the carding of his fingers over its head back to frank. the greys in the man’s hair seem to have multiplied, the wrinkles on his face a little deeper. joel’s struck, his stomach twisting up, with the reality of noticing his friend is growing old. “said she’d sooner trust a clicker behind the wheel than bill. she asked us to call you guys.”

you called.

you wanted him here.

you guys. sure, it may be the collective of both him and tess. but he’s still a part of that equation, meaning you’d willingly brought him close, beckoned his return to the heaven he’d left you in.

one shower later and he’s wadding his way out back, into the garage. hair still a mess of towel-dried curls, clothes fresh and a little unfitting- he’d stolen them from frank, after overhearing the man inform tess he’d taken the liberty of burning their blood soaked clothing.

he’d agreed to the deal, much to frank’s delight and his own shame, mind too enraptured by the prospect of solitude with you to judge the situation at hand clearly.

the door creaks, a beg for oil, and announces joel’s arrival far sooner than he would have preferred, stumbling upon the scene of you. more specifically, the back of you, doubled over. everything from the waist up digging through the backseats of the vehicle, seemingly searching for something, while everything downwards sits on full display for his starved eyes to feast upon. boot covered feet, the hem of the most nonsensical skirt resting upon bare calves, the curvature of thighs beneath silk, the stretch of tightened fabric against your ass.

joel thinks himself a strong man, but he is weakened by the sight.

you startle at his entrance, rushing to straighten yourself so quickly your head smacks against the top of the car’s door frame. a hiss and a pressing of a hand to your head is not enough to comfort the witness of your harm, crossing those three steps forward needed to grip your jumper-covered shoulders and spin you to face him, eyes immediate with their scanning of your features, frantic to confirm you’re not teary-eyed, nor pouty-lipped, nor in the beginnings of a concussion.

“i never heard-" you pause whatever you wish to say when one of his hands covers your own, cradling the back of your head. he’s well-aware this is too close, too unlike him, too noteworthy. but he can not seem to care enough to welcomed back the distance that so often sits between you. “oh, it’s you.”

“sorry to disappoint ya.”

he surely is.

disappointed, confused, conflicted. here you stand, no runny nose, no bloodshot eyes, no scratch in your voice, no need to be cared for. it’s a selfish thing, to feel his heart lurch at the fact you’re in full-health, no pesky cough in sight, but his distaste towards the feeling only makes it double in size.

“no! sorry, i just,” you’re the first to inch back, head tilting to meet his stare with your own. he follows suit, taking your unvocalised desires and stepping away from you, hands back by his own side and vowing to keep themselves there. “i thought it would be tess teaching me.”

so maybe you’d never called for him.

he’s just the tag-along, the con to tess’ pro, the consequence to tess’ presence. you view him like the sun views the moon: a small, dim, lifeless rock that sits in wait every waking day, orbiting around tess’ planet.

it is not news, yet it stings like it. a fresh wound added onto the litter of marks that ache his soul. the pain leaves him in the only way he knows how anymore; a face devoid of emotion.

“not,” you’re uneasy. thrown-off. squitterish. hands tuck up into the sleeves of your sweater and eyes glass over with worry. the possibility that he scares you both lights his soul on fire and sends it to drown in a lake made of his sorrows. “that there’s anything wrong with you! i just... figured you’d have better stuff to do.”

he doesn’t.

“yeah, well, i ain’t doin’ it for free,” his proverbial foot shoots into his mouth, slamming shut whatever small window of opportunity he’d stumbled upon to say the kind thing, to do nice by you for once. i don’t like you, joel. but he could change that, if he just changed his attitude. and his nature. and his sense of being. so, just about everything about himself. it would not be much for the promise of a piece of his sol. it’s  much too late for that now and, so, he commits to the role life’s already chosen for him to play, the heartless bastard. “let’s get this over with.”

“jesus christ, sol, didn’t your daddy ever put ya behind the wheel?”

joel’s anger is unjustified.

he’s aware of this, in the back of his mind, yet any rational voices burn into silence at the heat of his ire. only twenty, or thirty, or forty minutes since you’ve hit the open road, since he’d buckled himself into the idea of being alone with you, and the car feels like it’s closing in on itself. every inhale a struggle for oxygen, every exhale a subdued desire.

perfectly manicured nails grip the steering wheel.

counting trees had worked, if only for a while, to keep his focus off everything occupying the driver’s side. the novelty wore off as you passed the thirty seventh in a row, where joel’s eyes finally drifted off from the view ahead to the one on his left.

a pair of lips sit parted in concentration.

he’d needed a new distraction, one he found as he popped open the glove compartment and found a man of his taste’s holy grail. well, at least the holy grail that was found in materials rather than between the thighs of- cds! rock, country, punk. the 70s, the 80s, the 90s. fleetwood mac, the rolling stones, johnny cash. that’s what he’d found, a collection bill must keep to hold an emblem of what the world once was: loud, rhythmic, lively. now static, quiet, lonely. not even a full verse into ring of fire and you’d switched the volume off. “i can’t concentrate with that crap playing.”

half a thigh, exposed by the slit up a skirt.

now he has nowhere to turn, to let himself run off to in thoughts that promise the sweet salvation of distraction. facing forward is not an option, the empty road ahead holding no ounce of his attention. focusing on the right as the world passes by outside the window holds no merit, and no amount of trinkets nor garbage that litter the nooks and crannies of the car helps. his eyes always find their way back to you.

breathtaking in the most painful way, you sit unaware of the effect you have on him. as you shift from third to fourth gear, as your thigh tenses to press down harder on the gas pedal, as nimble fingers unnecessarily practice using the indicators. you don’t see how his frown deepens and he scorns you with his stare.

“he was a bit busy making a name for himself,” you utter a reply minutes too late, when he’s already convinced himself you hadn’t heard him.

your focus is strict, eyes glued on the road as if you’re afraid an obstacle- be it something infected, or something animal, or something malevolent- will come your way. and all the while, joel’s sat in shock, pure fucking eye-widening shock, as the words you utter slowly seep into his brain. minute as it may be, it’s the first detail, the first piece of history you’ve offered of yourself. an absent father, the words cause a dull ache in the left side of his chest. 

god, he’s being too quiet, he needs to ask more while you’re willing to answer.

you switch to fifth gear with a delay that would have cost you points back in the days of capitalistic civilisations. the gear-box makes an ugly noise of which the engine follows up with a growl of its own. 

panicked, your hand shoots straight back to the gear-shift, curling around it so tight the white bones beneath your knuckles threaten to rip through your skin and put themselves on display. the car slows with the release of your foot off the pedal and he presumes you mean to lower the gears too- perhaps, you’ve thought it best to maintain the safety net provided in the third gear- but you must not be thinking straight, must lack proper motor-control over your body, as your hand pushes down on the stick and, slam!

the car comes to a complete stop.

the sharp pain that cuts up his neck as whiplash takes over, the weight of his upper-half flying forward and stopped only by the seatbelt that crosses over him, it becomes near non-existent as a strangled cry and a whimper of pain comes from the driver’s seat.

a scrambling of hands, a forceful push onto the pedal, a handful of panicked breaths and fearful mutterings of something involving bill and kill and will. none of it helps in the face of your problem. you’re stubborn, however, trying once more to push the stick forward, and getting nowhere. joel tells himself to remain delicate in his touch and composed in his heart as his hand clamps down on top yours, curling his longer digits around the gear-stick and giving it a tug upwards, effortless in his attempt to shift the car out of reverse and back into the first gear.

your eyes meet his. watery, and big, and full of fear.

“musician?” conversation, that will distract you in your moments of panic. he’ll talk you through the fierce currents of racing heartbeats and sweaty palms, till your waters are calm as can be.

the hand that still sits atop your own gives a soft squeeze.

“deep breath, sol,” he leads by example, filling his lungs with a sharp, deep inhale through his nose. you follow, nodding as if you’re in a trance yet you mimic him nonetheless. deep inhale, through the nose, inflate your chest. “atta girl. you’re fine. car’s fine. ya just stalled it, s’all. happens all the time.”

he’s hopeful to be helpful, but then the first tear wins the war over your composure, slipping down your cheek as you shakily exhale. another few- four, he thinks, but can not say for sure- follow suit, staining ugly cristaline rivers down the globes of your cheeks. another inhale from joel, another exhale from you. you breathe in tandem, as if relying on the other to remember such a human act is necessary for survival.

it’s purely instinctual, something as uncontrollable and unpracticed as the beating of his heart or the blinking of his eyes, the way his free hand captures ahold of your cheek. the rough pad of his thumb swipes over the bottom of your eye, so close that he feels the tickle of your lower lashes, collecting whatever tears threaten to fall next.

let them stain his skin instead of yours.

“ya dad,” maybe you need clarification, something to stall the rapidly speeding thoughts that race through your mind. “was he a musician?”

at first, silence. more deep breathing, less shaky exhales. your tears still wet his thumb but they no longer seem to be spilling down your cheek, collecting on your lashes like the dust on a shelf. he thinks of wiping the tears off the untouched side of your face, mostly to settle whatever part of him feels shaken at your distress, yet, as he slowly raises the hand that sits atop yours on the gear-stick, you halt him. fingers tangle messily with his own and squeeze so hard he feels the pressure deep in his bones, threatening to snap like twigs.

and, then, you shake you head.

no.

nonverbal, yet entirely understood by him.

your dad was not a singer. you hear him as much as you feel him. you’re slowly returning. to the car, and to a rational state of mind, and to him. a few moments pass, slipping between you with as much ease as his thumb stroking over your wrist, pushing down just that little bit till he feels the fading thrump-thrumps of a panicked heart. he speaks once you’re ready, once the slow rise and fall of your chest lulls his own self into a state of calm. “gonna need ya to turn the keys in the ignition, think ya can do that?”

you do as he says, inadvertently placing your trust in him and his words, and turn the key. when the car shudders yet fails to come alive, your head snaps right back to him, eyes a pleading mess for answers, guidance, help.

it does wonders to his ego, to that caveman mentality that sadly resides in some corner of his mind. needed, useful, protective. things he doesn’t get to feel with tess, doesn’t need to feel with tess. she takes care of herself, and him, and never asks for a damn thing in return. but you need him, need his calming words and his knowledge of vehicles.

for once, he’s a necessity instead of a casualty in your life.

“foot on the clutch, sol,” his pointed words hold no mockery, becoming a metaphorical rubber-dingy that he tosses your way, one more thing to pull you into the safety of a calm shore.

this time, the engine roars back to life.

you’re elated, a smile splitting up your cheeks even as you let the car crawl to a start, wheels turning slowly as you give the gas a light tap. he sees the way your shoulders sag, like a ten-ton weight has just been stripped off them. 

“told ya, s’just a stall,” it’s the nicest i told you so he can offer, especially as the lingering of that nasty feeling still creeps over your actions, subduing you in a way he doesn’t quite enjoy. you should not be meek, nor placid, nor doubtful yet that is all he sees as he watches you hesitantly drive the car into second gear. “used to happen t’me all the time. at the worst times, too. like... intersections and shit. can’t count the times i got flipped off by some truck driver.”

you giggle. quiet, girlish, subtle. joel almost mistakes it for a tickle in your throat, a discomfort you catch yourself coughing over. but, no. your shoulders dance, your lips tilt up, rapid little breaths sneak out your nose. it doesn’t even matter that it’s at his expense, the fact he’s the one to rouse such a delicate reaction despite his rough voice, and rough words and, well, rough everything, it’s enough to settle his soul with a deep contempt.

you continue slowly, not daring to test the power of the car. he says nothing, not a word about the waste of bill’s fuel nor the painfully boring pace at which the world flies by outside the window. you’ll speed up, he knows it, once you get your momentarily lost confidence back. talking seems to be your first approach to easing the tension in your stiff arms. “actor.”

he hums in question, quirking a brow despite your gaze being fixated on nothing but what sits ahead.

“he was an actor. a wannabe actor,” you’re soft spoken, trying your best to keep that shake in your voice under control. “my dad. so... you almost had it right.”

“anything i might know him from?” he tries, and fails, to match the lightness of your voice, his own far too gruff, and dark, and jagged to replicate the smooth edges of your own. 

