favorite-fan-fic

[favorite-fan-fic]

jackson

part 20/? masterlist

chapter summary: Joel comes upstairs to you. Lots of softness (and a little angst) follows. Tommy confronts you about something he heard from Joel, leaving you with a fence to mend. You ask for Ellie's help on a project, and Joel and Tommy spend a little more time together.

pairing: joel miller x f!reader [no use of y/n]

word count: 7.8k (98k total)

warning: brief discussion of near-mortal injury, alcohol use, barely-sexual content, offhand pregnancy mention, grief/loss. see masterlist for overall story notes and warnings. @macaroni676 @orcasoul <3

You woke just enough to turn over in bed, the sheets sliding over your skin with a whisper. 

You thought you'd heard footsteps on the front porch, thought they belonged to Joel, but when no other sound—and no light—intruded on the pure, silent darkness, you were forced to admit to yourself that it had only been a dream. 

Sleep came back over you like a sun-warm breeze.

A little while later, the mattress dipped next to you and the sheets moved against someone else's skin.

The long, slow breath you took as you surfaced from sleep filled your lungs with the scent of whiskey and soap and Joel.

"How was boys' night?" you asked, stretching your arms long above your head. "Manage to avoid getting yourselves Joanie-ed?"

There was a rustling of fabric, then the faint whump of a bundle of cotton hitting the floorboards as Joel shed his shirt.

"Only casualty was what little's left of my hearing," he grumped, settling down against you, accent gone thicker, rougher with the whiskey and the lateness of the hour. "So goddamn loud in there. Man can hardly hear hisself think."

You smiled and moved a little closer, saying, "Think that's half the point of a bar, handsome."

You were wrapped up in warm arms that smelled faintly of tobacco smoke.  A kiss was pressed to your hairline as Joel loosed a soft, contented hum. 

"Thought you'd gone home," he said, pulling you tight against him. "If I'd known you were up here, I'd've come to bed sooner."

"Sorry," you murmured, shifting against his chest, pressing your cheek to the searing warmth of his skin. "The book made me sleepy. I should've just stayed on the couch, but I--"

Joel shushed you, his hand tracing slowly up and down your back. You bowed your shoulders to flatten the plane of your spine, arching into his touch.

Reading had also made your bruised head ache and your vision strain, spreading tension down your neck and upper back that was soothed by the gentle pressure of his hands.

"Nothin' to be sorry for, darlin'," he said, pressing his face into the top of your head and breathing in slow and deep. "Findin' you in my bed's about the second-best thing that's happened to me today."

"Second-best, huh?" you mused, tracing the curve of his flank with your fingers. "The whiskey was that good?"

"Their servin'-whiskey's a step above rot-gut and you know it."

It was true; the stuff was quickly made and barely aged, a sharp-edged thing that almost hurt to drink but turned the world on its ear with surprising ease.

You hummed, playing at thoughtfulness as you draped your leg over Joel's. "Then what was the best thing?"

His hand skated low and crept under the edge of your skirt, palm rasping over your thigh and all the way up to your hip. You shifted under his touch, body coming awake and restless as desire began to build. 

"You already need remindin', wildcat?" he asked, hand cresting the swell of your ass. "'Cause all I had for supper was some popcorn an' a bit of whiskey; you say the word and I'll make a goddamn meal out of you, just like you deserve."

You giggled, arching against him and tipping your head back to plant a kiss on his lips, or as near as you could manage in the dark. The memory of Joel in your bed replayed through your mind, adding to the restless, needy energy building under your skin. 

"Well, I guess we can't have you going to bed hungry." You combed your fingers through his hair and nuzzled into his throat to bite gently at his neck. Joel made a noise somewhere in the neighborhood of a growl and lightly swatted your ass, sending you giggling again.

"Ain't me that's s'posed to be gettin' snacked on, wildcat," he warned.

A contrarian little spark flared in your chest, burning brighter as it settled lower and lower.

"You really gonna stop me, cowboy?" You rolled over against him, coaxing Joel flat onto his back so you could straddle his hips. "'Cause all I had for dinner was popcorn; didn't even get any whiskey. So if anybody's got a right to have an appetite..."

You kissed his neck, leaving a light graze of teeth at his collarbone as you drifted lower. Joel's hands slid over your shoulders, sweeping your hair back and touching your skin.

He hummed a sound that shifted from pleasure to protest, then his fingers curved around your nape and brought your lips back to his. 

"You stay right up here with me, sweetheart; you've had your light duty for the day, no more workin' for you." Joel smoothed his hands down your sides and rested them at your hips, pulling you down against him and wrapping his arms around you. "Better hold off 'til Joan signs off official."

"I would ask you to stop thinking about Joanie when I'm on top of you." You smiled against his lips but threaded your fingers into his hair and tugged lightly. “You’ll ruin a girl’s confidence.”

“I think confidence is just about the last thing in the world you’re short on, darlin’,” Joel said, raising his chin to kiss you. “But if it’ll make you feel better…”

Gravity shifted around you in the pitch-dark room, eliciting a soft little squeak from both you and the bed frame, and then you found a mattress at your back and the warm weight of Joel pressing down against you. 

“There—you ain’t on top anymore.” 

You had the feeling of his face coming slowly closer to yours, but the black of the room was so impenetrable, you couldn’t be sure until his nose brushed your temple, followed by a kiss that landed at the crest of your cheekbone. 

“Just couldn’t get Joanie off your mind, huh?” you teased. 

Joel’s answer was a rumbling ‘mmm’ in his chest as he settled his hips against yours and flexed them slightly up into you, his next kiss landing at the corner of your mouth as he sought your lips. Your soft, contented sigh warmed the air around you as his desire pressed between your legs and you arched up into the feeling. 

“Ain’t her that does this to me with a couple sleepy kisses and her head on my chest.” He shifted his weight on the mattress, his fingers skimming over your neck to find the curve of your jaw. “Ain’t her that’s had me pent-up for days—achin’ for her, but not able to do a damn thing about it. Hell, never even alone to be able to take care of myself.”

Heat flared through you and warmth lingered, radiating from your chest, your grin making you glad for the darkness of the room. 

“We don’t know that for sure,” you said with a smile in your voice, tipping your chin back to bare your throat to Joel. “You ought to at least try giving her some sleepy kisses, don’t you think—in the spirit of scientific inquiry?”

The softness of his lips and the scratchiness of his stubble were a dizzying combination as he skimmed them over your neck to nuzzle into the crook of your shoulder. 

“I’m gonna be way too busy for all that, wildcat.”

“No time for science, no time for church,” you tsked, hands sliding up the smooth, strong plane of his back to curve around his shoulders. “What’re you planning to fill your days with?”

“Oh, there’ll be worship and praise,” Joel vowed, kissing a line back up your neck, leaving a gentle bite beneath your ear that had you curling your toes and giving him a short little moan. “And there’ll be… What they do in science.”

You giggled softly and offered, ���Experimentation?”

He hummed an affirmative sound that somehow managed to be filthy. “That’s the word.” 

Joel claimed a kiss at last. It was a leisurely, indulgent thing, his fingertips gently brushing over your hairline, his tongue tracing over your lip, shared breath warming your skin. As it ended, his weight settled next to you and you were rolled over into Joel, your head returned to his chest and your body pressed tight against his.  

“But I gotta know you’re okay first, Owyn,” he said, holding you close. 

A happy haze blurred out your frustrated desire and you lifted your head in the direction of Joel’s face, sleepy hands seeking his skin. 

“So I get to lay here and kiss you slow, as long as I want?” you asked, offering last night's words back to him. “And here I thought there’d be bad news, cowboy.”

----------------------

It was about the weirdest damn night of sleep Joel could ever remember having. He’d dropped off without realizing he was even drifting and then slept like a stone. Some dreamless stretch later, he’d startled awake into the coffin-dark silence with the dread-filled feeling of having fallen asleep on watch, body held down by a warm weight that adjusted against him as he struggled to find his bearings. 

“You okay?” the weight muttered sleepily, nuzzling into him, hand sliding up around his nape. 

Tess. He wound his arms around her, but then froze halfway through the gesture. No. 

Not Tess. Tess is— 

Joel’s chest squeezed tight and hollow with a fresh bleeding of scabbed-over grief. 

Tess is gone. 

His hold loosened. Who the hell else could possibly be in his bed?

Shifting blankets and skin stirred a sweet, grassy scent into the air. Realization dawned and Joel’s whole body relaxed, heart rate easing back from a sprint. 

“I’m okay, wildcat.” He tightened his hold on you and kissed the top of your head, breathing in the perfume of your crown. “We’re okay.”

Sleep took him back under quickly. It was a deep, placid thing that swallowed him whole. 

He snapped into consciousness alone, patting wildly at the space around him, desperate to find her, desperate to know she was okay. Which ‘her’ he was so worried about, Joel wasn’t exactly sure, he only knew he needed to find her. Panic mounted until bed-warm fingers stroked over his arm and a close voice made a soft shushing sound for him. 

“I’m right here,” the voice said, its owner sliding closer to Joel on a whisper of sheets and warmth. Her arms wound around him and coaxed him to lying down, guiding his head to rest in the center of her chest. The steady beating of her heart was a grounding lullaby, and Joel felt his own heartbeat slow in answer, as if matching itself to hers. 

Then he was out again, for an instant and an eternity, before jerking awake in the dark another time, scrambling out from under the weight holding him down. It took entirely too many seconds for Joel to realize there was a mattress beneath him, rather than leaves and earth—it was a headboard at his back, not a tree trunk. 

“Is it like this every night?” asked a voice, sleep-thick and raspy, but soft and kind. 

His wildcat. He’d fallen asleep next to you. 

Joel took a handful of breaths, filling his lungs with sweetgrass sighs and feeling like he ought to speak but not knowing quite what to say. 

“Not…as far as I remember,” he admitted. “Just since we came here.”

Joel didn’t want to say it was worse with you lying next to him, ‘cause you might go, but waking up pinned down by a stranger he couldn’t see—however briefly you remained a stranger before he recognized you—certainly added a more immediate feeling of danger and fear to his already-disoriented wakings. 

At least the dreams weren’t plaguing him; freedom from his vicious nightmares was more than worth the trade-off, honestly. The panic faded quickly--his nightmares tended to linger, tended to haunt and revisit him, whispering down his neck even after dawn had broken. 

You hummed a thoughtful sound, then the bedside lamp flared to life with a click. Joel flinched from the warm-toned glare as you shifted yourself up to sitting, nestling your shoulder underneath his and slumping forward rather than resting against the headboard. 

“You know what two things I remember about being in a QZ? Well, three. No…four.” You rubbed your eyes and flopped your hands on top of each other in your lap, lazily ticking items off on your fingers: “It stinks to high hell, privacy is a distant memory, it’s so loud, and…it is never, ever fully dark.”

“Makin’ me homesick,” Joel said dryly. “What’re you gettin’ at, wildcat?"

“It’s never dark. You weren’t waking up in pitch-darkness in Boston, right? There was always some light coming into the room? Enough to see by?“

There’d been a floodlight right beyond the window, its buzzing halogen bulb blaring a sickly yellow glow and an insect-swarm droning into the one-room apartment he’d shared with Tess. ‘So loud and never dark’ was an understatement. 

You must’ve seen the memory on his face. 

“Couldn’t that be what’s changed? You used to be able to orient yourself by sight.” Your eyes flicked to the window beyond the foot of the bed, a full-black rectangle framed by curtains. “There’s not even moonlight right now.”

“Nah, 'm alright,” he muttered, face warming; he knew what you were leading up to—had some idea, at least—and he didn’t want nothing to do with it. “I’ll adjust.”

“Joel.” Your voice was a toothless reproach as you repositioned yourself on the bed to better look at him. “It’s been, what, over half a year? You need decent sleep, especially with a heart...issue. I’m not saying it’s gotta be forever, just try it for a couple nights, at least ‘til the moon starts to come back.”

Embarrassment squirmed in his chest. He wasn't a child or some frail old man. “I don’t need a goddamn nightlight.” 

You rolled your eyes and gestured to the fireplace. 

“Then make a fire; the nights are cool enough.”

“You’re thinkin’ too far into this.” He tried to dull the edge in his voice, tried to bite his tongue before it could form the word ‘shrink’. “I’m a grown man, I can handle it.”

“You’re not thinking far enough," you said, shaking your head, but not rising to anger. You were matter-of-fact about it, warning him, "You’re gonna wake up in a fight-or-flight panic and bust me in the face or choke me half to death."

The notion rooted and gnarled in Joel's chest like a thornbush and he had to resist the urge to move away from you.

"You really wanna go through another round of ‘I don't beat on her, I swear’, except this time with the townsfolk?" you asked, twisting the knife to underscore your point. "‘Cause I dunno how you felt about the doubt, but I didn’t particularly care for the pitying looks.”

Joel's gaze dropped from the bruise on your face and landed on your hands fidgeting ever so slightly in your lap, fingertips finding every loose thread and imperfect texture on the face of his quilt.

You weren't at peace. You were in his bed, but you weren't comfortable there, not now.

But Joel reckoned he probably wouldn't feel relaxed either, if he thought there was a chance he was gonna get punched awake if he fell back asleep.

It occurred to him all at once that this was exactly the kind of moment he didn't know what to do with--Tommy's 'boring bullshit that comes with living a life.'

Joel could have you in his arms, or he could sleep alone. He could have his pride, or he could shelve it for a few hours to show you he'd do whatever it took to make you feel safe. Not just protected--safe.

"Alright, baby," he said, settling down against his thin pillow and stretching his legs out beneath the blankets. Joel patted a hand against the center of his chest and offered you his arms. "We'll give it a try. Come on here to me."

Your shoulders loosened and you relaxed down against him, nestling your head beneath his chin and pressing a kiss to the hollow of his throat.

"Thank you, handsome."

A hint of tension spread over his face, a quick temptation to smile. Maybe compromise could give Joel a different sort of pride.

“Gonna run out of lightbulbs eventually," he said. Joel wasn't sure how many your little town had squirreled away, but it certainly had to be a finite number.

“And when we do," you promised, "I’ll go find a lightbulb factory and stage a heist.”

He thought it would take him a while to doze off in the brightness, but the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of your chest against his swiftly lulled him under. When he startled back awake with that ‘oh shit’ feeling in his gut and quailing from a creature’s warm breath against his neck, Joel looked down to find his arms holding onto a familiar shape like a life preserver, a familiar face turned up toward his in sleep. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, taking a long, slow inhale, and went back to bed. 

----------------------

“How was the rest of your sleep?” you asked, bleary eyes and the golden light of dawn turning the world into a dreamy, soft-focus scene as you shifted in Joel’s arms, tipping your chin up to see his face.  

He took a moment to reply, looking a little sheepish and just offering a nod, then tightening his arms around you. Better. 

You stretched your legs long and wiggled your toes, letting yourself have a yawn as you mulled over your next words. 

“Alexei deployed with an artillery unit right in the middle of his trauma residency,” you finally said, shifting in Joel's hold. “That was how we’d met—he was another Army doc, couple years further along than me.”

The blanket slipped off of your shoulder, but Joel pulled it back over you and tucked it in before the morning-chill air could cool your skin. 

“He could’ve gotten out of it, but after a few years drilling together, that unit was like his family. So he went with them. We got married before the deployment just in case he—” You cleared your throat and shook your head against Joel's chest. Man had been dead twenty-one years and you still couldn’t consistently say it. “You have to be a spouse to get notified if something happens. His folks were, uh… His folks wouldn’t have told me.”

They’d had a pretty specific idea of who they wanted their darling Lyoshka to be with, who they wanted to bring into their family, and it certainly hadn’t been you. After what they’d been through, you couldn’t even blame them, but it still hurt to be shoved so hard out of such a close-knit group. 

“I was still in med school. Found out I was pregnant eight days after he left, actually,” you said, humming an oof sound at the memory. “He hadn’t even left the country yet, the unit was just down in Oklahoma getting ready… But that’s neither here nor there.”

If Lexei’s folks had been contemptuous of your relationship before—and they absolutely had—it paled in comparison to the ire they threw your way when they found out you’d gotten hitched. And they blew their absolute stack at finding out the golden boy had knocked you up before he’d traipsed off to another continent for over half a year. 

You drifted too far into memory and forgot to keep talking for a couple minutes. Joel just paced his hand over your back and held you, apparently content to wait for you to return to the story on your own time. 

“After he got back, everything was great…for a few weeks.” You sighed and shrugged against him. “But that’s how it goes—you start feeling safe and your brain finally starts taking down the fences it had built around the bad stuff.” 

The dull throb in your cheek, the renewed ache in your head might’ve been from your still-fading bruise or just from memory. 

“Then one night, he flailed awake and clocked me in the face with an elbow. Thought he’d die of the horror and the shame; he hadn’t been in control of any of it, obviously, but blacking the eye of your heavily-pregnant wife…” Your face pinched in a grimace and Joel held you a little tighter, pressing his cheek to your crown. “It was fine again for a little while, but I think it was just because he wasn’t letting himself actually sleep. He finally let his guard back down, relaxed, thought maybe it was just a fluke, and then woke up a few nights later with his hands around my neck. I had to punch him awake to get him to let me go.”

There was an edge of guarding, of protectiveness to the way Joel’s arms came around you, as though he could shield you from the past. Your nose and eyes burned with emotion and you took a few slow breaths before going on, anchoring yourself with the steady beating of Joel's heart against your ear.

“Lexei started sleeping in the guest room after that, and then Zozie was born three days later,” you said, matter-of-fact. “Wasn’t until Zoze moved out of her crib and into a toddler bed in her own room that he and I started sharing a bed again. He was so afraid of hurting me. Hurting us.” 

He’d also switched to the night shift around that time, claiming that it was the only spot he could get as a new attending physician. It might’ve been true, but it had the side effect of ensuring the two of you weren’t often in bed at the same time. 

“I still think the only reason he started sleeping next to me again was because he was afraid he’d leave his bed and end up hurting Zozie.” A pit opened in your chest, a whirlpool that threatened to suck you under. You took a breath to buoy yourself, but your voice still broke as you mused, “Oh, irony.”

Joel‘s hands stilled on your back and he made a small noise of question, but you just gave a dismissive shake of your head.

“Long story.” One you weren’t sure you ever wanted to tell. You yawned again, pulling in a full, aching lungful of air. “But I’d gotten used to the nightlight in our room—I’d put it in to make those midnight feedings easier—and so I left it plugged in. Lexei still startled awake, and I won’t lie and say I never caught a stray elbow again, but…it helped. He could see his surroundings, knew he was home and safe and not…someplace else.” 

Alexei had also gone to a shitload of therapy and had your whole residency’s worth of VA psychiatrists in his corner, but you reckoned that ship had sailed for Joel now. Your gut twisted with something like guilt, but you pressed on. 

“It wasn’t his fault, Joel. None of it. And it’s not yours, either. Our brains lock away”—you swallowed down the word ‘trauma’, which men always seemed to balk at—“extreme stress in weird ways. The only goal is survival in the moment, we're not worried about the long-term effects of what we do to get by. So by the time the smoke starts seeping under the door, there’s a fucking inferno on the other side.” 

It was a long moment before Joel spoke, and you might’ve thought he’d fallen back asleep if his hands weren’t slowly pacing over your skin, his heart beating a little faster against your cheek. 

“I’ve done a lot of wakin’ up with someone missing,” he said, quiet and careful. “Lot of wakin’ up to danger.”

It was your turn to hold Joel a little tighter. 

“Your body remembers. That’s its job,” you said simply. “It’ll learn in time the danger’s mostly passed. Just be patient with yourself and give it a little help. A little light.”

A symphony of slow, easy breathing and morning birdsong were the only sounds for a while. Finally, Joel took a deep breath, tucking his chin to bring his face closer to your crown. 

“The light helped,” he admitted. “Bein’ able to see you…helped. You were right; sorry I was ornery about it at first.”

You smiled against the warm skin of his chest. 

“You’ll make it up to me,” you said. 

He hummed a thoughtful sound. “Coffee?” 

“Two mornings in a row?” You groaned happily and raised your head to look at him. “You’ll spoil me.”

Joel left a kiss right between your eyebrows.

“I’m damn sure gonna try,” he said.

----------------------

The cold mists of morning still hung low to the ground when you left the clinic after your follow-up appointment with Joanie the next day. The near-dawn hours were a special time in Jackson, with lots of sleepy movement and the sounds of life just beginning to rise through the streets.

Most of the town got going a little later in the morning, but Tommy was hard at work already, fixing up another of Jackson’s houses, readying it for the next occupant with the help of Jake, a younger guy who was new-ish to town and had recently taken up firewatch duty with his brother Ben. The men were hammering at the front steps--the first thing to be redone on the houses, more often than not. After twenty-plus years exposed to the elements, they’d all rotted to hell and back, making themselves a hazard to everyone working on the house.

“Heya, fellas,” you said as you walked by, eager to get past the racket. Your head still ached off and on, and it was currently very uncomfortably ‘on’.

“Rager!” Tommy called out to you, mercifully pausing his hammering. He took a step in your direction and beckoned you over with a wave. “C’mere a minute.”

You ambled over to him, the old nickname washing you in a wave of nostalgia. It was one of many he’d given you over the years—a trait that he apparently shared with his brother. Years ago, he'd taken note of your quick temper and tendency to explode, remarking anytime you got upset that he could see a 'red rage' on the horizon. He took to using it as your nickname, eventually landing on Rager.

You'd cooled your temper over the years, but the label persisted, presumably because Tommy liked to show affection by annoying you—also a Miller family trait, it would seem.

“What’s goin’ on, Tom?”

“Listen, I just wanted to…” He cleared his throat and shifted his weight from foot to foot, focusing on something over your shoulder. “I was talkin’ to Joel the other day and he said somethin’ about— He wasn’t stirring the pot or nothin’, he just was sayin’ you’d told him about how we used to be good friends.”

You nodded your understanding and waited for him to continue. Tommy’s face flashed something between a wince and a scowl.

“Used to be,” he prompted. “As in, not anymore.”

Oh, hell.

Your heart dropped down to your feet and your face flushed warm.

“That wasn’t what I meant, Tommy, I just—”

“You just what?" He threw his arms out to his sides, his brow furrowed tight. He wasn't angry, wasn't yelling, but you almost wished he was; the hurt on his face was so much worse. "I knew I hadn't been seeing you around as much, knew there'd been a little distance, but I thought we were just...missing each other. Busy with other things. Imagine my surprise when I found out it was 'cause we apparently ain't friends anymore." 

"We're still friends, Tom, I just-- You had a lot of people to make space for, and I wanted to let you do that. Your real family had gotten so much bigger so quick, and that’s such a blessing and such a big change; I figured it was only decent to just…bow out. Or, well, step ba--"

“’Real family.’” Tommy echoed, his voice having taken on the quality of a balloon after the helium had worn off, bouncing slowly to the ground. “You bowed out to make space for my real family.”

Even if the flatness in his speech hadn’t been warning enough, his use of your words was an unmissable alarm bell. A weight settled in your chest and your heart began to pound with nerves, making you tremble clear down to your fingertips. The dull ache in your head ramped up to something closer to a roar, but you shoved it into the background. 

“Tom, listen, I—”

You reached out to offer a calming touch, but Tommy yanked his arm away from you, then took a step closer, all but looming over you.

“You listen. You’ve taught me so much, doc. You’re so smart. I forget sometimes just how fuckin’ dumb you can be.” He turned on his heel to leave.

Your voice was all shock and a little chiding as you called after him. “Tommy!”

Your hand was outstretched to grab for his arm, fingers an inch from the fabric of his coat when he spun back to face you suddenly. You stopped short to avoid colliding into him as he jabbed a finger at your heart.

“You’ve got a blind spot that is exactly your own size, you know that? It’s incredible.”

A lump formed in your throat and you bit the inside of your cheek, willing yourself not to cry from sheer overwhelm as Tommy went on. You wondered if Joanie’s ridiculous proclamation that you needed to continue to avoid situations that might increase the pressure inside your skull applied to crying. Probably, since it apparently included patrol—and horseback riding in general—lifting anything over twenty pounds, climbing more than one flight of stairs at a time, and any household chore you couldn’t accomplish standing upright. 

If Joanie could have banned you from sneezing or laughter, she probably would have. 

All this over a headache, but you still had to endure the misery of that look on Tommy’s face. 

“You’ve made yourself a little scarcer here in the last few months, but I just figured it was my fault, b’tween the baby coming along, and Joel and Ellie, and us not patrolling together anymore." He shook his head and looked off into the distance, then down to his restless hands, picking at his fingernails. "I thought I’d just been too far up my own ass to make time for you. The cake was…I wanted to check in, I guess. Reach out, try harder.”

Tom raised his eyes to yours, brow pinched with so much sincerity it made you ache.

“Plus, it was your birthday, I wanted you to know you’re—” He shrugged and shook his head again, his focus falling on the bruise across your cheek, then to the scars at your throat for just a heartbeat. “I wanted you to know I’m glad you’re here. But, no—turns out, I had to do all that reachin' because my best friend had just taken it upon herself to step back and bow out of my life. What the fuck, man?”

The footsteps that gathered up behind you would've been a comfort any other time, but just then, they felt like an interruption to a chance you'd never have again.

"Y'all alright?" Joel asked.

Tommy's gaze flicked to his brother and then back to you.

"Just fuckin' ducky," he muttered, turning his back on the two of you and returning to his work.

The sound of hammering resumed, and it might've just been your imagination or the throbbing ache in your head, but it sure seemed more forceful than before.

----------------------

A couple days later, you were fiddling with the zipper of your jacket one more time, then securing it just so over your hips before drumming your fingernails on the glass of Ellie’s door. 

Ellie’s head snapped up from where she’d been hunched over her guitar, picking at the strings as she worked out a song that you had recognized but not been able to name. She waved you in through the window.

“Hey. Joel okay?” Ellie asked, craning her neck to peek around you as if she thought he might be behind you.

“Still out on patrol, I think. Should be back in an hour or two.” You closed the door behind you. “I wondered if you might wanna help me with something."

“Sure. What’s up?”

She rose to her feet to put the guitar in its stand, then crossed the room to sit on the coffee table with one leg curled underneath her.

“Mind if I—?” You gestured to the old futon opposite the coffee table.

“No, sorry, I promised Joel I wouldn’t have girls over when he wasn’t home. No face-bruise loophole.” She splayed her hands and shrugged. “You gotta stand.”

“Oh, uh…okay. Well, I’ll make it quick, I guess. Me and Si—”

“Would you sit the hell down, oh my god.” Ellie shook her head, feigning disappointment. “I expected better from you.”

“More fun to feint than fight sometimes, my dear. Write that down.”

Ellie mimed scribbling onto her palm and rolled her eyes.

You took a seat, slow and careful, pressing one hand to your stomach and the other to your chest.

“Holy shit, you’re pregnant,” Ellie breathed, eyes wide.

The burst of laughter that exploded from you caused a scrabbling feeling to spread against your stomach. You flattened your hand against the sensation with a light, gentle pressure.

“No. God, take it back.” You pretended to spit, warding off the girl’s declaration instead of explaining its impossibility—it had been a long time since medical school, but you seemed to recall that one can’t get pregnant if one’s not getting laid. Fuckin’ Joanie. “I am absolutely not pregnant. Don’t put that crap on me. With no hope of an epidural? Shoot me.”

Ellie’s brow furrowed and she looked you over. “Then what the hell is all…that?”

“You have to be cool,” you said, waving Ellie closer and unzipping your jacket a little. “They’re tiny and skittish and so, so wiggly.”

You reached down the neck of your overshirt and began fishing around.

“Please tell me we aren’t talking about your…” Ellie held her hands up before her chest, miming a pair of breasts. 

“Excuse me,” you said, pointing to your own chest, “these are perfectly sized and, frankly, they're not all that skittish.”

Ellie made a gagging noise. “Mercy. No more, you win.”

You grinned, the absurdity of the situation warming you through. Your fingers finally closed on a wee furry body that tried valiantly to escape your grasp. Withdrawing your hand and cupping the other around it, you presented them to Ellie, blondish fur poking out between your fingers.

Ellie held out her hands and you deposited into them a tiny ball of stripes and fur and tail. That was all you saw before the critter shifted and Ellie enclosed it in her own hands, a half-panicked look crossing her face. 

“What the fuck is this?!” The animal nudged its tiny nose through a gap in Ellie’s fingers, and the girl's half-panic went full for a second. She held her hands away from her body until her bravery returned, then brought them back against her chest. “Well, hold still so I can see you, you little f—oh my god what are you?!”

Pure delight burst from Ellie like a shockwave and your heart surged at the sight. 

Ellie opened her hands a little more and a tiny head popped out, then tried to force its body through the opening. Her jaw dropped and she released a breath in a soundless, gleeful scream. 

“What are—” The animal pried itself loose of her grip and clawed its way up her sleeve, stopping at her shoulder. Ellie froze but did not look afraid, more like she was trying to avoid spooking the thing. “Where did it come from?”

You plucked it off and returned it to Ellie’s hands. “You sure you wanna know?”

Ellie raised her eyes to look at your face, pinched up in pre-apology, and she sighed.

“Was it Seth and his fucking monster-dogs again?”

You bared your teeth in a wince and nodded. This was at least the fifth family of small mammals they'd massacred since the spring.

“Got their mama,” you said. “And a couple siblings, too, I think. Me and Silas did our best—I’ve got the three survivors.”

You’d come upon the gruesome scene while returning from walking your horses a little ways out and back from the settlement to ease the penned-in energy that the lot of you had been building from not going out on patrol. Seth and his pack of snarling hellbeasts were doing some kind of ‘training’ just outside the gate but had stumbled onto the burrow of some ground-based critter or another. 

To the dogs’ credit, they’d obeyed when ordered to ‘leave it.’ To Seth’s damnation, he hadn’t given the command ‘til he’d seen you and Silas approaching. 

Ellie whispered a truly impressive mouthful of profanity.

“Those dogs are menaces.” She held the little creature close and scritched between its tiny shoulders, whispering that it was a poor little fuzzball. “I can’t believe Maria lets him keep them.”

“I know,” you said. But Seth’s a menace, too, and we keep him. “I’m gonna try to raise ‘em, but I don’t even know what they are. I thought you might be able to help me.”

“Me? I don’t know anything about…” Ellie looked at it and tilted her head. “Chipmunks? Squirrels, maybe? What do prairie dogs look like?”

“Bigger, I think? I’m not really sure. Though they are babies…” You craned your neck to peer into Ellie’s hands. “Did I see some books about wildlife on the shelves in the house? Think Joel’d mind if we looked at ‘em?”

You knew you had, and you knew he wouldn’t mind, since he’d already given you permission to borrow what you pleased from his shelves, but you thought Ellie might like it and you wanted to do this with her. Plus, you weren’t quite bold enough to go in the house unaccompanied; just sitting in it alone the other night had been odd enough, and you’d been welcomed inside first. 

