𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — the morning after almost kissing dean should have been easy to ignore. unfortunately, his family keeps expecting you to act like a couple, and some kisses start feeling a little too necessary.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — fake dating, family weekend, kissing, tension, banter, mutual pining, emotional confusion, dean being annoying-soft, no smut.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 — 6,778
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’s 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — it’s Friday, which means a new part of Boyfriend Material is available you guys! This one is surely my favourite. Tell me what you thought about it and comment what you think will happen in the next part <3
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⟶ you can find my taglist rules here!
𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⟶ you can find dean’s masterlist here!
The third thing you realized was that sharing a bed with Dean Di Laurentis was a terrible idea. Not because he did anything wrong — annoyingly enough, Dean had stayed exactly on his side of the bed all night. No touching, no flirting, no breaking any of the rules you’d very responsibly created to survive the weekend with your dignity intact.
So, unfortunately, the problem was you.
Because Dean was asleep.
Actually asleep. Peaceful and quiet and entirely unaware that he was ruining your morning by looking like that. His hair was messy against the pillow, his mouth slightly parted, one arm tucked under his head while the other lay loose over the blanket. The shirt you’d forced him to put on the night before had ridden up just enough to show a narrow strip of skin above his sweats. It felt deliberate, even though it absolutely wasn’t.
You hated him for that, just a little. You hated yourself even more for noticing.
You’d woken up facing him, which you were blaming on the mattress, gravity, and whatever ridiculously expensive hotel bedding Dean’s family had paid for. That seemed more reasonable than admitting your body had turned toward him in the night, like he was the safest place in the bed.
Dean’s face was close enough that if you shifted forward even a little, you’d feel his breath against your mouth.
That thought was horrifying.
It wasn’t your fault, obviously.
Probably.
You stared at him for another second before very carefully shifting away, but Dean’s hand found your wrist before you could get far. You went completely still.
For one terrifying second, you thought he was awake. You stopped breathing, eyes wide, already bracing yourself for whatever smug comment he was about to make about you staring at him. At the same time, he slept because Dean would absolutely turn being unconscious into a personal victory if given the chance.
But he only breathed, slow and even.
His brows drew together slightly, and he made a low, sleepy sound before tugging your wrist closer.
Your stomach dropped.
“Dean,” you whispered.
Nothing but another slow, even breath.
Still asleep, somehow.
Apparently, Dean Di Laurentis flirted in his sleep now. Unfortunately, that felt exactly like something he’d do.
You tried to pull your wrist free, but his fingers tightened again — not enough to hurt, just enough to make your whole body go stupidly still. His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist once, so soft it almost felt accidental, like he was comforting himself without realizing it.
You stared at his hand first, then at his face, and finally at the ceiling, like maybe God, or at least the hotel sprinkler system, could explain why this weekend was already becoming significantly more dangerous than you’d planned.
“Dean,” you said again, sharper this time.
His eyes barely opened.
For half a second, he looked sleepy and confused, soft enough to make your chest do something embarrassing.
His gaze dropped to his fingers around your wrist, then lifted back to your face.
Neither of you moved.
“Morning.” His voice came out rough from sleep.
You swallowed. “Your hand’s still on my wrist.”
Dean blinked like he was trying to load the rest of his brain. He looked down at his hand around your wrist. “That does appear to be true.”
“Dean.”
“Right.” He let go slowly, but not before his thumb brushed your skin one more time. Probably accidental. Definitely something you were going to think about later against your will. “Sorry.”
You pushed yourself upright immediately, putting space between you like the bed had caught fire. “Do you always grab people in your sleep?”
Dean rolled onto his back and dragged a hand over his face. “I don’t know. No one’s usually complained.”
“Consider this the first official complaint.”
“Noted,” he said.
“You’re weirdly clingy when you’re asleep.”
“I was literally unconscious.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
Dean turned his head on the pillow, hair falling over his forehead as he looked at you. “Are you always this mean in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“Good to know.” His mouth curved slightly, as if that were information he planned to use later.
You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”
“Because my mom’s going to ask if we slept okay.”
Your mouth opened, but nothing came out, which was annoying, because he had a point.
Dean seemed to notice at the same time you did, because his mouth curved slowly.
“No.” You cut him off immediately.
“I didn’t even say anything.”
“You looked like you wanted to.”
“I’m allowed to think.”
“That’s worse.”
He sat up slowly, still looking far too good for someone who’d just woken up. “If my mom asks, we need to keep our story straight.”
“We need boundaries, Dean.”
“We have boundaries. You made a whole list.”
“You were holding my wrist in your sleep.”
“Again, I was unconscious.”
“You smiled when you realized.”
“I mean, that part I’ll take credit for.”
You grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at his head.
Dean caught it against his chest and laughed quietly, the sound too warm for that early in the morning. Too easy, and too much like the night before, when he’d been lying beside you in the dark, looking at your mouth like kissing you might be the only honest thing he’d done all weekend.
The memory pulled tight in your stomach. Dean’s smile faded, just a little, and you knew he remembered it too.
The room went quiet in a way that wasn’t awkward, exactly.
It was worse.
Careful.
Irritating Dean was easier to deal with. Irritating him was familiar. Safe. It came with the added benefit of letting you insult him without your pulse doing anything weird.
Careful, I made you remember last night, when neither of you had moved away fast enough.
Dean was the first to clear his throat. “Bathroom’s yours.”
You nodded a little too fast. “Great.”
Then you climbed out of bed and walked straight into the bathroom without looking back, because if Dean was still watching you, you had a horrible feeling you’d remember it forever.
The bathroom was cold, too bright, and deeply judgmental.
You stared at yourself in the mirror for a long moment. Your hair was doing whatever it wanted, and your shirt looked like it’d given up sometime around three in the morning. Your face looked far too awake for someone who’d slept terribly, which felt unfair. If you were going to spend half the night replaying an almost-kiss with Dean Di Laurentis, the least your face could do was look tragic and mysterious.
Instead, you looked like a girl who’d made bad choices and was about to have breakfast with the consequences.
You brushed your teeth, washed your face, and gave yourself a look in the mirror like that might solve anything.
“This is fake,” you whispered.
The mirror looked unconvinced.
By the time you came out, Dean was already dressed.
He was standing near the window in dark pants and a white button-down, sleeves rolled up, phone in one hand. His hair was still a little damp from running his fingers through it. He looked like someone’s rich, responsible boyfriend, which was both offensive and inaccurate.
You stopped short in the doorway.
Dean looked up from his phone. His gaze moved over you once, quick enough to pretend it hadn’t happened but not fast enough to be innocent.
“You look good.”
You frowned at him. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you mean it.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “You’d rather I lie?”
“Yes.”
Dean’s mouth twitched. “You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“Awful, honestly.”
“Much better.”
“Hard to believe my family’s buying this.”
You rolled your eyes and brushed past him to grab your bag. “Your family seems optimistic.”
“My family’s obsessed with you,” Dean said. “My mom’s texted me three times already.”
Your head snapped up before you could pretend you didn’t care. “About me?”
Dean lifted his phone. “Mostly.”
“That feels ominous.”
“She says she hopes you slept well.”
Heat rushed to your face so quickly that it was actually humiliating.
“Why would she say it like that?”
Dean stared at you.
You stared back, already regretting the question.
Then he grinned.
You pointed at him before he could say anything. “Do not.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You had the face.”
“That’s just my face.”
“Exactly. That’s the problem.”
Dean leaned against the window, smiling like your panic was funny. “She just meant because of the hotel, sweetheart.”
Your stomach did that stupid little flip again at the nickname.
You hid it behind a glare. “Don’t sweetheart me when no one’s here.”
“Pretty sure rule four didn’t mention sweetheart.”
“It’s close enough to rule four.”
“Are we making amendments now?”
“I’ll make whatever amendments I need to survive this weekend.”
Dean’s smile softened, which somehow made it worse. “That bad already?”
You held his gaze for half a second too long.
His voice was teasing, mostly, but something sat underneath it — something careful, again, like he was asking without actually saying it, like he remembered how quiet the room had gotten last night and didn’t know what to do with it either.
You could’ve said yes.
You didn’t.
“You’re really annoying before breakfast,” you said instead.
Dean’s expression cleared, his smile slipping back into place. “Only before breakfast?”
“Don’t push it.”
Breakfast was in one of the hotel’s private rooms, because apparently, rich people couldn’t eat eggs around strangers like normal people.
Dean’s hand settled at your lower back the second the elevator doors opened, and your body stiffened before your brain could catch up.
Dean noticed immediately, his mouth dipping close to your ear. “Necessary?”
You glanced into the room ahead and immediately spotted his parents with a group of older couples. His mother turned toward you with a bright smile.
Necessary.
It hung between you like a dare.
You swallowed before nodding once.
Dean’s hand stayed exactly where it was.
Warm. Light. Respectful enough that you couldn’t complain, but present enough that your entire body noticed anyway.
“Relax,” he murmured near your ear.
“I’m perfectly relaxed.”
“You look like you’re preparing for war.”
“I haven’t ruled it out.”
“My mom’s obsessed with you, remember?”
“That only makes it worse.”
Dean let out a soft laugh. “How?”
“Because now I actually feel bad lying to her.”
His fingers flexed against your back once, quick enough that you almost missed it.
“Yeah,” he said, voice quieter now. “I know.”
You looked up at him before you could stop yourself.
For a second, the smile was gone. Then his mother started across the room toward you, and just like that, Dean’s performance was back in place — smooth enough that it should’ve scared you more than it did.
“There you are,” she said, pressing a kiss to Dean’s cheek before turning to you with a smile. “Good morning, sweetheart. Did you sleep okay?”
You were actually going to die.
This was how you were going to go — in a hotel breakfast room, taken out by Dean’s mother asking an extremely normal question.
Dean’s hand pressed a little more firmly against your back, and somehow, annoyingly, it helped.
You smiled, hoping it looked normal. “Really well, thank you. The room’s beautiful.”
Dean made a sound that was very clearly supposed to be a cough.
His mother glanced between the two of you with far too much interest. “I’m glad.”
Dean’s father appeared beside her, coffee in hand, and nodded at you. “Morning, [Y/N]. Dean.”
Dean nodded once. “Dad.”
His father glanced at Dean, then at the hand still resting against your back.
His mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.
You suddenly understood exactly where Dean got that habit from.
Breakfast was somehow worse than dinner. Everyone was awake, sober, and paying attention.
You sat beside Dean at the round table as his mother introduced you to people whose names you forgot almost immediately. There was a couple who’d known Dean when he was younger, a woman from the charity board, and a man who apparently couldn’t make it two minutes without asking him about hockey.
Dean answered easily, charming when he wanted to be, making everyone laugh like it took no effort at all.
That was the problem.
Dean was good at this.
Not just the fake-boyfriend thing, although he was annoyingly good at that, too.
Dean was good with people. Good at reading a room. Good at knowing when to joke and when to listen. Good at making his mother smile, and his father shake his head like he was disappointed but amused.
He talked with one arm draped over the back of your chair, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Not touching you, not really. Just like it belonged there.
Which was ridiculous, because it absolutely didn’t.
Nothing about any of this was supposed to belong anywhere.
“Coffee?” Dean asked, cutting through your thoughts.
You blinked, dragged back into the room. “What?”
He was already reaching for the carafe in the middle of the table. “Coffee?”
“Oh. Yeah, please.”
“Cream, no sugar?”
You went still.
Dean didn’t even hesitate as he poured your coffee, like remembering your order was nothing and not something he’d any business doing so easily.
Across the table, his mother stopped mid-conversation.
If Allie had been there, she would’ve screamed.
You stared down at the cup Dean placed in front of you, then at him.
Dean looked at you like he’d no idea what he’d done. “What?”
“You remembered.”
His expression shifted for half a second, like he’d only just realized what he’d given away. “You order it like that every time.”
He said it like it should’ve been obvious, like paying attention to you was just something he did.
The woman from the charity board made a delighted little sound. “That’s sweet.”
Dean turned to her with an easy smile, recovering faster than you could. “I have my moments.”
“One moment,” you corrected, lifting your coffee to hide your face.
Dean’s smile widened as you’d just proved his point. “She keeps me humble.”
“Well, someone has to.”
His mother looked entirely too thrilled.
His father seemed quietly amused.
You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you, preferably in a tasteful, expensive way.
The questions started about halfway through breakfast.
They weren’t obvious at first, which somehow made them worse.
His mother asked where the two of you usually went together. His father asked how Dean managed with hockey taking up so much of his time. The woman from the charity board asked whether Dean had a romantic side.
That one nearly took you out.
Dean choked on his coffee.
You smiled sweetly because if you were going down, he was coming with you. “Dean?”
Dean turned to look at you, a warning already in his eyes.
You folded your hands neatly in your lap. “Romantic?”
“Careful,” he said quietly. But people were watching, which meant he couldn’t do anything about it, and that made you brave. Possibly stupid, but brave.
“Well,” you said, pretending to consider it, “he once walked me home in the rain and only complained a little.”
Dean blinked at you, because unfortunately for him, that had actually happened.
Not while you were dating, obviously, because you weren’t dating. But months ago, after Malone’s, you’d forgotten an umbrella, and Dean had insisted on walking you home anyway.
He’d given you his hoodie, complained dramatically the entire walk, and still texted you afterward to make sure you’d warmed up.
You’d pretended it hadn’t mattered, because that was easier than admitting it had.
Something in Dean’s expression softened before he could stop it, and you only caught it because you’d been looking.
“A little?” Dean repeated.
“Twelve minutes, Dean.”
“It was literally raining sideways.”
“You’re a hockey player.”
“That’s a different kind of cold.”
“You’re so ridiculous.”
“You kept my hoodie for three days after that.”
That was enough to shut you up.
Dean’s eyebrows lifted as he realized, too late, that he’d said that out loud.
His mother’s smile softened in a way that felt unbearable, while his father looked down at his plate like that would hide the laugh he was fighting.
You took a very slow sip of coffee and silently prayed for strength.
Dean leaned in, voice dropping low enough that only you could hear. “Did you?”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
Dean’s mouth curved slightly. “The hoodie.”
You kept your eyes on your coffee. “I don’t remember.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m selectively remembering.”
Under the table, his knee brushed yours, as if it were an accident.
You glanced over at him, and Dean looked back. For a second, everything else seemed to fade again.
You were starting to hate how easily that kept happening.
His mother cleared her throat, very delicately, and both of you looked away at the same time.
You spent the rest of breakfast in a state of emotional self-defense.
Dean’s mother talked through the charity luncheon later that afternoon, the silent auction, the donor reception, and the formal dinner that night. Dean nodded along like he understood what any of that involved, but you could tell from the way his expression slowly went blank that he absolutely did not.
“So,” his mother said, looking between you and Dean with a smile that immediately made you nervous, “you two will come to the garden reception before the auction, won’t you? There’ll be a photographer.”
Dean’s hand paused near his coffee cup, just for a second.
“Of course,” Dean said, smooth as ever.
You kicked him lightly under the table. Dean didn’t even flinch, which only made you want to kick him harder, especially when his smile didn’t move.
The second breakfast ended, and you were safely out of earshot, you grabbed Dean’s sleeve and dragged him toward one of the quieter hallways off the lobby.
Dean let you drag him away without a fight, which was probably the first bad sign.
“A photographer?” you hissed.
Dean glanced down at your hand still wrapped around his sleeve. “Good morning to you, too.”
“You said there would be dinner and charity things.”
“It does involve those things.”
“You left out the photographer.”
“I didn’t know there’d be a photographer.”
“You are so bad at giving warnings.”
“And yet, here you are.”
“That’s not a warning. That’s tricking me.”
Dean smiled. “Worked, didn’t it?”
You let go of his sleeve when you realized you were still holding it. “We need to look normal.”
“We do look normal.”
“No, we look like two people who are always five seconds away from arguing.”
Dean tilted his head. “That’s normal for us.”
“For a fake relationship?”
“For us.”
The words landed somewhere they had no business landing, and Dean seemed to realize it at the same time you did, his smile fading just a little.
You cleared your throat. “We need picture rules.”
“We have rules.”
“You keep finding loopholes.”
“I lovingly challenge them,” he said, because apparently he remembered saying that and was choosing to make it worse.
“You’re going to stand beside me like a normal person.”
“I’m very normal.”
“You said our dating story was you flirting until I gave up.”
“And yet, everyone believed it.”
“Unfortunately for me.”
Dean stepped closer, not enough to crowd you, but close enough that you noticed.
You always noticed.
“You’re overthinking it,” he said.
“I’m thinking the correct amount.”
“You’re spiraling.”
“I’m being prepared.”
“You’re aggressively preparing.”
You glared at him, which only seemed to prove his point.
Dean smiled, but then something in his face softened. “Hey.”
Your glare weakened because, apparently, gentleness was allowed to be used against you now.
“You’re doing really well,” he said.
Your stomach did that stupid little thing again, which you hated with your entire being.
“Don’t be nice to me when I’m trying to be mad at you,” you said.
Dean blinked like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. “What?”
“It’s confusing.”
Dean’s mouth curved slightly. “Confusing?”
“You’re usually annoying.”
“I’m a complicated guy.”
“You’re a complicated guy with terrible impulse control.”
“Also true.”
You shook your head and headed back toward the lobby before he could say anything else that made your chest feel weird.
Dean fell into step beside you. “For the record, pictures are the easy part.”
You glanced over at him. “The fact that you said that makes me think they won’t be.”
“We just have to stand close and look like we like each other.”
“We barely like each other.”
Dean looked at you.
You looked back.
For a second, neither of you tried to argue. Then Dean smiled, slow and far too knowing. “Right.”
You hated him. You hated him so much it was starting to feel like a problem.
The garden reception started at noon, which gave you exactly two hours to walk around with Dean and pretend to be the kind of couple who could survive a country club lawn without making a scene.
It was harder than it had any right to be, and not because lying was hard. You were alarmingly good at that, apparently. When Dean’s mother introduced you to donors and family friends, you smiled, answered questions, laughed when you were supposed to, and corrected Dean whenever he said something ridiculous.
The problem was Dean, because, of course, Dean kept being good at it. Whenever the crowd got too tight, his hand found your back and guided you through it. When people spoke softly, he leaned in and listened as it mattered. He remembered the name of an older woman’s dog from a conversation ten minutes earlier, which almost made you forgive him for being so annoying.
At one point, his father got pulled into a conversation with a donor who seemed very interested in Dean’s hockey future, and Dean’s expression shifted into that polished look you were starting to recognize.
The one that said he was listening, even though every other part of him wanted to be anywhere else.
You were standing beside him with your arm linked through his, because his mother had insisted it looked sweet, when the donor turned to you.
“And what do you think of all this?” the donor asked.
You smiled like you had any idea what the correct answer was. “All this?”
“Dean’s future in hockey,” he clarified. “Must be quite something, dating someone with that much focus.”
Dean’s arm went tense beneath your hand. His father glanced over like he’d felt the shift too.
Dean smiled, but it wasn’t the one he usually gave you.
This was one of those questions that was really just a test — a polite little trap dressed up as good manners, like Dean’s future was something people could casually assess over champagne.
You looked at Dean, but his eyes were still on the donor, so you answered for him.
“I think people assume Dean doesn’t take things seriously because he makes everything look easy,” you said, and Dean’s head turned sharply toward you. “But he works harder than most people give him credit for.”
The donor looked slightly surprised.
Dean’s father looked at you like he was seeing something he hadn’t expected.
You smiled politely, suddenly aware that you had everyone’s attention and absolutely no idea how to stop talking. So, naturally, you kept going.
“He’s annoying about plenty of things,” you added, because that felt necessary for balance, “but hockey isn’t one of them.”
Dean stared at you, and his father looked at you like he was seeing something he hadn’t expected.
The donor chuckled. “Well, that’s quite an endorsement.”
Dean’s mother appeared at your side like she’d been summoned by emotional honesty. “It is, isn’t it?”
You wanted to disappear, but then Dean’s hand covered yours where it rested against his arm, just for a second.
A quiet thank you.
You didn’t look at him because you had a feeling you’d see something you weren’t ready for.
Instead, you smiled at his mother, because that was safer than looking at him. “He’s still very irritating.”
