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cozylittlepigeon · 20 hours ago

Text

Like Breathing

pairing: javier peña x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni!)

word count: 17.3k (oops i am truly sorry for this)

warnings: changing timelines, angst (with a happy ending), yearning, mutual pining, friends to lovers, pet names (pretty girl, baby, sir, cariño, good boy), soft!javi, sub!javi, smut (kissing, grinding, oral f&m receiving, phone sex, mutual masturbation, dirty talk, javi asks permission), javi is an idiot and a bit of an asshole, Big Feelings™️, alcohol consumption, javi is a serial flirt, javi's mom dies (off screen), s3 javi's stress levels once again come with their own warnings, you wear the pink shirt 👀, reader works for the fbi, no use of y/n, unbeta'd so all mistakes are my own. also, i am first and foremost scottish, so the only whisky you will find here is one without an 'e'! 😂

summary: you try to get javier peña to come home.

a/n: thank you to @burntheedges for all of your advice on pesky timelines and pov's. also thank you to @jolapeno for cheerleading! this is my first time writing explicit smut so I'M SO SORRY i hope it's not too awful hahah (i didn't even intend to take it that way and it just poured from me). i also didn't intend to end it this way AT ALL, like, y'all were gonna suffer. i'm also going to apologise for the length of this monster! i do hope you enjoy it, my lovelies! thank you all so much for being so nice and supportive all the time! 🩵

read on ao3 | masterlist

dividers by me

Javier stared down into the glass, frown deepening as he watched a bead of condensation rolling down the outside. Slowly, it carved a path down the tumbler and pooled at the bottom, soaking the bar top his elbows rested on. Drumming his fingers against the solid wood, he contemplated for just a minute before coming to a decision, leaving his seat and charging out into the street, feet carrying him into the nearest phone booth. He shouldn’t be doing this, knew that for a fact, but before he even recognized what he was doing, the coins were in the slot and the number he knew from memory was punched into the receiver.

As soon as it started to ring, he felt a rush of heat flow through his entire body. What was he doing? What would he say? Would you even pick up? That last question was answered almost immediately; after two and a half rings he heard an abrupt dial tone, telling him you had declined the call.

Well, that was that, then.

Slamming the receiver down harder than was necessary, he turned on his heel and stormed back into the bar, loosening his tie and rolling up his shirt sleeves as he went. Once he was seated again he allowed himself a few moments, fingers restless, eyes closed, before a heavy sigh left his lips, thumb smoothing down his moustache then swiping the corner of his mouth slowly. He lifted the glass to his lips and emptied the liquid in it, letting it fall to the bar top with a dull thud and catching the bartender's eye to order another.

You don’t need it, Peña.

A low groan escaped him as he ignored your voice sounding in his head, letting another sigh fall from his lips before taking a large gulp of his fresh whisky as soon as it was within touching distance. You wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t come back to him; of that he was certain. Why would you? You had made your position perfectly clear the last time he’d heard your voice, had the voicemails saved to prove it; you trying to act cool, calm, collected, despite your drunken state, as if it hadn’t broken your heart to say it, the same way he’d pretended it hadn’t completely shattered his to hear the words fall from your mouth.

Not counting a few weeks ago, the last time he had seen you in person had been three years before. There had been an unofficial sighting, a serendipitous sort of encounter, where he had been leaving the airport in Laredo, sent home following all the Los Pepes bullshit just before they caught Escobar, and you had been running in, late for your flight back to Washington. He hadn’t mentioned it at the time, although his heart had hammered in his chest seeing you - he wasn’t ready to face you, to explain himself, and so he let you go.

It was dying down now that he had been back in Colombia for a while, the Los Pepes stuff, but he still dealt with the likes of Stechner almost every day. He knew they were right – someone like him should be in prison for what he did, rather than receiving a promotion that saw him in his own comfy office accompanied by a hefty pay rise – but Javier couldn’t help but feel like he had done what he could with what they had at the time. Which, looking back now, was next to nothing in actual usable intel, a hurdle at every turn of the war on drugs, and a whole fuck tonne of sheer desperation.

Even he could admit, though, that he still wasn’t okay after everything that had transpired. If he was being honest, he never thought he would be okay again. Javier knew he was destined to feel the crushing weight of his guilt and shame for the rest of his days, but he was pretty good at masking this downward spiral from his peers and colleagues. The one person he couldn’t ever do that with was you; never got the hang of it, of lying to you. You could tell something had been wrong from thousands of miles away when you shared your weekly phone calls, and you’d been trying to get him to reconsider staying in Colombia since his later Escobar days. Every time he had said that everything was fine, not to worry, but you had been able to read him like a book from the minute you laid eyes on him, even way back in college. Had even told him so within ten minutes of first speaking to each other all those years ago.

“Hey, sorry,” Javi looked up at the whispered interruption, his eyes blurry from reading and neck stiff from looking down for hours. When he glanced up, he blinked a few times, believing the sight before him to be a mirage. You were standing in front of him, the cute girl from his forensic psych class, the one who sat in the row in front a few seats to his right, giving him a tentative smile.

“Sorry, I couldn’t tell if you were asleep.” You had smirked at him and, his brain catching up quickly, he had returned it.

“Just resting my eyes,” he straightened up, stretching his neck from side to side and hearing a satisfying crunch. “What can I do for you?” He had intentionally dropped his voice an octave and glanced around the university library. There was hardly anyone there.

“Um,” you seemed like you had forgotten what you wanted to say, and Javi was delighted to see that he had had some sort of effect on you. He could almost see the rest of his night – your night together – playing out before his eyes.

Shaking your head as if to clear it, you continued in a whispered voice, a sultry smile gracing your lips, lashes fluttering; “Are you still using that book?”

He blinked. That had not been what he was hoping you would ask, but he didn’t let it deter him. Without missing a beat, he smiled and glanced at the psychology textbook on the desk in front of him.

You went on, as if you hadn’t just knowingly thrown him a curveball. “If you are, it’s totally cool. I’ve just been looking for it for weeks now and all the other copies are out on loan. I recognized you from psych class, thought I’d chance my luck.”

“Recognized me, huh?” He couldn’t help the grin spreading over his face as he watched you duck your head slightly. He let his hand fall onto the textbook and slid it closer to him, intending on picking it up.

“Yeah, you sit behind me, right?”

He forced himself to frown; “I do?”

You rolled your eyes with a small smile, but said nothing else, so he inhaled slowly as if thinking it over, like it pained him greatly to have to let go of the book. “It’s yours if you make it worth my while. Our exam is coming up, you know.”

Your hand trailed forward, placing it delicately atop his, which still rested on the cover of the textbook. The slight pressure you put on his hand helped to slide the heavy volume in your direction as you fluttered your lashes once more.

“Oh, I know,” your eyes went wide, almost pouting, pleading, and Javi found himself thrown off course yet again when he felt the heavy weight of the book slip easily from beneath his grip. His hand thudded to the table as you straightened up and rolled your eyes fully at him. “And I’m not sleeping with anybody to pass it, I’ll get an A fair and square.”

Javi’s jaw dropped. You had smiled brightly at him, holding the book close to your chest, and it had almost stopped his heart.

“Thanks for the book,” you threw your genuine appreciation over your shoulder, turning to go back to your table.

Javi took a little longer to recover from that one. Once his brain caught up, he scrambled to his feet, clumsily tossed his belongings away, and headed after you.

“Wait a minute, what makes you think I wanted to sleep with you?” He asked loudly, slightly offended despite the fact that you had been bang on the money. You paused before placing the book down on the table, glancing at the desk beside you where a group of students were working silently. “I mean, that didn’t come out right.”

You paused again, staring at him in mild amusement before gathering up your notebook and various pens and highlighters.

“What I meant to say was, I do want to sleep with you-”

A scoff from one of the girls at the table behind you alerted him to how loud he was being and he cut himself off, feeling an uncomfortable heat spreading to his cheeks when he watched you start to grin. What was happening to him? He had never been this clunky in his life.

When he looked back at you after throwing an exasperated look in the direction of the study group, you were positively beaming at him, looking like you were trying your damnedest to not laugh.

“No, don’t let me stop you,” you whispered, pulling your bag on and adjusting it, “by all means, continue. You’re doing great.”

Book now clutched to your chest, you turned to give him your full attention now that you were packed up and ready to leave.

“No, I-” He huffed, blowing air into his cheeks then taking a deep breath. What the hell, he shrugged, he had quite literally nothing else to lose. “I just think you’re gorgeous, and I’d be an idiot to not at least try.”

“Solid,” one of the guys at the table behind you muttered under his breath and Javi glared at the group this time before rolling his eyes.

You shook your head gently, but your soft smile remained. The moment that you took to respond seemed to stretch on forever, and Javi found himself wishing you would say anything just so he could go home and forget this ever happened. Eventually, you nodded your head towards the exit and turned to leave.

He took this as his cue to follow and jumped into action, not wanting to see or hear anything the other group of students had to say.

“That might have been the most entertaining thing that’s ever happened to me, thank you so much,” you said, voice laced with laughter and back to a normal speaking level once outside.

He groaned, “I didn’t mean it the way it came out. I’m sorry.”

You smiled again, falling into step with him. “Is that the first time a line hasn’t worked?”

“That obvious?”

You shrugged, a small smirk on your face; “Just a good guess.”

“You’re too kind,” he replied, but he felt the awkwardness that was gripping him easing more quickly the longer he spent in your presence. You had been so unbothered by him and his, quite frankly, embarrassing behaviour, that his confidence was returning. Maybe a little bruised but never beaten down entirely.

“So, what’s your name, forensic psych?” Your elbow nudged his own.

“Javier,” he had given you a genuine smile which widened when you introduced yourself. “Can I walk you home?”

“That depends; are you gonna try to get in my pants when we get there?”

“Only if you’ll let me,” he grinned, laughing when you did.

“Counter proposal,” you suggested, turning and steering you both in what he presumed was the direction of your dorm, “I let you walk me home and then you know where I live to come and get the book back in a few days time?”

Javi thought about it, really thought about it this time, then hitched his bag over his shoulder. “A counter proposal to your counter proposal-”

“Hey, that’s not how this wor-”

“I,” he said pointedly, cutting you off with a smirk, “will let you keep the book if you agree to help me study?”

“What, let you come to my dorm every week to be study buddies?” You had said skeptically, “Oh yeah, very good. I know how that one goes.”

He smirked, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Oh? Enlighten me.”

“You come over, we study for a bit, get too comfy, a bit flirty, then next thing you know we’re making out on top of our notes?” You said it all with a look of faux suspicion. “That’s textbook college!”

Javi sucked in a breath, “Are you asking me if that’s how it’ll go or telling me that’s how it’ll go?”

Your jaw dropped, another laugh of disbelief escaping as you replied; “You’re incorrigible!”

“Persistent is the word you’re looking for.” When you made a noise of disbelief, he threw his hands up in mock surrender, laughter flowing through his words, “Alright I’m kidding, I’m kidding! I really do need help studying for this class though. And I promise, if you agree to help me, I will park my ass so thoroughly in the friend zone…”

Your eyes narrowed when he trailed off, eventually reaching out a hand to lightly shove his arm as you walked; “And? Out with it!”

“...and then I’ll flirt with you.”

Javier had kept his promise, and they had made it through the studying without so much as a kiss. He remembered now, as he glared at the bottom of his whisky glass, how much he had wanted it, though. Knew you had wanted it too; had confessed as much to each other several times throughout the last few months of their time at university, during late night cramming before an exam, after one too many shots at a frat party, blowing off steam at one another's dorms at the end of a busy week. They were spending every day together, getting through their anxieties, frustrations, and burn outs together.

Unfortunately for them, that sometimes meant getting blackout drunk and eventually having to agree to sleep in separate rooms so as not to tempt one another.

Javier remembers laughing in disbelief one night when, mid-way through a shitty movie that neither of you were really watching, he leaned closer, watching your eyes grow soft, gaze flickering to his lips. He had feathered his touch across your jaw, lightly pinched your chin between his fingers, and tilted his head before you blinked and the film of lust disappeared from your eyes in a flash.

“We can’t, Javi,” you had gasped, fingertips pressing into lips as you stopped yourself from leaning closer, “I’m worried I’ll lose you. I won’t lose you.”

As soon as he realized you were being serious, he stopped laughing, sighed softly in defeat, then nodded, grabbing your free hand and pressing a quick kiss to your knuckles instead. He sat back, allowing you space that you didn’t take, choosing instead to rest your head on his shoulder.

He had agreed to take the sofa that night.

“Probably what gave me the fucked up back,” he grumbled into his glass.

“Que?” He had not noticed the bartender watching him closely, had not even realized he’d spoken his bitter thoughts aloud, and shook his head as if to indicate that what he had said didn’t matter. Which it didn’t. It was a stupid thought anyway. Of course that hadn’t been the cause of his bad back. The real reason was probably a lot more to do with his younger police and DEA days, scrambling over comuna roofs or throwing himself off of fucking balconies like he had done only days before, than sleeping on a sofa a few times in his early twenties.

His memories were not helped by the fact that his back was currently aching from chasing Christina Jurado through the Colombian jungle the previous night. He recognized that he was also now massively foul-tempered at the huge roadblock his case had just run into.

Again.

Franklin Jurado had been murdered in prison just as Javier was about to crack him. All the pieces had been in place, he was walking Christina to the fucking plane for Christ’s sake, when the call had come through. Christina had been inconsolable. Called him for every name under the sun. Screamed at him in the middle of the packed airport that it was all his fault. And who was he kidding?

Of course it was.

She cried for fifteen minutes on the airport floor, wailing, and refusing to let anyone near her. Eventually, he gave up trying, and ordered the other agents to surround and turn their backs on her to at least try and give the illusion of privacy, to allow her to begin to grieve in some sort of peace, and prevent other passengers from staring on in horror.

It was a hard task, to listen to her howls of anguish, of grief, knowing he’d been the cause of them, however indirectly. Knowing he’d let yet another string of people and families down. But he did it, fought to keep his face straight the entire time, endured the almost torture as his punishment.

And then, once Christina had left him with a cutting, venomous parting shot, he’d gone home.

He’d fought with himself for the twenty two hours since finding out about Franklin before storming out of the bar ten minutes ago to try to call you. Couldn’t even get through a whole day without thinking of you. Of the way that he knew you would worry, but how he also knew you would make it better, make him forget, even only for a little while.

The way you had when, on the day of their graduation, instead of going to parties to celebrate making it through the four-year slog, you went with him to the hospital to visit his mom on her deathbed. The way you went home with him that night and slept in his bed with him for the first time ever and helped him forget.

He was awake, staring at the popcorn ceiling above him. You had vowed to stay awake despite his protests, but your head had fallen heavy against his chest thirty minutes ago and he didn’t have the heart to wake you, to remind you of your promise, even though you made him swear to do so. Want to be here for you, Javi, you had whispered. You already are, he had replied.

He had been thinking of his mom, knew he didn’t have long left with her; he’d also been thinking about college and what he was going to do now that he had finally graduated. The top 5% of his grad class had been offered jobs with the FBI, including you. You’d been so excited that you had both been offered, he didn’t have the heart to tell you that he’d been given another job offer with the local county sheriff office. He’d much rather the FBI position in Washington with you, but given that his mom was going to die any day now, he couldn’t bring himself to leave his pops so soon, too. He’d been lying awake, thinking of what his mom would tell him to do.

You take that damn FBI job, we’ll be fine.

But he knew that wouldn’t be the case. His parents were still young, sure, and he knew his dad would physically be okay running the ranch without him, but he also knew the guilt of ditching his dad at such a pivotal moment in their lives would never leave him.

One thing Javier Peña could not cope with, on any level, was feeling guilty.

Your head jolting brought him back from his spiral and he smiled softly as you stifled a yawn. “I told you to wake me up, you asshole,” you whispered into the darkness.

“I didn’t want to,” he whispered back. “You looked too cute.”

“Shut up, Peña,” you grumbled, ducking your face for a moment before looking up at him when he continued whispering.

“I’m serious, you looked too cute,” he nodded his head down to where you had been resting against him, still with a soft smile on his face, “drool and all.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, as if not believing his words before looking down, and he delighted in the shocked punch of air that escaped your lungs as you saw the dark patch on his light grey t-shirt.

Groaning, you reached for him, pulling at the hem of the shirt and stumbling dangerously close to his crotch in the dark, “I’m sorry Javi.”

“Hey, what are you doing?” He pulled his arm out from under his head and reached to grab your wrist, quickly stopping you with his shirt lifted up, exposing his abs and stomach in the moonlight. He was sure you could see how heavily he was breathing, how tense he was holding himself.

There was a moment then when the air shifted. He knew you hadn’t meant this to feel so charged, that you only wanted to rid him of the t-shirt due to the drool that didn’t actually bother him in the slightest, but something in your eyes shifted when he watched them land on the waistband of his pyjama pants.

“I-”

You had frozen, and Javi could almost hear the cogs in your brain turning. Usually, he’d make a joke, tease you a little, harp back to all the times you had stopped yourselves doing this in the past, voicing that it wouldn’t be a good idea.

But he wasn’t really in the mood to deny himself any longer.

So instead, he reached his free hand towards you and hooked your chin under the knuckle of his finger, practically prying your eyes away from their lustful gaze, and gently guided your eyes away from his abs and towards his face.

“What are you thinking, pretty girl?”

