Masterlist

TLOU2

Bottoms Up ♡

Cola series: part one, part two, part three. ♡

Time ☆

The Outsiders

Cherry ♡

Coffee in the mornin' ୨୧

Dating Dallas HC’s ୨୧

Fever ୨୧

Free Bird ♡

Heaven ♡

Interrupted Television ♡

It’s you, it’s you ♡

Jealousy ♡

Love Her Madly ♡

Mercy ♡

My Love Mine All Mine ☆

One of These Nights ♡

PDA series: part one, part two ♡

Rendevousz ୨୧

Riverside series: part one, part two ♡

Sanctuary ୨୧

Somethin’ Stupid ♡

Storms ୨୧

Sunny ♡

Sweet Thing ♡

You buried your face into Dallas's pillow, inadvertently pushing your skull into the flesh of his bicep, the sudden move pulling a disgruntled groan from his still-sleeping form. 

You murmured an apology, or at least you had in your mind as you breathed in his musk, letting the scent settle deep in your lungs as you settled your hazy mind. Drinking had been easy once, when you were all teenagers with no obligations to rouse you before the crack of dawn, but tolerances seemed to slow and dwindle once your internal clock struck twenty-two. 

So, you inwardly cursed your hungover self and began the lazy task of kicking the mess of bedsheets off of your sweltering frame. Whether it was the liquor seeping from your veins, or the summer heat, you were left wiping your brow before you could wipe the sleep from your eyes as you finally broke free from the chamber of sheets.

Dallas's hand sought you out, patting along the falling sheets. His eyes never opened, but the irritation grew apparent on his face as his brows knitted together, lips pulling up into a grimace. You would've thought you'd offended the man when all you'd truly done was rid him of his human body pillow. 

"C'mon," You whispered as you tucked your hair back from your focal line. "Need to eat somethin', Dal." 

A groan, followed quickly by another as you brushed the back of your fingers along his cheek. You didn't bother to hide your amused laughter, the sound light and sweet enough to pull Dallas from the depths of his hangover-induced slumber. His eyes slowly flitted open, squinting and flickering about the room, but open nonetheless as he leaned into your familiar touch. 

"Time is it?" He rasped, wetting his chapped lips. "Morning?"

"Fuck no." You replied through another laugh as you leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead. He always smelled perfect whenever he woke up, before he applied cologne, the scent was him and it reminded you of home. "Nearly four in the afternoon." 

“Fuck.”

Sunlight poured through each window, coating the interior of the Thunderbird in warmth, the familiar scent of the outdoors lingering on the leather interior, somehow settling the nausea in your stomach. You sunk into the passenger side, hands sluggishly clicking your seatbelt into place as Dallas keyed the ignition, the engine roaring to life mere seconds later. 

"Want me to drive until I see somewhere?" He asked, suddenly snapping you from your daze. You hummed in response, softly nodding your head as you rested against the warmed passenger side window. 

Dallas reached over as he drove, planting his hand atop your upper thigh, giving the muscle a gentle squeeze before rubbing tender circles along the seam of your jeans. You smiled at the sensation, attempting to sync your breaths with each pass of his thumb. It was nice, oddly enough, the breeze pouring in through the barely cracked windows, Dallas's familiar touch, it all made you almost forget about your pounding headache - almost. 

Tulsa wasn't full of places you'd find yourself comfortable in, not with a smoldering hangover. If y'all had woken up any earlier, you might've beaten the after-church crowd. No such dice, not that you found yourself capable of caring too much when your stomach churned, whether from hunger or nausea, you weren't too sure.

A quick squeeze of your thigh called your attention to the windshield, a semi-dusty and welcome sight, one hell of a hole-in-the-wall diner. You smiled over at Dallas, a nonverbal appreciation of his skill in having found a nice, quiet place for the both of you.

The coffee shop was quaint, with barely enough tables to house any gathering of over fifteen people. It appeared more residential than it did commercial, it quelled the residual apprehension your mind had harbored earlier on the topic of visiting a place dedicated solely to coffee. 

Reluctantly, you pulled yourself from your manmade cocoon, legs tucked up near your chest, cheek pressed to the warmth of the window. You had been in the position for all of fifteen minutes, but as you stretched your legs and moved from the passenger seat, you couldn’t help but groan. Dallas’s head swiveled toward you; disbelief-riddled amusement written clearly across his face.

The bastard couldn’t even pretend to take pity on you. 

“Really? Are you going to keel over and die? Need me to carry you?”

You thwarted his sarcastic remarks with a wave of your hand, although each sluggish movement seemed to tie itself around your stomach, heaving the muscle into the back of your throat, begging you to spill your guts in the empty parking lot. You weren’t worried for yourself, no, instead you took pity on the imagined owners of the place, how disgusted they’d be rinsing off such a mess in Tulsa heat. 

With eyebrows furrowed and a hand clasped to your stomach, you finally removed yourself from the car. Dallas was strides ahead of you, hands on his hips, eyes squinted from the overhead sun as he took in the state of the diner. He hadn’t noticed your state until you made your way beside him, and only then did a flicker of genuine worry cross his face.