Dean’s thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles.
“You know I’m standing right here, right?”
“I’m aware.”
“You enjoy reminding people.”
“They deserve to know what they’re getting into.”
Dean’s mother laughed, but Dean kept looking at you, long enough that you had no choice but to look back.
His expression was different again. Not smug, not teasing. Something warmer, which felt worse somehow.
“What?” you asked, quieter than you meant to.
Dean shook his head. “Nothing.”
“That didn’t seem like nothing.”
“It wasn’t.” Dean’s mouth curved, softer this time, and your stomach flipped. “I’ll tell you later.”
That was terrifying, because later, with Dean, it was starting to feel like a very dangerous concept.
The photographer found you fifteen minutes later, proving that God had abandoned you and sent a woman named Marissa, armed with a camera and a clipboard, in your place.
Dean saw her coming first; you knew because his posture changed.
“What?” you asked, following his gaze.
“The photographer.”
Your eyes went wide. “Already?”
“She looks determined.”
“I don’t like determined people.”
Dean laughed under his breath, but then Marissa stopped in front of you with a bright smile.
“Dean, right?” Marissa said with a bright smile. “Your mother sent me to get a few shots of you two before the reception gets too busy.”
“Of course she did,” Dean said, pleasant in a way that sounded deeply forced.
You pinched the inside of his arm, and Dean smiled wider as you’d just encouraged him.
Marissa led you toward one of the flowered arches at the edge of the garden. It was beautiful in a way that made everything feel even more staged, which felt unfair, considering your relationship was already fake.
“Closer,” Marissa instructed.
Dean stepped closer, but apparently not close enough.
“A little closer.”
You both moved closer, which was apparently still not close enough.
Dean glanced down at you, his mouth twitching. “We’re bad at this.”
“We’re doing great,” you muttered.
“We look like cousins who don’t like each other.”
You made a strangled sound. “Dean.”
Marissa lowered the camera slightly, like she’d found the problem. “Maybe his arm around your waist?”
Dean looked at you first. That was new. Or maybe it wasn’t, and you were only noticing now because every small act of consideration from Dean made the weekend feel a little less fake.
You nodded once.
Dean slipped his arm around your waist.
Your body reacted immediately because, apparently, your survival instincts had checked out of the hotel sometime between last night and breakfast.
His hand settled at your side, warm through the fabric of your dress, careful in a way that somehow made it worse.
“Relax,” he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.
“I’m extremely relaxed.”
“You’re standing like you’re being held hostage.”
“I might be.”
“You did agree to this.”
“Under duress.”
“You made five rules and still said yes.”
“The rules were the duress.”
Dean laughed, and Marissa immediately lifted the camera.
“Perfect,” Marissa said, already taking another picture. “That was perfect. Keep looking at each other.”
You stopped laughing first.
Dean didn’t.
He was still looking down at you, his smile lingering as he’d forgotten anyone else was there.
The camera clicked once.
Then again.
You became painfully aware of everything at once. His arm around your waist. Your hand against his chest because Marissa had put it there. His heart beating under your palm, steady and real and entirely too distracting.
“Beautiful,” Marissa said, lowering the camera just enough to smile at you. “Now maybe one where you’re a little more affectionate?”
Your fingers tightened against Dean’s shirt.
Dean’s smile froze.
Slowly, you both looked at her.
She smiled back, oblivious to the crisis she’d just created. “A kiss would be lovely.”
No. Absolutely not. That was your first thought. The second was worse. Necessary.
Dean’s hand tightened slightly at your waist.
Slowly, you looked up at him.
He was already looking at you, his expression carefully neutral in a way that told you it wasn’t neutral at all.
“We don’t have to do this,” he said quietly.
There was no teasing. No smirk. No challenge. Just Dean, giving you a way out in front of a photographer, his mother, several donors, and probably half of the Di Laurentis family’s social circle.
That should’ve made it easier to say no, but somehow it only made everything harder. Dean was trying, everyone was watching, and rule number one had always been the stupidest rule, really, because necessity could stretch around almost anything if you wanted it badly enough.
“It’s necessary,” you said, mostly to yourself.
Dean’s eyes searched your face. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” you said, before you could lose your nerve.
Dean didn’t move right away, and that was what ruined you — not the kiss, not yet, but the pause; the way he looked at you like he knew this was a line and didn’t want to be the one who dragged you over it. Like beneath all the teasing and flirting and dramatic fake-boyfriend nonsense, he understood that your yes mattered, even when the whole thing was pretend.
Then his hand came up slowly, giving you every chance to stop him.
You didn’t.
His fingers brushed your jaw, and your breath caught before you could do anything about it. Dean heard it; you knew he did, because something in his eyes shifted, just barely.
Then Dean leaned down and kissed you.
It was supposed to be quick. That was the plan: a short, neat, necessary kiss for the camera. Something easy. Something forgettable. Something you could roll your eyes about afterward, when Dean inevitably made some annoying joke, and you pretended your pulse hadn’t tripped over itself.
But then Dean’s mouth touched yours, and the entire plan fell apart.
He kissed you softly at first, careful in a way you weren’t prepared for, like he was still giving you room to pull away. Like even now, with everyone watching, your yes mattered more than the photograph.
Your hand curled in the front of his shirt, and Dean went still for half a second. Then he kissed you back. Really kissed you back. Not deeper, exactly — not enough for anyone watching to call it inappropriate, but enough that you felt the difference; enough that his thumb brushed along your jaw, his arm tightened at your waist, and your body leaned into him like it had forgotten this was supposed to be fake.
The camera clicked somewhere nearby, but you barely heard it.
Dean pulled back first. His forehead almost touched yours, and for one reckless second, neither of you moved away.
His eyes opened slowly, and so did yours. He looked at you like he’d forgotten anyone else was there. You were almost glad, because for one second, you had forgotten, too.
Then Marissa made a soft, delighted sound. “That was perfect.”
You snapped back to yourself so abruptly that it was almost painful.
You stepped back, and Dean let you go immediately.
Your lips tingled, which was dramatic and embarrassing and exactly the sort of thing you would’ve mocked if it were happening to someone else.
Dean cleared his throat and looked down at his shoes for half a second, like he needed a moment before he could look at you again.
Marissa checked the photos, then smiled. “You two are adorable.”
“Thanks,” Dean said automatically, but his voice sounded slightly off. Good. At least you weren’t the only one dying.
You managed to smile politely until Marissa left, then turned away so fast you nearly walked directly into a decorative shrub.
Dean caught you by the elbow. “Careful.”
You jerked your arm back as his hand had burned you. “I’m fine.”
His brows lifted, and you hated that he looked concerned instead of smug. Concern was not part of the deal.
“You’re spiraling,” he said quietly, like he knew exactly what you were trying to hide.
“I’m absolutely not spiraling.”
“You almost fought the shrub.”
“It came out of nowhere.”
“It’s a planted shrub.”
“You’re planted.”
Dean blinked, and then his mouth twitched.
You pointed at him immediately. “Don’t.”
“I wasn’t going to,” he said, absolutely going to.
“You were absolutely about to laugh.”
“I was going to ask if you needed water.”
“You’re such a liar.”
“I am,” he admitted, and that made you laugh despite yourself, because apparently your body had decided betrayal was its new hobby.
Dean smiled at the sound. Not his usual smile, but a softer one — the kind that made you want to look away. So you did.
“We should probably go back inside,” you said.
“Yeah,” Dean said, but neither of you moved.
You glanced up at him. “Dean.”
Dean blinked, like he’d forgotten what you were talking about. “Right.”
You started walking first, because one of you had to be responsible, and apparently, that person was still you, even after your mouth had been personally betrayed by his.
Dean caught up beside you after two steps, and for once, he didn’t touch your back. You noticed the absence immediately, which was probably the worst part.
The rest of the afternoon passed strangely — not badly, exactly, just strangely.
You made it through the reception, the donor conversations, the silent auction setup, and Dean’s mother introducing you to approximately seventeen people who all seemed to know embarrassing stories about him as a child. Apparently, he had once tried to auction off his cousin’s bike at a family fundraiser because he “understood business.” That felt extremely Dean of him.
Usually, you would’ve enjoyed making fun of him for it. You still did, a little. But the kiss sat between you now like an extra person.
Every time Dean looked at you too long, you remembered his mouth. Every time his hand came near your waist, he seemed to remember, too, stopping himself before he touched you unless someone was watching. Every time someone called you a cute couple, Dean smiled like he was supposed to, and you smiled like you were supposed to, and neither of you looked at each other right away.
Which was fine. It was fine. Completely fine, actually, right up until his mother pulled you aside near the auction table while Dean was talking to his father across the room.
“You’re good for him,” she said softly.
You almost dropped the silent auction pamphlet.
“Oh,” you said, because apparently that was the only word your brain had left.
Dean’s mother smiled at you, warm and terrifyingly sincere. “I know this is probably embarrassing for me to say, but I haven’t seen him this settled in a long time.”
Your stomach twisted. Settled. Dean Di Laurentis, who had lied his way into a fake girlfriend and almost kissed you in bed after one night, apparently looked settled. That was bad. Very bad.
“He’s easy to be around,” you said, and immediately wanted to take it back because it was both too nice and too true. His mother’s expression softened, and you panicked. “When he’s not being impossible,” you added quickly.
His mother laughed softly. “He’s always been a little impossible.”
“Only a little?”
“Fine. Very.” She looked across the room at Dean, her face softening. “But he has a good heart.”
You followed her gaze before you could stop yourself. Dean was standing with his father, one hand in his pocket, listening to something with his head slightly bowed. He looked older like that, quieter, like the version of him who joked and flirted and filled every room was only one part of him, not the whole thing.
“I know,” you said softly, and his mother looked back at you. You realized too late how that sounded, so you cleared your throat. “I mean, I’m aware he has… occasionally decent qualities.”
Her smile widened.
You were absolutely getting worse at this.
Across the room, Dean looked over, and his eyes found yours immediately. The smile faded from his face, replaced by something questioning.
You looked away first. Again.
By the time you made it back to the suite before the formal dinner, you were exhausted in a way that had very little to do with socializing and everything to do with pretending you hadn’t kissed Dean in a garden while a photographer documented your downfall.
Dean shut the door behind you and leaned back against it, like he needed a second before moving again.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The room felt too quiet without anyone watching.
You dropped your purse onto the couch and started unfastening your earrings, mostly to give your hands something to do.
Dean watched you for about three seconds. “So.”
You shut your eyes. “No.”
“I only said one word.”
“And I’m stopping you before that one word becomes something worse.”
“You don’t even know what I was about to say.”
“You were going to bring up the kiss.”
Dean paused, which was extremely incriminating. You opened your eyes and found him watching you.
Dean looked mildly offended. “I might not have been.”
“You absolutely were, and you know it.”
Dean pushed off the door, smiling a little in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Fine. I was going to talk about the kiss.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
His eyebrows rose. “No?”
“No.”
“It happened.”
“It was necessary,” you said, as if that explained anything.
Dean looked at you for a long moment, then nodded once. “Right.”
You hated how easily he agreed, which felt like a trick, even if it wasn’t.
“It was for the photo,” you added.
“Yeah.”
“Your mom wanted pictures.”
“Yeah.”
“People were watching.”
“I know.”
“So.” You shrugged, like your heart hadn’t been trying to crawl out of your chest ever since. “Necessary.”
“Necessary,” he repeated, and the word sounded different when he said it — lower, slower, like he knew it was supposed to end the conversation and was choosing to make it worse instead.
You turned away and busied yourself with your bag, because looking at him felt like a terrible idea. “Great. Glad we agree.”
“We agree.”
“Perfect.”
“Very.”
The silence stretched, and you hated him, hated yourself, hated the word necessary.
Dean moved first, crossing to his bag and pulling out his suit for dinner. “For the record,” he said casually, “you’re the one who grabbed my shirt.”
Your head snapped up. “Excuse me?”
His back was to you, but you could hear the smile in his voice. “During the necessary kiss.”
“I was selling it.”
“You sold it aggressively.”
“I did no such thing.”
“My shirt disagrees.”
“Your shirt is biased.”
Dean turned around then, suit jacket hanging from one hand, and there was the smile. Not fully smug, not fully soft. Somewhere in the middle, which was becoming increasingly dangerous for him.
“You’re cute when you panic.”
“I’m not panicking.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep being wrong.”
“I don’t think I am,” he said, and there was something in his voice that made it harder to argue.
His smile faded slightly, and for one horrible second, you thought he was going to say something honest — about the kiss, about last night, about the way he’d looked at you afterward like he’d almost forgotten this was supposed to end.
Instead, he held up his suit. “I need to change.”
You stared at him for a second, then pointed toward the bathroom. “Go.”
His mouth twitched. “Bossy.”
“Go, or I’ll make you change in the hallway.”
Dean started toward the bathroom, then paused in the doorway.
You looked at him, already suspicious. “What?”
He leaned against the doorframe, suit jacket slung over his shoulder. “You know, for someone who made a no feelings rule, you’re very invested in where I take my clothes off.”
You picked up the nearest pillow and threw it at him.
Dean disappeared into the bathroom laughing.
You stood in the middle of the suite, heart still racing, lips still remembering him, with the horrible truth pressing harder against your ribs than it had all day.
The kiss had been necessary. That was what you told yourself while Dean laughed behind the bathroom door. It had been necessary, and that should’ve made it easier to forget. The problem was that nothing about the way you wanted him to do it again felt necessary.
☆┇ pairing : michael jackson x fem!reader
☆┇ au : soulmate/soul song au
☆┇ setting : 1980s/thriller era
☆┇ genre : slow burn, drama, romance
⋆ ˚☁️ ⁀➴ synopsis
in a world where your soulmate's soul song exists for your ears and your ears only, you have never heard a single note meant for you. since childhood, you can hear every soul song in a crowded room but you learned to control it over the years. you could turn it up, turn it down, or mute it entirely. until he walked into your world and for the first time in your life, you could only hear silence without meaning to.
⋆ ˚☁️ ⁀➴ playlist
⋆ ˚☁️ ⁀➴ chapters
prologue
chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
chapter 5
chapter 6
....more chapters may be added
summary: What started as a casual fantasy turns into a competition when Jaafar, Randy Jr., and Jermajesty finally get you to reveal of your private desires
contains: some freaky shit idk yet
notes: the streets have been asking for this one so take the prologue for now and prepare yourself for pure smut in the future
the original plan was to spend 4 days with your large friend group at a beach house for no particular reason but due to some situations 3 of your friends canceled last minute, after the bnb was paid for so you and the 3 Jackson brothers decided to continue you on with the trip
after hours of driving, unpacking and greeting the brothers one by one as they arrived the 4 of you decided to sit around the fire and play a drunk game of truth or dare
“okay y/n, truth or dare” jermajesty started“truth” “i heard from the grape vine that you’ve thought about fucking us, is that true” your eyes fluttered to the three of them
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You were a sin too tempting to forget—a fire that burned Rick Grimes alive. Consumed by desire, he realized repentance would never be enough, and redemption was never an option.
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Smut ⋮ Cheating ⋮ Age Gap ⋮ Infidelity ⋮ Adultery ⋮ Somnophilia ⋮ Angst ⋮ Obsession ⋮ Dacryphilia ⋮ Size Kink ⋮ Outdoor Sex ⋮ Cunnilingus ⋮ Praise Kink ⋮ Possessive Behavior ⋮ Manipulation ⋮ Character Death ⋮ Language ⋮ Shane Walsh
𝐍𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ⋮ 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐨 ⋮ 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋮ 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋮ 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞: A Taste Of Sin
You were still catching your breath when you left Rick alone by the chicken coop.
With your legs feeling shaky, your skin sweaty and sensitive from where his hands had been, from where his mouth had devoured you, his taste was still on your tongue.
And with every second you closed your eyes only to open them again as you walked, all you could see was him—his shoulders trembling, his voice breaking, his hands grabbing you like he was desperate to hold on, even as he tried to convince himself to let go.
To not lose himself in the temptation of you.
You turned your head just enough to get a look at him disappearing into the dark behind you, his steps uneven, his belt still loose around his waist. Smirking to yourself, you turned back toward your tent, only to realize you weren't alone.
Shane was nearby, walking toward his own tent, eyes locked onto Rick... and then back on you. He hadn't said a word, but you'd seen the look on his face. The way his mouth had twitched, showing just a small, little hint of a smirk, his head had tilted slightly, like he was working through something in his mind, seconds before he left.
Like he knew.
Meanwhile, Rick barely made it back to his tent without stumbling.
His legs felt unsteady, his arms too heavy, his skin wet with sweat. He still smelled like you. The scent of you clung to him, sinking into his clothes and his bones.
His lips were still swollen from yours.
His hands were still trembling.
And then he saw them—Lori and Carl, curled up together in their tent, their breathing quiet with only a little snore here and there. Peaceful.
Rick stared at them for a while.
The rush of blood in his ears, the pounding of his racing heart in his chest as if it was trying to break free behind his ribs, and the ache still pulsing in his cock—it all stopped as reality came back to him.
What the fuck did I just do?
His mouth went dry, his stomach dropped, and the knot in his throat felt so tight it made him feel unable to breathe.
He had just fucked you—had let himself drown in you, let himself give in to something reckless and wrong—and now he was standing here, looking at the family he had just betrayed.
Goddamn it. Goddamn it.
Rick had no idea how he was supposed to do this—how he was supposed to step into that tent, lie down beside his wife, and pretend like he hadn't just—but then he saw it.
Something small. Something barely noticeable, near the edge of the tent.
He frowned, trying to get closer, his breath still coming too fast. His fingers reached down before he could think, before he could even stop himself.
A package.
Pills.
Not just any pills.
Abortion pills.
He froze in place. His pulse rang in his ears, louder than before, louder than anything else in the world.
Lori moved slightly in her sleep, but Rick didn't care.
She had been planning to get rid of… a baby?
The thought of it cut through him like a knife, the blade slicing him open. First, he betrayed Lori. Now, he was standing here, holding proof that she had been about to betray him, too.
But what if she had already betrayed him at this point?
His fingers clenched around the package, his grip tight, his whole body tense as he turned to reach out, grabbing Lori's shoulder and shaking her awake.
She gasped, her eyes flying open, her body stiffening slightly.
"Rick?" She grumbled, voice groggy and seemingly confused.
He didn't give her a second to fully wake up. Didn't give her a second to pretend like everything was normal.
"Is there something you need to tell me?"
Lori blinked at him as he stepped out of the tent, pushing herself up on her elbows, frowning before she finally followed him.
"Rick, what—?"
He turned around in an instant, holding up the package right in front of her eyes.
"We can't leave," she interrupted herself immediately, her voice quiet and careful. "I'm pregnant."
"Are you?" Rick asked in return, leaving no time for her to argue, but not letting it show how much this had just affected him, his voice sounding cold and empty.
Lori looked exhausted. Defeated.
"I threw them up," she continued. "You can yell if you want. You can scream if you have to, but talk to me."
Rick stared at her.
Talk to her?
Talk to her?
His fingers tightened around the package in his hand. "How long have you known?"
"Does it matter?" Lori asked, but Rick simply clenched his jaw in return.
"Days? Weeks?" His voice rose slightly, just enough to make her tense up. "And you didn't tell me?"
"I'm telling you now."
"No." He held up the package again, bringing it closer to her face. "I found these. So Glenn knows, right? Instead of going to me, you sent him to get pills?"
"I panicked," Lori answered and looked away.
Rick shook his head, scoffing, running a hand over his mouth. "You tell me we have no roof and no walls—"
"Do not put this on me!" Lori snapped, but Rick continued further.
"You tear into me for keeping secrets," he hissed, stepping closer, "when you're holding onto this?"
Lori's expression changed—frustration, confusion, anger—her emotions were all over the place.
"You want me to bring a baby into this?" She demanded. "To live a short, cruel life? How can you think like that? We can't even protect the son we already have!"
"So this is the solution?" Rick shot back, letting the package of the pills fall to the ground in front of her feet.
Lori let out a deep breath, shaking her head. "Rick, I threw them up. I screwed up. I don't know how we do this."
Rick still stared at her. His pulse was like a hammer pounding a nail into his ribs.