He watched you swallow several times then clear your throat before deciding on something to say. “’m thinking that I might’ve been an idiot for saying no to you that first night we met,” you whispered once again into the stillness of his bedroom.

“Hm,” he hummed low in his throat and shifted slightly, bringing himself closer to you. “Well, I did promise to park my ass in the friend zone.”

You had tried to suppress a smile, and Javi had watched, fascinated, as you rolled your lips into a thin line in the attempt. “You did…” you replied, letting your gaze drop down to your hand, still clutching his shirt in your fist. He watched your eyes follow the trail of hair that led neatly under his boxers, then his heart nearly stopped as your gentle fingers reached out to trace it.

“I shouldn’t.” Another whisper, “Not now.”

“Yes now,” he was quick to respond, gently squeezing your arm, feeling breathless and dizzy with want. Finally, you shook your head and looked back at him, eyes gentle and shining with what looked like tears.

“Now isn’t the time.” You sounded like you were trying to convince yourself more than him, and Javi couldn’t help feeling like he wasn’t supposed to be hearing this, like he was intruding on inside thoughts. “Not with your m-”

He couldn’t take it. Didn’t want to think of his mom anymore. Didn’t want to think about jobs or difficult choices he had to make or his pops or the ranch or how his mom was fucking dying and wouldn’t be there to see him do anything with his life.

Couldn’t take the look in your eyes.

When he crashed his lips to yours, he felt like he could finally breathe again for the first time since he met you. Certainly for the first time since his mom got sick. He felt such a rush of relief at that realization that his nose stung. The moment your lips touched his, he felt fire rip through him, and he repositioned himself to lean on one elbow, using his other hand to gently cup your face and tuck you into his body as he angled himself slightly above you. Your small gasp followed by an almost dreamy sigh as you melted into him made him practically blind with longing.

Javi had wanted this for such a long time. And yeah, at first it had been because he thought you were extremely cute. But then he got to know you and he found he wanted it more than air itself. He couldn’t remember whose tongue slipped in first, only that he was now gently sucking on yours in between you both coming up for air, relishing in the way it made you putty in his hands.

Eventually he broke away but didn’t go far, instead tracing his lips along your jaw, down your neck, sucking your earlobe, finding that spot at the hinge of your jaw that he once saw a hickey on, hoping he was right in thinking that you liked that.

He was.

The moan you let out was almost pornographic and had him twitching in his boxers, desperate for more. So focussed on the taste of you, he barely noticed your hand, which had released the fabric of his shirt only to drift under the hem and gently stroke his stomach, getting lower and lower each time. He only registered your movement when he felt trembling fingers travelling over the waistband of his pants and down, down, resting gently on his quickly hardening cock.

His lips left your skin with a wet sound as you leaned back a little, panting; “Tell me to stop.”

He paused, considered, as you looked at him with lust-blown eyes, being able to feel you shaking with the same adrenaline that was coursing through his own veins. His gaze dropped to your lips once more and he watched, mesmerized, as you slowly licked along your bottom lip.

“You know I won’t.”

He had held your gaze, trying with all his might to convey everything he was feeling. He wasn’t even sure of everything he was feeling, but he was certain of one thing: he knew he wanted you.

With a resolute nod, he watched you lean forward and reattach your lips to his.

And there it was again, that oxygen.

No thoughts scurried around his brain other than what was happening in that very moment. He moaned into your mouth when you cupped him over his pyjama pants and pressed gently; the slight pressure was delicious. When you had fit your hand around him and squeezed softly, he growled, flipping you over and nestling his knee right between your legs, drawing another needy moan from your lips.

Almost immediately, your hips were grinding down into him and he grinned into the kiss.

“You need it, baby?”

Whining, you nodded your head against the crook of his neck, and fleetingly, he thought he might never feel this way again.

“Tell me.”

“I-” You had cut yourself off and Javi knew you felt embarrassed, but he didn’t want you to feel that way for long.

“Use your words, baby, tell me how much you want me.” He spoke quietly into your ear, licking the shell of it before gently biting down. “You know how much I want you,” he punctuated his words with a grind of his hips against you and dropped his head, a small, blissful moan escaping before he crashed his lips quickly to yours again. “I’ve wanted you since we met,” he panted. “You’re a smart girl, baby, you knew it then.”

“Javi, I-” You sounded close to tears as you ground down harder against his thigh.

“Tell me,” he all but growled again, pressing kisses all over your face and wedging his thigh tighter against you.

“I want you so much,” you had whispered, but you might as well have screamed it in his ear for how clearly he heard the want laced through your voice. “Please, I-” You took a deep breath and hid your face away in his neck.

He let you.

“I've wanted you since that first night, too,” you practically sobbed the confession and he shushed you gently, quietly praising you between kisses. “I th-thought you were so hot, I-” you cut yourself off with a moan, your breath hot against his throat, “Please, Javi, please,” you begged, breathless, arching into him. “Please fuck me.”

He’d never heard a more beautiful sound.

That night he had made you come four times. You had cried and begged him for it, had kissed him and sucked and nipped at his skin when he was fully seated in you, had tasted yourself on his tongue, his cock, had been driven almost delirious with want, eyes brimming with tears.

And he? He had been able to think, to breathe, for the few hours that his fingers, tongue, cock were buried inside you, marking your skin with his mouth wherever you would let him, giving himself over to you completely in both his desire for you and his desperation to not think about anything else.

You had both managed to get a couple of hours of sleep after that, sated and exhausted, and when he had woken up in the early hours the next morning, it was with his cock already in your hot, wet mouth and, again, without a single thought in his head other than pure bliss.

“¿Otro trago?”

Javier was brought out of his memory of you with a scowl on his face, the image of you burned behind his eyelids, straddling his legs the morning after, grinding down to find some friction, your hair in a ponytail he had made with his fist as you bobbed up and-

He shook his head hard to clear it, then growled his order for one more whisky as he adjusted himself in his seat, trying to rid himself of thoughts of you. God forbid he would find himself in that type of awkward situation when surrounded by his colleagues and subordinates.

Now that he had allowed himself to really remember that night, he realized that it might very well have been the reason why he sought out the comfort of others so often down here in Colombia. He understood now, with alarming clarity and years too late, that he was constantly chasing that oxygen that only you were able to give him. Every time the Escobar case had gone south, and that was a lot of fucking times, he’d find himself deep inside another woman that wasn’t you, would lose himself at the bottom of a bottle or a brothel, was the reason why he was so okay with sleeping with his informants for information - he was so desperate to stop feeling guilty about everything.

He felt almost startled, and didn’t really know what to do with that jarring discovery. Did you figure that out already? Had you already known? Was that why you had said what you’d said the last time he heard your voice?

“Javi!” You squealed, running towards him and throwing yourself around his neck. He’d spent the last three years completely buried in the Escobar case once it reached boiling point, and then kept a low profile after glimpsing you at the airport in Laredo. He had, of course, spoken to you often, but in some ways it did help that you had been returning to Washington to go deep undercover, so he couldn’t tell you he had been home even if he had wanted to.

In other ways, being home was Hell. Everything reminded him of you even though he was trying to forget.

Nothing had ever changed once you had slept together. It hadn’t become a regular thing, either; you had been there for him when he needed you and, when you had gotten over the initial shock of realizing he wasn’t joining the FBI with you, and had come home after your month-long training to finish packing your things, he had taken care of you when your frustrations and anxieties became too much for you to cope with on your own, when you were so in your head about what was in front of you.

It had only happened a handful of times since then, and neither of you ever spoke about it. Just carried on as if you hadn’t completely turned his world upside down every time he got a glimpse of you, a taste.

Even now, when he was hugging you, he felt the fog of the last three years melting away. Felt lighter with his arms around you. He was stunned at the revelation.

“How was it?” He asked, stretching to pick your bag up from where you’d abandoned it on the ground before turning and leading the way to his car.

“I mean, no screaming babies this time, so it was ideal,” you had smiled, pulling your sunglasses over your eyes as you left the airport and breathed in the Colombian air. “Thanks for picking me up, Javi,” you had said with a soft, appreciative glance, and then, almost as if it was too real for you, too domesticated, more than just a friend doing you a favor, you shook your head slightly and threw a grin his way. “So, am I about to see the infamous bachelor pad?”

It didn’t sit right with him, the way you so easily brushed him off as some sort of bachelor, sunning it up, living the high life down in Colombia, sleeping with anyone who would go home with him. And as true as the latter part might have been once upon a time, it had never left him happy or satisfied; quite the opposite, in fact. It almost always left him feeling completely empty, suffocated.

He gave a non-committal almost-chuckle as he opened the door to throw your bag in the backseat.

“So are you after the full bachelor pad experience or…?”

That didn’t feel right either; felt like a cheap shot at something that, actually, he would quite like to build, maintain, secure. But he knew he was deflecting, protecting himself.

God, he was so fucked up.

To your credit, you took it as the almost-joke he had hoped you would, rather than focus on his underlying desperation for you, and gave a light chuckle.

“You wish, Peña.”

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, you can’t blame a man for trying.” He shrugged, before pulling out of the parking lot and heading towards the base, finding his eyes drawn to you as you looked out of the window, a smile stretched over your lips as you took in the views of the city.

“I can’t believe you work down here, it’s so beautiful.”

“Well, it’s no Washington D.C.,” he batted back quickly, but then grimaced as he remembered his phone call two days prior. “Listen, I’m sorry I still have to work when you’re here. Two of my guys just flew out to Medellín and I need to-”

“Hey, I get it, you’re a big bad boss now. I’m just glad you found time for me to come down at all, Mr DEA Attaché,” you had said in a sing-song voice, as if you were celebrating something that he knew in his heart of hearts he did not deserve. “I’ll be fine when you’re out there delegating.”

You had been there for four days, in which he had felt the most him he had since moving to Colombia, when things changed. Those same four days had also felt like torture. He had taken you out to some of his favourite bars, coffee shops, and restaurants in between being in the office or taking calls from Fiestl and Van Ness. He hadn’t laughed this much in years, and he found, the more he heard it, the more he missed yours. He kept catching himself looking at you like a lovesick idiot. Maybe that was why you had also spent every night in his guest room, like being back in college again.

On your penultimate night, you were in the unofficial Embassy bar with him when his phone rang shrilly with a patchy call from Feistl. They had eyes on Gilberto Rodriguez, what did he want them to do about it? He had glanced at you and you had nodded, seeming to pick up on his complete change in body language, mouthing I’ll be fine. He had grabbed his jacket and, without any thought, cupped the back of your neck to keep you in place as he pressed a long kiss to your forehead before hightailing it out of there, heading for Hugo Martinez’s home.

It was wheels up for him before the sun broke, heading to Medellín with Martinez, so he had called to apologize for skipping out on your last full day. All you had for him in response was a whispered plea, be careful, come back, stay safe.

The mission had, surprisingly, gone well despite the few snags they had run into. The cloak and dagger element had worked to their advantage for once and all the pieces just fell together in their favor. It had been a long fucking day; as soon as they touched down in Bogotá he had his ass handed to him by the Ambassador and then had been whisked off to a packed meeting with the Colombian President to find out if the hard work they had put into the arrest would even hold up, and Javier had felt as if he had been sent to the principal's office.

Thank God it had held.

He had called you then to let you know he’d only be another hour or so, and you had sounded relieved to hear from him. Then came the press conference alongside the CNP before heading back to his office to collect some paperwork. It was only then that he had a moment to take it all in. It wasn’t often he had a day where he had felt like he had made an actual, substantial difference in this God forsaken, never ending war on drugs, so he poured himself a celebratory finger of whisky and settled at his desk.

That was where Martinez found him.

Another career, another life, ruined due to his actions, while he, Javier, got off scott free. Hugo was being blackmailed, forced to resign, so that Gilberto’s arrest would remain solid.

Javier’s good mood had been significantly soured, and he drove home in a blind fury, going over in his head, as he did every time, all the poor decisions that had led to this. So wrapped up in his rage, he barely even noticed that you had emerged from his room when he stormed inside and slammed the door closed; that you were wearing one of his button-down shirts, the pink one, draped over your shoulders but lying open, barely concealing your short black sleep shorts and matching tight cropped vest you had been sleeping in.

“Javi, what-”

But he had stopped dead in his tracks, halfway through his bedroom door when he realized his sheets were rumpled, that your glass of water was on his bedside cabinet, the book he had spotted in your hand throughout the week sitting on his pillow.

“Were you sleeping in here?”

“What? I- n-no, I… Javi what happened?”

Deciding to let the fact that he knew you were lying drop for now, he continued fully into his bedroom, roughly tugging at his tie as he went. He growled loudly in frustration when the knot stuck and pulled harshly at the roots of his hair instead, half spinning before dropping heavily to sit on the end of his bed, pushing the heels of his palms roughly into his eye sockets until stars spotted his vision.

Quietly, tentatively, you had padded over to him and gently placed your hands on his shoulders. In silence, you reached for the messy knot of his tie and gently, with patience, you untangled it and slid it from his neck. Next came your delicate fingers against his throat as you unbuttoned his shirt. He swallowed roughly when you made it past his collarbone then sighed heavily when you whispered at him to breathe.

“I saw the press conference,” you continued, seeming to sense that he wasn’t yet up for talking, “didn’t know you had it in you to talk in front of that many people.”

When he still didn’t respond, your hand slid slowly to the next button on his shirt and worked at it. “I’ve always liked this color on you.” His heart damn near stopped when you slowly sank to your knees before him, cock stirring to life as his brain conjured up lewd images.

You had reached the last visible button and were now admiring his slacks, slightly bunched around his crotch. His legs widened slightly against his will as you reached for his belt buckle, loosening it along with the button before pulling out the hem of his tucked shirt and getting to work on the final buttons.

You had helped him undress until he was only left in his loosened slacks and then sat back on your haunches, a hand on each of his knees, and squeezed.

“Talk to me,” you had implored.

And he did.

He spilled it all. About tonight, about all the bad decisions he’d made since being in Colombia, the things he did to help win against Escobar, the real reason he’d been sent home right as they were about to catch the fucker. He spilled it all and you just listened, no judgement in your eyes. You listened as you sat on your knees, clamped firmly between his thighs, and said nothing. Not when he cried, not when he got angry at himself or frustrated at the current outcome in his work life. You didn’t speak until he was finished, signalled by his chin dropping to his chest and a mumbled apology.

You had straightened up, knees cracking, hands sliding up his thighs as you did so, and you tilted his head up to look at you. Slowly, you leaned forward and pressed the softest kiss to the column of his throat, making him suck in a small breath, before you leaned back slightly, whispering, “I hate this.”

He had closed his eyes briefly when your lips made contact with his skin in this way after almost four long years.

“I hate seeing what this job is doing to you.” Another soft touch from your lips, this time to the hinge of his jaw. “How it’s affecting you.” Your hands found the sides of his face, gently holding him steady as you looked into his eyes. “Would you…”

You had hesitated then, only finding the courage to continue when his hands clasped gently around your wrists and rubbed slow circles where his thumbs rested; “I know I ask this all the time, but I mean it now more than ever. Would you consider leaving? How about if you came to work with me?” You sounded like you were pleading and he hated that he knew he would eventually be ground down enough by it to give.

He frowned, his gentle circles freezing. “I can’t just give up,” he had said quietly, although he would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about quitting the DEA several times in the last few months alone. But it was complicated. It was for that reason he had ignored your little hints in the past. Where did he draw the line? It felt like he was in way too deep to just quit off the cuff.

“It’s not giving up, baby,” one of your thumbs stretched to gently smooth his mustache, “it’s protecting yourself. You’re so…” You searched for the right words, “So at war with yourself. You deserve to be at peace.”

Javier hadn’t considered this before. Would it feel like protecting himself if he did quit? Probably not. It would probably feel like yet another bad decision, like a waste of all of his time and efforts so far, like admitting defeat.

He hadn’t considered that he needed to protect himself. That he deserved to.

Tears had formed in your eyes when he had next looked up at you but you blinked them away. “Why did you take this job?”

“I… wanted to make a difference.”

“I’d argue that you have, Javi. You caught Pablo fucking Escobar.”

He fought the urge to remind you that, actually, he had been sitting on his ass at a dive bar in Laredo when Pablo Escobar was caught, not chasing him over Colombian rooftops with Steve like he should have been. Clamping down on that thought, he instead asked, “At what cost, though?”

You had simply shrugged, “Sounded to me like you tried your fucking best, Javi, and that’s all anyone has the right to ask from you. So you made a few choices that weren’t ideal, but haven’t we all? Stop beating yourself up. You need to let yourself live, baby. Stop running. Come back.”

He squeezed his eyes closed, refusing to cry anymore. He suddenly felt bone-tired, the exhaustion sweeping over him when your hand found his hair, twirling his softly curling strands around your fingers and pulling him into a close embrace. His hands settled on your waist and squeezed as your other hand rubbed the bare skin of his back softly, lulling him into a sense of relaxation he hadn’t felt in months.

It could have been minutes, could have been hours, but all Javier knew was that he didn’t have a single crushing thought the whole time he was in your embrace. Eventually, your hands came around and drifted down to his stomach, reaching further again and taking hold of his zipper.

“What are you doing?” He spoke into the quiet room, releasing a shaky, quiet breath when your hand deftly reached into his pants to find him bare. You stroked him a few times before removing your hand, grabbing hold of his pants and tugging with both hands. He lifted his hips, freeing himself, and your hand returned to his quickly hardening cock.

“Shh,” you had stretched up and finally, finally, pressed a slow, sweet kiss to his lips. “Let me take care of you, let me help.”