Ellie shrugged. “Can’t hurt to look. We can build a big-ass fire to warm ‘em up; it’s kind of cold in here. ‘Less you want to put my friend Peanut Butter back in your…” She gestured a hand at your chest. “…bazongas.”

The wild, wheezing laughter that answered from you sent a zap of pain behind your eye and a fresh round of frantic scrabbling across your stomach. Ellie looked pleased with herself, trying to bite back a grin and mostly not pulling it off.

“Peanut Butter?” you asked.

“He’s obviously a ‘Peanut Butter’,” Ellie said, holding the creature up in evidence and continuing, “look at ‘im.”

Keen black eyes stared at you from amid a spread of mussed, brown-blonde fur. ‘Peanut Butter’ seemed as good a name as any. 

“Well, I’ve got two more in here that need names.” You got to your feet and nodded toward the main house. “Why don’t you brainstorm while we go infest Joel’s house with rodents.”

----------------------

Joel heard overlapping, familiar laughter sounding out across the front yard before he’d even reached the porch. His steps slowed and lightened, and he sat down silently on the stairs, good ear turned toward the happy sounds that spilled out of his home.

He’d know that laugh—both those laughs—anywhere. They were a magnet he couldn’t help being pulled to, a tide that could never fail to lift him.

Ellie liked you, he knew that already, and your love for Ellie had almost kept you and Joel apart. But some part of him was still knocked straight to the ground at the sound of you giggling together.

For several long minutes, he sat there listening, willing the noise to go on forever.

“You alright?” 

Joel’s head whipped around to the voice, hand freezing halfway to the pistol on his hip as recognition dawned. It was Tommy, his approach having literally fallen on Joel’s deaf ear.

Joel nodded then held up a fist in silent directive. Be quiet. Tommy’s brow furrowed in question, but he obeyed out of a soldier’s habit as Joel cupped a hand to his ear—listen—then pointed to the house. 

Tommy crept forward, coming closer to Joel’s side to hear. The interior had gone quiet, and the men were held in suspense for a short moment before another burst of laughter rang from within. Lightness buoyed up in Joel’s chest and a laugh of his own nearly broke the surface. 

“Ellie ‘n’ the doc,” Joel whispered.

But Tommy didn’t respond, he just regarded Joel.

The weight of his little brother’s appraisal made his skin itch, and after a handful of seconds, Joel barked, “Why’re you lookin’ at me like that? Quit it.”

“Lookin’ at you like what?”

Tommy’s smug look sparked the kind of embarrassment in Joel that only a sibling can elicit, sending him on the defensive for no particular reason he could point to.

“Shouldn’t you be goin’ home, anyway?” Joel asked. “You were with me all day.”

It had been nice to go back to their normal routine patrol, the catching-up and the comfortable silence. But they’d been eight hours side by side, and Joel figured Tommy would be more eager to get home to his pretty little wife and their grinning, good-natured butterball of a young’un.

“Maria’s still running her meeting,” Tommy said, low voice matching Joel’s. “Figured I’d see if you wanted to grab a drink. But you’re not going anywhere, are you?”

“What d’you mean?"

A soft giggle—yours—rang from within, and Joel’s head turned to follow it until it faded. He looked back to his brother, and Tommy just leveled a pointed look at him, then smiled and shook his head.

“Go inside; see what they’re laughin’ about,” Tommy said, nudging him with a boot. “Bison tomorrow for lunch and that drink?”

Joel looked at his little brother for a moment, wondering how long he’d been noticing more than he let on, then he nodded once and hauled himself to standing, not needing much encouragement to join the merry scene in his living room.

“You got a hell of a lot more’n an inkling, big brother.” Tommy patted him on the back, giving him a smile and a fond shake of his head before pointing up the steps. “Go be with your girls. They’re waiting for you. I'll catch you tomorrow.”

A little hesitation popped up at the thought of nosing in on your time together, on disrupting your girls’ night by barging in; the grumpy old fuck with the asshole voice, come to wreck everyone’s good time. But, despite himself, he wanted nothing more than to go inside to the two of you.

My girls. Joel liked the sound of that.

----------------------

Tommy stood on the sidewalk as Joel crossed the porch and opened his front door. The two-woman chorus of ‘Heyyyy!!!’ that went up in greeting as he entered the house would have done enough for Tommy’s spirits on its own, but the grin on Joel’s face as he had shed his jacket and closed the door was a balm to his soul.

It had been far too long since Tommy had seen Joel’s face light up with that kind of happiness for more than a flicker of a moment. Too often, Joel seemed to sense himself being boosted and then he’d respond by cutting himself off from the feeling. A breaker would flip, and the light would go dark.

Tommy couldn’t blame him, not fully. Losing Sarah among the crumbling of society, losing all the plans and dreams Joel had cooked up for the two of them—or maybe all three of them, he supposed—had cast Joel into a darkness Tommy had worried he’d never emerge from.

Never able to find the right thing to say to light the dark all those years ago, Tommy had eventually just…quit trying. He left his big brother in that darkness all alone; it’d never occurred to him that Joel might not be able to find his way out by himself. ‘Course it hadn’t—his whole life, the one thing Tommy always knew was that Joel could do anything, fight anything, and win. 

But Tommy had been wrong, and by the time he’d realized the truth of it, the dark had claimed Joel fully. Twisted him. Made him into someone Tommy didn’t recognize and didn’t like. Someone he couldn’t stomach the sight of anymore. Not one minute more.

I don’t ever want to see your goddamn face again. And Tommy had meant every word.

Joel had been God-damned back then, indeed. 

Tommy had been scared to death of Joel the day he’d finally snapped and walked away. He’d had to summon all that rage just to keep his voice from shaking. Turning his back on Joel took every scrap of his will and composure in that moment, like he was giving his back to a wolf or a grizzly. He’d expected teeth in his neck the whole way to Marlene’s, and for months after.

And then, years later, there Joel had been. Not the monster he’d turned his back to, not the predator who’d grown to love the darkness—just Joel. His ornery, loyal big brother. Still in shadow, maybe, but turning his face toward the sun. Trying.

These months later, he was damn near himself again, but Joel still kept flinching away in those bright moments.

Until tonight.

Go be with your girls. They’re waiting for you.

Joel’s face had lit and he hadn’t flinched from it this time, hadn’t shoved himself back into the darkness. Maybe it could last.

You certainly had your flaws—God knows Tommy did, too, and your flaws tended to combine like diesel and dynamite—but there was a reason the two of you had gotten so close. You were as ruthless and pig-headed as a Miller, but you were funny and kind and you loved with every inch of yourself. You and Joel could be good together, Tommy thought, so long as you didn’t swallow each other whole.

Tommy climbed up his own porch steps, hearing the bustling of his family within as Maria unloaded herself and the baby, finally home after her meeting.

“I owe you a foot rub,” he announced into the house, knowing his wife would hear him. “I just came from Joel’s, and you were right—giddy as a schoolboy. Didn’t even take a month."

[favorite-fan-fic]

oh, baby

joel miller x reader

summary: joel and y/n connect over being a single parent

a/n: i don’t really know what this is but i thought it was cute

joel miller masterlist

It was a quiet afternoon when Joel decided to take Sarah out to a local café for lunch. They’d been cooped up at home for days, and he figured a little outing would do them both good. Sarah, as usual, was full of energy, chattering nonstop about everything she’d learned in her preschool class. Joel half-listened, half-watching her with a soft smile as he sipped his coffee.

As they sat at their booth, a young woman with a baby in tow walked past their table, heading toward the counter. The baby—Joel couldn’t have been more than six months old—was bundled up in a soft blue blanket. The woman, with her beautiful hair and easy smile, caught Joel’s eye for a moment as she passed. She seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place where he’d seen her before.

She settled into a booth across the room, a little distance away, but something in the way her baby was looking at him caught Joel’s attention. The infant, a chubby-cheeked little boy, was staring directly at Joel. And not just looking—staring, like he was trying to figure something out. His big eyes were wide with curiosity, and as Joel shifted in his seat, the baby’s face broke into a small, soft smile.

Joel blinked in surprise, unsure how to react. Babies didn’t usually single him out like that. He gave a small, instinctive wave, half-embarrassed by the attention, but the baby only smiled more, his eyes locked onto Joel with an intensity that was almost too much. Joel let out a quiet chuckle and leaned back in his chair, feeling his own cheeks warm under the scrutiny.

“Dad, look!” Sarah exclaimed, pointing toward the baby. “That baby’s staring at you!”

Joel glanced down at his daughter, who had noticed the same thing. He gave her a shrug, trying to keep his tone casual. “Yeah, I think he likes my face.”

Sarah giggled. “I think he wants to be friends!”

The baby’s gaze never wavered. Joel looked across the room again and caught the mother’s eye this time. She smiled warmly at him, and that’s when it hit him—she looked vaguely familiar, though he still couldn’t quite place where he’d seen her.

I was noticing his lingering gaze on my son, raised an eyebrow and gave him a sheepish grin. “Sorry about that,” I called out, my voice soft but friendly. “He’s just really fixated on you for some reason. I promise he’s not usually so… intense.”

Joel smiled back, feeling both awkward and charmed by the exchange. “It’s no trouble,” he said, trying to sound at ease, even though the little boy’s stare was starting to make him feel like he was being examined. “He’s got a good eye.”

I laughed lightly as I shifted my baby in my arms, the boy still keeping his focus on Joel like he was some kind of magnet. “I’m y/n, by the way. And this little guy is Luke.”

Joel nodded, feeling a little embarrassed at the odd connection he was having with this woman and her baby. “I’m Joel, and this is Sarah.” He gestured to his daughter, who was happily busy coloring on the kids’ menu.

My eyes flickered briefly to Sarah, then back to Joel. “It’s nice to meet you both. Looks like Sarah and Luke could be buddies if they ever got the chance.”

Joel chuckled and shifted his gaze back to his daughter, who was now enthusiastically showing Luke her drawings from across the room. “She’s pretty good at making new friends,” he said, his voice softening as he watched Sarah interact. There was something so natural about her kindness—it always reminded him that despite the chaos of his life, he’d done something right raising her.

I followed his gaze, a faint smile playing on my lips. “She seems like a sweet girl.” My tone was warm, almost affectionate, but there was something else in my eyes—something that made Joel pause. Was that a flicker of interest?

For a moment, the conversation lapsed into comfortable silence. The soft clinking of cups and cutlery from the other tables filled the air, and the babies’ quiet babbles and giggles blended into the background. Joel felt a tug of something—something he hadn’t felt in a while. An interest, an attraction, maybe? But as quickly as the thought crossed his mind, he pushed it aside.

“I’m sure you’ve got your hands full,” he said, trying to steer the conversation away from anything too personal. “Raising a little one, especially with… everything that’s going on.” He let the last part trail off, not wanting to assume too much, but still curious about my situation.

I met his eyes, and for a brief moment, there was a softness in my expression, a quiet strength. “Actually, it’s just me and Luke. No husband.” I smiled, but there was something almost wistful in my eyes. “Not that I mind. It’s just the two of us.”

Joel blinked, surprised. He’d assumed, based on the way she spoke, that there was a husband or some kind of support in the picture. “I didn’t know,” he said, almost apologetically.

I laughed softly, as if it wasn’t something I minded sharing. “It’s not something I usually bring up, but I don’t really mind being open about it. It’s just how things are, you know? But enough about me. What about you?”

Joel shifted, unsure how to respond, the sudden shift in the conversation leaving him both intrigued and a little nervous. “It’s just me and Sarah. I’ve been doing the solo thing for a while now.”

I nodded, my gaze warm and understanding. “It’s not always easy, is it? Doing it on your own.”

“No,” Joel said, his voice a little quieter. “It’s not. But I’ve got Sarah, and that makes everything else a lot more manageable.”

I smiled at that, my gaze softening as I looked at him—really looked at him—and for a moment, the air between us seemed to thrum with an unspoken understanding. We both knew the challenges of raising kids on our own, and we both knew the weight of that responsibility.

It was at that moment that Luke gave a small gurgle, and Joel realized the baby had finally broken his intense gaze, now more interested in the rattle his mother was shaking for him.

Joel exhaled a quiet breath, his heart still unexpectedly racing from the interaction. “I think he’s finally looking at something else,” he said with a laugh, his nervous energy easing a little.

I smiled again, but this time, it wasn’t just a polite smile. It was a real one—a smile that seemed to carry the possibility of something more. “Well, if it makes you feel better,” I said with a wink, “you’ve got Luke’s approval.”

Joel’s lips quirked into a half-smile as our eyes met, a spark of something more—something tentative but unmistakable—passing between us.

He wasn’t sure where this might go, if anywhere at all, but in that moment, it felt like the start of something new. And for the first time in a long while, that thought didn’t feel so scary.

[favorite-fan-fic]

Cuffed To The Grind

Pairing: Detective Tim Rockford x Female Reader Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Summary: You're working late 'cause you're a detective. Oh Tim looks so good handcuffed to a chair. Warnings: smut, unprotected p in v, riding, handcuffs, domming the detective, vag badge, commingled cum, fucking your boss, panty gag, holding on to holsters, whiskey, cop stuff Words: 2,800

A/N: Written for the wonderful @wannab-urs's Dom That Middle Aged Man Campaign.

Masterlist

---

You hate your new boss. Tim Rockford, the hot-shot fellow detective who all the girls in the precinct fawn over. Yeah, yeah. Tall, broad, beautiful, deep brown eyes, strong jaw, perfect hair, blah, blah.

Arrogant, kind of a jerk, struts around the station like he owns the place, always gets his way because he figured out the great pie mystery last year.

He holds you to impossible standards. Every case has to be wrapped up in record time, every lead followed to exhaustion, every 'i' dotted and 't' crossed to his exacting specifications.

Yesterday, he kept you late yet again because he wasn't satisfied with the progress on the Wilmington robbery. Never mind that you'd already been pulling 12-hour shifts with him for a week straight. No, Tim Rockford needed results, and he seemed to always need them from you.

—

It’s late… too late… and you’re stuck with Tim in his office yet again. As you pore over the case files, you can’t stop stealing glances at him across the cluttered table. The low light of his desk lamp casts a shadow on his handsome face. God, he’s so frustrating but he’s gorgeous.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, mussing it slightly. He shrugs off his suit jacket, draping it over the back of his chair. His crisp, white dress shirt strains against his shoulders. He rolls up his sleeves methodically, his strong arms revealed to you. You wonder just how golden his chest is.

You try not to stare as he loosens his tie, pulling it free. You wish you were the one taking it off of him.

He picks up a file, his large hands flip through the pages. A long, thick finger runs down a page as he takes information in. You wonder what his hands would feel like all over your body, what his finger would feel like inside you.

Tim leans back, stretching his arms above his head, he catches you looking and arches a perfect eyebrow. "See something you like, detective?"

You scoff and roll your eyes. "Don't flatter yourself, sir. Let's just focus on the case."

He flashes that infuriatingly cocky grin. "Whatever you say, sweetheart." 

Sweetheart. His deep voice sends a shiver down your spine. Damn him.

Hours pass as you two meticulously examine evidence and victim statements. Tim's brow furrows in concentration as he studies crime scene photos. You hate to say it, but you’re mesmerized while you watch him work. He's sharp. Insightful. Maybe even brilliant.

He paces across his office, file in hand. "I think I've got something," he announces. He walks over to you and leans in close, his strong shoulder brushing against yours as he points to a detail you’d missed. You can smell him and feel his warmth, it makes your breath catch.

Get it together. This is Tim Rockford you’re talking about. Arrogant, insufferable Tim Rockford. But as you both bounce clues back and forth and finish each other's theories, you can’t deny there’s something there. The way his gaze lingers on your lips. How your pulse races when his hand grazes yours when he reaches for the same file. 

Damn it. You’re in trouble. You might just be falling for your boss.

—

He leans back in his chair, his eyes heavy with frustration and exhaustion.

“If I look at one more file, I’m going to lose it. I need to take a break.”

He opens a drawer, pulling out a bottle of whiskey and two paper cups. Fancy.

He fills both cups and slides one over to you. "Here. I think we've earned this."

“Sir, you’re offering alcohol to a subordinate.”

“I know, but you deserve it,” he smolders, actually smolders at you as he nods towards the cup.

You eye the cup warily before taking it. The whiskey burns smooth and warm down your throat. Tim watches you with hooded eyes, a playful smirk dancing on his full lips.

"You know, you're not half bad, detective," he drawls. "Quite the spitfire under that buttoned-up exterior."

"And you're not nearly as dim as I thought," you retort with a smirk of your own. "Guess there's more to both of us."

“You know," Tim says, leaning forward. "I've always admired your mind. The way you piece together clues, your attention to detail. It's… impressive."

His intense eyes lock onto yours. His gaze drops to your mouth again. You lick your suddenly dry lips, noticing how his eyes track the movement.

“And here I am thinking you hated me,” you say, rolling your eyes.

“Quite the opposite. You’re brilliant and smart—and beautiful.” His eyes are dark as he stares into yours. Damnit.

You lift the cup up to him and nod.

He smirks, lifting the bottle and pouring you another shot before doing the same for himself.

You gulp the shot down, trying not to wince as the liquor burns down your throat. Your skin feels heated under Tim’s gaze and the whiskey.

Emboldened by the alcohol and tension between you, you rise from your chair and saunter over to him. His eyes widen in surprise as you sit atop him, straddling his lap, the heat of your body pressing against his firm muscles.

"Beautiful?" you purr, trailing a finger down his jaw. His breath quickens, his pulse jumping beneath your touch.

In a swift motion, you grab his wrists and yank them behind the chair, snapping your handcuffs around them with a click. He lets out a shocked grunt, his brows furrowing in indignation and arousal. 

"What the hell are you doing?" he demands, straining against the cuffs. 

You lean in close, your lips brushing against his ear. "Taking what I want," you whisper. "And right now, I want you at my mercy, Rockford."

He shudders beneath you and groans as you nip at his earlobe. You unbutton his shirt, pushing it open to reveal the golden skin of his chest. You rake your nails lightly down his smooth skin, his muscles tensing under your touch.

With a wicked grin, you stand, reaching under your skirt and shimmying out of your underwear before stuffing the silky fabric into his mouth effectively gagging him.

He lets out a shocked, muffled grunt, his brows furrowed in confusion, chest heaving and nostrils flaring as he struggles against the cuffs.

“Relax sir,” you tease. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.”

Your words seem to calm him, his head falls back slightly, a muffled groan vibrates around your panties stuffed in his mouth.

You begin to unbutton your blouse, one button at a time. His eyes follow the path of your fingers, darkening as your smooth skin is revealed to him. The blouse slips from your shoulders, baring your lacy black bra underneath. Your hands trace the path of your tits spilling over your bra before reaching back and unclasping your bra, letting it fall away. You trail your fingers between your breasts, over your stomach, down to the waistband of your skirt. Your fingers lingering at the waistband. You turn slowly, giving him a view of your back as you begin to lower the zipper. You glance over your shoulder, catching Tim’s searing gaze. His muscles strain against the cuffs, his shoulders sit broad and wide as his chest rapidly rises and falls. You smirk, knowing the power you hold over him this moment.

Slowly, you pull down your standard issue gray skirt. Your hips sway as you feel his eyes on your ass, a muffled whimper leaves the detective as you bend forward, pulling the skirt down and letting it pool at your feet.

Turning to face him, you look down, your eyes widening when you see the crotch of his pants bulging with his erection.

You saunter back over to him, now only clad in your heels, your hips swaying with every step. You lock eyes with him before bending over, causing him to groan as he gets an eyeful of your tits. As he is distracted, you reach into his pants pocket and pull out his badge. With a wink, you hold it up for him to see. He quirks an eyebrow up, letting a sound of confusion out from behind your panties. 

You raise your leg and place it between his solid thighs. The cold metal of the badge grazes against your warm skin as you drag it slowly up your inner thigh. Higher and higher you trail the badge holding his gaze as you press the hard, cool metal against your aching cunt and moan loudly.

You grind shamelessly against the badge, smearing it with your slick. Tim makes a strangled sound, his hips bucking upward. You’re empowered by the way he whimpers and buzzes for you. Grinning, you reach down and unzip his pants, pulling his cock out. He’s golden here too, thick and already leaking out precum you want to taste.

Wrapping your fingers around his wide base, you swirl the badge around his glistening head before delicately stroking him with his badge smearing your wet along the length of him. His head falls back, tendons straining in his neck as he fights for control.

"You like that, detective?" you purr, pumping him faster. "You like it when I use your badge to get you off?"

He nods frantically, a desperate whine escaping him.

You bring the badge to your mouth, licking the mixture of you and him off the metal before tossing it behind you.

You straddle his lap, hovering just above his straining cock. His eyes widen as you grab onto his holsters for leverage and sink down onto him with a moan.

He bucks his hips up to meet yours as he fills you completely. The sting of your cunt stretching to accommodate him feels better than solving any case.

You rise up slowly, sliding along his thickness, his dark brown eyes are wild with need while his wrists strain desperately against the cuffs.

“God damnit, I don’t like you Mr. Rockford, but fuck, you feel so good inside me,” you moan as you roll your hips, taking him deeper. “So fuckin’ big and wide, stretching me just right.” You trail your hands up your body, cupping your tits, pinching and tugging at your nipples. His gaze is locked to your chest, watching and groaning behind his gag as you tease him.

"You like watching me play with my tits, don't you? Bet you wish these were your hands, your mouth." You squeeze your breasts together. "Too bad you're all tied up."

He lets out a defeated whimper, his brows furrowed over his wide brown eyes.

You grip the leather of his holsters again, bouncing on him at a maddening pace. The velvet of your walls clenching around the steel of his cock.

Your nails drag down his chest, leaving red marks in their wake, his muscles tensing under your touch.

“You’re mine now Mr. Rockford, now you’re my subordinate,” you growl, leaning in close to his ear. “I get to rule this cock, I get to rule your pleasure.”

He groans behind the gag, eyes rolling back as you grind down hard. You can feel him throbbing inside you, close to the edge.

"Not yet," you command, stilling your hips. "You don't get to cum until I say so."

You lift yourself off him completely, savoring his muffled cry of protest.

"Beg for it," you demand, hovering just above his cock. "Show me how badly you want it."

He nods frantically, pleading sounds escaping from behind the gag.

"Good boy," you purr, sinking back down onto him.

His eyes flutter shut in relief as you roll your hips and fuck him.

Your hands grip his holsters as you lean back giving him a view of your tits bouncing up and down as you ride him with abandon.

Tim’s whole body is taut as he strains against the cuffs, desperate to touch you.

“God, you feel amazing,” you moan, your head falling back. “You stretch me so good sir.”

You grind your hips down on him as the sounds of Tim’s muffled groans and the wet squelch of your cunt spearing itself on his cock fill the room.

Your hands roam your body, his eyes surveying your movements as if he’s on a stakeout. Your hand trails down to your clit, rubbing tight circles on it. You gasp at the feel, smiling a diabolical smile at him as he bucks his hips up to meet yours.

“You like watching me touch my pussy, don’t you?” you pant. “Tell me officer, have you thought of me doing this before? Maybe me fucking myself while thinking it’s your big cock?”

He nods frantically, his pupils blown out, his brown eyes looking almost black in the low light. A bead of sweat rolls down his cheek, you lean over, and lick the salty drop off of him, eliciting a whimper from behind the silk of your underwear.

Your fingers work your clit faster, you start to see the siren lights behind your eyes. Bright and flashing.

Tim’s thick thighs meet yours, his abs clenching with effort as he takes over, fucking into you from beneath.

“That’s it,” you moan. “Fuck me like you’ve always wanted to Detective.”

His muffled grunts are desperate, his skin glowing with perspiration. He’s throbbing inside you, fighting for control.

“Are you close, officer?” you tease. “Do you want to cum?”

He nods, the clink of him straining against the cuffs echoes through the office air.

You lean in close, your hand reaches up and grasps the silky fabric of your panties, slowly pulling them from his mouth. As soon as his lips are free, he gasps out a hoarse, “Fuck!”

Raw and desperate, just how you want him. You trail your fingers along his stubbled jaw, down his toned neck.

“What do you want, Detective?” you ask.

“Please,” he pants. “Please, I need to touch you.”

“I don’t know. Have you earned it?”

“Yes,” he growls. “God, yes. I’ll do anything. Just let me touch you.” You nod as you reach behind him, press the keys fully into the lock and unlock the handcuffs.

Click.

The moment his hands are free, they’re on you, grabbing your hips, thick fingers digging into the your flesh and he drives up into you.

He effortlessly lifts you, supporting you with his big arms and thick thighs. Your legs wrap around his body as his lips crash against yours, desperate groans spilling out of him as he licks into your mouth. Your tongues battle for dominance against each other as your fingers thread through his hair, pulling at the soft tendrils.

His hands roam your body, exploring you like evidence.

“Fuck,” he growls against your skin. “You feel so fucking good.”

Now you’re the one whimpering as he pounds into you. Suddenly, he pulls out, leaving your empty and aching for his cock.

Your mouth opens in protest, but before you can make a noise, he sweeps the papers and files from his desk to the floor. They scatter across the room, all of your hard work gone.

“What the fu—” you begin to complain but lose your words when your back lands on the smooth wood. His thumb begins rubbing circles against your swollen clit as he thrusts deep into your cunt, hitting the spot you want to feel him the most.

Tim folds himself over you, covering your body with his. You grab onto his holsters, the leather cutting into your palms as he buries himself into you over and over. The sirens, you can hear them, see them, and feel them.

He’s got you cornered and you give yourself up, screaming his name and surrendering yourself to Detective Tim Rockford as your orgasm captures you. Your body trembles, your pussy clenching his thick cock as your head thuds against the solid wood.

He groans, burying his face in your neck as his movements become more erratic. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grits against your skin.

“I’m close,” he pants. “Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” you moan. “Cum inside me Detective.”

With one final thrust, he stills as he pulses inside you, emptying himself into you. His body shudders against your still trembling body as you both ride out your orgasms.

He still covers you, breathing heavily on top of you, both of your bodies slick.

He lies there for a moment, catching his breath and gently kissing your overheated skin before pulling out and standing up. You’re not even shy as his eyes rake over the sight of your overworked body, lying spread eagle on his desk.

“Good work Detective,” he says, admiring the sight of your commingled cum dripping out of your pussy. “Though, you’ll have to stay late tomorrow again.” 

[favorite-fan-fic]

closer than ever

pairing: joel miller x reader

summary: In the midst of a quiet, cold night in the woods, old feelings resurface between you and Joel.

warnings: bit of angst, mentions of loss, depictions of grief, established relationship (sort of), Ellie being a smart-ass, pet-names (sweetheart, darlin)

wc: 1.7k

note: I was making food for my dogs and I dropped everything to write this bdw.

The smell hit you first. Salty, metallic, and slightly rancid. Your stomach churned as you stared at the open can of dog food in your hands. It was the only thing Joel had managed to scavenge. "Best I could do, sweetheart," and you knew he meant well. He always did.

You tried not to gag, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth, shaking your head. "I can't do it, Joel," you muttered, pushing the can away. "I'll just throw it up, and that's even worse. I'd be dehydrated."

Joel's brow furrowed, his gaze flicking between you and the can. "You gotta eat somethin'. You're lookin' too pale."

Ellie, seated nearby and chewing on what little jerky was left, leaned over and made a face at the can. "Don't make her eat that, dude. That's disgusting," she said, her voice half-amused, half-horrified.

"It's all I could find. We're in the middle of fuckin' nowhere," Joel muttered defensively, shooting her a look.

"Yeah, well, it's dog food," Ellie retorted, stretching out the words like they were meant to gross him out. "She's not a dog, Joel."

Joel let out a long sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. "Ain't like i'm feedin' it to her by force."

You couldn't help the small laugh that escaped despite the situation. The woods were eerily still, the only sound coming from the crackle of the fire Joel had started for warmth. The air had a sharp chill to it - not enough to freeze you, but enough to remind you that the seasons were shifting. The three of you were on the move, searching for Tommy, hoping he'd have answers.

"Thank you, Joel, but I'm not eating that." you said, shaking your head. "Help yourself, though! Looks like its all yours," you added with a teasing smirk.

The teasing faded as the fire crackled low. The stars were unusually bright, their glow filling the sky. There were only two sleeping bags between the three of you. Joel must've noticed the worry crossing your face. "You can take mine. I'll be fine."

You blinked at him, incredulous. "Are you out of your mind? You're no good to us if you're frozen solid."

Joel chuckled softly, the sound low and warm in the cold night air. “I ain’t gonna freeze, darlin’,” he muttered, clearly amused by your concern.

You hesitated for a moment, then whispered, careful not to disturb Ellie, who was already deep in her sleeping bag. “We can just share. It’s big enough for the two of us.”

He stayed silent.

Joel and you had been together before everything fell apart. It was the best thing that’s ever happened to both of you. After he lost Sarah, things changed. The grief consumed him, and the man who once held you close became distant, shutting himself off from the world, including you. It had been a long time since he'd shown any affection, and it stung - but you'd never push it. A piece of him died with Sarah, and you knew how deeply he adored her.

You still remember it all too well. Two decades ago. The way he held Sarah’s lifeless body in his arms after she was shot, refusing to let go until you were lucky enough to find a cabin, a rare moment of luck amidst the chaos that day - the day hell broke loose on Earth.

He held her so tightly, like he was trying to stop time. With a slow, reluctant tenderness, he laid her on the unmade bed that once belonged to someone else, covered her as though she were still asleep, and left without saying a word to you or Tommy. And in that moment, a piece of him stayed behind, lingering in the stillness of that room.

Lately, though, things felt different. The more time you spent away from the QZ, trying to take Ellie to the fireflies ... he became softer around you, even more so around Ellie.

You could see how she was healing a part of him, the cracks in his heart starting to close, even if none of them were aware of it. But you were.

You've spent most of your life around Joel Miller. You knew him from the inside out. You never talked about how he's not affectionate with you anymore, not in the way he used to be before the outbreak.

You know he needs time and space, and you're ready to give him that, even if it meant slowly going crazy over it. You knew he hadn't fallen out of love with you; he made sure you knew that - whether it was giving you most of the food, making sure you had the warmest layer of clothes even if it meant him going without, or offering you what was left of his coffee grounds; and you know how much he loved coffee.

Even when words weren't there, his actions spoke louder, and you could feel the love in every small gesture, even if it was unspoken.

Your thoughts returned to Joel, as they often did, and how much he’d changed. How the man you’d once known - the one who had loved you so fiercely, despite the world falling apart - was slowly starting to resurface, little by little.

The crackling fire snapped, pulling you out of your thoughts. You glanced over at Joel, now starting to arrange the sleeping bag, his eyes distant yet soft, and his movements slow and deliberate as he gestured for you to get in. He gave you a nod, his eyes dark in the dim light.

