sometimescharlolette

[sometimescharlolette]

reblogging for update ❤️🙏🏼

Trading Anakin - Hayden Christensen x cosplayer!reader

SYNOPSIS: At a Star Wars convention, you discover your boyfriend’s cheating just before meeting Hayden Christensen. As heartbreak sets in, Hayden’s kindness makes you question if it’s time for a new Anakin.

WORD COUNT: 1.4k

WARNINGS: Hayden being cute, cheating, angst with hopeful end

A/N: Hello people, this idea was in my drafts a long time, I decided to give it a chance. I hope you enjoy, comments and rebblogs mean the world for me. 💖Kisses and good reading! Dividers by @cafekitsune

request always open!!

You and Ben had been dating for nearly two years, and your relationship had felt like something out of a Star Wars romance tale. You first met at a fan event, both dressed in costumes from Attack of the Clones—you as Padmé in her Geonosis battle attire, and him as Anakin, complete with a makeshift lightsaber. It was serendipitous, like destiny had written your names in the stars. Together, you made a picture-perfect couple, not just in real life but on social media, where your cosplay photos and videos had garnered a loyal following. Invitations to premieres, merchandise endorsements, and collaborations soon followed, making the fandom dream your shared reality. 

But today, everything would change.

The excitement of finally meeting Hayden Christensen was electric. You’d spent sleepless nights preparing for the moment, sewing Padmé’s elegant black dress from Revenge of the Sith to perfection. The velvet fabric hugged your curves, the high neckline adorned with intricate metallic details. You couldn’t help but notice the way people’s eyes followed you as you walked into the convention hall with Ben by your side. He wore his freshly completed Clone Wars-inspired Anakin armor, which you had painstakingly crafted together.

Everything seemed perfect—until it wasn’t.

While waiting in line for your photo with Hayden, you idly checked your phone. A notification from an unknown number caught your eye. At first, you dismissed it as spam, but curiosity got the better of you. Opening the message, you froze. There it was—a picture of Ben, unmistakably him, locked in a passionate kiss with another woman. The blonde was draped all over him, her hands possessively clutching his shoulders. The worst part? He was wearing the padawan Anakin cosplay you had handmade for him.  

Your breath caught in your throat as the world blurred around you. Memories of that day flooded back—you hadn’t been able to attend that event because you were unwell, but Ben had assured you he’d gone alone. He’d even brought back an autograph from Rosario Dawson, gushing about how amazing the experience was. 

And now? The betrayal stared back at you in pixelated clarity. Anger churned in your chest, hot and unrelenting, overshadowing the heartbreak. How could he do this to you, especially today of all days? 

“It’s our turn, baby,” Ben said, his voice light as he gently nudged you forward. The sound grated against your nerves. How could he act so normal? How could he smile like that, knowing what he’d done? 

Your feet moved on autopilot as you approached Hayden, your heart sinking. What should’ve been the highlight of your day now felt tainted.  

“Hi, how are you?” Hayden greeted warmly, his smile radiant, his blue eyes kind and piercing all at once. “Wow, your cosplays are incredible. It’s like seeing them step out of the screen.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, forcing a tight smile as Ben draped an arm around your waist. You instinctively stiffened, pulling away just enough to make your discomfort clear. Hayden’s gaze lingered on you, his brow furrowing slightly, as though he could sense something was amiss.

“How do you want to pose?” he asked gently, his focus shifting between you and Ben. 

Ben, always the showman, grinned. “Padmé in the middle, with her Anakins on either side.”

Hayden’s eyes flicked to you for confirmation, and you gave a small nod, your voice caught in your throat. As you positioned yourselves, Hayden’s arm wrapped protectively around your waist, his touch firm yet comforting. Ben moved to copy him, but Hayden shifted slightly, blocking him without a word. It was subtle, but the gesture didn’t go unnoticed. 

The camera flashed, capturing the moment. You felt Hayden’s fingers brush your side lightly, a silent reassurance. “You make an exceptional Padmé,” he said quietly as you turned to leave. His words were soft, meant for you alone. “You deserve someone who sees that.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and for the first time since seeing that message, you smiled—a real smile.  

---

Hours later, the autograph session gave you another chance to interact with Hayden. Ben went ahead, chatting away about lightsabers and Clone Wars trivia. But when it was your turn, Hayden’s demeanor shifted, his smile warm and inviting. 

“Y/N,” he said, remembering your name as he signed the photo. His voice softened. “You seemed upset earlier. Are you okay?”

You hesitated, caught off guard by his perceptiveness. Before you could respond, he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Whatever’s going on, just know you’re worth more than that.”

Your chest tightened. “Thank you,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. 

Hayden scribbled something on the photo before handing it back, his fingers brushing yours. “If you ever need someone to talk to…” He tapped the corner of the photo, where he’d written his number alongside a small heart. 

You blinked in disbelief, your pulse quickening. “I don’t… I mean, are you sure?”

He smiled, his cheeks tinged with pink. “I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.”

---

“I told you, he only cares about the female fans,” Ben huffed, the usual petulance lacing his voice. “We both took pictures at the same time, but he only remembered your name. Coincidence, right?”

You shrugged, suppressing the volcanic rage bubbling inside you. “Fuck you,” you muttered, brushing past him and letting your shoulder knock his.

Ben blinked, taken aback by your uncharacteristic tone. “Babe, what’s wrong?” he asked, his voice dripping with confusion. 

“Maybe I should be asking you that,” you shot back, raising an eyebrow as you turned to face him.

“I don’t get it,” he stammered, his frown deepening.

With a calmness that felt foreign even to you, you unlocked your phone and held the damning photo up to his face. The image of him passionately kissing another woman—a blonde, wrapped in his arms like she belonged there—was all the explanation you needed. 

“Baby, let me explain,” he started, his voice rising in a panicked plea. “It’s not what it looks like. She threw herself at me—I swear! I didn’t want to—”

“Do you think I’m stupid, Ben?” you snapped, your voice cutting through his excuses like a lightsaber through durasteel. “Your tongue was practically in her throat. And that outfit? The one I spent hours sewing? You’re pathetic.” Your chest heaved with anger, each memory of your trust in him now tainted.

“Come on, baby, now you’re being too harsh,” he whined, his lower lip trembling like a child caught stealing. “You’ve got to hear my side of the story.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” you bit back, stepping away from him. “And right now, I don’t even want to look at you.”

Ben trailed after you as you made your way through the event hall. “Wait! Babe, don’t go! Let’s talk about this—”

“I said, not now.” You yanked your arm free when he reached for you, the touch setting your nerves ablaze. “We’ll talk later.” Your voice left no room for argument.

Ben’s shoulders slumped, his face contorted into an expression of wounded innocence—a manipulative trick you had seen one too many times. As you continued walking, his audacity reached a new height.

“Can you at least lend me some Uber money?” he asked sheepishly. “I spent all my cash on that Darth Vader mask.”

You stopped, turning slowly to look at him with disbelief. For a moment, you considered screaming, throwing something, making a scene. Instead, you settled for the coldest, most cutting response you could muster.

“Well, that sounds like your problem, not mine,” you said icily, brushing past him and exiting the venue. Outside, you hailed a cab, leaving Ben—and his betrayal—behind.

As the taxi pulled away, you allowed yourself a moment to exhale, your rage cooling into a bittersweet sense of freedom. The event arena disappeared behind you, replaced by the sprawling streets of New York. And, for the first time that day, your thoughts shifted to Hayden.

His kindness lingered in your mind like a gentle hum—the way he had noticed your distress, the warmth in his smile, the way his hand had steadied you when everything else was falling apart. He had offered support when you needed it most, without hesitation or expectation. He had seen you.

The memory of his words resurfaced: “You deserve better. Maybe it’s time to trade in your Anakin.” A soft smile tugged at your lips, and for the first time since the cheating, you allowed yourself to believe him.

Because before the sun comes the rain, and without it, there would be no rainbow. Maybe, just maybe, the bad times weren’t the end—maybe they were the beginning of something new. Something brighter. Something—or someone—worth holding onto.

TAG LIST: @ihearthayden @anakinstwinklebunny @sometimescharlolette

[sometimescharlolette]

he is indeed babygirl

[sometimescharlolette]

“but he’s old enough to be your father”

me:

[sometimescharlolette]

Wants and Needs

Look at the mess you’re in now, sweetheart, cryin’ on a cock that’s too fuckin’ big for you. What am I gonna do with ya?”

WARNINGS - Mean!joel, dom!joel, cock hungry!reader, impish!reader, one shot, size kink, Joel miller monster cock, ‘We shouldn’t be doing this’ vibes, cause Joel’s all guilt ridden and sexually frustrated, lots of dirty talk, guided masturbation (joel talks you through fucking yourself), mid-fuck pep talk from a man old enough to be your father, girthy legal but unspecified age gap, fingering, pain kink, brief mention of tummy bulge, dacryphilia, dubcon, unprotected PIV, cream pie, cum eating, aftercare in the form of oral sex (f!receiving) wedgie kink if you squint, horny brain took over when I wrote this, dingy motel sex.

FIC HELP - @tofics!!! Thank you for the thorough beta, sweetheart!!! you did so fucking much to help me with this fic and i'm really fucking grateful, more than words could say!! @beefrobeefcal @cum-a-calla and @/endlessthxxghts (rip i miss your presence on this shitshow of a website every day) thank you sweet babes for all of the encouragement and support!! I love you all!!

A/N - Long time no see! It’s been a while since I’ve posted a fic, even while since I’ve written for Joel. Gosh. I hope you’re all surviving the winter as best you can <3 it’s been a rough one, huh? Enjoy and have a safe rest of your week :)

The bed frame groans for the seventh time in a span of five minutes. Through his nose, Joel sighs in irritation at that sharp, grating creak, the sound of the bed hitting against the wood paneled walls to match. You’ve been at this for the last hour and a half - wriggling, flipping back and forth in the bed, tugging that old, scratchy, floral comforter off of Joel’s body to swaddle around yours, only to throw it off again seconds later. You’ve flipped your pillow more times than he can count, adjusting where you lay your head in search of that coveted cold spot. 

It’s hard to sleep when you keep touching him. Mindlessly, you press up against Joel, and inch away again. His patience for this routine of yours wore thin long ago, sanded down by too many nights of this same ordeal. 

Joel feels the mattress dip and shift a little, the subtle warning of you gearing up to toss your body again, but he’s had enough. He grabs you by the wrist before you can do so, holding you tight enough so that you feel the rough calluses of his palm on your skin. “Enough. Quit fuckin’ squirmin’,” he rasps, his voice tired but edged with warning. “I told you to go to sleep an hour ago.”

“I can’t,” you snap. 

“Bullshit. Y’ain’t even tryin’.”

Joel’s heard this from you before. You’ve always been more restless, whereas Joel’s a heavier sleeper by nature, aided by the alcohol and the pills that lull him off into dreamless unconsciousness. But you’ll keep him up anyway, usually complaining that you’re too hot. Or too cold. Or you’re thirsty, and you need some of his water. No, you don’t have any. Yes, you know you’re a pain in his ass. 

Joel will get you settled, only for you to start all over again. In the subsequent mornings, you’ll be crabby and snapping at him, and he’ll bite back just as hard, pissed off hours of his sleep were lost to you. 

“So what’s your excuse this time?” 

“It’s nothing,” you mumble, adjusting in bed again. You kick your feet, toeing at the tangled fabric of your pants bunched up around your legs. Joel squeezes your arm in warning, nails pressing into your skin a little. “Joel - stop. Just let me—”

Joel cuts you off, “Yeah, I know. Sit up.” 

Obeying him, you sigh and sit up straight, playing with a loose thread in the comforter as Joel leans over your side of the bed, his body radiating warmth and his own scent of something you couldn’t name, something distinctly Joel - perhaps some sort of heavy soap or maybe whiskey. It radiates thick in the space between you and him. He fluffs your pillows a little, then places them back down. “Lay down,” he tells you, and you fall back onto the soft, warm mattress. “S’that comfortable?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

Joel nods quietly, then reaches for the comforter next. He shakes it a little to smooth out the bunches in the material, then lays the flannel sheet over your torso, following with the comforter itself. 

“And you have to tuck the blanket in—” 

“By your shoulders, I know,” Joel says, tucking the blanket under your chin and your shoulders. “Everything, huh?”

Joel settles himself next, situating his own pillows before lying on his stomach. “Now get some sleep. Do that slow breathin’ I told you ‘bout, remember?”

“I remember.”

“Good girl. G’night, then.” 

“Night, Joel.”

Joel closes his eyes and nestles into the mattress, drifting off to something halfway between asleep and awake, but closer to the side of unconsciousness. You close your eyes too, counting your breaths. In for four seconds, just like Joel told you. Hold, out for four seconds. 