“But-”

You froze, hand resting in place on his hard cock. “Same rules as the first time,” you husked. “Tell me to stop.”

He looked down at you, lowered back down onto your haunches to get as close as you could to his crotch, delicate hand wrapped around him, head tilted forward, and he took a deep breath, knowing he could never deny you.

“You know I wont.”

As soon as the words were out, you licked a stripe up the length of him, making him groan and stretch back, arms resting on the bed behind him, head tilted back in pure unadulterated pleasure when your mouth wrapped around his head, suckling gently. Your hands explored, squeezed, reacquainted themselves as you worked him slowly, moaning around him when you finally took all you could in your throat.

The vibrations had him collapsing back fully on his bed, his hips accidentally jostling and making you gag. The grunt that left his throat had him biting his lip and throwing his arm over his eyes.

You pulled off him, gasping for air, and continued working him with your hands as you addressed him; “Wanna hear you. Please, Javi, want you to feel good. Let me hear you, baby.” You kissed your way down his cock, lightly scraping your teeth along the delicate skin of his sack and punching the air out his lungs before licking your way back up with a desperate noise. “Does it feel good?”

He freed his lower lip, knowing it would be indented with marks from his top row of teeth, and released a long, guttural groan when your mouth wrapped fully around him again, blindly reaching for your hair to hold you steady.

“So fucking good, baby. Please, don’t stop, por favor.” He thrust into your mouth, shallow, slow, and found he had not felt this good, this at peace, in a while. He relished in the whines that left your throat and eventually loosened his grip, allowing you to come up for air again. His cock twitched almost violently as he watched the string of saliva and precome connect you to him in the most obscene way.

It broke away as you worked your hands over his length again, picking up speed when his balls tightened under your gentle touch. “Are you gonna come, Javi?”

He was panting, trying to hold on to anything that would keep this moment stretching on forever. But he couldn’t. He was so desperate, babbling incoherently, fucking himself up into your fist as you cooed quiet encouragement and praise.

“Por favor, por favor,” he gasped when your hand circled round his head and squeezed, along with the hand on his balls, making him moan out in ecstasy. “Like that, oh please,” he barely registered that he was begging, “please, make me come.”

“Yeah?” You cooed and he whined. “Come on, baby, you can come for me,” you had whispered, before fusing your lips around his head and sucking hard. That, along with your permission, was his undoing, and with a broken moan he was spilling into your mouth, down your throat, dribbling out the side of your lips and coating his cock. Eventually he collapsed back onto his sheets, and as you swallowed twice around him, he hissed. When he started to relax, he wasn’t able to help but feel invincible in his post-orgasm haze; like maybe he could just leave the DEA.

As soon as this thought entered his head, he forced another one in there, like what he was going to do to you here and now, in his bed, to return the favor.

“Are you- was that okay?” He had heard your voice then, and he noted you were still kneeling between his legs as you scratched your nails gently along his thighs.

Sitting bolt upright, he pinched your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look at him and not wanting you to doubt yourself. “More than okay, baby,” and then he kissed you long, hard, deep, entwining your tongues together and tasting himself on you. “C’mere,” he had murmured into your mouth, making sure to be gentle as he reached to bundle you into his arms and pull you up onto the bed.

“I like this on you,” he whispered as he rolled you both over, kneeling above you and rubbing the fabric of his softest button-down between his fingers. You hid away slightly, looking a little bashful, but only until he pulled your tight crop vest down to expose your chest to him. He groaned appreciatively as he lowered his head, whispering into your skin, “Such pretty tits.”

Immediately, his mouth latched onto your nipple, sucking and rolling the bud between his tongue and teeth, dragging moan after moan out of you. As he worked between both your nipples, he pulled the sleep shorts to the side and, finding no panties to act as a barrier, stroked your soaked slit gently, groaning at your wetness.

“Fuck baby, you’re soaked.” You broke the kiss abruptly to gasp when his fingers worked their way through your folds, whining when they circled your hole, teasing, pulling away every so often to spread slick to your clit and swirl his digits in a way that made you putty in his hands. “Let me take care of you now.”

“Thought that’s what I was meant to be doing,” you gasped, hands flying to his hair and tugging deliciously when he sucked particularly hard at your other nipple.

He removed his hand from between your legs and allowed it to roam to your tits, massaging, squeezing, rolling, as he shifted further down the bed, kissing his way down your body as he went. “This,” he placed a delicate kiss just above your clit, making you jump, “is taking care of me.”

He ate you out that night for what felt like hours, barely coming up for breath. You came on his tongue three times and he found himself humping into the mattress to find a form of release when his cock hardened to a near unthinkable stiffness again. He left you violently shaking and jerking through the aftershocks as he rubbed your sides in a soothing way, but didn’t give you much of a reprieve between your third orgasm and burying his cock deep inside you.

He made you come once more before he spilled inside you for what felt like an eternity, grunting and thrusting impossibly deeper with every throb. He had collapsed on top of you, nibbling on your chin, placing soft kisses around your hairline as you slowly came down from your euphoric high, looking exhausted as he turned you to lie pressed against his side, your head on his chest.

“I worried about you today,” you slurred into his skin due to how tired you were, hand moving to rest where his heart was beating erratically as his arm tightened around you, gently stroking through your hair, your shoulder. “Please think ’bout the FBI,” your lips barely moved, already half asleep as you pressed a sloppy kiss to his chest. He was too tired now to even let his brain catch up with any sort of thought, so he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When he awoke the next morning, it was to find his apartment empty, no evidence of you except the smell on his sheets, the fingernails indented into his arms, and a note scrawled in your neat handwriting.

Took a cab, didn’t want to wake you after a tough night. I hope things work out, but please think about what I said, Javi. I just want you to be okay. I’ll call you later when I land, I’ll be in Laredo for a few days before going back to Washington. This is my boss’ number, I told him to keep an eye out for your call. Please call.

There was a neat little heart after your message and a number at the bottom.

Javier was angry after reading the note. Angry that you hadn’t woken him up to take you to the airport like he said he would do all week, angry that he had let you slip through his fingers, preemptively angry at himself, because he knew what he was about to do.

He crumpled the note in his hand and threw it, forcefully, into his trash before showering.

He ignored your call later that day and then again a few hours later when he was eating dinner alone in his office, feeling guilty about it the longer he left it.

He ignored your texts, from sorry if I’m interrupting any meetings, to must’ve missed you, to are you mad at me?, to I’m sorry please just let me know you’re okay.

Eventually he shut off his phone.

That lasted three days, and by the time he switched it back on he had several missed calls, two voicemails and a million texts, starting off worried and then quickly moving to anger.

It’s not that he knew why he was ignoring you, but his guess had been that he didn’t want to give up mid-fight with Cali, and he knew you wouldn’t like that. He didn’t want to disappoint you like he had disappointed everyone else in his life who meant something to him.

What he didn’t realise that was he was doing that anyway.

“Javier Peña, I can’t believe you’re acting this way,” your voice hissed in his ear when he finally braved listening to the first voicemail, and he winced. “You don’t have to call my boss, it’s not life or death, I just-“ You cut yourself off, a frustrated sigh leaving your lips, “I thought you knew how much I care about you, and I’m tired of watching from the sidelines as you kill yourself over your fucking job!”

It was a sucker punch to the gut and the throat all at once to hear you say you cared about him only to be immediately followed by such an angry tone.

“And-“ you continued, lowering your voice as if there were others around who could possibly overhear, “I don’t think this has anything to do with it, because I thought we were on the same page and it’s never been like this before, but if you’re doing this because we slept together, then you’re an even bigger asshole than I thought.”

That was somehow worse; that he had contributed in any way to you thinking so little of yourself that you had started to feel bad about having sex with him, that you believed he could do that to you based purely on the fact that you had had sex. That he would do that for that reason.

But then again, now he was thinking a little more rationally, he hadn’t given you a reason to not think that way.

“Please,” you begged, voice more pleading now than angry, “please let me know you’re okay. If I’ve offended you that much then I’ll never speak to you again if that’d make you happy, but please let me know you’re alive.” A beat. “Don’t make me go to Chucho.”

The second voicemail had been left in the early hours of that morning, almost two days after the first.

“Javi, you’re a fuckin’ asshole,” you seethed, voice slurred, and he could immediately picture what you looked like, drunk dialling to give him hell. “I can’t believe you would do this to me! I thought you lov-” A quiet hiccupping sound interrupted your sentence, “liked me? That I meant something to you? Am I not your- your bes’ friend? Y’should be ashamed of yourself! Look what you’ve done to me!” You had broken off softly, a quiet sniff in the background before sounding loudly again, “Y’made me cry at your cousin's quinceañera! An’ your dad keeps asking me wha- wha’s wrong and you’re making me hide from him! After he invited me!”

You sniffed loudly this time, and he heard a rustling on the line; he imagined you were scrubbing away tears. “If this is how you’re gonna treat me, then I don’t want anything to do with you. I sh- should’ve seen right through you, all those times I thought y’cared about me, that you might’ve even loved me, and this is what you do instead?! Well fuck you.”

He inhaled a sharp breath, letting himself really consider those words. You inhaled too, quieter, then his heart shattered as he heard your small gasps and sobs, and he knew exactly what you looked like as you tried desperately not to cry anymore, probably with your fingers pressed tightly to your lips. Or maybe you were whimpering because you were considering your next words, your parting shot, and obviously you went in for the kill. Why wouldn’t you, after what he had done?

“I don’t think your mom would like you for this.” Another small sob sounded as his jaw dropped. “She would be angry with you f-for treating me this way. A-and, just so you know, she sure as shit wouldn’t love to see what this job has done to you, what it is doing to you!”

There were a few moments’ pause where he could hear your heavy breathing in one ear and his heart hammering in the other.

“I don’t want to hear from you, Javi. I can’t keep letting myself get hurt over you. I hope you get the help you need one day, but you clearly don’t want it from me. I can’t watch this destroy you anymore. And you need to tell Chucho what you did, I’m not causing any more heartbreak for the Peña’s.” A soft sigh from you had his heart squeezing painfully in his chest.

“I-” A sharp intake of breath as you gasped your way through another sob. “Goodbye, Javi.”

That had been a week ago.

He’d been racked with guilt the entire time but had, understandably, been sent straight to voicemail when he eventually tried to call you back. Following that, he had restricted himself to sending two messages of apology.

He knew it wasn’t enough, that you deserved more than a fucking text message, but you didn’t want to hear from him, had said so yourself. The way your voice had hitched when you’d said you thought he might love you had haunted him. So he had tried to do right by you, had shoved his phone into his jacket pocket and spent almost every night since at a bar.

He groaned as he stood, finally deciding to call it a night and leaving some bills tucked under his empty glass. He walked home, slowly meandering his way there, his mind on you. Vaguely, he caught himself thinking that in another life he’d already be in the closest brothel, and he noted somewhere in the back of his mind that he had absolutely zero interest in that shit anymore. Barely had interest in it before, really, always so detatched; although tonight he had finally figured out why.

He had just thrown his key in the dish by the door, was tugging off his jacket when he heard it, the shrill ring of his cell. He sighed, wrenching his arms out of his jacket and fumbling in the pocket before pressing the answer button, almost dropping the phone as he brought it to his ear. He released a slow breath, pinching the bridge of his nose as he gruffed; “Peña.”

There was silence on the other end for long enough that he frowned, pulling the phone away to check the service before bringing it back to his ear; “Hola? Feistl, is that you?”

There was a small, barely audible sniff that had his heart racing before he heard you; “It’s just me.”

“Baby,” he breathed out.

“No, don’t-” you sounded harsh, voice hard, but he knew you had been crying, could tell by the slight waver in your voice, “you don’t get to call me that.”

He paused for a moment - that was fair. “You’re right,” he conceded, biting his lip to stop himself from using the pet name again, “I’m sorry.”

There was silence from both of you for a long minute, and he slowly made his way through his apartment to his bedroom, feeling his way through in the dark where the route wasn’t illuminated by the soft glow of the streetlights. He was collapsing onto his bed fully clothed when you finally spoke again.

“What do you want, Javier?”

The use of his full name stung, he had to admit, but again, he knew he deserved worse.

“I-” He held his breath, suddenly overcome with emotion. “It uh…” he cleared his throat, fighting against the stinging in his nose. “It doesn’t matter.”

A bitter laugh sounded, “Figures.”

He paused, halfway through unbuttoning his shirt. “What do you mean?” he asked softly before continuing to undress.

“I’m so- “ you sniffed again. “I guess I was just being stupid, that’s all.” Before he had a chance to question you, your voice sounded again, angrier this time, hissing. “Why do you always do this? You make me fucking crazy, you know that?”

He smirked, but there was no humor behind it - he actually felt like shit. “I knew it was a Colombian number and I spent the entire time just telling myself not to answer it… but I really fucking wanted to. I always want to when I know it’s you,” you trailed off and he struggled against the lump in his throat. “Even when you don’t want to talk to me.” He could picture your glare perfectly now that your voice had changed again, sharper.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he spoke without really thinking about what he was going to say next. “I should never have ignored you. You were only trying to help. I don’t even know why I did it.”

You sighed, “I never wanted it to feel like I was pushing you into it, y’know? I didn’t want to scare you, I just-” You took a deep breath. “Do you remember when we were in college? And you would disappear the night before big exams to go out drinking and I would call you an idiot for it?”

“Rightly so,” he quipped, frowning slightly at the quick change in subject as he leaned back against his pillows to toe off his boots. “What about it?”

“Well, rather than studying myself and making sure I at least knew what I was doing, I would spend the time I wasn’t with you worrying that you weren’t going to make it to the exams the next morning.”

“Still did though,” he smirked, a glimmer of humor there this time.

“Yeah, yeah. I said it at the time and I’m telling you again now; showing up that hungover to an 8am exam does not make you look cool, Mr DEA Attaché.”

“Why are we talking about college?” He finally asked, trying to get the conversation back on track.

“You were so chaotic, almost too twenty-something,” you exhaled softly. “Well, I spent all that time worrying about you in college. And then- then when your mom died, you disappeared on me for three days. And I get that, I got that. I can’t even begin to-” Whatever you were going to say, and Javier could guess, you stopped yourself, instead indulging the next piece of information for him to digest. “I spent every one of those days and nights at your house with your dad waiting for you to come home.”

He sat up straight. He hadn’t known that.

“Baby, what do you-”

“I said don’t, Javi,” you snapped and his mouth clamped shut around his words.

“Sorry,” he eventually mumbled; that one had slipped free. “I’m sorry.”

“I spent all that time there with your dad and I didn’t tell you because it didn’t matter anymore - you came home and you were safe and we could stop worrying about you. But then I couldn’t stop worrying about you, because you told me you weren’t coming to Washington - again, that was fine, I know why you stayed - but then every time I called you, you sounded fucking miserable. You hated that job, you hated the ranch, you hated Lorraine-”

“I didn’t hate her.”

“No,” you conceded, voice softening, “you didn’t hate her. You just didn’t love her, and that made it just as bad. Worse, even, when she was walking down the aisle for you knowing you didn’t love her.”

He nodded, accepting that. His relationship with Lorraine had been quick, messy, and he was just doing what other people his age were doing. Going through the motions. He had proposed to her almost as if he were in a fugue state, and only after about nine months of even knowing her. Nothing he had been doing in his life had felt right to him, but fuck it, he had thought, if everyone else is, he should be too, right? But he had never loved Lorraine. She knew it then, and he knew it now. Never felt for her the way he felt about-

“Leaving her was the best decision you ever made.” Your voice cut through his thoughts. “I told you that at the time.”

“Driving me away from my own wedding does not constitute telling me anything.”

“Yes it does - I helped you run. I literally drove you across state lines and told you every fifty miles. We were in that together, and don’t lie to me, you know that I’m right,” your voice that had turned teasing slipped away into more serious territory again.

“I worried about you then, too. Because you ran again. You let me drive you away from that Chapel and keep driving for hours, and then you turned back into that chaotic, twenty-something year old college boy and you ran off to Colombia and I didn’t get to see you again for years.”

His gut twisted; he remembers it. Had been chasing that high, that ease of breathing he had been searching for ever since meeting you, ever since knowing you biblically, not realizing what any of that actually meant. Javier started to feel hot and stood to open the bedroom window, knowing it wouldn’t do him any good.

“My point is, Javi,” he appreciated the change back to Javi, that was progress, “that I have spent years of my life worrying about you. I spoke to you almost every week when you were down there and I still would panic that you would be dead. I had Colombian newspapers delivered to Washington when he was setting off car bombs everywhere for fuck’s sake! Do you know what that felt like? To have to hold my breath every time I opened a damn paper or read a headline, even if I had spoken to you the night before?”

He fought the feeling of guilt that was washing over him as you continued, squirming where he sat as he listened. “No, you don’t. And even when I did hear your voice again, you weren’t- you weren’t happy, weren’t you. And I knew it. You knew it! I begged and begged you to stop, to come home and-”

“Come home and what?” He flopped back down onto his bed, rubbing his thumb across his forehead, attempting to stave off the headache building behind his eyes. “Come home and admit defeat? Go back to the fucking ranch?” He blew a sharp breath out through his cheeks, frustrated now. “Come back to Laredo and know you were in Washington and just, what? Be fine with that?”

You took a shaky breath. “You’d be back in Laredo and I’d be able to breathe a little easier knowing you were safe.”