You shook your head. “No, you go first,” you said with a small smirk. “You take up a lot more space than I do.”

He didn't argue. He nodded, listening to you without protest, and started climbing in, settling quickly. You followed, slipping in front of him, feeling the warmth of his body just behind you. You couldn't help but smile to yourself; it felt like nothing had changed, the familiar comfort of being close to him bringing back memories of the past. You shifted slightly, reminding yourself of how, more often than not, you used to be the little spoon.

"You alright?" his words bringing you back to the present. "Yeah," you replied softly. With that, he draped an arm over your hips, his hand gently resting against yours; the warmth of his touch grounding you.

It took you by surprise. His calloused hands were gentle, warm, reassuring you that he was still here, still the man who once held you close without hesitation.

You turned around to face him, your heart skipping a beat as you took in the soft glow of his face, illuminated by the faint light of the moon and the dying embers of the fire.

His features were more beautiful than ever; and without thinking, you leaned closer, your warm hands cupping his face gently. As your fingers brushed his skin, he closed his eyes, a quiet sigh escaping him.

Teary-eyed, your voice barely a whisper, the words coming out before you could stop them; "I missed you."

Joel’s gaze softened as he looked at you, his eyes lingering on your lips, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air between you. His heart raced, matching the rhythm of yours, as the distance between you both seemed to shrink. Slowly, ever so gently, his forehead touched yours, the warmth of his skin grounding you both. Closer than ever- physically, emotionally - like a puzzle piece fitting into place.

Your finger traced the outline of his lips, soft and tentative, as if asking for permission. It was all so delicate.

Then, with a breath that seemed to suspend time, you kissed him. Softly at first, gently, testing the waters, wondering how he would respond.

And then, he kissed you back. Not the tentative kiss you expected, but one full of depth, of yearning. It was slow, deliberate, as if he were pouring everything he had into that one moment—every ounce of love, every regret, every unspoken word. It was a kiss that spoke louder than any conversation ever could. This was enough. For you, it was enough.

When you finally pulled away, your eyes fluttered closed, both of you breathing in the silence, your hearts still racing but in sync.

Without a single word, without a need for more, you settled into each other’s arms, the unspoken understanding between you clear. And with that, you fell asleep, a quiet peace settling over you both.

[favorite-fan-fic]

A STEP INTO HELL

Stepdad!Joel Miller x f!reader || Word count: 3k

Summary: after you move into his house, Joel finds himself possessed by the idea of having you. Trying to quench his lustful thirst he decides to get his hands on your nudes. To his surprise he finds something even better.

Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, step-cest, Joel’s pov, dub con but reader’s into it, legal age gap, dark!Joel, perv!Joel, obsessed!joel, darkish!reader, unprotected piv/dvp (wrap it up), sex toy usage, blackmail, sex audio recording, creampie, degradation, slutshaming, praise kink, daddy kink, mention of f/m masturbation/f!oral/anal/food play, slapping (1), cum eating, swearing.

A/n: huge thank you to @megangovier for this ask and the idea!💖 I had a blast working on this story. Hope you’ll like it, lovely!🌸 Kisses to @milla-frenchy for beta-ing😘 Dividers by @/enchanthings and @/saradika-graphics 💕

MASTERLIST || SERIES MASTERLIST || more step family naughtiness

Joel wasn’t a good man. He wasn’t moral, ethical or rational. The only thing Joel seemed to be recently was horny. Horny for his stepdaughter.

It wasn’t a gradual obsession. Not at all. It took over him suddenly and overwhelmingly. You had lived with your dad after your parents’ divorce, but then moved into Joel’s house to stay closer to your college. He had barely seen you before and then you were in his house all the fucking time.

Was his attraction out of the blue? Not really. You were a hot young woman. Every man’s dream. But the maddening desire took Joel by surprise. Like a tsunami it put his life upside down, taking away any sense he might have had before. The lust for you was like a poison, coursing through his veins, pumping blood to his big cock more often than it was expected for a man of his age.

In hopes of getting rid of the toxic passion, Joel jerked off regularly like a horny teenager. He watched tons of porn, choosing the ones with women that looked like you. To his distress, it seemed to entice him even more. Like a dog he couldn’t stop salivating every time he saw you.

Joel would often get lost in his thoughts at the breakfast table, sitting right in front of you and thinking about the shape of your pussy. ‘Did you have a little clit hidden behind your lips or could he see it right away if he took your shorts and panties off at that moment? Did you shave your cunt or could he tug you lightly by your soft pubes?’ He’d be happy with anything, a pussy was a pussy, especially if it belonged to a sweet thing like you. He couldn’t help but daydream of eating you out on the table right next to the pancakes your mother had made, your sweet pussy served with maple syrup on top, or melted butter all over your folds. He’d slurp it happily with your slick and cum and chase it with his black coffee. Breakfast of champions!

Joel ground his teeth. He had to keep himself from acting on his desires. Not because of your mom, fuck that nagging bitch! His dick barely reacted to her anymore. Divorce was what really terrified Joel. He’d hate to deal with all of that— too much paperwork, too much hustle. That was the last thing Joel needed.

The first thing was you. After a month of pumping his cock after every encounter with his stepdaughter, Joel got really frustrated and decided to act. He worked out a plan. Surely you had some juicy selfies on your laptop, he thought, so one day he knocked on your bedroom door with a secret motive to get his big paws on them.

You sweet voice let him in.

Joel stepped into your bedroom, his brows furrowed, the shoulders square, trying to intimidate you with his steel gaze and dominant tone so you’d agree faster.

“I need your laptop. Mine broke.”

You were lying on your bed with your phone in your hands, wearing your tiny shorts and a crop top and his dirty mind immediately drew him a picture of your naked body splayed and offered to him, head hanging off the side of the bed with his cock plunging in and out of your mouth. He could bet he’d be able to feel his shlong inside your tight throat. He’d probably come so fast like that and discharge his cum right into your belly. Bon appetite, baby!

“Hmm,” you hummed, blinking at him. You seemed hesitant and it made Joel even more excited—you definitely had something to hide. His jeans got strained with the might of his growing dick.

“C’mon. I’ll just pay the bills and give it back to ya.”

“Oh. I don’t know. Ehm—ok.”

As soon as you agreed Joel snatched the laptop off your desk and went to the master bedroom. His wife was working late that night so it was a perfect opportunity to find your nudes and jerk off to his heart's content.

Joel plunged on the bed and began his horny search. Let’s help Joel find his stepdaughter’s nudes!

Are they in this folder? — No!

That one? — Look better!

Here? — Fuck, no!

He was growing hopeless. No way a girl with an ass like yours wouldn’t want to have it in a photo. Your perfect tits were asking to be jerked off to. So where the hell were the goods?

He was searching everywhere until he stumbled upon a folder with a few tracks. He didn’t care about them at first but his thick finger accidentally double clicked one of them and to his surprise he heard his voice.

“No, wait— fuck—spread wider—yes—yeahhh.“

He increased the volume and his jaw dropped. Yes, he was sure now. It was his voice.

‘When was it recorded?’ Joel asked himself, listening to his groans. Suddenly it dawned on him. It was a couple of weeks ago when he was fucking his wife. His grunts and growls were the only audible noises, which was not surprising -your mother was always silent like a corpse when he was fucking her.

Yet Joel’s voice could be heard clearly. He listened to a few tracks and all of them were recordings of his voice— him talking to his clients on the phone, him discussing the last game with Tommy.

‘What a dirty slut!’ flashed in Joel’s mind. He wasn’t thinking anymore. With his cock already hard, Joel knew what to do and acted immediately.

He rushed back into your bedroom.

“Done?” you asked when he barged in. With your arm stretched, you were waiting for him to return your laptop, but he was still holding it.

“Fuckin’ slut.” Joel’s smirk was dark and triumphant.

Your face fell and you looked like you’d seen a ghost.

“Yeah, exactly! I found your little spy audios, baby! Why were you recording me and your mom having sex, little perv, huh?”

You pulled your knees to your chest, squeezing into yourself, and mumbled,

“I’m not— I—no—please—I wasn’t recording her.”

“Oh? But you recorded me! Wanted to hear your stepdad’s groans, dirty slut?”

You were quiet, with your gaze downcast, looking scared to death. That was exactly what Joel needed.

“Imma tell your mom.”

“No! No, please, Joel, no! I’m begging!”

“Unless—“, he mused.

“Yes! Anything! Please!”

Here we go. He had you where he wanted. Finally.

“Unless you become my fuck toy.”

You looked gobsmacked.

“What?”

“Don’t act shocked, babydoll. Bet you want it more than anythin’. What were you doin’ with those tracks, sweetie? Listenin’ and thinkin’ of our lord and savior? Fuck no! Were probably fuckin’ yourself silly, moanin’ my name. Your stepdad's name, little slut!”

He shook his head and tutted at you while you were shaking like a leaf.

”I’m givin’ you a way out, baby. But only if! If I can have my way in. In all your holes.”

“All?” Your voice was so small and trembling, it made his cock twitch.

“All, babydoll! I wanna fuck your mouth - yes, please, Joel! Wanna fuck your ass? you’ll let me! Pussy right after? Of course, sir! That’s what antibiotics are for.”

You sniffed loudly and burst into tears.

“Please Joel— I can’t—we shouldn’t!”

Joel smirked and walked to the bed, stopping right in front of you. He cupped your wet cheek and cooed, “I know we shouldn’t, babydoll. That’s why it’s so damn hot.”

You sniffed and leaned into his touch, your big teary eyes looking up at him.

Joel couldn’t believe his luck. The little slut was melting. He was going to have so much fun!

“Get undressed, sweetie. Let’s get right to it.”

Joel didn’t believe in God. But right at that moment he swore that someone above had blessed him. Or someone below for that matter. You were taking off your shorts, top and then panties, wiping tears off your pretty face with the back of your hand. He immediately snatched your underwear and shoved it in his jean pocket.

“On your back. Spread your legs. Let me see what daddy’s gonna play with.”

You widened your eyes at what he called himself but did what he told you. You lay down and slightly parted your bent legs.

“Don’t shake. I won’t hurt ya,” Joel growled, rolling your chair to the bed and making it squeak under his weight when he got comfortable ready to enjoy the view.

Your pussy was hotter than anything he’d seen or imagined and his cock was thumping hard in the confines of his jeans. Joel unzipped them and pulled his boxers down. Your glossy eyes immediately snapped to his bobbing stiff manhood.

“Yeah, sweetie, take a good look. Ya gonna learn every rim and vein of this dick pretty soon. Its taste too,” Joel added and shook it in his hand. He wasn’t leaking yet but when he pushed your legs wider apart and your folds opened up to his view, his slit began crying happy tears.

“Fuck, babydoll. She’s even better than I imagined. And believe me, I thought about your snatch a lot.”

Your breath hitched when Joel leaned closer and his thick fingers spread your lips.

“Look at this hole. Tight. We need to get ya ready first. This bad boy—“ he jiggled his cock again- “can damage you and we don’t want that, yeah?”

You shook your head and Joel’s hand glided over your mound, his digits slipped between your folds in a perverted examination.

“Ya have a dick?”

You were blinking up at him, confusion swimming in your blown out eyes.

“Rubber cock? Dildo? Jesus, ya slow.”

“Ohh… yeah,” you nodded and averted your eyes in shame.

“Aww, don’t act shy and shit. I think we’re past that, little slut.”

He got up with a smirk on his lips and, after following your line of vision, opened your nightstand drawer.

“Where is it? Ah!”

It wasn’t long until Joel found your toy - a pink dildo.

“Damn, sweetie, I see you’re not adventurous at all! Look!”

With a chuckle Joel lined the dildo up with his own cock which was longer and girthier than the toy and shot his brows up at you.

You closed your eyes, probably not believing what was happening in your bedroom, but then snapped them open when you felt a cold tip of the toy prod your tight hole.

”Joel! Lube!” you exclaimed, trying to push away the dildo. Your stepdad was looming over you, standing by the bed, his smile devilish.

“Of course. A little slut like you deserves the best lube. Daddy’s spit.”

He leaned down and gathered some saliva in his mouth before opening his lips and letting it drop right on your slit. You jerked.

”More?” Joel asked and not waiting for your response spit on it again, with force now. You moaned when a glob of liquid hit your clit and Joel’s fiery gaze found yours.

”You want it, yeah? That’s why you recorded me. Do you want me?”

He didn’t know why he was asking that. You were already lying in front of him on the bed, pussy out and ready to be fucked. But a possessive part of him wished for you to want him back.

You tried to avert your eyes but he leaned closer and took your cheeks between his fingers, keeping you facing him.

“Tell me!”

Your quiet, shaky ’yes’ rang loud in the bedroom and in his head. After your confession Joel’s flannel covered chest expanded with pride and triumph. He still got it. He had blackmailed you but he totally could have gotten you all by himself.

Drunk on the ego boost he kissed you with vigor and hunger, swallowing your mewls and whimpers. Then he ripped his mouth off and hovered over you, watching your eyes roll back when he pushed the dildo between your saliva-coated folds and inserted it into your hole. You moaned his name and Joel started leaking like a faucet.

He began fucking you with the toy, groaning and drinking in your sweet sounds.

“Ya love it, little slut? Bet you were dreaming of this. Your stepdad fuckin’ this pink cock into your hungry hole. Listenin’ to my voice.”

He leaned closer and growled right into your ear,

“Daddy’s here now and he’s gonna claim all your holes, sweetie.”

When he changed the angle of the dildo, you tilted your head back into the mattress with a loud whimper, biting your lower lip. Your pleasure drove Joel insane.

”You’ll be my fuckdoll in no time. I’ll train your pussy, your ass, your mouth. Ya gonna take me. Take me so good. Gonna tity-fuck you. Bathe you in my cum. You won’t need anything except my huge cock. And my voice. Give it to me now, baby! Come!”

“Daddy!” you cried out and your body began shaking and trembling under Joel. He didn’t stop moving the toy inside you until your limbs fell weakly on the bed and your face relaxed. Your eyes closed by themselves, body and mind spent after an emotional and physical climax.

Joel’s poor dick was engorged and leaking, demanding the warmth of your wet cunt. And he was absolutely sure that you were drenched.

He threw your legs wider apart with his knee and with a wolfish smirk stared at your clear juices sliding from under the pink cock, which was still sticking out of your cunt.

Suddenly Joel got an idea. His horny mind wanted nothing else but to spear you with his manhood. But he felt generous that day. You deserved so much more than just his cock!

Not tearing his dark gaze off you lying with your eyes closed and breathing fast, he took his jeans and flannel off. He was still wearing his white undershirt when his eager lips latched onto your exposed tits, his hot tongue swirled around your hardened nipples, one after the other. Joel’s hands were roaming your body, squeezing and pinching it lightly. Like a starving animal he couldn’t get enough of your submission, your skin, your curves and crevices. He was pulling little moans out of you and, with your eyelids still closed, you looked inebriated, drunk on his touch and your ecstasy, until Joel slightly slapped your cheek.

Your eyes fluttered open and you mewled, looking up at him, gaze foggy.

“My dick’s achin’, baby. Get ready to take it,” he warned and then got another bright idea. “Let’s record our first time. I’ll share it with you, baby, don’t worry. I know how much you love hearing daddy’s voice.” Joel laughed and took his phone out of his jeans lying on the floor.

“Smile, sweetie,” he commanded but you covered your face with your hands when he took a few nudes. It was good enough for him.

He started recording and threw the phone on the bed. Your sweet moans were enough for him too.

When Joel brough his tip to your already stuffed hole, your eyes widened.

“Joel, the toy—“

“Yeah, I know —I know — lemme do it.”

“Are you recording us?”

”Yeah, baby. Daddy needs something to jerk off to when you’re away.”

“Oh—ok, I guess.”

“Ya being such a good girl for me. Ain’t I lucky?”

“Joel, it won’t fit.”

“It will, babydoll. Tilt your hips a little. Yeah, damn. I’ll use my thumb to push it in. Jus’ a tip’ll do for today.”

“Ahhh—oh my god—your cock’s so big.”

“I know, right? But—Ya jus’ need to relax. Lemme stroke you—fuck, you’re wet, my hand’s soaked. Ya like it when I rub your clit like that?”

“Ahhhh—yeahh–yeahh—“

“Good little slut. It’s already in, baby. Lookit! My tip’s in.”

“Oh, fuck, Joel. I feel so full—ahhh.“

“Don’t curse, baby, or I’ll spank you.”

“Joellllll—”

“That’s better. Moan my name when I’m fuckin’ you. Your hole’s stretched so good right now. Taking both cocks. Wish you could see what I see. Greedy little cunt.”

“Ohhhh, Joel. I’m gonna—“

“Call me ‘daddy’ if ya want. i know you do—hngggg”

“Daddyyyy!”

“Fuck— fuck—aahhhhh.”

Joel was shooting his hot cum into you, rope after rope. He didn’t plan on coming inside but the lust clouded his mind. He wanted you full with his load, his cock and the dildo. The sight of your pussy swallowing everything he gave you, stretched to the limit, pushed him over the edge and into the pits of hell. He didn’t care. He was growling, his head down, watching his balls twitch, pumping his jeez into your core. They were resting on the toy, which was half pushed out of your hole by his own cock and your pulsating walls. He could believe that he made his stepdaughter come on his dick while she was moaning like a whore, accepting his cum like the greatest gift. What a perfect little slut!

When the last drop of his load was discarded into your sloppy cunt, Joel pulled his cock and the pink toy out. Both were glistening with his and your cum.

“Clean us up,” he growled and made you get up on shaky legs. You immediately fell on your knees and Joel grinned.

“Good girl. Now get to work.”

He brought the toy to his still hard manhood and watched you lick the cocks clean. At one point you took both dicks in your whimpering mouth.

“Fuck, ya hot! All your holes are hungry for two dicks, huh? Your pussy, now your mouth. Ya know what hole’s next, yeah?”

You pulled away with a scared expression and Joel barked a laugh.

”Don’t fret, sweetie. All in its time.”

He pulled you up by your arm and held your body tight when his lips crashed against yours. The taste of you and him made his cock twitch. He kissed you hard and you welcomed it. Perfect little slut indeed.

”Get some sleep,” he ordered, tucking you into bed. You looked fucked out of your mind and your tired smile made him smirk. “You need rest. So daddy could have lots of fun with you later.”

He turned the lights off on his way out.

Joel wasn’t a good man. But he was a happy one.

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!<3

MASTERLIST || SERIES MASTERLIST || more step family naughtiness

Tag list: @milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @iamasaddie @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @auteurdelabre @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @staywildflowahchild @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @evolnoomym @keylimebeag @joelmillerisapunk @pascaltesfaye @fruityreads @itwasntimethatdidit40

Special tag @toxicanonymity

[favorite-fan-fic]

My Burning Sun Will Someday Rise

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 || read on AO3

summary: Joel and reader's vacation continues and lines start to blur. tags: daddy kink, big age gap (Joel is 49, reader is 23), dbf!Joel, Joel has a lovely belly, Joel is a little mean, praise kink, Joel calls reader "kid", unprotected piv, creampie, cunnilingus, sexual tension, blow jobs, smut with a little bit of plot, no use of Y/N, afab!reader, reader has hair (will add more as I add more parts)

note: happy new year to all of you, and sorry for the long wait! I was completely flashed by the love you showed for part 1 (THANK YOU!!!), and wanted to live up to your expectations. I’ll try to write part 3 as quickly as possible! Sorry if there's any typos, I edited this while severely hungover

The afternoon at the beach was relaxing and lighthearted after you agreed with Joel and stopped studying so much, and you find that apart from having a body that makes you clench your thighs together, he’s interesting to talk to. He doesn’t give you the same bullshit about university and acting responsibly, but rather accepts that there are things you dislike about your degree. He doesn’t offer advice on how to learn to enjoy those things, he just nods when you tell him you’ve learnt to deal with them. He treats you like an adult, someone who makes their own informed choices – something your life has been sorely lacking.

You head back to the rooms in comfortable silence, and you enjoy the way Joel’s arm almost grazes yours. When you think about the flutter in your stomach for too long it’s ridiculous, but it’s so easy to leave behind the morals and expectations of home when all you’re facing right now is an all-inclusive dinner and as many cocktails as you want. You aren’t planning on getting drunk if Joel isn’t, but you want to have fun tonight. You haven’t been on a real vacation in ages.

 You take another shower once you’re in your room, wash away the sunscreen and sea salt, until your hair is all soft again and you smell like shampoo. The hotel restaurant isn’t super fancy, but you feel like putting in a little effort, so you pick out a black dress you like, and wear your sandals again. You wonder if you’ll get cold – the days are burning hot, but at night there’s a cool breeze that might make you regret your choice of clothes. Fuck it, you think, you haven’t had an occasion to dress up in ages, and getting Joel all flustered again sure seems like reason enough. You grab your purse, phone and keycard, and head to the door.

Joel opens his door at the same time you do, and you swallow when you see he’s changed outfits, too. His hair is slightly damp and all curly, he’s wearing black jeans and a simple black t-shirt with an unbuttoned, flowy linen shirt over it. The sleeves are rolled up to reveal his forearms. It’s stylish. You didn’t expect Joel Miller to look stylish.

"Wow," you say with a smile. "You clean up nice."

Joel just huffs, but his eyes ghost over your dress for a second too long. He doesn’t answer.

When you get to the restaurant, Joel pulls out your chair for you, which earns him a blinding smile. Stylish and a gentleman, who would have thought? Back home he always seemed like a grumpy lumberjack to you, and although you do find him excruciatingly attractive in his flannels, you’re intrigued to find out what else you didn’t know about him.

"Is it really all-inclusive?", you ask, gazing at the menu and not quite believing you can order anything you’d like and not pay for it. 

"Sure. You want a cocktail?"

"If you’ll have one with me?"

Joel holds your gaze, but shakes his head.

"I think I prefer whiskey over that sweet stuff," he says, and you make a face.

"Fine, whiskey it is, then," you say, and Joel frowns.

"You don’t have to drink what I’m drinkin’. Have a cocktail."

This time you’re the one to shake your head.

"It’s no fun, having cocktails on your own. But I haven’t had whiskey in ages, maybe I like it better now."

The corner of Joel’s mouth twitches.

"Ages, huh? How long have you been allowed to drink again?"

You smile, but don’t dignify his question with an answer, and after a moment Joel chuckles and looks back at the menu.

"Fine, I’ll have a Gin Fizz," he says, looking up again. "You?"

He wants to order a cocktail, just so that you can enjoy having one, too. Your stomach flutters.

"Joel, you don’t have t-"

"I know I don’t. I’m having a Gin Fizz."

There’s a finality to his tone, but his voice is friendly. You give him a reluctant smile, one that isn’t ironic or half-joking. He smiles back, and leans back in his chair, eyes still on yours. You study the menu again, this time having a closer look at the cocktails.

"Sex on the beach," you say seriously, and Joel snorts.

"Clever."

***

You do end up drinking a sex on the beach, and Joel actually enjoys his gin fizz. The food is delicious, Joel lets you try a piece of his steak and you offer him a bite of your fish, but he declines with a disgusted look on his face that makes you grin. No seafood for Joel Miller, then.

Joel orders you another cocktail when the waiter clears your plates, and you smile to yourself. He’s being courteous.

"Are you trying to get me drunk, Miller?", you ask, the corner of your mouth twitching. Joel raises an eyebrow.

"I think you’re managin’ that without my help."

He’s right, of course – your long day of traveling makes the buzz in your head more prominent, and although you’re nowhere near drunk, your tongue is a little looser than usually, and you find it much easier to hold Joel’s eye-contact.

"I’m glad I came here," you say all of a sudden, the thought fleeting, but true. "I needed a break."

Joel’s smile is honest, when he answers.

"I’m glad you came, too. It’d be boring, bein’ here on my own."

"Right," you say, "who would get you to drink cocktails? You’d be stuck drinking disgusting whiskey and wallowing in your loneliness."

Joel smiles, shaking his head slightly, and takes a sip of his Gin.

"You wanna head down to the beach?", you ask when your glasses are empty and you feel a little woozy from the second cocktail. Joel looks surprised.

"I love the sea at night," you say a little dreamily, voice trailing off.

"Sure. Let’s go," Joel just answers.

The air outside is cool, just like you anticipated, and you shiver slightly, wrapping your arms around yourself to keep the goosebumps at bay. Joel notices, and immediately shrugs out of his linen shirt, handing it to you. You stare at him.

"Take it," he insists, and you do, the fabric soft in your hands. You slip it on, the sleeves coming down to your fingertips, the collar smelling of Joel’s cologne. You wonder why it took you two cocktails to notice how good he smells. When you’re done rolling up the sleeves, you look up and find Joel watching you quietly. Your eyes meet – he looks away, and starts walking again.

You’re pleasantly tipsy, walking to the beach at night, wearing Joel Miller’s clothes and brushing his arm with yours every once in a while. It feels a little surreal.

"Aren’t you cold now?", you ask after a couple of minutes of quiet.

"No," Joel answers, his voice a little rougher than before, "’sides, you wear it better anyway."

You flush, and when you don’t answer, he looks at you.

"Jesus, sorry," he mumbles. "I didn’t…it slipped out. Just meant you look pretty, is all."

Your stomach swirls pleasantly, and you want Joel to put his arm around your shoulder, or kiss you, or take that shirt off again. You clear your throat.

"Thanks," you answer quietly, toying with the hem of the shirt. "I think you wore it well, too, though. Suits you."

Joel doesn’t answer, but when you glance at him, you notice the ghost of a smile on his face, half-hidden by his patchy beard.

You walk the rest of the way in contemplative silence, each of you lost in your thoughts. You’re always amazed to see the sea at night. The darkness somehow elevates its vastness, water and sky bleeding into each other at the near invisible horizon. It’s easy to forget about your exams here, with the whole expanse of the planet spread out before you, the relentlessly calm sound of the waves, and Joel’s scent in your nose. You sit down on an abandoned deck chair and watch Joel walk up to the water, pick up a seashell, and drop it into the water again. He seems content to be here, you think. Relaxed. You don’t know him well, but his body language seems more at ease than it did back home. Perhaps you’re not the only one who needed a break.

You get up again, and walk over to Joel, who smiles when he sees you coming.

"You were right," he says, "it’s different in the dark."

You know he means the sea, the beach, the lack of people around, the sand that burned your feet only hours ago now having a cooling effect. Still, his words leave room for interpretation and you don’t miss the way his gaze moves over your form in his shirt.

"Thanks for the cocktails," you say quietly, "and the shirt."

Joel looks over at you, but you don’t have the guts to look at him. You can’t quite be sure what the moonlight and scenery will make you do, not when he’s never looked more handsome, and you’re more than tipsy.

"You’re welcome," he says honestly. "I know you’re doin’ this for your Dad more than anything, but I hope you’re still havin’ fun."

He’s self-conscious, or something close to it, wondering how he could make this trip more enjoyable for you – so he orders cocktails he doesn’t like and lets you wear his clothes.

"I am having fun," you reassure him. "I’m at the beach at night wearing a guy’s shirt who got me all the cocktails I wanted, instead of studying at my desk for the millionth night in a row."

Joel chuckles.

"My Dad should break his leg more often," you sigh, digging the heel of your foot into the sand. Joel doesn’t answer.

When you walk back to the hotel, you feel the ghost of his hand on your lower back, not touching, but lingering, as if he instinctively wants to stir you in the right direction, or keep you from stumbling. It makes that flutter in your stomach reappear.

You pass reception to get to the elevators, and the same woman is still there, smiling when he recognizes you.

"You two enjoying the sea?", she asks.

"Very much, thank you," you answer, "we had cocktails and walked to the beach."

The lady looks pleased at how happy you seem and smiles at Joel.

"I’m glad to hear it! Well, you two enjoy your Daddy-daughter trip," she says, before answering the telephone that starts ringing just as you’re about to say good-night.

Joel’s brows are furrowed when you look at him, which makes you suppress a grin. The lady assuming he’s your father is clearly bothering him, and you get the feeling it might not entirely be about his age.

When you’ve made it up to your rooms, you turn to Joel to find him already watching you. He looks different here, in the harsh light of the corridor, dark shadows falling over his features, his form somehow looking broader.

"Breakfast at nine?", he asks you, voice quiet so as not to disturb any other guests in their rooms.

"Yeah," you say, and before you can change your mind, you kiss his cheek. His expression is unreadable, when you pull away.

"Goodnight," you say with a tired smile, before teasingly adding "Daddy."

Joel holds your eye contact, and doesn’t flush this time.

"Careful," he says gently, voice low and dark. You swallow.

Before you can forget, you shrug off his shirt, but Joel doesn’t move to take it from your outstretched hand. After a beat, his eyes flicker over your face.

"Keep it," he says curtly, "I like it on ya."

And then he’s gone, the door to his room shutting with a soft thud. You shake your head slightly, and press the soft linen fabric against your nose, inhaling the scent of his cologne and sweat. You ache just at the thought of it having touched his skin, and him now wanting to see you in it, but it would feel like a violation if you relieved that ache now, even if Joel wasn’t there, so you ignore the dull throbbing between your legs best as you can and go to bed with Joel’s shirt right next to your bed.

***

The next morning you feel a little nervous about breakfast – something shifted between you and Joel after your good-bye in the hallway. He seemed so sure of himself when he told you he liked you in his shirt, so unwavering, and you’re a nervous wreck just thinking about saying good morning to him.

Instead of putting on the white sundress you wore yesterday, you slip into a bikini, a pair of comfortable shorts, and Joel’s linen shirt, half unbuttoned so that your necklace peeks out. This time you leave the sleeves un-rolled, liking how big it feels on you, a constant reminder of Joel’s size.

You wash your face and brush your teeth, but don’t shower since you’re going to have to do that in the evening anyway. Although you’re mostly excited to see Joel again, you also can’t wait to have your morning coffee and something to eat – you hope the breakfast buffet will be as good as dinner was.

You wait for Joel in the hallway, but when he doesn’t come out of his room, you knock on his door.

"One second," his voice comes from inside, and you wait leaning against the wall just like he did the day before. When he opens the door, you can’t suppress a smile – his hair is charmingly tousled from his sleep, he clearly didn’t know what to do with it without taking a shower first.

"Nice hair," you say, the corner of your mouth twitching. Joel doesn’t answer, with his brows slightly furrowed he keeps staring at you. Anxiety floods your veins, and you wonder if it was the best idea to dress the way you did, if Joel might think of it as strange or creepy or pathetic.

"You’re wearing my shirt," he says, voice quiet and still rough from sleep. It’s not a question, just a statement, no judgement behind it. You swallow, watching his brown eyes trail over your arms, torso, your shorts.

"Yeah," you answer timidly, fighting the urge to cross your arms. "You said you liked it on me."

Joel’s eyes snap up to yours, and with all the courage you can muster up, you hold his gaze for several long seconds.

"I did."

