lalabe07

[lalabe07]

🎀 just him to cure me

*first time i write something smut so plis be gentle, love u guys*

warning; smut but whit a litte fluff, is kinda about how u meet and then a litte routine, smut is REALLY hard to write for me, hope u guys like it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~💕~~~~~~~~~~~~~

u know, there was a time when i was so scared of this new world, this almost diabolical new reality of life.

i’m not the tipe of person who usually would survive this hards times, i’m scared of everything.

but than Jackson saved me. I met a man who would care for me every single time i had a question or something in “my” new house had broken.

Joel was that tipe of man i should be scared of, but i couldn’t.

We meet at the first party Ellie invited me, he wasn’t supposed to be there, but the way i was something in that night had to go wrong.

“plis! someone help me i’m stuck! i can’t not believe that!” i said screaming for my life cause the song outside was loud and i thought nobody would hear me.

Yeah, i was stuck in the toiled and no one would listen to me, but than i hear a man entering the bathroom and saying “hey! is someone in here” i heard but hesitated responding.

“someone need help?” he asked again, that time i had so to say something, “yeah! plis! take me out of here! i’m stuck there’s a hour!”

“It’s me Joel, i heard you cause that bathroom has a open window outside” he laughs and i just get more shy than ever.

“plis help me sir…” i say desperately “stay calm, get the furthest u can form the door”, i did as he told me and get to the wall of the room i had in there.

A few seconds later he kicks the door and broken the lock that was trapping me in there “hey, are you ok?” he said when he opend the door “i…i’m much better now”

He offers me his hand and for a second i don’t think that is a good a ideia, but i didn’t care at all.

“Do need something?” he says looking at me in the eyes and holding my hand for his life, “i think i need something fresh air actually”

He takes me trough some drunk people in that party and then i finally breathe some fresh air in hours.

“it’s so much better here…i can..breathe u know?” i smiled and it kinda a makes him smile “thanks…for saving me there” i said shy.

“don’t have to thank me sweety” he sad and looked at me with his eyes facing my everything.

“thanks for the other stuff than, u helped fixing a lot stuff at my place” i look him in the eyes.

“u know, that’s my job in this community, it’s nothing!” he says and for a brief of time we stay silent

“do u want me to walk you home?”

he sad and i smiled whit a gentle smile “yeah, i would like that a lot”

And just like that we walked the way to my “home” and the silence was not bad, actually was warming and made me fell safe and comfortable next to other person, which was really hard in this times.

When we got there he waited for me to open the door, he respectfully didn’t say nothing but i know i should in some way…i need that.

“do u accept a cup of tea?” i say turning to him i probably was blushing but i didn’t care.

“well…i shouldn’t but i will” he followed me to my living room and i go to the kitchen and started to boil the water.

“get comfy u can seat there” i pointed to the sofa i had there for a while now “your brother arranged that sofa to me…he’s really nice”

“he is…he is helpful sometimes.” he smiles and sit there but looking at me the whole time “he is also very annoying” he laughs what makes me laugh as well.

I serve some tea and put some sugar and give to him “hope u like this one is really sweet”

“thank you”.

<><><><><><><🪵><><><><><><

That’s how we met, unfortunately our relationship was kinda hard, he was afraid people would judge me cause of the age difference, but i didn’t care for that, but also didn’t pressured.

The day he asked me to be his girlfriend was one of the most amazing days i had.

“hey baby, i’m home!” he sad entering my house, he was already used to that and every time he stops working he goes meet me, “hi! i’m in the bathroom, u can come!” some times i liked to surprise him whit going off the shower the time he came, like a litte present for him.

“ok! i bought herbs for you, maria had some trade for a couple of wood” he smiled and let the stuff he was carrying on the table.

“thanks darling! can u come help me here? i think the shower has something wrong!”, i say to get him inside of the bathroom

Joel took of his coat and came the way of the bathroom and stopped at the door leaning against it.

“what’s wrong whit that…” and there i was all wet and looking at him like his woman.

“u not in here…that’s what wrong whit it” i laughed a little and stand my hand to him who immediately takes in.

“let me help you whit that” i take his flannel off and the pants we was wearing, he looked at me like i was a goddess and he is there to serve me.

“u gonna kill me one those days princess” he laughed and enter the shower whit me, still had his underwear on, “ i bet is worth it, u would love to die while you fuck me so hard i forget my name”.

he kisses my neck like it was devine and than looks at me in my eyes “ i will die just like that babygirl” he pick me up and put me against the shower wall.

“don’t make me beg for it” i say kissing him the sweetest way i could, “why not, that’s my favorite part, making you beg for my fat dick going inside of that little pussy of yours”.

he takes off his underpants and i can fell that his already hard and ready to drive me crazy “do u want me to prepare you or i can go whit all i have” he smirks and i kiss him “just go ahead, plis…i need your cock inside me” i say and hold in his hair pulling a litte bit.

He just give some gentle passes whit his big fingers in my clit and without notice he just penetrated me in a way i had to moan his name so loud i’m sure someone could hear it.

“Joel…plis…go harder” he starts to thrusting deeper and deeper into me “fuck u so fucking tight, even with all those months u still tight right around my dick” he says going harder every time i smiled to him.

“Joel i’m gonna cum!” i say realize i just cummed all over his dick

“that’s it baby, u so beautiful when u cum for me” he say this and just a few seconds later i fell his cum filling me up.

“Ah…this was…incredibly good!”

i just put my head is his shoulder and he holds me in his big arms.

“let me clean u up, than we can lay u the bed and have a good sleep time” he says and i just stay there in his arms while he put some soap and clean all my parts.

“let me dry you a bit” he pass the towel trough my body which make me laugh a litte.

He just pick me up and take to our room and put me in a panties and a t shirt of his, “right there sweetie” i just keep looking at him while i watch him put a boxer and a shorts and come in my direction to hug me in bed.

“thanks for all of this” i say and he makes a strange face, “the bare minimum? baby i really don’t care about it and like to treat you like u deserve”.

I lay my head is his neck and sleep for the night, he stay up a litte longer just looking at me and the way i breathe than he just press my body closer to him a little more and sleeps.

[lalabe07]

need an older man to send me selfies like this ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

[lalabe07]

📓 Found and Forsaken — Chapter One: “What He Brought Back”

Pairing: Tommy Miller x Reader

Word Count: ~6.3k

Warnings: trauma, past violence (implied), muteness (selective), prejudice from others, mistrust, soft protective Tommy, age difference (reader is early 20s), slow emotional bonding

Summary: During a routine patrol beyond the Jackson perimeter, Tommy finds a wounded girl — you — hiding in the woods and completely silent. Something in your eyes makes him unable to leave you behind. But when he brings you into town, the community is less forgiving.

⸻

The first time he sees you, you look like a ghost.

Not in a haunted kind of way — not really. More like the soft shape of someone who barely believes they still exist.

You’re half-hidden behind a crumbled brick wall, wrapped in a too-big flannel and trembling from the cold, from fear, from something older than both. Your cheek is smeared with dirt, blood dried at the corner of your mouth, and your leg is curled at a strange angle.

Tommy raises his hands — slowly. Not like a man with a gun, though there’s one slung over his shoulder. Not like a soldier.

Like someone who means no harm.

“I ain’t gonna hurt you,” he says gently, squinting through the gray winter light.

You don’t say a word. You don’t run. But you don’t lower your eyes, either.

And it’s that — the way you meet his gaze, steady despite everything — that makes him pause.

“Shit,” he mutters, stepping forward.

You flinch, and he stops again.

“Okay. Okay.”

His voice softens, like he’s talking to a wounded animal.

And maybe he is.

⸻

He doesn’t ask you why you’re out here. He doesn’t ask your name. You wouldn’t give it, anyway — you haven’t spoken a word since he found you.

He doesn’t tell anyone that either, not at first.

He just carries you out of the woods like something precious, tucked in his arms despite your wince of pain when your bad leg shifts.

And when Maria radios in to ask what the hell is taking so long, he just says:

“Found someone.”

⸻

Jackson, Wyoming — Two Days Later

People talk.

Of course they do.

They talk when Tommy walks through the front gates with you in his arms. They talk when he ignores the stares and heads straight for the clinic. They talk louder when you don’t speak. When you won’t explain where you came from. When you won’t say anything at all.

“She’s not right,” someone mutters in the market. “Bet she’s feral.”

“Could be infected,” another says. “Or with a group. She could be a scout.”

Tommy hears all of it. Pretends he doesn’t.

He keeps his eyes forward. Keeps his pace slow and even. Keeps one hand always loose, ready to fall to the gun at his hip. But it never comes to that.

Not yet.

⸻

They give you a cot in the guest wing of the clinic.

You don’t ask for anything, and you barely move except when Tommy visits.