“not unless you had a thing for cheesy teenage romcoms.”

the words seem to take control of him, forcing their way out before he can so much as recognise their existence. “i didn’t but my dau-” if you notice the way he halts himself, you say nothing.

“wanna know the most ironic thing?” he senses no real humour behind the few chuckles you let out, eyes lost ahead. joel wonders if you’re truly seeing the road, or merely looking at it, letting the world blur as your focus sits elsewhere. you await no response before continuing. “the only role he could never master was the present father.”

a father placing his dreams over his child, the idea is one he can’t quite wrap his head around.

joel had had big dreams, once. dreams that involved world tours, and golden records, and screaming fans. those dreams were shoved aside, not even a whisper to be heard in his mind, the moment he held his bundle of joy for the first time. screaming her little lungs off, tiny body covered in fluids he could never name, eyes staring wide back at him as she took in the image of her father for the first time. she became his new dream, his only dream. to hold, protect and love.

just like the stage, he eventually lost that dream too.

“i’m sorry,” he breathes the words out, quiet beneath the hum of the engine.

“why?” you’re not harsh with your delivery. in fact, you even glance momentarily in his direction and shoot him one of those smiles, the ones that steal the spotlight away from everything else and render him frozen beneath it’s shine. nonetheless, joel fears he’s done it once more, offended you without even trying. “it’s not your job to apologise for someone else’s mistake, joel.”

the silence which settles between you once more feels less like the awful quiet of drowning beneath crashing waves and more akin to the static of an untuned radio, with its antenna out of place and detecting no signals. it’s calming to sit like that with you and somewhere between the hum of the engine and the world passing by outside the windows, joel’s mind wanders off into dangerous territories.

territories where he thinks of this exact setting, you driving and him sitting in the passengers side fighting off the sudden languid feeling that grips his soul, only in his imagination it’s later, deep into the night. you’re not alone on the road, a collection of cars passing by and driving ahead, and the smell of cheap beer fills the car. snoring from the backseats, a sleepy girl finally given into the call of sleep after a long day. the image of his hand reaching over the console to find yours, matching silver bands clinking together as he lets himself entwine his fingers with yours.

he jolts up straight, head no longer resting on the window and eyes blinking away whatever make-believe daydream he’d inflicted upon himself, when a sound of anguish comes from your seat.

selfishly indulging in his silly fantasies, joel’d failed to notice your silence was not the same as his. while he bathed in warmth, you quivered in coldness. your nails now threaten to leave marks on the steering wheel, your lips point downwards in a frown, your thigh shakes nervously with each measly push of fuel you give the car.

it’s cruel of him to keep you driving in this state.

“there’s a gas station a few miles from ‘ere,” his words are punctuated by a defeated sigh, already beating himself up mentally for not noticing soon enough the state you’ve been sat in. “pull into it.”

if joel had a nickel for every time he’s seen you in this position, he’d have two nickels.

your chest heaving with every breath, your back pressed to his front, your closed legs stood between his own. flashbacks to the kitchen, all you’re missing is a knife in your hand and a counter-top for him to box you in against.

he’d believe the idea of popping the car’s hood and teaching you a little about the interior of a vehicle was a good one, a smart one, a chance to gain some knowledge that may prove itself useful. the plan was to show you where things sat- the engine, the dip-stick for the oil, the battery- and hope the momentary distraction would be enough to unravel your nerves, leaving you primed and prepped to drive you both back to the home joel would never share with you.

as marvellously innocent and simple as his plan was, he’d failed to take into account one important detail: you’re your own person, capable of things he’d never think to predict. so, when you’d stepped out the now parked truck a few minutes after him, sweater left behind and nothing but some flimsy, practically see-through white tank top, he’d just about felt all the blood drain from his face- and head straight to his crotch- while his eyes done little to hide the glaringly obvious staring at your breasts they indulged in, the blush of colour from pebbled nipples beneath the fabric enough to have him salivating at the thought of putting his mouth on them. “i’m not staining my favourite sweater with oil”, that had been your excuse for torturing him so cruelly.

he’s no better than the old perverts who used to drool over a woman jogging down the street.

“ok, so, this,” you shuffle forwards, feet crunching down on some crumbling gravel below. before joel can let relief flood over his senses at having just that slightest bit of distance between you both, you bend at the hip and lean across the vehicle, hands grabbing at a familiar yellow stick. “is the dip-stick?”

hearing your voice but rendered incapable of listening, he’s frozen. the fingers at his side ball into fists as that familiar beast seduces itself over his senses, flashing images in his mind of all the places he’s yet to place his hands. your neck, your waist, your thighs, the wanton desire to map out your every trace and burn it into his memory is endless, all-consuming.

your voice calls out his name.

he hums, you repeat your question, to which he huffs out an agreement, tongue too heavy to form words.

“then this,” you stretch further, fingertips reaching for the top right corner. not quite reaching your desired object, you shuffle two steps back and send him into turmoil as your ass presses tightly into his crotch. like a wounded animal, he sucks air in through his teeth and clamps his hands down on your hips. initially he means to move you but, inevitably, he holds you against him. “must be the battery.”

the jeans he wears seem to have grown a little tighter. uncomfortably so. still, he can’t bring himself to care, nor to readjust them, grip only clamping itself down tighter on you at the sheer threat of removing them.

he’d thought back to that night, more times that he cares to admit to himself. at first, it was a means to an end, a memory of lustful images to drive him towards some quick pleasure and relieve the pressure of stress off his shoulders, giving him the chance to actually get some sleep. your taste on his tongue, your hands in his hair, the weight of your body keening back into him. he felt it for days. weeks, even, ghosts that haunted his skin.

then came the guilt, seeping in like rain through the crack in tess’ and his ceiling.

he had no right to touching you the way he had. here you are, a glimmer of light that brings warmth into the coldest of place, while there he is, a thunderstorm of emotions all wrapped up in the darkness of rain clouds, threatening to stain and dampen everything he puts his care into. his daughter, dead. his brother, gone. and, hell, even tess has nearly slipped through his weak hold countless times. so, how dare he subject you to the danger of his caress, mark you with the touch of death his heart seems to bring?

hours of tossing and turning, unwrapping himself from tess’ arms as he’d crawl out of bed in the middle of the night to go wear his footprints into the floorboards of their living room, pacing back and forth as withered hands ran through greying hair, searching for some solution to this... this swelling in his heart, ache in his bones, longing in his loins at the memory of you.

bill had asked him once, years ago, what his greatest weakness was. he’d been wise enough to gruff out a harsh nothin’.

his answer has changed, since then.

you reach into the darkness of his spiralling mind and drag him back with three words. “texas, you good?”

he doesn’t quite give you an answer. not a vocal one, at least, settling for giving each of your hips a squeeze when words fail him. he’s gazing in admiration and wonder, eyes trailing themselves over the way you’re struggling to stretch further, the tips of your fingers fighting to reach the object you’d been trying to identify. one moment, you’re huffing over the fight to touch the car’s battery, and the next, you’re sending two tidal waves down joel’s spine: panic and arousal.

maybe, you don’t mean to do it. it could be purely accidental, an action you don’t even take a second to consider after years of living solely in the presence of two men who bare no interest in bending you over any surface. but, you do it.

you whine.

it’s born from pain, your entire frame shooting upright while clutching your hand close to your chest. joel knows that alone should be enough to vanish any explicit thoughts from his mind. the hunger only grows though, his insides twisting up at the notion of you being hurt, needing comfort. a kiss to a bleeding wound, he’d deliver it no questions asked.

his hands are still around your waist. your bodies are still pressed together. he feels every shaky inhale, every heaved exhale. it’s a struggle to pry your injured hand away from the safety of your chest, pulling backwards till your elbow juts outwards and your open palm sits level with his mouth.

it’s your pointer finger, a dark, angry looking mark running halfway down your fingerprints.

“‘s the matter with ya,” worry has always been something joel expresses loudly. raised voices, frantic movements, heavy steps. his brother had called him out on it, the morning after his parental care led to a heated argument and the slamming of doors, from both the pre-teen and the adult in the miller household. it’s a flaw that’s only worsened, with time and circumstance, and it keeps him from saying what he really means. are you okay? “you some kind of idiot or somethin’?” i can’t stand to see you hurt.

“i didn’t think-”

“clearly fuckin’ not!” be more careful. “touchin’ the damn battery like the car ain’t just been stopped!” please.

he’s better with actions, gentle in the physical even as he berates you verbally. he pulls in air through his nostrils before blowing it out through his puckered lips, directly onto the mild burn imprinting itself on your delicate skin. you hiss as his cooling breath makes initial contact and your hand jerks back, fighting to stray away from him. joel fixes his grip, making sure you don’t get too far before he blows a second breath.

“i’m fine,” you’re an awful liar, the grimace on your lips doing nothing to reassure him. at least you’re smart enough to not waste any more energy on fighting against him, slumping forward to rest your hand on the truck’s open hood. “didn’t even hurt that much. i just wasn’t expecting it to be hot.”

with no acknowledgement thrown your way, he huffs out another couple of breaths, mind already running off in thoughts of what comes next. a superficial burn, it should heal in a matter of days. if you’re lucky, the injured skin will merely peal away to reveal a fresh layer. if you’re unlucky, a blister will swell in it’s place.

joel only aims to ensure your luck.

bowing his head and leaning down, he captures your finger between his lips. your breaths catches in your throat as this new angle, new proximity to your face allows his eyes to take in the way your own seem to roll back, lips parted with something unsaid. he drags the tip of his tongue over your wound, which pulses and burns hot beneath his muscle. his tongue flicks back over only for him to lick at the burn once more, this time with a flattened tongue, smothering it in his saliva.

the suckle his lips give is purely selfish.

“that kinda-” a fluttery sort of noise leaves you, a pleasant little thing that seems unable to decide if it wants to be a giggle or a moan. it settles for something in between, unknowingly spurring joel on to suck around your digit again. “it kinda tickles.”

the hand he holds against your hip travels north, halting abruptly as the top of his thumb reaches the swell of your breast. being so affected by a braless chest is something joel thought he’d left behind in teenage-hood. the way his cock twitches in his pants at the knowledge that yours sit bare beneath the thin cotton camisole gives him deja-vu.

in a rushed- and entirely unthought over decision- joel switches the direction of his trail of fingerprints to move south, slipping down past where cotton sits tucked beneath silk. the skirt is soft and inviting. all his sick mind can do is picture you lain across a bed with silk sheets, your naked curves, and pert nipples, and dribbling cunt a whole different kind of soft and inviting.

skin meets skin when he arrives at the top of the skirt’s slit. he wastes no time, fingers dragging themselves under the material to feel the recently discovered terrain of your full thighs. with supple skin, warm and pliable beneath his hold, he indulges himself in letting his grip dig in and squeeze the meaty flesh.

all the while, his tongue licks over your burn.

“otis does that too,” you’re struggling to keep your grip on the car, a delightful realisation for joel. you’d played the innocent for far too long last time, hardly exposing your desires till push came to shove and your knife went clattering out your hand. now you force yourself deeper into his touch, your finger applying pressure to his tongue as it pushes down on the muscle and tickles his tastebuds with the bite of your painted nail. the quiet voice of his subconscious wants you to push deeper, till your digit hits the back of his throat, his eyes sting with tears and he’s gagging around you. “tries to lick wounds better-”

the sight of you shutting up, lips parted in some unheard noise as his hand cups the entirety of your clothed pussy, sends a wave of heat to joel’s already burning loins.

the furnace of your two intertwined bodies shields you both to the slowly dropping temperatures, with no time to spare and no care to give to the grey skies that roll in while he rolls your concealed clit beneath two fingers, pinching once or twice, possibly thrice, in hopes of pushing his emotional aches onto you physically.

fighting against the tight squeeze of your underwear’s band around his wrist, two fingers, a pointer and a middle, smooth their way past your pubic bone, over your aching mound and dip down to swipe over your slit. a soaked mess, a warm and sticky coating, welcomes them as joel strokes the outer surface of your cunt in a lax manner, taking his time to admire how soft your lips feel, how warm your skin burns, how hard your entrance throbs, all the while he’s coating your cunt it’s own liquid pleasure. his mouth drops your hand, the grip his own has on it tightening once more. though, this time, it’s not from the need to keep you in place but from a primal, possessive desire that seduces his rationality. “quit comparin’ me to your fuckin’ dog.”

the hand down your pants has a mind of its own, trading the teasing strokes up the length of your seam for the tight squeeze of your walls around his fingers as they penetrate you- two at the same time, no consideration for the discomfort the sudden sting of breaching your entrance brings.

you seem to like the pain, enough to let go of the vehicle and melt back into joel. your head meets his shoulder as your eyes roll back and your mouth falls slack, legs writhing to fight for more friction. he remains frozen, face a stoic slab void of expression if not for the crease in his brow where his eyebrows have furrowed. the fingers in your cunt curl, slightly, testing your patience with the way they press into the spongy tissue.