Again, just a statement. One that doesn’t require an answer, but you feel like shrinking under Joel’s gaze, so you offer him an out out of the situation.

"I’ll take it off, if you want me to," you mutter, and quickly add "I’ll put on something else."

Joel watches you quietly, and finally runs a hand through his messy hair.

"No need, kid," he says with a defeated sounding exhale. "’M glad ya like it."

***

Breakfast is a welcome distraction from whatever happened in the hallway – you drink too much coffee, and try all of the delicious food offered: bacon and eggs, colorful fruit you have never seen before, yoghurt and pancakes. Joel sticks to coffee and toast, though he does steal one of the peaces of fruit from your plate.

"I’ll get one more cup," you say when you have drained the last of your coffee, and Joel chuckles.

"Might as well do a line," he says and you snort, but stay seated – he’s right, you should watch your caffeine intake. He watches you, and after a second raises an eyebrow.

"I didn’t mean anything by it. You drink as much coffee as you want."

His voice is apologetic and soft.

"No, I’ll do as you say," you answer, "or I’ll die of heart failure."

Something flashes over his face at those words, but you can’t pinpoint it. Still, your stomach flutters, when Joel doesn’t break the eye-contact.

After breakfast the two of you get your towels and the rest of your beach-belongings from your rooms, and Joel changes into his trunks again. You walk past reception quietly, the lady from the day before isn’t there, and Joel’s arm brushes against yours casually. Suddenly you wish you weren’t wearing his shirt, just to feel his skin against yours. It’s a little pathetic.

Joel gets you two deckchairs – the beach is still relatively empty – and you put on sunscreen. When you’re done with your limbs and stomach, you offer Joel the bottle.

"Do my back, please?"

"Sure," he mutters, taking the bottle from you, and gently stroking your hair out of the way. He’s quiet, holding you steady by the shoulder when you instinctively squirm away from the initial cold of the liquid on your skin, his hands calloused but gentle. From time to time, his fingers slip under the shoulder straps of your bikini, and you feel heat pool between your legs when he starts covering your lower back in sunscreen. His hand is dangerously close to the waistband of your swimsuit.

"All done," he says, closing the bottle. You raise an eyebrow.

"Don’t need sunscreen," he explains, "I don’t burn easy."

"You’ll get skin cancer," you argue. "Everybody needs sunscreen."

He huffs, but hands you the bottle and turns around to sit down on the deckchair. You watch his beautiful back, the way the skin ripples over his muscles, how broad and solid it seems. You squirt some of the sunscreen onto your hand and apply it to Joel’s shoulders, rubbing gently. He relaxes under your touch, the tension leaving his muscles, and you move your hands more deliberately, focusing on his shoulders, until Joel’s head falls forward slightly, giving into the sensation.

"Good?", you ask, a little shy.

Joel hums, and you wonder if his eyes are closed, if he’s enjoying your touch so much he can’t form a full sentence. You dig the heels of your palms into his muscles, the sunscreen making the slide easy. His skin his littered in freckles and birthmarks, marked by years of working under the sun.

"You always apply sunscreen like that?", Joel asks suddenly, and you flush.

"Most people aren’t this tense," you quip back, fingers gliding over Joel’s neck. "Actually, nobody’s ever been this tense, I think."

He shakes his head slightly, but lets you carry on, working your way down his back, the tan line of his trunks visible and oh so tempting. You imagine pulling them down and try to refrain from clenching your thighs together.

When you’re done, Joel’s muscles feel a little looser, more relaxed, and he turns around to look at you.

"Thanks," he says quietly, and you nod. Now that he can see you, look you directly in the eye, it feels almost absurdly bold to have touched him like that. Still, things have started to unravel a little. Lines have blurred.

Although you don’t know where you get the courage from, you hold his gaze, put one hand on his shoulder, and squeeze.

"Any time, Joel," you answer, and watch him swallow. Then, his own hand comes up to yours, and you half think he’s going to remove yours, but he just loosely wraps his fingers around your wrist, eyes not leaving yours.

"That’s a dangerous game you’re playin’, kid," he says quietly, but doesn’t let go of you. You hope he never does.

"Do you…want me to stop?", you ask him, because you will if this is making him uncomfortable, if you read him wrong. He’s silent for a second.

"No," he says so quietly it’s almost inaudible. His thumb starts moving over your wrist, right over the pulse point, and it makes you weak in the knees. You didn’t know a touch as small as that one could be so erotic, but with Joel it seems, everything is. You fight to not let a whimper escape your mouth, and close your eyes for just a second.

"God," Joel mutters, more to himself than to you, "look at you."

Your eyes snap open when you feel him move, hand still locked around your wrist securely, and suddenly he’s towering over you. You gaze up at him, his eyes bright under the blazing sun, his hair still tousled, his beard patchy and flecked with grey. He’s all man, in a way you didn’t know you found desirable before him, but there is undeniable proof of your want leaking into your swimsuit, sticky and hot between your thighs.

He watches you, intense eyes moving over your face, your eyes, your mouth, your hands, your body in your nicest swimsuit, your throat as you swallow. His other hand comes up to stroke the hair away from your neck, and goosebumps erupt on your skin. Joel almost chuckles, but it’s more the ghost of a breath. You flush.

"It’s fucking stupid to go through with this," Joel says seriously, like he wants to inform you of it – as if you don’t know.

"Yes," you breathe, because he’s completely right.

"Your Dad would kill me, and rightly so," he adds.

"Oh, fuck my Dad," you answer, trying to reach out to touch Joel, but your wrist is still tightly locked in his grasp. You tug a little, but he doesn’t budge.

"You doin’ this to get back at him?"

You detect something in his voice you don’t like – uncertainty.

"No, Joel," you breathe, "God, no. Have you looked into a mirror recently?"

That makes him smile, and you wonder if he gets compliments a lot, but by the way his cheeks gain color, you don’t think he does. Stupid, stupid world, stupid people who came before you. He should be told every second of the day.

"It’s still stupid,“ he says, but his eyes are more intense than before now. You’re on holiday, away from all judgement. You can do whatever you want to do to each other.

"Thought I was the smart one in my family," you tease, reminding him of his words on the plane. You want him to lean down and finally kiss you, or throw you down on the deckchair and fuck you right there, your face pressed into his linen shirt. His thumb keeps moving over your wrist, relentlessly building tension.

"Take me to your room," you whisper, eyes wide, and anticipation pooling deep in your belly. Joel curses.

"You have any idea of the things I wanna do to you?"

His voice is low, dangerous, and you’d be at least a little afraid if this one anyone else. But it’s Joel, who lets you hate your degree without judgement, drinks cocktails he doesn’t like just so you can enjoy yourself, and through his permission allows you to stop studying, lets you enjoy this trip.

"Do them," you breathe, "I’ll let you do anything."

"Jesus fucking Christ, kid," he answers, and finally lets go of your wrist, one hand coming to rest on your waist, tugging you towards him, the other gently cradling your face. His breath ghosts over your mouth, and then he brushes your lips with his in a needy, slow kiss. His tongue slips into your mouth and you open up for him willingly. He tugs your hips against him, making you whimper and feel his bulge dig into your stomach.

The only thing keeping you from pulling him out of his swimming trunks right then is the fact that there are people around, and you’re pushing it already with the way his hands grasp at your skin and his tongue licks in your mouth. Any further and you could be arrested for public indecency.

"Please," you ask him between kisses, "Please, Joel, just take me to your room."

His teeth dig into your lower lip, and you fight a moan.

"Ask me again," he says, voice a little wrecked, and the need you feel for him deep in your stomach burns white hot. He wants you to beg.

"Please," you say, like he isn’t stripping you of your dignity instead of your clothes, but you can’t bring yourself to feel embarrassed, not when Joel groans at the sound.

"Alright, kid. I’ve got you.“

[favorite-fan-fic]

When Life Gives You a Lemon | Part 1

Pairing: Neighbor! Joel Miller X fem!Reader | W/C: ~6.2K | Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Summary: He's brooding, protective, considerate, and hot -- what more could you want from a new neighbor?

A/N: Gifted to my dear (new) friend, @adoranion for the @pedrostories 2024 Secret Santa Exchange. I'd say I suck balls for being so late to gift this, but y'all freaks (affectionate) like that sorta thing, so I'll just say I'm sorry for the delay. The Tumbles was cursed late last night when I went to post this and didn't cooperate. Part two will come later today, promise. Hope you enjoy, babe.x

Warnings: POV-Switching. Tension. Flirting/Teasing. Age gap but not mentioned (make it your own). Pet names. Reader is nicknamed Lemon. TLOU au. No use of Y/N. Sarah and Lemon have a good relationship. Implied death (off-page) for Lemon's family. Abandonment is mentioned once. Dating sucks. Part 2 is pretty fucking filthy and will have it's own set of warnings. Reader has female sex anatomy, is noted to have hair, and has slight implied feminine descriptors. Let me know if I missed anything! Masterlist | Notifications | Read on AO3

JOEL

You’ve gotta stop going out with assholes.

It’s fucking with my blood pressure.

Not that it should. Who you date isn’t supposed to affect me—shouldn’t affect me. Except, you’ve got this whole thing with Sarah. She thinks you’re the coolest person on the planet. “She actually likes the same stuff I like, Dad!”

What am I supposed to do with that? You’re her friend, her go-to babysitter when I’m pulling double shifts at the site. You live right across the way, and it just… works. For her. For me. 

But I see it—the stuff you try to hide. The way your eyes are sometimes swollen like you’ve been crying all night. You’re all sunshine and smiles with Sarah, but I see through it. I always see it.

I learned quickly there’s only so much I can do. Words don’t fix things like this. All I can do is keep my head down, keep watch, and make sure you’re safe. At least as safe as I can manage.

Things have been quiet lately, though. No jerks in sight.

Then West showed up.

West. What kind of dumbass name is that? Who names their kid after a direction? 

You seem happy with him, though. At least on the surface. All smiles, no red flags I’ve picked up on. For now. 

But if he so much as makes you tear even a little, he’s gonna wish he’d picked another direction to walk in.

Heart health be damned. 

YOU 

You’re sprawled on the roof, book in hand, but the words are just blurry lines on the page. The late-summer, early-fall sun kisses your skin, and the breeze tugs at the ends of your hair, but it doesn’t quite reach the ache in your chest. This place is supposed to be home, but it’s not—not anymore. It’s just a shell of what it used to be, filled with the ghosts of your grandparents. They raised you here after your parents died, but now it’s just you.

You and your paints.

Most of the rooms are nothing but a mess of palettes, paint-smeared rugs, and scattered brushes. Barely any furniture, since you agreed to let the Estate sell most of it, not wanting to deal with the memories they all held. It’s not a home, not really—it’s a studio with walls that used to hold love but now just hold echoes.

You glance absentmindedly at the dried paint on your hands, sitting in your makeshift nest of blankets, hoping for inspiration to strike. It’s always been this way, ever since you were little—escaping to the roof to think, breathe, and dream. 

The glint of sun on metal catches your eye.

A moving truck pulls up across the street, rumbling to a stop. Your book remains open in your hands, but you’re not reading anymore. You watch as the driver’s door opens, and a man steps out. He’s wearing a plain white t-shirt, but it fits him well, clinging to broad shoulders and muscular arms. He’s older—not old, just enough for the sunlight to catch the silver threads in his brown, curly hair. Handsome, you think.

You sit up a little straighter as he rounds the truck, opening the passenger side door. A little girl hops out, her hair a thick halo of dark curls pulled into a puff at the crown of her head. She’s clutching a book so tightly it looks like it’s an extension of her hand.

“You plannin’ on helping me unload, or are you just gonna read?” His voice carries across the street, teasing and warm.

She groans dramatically, eyes still glued to the page. “Just let me finish this chapter, Dad, and I’ll help, I swear.”

You can’t help but smile, even though you try to stay still, your book still cracked open as if you’re engrossed in it. But you’re not. You’re watching them.

You’re trying to look inconspicuous, but you know you’re failing. The book in your hands is still open, though you haven’t turned a page in minutes. Your eyes keep darting back to your new neighbors. 

The man grabs a box from the truck bed, effortlessly lifting it onto one shoulder. You catch the flex of his arms as he moves, and for a second, you wonder what he does—hard labor, maybe? He has the build for it. Or maybe he’s just one of those people who never needed a gym to stay in shape. Either way, you tell yourself you’re just observing out of curiosity, but the little flutters in your stomach say otherwise. 

The girl, Sarah—you heard him call her that—drops her book. It tumbles from her hands to the pavement, landing with a dull thud. She leans down to grab it, but her eyes catch on something else. 

You.

Her face lights up like she’s discovered a secret, and for a moment, you freeze. You raise your hand in a little wave.

She mirrors you with a bright smile,  lifting her small hand to wave back. You can’t help but grin, even as you feel the warmth of embarrassment crawling up your neck.

“Sarah!” The man’s voice cuts through the quiet, sharp but not angry, and you watch as she jumps a little, her body snapping to attention.

“Coming, Dad!” she calls back, grabbing her book and tucking it under her arm. She hurries around the truck to join him, reaching for one of the smaller boxes stacked at the edge of the bed. He glances down at her, muttering something you can’t hear, but the softness in his expression says it all.

You watch them disappear into the house, your book still forgotten in your lap. The street falls quiet, except for the distant hum of cicadas and the rustle of the breeze through the trees.

You glance down at your hands. The eggshell blue on them is a similar shade to the house.

You can’t bake them welcome-to-the-neighborhood cookies—your last attempt went to shit and ended with a fire alarm and a smoke-filled kitchen, but this is something you know you can do. 

You crawl back inside through the window, your mind buzzing, practically painting the first strokes in your head. The room feels warmer as you grab a fresh canvas and set it up on the easel.

Time slips away as the sun dips below the horizon, its golden kiss fading into the cool embrace of the moon. Your brush moves steadily, unbothered by the growing shadows. By the time you step back, the painting of the house across the way is nearly done. It’s not perfect—it never is—but it’s yours. And it’s for them.

Tomorrow, you’ll find a way to leave it on their porch. No note, no explanation. Just something to say welcome, in the only language you truly know how to speak.

You step back, letting your eyes trace over the piece one last time. You title it “Moving Day” in small, neat letters along the bottom edge. Your fingers hover over the space where an artist's initials would usually go, but that’s never really been your style. Instead, you reach for a finer brush, dipping it into a bright, cheerful yellow and then some crisp white.

With a few strokes, you paint a tiny lemon in the corner. 

It might not be your legal name, but it’s a nickname you’ve had since you could walk, and even into adulthood, it stuck. 

JOEL 

"Good morning, Father," Sarah says, her best attempt at a Scottish accent drawing out the words as she skips into the kitchen. She’s light on her feet, weaving around the maze of half-unpacked boxes like it’s a game.

I chuckle, shaking my head. Sarah’s been reading some novel with U.K. characters, and ever since, she’s been determined to nail the accent. I don’t have the heart to tell her she sounds more Texas than Scotland, drawl creeping in at the edges no matter how hard she tries.

She zeroes in on a box labeled "Pantry" and crouches down, her nose scrunched in concentration as she rifles through it. The rustling grows louder until she lets out a triumphant "Aha!" and pulls out a box of Pop-Tarts like she’s Nicolas Cage and just stole the Declaration of Independence. 

The accent has been lost again, only to return at another random moment, I’m sure. 

“Twelve hours in this house, and you’ve already got it memorized,” I say, leaning back against the counter with a mug of coffee in hand.

She grins up at me, holding the Pop-Tart box aloft like it’s the answer to every problem. “It’s called survival skills, Dad,” she says, tearing into the foil packet. “Can’t start the day without breakfast.”

I smirk, watching her. “Breakfast? Thought you were calling that dessert last week.”

“Breakfast. Dessert. It’s versatile,” she says through a mouthful of sugary, tasty bullshit, hopping up to sit on the counter.

I take a sip of coffee, the warmth waking me up a little more. The house is still a mess—boxes everywhere, walls bare—but having her here like this makes it feel less like chaos. Her energy fills the space in a way that feels right.

“Alright, Shakespeare,” I say, nodding toward the stack of boxes near the living room. “You’re gonna help me unpack some of this stuff today, yeah?”

She rolls her eyes but hops off the counter, Pop-Tart still in hand. “Fine, but only if we play music while we do it. And none of your boring dad music.”

I feign a gasp, clutching my chest as though mortally wounded. "How dare you! My music's classic," I protest, raising my voice just enough to be heard over her laughter. But she's already skipping off, smiling as she goes to grab her speaker. "Prepare to be educated," I call after her, though the smirk tugging at my lips betrays me.

++++

We’ve been at it for hours, unpacking to a mix of my music and Sarah’s. I got my Motown and classic rock in early, but Sarah’s taken over now, her speaker blasting something new. I’d never admit it, but that Espresso song? That shit is fuckin’ catchy, wildly inappropriate, but still…catchy. I catch myself humming along, and when Sarah catches me, she grins.

“Told you it’s good,” she teases, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, focusing on untangling a mess of cords from one of the boxes. Sarah is sitting cross-legged on the floor, unpacking a box from her bookshelf.

We’re mid-unpacking when she suddenly freezes, her hands flying to her hips. “Oh no,” she gaps, spinning around.

“What now?”

“I think I left my journal in the moving truck!” she groans, bolting toward the front door before I can even stop her.

“Sarah—hey, slow down, kid!” I call after her, but she’s already swinging the door open.

“Roof girl?”

Her voice carries back to me, and I pause, confused. Roof girl?

I move toward the door, but Sarah’s already standing there, staring at someone. You. Awkwardly holding a painting under your arm, eyes wide.

“Uh… hi,” you say, your voice small. 

Sarah cocks her head, recognition lighting up her face. “Wait, yes, yeah, you are the girl from the roof yesterday! You waved at me.”

You nod, your fingers tightening on the edge of the painting. “Guilty as charged,” you say with a faint smile.

From behind Sarah, I catch the faint beat of Espresso still playing in the background. Your gaze flickers toward the open door, and I feel the need to cut through the awkwardness. 

“It’s, uh—my daughter’s music,” I say, leaning casually against the doorway.

“Right, yeah—who doesn’t love Sabrina Carpenter?” you reply, your smile tugging up a little higher. 

Sarah groans loudly, rolling her eyes. “Tell that to my dad,” she says. “He’s all about his classics.”

I smirk. She’s not wrong.

You clear your throat, shifting your weight slightly as I turn my attention fully to you. 

“Sorry, I’m forgetting my manners,” you say, introducing yourself with your name and adding that you’re the neighbor across the way. “I—I made this for you. As a welcome. To the neighborhood, I mean.”

You hold the painting out awkwardly, and for a moment, none of us say anything. The piece is beautiful—soft blues and yellows, earthy greens, pretty flowers, – a perfect likeness to the house Sarah and I now call home. I take note of the tiny lemon painted with careful detail in the corner. 

Sarah gasps, breaking the silence. “Oh my god, Dad, it’s our house! You painted this? It’s amazing!”

You shrug, the warmth in your cheeks spreading up to your ears. “It’s just something I do. I thought… I don’t know, I thought you might like it. I’d have baked you a pie or something, but then you’d probably pack back up that truck and never come back.” 

Funny. You’re funny.

I can't help but giggle a little as I glance down at Sarah, staring at the painting like it’s a masterpiece, then back at you. Sarah’s right. 

It’s pretty. You’re pretty, too.

“Well,” I say, reaching out to take it, “thank you. That’s real kind of you.”

Your smile is small but genuine, and I catch the way your shoulders relax just a little.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I add, feeling like I should say more. Do you paint for all the new neighbors, or just us is what I don’t add. 

“I know,” you say softly. “I just wanted to.”

I shift the painting to one hand and gesture to Sarah with the other. “I’m Joel Miller, by the way, and this is my daughter, Sarah. Thanks for the welcome,” I add, using the name you gave me.

“It’s nice to meet you both.”

Sarah grins up at you. “This is so cool! You’re an artist and you hang out on roofs? You’re officially the coolest person I know.”

You laugh, a light, airy sound that feels like it doesn’t come out much. “I’m not sure about that, but thank you.”

I glance between you and Sarah, but before I can say anything – 

“You have to show me how you painted this! Please? Dad, can she?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Sarah. She must be very busy. She doesn’t need you bothering her,” I say, looking at you for help.

You shake your head lightly. “I don’t mind. Like I said, I’m just across the way. I’m in between jobs at the moment, and my house is more of a studio than a home, so she’s welcome to stop by anytime she wants.”

Something about the way you say it tugs at me—an edge of loneliness you’re trying to mask.

“Well, that’s very kind of you,” I respond, using your name again. 

“Oh, please, call me Lemon,” you say, stepping back slightly. “I won’t keep you, but you know where to find me.”

“Lemon.”

“Joel. Sarah,” you nod, turn, and walk back toward your house. 

The tiny lemon on the painting catches my eye again. 

Lemon. 

As you walk away, I have a feeling there’s nothing sour about you at all.

YOU 

Your attempt to leave the painting unnoticed was a total bust, and hell, it might have been slightly awkward. But on the bright side, you walked away with two new pieces of knowledge.

Your neighbor’s name.

And the fact that his left ring finger was very, very empty.

As you step back into your house, the corners of your mouth lift in a small, almost involuntary smile. Maybe the day hadn’t gone exactly how you planned, but it hadn’t gone badly either. In fact, it had gone… unexpectedly well.

Joel. It suited him, strong and unpretentious. The kind of name that fits a man who looked like he could fix just about anything. And then there was Sarah—bright, curious, full of that unfiltered energy kids always seem to have. You liked her instantly, though you’d never expected her to be so enthusiastic about the painting.

Her contagious excitement that she wanted to learn to paint stuck with you. If she was going to come over, she’d need a comfortable place to sit. Somewhere that didn’t scream lonely paint lady, with rugs splattered in colors and mismatched furniture shoved against the walls.

That was all the motivation you needed to start making changes. To turn this house back into a home.

You wander through the rooms, taking in the cluttered palettes, scattered brushes, and the way your canvases lean haphazardly against the walls. You begin moving things around without thinking too much about it, clearing space. You imagine a small table here, maybe a couple of chairs there—something cozy and welcoming.

For the first time in a long time, the thought of filling this space with life—your life—doesn’t feel so daunting.

The house feels different already. 

Like maybe it’s ready to welcome something new.

++++

The saying time changes everything exists for a reason, doesn’t it?

Since the Millers moved into the house across the street, it hasn’t taken long for you and Sarah to become... well, friends? The word still feels strange, considering the age gap and the not-so-tiny crush you’ve developed on her dad—not that she knows that part.

Sarah has a way of lighting up a room. She’s funny, kind, and endlessly surprising with her natural talent for painting. What started as casual visits quickly turned into a routine. You’d teach her to paint, and she’d teach you to bake. A win-win that inevitably ended with the two of you laughing until your sides hurt.

And Joel? Joel is… well, Joel. Quiet. Steady. Maddeningly unreadable. Sometimes, he’d look at you in a way that sent your stomach into a tailspin—soft, lingering—but he never gave any indication he felt the same. Always kind, always polite, never anything more.

One thing was clear – he cared deeply about Sarah. You’ve seen that in how he shows up for her, always present despite the demands of his construction business with his brother, Tommy. Flannel is practically his second skin, his coffee habit rivals yours, and his terrible dad jokes are almost endearing. Almost. Beyond that, Joel Miller remains a bit of a mystery. Not that you’ve done much to solve it, but still.

So, you made a decision. If Joel wasn’t interested, you couldn’t keep waiting, hoping for something that might never happen. More than that, the risk of jeopardizing your relationship with Sarah was too great. She’d already told you about her mom—how she’d left when Sarah was a baby. The last thing you wanted was to be another person who walked out of her life.

And anyway, it was time. Time to move forward. It had been over a year since your last boyfriend spectacularly torched your relationship by sleeping with someone named Cynthia—in your shared bed, no less. Your friends had rallied behind you with a resounding fuck him, and you’d slowly been clawing your way out of that sexless, slightly depressed hole ever since. 

The problem? Dating hasn’t exactly been smooth sailing.

You’ve tried. Matched with a few people on apps. Met some for coffee, even dinner. But nothing clicked. And the rare sparks you did find fizzled out before they had the chance to turn into flames. More than once, you found yourself staring at your phone, that hollow ache creeping in, wondering where you went wrong.

But then there was Sarah.

She’d show up at just the right time, her curls a chaotic mess, paint streaked on her hands, ready to drag you into another baking adventure or pepper you with questions about shading techniques. Being around her grounded you, pulling you out of your head and reminding you that life wasn’t all bad.

Tonight was no different. With Joel stuck at a job site and Sarah insisting you come over to bake cookies for Thanksgiving, you couldn’t say no.

++++

Standing in their kitchen, you whisk the batter while Sarah oversees like a miniature baking instructor. “No, no, you have to fold it gently,” she says, demonstrating with exaggerated precision.

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “Yes, Chef.”

The warm, inviting chaos of the Millers’ home feels like…home from long ago. The smell of vanilla and sugar fills the air, and Sarah hums along to some song playing faintly in the background.

Just as you’re starting to feel content with your baking skills, the front door unlocks and opens, distracting you. You glance up, and there’s Joel.

He steps inside, his hair tousled and his shirt clinging in all the right ways from what must’ve been a long, hard day. The weather is getting cold here in Austin, even by Texas standards. He stops when he sees you, his eyebrows lifting slightly in surprise.

“Didn’t realize you’d be here,” he says, his voice soft, almost hesitant.

“Dad! Lemon’s helping me bake,” Sarah announces proudly, waving a flour-covered hand in your direction. “We’re making cookies, chocolate chip, your favorite.”

Joel’s gaze shifts from Sarah to you, and there’s something in the way he looks at you that makes your breath catch. You quickly turn back to the mixing bowl, focusing too intently on getting the batter just right.

“Well, if they’re as good as your paintings have been lately, I’m in for a treat,” he says, his voice thick and warm.

Your cheeks heat, and you try to brush it off. “It’s mostly Sarah,” you mumble.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” he says, just loud enough for you to hear. The way he says it, like it’s meant only for you, sends a little jolt through you. You look at him, acutely aware of the fact that your eyes are likely still a little puffy from the crying you did last night. The guy you had successfully been seeing for two weeks dumped you over text right before the holidays. Who does that? 

Joel moves into the kitchen, his heavy work boots sounding against the hardwood, and grabs a beer from the fridge. His presence fills the space, making it hard to focus.  “So,” he says, glancing between you and Sarah, “who’s in charge of cleanup?”

“Well, we baked…so, I’m pretty sure that means you,” Sarah tries, pressing her luck. “That so?” Joel sighs, “How about I wash and you dry, hm?” 

“Deal.” 

This kid should be a lawyer. 

Joel takes a sip of his beer, and for a moment, his eyes meet yours, holding just a little longer than necessary. The air feels different, and you find yourself wondering what he sees when he looks at you. 

But you shake the thought away. It doesn’t matter. Joel Miller isn’t interested, and even if he was, you’ve learned the hard way not to get your hopes up.

He looks like he wants to say something, his gaze lingering a beat too long, his lips parting slightly as if the words are just there, on the tip of his tongue. But he doesn’t. Instead, he takes a slow sip from the bottle, leaning casually against the counter, his eyes flickering between you and Sarah.

You force your attention back to the cookies, focusing on the task in front of you. 

“Alright, Sarah, what’s next?” you ask, trying to keep your voice light, ignoring the way your blood feels thick.

Sarah, oblivious to the subtle tension, is already elbow-deep in cookie dough. Grinning, she scoops another ball onto the baking sheet. ‘

“Now we sprinkle the secret ingredient,” she says, wiggling her fingers dramatically.

You laugh, letting her energy pull you back into the moment. “Oh, the secret ingredient. Of course. What is it this time? Magic?”

“Close. Sea salt!” she declares, grabbing a tiny jar from the counter.

You smile, watching her focus intently as she does her best salt bae impression and sprinkles just the right amount onto each cookie. It’s easy to get caught up in her excitement, but you can still feel Joel. His presence is like gravity, pulling at the edges of your awareness.

You glance over your shoulder, and sure enough, he’s watching. He doesn’t look away when your eyes meet, and for a moment, you’re caught in his gaze. It’s steady, quiet, but there’s something else there—something that makes your heart skip, even though you tell yourself you’re imagining it.

Sarah also takes note.

“Dad, stop staring, you’re making it weird,” Sarah teases. 

Joel blinks, breaking the moment with a chuckle. “I’m not staring,” he says, though his ears turn just the faintest shade of pink.

“Yes, you are,” Sarah insists.

Your hands pause for a second. But before you can overthink it, Sarah breaks the moment again, holding up the tray.

“Cookies are ready for the oven!” she announces.

You take the tray from her, sliding it into the oven and setting the timer. When you turn back around, Joel’s still there, leaning against the counter like he’s perfectly at ease. But there’s something about the way he looks at you now—like he’s still holding back, but maybe not as much as before.

And just for a second, you let yourself wonder what it would be like if he wasn’t.

JOEL

I was most definitely staring. 

And you have most definitely been crying. 

Fuck. 

++++

It’s late.

The movie credits have just started to roll, and Sarah is passed out between us on the couch, most likely in a sugar coma from the four cookies she devoured earlier. Her head is tipped back, mouth slightly open, the picture of content exhaustion.

“I should get back home,” you say softly, careful not to wake her. “I’m sure you’re exhausted from such a long day.”

“‘M alright,” I say, and it’s all I can manage that doesn’t scream don’t go.

I watch as you carefully shift, rising from the couch in a way that doesn’t disturb Sarah. Your movements are graceful and I find myself caught in the way the soft light of the living room brushes against your face.

“I’ll walk you home,” I offer. It’s only a short walk, but it’s dark out, and the thought of you walking alone doesn’t sit right with me.

“Oh, Joel, it’s okay, you don’t have to, really,” you say, your voice light but firm, as if you don’t want to trouble me.

“Lemon,” I say, your name falling from my lips in a tone that’s more of a command than a suggestion. You stop, meeting my eyes, and I think you understand. There’s no arguing.

You nod, a soft sigh escaping your lips. “Okay.”

We step outside, and the chill of the night hits immediately. I glance over and notice you forgot your coat. Your arms are wrapped tightly around you as you shiver. Without thinking, I shrug off my jacket and drape it over your shoulders.

“Joel, you didn’t have to—”

“Just take it,” I interrupt. Your protest dies in your throat as you look up at me with those big, beautiful eyes, and for a moment, the cold doesn’t seem to bother me at all.

You tug the coat closer around you, the faintest smile pulling at the corners of your lips. God, those lips. “Thank you.”

By the time we make it to your door, I can tell something’s off. Has been all night. You’ve been quiet—too quiet—and there’s a heaviness to your steps I hadn’t noticed before.

“Lemon,” I say, stopping just outside your porch light. You turn to me, and there’s something fragile in your expression like you’re bracing for something. “Are you okay? You seemed sad tonight.”