You don’t talk — not even when Maria stops by with warm clothes, or when the nurse checks your leg, or when a man tries to question you about who you were with before. You only ever look at Tommy.

And it’s that — the quiet way you look at him — that gets people whispering even louder.

⸻

Maria confronts him first.

Not cruelly. She’s not that kind of person.

But she finds him on the back steps of the administration building, arms crossed, watching the mountains shift to gold in the sunset.

“You’re gonna have to explain it eventually,” she says, sitting beside him.

Tommy shrugs. “Ain’t nothin’ to explain.”

“She won’t talk.”

“She’s traumatized.”

“People are starting to think she’s dangerous.”

He looks at her — really looks — and says, “She’s a girl with a busted leg who ain’t eaten in a week. If that’s dangerous, maybe we all need to take a look in the mirror.”

Maria sighs. “Tommy—”

“I saw her,” he says, his voice low. “Out there. All alone. Like she’d been left for dead. And she didn’t beg. Didn’t scream. Just… looked at me. Like she knew I’d help.”

Maria softens, but only slightly. “And you think that’s enough reason to bring her here? You don’t know what she’s been through.”

“I don’t gotta know.”

That’s the end of it.

At least for now.

⸻

You start walking after three days. Limping, mostly, but moving.

You still don’t talk.

Tommy brings you soft bread and boiled potatoes. You take them wordlessly. You won’t eat unless he stays.

You won’t sleep unless he’s nearby.

And when you flinch from loud noises — from kids yelling in the street, from the clatter of metal — he’s the only one who can bring you back.

“You’re alright,” he murmurs, one hand gentle on your shoulder. “Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you here.”

And even though that’s only half true — you are safe with him, but Jackson? That’s more complicated — you always nod.

⸻

People stop whispering. They start accusing.

“You’re keeping her like a pet,” someone sneers near the stables.

“She’s just some girl. You don’t even know how old she is,” another man hisses. “It looks wrong, Tommy.”

Tommy hears it all.

And when he walks you through the community garden one afternoon — your fingers brushing the frost-touched lavender, a scarf tucked up to your nose — someone spits near your feet.

“Should’ve left her in the woods.”

Tommy turns, slow and dangerous.

“What was that?”

The man — older, grizzled — glares. “She’s dead weight. Doesn’t work. Doesn’t talk. We don’t have the luxury of charity anymore.”

You freeze behind Tommy’s shoulder. Your fingers dig into the back of his coat.

Tommy says nothing for a long moment. Then:

“Say that again.”

The man sneers. “I said—”

Tommy hits him.

Just once. Just hard enough to knock the bastard back on his ass.

You flinch at the sound, at the crack of knuckles on jaw, but you don’t let go of his coat.

Tommy doesn’t look back at you. He just says:

“She’s stayin’. You don’t like it? You’re welcome to leave instead.”

No one else says a word after that.

⸻

Later that night, you slip out of the clinic and find him on the porch of his house, fixing an old radio.

He startles when he sees you, then sets the screwdriver down.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Didn’t think you’d walk this far.”

You nod — slow, cautious.

He stands and opens the door.

“You cold? Come inside.”

You follow.

It’s small — lived-in — smells like cedar and gun oil and something faintly sweet.

You sit on the couch. He brings you tea. You wrap your hands around the cup but don’t drink.

He sits on the opposite side of the couch, leaving space.

“You okay?” he asks gently.

You stare down at the tea.

Then — without thinking — you reach out.

Just your fingers.

Just a little.

They brush against his sleeve, and he freezes.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Instead, his voice drops:

“You’re safe now. Ain’t nobody gonna touch you.”

You close your eyes.

And for the first time, you let your body lean into his shoulder.

Just a little.

Just enough.

⸻

To be continued….

[lalabe07]

Title: Keep Your Hands to Yourself

Pairing: Tommy Miller x Reader (Dad’s Best Friend)

Setting: Pre-outbreak, rural Texas

Warnings: Age gap (reader is mid-to-late 20s), forbidden tension, longing, slight angst, summer heat, drinking, reader wears a sundress, dad’s-best-friend dynamics, Tommy being protective, emotional intimacy, light suggestive moments but nothing graphic

Summary: You come back home to Texas for the summer. You expect small-town boredom and your dad’s grilling. You don’t expect Tommy Miller to look at you like that.

A/N: this is for all of us who’ve ever stood too close to a man in a backyard and known better.

—

The heat in Texas doesn’t just sit on your skin—it soaks. It clings like a second layer of clothes, syrupy and slow, humming with the whine of cicadas and the distant buzz of someone’s mower two doors down.

You’re on the back porch in a white sundress, drinking lemonade that’s more ice than actual flavor, watching your dad and Tommy fix the damn lawnmower for the third time this month.

Tommy’s in a faded gray t-shirt that fits him too well, grease smudged across one cheekbone. He looks… older. But in a way that makes your stomach flip. Still got that rough edge in his voice, that quiet steadiness you used to watch from the corner of the living room when he came by for beers and football games.

Your dad’s voice cuts through the buzz:

“Think I’ll run to the store, see if I can grab that part.”

Tommy glances up. “You sure?”

“Yeah. You keep an eye on her for me,” your dad jokes, wiping sweat from his forehead with a grimy rag. “She’ll sneak off again.”

“I don’t sneak,” you call, rolling your eyes.

Your dad shoots you a grin before disappearing out the screen door, and just like that—it’s just you and Tommy. Again.

Silence falls. Heavy. Almost too quiet.

You look down at your drink. “You know you don’t actually have to babysit me.”

Tommy leans against the side of the porch post, arms folded. He’s still got that slight limp in his left leg, old injury from something he never fully explained. His eyes—brown and unreadable—don’t leave yours.

“I don’t mind.”

You pause. “You’ve always been like this?”

He raises a brow. “Like what?”

“Quiet. Intense. Kind of impossible to read.”

Tommy huffs a soft laugh and looks away. “That’s funny, comin’ from you.”

⸻

The sun starts to drop lower, golden hour stretching shadows across the deck. You sit on the porch swing, one bare foot pushing against the wood to keep it swaying. The air smells like cut grass and engine oil.

“You remember that summer when I was seventeen,” you say suddenly, “and I crashed the car into the fence out back?”

Tommy chuckles. “Your dad nearly blew a gasket.”

“You covered for me. Told him you did it.”

He nods. “Yeah. You were scared shitless.”

You smile. “I was.”

You don’t say the rest. You don’t say that the real reason you were scared was because he was the one who found you crying in the driveway. That the way he crouched next to you, hand on your knee, voice calm and steady, made you feel safer than anything ever had.

That’s when it started, maybe.

That stupid little crush you buried in the dirt of your hometown and swore you’d leave behind.

⸻

The screen door squeaks open a while later. Tommy brings out two beers, cold enough to sweat in his hands. He hands you one and sits on the steps, a foot or two away from you. Close. Too close.

You take a sip. “You know, I used to think you were the most responsible guy my dad knew.”

He smirks. “Used to?”

“Well,” you shrug, “you’re sittin’ here drinkin’ on a porch with a girl in a dress who probably shouldn’t be lookin’ at you the way she is.”

He goes still.

Completely still.

You can feel the heat roll off him, not just from the sun. You expect him to laugh it off. Make a joke. Shake his head and change the subject.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he says, voice low, “And how are you lookin’ at me?”

You look down. Bite the inside of your cheek. “Like someone I shouldn’t want.”

He doesn’t speak for a long moment. And when he does, it’s quiet. Careful.

“I ain’t proud of it, but I’ve thought about it. You. More than I should.”

You look at him then. Really look at him. That graying hair at his temples, that sun-browned skin, the scar at his collarbone.

“You never said anything,” you murmur.

“I couldn’t.” He leans his arms on his knees. “Your dad’s my best friend. I’ve known you since you were in high school. I told myself it was just… nostalgia. Just some dumb protective instinct.”

You blink, heart thudding like thunder.

“But when you came back this summer,” he continues, “and I saw you out here on this porch? Lookin’ like a memory I never deserved to have? I knew I was in trouble.”

⸻

You don’t kiss.

You don’t touch.

But when you stand up to go back inside, Tommy’s hand brushes yours.

And instead of pulling away, you let your fingers linger. Just for a second.

You leave the porch feeling breathless. And you don’t even know why.

⸻

Later that night, you hear him in the kitchen. He’s fixing something—maybe the back door hinge, which always sticks. You come out in a worn t-shirt, barefoot, and lean against the doorway.

“You ever gonna tell my dad?”

Tommy doesn’t turn around. “Tell him what?”

You step closer. “That you’re in love with his daughter.”

That gets him. He turns. His expression isn’t shocked, exactly—it’s like he’s been caught standing in the middle of a street with headlights bearing down on him.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He walks toward you slowly, like he’s still trying to talk himself out of it. But his hands find your arms, holding just above the elbows, and his head dips down so your foreheads nearly touch.