Maybe it’d work if you weren’t trying to force your body into it. If you weren’t thinking about how very awake you are, when you should’ve been asleep hours ago. If you weren’t thinking about Joel. 

He’s been on your mind lately, more than usual. You spent so much time alone with him, learning all the neat things about him. He was such a brute at first, and speaking honestly, he still is. But there’s a gentler side of Joel. Softer. Tender, in his own way.

You really, really fucking like Joel. You’ve never liked anyone the way you like him. He makes you feel all sorts of sensations. Anger, annoyance, joy. He makes your heart pound and makes you breathe funny sometimes, but not always in a bad way. You spend a lot of time just looking at him, tucking away the parts of him you love deep inside your brain, saving it for moments alone. His body is softer with his age, but his arms stay strong, shoulders so vastly broad. And his face, the wrinkles in his skin, those neat scars. That look he gets in his eyes when he’s pissed at you, and his lips and his frown. You watch the way he eats sometimes, fixated on the way his lips move, wondering how they’d move against another’s. Maybe your own. His hands, as he traces maps, books, whatever. Veins and tendons twitching. His palms are so fucking big, so masculine.

Joel keeps his distance, always decent. It’s not lost on you. You know he knows how you stare at him, contemplating whatever it is you think about in that head of yours. He doesn’t want to know. Can’t know.

His breathing is evening out now. His lips are parted, and you feel his warm breath on your cheek, tickling your earlobe. He looks so handsome bathed in that milky, bluish moonlight that pours in through the window over his face. 

There’s an ache throbbing between your thighs, the same thing that’s been keeping you up recently. Arousal. Joel seems to worsen the pain, just by existing, somehow. Even just thinking of him makes you throb a little harder. 

Squeezing your thighs together alleviates that ache momentarily, so that’s what you do. You cross one leg over the other and squeeze tight, but it’s not enough. Of course it’s not. You know what you need, something more sustainable than this. Something real, something raw. Something…Joel.

You give your underwear a gentle tug while rocking your hips, just needing that extra bit of pressure. Gripping tight the waistband of your panties while wiggling your hips, shaking the creaky bed a little in the process, the motion rouses Joel from his sleep. He opens one eye to watch you wriggle and jerk, noting that look of concentration painted across your features. 

“What’re you doin’?”

“Joel!” Your whole body jolts and you straighten your legs quickly, flattening your hands at your side. “Nothing.”

He sighs, “If you’re gonna lie to me, sweetheart, y’need to be better at it. Now what is the matter with you?”

You have to be sharp here. You could tell the truth and have Joel inevitably scold you, call you a fucking pervert and that you should be ashamed of yourself or…

…you could bend the truth some, not much. Just a little fib. You spin the story quickly in your head. Something something…you can’t come on your own - lie, and you just need Joel to do it for you - another lie. Far be it from him to leave a girl in distress, right? He’s got to be the hero, always. Has to save the day while bitching that you’d be dead without him. Because that’s Joel Miller, always carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and always by his own doing. How your heart bleeds for him as you proverbially rub your pointer finger and your thumb together, the world’s tiniest violin playing just for him.

“It’s - fuck,” you groan, shifting in bed as you play up the lie. “It’s nothing. Just - something kind of hurts, that’s all.” 

“What hurts? Let me see.” Joel sits up quickly, reaching for the light. “Show me,” he says.

“No, Joel. You can’t - it’s like, I don’t know. It’s…embarrassing, I think.”

“I don’t care,” he grumbles. “Y’gotta tell me. So spit it out, kid.” 

You exhale softly, closing your eyes. Joel’s lying on his side, sitting up a little as he carefully searches your face. You can’t look at him right now because fuck, you’re a bad liar. You turn away so you don’t break and smile or something. “I’m like, throbbing,” you murmur, “And wet, uh…down there, I guess. I don’t know–”

Joel holds up a hand, “Alright, enough. Jus’ - go deal with it. I’ll give ya some privacy,” he says, sitting fully upright and taking off the covers. 

“Deal with it how?” you ask, feigning ignorance. You’ll take this as far as it needs to go, or until you’re caught red-handed.

“You know, like…” Joel waits for you to get the picture, but you just stare at him blankly. 

“Won’t it just go away?” God, you are so full of shit, you almost make yourself sick.

Joel scoffs quietly, and you have to bite down on your smile. You’re playing him like a fucking fiddle. “It don’t work like that, sweetheart,” he says. “You have to handle it on your own.” 

“Can you do it?” 

“Fuck, no,” he answers quickly. But Joel looks down at you, contemplating. God, you’re fucking...this is the reason you keep him up so late? Part of him wants to leave you here, just like this, to figure it out and deal with it on your own. But Joel’s not confident that’ll happen, since you’ve gone this long without it, apparently. Feels like a lie. 

“Or can you help me?”

“Help you how?”

“Just…make sure I’m doing it right. Like, how you’d do it to your lover or something.” 

“You are fuckin’ ridiculous,” Joel sighs under his breath. “How I’d do it to my lover, huh?”

“Right.”

Joel thinks for a moment, then speaks, against his better judgement. “Alright.” He takes a deep breath in and out, taking in you on the bed, scanning the gorgeous outline of your body. “I’d spread her legs,” he says, watching the comforter move as you part your thighs. “Wider than that,” he adds.

��Like this?”

“Jus’ like that, s’good,” Joel nods. “And I’d take my hand,” he says, reaching for your wrist, “Put it right here, between her thighs,” laying your palm over your mound. “Under her pants.”

“Fuck, yeah,” you murmur, sliding your hand beneath your pants and panties. You press down a little, groaning softly at the pressure. Fuck, it feels good. Even better with Joel’s presence. “Feels good,” you sigh, pressing your fingers down harder against the sensitive bud. You can feel it throbbing beneath your fingertips.

“I’d rub her in circles.”

“Hard or soft?” you ask. “Fast or slow?”

“Whatever she wants,” Joel answers. 

You spread your legs a little wider, your knee nudging against Joel’s tummy, and it takes everything he has not to touch you. It wouldn’t be right, he believes. This act alone is pushing the bounds of his morals. 

“Like this, Joel?”

Joel watches the comforter move above your hand as you trace steady circles into your clit, and stifles a groan. As his cock thickens and twitches in his pants, he inches away from you so you don’t feel his arousal. “Yeah, darlin’. Like that.” 

“And then what?”

“I’d keep goin’ til…well, you’ll figure that out.”

He takes a moment to watch, admire the show. Brows pinched together, a little bit of sweat sparkling on your temples. Joel can feel the heat radiating from your body as you work yourself, chest rising and falling, hips and legs twitching. “M’gonna leave you to it, then,” he mumbles finally, getting up to leave. 

“No,” you gasp, reaching for his arm with the hand you used to fuck yourself. Joel feels your arousal on his skin, and notices how wide your pupils are. “Stay.” He does consider it for a moment. His fucking balls ache, desperate to find his own release too. 

“It’s - it’s not enough, Joel.”

Clarity hits him then, and he shoots you a knowing glare. You’re such a bad fucking liar, laying it on way thicker than you need to be. “It’s plenty,” Joel snaps, “I’m leavin’. Hurry up an’ sort yourself out.”

“Don’t go,” you beg. “Can you try it?”

“What? No.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Joel says. “It’s not a good idea. C’mon, honey, I know you’re smarter than this.”

“But I can’t do it on my own,” you argue back. “I think - fuck - I think I need you to fuck me. I need to come on your cock.”

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart, you can’t say shit like that. M’old enough to be your fuckin’ daddy.” Joel rolls his eyes. This absolutely tracks for you, averse to doing any hard work at all. He pauses, then speaks, “You don’t need me to take care of this for you. Y’just want it. I know you, kid. You don’t like doin’ any hard work yourself. Am I right?”

“No,” you insist, “I really think I need it. Need you.”

You look at Joel, silently begging him to give you what you’re asking for. Joel’s eyes dart left and right as he searches your face, breath hitched in his throat. God, the way you look at him. Your eyes are all wide and innocent and pleading, he knows you’re giving him that look on purpose. “Don’t look at me like that, you fuckin’...Christ almighty,” Joel groans. “Fine,” he concedes.

“You’ll fuck me?”

“Absolutely not,” he snaps. “You can have my fingers. If I do this for you, will ya settle down an’ go to sleep?”

“Yes,” you agree, nodding quickly. “I’ll go right to sleep, Joel, I promise.”

Joel eyes you from the side. “You’re fuckin’ trouble,” he mumbles, scooting closer to you. His bulge presses against your hip, eliciting a gasp from you. “Jus’ ignore it,” he says. “Don’t get any ideas.”

He loops his fingers over the waistband of your pants and panties, then tugs them down your thighs until he can’t anymore. “Take ‘em off the rest of the way,” he tells you.

You wriggle off your pants, then pull off your shirt, now lying bare on the bed underneath the covers. Joel’s eyes widen, then he shakes his head. “Selective hearing,” he grumbles.

“What?”

“Just needed the bottoms gone, sweetheart.” 

“Oh,” you whisper, sliding down the mattress a little more, covering your shoulders with the sheets. Joel props himself up on his elbow, the side of his head resting against his knuckles. His free hand travels over to you, fingers drumming against your hips. 

“Y’ready?”

“Mhm,” you hum, anxiety and excitement permeating the air. Joel’s hand slides down to your inner thigh, and he can feel the heat from your pussy, the way you vibrate with desire. 

Joel should tease your pussy. He should make you ache for it, more than you already are. Trace your lips, press his finger against your wet slit to gather your arousal. Like he would with his lover, right? But he shouldn’t even be here with you right now, god. He’s too fucking old, and you’re too fucking young. The age gap alone makes his head spin, but fills a dark part of him with an animalistic type of hunger. A hunger to ruin you, you pretty, young thing. He reminds himself that this is simply a means to an end, nothing more. 

He slides his warm palm over your mound, nudging your thighs apart a little more. When his fingers touch your clit, you sigh in relief. That alone feels miles better than your own fingers, so much more concentrated. 

“Jesus,” he murmurs, then rubs your clit. Not in circles, like he instructed you to do. He just rubs you there, fingers sliding back and forth over your clit as you relax into his touch. “Y’should be doin’ this yourself.”

“But it feels…it feels…”

“I know,” Joel says, slipping his fingers down the seam of your cunt to collect your arousal. You’re so fucking wet. He drags them back up, then rubs practiced, steady circles over your clit. It’s efficient and very bare bones, no bells and whistles or pulling out his usual stops. Joel has one goal, and that’s to get you off as quickly as possible, and that’s it. “Feels good,” he answers for you, then adds under his breath, “You’re playin with fuckin’ fire.” 

You whimper, clutching Joel’s forearm as he guides you to orgasm. What he doesn’t realize is just how close you are, only from a little bit of his touching. You know you’re on the brink of orgasm, but you also know that when you reach that point, that’s it. You’re done. Joel’s made that much clear, that this is all you’re gonna get from him, and it has to be enough. But of course, it’s not. Not even close. 

Joel dips his fingers lower, pushing his middle and ring fingers into your pussy. He keeps a palm pressed against your tummy, then curls his fingers rhythmically, bringing you to a place you’ve never been before. You moan loudly, writhing as he curls his fingers inside you, stroking that special little spot he loves so much on a woman. Silently, Joel moves his thumb to circle your clit, guiding you closer and closer to the edge.

Joel can tell you’re about there, and he’s correct in that assumption. You feel like you’re about to break, staving off release. Everything feels heightened, thrumming with something electric and almost sharp. Your moans come out all breathy, Joel’s name broken as it spills from your lips. Lost in your head, Joel pulls you back down to earth, speaking softly to you. “You gonna come for me, sweetheart?”

“N-no,” you whimper, shaking your head. 

“Yes ya are. You’re right there, honey. Let go.” Joel rubs your clit a little harder to coax release along. He’s waiting for that golden moment, where you tense up and gasp before falling to pieces, a melting, shuddering mess in his hands. Only…it never comes. Joel studies you intently, watching the way your face moves. Finally, he realizes that you’re fighting it. 

“What’re you doin’? I’m givin’ you what you want, sweetheart, just fuckin’ come.” 

“No,” you repeat, squeezing Joel’s wrist. “I don’t want to yet.”

“Why not?” You squirm a little, and Joel stops fucking you on his fingers. “Hey - why the hell not?” 

“Because I want you to fuck me,” you whisper quietly. 

Joel scoffs. “Oh, you are workin’ my last goddamn nerve. I already told you, sweetheart. You come on my fingers or you don’t come at all. Choice is yours.” Joel continues circling your clit, but you still fight him. 

“But I want you to fuck me,” you repeat, begging, balling your hands into tight fists as you stave off release. “I just - I told you already, but you’re not - you’re not fucking listening to me, Joel. I need–” Your desperation makes the mask slip. You have got to pull yourself together before you fuck this entirely. 