“joe- ah...” you fail to say his name, your two lips barely getting the chance to touch as he curls his finger a second time. this time harder, with more certainty in the way he’s touching you. “move, please.”

your lips, parted in gasps and cries that threaten to cut his fun short with the way they likely have his cock staining his briefs in precum, become public enemy number one as he decides they need to be shut, silenced, occupied so that he can hold off blowing his load again before he’s even had the chance to feel you clench around his cock.

with your finger still drenched in his spit, a fat bead of it dripping down the back of your hand, he shoves it into your own mouth, disgustingly intrigued with the way you welcome it so eagerly and drink down the taste of his saliva.

now you’re silenced, joel gives an experimental thrust of his hand, dragging both his fingers out till only the tips tease at your entrance before slamming them back in. the moan you let out is muffled, a sound that titillates him yet no longer threatens his sanity. you find another way to ruin him, however, body jolting and ass rolling back into his form when he starts to set a steady pace to leisurely fuck his fingers into your cunt.

“tried to be fuckin’ good. kept my hands to myself, didn’t- fuck!” he must reach something inside of you, knuckles deep and slick spilling down his hand, that has you mewling, eyes no longer shut as you crane your neck to stare up at him and your hips roll backwards, momentarily smothering his clothed cock between the swell of your silk covered cheeks. “didn’t bring up anythin’ ‘bout the last time i saw ya. but you just ‘ad to go and ruin it now, didn’t ya?”

“leasehmm,” you hum the incoherent babble around your own finger and joel can’t stop himself from forcing it further into your mouth, laser stare sharp enough to burn holes into your throat as he watches you gag.

“c’mon, you can do it,” you’ve got him trapped between your legs, both your thighs and the walls of your cunt clenching his hand in a vice grip as he continues his ministrations, satiating the taste for warm flesh he’s been craving since he slammed the door to the kitchen and tried to fool himself into thinking he could simply make his way back to tess in her drunken state, crash down to sleep on the couch and wake up the next day as if everything that had transpired in the moonlight was just another one of his perverted fantasies. awakening with the taste of you still on his tongue threw all hope out the window. “use your words, pretty girl.”

with an awkward bend, the pad of his thumb brushes over your neglected clit in a gentle circling motion, coaxing you further and further to that ledge of ecstasy he aims to throw you off, plunge you into the heavens of a blinding orgasm. crooking his fingers and grinding his cock into the base of your spine become practiced movements, a kind of push and pull dance his body plays with yours, guiding you both to the beats of your erratic hearts.

“mmmoel,” bless you, really, for trying so hard to speak while chocking on yourself, yet making no attempt to shove his hand away. your well-mannered nature has never made him so hard- and, trust that it has done so plenty of times- as you melt yourself into a writhing mess in his arms, blown out pupils and spit dribbling out the corner of your mouth all the while you do as he bids. “mmhop.”

“‘s the matter, sweet girl? hmm?” you’re close, he knows it. feels it, when your free hand shoots down to grip his wrist through the soft skirt, nails biting flesh even through the layer of silk. he half wonders if this is it, this is where you’re going to rip him off you and slap him in the face with the harsh truth: you’re too good to be touched by the likes of him. only, you simply clutch onto him and let him continue to play you like he’d once played a guitar, fingers plucking at the right strings and pressing on the right cords to make you sing a melody so sweet even the angels themselves would cry at its sound. “cat got your tongue? feels good, i know. ‘s okay, you can let go f’me, not gonna hold it against ya. just gonna hold ya through it, yeah? keep ya real safe in my arms while this pretty little pussy of yours takes what she needs, m’kay?”

the longer you take to tell him to stop, the more debauched the images of you in his mind become. once wishes of butterfly kisses and sweet surrenders beneath his naked embrace, now desires to have you on your knees crying, begging, praying for him to smother you with his sins.

with another thrust, he fucks a third finger into your cunt, stretching you even wider and trying his damn best to ignore the fact you’re still so tight despite the thickness of his fingers. that’ll only lead to his thoughts derailing to how much tighter you’d feel clamped around the girth of his cock.

he’d been modest, back in his younger years, shrugging off the cries of past lovers regarding his well endowed state as nothing more than flirtatious fiction, the kind of thing women would tell their man to make him feel special. only a few years ago he’d started to second guess his assumptions as he began to chase his highs with faceless bodies and all kinds of holes- mouth, cunt and ass.

most of the time his concubines get no chance to truly see his cock, too busy having their face shoved down into gravel, or into some brick wall in a sketchy alleyway, or, simply, the darkness that consumed the walls of the cubicle which kept them from seeing just who exactly they were fucking would also take away their chance to know what they were getting themselves into, what was about to get in to them.

their first reactions always seem to be a crying sort of sound, a sick pleasure washing over him and having his balls tightening. then comes the complaining of too much, too fast, too good, their bodies at odds with themselves and unable to decide if being impaled by him is their worst nightmare or their sweetest dream.

before they can ever decide, he’s ripping away from them and fucking himself to completion with his own hand. a mumbled thanks and- if it was one of those kind of deals- a drop of a med kit or some food rations to their feet, joel would be tucked back into his worn jeans and out of their sight before they’re able to catch their breaths and realise he’d left them there, stretched open and fucked out with no orgasm to show for it.

with you, he’d be different though.

there’s no need for his own pleasure if it came down to choosing between it and your own. the sheer thought of nuzzling his mouth between your thighs and lapping at every inch of your pussy, till his muscle aches and his jaw locks, is enough to have him on the precipice of cumming untouched. so, to think of a scenario where he slips his cock inside your velvet walls and doesn’t leave you a spasming mess after several earth shattering orgasms, over and over till a ring of your mixed juices decorates the base of him and you’ve milked him dry, that feels impossible.

“wait, joel, ah! please, please,” your head thrashes to the side, ripping away from your burned finger. you’re trembling, feet pushing up onto their tippy-toes as he fucks higher and higher into you. the hand around your wrists finds a new home curled around your jaw and his thumb begins it’s torturous circling of your clit once more, pushing and guiding and bullying your aching cunt towards an orgasm that’s sure to leave you breathless and- “stop!”

this time, it’s joel who’s recoiling his scorned hands.

pants fill the air, a desperate fight for oxygen as you stand before him, legs shaky and perked nipples chafing against the see-through fabric of your camisole. thunder cracks above, a deep and trembling noises that joel can’t help but feel fits the ambience, turmoil in both the sky and his heart.

he knows its for the best, to have you put your foot down and put an end to this ridiculous pursuit of lust joel’s imposing on you. not only have you made it clear you do not like him, but you’re younger, full of life, heart too mellow for a soul as dark as his. still, disappointment floods his bones.

both hands back at his side, he clenches them. wrong move, only serving to remind him one of his hands is smothered in your wetness, a schlick squelch bouncing up to his eardrums. you’ve turned to look at him, at some point. he notices the slight swell of your lips and the blown-out pupils, try though he might to ignore it.

staring right at him, you seem to be almost waiting on a reaction.

“‘s gettin’ dark, should prolly think of headin’ back,” joel won’t give you the satisfaction of hearing him beg, not when he knows it’ll get him nowhere. the hood, that’s what he should be focusing on. he shoots a hand up and slams the hood shut, fighting the urge to let his stare linger on the stain his pleasure soaked fingers leave behind on the blue painted metal. “bill and frank’ll be wonder-”

you call his name.

he can’t look at you, fingers fidgeting with some scab on his hand.

you try again. louder.

a sigh of resignation. he turns to face you, leaning back against the truck. the quirk of his brow enough to encourage you to get on with it, say what you need to say. paint him in shame, call him some names and then let you both be on your way.

you seem to take it as an invitation to approach. one step, then two more when he fails to back away. with a final step, you’re stood right before him, forcing yourself between the space of his parted legs. he’s never had you this close before, at least not with you facing him, and it’s almost too much. the familiar anxious pit in his loins creeps back, leaving him all too aware of the sound of his own blood rushing through his veins.

you smell... christmassy. burnt wood, dusted cinnamon, mulled wine. warm.

he can’t remember the last time he even thought of christmas.

he jolts at the feeling of your hands on his thighs, the coldness of them burning through the rough material of his pants. he’s not sure when it happened but he somehow finds himself sitting on the truck’s hood, hands splayed out on either side of him and knees bent over the edge as he parts way for you between them.

your hands smooth up the muscles of his thighs, up and down in repeated motions. soothing, calming. his heart beats a little slower with each movement.

only to jackhammer against his ribcage as your touch begins to move higher.

“i didn’t mean stop as in, stop touching me,” you breathe out the words like they’re the most delicate of secrets, only for his ears and your own to know. fingers threading through belt loops. a pull or two. he’s vaguely aware of the sound of metal clinking as you release him from the strain of it’s buckle, and the biting sound of teeth unzipping. “just... just wanna see you... feel you this time, when i... if that’s okay with you.”

he’s nodding his head before you can even finish your words, nearly crumbling as your fingers brush against his bulge. “‘smore than fine by me. shit, that’s... yeah.”

a pathetic man, that’s what he’s become, a meek shadow to the man who moments ago had you on the precipice of cumming around his fingers while you babbled incoherently. you seem to have turned the tide, whether you’re aware of it or not, hand sinking beneath the withered band of his boxers.

you don’t give him the relief he wants- needs- instantly. instead, you tease, fingertips dancing down the underside of his shaft and following the trail of a vein he doubts you’re even aware of. sliding back up to his tip, you revel in the weakness he displays as you brush over heightened nerves, sensitive to your touch and stained in earlier excitement.

“you’re warm,” is not exactly what he’d expected you to say, if he’s honest. that doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy it, mind firing into overdrive as you fully wrap yourself around his cock. ignoring the chafing, you work your hand over him, grow familiar with the length of him, tip to base. “big.”

with your free hand, you do your best to peel back the layers of fabric till nothing stands in your path of gazing at his cock, heavy in your palm and red at the tip.

“yeah? ‘s bigger than you’re used to, ain’t it?” joel coos, you nod, tongue darting out to wet your lips as your eyes meet his. wide, glossy, intrigued, a mirror of the scared look you’ve worn when you’d stalled the car.

joel groans at the memory, the way he’d taken care of you, coaxed you back to a rational state of mind.

he wants more of that, more chances to protect you.

even if it’s against your own mind.

“‘s okay, sol, you’ll learn to take it,” you keen at his words, sinking closer to him, shoes scratching on the gravel beneath you. you squeeze your hand around him and he chokes on an inhale. “gonna teach ya to take it like a champ.”

he reaches behind him, tugging the gun out the back of his trousers. he was stupid to place it there in the first place, a rushed action he’d made when stepping out the vehicle. he hadn’t wanted you to see the weapon, to be reminded that the world outside bill and frank- the world joel resides in- is not safe, not from infected and certainly not from people.

before he can put it to rest on the hood, you snatch it out his hand.

you’re inspecting it like it’s the first you’ve ever seen, yet the way you perfectly wrap your hand around it and point past his shoulders tells him otherwise. there’s familiarity in your stance, like you’d once lived under rules where bill didn’t prohibit you from touching a firearm. it has him wondering, longing to know who you were before. where you’d come from, how you’d met the two men you share a roof with.

you play with the safety, snapping his attention right back to the present.

the sight of the gun in your hand fills him dread. and misery. and a sense of nausea. you’re far from weak, no matter how much he’d like you to be, but there’s just something fundamentally wrong with the image of you holding such a destructive weapon.

you should be holding otis’ lead. or a canvas depicting frank’s recent masterpiece. or the end of some wine bottle bill’s struggling to open.

or joel’s hand.

instead of speaking his mind, he pries it from you with a huff- from both of you- and lays it to rest somewhere towards his right, out of sight and out of mind. “‘s not some toy for a girl like you to be messin’ about with.”