“You can’t tell me this is a good idea.”

“It’s not,” you whisper.

“But I still want to.”

He nods, just once. Swallows thickly. “Then God help me.”

[lalabe07]

this just changed something in me fundamentally

edit by @/pascalsslvtt on tiktok!!!

[lalabe07]

📖 Title: “he only touches me in the dark”

pairing: Tommy Miller x Reader

age-gap: 22 x 50

warnings: forbidden romance, religious pressure, secret meetings, slow burn, heavy longing

style: tumblr prose / poetic realism / soft southern angst

⸻

You only see him after nine.

When the porch lights are off and the cicadas are loud enough to cover the sound of your steps.

He never parks close. Never knocks. Never looks at you the way he does now unless you’re both far from home.

It started with glances.

Then hands brushing.

Then one night you climbed into his truck and never really got out.

You’re twenty-two.

Your daddy’s favorite girl.

He still kisses your forehead like you’re seventeen and still calls you “his little lamb.”

You wonder if he’d still say that if he saw the way Tommy looks at you.

⸻

Tonight, you’re quiet.

Your dress is white.

You wore it on purpose.

Tommy’s hands grip the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him steady.

His knuckles are pale.

You know that look.

It’s the one he gets right before he breaks his own rules.

⸻

“You ain’t supposed to be here,” he says.

But his voice is softer than his words.

Always is.

You don’t answer.

You just look at him — really look.

At the silver in his beard.

At the sun still clinging to his skin.

At the way he’s trying not to look back.

“Doesn’t stop you from waitin’,” you murmur.

That gets him.

His jaw twitches. His hands relax.

And finally — finally — he turns to you.

“I wait for a lotta things I know I shouldn’t want.”

⸻

He touches your thigh.

Barely.

Just his fingers, resting warm above your knee like they belong there.

Like they always did.

And then he looks at you like he’s memorizing every part of your face. Like he’s expecting to forget you in the morning and wants to hold onto something real.

You lean in.

Just enough for your perfume to reach him.

Just enough for your mouth to almost brush his.

“You ever gonna kiss me?” you ask.

Not shy. Not anymore.

Tommy exhales. Long. Heavy. Like he’s been holding that breath for weeks.

“I already did,” he whispers. “Every time I let you in this truck.”

⸻

You don’t kiss that night.

Not really.

But his hand lingers when you leave.

Low on your back.

Fingers spread, firm, possessive in a way that makes your knees go soft.

You don’t say goodbye.

Neither does he.

But next week?

You’ll come back.

And maybe next time, he won’t stop himself.

[lalabe07]

🪵✨ “What They Don’t See” — Tommy Miller x Reader (Jackson AU)

Pairing: Tommy Miller x fem!Reader (age gap)

Warnings: emotional abuse, gaslighting, community tension, age gap (reader ~20, Tommy ~50), crying, slow-burn, soft!Tommy, protective themes

Word count: ~6.2k

Style: Emotional, slow and intense

Setting: Post-outbreak Jackson

⸻

Part 1: Behind the Barn

You’d grown used to it.

The way people turned their eyes the other way.

The way your mother smiled too wide in public and spoke too sweet, like honey over a blade.

The way she called you darling in front of others, only to call you useless once the door closed behind her.

The way she grabbed your wrist just a little too tight. The way no one asked about the bruises under your sleeves or the way your voice seemed to die before it ever reached your throat.

Everyone liked her. Or maybe it was easier that way — pretending they didn’t see.

And you? You were just the quiet girl that followed her mother around, eyes low, back straight, voice like wind. Present, but not really. Pretty, in a sad sort of way. You kept your head down, helped in the gardens, smiled when someone greeted you. That was enough to keep people from asking questions. Enough to keep you in your cage.

Until the day Tommy Miller found you crying behind the barn.

You hadn’t meant for anyone to see.

⸻

It had been a rough morning. Again.

Your mother had woken up sour, as she often did after council meetings where no one praised her for her “contributions.” She said your dress was wrinkled. That you were too slow. That you embarrassed her. That you were lucky she even let you stay with her.

“God knows I should’ve left you back there,” she hissed. “Maybe then you’d understand what a burden feels like.”

The words hit like they always did — soft and slow, like a storm creeping under your skin.

You nodded. You always did.

But when she walked off, laughing with one of the bakers like she hadn’t just shoved a knife under your ribs, you slipped away. Past the stables. Past the wheat field. Past the loud world and into the quiet.

Behind the barn, where the tall grass met the fence, you let your knees hit the dirt. Let the sob claw its way out of your chest. Let yourself cry — real, broken crying — for the first time in weeks.

And that’s when you heard the boots.

⸻

You flinched, tried to wipe your face quickly, but it was too late.

“Hey—”

His voice was gruff, soft like gravel. Familiar.

Tommy Miller.

You turned your head away, ashamed.

You’d seen him around — often. He was always working, always leading, always… kind. Quiet in a steady way. The kind of man people trusted.

He crouched slowly, keeping distance, not touching.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

You nodded too fast. Your breath stuttered.

He frowned.

“You sure? ‘Cause…”

He looked at your red eyes. The way you were holding your own arm like a shield.

“I saw you run off. Thought maybe somethin’ was wrong.”

You shook your head again. But your lips trembled.

Tommy sat back on his heels and rested his forearms on his knees, letting the silence hang between you both. His voice softened.

“Listen. You don’t gotta say nothin’. But… if someone’s hurtin’ you —”

“No,” you said too quickly. “No. It’s not— I’m just… tired.”

His eyes stayed on you, heavy and unreadable.

“You sure that’s all it is?”

You nodded, but your shoulders shook.

And something in Tommy snapped — not like anger, but like tension, too tight for too long.

He exhaled. Rubbed the back of his neck. Then, more to himself than to you, he muttered, “Been seein’ it for a while. Shoulda said somethin’ sooner…”

Your eyes flicked up at him.

“What?” you asked, barely audible.

Tommy looked right at you then — not like the others did. Not with pity. Not with suspicion. Not like you were your mother’s shadow.

But like he saw you.

“You think folks don’t notice. But I do. The way she talks to you. The way you walk like you’re afraid to take up space.”

He leaned in slightly, eyes low.

“I’ve known abuse before. I ain’t blind.”

You froze.

He wasn’t supposed to say it. No one ever said it.

“…It’s not— she’s just… my mom,” you whispered, arms tightening around yourself.

He swallowed. “Doesn’t give her a free pass, darlin’.”

The word darlin’ landed different in his mouth. Like safety. Like softness.

Your throat tightened.

“I can’t— I can’t leave,” you whispered, suddenly panicked. “People like her. They think I’m—”

“They don’t know you,” he cut in gently. “Not really.”

His voice dropped to something almost reverent.

“I do.”

Your breath caught.

He shook his head slowly, like this hurt him more than he could say. Like watching you crumble behind the barn cracked something open in him. Something he’d buried too long.

“You don’t deserve that,” he said, voice rough. “You deserve better. And I—”

He hesitated, eyes flicking to your hands, then back to your face.

“—I want to help. If you’ll let me.”

You stared at him, heart pounding. Something unfamiliar bloomed in your chest — warmth? fear? hope?

And for the first time in a long, long time…

You believed someone.

⸻

(to be continued…)

[lalabe07]

🍂 tommy miller x reader — “the fire in the sky” 🍂

angst / emotional tension / protective!tommy / overprotective dad / fourth of july in the apocalypse / ~4.2k words

“They still lit fireworks. Even in a world where nothing felt like it had ever been free.”

⸻

The Fourth of July came like a ghost—louder than it had any right to be in a place like Jackson.

Somehow, even after the world ended, people clung to things. Traditions. Songs. Ideas.

Freedom.

Fireworks.

You were sitting on the back porch of your family’s house when the first loud pop echoed across the mountains, red sparks streaking through the fading summer sky. You flinched. It didn’t matter how many times they told you it was “just a celebration.” That it was “just for the kids.”

Gunfire always came first to your mind.

Your father was inside, pacing. He hated today more than anyone. He said celebrating a country that couldn’t keep its people alive was like throwing a birthday party for a corpse. Still, he’d let you sit outside—only because he could see you from the window.

And maybe because he knew no one would dare come close. No one had in months.

Except for him.

Except for Tommy Miller.

You saw him before you heard him—coming up the side path, hands in his jacket pockets, hair a little damp from sweat and mist. The air smelled like smoke and wood and sun-heated grass. He looked like he didn’t belong at a party, like he hadn’t wanted to leave his house at all.

But he walked anyway. Right toward you.

Your stomach twisted.

And then your father’s voice—sharp, from inside.

“She doesn’t need company.”

Tommy didn’t even flinch. He stood near the porch, a respectful distance, like he was giving you time to move, to speak. Like he’d practiced this moment a hundred times in his head and still didn’t know how it would go.