"We can make it work," he suddenly said, voice quieter now, but still tense. "You threw up the pills. You want this baby. I know you do."
Lori's lips parted slightly, her expression changing again—with uncertainty and doubt.
"Not like this," she whispered. "Not giving birth in a ditch. Not when its life will hang by a thread from the second it's born. Not when every cry will put it, and Carl and everyone we care about, in danger. That's not right."
Rick swallowed, his throat dry, and he hesitated for a while, thinking about what he could say next.
"Is there anything else I should know about?"
Lori pressed her lips together, but she didn't wait. There was no going back.
"Shane and I..."
The words hit like a punch in the gut, but he wasn't very surprised.
Rick exhaled slowly, staring down at the dirt beneath his boots.
"I know. Of course, I know. You thought I was dead," Rick mumbled, unable to look into her eyes. "The world went to shit, and you thought I was dead. Right?"
"Yeah," Lori nodded as he let out a long breath, the abortion pill package still on the ground between the both of them.
He had nothing left to say.
And Lori didn't say another word after that as well.
She just stood there for a moment, watching Rick, his face unreadable. Then she turned and ducked back into the tent, trying to be as quiet as possible as she crawled inside.
Once back at Carl's side, she was waiting for Rick to join her, but as soon as she realized that he didn't, she was unable to close her eyes. How could she? She lay there, staring at the ceiling of the tent, her mind racing as she cuddled closer to Carl.
She thought about the pills. About Shane. About the baby growing inside her—a baby she wasn't sure she wanted but couldn't bring herself to get rid of. And then she thought about Rick.
Deep down, Lori knew the baby wasn't his.
But the way he'd looked at her when he'd found the pills? The way his voice had cracked when he'd asked, "Is there anything else I should know about?"
She didn't know what to do. Didn't know how to fix this. But one thing was clear: their marriage was hanging by a thread. And Lori? Lori wasn't sure she had the strength to hold on.
Outside the tent, Rick still didn't move. Not even having looked at her once, she turned back and crawled into it. He was still standing there, still trying to piece together what the hell had just happened.
Lori must have thought that was the end of it. That she had said her part, that things would somehow go back to the way they were before. But Rick knew better.
There was no going back. Not after tonight.
His head felt like it was spinning, thoughts crashing into each other, haunting him over and over.
He had betrayed her. She had betrayed him.
And now he was supposed to lie down next to her, close his eyes, and pretend like none of it had happened?
Rick swallowed hard, his throat so dry it hurt, spit almost not able to run down inside it. He let out a slow, shaky breath, rubbing a hand down his face, then through his hair, gripping the curls tight like the pull of it might get his head back into place.
But all he could feel was how his hands remembered you. The way you had felt beneath him, around him. The softness of your skin, the way you had wanted him. Desired him.
His mouth remembered you. His lips, his tongue… The taste of you. The way you had moaned into his kisses, the way your lips had parted so sweetly when he had devoured you like he needed to. The way your moans had vibrated through his cock made him feel pure ecstasy, the kind of euphoria he hadn't felt in years.
Jesus Christ...
Rick clenched his jaw, inhaling deeply, so deeply, but all he smelled was you. That warm, intoxicating scent of sweat, sex, and sin.
His cock twitched, still aching, still wanting to harden, even now.
Again, he ran a hand over his face, his fingers pressing against his eyes and his temples.
What the hell was happening to him?
He had always thought of himself as a good man. A man who did the right thing, even when it was hard. A man who kept his promises, who honored his vows. A man who didn't stray.
But tonight—tonight, he had lost control.
He had kissed you. He had touched you. He had fucked you right against the chicken coop with the sun still shining and the others not that far away, and now—now he had to crawl into a tent with his wife, pretend like none of it had happened, like it wasn't still burning in his veins.
No.
He took another deep breath, but it didn't help. His body was restless, his skin still aching from where your hands had clung to him, your nails digging in, your mouth on his…
His fingers tapped against his thighs, his chest rising and falling too fast from his quick breathing. His whole body was screaming at him to do something, to move, to get away before he lost his goddamn mind.
So he did. Rick pushed himself away, his movements stiff and his muscles tense.
He told himself he was just going for a walk. Just a simple walk. Just to clear his head. But somehow, his feet carried him straight to your tent after having walked around in circles for what seemed almost endless. He barely even realized he was moving toward it until he was standing there, just a few steps away, looking around to see if anyone else from the group had noticed him. So far, it looked safe.
But Rick knew he should leave.
He knew he should.
But he didn't. Of course not. How could he resist? How could he resist and stop those desires that had burned themselves into his mind like a fire he hadn't dared to put out?
So Rick just stood there, breathing hard but still quietly enough to not be heard, his mind a mess, his cock aching, and his body hurting with how much he wanted to be near the source of the heat that had crept up on him, spreading itself throughout his most tempting thoughts.
And then, he slipped inside.
The air was warmer in there from the summer heat, your scent invading his nose instantly. His pulse kicked up, his body moving slow, carefully, as he lowered himself to his knees beside you.
You were curled up on your side, your breathing all soft and steady by now. The blanket barely covered you, the still somewhat sweaty skin of your thighs peeking out.
Rick swallowed, feeling the unmistakable knot in his throat, the one he was sure he could never swallow down, no matter how hard he would try.
What the hell was he doing?
This was wrong.
He should turn around and walk out. Right now. Before it was too late. Before he did something he couldn't take back.
But his hand was already moving.
His fingers hovered over your shoulder, barely touching your skin, but even that tiny touch sent flames straight through his already burning veins. He moved his fingers down slowly, over your arm, down to your thigh, trailing them along the naked skin just above your knee.
God…
How he admired the way your skin reacted to his touch, the goosebumps forming right where his fingers had been only moments before.
"Just… just a taste," he whispered to himself.
Just a little taste of you, and then he'd leave. Leave it behind, this situation—you—wanting to put out the scorching fire burning him alive.
That's what he told himself. But deep down, he already knew it was a lie.
Rick leaned in slowly, his lips stopping just over your skin. He could feel the heat of you, the warmth coming from your body, the quiet rise and fall of your breath.
Then he pressed a kiss to your jaw. Barely a brush of his lips.
Then another. Just below your ear. And then lower—his mouth moving down with slightly trembling lips, still slow, to the side of your throat. He stopped right there, inhaling deeply, drinking you in as he kissed you again, with a little more pressure and deeper this time, just enough to taste.
You still smelled like sin. You still tasted like sin. Pure temptation in its finest form.
Rick's fingers slid higher, moving up your thigh, slow, teasing, his touch light.
But then—you stirred. A soft, sleepy sound slipped from your lips, a little noise, barely more than a quick breath, but it broke him some more.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he swallowed hard, every muscle in his body tensing up as his cock throbbed all over again, hoping you wouldn't wake up now.
But he knew he should wake you up. Tell you this was a mistake. A misunderstanding. That whatever had happened between you—it couldn't happen again. That he couldn't keep doing this, couldn't keep letting himself need you like this.
Still, he didn't wake you. For a long moment, he just watched.
Your body moved ever so slightly, your head tilting, another soft sound slipping from your lips—a sigh—nothing more, but that sound—that unholy sigh?
It was breaking him further apart. Piece by piece.
Rick's fingers instantly grabbed the blanket that covered your body to control himself, he hoped, but he was hanging by a thread already, wanting nothing more than to lift the fabric and crawl next to you, hugging you, keeping you close.
His lips stayed again over your skin, his body still shaking, his hands still wanting to take.
"What the hell are you doin' to me?" He whispered with a voice that sounded wrecked, desperate even. But he stayed like that for a moment longer.
And then, with every bit of strength he had left, he forced himself to move. Rick pushed back, his breath ragged, his hands shaking, his cock still painfully hard, throbbing, and desperate for more.
But he couldn't stay. If he stayed, he wouldn't be able to stop. So he left and slipped back out into the night.
Sleep wasn't an option. Not after this.
Not after you.
Rick started to walk. He circled the tents, paced around as he kicked the dirt, and kept watch. But it didn't help. Nothing could silence his mind. Nothing could rip away the feel of you beneath his hands. Nothing could stop the way his body burned for you.
And he kept walking, his hands still trembling, his mind a mess, his body on fire with restless, useless energy. His eyes were focused on scanning the dark fields, the trees, and the fence. Looking for any sign of danger. Anything to distract him.
But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how long he stood there, his body still remembered. And as the hours dragged on, as the sky began to lighten with the first hints of dawn, Rick knew one thing for certain. He was already too far gone.
The next morning came too fast as well.
Rick felt the sun shining down on him before he even looked up. The exhaustion was felt deep in his bones, a weight that made his legs and arms feel heavy, a headache pounding along with it. He hadn't slept. Not for one single second.
So when he finally forced himself to move, to walk back toward the others, to pretend like he hadn't spent the night drowning in the memory of you, Rick already knew he was failing. He could feel it in the stiffness of his movements, the way his body dragged itself, the way his skin still felt too hot and cold at the same time.
He barely had time to sit down before he felt eyes on him, slowly letting out a quiet cough and pressing the nails of his fingers into his thighs as he prepared himself, already knowing what was coming before he even looked up.
Shane stood there, next to him, his arms crossed, and with that goddamn smirk on his lips, like he was just waiting for Rick to crack.
"Shit, man." His voice was lazy, amused even. It sounded irritating in a way Rick really didn't have the patience for. "You look like you've been up all damn night."
Rick's blood went cold. His breath stopped for just a second before he forced himself to keep it steady, to not react. But it was too late. Shane had already seen it.
Rick knew that he saw how his teeth clenched and how his hands trembled, but he forced himself to let it slide. "Nah, man. I'm just tired. Kept watch all night, just in case. T-Dog and I repaired part of the fence yesterday. Near the chicken—"
He stopped talking in an instant, his eyes widening and his head trying to find a believable answer, even if the part with the fence was the actual truth.
"Part of the fence was loose there, and it isn't fully repaired yet. Gonna ask T again soon. We still need to earn our stay here, and you know it. That's why I kept watch. Just. In. Case."
Rick knew he had no room to speak. Not after what he had done.
Because Shane had fucked Lori, had taken her while Rick was still breathing, while he was still out there fighting to get back to his family. Did both Lori and Shane really think he was dead back then? Or has Shane been after her for longer than he'd ever care to admit? Rick didn't know; he shouldn't dare to think about it. And now here he was, with your touch still haunting him.
He was no better. Maybe he never had been.
Rick let out a deep breath, dragging a hand down his face before turning away. He didn't look at Shane again. He didn't need to. He could still feel the smirk burning into the back of his head and could hear the quiet laugh beneath his breath as Rick walked away.
As soon as everyone else was awake and ready, breakfast had never felt so unbearable. Everyone sat scattered around the camp, eating in silence, but Rick wasn't really there. His body was, sure. He was sitting next to Lori, with Carl beside her, who had a plate of food in his lap and a fork in his hand. But Rick's mind?
Still somewhere else.
His eyes kept looking around, pulling him toward another thing that he couldn't stop pondering about.
Lori.
She sat right next to him, talking to Carl as if everything was normal again. As normal as the new world could be. She hadn't said a word to Rick all morning, hadn't even looked at him, and maybe that was for the best.
Because Rick didn't know what he was supposed to say to her anymore.
And still, there was Shane, wasn't he?
Still smirking, walking around with a frying pan in his hand, and eating straight out of it. Still acting like he had all the power in the world, like he wasn't there knowing exactly what Rick had done, knowing exactly how deep a certain innocence had already sunk its claws into him.
And then—there was you.
You sat on the other side of the camp, your legs crossed beneath you, your hair still a little messy from sleep, a small smile on your lips as you spoke to Andrea. You looked relaxed, unbothered… and innocent.
But Rick knew the truth. He's seen it.
Because the second his eyes landed on you, your head lifted itself, your eyes looking into his like you felt him watching.
Shit. That look. That goddamn look in your eyes.
Like you knew. Like you had been awake last night, had felt his touch, had heard his voice, and had let him kiss you while you pretended to sleep.
His breath hitched in his throat. It hit him all over again—the hunger, the need, that growing addiction that was already eating him alive. This wasn't just want anymore.
But then he heard Shane near him again, who was by now leaning against one of the trees. He laughed quietly to himself. It wasn't loud. Not enough to draw attention from the others. But it was enough to make Rick glance his way.
And there it was again—that look.
But he still didn't say anything. He didn't have to. He just chewed his food, tilted his head ever so slightly, and kept his eyes on Rick like he was reading every thought in his head. Shane knew. And Shane never let any weakness go untested. Certainly not when he looked at a man who he thought was not made for this kind of world.
And you? You sat there, your plate of food long forgotten, barely able to choke it down anyway. Not when you could still feel him.
Rick.
He was sitting across the camp you had set up as a group near the farmhouse of the Greene's, with him looking like he was carrying the whole goddamn world on his shoulders alone. And maybe he was.
But it wasn't just that.
It was the way his eyes kept looking up, landing on Lori, then Shane, and back to you—his gaze burning like he was daring you to say something.
Like he was waiting for you to say something. But you didn't.
Because what were you supposed to say? That you'd actually been fully awake last night? That you had felt his hands on your body, his warm breath against your skin, his mouth whispering sin onto your flesh?
That you had let him?
Even now, with the whole group around, with Lori and Carl next to him and the tension between him and Shane, all you could think about was his hand sliding so softly along your arm, his lips trembling and kissing your jaw, and the way he had whispered, What the hell are you doin' to me?
No. You didn't say a word. But you looked at him.
"Where'd you go?" Lori then asked, pulling him out of his thoughts while caressing his neck with one hand and leaning in close.
Rick barely reacted to her words.
"I'm here."
It wasn't an answer, not really, but it was all she was going to get.
And you knew why. You knew where he had been.
Your body still remembered it. The feeling of his touch on your skin and the warmth of his breath still so hot against your throat. Every time you closed your eyes, you could still feel his lips there, still hear the way his voice had cracked when he whispered to you in the dark, his hands shaking as they moved over your body.
Since then, you haven't slept much either. But there was no time to dwell on it now.
Meanwhile, Glenn moved a little from where he sat, his expression looking uneasy. He glanced toward the farmhouse, his eyes staring at Maggie, who stood on the porch, shaking her head slightly before Glenn looked back to Dale. Dale met his gaze, gave the smallest nod, and then—Glenn exhaled deeply, bracing himself.
"Um, guys. So..." He hesitated like he was trying to find the right words, but there weren't any. "The barn is full of walkers."
Silence.
The whole group made its way to the barn in an instant, gathering in front of it, but you still couldn't help yourself, looking at Rick ever so often. You forced yourself to look away, to pretend you weren't still watching.
This wasn't your problem, was it? Except—it kinda was.
Because now, you were all standing in front of a barn full of walkers.
Shane was the first to break the silence, standing at the front, looking between the wooden slats, his mouth slightly open, before he stepped back as a walker pushed against the doors from the inside.
"You cannot tell me you're all right with this!"
Rick stood next to him, his expression just as tense, but his voice was calm so far.
"No, I'm not," he admitted. "But we're guests here. This isn't our land."
Shane let out a breathy, quick laugh, shaking his head. "God, this is our lives!"
"Lower your voice," Glenn warned, looking around, but Shane barely heard him.
Andrea stepped forward, her arms crossed over her chest at first before resting her hands on her hips. "We can't just sweep this under the rug."
"It ain't right," Shane shot back. "Not remotely. Okay… we've either got to go in there, we've got to make things right, or we've just got to go. Now, we have been talking about Fort Benning for a long time—"
"We can't go," Rick interrupted him immediately.
"Why, Rick? Why?" Shane turned to him, unable to understand.
Before Rick could answer, Carol spoke up, her voice quiet, standing a bit in the background before she walked over to Rick.
"Because my daughter is still out there."
The words hit hard. Everyone fell silent for a moment.
Then, Shane let out another humorless laugh, running his hands over his face, as if he couldn't believe all of this.
"Okay," he said, his voice just a little lighter now. "Okay, I think it's time that we all start to just consider the other possibility."
"We're not leaving Sophia behind," Rick continued, until Daryl stepped forward, too.
"I'm close to findin' this girl. I jus' found her damn doll two days ago!"
Shane turned to him, his face unreadable at first—but just by looking at Daryl Dixon, one could see how annoyed he was by him.
"You found her doll, Daryl," Shane said, gesturing around. "That's what you did. You found a doll!"
Daryl's expression darkened, his fingers twitching at his side.
"Ya don't know what the hell yer talkin' 'bout," he snapped back at him, waving an arm dismissively.
"I'm just saying what needs to be said," Shane argued further, his voice rising in anger. "You get a good lead; it's in the first 48 hours!"
"Shane, stop," Rick warned, trying to get both men to back off.
But Shane wasn't done.
He turned back to Daryl, stepping closer. "Let me tell you something else, man," he continued, "If she was alive out there and saw you coming all methed out with your buck knife and geek ears around your neck, she would run in the other direction!"
The moment the words left his mouth, you knew it was a mistake. Daryl moved fast.
"Shut yer mouth!" He growled, lunging toward Shane, his fists clenched, and his whole body tense like he was about to throw a punch.
"Don't come at me, man!" The other man warned in response, but Rick was quite fast to hold him back before he could jump at the younger Dixon brother.
"Now just let me talk to Hershel," Rick then cut in, his voice loud but steady, demanding attention. "Let me figure it out."
Shane just scoffed. "What are you gonna figure out?"
But that made Rick not back down.
"If we're gonna stay," he continued, trying to calm him down, "if we're gonna clear this barn, I have to talk him into it. This is his land."
"Hershel sees those things in there as people... sick people... his wife, his stepson," Dale spoke up, taking a few steps forward as well.
Rick turned to face him as soon as those words left his mouth. "You knew?"
Dale hesitated, then nodded. "Yesterday I talked to Hershel."
Shane let out a bitter laugh. "And you waited the night?"
"I thought we could survive one more night," Dale explained further. "We did. I was waiting till this morning to say something. But Glenn wanted to be the one."
Shane shook his head, stepping away, pacing slightly, his movements tense.
"The man is crazy, Rick," he said, his voice full of frustration. "If Hershel thinks those things are alive or not—"
"Then it is not up to us," you suddenly cut in, your heart pounding from the whole situation and everything that was happening along with it.
The second the words left your mouth, every pair of eyes snapped to you.
Shane's jaw clenched tightly as if he was grinding his teeth. "You gotta be fuckin' kidding me."
"I'm not saying I like it. I'm not saying I agree with it. But this is not our damn land, Shane. We are guests here. You think we can just do whatever the fuck we want just because this isn't the world we once knew anymore?"
"We are talking about a barn full of walkers. A whole damn ticking time bomb!"
"And we will handle it," you shot back, shutting him up. "But we do it the right way. Not like some goddamn animals! Or do you really wanna go and take over the whole damn farm by yourself, Shane? That would put all of us in danger."
Silence... Again.
Then, Rick inhaled slowly, smiling to himself a little, looking at you for just a second too long before he turned back to Shane. "She's right. And you know that."
"Look, I understand, okay? It doesn't matter what Hershel thinks," you continued, your voice strong, really drawing attention to yourself for the very first time.
Everyone else still looked at you, but you didn't care.
"What matters is that we're on his land," you continued, your eyes looking from Rick to Shane. "And if we start acting like we own the place, if we just take what we want, we're no better than the damn walkers in that barn. That'd be the Greene's death sentence, and I won't let that happen just because you don't know shit about respect!"
Shane laughed loudly, rolling his eyes. "So what, little girl? We just sit here and let ‘em get us killed instead?"
"No," you shot back, still not backing down and ignoring what he'd just called you. "But we don't get to make that decision without Hershel. Let Rick handle it. Let him talk. That's all we're asking for, Shane."
Rick was still watching you, like he was seeing you in a different light, like something about your words had done something inside of him. Shane, on the other hand, just shook his head, letting out another annoyed laugh.
But for now, at least, he let it drop. And you knew—it was only a matter of time before everything exploded. But you also knew… you should've left.
Everyone else was already walking away from the barn—some of the group going back toward the tents, others disappearing toward the house.
You should've followed them. Should've gone anywhere but here. But you hesitated. You didn't know why, but you stayed. And that was your mistake. Because now, you were alone with him. With Shane.