“neither are you,” you make a point to rack your pretty nails over the untamed curls of his pubic hair, the occasional flash of silver a reminder of his aging state. you don’t seem to notice, or care, too busy bringing the attention back to his leaking tip.

a sound adjacent to a growl escapes him, feral and domineering. shame exists within him, for a moment, witnessing himself be at such a loss of control. when his hands find purchase on your waist, the feeling dissipates and what takes it’s place is pure adulterated need, throbbing in his very core.

he tugs you forward, closer, catching the way you’re struggling to reach him, hand gripping his thigh for support.

“y’gonna hurry on up ‘ere,” impatience punctuates the soul, driving him off the cliff of sanity and plunging head first into the rocky territories below. “or d’ya need me to do all the work? lay ya down, nice and pretty on the hood so i can fuck you?”

you deny his offer with actions, clambering your way into his lap, legs splayed out either side of his thighs. the skirt bunches awkwardly between you both and steals his view as you rest down against his stiffness and smother it in the warmth of your clothed cunt.

there’s dampness on your panties, teasing him as you give an experimental roll along his cock, holding it tight between both your bodies.

“shit, joel,” a hiss through your clenched teeth and your face twisting up in something- pain? arousal? both? he can’t quite pinpoint it. your hips roll again, this time reaching higher, teasing him with a visual of what’s to come. “feel so thick, don’t know how i’m gonna-”

“didn’t i already tell ya-” he grabs at your skirt, irritation clear in the way he rips it up the length of your legs, exposing your skin inch by inch. “you’re gonna learn to take it?”

your hand dives under the fabric before his can, fingers curling around his cock once again and giving him a salacious stroke, taking your time gliding over the smooth skin and sensitive head. “mhmm. you gonna teach me?”

he nods, affirmative.

the next few minutes are nothing but messy grinding. like a pair of hormone-crazed teens, you explore the joys of rubbing up on each other. two pieces of wet wood searching for that spark in between. you make the most effort, working the muscles in your thighs to slide up the length of him and to grind back down, the wet patch in your panties growing with each stroke. joel sits back, allows himself the rare luxury of being taking care of. the last time he had a pretty girl in his lap, she had solace in her eyes and a couple twenties stuffed down her sparkly bra.

“what d’ya bring me ‘ere for,” he’d berated his younger brother after, his anger seemingly coming across as unserious to a giggling tommy, “was fuckin’ depressin’. kept lookin’ at those girls and thinkin’ bout if their poor dads knew what they were up to.”

he can’t help but wonder if bill and frank know what you’re up to.

“hey, hey, wait,” the words tumble out of him erratically as he catches up to your actions, the hand around his cock suddenly holding it still as you raise your hips. his hands pull and grab at the fabric of your skirt, a frustrated grunt slipping out of him as he hoists it up past your waist. this time, you’re covered by a shade of baby blue cotton instead of lace, less sultry yet far more appealing in his eyes. comfortable, that’s what they look like, the kind of pair he’d find you wearing stood in a kitchen in the early hours of the morning, one of his wrinkled old t-shirts the only thing keeping your frame concealed. joel’d always had a good imagination, and it serves him well, decorating his mind with several images of a domestic bliss he’d never get to share with you. “lemme see.”

you’re a smart girl, it’s one of your best qualities, and so you need no further instructions to understand what joel’s asking for.

he watches like a hawk as your fingers tug your panties to one side, a pretty window of slick covered skin that has him involuntarily jutting his hips up off the truck, his head slipping up your seam and pressing into your clit, an action that sparks the reaction of your own hips grinding down. you recover quick, hand back on the task of gripping his base and holding him, while your over reaches back to grip his knee, giving you a grip to steady yourself on as you straighten your thighs.

“this what you want,” your voice calls through the lustful haze in his mind as he takes in the sight of you sinking down onto him, the head of his cock fitting snuggly between your velvet walls. it’s almost enough to make him cum on sight. “to watch? me sitting on your dick?”

joel wonders if you’re trying to shame his desires. ultimately, he’s too lost in the way you cling around him to really care. if anything, he almost wants you to be disgusted by him, making the act of devouring your pleasure that much more sinful.

hands grip at your hips, with moon-shape indents forming around where his nails dig into your flesh. patience is a virtue he scarcely possess but he forces it on himself, fighting back the need to slam you right down on him and carve a home out for his hot cum inside your empty womb. he can’t allow himself the fast-paced indulgence he’s used to, not when he sees the deep breaths you need to take or the pained wrinkle in your brow with each inch you sink deeper and deeper down on him with.

he let’s you take your time, eyes starring with a crazed expression at the point your bodies meet. once he’s fully nestled inside the warmth of your cunt, your forehead rests against his own and he’s forced to look into your eyes and once again notice the way your pupils sit dilated in lust.

it’s a sight he’d like to get used to.

“kinda regretting this,” dread plummets through his heart and a ball forms in his throat. your walls hold him in a vice grip that seems to contradict your statement, until you clarify. “thinking i could take it like this. i’ve never, you know, in this position before-”

“you’re doin’ great,” joel’s own voice sounds pained, straining beneath the buzzing energy that’s begging him to relinquish control to his lust. it would be so easy, effortless even, to grip your hips and fuck you down onto him like you’re nothing if not a hole to get himself off in. unfortunately, his heart stands in the way. “shit, fuckin’ better than great.”

neither of you keep time of how long you sit like that, pelvis to pelvis, his cock buried into the hilt and a puddle of your wetness collecting along his pubic bone, the bristle hairs providing a rough friction for your clit.

eventually, initiative is taken, and you work up the nerve to roll your hips.

the view he’d been enjoying is stolen as your skirt slips back down to pool around you both, his hands too occupied gripping at your waist as your own find home on his sturdy shoulders.

another roll of of your body, slow and steady, lighting every nerve in his cock on fire with the sweet burn of your cunt fighting to keep him inside, refusing to let him slip too far out before you’re filling yourself back up again. your lips fall open in a pathetic moan, the sweet smell of your breath hitting his nostrils as you sit forehead to forehead.

and joel wonders if there’ll ever be a part of you he’s not enamoured by.

your confidence grows as you begin to set a pace, bouncing yourself up and down in his lap as joel grips here, there and everywhere on your body. a pinch to your hardened nipples, a trace of your hidden thighs, a cradling of your face. there’s not an inch of you he wants to neglect, staining his fingerprints all over you with every frantic touch.

this is nothing like the back-alley exchanges of body heat he’s grown accustomed to, this is nothing rushed and everything felt. it’s a carnal hunger for the feel of flesh and the taste of sweat. it’s feral, and lustful, and downright intoxicating. it’s the need to get his fill of you over, and over, and over again, till the fountain of your velvet warmth overflows with his seed and has nowhere else to run but down the length of your full thighs and dripping onto his emptied balls below.

“joel, please,” he decides he likes you much better like this, your whole body gripping itself around him-arms, legs, soaked cunt- in search of a sweet salvation only he can bring as your usual bright smile and quick tongue become reduced to nothing but whimpered breaths and desperate prayers. “i’m- god, i can’t-”

your thighs tremble as he tightens his hold, keeping you steady when the exhaustion of exhilarating yourself on top of him begins to take a hold of you. the need to take over becomes primal, blunt nails tearing into the meat of your thighs and bouncing you down on him with an effortless look he hopes will fool you out of noticing he’s seconds away from blowing his load prematurely, mind and body too close to the edge of nirvana from simply having the weight of you on him.

he just needs to get you there first.

“hate this fucking skirt,” the grumble was meant to be a thought he keeps to himself, but the giggle it rouses out of you makes it worth the slip-up, your own hands delivering the mercy of helping him drag the length of it farther up, marking a clear path for his own to sneak under and find your pulsing clit. “don’t wear it again.”

a few tight circles with just the right amount of pressure has you melting deeper into him, your arms curling around him as your head lays itself to rest upon his shoulder. your every breath delivers a brush of heat against his already burning skin and he wishes there were no plaid shirts nor camisoles resting between your heartbeats. 

“but it’s so,” he must have struck gold, found some hidden gem in the combination of the pressure of his fingers on your clit and the rhythm at which he’s fucking you down onto his cock, for you clamp down on him so tightly he worries you may cut off his circulation. “soft and, oh, yes! and it- it fits me so perfectly-”

“not sure if you’re talkin’ bout your skirt or your pussy,” he grunts out, a teasing smirk on his mouth that dies the instance his lips press to your neck, nose chasing the scent of your lingering shampoo.

“you’re so-” he’s so, what? you don’t get to finish, hand fisting into his hair and moans falling from your lips like autumn leaves. 

“tsk, look at ya,” he certainly is, and loving every inch of you he sees, hips rolling down with the guidance of his hands, head tucked safely away from the world in the crook of his neck, hands gripping any part of him they seem to reach. if art is subjective, then you’re the damned mona lisa, the starry night, the birth of venus. “can’t even fuckin’ speak properly, mouth’s good for nothin’ when you’re full of cock.”

you nod into him, hips moving faster, nails digging deeper, moans getting louder. he’s got you so close, a few more thrusts till he’s sure to have you flying off the handles and cumming around him.

you whine his name.

he meets the roll of your hips with the raising of his own.

a pull of hair, a bite of skin, and then you’re-

“oh shit, ain’t this a pretty sight.”

joel’s blood runs cold.

you’re frozen against him.

just past your shoulder, directly in joel’s eye-line, by the gas station’s entry stands a man. he’s younger than joel, maybe even younger than you. his clothes are stained in all sorts- sweat, dried blood, mud- and are tattered, as if he’s been wearing the same thing everyday. the strap of a backpack sits over one shoulder and he seems to be carrying no weapons but the hunting knife in his belt.

the intruder- if he can even be called that out in the openness of the world- takes a couple steps closer but they’re not full of confidence. if anything, his frame seems just as shaken as you both, fingers fidgeting with the adjustable cord of the bag’s strap.

“please, don’t stop on my account,” he seems to be trying to play it cool, but fails to let out the light-hearted chuckle he intends to, a noise more similar to a choke taking its place. “heck, give me a little performance even”

joel’s not sure what’s gotten into him- if it’s the fact he’d been moments away from making you cum, or the dropping temperatures that have you sinking deeper into his warm body, or the sheer desire to possess you so intimately under someone else’s knowledge- but he finds himself rutting up into you again.

you don’t join in, limbs still locked in shocked, yet a moan is breathed into his neck.

“shit, man,” the stranger sounds amazed, as if not even he thought joel would gift him such a sight. his hands find something new to fidget with, struggling to undo the buckle of his tattered leather belt. “pull up her skirt, lemme see how she’s taking you.”

he obliges and bunches the fabric up in his hands, exposing the sight that lays beneath. it’s not the explicit sight the man must be hoping for, the snug fit of his cock inside your cunt mostly concealed by your pushed-aside panties.

unable to stop himself, joel wonders if this man would prefer you in something more scandalous than the blue cotton that he so deeply adores.

“sorry- fuck! just, it’s just been a while,” the buckle comes undone at last, a button and a zipper follow. one hand dips beneath the waist band of the man’s boxers. “swear i’m not trynna be a creep, or nuffin’. can you... could you squeeze her ass? wanna see how much of a hand full she is.”

this time around, you let out a sound that’s less pleasant to joel’s ears, a far cry from pleasured as he so greedily cups a handful of your ass. the realisation that, though your body may contradict you with the canting of your hips into his or the continued arousal you drip between your pelvises, you’re not enjoying this, hits him like a truck.

you’re not moaning in pleasure, you’re whimpering in fear. you’re not shaking because you’re cold, you’re shaking because you’re scared. this man is scaring you.

joel is letting him scare you.