“Hey - adjust the fuckin’ attitude. I already told you no, sweet pea. And I don’t have to listen to you. You listen to me,” he grits, his tone biting. “Get that through your skull, because m’sick of repeatin’ myself.”

“Why?” you complain. “Why won’t you do it?”

“Because,” he explains, “You can’t handle it, kid, I know you can’t. Too big f’ya. And it’s wrong,” he adds, “I shouldn’t even be doin’ this to you.”  

You love the challenge his words incite. Oh, you’ll show him what you can handle, alright. Filled with a renewed sense of perseverance, you ground yourself and focus hard. 

Joel focuses too, hellbent on not being a worse man. What he’d really like to do, really, is split you in two with his cock. He’s not unaware of his size, what he does to a woman. Especially one like you, who’s absolutely in over her head and has not the faintest notion of what he could do to her. He’d teach you a fucking lesson, maybe. Shove his cock down your throat to watch you choke on it, feel that delicious pulse as you gag. He could fuck your ass, too, watch your eyes roll back into your skull as he makes you take all of him. That’d teach you to listen to him for once, right? A little pain to put you into place, you fucking brat?

You’re right on the edge. You know it, and so does Joel. The way you soak his two thick fingers, your cunt pulsing around them erratically. Your brows are knit together as you twitch and shudder, trying your goddamn hardest to not come. Joel’s amazed at your will.

“C’mon, kid, just come for me. Be done with this,” Joel urges, frustration laced in his tone. “Don’t piss me off, sweetheart. You don’t want that.” 

You shake your head, “Mm-mm - n - I wanna, I need your -”

Joel holds his palm over your mouth, cutting you off. “No. You’re not ready for it,” he tells you. “Y’don’t know at all what you’re askin’ for. Not a fuckin’ clue.”

Joel lifts his palm. “I do, too,” you argue. “Please, Joel, I can handle it.”

“Sure you can, sweetheart.”

“I’ll be good.”

Those three little words make Joel’s breath hitch in his throat. You have to know exactly what you do to him, with the looks you give him and the way you beg. You’ll be good. God, he’s gonna end up fucking giving it to you. He shouldn’t, he really fucking shouldn’t.

“Please?”

Joel sighs heavily, worn down by your incessant, sweet fucking begging. And honestly, what he wouldn’t give to ruin you. To fuck you in half, shatter you into pieces. So be it, he decides. 

“Fine,” Joel says. “But this didn’t fucking happen. Do you understand me?” 

“I understand,” you answer sweetly. Christ, your fucking good girl act. You have to know what you do to him.

“A’int fuckin’ right,” Joel mumbles, rising and yanking the covers off the bed. He quickly takes off his shirt and shucks off his pants, gripping his cock tightly as he hovers over you. He never should have fucking indulged you, but here he is. Joel reaches between your thighs to collect your arousal on his fingertips, then coats his cock in your mess. He’s fucking huge. He’s generously thick as well as long, and you’re not sure if you’ll be able to handle it like you said you would. “No backin’ out now,” Joel says.

“I’m a little nervous,” you admit. 

“I’ll bet you are,” Joel says, and your heart races. He lowers himself, then presses the thick tip of his cock against your pussy, dragging it through your folds before notching it inside your tight entrance. “Your pussy’s too pretty f’ya to let me do this to you,” he says. “Now take a deep breath.” 

You take a deep breath in, and that’s when Joel begins working himself inside you. You whine in pain, scooting back towards the headboard to try to slow it down. 

“Where d’ya think you’re goin’, huh? You stay right there, sweetheart.”

“Slow down, please—”

“What’s the matter? Thought you could handle it, tough girl,” Joel taunts, squeezing your hip while sliding further inside you. He’s not even a quarter of the way in yet, and you’re already reeling from the pain of his thick cock stretching you out. He draws out a little, admiring the tip of his cock coated in your arousal, then inches back in. “S’really hurtin’ ya, huh?” 

You grab any part of him that you can, attempting to temper the way he enters you. Make it slower, gentler, less…less. He pulls out a little, then pushes in further than before, earning another high-pitched whine from you. 

“Who tried to talk ya out of it, sweetheart? Hm? Who warned ya? You remember how to say my name? It's Joel, darlin’. Sound it out.”

Joel’s being so mean, and it makes you feel like crying. He draws in and out of you, still yet to bury himself all the way inside, watching your reactions as he holds a hand on your ribcage, making you take it all. 

“Yeah, I know. S’a big stretch, huh? Hurtin’ pretty bad?”

“Yeah,” you whimper, looking down at where your bodies connect. You’re not even close to taking all of him in, and already it feels like he’s fucking you in two. 

“Mhm. In over your head, aren’tcha, kid? You gonna listen to me next time?”

“Yes - fuck!” Joel pushes in another inch or so, and it makes you yelp in pain. “Yes, I’ll listen,” you say, voice thick with tears. Joel watches them begin to fall, and he quickly wipes them away with the back of his hand. 

“Won’t hurt forever,” Joel grunts. “S’easier f’ya rip off the bandaid. Want my help with that, sweetheart? I’ll make it quick.”

“N-no,” you sniffle. “I need you to go slow.” 

Joel nods silently, continuing working himself inside. A small movement of his hips out, then in, then out again, and in a little further. He could make you take it all right now, be done with this whole song and dance. It really would be easier on you. The proverbial mercy-kill. That dark part of Joel sort of likes the pain he gives to you, though. He tries not to think about that too hard, stuff that feeling down deep. 

Oh, the tears you cry. The pretty face you make, features all contorted in pain. Joel gives your hip a soothing little rub before moving his hand to your clit, massaging the sensitive bud as he pushes into you, making you whimper even more. 

“I know it hurts.” Joel presses his palm against your cheek, rubbing your lips with his thumb as your cunt pulses around his length. “Let it be a lesson to ya, huh? Stay out of a grown man’s business. He knows better’n you. ‘Cause look at the mess you’re in now, sweetheart, cryin’ on a cock that’s too fuckin’ big for you. What am I gonna do with ya?” 

“I don’t know,” you sniffle. 

“I know you don’t. Tried to tell ya this wasn’t a good idea, sweet pea,” Joel whispers. “Now buck up. You’re halfway there.” 

Joel takes the liberty to speed the process up, to sheathe himself in you fully, and does so quickly. At least, quicker than you’d like him to, as evidenced by your high-pitched whines. “Shhhh,” Joel hushes, pushing his fingers into your mouth as if to pacify you, or distract you at the very least. “I know, I know, I know.” You bite into Joel’s palm, squeezing your eyes shut as you feel his cock splitting you in two. 

“Quit your cryin’, and breathe. I got you, kid,” he says, “We’re finishin’ this,” then pushes in you the rest of the way, the blunt head of his cock kissing against your cervix. “There,” he grunts, “Worst is over.”

You open your eyes, first looking at Joel and then between your bodies, where his connects to yours. You don’t see any of his length left, only the long, wiry, bits of graying hair that surround his member. What you don’t see - what Joel does see - is that pretty, thick bulge his dick makes against your tummy.

He lifts his hand from your mouth, “I did it?” you ask.

“You did it,” Joel affirms. “Good job. Proud a’ ya, kiddo.”

Joel gives you a second to get used to the feeling of him buried inside you, to wrap your head around it. There’s not much thinking going on in that head of yours, though, that much he can tell. All cockdumb and he’s barely even fucked you. 

It doesn’t feel good yet, like it should. It’s an intense pressure, an awful stretch, and it worsens with every throb and twitch of Joel’s massive cock. You squeeze his biceps as he lowers his head and bites your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark, and then you bury your face in his curls. He draws out of you and oh, there it is. “Attagirl, easy does it,” he groans, “You just lie there and take my cock, sweet girl. Take it good for me.” 

Joel sets his pace then, steadily pushing in and out of you. It’s not violent or cruel, not even particularly harsh, but the hurt is still there. Joel rocks his hips, pulling out of you all the way and filling you right back up again with each and every stroke. Soon enough, you’re moaning.

“Yeah, that’s it. Goddamn, sweetheart. Don’t hurt so bad anymore does it?”

“No.” You shake your head. “Still hurts,” you murmur, voice tight with pain. 

Joel chuckles. “Oh, it does, huh? Tsk. Well, you’re in it now, darlin’. Gotta see it through. Don’t try an’ quit on me.”

Joel increases the speed at which he fucks you, damp curls falling over his forehead as sweat glitters on his skin, a bead of it rolling down the length of his aquiline nose. He watches you intently, a stern sort of expression painted across his features. That dimple on his right cheek flashes as he purses his lips, a grunt escaping his throat. 

“Joel,” you choke out. 

“M’almost done, sweetheart. Gimme five more minutes. You can do five minutes, can’t ya?”

The pain is relentless, unwavering, until it starts to vanish, replaced by a dull pleasure. It builds in time as Joel pounds into you, increases with every brush of his pubic bone against your clit. He keeps a hand on your breast, squeezing the flesh there hard enough to bruise, pinching your nipple before soothing the ache with a practiced flick of his tongue. Jesus Christ, you feel good. Your soft body, all for him. The way your poor cunt hugs him so sweetly - he’s not lasting much longer now. 

“Why don’t you try an’ come for me, pretty girl? Can you do that f’me?” Joel licks his fingers and starts to rub your clit in those same circles from earlier, coaxing along your release. 

It’s no surprise you come as hard as you do, as quickly as you do. All pent up for god only knows how long, and the way you were hellbent on staving off your climax earlier. It’s enough to ruin anyone. 

With a couple more good, hard thrusts, you’re clenching around Joel’s cock, his name spilling from your lips as you come undone. Poor girl. You look so overwhelmed, so fucking wrecked as you come so hard, and it’s no wonder to Joel why exactly that is. “There it is,” Joel coos, wiping away the tears you cry.  “Ohh, yeah. That’s a good one.” 

Joel guides you through your orgasm as he chases his own, fucking you harder and deeper. He pounds you in non-rhythm, his thrusts frenzied and frantic before he’s coming too, spilling load after hot load of his come inside you, filling you with the most soothing warmth. He pulls out of you quickly to watch his spend spill from between your thighs, and it’s so intimate, the way he watches you experience that private pleasure. 

“Goddamn, baby. I fuckin’ ruined her,” Joel whispers, gathering a bit of his spend on his fingertips to push it back inside. “Why’d you want me do that to ya, huh?”

You only shrug. Words are hard for you right now. 

“She still hurtin’ a little?”

“A little,” you answer quietly. 

“Mhm, she’s all swollen. M’gonna kiss her all better, alright? I’ll be nice an’ gentle.” 

Joel taps your hip and mumbles something you don’t hear, what with the ringing in your ears, then lifts your bottom half and slides a pillow beneath you. He parts your legs, and is so profoundly tender as he drags a thumb through your sensitive, slick flesh. 

As promised, his lips replace his fingers. Joel begins with a quick kiss, then another, and another. His facial hair feels almost sharp against you, almost painful, but his tongue is so soft. So practiced as he licks up the seam of your cunt, tasting his own work - not that he minds, really. His lips quickly attach to your clit, and he suckles gently. You don’t need much, not right now. He keeps himself buried in that beautiful space between your thighs until you’re coming again, a little softer than before. Gentler. The quiet after the storm. 

You’re crying, all overwhelmed still. Joel scoops you up into his arms and covers you with the comforter, quietly shushing you. “I know, sweet girl. It’s over now. Was a lot, wasn’t it?”

“Mhm,” you hum, sniffling still. 

“S’why you gotta listen to me, hm?” Joel pushes some hair out of your face, then kisses your warm cheek as he lays you on your side. He fixes the blankets, lays them all out flat and even before taking his place next to you, curling his frame around you. “I gotcha, kiddo.” 

As you settle into bed, Joel scratches up and down your side, and kisses your shoulder. “Two orgasms,” he mutters. “You made out like a fuckin’ bandit, sweet pea. You know that?”

Another shrug, and Joel chuckles. “You gonna be a good girl and go to sleep now?” 

“Yes, Joel.”

“Alright. Sweet dreams, trouble.”

If you enjoyed, please please please reblog with some sweet thoughts or hop in my inbox 🩷🩷 your kind words go farther than you know in keeping me motivated to write. It’s been a while. I’ve missed my Joelie perverts 🫂💕

Kitty tax for my sweet readers 🩵

[sometimescharlolette]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part v)

summary: Birthday dinners and blues, laughter over a crowded table—and Joel, caught between the past and something new.

a/n: are you ready for your prescribed serotonin boost :) are you reading to die :) are you ready to have your heart broken :) are you ready for pain :) if yes, it's here, and it's fucking good! can you spot where exactly I had a mental breakdown? virtual bear hugs for those who get it!

Joel had faced a lot of things in his life—clickers, raiders, shit ration food, the long, merciless stretch of empty roads—but this?

This might actually do him in.