He stayed near the doors of the barn, arms crossed over his chest, eyes dark, and expression unreadable. Like he had all the time in the world.
You were about to turn, about to take one step in the opposite direction…
"Y'know," Shane stopped you, his voice low and teasing. "I didn't think he had it in him."
Your stomach dropped. Slowly, you turned back to face him, already feeling the blood start to boil in your veins. "The hell did you just say?"
"C'mon little girl, you heard me. Stop pretending," Shane smirked.
That lazy, shit-eating smirk.
You clenched your jaw, refusing to react, refusing to give him anything. "You know what? Go to hell, Shane."
"Already there, baby." He answered with a laugh, shaking his head, stepping forward just enough to close the space between you.
Not touching you. But close enough.
Close enough that you could see the way his eyes looked you up and down, stopping at the hem of another one of the sundresses that Maggie had given you the day before, that smirk still on his face.
"You got some damn nerve," you mumbled, but he simply snorted.
"Oh yeah? And you don't?" He tilted his head slightly, his eyes looking back up to meet yours. "What was it, huh? Quick little roll in the hay? That why he was lookin' all fucked out this mornin'?"
Your breath hitched. It was so damn tempting to just punch him. Right on that goddamn nose. But instead, you smiled. Nice and sweet.
And then you swung. Not your fist—only your words.
"You would know all about quick fucks, wouldn't you, Shane?" You leaned in, keeping your voice just quiet enough. "Or did Lori at least let you finish inside of her before she ran back to her husband?"
That slapped the smirk right off his face. But you weren't done.
"Bet you told her Rick was dead, huh?" You continued, watching the way his fists clenched at his sides, his shoulders going rigid. "Bet you've had your eyes on her long before the world has gone to shit. For how long? Months? Maybe even years?"
One second, you were standing there, triumphant to have won, having shoved it right back in his face, but then his hand was gripping your jaw.
Hard.
Not enough to hurt. But enough to make you gasp in shock. Enough to make your heart pound faster and faster.
Your hands moved up instantly, grabbing at his wrist, but he just held you there, his fingers pressing against your skin, his face being so close that you could feel the heat of his breath against your cheek.
"Watch your fuckin' mouth..."
Swallowing loudly in return, you knew you should've been scared. But you weren't.
Because you noticed it—the way his grip trembled just slightly, the way his breathing was just a little too heavy, the way his eyes looked down to your lips for half a second before looking back up.
So, you just smiled again. Like it was the easiest thing in the world.
"You really wanna play this game with me, Walsh?" You whispered.
Shane's grip tightened for a moment before he suddenly let go, stepping back and laughing to himself.
"You know what? Yeah, I did fuckin' finish," he responded, clapping his hands together several times in front of your face to mock you. "So what?"
But you stood your ground, your chin held up high, heart still racing, yet refusing to let him see it.
Refusing to let him win.
"Are you done?" You then asked flatly, but Shane shook his head, still smirking.
"Nah, little girl, I ain't done."
Neither of you moved. Neither of you walked away. You just stood there, with Shane still looking at you. Of course, with that same damn smirk. That same smirk, like he had you, like he knew exactly what to do to annoy you, and exactly what to say. That same smirk, as he couldn't have any other facial expression to use around you anymore.
He huffed loudly, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek, trying not to burst into laughter. "Y'know," he started again, his voice as casual as ever. "If you wanted it rough and a lil' older, you shoulda just said somethin!"
He then grinned as he saw how red your face was getting, which only gave him more fuel to continue. "Bet Rick ain't got it in him, huh? 'Cause he ain't made for this world. Bet he—"
"Shut the fuck up, Shane."
But he was still enjoying this. And that was what pissed you off the most. You forced yourself to take a step back, heart pounding, your jaw so clenched, it felt like it was going to dislocate itself any second right now.
"Go fuck yourself," you grumbled, voice shaking just slightly. Maybe because you were angry, or, deep down, you liked this.
Not him. Not Shane.
But the fight. The way it made your blood pump faster, the way it boiled so fast in your veins.
Or maybe it was the way he wasn't done, either.
"You gonna stand there all day, little girl?"
That stare-off between you felt like it went on for hours even though you knew it was only a few seconds.
"You tell me, Walsh. You seem really happy just standing here, keeping your damn eyes on me rather than the damn barn behind you."
And with that, you turned and walked away toward the farmhouse. You told yourself the way you had reacted was anger—that it was just the heat of the moment. But deep down, you knew it was more than that. Shane had gotten under your skin. And not just because of his smirk or his stupid jokes. No, it was the way he looked at you—like he knew exactly what buttons to push and as if he could see right through you.
It pissed you off. But it also excited you in a way.
Shaking your head, you tried to clear your thoughts. This wasn't the time to get distracted. Not with the barn full of walkers. Not with the search for Sophia and all the other problems the group had. Still, you couldn't help but wonder—what would happen if you pushed him a little further? And what would happen if you let Shane push a little further?
By the time you made it back toward camp, things had calmed—at least, on the outside. Everyone was moving around, busying themselves with whatever tasks they could find, trying not to think about the fact that everything felt like it was actually starting to fall apart.
You spotted Rick up by the house, standing at the porch steps, his hands on his hips before he climbed them, and then knocking on the door.
From where you stood, you could hear Hershel's muffled response from inside the house.
"Come on in."
Rick stepped inside. And you just… watched.
Watched as the door went shut behind him. Watched as Maggie moved past the door and inside as well, stopping only for a second to look over at Glenn before shaking her head and continuing. Watched as the camp kept moving, kept breathing, and kept pretending like they weren't all terrified about what had to happen eventually.
And still, all you could think about was the way Shane had looked at you and what he'd said. Even now.
Inside the farmhouse, Hershel sat at the table, the Holy Bible open in front of him, barely looking up as Rick stepped in.
"A little light reading for lunch?" Rick asked, stopping right next to him.
Hershel turned a page, not looking up to acknowledge Rick with his eyes. "Been working so hard lately I get my studying where I can."
"You know we can help you out with your work."
Hershel shook his head. "It's my field to tend."
Rick looked around the house slowly, thinking about what to say, while his hands still rested on his hips.
"We found the barn," he said next, just waiting for Hershel to respond in anger.
But Hershel barely blinked. "Leave it be."
Rick's jaw tightened. "Well, I'd like to talk about it, but either way… your barn, your farm, your say."
The man finally looked at him, using a napkin to wipe his mouth. Completely unbothered.
"I don't want to talk about the barn. I don't want to debate."
Rick held his stare. "Not a debate. A discussion."
After a moment of silence, Hershel closed the Bible, standing up with the empty plate and the silverware. "I need you and your group gone by the end of the week."
Rick didn't react. Not at first.
Didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
Then, quickly, he followed him into the kitchen of the house.
He stood behind Hershel, who was putting the plate and silverware into the sink, only to look out of the window, hoping he would just leave and let him be.
"I talked to Dale," Rick continued. "You and I have our differences with the way we look at the walkers. Those people, they may be dead; they may be alive. But my people—us—we are alive right now. Right here. Right in front of you."
Hershel didn't say anything, still looking out of the window and not once having turned around. But Rick pressed on.
"You send us out there, and that could change."
Still not turning around, Hershel let out a huff through his nose, like he was done with the conversation. "I've given you safe harbor. My conscience is clear."
"This farm…" Rick started again, shaking his head slightly. "This farm is special. You've been shielded from what's been going on out there," he continued, taking a step closer. "Dale said you saw everything happen on the news. Well, it's been…" He let out a dry, humorless breath. "It's been a long time since the cameras stopped rolling."
But Hershel's back stayed turned away from him.
"The first time I saw a walker, it was just half a body snapping at me from the ground," Rick explained to him. "My inclination wasn't to kill it. But what the world is out there isn't what you saw on TV. It is much, much worse. And it changes you. Either into one of them or something a lot less than the person you were."
Finally, Hershel turned around.
"Please," Rick said further. "Do not… Do not send us out there again."
Silence.
Hershel still didn't answer him; he looked him up and down.
Rick shook his head, his eyes looking down at the floor before shaking his head again and turning toward the door, dragging a hand down his face.
Then, he stopped. And said the only thing left he had to say.
"My wife's pregnant."
Hershel blinked, but Rick barely gave him time to react.
"That's either a gift here or a death sentence out there," he continued. "If we were to stay, we could help you with the work. With securing this place. We can survive together."
But Hershel was turning away from him again. "Rick, I'm telling you, we can't."
"You think about what you're doing," Rick answered in return, his voice rising ever so slightly, which made Hershel respond faster than before to finally get his point across and into the man's head.
"I've thought about it."
"Think about it."
"I've thought about it."
And Rick didn't argue any further.
He just opened the front door, stepped outside, and said, "Think about it again. We can't go out there."
Then, he closed the door behind him, his mind racing. Hershel's words were a mess in his head, but they were again pushed away by the memory of you once he saw you. He clenched his fists, trying to shake it off, but it was no use.
Rick looked across the camp, his eyes landing on you again. You were standing near the tents, your arms crossed, your expression unreadable. Taking a step forward, he stopped.
What was he supposed to do? March over there as if nothing has ever happened?
No. That wasn't him.
Rick forced himself to look away, to focus on the task at hand. But even as he walked back toward the group, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was losing control. And the worst part? He wasn't sure he even cared anymore.
And you saw it from a distance as you watched him—the way his shoulders tensed, the way his hands curled into fists before forcing himself to relax.
The way Rick looked like he was holding himself together with nothing but willpower. And all you could do was watch as you saw him coming down the porch steps. He didn't even look in your direction anymore and kept walking.
And still—still, you moved toward him.
"Hey, Rick—"
Nothing. Not even one single word. He just kept going, walking past you like you weren't even there.
Fine. Fuck him.
You turned, watching as he made his way toward the barn. Rick stopped just short of Shane, exhaling hard, making Shane look at him in return.
"What's it gonna be, man? Which way does this thing go?"
Rick dragged a hand down his face before answering. "I don't know yet."
Shane's head tilted. Just slightly. "Well, what did he say?"
"We're negotiating."
The other man's laugh was humorless, bitter. "You're nego—clock's ticking, Rick."
"No, it isn't, Shane." Rick's voice was annoyed. "That barn… The barn is secure. We didn't even know about it till this morning. We didn't."
Shane's eyes looked fast toward the barn, then back to him.
"Well, we know about it now. Right? We know there's over a dozen walkers in there. We know that it's about a stone's throw from our camp, Rick… Where we sleep."
Rick's fingers twitched at his sides.
"So look," Shane pressed on, "if we're not gonna go in there and clear it out, then we just got to go."
"We're not gonna clear it out, and we're not gonna go."
"We at least need our guns," Shane argued back, but Rick wasn't about to let it slide.
"We can't have them. Not here."
Shane stared at him, his mouth slightly open, before he leaned back more comfortably against the small, red tractor. "Why do you wanna stay here when it's not safe?"
"We can make it safe."
"How we gonna do that?"
"We will, okay?"
"How we gonna make it safe, Rick?" His voice had an angrier tone now, that barely hidden hate starting to boil up, pushing him further.
"We will, okay?"
"No, man, it's not okay."
Rick took a deep breath, already turning away from him before he finally said it.
"Shane, Lori's pregnant. We need to stay."
Silence. Shane blinked, his mouth falling open in shock, unable to know how to answer that. "We... need our guns," he then said, trying to process the information he had just thrown into his face, but Rick shook his head once more.
"No. I can work this out." Rick turned to leave again. He was done with this conversation. "You good?"
Shane didn't answer right away, rolling his shoulders back, which tensed up to the point of being uncomfortable.
"Yeah…" His voice was quieter now. "Lori's having a baby, man… Congratulations."
"Thank you," Rick nodded, and that should have been it. He should have kept walking. He should have left.
But Shane? Shane wasn't done.
"Hold up, Rick."
Rick stopped. But he didn't turn around. Not at first. And that made Shane take a slow step forward. And then another.
"You know," Shane started, "I was just wonderin' somethin'. Somethin' been on my mind since last night."
Slowly, very slowly, Rick turned to face him. His expression was blank. But his eyes? His eyes were burning.
"Tell me somethin'." Shane continued, now in an almost amused voice. "That little thing you and I got in common now? That happen before or after you went crawlin' back to Lori?"
Rick's expression didn't change, and Shane tilted his head, pretending to be curious.
"How'd it go, huh?" He took another step closer. "You go all slow and sweet, or was it fast? Rough?"
Rick's jaw was so tight it looked like his teeth might break if he ground them any harder.
Shane's smirk widened. "Bet it was rough." His voice sounded mocking now. "Bet she was greedy for it. All soft and pretty, makin' those cute little, desperate, needy noises—"
Rick moved. Fast. He grabbed Shane by the front of his shirt, shoving him hard, slamming him back against the red tractor so violently that it slightly moved.
"You ain't got no room to talk anymore, do you, Rick?"
He didn't answer and just stared at him. And the way they looked at each other—it was dangerous. It was personal. It wasn't just about Lori. It wasn't just about the walkers in the barn. It wasn't just about the farm. This? This was about them both.
"Wonder how much longer you're gonna play pretend, huh? I mean, c'mon, man! You really think you can just walk away after what you did?"
That line they were both standing on? They knew one of them was about to cross it eventually.
"You wanna say somethin' else to me, Shane?"
Shane took another step closer. "Oh, you know what I know. Knowing what you did."
Rick's jaw twitched, and Shane tilted his head.
"Behind the chicken coop, huh?" He laughed, smirking. "She loud? You had to keep her mouth shut?"
Shane didn't even flinch. He now just grinned like he'd won until Rick calmed himself down and let go of him again.
"Bet she moaned real lovely for you, huh? Like honey and all excited, so damn wet and just beggin'—"
Unable to look at him anymore, Rick shoved him to the side and away from him. Shane stumbled sideways, laughing breathlessly and shaking his head.
"Oh! That's rich, man! You wanna throw hands with me about it?" He laughed out loud. "You wanna look me in the fuckin' eyes and act like you got the right to be pissed? You fucked that lil' girl. You fucked her, Rick. Behind your wife's back. So tell me—what's that make you?"
Shane leaned in, but not too close, just in case Rick was about to snap again. "You ain't no better than me, brother."
Rick's head snapped back toward him, and for a second—just one second—Shane thought he was gonna swing. Thought he was actually gonna throw that punch, knock him down to the dirt, and finally give in to what had been happening between them for some time now.
But instead, Rick straightened himself and stepped back. "I ain't you."
"Keep tellin' yourself that, man," Shane answered in an instant, running a hand over his head.
Rick didn't say another word. He turned and walked away.
He stopped once he was far away enough from the man he'd once called his best friend since he was young, dragging both hands down his face before gripping the back of his neck, trying to breathe through the anger raging inside him. His pulse was hammering against his skull, and he knew—he knew—if he didn't get a hold of himself, he was gonna break something.
Or someone.
His teeth ground together as his eyes looked toward the chicken coop in the distance. It was like his body was drawn to it, to you, to the memory of last night. But now, he felt sick. He felt starved. He felt like if he let himself go back to that place, back to you…
No.
Closing his eyes, Rick inhaled deeply and forced himself to look away.
More important things needed to be done.
So he walked back toward the tents, his face unreadable, and that was when he spotted the map. Something he could focus on.
This was what mattered. The search for Sophia.
Once you saw Rick walking back toward the tents where you were still standing around while everyone else had occupied themselves, you knew you should've let him go.
You knew that. You should've just turned around, walked off, and focused on anything—anyone else—you should've let him stomp away like he always did when his head was too full of problems he couldn't solve when he got so lost in himself that it was like nothing and no one else existed around him. You should've let him deal with whatever war was happening in his mind on his own; let him pretend like what happened between you both behind the chicken coop was just some stupid mistake, some meaningless situation he could shove aside, bury deep, and move on from.
But how could you?
No, you stayed where you were, near the cars with a bitter taste in your mouth as you watched him stand at the hood of one of the cars, looking down at the map spread across it, his hands braced against the vehicle, his body tense like he was forcing himself to stay still, to stay focused.
His head was looking down, his eyes narrowed in deep concentration as he traced his fingers over the roads and backwoods trails, already moving forward with his thoughts, already figuring out the next step, already trying to keep his brain focused on something else, and not the argument with Shane, the conversation with Hershel, or the situation with Lori—like none of it had happened. As if he was fine and hadn't completely fallen apart last night and done something he couldn't take back.
No, Rick had to think of something different, something important, like searching for Carol's daughter.
Andrea stood beside him, arms crossed over her chest as she looked at the map along with him, her body leaning slightly toward his, listening as he spoke in that calm and concentrated way of his when he was keeping himself together by sheer force of will, like if he let go of that control for even a second, he might not be able to pull himself back together again.
"...also shows she could be moving this way south. If Sophia kept in that direction, she might have gotten out of the forest and into the farmland. So we take 74 up to Ivy Road, then push down south on foot through the forest till we hit Christopher, go east a couple of miles, and then double back."
You took a slow step forward, hesitant, unsure if it was even the right move, unsure why you were doing it, but unable to stop yourself all the same.
And Rick went completely still once he noticed you. His fingers stopped where they rested against the map, his breathing turning a little faster, and his shoulders went a little stiffer—just for a moment. Then, just as quickly, he forced himself to concentrate again, to act as if he hadn't noticed, as if you weren't standing there, as if he wasn't aware of you, just a few steps away.
Like you weren't even there.
Frustration overcame you.
It wasn't the time. It wasn't the place. You knew that. But you also knew you had to talk, especially regarding Shane.
"Rick, I—"
Nothing.
Andrea moved beside him, looking toward you, one eyebrow arching slightly like she wasn't sure if she should say something. If she should step in and if she should tell Rick you wanted to talk to him, but he didn't even acknowledge her either. He just kept talking, kept staring at the map, kept pretending like you didn't exist, like he couldn't hear your voice, and like he couldn't feel you watching him.
You clenched your fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms, resisting the urge to grab him, to shake him, to force him to see you.
Before you stepped away, a voice stopped you.
"Rick."
Hershel.
Rick turned around immediately, looking toward the older man.
"Hershel," he greeted, nodding once, like he was relieved for the excuse to pull away, for the reason to leave, to walk away from you without actually walking away from you. "We just have our guns out because we're gonna go look for Sophia."
Hershel barely even looked at the map. "Before you do that, I could use your help with something."
Andrea put a hand on her hip beside Rick, stepping forward. "Count me in."
But Hershel shook his head. "Thank you, but I just need Rick."
And just like that, Rick went with him after Jimmy had joined them. No hesitation. No second thought. He folded up the map, put it away, and walked off after them like he couldn't get away fast enough. Like he hadn't just spent the last several minutes pretending you didn't exist and like he hadn't just made you feel so unimportant that you wanted to scream.
And you should've let him go. You should've just let him disappear behind the trees, let him keep pretending, let him run.
But you didn't. Because something inside of you wouldn't let you. So you followed them.
Kept low. Kept your steps light. Kept your hand around your knife, just in case.
And you knew you weren't supposed to be out here. Not without telling at least one person from the group about it. You remembered it the second you started following them, the second your feet left the safety of the farm, slipping past the trees, staying quiet. You didn't have a plan. Didn't even have a good reason, just in case someone would search for you and you'd have to come up with an excuse.
But after everything—after last night, after this morning, after the way Rick had avoided you like you didn't even exist—you weren't about to sit around the camp doing nothing.
So you followed and kept your distance, moving slowly but carefully.
Once at the swamp, the first thing you noticed was that it smelled like rot.
You could hear insects buzzing somewhere nearby, the sound of water, and the rustling of birds chirping in the trees above, but none of it was enough to drown out the sound of them.
The growls.
The snapping of teeth.
The noises of the dead.
Hershel, Rick, and Jimmy had stopped near the edge of the muddy water, just a few feet away from where two walkers stood stuck in the sludge, their bodies sinking slowly, arms reaching, fingers clawing uselessly at the air.
"The silt on the bottom is like glue," Hershel explained. "You just sink in."
Rick followed him quietly.
"That's Lou Bush," Hershel continued, nodding toward one of them.
"You knew him?"