“Hey.” His hands reached for you, one gentle against your back as the other braced your shoulder. “We can go home, y’know. I can make you something.”

It was sweet, truly, it was. But your mind quickly stilled all feelings of affection as the faint scent of coffee wafted through the air. “Yeah, no.” You shrugged his touch, mindlessly walking toward the refreshing scent that promised relief from the pressure within your skull.

A cowbell hung above the front door, announcing your entrance for whomever was indoors. You winced at the sudden noise, quickly moving yourself closer to the front counter. 

Pastries sat in a woven basket, and upon closer inspection, you realized that they were plastic. Decorations, you thought, dust-covered decorations. 

Bemused, you reached out to touch them. A scone sat toward the front, polished to look fresh from the oven. It reminded you of play food, and you turned to your side, expecting to find Dallas beside you.

Dallas, however, stood a few paces behind you, completely captivated by the nearby curtains. You turned halfway, the body still facing the front counter as you watched him swish the fabric between his fingers, a palpable look of confusion on his face. 

"This place a house?" He asked after a beat, continuing to play with the curtains. "These curtains, too homely for a business."

You shrugged, figuring it was better to leave it as a question than to impose something on a business you knew nothing of. All you truly knew was the building had a calming atmosphere, not unlike the way a relative’s house felt like home. Wafts of coffee and freshly baked pastries lingered in the air and any true questions you had vanished along with the passing scents. 

Dallas's conversation with himself must've caught the attention of whoever was in the next room over, or what you gathered to be the kitchen, as within the minute an older woman ducked into the front with a bright smile upon her face and enough flour on her apron to bake a cake. 

"Hello, you two." She greeted, her hands working nearly autonomously for two paper menus beneath the counter. "Sorry, I usually hear the bell. I'm in between batches, so I can get you both settled and get your orders in."

Before you could even begin to read, she ushered you and Dallas over toward a corner booth. The seats were worn, the age of the leather made apparent by the faint groan of the material as you seated yourself. She stood by your side, hip resting against the wooden border of the booth. To grant you both a bit of privacy, she kept her attention fixed on her notepad, which you were certain was devoid of any writing, but you internally thanked her for the gesture. 

Last week’s sermon echoed from a nearby radio, filling the silence shared between you and Dallas as you scooted into the seat across from his. A distant breeze flitted through cracked windows, bringing with it the dust of summer, the heat surprisingly pleasant underneath the hum of overhead fans.

Dallas drummed his fingers against the table, teeth biting his bottom lip, unconsciously picking away at the skin as his eyes scoured the menus. They were old, and used, but beautifully written. You envied the writing, as close to print as you could get with handwriting. The only tell for the pair having been handwritten was the pacing of certain letters and different arrangements of refreshments. 

"This place is as old as dirt," Dallas noted, lifting his menu, the midday sun reflecting off the notebook paper. You couldn't help but laugh at Dallas's bluntness, he never could keep in his thoughts.

"Dallas." You whispered through your laughter with a swat to his forearm. His brows furrowed together at the swat, and with a childish and feigned pout, he rubbed his hand against the already fading mark. You shook your head, returning your attention to the menu with a hushed, "Deserve it, y'know that? Can't keep in your thoughts for shit."

He snickered at your words, knowing the truth behind them well enough not to argue. It wasn't long before you both decided on what you wanted to drink, not that there was much to choose from. While the business was dedicated to coffee, there weren't too many brews to choose from. You decided on the house blend, while Dallas chose regular black coffee. 

"We're at a coffee place." Confusion was written heavily on your face as you handed over the menus to the woman you'd met earlier. "And you choose black coffee?"

"It's good." She interrupted, with a fair bit of laughter. "I don't blame him; my husband is the same way. He can't stand nothin' in his coffee besides the beans themselves."

"Can't stand any other types of coffee?" Dallas asked. "And you both own a coffee shop?"

"Dallas!" You chided. "Shut up!"

Whatever life she'd lived had granted her the patience of a saint, and you found yourself eternally grateful for it as she laughed, a genuine and kind laugh that took you by surprise. Not so much Dallas, however, who wore a cocky smirk on his face as he looked back at you. 

"You two crack me up." She laughed, taking a moment to wipe beneath her eyes. "I love how bold your generation is, don't take nothin' from no one."

Before you could utter an apology on behalf of your unapologetic counterpart, she departed from your booth with a fit of laughter. You were confused, but still grateful for her grace despite Dallas's blatant inability to process words before spewing them out.

"You're rude." You huffed, although your words came with a quirk up of your lips. "It's almost amazing how you don't think before you speak."

Dallas chuckled under his breath with a shrug of his shoulders, a careless and amused expression upon his face as he rested back against the booth seat. 

"Never claimed to be a thoughtful man." He replied with a lift of his hips, his right hand moving beneath him as he wrangled free a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches. "You know, she never did answer my question." 

"No," You replied through a grin. "No, she did not." 

The sermon continued through crackling speakers, over the choir an older man spoke of the 'end times.' Dallas's attempts to strike his match were your only solace within the noise, and despite your enjoyment of his growing irritation, you decided to be kind. 