The question catches you off guard, your brows lifting slightly. “Yes, of course, Joel. I’m fine.”

Fine.

It’s always fine. I’ve been around long enough to know better. When a woman says she’s fine, she’s anything but.

“You’ve been crying,” I say, my voice low, a statement rather than a question.

You blink, the walls you’ve carefully built around yourself flickering for just a moment. Then you shake your head lightly. “Don’t worry about me, Joel, really.”

Your eyes look so sad, so tired, and it hits me like a punch to the gut. I want to reach out, to wrap you in my arms and tell you that you don’t have to carry it alone. I want to kiss you—God, do I want to—but I don’t. 

“Alright,” I say quietly, my voice softer now. “Just know I’m here if you need anything. You deserve to be happy, Lem.”

The nickname slips out before I can stop it, but it feels right. I see your lips part, like you might say something, but then you look down and start to shrug off my coat.

“Thanks for walking me home,” you say, returning it. It smells like you. A faint touch of citrus from your perfume. Fitting.

The warmth of your touch lingers on the fabric as I take it from you, and for a second, I can’t move. I just stand there, watching as you step inside. 

“Goodnight, Joel,” you say, the door closing softly behind you.

The cold rushes back as I turn to head home, my jacket heavier on my shoulders than it’s ever felt before. All I can think about is the look in your eyes—how much I wanted to wipe that sadness away. 

YOU 

You love Sarah. You’ve only known her a few months, but the thought of anything complicating your bond is unbearable.

And by anything, you mean Joel.

And love.

Both are impossibly complicated.

And somehow, you still want both. JOEL

You’ve been happier lately.

With Christmas around the corner, it seems like everyone is—or at least they’re trying to be. Festive this, merry that. It’s subtle, though.

I can see a shift beneath the surface, behind the mask you wear with Sarah. Not that it’s really a mask, but I’ve always had a knack for spotting the things people don’t say. But you always seem happy with Sarah around. The two of you have become thick as thieves, and I love it.

You’re good for her. A role model, someone who teaches her things. Except climbing on roofs—that’s where I draw the line. That girl, god bless her, is clumsy enough on flat ground. The last thing I need is her eight feet in the air.

Since that night last month when I almost said more –hell, did more – than I should have while walking you home, I’ve been doing my best to keep my distance.

Not because I want to.

Because I have to.

But it’s hard—harder than I’d like to admit. You’ve slipped into our lives so seamlessly. It feels natural, the way you belong at our dinner table, how easy it is to throw on a movie and sit together, just the three of us.

How easy it is to imagine you as part of this little family.

Sarah mentioned you’re seeing someone—a guy named West. That tells me everything I need to know about him. West. She said, “He’s some finance guy. Takes her out for fancy dinners and stuff.” I could tell she’s a little bummed it’s cutting into her time with you.

If I’m honest, I am too.

“What d’you wanna do tonight, Dad?” Sarah asks, pulling me from my thoughts. “Wanna bake some cookies? We can take ‘em to Lemon tomorrow when she gets home.”

“What d’you mean? She take a trip or something?” I ask, keeping my tone casual, even though my stomach tightens.

“I don’t think so. Just noticed her car’s been gone a lot at night lately,” Sarah says, her voice light, innocent. God bless her for it.

Hopefully she doesn’t feel the jealously rolling off me in waves. Gone a lot at night. With him. The finance guy. West. Even his name grates on me—like he’s trying too hard to sound impressive, polished, perfect.

What do you even see in him? Fancy dinners and smooth talk don’t make someone worth a damn. And yet, he’s clearly worth our time. Worth your late nights.

I force a nod, trying not to let my irritation show. 

Sarah shrugs, already moving on. “Anyway, about the cookies—what should we make? Chocolate chip? Lemon bars?” She grins, adding, “Get it… get it? ’Cuz Lemon.”

“Nice one,” I tease, smirking at her joke. “Lemon bars actually sound good.”

They don’t. Not really. But I say it because they remind me of you. Just like everything else seems to be lately.

I catch myself gripping the edge of the counter, fingers pressing hard into the wood. I shouldn’t feel like this. Jealousy isn’t something I have the right to. Not when you’re not mine.

But God help me, in almost every way that matters, you feel like you are.

“How about pizza from Pablo’s?” I ask, hoping she agrees. The local spot isn’t far; right now, I just need an excuse to leave the house.

She nods eagerly. “OK father,” the Scottish accent has returned. What a little weirdo. My little weirdo.

I grab my coat, already halfway out the door. The cold evening air bites at my skin, but it’s a relief—sharp in every way I need it. I need the fresh air, the distance. Anything to clear my head of the image of you with him.

I grit my teeth when I realize Pablo’s is in the direction I really don’t want to go—West.

++++

Fresh pizza in hand—cheese only, Sarah’s favorite—I’m heading home when my phone rings in my truck. Your name flashes on the screen, and my stomach tightens.

“Everything okay?” I answer, my voice sounding sharper than I intended.

“Joel…” Your voice breaks, shaky and raw. Fuck. It almost breaks me, too.

“What’s wrong, Lem?” There’s that nickname again.

“I—I hate to ask,” you say, your words trembling, “but my car broke down. I’m stranded on the highway near the outlets, and I…” You falter, the words choking in your throat.

“What exit are you closest to?” The pizza’s already forgotten, cooling on the seat beside me. “I’m coming to get you.”

As you give me your location, some distant part of me wonders why you aren’t calling him. Isn’t that what boyfriends are for? Big dinners, fancy dates, and being the guy you call when your car craps out? But instead, you called me.

The thought sinks in. Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he didn’t pick up. Or maybe you knew I’d come, no questions asked.

Because I would.

I am. 

Whatever the reason, I don’t waste time dwelling on it. You’re stranded, your voice cracked like glass, and the last thing I’m going to do is let you sit there alone.

I’m flipping a U-turn before you can try to talk me out of it, the tires skidding slightly as I grip the wheel tighter.

“Stay put, sweetheart,” I reassure you. My heart pounds, the jealousy still simmering beneath the surface. My thoughts drift to Sarah; she’ll be wondering where I am, and I’ll call her on the road with an explanation, but for now, it doesn’t matter. 

All that matters is you.

And the fact that you called me. 

As I drive, I realize I’m heading East this time. The irony isn’t lost on me, and the smile grows just a little wider. 

East feels like the right direction. 

Like I’m finally moving toward something that matters.

++++

By the time I reach you, you’re standing by your car, hugging yourself against the cold, looking small and defeated under the streetlights. The sight of you hits me square in the chest. I pull over and hop out of the truck, leaving the engine running. 

“Lem,” I call softly, and your head snaps up. 

Your face crumples the second you see me. Before I can say anything, you’re in my arms, burying your face against my chest. “He—he ended it,” you whisper, your voice cracking again. “And then my stupid fucking car broke down,” you’re all tears at this point. 

“This is officially the worst night ever.” 

I stiffen. He ended it? The relief I feel is immediate, and then I hate myself for it because you’re standing here, trembling in my arms, hurting. 

I’ll kill him. 

“Let’s get you out of here,” I murmur, guiding you to the passenger seat. I love the sight of you in my truck. The drive is quiet except for the occasional sniffle from you. I glance over, watching your profile lit by the soft glow of the dashboard. You’re clutching your coat around you, staring out the window.

“You want me to drop you at home?” I ask once we’re closer to the neighborhood, already expecting your answer to be yes. 

“No.” 

“I… I don’t want to be alone. Can I… can I come to your place instead?” You’re looking at me now, your eyes glassy but earnest, and there’s no way I could say no. Not that I ever would. 

“Yeah,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “‘Course.” When we pull up to my house, it’s late. The lights are dim except for the glow in the kitchen. Sarah’s left a note on the counter, pizza for breakfast, Dad. Cookies for Lemon are on the island. She’s opted for leftovers, probably curled up in bed already, but she remembered you. 

You’re still quiet, standing in the doorway like you’re not sure what to do next. “Hey,” I say softly, stepping closer. “How about you get cleaned up? Use my shower—it’ll help.” You nod, not saying much, and I lead you upstairs to the bathroom. I grab a towel and set it on the counter, then hesitate before digging into my drawer for a clean t-shirt and some sweats. “Here,” I say, holding the clothes out to you—my old t-shirt and a pair of sweats that will probably swallow you whole. 

“They’re probably a little big, but—” You take them, your fingers brushing mine, and for a moment, I just stand there, caught in the softness of your smile. “Thanks, Joel,” you say, your voice quiet, almost shy. I don’t know what comes over me, but before I can think better of it, I pull you into a hug. 

It’s automatic, like my body moves before my brain catches up, and the second my arms wrap around you, I know I made the right call. You don’t hesitate. You lean into me, your head resting against my chest, and I feel you exhale, like you’ve been holding your breath all night. 

Without thinking, I press a kiss to your forehead in comfort. You tilt your head up, looking at me with those wide, searching eyes. My hand lingers on your arm, and I clear my throat, realizing if I don’t leave now I might do something more than just kissing your forehead.

“Go ahead,” I say finally, nodding toward the bathroom. My voice comes out rougher than I expect. “Take your time, I’ll be downstairs.” You nod, clutching the clothes to your chest as you step back, but not before giving me a look—one that lingers, like you’re trying to figure out if you imagined that moment or if it was as real as it felt to me.

YOU

The hot water does little to soothe you. If anything, it makes it worse. The bathroom fills with the warm, clean scent of the soap – his clean soap, you remind yourself. No wonder he smells so good, you think, examining the bottle.

You shouldn’t feel this way. Not tonight.

But you do.

Your chest tightens under the water as everything rushes back—West’s clipped words, the way he yelled, the anger in your chest as you left, only to end up on the side of the road. And then the way you were held earlier, Joel’s arms wrapping around you without hesitation, pulling you close like you belonged there.

You shouldn’t feel so drawn to what’s waiting for you downstairs. But you do.

Fucking hell, do you do. 

The shower shuts off with a sharp squeak, and you linger in the steam for a moment, fingers gripping the towel as you try to steady yourself. Everything feels too loud—your heartbeat, your thoughts, the tension that’s been simmering between you and Joel since this Fall.

You dry off slowly, the soft cotton of the towel is a nice distraction. You slip into the clothes he gave you—grey sweatpants and a band tee. They’re soft, worn-in, definitely too big, but they’re carrying that faint, unmistakable scent of him.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

When you step out of the bathroom, the air feels cooler as the heat of the shower fades. The house is quiet, save for the sounds of the TV downstairs and each step you take toward it.

And then you see him.

JOEL

I take it back.  You dating assholes has little effect on my blood pressure compared to this – seeing you in my clothes, smelling like my soap, in my house?

I am so fucked.

PART 2

A/N Continued:

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When Life Gives You a Lemon | Part 2

Pairing: Neighbor! Joel Miller X fem!Reader | W/C: 8.2K | Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Summary: He's brooding, protective, considerate, and hot -- what more could you want from a new neighbor?

A/N: A gift for @adoranion for the @pedrostories 2024 Secret Santa Exchange. I hope I did your prompt some justice.x

Warnings: POV-Switching. Happy ending. Found family. Tension. Flirting/Teasing. Age gap but not mentioned (make it your own). Pet names. Reader is nicknamed Lemon. TLOU au. No use of Y/N. Sarah and Lemon have a good relationship. Implied death (off-page) for Lemon's family. Abandonment is mentioned once. Dating sucks. Joel is a good guy. Oral (f! receiving). Feelings. Kissing/pining. Grinding. Praise kink. Begging. Unprotected sex. Creampie. Christmas references. Reader has female sex anatomy, is noted to have hair, and has slight implied feminine descriptors. Let me know if I missed anything! Masterlist | Notifications | Read on AO3 | Part 1

YOU

“Hi,” you say softly, padding into the living room in the clothes he gave you. They’re soft and worn, the fabric loose and comforting against your skin. The t-shirt falls past your hips, and the sweats are baggy enough that you’ve rolled them at the waist to keep them from slipping. It’s ridiculous, really—you could’ve grabbed something from your own closet across the street, but somehow, this feels better.

“Hi,” he rasps, his voice rough, like it’s caught in his throat. His eyes rake over you, lingering for just a moment too long. “You look—”

“Like you?” you tease, walking over and sitting down, close enough that your knees bump. Your mood is a little lighter now that you’re with Joel. The shower helped clear your head a bit, too. 

He looks at you, his dark eyes intense, pupils wide enough to edge out most of the brown. “I was going to say beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice softer now.

Warmth blooms in your cheeks, and your gaze drops to his lips, unthinking. “Thank you,” you say quietly, the words barely leaving your mouth as your focus remains fixed on him. You’re staring, and you know it, but you don’t care. More importantly, he doesn’t seem to mind.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, the apology slipping out before you can stop it, though you’re not even sure what you’re apologizing for.

“Hey now,” he says gently, his hand reaching up to cup your cheek. His thumb brushes softly against your skin, his touch careful, reverent. “You don’t need to apologize for anything.”

He holds you there, his gaze drifting between your eyes and lips. It’s not pity. It’s something deeper, a needy little thing that feels a lot like love. 

“Joel,” you say softly, his name a whisper on your lips. This might be a bad idea, and you probably shouldn’t do this, but every fiber in your being wants to.

You lean in, your heart pounding so hard you swear he can feel it. Your breath brushes his, and your lips meet his for the first time. It’s subtle at first; you’re just testing the waters. But when he doesn’t pull back—when his hand moves to your waist, steady and sure, pulling you closer—it’s all the encouragement you need.

The kiss deepens, and your core aches at the low rumble that leaves his chest once it does. He kisses you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted, devouring you in a way that feels like fireworks exploding in the night sky on the Fourth of July. His hand slides to the small of your back, anchoring you as his other hand grips your thigh. Without warning, he shifts, pulling you into his lap smoothly. You can't help but to giggle against his mouth. 

Your knees straddle his hips as your hands find purchase in the curls at the nape of his neck. His hands settle on your waist, fingers splayed across the thin fabric of his shirt, pressing you down against him until there’s no space between your bodies. He’s hard already, and it makes you a little desperate. 

His hand slips under the hem of the t-shirt, the roughness of his palm grazing your bare skin, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. His lips leave yours, trailing slowly down your jaw, pausing at the curve of your neck. You shiver at the sensation of his breath against your skin, warm and heavy, and when he presses a kiss there, you can’t stop the quiet gasp that escapes you.

“Fuck, Lemon,” he groans, his voice raw and strained. He’s called you Lemon a million times, but never like this, and holy shit, it is sexy.

You grind down against him, feeling the tension in his body coil tighter beneath you. His hands find your hips, holding you to him so tight you think he thinks you might leave. His breath hitches when you lean in, pulling him into another kiss, your lips moving against his with a mix of hunger and tenderness.

His grip tightens, his thumbs brushing over the bare skin of your hips in slow, deliberate circles that send shivers up your spine. He groans again, his head falling back for just a moment before his dark eyes meet yours, filled with a mix of desire and restraint.

“Lem,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. “We shouldn’t—God, I want to, but you’ve had a bad night, and you’re sa—”

“Joel,” you cut him off, your voice firm but soft as your hands slide from his shoulders to cradle his jaw. You tilt his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “There are a million reasons why we shouldn’t do this right now, but I don’t care.”

Your tone shifts, more sure now, your eyes locked on his. “This isn’t like the movies. Sure, we could cut to the part where you tell me you don’t want to take advantage of me while I’m sad, and then I fall asleep on the couch. And yeah, we could spend tomorrow morning stealing longing glances over coffee, waiting, dragging this out.”

You pause, letting the weight of your words settle. “But I don’t want to wait. I’ve wanted you, Joel. For a long time.” You can tell he likes hearing that with the way his gaze goes dark.

“I don’t want to push you,” you continue, your voice dipping lower, almost a plea, “but if the only reason you’re not doing this is because you think you shouldn’t—”

You don’t get to finish because that’s all he needs to hear. His lips crash into yours, the restraint he’s been clinging to finally shattering. This kiss is hungrier, urgent.

His fingers trace the curve of your back, the dip of your waist, exploring every inch of you with a reverence that feels almost desperate. You feel the heat of his touch through the thin fabric of your borrowed clothes, and it’s not enough—not nearly enough.

His lips leave yours, trailing down your jaw and across the column of your throat, his breath hot against your skin. “You have no idea,” he murmurs against you, his voice thick like honey, “what you do to me.”

You shiver under his touch, your hands threading through his hair as he pulls you impossibly closer, like he’s trying to erase the space between you entirely. And in this moment, with his hands on your body, his lips on your skin, and his voice in your ear, every doubt, every hesitation, every reason to stop melts away, leaving only the two of you and the undeniable pull that brought you here.

Every kiss, every touch pulls you deeper into him, melting away the heartbreak, the doubts, the fears, until there’s nothing left but him. 

His hands tighten on your hips, and in one fluid motion, he twists you around, guiding you onto the couch. Your back hits the cushions with a soft oof, and before you can even catch your breath, he’s on you again, his lips finding yours.

“You want me, huh?” he teases, his voice low and rough as he pulls back just enough to trail kisses along your jaw. His hands slide to the neck of his shirt, tugging it down to expose more skin. His lips find the hollow of your throat, his teeth grazing that little spot that makes your that makes you see stars.

“Joel,” you gasp, your hands tangling in his hair as his mouth continues its path, hot and insistent.

He chuckles softly against your skin, the sound vibrating through you as he lifts the shirt higher, finally pulling it over your head and tossing it aside. His eyes darken as they rake over your bare chest. His tongue darts out to your nipple, before he takes it into his mouth and sucks, sending both of them into peaks.

He leans down, pressing a line of kisses down your chest, across your stomach, pausing just above the waistband of the sweatpants. His breath is warm against your skin as he murmurs, “How much?” His lips graze your belly, and the teasing edge in his voice drives you wild.

“So fucking much,” you breathe, “Want you so bad.”

“Tell me,” he growls as his fingers toy with the waistband of the sweatpants. His lips press lower, his stubble brushing against your skin in a way that sends shivers straight through you. You’re too lost in the sensation to register the command, so he asks again. “Need you to tell me, baby, tell me how much you want me.”

“Need you so much, Joel, it’s not even a want at this point,” you whimper, your hips lifting instinctively, silently begging him for more.

He doesn’t make you wait. His hands grip the waistband, sliding the sweatpants down your legs in one smooth motion, revealing bare skin beneath. He groans, the sound low and guttural as his eyes flicker back up to meet yours.

“Fuck me, baby,” he murmurs, his hands sliding up your thighs, spreading you open as he settles between them. His voice drops lower, his gaze filled with heat. “What a pretty pussy.”

The words alone have you trembling, and when he leans in, his mouth so close you can feel his breath, every nerve in your body ignites. The teasing, the tension, the way he looks at you—it’s overwhelming, consuming.

His lips brush against the inside of your thigh, and you swear the couch shifts beneath you, or maybe it’s just you. His hands, broad and rough, press firmly into your skin, holding you steady as he takes his time. There’s nothing rushed about the way he moves, nothing casual. Every touch, every kiss, feels intentional and perfect—like he’s savoring every inch of you.

“Joel,” you breathe, his name spilling out like a prayer and a plea all at once. Your hands find his hair, threading through the dark strands as he works his way closer, the teasing press of his lips driving you out of your mind.

He looks up at you from between your thighs, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a mix of heat and something softer, something you can’t quite name but feel all the same. “Patience, Lemon,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, the rasp of it making your toes curl.

Patience isn’t in your vocabulary right now. “Joel, please,” you try again, a bit more insistent this time, your hips shifting under his grip.

He smirks, a cocky little tilt of his lips that only makes the tension in your core tighter. “That’s my girl,” he says softly, almost to himself, as his hands slide higher, spreading you open for him. And then he leans in, and the world dissolves into nothing but him.

The first flick of his tongue steals the air from your lungs, and your head falls back against the couch, a broken sound escaping your lips. He hums in satisfaction, the vibrations sending shivers up your spine as he settles in, his mouth moving in slow, delicate strokes that leave you gasping.

“Fuck,” you moan, your fingers tightening in his hair as he grips your hips, holding you still when all you want to do is move, to chase the maddening rhythm he’s building inside you.

“You taste so fucking good,” he groans, his voice muffled but still devastatingly clear. “Could stay here all night.”

And you believe him, because the way he’s touching you, the way he’s drinking you down, feels like he’s found something he never plans to let go of.

“Joel,” you cry, his name tumbling out again and again as he pulls you apart, piece by piece, until you’re nothing but a trembling, desperate mess beneath him. His hand slides up, finding yours where it clutches at the cushion, and he intertwines your fingers, grounding you even as he takes you higher.

“Let go, baby,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your skin in a way that’s almost reverent. “I’ve got you.”

And you do. You let go, the tension snapping like a rubber band, and it feels like falling and flying all at once. He holds you through it, his grip firm and steady, his lips still working you gently as you ride out the waves.

When you finally come back down, your chest heaving, your body boneless, he presses one last kiss to the inside of your thigh before pulling back, his lips glistening and his eyes dark and proud.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice soft, the concern in it tugging at your heart.

You nod, a shaky laugh bubbling up as you meet his gaze. “More than okay.”

He smiles at that, but then his expression shifts, turning serious. “I’m not going to fuck you, Lemon” he says, matter-of-factly. The words hit you like a splash of cold water, and your eyes dart to his face, searching for an explanation. Your pulse stutters, your mind scrambling. Did I do something wrong? Did I misread him?

“Wha—what?” you manage to ask, confusion laced through your voice.

“You’re right, baby. This isn’t like the movies,” he says softly, his thumb brushing against your wrist where he holds it. His grip is firm but not demanding, grounding but not forceful. “And you might not feel it right now, but you’re still sad.”

His words make your chest tighten, a mixture of frustration and vulnerability rearing their ugly heads. You open your mouth to protest, to tell him you’re fine, that this is what you want—what you need. But he cuts you off before you can even start.

“And as badly as I want you…” His free hand moves to your wrist, guiding it down, pressing it firmly against the unmistakable bulge in his jeans. The heat and hardness of him, paired with your post-orgasm bliss, is enough to make you a little dizzy

“And I do want you,” he continues, his voice low and almost reverent now. “So fucking badly. But not like this. I don’t want it to be rushed or impulsive. I want to take my time with you. I want to show you just how worth it you are.

It’s not rejection; it’s something deeper, something you’ve never quite felt before. He’s not holding back because he doesn’t want you—he’s holding back because he does.

“Joel,” you whisper, his name catching in your throat as your hand stays where he placed it, feeling the weight of his desire and the restraint he’s forcing on himself. “I—”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs, leaning in, his forehead brushing against yours. “I just need you to know this isn’t about not wanting you. This is about you being everything I’ve wanted for so damn long. I don’t want to screw it up by rushing into something when you’re not ready. Not fully.”

Tears prick your eyes—not from sadness, but from the overwhelming feeling of being seen, of being cared for in a way you didn’t realize you needed.

“I feel ready,” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly as you press closer to him. “I want this, Joel. I want you.”

His lips press to your forehead, lingering there for a moment before he pulls back just enough to look at you, his gaze unwavering. “You’ll have me,” he promises, his voice firm but gentle. “Every part of me. But I want us to do this right. You deserve that.”

The tension doesn’t disappear—it just changes, slipping into something quieter but no less charged. You nod, not trusting yourself to say anything else, and lean into him. He lets you settle against his chest, his arms looping around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The steady rise and fall of his breathing calms the restless horny energy lingering in your limbs. Neither of you speaks. It feels like the moment doesn’t need words, like anything you’d say would only get in the way of the way his fingers lightly trace your back.

At some point, your eyelids grow too heavy to keep open. The exhaustion of the night, of everything, catches up to you, and before you know it, sleep pulls you under.

++++

When you wake, it’s to the smell of coffee and the soft clinking of dishes. Sunlight filters in through the blinds, warm and golden, painting the room in an easy stillness. You sit up, groggy, and notice the blanket that wasn’t there when you fell asleep.

In the kitchen, Joel is by the counter, pouring two mugs of coffee. He’s already dressed, but curls are still mussed, like he didn’t bother to smooth them out after waking up. He glances over his shoulder when he hears you stir, his lips quirking up into a small, knowing smile.

“Morning,” he says, his voice low and rough around the edges.

“Morning,” you reply, still a little hoarse from sleep.

He hands you a mug when you wander over, the warmth seeping into your palms as you take it. For a moment, there’s just the soft sound of the coffee machine and the sunlight cutting through the stillness.

You sit across from him at the kitchen table, the silence between you feeling heavier than it should. Not uncomfortable, just... different. You catch his gaze, and he’s already looking at you, his dark eyes lingering in a way that makes your stomach flip.

Neither of you says anything. It’s just glances that hold too much and last too long, small brushes of fingers as he slides the sugar bowl closer, a quiet that says more than you’re ready to admit out loud.

And you realize, sitting there with him in the quiet morning light, that this is its own kind of confession. No grand declarations. Just the way he looks at you, like there’s more to say but no rush to say it.

But apparently, Sarah didn’t get that memo.

She barrels down the stairs, her steps loud and quick, before bursting into the kitchen with a burst of energy. “Lemon!” she chirps, her voice bright and cheerful, cutting through the quiet.

You glance at Joel, whose relaxed posture tenses just slightly, though he hides it well, lifting his coffee to his lips as if everything is perfectly normal. Sarah pauses for a second, her gaze flicking between the two of you. There’s something in her expression—a spark of curiosity, like she’s caught the tail end of a conversation she wasn’t invited to.

“Good morning, Sarah,” you say, attempting casual as you sip your coffee, the warmth doing nothing to calm the heat rising in your cheeks.

“Morning,” she replies, drawing the word out just enough to let you know she’s already reading into something.

She wanders to the toaster, pulling a waffle from the freezer and dropping it in, her movements slow and deliberate. Leaning against the counter, she glances your way again, not subtle in the least.

“So,” she says, her tone almost offhand, but there’s a pointed edge to it. “Did anything... interesting happen last night? You know, while I was asleep?”

Joel coughs into his coffee, clearly caught off guard, and you nearly choke on your own laugh.

“Nope. Nothing happened,” you reply quickly, maybe a little too quickly, your voice pitched higher than you’d like.

“Uh-huh,” she says lightly, her eyes narrowing slightly as she shifts her attention back to the toaster, clearly unconvinced.

Joel sets his mug down, his voice finally steady as he says, “Sarah, just eat your waffles.” His tone is calm, but there’s a subtle edge of amusement, like he’s trying not to crack a smile.

Sarah doesn’t push it further, but you catch her watching you both out of the corner of her eye as she sits at the table with her plate. There’s a quiet curiosity in the way she glances up occasionally, not pressing the issue but making it clear she’s not oblivious either.

You share a look with Joel, and his lips quirk just enough to tell you he’s thinking the same thing. Sarah might not know exactly what’s going on, but she definitely knows something.

JOEL

It’s been a few weeks since I’ve tasted you, which is far too long if you ask me. Holding back that night—telling myself it was the right thing to do—feels more like a mistake with every passing day. If I’d known you’d be called to LA for an art exhibit so soon after, I might’ve thrown my self-control out the window.

Your painting is taking off in ways I always knew it could. Watching you chase your dreams, seeing the world finally recognize what I’ve known all along—it’s everything you deserve. But God, it’s so much easier to miss you than to just be proud of you from afar.

And now it’s Christmas Eve, and you’re still gone.

The house feels different without you. Even Sarah, usually a whirlwind of energy, seems quieter tonight. She’s been working on some project all day, shooing me away with a grin and a roll of her eyes every time I try to sneak a look. “It’s a surprise, Dad,” she says like I’m the one being nosy.

Maybe it’s for the best you’re not here. You and Sarah would’ve turned the kitchen into a disaster zone by now, flour on the counters, sugar trailing on the floor, baking enough cookies to feed a small country. I would’ve eaten every single one, no complaints, pretending I wasn’t already full.

Instead, the kitchen is clean, the house calm, the tree’s lights blinking lazily in the corner. It’s peaceful in a way I should appreciate, but it’s not the same.

Every time my eyes wander to the empty space on the couch or I catch the quiet settling too thick in the room, I think about you. The way your laugh fills a space, the way your smile feels like sunlight, the way you tease me just enough to make me forget my own name. And every thought pulls me back to that night when I held back because I thought it was the right thing to do.

Now I’m not so sure.

++++

“Dad, why is this so hard?” Sarah’s voice cuts through the quiet as she jabs at her noodles with chopsticks, her face scrunched in exaggerated frustration.

“People in the movies make it look so easy,” she adds, flinging a strand of lo mein back into the takeout box like it personally offended her.

I chuckle, picking up my fork and stabbing at a dumpling. “You want easy? Grab a fork. Or better yet, just eat with your hands like you usually do when no one’s looking.”

“Gross,” she fires back, wrinkling her nose but abandoning the chopsticks altogether. With a victorious stab, she skewers a dumpling and holds it up. “Gotcha.” It comes out Scottish, and I laugh. 

We eat in comfortable quiet after that, the sound of the movie we’ve got playing in the background filling the room. The little Christmas tree in the corner glows softly, casting the kind of warm light that makes everything feel cozier than it should.

I find myself watching Sarah more than anything else. She’s growing up too fast—her sharp humor, the way she carries herself—but there are moments, like tonight, where I still catch glimpses of the kid she used to be. The one who believed in Santa and left out milk and cookies every year, her face lighting up when the presents magically appeared.

“Wanna watch the rest of the movie?” she asks as she finishes her last dumpling, dabbing at her face with a napkin.

I nod, stacking the takeout boxes and carrying them to the counter. “Yeah, let’s finish it. Might as well see if that guy finally gets the girl.”

Sarah rolls her eyes, flopping back onto the couch. “Dad, it’s a Christmas movie. Of course, he’s gonna get the girl. That’s, like, the whole point.”

It doesn’t take long before she’s cocooned in a blanket, her head drooping as the movie drones on. I glance down, a soft ache in my chest as I realize she’s out cold. She’s still my little girl, even if moments like this are becoming rarer.

Carefully, I scoop her up, her weight familiar in my arms as I carry her upstairs. Tucking her into bed, I pull the covers up to her chin and brush a strand of hair from her face.

“Merry Christmas, kiddo,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her forehead before slipping back downstairs.

The house feels too quiet now, the absence of Sarah’s chatter leaving behind a stillness I don’t want to settle into. I pick up the book you lent me, flipping to the marked page, but the words blur together.

My thoughts wander—mainly to you. Okay, entirely to you. The way you taste, the sound of your moans when you come, the way your fingers clutch at me like I’m the only thing that matters.

With a frustrated sigh, I toss the book onto the coffee table and grab my jacket. I need air.

The roof is colder than I expected, the winter wind biting at my skin, but it’s better this way. The sharp chill pulls me out of my head, at least for a little while. I set a lantern beside me, its glow barely cutting through the night as I lean back, staring at the stars.

The quiet doesn’t last long.