Hershel sighed. "Lou as in Louise. She has a farm up the road. Sweet corn mostly. Worked at Hapman's bar on weekends." He nodded toward the other walker, the one in coveralls. "The man, I don't know him, but the uniform… I've been to where he worked."
Rick was silent for a long moment, staring at them, his face unreadable.
"How many have you killed?" Hershel then asked.
Rick exhaled slowly, his fingers twitching slightly on instinct as if wanting to reach for his Colt Python. "Too many to count."
"Can you stop?" Hershel asked, and Rick's eyes narrowed slightly.
"There are people out there who haven't been in their right minds," Hershel continued, not letting him answer. "People who I believe can be restored."
"You're not talking about the walkers, are you?"
Hershel didn't answer. Didn't need to. Rick knew he thought the dead were just sick people. People you could still help find their way back among the living.
Rick turned just slightly, making sure no other danger was close—and suddenly looked directly at where you were hiding.
Shit…
For a moment—one quick and uncomfortable moment—you thought he'd actually seen you.
The way his shoulders stiffened, the way his head turned ever so slightly, and the way his eyes looked toward the tree line where you were crouched low in the shadows, barely breathing and barely even blinking, made you gasp.
It was instinct, pure instinct, the way you tensed, the way your fingers grabbed the handle of your knife even tighter, ready to run if you had to, ready to fight if it came to that, even though you knew there was no real reason for it. Rick might've been pissed as hell at you; you didn't really know for sure—might've spent the entire day so far acting like you didn't exist, like what happened last night was some shameful, disgusting little secret where he'd rather set himself on fire than acknowledge it—but he wouldn't hurt you.
"Rick..."
Just like that, his attention went right back to Hershel, like he hadn't just gone stiff, as if he hadn't just been looking directly at the spot you were crouched in, and like he hadn't just felt something in that quick, passing moment.
Taking your chance, you moved.
Not fast. Not loud. Not stupid.
Just carefully walking backward, deeper into the woods, deeper into the shadows, further away, and far enough that you could still hear them, could still make out their silhouettes through the gaps in the branches, but not close enough that Rick could feel your presence anymore.
Or maybe he never had.
Maybe it had just been your own paranoia. Your own guilt.
But it didn't matter now, because you stayed and you still watched. Listened.
Jimmy stepped forward, adjusting his grip on the catch pole in his hands, the kind with a noose at the end, the kind they used to get strays under control back in the old world.
"Otis said if you get them halfway out, they'll do the rest of the work," Jimmy said hesitantly, his voice nervous and uncertain.
"How many times did he do this?" Rick asked as he remembered Otis, who had died not that long ago when he was out on a run with Shane to get some of the medical equipment Hershel needed to save Carl after he'd been accidentally shot by him.
Meanwhile, Hershel let out a sigh as he looked toward the two walkers still stuck in the mud, their arms still reaching and their teeth still snapping. "If one wandered onto the property, Otis would get them into the barn. Now we have to."
Rick kept staring at them, his jaw clenched. "And what happens when the barn gets full?"
He took one step toward the edge of the water before his boots slipped, the mud sucking him down, yanking him straight off balance, and making his body hit the ground.
"Jeez!" He cursed, struggling to get a solid hold, his boots sliding off grip as he tried to push himself up. "Get the pole! Jimmy... Jimmy!"
But Hershel's voice remained calm, infuriatingly so. "You got it. Easy. Easy, Rick. Lead him. Jimmy will spot for us."
Rick's breath was ragged, with him grumbling around frustrated as he yanked the pole forward, trying to keep it looped around the walker's throat while still fighting against the mud beneath him. "This is easy?!"
Hershel still didn't care much, seeing no danger. "Lead him, lead him, Rick. You're the carrot, not the stick. You heard me, just lead him. He'll come to you."
"You told me he handled them easily!"
Once Rick stumbled behind them, Hershel took the lead and walked forward. "It's easier than some things."
"Come on! Come on, over here!" Jimmy said in the background when suddenly, a sound was to be heard.
A scream.
Not just any scream. Your scream.
Rick's entire body froze, and the pole slipped from his hands before Jimmy quickly took it into his own, staring at him in confusion.
But Rick wasn't there anymore. Wasn't thinking. Wasn't waiting.
"Rick!" Hershel's voice was alarmed, but Rick was already gone, already stumbling away from the mud, running through the trees, rushing toward the sound, toward the scream.
"Wait here or go back to the farm!" He yelled back over his shoulder, but he wasn't listening to their answers, wasn't thinking about them, wasn't thinking about anything other than getting to you.
Because he knew that sound. Knew it all too well and knew what it meant.
The walker came down on you so fast you didn't even have a second to think, to move, to do anything other than hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the wind straight out of your lungs, your back slamming into the dirt, and your knife slipping from your fingers, just out of reach.
Its weight was pressing down on you heavily, the smell of rot, blood, and death suffocating your senses, its jaws wide open, teeth snapping only inches from your face, its fingers trying to tear into your flesh, and trying to sink its teeth into any part of your body it was able to reach.
You struggled. A lot.
Your hands shoved against its chest, your muscles burning from the adrenaline, your legs thrashing beneath it, trying to slip away from under its weight, trying to grab for something, for anything, for your knife, but the walker was too heavy. It was too strong, and no matter how hard you fought, it wouldn't move. It wouldn't stop, and it wouldn't let go.
Then—a disgusting, wet noise.
But there was no gunshot.
Because Rick didn't use his Colt Python.
No. He had a rock.
It was in his hand as he pulled the walker away from you, covered in blood, pieces of skull, and rotted flesh smeared against it, his breath coming out in fury as he stared down at what had almost—almost—taken you from him.
Rick's fingers ached. His entire arm trembled from the force he had used, but he didn't stop after the first hit.
He just kept swinging.
"Stupid—"
Crack. The first hit crushed its temple.
"Motherfuckin'—"
Crack. The second cracked its skull open.
"Piece of—"
Crack. The third caved its shattered face in, leaving nothing but bone and blood splattered across the dirt.
"Shit!"
It wasn't moving anymore. It wasn't even recognizable.
But Rick was still hovering over it, his fingers gripping the rock so tightly his knuckles had turned white, his entire body trembling, and breathing so hard it sounded like a long, endless growl.
You had never seen him like this before.
Not even when he was mad at Shane. Not even when the group was in chaos. Not even last night, when he had slipped into your tent and put his hands on you like a man who had already lost his mind.
But now? Now, he looked feral.
And when his eyes finally looked back up to meet yours—when you saw the way they burned, wild and pissed—you weren't sure if it was from anger or from something else entirely.
Something that made you forget how to breathe.
Before you could say something, before you could think, and before you could even process what just happened, Rick was pushing the dead body away, grabbing you, and yanking you up with so much force it almost hurt, his fingers digging in, dragging you to your feet, and pushing you back until your back hit a tree.
He was right there, towering over you, his eyes full of anger and his face full of rage, his chest rising and falling with every deep and furious breath.
Rick was enraged.
And you?
You still didn't even know what to do.
"You stupid—" Rick started, his voice nothing more than a snarl.
He was so close you could barely react, his fingers digging into your arms, holding you there, pinning you back against the bark of the tree as his eyes burned through you like he wanted to set you on fire.
"You outta your goddamn mind, sneakin' out here like that?!" He asked with his grip tightening, his whole body trembling with all that anger, all that frustration. "You got any idea what coulda happened to you? Any idea?"
You pushed against his hold, trying to shove him off, trying to create even an inch of space between you, but he was unmovable, too strong, every inch of him tense, like if he let go, if he even so much as relaxed for a second, he might do something reckless.
Something he couldn't take back.
"You don't get to be mad at me, Rick!" You shot back, your own frustration boiling over like two storms colliding. "Not when you—"
"The hell I don't!" He cut you off, his voice like thunder, as if he was close to losing his mind once more. "What were you even thinking, huh? Following me… us, out here?"
"You think I don't know what the hell I'm doing?" You shoved at his chest again, harder this time, pushing back, fighting back, your heart hammering against your ribs, adrenaline still surging through your veins from the walker attack, from the fear, from the fact that Rick was right here, all over you. "You don't get to act like you care about what happens to me when you can't even look at me, Rick!"
His breathing stopped, letting you feel the way his fingers tightened around your arms, and the way his whole body was so full of adrenaline as if he was trying hard to hold onto whatever bit of restraint he still had left.
"Are you outta your goddamn mind?" He asked again, but not expecting any answer.
You knew there'd be bruises later on your arms—not that you cared, not that you even felt it over everything else.
You weren't scared, but also not backing down.
"And what about you?" You shot back, your voice shaking from the situation alone, your chest rising and falling just as hard and fast as his, with your heart pounding against your ribs. But you were still trying to finally put the much-needed space between you, knowing full well he wasn't about to let you. "Because last time I checked, I wasn't the one creeping into somebody's tent in the middle of the goddamn night!"
Rick went still. Too still.
His breath hitched, and his fingers twitched against your skin. But he said nothing. He didn't deny it, and he didn't even blink. He just stood there, with his eyes staring deeply into yours.
That silence?
That silence made you want to scream, and before you could even think about stopping yourself, before you could even process what you were doing, the words were already tearing themselves freefrom your mouth.
"I know it was you," you spat at him, your breath coming out fast and heavy, your entire body shaking. "I felt you. I heard you. You were right there—right fucking there."
His grip turned tighter, making you wince in response.
"Shut up."
"You kissed me," you went on, still not looking away from his eyes. "You put your hands on me—"
"I said, shut the fuck up—"
"And now?" You continued, stuttering a little bit. "Now you wanna stand here and act like I'm the crazy one? Like I'm the problem? Like I didn't just see you standing next to Shane, looking like you were about to rip his goddamn throat out because he knows—"
And you saw it. That slight movement, that quick twitch in Rick's jaw as if he was about to smirk. That was the confirmation.
"You know Shane knows, don't you?" You asked him, your eyes narrowing and your voice dropping lower. "You know he knows that you fucked me."
"Don't."
That one word was a warning, but you couldn't care less.
"You think I don't see it? The way he won't stop smirking like he's just waiting for one of us to say something? And do you really think I don't know that he talked to you as well?"
Rick's hands moved away from your arms only to shove both hands into your hair on the back of your head, with his fingers digging in roughly, trying to hold something back and trying to keep control.
"Enough."
Rick's voice was different now.
Darker.
"You think I don't know? You think I don't know he knows? He told me. Yeah. He told me—"
And then—it broke. All of it. The rage. The frustration. It all broke in that simple moment.
Because one second, you were just there, daring him to do something, to act on anything, to move.
And then Rick's lips finally pushed full force against yours, hard, brutal, and all-consuming. He was swallowing up every one of your ragged breaths, every sound, and every bit of fight left in you like he was trying to erase it, trying to shut you up the only way he knew how.
His hands went away from your hair and the back of your head, his fingers grabbing, gripping, and dragging you in, pulling you against him as close as he could, and pressing his body down on yours like he needed to feel you, needing to make sure you were real, to make sure you were alive, and to make sure you were his.
You kissed him back like you were drowning, like you needed him just as bad, and like you wanted to tear him apart with your teeth, as if wanting to suffocate him with your tongue, all the while your hands clawed at his shirt, at his back, yanking him closer.
You barely even noticed him moving you away from the dead body before your back hit the ground a few trees away, the dirt and leaves pressing against your back, with Rick right there, covering you, pushing himself onto you, his hands already gripping at your thighs, spreading them wide and sliding beneath the hem of your dress.
"Fuck—" You gasped against his mouth, barely getting the word out before he devoured it, before his lips moved over yours again, before his hand gripped your jaw, fingers digging in like he wanted to keep you right there, right under him, right where he needed you to be, no matter the place.
Rick's breathing was fast, still furious, his body pressing against yours, one of his knees pushing up between your thighs to keep them spread, and the outline of his cock already throbbing against your thigh, being so hard it was painful.
God, you felt it…
Felt the way his hands touched, the way his mouth claimed, the way he devoured every inch of you he could reach, all heat and desperation, all frustration and need, like he was trying to consume you whole.
"This what you wanted, sweetheart?" His voice was a growl, all breathless and raw, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath ever so warm against your lips, and his hips already grinding against yours, already so far gone it was making you ache. "This what you were askin' for last night, after all. And you liked it… You, walkin' around naked in that little fuckin' dress, makin' me lose my goddamn mind—"
"Fuck you—"
"You already did."
And then his mouth was on you again, teeth moving roughly against your throat, fingers hiking your dress up and shoving it past your hips, his breath trembling as he was about to take you, as he finally—finally—did act.
Your hands were on his chest before you even knew what the hell you were doing, shoving, pushing, and tugging at his shirt like you wanted to rip it off, like you wanted to tear him apart the same way he was tearing you apart, inside and out. "Get off me," you said, breathless, furious, shaking with the kind of anger that burned hotter than anything else, hotter than his mouth on your skin, hotter than the way he was grinding into you, and hotter than the need you felt inside of you. "Get the fuck off me, Rick."
But he didn't move.
His chest heaving against your palms as he stared down at you, the expression on his face had turned into something that looked wrecked, something ruined, something that had already gone past the point of no return. His hands were still on you, fingers now finding their way to your thighs, your waist, your soul, and you felt like you were the one suffocating beneath him, beneath the weight of his, the weight of it all.
Beneath the lies, the guilt, the frustration, and the lust that had been building for months.
"You don't want that," he said quietly, calm even, making your stomach flip and your fingers twitch, making your hesitation crack almost in an instant. "Nah. You don't want me to stop."
"Fuck off," you hissed back at him, but you didn't really mean it anymore, and you weren't strong enough to push him away one way or another. No, your fingers were still holding onto his shirt; your body was still arching into his without thinking, without meaning to, without caring. "No, you don't get to do that—you don't get to come to me in the dark, you don't get to put your hands on me, you don't get to want me when you're still acting like—like—"
"Like what?" His fingers grabbed you harder, rougher, more desperately, his eyes demanding your attention to be fully on him like he needed to hear you say it, and like he needed you to break right along with him. "Like I don't already know? Like I don't already know what she did, what he did, and what they both did? And what we—"
He cut himself off, his jaw clenching with the unspoken truth, with the reality that had been stabbed inside his thoughts like a knife since the second Shane had confronted him.
"Lori's baby ain't yours," you let out then, the words meant to make him hurt the way you were hurting, the way he made you hurt every time he pretended like this was nothing. "And you know it, Rick. You know. And deep down? Deep down you couldn't give less of a shit about it. Ain't that true?"
Rick huffed loudly like you'd just knocked the air out of his lungs, like you'd just taken the knife from his thoughts, only to ram it into his heart until he couldn't breathe.
You should've stopped there.
Should've let it be enough.
But it wasn't, not after the last night you spent staring at the ceiling of your tent after he'd left, replaying in your mind how his hands felt on you, his mouth, his voice whispering in your ear and sounding like he was falling apart. Of course, you couldn't stop thinking back as well… All the mornings where he wouldn't even look at you while at the Quarry, where he acted like you were nothing, where he went back to Lori like he hadn't kept an eye on you every single time you bent over or walked past him. No, you were invisible, and right now, you felt like you would be unseen all over again.
"You know it, and you're still choosing her," you pushed further, your own breath shaking now, and your own anger burning through every last rational thought you had left. "You're still holding onto something that ain't even real anymore—"
"I ain't choosing her," he snapped back, his voice breaking apart as his fingers tightened around you, as his body pressed you down, as his lips came so damn close to yours you could taste the breath he exhaled, the frustration, and the need. "You think I don't want this? You think I don't—" He stopped and swallowed hard, his throat feeling dry, his body trembling like he couldn't hold it together anymore, like he was breaking right there in front of you.
"But you don't get to want me when you're still fucking lying to yourself," you responded, and it came out quieter this time, as if all the fight was draining out of you like you were exhausted and you just couldn't take it anymore. "Again… You don't get to touch me like this and then pretend like it didn't happen. I can't—" Your voice cracked, and you hated it, hated the way it made you sound weak, greedy for something wrong, as if you were just as far gone as he was. "I can't fucking take it, Rick."
His fingers were at your jaw in a second, gripping it tightly, holding you there, forcing you to look at him, forcing you to see every single emotion behind those blue eyes.
"You think I can?" His voice was strained, barely even a whisper now. He wasn't just talking to you—he was talking to himself as well and trying to convince himself of whatever was going on inside his head. "You think this doesn't kill me since Atlanta? Wakin' up every morning, seein' you, knowin' I can't—" His breath hitched, making him gulp. "Knowin' I ain't supposed to—"
And that was it. Because your hands weren't pushing anymore.
Suddenly, your fingers were pulling, dragging him down, closing the space because you couldn't take it either anymore. It was too much. After all, you were drowning in it, suffocating in it, burning alive in it. In him.
And when Rick's lips pressed back against yours, it wasn't controlled, wasn't careful; it was only like he was trying to memorize the taste of you once more, to remember the taste of sin he'd already started to crave again.
Your nails went down his back once his fingers slid into your hair, his body pressing down hard, holding you there, owning you there, like he needed to feel every inch of you, needed to know you were his, even if he wouldn't say it.
"Rick," you moaned against his mouth, and his response was a groan, sounding quiet and wrecked, his hands gripping, his hips bucking, his body trembling as he kissed you like he needed you more than air, more than reason, more than whatever life he was trying so hard to hold onto.
"Tell me to stop," he stuttered, his forehead against yours, his breath shaking and muscles tense, like he was waiting for you to make the choice for him. "Tell me to walk away."
You didn't. Because you couldn't.
Instead, your legs wrapped around his waist, your fingers grabbing his hair, your lips finding his again, hard, needy, open, and desperate, and that was all it took.
For him to break completely.
When Rick pulled back just enough to look at you, his chest was rising and falling like he'd just fought for his life—like kissing you had been some kind of battle, some kind of war he was already too deep in to ever walk away from unscarred. And maybe it was. Maybe it always would be. Maybe that was why he was still here, his fingers now sliding under the hem of your dress like he couldn't help himself, like he had to feel you, had to know that you were real beneath him, warm and alive, and his for the taking, even if just for a moment.
But before Rick could let himself get lost in it, before he could let the fire in his blood burn him up from the inside out, he pushed himself up onto his forearms, his eyes looking over to the trees around you, listening to the uneasy silence that always meant one of two things—either you were alone, or something was waiting, watching, and creeping closer. His body tensed up as he tried to calm down his racing heart, ready to fight, to kill, to protect—until he was sure and certain that the only sound filling the empty woods was the ragged, uneven way you were breathing beneath him.
The second Rick's attention went back to you, the second he focused on the way your lips were parted and slightly swollen and the way your pupils were all wide, the way your chest rose and fell in quick, uneven movements, he was gone, already sliding his hands up, pushing your dress out of his way, and dragging it higher—knowing you wouldn't be wearing anything underneath—his mouth already back on you, already burning a path across your skin like he was trying to mark it.
And you let him.
You let him as his fingers dug into your waist, as his mouth found the soft, sweaty skin at your throat, as his lips moved lower, and his teeth biting the places he knew would make you sigh and shiver for more. Rick wanted to make you press your body up into his to make you need and want him closer. He wanted you to need him everywhere.
Like you needed him to break you apart just so he could put you back together again.
Once he licked his way down your neck and over your collarbone, his tongue then sliding slowly—so slowly—over your breasts, down to your stomach, lower and lower, his hands already holding on to your hips.
"God," you gasped, your hips bucking up on instinct, with your back arching and your legs spread wide, your whole body betraying you, giving into the desperation. "Rick—"
He growled in response, a deep sound that vibrated against your skin, making your thighs shake, and you could feel how gone he was, how much he needed this.
How much he needed you.
And then, before you could catch your breath, one hand was sliding lower, his fingers finding the wet, swollen folds of your pussy between your legs since he knew exactly just how much of a mess you already were for him.
"Shit," he groaned as if he wasn't just talking to you and more like he was talking to himself.
Rick couldn't believe how wet you were, how soaked you were just from him craving you, just from him grinding against you, and from the way his mouth felt on your skin.
His fingers started to tease you slowly at first, sliding through the slickness, parting you open, and pressing barely against your entrance, with his thumb rubbing against your clit ever so softly, but not enough—not even close to enough—just enough to make you moan.