He sat on the edge of the bed, hands braced on his knees, staring at the open boxes like they might bite. Three whole boxes. Packed full of baby clothes, soft and delicate, in shades too clean for a world like this—pale yellows, powder blues, faded pinks. Those colours didn't belong in this world anymore.

He exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his beard. It was just one of those things, one of those moments where life threw something at him he wasn’t built for anymore. Throwing a punch, taking a knife, breaking his nose—those, he could handle. But picking out a damn dress for a baby?

“This ain’t my thing, baby girl,” he muttered, glancing at Maya sprawled out beside him on the bed. She kicked her legs, fists flailing like she had strong opinions on the matter. The second he walked through the door, she’d lit up, beaming that wide, gummy grin at him like his very existence was the happiest thing in her tiny world.

Joel shook his head. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. You ain’t the one stuck pickin’ through all this.”

He waved a hand at the neatly folded mass of tiny expensive dresses, bloomers, and booties, smelling faintly of time and soap. They’d been Leela’s once. That part stuck with him—the fact that these had once clothed her, when she was no bigger than Maya.

His rugged fingers hovered over the fabric, hesitant. Everything was so soft, worn down in the best way—not ragged, but loved. Clothes, to him, had always been practical. Denim, leather, sturdy boots. He’d spent years in a world where softness didn’t last, where anything delicate got torn up, dirtied, or lost. And yet, here it was. Preserved. A little piece of the past, kept safe.

He picked up a tiny white dress with a lace collar, holding it to the light. “This fancy enough for a birthday dinner?” he asked, squinting at Maya. “Hm, looks like your mama's dress, doesn't it? Just missin' those... buttons.”

She just cooed, kicking harder, wiggling like she might crawl right out of the blanket. He set it down and picked up another, something in a buttery yellow with embroidered flowers. Lighter, easier.

“This one. Like a pretty sunflower.”

Maya squealed like she agreed, flailing her arms toward him. Obviously sick of laying there, wanting to be up here with him.

He snorted. “You got strong opinions on style, huh? Don’t take after me, then. I ain’t got a clue.”

And yet, here he was. Doing this. Going through the whole process because Leela had asked him—because it mattered to her. The realization settled in, quiet and solid. He was doing this because he cared. About Maya, sure. But about Leela, too. Enough to sit here, sifting through baby clothes like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He shook his head, picking up a tiny pair of bloomers and setting them aside with the yellow dress. “Guess that’ll do. Don’t want you upstaging your mama.”

Maya gurgled in agreement, and without thinking, Joel reached over, scratching a hand over her belly, feeling the warmth of her through the fabric of her onesie. Happy, just because he was here.

And he was only here because Leela had asked this of him. After all, she was downstairs, turning the kitchen into a goddamn laboratory. She’d been at it since morning, long before he even peeled himself off the pullout in his living room. The kitchen light had been on when he woke up, spilling a soft glow onto the snow outside, and through the open window, he caught glimpses of her—stirring, measuring, dicing and slicing with careful, mathematical precision.

At one point, she’d pulled out a scale. A scale. Like she was preparing for an experiment instead of a birthday dinner. Her own birthday dinner, that is. The one Maria had specifically asked her to butt out of because then it'd be pointless. Don't think Leela caught that part.

He’d spent his morning like that—half-awake, watching her move through the kitchen with the kind of focus that made his chest ache. Maya was strapped against her in a sling, her dozing head tucked beneath Leela’s chin, and her mother’s long braid trailed past her back, swaying with every movement. She barely stopped to sit down.

And Joel—still groggy, still warm from sleep—just lay there, watching.

Watching from the outside. Watching a life that wasn’t his, but could be.

Maybe, in some version of things, he’d be sitting at that damn marble island with her, sipping coffee, watching her openly instead of from behind the glass. Maybe he’d be close enough to tease her about overcomplicating her own birthday meal, close enough that she’d smile that shy smile, but lean into him anyway, chin up for an apology kiss.

Maybe he wouldn’t have to wonder what it would be like—because he’d already know.

He exhaled sharply, shaking the thought off. Right. First things first.

He crouched down, dragging Maya closer to him over the bed, the buttery yellow dress draped over his arm. “Alright, darlin'. Let’s get this over with,” he murmured, slipping her tiny arms through the sleeves. She surprisingly went along with it without a fuss, blinking up at him, her round face curious, watching him.

Joel worked quickly, big fingers clumsy against the delicate buttons, careful not to tug too hard. “Y’know, you make this real easy,” he said to her, smoothing the fabric over her legs. “Your ma ever tell you that? Some little shits scream their heads off over this kinda thing.”

Maya just cooed, trying to catch her toes, like she knew she was being praised.

He snorted, lacing up her brown booties—useless, yet so adorable. “Don’t let it go to your head. You're still trouble.”

With a final adjustment, he lifted her, tucking her against his chest. She fit there like she always did, perfect and warm, her breath puffing against his throat. The second she was settled, her legs kicked in delight, hands curling into the collar of his shirt—habit, just like always.

Joel huffed, pressing a steadying palm against her back. “Beautiful girl,” he whispered, rocking slightly, just enough to keep her from getting squirmy. “Yeah, you are.”

Maya gurgled in response, gripping tighter, like she had any real strength to keep him there. Like she thought she needed to.

Joel didn’t move for a second, standing there, one hand spanning nearly the whole of her back, feeling the tiny rise and fall of her breaths against him. He arched his head to brush a kiss at her ear and turned toward the door.

Then he noticed it. The humungous closet doors were open.

It wasn’t like him to pry, but something about Leela always pulled at his curiosity. He glanced at Maya, as if seeking permission—she only pushed her lips into a pout—so he stepped inside.

Due to lack of better words in his dazed head: it was a rich woman’s closet. Joel had worked on plenty of houses back in the day, done high-end custom storage, and seen his fair share of luxury—but he’d never been around long enough to see it lived in.

Drawers lined one wall, sleek and built into the cabinetry. Rows of dresses, coats, scarves, bags, and belts filled another. Shoes—so many shoes—lined the shelves, some still wrapped in plastic, some broken in just enough to show which ones were loved. In the centre, a long glass table gleamed under the dim light, scattered with jewellery. Diamonds, rubies, and jade sat in their cases like they belonged behind some jeweller’s counter instead of lying out like an afterthought.

Maya made a soft, curious sound, leaning forward in fascination. Joel caught her before she could squirm right out of his arms. "Woah, kiddo."

His attention snagged on the dress draped over the table, carefully selected from the clutter.

Black. Velvet. Long-sleeved. Nothing flashy. No lace, no frills, no shimmer. Just smooth, short, heavy fabric, dark as ink, the kind that’d cling in all the right places. Understated, sure—but that only made it worse.

Joel swallowed, jaw tightening. Christ, that can't be it, can it?

But Leela didn’t dress up much. Hell, he was used to seeing her in practical things—thick holey sweaters, clean jeans, and overstretched socks. Even the night dresses she wore were simple, easy. Unbearably cute.

But this? This was intentional. This was her putting thought into it, picking something that would fit her like a fucking glove. Black so stark against her skin, those big eyes, her legs. And Joel—he needed to stop thinking about that immediately.

He shifted Maya in his arms, clearing his throat like that’d help steady him. She was still staring, as if equally entranced, her small hands flexing toward the diamonds glinting under the glass table. He sighed, pressing a kiss to her temple as he stepped back.

“Don’t even, sweetheart,” he muttered. “I ain't raisin’ no flashy tastes in you.”

She gurgled in protest, kicking her feet, and Joel took that as his cue to get the hell out of there.

Now mind you, the past two weeks had been a state of grace.

He didn’t know what else to call it—what else to call the way he found himself here more often than not, the way it felt more natural by the day. He wasn’t just some frequent visitor anymore or a guest, or that guy who'd come around to hover with his tools. If he wasn’t on patrol, he was here with them. Even after patrol, he still ended up on their porch, dropping his rifle and pack by the door before stepping inside like it was just a given.

Hell, it kind of was. A little 'honey, I'm home' moment, if he really brooded on it.

Breakfast. Dinner. Sometimes all three meals, if time allowed. And they’d sit together on the kitchen stools, him and Leela, Maya on either of their laps, silent but companionable, sharing the space like it had been carved out for them alone. They didn't talk about much, sometimes Joel would hit her with a 'back-in-the-day' spiel, or Leela would inform him what happened in her workshop, though most of it went over his head. He liked to listen hard when she spoke, especially when she gave so little. And each morning to come, each evening in leave, Joel would feel it—that want, quiet but persistent, tugging at him, already pulling him into the next day.

Even Leela was eating again. Not much, but enough. It relieved him that she hadn't entirely given up on herself. He noticed the way she still picked at her food sometimes, however delicious it was, pushing it around more than eating it, and he never said a word. Just let her be, let her do what she could. He’d take what he could get.

There were moments, though—times when she got stuck in her own head as if phantom hands had reached out, clawed in and dragged her back to whatever had put her here in the first place. He’d see it clearest when she nursed Maya, like something about it sent her spiralling inward, caught in something he couldn’t see. But he could pull her back to him. He quickly learned how.

“Hey.” His voice was always low, careful, like he was trying not to spook a horse. And then a distraction, a lifeline. “How about I get us a cut of lamb again tomorrow? Y’know, those meatballs you made last week?”

Her eyes would clear, focusing again. “Yeah. Koftas.” And that smile would come alive, trademarked in his name. “Did you like them?”

“Too much. Hits the spot.”

It helped that Leela was a stupidly good cook. It wasn’t about the skill or the recipes—though she sure as hell knew her way around those—it was the way she did it. The way she measured things down to the last goddamn granule, cut with a precision that could’ve put surgeons to shame. She had a scale drawn onto her chopping board, and every damn herb on her windowsill was labelled like she was running a test kitchen instead of a home. He thought about it sometimes and had to bite back a smile.

"Is there anything you can't do?" he'd asked her once while stuffing his face with generously salted roast potatoes he'd passionately complimented. "I dunno, deadlift three thousand kilos? Roofing? Fix a busted engine? I bet that's nothin' to you."

She'd laughed, aimlessly twirling her fork in her hands. "Hmm... I'm quite inartistic. I can't strum a guitar as well as you. I can't sing or dance either."

"I'll give you five days until you're a pro guitarist," he challenged playfully.

She tilted her head. “I don’t know, Joel. Now that I think about it, I might be a lost cause.”

He scoffed. “Bullshit. You learned how to do everything else, didn’t you?”

She shook her head, smiling. “Not everything. You make me sound like some superhero.”

Joel stabbed another potato with his fork. “Nah, I bet you’d pick it up fast.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.” He chewed, swallowed. “You got the... hands for it.”

Leela looked down at her hands, flexing her fingers like she could see what he meant. She had the prettiest fingers, long, soft, wide nails that would've graced those fancy designs once upon a time, and pale nerves coiling over lean bone. Jesus, he really was losing it.

“You say that like you’ve given it some thought,” she mumbled.

Joel just shrugged, lying through his teeth. “Not that much thought.”

Her mouth quirked, but she didn’t push. Just filled his cup with more water. “I still don’t think I could do it.”

“Why?”

She tapped the prongs of her fork against her plate. “I don’t know. I guess… it’d feel too good. And then I’d have to wonder why I spent so many years not doing it.”

Joel watched her, the way her fingers fidgeted, the way her eyes had gone elsewhere. He thought about telling her that was the whole damn point. That just because you hadn’t done something before didn’t mean you didn’t deserve to now.

Instead, he just said, “Well, if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.”

She met his eyes, and after a second, she nodded. “Yes. I do.”

And the way she stated it—gentle, effortless, like it was unmistakable—had Joel suddenly very interested in his plate again.

Then there was little Maya. His ray of sunshine. Growing like a wildflower, changing in ways he barely had time to keep up with. And he was there to see it. More than that—he was there for it.

Like that day, sprawled on the living room carpet beside her, lying flat on his back while Leela worked at the blackboard nearby, mumbling numbers under her breath at miles per hour, the scratch of chalk entwined with the dusty warble of Merle Haggard on the record player. Just another quiet moment, another stretch of time folded in between everything else.

Until Maya grabbed at his hand.

Her fingers curled tight, her little voice rising in breathy coos, calling for his attention. And then—just like that, way too ahead of schedule—she twisted, flipped herself over onto her front, and grinned at him like she’d just conquered the goddamn world. All that, in scarcely three months. The kid's going to be a genius just like her mama.

“Shit!” Joel breathed, pushing up on one elbow. “Daggum, girl. C'mere. That was really good, baby, real nice. You're just perfect, aren't you?”

She grinned wider, pleased with herself, kicking her legs against the carpet. He lifted her right off and plunged her in the air, pulling out a happy squeal. He brought her all the way down to push three deep kisses into her bunched cheeks.