“She ain’t company,” he said quietly, voice low and rough. “She’s… someone I care about.”

You held your breath.

He hadn’t said that before.

Your dad came out onto the porch, arms crossed tight over his chest. A shadow against the half-light of the fireworks, his figure was broad and unforgiving. “That so?” he said. “You care about her?”

Tommy nodded. No smile. No explanation.

You could feel the tension curling around your lungs, like your whole ribcage had gone too tight.

Your dad’s jaw ticked. “You’re too old for her. Too complicated. She don’t need a man who’s lost more than he’s got left.”

“That’s not your choice,” Tommy replied. Not loud, not angry—just firm. Solid as the ground under your bare feet.

“She’s my daughter.”

“And she’s not a child.”

The fireworks cracked again behind them. Red and white. Blue tried, but it didn’t shine right. Too faded.

You stood slowly, your hand gripping the porch rail. The wood was rough against your palm, the splinters grounding. You’d stayed quiet for weeks. Ever since your dad found out you and Tommy had talked in the greenhouse. Had touched hands. Had looked at each other.

He’d locked the gate after that.

But your voice didn’t shake now.

“Dad,” you said.

He turned sharply. Surprised.

“I’m not asking for your permission anymore.”

Silence.

Even Tommy looked at you now with something between pride and sorrow, like he wished this didn’t have to be your battle to fight.

But it was.

“I’m not stupid,” you continued. “And I’m not fragile. I know what this world is. I know what it’s taken from people. From him.”

Your father’s face twisted.

“I want to talk to him,” you said. “You don’t have to like it. But you can’t stop me.”

The silence stretched out like winter.

Tommy didn’t move. He stood there with all that weight in his shoulders, letting you speak. Letting you choose.

The next firework was gold. And then blue. Then the sky lit up like it used to on better days.

Your father finally stepped back. Not approval. But defeat.

“Don’t make me regret it,” he muttered, and walked inside.

You didn’t run. You didn’t cry. You just walked off the porch and stood next to Tommy, the smell of smoke clinging to your skin.

He looked at you like you were the most dangerous thing he’d ever seen. Dangerous because you were brave. Because you’d spoken when it mattered.

“I didn’t want to come if it’d make things worse for you,” he said, voice soft.

“It already was worse without you,” you whispered.

Tommy reached for your hand, and you let him. You let him hold it. Right there under the fireworks. Under the sky pretending to celebrate freedom, in a world that had none.

But maybe here—maybe between you and him—something was free.

Even if just for tonight.

⸻

💥 want part two? let me know. this one’s got more pain coming. Tommy doesn’t give up easy. not on you. not ever. 💥

tags: #tloufanfic #tommyxmiller #tommymillerxreader #agegapromance #protectivecharacters #postapocalypselove #fireworksandheartbreak

[lalabe07]

📖 Title: “Only If You Stay”

Pairing: Tommy Miller x Reader

Genre: Slow-burn Romance, Angst, Emotional Healing

Word Count: ~5.4k

Warnings: mentions of injury, mild PTSD themes, emotional vulnerability, language, protective Tommy, age gap

Summary: You were just supposed to pass through Jackson. But Tommy sees something in you — and when fate forces you to stay longer, the quiet affection between you both becomes harder to ignore.

⸻

You didn’t mean to end up in Jackson.

In fact, you hadn’t meant to end up anywhere — not really. You’d been wandering since you lost your group in a freak storm outside of Cheyenne, only surviving because you were smart enough to keep your head down and stay moving. The roads had become too dangerous to travel alone, and when your ankle twisted badly in a fall, you knew you had two choices: die in the woods, or crawl your way toward the sound of civilization.

You didn’t expect the man with the rifle to be the one who didn’t shoot.

“You lost?” he asked.

You’d nodded. Said nothing. Tried to stand.

He took one look at your foot and muttered, “Shit,” before offering you his hand.

⸻

The man — Tommy — carried you for nearly a mile.

You didn’t know why. You didn’t ask.

He told you his name somewhere around the halfway point, between breathless grunts and the steady crunch of snow under his boots.

“Tommy Miller. Live in Jackson. Ain’t far now.”

You blinked up at him. His hair was grayer than his voice. His eyes kinder.

When you reached the gates, you thought they’d tell him to turn around, to leave you behind.

But they let you in.

⸻

“You can stay a while,” said a woman with a clipboard. Maria, her name tag said. “Until you heal up. But don’t expect anything more permanent unless you prove useful.”

Fair.

You didn’t argue.

You slept for nearly two days straight in the infirmary, and when you woke up, your ankle was wrapped and the pain had dulled to something tolerable.

You didn’t expect Tommy to still be there.

“Figured I’d check in,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Y’look better.”

You gave him a faint smile. “Thanks. For not leaving me.”

“Didn’t think you’d make it far limpin’ on your own.”

“Still. Thanks.”

You didn’t talk much after that. But he started showing up.

With tea.

With questions.

With quiet.

⸻

You weren’t used to people sticking around.

Most men you met on the road only wanted one thing. Tommy never asked for anything.

He just offered.

An extra coat when you were cold.

A spot near the fire when the cafeteria got too loud.

Silence when you needed it most.

You weren’t sure what to do with him.

So you watched.

He was good with his hands. He worked the fields sometimes, sometimes the fencing. Everyone knew him. Trusted him. He walked like a man who’d lost things, and lived anyway.

He reminded you of the kind of man you never thought still existed.

You hated how much you wanted him to stay close.

⸻

“You always this quiet?” he asked you one day.

You shrugged. “Used to being quiet.”

“You get used to a lot of things in this world,” he said. “Doesn’t mean you should keep ‘em.”

You bit your lip. “I talk more when I feel safe.”

He looked at you then — really looked. Not like you were broken. Like he understood.

“Well,” he said, gently, “I hope you talk my damn ears off one day, sweetheart.”

Your heart twisted.

It had been a long time since anyone called you that.

⸻

You stayed longer than planned.

One week turned to two.

You helped out at the school once your ankle healed. The kids liked you. You kept to yourself, mostly, but when you laughed — really laughed — Tommy started showing up a little more often.

You’d see him watching you from across the market.

Sometimes you’d watch back.

Sometimes, he smiled.

And sometimes, you did too.

⸻

One night, Maria asked if you’d come help with the harvest dinner setup. “Tommy’s going too,” she added, like it was supposed to mean something.

It did.

He found you in the barn stringing up lights, your cheeks red from the wind.

“You clean up nice,” he said, eyes raking down the sleeves of your borrowed sweater.

“So do you,” you murmured. “Didn’t know you owned anything but flannel.”

He smirked. “Careful now. Flannel’s part of my charm.”

You laughed — real, breathy and bright.

And Tommy’s face softened in a way that made your chest ache.

⸻

That night, you danced.

Or — you tried to.

You were nervous. Unused to joy. The sound of clinking glasses and fiddle music made your shoulders tense.

But Tommy’s hands were gentle on your waist. He led slow.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he murmured. “Just be here.”

You looked up at him.

“I’m scared,” you said softly.

He nodded. “So am I.”

“But you’re not even—”

“Sweetheart, I’ve seen more winters than you. But that don’t mean I’m not scared to feel things again.”

You looked at him.

Really looked.

And for once, didn’t look away.

⸻

The first time he kissed you, it was behind the barn.

Quiet. Soft. One of those kisses that says more than words ever could.

You felt like you were finally breathing after holding your breath for years.

He pressed his forehead to yours, thumb brushing your cheek.

“You make me feel alive again,” he whispered.

You smiled. “You make me feel safe.”

He kissed you again.

And everything changed.

⸻

But not everyone in Jackson liked it.

You were younger. You were quiet. You were… his opposite.

People whispered.

“She’s too young for him.”

“She’s just looking for protection.”

“He should know better.”

You overheard it one morning at the market.

Tommy did too.

He grabbed your hand and didn’t let go.

“Don’t listen to ‘em,” he muttered. “They don’t know you.”

You nodded.

But it still hurt.

⸻

One night, after patrol, he came home quiet.

You waited until after dinner to ask.

“You okay?”

He sighed. Rubbed his face. “Joel gave me an earful.”

“Oh.”

“He thinks I’m bein’ reckless.”

You bit your lip. “Because of me?”

“Because he don’t get how someone like me could deserve someone like you.”

You stared. “But… you do.”

He looked at you then — tired, raw, honest.

“You really believe that?”

You crossed the room. Took his face in your hands.

“Yes. I do.”

His mouth found yours, hard and desperate.

And he didn’t stop kissing you for a long, long time.

⸻

Weeks passed.

Your bond grew.

People started to see — really see — that it wasn’t a phase. Wasn’t weakness. Wasn’t you using him.

It was love.

Real and quiet and patient.

One day, as you sat on the porch watching the sun go down, he reached into his jacket and pulled out something small.