Enough to make your thighs twitch, enough to make your nails dig into his shoulders, and bite your lip so hard you thought you might bleed.
And Rick felt the way your pussy clenched for him, the way your hips bucked up, and the way your breath hitched. That was it, because, in the next second, his mouth was going lower, pressing sloppy kisses down your body, as if it was the only thing that mattered anymore.
And then—then he was there.
His mouth was right where you wanted it to be.
And when his tongue slid out, when it ran slowly up your slit, parting it for him once more and tasting you, groaning deep and hungry against your pussy—you almost cried out loud.
Arching your back, your fingers were desperately trying to hold on to his hair, to keep your legs still, but all you could focus on was the way his tongue moved against you, devouring you like a man who had been starving for months, for years, for his whole life, like this was something he needed to survive.
Rick's hands immediately gripped your thighs harder, his fingers bruising, thumbs digging into your skin and wanting to hold you there, to keep you from moving, keep you from running, keep you from doing anything but taking it. And from the way he moved his tongue against your clit, the way he sucked it into his mouth and moaned against your pussy? The taste of you made him realize that this was the feeling he'd always craved in his life.
To be desired this much, just by existing and letting you feel him in return.
"Rick—" You choked out again in a pathetic sob, just a desperate, whiny plea as your body tensed, as you got closer, closer still, too close too fast.
But he didn't stop until you were gasping, whimpering, and shaking; he didn't slow down until you were crying his name quietly with a shaky voice and a trembling body, so wrecked, so ruined, and his all over again.
You were right there, right on the edge of an orgasm, your muscles straining in anticipation inside your body; it almost hurt, every nerve screaming silently for more. You could feel it in the way your thighs clenched around his head, the way your hips bucked up into his mouth, chasing it, needing it, knowing it was right there.
Until he stopped.
Simply stopped.
One second, his mouth was on you, devouring you, his tongue working you over like he was on a mission to destroy you completely, and the next?
Nothing.
Just the cold shock of a sudden loss, of being denied when you were already on the edge, and about to get wetter and wetter for him since the second he had laid his hands on you.
To come all over his face, just like he had on yours the night before.
You let out a cry that barely even sounded like it came from you, your hips bucking up and your pussy desperately chasing after his mouth, after his tongue, after anything to replace the sudden, unbearable emptiness between your thighs, but Rick just laughed in amusement, which made your whole body burn with heat because he knew exactly what he was doing.
Starting to twist your fingers in his hair, making your nails dig into his scalp, you tried to push his head back down. To force him back where you needed him, but Rick still wouldn't move, his fingers pressing bruises into your skin as he pulled back just enough to look at you with wet, swollen lips that were shining with just how soaked you were for him.
"Look at you," he grumbled, voice rough, teasing, mocking even.
You wanted to kill him for it, wanted to slap him; maybe at that moment you even wanted to break him apart once more—but mostly, you wanted to come for him, wanted to grab his hair and shove his mouth back where it belonged and take what you needed.
"So fuckin' needy now, huh? Where'd all that attitude go, sweetheart? Thought you had somethin' to say to me about a minute ago."
"You'd let me do anything to you, wouldn't you? Say it, sweetheart. Say you want me to eat you out."
You whimpered, fingers still scraping against his scalp, but didn't answer. You only sobbed in response, half a warning and half begging, again trying to pull him back down, but he only grinned until he decided to make his way toward your pussy again.
"Mhm…" Rick's tongue flicked against your clit, just enough to make you shiver until he pulled back a bit. "Ain't gonna say it? Guess I'll have to make you cry some more then. I wanna hear more of 'em pretty lil' sobs."
When he leaned back in and his lips finally touched you again, it wasn't the same as before—it wasn't the desperate kind of hunger that had been there, and it wasn't the fast, unbearable way he had been tasting you, no.
Now, he was taking his time.
Rick hummed against your inner thigh, leaving behind an open-mouthed, sloppy kiss like he had all the time in the world, like he wasn't torturing you. "Y'know what's really cute?"
"Shut up," you spat out, trying to force him back to your pussy. "Just—just fucking do it!"
Rick laughed—actually laughed, his breath warm, his fingers still barely teasing the wetness between your thighs. "Oh… you beg real pretty, y'know that?"
"Rick—"
He cut you off by dragging his tongue over your clit in sudden, lazy, torturous strokes that weren't nearly enough, and he wasn't letting you have it.
"You remember last night, sweetheart?" He grumbled against you, taunting you. "How you rode me, got me all worked up, had me right fuckin' there—" His tongue licked your clit again, just for a second, just enough to make you whine like he wanted you to, "—and then you just slid right off? Left me standin' there, hard as a fuckin' rock, while you got on your knees and put that sweet little mouth on me instead?"
You knew what this was now, knew exactly what he was doing, and why he was holding you here, keeping you right on the edge on purpose.
He was punishing you.
"Rick, I—" You started once more, your voice breathless, uneven, and pleading, but still, he wasn't letting you come for him just yet.
And when you tried to grind up into his mouth, tried to push yourself over the edge, he held you down, his grip tightening, his breath ragged as he grumbled, "Nah. Not yet."
You could've killed him. Again, you wanted to. Could've killed him for this, for the way he was keeping you here, for the way he was playing with you, for the way he was controlling this, controlling you, making you suffer for what you did to him the night before, for leaving him hanging, for teasing him, and for making him lose his mind when you had stopped.
But the worst part?
The worst part was that it was working.
The worst part was that you were falling apart for him in return, that you were sobbing for him, that you would've said anything, would've begged for anything, would've given him anything if it meant he'd just let you have it.
Suddenly, you heard it, with you getting immediately pulled away from this high—you heard it somewhere past the trees, beyond the branches, dead leaves, and the suffocating feeling from the heat of Rick's mouth on you.
Something cracked, something moved; you were sure of it, and it was enough to make your fingers twist in his hair for an entirely different reason as your head snapped up.
But Rick—he didn't even care.
He didn't lift his head at all, didn't stop dragging his tongue over the inside of your thigh, slow and lazy like he hadn't just had you on the edge of a breakdown, with your body being a trembling mess that was spread out on the forest floor as if he had all the time in the world, even when you knew he didn't.
Every second wasted was another chance at something going wrong, at someone coming looking for you, or a walker creeping up from behind the trees.
"I heard something," you breathed out, trying to push up on your elbows and see past the branches and shadows, but Rick just tightened his grip, holding you down.
"We're gonna make it quick," he answered, making you feel every touch of his lips, his tongue, and his teeth as he moved over you, kissing and biting, inching further up with every passing second, making it clear that whatever you thought you heard, whatever danger might be hiding behind the trees, it wasn't about to stop him.
Maybe you should have pushed him off; maybe you should have listened to that uneasy feeling in the back of your mind, but instead, you just lay there—knowing that he was the one in control.
And maybe that was why you couldn't stop yourself—maybe that was why, instead of just letting it happen, instead of drowning back into the way his mouth was moving higher, already crawling back up to lick over your stomach, you had to ruin it.
"I—" You started, voice still breathless and uneven, "Shane was the one that told me..."
You felt Rick stop in an instant.
It wasn't obvious—not at first, not enough that anyone else would have noticed, but you did.
The way his breath hitched, just a bit. The way his lips paused against your ribs, staying there for a second too long like he was bracing himself for whatever was about to come out of your mouth.
"...That Lori's pregnant...." You continued, keeping your voice casual, almost amused, because now you wanted to see what he would do, wanted to see how he would react.
Rick? He didn't say anything. He didn't immediately try to deny it, didn't try to tell you Shane was lying, and didn't even try to tell you it wasn't any of your business.
His hands only slid higher, up your body, pulling you with him and forcing you closer, forcing you to look at him and to feel him, and to watch as his fingers reached for his belt, undoing it to open his pants, like he was daring you to keep talking. He was giving you one more chance to shut up before he made you regret every word that had just come out of your mouth.
"So you really don't know if it's yours, do you?" You continued harshly, your voice quieter now, softer, while something angry but also sad could be heard beneath those words, something that dug in, because you wanted him to know that he wasn't the only one who could take control.
That he wasn't the only one who could get inside someone else's head the way he had tried to get inside yours.
But Rick just laughed, shaking his head. And it wasn't the kind of laughter that was meant to be heard as he leaned in.
"No."
And then—then his mouth was on you again.
His lips were trying to take back the control you had just stolen from him, trying to reclaim the power as he kissed his way back up your body, dragging his tongue over your throat, each sloppy kiss feeling possessive, almost angry, like he wasn't sure if he wanted to devour you or destroy you.
And God, you wanted to let him as soon as he was biting and kissing your lips, groaning into your mouth.
But when he shoved his pants down just enough to free himself, you tensed up, your fingers digging into his shoulders, that panic rising up in your body, because you could hear the noises deep inside the surrounding woods still around you. The branches creaking, the wind rustling through the trees, the distant sound of something still moving out there.
And it didn't matter if it was a walker or just the wind; the fear of it made its way into your head all over; it still made you want to push him back, because as much as you wanted this, you also didn't want to die with his cock inside you.
"But—" Your voice barely made it past your lips, too scared, too quiet, and you swallowed hard, shaking your head as you tried to get your thoughts together, but it was useless when he was this close. "Rick, we—"
"I got you," he reassured you, cutting you off before you could even finish the sentence, his voice quieter now, like the anger had burned itself out the second he felt you hesitate. His forehead dropped against yours, his fingers trailing down the side of your neck, his touch so tender it almost made you moan. "I got you, alright? Ain't nothin' gonna happen to you."
You sucked in a quick breath, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you still didn't move, not when the fear was still in your head.
"What if—"
"They ain't out there," he said, cutting you off again. "Ain't nothin' out there, sweetheart. Only you and me right now. Just look at me. Don't think about nothin' else, just me."
His cock was pushing against your pussy now, slick with how wet you already were, the head nudging against your clit ever so often.
"You're still thinkin' about what's out there, aren't you?" He mumbled. "Ain't nothin' gonna touch you. But I will."
Without waiting, he pushed in just an inch, enough to make you gasp, but pulled back just as quick.
"You feel that?" Rick growled, his forehead still against yours. "That's all you need to worry 'bout right now. How good I'm about to make you feel. Nothin' else. Just this."
You looked at him, at those deep blue eyes watching you, at the way his face was slightly red, and his brows narrowed like he was barely holding himself together.
When his hands grabbed your thighs to lift your legs, wrapping them around his waist, the head of his cock still rubbing right against your clit, you let out this quiet, desperate little sound that had him moan, his hands tightening on you like he wanted to crawl inside you and never leave.
"Yeah… that's it," he groaned, his lips just above yours. "You with me?"
You nodded, feeling a little too dizzy to even form words, and that was all he needed—one second, you were barely holding onto him, and the next, he was pushing his cock inside you, stretching you open and making you gasp, your body trembling from how overwhelming he felt.
"There you go," Rick whispered, kissing your temple ever so softly, his hands gripping your waist as he pushed in deeper, filling you up completely, his voice slightly strained, like he was trying to take his time even though you could feel the way he was trembling as well, the way he was struggling not to just slam into you. "That's a good girl. Feels good, don't it?"
Simply nodding once more against his shoulder while your body adjusted to him, the feeling of his cock inside you was starting to push away the fear. And when you finally bucked your hips up to meet his, Rick let out this deep, wrecked moan, his fingers tightening on you as he finally started to move, slow but deep, making sure you felt every inch of him.
It was different this time. Not like the night before.
There was no rush in it now, no guilt. Just heat, just need, just the way his hands trembled against your skin, the way he kissed you between gasps, between praises, whispering, "You're doing so goddamn good, you know that? Doing so fuckin' good for me."
Rick knew you wanted this. He could feel how much you wanted it with the way you held on to him, the way you were already so wet for him, pulling him in, keeping him there, but he wasn't about to let you get lost in it—not when he had you like this, not when he had you wrapped around him, gasping against his skin, melting into him in a way that made something inside him go weak and desperate at once.
So he didn't do much at first; he just let one of his hands slide up until he was cradling the back of your head, his fingers moving into your hair as he pulled you in close, pressing your face against his shoulder, against the sweaty fabric of his shirt, letting you feel the warmth of him as he quietly moaned into your ear.
"There you go," he whispered, his voice sending a shiver straight through you. "Just hold onto me, alright? Keep quiet, sweetheart. That's it."
And when you let out this soft, muffled sound against his neck, something halfway between a sob and a shaky whine, with your arms tightening around him like you were trying to press yourself closer to him, Rick felt it—the way your body started to relax, the way that fear started to melt away, piece by piece.
That did something to him.
The way you trusted him enough to let go and let him keep you quiet, the way you let him keep you safe while he was buried so deep inside you it barely even felt like you were two separate people anymore—and he wasn't sure if he could handle that.
"Fuck, sweetheart," he groaned against your hair, his fingers tightening on the back of your head. "You feel so goddamn good…"
You made another soft, helpless sound, barely more than a whimper against his skin. Rick's other hand was holding one of your legs as he pushed his hips back, pulling every inch of himself out until only the head of his cock remained inside of your pussy before pushing forward again, deeper this time, making sure you had no choice but to feel how hard he was throbbing for you.
"Taking me so damn well," he praised, his voice rough but gentle as if he couldn't believe how perfect you felt around him. "So fuckin' desperate for me…"
And that—God, that made you shake against him. It made you gasp all quietly against his shoulder like you were trying so hard to keep from making too much noise. But Rick wanted to hear you, wanted to get those sweet sounds of lust out of you, wanted to get you so lost in it that you forgot about everything else—forgot about the walkers, forgot about the group, forgot about the way he'd been avoiding you the whole day until now.
So he kept his movements deep, grinding into you in these long, slow strokes, making sure you felt every bit of his cock, making sure you had no room to think about anything else except how good he was making you feel.
"Just like that," he whispered into your ear, his voice all low and tender. "You love that, don't you? Tryin' so hard to keep quiet…"
It was almost too much for Rick as well. He wasn't sure how much longer he could hold back, wasn't sure how much longer he could keep from completely losing himself in you.
"Look at you," he breathed out against your skin, his fingers tightening on your thigh, his grip almost bruising now as he fucked into you. "My good girl, aren't you?"
Shit…
The way you clenched around him at those words—it almost made him lose it right then and there.
"Yeah, that got you, huh?" He smirked, putting his lips to your cheek, his fingers still holding the back of your head. "You like bein' my good girl?"
Rick's hand went to your neck as his hips pressed against yours, keeping you full and stretched around his cock. When you tried to turn your head, he didn't let you. He kept your face right there, inches from his, forcing you to look at him.
"Don't go hidin' from me now," he laughed quietly, his breath heavy against your lips. "You cryin', aren't you?"
You shook your head, but it was useless. He could feel and see it—your body trembling, breath uneven, and your eyes wet with the tears that threatened to roll down your face.
"Lyin' to me, too?" Rick smiled, tilting his head as his cock pulsed deep inside you, drawing out a wrecked little sob from you. "Tell me why, then. Why're you all teary-eyed, huh?"
"Rick, I—" Your voice trembled, but he wasn't letting you get away with it.
"Come on, sweetheart," he pushed, grinding into you again, making you moan, and your pussy tighten around him, pulling a deep groan from his throat. "Tell me. Ain't gonna stop 'til you do. Admit that you're cryin' for me."
You swallowed hard, your whole body burning from how deep his cock was hitting, from the way his words went straight inside your head. You were trying to fight it, but you couldn't. You felt yourself breaking, felt your heart racing, and Rick could feel it, too.
He was waiting for it.
"Be my good girl," he whispered. "Admit that you're cryin' for me ‘cause I'm makin' you feel that damn good." He brushed his lips over your cheek, over the tear that had finally fallen. "Bet you love it, don't you? Bet you love bein' my sweet little girl."
You sobbed again, nodding fast as he pushed deeper, harder, to drink in the way you were crumbling beneath him.
"C'mon," he urged, licking the tear from your cheek and pressing wet kisses down your jaw. "Gonna take care of you, sweetheart. Gonna fuck you just how you need it. Just admit it."
You sobbed again, barely able to hold back the sound, and Rick smirked in return.
"Bet you'd let me fuck you like this every goddamn night—keep you bouncing on my cock 'til you can't think straight, 'til all you can do is beg."
You were sobbing harder now, your pussy squeezing around his cock so tight that Rick groanedas he picked up the pace just a little. And he saw it before he even heard it—the way your breath hitched, the way your eyes squeezed shut as another tear rolled down your cheek.
"Shit," he smirked, his voice all rough and uneven now. "Bet you love cryin' for me. Why don't you just tell me, huh?"
You shook your head again, your whole body trembling against him, but your eyes were all wet and shiny. "N-no," you whimpered in response, trying to calm yourself down. "I—"
You sucked in a shaky breath as Rick suddenly pushed hard and fast into you, making you let out another little sob, "You just—Rick, you talk to me like that, and I can't—"
"You can't… what? Tell me, why do I see tears on your pretty little face?" He let his thumb swipe over the wetness under one of your eyes, his gaze locked onto yours as he forced you to acknowledge it. "Ain't nothin' wrong, is there?"
"No," you whimpered, gasping as his cock twitched inside you, every thick inch pressing against that spot that had you clenching around him.
"So, what is it?" He demanded again, rocking his hips just once to tease you, barely pulling out before sinking back in deep, watching your mouth fall open at the feeling. "Tell me. Now."
You swallowed hard, your fingers digging into his biceps now, your whole body burning. "I—I can't help it, you just—" You let out another shaky breath, trying to look away, but he wasn't having it.
Rick grabbed your chin once more, forcing your gaze back to his. "Nah, sweetheart. You don't get to hide from me." He leaned in, his lips licking over yours, taunting you, but still holding back. "You're cryin' ‘cause it feels that fuckin' good, huh?"
You let out a helpless little noise, and your eyes squeezed shut, but Rick wasn't letting you escape it. His grip stayed, his cock still deep inside your pussy.
"I wanna hear you say it," he continued. "Tell me how good I make you feel."
Your breath hitched, another tear slipping from your eyes. "S-so good, Rick," you whispered with a needy voice. "You make me feel s-so good, I—fuck, I just—"
Rick let out a deep, satisfied groan, kissing the tear off your skin. "That's my good girl… So fuckin' pretty when you cry so lovely for me."
Then, without warning, he started slamming deeper into you, harder, dragging more choked sobs from your lips.
"S-shit—!"
Rick groaned against your skin, his hands soon gripping both your thighs as he started to move faster. "That's what I want," he commanded. "Wanna hear you cry for me."
And you did.
Because the way he started to fuck you now—faster, rougher, keeping you full with every stroke—made your head spin and your back arch up against him. It made you whimper and cry every time his cock pushed against the spot inside you that had your whole body on edge.
"That's it, sweetheart," he whispered. "So fuckin' good for me—feel how tight you're squeezin' me?"
You let out a breathless little cry, not able to answer.
"Goddamn," Rick groaned, his thrusts picking up, still deep but quicker now, his control slipping with every sound you made. "You cryin' on my cock… Fuckin' love it—"
He was losing himself in you, but still, he wasn't done with you yet. Not until he had made you come for him.
He put a hand between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing it softly and just right. "I wanna feel it," he whispered, his voice strained. "Wanna feel you come around me."
You moaned for him, your body tensing as you got closer and closer.
Rick was barely even thinking now, not even trying to hold back, and when you gasped, when your whole body shook against him that he could barely move, Rick realized—too late—that he wasn't gonna be able to stop himself. But he wanted to see it—wanted to watch you come before he lost himself, before he let go.
"You gonna come for me? Gonna come all over my cock? C'mon, come for me," he growled, his fingers pressing down harder and his hips grinding against yours with each deep, punishing thrust. "Give it to me, sweetheart. Let me feel it."
You let him.
Your whole body went stiff, your pussy squeezing around him so hard that Rick let out a ragged, choked moan, with his grip on you tightening as he fucked you through it, refusing to stop, making sure you felt every second of it.
"Good girl," he choked out, still grinding into you, watching your face as you came apart beneath him. "You feel so fuckin' good…"
He should've pulled out. He knew he should've. But shit—watching you like this, feeling you like this, the way you were still trembling around him, still sobbing for him?