Leela turned, brows raised, eyes flicking between them.

“Finally rolled over, she's been trying for weeks,” he told Leela, laughing, out of breath.

“Oh,” she mouthed. “Rolled over?”

“Oughta get a picture or somethin’,” he muttered, still looking at Maya, pride swelling in his chest in a way he hadn’t expected. He ran a hand over her downy-soft hair. “It’s a milestone. Turnin’ point, as I say.” The pun slipped out before he could stop it, and he cursed Ellie in his head.

Leela just blinked at him. Like it hadn’t even occurred to her. And maybe it hadn’t. Because, later that night, without a word, she passed him a little silver digital camera and said he spent more time with Maya than she did.

Joel had caught her elbow before she could walk away. His voice came out quieter than he meant it to as he told her, “You’re doin’ a great job at being her mom. It's not just me here.”

It didn’t help, not the way he expected to. She just nodded, scooped up Maya, and left the room.

That was the thing about Leela.

She didn’t believe it. She didn’t think she was in a position to care for another person. Like she was still caught somewhere in between—stuck in the space between whatever hell had given her Maya and the life she was trying to build around her.

She didn’t even have to say it. Joel saw it.

He saw it in the way she tried. The way she forced herself to be soft, forced herself to hold Maya just right, forced herself to soothe her, talk to her, to touch her like it was second nature instead of something she had to teach herself from scratch. It was in the way she hesitated when Maya reached for her like she wasn’t sure she deserved to be needed. It was in the way she lingered outside the nursery door some nights, just standing there, like she was working up the nerve to go inside.

It wasn’t easy for her. But she tried. Joel marvelled at that, her patience despite whatever tormented her. And yeah, progress was slow, but it was there.

Joel’s boots scuffed against the freshly washed mat at the foot of the stairs—he’d done that himself, thanks for fuckin’ noticing—as he made his way to the kitchen. Leela was crouched in front of the oven, arms wrapped around her shins, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth.

He leaned against the doorframe, smirking. “Somethin’ wrong, or you just real interested in watchin’ bread bake?”

He barely had time to brace himself before the scent hit him—sweet and sugary, with a crispness that wasn’t quite like bread or cake, something lighter, airier.

Leela still didn’t look up. Whatever was in that oven had its hooks in her.

Joel pushed off the doorframe and stepped closer, bending just enough to peer in. White. Puffy. Looked like a cloud. “The fuck is that?”

“Pavlova.” Her voice was muffled against her knees.

He squinted at it. “Uh-huh. The fuck is that?”

She exhaled, shifting just enough to glance at him. “For Eton mess.”

Joel lifted a brow. “You just sayin’ words at me now, smartass?”

She huffed a quiet laugh, but there was something in her posture—the way she kept her nose tucked between her knees, fingers lightly gripping her calves. She was nervous.

“It’s meringue,” she admitted lowly, like she didn’t want to say it too loud in case that made it collapse in the oven. “It’s delicate. Needs to set just right.”

Joel straightened, rubbing at his jaw. “So it’s just sugar?”

Her mouth twitched the closest thing to a smile she could manage while preoccupied. “And egg whites.”

“Ah, so fancy sugar.”

“Trust me, you'll love it.”

He snorted, ready to argue—but then Maya leaned in against his chest, watching them with big, curious eyes, her tiny hands reaching for the oven knobs. She was getting handsier every day.

Leela finally turned, and for the first time, she really saw Maya, and took her in—the tiny white dress, the soft embroidery, the way her dark eyes blinked down at her with nothing but unfiltered, open-mouthed joy. No fear. No hesitation. Just love for her mama, plain and easy.

And just like that, Leela’s whole face softened. Melted, almost.

“Oh, Maya,” she breathed, reaching for her. “You look so pretty. Aw, my sweetheart.”

She scooped the baby out of his arms without a second thought, cradling her close, and tucking her against her shoulder. Her fingers ran through the fine baby hair at the nape of Maya’s neck, gentle, reverent, like she was trying to memorize her.

Then, before Joel even knew what was happening, she leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Maya’s forehead.

Not him. Oh, never him. But he felt it anyway. It relaxed in his chest, warm and unwanted, curling into the space he’d been trying real damn hard to keep empty. Like a ghost of something he wasn’t allowed to want.

He forced himself to look away, exhaling through his nose, adjusting his stance like that might shake the feeling off. It didn’t. Because the truth was—he’d thought about it. Too much. Too often.

The way she tilted her chin when she looked at him, how her mouth softened when she spoke to Maya, the bare curve of her throat when she laughed—all of it had lodged itself in his head, taken up space like it belonged there. And the worst of it?

He’d imagined it. His own mouth against hers. Slow and deep, catching the breath between her words, pulling that softness into him, feeling the curve of her spine, the softness of her hair twisted into his fingers.

And it was fucking ridiculous. But it didn’t stop him from thinking about it. Didn’t stop the way his gaze snagged on the spot where her lips had just been, where his had been too—because yeah, he’d kissed that exact place on Maya’s cheek before. More than once.

That was different, though. Right? Had to be.

His hands flexed at his sides, restless, needing something to do. He settled on the island, finally taking in what was right in front of him.

And, Jesus. Five trays. At least.

Stacked and spread out across the counter, gleaming under the low kitchen lights. There was no rhyme or reason to it—roast lamb chops, some kind of stewed eggplant, rice flecked with peanuts and saffron, a whole mess of things he didn’t recognize.

Still, she was gonna lose her goddamn mind. Not because Leela had transcended her at her own game—but because she’d cooked her own birthday dinner. Like she didn’t know how to sit still, even for that, or that she couldn’t let people do for her the way she did for them.

Joel shook his head, dragging a hand down his beard. One of those things. Something about Leela that made sense and didn’t, all at once.

“I’m going to go get dressed before Maria gets here,” she said, finally pulling his attention back to her.

Then, casually, like it was nothing, like it didn’t send something tight curling in his gut, she added, “I laid something out for you, too. If you'd like to wear something nice.”

And then she was gone, disappearing down the foyer, leaving Joel standing there, staring after her like an idiot. Like a man in deeper than he had any right to be.

X

Joel had thought long and hard about what to get Leela for her thirtieth, and it had damn near driven him mad.

He wasn’t good at gifts. He wasn’t good at a lot of things, really—at knowing what people wanted, at knowing how to give without feeling like he was handing over pieces of himself. It felt impossible.

What the hell do you give someone who already has everything—even in the goddamn apocalypse?

Leela didn’t need anything. She had a home, one of the nicer, better-built ones, passed down to her like an heirloom. She had clothes, ones she patched up herself, sewn with delicate little stitches. She had music, kept safe on a high shelf, and books stacked in neat piles by the fireplace. She had cars, she had diamonds just sitting up there in a closet, and she even had her own plants thriving.

She had all that and more. So, yeah. He’d considered it all. Clothes. Music. Books. Lights. Pictures. A cat, even. Something that meant something. Significant.

And then, out on patrol, he’d found it.

A cherry tree. Growing wild, untamed, tucked between dense brush and the gnarled twist of maple roots. Dark fruit hanging low, the weight of them bending the branches, like they were waiting for him.

At first, he’d strolled right past it. Just a tree. Just cherries.

And then he’d stopped, brows furrowed. He’d remembered the way she wove them into her life. The careful little cherry embroideries, the tiny red-painted symbols on her sugar and salt tubs, the delicate pattern etched everywhere.

She loved them. Enough to keep them close. Enough to mark them as hers. And so, like a damn fool, he’d kneeled and plucked them.

In a few hours, he'd picked the whole thicket clean. He’d stuffed them into his jacket pockets, let them fill the space in his backpack, red staining the fabric, fingers sticky and sweet with their juice.

It had felt right at the time. He'd felt so proud of himself. She was going to love the shit out of this.

Now, standing by the front door, having Tommy and Maria say that they'd managed to acquire a goddamn Polaroid camera for her—yellowed with age, probably out of photo paper but still lasting—Joel felt like a massive fucking idiot.

At least their gift had value. At least it wasn’t perishable. But, she already has a digital camera, his conscience reasoned with him. Sure, but especially to her, it was the thought that counted. She wouldn't be out here, letting Joel borrow cashmere sweaters and luxury denim on the fly.

And then Ellie had showed off her gift—another layer of shit over his confidence—a handmade journal, stitched together with patience and effort, thick pages bound in soft, timeworn leather. Thoughtful. Meaningful. Her best friend, Dina, definitely had a hand in this. Ellie didn't have the patience to craft something this considerate.

And Joel was the one to talk—well, Joel had a box of cherries. Fucking cherries. Cherries he’d spent hours picking, his fingers raw, his back aching for two days straight. Cherries he’d plucked in pairs, stems still intact, trying to mimic the little embroidered ones she stitched into her life. He’d thought he was being thoughtful. Now, how the fuck was he supposed to compete with journals and cameras?

So he did what any man with an ounce of self-preservation would do.

He pretended they didn’t exist. Let them sit out on the little porch shelf where he’d left them, where he figured he’d grab them when the time was right. Except now, the time wasn’t right. Never will be. And he’d just let them sit there forever, let the cold creep into them, let them wrinkle and rot and become another thing he never got around to.

Better to just let everyone think he was a callous, inconsiderate bastard than actually admit he’d put his heart into something. Easier that way.

As Maria and Ellie jogged upstairs, loud and chattering, off to greet the birthday girl and Maya, Joel made his way into the kitchen—only to get cornered by Tommy’s knowing look. That damn eyebrow, he got that from their dad.

Joel ignored him. Busied himself with laying foil over that one lonely tray, the rhythm of his hands methodical, grounding. It wasn’t until Tommy leaned against the counter, arms folded, voice low and amused, that he finally spoke.

“I knew you hated sappy shit, big brother, but this is a new low.”

Joel exhaled slowly, flattening the foil more aggressively than necessary. “Not now, Tommy.”

“Not now,” Tommy mimicked in a baritone, shaking his head with a chuckle. “You couldn’t even get her somethin’ small? The girl was ready to let you move in, for cryin' out loud.”

Joel didn’t answer.

“Hell, Maya, at least?”

That one stung. He didn’t know why. And somehow, the thought of that bothered him more than the idea of disappointing Leela. Maybe because he could take being an asshole to her. Could brush it off, let her think he was callous, numb. That was easy, safe.

But Maya? She was just a baby. His little girl. This tiny thing with nothing in the world except her mother, who carried all the pain and all the worry, while Joel sat on his hands and pretended like he wasn’t thinking about them more than he should.

He pressed down on the foil harder, smoothing out creases that weren’t there. He could feel Tommy watching him, expectant, waiting.

“Right,” Tommy sighed, knowing what to expect. “I’m gonna go drain the lizard.”

He scowled, finally looking up. “That's some real dignified talk. Better tone it down at dinner.”

His brother just grinned with a playful salute, disappearing down the hall.

Joel stomped his way into the dining room, fists stuffed into his pockets. Not because he knew what the hell he was even looking for, but because he had to move. The ache in his chest was getting to be too much, and if he sat with it any longer, he might actually have to acknowledge it.

Leela had transformed the shit out of this dining room, and Joel took it all in. Candles flickered across the table, their golden light pooling over the wood, catching on the edges of intricate ceramic plates, and warming the dark corners of the room. The food that Leela had slaved away to make was spread out, lavish, rich, the kind of meal that had no business existing in a world that had already ended. As if this little town, this home, was untouched by the decay beyond its walls.

The blackened, humungous yard outside those slightly gaumed French windows—he ought to get around to that this week—was paved with a clean sheet of snow, and it was clear what lay under it. A manifold garden of some sort, from the cursive-letter markers sticking out from the ice. And a pond, maybe.

It was all so soft. Painstaking. Conscious. Like everything Leela touched.

A sudden thrum of light, breathless, girlish laughter echoed from upstairs, Ellie's the most rambunctious of the lot, obviously having fun with that new camera.

“Maya, smile...” Then later, “Ha-ha, she's got no fuckin' teeth!”

It flushed a small smile of his own at the sound. He hadn’t heard that kind of laughter in years. Not since Sarah. Not since the days when she and her friends had holed up in her room, voices tumbling through the walls, their shrill giggles slipping into his evenings, melding with his exhaustion, belonging there, like a part of his house itself.

Back then, he’d barely noticed it. In fact, he'd wanted them to shut the hell up so he could focus on paperwork. He’d never thought to savour it. And now? Now it pressed against the deepest crevices in him, brittle and aching, something he couldn’t touch without it breaking apart in his hands. It still hurt like hell.

And then, as dinner time neared, the big room filled out—oh, Joel hadn't meant to look. Hadn’t meant to let his eyes linger that way. Fuck, he forgot how Leela was going to be tonight.

No. He dragged his eyes from her, yet the image remained seared into his head.

But there she was, standing at the far end of the room, completely different and exactly the same.