Javier’s heart nearly stopped when you said you’d be able to breathe easier. Did you feel the same way he did? It certainly sounded like it.

“I’m not telling you all of this to make you feel bad, Javi, I’m just trying to make you understand that you’re important and you matter. I also need you to know that I want you alive, you asshole.”

“I’m alive now, baby.”

“Don’t Javi,” you breathed, but you didn’t sound convinced. “Please, don’t call me that,” you whispered, with zero resolve in your voice.

“Why not?” His voice had dropped, as if he was too scared to speak any louder, to shatter the quiet, ruin whatever was happening.

“Because you’ll just break my heart again.”

He couldn’t deny it this time - there were tears in his eyes. “That’s…” he trailed off, cleared his throat, “That’s the last thing I want to do.”

“I should hang up on you,” he sucked in a sharp breath at your words. If there was one thing he was certain about at this moment, it was that he categorically did not want you to do that. “I shouldn’t even have called you back.”

“Is that… Do you want that?” You were quiet for so long that he started to panic, scared that you might indeed want that, and then he wouldn’t hear from you again. “Please- please don’t.”

“I heard about Franklin Jurado,” you said instead. “I thought you might have called soon.”

“That-” He sighed deeply; of course the FBI would have heard about it by now, “That’s why I called earlier.” Your soft hum told him that you were listening, and he heard a shuffling, almost as if you were relaxing down into your bedsheets. He did the same, trying not to think about the thousands of miles that were separating you both

“I keep-” He sighed again, getting more frustrated. “I can’t help but feel like you’re right.” He spoke the words quietly into the darkness, afraid of what it could mean now that he’d said them aloud. “I keep fucking up down here. Everything I touch turns to shit, everyone I try to help ends up dead or as good as,” he noted the bitter tone in his voice and fought to keep it away.

“Javi, none of it is your fault.”

“You know that’s not true,” he said, unable to help the bitterness seeping in. He glanced at the foot of the bed, where he had sat the last time you were here, you kneeling on the floor between his thighs as he poured his heart out to you about Los Pepes. How could you sit there and say-

“No, I told you before, that wasn’t your fault. Franklin Jurado isn’t your fault, either, and neither is his wife. Stop letting yourself think that it is.” You released a soft sigh, sounding nervous when you spoke again. “This is what I’m talking about. Don’t you see what this job is doing to you?”

He hummed softly. He did see. He did see, but what’s more, he felt like he deserved it. As if you could read his mind, your voice sounded in his ear again.

“You deserve to put yourself first, Javi. You deserve to be at peace, to be happy, and-” you broke yourself off to take a deep, shaky breath, “Are you happy, Javi?”

There was no point in lying anymore. Lying to you now would only cause more upset, more hurt, and, after hearing your voicemails, he had vowed to never hurt you again. You’d revealed a lot tonight, showed him your perspective, let him in on things he didn’t know, even though he would have sworn he knew everything about you by now.

“I don’t think I’ve really been happy since college,” he closed his eyes when he eventually spoke into the darkness, as if that barrier would protect him somehow.

“Oh, baby,” your use of the pet name sent his heart soaring. “What would make you happy?” He didn’t speak for so long, trying to decide on his answer, that you spoke up again. “Please be honest with me,” you whispered, “I can’t stand it when you lie to me.”

“I think-” he swallowed thickly, cleared his throat, took a breath and bit the bullet, “I think you make me happy.”

If the words hadn’t been his, he’s not even sure he would have heard them, so the fact that you did was a miracle.

“I do?”

“So happy,” he breathed heavily through his nose, trying to steady his thrumming heart that felt like it might burst out of his chest. His thumbs twiddled, drumming a beat against his thigh as he gripped the phone tightly in his other hand. He needed a cigarette, but he was determined to hear your next words, so he didn’t move, didn’t breathe.

“You make me happy too,” you whispered, and he felt invincible. For just a fleeting moment, he allowed his smile to take over his face.

“Even when I don’t call you and make you worry because I’m an asshole?”

“Such an asshole,” he could tell you were smiling through your quiet voice. “Javi, I don’t know if I have it in me to keep doing this.” At your pause, Javier felt his feeling of invincibility come crashing back down through his stomach, “So I’m only going to ask you one more time.”

He gulped, knew what was coming.

“Please just… Please think about it? I need you,” your sniff and the waver in your voice told him you were crying again. “If these last few weeks have told me anything, it’s that I fucking need you. I need that flirty asshole from college in my life. I need you to want- to want to forgive yourself, I need-” you sighed, dropping down to a whisper for the final few words, “I just need you.”

“I’ll think about it, baby,” he admitted, smiling to himself again at your admission, and was surprised to find that agreeing to your request didn’t eat him up quite as much as he thought it might. In fact, it was made so much easier by your quiet gasp of relief, by the sound of the smile in your voice. And fuck, he knew he’d do anything to make you happy.

“You will?” He could tell by your tone you were trying to hold back, force the grin off your face, “You’ll really think about it?” At his quiet noise of affirmation, he could hear your attempts to even out your breathing, “Thank you, Javi. I-” You seemed as if you wanted to say more but instead settled on, “Thank you.”

“But I do need to finish things up here,” he explained his caveat, “I can’t just up and leave.”

“Of course not,” you didn’t sound surprised, but you did sound a little hopeful, even though he knew you would be fighting to tame that. “Mr. Big Boss Man has stuff to take care of, can’t have you skipping out on your country, Sir.”

Javier knew you were teasing him about his promoted position in the Embassy just like you had done when he picked you up from the airport, but he groaned before he could stop himself, biting down on his knuckle to try to muffle the sound and clearing his throat gruffly.

“Oh Javi,” you sounded like you were grinning and Javier knew that if he could see your eyes, they would be sparkling. You dropped your voice to an almost-purr, “caught. Did you like that?”

“If I can’t call you baby, then you can’t call me sir.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” you hummed down the line, “and don’t think I haven’t noticed those baby’s you’ve slipped in, sir.” Your giggle, paired with your flirty tone, sent blood pumping south and oxygen flowing through his veins once more, chest expanding, feeling freer than he had in days.

“Tell me, baby,” his voice was gravelly as he stretched flat on his back.

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me that you need me again,” he whispered.

You paused, serious again, flirtatious tone gone, “I do need you, Javi. More than I think you’ll ever know.”

“Is it as much as I need you?”

“Well, I don’t know,” your sheets rustled again, your flirty tone back, and your voice like honey, as you breathed out softly, “how much do you need me?”

“So much, baby,” he rasped out. He swore if he concentrated enough he could smell you on his sheets. An impossibility, seeing as they had in fact been changed since you had slept there, but his mind was racing, blood draining further and further from his brain. “I’ve missed you since you left.”

“Yeah?” Your sweet, sleepy voice had him cursing, and he found himself making a high-pitched noise of agreement he had never heard himself make before, “Tell me more.”

“Missed you being here, missed you being in my bed,” he gasped, rutting into the air at the image that flitted behind his eyelids. “Can’t walk into this room without thinking of you lookin’ so pretty on your knees for me,” you cursed softly in his ear and he released a quiet groan, “letting me touch you, fuck you.”

As he spoke softly to you, voice low, eyes closed, he used his free hand to unbutton and unzip his jeans, releasing his now aching cock from the rough denim confines and shifting his hips to rid himself of them entirely.

“Javier Peña, I heard that. Are you going to touch yourself?” You sounded almost excited, voice sounding a cross between teasing and strained, and his hand froze over the head of his throbbing cock.

He paused, taking in a deep, shuddering breath, “Do you want me to?”

You also paused, mirroring his breath as you considered your answer, before whispering, “Yes. I- Yes, baby. Touch yourself.”

He noted the shift from sir to baby.

Liked it.

“Tell me what to do. Please, baby,” he added, breathless with anticipation of hearing your instructions.

This was a lot of new territory for the both of you; phone sex, him specifically handing over control to you, awaiting your guidance. His heart hammered; he hoped this was okay.

You paused, he heard it in your breathing, letting the quiet moment stretch on before you asked, practically purred, “Are you touching that pretty cock yet?”

Javier let his head fall back onto his pillow as he bit down on his lip, hard, to stop a moan escaping at your filthy words. His breath caught in his throat as he stifled his groan of pleasure to answer you.

“Not yet… but I’m hard, baby. So hard.”

“Good,” you whispered, and Javi pictured you biting your lip for some reason. The image sent his eyes rolling into the back of his skull. “Touch it now, baby. Slow. Imagine it’s me. Think of the last time we saw each other.”

He tried to muffle another groan as he finally wrapped his fist around himself, hips jumping at the contact. “No, no, let me hear you, baby. Need to hear you.”

At your permission, he released a low, breathless moan, his fist speeding up slightly when he heard your soft whimper.

“Are you touching yourself too, cariño?” You hummed softly in response. “You sound so pretty like this,” he panted.

You whined, words rolling together to meld with the beautiful sound, “Are you close?” He grunted his affirmation, barely registering that you were purring down the line again. “Tell me what you think about when you usually touch yourself.”

“You,” he responded too quickly, panting now, “always you. That mouth of yours. Your perfect pussy. Ay, por favor,” his eyes squeezed shut, practically salivating at the thought of you spread out on this very bed, whimpering under his touch.

“Please what, baby?” You sounded just as breathless as he felt.

“Please let me come,” he begged, “Need it. Need you to- to let me.”

You were quiet for a moment. He was right there, precome dripping down his cock, aiding the slide of his fist and echoing the obscene sounds of skin on skin around the room, down the line to you. He bit his lip, trying and failing to muffle a desperate whine as he slowed down to keep himself just on the edge.

“Are you gonna come back home, Javi?”

“Yes,” he was nodding resolutely, eyes still closed, his imagination running wild with images of you fluttering across his vision, hand down your sleep shorts, fingers circling your clit, fucking faster into your soaked pussy in time with his strokes, “yes baby, I’ll come home. Please, please-”

“Do you promise?” Your whisper sent shivers through him and he whimpered again, not even caring what he sounded like anymore.

“I do, baby, promise I-” he broke off with a short moan, more precome dripping down, and he hissed through his teeth at the sensation, “I promise I’ll come home.”

“Good boy,” you whined, and he groaned loudly. “Come with me now, baby.”

No sooner had the words left your mouth was he releasing a string of moans and pants as he came. He listened to your gasps of pleasure sounding in his ear, your moans of his name as he spilled across his fist and stomach. He jerked his hips upwards a few more times, fucking into his fist until every drop oozed out onto his sweaty skin and your moans had quietened in his ear.

“Baby?” He spoke quietly, awaited your soft hum before continuing, “Thank you.”

You laughed a little, “’m sure you could’ve gotten there without my help.”

“Y’know that’s not what I meant,” he tsked. “Thank you for worrying, thank you for not giving up on me. Thank you for… caring about me.”

“I do,” you whispered, “care about you. So much,” you sounded tired, were making those soft noises you made when you were getting comfy, were on the edge of sleep. “Please don’t ignore me again, don’t shut me out. Don’t break my heart again.”

He was shaking his head as he reached for his shirt to lazily wipe himself clean before climbing under his sheets. “I won’t. And I’m sorry, truly. For everything.”

It didn’t feel like enough. It wasn’t the right way to apologize to you, wasn’t the right words or anywhere near enough words to properly explain. You didn’t seem to mind at that moment in time.

You hummed, sounding content, “I can think of some ways you can make it up to me.”

“”Yes ma’am,” he stretched and read the time on his alarm clock, quickly figuring that for you it was almost 3am. “Go to sleep, baby. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Another hum, “G’night, Javi.”

He dropped his voice to a quieter whisper, “G’night, baby.”

When he pressed the button to finally end the call, he let the cell drop onto his sheets, rolled over, and felt so exhausted that he didn’t have time to overthink anything that had just happened.

All he knew was that he fell asleep with an empty mind for the first time in years.

The knock sounded loudly along the empty hotel corridor, making Javier glance in both directions in case he disturbed anyone this late at night. He waited a few moments, and raised his knuckles to knock again, but heard you shuffling around. He leaned against the frame of the door as he waited for you to unlock it.

When you opened the door his eyes flicked over your form, sleep shorts and cropped tank hiding underneath one of his shirts - the same pink shirt you had been wearing your last night in Colombia, the one he couldn’t find for the life of him when he was packing. It made his insides warm, made his heart jump. Your feet were covered in fluffy socks and his lip quirked upwards at the sight.

“Oh hey!” In your hands was a copy of El Tiempo that you held it up with an excited grin, “Aren’t you that guy who threw a grenade at the Colombian government then left the proverbial room?”

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the smirk spreading across his face, “Are you going to invite me in or not?”

You stepped aside, but put a hand on his chest as he made to step by you. He froze at your touch and looked to see your face had turned serious as you slowly raised the cover of the newspaper, his black and white face staring back at him.

“Only if I can get your autograph.”

“Shut up,” he reached out and shoved you, smiling as you giggled and practically skipped into the room ahead of him. He reached behind him to close the door then glanced at you, finding you sitting back on the edge of the bed, “Is that my shirt?”

“I plead the fifth.” You didn’t miss a beat, grinning widely before shrugging, “It’s comfy. You’ve got good taste in shirts.”

“I know,” his eyes narrowed, “it’s one of my favourites.”

“Can’t bring myself to say I’m sorry.”

“So,” he sat next to you and flopped back on the bed, “are you gonna get me a drink?” His thoughts travelled back to the last time he was on the edge of a bed, laid back, with you in such close proximity, and he cleared his throat, his thumb coming up to rub gently between his brows.

“Get your own drink,” you shot back, folding up the paper and throwing it behind you, towards the top of the bed.

“I left Colombia for you, the least you could do is get me a drink.”

You had paused for a moment too long, frozen, and when he glanced up at you, he found your eyes shining, a soft smile on your face that he returned. You moved silently off the bed before coming back a minute later, pressing a miniature whisky into his hand and lying on your side next to him. You leaned forward, pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek and then curled in towards him.

“Enjoy your drink,” you whispered, unscrewing the cap of your miniature tequila. He unscrewed his bottle, clinked it with yours and then settled his other arm under his head, staring at the ceiling fan.

“When do you leave?” He asked after he had drained half the bottle.

“Tomorrow,” you spoke quietly, and he turned his head to watch you take another sip from your tequila.

“Shame,” he said ,”I told my pop to take the day off, told him you were gonna help me fix the rest of the damn fence.”

You laughed out loud and he grinned, listening to your laugh dying down quietly until you hummed, “No sorry, I’ll be hungover on a plane tomorrow.”

It was his turn to hum as he took another sip from his bottle.

“How is it being back? At the ranch?”

Javier thought about his answer. How had it been to be back?

When he had landed here only four days ago, he had barely had a day to himself before there was a last minute welcome home party thrown for him by the nosiest resident in Laredo, who had pieced it together when she saw you arriving at the airport the day before he did and then saw the moving van heading towards the ranch. Mrs Johnson had cornered his dad, presented her evidence, and then planned an entire party based on Chucho’s responses.

He had seen you only briefly at that party, which seemed to be nothing but a revolving door of people he hadn’t seen in years. You had walked towards him when there had been a break in the stream of revelers, wrapped your arms tightly around his waist and buried your face in his neck, whispering that you were glad he was home against his throat before leaving a soft, discreet kiss there.

Javier had then spent all of yesterday and most of today helping his father at the ranch, throwing himself into the work that needed done to keep himself moving, keep his mind off of his most recent problem. His dad had noticed, of course, and almost immediately called him out on it all.

He had been staring out to the river, arm resting on his shovel, when Chucho’s voice had called him out of his head.

“¿Estás bien, hijo?”

“Yeah,” he gruffed, clearing his throat and turning to find his dad dragging a fencepost from the truck bed. Javi rushed forward and took it from him, hoisting it onto his shoulder and carrying it to the next section of the fence and dropping it down with a groan.

“You thinkin’ about it?” Chucho was watching him through a squinted gaze, eyes shadowed by his hat against the midday Texas sun. “México?”

Javier gave a slight shake of his head, casting his mind over the last few months. Since swearing to you over the phone that he would come home, he had discovered that the Colombian government had been bought by the Cali cartel; his arrests of two of the four godfathers might not hold up for long despite his teams tireless and continued efforts; and better yet, he discovered that the American Ambassador - and half of the CIA - had fucking known about it the entire time. He had been fighting an uphill battle and was sick of it. He had drafted statement after statement as he quietly packed up to move back home, all of which had been shot down by the Ambassador, and that, for him, had been the straw that broke the camel's back. It was as good a time as any to get out.

He had gone on the record, called the Colombian government a narco-democracy, and handed in his resignation all in one day.

He had been handing in his gun and badge after his exit interview when he’d been approached. Say the word and I’ll make this bullshit resignation go away, you can help us fight the real enemy. He’d responded with a grunt, wanting nothing more than to get out of Colombia. What else is a guy like you gonna do?

What else, indeed?

Javier pushed his aviators off his face and wiped his brow as he responded to his dad, “I’ve done enough. I’m through.”

Chucho watched him silently for a moment before handing him a cold beer from the cooler at his feet. “So what’s got you so quiet, then?”

Javier took a few moments to gather his thoughts, to ponder why he was even asking this to begin with. He took a sip from his can and steeled himself. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that she stayed when mom died?”

He didn’t think he had to mention your name, and he was right. He watched Chucho’s face carefully as his eyes softened in recognition.

“Ah,” Chucho took a sip from his own can, “Well, I thought you knew.”