"Fuck—"
His movements turned uneven, his cock pulsing inside you as his hips jerked forward, his head dropping to your shoulder as he lost control, burying himself in your pussy over and over.
Then he lost it.
His control broke all at once. His thrusts turned erratic and rough, his cock slamming into you deeper, and he cursed, a strangled, desperate sound leaving his lips as he bit down on your neck and held you close.
"Fuck—I—" His whole body tensed up, and then he came—barely pulling out in time before he came against your thigh, his cum way too close to where it shouldn't be.
"Shit, shit, shit," he grumbled, his voice panicked, his hands now gripping at your hip, and his mind spinning.
"Rick," you breathed, your voice still shaky, still wrecked, still catching on the end of your orgasm. "Tell me—tell me you didn't—"
"I pulled out!" He cut in fast, too fast, like he was trying to convince himself as much as you, like saying it out loud would somehow make it true. "I pulled out, alright? Just—"
He immediately ran a hand down his face, his breath coming too fast, but he couldn't stop thinking about it, couldn't stop replaying this moment in his head, couldn't stop panicking, because it was too close, too risky, too stupid. "Jesus Christ..."
You were staring at him now, your chest still rising and falling all uneven, your pupils still wide, your body still trembling, but there was fear to be seen in your expression now, real fear, and that? That made Rick want to vomit on the spot when he felt his stomach drop.
"We're okay," he quickly said, but even as the words left his mouth, he wasn't sure he believed them, wasn't sure if he was saying them for your sake or his, because he didn't know; he really didn't know.
"We… we don't know that."
Your voice was still strained, but it didn't matter because the second those words left your mouth, they hit Rick like a bullet to the head, tearing straight through him, because you were right, and that was the problem, wasn't it? That was what made him almost puke, what was making his pulse race too fast, and what made him feel like he couldn't breathe—because you didn't know, because he didn't know, because neither of you could be here and pretend the risk wasn't there.
His jaw was clenched tight, his breath still uneven as he sat back on his heels, one hand caressing your thigh while the other went to grip his leg, but he didn't even realize he was shaking until he saw his own fingers tremble against your skin instead of his.
Rick's eyes looked down between your legs, down to where he could still see his cum smeared all over your thigh, way too close, and his stomach twisted itself into a knot so hard he thought he might actually be sick.
"Rick," you said again, more urgent this time, and when he moved his gaze back up to yours, he could see the panic, could see the way your chest was rising too fast, and the way your eyes were wide and glassy with actual tears. And that? That just made him feel worse.
"You should've pulled out sooner," you then said, and there it was, you sounding judgmental, and maybe you didn't mean for it to come out like that, maybe you weren't even thinking about how it sounded, but Rick was.
"Excuse me?"
"What… It simply means you should've pulled out sooner!" You stuttered, shoving at his chest, and even though you were still underneath him, still all shaky from what just happened, that panic was starting to turn into anger, and Rick could feel his own temper start to rise right alongside yours. "Jesus, Rick, do you not fucking get it? What if—"
"Oh, I get it," he cut in fast, not wanting you to panic even more.
"Do you?" You shot back, grabbing your dress and putting it back on as fast as you could. But your voice sounded like a betrayal, as if you couldn't believe him and thought he wasn't taking this seriously enough. And that? That just pissed him off more.
Rick let out a deep breath, dragging both hands through his hair, trying to think, trying to breathe, but it wasn't working, because his blood was running too hot, his mind was spinning too fast, and all he could think about was how stupid he'd been and how reckless.
"I can't be the next goddamn woman carrying a baby," you suddenly whispered, barely able to say it, barely able to breathe past it, because this? This was real, this was happening, and it was too much, way too much. "Not in this world… Not when your wife—"
Rick sucked in a slow, quick breath through his nose, his fingers twitching, and then, before you could say another thing, he let out this short laugh—humorless.
"Oh, here we go again," he cut you off, rubbing a hand down his face. "Lori. You really wanna talk about her right now? Is that what you're tryin' to do? Tryin' to remind me over and over?"
"I—I'm not trying to—"
"Yes, you are. Always bringin' her up. Throwin' her between us like she's stoppin' this!"
Your heart was racing. "Isn't she? She still… loves you."
"She fucked Shane." Rick let out another laugh—this one quieter, sadder, almost like he was laughing at himself. "But that's not what you're askin', is it?"
You blinked, your breath hitching. "Rick… she thought you were dead!"
"Stop it," he said it so plainly that your whole body went still. "I know why you bring her up. It's not about Lori; it's about you. About this."
You looked away fast, but he wasn't having it. He grabbed your chin, tilting your face back to his, forcing you to see him.
"Well? Am I wrong?"
"I don't know what you mean…" You answered quietly because you already knew, of course.
"Means you're the one that wanted this in the first place," he answered, but not in an angry way, just tired, sounding frustrated. "You knew the risk. You knew what could happen. Same as me."
Rick's eyes looked down to your mouth, then back up to your wet eyes, and his voice softened—just a little bit and just enough to make you want to cry some more.
"You think I don't know how risky this is?" He asked, shaking his head before he finally stood up, putting his softening cock back into his pants and fastening the belt. "You think I didn't lose sleep over it? Over you?" His voice cracked slightly, but he didn't stop, didn't let you answer him, until he said something he didn't mean to.
"But you're the one that came to me. You're the one that wanted me."
"Are you fucking serious?" You finally answered in shock, your voice sounding close to rage. "You really wanna put the blame on me?"
"Ain't that what happened?"
"Oh, fuck off, Rick," you snapped, standing up fast and shoving at his chest, hard enough that he actually stumbled back a little. "You wanted this just as much as I did; don't act like you didn't—don't act like this was all me!"
His eyes widened, but he didn't say anything, and that just pissed you off more.
"Maybe," you let out a humorless laugh. "Maybe I was stupid to think this actually could mean something to you."
Rick looked back over to you, but you didn't let him talk.
"Guess I was just some—what... a distraction? Something to make you forget about your wife fucking Shane behind your back?"
Rick stiffened.
That hit.
Your lips were trembling now, and you hated the way your throat tightened when you swallowed. "You can't even say it, can you?"
Rick opened his mouth, but nothing came out at first, like he was struggling to find the right words—any words.
"Lori's got nothin' to do with this," he finally answered.
"Bullshit," you shot back instantly.
"No, no, it ain't about her," he continued, shaking his head. "Not with… not with you."
You looked up at the sky, trying not to burst into tears, and you weren't sure if you wanted to scream at him or kiss him.
Rick stood up straighter, his hand reaching out like he wanted to touch you, to hold you, but then he hesitated—like he wasn't sure if he even should.
"This wasn't just about the sex, not with you."
You blinked fast, trying to keep from breaking, trying to fight whatever it was that was hurting you deep inside.
"Then why don't you say it?"
"Maybe ‘cause I don't know what the hell to do about it. About us… and then there's Shane. You know it, too."
"I'm—I'm scared," you whispered, barely even realizing you were saying it, not even meaning to.
With that, Rick sighed. Not in a bitter way, just deep. Slow. Like he was finally letting himself feel it.
"Yeah," he responded, his voice calmer now. "Me too."
Trying to keep the tears from running down your cheeks, Rick was leaning in again, finally reaching out and hugging you tightly. "We'll figure it out. Glenn got those pills for Lori. She threw ‘em up, but he knows where they came from."
Putting your arms around him, Rick tilted his head, leaning in close to your ear, forcing you to focus and to listen.
"We'll go get ‘em," he whispered quietly. "If we have to."
And then—then he kissed you.
Soft. Gentle. Like he couldn't help it. Like it was the only thing keeping him from losing his mind right now.
So instead of snapping at you again, instead of letting that panic out, instead of making this worse than it already was, he just let out another slow breath and reached for your face, his fingers brushing along your jaw, his thumb swiping over your cheek as he touched it, pressing his lips against yours and trying to calm you down, to push away the fear with something real.
Him.
For a moment, Rick wasn't thinking about Lori, about Shane, about the farm, about anything except you.
Because you were here, in front of him. And it hit him then, so suddenly and so violently it nearly knocked the breath out of his lungs. How much he wanted you. Not just like this, not just for fun, not just to shut you up—just you.
His grip on your jaw tightened, just enough to make sure you didn't pull away before he kissed you harder this time—his lips parting against yours, his body pressing into you like he needed to know this wasn't slipping through his fingers the way everything else was.
You gasped softly, but it was enough. Enough for him to push, to hold you close and slip his tongue past your lips, tasting you, drinking you in like a dying man.
God, he could get lost in this.
He could stay right here, could forget it all, could just be.
But then you pulled back, your lips swollen. "…Rick?" Your voice was questioning, like you felt it too, and you knew he wasn't trying to shut you up. You knew this wasn't just about calming you down. "Are you okay?"
"I… I think I—"
He almost said it. The words had been right there, on his tongue, ready to slip past his lips. But he swallowed hard, forcing himself to stop.
"…I think I just need you to breathe, sweetheart," he said instead, his mind still catching up to what had happened between you. His hand moved down, fingers sliding down your throat, feeling your pulse race beneath his fingertips. "With me… C'mon, breathe," he whispered against your lips, his voice still rough but quieter now, more controlled.
You exhaled slowly against his mouth, still trembling but starting to calm down, starting to relax, and Rick took that as a win, took that as enough, took that as proof that maybe, just maybe, you could get through this without being scared of what might happen.
"Just breathe. Don't ever run from me."
Don't run from him?
Wasn't Rick the one who started acting like this wasn't happening? Like this wasn't something deeper, something impossible to come back from?
But before you could talk about any of that—before you could say anything at all…
BANG.
A sudden gunshot rang out like an explosion, destroying the moment and sending both of you into shock, and for a second, neither of you moved. You just froze, just listened, just waited.
BANG.
Another shot, then another, closer together this time, and Rick's eyes widened, because that wasn't hunting and definitely wasn't practice.
"No…" He whispered, already trying to process what was happening, and you were right there with him, scrambling to even out the dress and get rid of the dirt that was still clinging to it.
"What was that? What is going on?" You hissed, your voice urgent, your eyes wide, and Rick was just about to answer.
BANG.
Another shot, then another, and another, almost rapid-fire by now, and then, it clicked.
The barn.
Rick's head snapped toward the direction of the farm, his pulse quickening, because no, no, no, no, that wasn't what he thought it was, was it?
And then—shouting.
Muffled at first, distant but getting louder, and Rick barely had time to process it before he was grabbing you, gripping your wrist, and yanking you with him, running toward the noise.
BANG.
Another shot. And this time, Rick heard it—the inhuman groans.
Walkers.
"Shane…" He snarled, gripping you tighter, pulling you faster, his heart racing.
You and Rick had barely made it halfway back to the farm when Dale came rushing toward you from the woods as well, his face full of shock as he stumbled to a stop in front of you, eyes looking between you and Rick like he was trying to figure out whether or not you already knew.
"Rick," Dale panted. "It's the barn—Shane—he just—"
"We know, Dale, we know," Rick cut in fast, all business now, all instinct, his panic shoved down from what you and he had just talked about. "We heard it."
Dale shook his head, his hands clenching into fists at his sides like he didn't even know what to do with them. "He let them out," he gasped. "The walkers—Hershel's people—and Shane—he lost it, he—"
Rick didn't wait for him to finish.
He just grabbed your wrist again and started hurrying up, pulling you with him once more and dragging you both toward whatever hell was waiting ahead, with Dale following before the three of you rushed across the field until the farm came fully into view.
And that was when you saw it.
The barn doors were wide open, and from the inside, they were still stumbling out, groaning and moving their rotting bodies into the sun.
The rest of the group was already there, scattered in front of the barn in a half-circle, weapons raised, some already firing, some still frozen in the background, some still trying to process what was even happening. Further back, you saw Hershel, you saw Maggie, and you saw Beth, Jimmy, and Patricia. You saw the horror on their faces as everything they had been trying to ignore, trying to deny, and trying to pretend wasn't real came crawling out into the daylight, proving them all wrong.
But you barely had time for any of it before another shot rang out—Shane leading the charge, his face full of fury and anger, like he had been waiting for this, his own kind of justice.
One by one, the walkers dropped dead to the ground, with the sound of soulless bodies hitting the dirt, and slowly, the chaos started to turn into something closer to an ending.
But then, the last walker stepped out of the barn. And the world stopped.
She was small. So very young.
She wasn't supposed to be here.
She wasn't supposed to be like this.
Sophia…
"Sophia? Sophia… Oh, no... Sophia… Sophia... No—"
Carol's cry broke the silence, and before you could even process what you were seeing, she was running forward, calling her daughter's name and reaching for her, her voice cracking. But Daryl was on her in seconds, holding her back, saying, "Don't watch."
And Rick?
Rick was still standing next to you, trying to hold onto that same control he always had, but you saw it. You saw the way his fingers flexed around his revolver and saw the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.
Then, he moved.
One step forward. Then another.
Gun raised.
No hesitation. No turning back.
And when the shot rang out, loud and final through the fields, Sophia fell to the ground, dead. And in that moment, Carol's heart died right along with her.
Nobody moved.
Nobody spoke.
Even Shane, who had been so full of rage just seconds ago, was frozen now, staring, his weapon still in his hands.
Not until Carl sniffled in the background, while Lori was pulling him into her arms, shielding his face and telling him not to look.
Rick still stood there, staring down at Sophia's small, lifeless body, his gun still raised but lowering it slowly, his whole body still rigid as if he was waiting for something, like he was trying to process what he had just done, and for the first time since you met him, he looked… lost.
You reached for him before you even realized what you were doing, your fingers grabbing his wrist, and at first, he didn't react, didn't acknowledge it, didn't even seem to feel it—but then, slowly, painfully, he let out a deep breath, and without looking at you, without saying a word, he let you take the weapon from his hands.
As the group stood there and the reality of what had just happened sank in, with the sun burning too bright overhead and shining down at the blood that soaked into the dirt, Rick finally turned around. He looked at you, letting you see the exhaustion in his face, the grief.
Since the second he had lowered the gun, the second it really hit—that this wasn't just a walker, not just another nameless, faceless corpse, and not just another body to bury—this was Carol's daughter, her little girl, the one you all had spent days searching for, the one you had hoped for, the one you had all convinced yourselves was still alive out there—his whole body sagged.
It was over. The search for Carol's daughter. Along with the hope to still find Sophia alive.
Just like that.
Andrea, who had been so eager to prove herself, who had been one of the first to draw her gun when Shane snapped, had been ready to take the shot at every single walker that stumbled out of that barn—but not this one.
Hershel, who had seen this moment coming the second Shane put foot on his land and who had been kneeling there in shock, has watched his wife, neighbors, and loved ones get gunned down one by one, but he hadn't looked truly defeated until now.
You braced yourself, your heart still racing too fast, because you thought now that it was over and took his revolver, Rick might look at you, or he'd search for your eyes, that he'd need something from you—your presence, maybe even your touch, something to help him, something to keep him from drowning in whatever this had just done to him.
But he didn't.
He didn't look at you at all.
He looked past you.
Straight to Lori. Straight to Carl.
Straight to the family that was still his, that would always be his, no matter what, and no matter where.
Even after the way his hands had been on you just minutes ago, gripping, shaking, needing, even after the way his mouth had been on you, his tongue, his…
You clenched your jaw.
This?
This was a reminder.
Of who he was. Of what you were.
And Shane? Shane saw it. He saw you standing there all stiff, and when you tore your gaze away from Rick, only then did you feel Shane's eyes on you—there he was.
Watching. Knowing.
Because of course, he knew.
And he was smirking. That tiny, knowing smirk that was barely even obvious, that barely looked like amusement, and that barely counted as anything other than a warning.
Because he knew exactly where you had been before this. He knew exactly why Rick had been late and why he hadn't come back with Hershel and Jimmy. He knew exactly what Rick had been doing when he should've been here. And he knew exactly why he was coming back with you by his side.
Now you knew that he wasn't ever gonna let that go. He tilted his head just slightly, just enough for you to notice. Just enough to say—told you so.
And you?
You realized that you had given yourself to Rick Grimes like a sin, and now you stood here, understanding the truth—you weren't his salvation.
Summary: Steve and reader have been together for some time now. She's seen him grow and change, and she's really really proud of him for getting where he is now. Is he able to accept that?
Content: S5, Steve's parents mentioned, mostly pg but lots of innuendos, whump but also fluff!!! I love making Steve cry. I will do it again, sorry not sorry. Steve is in L-O-V-E with his girl. Set soon after the upside down is defeated, but around a year before the epilog scene.
WC: 5.6k
A/N: This may be my first fic on this new account but it is certainly not the first I've ever written. I just felt the need to re start, what better time than the new year and the new beginning (ending) of Stranger Things. I love this fandom to bits and peices and I hope that this helps you all cope lol!
April 1988
Practiced hands grip the shiny new steering wheel loosely as Steve pulls into a driveway he is all too familiar with. Only not like he used to be. It isn't high school and he's not who he once was, and he's glad.
The both of you are long over due for a little one-on-one date night, and you've chosen to stay in together.
"Steve!" You're running out the front door and squealing in excitement before he's fully reached over the seat and pushed open the passenger door for you. "This is yours?" You're barreling into the brand new leather interior and shutting the door, fingers running over everything they can reach. You were a little taken aback when he said he'd be picking you up tonight. Steve has been without his trusty ride for a little while now.
"Hey! Careful- don't slam it!" He swats your hand and you just about die when he reaches that same arm over the back of your seat and turns to back up. "Just got the thing, I need it to last." Walking to work had been a bitch. Especially since Steve still felt partial to upkeeping what was left of his reputation. Lucky for him, Hawkins is quite a walkable town, and you got to pull a roll reversal and drive him wherever when you were able.
"Bout time you got rid of that beamer anyway." Of course he hadn't willingly gotten rid of it, it only took a black hole to rip it away from him. You laughed, but it was bittersweet. Everyone else might've hated it for being a rich-boy car, but it was his and you had been grateful to receive many a ride when you needed it, just as everyone else. It got you thinking. "So two seats is a bit of a downgrade, huh?" You're still running a finger over the double-stitched seem of the soft beige leather beside your thigh.
"Eh, I thought about it but-" He sighed, holding the steering a little tighter. "Only really need two seats now." Its true, as much as you wish it wasn't. Everyone was spreading out, taking opportunities they didn't have back then, growing, learning. With graduation for the kids being only a little over a year away, it was even more real. "…I'll miss it though." It was no mystery to you, why he'd chosen the path he was content on now. Coaching and teaching and getting involved, staying in the town he used to swear he hated.
"I'd be worried if you didn't." Something you miss means it was something worth your while. Steve Harrington had a lot of regrets in life, but he would never want to have spent that time any other way. He'd do it all again a million times over.
"So you like it?" He starts. "The truck?"
He receives a confident nod. "Its beautiful, and it sounds beautiful too." You answered. "…really suits you." Not just the truck, but this look on him. New job, first house, new truck, long-term relationship and goals and plans for the future. He's thriving, and you hope he sees how accomplished he has become, and how accomplished he's going to be.
He mirrored your nod, pressing his lips together before speaking. "My dad always wanted me to go where the money was, business or law or stuff like that, but…" He was trying not to be glum, because he wasn't, he was so so grateful to be where he was right now. It showed. "Coaches salary is pretty sweet. I mean, it got me this." He gestured, one hand still on the wheel.
"It also gets you this." You reached to swipe at the upward tilted corner of his lips. He smiled harder when you did so, swatting you away again.
"Nuh uh, you get me that." He corrected, pulling into his current abode, it was nice to know someone was still close by, especially your boyfriend.
"Both is good." You're smiling too now as he cuts the engine and leans over, clashing your lips together like you have so many times before. He does it with enough fervor that for a second you think he might just christen the damn vehicle with you right now. "Hmph- you smell nice." You mumble into his mouth, pulling back. "Is this new?"
"Coaches salary." He explains with an even wider grin, pulling you into his lap, khaki pants you once said you hated, but Steve made them work, really well.
"Wait- so you're out here buying fancy cologne before the new vehicle you needed so badly?" You fight his grip a little, planning to let off once he answers.