That velvet dress—Jesus Christ, he needed air.

He’d known it’d be trouble the second he saw it. It fit too well, soft in places he shouldn’t be noticing, snug over her hips, floating around her legs bare, smooth, unfairly right there. Her usual braid was pulled back tight, but a few strands had already come loose, slipping against her cheek, catching at her collarbone, and softening her face. A thin strand of pearls nestled at her neck—simple, understated. Like she was one of those lunching ladies in country clubs, lugging their crocodile leather bags, and clutching their pearls. Fucking adorable now that it registered, she was probably dressed like what she'd seen her mother wear back then.

And in another life, a girl like her would’ve walked right past a man like him. Would’ve mistaken him for a valet. Would’ve never even looked at him. He should be thanking his stars that the world went to shit and brought him her.

Joel clenched his jaw, forced his gaze away, and focused on the room instead. Maya, the real star of the show, was being passed off between the rest like a pack of smokes, her little chubby arms reaching, everyone cooing, fussing over her pretty, new dress.

Everywhere except. Leela...

She had drifted toward the bar cart at the edge of the room, breaking out the good stuff. He glimpsed the label—vintage Pinot Noir, knotty French scramble and expensive as hell. Didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except that somehow, without even thinking, he’d ended up standing beside her.

And when she looked up—she smiled at him. Small, a little shy, the kind of smile that said she was nervous for no reason at all.

“Hi, Joel.” Her hand smoothed down her stomach as if flattening that cute little belly bulge, fixing something that didn’t need fixing. “Do I look okay?” she murmured, hesitant. “Is it too much? It is, isn't it?”

Too much? For him, fuck yes. Fine? Fine wasn’t even in the same goddamn ballpark.

So, he opened his mouth. Closed it. Nothing.

“No.” A beat. “You…”

Nothing again. He was drawing a blank. The words dried up before they even had the chance to form, like dust in his mouth.

It wasn’t like he was trying to be poetic about it, but there was nothing in his head that felt close to good enough. No simple word, no half-mumbled compliment that could measure up to her tonight.

Leela stood in front of him, shifting slightly, looking down, constantly pressing her palm over her stomach like she was suddenly self-conscious. She was always incredible. She always knew her way around things. That wasn’t news.

But tonight, she just...—his jaw tightened. He wasn’t even gonna let himself finish that thought. His throat worked as he opened his mouth again, ready to force something out, anything—

“God, this smells fucking delicious!” Ellie’s voice tore through the moment, shattering it.

Leela startled slightly, before blinking, exhaling a soft laugh, and looking away. And just like that, the moment was gone.

The next thing he knew, everyone had settled in, chairs scraping against the wood, good wine flowing, voices overlapping, the liquor kicking in, laughter beginning. The candlelight flickered against the dishes, the soft golden glow catching on deep greens, bright reds, and the spread of food that looked like something out of a damn painting.

Joel wasn’t even sure where to start, but Ellie had no such problem. She was going to town, her plate stacked high, fork stabbing into rice and lamb and eggplant, making a goddamn mess of herself.

Maya sat in her lap, eyes wide, fists curled into her mouth, watching every movement with a sort of blank curiosity, like she was studying some unknown species.

Joel almost smirked. Baby girl had better instincts than most.

Meanwhile, Maria was not having it. She sat back in her chair, arms folded, watching Leela with something sharp in her gaze.

“Why would you cook your own birthday dinner? I told you to let me handle it.”

Leela shrugged, reaching for Joel’s plate once more. He barely had time to grab his plate back before she was scooping more roast potatoes onto it. Christ. At this rate, she was gonna have him fattened up like a prize hog by the end of the night.

“I had to say thanks to all of you somehow,” Leela murmured, matter-of-fact like it truly was that simple. Like, it wasn’t the most Leela thing in the world. “For everything you did for Maya and me. Thank you.”

Maria sighed, shaking her head, but before she could say anything, Tommy beat her to it.

“Honey, there’s no thanks between family. You just take it and be happy about it.” His laugh was muffled by a sip of his wine.

Leela, in the middle of reaching for another serving spoon, paused. And Joel saw it—the way she responded. It was subtle. Not a gasp, not anything dramatic, but something small. The way her lips parted, just slightly, like she wasn’t sure if she should smile like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to. He let his own smile grace his face as he did.

Before he could think on it too much, he caught movement from the corner of his eye—Leela, still standing, still serving, still doing everything but eating.

Joel set down his glass with purpose.

“Sit down.” His voice was low, and firm, leaving no room for argument as he grabbed the spoon from her hand and dropped it onto a tray. “Eat. They're grown-ups, they can serve themselves.”

Leela sighed and sat. Finally. “Okay.”

Joel didn’t give her much choice, pressing the chair in behind her knees, setting her plate in front of her like it was law. He caught the flicker of hesitation, the way she lingered as if she had something else to do, something else to fix. But there was nothing left. The food was hot, everyone was fed, and she was out of excuses.

He scooped a little of everything onto her plate, careful not to overdo it, careful to leave out the eggplant. He didn’t know when he’d learned that about her, just that he had. And she didn’t object, just picked at what landed in front of her, moving the food around with her fork. She didn’t eat right away, not really.

Maria, Tommy, Ellie, and Joel had a rhythm. They talked over each other, ribbed each other, passed stories back and forth like well-worn cards, easy and unthinking. They'd raised a toast to the birthday girl, Maya's new dress, this astonishing dinner, Joel smiling for once—it felt… safe. Loud, but not in a way that grated. Just lived-in.

He wasn’t sure what she thought of all this. Maybe it was too much, too loud, too different from what she was used to.

Especially when Tommy, halfway through a sip of whiskey, nearly choked and gawked at her. "Wait, wait—back up. You didn't know turnin’ thirty was a big deal?"

Leela blinked, clearly lost. "Why would it be? It’s just… a number."

Tommy clutched his chest like she’d stabbed him. "Oh, Jesus. Joel, tell her. Tell her what happens when you turn thirty."

Joel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glancing at her, smirking. "Your knees start makin’ noises you ain’t never heard before. The hangovers last three to five business days. And suddenly—" he jabbed a finger at Tommy, "—this clown starts talkin’ about cholesterol like it’s the Grim Reaper."

Tommy pointed back at him, indignant. "It is the Grim Reaper! You think I like checkin’ my blood pressure for fun?"

Leela stared between them, unimpressed. "So, you’re telling me turning thirty means getting old and miserable?"

Joel shrugged. "Pretty much."

Tommy raised his glass. "Welcome to the club, darlin’. It’s all downhill from here."

Leela huffed a small laugh, shaking her head, but Joel could feel her eyes on him. Not in an obvious way—Leela wasn’t like that. But he could tell. The way she always tucked herself into the background, listening instead of talking, watching instead of stepping in.

Like she was still trying to figure out how all of this worked. How they worked. And Ellie, for one, was having the time of her life.

She jabbed a finger at Joel, like she was about to make some grand accusation. "I swear, it’s like clockwork! Dude’s got, like, five phrases in rotation. Seriously, he's some old Western cowboy stuck in a fucking time loop. It’s insane."

Joel exhaled sharply, already tired. “The hell are you talkin’ about, girl?”

Maria smirked, leaning in like she knew exactly where this was going. “Go on, let’s hear it.”

“That one didn't count. You ready? Okay, let's go.” Ellie straightened in her chair, cleared her throat dramatically, and then—“‘Ain’t my first rodeo.’”

Tommy barked a laugh. Maria made a face that said, damn, that was actually a good one. Joel just shook his head, but he didn’t argue.

Ellie pushed on with that wicked smirk. “‘Coulda told you that one.’”

That got Maria and Tommy good, they were already in fits. Joel sighed, reaching for his glass. Meanwhile, Leela pressed her lips together to keep from smiling.

“See? See?” Ellie counted on her fingers, riding the high. “‘You ain't gonna like the answer.’ Huh, Tommy?”

Tommy wiped at his mouth, shoulders shaking. “Shit.”

Joel took a drink, resisting the urge to bang his head against the table. That one was sadly dead on.

Joel scoffed, shaking his head, but Tommy only leaned forward, grinning wide. “Oh, oh, what about ‘Never said I was a good man’?”

Ellie, inspired, went for the kill. “Right, yes! And my personal favourite, ‘Shit’s fucked,’ obviously.”

That one did it.

Maria actually turned away, full-on wheezing hard. Tommy clapped a hand on the table, throwing his head back to roar out a laugh.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, reaching for his whiskey. “Table’s turned against me.”

He flicked his gaze to Leela, watching her reaction—like maybe if she thought it was funny, it would be worth the humiliation.

She met his eyes over the rim of her glass, her expression unreadable for a beat, then—slowly, her lips curved. She took a sip of her water like she was trying to hide it, but he caught the way her eyes softened, the way she tucked her chin slightly, almost sheepish.

Leela finally spoke, her voice a soft, amused murmur. “I think they just know you too well, Joel. It's nice.”

Joel paused mid-sip, watching her as she turned back to her plate, finally taking a bite.

It was a simple thing, but the words sat with him. It wasn’t just that they were teasing him. It was the fact that she was here, part of it, taking it in, letting herself be in this moment. He realized then—that Leela had spent so much time holding herself apart, hovering at the edges of things, always wary. Not tonight.

Joel exhaled, shaking his head like he wasn’t entertained, even though the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Whole lotta talk for a bunch of ingrates,” he muttered. “Maybe I oughta keep my words to myself. See how y’all fare without my wisdom.”

“Your wisdom? Are you fucking kidding?” Maria scoffed, still wiping at her eyes. “Joel, the day we take life advice from you—”

“Will be the day the world actually ends,” Tommy finished, reaching for his drink. “Again.”

Ellie snorted, still looking way too pleased with herself. “Go on, old man. Say something profound.”

Joel didn’t dignify that with an answer, just took another sip of whiskey, glancing at Maya on Ellie's lap. That same warmth ravaged him for a moment.

But when he looked to his side again, his eyes found Leela. She wasn’t laughing like the rest of them—not outright. No sharp, teasing glances, no knee-slapping or head-shaking.

Just that same small, quiet smile, the kind that broke his fucking heart in two.

He wasn’t sure how long they looked at each other, just that he noticed how the candlelight softened her features, how her fingers smoothed over the rim of her glass absentmindedly, how her braid had loosened slightly throughout the night, one long stray wisp of hair curling by her shoulder. God, she took his breath away.

And then he noticed the table. Maria. Tommy. Even Ellie. Side-eying and smirking like damn fools.

Joel scowled, bracing himself. “What now?”

“Not a damn thing,” Tommy said, though the way he fought back a grin suggested otherwise.

Ellie waggled her brows. “Oh, no, you just—look really wise right now.”

Joel fought the urge to groan, letting his head tip back slightly. “No, really. Thank you.”

Leela shifted, clearing her throat, poking at her plate like she wanted to disappear into it.

Tommy looked like he had more to say, something locked and loaded, but before he could get it out, across the table, Maya started to fuss, her hands curling and uncurling toward the plates on the table, making that small, needy noise. Baby girl was the centre of attention, as always. She had a way of pulling eyes to her without even trying like the whole world naturally revolved around her.

But the moment Maria chimed in, her voice carrying easily over the table—“Maya, honey”—that was when it happened.

Her eyes snapped up, searching the table with a determination far too strong for someone so small. Her fingers flexed, hands opening and closing in that telltale way, reaching, waiting—and then Maria tried something else, something that shouldn’t have stood out, except—

“You wanna say hi to Joel?”

The second it left her mouth, Maya’s little head swivelled, locking onto him with that same urgency, that same expectation. Maya made a soft, almost questioning noise, like she was waiting for something, her arm stretching further, fingers still curling and uncurling.

He didn’t even think about it. Didn’t think about how much she knew him now. How his name meant something to her, how she was already learning that when she reached, he would be there.

“Ugh. But I just got you,” Ellie clucked her tongue, bouncing Maya slightly. “Can’t believe this, you're straight-up ditching me for a fogey. Breaking my heart, kid.”

“Guess she's just sick of you, kid,” Joel teased.

“Shut up.”

Maya squirmed, unsatisfied, her arm stretching further. Then came that stubborn cry, the kind Joel had long since learned to recognize—the warning before real tears, before she got herself all worked up.

And, well, he had tried to resist it before. Tried to tell himself to let her be, that she needed to settle on her own, that he wasn’t supposed to get her used to always having him right there. Didn’t matter one fucking bit. The minute those eyes got glassy, he was already reaching across the table.

"C'mere, baby girl," he muttered, hands steady as he lifted her from Ellie’s grasp. “There you go. Hi.”

She melted against him instantly, her warm little body pressing into his chest, a fist curling into the fabric of his shirt. He barely had time to adjust before she shoved both hands into her mouth, hiding that big, gummy grin like she was suddenly shy.