"Here-" You huffed as you leaned over the table, quickly snatching the match from his grasp before striking it against the table. Luckily, it lit, otherwise, you wouldn't've heard the end of it from Dallas. His eyebrows rose in nonverbal appreciation as you held out the lit match, igniting the end of his cigarette. 

"How are you goin' to taste the coffee with cigarette on your tongue?" You asked, genuinely curious as you waved away the plumes of smoke that left his lungs. 

"Just as I would normally." He replied, words dripping in sarcasm. "I'll drink it."

"Christ's sake." You sighed beneath your breath with a quick wave of your hand to extinguish the match. "Can't take pity on me even when I'm hungover?"

Dallas clicked his tongue against his teeth, a rough breath leaving him, a dramatic show of his pondering of your words. He rolled his head back, hand moving toward his mouth to hold his cigarette steady as he took pull, after pull. 

"I'll take pity on 'ya." He stated, pulling his cigarette from between his lips. "Just this once."

The thick scent of cigarette smoke permeated the air, mingling with the growing presence of freshly brewed coffee. It was an oddly sweet mixture, one you didn't entirely mind as you rested back against the booth, the soft material warmed by the sun pouring in from the nearby windows. 

You weren't left to wallow in silence for too long before the creaking sound of the kitchen doors echoed through the front of the diner. Dallas's head turned to the side, his eyes squinting, lips lifting into a smile at the sight of the woman approaching with her hands full of coffee. 

"You need help with that?" You quickly asked, hardly giving her a second to answer as you moved to stand. She shook her head, uttering a quick, "Aht!" 

The noise caught you off-guard, it was something you'd grown used to hearing from your parents as a child, whenever you got into something you weren't supposed to - not from a woman you barely knew. 

Dallas, however, found it hilarious. His head fell back in laughter, genuine, almost stomach-hurting laughter. You couldn't help but laugh along with him as you raised your hands, a sight that pleased the older woman as she sat down your coffee, as well as Dallas's. 

"Sorry, hun." She apologized, although you could tell she hardly meant it. Not that you needed an apology in the first place. "It's the only noise my boys ever listened to, got them to quit real quick. Didn't want you gettin' up for a service I'm providin' you."

“No, no. It’s fine.” You were quick to reassure her, laughter still threading through your words. 

Once you and Dallas were settled, albeit with occasional bouts of laughter, she made her way around the counter and disappeared back into the kitchen. 

The mugs weren’t commercial, yours wore the faded markings of an old Mother’s Day quote, while Dallas’s had a faded I-95-mile marker plastered on the front. You traced your fingers over the letters, wondering how old it was, and who had gifted it. 

Dallas spared no such thought to his, quickly lifting the heated ceramic to his lips with a murmured, “Finally.” 

You understood his plight, nothing quelled a hangover better than caffeine or a greasy meal – preferably both, but neither of you had the appetite, so coffee would suffice. 

Dallas groaned around his first mouthful, and you weren’t certain if it was due to the temperature or the taste until you watched as he swallowed back another, and then another.

“Jesus Christ, Dal.” Your eyes widened as you watched him. “That good?”

He answered with a hearty sigh, upper lip reddened by the sharp temperature of the coffee. You had yet to take a sip, your fingers flared against the ceramic, hardly able to stand the heat for too long. At his insistence, although nonverbal, you raised your mug to your lips. 

The taste was robust, flaring across your tongue in a flavor so soothing you couldn’t help but clutch the mug. Coffee, made by yourself, was usually instant. The jar toward the front of your local grocery store, the little granules permeating the air in your apartment before you had even begun to brew it. It was safe to say that neither you nor Dallas were used to home-brewed coffee, and it showed in both of your expressions. 

In a laugh filled with surprise, you lowered your mug from your lips. Dallas met your expression with a lift of his brow, his lips downturned. Conversation between you died down, replaced by the distant crooning of an old Johnny Cash song. 

It was comfortable, the silence you shared. You allowed yourself to relax, back pressed to the crackled leather of the booth seat as you held your mug close. 

Outside you could spot the afternoon traffic, people in their cars fixed with varying expressions of fatigue – and yet there you were, seated across from Dallas in a diner neither of you would’ve picked under any other circumstance. 

As though he sensed your thoughts, Dallas placed his mug down against the counter. “This is nice, isn’t it?”

The normal sarcastic tone Dallas took was no longer present, instead, he looked at you with a smile, albeit a lazy one. You nodded, “Yeah, yeah it is.” 

Neither of you had plans for the day ahead, and so you spent the better part of an hour in that booth, conversing over refill, after refill of your respective mugs. When your stomach grumbled for something other than coffee and pastries, you and Dallas decided to leave. 

Dallas vehemently swore that the surprise visit counted as a date. The argument escalated, playfully, while you both rustled through your pockets for whatever change you could muster up. As Dallas fingered through his bills, you grabbed a napkin, hastily scrawling down the address of the diner with a pen Dallas had stolen from a recent hospital visit. 

Whether it was a date or not, you and Dallas were certain to return - hopefully without a hangover.