A charm.

It was a piece of silver, bent and engraved. It read: “Safe With Me.”

You stared.

“Made it myself,” he said. “Ain’t much. But it’s true.”

You wrapped your arms around him.

Held him tighter than words could say.

⸻

“You still scared?” he asked you one night, hands curled over your ribs.

You hesitated.

“A little.”

He nodded. “Me too.”

You leaned your head against his chest.

“But I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

His voice cracked when he said: “Only if you stay.”

You did.

And so did he.

[lalabe07]

Hell Yeah 😋

[lalabe07]

📖 “I’ll Take the Risk”

Pairing: Tommy Miller x younger!female reader

Setting: Jackson, post-apocalyptic community

Word Count: ~4,100

Genre: Slow-burn romance, family tension, age gap, protective + respectful Tommy

Warnings: age gap (reader 20s / Tommy late 40s-50), protective father, mentions of trauma survival, light confrontation, tension, tender romance

Summary: You arrive in Jackson with your parents — a rare sight these days. At the next community celebration, Tommy sees you for the first time. He knows better than to approach. But he does anyway.

⸻

The town hadn’t seen a family arrive together in… years.

Most new faces that passed through Jackson came alone. Survivors, loners. Sometimes a sibling, maybe a cousin. But not a full family.

So when you walked through the gates — shoulders tight, hand gripping your father’s sleeve, your mother clutching a blanket like it was armor — people stared.

Tommy was one of them.

He didn’t mean to stare. Not really. He just… noticed.

Not because you were young. Not because you were pretty.

But because you looked like something delicate that had somehow survived the storm. Not soft. Just… whole. Despite everything.

And that made him feel something dangerous.

Something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

⸻

It took less than a week for word to spread.

She’s with her parents. Came from Colorado.

Her dad’s ex-military. Protective as hell.

Don’t even look at her sideways unless you’ve got a death wish.

Tommy tried not to look at all.

But he saw you every now and then — near the garden beds, helping your mother fold linens, brushing your fingers along the wooden railing of the stables like you were learning the shape of this place by touch alone.

You always looked like you didn’t quite know where to put your hands.

Always watched the world like it might still bite.

He understood that look.

He wore it for years.

⸻

When the festival came — the first summer one since the thaw — you almost didn’t go.

Too loud, you told your mother.

Too many people, too many eyes.

But she coaxed you gently, and your father eventually agreed. “Just for a while,” he said. “We’ll stay close.”

You wore a soft blue dress that looked like it had belonged to someone else first — sleeves too long, hem a little crooked. But on you, it looked like something from another world.

And when Tommy saw you standing by the firelight, twisting your hands in your skirt, eyes darting, lips pressed tight — he felt that same tug again.

This quiet, painful ache.

Like he was already imagining what it would feel like to lose you.

Even though he’d never touched you.

Not once.

⸻

He watched from the edge of the dance floor, beer in hand, heart pounding in a way that made him feel younger and older at the same time.

Joel nudged him. “You’re starin’.”

“Am not.”

“Uh-huh. You think her dad’s got a knife on him right now, or what?”

Tommy scowled. “Not helpin’.”

Joel chuckled. “You’re really gonna do this?”

“I ain’t doin’ anything.”

“You’re walkin’ toward her right now.”

And he was.

Shit.

⸻

You saw him coming.

You’d noticed him before, too — the way people looked when he walked by. Like they trusted him. Like they respected him.

He carried something heavy behind his eyes. But he smiled kindly. Spoke softly.

And now, somehow, he was standing in front of you.

“Hey,” he said. “You look like you could use a reason to stop hidin’.”

You blinked. “What?”

His smile tugged sideways. “Dance with me?”

You hesitated.

Not because you didn’t want to.

But because you felt the heat of your father’s stare burning into your spine.

Tommy saw it too.

And he did something reckless.

He held out his hand.

Palm up. Open. No pressure.

Just an offer.

“Come on,” he said gently. “Just one.”

You looked up at him.

Then back at your father.

And then, very quietly — almost like it surprised you — you said:

“Okay.”

⸻

The music was soft, twangy. Something old.

Tommy’s hands were warm, careful. One at your waist, the other cradling your fingers like they were made of glass.

You didn’t talk for the first few seconds.

Just moved. Slowly. Rocking in the circle of firelight.

Then he leaned in, voice low.

“I’m Tommy,” he said. “But I figure you already knew that.”

You nodded.

“I know who you are.”

His breath caught a little.

“You know,” you added softly, “for a guy who everyone says is so dangerous…”

He raised an eyebrow.

“…you dance like someone afraid to break me.”

He chuckled.

“Maybe I am.”

⸻

Your father was not amused.

You saw him standing by the edge of the square, fists clenched at his sides. Your mother touched his arm, whispering something you couldn’t hear — but he brushed her off and started walking toward you.

Tommy’s hand on your back stilled.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Should’ve known better.”

“I’ll handle it,” you said.

But he stepped forward.

“I’ll tell him I was just—”

“No.”

You grabbed his arm.

Firm. Brave.

“I said I’ll handle it.”

And then you turned — heart hammering — to meet your father halfway.

⸻

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he hissed, low and sharp. “You don’t know that man. He’s twice your age.”

“He asked me to dance,” you said, keeping your voice steady. “Not to marry him.”

“Do you think I’m gonna stand by while some grizzled—”

“Stop.”

He blinked.

You took a breath.

“I know you’re trying to protect me. But I’m not a little girl anymore.”

He glanced over your shoulder, eyes narrowed. “He’s not—”

“He’s not hurting me,” you said. “And he never would.”

You watched something flicker in his eyes.

Something reluctant.

Almost… respectful.

Your mother stepped beside him.

“She’s right,” she said gently. “She’s grown. And maybe this is the first time she’s wanted to dance since the world ended.”

That silenced him.

And that was the moment you knew:

This was your life now.

Yours to choose.

⸻

Tommy watched you walk back toward him, heart pounding.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You smiled.

“I think I just saved your life.”

He grinned. “I owe you one, then.”

You stepped into his arms again, soft and easy.

He hesitated for just a second — then leaned in close, voice rough with awe.

“You know,” he whispered, “if you keep lookin’ at me like that…”

You blinked up at him.

“…I’m gonna stop givin’ a damn what anyone thinks.”

You smiled.

“Good.”

And this time, when he pulled you close, you didn’t hesitate at all

[lalabe07]

📖 “Find Her First”

Pairing: Tommy Miller x f!Reader

Genre: Angst, Action, Romance, Protective!Tommy

Word Count: ~4,000

Warnings: injury mention, anxiety/panic, fear of abandonment, protective behavior, intense emotions, strong language

Summary: When a supply run outside Jackson goes quiet, no one realizes you’re missing. No one but Tommy. And he’ll burn the whole damn map down if it means bringing you home.

⸻

They told him it was routine.

Just a small crew clearing an abandoned motel west of the river. Nothing major. No infected sighted for days. A half-day out, a half-day back.

You were supposed to be home by nightfall.

Tommy knew something was wrong before anyone else did.

He waited at the gate for hours, pacing. No horses. No radio. No word.

By sunset, Joel told him to go inside, wait it out.

But Tommy didn’t sit. Didn’t sleep.

He stood outside that fucking gate until the moon climbed high and the frost bit through his gloves.

And when the others came back — cold, tired, and without you — something inside him snapped.

⸻

“They said she was with them,” Maria said, arms folded, voice calm but clipped. “But when they left the last outpost, she wasn’t in the group.”

Tommy’s heart punched the back of his throat.

“What do you mean she wasn’t in the group?”

“They thought she went ahead.”

“She wouldn’t go ahead alone,” he snapped. “Not without tellin’ someone. Not without me.”

Maria’s expression faltered.

Joel stepped in. “We’ll send a party in the morning. You go out now, you’re goin’ in blind.”

But Tommy was already grabbing his rifle.

“I don’t give a damn if I’m blind. She’s out there now.”

And no one else seemed to understand what that meant.

Not like he did.

⸻

He rode through the dark, ignoring the cold, the wind, the way his hands shook every time he thought about you being scared and alone.

Or worse.

The motel was empty when he got there. Boards creaked in the wind. Doors hung crooked. Not a single goddamn sign of life.

Until—

“Her bag’s here,” he whispered, heart stalling in his chest. “Why the hell is her bag here—”

Then he saw the blood.

A trail. Small, smeared. Leading away from the door and into the woods.

His vision blurred for a second.

She’s not dead.

She’s not.

You’d know if she was.

He followed the trail.

⸻

It took him nearly an hour to find the collapsed shack, tucked between pine and rock like the earth itself had tried to hide you.

The door was jammed.

He kicked it in.

And there you were.

Slumped in the corner, legs curled under you, clutching your side like you’d been trying to hold yourself together with your bare hands.

Your face lifted slowly when the door crashed open.