“swear i’ll just- a few minutes and i’ll be out your hair, ok?” the man’s fumbling, bag dropping off his shoulder down onto the floor as he works over his cock. joel wonders if it’s uncomfortable, stroking himself without the help of spit to ease the slide, and scoots his hand over to his right, fingers slipping over the hood in search. “just really need this, man, you’ve no idea how it gets out here on your own-”

nothing usually crosses joel’s mind when he pulls a trigger.

becoming numb to it, blanking one’s mind, treating it as normal. it’s the only way to come out the other side of it without it weighing on your conscious. it was built over time, the first few months a struggle to even touch a gun after what happened on outbreak day. shooting humans had always been the easy part, reminding himself there’s an evil in them he doesn’t need to meet to know it exists. the infected, he’d struggled, compassion sinking deep into the pit of his stomach as he’d glance at their once-alive eyes, now nothing but a breeding ground for some mushroom.

the shot rings out, moments after the bullet hits its target and, this time, you cross his mind.

defenceless, shaking, clinging onto him. it’s shameful to admit that it turns him on, has his balls throbbing with unloaded cum, to protect you. to play the role of saviour, supporter, guardian to the fearful girl in his lap.

he doesn’t even care enough to spare the dead man a look, eyes back on you.

you’re already staring right back at him, shock written all over your face. “you... you killed him.”

“he was holdin’ a gun, sol,” he’s not sure if it makes you feel any better. you do, however, seem to shuffle closer to him, chest to chest as you take in what he’s telling you. “was gonna fire a few rounds into me and then where would that leave ya, huh? free for the taken.”

thunder roars above your heads.

your brows furrow, conflictive expressions taking over you while you assess what’s just happened. he tries not to think too much about the fact his cock is still very much nestled inside your soaked pussy, throbbing with the impending release life keeps stealing away from you both.

“you killed him.” you repeat, more sure in your words this time.

“i did.”

lightning lights up the darkening sky.

“i should be scared of you.”

“you should.”

one last rumble from the storm clouds.

“but i’m not.”

the heavens above seem to open as cold, thick drops of water fall from the sky, quickly soaking everything they meet. the gravel, his shirt, your hair. the rain seems to have no boundaries, slipping between you both and filling the little gaps it manages to find.

neither of you move from where you’re seated, letting the cold overtake your bodies. you both use it as an excuse to move closer, arms tangling around one another as you stare each other down with judgement, assessing what either will do next.

you call the shots, experimentally rolling your hips, testing the waters to see where he’s at.

joel meets you just where you want him to, touches more frantic than before and far more sloppy, neither of you conscious of the goosebumps that line your skins as you indulge in one another’s bodies, fucking beneath the pouring rain like some silly scene out of a romance film.

“i was protectin’ you,” he breathes onto your neck, mouthing at your flesh and enjoying the thudding of your pulse beneath his tongue. “keepin’ you safe, sol. ‘s what i do, what i’ll always do.”

it’s unclear if the words are meant to assure you or himself.

it doesn’t take long till you’re both back at the edge of glorious relief, the unmet orgasms from earlier rearing their heads all at once and flooding over both of you. one of his hands snakes it’s way under your skirt to rub at your clit, while one of your own threads itself in his hair and tugs sharply, till he feels a sting in his scalp.

what a sight it is to behold as you cum, eyes rolled back, lips parted in a mute scream, soaked hair sticking to your forehead and every other place it touches. joel wants to see you through to the very end, hold you while you shake and break completely on his cock, but the warmth that creeps up his loins takes that priviledge away.

only as the first spurt of thick cum shoots out of him does joel manage to rip you off him, jostling you further up his lap and providing him with the friction of your ass cheeks to sooth over his spasming member as he paints your lower back and inner skirt in his pleasure.

he watches you falling apart in the heat of your orgasm and his bones ache a little less, his soul feels a little lighter, his heart seems to beat a little better.

joel never manages to put his thoughts into words quite properly.

“you’re not,” he breaths out, shaky. you’re still rutting against his limp cock, soaking him with your slick and whimpering into his shoulder as his head bumps against your aching clit, the come down from your orgasm hitting you harder than his. he’s vaguely aware of how tightly he’s gripping you, arms holding you flush, anchoring you down against him as the rain continues to pour. “you’re not real.”

you’re mumbling something but it falls on deaf ears as joel fails to reel his thoughts in, eyes skittish as they jump from watching water crash against the windows of the deserted gas station to the limp body of the stranger, cock still in his hand and a bullet straight through his forehead, a sick red washing away along the gravel.

“...here. i’m real, joel,” a kiss pressed to his forehead. you’re gentle with him, whispering into his good ear and he wonders if you know he can hear you better on this side, he’d never mentioned it. a hand coaxes his own off your waist and guides it upwards, pressing against the left side of your chest. rapid thumps. you mimic the movement, hand pressing against his own heart as you rest your forehead against his. “i’m here. we’re both here.”

joel drives back.

there’s no prior discussion where you agree on this. he simply cleans you both up- to the best of his abilities-, sits you down in the passengers seat and walks his way round to the driver’s side. it’s silent, and this time it’s the uncomfortable kind. the kind that wrestles with his mind and puts discomfort in his heart. there’s something unspoken between you both and he does not know how to begin to talk about it, not without the risk of messing it all up.

you don’t protest this time around when he turns on one of bill’s old cd’s, and, so, billy joel sings you all the way home.

at some point, he convinces himself you’ve fallen prey to sleep, eyes closed and head slumped to the side, searching for the safety of something to rest itself on. slowing to a stop, he takes his time undoing your seatbelt and maneuvering your lax limbs till your head meets his shoulder. the drive onwards is slower, more careful as he drives over any bump in the road and each turning he takes less sharp.

“i owe you a thank you,” you eventually mumble, weight still leaning against him and eyes very much shut.

he nods, though you do not see it. “okay.”

it’s all he can think to say, unsure what a girl like you could ever thank him for. all he’s done since the moment he met you is dampen your shine and stain your kindness with rough hands and a rougher heart.

“for, you know, not telling tess,” your response brings more questions than answers. not telling tess what? “i just... she’d hate me, if she knew, and she’s some of the only family i have left. i couldn’t stand to lose her over a few... mistaken moments between us.”

joel wonders if he’s part of this short list of family you have.

he doubts it.

“don’t see why she’d care,” he’s choosing to ignore that word, mistaken, yet it’s not enough to stop his fingers from twisting tighter around the wheel, tension in his wounded heart.

“of course you wouldn’t,” you wrestle down a yawn and nestle your head deeper into the crook of his neck, body hunched in a position he can’t imagine to be too comfortable. he keeps this thought to himself, decidedly enjoying this false image of tender touch. you ground him, weight down on his paper-thin mind-state like a rock that promises to keep all his pages in place. “you’re careless.”

there you go again, displaying such casual cruelty.

you’re careless.

how twisted life is to give him everything he’s worked so hard to be- a man feared, untested, unmessed with- only for his every want become his waking nightmare as it sits on your own lips.

i don’t like you, joel.

“‘s that why ya don’t like me?” he can’t help himself, even if he wanted to.

“i don’t like you because you-” a pull of breath. an opening of eyes. a raise of a head. you don’t make it far before he’s raising a hand off the wheel to encourage you back down to rest upon him, half-worrying he’ll be strown apart by the next gust of wind should he lose the weight of your head on his shoulder. “i can’t tell you.”

“why not?”

“you never brought me that dress.”

there’s no answer he can give that won’t incriminate him and steer you on the clear path to see just how caring a man like him can be. every fabric he’s seen the wrong colour, the wrong length, the wrong style for you. the closest he’d gotten to finding a dress worthy enough of slipping down your skin was stripped from the corpse of a woman joel’d been tasked with disposing of. in a moment of weakness, he’d nearly taken it, till his skin began to crawl with the implications of gifting you a dead woman’s dress, the last piece of clothing she’d worn while her blood was still warm and her lungs filled with air.

you fall asleep, for real this time, not even stirring as he maneuvers himself out of his jacket and drapes it over your damp figure, body sinking deeper into his own- as deep as the console between you allows.

night has taken hold of the sky by the time he pulls into the fenced community, headlights lighting up the path back into the garage. pulling the car to a stop, joel eases your weight off him and steps out the car, mindful of how he closes the door over. he makes his way around to the passenger side and pries the door open to find you still sleeping, peaceful as can be, the dull army green of his jacket contrasting the pastel shade of your skirt.

he takes a moment, sinking to his knees, and let’s himself indulge in the image of you like this a little longer, before the watchful eyes of bill or the curious glances of tess stand between the ways joel longs to look at you. softness greets his thumb as it brushes over your cheek. you seek out his warmth, chasing it even as he moves downwards to swipe at the dribble of spit threatening to spill out your slacked lips.

if he were a better liar, perhaps he’d claim this was his way of attempting to wake you up.

“what happened?” frank is the first to greet him, eyes blown a little wider than usual as he takes in the sight of you curled against joel, one arm round your back and another under your knees keeping the weight of you off the ground. “is she okay?”

“nothin’s happened,” the man’s reactions to joel’s return to the house has brought on more pairs of eyes, tess and bill flooding out the kitchen to catch a glimpse of him in the hallway. “she’s just tired. ‘s been a long day and-”

“your clothes are wet.” bill’s eyes are glaring, tearing apart every detail they can pick up: the gentle grip he holds you with, your sweater thrown over his shoulder, the peaceful manner in which your sleeping form sinks into his warmth, the jacket that’s slowly slipping down your form to reveal bare shoulders and soaked cotton.

his tongue feels heavy, his mouth turning to sandpaper as the anxious feeling of being watched dries up his senses. hardly aware of it, he’s straightening his spine and puffing his chest, staring the older man down before flickering over to where tess stands, face much kinder looking as she watches you sleep. “you just gonna stand there, or are ya gonna show me her room ‘fore my back gives out?”

that seems to get the ball rolling, all questioning and staring left behind as frank guides him three doors down and slips the door open, stepping aside to let joel in. he doesn’t bother hitting the light, a part of him not wanting to pick up any details to linger on around your room, using what little light the moon provides to find his way over to the bed. frank’s gaze is burning a hole in joel’s back even as he drops you down onto the mattress, and it’s almost like he can hear the buzz of energy radiating from everything the man wants to ask him.

it’s not till the four of them sit the dining table and joel’s shovelling a fork-load of food into his mouth that the next question comes.

“why was her sweater dry?” it’s tess who asks, punctuating it with an obnoxious sip from her glass.

all eyes are on Joel, a spotlight she’d shun directly on him and leaving him on display. bill, in particular, seems to be clinging to his every movement, anticipating his answer with the clenching of fingers around the steak knife in his hand.

“what?” it’s all he can manage without the fear of saying too much.

“your clothes were all wet. but her sweater, on your shoulder, it was dry.”

how had tess even noticed that?

“she took it off,” it takes a couple minutes to answer, a pause he tries to play off as simply his need to chew on the food he shovels into his mouth at last. it feels heavy, slipping down his throat, like he can already anticipate it’s return to the surface alongside his bile. “said somethin’ bout not wantin’ to get oil on it when i told her i was gonna show her the different parts of the engine.”

silence.

eyes shooting back and forth.

tess looks at frank.

frank looks at bill.

bill loathes at joel.

and then, “oh.”

tess says it like it’s the start of a sentence, an audible ellipses that she’s refusing to elaborate on.

“oh.” joel parrots, hoping they’ll drop the topic and allow him to go back to the raging waters thrashing around in his thoughts.

luck is not on his side.

“that makes sense,” the woman continues, attempting to cut the tension with an airy chuckle and a shrugging of her shoulders, as if doing so will shake the tension out of everyone else’s. “was worried that poor girl was running around with her tits out in front of the likes of you.”

bill grips tighter around his cutlery, knuckles white under the dining room light.

straightening up, a momentary lapse of judgement and a foolish flash of red hot possession shoots over him, embarking him on the road to saying perhaps the dumbest thing he’s ever said.

“would that be so bad?”

a hand smacks down on the table. a chair scrapes, another following right after.

“bill,” frank’s tone is nothing if not a warning, hand on the man’s forearm as he soothes his thumb over his skin.