A glint of headlights catches my attention, and I sit up as a cab rolls to a stop in front of your house. My breath hitches when you step out, luggage in hand, standing in the middle of the street like you’re caught between two worlds.

For a moment, I think—hope—you’ll look toward me. But instead, you walk to your door, the lights flicking on as the cab pulls away.

I exhale, leaning back against the roof. 

And then I hear it—the faint creak of a window opening. I turn, my breath catching as I see you crawling onto your roof, the light behind you framing your silhouette.

“Merry Christmas, neighbor,” you call softly, your voice carrying across the still air.

I can't help but smile, shaking my head. “Merry Christmas.”

“Thought you weren’t a fan of being on roofs,” you tease.

“I’m in construction, baby,” I reply, grinning. “It’s you and Sarah with the two left feet I’m worried about falling.”

Your laugh reaches me, warming something deep in my chest that the cold can’t touch.

“You wanna come over?” you ask, your voice hesitant but hopeful. “I’ve got tea. Or whiskey. Your choice.”

I don’t hesitate. “Oh I’m a big fan of tea,” I tease, “With Lemon.” 

I swear I see you smile even through the distance. 

“Doors unlocked.” 

++++

When I step inside your house, it feels like walking into a secret you’ve been keeping from me. I’ve been here before, sure—but only briefly, never long enough to see you in it. Tonight, I take it all in. The cozy clutter, the faint scent of paint and something sweet, the warmth that clings to every corner. It’s chaotic and inviting, like you.

“Wanna see my favorite room?” you ask softly, your voice tugging me back to you.

I follow as you lead me down a hallway, the quiet hum of your steps on the floor filling the space between us.

When you open the door, I’m struck by what I see. The room is alive, vibrant, every surface covered with pieces of you—canvas after canvas, splashes of color and form. Easels stand at attention, and unfinished works lean against walls like they’re waiting for their turn in the spotlight.

“This is where the magic happens,” you say with a sheepish smile, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

I take a slow step inside, my gaze sweeping over the room. It’s not just alive—it’s you. Messy, passionate, unapologetic. And then my eyes land on a painting hanging near the back, a large, vibrant lemon, bold and cheerful in a way that draws me in.

“Self-portrait?” I tease, glancing at you with a smirk.

You laugh, the sound soft and warm. “Something like that.”

I step closer, my fingers brushing the edge of the canvas as I take in the details. The texture of the paint, the layers of care and thought behind it. “Can I have this one?”

You blink, surprised. “You want it?”

I turn to face you fully, my eyes locking onto yours. “I want all of you, Lemon. In every form and fashion.”

The air shifts. Your breath hitches, and before either of us can say anything else, I close the space between us. My lips find yours and I drink you in. 

My hands find your waist, pulling you closer as your fingers tangle in my shirt. Step by step, I guide you backward until your legs hit the edge of the small bed tucked into the corner of the room. I lower you onto it gently, my lips never leaving yours as my hands slide along your sides. Fuck, you feel good.

“I missed you,” I murmur against your skin, my voice rough and low, filled with everything I’ve been holding back.

Your breath catches, your eyes meeting mine as your fingers brush against my jaw. “I missed you, too,” you whisper.

The words settle between us, and I kiss you again, deeper this time, my hand sliding under your shirt to find the soft skin beneath. Your body responds to mine, arching into my touch, and I take my time, letting every kiss, every caress, linger.

My lips move down your neck, tasting the faint salt of your skin, your scent wrapping around me like something I never want to let go of. I take my time, savoring every inch of you, my hands mapping out the curves and contours of your body like I’m committing you to memory.

“You’re beautiful,” I murmur, the words spilling out unbidden, but true.

Your smile flickers, soft and warm, and your hands slip beneath my shirt, your fingers brushing against my skin with a confidence that sends heat racing through me. I can’t help the way my breath stutters when your touch trails lower, grazing over the planes of my chest, the soft swell of my belly.

Your fingers catch on the metal of my belt, pausing there as your eyes flick up to meet mine. The look you give me—deep and daring, laced with something more—says everything you don’t.

And then your hand slides lower, cupping me through the denim.

I suck in a sharp breath, my body responding instantly to the pressure, to you. I’m hard—of course, I’m hard. Look at you.

“Fuck,” I rasp, my voice coming out rougher than I intend, and you smirk, the curve of your lips enough to undo me.

“Hmm,” you hum, your fingers teasing, exploring, making it impossible for me to focus on anything but the heat pooling low in my gut. “I missed this.”

My control starts to fray as I lean in, capturing your lips with mine in a kiss that’s anything but gentle. It’s a clash of teeth and tongue, of desperation and want. My hands are on you—your waist, your hips, tugging you closer, needing to feel more of you.

You make this soft sound in the back of your throat, and it wrecks me. My belt is undone before I realize what’s happening, your hands working with deliberate ease as the denim loosens around my hips.

“You’re killing me, baby,” I groan, my forehead falling against yours as your hand dips past the waistband of my jeans, skin on skin.

Your smile widens, your lips brushing against mine as you whisper, “I’m only getting started.”

The promise in your words sends a shiver down my spine, and I can’t hold back anymore. My hands slide up under your shirt, tugging it over your head and tossing it somewhere behind me. My lips find the curve of your collarbone, kissing, biting, tasting as I guide you back onto the bed.

Your legs wrap around my hips, pulling me closer, and I curse under my breath, overwhelmed by the sheer need coursing through me. Every inch of your skin feels like heaven, and I know I’m a goner.

I kiss down your neck, over the swell of your chest, my hands mapping out every soft curve and sharp edge, committing them to memory. When my lips find the sensitive skin just above your waistband, I pause, looking up at you.

“Tell me what you want,” I say, my voice low and thick with want.

“You,” you reply, your voice breathless but sure. “I want you.”

And with those words, every last thread of restraint snaps, and I let you have me. 

We’re both moving too fast to care about the trail of clothes left in our wake, urgency overriding any sense of control. When you lay back, legs spreading wide for me, it feels like the air’s been knocked from my lungs.

You’re perfect—the kind of perfect that rewrites fantasies—and I can’t do anything but stare. The moonlight spills through the window, casting a silver glow over your skin, highlighting every curve, every line, and every inch of you that’s made to drive me wild.

My gaze drops as your fingers slide down, trailing a path of heat and temptation, until they reach your clit. You start moving in soft, deliberate circles, your body reacting instantly, your breath hitching, your thighs trembling just enough to make me grip my cock a little harder in my hand.

“Fuck,” I murmur, my voice rough and thick with need. “Look at you.”

Your cunt glistens in the soft light, a sight so devastatingly perfect it feels burned into my mind. I can’t help the way my chest tightens, the way my cock aches at the sight of you touching yourself, your body responding so beautifully to your own touch. I begin to stroke myself more, my thumb catching on the bead of pre-cum that’s gathered at the tip, using it for lube.

“You like what you see?” you tease, your voice breathless, your lips curving into a sly, knowing smile.

“Like isn’t strong enough,” I reply, stepping closer, my hand sliding up your thigh, guiding your legs wider as I kneel between them. “You’re fucking perfect. The stuff dreams are made of, baby.”

I lean in, watching as your fingers slow, your chest rising and falling in anticipation. My lips trail along your inner thigh, soft kisses that grow hotter, hungrier, as I move closer to where you want me most.

“Don’t stop,” I rasp, my breath hot against your skin. “Show me how you like it. Let me see you fall apart for me.”

Your fingers pick up speed, the circles tighter, more insistent, as your body begins to tense beneath me. I’m close enough now to feel the heat radiating off of you, to see the way you’re trembling as the pleasure builds.

I press a kiss just above your hand, my lips brushing against the slick heat of your skin, and I groan, the sound low and guttural. “You’re so fucking perfect like this,” I whisper, my lips brushing against your clit as your hand moves aside, surrendering the control to me.

And then I’m on you, tasting you, devouring you, giving you everything I’ve got until the only thing left in the room is the sound of your moans and the feel of your body unraveling beneath me. 

I keep my focus on you, watching the way your chest rises and falls in time with my movements, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. Your hands clutch at the sheets, your thighs trembling as I press deeper, licking and sucking at your clit in a rhythm that has you crying out my name.

“Joel,” you moan, your voice breaking as your hips arch off the bed, seeking more, needing more.

I tighten my grip on your thighs, holding you steady as I push you closer to the edge. Your hands move to my hair, tugging, grounding yourself as the tension in your body builds higher and higher.

“That’s it, baby,” I murmur against you, my voice rough and strained. “Let go for me. Let me feel you fall apart.”

Your moans turn to gasps, your body tightening as the pleasure crests, pulling you under. The sound of you crying out my name, the way your body trembles beneath me, the taste of you—it’s enough to make my cock throb painfully, aching for release.

I move back up, kissing a path along your stomach, your ribs, until I’m hovering over you. Your skin is flushed, your eyes glassy with the aftershocks of your orgasm, and you look so damn beautiful it almost hurts to breathe.

I can’t help myself—I lean down and kiss you, deep and hungry, letting you taste yourself on my lips.

“Need to be inside of you, Lemon,” I growl, my voice raw with need.

“Please, Joel,” you whisper, your voice desperate, wrecked. “Please.”

“I don’t have a condom,” I admit, hating the words even as they leave my mouth.

You shake your head, your eyes locked on mine, full of conviction. “I’m clean. I got tested after West, and I’m on birth control. Please, just fuck me. I need to feel you.”

I just look at you, my heart pounding like it’s trying to break free from my chest. Then I’m moving, positioning myself between your legs, my hands gripping your hips as I line myself up.

“Fuck,” I hiss as I push inside, the heat and tightness of you stealing my breath. “Baby, you’re perfect.”

You gasp, your hands clutching at my shoulders as I sink deeper, your body adjusting to me. I know I’m a lot to take—it’s something I’ve been told before—but you’re handling it, your breath hitching with every inch, your nails digging into my skin as I fill you completely.

“You’re taking me so well,” I murmur, my voice low and strained as I pull back slightly before pressing in again, setting a slow, steady rhythm. “So fucking good for me.”

“Joel,” you whimper, your hips lifting to meet mine, your body greedy for more. “You feel amazing”

The way you say my name, the way your body responds to mine—it’s undoing me. My control slips with every thrust, every moan that spills from your lips, and I can’t help but pick up the pace, driving into you with a hunger I can’t contain.

The room is filled with the sound of us—skin against skin, your soft cries, my rough groans. It’s everything, all-consuming, and I lose myself to you, to the way you feel, to the way you say my name like it’s the only word that matters.

“Lemon,” I groan, my head falling to your shoulder as I bury myself deeper, chasing the high that only you can give me. “You’re incredible.”

You cling to me, your body arching into mine, your breath hot against my neck as you whisper, “Joel, don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

And I don’t. I can’t. Not until I’ve taken you completely, not until I’ve given you everything I have.

The tension coils tighter with every thrust, every gasp, every desperate cry of my name falling from your lips. You’re moving with me now, your hips rising to meet mine in perfect rhythm, pulling me deeper, tighter, until there’s nothing left but the feeling of you wrapped around me.

I can feel you getting close again, the way your body trembles beneath me, the way your breath hitches and breaks as my pace quickens. My hand slides between us, finding your clit and pressing in time with my movements. Your response is immediate—your back arches, your head tilts back, and you cry out, your body clenching around me as your second orgasm crashes over you.

“Lemon,” I groan, the way you tighten around me pushing me closer to the edge. “Lemon,” your name comes out more like a chant this time.

I’m barely holding on now, my thrusts growing erratic, my grip on your hips tightening as the heat builds, threatening to consume me. And then your voice breaks through the haze.

“Joel,” you whisper, your tone so soft, so wrecked, it undoes me completely. “Come for me. Please.”

That’s all it takes. With a deep, guttural groan, I bury myself as deep as I can go, my body locking up as I spill into you, the pleasure overwhelming, all-encompassing. My forehead falls to your shoulder, my breath ragged, my heart pounding like it’s about to burst.

I stay there for a moment, catching my breath, feeling your body still trembling slightly beneath mine. Then, with what little strength I have left, I lift my head, looking down at you. Your skin is damp, your hair a mess against the pillows, your eyes soft and hazy as they meet mine.

I can’t help myself—I lean down and kiss you, slow and unhurried, letting it say everything I don’t have the words for. It’s not just about the heat or the need anymore. It’s about you, about us, about the way you make me feel like I’ve finally found something worth holding onto.

When the kiss breaks, I rest my forehead against yours, my hand brushing the damp hair from your face. “You’re incredible,” I murmur, my voice still thick and rough from everything we just shared.

You smile, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back. “So are you,” you whisper.

I stay like that for a while, just holding you, letting the weight of what just happened settle over both of us. Eventually, I shift, rolling us to the side so I don’t crush you, but I keep you close, my arm draped over your waist, my lips pressing soft kisses to your temple.

The world outside feels far away now, and for the first time in a long time, everything feels right. It’s just you and me, tangled together in the quiet, and I wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.

YOU

Inspiration comes in many forms. 

And for the first time ever, it didn’t happen on the roof. 

++++ Joel doesn’t stay the night. He can’t—not with Sarah next door and too many questions that might arise in the morning. But when he kisses you goodnight, the soft press of his lips lingering on yours, he gives you the kind of look that says he doesn’t really want to leave.

So instead, you pack a small bag. Essentials, mostly—a toothbrush, some clothes for the next day—but also something you can’t help but tuck inside for Christmas morning. You follow him back to his house, slipping in quietly, and for the first time in a long time, you sleep soundly.

Wrapped in his arms, the steady rhythm of his breathing lulls you into the best night’s rest you can remember. And when you wake, it’s with the gentle glow of Christmas morning spilling through the curtains and the kind of peace that only comes from feeling like you belong.

You slip out of bed carefully, leaving Joel still fast asleep, his hair mussed and face relaxed in a way that makes your chest ache. The house is quiet as you pad downstairs, expecting to find it empty.

But then you see her.

Sarah is sitting cross-legged in front of the tree, still in her pajamas, her gaze fixed on the blinking lights and the neatly wrapped presents scattered underneath.

“Morning,” you say softly, unsure if she’s noticed you yet. 

She turns her head, giving you a smile that’s somehow both sleepy and full of knowing. “Morning.” 

You join her, sitting beside her on the floor, the quiet of the moment stretching comfortably between you.

“I’ve decided Santa exists,” she says suddenly.

You blink, caught off guard. “That so?”

“Yeah,” she says, her fingers idly brushing one of the ribbons on a nearby box. “He gave me what I wanted.”

There’s something in her voice—cryptic, sure, but also soft, like she’s holding onto something precious. You remember the Thanksgiving baking session, when she told you she’d stopped believing in Santa years ago.

“What did you ask for?” you ask gently, curiosity tugging at you.

She looks up at you then, her expression earnest and so much older than her years. “I asked for you and my dad to be happy.”

Her words hit you square in the chest, the simplicity of them carrying more weight than you’d expect. You don’t know what to say, so you reach out, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her close.

“Thank you, Sarah,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

Joel comes down the stairs a few minutes later, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He pauses when he sees you and Sarah sitting by the tree, laughing about something she said. His heart swells at the sight, the warmth spreading through him so deeply it feels like it could break him.

For the first time in years—maybe longer—he feels whole.

As you exchange gifts, Sarah surprises you with a box she pulls out from behind the tree, grinning as she hands it to you.

“This one’s for you.”

You open it carefully, pulling back the tissue paper to reveal a painted portrait of a home. It’s eggshell blue, almost identical to the one you gave them a few months ago, but there’s one distinct difference.

In the center of the yard stands a lemon tree, bright and vibrant, its yellow fruit shining like little drops of sunshine. In the corner of the painting, just barely visible, are the words “When Life Gives You a Lemon,” with tiny initials—SM.

Your breath catches, and you look at Sarah, who’s watching you with a mixture of pride and nervousness.

“It’s perfect,” you say, your voice trembling slightly as you pull her into a hug.

Joel stands behind you, his hands resting on your shoulders as he looks down at the painting. His smile is soft, his eyes warm, and when you glance up at him, you see it—the unspoken thoughts of more mornings like this, of laughter, warmth, and the kind of comfort you didn’t think you’d ever have again.

When it’s Sarah’s turn to open her gift from you, she carefully pulls at the ribbon, her face lighting up as she reads the certificate inside.

“A baking class?” she asks, her voice shooting up a pitch in surprise. “Oh my god, at Heathfords!?! The one with the rainbow macarons!?”

You nod, smiling as her excitement radiates through the room. “The very same. It’s a whole series, too. Cakes, cookies, croissants—the works.”

Sarah practically vibrates with excitement as she throws her arms around you, squeezing tight. “This is amazing! Thank you, Lemon!”

Joel’s hand tightens on your shoulder as he leans down, his voice low and warm. “You know she’s gonna bake us out of house and home now, right?”

Us.

“Is that you complaining?” you tease, nudging him lightly.

When the gifts are all opened and the room is quiet again, you glance at Joel, suddenly aware of how he’s looking at you—like he’s already anticipating something. You swallow a laugh as you turn toward him. “So… I didn’t have time to wrap yours,” you admit, your cheeks heating slightly.

His eyebrows lift, his grin spreading. “Oh yeah? What is it?”

You lean in a little closer, just enough to keep Sarah from hearing. “It’s, uh… something I’ll give you later.”

Joel leans down, his lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, “You already did.”

The words send heat rushing to your face, and you pull back just enough to glare at him, though the grin tugging at your lips betrays you. “You’re impossible,” you mutter, nudging him lightly.

“Maybe,” he replies, his voice low, that smirk still firmly in place. “But I’m not wrong.”

You roll your eyes, fighting the grin that keeps threatening to break free. “Well, maybe you’ll like this one even better,” you say, your tone light, teasing.

He leans in again, his voice softer this time, just for you. “I doubt that,” he says, his eyes catching yours for a moment that lingers longer than it should. “But I’ll take it anyway.”

Sarah, oblivious to the quiet exchange, is still marveling at her baking certificate, already listing out all the things she wants to learn first. Joel gives you one last look, his hand slipping from your shoulder to rest gently at the small of your back.

You're around a Christmas tree with family for the first time in a long time. It’s not perfect, but it’s yours.

END

A/N Continued:

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Parents

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: Merry belated Christmas from me! I know this is my second Christmas fic this time around but I finally got the courage to write about Wife’s awful parents. 

Summary: Javier puts his foot down during Christmas with your toxic family. 

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: Toxic family dynamics, psychological abuse, childhood trauma, Christmas, conflict and confrontation, sobbing, declarations of love, hurt/comfort, body/fat shaming

Word count: 5.7k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61942318

Parents

You get a call from your parents’ home number a few weeks before Christmas. Your mother and father haven't actually bothered seeing you since your wedding day last year but Lucas is four months old now and there’s suddenly a strange interest from them in being grandparents to your firstborn. Somehow, they talk you into spending Christmas with them and reassure you that they’ll take care of everything as long as you bring their grandson. The whole idea causes a ball of anxiety to settle in your stomach, almost imitating getting hit right in the solar plexus with how much your breath struggles to even out as you tell Javier about it. Your husband agrees reluctantly but not without raising a concerned brow, asking you several times - and with days between each time - if you are absolutely sure. 

He even asks you now as he parks the car in your parents’ driveway, looking at you with a serious expression, brows furrowed while you sit stiffly in the passenger seat. You glance towards the front door, trying to act casual as if you’re staring at a wild animal who might pounce if it notices your anxiety. It is an odd feeling you get, staring at your childhood home but feeling more as if it is the scene of a crime. This house is not a memory of warm and fuzzy feelings but rather a place of constant criticism and unjust pain. 

Javier says your name softly beside you. On the backseat, Lucas hiccups.

“Do I look okay?” You quickly ask instead of acknowledging the tone of his voice, fixing your hair without changing anything. 

“Yeah,” he answers and tries not to comment on your nerves, “You look beautiful, mi amor (my love).”

The call from two weeks ago had your shoulders tensing up before you even answered the phone but the way they had reasoned you into revisiting the place of your hardest years has made your shoulders not come down again. 

You sigh gently and unbuckle your seatbelt, “Okay. I can do this for just an afternoon. Let’s get this over with.”

You climb out of the car, Javier following you after carefully unbuckling Lucas and cradling him in one arm while balancing the diaper bag on the other shoulder. You leave his car seat, knowing how much easier it would have been to transport your son inside in it but Lucas has been fussy all night. You really wish he hadn’t because you don’t want to go inside with only half the energy that a good night’s sleep could have provided. 

As you ring the doorbell, you take a look at Javier one last time, “Please don’t interfere. I don’t want to make everyone uncomfortable.”

“Baby, are you sure that—“

“Oh, there you are!” Your mother exclaims when she opens the door with a syrupy smile, “We were starting to wonder if you’d gotten lost.”

“Sorry. Life with a baby and all,” you shake your head with an embarrassed chuckle and try to ignore the tension in your muscles, shrugging your coat off your shoulders to reveal your wine-red button-up and dark skirt. 

“Honey, I thought you knew we always dress up a little during the Holidays,” your mother says while glancing at your outfit with veiled disdain, “Where’s that nice blue dress? With the ribbons?”

“This is all that fits me right now, that isn’t maternity clothes,” you answer apologetically at the first jab of many. Beside you, Javier takes a step closer to you without saying anything. 

“Anyway! Where’s the little man?” Your mother chirps, already having moved on and looking to Lucas who has started stirring in Javier’s arms. When she gets closer, about to reach out to run a hand over his little head, Lucas immediately starts whimpering as if he is aware of the unpleasantries that his mother has had to endure at the mercy of this woman. He knows the culprits before they’ve even revealed themselves. 

“Oh, he’s a little fussy, isn’t he?” She laughs it off and retreats much to your relief, letting Javier bounce your son to make him settle down again. When he quietens down again, you share a glance with your husband who signals that everything is okay. You take a deep breath and let him handle the situation. 

“Where’s Dad?” You ask to turn your attention away from your crying child, smoothing out a nonexistent crease in your skirt. 

“I think he’s just about to get the turkey out of the oven,” your mother says, wagging a finger in Lucas’ face with a little smile, “Why don’t you go say hi and I talk to my grandson for a moment? Oh, look at you, Lucas! You’re just perfect, aren’t you?”

You reluctantly leave the three of them to head for the kitchen. You can feel each family photograph staring back at you as you walk through the hallway to your destination; a picture of your five-year-old self on a bike but somehow no picture of your graduation ceremony as if it has been decided where things went wrong before you could acknowledge it yourself. 

“Hey Dad, smells so good in here,” the kitchen does indeed smell wonderfully as you walk through the door. Your father looks at you over his shoulder, giving you a little smile and you try not to think about how he didn’t bother to come out to greet you. 

“Mom and I were wondering if you were ever coming,” he notes while plating pieces of turkey meat. In the hallway, you can hear Javier striking up polite conversation. He’s handling your mother with his usual calmness, and you feel grateful for his presence yet embarrassed that you aren’t strong enough to handle it yourself.

You shrug a little, Javier’s presence giving you the courage to try and mirror said calmness, “Newborns, you know.”

“He’s four months,” he corrects. 

“Right, time flies,” you reply with your confidence fading fast, the words coming out in a way that doesn’t quite carry the quick wit that Javier usually loves about you. You touch your arm, standing awkwardly by the counter, “Still figuring it out as we go.”

Your father doesn’t turn around, “Parenting’s not rocket science, you know. Your mother and I managed just fine without all the made-up nonsense you young people talk about these days.”

You jump a little as your mother puts a hand on your shoulder and says your name to get your attention. You look back at her, “Can you set the table? I put the tablecloth ready on the silverware cabinet.”

“Sure, Mom,” you smile, already heading for the dining room to escape from your father’s subtle judgments. You find Javier has already gone, an irrational thought popping into your head of how he has bolted and left you to deal with your mom and dad by yourself. 

You glance into the kitchen as you start placing the plates in each of their respective places, “Where’s Javier?”

“He went to get the presents from the car,” your mother replies from the kitchen. You hear her take out a serving bowl from a cabinet. 

“Oh, I should go help him wi—“ 

“He’s your husband, sweetie. Let him handle it. There’s no need to emasculate him like that,” she is suddenly in the doorway, staring you down in a way that makes your hands shake. Her gaze drops to the table and her brows furrow, “You’re using the wrong plates!”

You look up with a racing heartbeat, “What?”

She sighs your name audibly, “These aren’t the Christmas plates. We don’t use regular plates for special occasions. Honestly, I thought you’d know better.”

The words sting and you set down the plates you have been holding in case the littlest twitch will make you drop it onto the floor, “Sorry, Mom.” 

“Ah well, now you’ll never forget it,” she jokes without humor in her voice as she opens the door to the china cabinet, pulling out the plates adorned with what you recognize to be hand-painted holly. You shamefully realize you know them from childhood Christmases and that they are exactly where they’ve always been. 

Automatically, you gather the wrong plates to make room for the right ones. It’s Christmas, you remind yourself as you do it. It is one day. You can survive one day. 

“See? Isn’t this much better?” She says cheerfully when your mistake has been corrected and while you nod, Javier reenters the house. 

He joins the two of you, carrying a large gift bag in one hand and holding Lucas on the other arm. You immediately go to take him, doing a careful transfer until you can lay his tiny body against your shoulder while supporting his bottom. 

“¿Todo bien? (Everything okay?)” Javier asks quietly when you follow him into the living room where the tree stands. He sets down the bag and tries to act casual, laying out the gifts and waiting for your honest response in the meantime. Apparently, you haven’t been as successful in hiding the distress on your face as you thought you had. 

You force a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes and Lucas starts whining again. You bounce him gently, “It’s nothing. Just… Christmas stuff.”

Javier glances toward the hallway to the kitchen where your parents’ voices can be heard faintly over the sounds of cooking. His jaw tightens slightly and his mouth becomes a thin line. 

“Don’t,” you say as firmly as you can muster because you wish he would, “It’ll only make it worse.”

“Dame un beso (give me a kiss),” he says instead, and you shyly lean in to peck him on the lips. Afterward, he pulls back but only after stroking Lucas’ back, “You’re both doing great, okay? Don’t let them get in your head.”

You are interrupted by your mother’s voice ringing out from the dining room, telling you that dinner is ready. Javier kisses you one last time before reassuring you that everything will be okay and that he is in your corner. You try to smile, tense as you take a seat with Lucas still in your arms. 

The Christmas meal begins with polite conversation, your father asking Javier about work and your mother telling you about neighbors that you haven’t spoken to in years. You mostly just speak when spoken to, having decided to focus on your baby as he keeps wriggling in your arms in discomfort. You try to rub his belly, try to make him settle by giving him your attention but still, his tiny face crumbles and he lets out a string of small complaints. 

“Maybe we could open presents while he naps?” You suggest hesitantly when your mother has given you enough judgemental advice, “He’s been so fussy all night, and I don’t want him to get more overwhelmed than he—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” your mother says your name with a sigh. You hear Javier’s chair scrape against the floor, almost as if he is about to get up and get ready for a physical altercation.

“Let’s do whatever is easiest for the baby,” your father interrupts, placing a hand on your mother’s wrist. Her annoyance shines through her eyes but she nods with a smile nonetheless. 

“Of course,” you hear her grit out, “It’s just… We’d love to spend time with him. We’ve already missed so much, and Luke needs his grandparents.”

“We’ll see,” Javier answers for you. 

The dinner continues in mostly silence with turkey being substituted by pie, cutlery clinking against plates, and glasses being lifted and set down again. There’s tension so thick that it can be cut with a knife, your mother glancing at Lucas with a smile before it disappears from her face when she shifts her gaze to your direction.  

Mercilessly, she finally speaks, “So, honey, have you thought about when you’ll start losing the baby weight?”

“Mom!” You exclaim in shock, surprised that sound comes out when your throat feels like it is about to close up completely.

In the same manner as one would spit out a drink in shock, Javier’s fork scrapes unpleasantly against his plate, and suddenly, your mother’s name falls from his lips like the sound itself leaves him with a bad taste in his mouth. She looks startled by the interruption, almost like a deer in the headlights of a car, but it doesn’t faze your husband, “My wife looks beautiful and she has just given me - us - the greatest gift which is our son. Let’s not diminish that, shall we?”

You try to feel the weight of Lucas against your chest instead of how you don’t feel safe within this house, with its bruises on the walls and its ghosts of a youth spent walking on eggshells. Lucas’ body is warm, a reminder that this doesn’t matter. He matters. 

“I’m focused on taking care of my son right now, Mom,” you reply coolly with your lips resting on the soft hairs on Lucas’ head. 

“Right, of course. I didn’t mean anything by it,” your mother argues, clearly flustered, “You know how important it is to stay healthy for the baby.”

“Your mother just wants what’s best for you, honey,” your father intervenes, trying to steer the conversation onto friendlier and safer topics but she has already gotten up from her seat. 

“Why don’t I clear the table so we can move into the living room and open presents?” She mumbles, putting on a show by letting her voice waver. She has begun stacking plates before anyone can even say anything, practically fleeing the room and leaving you all looking slightly sheepish. Javier hides the roll of his eyes exceptionally well and he smiles when you catch him.

“I’ll put Lucas down for a nap,” you announce to what is left of the party.

Javier gets up alongside you to help you. He walks upstairs right behind you, a calming presence with the diaper bag in hand as you head for the guest room.

When you close the door behind the three of you, the tension seeps out of your body at having a quiet moment with your boys. The lighting in the room is soft and calming, almost making you want to lie down to nap with your son. 

“There we go,” you say as you gently place Lucas on the bed while Javier rummages through the bag for his pacifier. Lucas blinks up at you, his tiny fists balled and his chubby legs kicking excitedly. He lets out a happy gurgle.

“Oh, now you’re happy,” you tease softly and kneel by the bed to rub his tummy, “Picky with who we’re smiling at, are we?” 

Javier joins you by the bed and offers Lucas his pacifier. Your son stretches his arms and reaches for his father, letting out a high-pitched giggle around the pacifier. However, as he suckles gently, accompanied by your soft touch that has now moved to his chubby cheeks too, his eyelids start to grow heavy. 

When his breaths have slowed, you do whatever you can with the pillows to create a safe space for him to sleep. You create a barrier around him, ensuring as well as possible that he won’t roll over. 

“You know, you’d think that they would have set up a crib for him if they’re so desperate to see him,” you murmur bitterly as you adjust the last pillow.

“You sure you want to go back down there?” Javier asks carefully. 

“Can you grab the baby monitor?” You ignore his question at first but Javier is already handing you the monitor, ruining your attempt at not addressing the situation further. You sigh and get up from the floor, “I can get through it. If it’ll make them stop pestering me for a visit for a while.”

“I swear, one more word out of her mouth and I’ll open my own,” Javier says with anger simmering just beneath the surface. He drags you into his arms when you stand up again, hears your sigh of relief at being squeezed. It calms your nervous system so effectively that you slump. 