And then you saw him.

“…Tommy?”

He was on his knees in a second.

“Jesus Christ, darlin’—” He swept you into his arms like he couldn’t believe you were real. “You’re alright. You’re okay. I got you.”

“I—I got separated,” you whispered. “They didn’t know. I slipped and—there was a Clicker—I tried to—”

“You don’t gotta explain,” he breathed. “I’m here. I got you.”

Your breath hitched against his neck.

“I thought no one was coming.”

His grip tightened.

“I’d burn Jackson to the ground before I left you out here.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face.

“I was so scared.”

“I know, baby.” His hand cradled the back of your head. “I know. But you held on. That’s what matters.”

“I—I thought I might die here.”

He swallowed hard.

“I didn’t.”

“No,” he whispered. “Not on my watch.”

⸻

He carried you out.

Didn’t care how far. Didn’t care how cold.

When your arms went limp from exhaustion, he held you closer. When your breathing faltered, he whispered every soft thing he could think of.

“Almost home, sweetheart.”

“You’re safe now.”

“You’re mine, and I don’t lose what’s mine.”

⸻

By the time you reached Jackson, dawn was breaking over the mountains.

People gathered at the gate, wide-eyed. Some gasped. Some stared.

Joel helped you down. Maria was already yelling for the doctor.

But you didn’t care about any of it.

Not until Tommy cupped your cheek and leaned close.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he said.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t ever have to be sorry for surviving.”

You smiled, tired and shaky.

Then he kissed you — fierce and tender all at once — right there in front of everyone.

Let them talk.

Let them wonder.

He had you back.

And that was all that mattered.

[lalabe07]

📖 Tell Me the Truth —

Pairing: Tommy Miller x Reader

Genre: Angst + Soft Romance

Word Count: ~3,400

Warnings: pregnancy mention, emotional avoidance, soft swearing, mild PTSD implication, comfort

Summary: You’ve been avoiding the signs for weeks. But Tommy knows you better than anyone — and he’s not letting this go. Not because he wants answers, but because he wants you to stop carrying everything alone.

⸻

Jackson, Wyoming — mid-October

You wake up with the sheets twisted around your legs and the morning sun in your eyes. Tommy is already up — you can hear him humming in the kitchen, something tuneless and lazy, like he’s in no rush to start the day.

You groan softly, rolling over and pressing a hand to your stomach.

The nausea’s getting worse.

And it’s not going away anymore.

It’s been three weeks since your last cycle. You’ve kept count. You’ve pretended not to. You’ve convinced yourself it’s just stress, just patrols, just one of those months.

And you’ve told no one. Especially not Tommy.

⸻

He walks in, two mugs in hand, and sets one down on the nightstand with a warm smile.

“Made your tea,” he says, leaning over to kiss your forehead. “And some eggs. Though if you wanna pretend they don’t exist again, I’ll eat yours too.”

You try to laugh. It’s weak.

He pauses.

“You okay, babe?”

You nod.

You lie.

⸻

Three days later, Tommy’s watching you like a hawk.

You nearly retch on patrol because of the smell of wet dog and damp leaves in an old gas station. You wave it off. “Old food,” you mutter. “No big deal.”

He doesn’t press. But you can feel it.

Like storm clouds gathering behind his eyes.

That night, he asks: “You ever think about kids?”

You stiffen under the blanket, staring at the ceiling like it has the answers.

“Sometimes,” you say. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer. Just holds your hand a little tighter.

⸻

It all breaks on a rainy Friday night.

You’re curled up on the couch under a worn-out quilt, pretending to read a book you haven’t turned the page of in half an hour. Tommy walks in from the porch, jacket soaked, boots muddy, jaw tight like he’s been chewing on a thought all day.

He doesn’t sit.

He just looks at you.

And then:

“Are you pregnant?”

The words land like a stone in your chest.

You freeze.

Then laugh — too fast, too loud. “What?”

Tommy doesn’t blink. Doesn’t smile.

He crosses his arms. Waits.

“I’m not,” you say quickly.

He tilts his head. “You sure?”

“Tommy—”

“You been sick every mornin’. Can’t eat. You flinch when I touch your stomach, even by accident. You keep driftin’ off in the middle of conversations. And you won’t let me near the goddamn clinic.”

Your throat closes.

“You don’t know that’s what it is,” you snap. “It could be anything.”

“Could be,” he says gently. “But we both know what it feels like.”

Silence.

You stare down at your hands.

“I didn’t take a test,” you murmur.

Tommy steps closer, but not enough to trap you. Never that.

“Why not?”

Your voice shakes. “Because if I see it… if it’s real… I have to do something about it. I have to feel something. I have to stop pretending.”

A beat.

Then: “And I don’t know if I can.”

He kneels in front of you, hands resting on your knees, his voice soft but strong.

“You don’t have to do anything alone, darlin’.”

⸻

You tell him the truth, slowly, in pieces.

That you’ve known for a while.

That you’ve been counting days in your head like you’re on borrowed time.

That you’re terrified, not just of the world, but of what kind of mother you’d be. Of what kind of father he’d be — and what it might do to him.

“You’ve already lost so much,” you whisper. “You lost your niece. Your brother. Years of your life. What if this is just one more thing—?”

Tommy cups your face, gently but firmly. “Hey. Look at me.”

You do. Barely.

“I ain’t losin’ you. Not now. Not ever. And if there’s a little you in there…”

His hand brushes your stomach, tentative. “…then that’s somethin’ worth livin’ for. Not runnin’ from.”

Your eyes fill before you can stop them.

You bury your face in his chest and sob like a kid.

He holds you through all of it.

⸻

The next morning, you go to the clinic.

Tommy walks with you the whole way, one hand on your back, the other in yours. You barely speak, and he doesn’t push.

The test is quick. The nurse is kind.

You sit on the bench outside with Tommy, your fingers twitching in your lap.

When she returns with the result, everything in your body goes still.

She gives a quiet nod.

Tommy doesn’t even flinch.

You don’t cry.

Not until you’re in his arms again.

“I didn’t want this to be real,” you whisper.

“But it is,” he says. “And that ain’t a bad thing, sweetheart.”

⸻

Later, at home, you sit on the edge of the bed, holding your hands over your belly.

Tommy crouches in front of you again — like before — only this time there’s no fear in his eyes. Just awe.

His fingers brush over your knees.

“Hey,” he says softly. “We’re gonna be okay.”

You nod. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“And if I throw up every morning for the next three months?”

“I’ll hold your hair and bring you crackers,” he grins.

“And if I get scared again?”

“I’ll remind you we’re in this together.”

You take a shaky breath. “And if I don’t know how to be a mom?”

He presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“Then we’ll figure it out. Just like we always do.”

⸻

That night, you fall asleep with his hand resting over your stomach. It’s barely even a bump — not yet — but he holds it like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

And for the first time in weeks, you sleep through the night.

____________________________

Hi guys! my first fic here! hope u all like! remember english is not my first language, so im sorry if there’s any mistakes.

tommy loves u all.

[lalabe07]

— tommy miller icons

like or reblog if you use/save.

© hiloedits on twitter.

[lalabe07]

blue. | chapter one

pairing: bfd!joel miller x curvy!fem!reader

chapter warnings: series is 18+ only, MINORS DNI, age gap (reader's age is set at 25, joel is 40), best friend's dad trope, reader works at a bikini bar (race is a blank slate but reader is described as being curvy/plus size and is very much comfortable in her skin), divorced!joel, alcohol consumption, i think that's all for now :)

word count: 4k

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Blue.

It’s the color of your bikini top, the shade of your painted nails, the flavor of the popsicle you reach for when the Texas heat gets to be too much. It’s your chosen name here at The Boot—the bikini bar you’ve been working at for the last year since graduating college. 

Every girl who works up front is given a code name, something catchy for regulars to remember. It helps build a sense of familiarity without compromising privacy or safety, and given the nature of the job, you can never be too safe. 

One month into the job, you’d seen first-hand just how obsessed some customers can get. A girl who’d been working at The Boot a year or two longer than you slipped up one night when talking to one of the newer bartenders. Instead of calling her by her chosen name, Peaches, she used her real name, Deanna. What should have been a silly mistake turned into something dark and dangerous when a customer that had been a bit too interested in Deanna finally had a name to go off of. A quick internet search led him right to her front door. Thankfully, her husband was the one to open the door that night—with a loaded shotgun in hand—but it was a close enough call to scare Deanna away from The Boot for good. 

Ever since then, everyone keeps their real names to themselves. The minute you step through that door, you’re no longer the person you’ve always been. Here at The Boot, you’re Blue, the unattainable, curvy, slightly sarcastic but always flirty bartender that keeps customers coming back for more even though they’ll never get it. 

And most of the time, you enjoy playing the part. 