Javier hummed, shook his head gently and continued staring out at the river.

“Yeah, she uh, she knew you were taking it hard. Knew I was, too, I suppose,” he bobbed his head to the side in an almost shrug. “Figured you knew she was here. Actually, at the time I figured you’d asked her to stay to keep an eye on me when you went off.”

Javier frowned, a small shake of his head confirming that no, he hadn’t asked you to do that. “Yeah,” Chucho continued, “I figured that out a little while later. The day you came back.”

“How so?” His throat had gone dry.

“I watched her face when you walked through the door,” Chucho shrugged then nudged Javier’s arm with his elbow, “She was standing next to me and your mamá’s wedding photo, on the bottom step.”

He knew the one Chucho was talking about, had looked at it every time he walked down the stairs. His mom had told him about the photo so many times before; the photographer had said something silly to make them laugh, and it had worked. Chucho was midlaugh, head tilted back slightly, but his mom, his beautiful mamá, had turned her whole head to cast her loving gaze over Chucho. Her smile lit up her whole face, chin resting lightly atop her hand that was resting on his shoulder.

His dad had always teased that she had ruined the photo by not looking at the camera, but Javier knew that he secretly liked it because it was his mom’s favourite photo.

He was brought back to the present by Chucho’s voice. “The way she looked at you? Hell, son, standing next to that picture, she looked just like your mamá.”

Javier’s heart gave a lurch before starting to beat triple time. “It just clicked for me then, watching her. Reckon I knew then that she liked you. She hadn’t been there for me at all; she’d been waiting for you. She just deflated when she saw you, like she was holding her breath the whole time she’d been here.”

There it was again, Javier thought. Breathing.

“She also finally slept when you came home,” Chucho chuckled, “That girl was waiting for me every morning to start the chores, helped me with errands throughout the day, groceries, making arrangements for the funeral, and she was awake all through the night pottering around, cleaning. I don’t know what you remember, but as soon as you both sat on that couch and you told her you were okay, she was out like a light.”

Javier’s breathing became shallow. He didn’t realise how quiet he had gotten, how introspective, until his dad interrupted him one more time.

“Seems like you’ve just about caught up with the rest of us now,” he teased, and Javier rolled his eyes as he stood straighter, stretching and cracking his back out.

“Do you think-”

“Yes, Javier, I think you’re good for each other. Now go get another fencepost.”

He grumbled when he found his footing again, stepping towards the truck bed once more, “Wasn’t even gonna ask that.”

“No?” Chucho grinned, a slightly innocent lilt to his voice, “What were you gonna ask then?”

“Do you think,” he said pointedly, voice growing smaller as he finally voiced the question that had been running through his mind for months now, “I’ve waited too long?”

His dad clapped him on the shoulder as he passed by, “Only one way to find out.”

That’s how he found himself standing over the phone book before dinner, dialling a number he should’ve called months ago.

Javier dragged his gaze over your form, lying curled into his side, and found himself wanting to keep you there forever. “It’s been fine, I guess,” he shrugged, finally answering your question. “Still too many Mrs Johnson’s wanting to talk about Escobar,” he rolled his eyes slightly, smiling softly when you breathed out a quiet laugh, “but there’s loads to do on the ranch too, so I can distract myself from them,” he shrugged.

“Didn’t ask if there was a lot to do,” your eyes narrowed.

He shifted slightly, “I spent so long down there with a purpose, it’s just weird getting used to not having one, I suppose.”

You drained the rest of your tequila and reached for his arm, curling your hand around his bicep and squeezing gently, “You’ll figure it out.”

He was quiet for a long time. So long, in fact, that when he sipped the last of his whisky and glanced down at you, you were almost asleep, nuzzling into the muscles you had squeezed.

“Hey,” he whispered into your ear. You blinked your eyes open and smiled blearily up at him. “What if I told you I think I already have? Figured it out?”

You frowned slightly, and sat up sleepily, propping yourself on your elbow next to him but keeping your soft grip on his arm, rubbing gentle circles that soothed him. “What are you gonna do?”

He sat up and mirrored your position, taking your hand from his arm and holding it in his instead. He took a breath as he lifted your knuckles to his lips, pressing a long, lingering kiss to them.

“I already did it,” he pressed a shorter kiss to your knuckles then stroked his thumb over them, whispering, “I called your boss, baby.”

Your eyes widened and your jaw dropped, “When?”

He glanced at his watch, seeing it was almost midnight, “About six hours ago.”

“You shit,” you hissed out, but said it through a smile that was growing brighter. “Are you serious?”

“Deadly,” he mustered a serious tone, glad to see the happiness sparkling in your eyes when he looked into them. “Got any interview tips?”

You laughed loudly, a belly laugh that lit up your entire face and stopped his heart, but then clamped your hand over your mouth as you giggled, and he knew you were worried about your voice travelling through the paper thin walls. You sat up properly, tucking a leg under you as the other dangled off the edge of the bed. Grabbing both his arms, you guided him up into a similar position.

“You really did this? You called my boss and he set up an interview?”

He was nodding along with your words. “I did. You were right, baby,” he grabbed your hands and held them tight, “you were right about it all. I- I didn’t see it at first. Well,” he backtracked a little, “I did, but I didn’t want to. I pushed it away, tried to cope with it in shitty ways. But none of it worked.”

You were shuffling closer to him, running your hands up and down his arms softly, so softly, as he continued.

“The only thing that worked was you. Ever since college, since my mom,” your hands stilled, squeezed gently, then continued when he took another deep breath, “I feel like I’ve only ever been able to breathe, to think properly, when I’ve been with you.”

He stayed silent for a moment to let it sink in. “Not seeing you for that long when I was down there, it ruined me. That’s why I was so…” He struggled to settle on the correct word, but he didn’t have to. You knew exactly what he meant. Of course you did.

“I understand,” you whispered, slowly bringing his hand to your lips and it was your turn to kiss his knuckles now.

“And that’s how it feels to me; being with you feels like breathing,” he watched you blink furiously, as if you were fighting tears. “I’m so sorry, baby,” his gaze stayed fixed on your hands, holding his, watching you squeeze it gently in your grip. “I’m so sorry for always making you worry so much. I’m sorry for not listening to you. I’m sorry I put you through what I did, for all those years. Even college,” he released a small laugh, relieved when you did the same. “It wasn’t fair to put it all on you, that was the last thing I wanted to do. The only thing I’ve wanted to do, ever since that first night, was keep you happy. Maybe make you laugh. And I don’t think I’ve done a very good job of either of those things over the years.”

“You also,” you widened your eyes, a teasing lilt to your voice as you angled your head to meet his eyes, “wanted to sleep with me,” you smirked and he found himself matching it, “and make out with me when we were studying.”

He grinned, “True.” He breathed out slowly then glanced up at you through his lashes, “Still true.”

It was your turn to grin, “I know.”

“Once again, you can’t blame a man for trying,” he shrugged one shoulder and laughed quietly along with you until you calmed down and took a breath of your own.

“You don’t have to apologize, baby. You don’t! Not for those things.” You insisted when he started to shake his head, your palm coming to rest against the side of his jaw.

“I like you, Javi,” you whispered, gaze not meeting his as you looked down at your hands still entwined together. He couldn’t fight the smile, “More than that, really. I… I care about you so much, so deeply. I don’t care what it took to get you here, I’m just glad that you are.”

Javier struggled to contain his smile and squeezed your hands in his. Finally he flicked his eyes to yours to find you watching him. “Okay, seeing as we’re putting cards on the table, I’ve got one more for you.”

“Let’s hear it.”

Javier let go of your hand and snuck one up to gently cup your face. “Those voicemails you left me a few months ago…” He watched as you grimaced and shook his head softly to let you know it was okay, “You were right. About all of it, but definitely about the part when you said you thought I ‘might even lov-like you’.”

Your eyes narrowed but there was a small smile on your lips that Javier saw right through. “So you like me, too?”

He shook his head and grinned, pulling you in for a kiss that felt freeing as you surged forward and wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers in his hair.

“No baby, I think I might even love you.”

thank you so much for persevering reading! please consider letting me know what you think if you made it this far, i'd love to hear your thoughts!

np tags for some moots and folk who interacted with the wip wednesday post (if you want removed, please tell me and i shall remove you right away!): @hellishjoel @mrsmando @sugarcoated-lame @pedropeach @guiltyasdave @amanitacowboy @its-dee-lovely @msjarvis @chronically-ghosted @limpthislovearound-blog @letsgobarbs @myownwholewildworld @almostfoxglove @gothcsz @goodwithcheese @ananonymousaffair @cuppajoel @milla-frenchy @mrsmando @kirsteng42 @juletheghoul @msjarvis @yxtkiwiyxt @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @bergamote-catsandbooks @cuntyhunty22 @megangovier @pedrostories

#omg!! i have so many emotions!!#this was so lovely...and hot...and angsty #so good!!#javier peña x reader #javier peña smut #javier peña

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cozylittlepigeon · 21 hours ago

Text

one trail or another {din djarin x reader}

Pairing: Din Djarin x F! Reader

Summary: At the end of a long day, running into a Mandalorian is the last thing you expected to happen when the lift to your temporary apartment stalls.

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: flashbacks of the attack on madalore and aq ventina, readers home world was also attacked, forced proximity, itty bitty panic attack, din is soft in this cause i wanted him to be, kissing, i think that's it!

A/N: this is a little piece i whipped up for @toomanystoriessolittletime writing challenge -> 47 minutes in heaven. also perfect timing with all the new mandalorian content from the star wars celebration yesterday!

An automated ding rings through the air, the lift that came at your beck and call opening. You tap your fingers on the side of your thigh, right over the flowing fabric of your tunic, nerves getting the best of you. You just wanted to go home and enjoy in a canter of something bubbly after the day you’ve had.

The doors hush as they open, clanging loudly as they do so completely- to reveal a figure already inside.

Gleaming, beautiful armor fastened securely to a broad, tall man is directly in the middle. His visor is dark and blank, unreadable as you shuffle on your feet before biting your bottom lip and enter the lift with a tight hand on the strap to your bag. He’s a little intimidating, his form so broad and tall. You duck your head as you settle into the minimal space beside him, voice gone from you as you feel your heartbeat pick up.

The lift barely makes it up two floors of the tall building before it’s jolting to a sudden stop. Your bag thuds heavily to the floor as you loose your balance, body careening toward the interior wall as you stumble back. You brace for the contact, already anticipating a headache, eyes clenched shut but you never collide with it. Your silent companion has his arms wrapped around you as he stands firm on spread out feet, keeping you both from jostling as the lift sways for a few moments more.

Your breath wooshes out at the sting of how cold his armor is even through your clothing, the leather of his fingers a shock as they hold you tight around your ribs and the back of your head. His chest plate is firm where your cheek rests against it. He’s cradling you to his body, a thick thigh between yours, your head never cracks against the back of the lift. When the lift finally stills, you glance up at him and see the visor already aimed down at you.

Your fingers grip the heavy duty fabric of his flight suit, just underneath the pauldrons fastened to his shoulders.

And then the lights go out, dousing you both in complete darkness.

You go completely still with a sharp breath, memories plaguing you of the last time you were plunged into darkness so completely, so intensely. Only this time there isn’t the lingering scent of gunpowder in the air and dust from crumbled concrete and glass.

“I got you, mesh’la.” His voice rumbles against your chest, filling the space even if your mind is wiped completely clean of anything but this very moment. Your realize that the odd wheezing sound you hear is coming from you, deep in your throat as you take sharp breaths. Metal, you smell and taste metal and see red behind your eyelids, so much red. From the deep, rich cloth you used to wear to the blood splattered all around and covering your hands. The phantom physicality of being pushed has you gasping and pressing into the solid form holding you tight.

“Easy now, you’re okay.” The Mandalorian’s voice is even, far more controlled and that alone seems to sooth some of the panic rising in your nerves.

“W-what’s your job here?” You try to distract yourself as the lift groans as the cables go taut above and below you, racketing up your heart rate even more.

“What makes you think I’m on a job?” His fingers dig into your back where he holds you. The thigh between your legs tenses and you feel lightheaded. You try to focus on the feel of him, on the way his helmet is relaying the gentle rasp of his breath through the modulator.

“Because I’ve never seen you here before,” You carefully detangle yourself from him, body lighting up and you think that his own hands linger as yours do. You back yourself into the wall of the lift, silence deafening between you now. Assuming you said the wrong thing, you bring your palms up to your eyes and rub at them, exhaustion and self-consciousness the only things you feel after the long day you’ve had. Your body slides down the wall until you’re sitting against it, legs crossed as

“I’m working a job, yes.” His voice comes from beside you, startling you but you don’t flinch or show that you didn’t hear him move about the small space.

He’s searching for someone who has beskar, a lot of it. Won it in an illegal gambling ring and was rather harsh when confronted by those who tried to jump in the aftermath of the game- seems they were pretty convinced that the person cheated them- played them into a false sense of comfortability that the game would end in their favor. He thinks, briefly, for a moment that it’s a lost cause. The trail only led to this city, guiding him from two different ports at two different planets.

Then it went cold and he decided to rent a room for the night, a small relief he doesn’t normally indulge in. The cramped cockpit of his small ship and the small, cooing figure he misses guiding his decision.

He wants the beskar, but he knows he needs to rest as well before setting off to scour the city.

“I’ve seen your kind before, they came to the rescue of my home world. A long time ago.” Your memories play out, the ones of cramped and dusty spaces. Of blaster shots and explosions. Red fabric stained dark. When you had emerged, it was too late. The blood you were splattered with was alarming, resulting in your extended stay at a medic center on an entirely different planet. The only one in the room with you had been a blue armored Mandalorian that left the moment you woke up.

“We are a sparse people, now. Perhaps we extended ourselves into near extinction with our rescuing.”

It’s certainly an interesting statement, one you think he’s been mulling over since the attack that nearly wiped them from the planet. You remember it vividly, you remember the destruction of your own world all the same.

“Mercy and kindness override wrath,” You know it all to well, the sentiment you let sit in the open air you now share with someone who feels all too familiar and foreign at the same time. The muscles in your stomach jolt, the mechanics hidden underneath the skin there are beginning to cool down. If more time passes, they’ll power off completely, the spring needs to be replaced and you’ve put it off until the end of the day.

You must’ve made a noise as you hold a hand to the spot underneath your clothing because you hear the shuffle of fabric beside you.

“Are you hurt?”

“My mechanics need to be replaced.” Removing your hand, you glance at your communication link on your wrist as it beeps. Signaling the exact thing you already knew, there was someone on your tail. But you suspect it’s the man right beside you in the dead and stalled lift.

The glow of the screen is dull, but you read the time all the same. It’s been nearly half an hour since the lift trapped you both inside it.

“You’re a cyborg.” It’s not exactly an accusation, but it is more a statement than a question aimed at you in that deep, resonating voice through the helmet.

“No,” you huff a laugh as you feel the very small currents cease their humming. “I’m very much human, don’t you fret. Just the result of a bad injury that wasn’t treated in time.”

You weren’t so lucky as the only other person who you recall seeing ducking and weaving around debris flying through the air and the droids that mercilessly took down every person that crossed their paths as they ran run buildings and tried to escape. A little boy, with tan skin and dark hair. The last glimpse you had of him was his parents lowering him into a supply bunker. Your vision through a small hole in the large slabs of concrete encasing you blocked by blue armor.

When it was clear again, both the group of armored fighters and the boy were gone.

But you don’t worry for him any longer, as you’re sure he’s grown into the man beside you. Taken into the care and oversight of the very people he’s pledged his life too. The ones who you’ve kept tabs on in your travels, the ones who left you a pendant to connect with them should you need to- should you need more help from them.

The cables groan once again, signaling power running through the lines once again. As the lift begins to hum at a low frequency, you wrap a hand around your middle and begin to stand. Large hands are on you once again, hooking in an elbow and helping you back up to your feet. He’s as silent as you are.

But you know who he is and he doesn’t know that you’re the one he’s been searching for.

His hands don’t lift when you’re both upright. He’s close, his armor is cool even in the warm space from your shared breaths. He must be tired too, because his feet scuff when the lift jolts suddenly back to life and the lights flicker back on.

Without missing a beat, the lift begins to ascend again, like it wasn’t just shut down for nearly an hour.

Connecting two people who once occupied the same planet, lead the same life despite being completely different now.

He finally releases you when the lift comes to a smooth stop on your floor. Stepping back from you as the doors open. He follows a few paces behind, helmet swiveling as he takes in the number plaques beside each door. He’s about to open one a few down and across from yours when you turn to him and let out a low hum that has his helmet turning quickly.

With a crooked smile and a shove to open your unlocked door, you step aside with words that have him narrowing his eyes and palming the blaster in the holster at his hip.

“Don’t you want the beskar you came all this way for, Din?”

The little boys bright smile flashes in your mind and you wonder what it looks like now in his matured face. Does he have scruff, are his eyes still that dazzling brown that catches the light and turns amber?

He’s stalking toward you with silent steps, his hand wrapping around the handle of his blaster as he stands on the other side of the open door. His helmet peeks inside the apartment, assessing the empty space. The velvet bag on the dining table catches his eyes through the visor but the sensors don’t pick up any threats or hidden heat sources.

The dark visor trains solely on you. It would be intimidating if you weren’t positive you knew who was hidden behind it. With a dip of your head, you reach for the pendant around your neck and pull it over the fabric of your tunic. The glint of the beskar skull tells him all he needs to know.