He chucked her chin. "Happy now?"

Maya let out a tiny giggle, then dropped her head forward against his shoulder, burrowing in, pressing her face into his collar like she wanted to disappear inside him.

"Yeah, that tracks," Ellie said, smirking. "Guess she just likes dinosaurs."

Joel only fed the fire. "I think it's my rugged good looks."

That drew out a few annoyed groans around him.

Ellie snickered. "Not that she’s got much to compare to, though.”

It was a silly joke. A throwaway line. She didn't know any better.

But Joel felt it shift the air at the table, quiet but undeniable, like the slow pull of a storm rolling in.

Leela’s grip on her fork tightened, her knuckles paling around the metal. It was barely a reaction. Just the barest pause. A slow blink, calculated and measured, like she was pushing something down, pressing it deep, locking it behind her ribs before it could surface.

But Joel caught it. He wasn’t sure what it was—not exactly. He only knew the way it felt. The way a sharp sense of awareness dug into the back of his skull, the way his chest clenched, like something inside him had just brushed against a wound he hadn’t known was there.

Maria noticed, too. She shot Ellie a look. Just a quick, subtle thing, but full of meaning.

Ellie’s chewing slowed, the realization dawning. "Shit. Sorry," she muttered, suddenly fascinated with her plate. “I'm so sorry, Leela. I wasn’t trying to—”

Leela’s voice was too even, barely managing the dismissive smile. “It’s alright, Ellie. It's nothing.”

It wasn’t. She was practically forcing this lie out of her mouth.

She pushed her chair back. “I’ll go... um, be right back.”

Joel caught the way she moved—not hurried, not frantic, just a little too controlled, like she was forcing herself not to make it obvious that she needed to get out of there.

He should’ve stood. Should’ve gone after her, said something, done something.

Maria was already moving. “Let me check on her,” she said softly, chair scraping against the floor as she followed Leela through the kitchen doors.

Joel exhaled, slow through his nose.

The warmth of the meal, the easy hum of conversation—it all dissipated like heat off an open plate, leaving only the scrape of utensils, the occasional clink of glass. The space Leela left behind stretched thin, like a too-wide gap in a picket fence.

Ellie exhaled, pressing the heel of her palm against her forehead. “I really wasn’t trying to… god, I have such a big fucking—”

Joel adjusted Maya in his arms who was busy combing fleece off the expensive cashmere on his chest. “Ain’t your fault, kid. 'S’all right. Just a touchy subject.”

He didn’t look at her when he said it. Just kept his eyes on the rim of his whiskey glass, watching the candlelight slice through the amber liquid.

Because it was the truth. It wasn’t Ellie’s fault. That didn’t mean he wasn’t wishing he could take back that moment, wipe it clean. Like smudging out a scuff on a wood floor—pretending it had never been there at all.

Ellie nodded, but her fork just scraped uselessly at the plate, pushing food around in slow, absent-minded circles. She curled in on herself, shoulders drawn tight.

Tommy cleared his throat, voice pushing for something lighter. “Think it’s time we brought out dessert, huh? Said it was some trifle or somethin’.”

The words hovered, waiting for someone to catch onto them, and keep the momentum going. But no one did.

Joel didn’t answer either. He just tipped his whiskey back, letting the burn roll slow down his throat.

“Ah, what the hell,” Tommy muttered, scratching at his jaw.

Joel barely registered it. His mind wasn’t here. It was behind that door, past the threshold of the kitchen, where Maria had gone.

He should’ve been the one to follow. But Maria knew better. Knew when to step in, when to let someone walk away without pressing.

And Joel—Joel just sat there, gripping his glass too tight, holding Maya closer, listening to the faint rattle of silverware, the flicker of candlelight, the distant creak of the floorboards in the kitchen.

The moment had died out. They just hadn’t called it yet.

X

Maya's nursery looked different now.

It used to be dim and quiet, a place half-lived in, half-abandoned—just a room with a crib shoved into it, like it didn’t belong there. Like she didn’t belong there.

Now, it felt like a home. A place meant for a child to grow. Soft, muted green stretched across the walls, warm in the glow of the low bedside lamp. Shelves lined with neatly folded onesies and tiny socks, stuffed animals tucked into corners like silent sentries. The window bench had been cleared of dust and laid out with a fresh quilt, facing the snowy street below—facing his house.

Joel rocked on his heels, shifting Maya higher in his arms as the low murmur of voices drifted up from downstairs. Goodbyes being said. Chairs scraping back. The door cracking open to the cool night air.

He should go. He knew that.

But hell, it was barely ten. He never left before Leela fell asleep—not until he was sure she was actually going to sleep. And that wasn’t for another couple of hours, at least.

Not that he was leaving anytime soon. Not unless he figured out a way to pry this little troublemaker off him.

Maya wasn’t having it.

He’d tried everything—rocking, pacing, humming low in his throat—but she refused to close those pretty eyes, just kept watching him, Her fingers patted at his chest, curling into his shirt. Then she'd reach up, clumsy and determined, fingers smushing against his nose, his cheek, his scruff.

Joel exhaled, shifting her slightly in his arms. "What's the matter, sweetheart?"

Maya blinked up at him, all big, dark eyes and stubborn little fists. He knew how much she loved conversing with him, even if it seemed deranged to talk to a fucking infant.

"You gonna let me put you down, or you plannin’ to keep me hostage all night?"

Maya made a breathy 'o' up at him, mouth parting in a wide, drooly grin. Like that would get her off the hook.

Joel snorted. "Yeah, that so?"

Another coo, this one higher-pitched, like she had a whole argument ready.

He shook his head, tired but amused. "Mhm. I'm convinced."

Joel sighed, lifting her up so they were at eye level, holding her by the armpits. Her legs kicked in the air, her chubby fists went straight to her mouth, and she tilted her head back, distracted by the warm glow of the nursery lights.

Too big. She was growing too damn fast.

He felt it in the way she relaxed against him now, her body stretching longer, heavier. Felt it in the way her head fit differently in the crook of his neck, in the way her fingers, once barely able to grasp his thumb, now had a grip strong enough to tug at his shirt.

It was frustrating. Fucking unfair. She'd only been in the world for a few weeks, and just when she was starting to fit perfectly in his arms, she was already growing out of them.

Joel swallowed thickly, staring at the soft roundness of her cheeks, the dark lashes fluttering against her skin. His fingers traced the slope of her back, feeling the tiny, steady rise and fall of her breath. How can you miss something that was not yet lost?

A lump pressed against his throat.

“You know I love you so goddamn much, right?”

It wasn’t much more than a whisper. A thought barely forced out past his lips. And yet—it felt so final. How long until he heard it back from her? Another year? Two years? Would he still be around when she said it to him?

Joel clenched his jaw, sighing. Hard as hell, saying it out loud. Felt damn near impossible, like something fragile, like something that wasn’t his to admit. Like if he said it too much, too often, he might have to face what it really meant. That he’d already taken responsibility for her, or if anything were to happen to her—

Maya let out a breathy giggle, legs kicking, fingers smacking against his cheek.

Joel blinked, barely catching himself before he smiled.

When he pulled her closer, she wriggled against him, pressing her small, warm face to his, her tiny palms patting at his chin, his nose, his temple. Soft puffs of air landed against his skin, clumsy, open-mouthed, like her own sloppy, little version of a kiss.

He let out a slow breath, shaking his head. This was really all he needed in whatever was left of his life. It seemed too easy to make it enough.

“Fine, you win this time,” he muttered, voice rough, thick.

Maya gurgled against his cheek, cooing, like she understood his plight.

He descended the stairs slowly, careful not to jostle Maya too much, hoping the rhythm might finally lull her to sleep. Her head lolled against his shoulder, tiny fingers curled into his collar again, but she was still awake, just blinking wide-eyed at the world.

Joel paused at the landing when he caught voices near the door—Ellie and Leela, still lingering. A strange sight, to be honest.

“Look, I really messed up back there and—” Ellie started, arms tight around herself, like she was bracing for impact.

Leela didn’t let her finish. Instead, she pressed something into Ellie’s palm—a tightly rolled set of charts. “Joel told me you love astronomy,” she said simply. “These belonged to my mother once. She was like you, too.” A beat. “They should go to someone who’ll actually use them.”

Joel shifted against the railing, watching as Ellie unrolled the top just enough to glimpse the faded celestial maps inside—one for each month, constellations inked in delicate, ghostly lines.

Her breath hitched. “Holy shit.”

Leela blinked. “Is that a good 'holy shit' or—”

Ellie nearly lunged forward—almost, but not quite. She caught herself, scratching the back of her head instead, a grin breaking through like she couldn’t hold it back. “Best fucking holy shit. Thank you.”

For a moment, she just held the maps, careful, reverent, like something fragile. Then she exhaled, shaking her head with a laugh—the kid really couldn’t believe her luck. “This is so sick. I’m gonna—I don’t even know, but it’s gonna be fucking awesome.” She clutched the charts to her chest, voice lighter than it had been all night. “Thanks, Leela. Really.”

Leela gave a slow nod, like she wasn’t quite sure what to do with the gratitude. She hesitated, then tested out a cautious, “Um. Have... fun.”

Ellie barely caught any of that. She whooped into the night as she left, the charts still hugged close. Oh, Joel was definitely not going to hear the end of this for at least a month.

Leela lingered in the doorway, lips parted, watching Ellie disappear down the street. Then, almost like she didn’t quite believe what had just happened, she slowly shut the door, pressing her back against it. Her hands lifted, covering her face, fingers threading through her hair. A breathy laugh escaped her—soft, disbelieving.

Joel caught the tail end of it, the faint curve of her smile before she tucked it away. Small. Quiet. Like she didn’t quite know what to do with it.

And hell, if that didn’t do something to him.

“I take it you enjoyed dinner then,” he said, his voice rough with amusement.

Leela startled slightly and hadn’t realized he was still there. Her eyes flicked first to Maya, softening instinctively before settling on him. The edges of that smile lingered—that wasn’t quite ready to leave yet.

She stepped closer, hand brushing over Maya’s back. “Little troublemaker fighting sleep again?”

Maya let out a big, sleepy yawn, eyes drooping but still resisting, gripping the fabric of Joel’s shirt like she could anchor herself awake. Stubborn baby girl.

Joel huffed, shifting his hold on her. “Like she doesn’t even need it.”

Leela hummed, tracing slow, absentminded circles against the baby’s onesie. Joel expected her to say something, but when he glanced up, he found her watching him—something different in her gaze. A glint, teasing but warm, something playful in a way he hadn’t seen before. It softened him in places he wasn’t prepared for.

Then she took a step back, and before he could think too much about it, she reached above the shoe rack, retrieving something small and wooden. A box.

Joel tensed the second he saw it. Goddamnit. Should've buried that thing in the snow.

She bit back a smile, shaking the box near her ear. “So, um… Tommy found this on the porch shelf,” she mused. “Told me you went through a lot of trouble to get it.”

Joel clenched his jaw, exhaling hard through his nose. He knew exactly what Tommy had done—ran his mouth just enough to make sure Joel would have to sit through this whole damn thing.

Leela tipped her head, all exaggerated curiosity. “I wonder what it is.”

“Yeah, real mystery,” Joel muttered, walking past her like he could simply exit this situation.

Instead, he focused on Maya, carefully easing her onto the soft padding of the playmat. The thing was space-themed—little planets and stars dangling overhead, catching the dim glow of the living room. Her tiny fingers curled around a plush moon, legs kicking as she let out a gurgled sound of delight.

Joel let out a quiet breath. This was fine. He could watch her do that. Much easier than watching Leela.

But there was no avoiding it, not really. Not when she was already lowering herself onto the couch, patting the cushion beside her. “Come, sit.”

He hesitated, looking away. He could’ve bif goodnight, walked out the door, and left her to open the damn thing by herself. He could’ve avoided this whole moment, let it pass, let it go.

With a great, defeated sigh, he sank down beside her, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Leela carefully slid the lid open, and the ruby cherries sat there, dark and glistening, their juices staining every inch of the wood. The smell of them hit the air—ripe, sweet, unmistakable.

She sucked in a breath, quiet but sharp.

Joel pressed his lips together, fighting the urge to explain himself. That it was dumb. That it didn’t mean anything. That it was silly. That he’d done it because—hell, because. Because he wanted to see her smile for him. Because he wanted to leave some sort of a mark on her special day.

But he didn’t say any of that.

Instead, he cleared his throat. “Thought you liked ‘em. It's not much, but...” yeah, it was from his heart. And he went on with a gruff, “Happy birthday.”

Leela nodded with a gentle laugh, but she didn’t say anything at first. Just reached in, plucking one between her fingers, rolling it like she wanted to feel every dip and curve of it before finally slipping it past her lips.

Joel tried not to watch too closely. The way her lips curved around the fruit, the divots on that pillow-soft skin stretching, before her tongue darted out to catch the juice. His throat bobbed with a dry swallow. God, he was going to lose it.