It’s almost like being a part of a cast, coming here to work with a bunch of women who you’ll never really know. You might see them outside of work here and there, but it’s always a character you’re running into. The customers are no different. They come here playing a part, and you play one right back. 

There’s no truth in any of it, and that’s usually for the best. 

But there are moments, like this one tonight, that make you wish for a little bit of honesty. 

Because if you’re being honest, the man sitting at the end of the bar—the man with dark brown eyes, soft, messy waves in his hair, and shoulders broad enough to bring a girl to her knees—looks a whole lot like someone you’d like the other version of you to meet. The girl who has more to offer than a fake name and an exaggerated persona. The girl who could bring a man like him home for the night without the nagging thought that he’s only doing it to say he managed to bed one of the illusive girls at The Boot. 

But as it stands, the only girl he’ll get to meet is Blue. And Blue isn’t the kind of girl to bring home a customer, no matter how much she might want to. 

“What can I get you, handsome?” The compliment is genuine, but it’s also something you’d say to any man who sat down at your zone of the bar. 

Judging by the way Mr. Tall, Dark, and Rugged looks at you, his brown eyes sparkling red and blue from the neon signs behind you, tells you that he knows that too. 

“Whiskey neat.” His voice is deep and rough, with just the slightest hint of a Texas twang. It’s as sexy as he is, and that’s just plain cruel. 

You give him a quick smile before turning to the wall of liquor behind you and grabbing a bottle of Jack off the shelf, only for him to stop you.

“The good whiskey,” he says, bringing your eyes back to his for a beat. 

You smile and nod as you turn back to the wall and grab one of the nicer bottles off the top shelf before turning back to the bar to pour his glass. “What’s the occasion?”

He sighs as he turns towards the entrance, seemingly waiting for someone to walk through the door. “No occasion. Just a…date, I guess.”

You slide the crystal tumbler towards top before resting your elbows on the wooden bar top, a tactic you usually use to get bigger tips after giving customers an eyeful of cleavage, but there’s no hidden agenda behind it tonight. “No judgement and all, but is this really the best place to bring a woman on a date?”

He breathes out a humorless chuckle as he lifts the glass up to his lips for a sip. “Believe it or not, this was her idea. I’ve never been here so I just thought this was a normal bar, not...”

“Not one notch from a strip club,” you say with a smirk. “Yeah, I can’t say I’d ever bring a date here. When I go out with someone, I want to be the only thing they’re looking at all night.” Leaning in conspiratorially, you lower your voice to a whisper and give him a wink. “The next morning, too.” 

He eyes you for a moment, a soft, barely there smile tugging at his lips as his eyes bounce across your features before he finally lets out a breathy chuckle. You get the sense that this is the closest thing to a full laugh he gives most people. 

“Yeah, well…can’t imagine that’s all that hard to do,” he says, glancing down at his cup just as the door opens and a long-legged redhead steps inside the building. 

Dressed in skin-tight jeans, a low-cut black tank, and a pair of heels, she looks like a femme fatale straight out of every man’s wet dream. She’s older than you, but not quite as old as the man in front of you—if he’s somewhere in his forties, she’s around her late thirties. Her walk exudes the femininity and sensuality of a woman who’s lived plenty life, the sway of her hips and upward tilt of her chin carrying an air of confidence you haven’t yet mastered. 

And, of course, she’s headed straight towards Mr. Tall, Dark, and Rugged. 

“Joel,” she purrs from behind him, her voice just as graceful as her gait. The man in front of you—Joel, it seems—turns his head towards her, a cold look washing over his face as he takes her in. 

Maybe he’s just as intimidated by her as you are. 

“Shannon,” he says, extending his hand out for her to take. Her perfectly manicured hand fits in his softly as she takes him in, her green eyes bouncing across his handsome features before trailing down to the T-shirt and jeans he’s wearing. She frowns in disapproval. 

“Did you come straight from work?” There’s a disappointed lilt to her voice. As if this obviously blue-collar man showing up to a run down bikini bar on a Friday night in a pair of faded blue jeans and a simple black T-shirt actually irks her. 

Clearly much too invested in their interaction, you force yourself to move down the bar to check in on Jerome—a regular that’s been coming here since long before you were hired. He’s not awful as far as regulars go. Jerome just likes to sit down on his favorite stool every night and drink until he’s blind. Sometimes, he’ll make conversation, but more often than not, he just sits there and quietly sips his drink. 

“Doin’ good over here, Jer?” you ask, propping your hip against the counter as you follow his gaze towards Joel’s date. 

Maybe it’s telling that you managed to remember his name and not hers. 

“S’that your cup of tea?” you ask with a smirk. He’s not usually the ogling kind, despite his favorite bar being so catered to the male gaze. 

“Looks just like my wife,” he says, his slurred words thick with something heavy. “Ex-wife, I s’pose.”

“She must’ve been a real looker back in the day, then.” 

He scoffs, lifting his glass to his lips. “Looked good enough to fuck the whole neighborhood and leave me with nothin’ but a broken heart and a lifetime of alimony payments.”

Unsure of what exactly to say to that, you decide to cut through the tension with a joke. “You should go warn him then. Save him the trouble.”

Jerome eyes you for a moment before turning back to the couple. With a huff, he sets his drink down and stands up, stumbling down the empty bar to where Joel is seated and his date is still standing. 

You hiss at him to sit back down, but he’s got a drunken, one-track mind right now. 

“Pardon me, son,” he slurs, tapping Joel on the shoulder as you look on with abject horror written all over your face. “You ever had your heart broken before?”

Joel’s eyes narrow with confusion as he looks at Jerome before letting his gaze travel to you down the bar. Averting your eyes, you quickly grab a cloth and pretend to wipe the perfectly clean counter rather than continue to watch the scene you accidentally crafted unfold. 

“Yeah, somethin’ like that,” Joel says, his voice colder than it had been with you. His date scoffs from beside him, and his eyes roll in response. 

“Well, women like your friend right here are nothin’ but heart breakers wrapped in a pretty package,” he says, though his words are hardly intelligible. “Best t’stay away from ‘em if y’can.”

“Jerome,” you hiss, and thankfully, he listens this time. “Come sit down. I’ll pour you one on the house.”

Jerome nods before turning back to Joel and patting him on the shoulder. “Y’hear me?” 

Joel’s lips purse but he gives him a quick nod before turning back to the woman beside him. They fall into quiet, but strained conversation as you fix your attention back onto Jerome. 

“I didn’t mean for you to actually go up to him, Jer,” you scold, refilling his jack and coke. “Can’t have you cock-blocking during people’s dates.”

He chuckles and tilts his head towards the pair. “Hardly looks like there’s gonna be any cock to block between them two.”

You let yourself steal a few glances their way as subtly as you can manage, and sure enough, the two of them look like they’re ready to claw each other’s throats out. 

Maybe this isn’t a budding relationship, after all. 

Maybe there’s some sort of history here that’s got Joel on edge and Jolene—you still can’t remember her name for the life of you—on defense mode. 

“What do you think the story is, then?” you ask, unable to stop yourself. 

“Mm, maybe she ran off with his dog to play house with his best friend,” he muses, rubbing two fingers against his gray, wiry beard as the two of you eavesdrop together. 

“Maybe he was the one that hurt her,” you say, although your gut is telling you that’s not the case. Jolene looks too smug, too amused by Joel’s rigid posture to be the wronged. “Or maybe it’s some kind of role play they get up to. Who fucking knows”

“Why don’t you go on and ask?” Jerome says with a drunken smile. “You seem so goddamn interested, after all.”

You feign a gasp, clutching your nonexistent pearls. “You’re the one who stumbled over there with words of advice.”

“Well, you told me to,” he counters. 

Rolling your eyes, you decide to venture over there and check in on the pair, telling yourself it’s just because Joel’s drink is empty and his date has yet to order. 

“Can I get y’all started on another round?” 

Joel sighs and swings his head towards you, an almost pleading look in his dark brown eyes. “Just the tab.”

Jolene scoffs and levels a glare at you. “I’d like a drink. Or are you only serving men tonight?”

Arching an eyebrow at her, you nearly tell her to fuck right off with her attitude, but Joel cuts in before you get the chance. 

“This clearly isn’t workin’, Shannan,” he says, hanging his head for a beat before lifting his defeated gaze to meet hers. “Let’s just sign the papers and be done with it.”

Sensing that this moment is about to get a whole lot more personal than you’d like, you step away—back towards Jerome—and watch as Shannan, not Jolene, pulls a folder out of her giant purse and shoves it towards Joel. 

“Seventeen years down the drain just like that,” she says, tutting her tongue as she watches him slip the papers out and pull a pen from his back pocket. “All because I made a little mistake?”

Joel says nothing in response as he signs his name on each flagged line while you, Jerry, and Shannan all look on with varying levels of interest. 

Leaning over the bar, close enough for you to smell the liquor and cigarettes on his breath, Jerry whispers. “I don’t think it’s role play, darlin’.”