His cape flutters as he moves through the door, his fingers twitching on his weapon as the door closes and locks behind him.

“No tricks here, the beskar is yours by right. It’s important to your people. I was simply taking it from the very people who stole it from you to begin with.” You reason with the man who looks ready for a fight, you’re sure he would attack simply on the basis of you knowing his true name and nothing more. It’s a secret now, a threat to his entire way of life- of who he’s become.

“Your trail went cold in the shuttle depot.” The blaster is returned to the holster at his hip. His gloved hands reach for the bad and he’s lifting an ingot of beskar from within it. Its reverent, the way he looks down at it, the gleam of it something that brings him a little bit of peace.

“All I did was go to work and then came home. Went right back on shift this morning.” You step further into the space. He doesn’t move or seem to be on alert any longer, even when you settle into one of the chairs at the able and pull a small coil from your bag.

“Then, how?” You feel the wright of his gaze on you, roving over the pendant left over your tunic to the way your hands press into your middle to disengage a panel. You lift the fabric up just enough to display the little bit of yourself that isn’t human and use nimble fingers to remove a burnt out looking coil.

“I tend to run cold due to the mechanics in my middle. Doesn’t leave much of a lingering warmth for your helmet to trace. It gets lost in the shuffle of every other set of steps.” You replace it with the new one from your bag. “And I know your name because you told me that first day of school. You were nervous, I remember that much too, though I doubt you’re subjected much to that feeling these days.”

And suddenly he remembers it too, the way he was swept from the very rubble you were. A toothless smile set into the kind face of a young girl his age swims up in his mind’s eye. He had been nervous, the second to last time he announced his name. But it wasn’t because it was the first day of school, it had been because of that little girls giggling stirring butterflies in his stomach.

He always wondered if she made it out like he did, though he received no answers from those who took him in. Told him he was the only survivor. But he wasn’t, because he’s pretty kriffing sure that that same little girl is now sitting in front of him and effortlessly changing a component of her mechanics. The mechanics you claim are from a life-threatening injury.

As soon as the panel is pushed back into place, you’re being lifted from your seat. Gloved hands cradle your face as the visor peers over you.

“They told me I was the only survivor.” His words are low, almost as if they’re a whisper through the modulator.

“I made it.” You whisper though you’re not even sure he can hear it over the loud rattling of your heart against the inside of your ribs. Then suddenly the hiss of his helmet being disengaged drowns it all out, catching you off guard as you flinch at the puff of air against your face. You clench your eyes tight, but his gravel rasped voice is close as his bare nose brushes against yours.

“We made it.” His lips press to yours; a firm kiss you were both destined to share on a sunny afternoon between childish giggles as you grew closer through years of friendship. But it’s okay that it’s shared now, that time had to pass by you both as different paths were walked- different lives were led. The paths intertwine, the paths finally connected and it was all thanks to a kriffing faulty lift.

for my fellow din girlies (gn): @dindjarindiaries @sin-djarin @djarins-cyare @burntheedges @saradika @littlemisspascal @the-mandawhor1an

#sweeeeeeeet #din djarin x reader #din djarin #the mandalorian

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cozylittlepigeon · 22 hours ago

Text

father figure II

a/n: Y'all really pulled for Clint to win the poll, and I am nothing if not committed to giving you want you want! 💕 Thanks to @foli-vora & @just-here-for-the-moment for screaming at me about this and for letting me scream at them about it too. I know we're all pretty messed up about...well, you know, so lets focus on this hot older man being soft. xoxo

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, oral sex (female receiving), dirty talk, shitty dad (neglect), absent mother (abandonment issues), allusions to illegal activity, domestic violence, daddy kink, secret relationship, period piece - takes place in 1987, Clint being a big guard dog for you and others, and riding a motorcycle because of course he would, let me know if I missed any! (I haven’t seen the movie, so I went rogue in terms of where he lives, his backstory and pets)

Pairing: Clint Flood x F!Reader

Ko-fi link 🥲💕

word count: 6.2k

reblogs are appreciated

Masterlist

The days leading up to Thursday crawl, every minute until you see him again like a slow drip from a leaky faucet, each one indistinguishable from the last. Nothing was worse than the night before though, even with the exhaustion of a long shift, of being on your feet all day and dealing with picky customers, sulky teens and unruly children racing down the aisles, sleep was a stranger once you got into bed. The promise of seeing him, possibly going on a real date–or, whatever it was he had planned was too exciting to let you succumb to that heavy feeling in your limbs.

The next morning found you curled up in that same position as the night before. With more energy than was necessary you were up and jumping into the shower. Your mind wandered as you scrubbed, all of the different possibilities of what he’d planned. Questions about what to wear, which shoes, would he want you to dress up? Question after question kept popping up as you rinsed and shut off the water. What would he wear? A toothpaste covered smile stares back at you at the thought of him in a suit.

The house is empty, but that’s nothing new.

It’s peaceful without the frantic energy of your father bumbling about, the sounds of kids playing outside comes through the window, melding with the low hum of the little radio in the kitchen. You wonder idly what time he’ll come get you, hopefully not while your dad is home.

Coffee steams as you start to worry over exactly how this’ll go down, he hadn’t exactly given you much detail, maybe he’d only said it offhand. A tiny flicker of fear burns low in your gut that you’d taken him too seriously, too literal and maybe today wasn’t a solid, definite plan. The soft knock on your kitchen door wrenches you out of the spiral.

“Hi sweetheart.” He smiles big when the door swings open, warm brown eyes crinkling with mirth and you mirror the expression, worrying about him not keeping his word had been silly.

“Hi.” You bite your lip, peeking around him in case your dad was around but he shakes his head no.

“He’s busy, we have time.” He steps through, and the smell of him mingles with the freshly brewed coffee. It settles somewhere in your chest, how comforting it is and when he closes the door and slips his big hand around your waist to pull you in for a toe-curling kiss, it drops into your gut like a stone. Your fingers clutch at the lapels of his jacket, your mouth curves into a smile and he hums into the kiss.

“Hmm, you taste sweet, any coffee left for me?” His hand is so big, so warm, so firm on your lower back it forces your body into an arch against him.

“Yes–I’m happy to see you.” Your body is so sensitive to him, every single inch attuned to the hard planes of his form.

“I’m happy to see you too, baby.” With a few more soft, minty kisses he lets you go, winks when you sigh happily and move to pour him a cup of coffee.

“So, what’s the plan?” You put the cup down in front of him, black and strong. He pulls you into his lap, the sharpness of him hits you again, the zipper of his jacket, the stiffness in his jeans. It only served to highlight your softness.

“You’ll see. Go on, get ready.” His big palm lands a crack on your ass, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to send a thrill through you.

“Okay okay, I’m going, bossy.”

Your heart races with every step you take up towards your room. Your attention keeps creeping down the stairs to that wonderful shape of him in your kitchen, sitting with him, imagining the small smile on his lips as you rush to get dressed.

“You look beautiful.” His eyes travel the whole of you when you finally come back down, unabashed. Your face heats, everything in you wants to hide but he pulls you forward by your wrist, presses another kiss to your mouth and leads you out without another word.

“Oh my god–” The motorcycle in your tiny driveway is a shock, big, acid black, so obviously him.

“You’re not scared are you baby?” He walks over, helping you with the extra helmet he’d brought. You shake your head and lie, chewing on your bottom lip as he carefully buckles it tight enough that it won’t come off, gentle enough that he doesn’t pinch your chin. There’s a slight tremble in your limbs when he helps you onto the back, the rumble of it underneath you is something else, like a big jungle cat purring against your bones, only louder.

“Ready?” He looks over his shoulder, smiling at the no doubt terrified expression on your face. You nod.

“Okay, hold onto me, nice and tight.” Your arms around his waist tighten, your thighs grip outside of his hips as he slowly backs out of your driveway. When he finally takes off down your street, you scream in delight.

It feels like flying.

The wind almost whips through you, tears gather in your lashes as he winds between the cars and makes his way through the city. Never has anything felt so liberating. Despite the fear, the adrenaline courses from the top of your head to the very tips of your fingers and toes.

“You okay back there?” He yells over his shoulder, slowing down for a turn and you nod before remembering he cannot see you.

“Yes! This is amazing!” You speak into his ear, his palm presses against yours where you hold onto him, you inch yourself closer.

All too quickly, he’s pulling into an underground garage, and parking the bike in a numbered spot, beside the car you’ve come to recognize as his.

“Are we at your place?” He unclips the helmet, helps you down and hangs it on the handlebar.

“Yes.”

He’s quiet, but smiling as he leads you towards the entrance into the apartment building.

The lobby is nothing to write home about, exceedingly beige, run down and not exactly a place you’d want to be in after dark. Not exactly a place you’d want to be in without his reassuring shape beside you. The elevator doesn’t help. The light flickers, the doors take an age to close. It smells neglected, dusty and dry, it creaks worryingly loud as it crawls up towards the tenth floor.

“It’s an old building, but it’s really quiet.”

“I’m not super into elevators, they freak me out a little.” His hand rubs your shoulder and you breathe deeply until finally it dings open.

You’re not really sure what you expected his place to look like, but it certainly isn’t what greets you when his keys turn the lock and he guides you in. A giant, fluffy cat meows angrily from just inside. The windows are massive, and light bathes everything in the apartment. His furniture isn’t new, but it’s very well taken care of. Everything is neat and tidy, and a part of you feels almost ashamed at what you thought might be waiting for you.

Maybe it was the younger guys you’ve dated, with their laundry piled on the floor, with their dirty dishes on different surfaces throughout their places, cigarette butts and empty beer bottles.

“Go on, make yourself at home, I have to feed Louis before he rips my throat out.” He shakes his head, rolling his eyes. He walks past you towards where the grey cat sits, tail swishing in annoyance.

“Yeah yeah, I heard you. I was only gone for a couple of hours.” The cat stalks after him, meowing almost in response, an argument in two languages and you cannot help but laugh.

You’re staring out the big window at the city below when he comes back. His chin rests on your shoulder, his hands slide over your hips and your heart races.

“Want a tour?” He presses kisses to the side of your neck, the short scruff tickles the sensitive skin there, and you pull away with a laugh.

“I’d love one.”

His bedroom is just as neat as the rest of the apartment. His bed is bigger than yours, the whole room is. A chair sits in the corner beside a small side table with a lamp, it makes you smile big to see a book resting there too.

He says nothing as you look your fill, only stands quietly, leaning against his door frame as you look at the things lining his dresser. The half empty bottle of cologne is him, the smell of it when you bring it to your nose almost makes your mouth water. You put it back down, noting the small pile of change, a set of car keys, a stick of gum.

“How long have you lived here?” You stack the coins in order of size.

“About ten years.”

“So. Louis.” It’s hard to stop the grin, and he laughs low.

“Louis.” He shakes his head, “I adopted him, maybe a year after I moved in here. He’s a grumpy old thing, mouthy too.” It’s like he’s talking about a relative.

“I never pictured you as a cat person.” The trinkets on his counter lose their appeal the longer you stare at him.

“Oh, I’m not sure he’s actually a cat.” His shoulders are so broad, even without the big leather jacket on. The bed frame is up against the big window, light streams in but when he sits he blocks some of it, that image of him as an eclipse hits you again, a protection against the burning sun.

“No?” You sit next to him, your thigh pressed against his.

“He's some old man, cursed to live as a cat and having to change his litter box is a particularly creative way to keep me humble.” A bark of laughter escapes from your mouth at the thought, and his smile widens. His hand comes up from its place on the bed, and cups your cheek.

His mouth is on yours before you’ve stopped laughing.

Everything falls away with his kiss, the world tilts in so many ways and then you’re on your back and he’s following. His kiss is soft, but with an edge. Your bottom lip trapped between his, soft and sensual until his teeth nip at it playfully. The skin on your belly trembles from the tickle of his fingertips slipping under your layers, just feeling the warmth before undoing the button of your jeans. His mouth moves to your neck, warm and humid up towards your ear while your eyes track the way he pulls your zipper down.

“Been thinking about you here, imagined having you in every single way I could—“ his big palm slips under the band of your panties, cupping your cunt; you swallow thickly, both of you watching him just hold you.

“I can’t stop thinking about you, naked, wet and spread around my cock.” Deft fingers slip through your seam, dipping into the pool of arousal at the mouth of your cunt. He groans at the feel, surges to kiss you while those thick fingers drag the slick up to swirl slow, decadent circles at your clit.

His lips brush against yours, breathing in your soft moans and low whimpers while he drives you clean into madness.

“Does that feel good, baby?” He nudges your nose with his, “Tell me. Open that pretty mouth and tell me.” He slows his movements, and it’s like you could map out his fingerprints from just how attuned your body is to the feel of it.

With another thick swallow, you nod, breathing out a whispered yes.

“What are you thinking?” His knee shifts, but you don’t feel anything but his mouth on your cheek, and his fingers between your legs. Words are hard, and they don’t come to you right away, your heart pounds in your ears, your nipples are hard as diamonds under your layers.

“Baby, talk to me, or I stop.” It’s a threat you cannot gamble with, so you whimper, gather what little wits are leaking out around his fingers.

“I-I’m thinking, I—“ he swirls a little harder and the words fail you again.

“You’re thinking?” He bites at your chin, he’s so fucking cruel, teasing you like this and expecting what, a dissertation?

“Yeah, thinking…thinking, oh god—thinking it feels really good, thinking that I want you to keep going and make me come.” It’s with Herculean effort that you push the words out through kiss-swollen lips and he rewards you. Two thick fingers slip inside you, deep and stretching.

“That’s my girl, good job baby, you want Daddy to make you come?” Slow, rhythmic pumping of his fingers makes your brain blank, before he bites your lip again. That he likes you calling him Daddy, that he encourages it makes your blood sizzle in your veins.

“Yes Daddy, please—“ it’s so fucking close, so warm and licking up your spine.

“Do you want to come on my fingers, or on my tongue? Want me to spread those thighs and lick this cute little clit?” He laughs at the noise you make in response, you cannot be embarrassed though, not with the image of his face between your legs.

The whine you let out at the loss of his fingers is involuntary, he shushes you softly, an interesting juxtaposition with how forcefully he rips your jeans and panties down at the same time, your slick on his fingers leaves a little trail wherever they touch your skin. The prospect of him actually going down on you kicks the adrenaline up to eleven, within seconds he has you naked from the waist down, while kneeling on the floor at the edge of the bed.

You let out a yelp when he yanks you towards his face, a heavy bruising grip on your hips, then at the flesh of your thighs. He doesn’t say anything, only breathes deep, groans somewhere deep in his chest at just how wet you are before he opens his mouth and eats.

Other guys have done this before, a tongue on your clit isn’t something new—but it’s never been like this. The guys that were willing to before may have given you a few kitten licks before moving onto the next feeling, the next position, just a prelude to fucking. What Clint is doing is miles away from whatever those other guys had done.

The way he eats your cunt is hedonistic, animal, desperate in a way that makes you watch in awe, a way that pulls your hand down to spread the lips of your sex wider for his mouth. His tongue glides against your clit, up and down, swirling and writing words in a language you desperately want to learn. His brow is furrowed, his nose is pressed against your mound, his lips dragging down and then back up to collect the honey that leaks out for him.

He moans obscenely, suctions his lips around your clit and strokes with his tongue. Your stomach clenches, your heart races, pleasure licks up your spine as he pulls you apart with every firm stroke of his tongue.

“Oh fuck—yes, just like that, oh my god…I’m gonna fucking come—“

His eyes find yours, and the smile is clear in them as he doubles down. The suction gets tighter, one hand snakes up under your top and pulls the cup of your bra down to pinch at your nipple. Liquid heat burns a path through your being, it radiates out through your cunt and into your soul. Your hands practically claw at him, pushing his mouth where it continues its assault on your overly sensitive clit but he holds on, slows down, turns the suction into a kiss.

“Such a sweet—“ he speaks, peppering in flat-tongued licks that make you flinch involuntarily away from his mouth, licks that morph into a noisy kiss, “pretty,” again, “wet little pussy.” He moans into your skin, like your pleasure is also his. His tongue dips low and drinks down what he’s pulled out, before finally moving up. You can taste your orgasm in his mouth, his lips, his tongue is drenched with it. His hands stop yours before they’ve undone his jeans.

“I just wanted to make you feel good, I’m okay.” He kisses you softly, smiling at your confused frown.

“You don’t want to fuck me?” There’s a pout you can’t hold back, and he laughs, not unkindly.

“Oh I am dying to fuck you, pretty baby, but I want to get started on dinner. If I do what I want to do to you we won’t leave the bed.” You sigh, turned on all over again. “I’ll go and start, you take your time and get dressed.” With another soft kiss, he rises, and leaves you, adjusting himself on the way out.

That pleasant, post-orgasm bliss weighs heavy on your limbs, you are almost too comfortable to move. His low voice slips under the crack between the floor and the door, a low conversation with the cat you never expected him to have. It’s quiet in his room, peaceful in a way that yours has never been, in a way your life has never been. You can’t help but think of your dad, you can’t help the barrage of memories and comparisons to the life you’ve lived since your mother–whoever she’d been–left.

Part of you is obviously grateful that your dad stuck around, but there has always been that sense that you were somehow to blame for him having to do it alone. The thoughts annoy you. The mixture of your own slick and Clint's saliva between your legs cools, as does the arousal behind your belly button. Now was not the time to focus on your mommy, or daddy issues.