“it’s late,” it comes after a deep breath, the kind a shrink would teach you to use in times of stress, or fear, or anger. bill isn’t even acknowledging tess, fully focused on joel. “you should get going.”

plates half full, bellies half empty, the four of them step away from the table. tess slips on a jacket, one she’d not had prior to arriving, and passes joel a loaded bag. he figures she must have had her pick around the old clothes shop, loitering whatever was left that could either fit them or keep them warm through the remainder of the cold months.

he throws it over his shoulder without question.

the air has shifted, a tense feeling floating around the atmosphere that exists between him and bill. tess and frank are seemingly unaware of it, laughing and talking amongst themselves as the group makes their way to the front door.

joel is the last to step out and, in doing so, he pauses, glancing backwards into the open doorway. 

he calls out to tess, all three heads turn.

“need a piss.”

“take your time,” it’s the friendlier of the two men who responds, threading his arm around bill’s and dragging him along with him. it reminds him of why he likes frank more. “we’ll walk tess to the gate.”

he watches the three figures fade away into the dark of the street, carefully stepping back into the house once he feels the safety of distance. he tries to keep his footsteps light, suddenly aware of how quiet the place feels without the panting of a dog or the rustling of someone in the kitchen. he counts the doors as he goes- one, two, three- and turns the handle of the third.

the room is still dark, but that’s okay. he’s used to darkness. his eyes carefully scan the floor with each step he takes closer to the bed, watching out for any discarded dog toy or worn clothing splayed across it. at some point, his steps meet carpet instead of cold floor. he’d not noticed it earlier, but then his sense had been rather focused on the precious cargo he carried.

he finds you where he left you, hair a mess upon your pillow and chest rising steadily in the breaths of deep sleep. only, you’ve gained a companion, the unmistakeable beady-eyed stare of the german shepherd meeting joel’s in the dark. the dog makes a noise, half whimper half whine, and the tip of its bushy tail begins to beat against the mattress, matching the rhythm of joel’s heart.

like before, he lets his hand brush your cheek. instead of wiping saliva, he brushes a few stray hairs away from your peaceful face. you shift and he panics, fearful you’ve awakened, only to relax as you sink deeper into the pillow.

his hand lingers longer than necessary.

another whine from the mutt gives him the will to at last pull away from you, trading your soft cheek for the smooth fur along the dog’s head. his fingers card through it, nails digging a little to scratch at otis’ scalp.

“you take care of her,” for me. “alright bud?”

he must be losing his mind, for he swears he feels the dog nod.

the steps he takes on his way out are less careful, though he’s slowed by the amount of times he seems to insist on turning back to glance at the bed. maybe it’s for comfort, the peace of mind of knowing he’d brought you back safe and sound.

maybe it’s with longing, his aching joints begging for him to crawl his way in beside you, cocooning you between himself and the ball of fluff behind you.

shaking his head, an array of self-aimed insults plough through his mind, joel curls his hand around the wooden frame of the door, steadying himself to glance back one last time.

“joel...” he freezes, caught in place. how long have you been awake? how do you know it’s him? how are you so softly spoken when your voice is hoarse?  “turn the lamp on,” a yawn. he hears rustling and imagines you readjusting yourself into whichever position brings you most comfort. the thought of if it ever gets lonely, sleeping with no one to hold, crosses his mind. he refuses to let it linger. “don’t wanna wake up to the dark.”

he shuffles over to where he sees the outline of a lamp, fingers sliding around in the dark till they hit a switch and a lovely orange hue overtakes the room, bringing it to life. little trinkets, scattered papers, a couple pictures in frames line the desk in front of him. he’s seen too much for comfort, avoiding looking at anything else in your space till he finds you, curled up in the bed too big for one, otis’ head resting on your hip.

you still have his jacket over you, ignoring the warm comforter you lay upon.

he thinks he musters up a smile. if he does, you’re returning it, eyes sleepy and lips lazy in their movement. it’s a peaceful moment, the kind joel doesn’t get many- if any- of these days. he won’t waste it by speaking what’s on his mind. your eyes slowly drop once more, surrendering to exhaustion.

the bedroom door creaks behind him on the way out.

[nalgenewhore]

hooked

elide x lorcan, apocalypse au, secret relationship + jealousy, word count: 5649

It’s early in the morning as the sun has barely risen, and yet she’s trying to leave him already.

Her protests leave him unconvinced. Elide lays beneath him, her dark hair unbound and wild over his pillow. She has her arms around his head to keep him where she wants. As she runs her fingers through his hair, he can feel the iron claws she let out, and he suppresses a shiver each time they scratch his scalp.

Lorcan’s lips press against her jaw and throat while one thigh splits hers. “Stay, darling,” he whispers. “No one needs you now but me.”

Elide chuckles breathlessly, “You want me, you don’t need me.” She swallows her moan as his teeth nip the spot that drives her crazy. In a handful of seconds, she’ll lose her proper senses and let him take her back to bed. With more strength than she thought needed, Elide pushes her hands against his shoulders. “Lorcan.”

He lifts himself off of her, concern washing over his face. 

“I’m going, I mean it,” she says. “Down, boy.”

Lorcan groans and falls to the side. She cackles as she turns onto her stomach, inadvertently pushing her lush ass in his face. He gives it a smack for her commanding him like he’s a dog. 

Elide gasps a bit, cutting him a dirty glare. Petulantly, she tosses her hair over her shoulder and starts grabbing her clothes. “Just for that,” she says as she shimmies her pants over her hips, “I’m keeping this shirt.”

His eyes drop to the faded long sleeve that hangs on her petite frame. He keeps his smile to himself, faking annoyance, “Darling, I have five shirts. And this is your third.” Lorcan’s gaze traces how the collar falls off her shoulder.

She smirks, “And don’t you agree I look so much better in them?”

Lorcan can’t deny that. He props himself on his elbows as he watches her get ready with a crooked grin.

As she hastily weaves her hair into a braid, Lorcan moves forward, “Let me.”

Elide pauses, looking surprised, “Really?”

“Mm-hmm. You won’t be late..”

She smiles, “Ok.” Elide sits down in front of him, easing herself back between his thighs. 

He combs through her silky hair before smoothing it all to the back of her head. Elide lets her eyes fall shut as he starts twisting three even sections together. 

Lorcan’s finished before she wishes he was. He ties it off with a strip of softened leather. “There. All good,” he tells her, then leaves a small kiss on the curve of her neck where it meets her shoulder.

She pulls the braid over her shoulder. Elide smiles up at him, then puckers her lips for a kiss. Chuckling beneath his breath, Lorcan indulges her silent command for a moment. When the time comes, Elide doesn’t pull away and neither does he.

It doesn’t last forever, even if he wants it to. She pats his chest, a silent command he knows well. To his credit, Lorcan holds in his whining and draws back. “You know something,” he muses as Elide sits down on the fur-covered palette to put on her boots. 

“What, love?”

“If people knew about us, you could move in with me. You wouldn’t have to run out of here at the first hint of sun,” Lorcan tells her, his eyes trained on the back of her head. “And you wouldn’t have to sneak over at night.”

Elide looks at him over her shoulder with a teasing grin, “I like sneaking over at night. It makes it exciting.”

He works his jaw. “I’m serious, ‘lide. What do you think about it?”

“About what? Moving in?”

Lorcan nods.

She snorts, “I thought we already talked about this, love.” Elide sits down, seemingly done with the conversation. 

“I want to talk about it again,” he says. He glances around her tent where her things mingle with his. Lorcan can’t even remember the last time Elide didn’t spend the night with him. 

She just shakes her head.

He sits up behind her as she laces her boots. Lorcan curls his body around her and dips his head to kiss her neck. “If people knew, I could do this whenever I wanted.”

Elide gasps a bit, arching her spine. Her hand reaches up to slip around his nape. She laughs breathily, “You could not.”

He slides his hand across her belly. Lorcan drags his teeth over her skin. “Shouldn’t, but I would.”

“You horny pig,” she declares with no malice or bite. Elide hums and laughs, pushing herself up to stand, “Uh-uh, no, you are not distracting me.”

Lorcan works his jaw, stewing over everything he wants to say to her. He knows he shouldn’t pick a fight about this now. He doesn’t stop himself. “Why do you care so much if other people know, Elide? Are you that ashamed of me?” It’s a joke, something he’s said before, but it isn’t funny this time. The glimmer of hurt in his eyes tells her as much. 

“I’m not ashamed of you,” Elide says evenly, refusing to rise to the bait. “I’d just rather not have the entire camp know my business.” She takes his jaw to tug him into a chaste kiss, her nails digging into his cheeks. “And that’s all it is.”

He isn’t convinced.

She sighs, rubbing her brow, “You’re really not letting this go, are you?”

“I’m not. Why won’t you move in with me? Baby, we haven’t spent a night apart in, like, three months.”

She pops her hip to the side, “I’ve been staying here because my tent has a tear in it. If it was fixed, like you promised me it would be, then I wouldn’t still be here in your tent.”

Lorcan scoffs, shaking his head, “Don’t bullshit me. I want the truth.”

The tear in her tent is a minor issue, something that wouldn’t take more than an hour to fix. Elide hasn’t mentioned it in weeks, though, which makes Lorcan think she doesn’t really care about it. Trust, when Elide has an issue, she makes sure he is well aware of it.

Elide bristles at the implication that she’s lying to him. “Have you ever thought about why it matters so much to you that everyone knows?”

“Because I want people to know, and that’s all.” His eyes narrow. “I don’t have to have an ulterior motive.”

“Oh, no, I know why,” she bites back. “You want people to know I’m not available.”

Lorcan scrubs his face, groaning. “That isn’t what I want. You don’t always know everything.”

“I do so. I mean, does it bother you that much when they flirt with me?”

“Yes.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she laughs. “Why does it matter if people flirt with me? You know I’m coming home to you. My love, I don’t care about anyone else.”

“So why can’t they know that?” Lorcan presses. “Are you telling me it doesn’t bother you at all when other people flirt with me?”

She shrugs, now seeming bored with their argument. He can’t believe her or her dismissal. He thought he showed her he’s worth more than a good fuck, that he has thoughts about their relationship that matter. “Not really, Lorcan. Other people can flirt with you all they want. I know I’m the only one you want, and you’re the only one I want. That’s enough for me.”

Lorcan shuts his eyes in defeat. He doesn’t like that she’s suggesting there’s something wrong in wanting more. “Fine.” He stands up, angling himself so as not to touch her.

To stop him, Elide presses her hand against his stomach. “Why don’t you go back to sleep, love?” 

“I need to get started on the jeeps.” He slips past her to his pack of clothes. It isn’t a lie – the hunks of metal they call vehicles require a lot of upkeep, and Lorcan is one of the only members of their encampment that has any knowledge of mechanics.

As he pulls out a clean pair of pants, Lorcan hears the fabric tent flaps rustle. Elide leaves before his next breath. He can’t stop his brow from settling into a deep frown, and Lorcan gets dressed in terse motions.

When he exits, Lorcan ignores Elide, refusing to look across the camp at her. The feel of her solemn stare prickles the back of his neck, and he stretches it out. If she wants to pretend like what they are is immaterial, then so be it.

He’s done trying.

✵✵✵✵✵

Elide takes to avoiding everyone once the camp starts waking up. She cannot handle how she feels. A flurry of emotions overruns her body, and she feels ready to burst at any given moment.

All morning, she sneaks glances at Lorcan. She winces when he hits the wrench against some part of machinery, using more force than necessary. He never looks at her, not once. And Elide supposes she deserves it, yet that does not stop the sting of rejection. 

It isn’t fair. She isn’t being fair. The fact that he still comes to her may be considered a modern-day miracle with how many ways she’s denied him. 

Elide is not an easy person, this she knows. Lorcan doesn’t seem to mind it. At least, he didn't seem to mind it.

She looks back down at her mortar and works out her frustration by grinding the willow bark into a pulp.

By the time the stringy rind is brewing in the boiled water, Lorcan has amassed a small audience. 

Elide watches with sharp eyes. He engages in the conversation of the three girls, leaning against the rover with flirtatious ease. She frowns, and when she looks away, she misses how Lorcan’s gaze reaches to her, pleading for her attention.

An hour passes as they do this dance, sneaking looks at one another and missing each other’s glance every time.

Luca, one of the camp chefs, bangs a ladle against an empty pot to signify that breakfast is ready.