It’s a quarter past midnight by the time you close out and hang up your metaphorical apron. The bar’s nearly empty, save for a few stragglers that like to stick around until Miguel—the closing manager—kicks them out. 

With your purse slung over your shoulder and your tips securely tucked away inside a zip-lock for you to count out in the morning, you make your way out of the bar and into the warm summer night. You traded your bikini top for a tank, but with it being this sweltering out, you almost wish you hadn’t. Sweat trickles down the nape of your neck to the valley between your breasts, drawing a map to a very neglected part of your body, because despite what most customers must think of you considering your line of work, you just haven’t had the time or energy to get much action lately. 

That and the dating pool is more like a cesspit these days. 

Breathing out a sigh, you listen to your feet as they crunch against the gravel parking lot with each step towards your old beater of a truck. It’s a hand-me-down from your father, one of the only good things he’s ever given you, and that’s not saying much considering how often the old Ford ends up at the mechanic’s. 

Just as you open up the cab and set your purse inside, your phone rings and illuminates the darkness around you. You pick up the call with a smile on your face, already anticipating what stories your best friend will have to tell from her Friday night in Dallas. 

Sarah’s four years younger than you, but the friendship came easy anyways. You were late to go to college, having to stick around and save up for school after graduating high school, and Sarah was an early graduate at just seventeen. Getting paired up to share a dorm freshman year was pure coincidence, but everything afterwards felt like destiny. She’d been the little sister you never had, the confidant you always longed for, and in return you helped steer her away from frat boys. 

“Hey,” you say, cradling the phone between your shoulder and ear as you heave yourself into the truck. “How was the date with Chad? Or was it Kyle? I can’t remember which finance-bro you’re talking to right now.”

“Ha-ha, very funny,” Sarah says. “His name is Marcus, and he’s actually an attorney. Very fancy. Very sexy. Kind of boring.”

“Just your type,” you tease as the engine roars to life. “Does he get a second date?”

“Eh,” she hums, and you can practically see her tilting her head to either side. “We’ll see. He didn’t try to take me home on the first date, so that’s a win. But anyways, I didn’t call to give you a rundown on my shitty love life. Are you doing tomorrow?”

You chuckle dryly. “Besides working? No. You know I’m a hermit unless I’m getting paid to be a social butterfly.” 

“Okay, well I miss you enough to pay you to come see me,” she says. “All the beer and carne asada you can eat if you come with me to my dad’s barbecue tomorrow afternoon.”

You bite your lip, contemplating the offer. It’s not as if you don’t miss your best friend. After living together all throughout college, it’s a special kind of torture having to be this far apart from each other—her busy with her new career in Dallas and you stuck here in Austin. You just haven’t felt like yourself in a while. 

Call it the breakup blues, but ever since your last relationship, you’ve found a certain comfort in staying home and wallowing by yourself. But you’ve been a lonely hermit for far too long, and the thought of seeing Sarah after so many months of distance is just appealing enough to have you considering coming out of your shell. 

“I’ll have to find someone to cover for me, but it’s a yes, if I can get off work,” you say. “Your dad’s here in Austin, right?”

You’d heard plenty about her dad over the years. According to Sarah, he was the best dad in the world. It was her stepmom, the one who came in a few years after her biological mom had passed, that sucked. 

“Yeah, he just moved into a new place a few streets down from your apartment, actually,” she says. “So you definitely can't flake and blame it on the commute.”

Rolling your eyes, you hold up your middle finger to the phone even though she can’t see the gesture. “Fine, I’ll try my best to show up and meet daddy dearest. But it’s time for me to go home and get into bed. Long shift. Weird divorce paper exchange from a pair of customers tonight. The guy was sexy and completely not age appropriate and the wife was a cunt.” 

“Oh, the joys of working at The Boot,” she sighs. “Text me when you’re home.”

“Will do. Love ya.”

“Love ya back.” 

You weren’t able to get your shift covered last minute, but thankfully, one of the morning girls offered to switch shifts with you. Truthfully, she got the better end of the deal considering how slow and cheap the morning patrons are. But you’ve saved up enough to not need the tips for one night, and seeing Sarah is more than worth the sacrifice. 

It’s nearly the end of your shift when a familiar face steps into the bar, his dark eyes scanning the room until they land on you. Feeling nervous for no apparent reason, you shoot Joel a smile and a wave. 

He’s in a hunter green T-shirt today that pulls against his broad chest and shoulders, accentuating the light brown of his skin, and unlike last night, he put on a pair of stainless dark wash jeans that hug his long legs just right. If the whole blue-collar, working man thing did it for you last night, this cleaned up version of him is enough to make you sweat. 

“Blue,” he says, glancing at your name tag that’s pinned to the flimsy fabric of your bralette. “I see they’ve got y’all in even less clothes than last night.”

You laugh without faking it. “Saturday is lingerie night—or day, I guess. If you’re looking to find me a little more covered up, I’d suggest coming on Sunday. We wear tank tops on the Lord’s day.” 

Giving you a devastating smile, he nods and raps his knuckles against the bar top, eyeing the liquor behind you rather than meeting your stare. “I wasn’t complainin’.”

You breathe out a sigh in an attempt to clear your stomach of the butterflies fluttering there. “Can I get you something to drink? My shift’s almost over, but I’ll leave you in the hands of one of the other girls. They’re even easier on the eyes than me.”

His eyes flit back to yours before dropping to your cleavage and back up. “I don’t know about that.” 

Yeah. 

Fuck him and these fucking butterflies. 

“But, no. I didn’t come for a drink. Or—well, I guess I did,” he says, suddenly going shy on you as he shuffles his feet and looks away. “I was wonderin’ if y’all sell drinks to go. I got a little get together I’m throwin’ tonight.”

“Looks like everyone’s throwing a party tonight,” you say, smiling. “Yeah, we sell cocktails by the gallon. But I’m going to warn you, the way I make them is fruity and highly dangerous. I’d sip with caution, unless you plan on giving your guests a striptease tonight.”

Another slight tug of his lips. “Unlike you, I don't think many people would enjoy the sight of me stripping down.” 

“You'd be surprised,” you flirt, and for once, it’s not an act. “Anyways, let me go ahead and get those drinks started for you. It’ll just take a second.”

“No rush,” he says, settling into one of the stools. 

His presence is a warm thing, even with your back turned as you go through the motions of funneling vodka, rum, and tequila into the different cocktail gallons. You can feel his gaze on your body, trailing across the expanse of your exposed curves and dips, right down to the round globes of your ass hardly concealed by a pair of lacy blue boyshorts. They’re just see-through enough to give him a glimpse at the skin beneath, but you feel naked in a way you don’t normally. Being a curvy woman in this industry usually means one of two things—either you’re fetishized or you’re ignored.

But it’s different with Joel. You don’t feel like he’s eyeing you like this because you fit some sort of kink he’s into. It just feels he’s a man who likes what he sees.

Clearing your throat, you start talking just to keep yourself from thinking. “So what’s the party for?”

“Well, as I’m sure you saw last night, I’m gettin’ a divorce,” he says, his deep voice bringing an ache to your core despite the nature of the conversation. There’s nothing sexy about divorce, nor should there be about a man at least fifteen years your senior. But here you are, turned on anyways. “The party was my brother’s idea. Get myself back out there and all that. Socialize.”

“You don’t sound too happy about that.”

He scoffs. “I’m not all that enthusiastic about startin’ over again at my age, that’s all.” 

“How old are you?”

God, please don’t let him be older than your father. 

“Forty,” he says. 

That’s not too bad. Just fifteen years. He was practically still a kid when you were born. Totally acceptable. 

Right?

“You’re still plenty young,” you say, rather than what you want to say. “Don’t hang your hat up just yet.”

“Easy for you to say,” he chuckles. “You don’t have a bad back or achy knees yet.”

“Hey, I work on my feet all day,” you challenge, shooting him a smirk from over your shoulder and inadvertently confirming your suspicions on what his eyes were locked in on. Turning back around, you hide the way your lips part in response. “My back aches plenty.”

Silence falls between the two of you as you finish up his gallons just in time to clock out. You quickly ring him up and slide the jugs his way, but he must be feeling just as flustered over the interaction as you are given the way his eyes refuse to meet yours for long. 

“Remember what I said about those drinks,” you say, catching him as he hurries to leave. Joel shoots a bashful smile your way, tipping his chin at you before pushing through the door. 

And for the first time in your career—if that’s what you’d call this job—you hope to run into a customer outside of work.

[lalabe07]

no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while i gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cow girl, doggy, backwards, forwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, fist clenching, ear ringing, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling. teeth jitterbug, mind boggling, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy, moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip bitting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, can't walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail scratching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, splendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tangos, he could put a nuclear bomb inside me and I'd still ride.