"Bought 'em both today." He silences you with a kiss as you both meet lips again and you let up. Boy is this guy a fan of his new bench seats. He may have lost the backseat advantage, but he also lost the center console. A win is a win.
He keeps you in his arms all the way through to his bedroom. You thank the heavens every day that you no longer have to suffer that headache inducing plaid on plaid nightmare that is Mrs. Harringtons interior decorator. He's thankful too.
"Hey you decorated!" You squeal as he throws you gently onto the most soft and fluffy comforter you've ever felt. Steve had been pretty satisfied with the bachelor pad vibe he had going- even though he had a whole girlfriend. Lucky for you, the bachelor style didn't last longer than a few weeks. He had always had a plan. "Thought you might do the minimalist thing a bit longer." It went a little backwards- having to move out before getting a vehicle. But in bieng shut out on his own, Steve wouldn't accept any offers you made to help or have him move in, so the house came first. Having some leftover savings from his other jobs helped, but he mostly worked his ass off.
"Need I say it again?" He shuts the door, even though there really is no need. Independence is funny that way. "Coach…" face buried in one side of your neck. "…salary." And then the other side, licking and biting and sucking.
But money wasn't the only thing that enabled him to finally decorate and live the way he wanted. It helped to have the right support system, and he had always had that as long as he'd known you, rocky at times, but always there. What really set the ball rolling was the newfound freedom. His parents never kept a close eye on him, mostly because they weren't around to do so. But they still set a terribly high expectations towards their son. Slowly he learned how to make things his own, and it was amazing to see in real time. He could breathe now. Well- not currently as he was buried in his girlfriends neck.
"Mm- hey-" You slowly peel him off you, laying side by side on his brand new bedding. "Show me around?" You ask, even though you spent almost every day at his new place, you haven't seen it like this- in his own light.
"What?" He looks at you like your face just opened up. "Baby you've seen every angle of this place, I know because-" He feels a hand meet his mouth. Promise ring cold on his skin, also thanks to his nice job.
"We get it, you know how to get in my pants a hundred different ways in just a few weeks." You roll your eyes, only pulling the hand away when he darts his tongue out, swiping it in his habitually practiced way. "Gross."
"No- I have gotten in your pants a hundred different ways in just a few weeks," He corrects, because he's changed but he'll always be cocky. "-and you like my tongue."
"Gross again." You digress. "Steve, I haven't seen since before you decorated- I just thought you might enjoy telling me about it." He insisted on picking everything and getting it all done himself so that he could surprise you with the finished project, which also meant not coming over for a couple days. That was the worst kind of torture.
"Okay." He accepted, propping himself up on a muscular arm. "I would enjoy it." He confirmed honestly, looking around the room with pursed lips before he officially started the tour. "M'not done yet though…" He sighed, turning to face you properly. "…just bought a truck, so, funds are low." But it wasn't hard to admit. He had so much to show for it, so much to gain.
"That's okay." You smile in anticipation. "Just means I get to hear about it again, and I get to see the progress." He can't pinpoint where its attributed, but he wants to guess the 'ending' of things recently has made you rather optimistic. He feels it too, but he sees it in you. In the way your eyes have enough light for the both of you in them, the way your smile comes so naturally now. "You know…" you glanced down where his hand was tracing lines on the comforter, slowly intertwining your own, holding his focus on you now. "I used think that maybe there'd be a time when- a time that I may never get to see that, the progress."
He swallowed, blinking back his agreement with a sigh. "Yeah." He dipped his head, enclosing you under him once more- this time gentler, softer. "Glad we both made it." He pressed an equally careful kiss to your lips. "Really glad."
Your head fell back into the soft new bedding. "Mhm?" Both free hands reached for his hair as sincere brown eyes looked up at you from your chest. "Gonna show me around now?" One finger rested under his chin now, thumb swiping gently over his bottom lip. "Tell me the story about everything." You'd always loved sharing that way, and you would certainly never take it for granted. Living out both your stories together was something you thought might end much sooner- in fact you'd been so confident in it when you saw your boyfriend hang on for dear life off the side of that tower.
Steve always felt he might take one final triumphant hit for someone he loved. Maybe you, maybe his best friend- but he'd become so selfless he'd have done it for anyone now. Falling off the side of that tower for no one- no purpose, no service- was scarier than the drop. "Alright babe-" His arms swept under your waist and before you knew it he was excitedly carrying you around the place. For a moment you heard the Steve you met years ago, throwing around that pet name like it didn’t mean he was eternally whipped for you. The truth had always been ever-evident in his eyes, then and now. "Time for the Harrington tour." For the third time today you squealed at him.
"Okay, here-" He started at the front door, still holding you. "-is the portal into only the most humble abode." He ends up showcasing the very well received skill of holding your weight with one toned arm. "Simple but effective." He points each item out carefully. "Shoes go here, coats here- but there is that closet too- keys here…oh!" He stops, fishing into his pocket. "Got you something special today too," He puts you down gracefully so he can properly present it to you. If you didn't know better you'd think he was proposing, seeing the way he was beginning to kneel down.
"Steve- what are you doing?" You giggled, peering down at his clasped hands. "I thought this was a tour."
"It is," He opens his hands. "But I wanted you to have something…" He raises a decorated key-ring up to your own hand, presenting presumably a house key, another Chevy branded key, and a photo frame charm he'd carefully chosen. "I know you always knew where the spare was, at my parents place but- this is different for us." Different for him, he finally had something of his own and he chose to share it so readily with you.
"So, this one is the house-" Hot pink and bold like yourself. He stands close to you now, explaining and pointing to each component that sat in the palm of your hand. "And uh, just incase for some reason you need it… this is the second truck key the dealership gave me- I just, I realized that I didn't want it sitting in some drawer or something I wanted-" He scrubbed a hand over his face, sighing. "I wanted you to have it. I want us to share things." You nodded patiently with a full heart as he moved on to the keychain. "And uh, when I was getting the house key made they had these and I just thought of you, thought of exactly what two pictures would be perfect for this."
There the both of you were, inside a little double-sided plastic photo frame. The first side you look at face up in your palm is maybe the first picture you ever took together. Steve was more sentimental than he'd like to admit- you knew it because he'd been so upset about the few photos forever lost to the glove compartment of the beamer.
But this one had been in his bedside table drawer since the winter of '84, he mentally thanks Dustin every day for taking it. He's standing behind you, fixing your dress to chaperone the snow ball. It's a low quality instant photo, back when the two of you were only defined as friends and Steve was still rightfully caught up in the remnants of his last relationship. But it didn't change how fondly you remembered what he said in that moment. A casual 'stop fussing with it, you look beautiful' before asking you to stand still so he could fix it to your liking once more. He didn't want to go with you and Dustin but he was always part of the moment, you never would blame him for wanting to stay out of it that day. He showed up for what mattered, took care of you and made sure you arrived and returned safely. And he continued to look out for you more fiercely from then on with each passing day.
On the other side of the charm is a much newer photo by a few years time. You're looking at the camara and Steve is looking at you. December of '87, the Wheeler family had invited everyone to a celebratory Christmas get together. You remember it vividly now because it was only months ago. Steve telling you that it was his favourite, and Jonathan saying he was really happy with the composition, that he wanted to start a collection of 'afters'. Everyone, the whole party, after the end and during the new beginning like a sort of 'where are they now?' There, in that moment of celebration, Steve seems to only be worried about celebrating you, sharing the moment with you. Where is he now? Right where he needs- wants to be. A beginning and a newer beginning lay flat in the palm of your hand.
"…yeah, your favourite, right?" You look up at him, this time blinking back your own agreement. "Steve I-"
"-look I know that it's a lot to give you all at once, it's a lot to share. I know that," He feels the need to explain himself. "But- I want to. I'd like us to." The admission has you clutching the gift to your chest as he speaks. "And I thought since we've been together for so long now, that you deserve to have things like this." He covers your clutched hand in his own, right over your heart. "I've been in love with you for so long now. I trust you. And it's been so hard to say it just like that…" Your hands are sandwiched between eachothers chests now, Steve's thoughtful gift in the middle of it all.
"But I hope that this shows it. And I hope it shows that you can trust me too, to keep giving us things like this." He's speaking hushed now, partially because you're so close together and partially because he's a little shy to admit it, to put so much on the line. But Steve has always put everything on the line for you. Everything.
It comes so easy now, the way your lips meet his in a slow unspoken 'thank you'. Your new set of keys jingles as you throw an arm around his back. He's grown so fond of the very real future that he wants to do everything he can to ensure he keeps it, that you're there with him every step of the way. "I trust you, Stevie." You confirm, incase for some reason he had any inclination of doubt- you don't know why he ever would.
"M'glad you trust me too, with all this." Its clear that your statement isn't only limited to the house and truck- it is much much more than that. There's things the lot of you have been through and witnessed that are so unexplainable and inconsolable, with the exception of those that have been through it too. Steve has not only been there with you and alongside you, but you've seen everything- including the aftermath. Every single time. And the fact that he has had enough confidence in you that you know and have seen his struggles and keep them between the two of you, the confidence that you will know just what to do for him and just how to make it hurt less, that's trust.
He has a sort of downturned smile on his face when you let go, watching you happily stuffing the personalized gift into your coat pocket. "What, you're not gonna take that thing for a spin?" He jokes but you can feel a slight dampness on the shoulder of your shirt.
"Some other day." You decide, Steve knew you would take it for a joyride eventually, having a penchant for powerful and loud vehicles didn't just stop at muscle cars. "Let's finish the tour." You take his hand in yours and once more he shows you through the house. It's minimal for now, a few tasteful changes made to each room. But Steve has had more than a lot on his plate these days.
The front hallway has an assortment of picture frames leaning against the wall ready for new memories. The living room has gained a few tasteful throw pillows and blankets along with a coffee table. His own room is decorated with that lovely new bedding you laid on earlier, and two matching night tables. He explains each thing with enthusiasm and a little bashfullness. You don't miss the extra brand new toothbrush and holder in the bathroom that goes unmentioned, or an empty drawer that he just so happens to open up as he explains where everything came from and why he liked it for the house.
Finally he's in the kitchen, which has just gained enough plates and cups for a dozen people. "So the coach can shop and decorate… does the coach cook, too?" You ask slyly as he takes the opportunity to sit you up on the counter. A hand resting on each thigh.
You remember when the two of you used to get takeout every friday night. No Harrington parents were ever around, so naturally there was no dinner unless Steve provided for himself. Then takeout became tv dinners, which became 'just add water' pre-packaged recipes, which became real recipes and home cooked meals. Every dish he cooked was out of love. "Anything you want." He thinks if it weren't for you and the kids he would still be eating tv dinners.
You purse your lips in thought and he takes the opportunity to peck them lightly before you make a suggestion. "You remember when you first started cooking for us? You made pasta with this homemade sauce-" Simple but Steve had done it for you, and it was unapologetically your comfort dish. Which was really annoying considering he wouldn't disclose to anyone how to make the sauce. The kids had started retaliating by calling it mama Harringtons secret recipe. "Can we have that again?"
"We can have that every day." He says, already pushing off the counter and getting to work. He's forgotten to mention in his home improvement tour that there's now an apron in the building. You try not to chuckle at the slogan across the front. "I will make you all the pasta you want."
He's grabbing pots and measuring cups and ingredients and you're giggling to yourself about your beautiful boyfriend in his little apron. "Kiss the cook?" You pry, still in your spot on the counter as he turns towards the stove top and sets the water to boil. You have a great view now.
"Well if you insist." He pecks your lips again like he had just moments ago. Any effort of poking fun at his clothing choice had gone out the window. Steve was unapologetically being exactly who he wanted- and you would much rather share that energy than the teasing remark you'd just made.
"Gonna be doing a lot more than kissing the cook if you keep making delicious food just for me." You toyed with the neatly tied bow on the back of his neck, he began to flush a light pink that matched the font on his chest. You have the most evil look in your eye and he can't look away. "Might need to get a new apron…'fuck the cook'." He matches your smirk at the idea even though he's profusely blushing. Steve was often told he sported a harsh and up-front flirting game. But you were arguably just as bad if not worse.
"I'd like that." He nods curtly, trying to pay attention to the food rather than his libido. "Hey- you better not be watching too closely over there," He nods to you from the far side of the counter where he's measuring out ingredients.
"Oh I'm watching closely alright." You ogled at him and the flush only rose to his cheeks. By the time he was plating up a serving for each of you, the tips of his ears were red as the pasta sauce.
"Babe, you wanna put on a record or a tape or sumthin'?" He still manages to be sauve with his face entirely flushed by the way you've been shooting comments his way all night. "Moved it all out underneath that new coffee table but you can bring the player in here if you want."
You hop off your perch where you've been observing him. Sifting through music for a few minutes while Steve set up. There was quite a variety now, a combination of everyone he'd met these past few years. The small record collection in Steve's junior year bedroom was minimal, filled with pop radio hits and every Bob Seger album ever. You'd bought him the new release in '86 and he was so thrilled to recieve a gift that really represented him for the first time.
The collection has tripled in size after meeting you. Music has been such a huge part of Steve's life since then because it was huge part of yours. There's one tape he always hangs on to just in case, you dont know if its sweet or if he should move on- but 'Hounds of Love' is still in the original plastic wrap from the day he bought it in '86. You hope for everyone's sake that it stays that way. But the ever-prepared Steve Harrington is always ready to be there for people, and if that helps him sleep at night then Kate Bush is welcome to the music collection. You don't want to know if the nail bat is under his new bed, or perhaps tucked behind the bench seat of his new Chevy.
"You picked one yet?" Steve is setting your respective plates down, speaking just loud enough to reach the living room. You can think about that later. A few memories don't destroy the fact that Steve has come so far from who he was when he hammered the first nail into that baseball bat. So far that he was now teaching young boys- years younger than he was at the time- how to properly hold and swing a bat. Without the nails, of course. And only at the ball, not at open-faced monsters. That had been a very possible reality for a little while there.
The record player is setup on the kitchen counter playing Scorpions 'Savage Amusement' This one must've been new to the collection, you'd never seen it here before, you also hadn't gotten around to picking up their newest release so obviously you had to listen. Steve liked that about you, he liked a lot about you but anyway- he has not and will not ever meet someone who can name such a diverse amount of artists as you and still be able to discover and enjoy more. You loved it all, but you were unapologetically a rocker through and through.
"Where'd you get this one anyway?" You're scanning the album track list as you both stand in front of the player you've just set up.
"Grabbed it when I got all the other stuff." He said gently pulling you towards the table and getting your chair for you as you sat down. "Thought you might like to have something for you here." He'd already confessed to thinking of you several times while he was out, but here he was saying for the umpteenth time that another thing reminded him of his girl.
"What? I like your music." You said from across the small circular dining table.
"I know, but I like yours too, we should have more of it here." He shrugs as if it's no big deal. He went out and grabbed a new release of one of your favourite bands just to make sure you didn't have it yet and so that you could listen to it for the first time together. No big deal.
"Looks good." You gestured to the niceley presented plate infront of yourself. "I'll bring you some albums, then." But the albums were only part of it, he just liked the idea of you bieng around, a lot. "Thank you for this, I've really been missing your cooking." No time was wasted in taking the first bite.
"You're welcome babe, anytime." But 'anytime' had gotten quite sparse in his pursuit of everything else. And honestly- any free time was utilized quite lustfully. He was working hard to provide for himself and get on the path he wanted, work towards a future he would enjoy. One you could enjoy with him. So you hadn't had at-home dinner dates or any dinner dates for a while now. Of course you hadn't complained, you could entertain yourself just fine during the time apart. It was just endlessly frustrating living so close and not being able to make time between the both of you.
"Well I hope so, you did tell me I could have your special pasta every day." You reminded him.
"You don't think you'd get tired of it?" He really would make it every day if that's what you wanted.
"Maybe, but then you'd come up with something else just as good." You twisted your fork around in the noodles. "I'm not worried." Steve didn't give you a lot to be worried about these days. He was good like that.
He did some quick cleaning up afterwards, flipping the record to side B before joining you on the couch. Full of good food and true love, he pulled a new blanket over the both of you. "You don't want dessert or anything?" He inquired, already cozied into the couch next to you.
"Not now that we're both comfortable." You laughed but he propped himself up on both arms over you, ready to get up.
"No, I can get it for you," He insisted. "You sure you don't want something?"
"Lay back down" You placed a hand to his back and pushed lightly until he fell back onto your chest begruidingly. "I don't want dessert I want to lay with my guy."
"Babe are you sure-"
"Steven."
"M'kay." He said, cheek pressed into your shoulder as he got more comfortable. "As you wish." He sighed softly, warm breath hitting your collar bone. You'd felt that before, but never in a moment so innocent. You think this is your favourite.
"You've been treating me all day. Relax." Your hand drew aimlessly across his back as you assured him.
"Dinner is hardly all day." He argued without much bite.
"You've treated me to a ride in the new truck, my very own set of keys, a detailed tour of all the changes to the house, I got to watch you cook dinner for us and you even bought us a brand new album to share while we dined." You were almost out of breath after listing all the wonderful things he'd done in only a few hours. "And now, we're finishing the record while we lay together. That's the best evening a girl could ask for." Though he'd had many girls in the past still expect more, he's sure you're being honest when you say so.
"Glad you're impressed with it, thank you." He says, face pushed further into you if that was even possible.
"Impressed? Baby, I'm proud!" You exclaimed, causing him to lift his head up a little, your hand halting on his back.
"Hmm?" He squints in confusion like he heard you wrong.
"I have seen you work so hard to get all this and tonight it really shows how much all that effort paid off." You told him in the sincerest tone he might have ever heard. He may be slightly hard of hearing now days due to upside-down related events, but that was loud and clear. "You got a Job you love, your own place, and a shiny new ride in such a short span of time. And you're already planning so much further ahead talking about getting a trailer and another place and-"
"Yeah well it was about time I got my shit together." He said unimpressed.
"About time? Steve you've been doing everything for everyone and trying to live two lives and make a future for yourself, and god- I'm just proud alright?" It was hard to believe he couldn't see that in the way your face got brighter just talking about it.
"Everyone else has been living two lives too, they're in just about the same spot as me." Nothing special about it. Nothing to be proud about. But that was ridiculous considering they had someone to fall back on. Steve had fended for himself almost every step of the way. That didn't stop you from being proud of the rest of your friends too but…the difference was in who could accept it.
"Look at me." He didn't listen, staring towards the floor rather than your face. "Steve, look at me." He was facing you now, eyes focused on the wall just above your head. "…please?"
Every time you met his eyes tonight they got softer. "I'm just saying, I should have all this stuff by now anyway. If I didn't I'd be behind." There was his que to stop talking, right when the last syllable betrayed his casual confidence.
"Just listen to me, alright?" Your hand clasped his shoulder. "You have been doing for everyone else this whole time. You watch out for these kids better than most parents- which is why most of them are still here today. You became a chauffeur, an advice counselor, a best friend, what ever they needed. I saw you do it all." And then your own voice cracked just a little. "Even with no one to come home too. Even with no one watching out for you." He couldn't stop his eyes from welling up again as you spoke with such love. "For years. That's what you did every day. You made a real difference in everyone's lives, in my life too, and now you get to do that same thing as a job. Every day you work with these young kids and make an impact on their lives. I see you work so hard to provide for yourself when you shouldn't have even had to do it that way." He was flushed as bad as earlier but for a whole different, much more bittersweet reason now.
"You did this." You pressed a finger to the center of his chest. "All on your own. And I am so proud." He practically melted into you, unable to stop the tears of acceptance anymore.
It sank in as you pressed your face to his hair, mumbling. "So, so proud of you Stevie." You could feel his chest rise and fall rapidly against your own.
Something was lifted off of his shoulders, every time you repeated that you were proud it got lighter and lighter. He couldn't hold any of it in anymore. He'd set the bar so high, striving to impress people that shouldn't even matter. They hadn't helped, in fact the whole reason he had to get a place was because he'd been thrown out on his own. And he still managed to stay afloat, just barely at times.
Though tears were flowing steadily, he still spoke through sobs against your chest, wetting your shirt. "I love you." His shoulders shook.
"I love you too. And I'm proud of you, don't forget it hun." The house silenced except for Steve's stiffled cries as the last chords of 'Believe in Love' rung out from the kitchen.