Elide puts a cork stopper in the leather waterskin she pours her brewed medicine in. She meticulously rearranges her supplies before slowly joining the mass queue for food.

In the line, she meets Manon, but Elide does not have the energy to talk with the other witch. She stares glumly at the head of dark hair that pokes above everyone else.

A derisive snort interrupts her pouting. “Trouble in paradise?”

She sighs as she finally tears her eyes away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Elide mumbles at Manon.

“Mm-hmm,” her friend crosses her arms, unimpressed.

Elide rolls her eyes and resolves to ignore Manon. The line moves quickly through the mess tent. Inside, lively chatter fills the space. The tables and benches are quickly filled up, save for the table where the camp leaders sit. As the head medic, Elide always has a seat there. Usually, she sits with Lorcan, but as she approaches their usual spots, she sees that her place has been taken up.

She recognises the girl, having seen her around Lorcan several times. But that had been before they were together. 

A lump forms in her throat, and Elide squeezes her bowl of oatmeal. She swallows, then stiffly walks forward.

The girl has Lorcan trapped in what seems to be a very entertaining conversation, given the amount of times a high-pitched giggle leaves her round lips. Lorcan doesn’t react, and Elide hates it.

He glances at her, and there’s a plea in his eyes.

She blinks in shock as she realises this is for her benefit, that he wants her reaction, her jealousy.

Elide stops short. She knows she won’t be able to make it through breakfast with them.

Aelin waves her hand, “Elide, I saved you a spot.”

“Oh,” Elide plasters on a mild smile. “I’m fine, I’m going to eat outside.” Sharply, she pivots on her toe and marches out, her spine fixed like a rod.

Lorcan stares after her, and something has curdled in his gut.

Elide finds a spot at the base of a large tree, enough distance between her and the mess tent that she cannot hear any conversation. This morning, her bowl of over-sugared oatmeal has the same appeal as a bowl of gruel, and she chokes it down. Her treacherous mind turns the image of Lorcan and that girl over and over before morphing into some twisted version of the nights they must have spent together. 

She is well aware of the reputation her lover has amassed for himself.

Groaning, Elide knocks the back of her head into the tree. She reminds herself what he’s done doesn’t matter, because what they are is immaterial. They’ll grow tired of each other, eventually, and it will be easier to drift apart if they aren’t linked.

The rest of her breakfast passes by in a blur as she tries to convince herself of her own thoughts.

Eventually, her bowl and mug lay empty in her lap. She sighs as she gets to her feet. Elide wanders back to the kitchen to put them in with the other dishes. Afterwards, she’ll have to check in with her co-council. 

On top of their larger duties, everyone cycles through smaller jobs like helping the kitchen staff, having an extra patrol shift of the perimeter, or chopping firewood. As the medic, Elide remains in a unique position. Her chore tends to be tied up with her work, and today she’s allotted time for collecting the herbs she’s run low on. She needs an escort, though, someone who can carry weapons if they run into any danger.

Elide slips into the council tent, knowing that she’s a few minutes late. The closest open spot is next to Aelin, so she stands beside her friend. Only after she’s settled does Elide realise that Lorcan stands directly opposite from her. Not only that, but the same girl from breakfast is still hanging off of him. He’s stiff.

She can’t help noticing his discomfort, but she can’t march up to him to claim him.

Rowan’s deep and even voice cuts through her mind to begin the meeting. Elide zones out as he outlines the changes in guard shifts and training regimens.

He turns to her for her input on the medic’s duties. “Elide?”

She nods once, launching into her small spiel. “We’re running low on some supplies, so I’ll go foraging today.” Given the precariousness of their peace in the region, nobody leaves camp alone. “Today will be a long day, too. I could use an extra hand.”

“Very well. Salvaterre, you’ll be Elide’s escort. And—”

“I’ll go too,” says the girl next to Lorcan. “I can help Elide forage.”

The witch’s upper lip curls in irritation. Too late to avoid being caught by Lorcan, she schools her features. Rowan asks, “That good with you?”

Elide dips her chin. “Fine.” Her gaze jumps to Lorcan whose face is caught in an uncomfortable grimace. “I’ll need to leave soon so we’re back early.”

Lorcan quickly agrees with her plan. The meeting wraps up quickly after that, and Elide slips out before he can stop her.

✵✵✵✵✵

He stands with Ombriel at the camp entrance, waiting for Elide. Previously, he has greatly appreciated the opportunity to spend a day deep in the woods with his witch. Today he resents Ombriel’s presence and knows Elide will keep up her cold treatment of him.

Elide can tell that he has history with the intruding woman. She doesn’t know that it never mattered to him, that only what they have has ever mattered to him.

A hand slides around his elbow, and Lorcan knows instantly that it isn’t Elide. He shakes his arm, stepping aside. “Don’t touch me,” he says coolly, his voice tight.

Ombriel pouts. “What’s gotten into you? You’ve been so… distant lately.”

Lorcan merely shrugs. He spies a slight figure coming closer. “Elide’s coming.”

“I don’t know how you even see her,” Ombriel states. “She’s horribly talented at sneaking around, don’t you find? She is a Blackbeak though, so I guess I can’t blame her for being so spooky.”

His shoulders tense at the insult driven towards Elide and the other witches in camp. Lorcan turns to face Ombriel. “Don’t talk about Elide like that.”

She smirks, then tuts, “So sensitive.”

Knowing that engaging in any further will be wasted breath, he goes back to ignoring her.

Elide appears resigned as she joins them. She avoids looking at Lorcan, either staring past his shoulder or glaring at Ombriel. After a brief run-down of the spaces they’ll need to go to for the plants Elide needs, they set off, leaving camp.

The witch leads the trio, though in Lorcan’s view her taking on leading them is less because of her knowledge and more so because she can’t stand being around him.

He cannot ignore how much it stings, because it hurts. Elide does not know, or refuses to see, the hold she has over him and how easily she can bring pain to him. Lorcan will take anything she gives to him, will beg for it gladly, on his knees, over a bed of coals and iron, but is it so wrong for him to want something more than scraps?

He doesn’t think so.

After they’ve walked for ten or so minutes, a plant begins to crop up. Elide stops and rests her hand on a tree. Her iron nails flash in the sun. Lorcan winces since he knows she rarely wears them out. Mainly, they act as tools or weapons.

Elide turns to them, gesturing, “Start picking, one bag each.” She’d given them each a collection of bags for new supplies. Without another word, the witch begins to gently gather bright green leaves. 

Lorcan has accompanied her before, so he knows how to follow Elide’s instructions. He recognises the plant as wild mint, which the medics use for a variety of reasons.

He almost forgets Ombriel is here until she kneels beside him to help. It makes Lorcan startle somewhat, then he glances down at how close she’s made herself.

Tense, his eyes skip to Elide before shifting away. Her back remains to him. Lorcan re-focusses on the delicate mint leaves and starts plucking a few at a time. A minute later, the repetition of the motion becomes meditative. He kneels in contemplation, everything other than their material surroundings blocked from his immediate thought. 

Despite the tension between his companions, Lorcan feels relatively at peace in the forest.

And then Ombriel lets out a sigh that makes his hackles raise. “Do you, like, never talk out here?”

“If we have to,” Elide answers in a low voice that reminds him of a sword against stone. She uses the edges of her nails to strip mint from the stem.

Lorcan watches the back of her head. The braid he made for her sways across her back as she moves.

He forces himself to look away. Beside him, Ombriel is ripping whole plants from the dirt, and Lorcan knows that Elide will hate that. The witch prefers taking only what they need, not entire plants, so that they can return to the same crop.

In a lowered voice, he says, “We only need the leaves, not the entire plant.”

“What for? It’s quicker this way,” she shrugs. “I’d prefer to be done with this sooner rather than later.”

“It’s not about being fast, it’s about reducing our impact on our environment.”

A scoff interrupts them. Lorcan looks up at Elide who has cocked her head to the side. She narrows her eyes at him before ignoring him again. His head dips in defeat that he cannot conceal.

Ombriel has said something else, but he isn’t listening.

Elide bids them to move past the mint plants. She hardly looks back to see if they follow her.

✵✵✵✵✵

The sun peaks in the sky as they work near the river. Her nerves are frayed, and Elide feels like she’s on the edge of something explosive for the second time today.

Her hands are beneath the warmer stream as she cuts through hollow tubes with her nails. She could use the knife Lorcan fashioned for her specifically for foraging, but Elide wants to be petty.

She’s balancing on the rock furthest from the shoreline where Lorcan and Ombriel work. Due to the rushing water, Elide remains gratefully deaf to their conversation.

Soon, her legs start to cramp. She shouldn’t have crouched for so long. 

With a grimace, she stands up and carefully hops her way back to shore. On the last rock, Elide miscalculates her step, missing the flatter top and landing on a slick patch. 

A gasp escapes her, yet before she can find herself at the river's rocky bottom, Lorcan catches her. He’s waded in past his knees to steady her. Without fuss, he lifts and places her on the grass, then joins her. “You good?”

Instinctively, Elide has grabbed his arms for stability. Now that she’s on solid ground again, she hastily lets go. She doesn’t say a word, just sort-of nods. Elide steps away from him.

“Woah, that could’ve been bad,” Ombriel comments, “if Lorcan wasn’t here.”

Her anger returns to her like a bolt of lightning, and she wants to rip Ombriel’s throat out with her nails. Before she can give into the urge, Elide stalks a little ways up the river’s edge. She grabs her canteen of water, then sits behind a rock that hides her from Lorcan.

Elide’s exhales shake with anger and sheer possession.

She hates the ease with which Ombriel holds herself around Lorcan. He is resigned to it, but it twists her stomach to know that he is used to Ombriel.

Feelings like these should make her feel embarrassed. A man that waltzed into her life had utterly ruined her capacity for reason and made her so hateful to other women. Elide should feel sickened.

She leans her head back against the rock, sighing. Breathing evenly, she tries to calm herself. 

It takes a while for her to feel moderately like herself again. At least, she thinks to herself, she won’t bite anyone’s head off if they speak to her.

Elide drains the last mouthful of water before standing. She miserably turns back to the others.

The sight that greets her makes her drop her metal canteen. It clangs loudly on the rocks, and Lorcan spots her. His hands squeeze around Ombriel’s wrists, keeping them close to his chest. He lets go like he’s been burned, his mouth opening to say something.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” the witch snaps.

Ombriel looks over her shoulder, smirking.

Elide asks Lorcan, “Seriously?”

“Lee, it’s not like that,” he tells her.

She doesn’t even bother to laugh out her disbelief. Elide pivots and stomps away.

Lorcan swears behind her, then quickly scrambles after her. “Elide.”

The witch pulls herself over the rocks, her anger only pushing her faster. She half-snarls and resists bringing down her iron fangs.

He calls her name again, and once more, Elide only speeds up. She knows this river well, has gathered many plants and basked in the eddies and sun-bathed on its mossy shores. In a few hundred metres, she will reach the falls. There’s nowhere to go from there, so she might jump into the waters if the situation calls for it.

“Lee,” Lorcan says, easily keeping up with her.

Fuck him and his freakish body. Nobody should be that tall, Elide decides.

“Can you stop?”

“I’m busy,” she retorts. 

“Stop walking away from me,” he calls out.

“Nobody said you had to follow.” Under her breath, she sneers, “I’m sure your new whore could lick your wounds.” Elide doesn’t listen to him, of course, and continues marching towards the waterfall. There’s a clearing right above a set of pools that she remembers. Lorcan will know it too, given how often they’ve frequented the falls.

He makes a dismissive noise. “Like hell I’m letting you walk off because you’re pissed at me.” 

Elide nimbly bounds from rock to rock, tearing through an errant branch with her claws. Tossing the debris behind her, she tries not to grin at knowing Lorcan is walking into it.

“Hell- Lochan, can you just fucking - wait,” he tells her, desperation bleeding into his voice.

“I don’t want to be around you,” she lashes out, “and don’t tell me what to do.”

The familiar path to the clearing reveals itself to her, and she sharply pivots, ignoring her lover’s swearing at her abrupt turn.

She can’t escape him in the clearing though. As the sun fully hits her cheeks, and she can smell the mist in the air, two hands firmly stop her.