He’s whistling when you finally emerge from his bedroom, clothes back in place, his comforter smoothed out. His smile is enough to shake the ugly thoughts and memories from your head.

“What are you making?” You stand beside him at his counter, leaning close to hug his middle. His lips press a soft kiss to your forehead. His kitchen is neat, there’s a bench near the big window full of healthy, thriving plants and you’re surprised all over again.

“I’m making us some cutlets, a salad, some asparagus.” Three shallow bowls are lined up, an assembly line to dredge, and coat thin pieces of chicken in flour, beaten eggs and breadcrumbs. Another unexpected aspect of him.

“That sounds good, can I help?”

“You want to wash the greens for me? There’s a strainer in the sink, lettuce is in the fridge.

You get to work, picking leaves off of the head and rinsing them in cool water. It’s quiet, calming to move through the motions while he prepares the chicken, while he fries it. His lips keep pressing to your forehead, to your temple, your neck whenever he gets close.

“Is there a big bowl I can put these in?” With your task finished and the greens dried, you search for where to prepare the salad.

“Here, put them in here–” You frown when he pulls tupperware out from a cupboard and hands it to you.

“We’re not eating here, baby. We’re packing it all to go.” Your frown deepens. “Just trust me, let's rinse these as well.” He hands you a container of cherry tomatoes, and winks before continuing with his task. It all comes together surprisingly quick, a bag packed with steaming hot, crispy cutlets, a big bowl of salad, some pan-seared asparagus. His expression is the happiest you’ve seen him, moving about his small, light-filled kitchen, gathering a couple of plates and cutlery, napkins and even a folded up table cloth.

“Okay, let’s head out.” He tries to usher you out of the kitchen but you plant your feet.

“Wait–what about the dishes? Let's do them–”

“Don’t you worry about dishes, I’ll take care of them later.” Gently, but firmly, he guides you towards the entrance.

“Where are we even going? Can’t we stay here?” The frown doesn’t dissipate, the thought of leaving his space, the comfort of it, the peace, you pray that he isn’t taking you back home.

“Can you please just let me surprise you? I am taking you somewhere nice, trust me.” He nods at your shoes, at your jacket and with a small sigh you follow.

“You aren’t taking me home right? Can you just tell me that?” The thought of seeing the peeling vinyl of your kitchen table, of waiting with bated breath for your dad to walk in and kill the mood makes your stomach roil. He lets out a small huff of amused laughter.

“No sweetheart, we’re not going back to your place.” He holds the door open, “Louis, I’ll be back later, don’t you dare scratch up the sofa.” You smile at the pitiful meow that follows you out the door.

His bike has a little compartment under your seat and it fits the bundle of food perfectly. Your mind drifts to it, just as he drifts through the streets, just as the wind drifts through your hair and that sense of calm hits you once more.

You almost laugh, the neighbourhood goon, the big bad criminal makes you feel safer and more loved in the short time you’ve known him, and the even shorter time there’s been any kind of romantic interest than anyone ever has. He pulls into a small parking lot for a park you vaguely remember visiting as a child.

“What are we doing here?” He undoes the helmet, helps you off the bike and then pulls the bundle out from under where you sat.

“Picnic, thought you might like it here.” He grabs your hand and leads you towards the wooded area. With anyone else, this might have caused you to panic, you might have found yourself legging it out of there as fast as you could but not with him. He’s a beacon of safety, funny enough. You don’t walk too far, and within a few minutes he has the cloth laid out, the food open and the salad dressed. With a smile he gestures for you to sit.

“This is…I don’t know what to say.” Emotion swells, feelings that don’t make sense, feelings that don’t fit inside your body ebb and flow like a tide.

“You don’t have to say anything, eat, relax, spend some time with me.” He presses a soft kiss to your mouth, and it spills into your heart. That tide overflows with the threat of tears. You turn away and take a deep breath, he’s kind enough to avert his gaze, lets you keep your dignity.

The food is good. Really good. You eat in a comfortable silence, shoes slipped off, taking in the beauty of the flora.

“It’s beautiful here.” You comment between bites, staring up at the lattice of tree branches criss-crossing high above you.

“It is.” He nods, his head tilts up as well, his neck draws your attention. “I used to come here all the time when I was a kid.” He’s somewhere else, in another time, with other people.

“With family?” You prod gently. He nods, taking a big bite, part of you can see the calculation in that bite, an excuse to not elaborate, you let him have it.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever been here. Maybe once when I was little?” You poke around at your plate, spearing a cherry tomato.

“What’s your favourite place to go to?” He wipes at his mouth, he looks somehow taller, half laying half sitting up, legs stretched out.

“Oh God, I don’t know.”

“There’s gotta be somewhere you like being–” He takes another bite, his neck distracts you once more.

“Well, I’ve always liked the outdoors, stargazing and all that. Actually a couple of years ago, my friend's mom drove us to that big planetarium to see Halley’s Comet.”

“How was it?”

“Shit actually,” you laugh at the memory, “We got there too late, but it was nice to be there anyway. The view was really pretty.” He laughs along with you.

“That’s a long drive to miss the whole thing.” He puts his empty plate back in the bag.

“I enjoyed the drive, my friend’s mom is really sweet, almost felt like I was part of the family.” Your empty plate joins his, back in the bag.

“Can I ask what happened to your mom?” He replaces the lids on the food and you help.

“Beats me. She left before my third birthday.” He frowns, but you shrug. “I don’t remember her, and my dad got rid of all her pictures so I have no clue what she looks like. I don’t even remember her voice.” You huff out a self-deprecating laugh, but he doesn’t join.

“It’s whatever. Better that she left, she obviously didn’t want to be a mom so who knows how she might have treated me if she’d stayed.” You shrug again, he stays quiet.

“That’s depressing though, let's talk about something else.” You smile to show him that it doesn’t matter, you’re definitely over the abandonment–at least, you tell yourself you are.

“What about you? What are your parents like?”

“Well, my parents died a long time ago.”

“Oh God, I’m sorry–” You kick yourself mentally, here you are on this nice picnic and the topic of conversation has changed from a shitty mom to dead parents.

“No, it’s okay really, happened a long time ago. My dad went first, he had issues with alcohol and he drank himself to death. My mom died a few years later, cancer. I didn’t have a good relationship with my father so to be brutally honest, it was a relief. My mom though, I was really close to her.” He frowns at the memory, you take his hand and squeeze.

“I’m sorry.” It’s all you can offer.

“Thank you, she used to bring me here, no money but she’d pack up whatever we had and spend the day.” Your heart swells, cracks in two and he worms his way in, deeper than anyone or anything before him.

“Sweet of you to bring me here.” You press a kiss to his mouth, once, twice, and then a third time.

“I can be a pretty sweet guy.” He smiles, and while it’s obvious he’s happy to be here, there’s a flicker of something in his grin, the curve of it not quite reaching his eyes.

“Do you want to talk about it–” He shakes his head no, and your words die in your throat, maybe you’ve pushed it a bit.

“No, it’s okay.” He presses another kiss to your lips, a silent, but effective distraction. A wordless truce, a peace treaty to not discuss those deep-seeded scars you both carry. You clutch at it, and enjoy just being with him.

Seconds slip by, and every single one feels like an eternity.

“Will that be all?” Your mouth does its best impression of a friendly smile, you’re grateful it’s enough. The bone-tired mother of three nods, attention split in quarters between her children and you.

“Yes–hey, drop it.” One of her kids, a toothy little boy drops the tape and returns to her side while she pays for her rentals.

“Please be sure to rewind your tapes before returning, if they’re not returned within two days, then late fees will apply for every extra day they’re late.” You hand the small stack of tapes to her and she nods, one eye on her kids.

“Have a great day.” You speak to the back of her head, sighing loudly to no one in particular.

It’s been a week since the date with Clint; it feels more like a month. Your dad still has his meetings, and by his uncharacteristically good mood in the last few days, something has gone well. You can’t say you’re entirely happy about the big wad of cash you spotted on his dresser this morning, but if it keeps your bills paid and the lights on, it’s none of your business. The realization, the decision–to ignore the implications doesn’t silence the doubts, it doesn’t alleviate the worry. They only swirl faster, amplify and haunt you throughout your shift, bounce along with you with every step you take home.

Clint is at your house when you walk in, leaning against your kitchen counter engrossed in a conversation that doesn’t seem to be going well. His brow is furrowed, his voice is raised–until he meets your eye. His expression, his obvious bad mood doesn’t dissipate. Your father doesn’t acknowledge you, his attention is wrapped up in whatever issue they have between them.

“I’m just going to grab a drink and I’ll head up.” You speak to both of them, your dad only tries to look around you when you cross his field of vision.

“Don’t bother sweetheart, I’m leaving.” His voice is so neutral, so different to how it’s been when you’re alone. “You, go get what I asked for. Now.” It dips below freezing when he speaks to your dad, the urge to argue is thick in the sigh he lets out, but he rises with a huff and makes his way up the stairs anyway. Once out of sight, you feel his hand on your arm, and then he’s sweeping you into a crushing hug. He smells like cigarettes, like his cologne and engine oil.

“You free next Thursday?” he whispers into your ear, his lips pressing to that place just under your ear. You nod into his neck, holding onto him tight enough to make your arms ache.

“I’ll be here–” his mouth finds yours under the ugly yellow lights of your kitchen, frantic, consuming, you’ll see the evidence of this kiss in your panties later. Your dads steps sound down the stairs and then the Clint you’ve come to know evaporates. Instantly, you miss his grip, his smell, his touch.

“Here.” Your dad sulks, handing Clint a small bundle wrapped in a cloth. He takes it, and leaves without so much as a word for your father. He catches your eye when you follow him to close the door however, leaving you with a wink, and a nervous feeling in your belly.

Saturday at the video store is always insane, especially when a bunch of new releases came in on Thursday night. They’re all gone of course, the Friday night crowd snatched them all up but that doesn’t stop people from coming in and asking, hopeful that some good samaritans have returned them early.

“Sorry–” You speak over your shoulder, the young couple on the other side of the counter wilt, “Nothing in the return bin yet. Your best bet is to come back on Monday, usually they’re dropped off Sunday night.” They sigh, the hope gone.

“Thanks anyway.” They pout, resigned to look through the aisles for something else, something they haven’t already seen.

“Hey–” Your manager, Stephen, is going through a shipment at the end of the counter, he looks up at the sound of your voice.

“Need a coffee, want anything?”

“I’m good, you go ahead–Bobby!” He calls out to your coworker, “Come watch the register.”

The sun is bright; enough so that the jacket hanging in the backroom of the store will probably make its way home in your arms instead of on. The diner is sunny, a little warm but the smell can’t be beat. Savoury and salty, threaded with whatever pies are fresh. Warm sugar and fresh coffee, a hint of sun-warmed plastic, and perfume.

Lois, the waitress catches your eye and smiles knowingly.

“Just coffee, honey?” She calls out, making her way behind the counter.

“Maybe, how are the donuts?” You try to peek over the customers sitting at the counter.

“If you wait a few minutes I could get you a fresh apple fritter.” She pours steaming coffee into the paper cup, smiling at your exaggerated nod. “Sure thing honey, give me a few.”

You bounce on your heels, your tongue watering in anticipation. Your fingers practically shake with the promise of the sugar high as you try to dig the change out of your wallet.

“I got it, here.” Clint’s voice nearly scares you half to death from where he appears behind you. He sets a twenty down on the counter, giving you a wink.

“You don’t have to–” He tuts, gently holding your hands in their tableau, twisting into your wallet and hands Lois his money.

“Keep the change Lois, let it cover whatever she wants tomorrow, or the next day.” Lois raises her eyebrow, but nods.

Your cheeks ache from trying to hold in the smile while you take your coffee and warm donut. His hand settles on your lower back, guiding you gently away from the counter.

“We keeping this thing a secret from everyone? Or just your dad?” He whispers beside you, your belly trembles, your heart races.

“What’s more exciting?” You bite your lip, probably doing a very bad job of keeping emotions off your face. He lets out a low laugh.

“Understood.” He nods, separating from you to move further into the diner, “Say hi to your dad for me, sweetheart.” You watch him make his way over to someone sitting alone in a booth, he doesn’t look back, and for that you’re grateful.

The gears in your brain resume their regular rhythm, urging you to move from your place, and you do. They move you right into someone walking in through the door, luckily it’s only Jen, your other manager most likely stopping in to grab something before her shift.

“Sorry!” You smile at her, holding your steaming coffee away from both your bodies.

“You’re good, bit of a traffic jam.” She laughs, dancing her way around you. She’s closer to your dads age, but fit in a way that told you she took advantage of all those exercise tapes at the store. “Give me a couple of minutes and I’ll walk with you, just need my tea.”

A few moments later she’s standing next to you once more, steaming tea and what you can only imagine is her usual bran muffin clutched in her hands.

“Ready?” She pulls your attention away from where Clint sits, following your gaze but saying nothing until you’re both outside and walking down the street.

“I remember him.”

“Who?” You speak around a bite of fritter.

“Clint, he's in the diner.” She gestures with a shake of her head.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, you’re probably too young to remember but he almost killed a guy like ten-fifteen years ago? It was brutal.” She shakes her head, sipping carefully at her hot tea. You don’t respond, a deep frown settles on your face. You knew he had a reputation, everyone did but this wasn’t something you’d ever heard, and if you had you certainly didn’t remember. She sees the conflict.

“I don’t really know the whole story, but, okay you know Mercy? Sweet lady who works at the pharmacy?” You nod, because yes, everyone knows Mercy.

“Yeah well, back in the day she was with this guy, real fucking prick–used to beat the shit out of her.” You gasp, “Yeah, we all knew, but she’d been with him since they were kids or something. I don’t know–well I guess he made an enemy out of Clint and long story short, Clint put him in a coma. Knocked out a bunch of teeth, broke his jaw, probably would have killed him if he hadn’t stopped.”

Ice flows through your veins, the man she’s describing doesn’t align with the one you’ve come to know, come to care about.

“If you ask me–” She continues, oblivious to your internal crisis, “-he was protecting Mercy but they won’t say. Mercy loves him, refuses to say a single negative word against him, swore that her old man attacked Clint and that it was self-defense but he didn’t have a scratch on him. Makes sense though, with what happened to his mom.”

“Clint's mom? What do you mean?” You keep forgetting just how small this town actually is, despite its size.

“Oh yeah, his dad almost killed her. He would get loaded, go home and wail on her. My mom used to work with her before she passed away.”

The video store bell dings as you make your way inside but it doesn’t feel right, the floor is wobbly, the air is thick. Jen says nothing else, leaves you with new knowledge and new feelings you don’t really know how to process. It doesn’t seem real, the version of him in the park, cooking in his neat little apartment, the version who owns Louis. It doesn’t mesh with the person Jen described.

It churns and churns, water crashing against the shore, his bright eyes and warm smile–the grip of his hands on your thighs and then broken bones and blood. It’s not as though you can just ask him, something about hearing a rumour about him makes your stomach roil, he’s given you no reason to be afraid of him or to doubt his feelings. With the last bite of fritter, with the last sip of the cooling coffee, you decide to put it out of your mind.

It’s none of your business.

---

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#he has done no wrong #i love this and i'm excited to see where this goes!!#clint flood x reader #clint flood smut #clint flood #freaky tales clint

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cozylittlepigeon · 22 hours ago

Text

𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒 | Joel Miller x reader

summary | You've patched up Joel countless times before, but this is different.

author's note | i'm taking a little break to work through some series and pre-write but i needed to write a little fix it fic for my own well being. ANYWHO, if you're reading this, thank you <3 and thank you to @chaotic-mystery for the beta read, love you bitch

content warning | hurt/comfort, fix-it-fic, jackson!joel, s2ep2 spoilers, established relationship, medic!reader, wound tending, mentions of leg injury and some face injuries, old man joel using a cane, flirting, fluff, kissing, i'm going to go cry again

word count — 3.8k

He’s breathing. Alive.

You’ve patched up Joel countless times - cuts and gashes that were too far out of reach for him to handle on his own, a busted ankle from a construction project gone wrong, the occasional painkiller to help with his aching bones. He was a regular within the clinic, like most of the patrol team. And he was your favorite, which wasn’t a secret.

But, this was different.

Tommy - as hard as he tried, attempted to shelter you with the rest of Jackson’s women and children, but it was useless.

You spent the last hour patching up the towns wounded and helping lay to the rest some of the less fortunate, but brave people who had attempted to defend Jackson from the impending horde.

In the chaos of cleaning up bloodied bandages and used medical supplies, the front door to the clinic sounds, bells ringing out so deafening it makes your heart stop.

And the sound of Tommy’s panicked voice as he called out your name.

When you turn the corner to catch sight of him, it was Tommy and Jesse carrying a limp, sleeping Joel on a makeshift gurney and equally injured Ellie holding tight to her ribs as Dina and Maria supported her weight, your eyes widening in shock.

“Fuck—I—what happened?” you ask, immediately sliding the supplies off of the only semi-available operating table you had in the office - it used to be a veterinary clinic, but the town was making do with what they had.

“You save my goddamn brother,” Tommy demanded, his tone riddled with an emotional pain you couldn’t fathom, taking the order in stride as you nodded and put your own curiosity aside, slowly accessing the weight of the situation and surmising that this had been an ambush, more or less, “alright?”

You access his knee, jeans matted with blood around his festering wound, his leg tourniqueted by a belt that Tommy explains wasn’t there doing, rather the attackers. His pulse is steady as your fingers over his femoral artery once you’ve cut his jeans open further with the scissors.