“Believe me, I feel like I am going insane,” you whisper into his neck and shoulder, grabbing aimlessly at his strong frame and inhaling his scent. He returns the desperate touch by simply rubbing your back in slow circles. 

“Yeah, I don’t know how you stay so calm,” he kisses your temple a few times. 

“Trust me, humans can endure a lot when they know there’s a time limit,” you chuckle humorlessly and pull away, “Let’s just do the gift exchange and leave.”

Downstairs, your parents are waiting for you by the tree. The collection of presents is sparse this year due to the short notice but you find it relieving to know that the gift exchange will be over quickly. 

Placing the baby monitor on the coffee table, you sit down on the sofa but don’t allow yourself to relax into it. Javier drops down beside you but leans back into his seat, his hand resting casually on your thigh to ground you. 

“Let’s get to the gifts. It’ll be nice to end this day on a happy note,” your mother says overly cheerfully, pretending to have forgiven and forgotten all about the situation earlier. She reaches for the first gift under the tree while your father stands ready with a bag for the wrapping paper. 

“That’s mine,” Javier tells her with a little smirk in your direction. He holds out his hand until she gives it to him, “To my beautiful wife. Merry Christmas, baby.”

“How thoughtful,” your mother mumbles and sits on the edge of her armchair. 

“Javi, I thought we weren’t on gifts this year,” you scold playfully but there’s no seriousness to your voice. You finally smile and this time it is genuine, feeling his gaze on you while you impatiently rip the wrapping. 

“I know what I said but I know you’ll love it. It’s more for Lucas anyway,” he informs you shyly. 

Inside, you find two pairs of identical fuzzy and comfortable socks with a dinosaur print on them. However, one pair fits Lucas’ tiny feet and the other fits yours. Your whole demeanor changes with the sight of your gift, your face lighting up with a bright smile, “These are so cute!”

“For your cold feet. Thought you could use something cozy while you take care of Luke at home,” he moves his hand to rest just above the small of your back, his palm smoothing over you on top of the fabric of your blouse. 

Your parents sit idly by. They stare at the gift with confusion and arrogance, clearly holding their tongue over how ridiculous they find it. Your mother picks at her fingers, “Interesting.”

“Interesting? Aren’t they adorable?” You hold the matching socks up happily, not sure what to expect but not even your mother’s judgmental expression can bring you down right now. To really rub it in, you kiss Javier’s mouth gently in front of them, “Gracias, esposo (Thank you, husband).”

But the happiness is short-lived as your father goes to get the next present from the small pile. He searches for a moment amongst the few there are, deliberately seeking out the present that you have brought them, most likely to be able to leave the room soon due to the obvious tension. He has never been one to intervene. 

“You shouldn’t have,” your mother tuts with a small smile as she carefully unwraps it in her lap, her fingers doing everything they can to not tear the paper so she can reuse it. 

When the framed picture of Lucas is revealed - a photo taken during an afternoon when he was particularly happy and smiling - her smile develops into a slightly wider one even if it looks against her will. She studies the picture with your father looking over her shoulder. 

“We thought you’d like something to remember him by,” you encourage her to say something. 

Your mother places the photo on the coffee table, her hands smoothing out the wrapping paper while she talks, “It’s lovely, sweetie. Though I’m sure we’d have more memories if we got to see him more often.”

You tense up beside Javier. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him do the same but he squeezes your hip to tell you that he is right there. Anxiously, you curl your fingers into your skirt but your mother isn’t finished.

“I just don’t understand why you’ve been so distant,” she continues, cold in her tone. “You hardly call, which would be fine but you visit even less than that, and now you’re letting Lucas sleep through his first Christmas. It’s not like you’ve gone back to work, so what is it?”

“Mom, please,” you say quietly but it doesn’t veil the wavering of your words, “I’m doing the best I can.”

“Are you?” She challenges, “Lucas has been fussing all night, hasn’t he? Maybe he’s picking up on your stress.”

You hear Javier say your mother’s name as he had during dinner, low and with warning. At the same moment, the baby monitor crackles with the sound of Lucas’ tiny complaints. The sound pulls you from your seat, your instincts to go to him overriding your desire to defend yourself from further abuse. However, your mother’s voice rings out behind you just as you take your first step.

She rolls her eyes, “Oh, just let him cry a little. You’ll make him clingy if you keep running to him every time he whimpers.”

You stop in your tracks, finally turning around to look her in the eye with your own eyes narrowed. You can see Javier watching you closely while you talk, “Mom, if he cries, he needs me.”

According to you, she has already gone too far but it seems that she cannot stop once she has started, “You know, you really should stop babying him so much. He needs to learn to self-soothe.”

Tears of frustration start to build in your chest and you can feel the muscles of your throat start to tighten as they rise to your eyes, “Jesus Christ, Mom, I’m not going to stop babying my baby.”

Her final blow comes out with a deliberate intention to hurt you, “There you go overthinking again and snapping at your mother. He is whimpering. Honestly, sometimes I wonder how Javier puts up with it. You can be such a bitch when you’re stressed.”

The room falls dead silent and the first tear escapes your eye at the cruel nickname… then a second and then a third until you start to cry silently and hopelessly. You suddenly feel like a teenager again, suffering from forced proximity. Your father opens his mouth but nothing comes out, seemingly not able to figure out how to defend his wife for once. It is the final straw for Javier.

“What did you just say?” He firmly cuts through the silence. He has gotten up from his seat and has stepped in front of you to shield you protectively from your mother’s line of sight. His nostrils flare with anger that might explode into rage at any moment but he keeps his voice steady, “You better not have said what I think you did or I am wondering why you haven’t apologized already.”

Your mother’s eyes widen at the idea of consequences. She splutters, caught off guard, “Apologize? Javier, don’t be ridiculous! I’m her mother—“

Javier laughs dangerously and condescendingly and looks away with a roll of his eyes. He shakes his head, not afraid to let the room know that he thinks she sounds pathetic without even calling her out on it. He crosses his arms over his chest, “You got a hell of a way of showing motherly love then; all you have done is tear her down today.”

“Javier,” your father tries to interject, “Let’s not make this into a scene.”

“No,” Javier turns to him, his jaw muscles flexing slightly underneath his skin with how much anger is flowing through him. The simple word makes your father sit up straighter than before - a testament to Javier’s days in Colombia - but Javier is not done, “You don’t get to lecture me about making a scene. Not after sitting there and letting this happen. She is your daughter.”

When your father has shut his mouth, looking uncomfortable by his defeat while he leans back into his seat with no intention to follow up on his words, Javier’s fury settles on your mother once more, “What’s your goal here, exactly?”

You’re aware that it isn’t just a simple few tears falling from your eyes anymore but rather a silent stream that has your face puffy and sensitive. It is accompanied by grief over your younger self not having had someone like Javier in her corner. You sniffle audibly, feeling as if you have been punched in the gut with how much it hurts and humiliates you to sit idly by. Your mother catches a glimpse of you behind your husband but it doesn’t seem to have any effect whatsoever. 

“There’s no secret agenda here, for God’s sake. I didn’t mean anything by it,” she sneers, trying to keep her demeanor straight despite the humiliation of getting called out being evident on her face. 

“Yes, you did,” Javier argues immediately and fiercely, pointing his index finger at her in an accusing manner, “You knew exactly what you were saying. You wanted her to hurt. Well congratulations, you’ve succeeded. Unfortunately, your daughter is a lot nicer than me and handled your words with a lot more grace than you deserve. I will not be doing the same thing.”

Your mother’s composure falters. She says your father’s name helplessly but he looks at her with tired eyes, full of quiet disappointment. Even if he is absent and passive like always, his refusal to intervene further is a sign that he would never go as far as his wife has just done. He shakes his head in disapproval, “Why’d you do it? We were having such a nice time too.”

She gapes at your father while his gaze drops to his lap, shrinking herself slightly at the realization that she is outnumbered and has to face your husband alone. Javier takes a step closer, radiating authority when she tries to avoid further confrontation, distaste so clear on his face for how he has lost her attention for a moment. When you let out a quiet sob, too paralyzed in your spot on the couch to go to your whimpering child, his face hardens further and he continues, “Listen to me.”

Your mother looks up reluctantly. She appears to be on the brink of an attempt to turn his words against him and argue right back once more, but Javier cuts her off before she can even start. 

“You don’t talk to her like that again. Ever. And you most certainly do not question her ability to be a mother. She is a perfect mother and God knows, she hasn’t gotten it from you. Lucas is a happy, healthy, and thriving baby because of her,” he takes a breath, and for a second, it seems like he might be done but then, “You hurt my girl, you understand that? And if you ever speak to her like that again - actually if you even speak about her like that again -  I will personally make sure you don’t get to have Lucas in your life.”

“Are you threatening us?” Her composure slips even more. 

“No, ma’am, I am instructing you,” he replies coldly, “If you can’t respect his mother, we’re done here.”

Javier turns to you now, his face softening immediately at the sight of you sitting teary-eyed on the couch with your hands clutching the baby monitor. He says your name so softly, a sound that has always felt like an unfamiliar and unwelcome sound within this house, and gently pulls the piece of technology out of your hands. 

“Listen to me, baby. Go wait in the car. I’ll get Lucas and his things,” he instructs you, placing the baby monitor on the coffee table behind him without looking away from you. He helps you to stand when you find yourself nodding. 

When you’re up from your seat, he puts a hand on the small of your back to guide you towards the door. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t let you linger in the room. 

“You don’t have to leave,” your mother protests with obvious surprise that you and Javier are carrying out the promise of consequences. She begins pushing herself to stand. 

“Sit down, I will not let you disturb any of the peace she has left,” he commands harshly when she tries to take a step toward you. 

Your mother falters, stunned by his audacity, and sinks back into her seat.

The moment you’re out of the front door, your legs start shaking so badly beneath you that you aren’t sure if you’ll even make it to the car. The walk feels endless, like climbing a mountain, the neighborhood surrounding your childhood home quiet because everyone is inside with the happy family that you never got to have growing up. 

Until now. You have it now. However, you have left them to fend for themselves on the battlefield to slide into the front seat of the car. You rub your chest as it feels tight but it soothes nothing and suddenly, the tears come harder than they had in the living room. You rest your head against the glass window, screwing your eyes shut and feeling drips of hot tears on your cheeks.

Memories come flooding and you have no power to stop them, pictures of many nights spent in solitude in your room because it was the only illusion of sanctuary in the house before you. The sound of your mother’s scoffs, her unbearable ability to make you feel small, inadequate, and unwanted. Her year-long cruelty feels like a knife in your chest but your father’s silent complicity twists its blade too, makes you think that you were never worthy of defending. 

Yet Javier had done it so effortlessly, had done what you’d wished someone would have done for you in your entire life, and he had done it without any hesitation. You are shattered by another night believing the worst about yourself, yes, but you realize that a part of your sobs comes from relief too. Suddenly, it all feels silly and you don’t know why you have always stopped Javier from speaking up for you since you met because his words - she is a perfect mother - have taken the power out of your mother’s incredibly fast. 

You hear the front door open and a shaky sob leaves you at seeing the two of your boys approach the car. Javier has the diaper bag over his shoulder whilst cradling Lucas against his chest, his face serious. He moves in long strides to get to you fast, not saying anything as he buckles Lucas’ sleeping form into his car seat before climbing into his own seat in the front. 

You sit up again, eyes still brimming with tears that streak your face. You feel overwhelmed like you have run a marathon or fought a bear or a monster. 

Javier puts on his seatbelt but doesn’t put the key in the ignition yet. He looks out of the windshield for a moment, breathes a sigh of relief. The car is quiet except for Lucas’ soft breaths as he sleeps.

Right until Javier says your name when you don’t automatically turn your head to look at him, ashamed of how the day has progressed. It is Christmas, after all, and Lucas’ first one ever too. 

“Mírame (Look at me),” he says in a gentle murmur. 

You shake your head, unable to answer with how tightly wound you are. You feel his hand under your chin, carefully pulling you by your chin until your eyes meet his. His outline is blurry from all the tears but his voice cuts through the fog in gentle firmness. 

“I love you so much, and I love our son, okay?” He says it like it is a promise, “They aren't ever gonna to talk to you like that again because I won't allow them to. Do you understand me?”

You silently look at him through your tears, nodding weakly. He reaches to brush your tears away with a knuckle. 

“Everything’s gonna be okay because you don’t have to see them if you don’t want to. You just have to let me take care of you,” he continues and cups your cheek instead, “And right now, I say you’re done with them for tonight. Actually, for as long as you fucking want.”

“I want… I don’t…” You say at first but then, “I’m sorry.”

Javier furrows his brows, “Why are you sorry?” 

“Because that’s my mom,” you try to speak around a fresh sob, “And you married me and I trapped you with my fucked up family.”

“Hey, heyheyhey,” he shakes his head, moving his other hand to cup your whole face now. He leans over the console of the car and rests his forehead against yours. When you simply cry harder, he pulls you into a hug, “You didn’t trap me, okay? You didn’t. I’m here because you make me happy. You make me so happy, baby, and Hell knows, I needed a bit of taking care of when you met me. Let me return the favor.”

His body is warm, soothing, and grounding. His embrace squeezes you hard enough to make you calm down, giving you a moment of quiet peace in your mind as you begin to take in his words. You feel the same. You want to say it but you’re afraid that you’ll never stop crying tonight, so instead you find the courage to say those words that you should have told yourself years ago, “I don’t think I want to go back.”

“What do you want to do then?” Javier pulls back to look at you. He moves back into his own seat again and starts the car to give you time to think clearly about his question. 

“Can we go to your dad’s?” You ask hesitantly. 

Javier’s brows rise slightly but he doesn’t argue, just nods as he puts the car in reverse. Before reversing out of the driveway, he pulls you in to kiss your forehead softly. 

“Claro, mi amor (Sure, my love),” he says simply, “He’d love to see us.”

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[favorite-fan-fic]

The boyfriend act ✦ series masterlist

Summary: All you wanted was to get to Austin, but instead of your brother, it's Frankie —Santi's best friend, the one you can barely tolerate— who shows up to pick you up in Dallas. He's just doing your brother a favor, but what seemed like a simple trip takes an unexpected turn when a stop on the road puts you face to face with your ex — The same guy who broke your heart three months ago, and in just a few weeks, is getting married. In a burst of pride, you blurt out a lie that changes everything: Frankie is your boyfriend. Confused but willing to go along with it, he agrees to play the part and accompany you to the wedding, ready to paint the perfect love story, but only if you return the favor by going with him to his mother's birthday. His goal is clear — to escape the endless arranged dates and prying questions his mother and sisters have been throwing his way for over a year. Rating: EXPLICIT (+18) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!! Paiting: Frankie Morales x F!reader WC: X

✦ fic content ✦

PART ONE (coming january 20th)

MORE PARTS TO BE ANNOUNCED

beautiful divider by @saradika-graphics <3

[favorite-fan-fic]

epiphany

pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader

word count: ~2.8k

tags/warnings: angst, descriptions of injuries, fluff, able-bodied reader, no use of y/n

summary: after a helicopter crash, frankie wakes up in a strange place.

a/n: once again i apologize for the pain i'm about to inflict on you. this was written for @almostfoxglove's angst challenge which i'm so so soooo late for (i'm sorry freya!) and this was originally @sizzlingcloudmentality's prompt/moodboard, but we were both going through the worst writer's block of our lives and thought switching might help (it did not), so the first thousand beautiful words are hers! <3 also thank you for beta reading and for all the yap sessions about this one in particular my love!

for an extra sad experience, listen to epiphany by taylor swift while reading :)

dividers by @saradika-graphics <3

notifications blog -> @guiltyasdavenotifs & full masterlist -> here

It is all noise, deafening noise, roaring rotors, beeping instruments, flickering lights, blinking warnings, screaming metal, screaming people, his own voice, so loud it made his ears ring. Then he saw it. Again. His mom, cradling him, his dad, telling him he was a good boy, Juan, his first cat, curled up in his lap. Friends, his brothers, most of them dead now, rotting in graves, the women he loved. His baby momma. His child, smiling up at him, tiny, fat hands grabbing into the air. Fuck, his life was flashing before his eyes. Again. How often would he have to see this, all his good moments and why were there bad moments, too?

A massive jolt goes through the helicopter as he hits the ground and now the smell of copper, fuel and earth fills his nostrils. Wet, dark, quiet earth. The smell of a grave. The beeping and whimpering blurs into one soundscape, a wave of sounds on which Frankie slips away as his eyes close shut. Dark, quiet earth. Like a grave.

A sheep. Or more than one? They bleat. They coax him out of his unconsciousness, every sound a beacon for his mind to find his way back into consciousness. Out of the dark peacefulness, back into the light. Frankie groans, everything hurts, not only his body, his whole existence hurts, feels broken and ripped. The sunlight cuts through between his eyelids, blinding him, but that is what he wants, the light. He needs the light.

He shields his eyes and finds himself in a meadow. Poppies, cornflowers, grass. Wet, rich earth under his palm as he tries to push himself up. The buzzing of insects. And the bleating sheep. He finds himself in a dream of cottage life. Then he turns his head and sees the helicopter, the carcass of the metal beast he tried to fly too close to the sun. Like Icarus he came crashing down.

He doesn’t have to check, he knows “a fatal crash with zero survivors” when he sees one. Frankie got lucky, again. Somehow death spared him, he always does. Maybe the old fella took a liking in watching Frankie fuck up his life over and over again. 

Military training kicks in, he checks himself for injuries and finds no major ones. Maybe a broken rib or two, a concussion for sure. He grunts and pushes himself onto his knees, crying out in pain that he doesn’t even know where it’s coming from. 

A furry head appears out of the tall grass, white curls, pink nose, floppy ears, black and vigilant eyes. The snout opens and a bleat comes out. Like a complaint for this human being. To better not disturb the peace in this meadow any further with his mediocrity of surviving yet another accident that should have killed him.

“Sorry,” Frankie mutters and finds the energy to rise to his feet. Shaky, wobbly, the scent of earth and grass clinging to his damp clothes and skin. “You know somewhere for me to find help?”

Another bleat, then the sheep turns and starts wading through the tall grass with all the time in the world. Frankie watches the little bum disappear between green blades dotted with red poppies. He might as well follow the animal. Perhaps he will find a shepherd this way. Or a good shepherd may find him. God knows Frankie is in desperate need of some guidance. Or at least medical attention.

So he starts walking, more limping than anything else, his boots cutting a swath through the grass and flowers, every step causing mayhem for bees and bugs. The sheep, a few steps ahead of Frankie, sways through the meadow like a ship through green waves. It doesn’t turn around once, doesn’t turn towards its herd, the animal simply follows an invisible path that Frankie can’t see. Maybe he is losing it now, following an animal after having a fatal crash like it was his guide. But he had done weirder things in his life. Maybe he had hit his head really hard on the ground when he got thrown out of the helicopter. 

His head hurts, his legs hurt, breathing hurts as well, but the scent of summer and peace fills his hurting lungs and every breath soothes the stinging and rippling in his chest.

It takes some time, but finally, after hobbling behind the sheep, the meadow opens into a clearing, a gravel pathway starting to show and leading to a cottage. A small house with walls made out of stones, big and small, various shades and colors, a crooked roof, ducking under some trees as if it was hiding from the eyes of anyone who was not welcome. The birdsong sounds different now, too. 

Another bleat and the sheep starts trotting towards the house, the front door open wide. Silence. There is no sound to be heard, no voices, no music playing, no banging of pots and pans. Just birds, humming insects, the sheep drinking water from a bowl. Peace, comes to Frankie’s mind as if someone had seeded the word into his brain.

He doesn’t know how long he sat there, on a creaky bench in front of the house, basking in the last warm rays of the sun before it hides behind the trees. Ten minutes maybe, or an hour. His thoughts were flowing molasse thick behind his forehead. Thoughts about the crash, thoughts about the lives he has on his list, thoughts about who might miss him if he disappeared for good this time. 

His eyes flutter shut. The sunlight is warm on his skin, painting the darkness behind his eyelids orange. It’s like he’s floating away, on his way to the sun once more.

“Francisco?” 

Your voice is soft, almost as if the wind had whispered his name. He opens his eyes, turns his back on the painless bliss of unconsciousness once more.

Rays of the setting sun frame you where you’re standing in front of him, giving you a warm glow, illuminating the flowing fabric of the dress that you’re wearing. He doesn’t question how you know his name, how you feel familiar even though he’s certain that he’s never seen you before. He must have hit his head really hard.

“I— I crashed,” he croaks, his voice hoarse and the words scraping his throat on their way out. 

His hand vaguely gestures in the direction he came from, but he can’t see the helicopter anymore, no sign of the crash either, only seemingly endless fields of grass and wildflowers, with trees in the distance. How far did he walk? 

You nod, seemingly unsurprised. The sheep that led him there nudges your hand with its snout and you scratch through the wool around its ears, muttering what sounds like thank you. It bleats at him once more, before finally trotting back to its herd, blending into the white dots among the green. 

You pick up the wooden basket you had been carrying and tip your head towards the open door. Your eyes had been trained on his face, but when he stands up on unsteady legs, they trail down his frame, lingering on his side where blood has been seeping through his shirt and the stained fabric is clinging to his skin uncomfortably. He barely registered the pain while he was sitting there, but now, it grows to full intensity. Maybe it’s more than a concussion and a cracked rib after all. 

He follows you over the threshold, taking in his surroundings. The stony walls, littered with mismatched wooden shelves, filled with books and flowerpots. Small windows through which the evening light is filtering in. Worn down furniture, cushions that he would love to sink his tired body into right now. An earthy, heavy scent, cleansing his mind and his lungs. 

For the first time in years, there’s no underlying need for the artificial high that has kept his head over water and simultaneously pulled him under. 

“We need to clean you up,” you say, eyeing his bloody shirt again. 

You lead him up a wooden staircase, creaks accompanying his every step, and into a small bathroom. The light from a round window reflects off forest green tiles, mesmerizing him. You fill up a bathtub, adding oils from little glass bottles, until a herbal scent is wafting around him. 

Carefully, you help him strip off his clothes down to his underwear. Lifting his arms hurts like hell and he sucks in a harsh breath when his shirt unsticks from the open wound on his left. Some of the pain eases as soon as he sinks down into the warm water, a grateful sigh falling from his lips. You smile at that, a small, timid thing, and he wants to keep looking at you, wants to make you smile again, but you settle on the stone floor at his back, pushing down on his shoulders until most of his body is submerged. 

With a cloth, you start on his face, cleaning off mud and dried blood, so gently that it barely stings when you touch scratches on his skin. You move on to his hair, letting him lean back, your fingers massaging over his scalp, easing the tension, the worry that he’s carrying around with him. Finally, you probe at his rips under the water’s surface, fingertips dancing over the open wound there. The pain doesn’t disappear, but it feels less heavy, less biting somehow. 

Your hands trace over the scars littering his torso in gentle touches, soothing phantom pains that have long passed. “I’m sorry about these,” he thinks he hears you say, so quietly that he’s not sure if the words were meant for him to understand. 

“‘s not your fault,” he murmurs, his eyelids drooping shut once more as he sinks deeper into the warm water. 

He awakens surrounded by soft white bedding, a wooden ceiling with exposed beams over his head and the light of early sunrise falling into the room, painting it golden. He stretches without thinking, only a sting at his ribcage reminding him of the day before. 

It all feels like he’s walking through a dream, one too beautiful to disturb. So, he doesn’t wonder how he came here, who you are, why you seem to know him, how you seemingly healed most of his injuries simply by giving him a bath. If this is what an actual dream feels like, not the nightmares he usually has, he doesn’t want to wake up. 

Everything feels easy, here, with you. There don’t seem to be any clocks in the cottage, so he has no idea what time it is, but it must be early morning. Still, he finds you in a small garden behind the house, tending to vegetables that you’re growing there. 

He feels your gaze flying over him, like you’re checking what state he’s in. Then, with a smile, you start explaining what you’re doing. Which plants to water, which vegetables are ready to be harvested. He works alongside you, naturally, like he’s always done this. It feels good, using his hands and body like this. Growing something, helping someone, doing good. 

He follows you to the small kitchen, watches you prepare things, storing them in a pantry. You explain which herbs you are growing in small pots on a windowsill, handing them to him one by one to let him smell them. 

The sun is rising higher, warming the air floating in through the open backdoor. You take his hand and pull him outside again, walking down an invisible path through the green fields surrounding the cottage. Bees are buzzing in the wildflowers around you and the sheep are bleating occasionally, watching the two of you with curious eyes, but not coming closer to investigate. 

You’re wearing a dress again, the skirt flowing around your ankles in the light breeze and the sunlight illuminating your figure as you skip a few steps ahead of him. Frankie can’t help himself, picking a few of the flowers and handing them to you. His heart almost cracks at your wide smile when he gives them to you, your fingertips grazing his. 

Back at the cottage, you put them into a vase on the kitchen counter, the flowery scent mixing with the house’s earthy notes in no time. It’s a small thing, but in a way, it's a trace of his presence here. It’s almost scary how much Frankie likes that thought.

It becomes a routine, as easy as breathing. The two of you taking care of the garden first thing in the morning, then a walk through the fields. The sheep start coming closer, even though they don’t let him pet them the way they do with you. He barely hurts anymore, the wound at his side almost completely healed. 

In the evenings, you make tea from the herbs that you’re growing. Frankie has never liked tea, always proud to be a black coffee guy, but this one is different. It calms him, slows his thoughts down and fills him with a peace he didn’t know life had to offer. And it’s something that you made. For him, to care for him. 

One night, you’re both sitting in front of the fireplace, watching the flames and listening to them crackling. He starts telling you about his past, about all the regrets that haunt him. About the men that he’s killed, about all the pain and sadness that he’s responsible for. About the woman and child that he abandoned, all to chase a high that he knew was unreachable. 

He feels lighter, afterwards, like a shadow has lifted from his heart. You take his hand and rest it on your thigh. Your fingertip dances over his open palm, drawing delicate shapes over the calloused lines of his skin. 

“All the violence it took you to become this gentle,” you sigh. 

Your smile is sad, and he wants to kiss it off your lips. He’s never felt gentle one day in his life, has always been made of brute force and rough edges, but here, with you, he thinks you might be right.

With every passing day, the peace seeps deeper into his bones. Maybe it’s not a dream. Maybe everything that happened before was the dream, a nightmare, and he finally woke up.

That evening, you’re singing while preparing dinner. He puts down his knife and the potatoes he’s been chopping and takes your hand instead. You grin at him, still singing as he sways the both of you around to the melody. His heart aches at the sound of your laugh. 

He pulls you closer, leaning in, eyes darting to your lips. For a second, he could swear that you’re moving towards him too. Then you sigh, one hand coming up to rest on his chest, stopping him. He freezes. 

“Frankie, you— We can’t. You can’t stay here” 

Suddenly, his whole body feels cold.

“Why not? I want to be here. With you.” 

Under other circumstances, he’d be ashamed of the whine in his voice. 

“Your time hasn’t come yet.”

“What do you mean, my time hasn’t—” 

Tears well up in your eyes. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip. 

“I’ve already kept you longer than I should have. I’m sorry, Frankie. You have more life to live. I’ll protect you, just like I have before.”

Before he can say another word, before he can even attempt to understand, your arms wrap around him. Your lips sink down onto his, just as soft as he imagined, just as sweet. 

Then, everything dissolves. The stone walls around him, the setting sun through the window, the scent of herbs and fresh flowers. It leaves only the feel of your warm body, your lips on his. Until that disappears, too.

His eyes fly open, seeing nothing at first. Sound erupts around him like an explosion. Blurry shapes move in his periphery. The air is thick with smoke, his ears are ringing. His mouth tastes of blood. Hands are frantically pulling at him, moving him, shouting at him, around him, in words that he can’t make out. 

It’s like he’s watching, barely present in his body as someone feels his wrist for a pulse, shines a light into his eyes, checks his body for injuries. He doesn’t understand. He was good, he was healing. He was at peace. 

His body is limp as he gets strapped onto a stretcher. They may be talking to him, he thinks.

“He must’ve had a guardian angel,” someone next to him says. 

Frankie isn’t listening. He’s scanning the treeline, the landscape around him. It was all right here, the sheep, the meadow. 

It’s like you’re still right there, the phantom of your presence next to him, but he can’t see you anymore. Just like it was before, he could swear he hears you whisper.

thank you so much for reading <3 as always, comments and reblogs are love, i'm so excited to hear what you think!

[favorite-fan-fic]

Stiff

Pairing: Old!Joel x Reader

Summary: At fifty-nine, Joel isn’t sure his dick can keep up with every day it’s going to take to get you pregnant. He seeks help from Jackson’s local apothecary and gets more than bargained for when that little blue pill kicks in.

Or, your old man wants to knock you up. Viagra helps.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v (obviously 😵‍💫🤙🏼). Breeding kink. Age gap. Peepaw Joel. Blue Pill Joel. Post-apocalyptic-Viagra-dosage-gone-horribly-wrong-and-now-his-dick-won’t-deflate-for-a-day…but it’s OK!

Note: This is the crackfic counterpart/sequel to ‘Make It Stick’

Word count: 2.9k

Forty-five minutes.

Forty-five minutes until his fate was sealed for the night. His pulse would quicken. His head would start to swim, and any last sliver of rational thought would be lost to the ether or the cold, snowy air around him. Joel Miller had to hurry now, because that bite-sized blue pill he’d just taken was in his belly, and if his dick didn’t find its way in you, he was fucked. Or at least huge and swollen and leaking out beads of hot desire the size of golf balls.

Well, maybe that was just his cock.

Joel looked down, scanning his pants.

Yeah…definitely just cock. He walked faster.

At home, he knew he’d find you curled up on the couch, nose in a book. What to Expect When You’re Expecting, if he had to guess. Then, sure enough, you’d lift your eyes and smile—‘Thank goodness you’re back, daddy’—and lift the hem of your night dress just slightly. Spread your legs and beckon him in. It was a nightly routine by now.

You wanted to be knocked up as fast as possible, after all

At almost sixty years old, Joel couldn’t believe he was actually saying these words aloud. But here he was—crawling overtop you on the couch, situating himself between your legs, and pulling his cock out, mumbling:

“Gonna let me put a baby in you tonight?”

You nodded sweetly—eagerly—every time.

Joel knew he could never resist that look. He was as good as finished the first second you let him sink inside your tight, weeping hole, and when he stretched it, he could already tell this was all he would ever want to do. Make you happy, fill you up, give you lots and lots of him.

It was why he’d stopped by the apothecary tonight. Why he’d hesitated only a moment before clearing his throat and asking for a pill like Viagra—Joel knew that the man behind the counter would flash him a wry, knowing grin.

Trouble keepin’ up with that sweet young thing’a yours?

David was a dick.

He wasn’t entirely wrong, either.