“Elide,” he says lowly. “Please. Stop walking away from me.”

His voice makes her chest crack a bit. Elide glances at the cliff’s edge. She crosses her arms before slowly facing him, but she does not still lift her gaze to him. They stand close enough that her nose is only a hand-width from his sternum.

Lorcan murmurs, “Baby.”

Something about his voice and that term makes a chord within her splinter, and she shoves him back, her nails cutting through his shirt. “You’re an asshole, don’t ‘baby’ me.”

Elide’s own anger sparks his temper, and his brows crease as he snaps, “Really, Elide? I’m the asshole when you keep pushing me away, and that, I dunno, makes me feel some kind of way?”

“You feeling ‘some kinda way’ does not make it ok to flirt with someone else.”

“I was not flirting with her. I was telling her to get out of my space and to stop touching me,” he explains in a terse voice.

She scoffs, “Don’t lie to me.”

Lorcan looks at her incredulously, “I’m not lying, Lee. It’s the truth!”

“Why should I believe you, Lorcan?” Elide demands. “I knew about you two when you were- together. You have history with her.”

He groans, screwing up his face. “That was months ago, darling, once.” Prior to Elide taking up every waking hour of his, Lorcan had developed a reputation for a short attention span. “Besides, why do you even care if we flirted? You said it yourself. As long as I’m crawling back to you when the sun sets, it doesn’t matter what I do.”

Gawking, Elide can’t decide if she wants to push him over the falls or throw herself into the water at his sheer audacity. “I wasn’t- that’s not what I meant, Lorcan! There’s a difference between an occasional flirt, and you deliberately flirting with somebody you slept with in front of me.”

His jaw feathers, and Lorcan shakes his head. “You can’t have it both ways. You don’t get to change the meaning of what you said when you realise how full of shit you are. Especially when I wasn’t even doing what you say I was.”

She starts pacing from one side of the clearing to the other. Elide weaves her fingers through her hair to tug on the roots. “That’s- fucking hell, you’re twisting it because you made a mess, and you can’t have any accountability.” She stops, exhaling tearily. “I mean, what do you want? Why does it mean so much that people know?”

“Because,” he bites out. “It matters.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you, and people should know that. Because I am so sick of hiding you and us like something I should be ashamed of.” Lorcan’s words burst forward from his lips like he has been holding them in for ages. They make her freeze in shock. “Because I am yours, and I want everyone to know it.” He has an ache in his gut, in his chest, to be claimed, for Elide to dig her nails into his heart and wrench it out. Lorcan can’t stop himself now. “I love you, darling, and I need to be yours in every way.”

She doesn’t react immediately. As the silence stretches between them, Lorcan falls back a step, something on his face falling. “Lee, you don’t have to say anything. It’s fine if you don’t feel the same.”

Elide grabs the front of his shirt to tug him towards her. Once he’s close enough, she bids him lean down, so he does. She cups his face before kissing him, so softly. His arms wind around her waist in seconds to draw her frame against his. 

Her thumb strokes the side of his face as they embrace, and Lorcan feels weightless in her touch, though his heart thuds painfully. For a second, no longer than a soft breath, Elide pulls away from him to ask, “You love me?” She thumbs his pouty bottom lip.

Lorcan nods, his breath escaping him. “Mm-hmm. I love everything about you.”

“That’s a lot to love,” Elide whispers.

“Not to me. Not when it’s you,” he tells her.

She surges forward to press her lips to his. “I love you too,” she says. “Everything about you.” Elide grins as he slants his mouth over hers. “And you are mine.” At her claiming, his body relaxes, and the next thing she knows, she’s being laid down on the soft moss.

Instantly, Elide is reminded of how their day started; however, this time she doesn’t tell him to stop. 

He unravels her with his hands and tongue and teeth first until Elide flips him onto his back, and Lorcan is thanking the waterfall for drowning out the sounds of their coupling.

✵✵✵✵✵

When they eventually stumble back down, they find that their companion has abandoned their supplies. Elide smirks smugly at the obvious path Ombriel has left through the woods. The river is close enough to their encampment that they do not need to worry about her getting lost.

Beside Elide, Lorcan chuckles under his breath. She looks up at him, “What?”

He drags his hand down to her hip, then leans down to nip the edge of her ear. “You’re kinda crazy when you’re jealous.”

Elide doesn’t bother protesting his comment. She rolls her eyes, though. “Am I hearing a complaint?” As she looks up at him, her gaze falls to the open collar of his shirt. Red lines peek out, and she idly traces one.

Lorcan dips his head to claim her lips in a slow, dizzying kiss. “Never. It’s fucking hot when you’re insane,” he mumbles.

She tips her head back as she laughs. “I know.” Elide smiles at him, her eyes crinkled shut. 

Laughing, he kisses the side of her head before going to collect their supplies. Ombriel so graciously left her pack for them to take back, which acts as an ineffectual sort of revenge. Lorcan bundles up the crushable canvas bag, tucking it in the bottom of his pack. Before Elide can protest – it should surprise no one that his witch is fiercely independent – he puts half of her supplies in his bag.

They slowly pick their way back to camp, enjoying one another’s company and the sunny afternoon.

“When we’re back,” Lorcan says as he lifts Elide onto a moss covered log she wanted to walk along, “I’ll fix that tear in your tent.”

Elide hums noncommittally, her arms out to the side for balance. “Don’t bother.”

He gives her a look. In the morning, she was snapping at him for not getting to it, and now all of a sudden, she couldn’t care less. “What are you talking about, baby?” Lorcan tugs her so that she stops walking. He tucks some of her hair back. “I should’ve gotten to it when you asked me.” Kissing her cheek, he whispers a soft apology.

“Mmm, you don’t have to say sorry,” Elide replies, her lips curling with a small grin. She strings her arms around his shoulders and scratches the back of his neck. “And I just think that two tents is excessive if we’re sharing, y’know?”

His hand squeezes her waist. “We’re sharing?”

At his questioning, her nerves almost get the best of her. But he’s looking at her with a gaze full of quiet anticipation and adoration, so Elide pushes through. “I thought about, um, well, you wanting me to move in, and I… think it’s a good idea?” His brows crease a bit in the middle. “No, no, I know it’s a good idea. It is, really.” Fretting, she rubs his shoulders and rambling, “I get if you changed your mind, and it’s completely fine if you did, so please just tell me if you have because I’ve been making a complete ass today, and I don’t need to keep on—”

“Woah, woah, darling,” Lorcan chuckles. “Breathe, please?” He rubs his thumb over her rib. She forces her lungs to expand. Elide nervously searches his face as if to read him. “I didn’t change my mind. I want you to live with me in my- our tent.”

A wide grin overtakes her face. “Yeah?” Elide asks, her hands sliding up the sides of his neck.

Rolling his eyes good-naturedly, Lorcan wraps her in his arms. She leans into him willingly, easily. “Yeah, Lee. I’ve been wanting you to move in for weeks, y’know.”

The weight of guilt settles uncomfortably in her gut. Elide squeezes him. “I know. I just- I needed to be sure.”

“It’s ok,” he whispers.

She feels so silly now – it’s the most obvious thing in the world, her love for him. Elide turns her head to kiss the spot behind his ear, “I love you.”

Lorcan pulls back, only far enough that he can look at her properly. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of hearing her say that. He knows he won’t tire of telling her. “I love you.” Threading his hand through her hair, he presses his lips to her temple. “Let’s go, yeah?”

“Love, show me the way home,” Elide smiles.

✵✵✵✵✵

an: elide deserves to be insane btw ! this is a v random "apocalypse" universe but i think that elide should have iron nails and teeth &lt;3

tag list: @sassyhobbits @empress-ofbloodshed @celestialams @the-regal-warrior @icecream52 @elentiyawhitethorn @goddess-aelin @julemmaes (lmk if u want to be added/removed <;3)

[mathmusicreading]

Currently thinking about the title of Supernatural season 4 episode 1 "Lazarus Rising". It's so simple and so evocative. I think I get something extra from it because I love Terry Pratchett, Discworld, Hogfather, Discworld's Death, and the quote "where the falling angel meets the rising ape". (Do the Destiel shippers go wild with this? The Cas fans supporting his love for humanity and even creating free will? They should.) But just on it's own, it's referencing coming back to life and the phrasing has connotations of ascension and empowerment. It also avoids connotations of zombies or likening Dean to Jesus Christ.

On that note, I wonder how much Supernatural meant to parallel Dean Winchester to Lazarus of Bethany, and Castiel to Jesus for that matter. (With how little I engage with Supernatural canon, I think my thoughts on Chuck's relationship with Castiel are mixed and not set, but for fun right now: Castiel is Chuck's favorite angel, and Chuck hates it and hates him for it!)

Dean was dead for four months, much like Lazarus was dead for four days. (Dean was also in hell for 40 years, a significant number and amount of time in the Bible. And moving away from the Christianity angle, four is a fitting motif with Dean's death given "four" sounding like "death" in Mandarin Chinese.)

Dean is "the righteous man", while part of the title with which Lazarus is venerated is "Righteous Lazarus".

If "risen dead" evokes zombies and "risen from the dead" invokes Jesus, then "Lazarus rising" conveys that the subject of resurrection is a normal human, and the key is that they are resurrected by a great power who is good. Specifically, Lazarus is resurrected by Jesus, the Son of God, and Dean is resurrected not by a necromancer or demon, but by the angel Castiel, sent on a holy mission.

Jesus did not immediately save Lazarus, rushing to heal him upon hearing of his illness, but waited two days before traveling to and resurrecting Lazarus after he died. I can't help but feel like this is similar to Castiel's not rescuing Dean until 40 years into Dean's sentence in Hell, after he had broken on the rack and become a torturer shedding blood in Hell.

Jesus did not merely heal Lazarus when he was sick, but resurrected him after death, for God's glory and that people might believe in Jesus' own coming resurrection. (God resurrecting Castiel, anyone?) I think Supernatural canon is not explicitly clear, and it may be widespread fanon or a popular fan head canon that Castiel was sent immediately to rescue Dean, but wow the similarity to Jesus and his mission if Cas couldn't reach Dean or wasn't sent until after Dean broke because of heaven's ultimate plan to carryout the apocalypse, rescuing Dean not being about saving a righteous man but about breaking the first seal to Lucifer's cage.

Not full of meaning, but Jesus resurrected Lazarus in his tomb and still wrapped in his grave cloths. So for the people jokingly asking why Castiel left Dean in his coffin, six feet under, instead of zapping him out, it's because we're really leaning into the Jesus angle. (Is Cas lobotomized Jesus?!)

And the kickers now that we've gone through all that: Jesus wept. He was moved with compassion for Lazarus' sisters and friends. He mourned Lazarus' death even while on the way to resurrect him. It was well known by all that he loved Lazarus. Take that how you will and run with it, Cas fans and Destiel shippers!

Last thing not being included with the rest because you can't as easily get it just from reading John 11:1-44 or doing an internet search for Lazarus. DiscIaimer that above, I got the title with which Lazarus is venerated in the Eastern Orthodox Church from Wikipedia, and so too the following Biblical interpretation/theological commentary.

The miracle of the raising of Lazarus is the climax of John's "signs". It explains the crowds seeking Jesus on Palm Sunday, and leads directly to the decision of Caiaphas and the Sanhedrin to plan to kill Jesus. Theologians Moloney and Harrington view the raising of Lazarus as a "pivotal miracle" which starts the chain of events that leads to the Crucifixion of Jesus. They consider it as a "resurrection that will lead to death", in that the raising of Lazarus will lead to the death of Jesus, the Son of God, in Jerusalem which will reveal the Glory of God.[17]

Dean's resurrection led to Castiel's death. Castiel died because he saved and loved Dean. When Castiel first laid a hand on [Dean] in Hell, he was lost! Castiel died because Chuck is a Pharisee that can't accept his manly everyman main character (sorry, Sam) is bisexual instead of straight. Chuck can be bisexual, but the manly everyman main character has to be straight, and so he killed Castiel for it. Dean too if you believe Chuck won.

And if the point of Lazarus' resurrection is Jesus' divinity, then the point of Dean's resurrection is that the angel is gay and Dean is bi!