“El—Ellie,” your voice shakes slightly, looking over your shoulder to catch her grimace as she hunched over further in pain, “she needs—”

“I’ve got her,” Maria assures you and Tommy, who was understandably only focused on Joel.

You don’t waste another second, working around Tommy on instinct while Jesse followed the girls to the back room, a gentle but reassuring hand on your shoulder as he passes by.

Your hands move gently over his wound, mind racing through every step of triage and trauma care as if your nerves hadn’t already been shot an hour ago. You didn’t know how many wounds you’ve treated today, but Joel’s was the worst—and unspeakably, the most important.

The wound is bad. Deep.

Frayed flesh around the spread of the bullet, a shotgun you can assume, already turning an angry red. The steps were simple, fortunately. You’ll have to clean it out, maybe even dig if the bullet fragments were lodged in deep.

His face is a mosaic of bruises and dried blood, and he hasn’t stirred once.

That—more than the sight of the injury itself—makes something in your chest clench.

Tommy’s gripping the table tight, white knuckling as his jaw clenched in worry.

“Do I want to know?” you ask softly.

Tommy shakes his head slightly, “Ellie ain’t said much—jus’ know whatever the problem was, it isn’t one anymore.”

“He’s gonna need blood,” you explain to him as you work quietly but carefully on the wound, grateful that most of the issue was at the surface and that with enough time to heal and consistent check-ins, Joel would recover.

Undoubtedly with a limp, but you knew Joel—he’d manage.

The quiet is unsettling, though.

He should be fighting this. Groaning. Cursing. Something.

But he’s still.

Too still.

Tommy stays rooted in place like he’s afraid Joel will vanish if he lets go.

Part of you carries that fear, too.

With the attack on Jackson, everything seemed up in the air.

“I need you to keep your hand here,” you say firmly, guiding his hand to the artery in his leg, feeling the steady pulse underneath your fingertips. “Count the beats, focus. If it slows, weakens—don’t wait, tell me.”

Tommy nods, jaw still clenched tight.

He’s got blood dripping from a cut in his brow, covered in dirt and grime, streaks on his face from the tears he was shedding quietly, it was your only attempt to busy his mind.

You work diligently, more focused than you had been all evening.

Forceps clink against the metal tray as you dig out fragments, your breath hitching every time Joel twitches—barely, like his body’s fighting beneath layers of pain and unconsciousness.

You glance toward the IV stand that was taped to hell, barely holding on.

Just like everything else in Jackson at the moment – like Joel.

“I’m gonna flush the wound,” you murmur more to yourself than Tommy, gripping the saline syringe with steady hands. “Then I’ll stitch it. Antibiotics to be safe. He’ll need pain meds and I need to work on the cuts to his face, but I want his body to rest. We have morphine stored away, but I know Joel will probably refuse…”

Tommy doesn’t respond. Just keeps his hand pressed where you told him, eyes locked on Joel’s face like he’s willing him to wake.

“He still needs blood, Tommy,” you remind him, “but I don’t know his blood type.”

“I’m O-negative,” Tommy interjects.

“That works,” you assure him, nodding for him to sit as you grab the supplies to draw Tommy’s blood, unflinching as the needle slips into his vein.

It’s all rather quick, kneeling to hold the bag as it fills while Tommy stares at his brother, looking briefly over your shoulder to catch his breathing, a slow rise and fall.

“He’s gonna be alright,” you assure Tommy, “the worst outcome here is him complaining about having to use a cane, if it comes to that.

Quietly, you tend to the small head wound that Tommy has and he doesn’t even attempt to argue, eyes flickering to your briefly at the gesture, tilting his head up for better access.

You move efficiently, like muscle memory as you tape up his wound before transferring the blood and prepping the line for Joel.

The line finds Joel’s vein without much resistance, and you secure it with shaking fingers, your breath held as the dark crimson slowly, mercifully begins to flow into his body.

“C’mon, Joel,” you whisper under your breath. “Not you.”

“He was in and out on the way here,” Tommy comments, holding the cotton ball to use the wound as he stands and you quickly return to him to bandage up and pressure the wound, “but now he’s just…still. That ain’t good,”

“It’s the body responding to the pain,” you remind him, “he’s clearly lost a lot of blood, his face is bruised—the important thing is he’s breathing and his pulse is good. Just…let me work on him. Go check on Ellie.”

Tommy hesitates, glancing back at Joel like his feet were already rooted permanently to the floor. Then his eyes shift to yours—tired, firm, unwavering—and he nods, finally stepping away.

Just far enough to check on Ellie.

Just long enough to breathe.

The second he’s gone, it’s just you and Joel.

–

The room feels colder without the presence of Tommy’s worry.

You stitch slowly, methodically, carefully maneuvering around the skin until you are satisfied, constantly eyeing Joel to gauge a reaction, noticing some of his color had returned, hair damp with melted snow.

If he was awake he’d be grumbling and complaining and part of you hates how much you wanted to hear it as you bandage up his knee, assuring that bleeding was under control before you removed the belt on his upper thigh and grabbing a spare blanket to drape over his body as you move down to tend to his face, riddled with cuts and bruises.

You press a hand against his and pull it to his chest, resting gently against the fabric of his shirt.

His palm is rough, calloused, and warm—thank god, still warm.

You clean the last of the blood from his face, wiping gently along the arc of his brow, around the corner of his eye that was slightly swollen. A bruise is blooming dark down the line of his jaw, but under it—his face is still familiar.

Still him.

After a stretch of time that feels like eternity, Maria and Tommy return to the front room of the clinic, looking fearful as their eyes land on Joel.

“He’s alright,” you assure them both, “he probably needed the rest, too.”

Tommy chuckles weakly at that, “I—we’re…we’re gonna go pick up Benji, but we’ll be back, alright?”

You nod in response, “I’m not leaving until he wakes up Tommy, I promised.”

“I know, kiddo,” Tommy says endearingly, approaching you with arms open slightly, enveloping you into a short hug that were few and far between, “Ellie’s asleep, too. Dina and Jesse are sticking around until she settles.”

The front door clicks shut behind Tommy and Maria, the heavy silence seeping back in soon after.

You don’t move far, bringing a stool to sit beside Joel.

The clinic is dim now, the lights softened by fucky wiring as the evening crept in.

You can hear Jesse’s and Dina’s muffled voice in the back—low and quiet—and the distant creak of the cot Ellie’s curled into. But here, in this room, it’s just you.

And Joel, and the quiet hum of his breathing.

You reach up to brush a stray bit of hair from his temple, your hand pausing just above his skin.

“You scared the hell out of me,” you whisper. “If you were awake, I’d be screaming at you,”

And you know he’d only smile.

Joel doesn’t respond, but his breathing shifts.

Not much—just enough to prove he’s still there, riding the edge of sleep and pain.

“You enjoy it, though. You always laugh, I know it’s pointless and that you’re just stubborn as all hell and I’m willing to put up with it,” you push the few strands of hair away from his face and sigh, “guess there’s a reason why you always ask for me.”

A few hours pass, the night creeping in slowly amongst the storm that roared outside.

You glance at his hand after a thorough check-up and redressing his wound for good measure, still resting palm-up where you’d placed it. Hesitant, your fingers slip into his, lacing slowly.

You wait. No squeeze.

But, the warmth is enough.

Then, a shift.

A low grunt, almost imperceptible.

Your breath catches. You look up sharply, eyes scanning his face. One eye twitches. His brow furrows just slightly.

“Joel?”

He doesn’t open his eyes, but his mouth moves.

“Ellie?” he asks weakly, squeezing your hand back.

Tears burn your eyes before you can stop them, relief flooding your chest in waves.

You squeeze his hand back again. Tight. “She’s okay—she’s good,” you whisper quickly, wiping your cheek with your sleeve, not that it helps.

Joel breathes out, like the tension’s finally releasing from somewhere deep inside his chest.

You watch the slow rise and fall of him for a moment, just taking it in. Life.

Then his eyes crack open, albeit one is swollen, but hazy and bloodshot and focused on you.

His brows twitch as he looks at you.

“You cryin’?” he rasps, voice rough but teasing.

Even now, he teases you.

“You worried the hell out of me,” you tell him.

“Did I?” Joel asks genuinely, “M’sorry, darlin’.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

Joel grimaces and makes a soft noise, “S’all touch and go, right now. I’m really tired, that normal?”

“I gave you some painkillers,” you explain, “probably why.”

Joel looks around gingerly, noting the mess with an amused expression.

“Cleaned up real nice for me, didn’t you?”

“Sorry to disappoint,” you mutter dryly, shifting to adjust the blanket over him. “Next time, I’ll set up some mood lighting and put some music on for you.”

Joel groans low in his throat, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“Nah. You singin’ for me would be good enough.”

You snort softly, “I don’t sing.”

“Shame,” he murmurs, barely audible, his eyes slipping closed again. “Bet it’d be real pretty, you got a pretty voice, know you’d sing pretty too.”

Your chest squeezes, caught somewhere between a laugh and a breath you can’t quite take.

“You’re losing it, old man.”

Joel smiles weakly.

“Maybe.”

A long pause and he speaks even soften.

“Still think you got a nice voice, though.”

–

You stay beside him. Even after he dozes back off, you don’t move—not far. Never quite letting go of his hand either. Just shift the stool closer and brace your elbow on the edge of the bed, chin tucked in your other hand.

The storm outside has softened, now more wind than snow, rattling the windows with every gust.

You don’t realize you’ve nodded off until something shifts. A sound—low, grumbly.

“…you snore a little,” Joel rasps.

You straighten quickly and shake your head, blinking through a sleep haze as you answer him defiantly, “I do not, Miller.”

“Oh—you do, sweetheart,” Joel challenges, a subtle smirk playing at his face, staring at you through his swollen eye.

“Good to know you never stop being insufferable,” you tease him.

“Just like seein’ you laugh,” Joel admits before a silence grows, a look of subtle concern crossing his face, “How bad was it? The horde?”

“We’ve dealt with stuff like that before, maybe not at that level but it isn’t something we’re not prepared for. A couple didn’t make it, got bitten defending the watchtower—Jackson can always rebuild, we mourn, move on, you know? With you, s’different,”

Joel, for once, doesn’t know how to respond.

You see it then—that quiet, careful look he sometimes gives you when he thinks you're not watching. Like he’s cataloguing you. Not in some grand, poetic way. More like he’s memorizing how you look when you're safe. When he needs the reminder of it.

You’re too tired to do anything but meet it.

“I ain't goin' anywhere,” he says finally, voice rough but firm, “You can stop lookin’ at me like I’m about to flatline.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Joel smirks faintly. “You’ve been holdin’ my hand for a while,”

“Oh,” it started to feel like an extension of you, his touch, but you slowly attempted to retract.

“Don’t,” Joel tells you, gripping your hand tighter, shifting his head against the makeshift pillow underneath his head that you had made out of his jacket halfway through the night.

“Thanks for not givin’ up on me,” Joel says gently,

You glance over, unsure how to respond at first.

“You really think I would?”

“Dunno,” he says, voice low, “don’t really think I deserve the effort anymore from anyone…”

He trails off, but it hangs between you anyway.

The way he says it—soft, raw—like the words snuck out before he could stop it.

You lean in slightly, brushing your thumb just once over the back of his hand.

“I’m not anyone, Joel.”

Joel looks at you again, his expression shifting.

His fingers curl around yours again. Warmer this time. Intentional.

“Five years I’ve known you—I’ve patched your ass up more times than I can count. I’ve had dinners with you, beers with you and your brother. This isn’t my attempt at gaining some good karma. I care about you just as much as the rest of this town.”

“You’re too good to me,” Joel says quietly.

–

Jackson rebuilds, but it takes time.

Eventually, you find out that the assailants were after Joel—but Jesse and Ellie had shown up at a crucial point in the ambush that saved Joel and Dina’s life, despite his extensive injuries.

And Joel, stubborn as he was, began to heal.

The first few weeks are slow, mostly bed-ridden - or office-ridden, leg propped up at his desk as he and Tommy planned out the rebuild process and you rounded your daily office visit to him for assurance that he was taking the antibiotics you had given him and checking on his wound.

It takes a few months, but he does get on his feet again.

He’s resilient, you’ll give him that. An injury that would take no less than six to eight months before the healing was done and Joel was already moving, though with some noticeable pain.

You spot him halfway down the main road on the first name where Jackson was finally starting to feel normal again, walking out of the Tipsy Bison with a pronounced limp.

You sigh to yourself, shifting the object under your arm and start down the road.

“Joel Miller.”

He doesn’t stop walking, but he flinches a little.

He’s been avoiding you for a couple weeks now, knowing how insistent you had been about him using something to support his leg, just to give it a break once in a while.

“I will chase you down.”

He stops.

You close the distance, holding up the object in your hand.

“If you don’t use this, I’m following you everywhere, barring you from walking, and pushing you around in a wheelchair.”

He eyes the cane. Then your face. Then the cane again.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“It’s exactly what you think it is.”

He scowls. “I’m not usin’ a damn cane.”

“You’re still healing,” you tell him, “and if you care about my worries—you’ll use it.”

“That’s low,” Joel counters,

You had spent a week sanding down the cane to a smooth texture, rounding out the handle to something comfortable to grip, even polished it up. It was extravagant or crazy, but it was clearly made with love.

“Did you make it?” Joel asks curiously.

“Doesn’t matter,” You shrug.

Joel smirks at that.

You had. He knows it.

He takes it wordlessly, wrapping his fingers around the handle and planting it into the ground.

He tests it out wordlessly, leaning his weight into it and only slightly annoyed at how it eases the weight on his injured leg, looking up at you sheepishly.

“So….should I say it now or?”

“Zip it,” Joel retorts with a faint playfulness, “it…helps, s’real nice of you, you know?”

You raise your brow. “You sayin’ I was right? Knowing you needed it?”

“Don’t push it.” Joel warns

“Say it.” you tease with a flirtatious smile that doesn’t go amiss.

Joel sighs, scratching at his jaw. “You were… not completely wrong.”

You beam, and he rolls his eyes, though the edge of his mouth quirks up.

After a beat, he taps the cane gently against the side of your boot.

“Walk with me?” he asks.

He didn’t even need to ask.

–

There wasn’t any indication of where you were walking to, but naturally you drift to your shared street, homes sitting on opposite sides of the street, but near enough that you were only a short walk away.

The cane clicks softly against the dirt road like a steady metronome to the quiet shuffle of your boots. His limp is pronounced, but less severe than it was a few weeks ago.

The streets are quieter these days. Jackson feels like it's exhaling after holding in a long overdue breath.

Joel walks with his shoulder close to yours. Not touching, but close enough that it would only take a shift. He’s never been one for words, not when the moment matters most—but his silence is full of meaning.

Or, maybe he is just savoring the peace.

“You really made this?” he asks again after a few paces, like he needs to be sure.

You nod shyly, hands shoving into your coat pockets.

He’s quiet for a while, but then, “It’s real thoughtful of you.”

“I was gonna carve your name into it, actually,” you joke, nudging him gently with your elbow, “but Tommy said that was a bad idea.”

Joel chuckles low under his breath. “He’d be right.”

Through your sudden shared laughter, your knuckles brush.

It’s nothing, but it feels like so much.

As you approach your houses, Joel turns to you.

“Do you need anything?” you ask him gently. “I can stop by later if you need some pain meds or anything? Or yell at you for not resting up at home like you should.”

Joel huffs, shaking his head. “Always lookin’ for a reason to yell at me, huh?”

“Only ‘cause you keep givin’ me so many,” you tease.

He looks at you for a long moment, eyes scanning your face in the too quiet dark.

“You stayed the whole night,” he says finally, like he’s been holding it in for a while.

“I told Tommy I wouldn’t leave until you woke up.”

Joel nods once. He shifts his weight on the cane, hesitating just slightly, before adding, “I heard you—talkin’ to me.”

“You did?” you ask, your voice quiet. “Well, that’s…embarrassing.”

Joel’s gaze drops to your hand lingering close to his—he hadn’t even realized he’d reached out until it was too late, his hand dwarfing your own in a gentle hold of your fingertips.

It’s a small touch, but it grounds him.

You flinch slightly at the touch, feeling the heaviness of the moment

“You can let go,” he says, looking back up at you.

You smile faintly. “I don’t want to.”

Joel hums thoughtfully. “Seems I don’t want to either,”

And in that soft hum between houses, under the stars beginning to peek through the roaming clouds overhead, Joel leans in, his cane shifting a few inches behind you as he leans his weight into it to reach you, his lips pressing against yours in a quiet, tender moment of vulnerability under the dim street lights.

“Never got to thank you properly,” Joel admits.

“Is that your way of saying thank you?” you ask curiously.

“Can be,” Joel responds mischievously, a smirk tugging at his lips as you pull back to look at him.

“I think you can do better,” you challenge him, nose brushing against his own.

“You’re damn right,” he agrees, using his free hand to curve around the back of your neck as he pulls you in, stealing your breath away with the second press of his lips.

When he parts, you can’t help but giggle against him, an indescribable feeling tightening your chest.

“Yeah…that’s—” You breath stutters as you nod, “that’ll do.”

Joel chuckles softly, his thumb grazing your cheek.

“Good, ‘cause I got a lot of thankin’ to make up for.”

#love this so much #joel miller x reader #joel miller #tlou 2 spoilers #tlou 2

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