Ever since agreeing to start trying for a baby, Joel had become acutely aware of his own physical limitations in that department, and one of them was stamina. He could scarcely fuck twice in the same night without needing a long and rest-intensive breather. You were young and could roll over ready to go in five minutes.

It wasn’t fair to deprive you now on account of his age.

If you wanted his cum, you were getting it, no question.

Not just once, but multiple times. Again and again and—

“Again,” Joel grunted once he’d shot off his last spurt.

Fifty-eight minutes had passed since he’d taken that pill. It had fully kicked in, and his dick was still hard, even after finishing inside you with a sticky, white-hot flood.

You blinked dreamily up at him.

“You mean it, old man?” you teased him lightly.

I’ll show you what I mean, Joel thought to himself before flipping you over on the sofa. He had your hips tilted up and his cock driving back inside your freshly-fucked cunt in no time at all. He felt his spend coating your walls; it let him glide right in. Joel groaned and jerked himself back out, then fucked back in again and again and again.

“Again?”

Your word was exhaled in a laugh.

You stood in front of the bathroom sink, trying to tidy up the insides of your legs and push some more of Joel’s load back in, when you felt a presence at your back.

Stabbing your ass.

You started to turn then, puzzled.

“Bend over,” Joel commanded before you could.

You did as you were told because, frankly, you loved getting fucked wherever your old man wanted it—even if he had broken the sink one time he’d pounded you here.

But there was palpable confusion, too. How in the hell had Joel Miller, certified silver fox and owner of a dick old enough to remember Woodstock and the moon landing, managed to get his dick hard in the five minutes since he’d had you face-down, ass-up on the couch?

Or had his dick gotten soft at all?

You wanted to question him about it, or else give a long, hard look at his uncharacteristically long, hard friend, when the next moment had you gripping the counter. Stretching between the legs as Joel pushed back in.

“There she is,” he murmured affectionately.

Really, you’d never been wetter. Or warmer. Or filled to the brim with more sticky-white spend than you could ever hope to hold inside, it felt like. You bent at the waist and let him have his fill. You closed your eyes and rested your head on your forearms while Joel’s hot, bulbous tip grazed your cervix with dizzying alacrity. A smile crept in.

Whatever this was, you wanted more of it.

His dick was still hard.

Four mind-numbing fucks and another forty-five minutes later, Joel’s cock hadn’t deflated the tiniest bit.

The thing had hammered you so thoroughly he’d nearly destroyed the sink again. You’d whimpered, and whined, and warned him quietly, ‘We just fixed the porcelain, baby,’ and right before he’d painted your walls with his seed, you’d cum for him practically shrieking. Shaking.

Letting him turn you around for a kiss, only to mumble against his mouth with a sleepy, cockdrunk sort of lilt:

“I think you gave me twins.”

Then he’d fucked you in the shower to make it triplets.

Now you were laying out on the bed, truly spent, eyes following him in the semi-darkness of your bedroom after you’d toweled off and collapsed among the pillows.

“What’s gotten into you tonight, Miller?” you breathed.

Joel made it over to the dresser, back turned to you. He rifled through a drawer looking for something extra tight.

“Just missed you is all,” he said, shrugging.

What he needed right now was fabric that was very thick to hide the boner he was sporting. Joel could tell from the way you spoke that you were too tired for round five, and he didn’t want you feeling like you had to go again.

He would be fine.

His dick might not deflate until dawn, but that was okay.

“Wish you missed me like this every day,” you giggled.

When Joel turned around, he was shocked to find you sprawled out on the bed—hands between your legs.

There was a shy smile on your face.

“Baby…” he trailed off, watching your fingers flit through that sticky mess where he’d left it. Where you glistened.

Where you slid your index and middle fingers up and down your slit and drew circles on your clit, eyes shining.

“What? I missed you too,” you said, tone all faux protest.

You had no idea what you did to him when you talked like that. Especially when he was drowning in a state like this.

Hard as a rock.

Throbbing.

Needy.

Scarcely even knowing what he was doing, Joel found himself over by the foot of the bed in a second. Watching your every move with a wild, wipe-open stare he still couldn’t believe you found appealing. He swallowed.

He not only looked perverted, but he felt it, too. It rarely ever left his mind, save for the four or five seconds he spent in ecstasy emptying the contents of his balls inside your cunt, that he was his age, and you were yours. That perhaps the rest of Jackson was right, and he was wrong: he had no business being around a girl like you, much less getting off inside you every night. Was this really what you wanted? A bewildering mixture of guilt, lust, and love all circulated through his skull at that moment, and the longer he spent looking at your fingers, ogling the way you teased them through his cum between your legs, the more he felt certain he was bad.

No one corrupted a thing this sweet and got to call themselves good, anyway, he thought to himself idly.

“I keep gettin’ that…feelin’,” you said under your breath.

Joel’s hand tightened in a fist, and it was then that he realized it was wrapped around his cock. Still watching.

“Yeah, baby? What feelin’?” he returned, almost as quiet.

Still stroking himself up and down, up and down, softly.

You had your legs spread open—knees splayed wider than they’d been before. And your eyes had a tender, placid sheen to them, like they just might cry if they didn’t get release of some kind soon. Then you slowed.

Your touch slipped from your clit to the opaque, sticky globs between your thighs, and that look got even softer.

More desperate.

“Can’t…explain it.” You shook your head, as if pained, and then you sank two fingers inside. Joel could hear the tiny schlick from where he stood, and it almost did him in.

You sucked in a breath and added, “It’s a special feelin’.”

Joel’s fist had already worked its way up to a ridiculous speed. Again, he sensed this might be the worst and most pathetic he’d ever looked, but by the glint in your eyes and the way you kept holding him there, he also knew you weren’t asking him to stop, either. You were needing something else—something he could provide.

Thanks to that one stupid pill.

Joel’s smile was strained as he gripped the edge of the bed, like he was trying to assuage you and him at once.

“Try me, baby. Tell me ‘bout that special feelin’.”

Your middle and ring fingers disappeared inside you.

You whined, “Ain’t fair to say it now. You’re tired, daddy.”

Like hell he was. Joel crawled over the footboard and made his way straight to you, where your body was limp.

His breaths were coming in so fast and his pulse was thrumming so hard that he almost couldn’t hear himself talking. But he ventured to speak as gently as he could.

“I’m wide awake, sweet pea. I’m all ears. Talk to me.”

And if his words didn’t communicate as much, surely the look in his eyes would’ve told you all the rest. Quietly, he slipped his torso between your legs, where you’d inserted a third finger and were moving your hips again. You were fingering yourself, breathing shallow and quick.

“It’s a feelin’ like I wanna be…stuffed…a-and full’a you.”

Joel’s whole body could’ve liquified on the spot. His brain, presently, had all the consistency of a plate of scrambled eggs if he’d had to guess. Feeling his cock swell even bigger and his hips sink lower to yours of their own accord, he had only to grit his teeth and nod his head. He felt the tip of him bump your fingers, and the sensation and the expectation nearly drove him insane.

He mumbled quietly, “Then move your hand.”

You did. You winced again. You looked as though you might be ashamed for wanting him to fill you with his spend, and Joel simply wouldn’t allow that any longer.

Without saying another word, he slid back in.

Your cum and his facilitated the slide, and you opened right up for him. You whimpered, while Joel grunted like an animal. He couldn’t help it; it all felt so fucking primal.

How you could ever feel the need to apologize for wanting more of this was more than he could take.

“Every inch of me,” Joel said, rutting deeper, “is yours.”

He withdrew to the tip, and he could feel strings of arousal linking him to you in a sickeningly sweet way.

You could scarcely even nod, just waiting for him again.

When Joel plunged back in, he heard a feral little cry, and he felt your legs wrap around his waist. He went faster. You fisted the pillow behind your head in one hand, while the other laid flat on his chest, like you were checking for a heartbeat. You could probably hear it thudding a million miles per minute right now. Your hips collided in tandem.

“D— Daddy,” you whimpered.

“That’s it, open up for daddy. Good girl. It’s all yours.”

The sounds his thrusts were making were obscene.

“Every inch?” you breathed, “E-Every drop, too?”

“Every fiber of my fucking being, sweet girl.”

That made you smile, at length. Your hand slid from his chest, down his round belly, straight to a groin that was pounding hard and fast against your own. Joel groaned when he felt your touch sweep inside your legs—right in the space where his cum had come trickling out. You slid your fingers through that mess, then whimpered again.

Then you brought your hand up to your mouth.

You wrapped your lips around your cum-soaked fingers like they were the single sweetest thing, and you sucked.

Joel had no say after seeing that: he had to cum again.

It likely stunned you both—you more than him, by the look that crossed your eyes the second you felt him throb and pulse inside your cunt—but then it kept going.

Rather than stop, or slow down in the slightest, Joel found his hips pistoning faster than they had before. The whole bed frame shook, and your body trembled with every thrust, and the noises between your legs grew even louder; the sound of skin slapping skin was only amplified by the addition of Joel’s hot load in the mix.

The man was operating on impulse. You, through sheer awe and an animalistic need to have every crevice filled. You held him and you grit your teeth, and you let him keep using your body, while you used his. You kissed him.

“Go on, then—make me a daddy. Take my cum, baby,” Joel babbled, brainless, “Make your old man a daddy.”

He couldn’t tell if it were the words or the rhythm or the pleasure that had already been blossoming deep in your gut this whole time, but he felt you fall apart. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist than you had all night, and you screamed his name. Begged for more.

“Cum in me, daddy—pleasepleaseplease just cum, ju—”

And there he went. Again. Flooding your insides with his warmth and letting his cock carve a wild, relentless path through your cunt like it was all the man knew how to do. He filled you up. He felt it leaking down his length with every stab of his hips, and frankly, he didn’t care what he looked like now. You were smiling big, drawing him in for more kisses as he panted and grunted and whimpered like he never had before. He kissed back. Slowed down.

Found himself lost in your mouth as your tongue wove delectably through his own and your hands made their way to his wild, greying hair. You tugged, and he moaned.

He fucked his spend deeper without even meaning to.

All instinct again, it seemed he couldn’t get enough.

Suddenly, he felt a new, strange urge bubble up.

“I-I-I took a pill tonight,” he blurted out, “Know how badly you want this baby, and I wanna give you one.”

Or two. Or twenty. He was barely capable of speech, let alone rational cognition, so he just spoke whatever came to his mind then, still snug inside your legs and panting.

“A pill?” you whispered back.

Joel’s gaze locked with yours.

He felt stupid for it all at once.

“Yeah. Yeah, I just— I know I’m gettin’ on in years, and I probably can’t fuck the way I used to. And you deserve someone who can…Maybe a guy your age, but that—”

“—is the single dumbest thing you have ever said to me,” you finished for him, eyes narrowing swiftly in a scowl.

When Joel tried talking again, you cut him off.

“I don’t care what any guy my age is doing, or could do. I want babies with you, and that includes every part, OK?”

Your look softened momentarily, seeing his lips twitch down—you could probably see he wasn’t believing you.

Then you cradled his face in your palms. You smiled. You brushed his nose with yours, and you kissed him again, and with what little strength you likely had left in your body, you dug your heels in his ass and pulled him deeper. Both of you let out soft, low grunts at the effort.

“If you fucked like this at twenty-five, my body wouldn’t have survived anyway,” you whispered in reassurance. Biting back a laugh as Joel smiled, too, “I like things just the way they are. Just like how I hope you like me, too.”

“No—I love you.” Joel shook his head, almost plaintive.

And for the first time that night, he felt himself soften.

Whether it was the pill wearing off or that first thread of vulnerability stretching out between your body and his, he didn’t really care. He kissed the tip of your nose and was about to say something more, when you cut back in.

“I love you more. And since we’re being honest tonight,” you started quietly, nipping at your bottom lip a second, “I might…need you back at the apothecary tomorrow.”

Joel’s face fell.

“Wh— is something wrong, baby?” His voice was tight.

He hated seeing David, but, of course, he’d go back there in a heartbeat if it meant getting you the medication you needed. His stomach was starting to churn, when you reached up to hold his face again. You shook your head.

“No, no, Joel, I’m fine. But I may need prenatal vitamins.”

Now his eyes were going wide. His cheeks heated under your palms, and his cock twitched inside you, reflexively.

“You mean…” he murmured, unable to finish. Swallowing.

Beneath him, he saw you smile and nod.

He nearly choked hearing what followed:

“I meant to tell you earlier, but…my period’s a little late.”

[favorite-fan-fic]

Green on the Vine

Title: Green on the Vine | A03 | Rating: T+

Pairing: Joel Miller x F! Reader

Summary: There's nothing time hasn't touched - except maybe her love for him.

Warnings: Brief mentions of violence and spice.

A/N: This one's for you, @goodwithcheese - hope it meets with your approval. Inspo. ❤️🍓

Atop a quilted blanket beside the riverbank, with a neon moon high overhead – that’s where Joel Miller had remade her.

A farmhand who was helping her grandpa for the summer. Just nineteen to her seventeen, but somehow, worldlier. Slower to smile, but polite. A thinker if there ever was one.  

Shy curiosity and too-fast car rides with all the windows down. Picking strawberries at the crack of dawn. Fixing fence posts and exercising the horses. Drinking lemonade from the same glass beneath the shade of an oak tree older than God. A chaste kiss to her cheek in thanks for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich morphing into hickeys on her collarbone.

The calm water – the same water she’d been swimming in since toddlerhood – is refreshingly cool against her toes. It’s gentle as laps back and forth, up and over the tiny pebbles just scant inches from the edge of the blanket spread beneath her across the tall, soft grass. She can see the outline of Joel’s lithe form break from beneath the water’s surface, the moonlight highlighting drops of water as they steadily drip-drop from the tips of his ears and jut of his chin.

She knows what they’ve just done won’t change anything – not really. In less than two months, he’ll be gone. Back to university, hundreds of miles away…

“You getting in?” he calls.

She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t try to cover up, doesn’t let the realization of how soon he’ll be gone ruin everything. She just lets the water take her from the shoreline to the warmth of his embrace. She feels his nose, how it presses into the crook of her neck. The breadth of his shoulders as he inhales deeply, chest expanding, strong arms making ripples as he slowly, carefully, eases her legs around his waist and brings her in close.

A soft, lingering kiss pressed to her shoulder. A pointed squeeze to her hip.

“You okay?”

A weighted question. An expected one, especially from Joel, who she’s discovered is sometimes as skittish as a colt. He’s quiet, keener to listen than talk, which means he hears and sees more than most people she knows. She understands that about him, appreciates that about him, and reassurance is easily given – a slow nod, followed by a ‘mm-hm.’

Because physically, she is okay. It was nothing like the horror stories she’d heard from her friends.

Perhaps that was because Joel knew what he was doing – or at least, it seemed like he did. Limited experience and what she’d heard whispered at sleepovers and in locker rooms had prepared her for impatience. For demands she couldn’t meet. For pain.

But not with Joel.

With Joel, she hungered. For his touch and the way his fingers dug into her flesh and his palms burned her skin. For his kiss – the sensation of him licking into her mouth, tongue hot and lips soft, teeth sinking into her throat and the hinge of her jaw. He brought out in her a new desperation she’d never known before; one that emboldened her, and made her want to feel more, explore more.  

No rushing. No judgment. No shame. Just laughter and racing hearts and learning what one another liked. Weeks of steaming up the backseat windows and sneaking off into the barn before she got her first real taste of what other girls her age called love. It had moved so fast with him – faster than was probably wise, given how much her heart had also gotten involved – but she hadn’t been able to stop herself. Hadn’t wanted to stop herself.

Because she wanted Joel Miller.

And images she always will.

In November, she gets a letter. Nothing too long, because he doesn’t have much to say, but it’s enough to make the pain of his departure hurt a little bit less.

It’s followed by charming, goofy cards on Christmas and Valentine’s Day that make her smile.

In May, she gets another Hallmark – this time, for her eighteenth birthday. She laughs and displays it on her dresser next to a copy of her Valedictorian speech.

In July, it’s a letter. Two pages this time, front and back, and what he writes brings tears. Makes them well until they roll, landing on the paper and smudging some of the ink where he’d signed his name. And she reminds herself of what they agreed to and the promises they’d made; that they wouldn’t get hung up on each other, that they’d find happiness beyond the summer, that they’d be glad for each other when it came…

She’d never been sorry, and even with this, even with knowing he’s moving on – she’s still not.

And she never will be.

She’s a junior in college when Grandpa dies.

And that’s when Joel Miller calls for the first time.

The day after the funeral. When she’s alone at the farm with her grief, and the house is too quiet and still, that’s when her cell rings. The sound of his voice warms her in the same way it had back them, only this time, there’s a double tap of agony to her heart because the memories are compounded by the pain of both a fresh loss and the moons and miles between her and him.  

A sob tries to crawl its way up the back of her throat, but it gets stuck. Not because of anything Joel says, but because a cry of a different kind comes out first. A squeal of a child’s voice. A calling of ‘daddy, daddy!’  The thud of footfalls and a muffled ‘oof!’ A gentle shushing, followed by, ‘Give daddy a minute, baby girl. I’m on the phone with a friend.’

“M’sorry about that,” he sighs.

“You have a daughter,” she replies.

Over the next ten minutes, Joel speaks more than he ever has, and there’s no denying the tears that follow are a complicated mix of happy and sad.

Joel Miller had only been hers for a fleeting moment in time, and while she’d never say it to him, she could admit to herself that she’d broken her promise. She still longed for him, and for her, something was still there.

Always had been.

Always would be.

There hadn’t been any more cards, letters, or calls.

But she did visit the farm every summer – right up until the world ended.

When that happened, nothing mattered, least of all the torch she carried for Joel. Self-preservation overrode everything, and she learned early on not to allow herself to care about such things.

Nothing soft – nothing innocent – could survive such a wasteland.  

She couldn’t exactly recall when she’d last seen the farm, but she was on her own and could think of nowhere else to go. When she arrived, she wasn’t surprised to find the clickers and raiders and scavengers had done a number on the place. Overgrown fields. A dilapidated barn. The structure of the house was nothing but a skeleton – all bones and broken windows, no warmth or life.

But the path to the river – from what she could remember, that hadn’t changed much. But still, she walked it cautiously, gun in hand, ears straining for any signs of life. She tried not to look at the oak tree, tried not to stop and see if their jaggedly carved initials had made it through the apocalypse, but her feet took her there anyway.

Caught up in a moment, she let her mind wander. Allowing herself to feel something. To set aside the numbness, just for a moment, and recollect something that hadn’t been tainted. It’s why she completely missed the fresh tracks, and why she didn’t notice the rather poorly hidden backpack, beat-up rifle, and tattered, filthy clothes in the overgrown brush.

The silence breaks with the softest of splashes, followed by a dark head of hair, broad shoulders, and a long sigh. Shock and disbelief, she thinks, is what stops her from instinctively lifting her gun and firing.

He’s quick to realize he’s not alone, and he stands, bare-chested and hands fisted at his sides. Water sloughs down his torso and ripples beneath his navel, the action of him coming to his full height revealing a knife strapped to his forearm. Forty years, maybe longer; ravaged by time and circumstances; hallowed eyes full of pain and loss…

Even with all that, she knows it’s him. Sees him.

This scar-littered man exuded danger and fury. Battle weary. Worn. Perhaps even broken beyond repair. He was no longer the same Joel Miller she once knew. And she was no longer the same girl he’d made love to beneath the hot July moon all those years ago, but still…

A long stretch of nothing but standing and staring. Then, a flare of recognition. Joel doesn’t exactly smile at her, but he relaxes, and eventually, sinks back into the water. A heartbeat, maybe two, and then he gruffly asks.

“You gettin’ in?”

And she does.

[favorite-fan-fic]

wish upon a cowboy masterlist

pairing: raider!joel miller x fem!reader

Summary: A rugged raider takes you under his wing after hunters leave you for dead. The two of you form a team and you quickly grow attached to him–mumbling, grumbling, protective Joel Miller. When you divulge your wishes to experience life before the outbreak, Joel decides to make them come true. All of them.

warnings: age gap (early 20s/mid 40s), praise kink, breeding kink, daddy kink, unplanned pregnancy, unprotected piv, canon-typical violence, light choking, dom!Joel, angst word count: 22k+ in progress (6/20+ chapters) rating: 18+ explicit MDNI

Ch1. prologue

Ch2. i like my whiskey neat

Ch3. down bad

Ch4. guilty as sin?

****

More chapters coming soon<3

You can also follow me on Ao3. All of my work and the latest chapters for wish upon a cowboy are posted there.

[favorite-fan-fic]

mimi’s masterlist

hello & welcome! ♥️ i write little fics for pedro pascal characters, and you can find out more about me here! please heed all individual warnings for each fic, and be aware: this is an 18+ space only. do not follow me or interact with my content with an ageless blog. you are completely responsible for the content you consume.

• joel miller

• frankie morales

• din djarin

• javier peña

• misc/fun stuff

divider by @saradika-graphics ✨

[favorite-fan-fic]

frankie morales

all my fics are 18+ only: minors, please do not interact with my stuff. please heed all individual warnings, and enjoy!

↓ frankie x f!reader ↓

homecoming | under 1k | frankie comes home to you & your baby daughter after pope’s mission.

object of my affection | bbf!frankie, 1.3k | you’ve always loved frankie from afar. now, you need to know if he feels the same.

sweet treat | frankie x f!plus-sized!reader, 2.9k | you’re a waitress at your local diner, and frankie morales is your favourite customer.

sweet treat: part two | frankie x f!plus-sized!reader, 2.8k | after you & frankie spend the night together, you both realise you don’t want to let a good thing go to waste. sweet treat fanart by @knopes-waffles 🥹

what comes after | 6.2k | you meet frankie when you least expect to. will past heartbreak hold you back from future happiness?

midnight | less than 1k | frankie only wants to kiss one person when the ball drops — too bad it’s his boss’ daughter.

↓ headcanons/drabbles ↓

husband!frankie

sitting on frankie’s lap

domestic life w frankie

brothers best friend!frankie v1

taking frankie to meet your parents

making frankie a birthday cake

brothers best friend!frankie v2

brothers best friend!frankie v3

[favorite-fan-fic]

midnight (frankie morales x f!reader)

summary: it’s new year’s eve, and frankie only wants to kiss one person when the ball drops — too bad it’s his boss’ daughter.

warnings: unspecified but legal age gap, alcohol, soft!frankie, mild violent threat (no actual violence lmao), cursing, kissing, touching, fluff, smutty thoughts, unbeta’d (sorry for any mistakes hehe), 18+ mdni.

notes: happy new year! 2024 has been testing at times, but i’m grateful for all the new connections made and love shared. here’s hoping for a healthy and happy 2025 for us all when you get there ❤️

Frankie watches you longingly.

The soft curve of your waist, the way your lashes kiss your cheekbones when you smile. Your gentle touch, the way you listen intently to any story being told to you.

He sits across from you in the warehouse, propped up at the makeshift bar. String lights hang low across the ceiling; shrouding you in a golden glow, your appearance even more angelic than usual. The grip on his beer tightens as he notices your colleague lay a hand on your forearm, presumably asking you to dance.

He knew this party would be torture — but he’d figured it would be worth it, if only for a glimpse of you.

“If I catch you gawkin’ at my daughter again, Morales, I’ll take it out of your paycheck.”

His cheeks flushing red, your father’s hand slaps against his shoulder. “Sorry,” he mutters, as Joe takes a seat beside him. Frankie’s worked for your dad since he left the military — as a warehouse manager for his family-run hardware company.

“‘m only messin’ with you. She’s still pretty cut up over Joshua breakin’ up with her a few weeks back — just before Christmas too, if you can believe that. Fuckin’ asshole.”

Frankie quietly agrees, jaw ticking as he sinks back another mouthful of alcohol. He never had the pleasure of meeting Joshua, but he’d heard plenty about him every time you were home from your big city job, the one you’d dreamed of ever since you’d finished college a few years back.

Frankie knew all about your dreams.

You always sought him out whenever you visited the depot, spending hours beside him as he managed inventory or looked over his budgets. He’d hugged you every time you aced your exams, put a friendly arm around your shoulder when you appeared dejected or stressed.

“I’ve just got too many plans, Frankie.”

“Well, if anybody can achieve it all — ‘s you, sweetheart.”

“You’re only being nice because my dad pays you to be.”

He remembers that particular encounter like it was yesterday: you, leant against his desk as he worked, all soft thighs and bare midriff in your denim cutoffs. You’d leant in close and pressed your lips to his cheek before you left, leaving him in a cloud of your perfume and a badly-timed hard-on.

Christ. You make him feel like a fucking teenager.

Your father brings Frankie back to the present, droning on about setting some time aside in the new year to draw up new logistics plans, work out a way to further modernize the business.

“‘s a party, Joe,” he interrupts. “One you’ve paid for.”

“You’re one to talk. It’s New Year’s Eve and you’re sat here like it’s a goddamn funeral.”

Frankie raises his bottle sourly, draining the last of it as Joe heads off to mingle. He’s lost sight of you, the crowd growing as the time edges ever closer to midnight. A sinking feeling settles in his stomach, wondering whose hand you’ll be holding when the ball drops, knowing for certain it won’t be his.

The party was all your idea: begging Joe to let you bring everyone together to celebrate, involving everybody from the senior board to the receptionists, sourcing the caterers and decorations and DJ — roping Frankie in to help you set up, thanking him with an endless supply of casual kisses on his cheeks and sugary home-baked gifts.

You’re so sweet, so pure, and he’s fucked his own fist more times than he count thinking about you.

You look so beautiful tonight — dressed in red velvet, the perfect hostess. Frankie can’t understand how Joshua ever let you go; feeling quiet rage bubble in his veins at the idea of your heart breaking, and the ridiculous notion of you not being good enough.

Frankie would treat you better.

He already knows he can make you laugh, how to bring the dimple out in your cheek. He knows your complicated pizza order, the books you like to read, your favourite place to get coffee, the exact age you want to have babies.

He knows he’d fuck you better, too.

Frankie’s consumed by the thought of it — of pushing you down into his sheets and burying himself between your thighs, his tongue in your mouth as he works himself inside you, his name on your lips when you come for him. Over and over again.

He checks his watch. 11:45pm. There’s still no sign of you, and he has no desire to join the throng gathering on the dancefloor, their arms around one another as the drinks continue to flow freely.

Frankie heads for his office instead, his safe haven. There, he’s sure he’ll continue to think about you: how he’s a decade too old, how Joe would string him up or fire him on the spot if he ever even considered telling you how he felt.

He’s so preoccupied with misery that, at first, he doesn’t notice the lone figure already sitting in his desk chair.

“Frankie?”

Your voice is so quiet — barely a whisper in the darkness, the party outside growing louder with every passing minute.

“Hey,” Frankie clears his throat. “What’re you doing in here?”

You rest your forehead on the heel of your palm, bare shoulders heaving in a sigh. “I know I shouldn’t have come in here without asking you first — I’m sorry.”

“Baby, your dad owns this building. Besides, I’ve got no secrets from you in here,” he jokes gently, leaning back against his desk. Your face is illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the window: effortlessly beautiful, but smiling sadly.

“You sure you’re okay?”

Nodding, you finally look up and meet his gaze.

“Planning the party.. It was a distraction from everything. Now it’s happening, and I know everyone’s having a good time — I started thinking about Joshua, what we’d be doing if he was here.”

Frankie swallows. “That’s normal, though. Nobody would blame you for feeling that way.”

“I guess,” you shrug. “But y’know what’s odd? All I can think about is how much he’d hate it.”

He’s silent for a moment, willing you to go on. He watches your teeth sinking into your lower lip, the way you anxiously tug at your dress.

“He always asked me why I hung around this place, made fun of me for spending all my free time with my dad — with you.”

Frankie feels his chest swell a little at the idea of Joshua’s jealousy, but it soon dies away as you get to your feet, standing inches away from him. He’s overcome with the need to reach out to you; pull you close, tell you it’s okay.

That goddamn perfume.

“So, I started asking myself: what do I keep coming here for? I mean, you know Joe — I love him, but he’s hardly a renowned conversationalist.”

You share a smile; a clandestine joke about the man you both know so well.

“Well, did you find an answer?” Frankie dares to ask, breath caught in his throat. Eyes widening as you step even closer, he feels his heartrate spike as you wrap your fingers gently round his wrist.

“I’m working on it.”

He’s not sure exactly how it happens, but your lips are soon pressed to his. Your tongue begs for entry, Frankie groaning as he finally tastes you — sweet as sugar. All thoughts of his job and your father’s right hook leave his mind as you push him against the row of cabinets, moaning quietly as he feverishly puts his hands on you.

It’s heavenly.

His touch is light over your ass, travelling greedily across your belly to cup your tits, the blood rushing to his dick when you arch your back and thrust more of yourself into his hands. “Frankie,” you cry out softly, scraping teeth and tongue against the scruff along his jaw.

A dulled chorus of cheering and party poppers causes you both to spring apart, Frankie realising the time just as you do. “Midnight,” he pants, wrenching his beloved cap off his head and carding a hand through his hair. Your chest is heaving, silvery light bouncing off your collarbones.

He begins to come to his senses: the door is unlocked, your father and his entire team not too far away, able to discover your tryst at any given moment. But you’re gazing at him in a way that makes Frankie forget the whole fucking thing: he can get a new job, he can heal from any bruises.

You’re all that matters.

“C’mere,” he mutters, barely recognising his own voice, hoarse with desire.

You go into his arms, kissing him with just as much vigour as before. You’re toying with his belt buckle before long; his hands wandering underneath your dress, encouraged by the sounds you’re making in his ear. No dream he’s had about you can compare to the real thing, to feeling your arousal as he explores between your thighs.

It takes all of Frankie’s inner strength not to tug your dress to the ground and fuck you on the floor, make you beg him to take you right here in his office — the place that holds so many memories for you both.

You deserve more than that.

You break apart breathlessly at some point, foreheads leant against one another. “Happy New Year, I guess,” you whisper, squeezing his arms. He doesn’t know how to tell you he loves you, how long he’s admired you from afar, falling further with every smile, every laugh.

So, Frankie just kisses your cheek tenderly instead, holding your face in his palms. “You, too.”

“I’m sorry — I know this isn’t very appropriate. You probably weren’t expecting that.” You look away shyly, leaning into his hand.

“Best surprise ever, actually.”

“Yeah?”

Frankie nods, and you grin, beginning to formulate a plan of where you’ll go from here. He already has your number, of course, promising to call you in the morning, take you out for breakfast. Everything is tentative; slow and steady compared to the urgency of before, but his heart is still beating rapidly.

He can hardly believe it.

You’re still wrapped round him, unwilling to let go, kissing the tip of his nose, fingers curling in the hair at the nape of his neck. He basks in your affection, content to stay there forever.

“I hope you get everything you want this year,” you tell him.

Frankie presses his lips to yours, swallowing the squeak of pleasure in your throat.

“Shouldn’t be too hard.”