“Mm,” she moaned, shaking her head. “This is wonderful, Joel. Thank you.” She held up a sudden finger as if lit up by an idea. “How about a blackforest cake?”

He winked. “Right on, darlin'.”

He reached for one, too, grinning, chewing in sync with her.

Then he caught the way she twirled the stem between her fingers, that amused little gleam returning in her eyes, and he knew exactly what she was about to do. Oh, come on. Right now?

Leela quickly popped the stem into her mouth, brows furrowed in concentration.

Joel smirked despite himself. Fine. They were doing this then.

He followed suit, slipping the stem between his lips, tongue working it in practised motions—an old skill, long-buried, but still easy enough to find. A long time ago, he’d done this a hundred times over, showing off for Sarah, besting Tommy every damn time.

Sure enough, when he held the knotted cherry stem between his teeth, he arched a brow, only slightly smug. “How ‘bout that?”

Leela let out a muffled laugh, sticking her tongue out to reveal hers. Looser, messier, but still knotted. “You’re way better.”

Joel huffed a small, satisfied sound, settling back against the couch. “Oh, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Wait for it.”

She cocked her head, intrigued, and he felt it then—her undivided attention settling warm against him. That expectant little gleam in her eye.

Well, hell. No turning back now. He worked his tongue around the stem again, shifting it between his teeth, coaxing it into another trick—one a little tougher, one he hadn’t pulled off in years. One wrong move, and he'd choke.

It took longer, and she was watching him too damn close, like she was trying to map every movement, every small shift in his jaw.

Then, finally, when he held it back out—the knot was gone.

Leela gasped, surprised, hands flying to her mouth. “How?”

Joel smirked, slow and deep, feeling a ridiculous amount of satisfaction at her reaction. He tapped his fingers against his knee. “Sworn to secrecy.” Then, just because he could, he added, “It’s a Miller thing.”

She laughed, warm and unguarded, shaking her head. “So dumb.”

Joel chuckled along with her, feeling ten pounds lighter at that sweet sound.

Leela, still grinning, tossed another cherry into her mouth. And then another. And another. Until her cheeks puffed up like a damn chipmunk, lips barely able to contain the burst of juice dribbling at the corner of her mouth.

Joel snickered at her, shaking his head. “Jesus, girl,” he muttered, reaching out without thinking. His thumb swiped slowly and easily at the corner of her lip, gathering the stray stain. “Slow down. It’s all yours.”

And that should’ve been it. The moment she pushed him away. But.

Leela didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just watched him. Not startled, not uncomfortable, not embarrassed. Just… watching. Chewing. Observing. Curious.

Her lips, still slick with juice, parted the smallest bit, like she might say something, but she didn’t. And neither did he.

But instead of pulling back—God help him—his gaze flickered down, just for a second, tracking the spot where his thumb had been. And before he even fully processed what he was doing, he brought it to his mouth, pressing the tip between his lips, tasting the cherry juice there.

A big fucking mistake.

Because it wasn’t just the cherry. It was her. All Leela and sweetness. He'd imagined moments like this for hours on end in his lonesome.

It was the heat of her skin, the warmth lingering on his fingertip. A trace of something softer beneath the tartness of the fruit. Something that made his breath go tight in his chest.

Leela inhaled, shallow and quiet.

See, Joel should’ve drawn off her. Should’ve laughed it off or said something—anything—to keep this from tipping too far. He shouldn’t have let it get this far.

Because for a second, just a second, he allowed himself to imagine it—let himself fucking want it. Joel wasn’t a man who let himself have much. Wasn’t the kind who asked for more than what was given, especially when life loved to take so much away from him. Sarah, his softness, his humanity.

But this? This, he wanted. He wanted it so bad.

Not just in passing, not just in a way he could ignore, but in a way that curled deep in his gut, low and slow. In a way that had him tilting forward before he could stop himself, his breath hitching ever so slightly, just as any man would attempting to her, his hands grounding against his knee like that might steady him, like that might make this less surreal.

Because she was right there. Close enough that he could see the flicker of amber light in her eyes, the crease between her eyes, the way her breath had changed, softened, like she’d been expecting this.

Maybe she had. And maybe that should’ve been enough to make him stop. Because, Jesus Christ, what the hell was he doing? What was he hoping to accomplish? Kiss her? Laugh? Maybe for once not leave this home feeling like a drop-in?

Leela was younger, cleverer, and healing. She was light, and he was nothing but a warm, dark, empty void pressing down on her, on this moment, on the air between them, threatened to swallow any hope of life.

She wasn’t flinching. Wasn’t moving away. But God, she should’ve.

She should've punched him square in the jaw, woken him up from whatever dream he was walking. She should’ve recoiled at the smell of whiskey on his breath, should’ve been weirded out that he’d even dared to lean in, that some old, beat-up man thought he had any goddamn right to touch something as brilliant as her.

Because that’s all he was, wasn’t he? Worthless. Worn down. Hands stained in more blood than he cared to admit. A hardass heart that refused to stop beating.

And she? She wasn’t for him. She was for someone who could meet her in the daylight, who didn’t have to carry every sin, every regret, every ounce of grief in their bones. Someone who hadn’t done the things he’d done.

Yet, something pushed him on. Told him to take that chance.

His breath came rough, unsteady. The space between them felt impossibly small, thinning with every heartbeat, every second, every goddamn pull of the air between them—

Except—just then—

Leela’s shoulders dropped with a slow, measured breath, and instead of leaning in, closing the last bit of space, she leaned away.

Her voice was a sigh, not scolding, not sharp. Just beaten. “Joel.”

It settled somewhere in his ribs, dull and heavy. The truth of it. That this had been a mistake. That she was kind enough, maybe even foolish enough, to let him down gently.

He didn’t pull back fast—he had a little more dignity than that. But he did pull back, gritting his jaw, clearing his throat, nodding once like that had been nothing, like he hadn’t just let himself be stupid, let himself slip into the foolish idea that he could have this, even for a second.

Because he wasn’t that man. He never had been.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and brittle. Joel could hear the soft tick of the clock in the next room, and the low hum of the wind against the windowpane, Maya's soft, sleepy puffs from the playmat. He could hear his own breathing, slower now, measured, because he had to make it so.

Leela stared down at her lap, at the way her hands twisted against each other. Her shoulders had drawn in, tightening like she was trying to make herself smaller, and he hated that—hated that he’d put that look on her face, that he’d made her feel like this.

He tried to work his voice, to apologize, tell her that he'd leave and never look her way again. Nothing came out. Because, ultimately, in doing so, he knew he stood to lose Maya, too. And he just couldn't let that happen.

But, when she finally spoke, her voice wasn’t accusing. It wasn’t sharp or angry. It was just… hollow. Blank. Terrifying.

“I’m rotting inside, Joel.” Her fingers curled, nails pressing into her palm. “I can’t do anything to stop it.”

Joel frowned, something uneasy stirring in his chest. He waited, but she didn’t look at him. Just kept staring at her hands like they held something, some mark or stain, only she could see.

“It’s a good thing Maya needs you more. I'm glad she has you.” She let out a small, breathless laugh—except it wasn’t really a laugh at all. “She's better off with you than me. You're good for her.”

A fit of unexpected anger rose in him—not at her, never at her. He wanted to tell he she was wrong. That Maya was hers. That no matter what she thought, no matter how deep she believed the 'rot' had gone, she wasn’t something Maya needed to be protected from.

“Any longer, and I’ll sicken her with me. She’s so small and pure… the softest part of me. And I can’t bear to even touch her. To feed her. To just be with her. I'm so afraid...” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, and then, quieter: “I think I might really kill her, Joel.”

Joel froze.

The words hit him like a stab to the abdomen, like a goddamn gunshot, something he wasn’t ready for but should’ve seen coming. He’d heard her say those words before, hadn’t he?

That night—Maya’s first bout of colic. He’d rushed up to her nursery, rubbing at her back, murmuring low nothings just to calm her down. The screaming had gone on for hours, splitting apart the thin walls, rattling through the house like something relentless and starving. When he'd hatefully asked her to pull herself together, blamed her for knowing nothing.

And Leela had been standing at the threshold, watching. Her hands limp at her sides. Hollowed out. She had whispered it then, too. I think I might kill her.

And back then, he had thought it was the average… exhaustion. Fear. That helpless kind of inadequacy that came with first-time mothers.

But that wasn’t it at all, was it?

No, this wasn’t about being unsure.

This was agony. That bitter edge, that raw, bleeding thing inside her. That feeling of being left to die in her own body. And she was still living in it, with that numbness within.

Joel swallowed hard, his pulse beating thick in his ears. “Leela,” he managed, rough and uneven. It was the first time he had ever said her name out loud, and it landed heavier than he knew how to carry.

She sniffled, fingers curling tighter into her palms.

“I disgust me,” she whispered. “I stain everything, I know this. I’d never forgive myself if I did it to you.”

He exhaled, slow and steady, because if he didn’t keep himself calm, if he didn’t keep himself grounded in this moment, he didn’t know what he’d do. What he’d say. He didn't trust his instincts anymore.

And Leela was still looking down, fingers twitching in her lap, like she could feel something crawling under her skin. If she dug her nails in deep enough, if she pressed hard enough, maybe she could carve out whatever filth she thought was still inside her.

Joel knew that feeling. The itch of it. The glare from his mind's eye.

He’d stood in front of a mirror after things he could never undo, scrubbing his hands raw, watching the way the clear blood seemed to seep deeper between his nailbed and fingertips, no matter how much water ran down the drain. But no, this wasn’t the same. Not even remotely.

Joel had earned his stains.

Leela had been made to bear hers.

The thought clawed at him, made his ribs feel too tight, his breath too shallow. Because she wasn’t talking in metaphors. Not really. Not the way he might have, not the way he sometimes felt it, an unbearable burden in his gut, an ache in his chest.

She was talking about it like it was real, like it was something rotting inside her body right now. Like it was fouling her up, stinking only to her.

Because it was. Because someone had done that to her.

He clenched his jaw, heat rising behind his ribs. He didn’t know how. Didn’t know when. Didn’t know the details, and Jesus, did he even want to? He'd lose his shit.

A part of him did. A part of him wanted to be the man he used to be, the man who wouldn’t ask questions, who would just take his rifle and hunt down whoever had put this look on her face, this disgust in her voice, this strife in her bones. If that was what she wanted...

He could still kill for her. He absolutely would, without hesitation. If she said it, he'd walk right out that door and make for the front gates. He could wipe those motherfuckers off the face of the earth, make them suffer, bleed, scream, and beg before he pulled the trigger. He'd done it before, to less violent people. Why not now? What were a few more bodies to him? Nothing but newer ghosts.

But really, what would that do for Leela? What would that change?

She had to wake up every morning in the body they left her with, haunted, festering. And worse—she had to live in the mind, unable to outrun the moments between the others, the life they had shattered.

She had to look at Maya every day and wonder if she was capable of being her mother. Wonder if she was capable of loving her, if she was capable of keeping her safe. How could she when couldn't even protect herself?

Joel wanted to tell her that she could. That she already did. But that wasn’t something his words would fix. Especially not his.

So he didn’t say it.

Didn’t say anything for a long time, just watched her, just took in the way her shoulders hunched, the way she trembled like the truth had broken something loose inside her, and now she couldn’t shove it back down.

His fingers twitched.

He wanted to touch her, wanted to ground her, but he knew better than to startle her. He was stupid, just not a fucking idiot. He knew the way the past could reach through time, could grab hold of you even when you were safe, even when you were far away from where it happened. And fuck, she was drowning in it, wasn’t she?

Drowning in memories she hadn’t spoken aloud.

He didn’t need to hear them to see them.

Because her eyes—those dark, gripping, hollowed-out eyes—were far away, looking at something else. Someone else.

A room. A face. Hands. A warning. A little help.

The moment he thought it, bile rose in his throat. He couldn’t know, not really. But he could imagine. And it made him fucking sick.

He knew, somehow, that she had spent months alone, trying to live past this, trying to bury it under silence, under time, under the thousand little ways she kept people at arm’s length.

Leela sniffled sharply, yanking herself back to the present, but she didn’t meet his gaze. Just wiped her nose with the back of her hand, her fingers curling inward again like she wanted to disappear into herself. Like she deserved to.

Joel wouldn’t let her.

Carefully—slowly—he reached forward, brushing the tips of his fingers against the back of her hand.

She flinched. A slight tremor. A barely-there shake in her breath. Fuck, it hurt him, too. That some part of her—some deep, instinctual part—still thought she had to brace herself for what might come next.

But she didn’t pull away.

He worked at her fingers, gentle, patient, until she let him unfold her hand from the tight, white-knuckled fist she had made. Her palm was damp, warm from being clenched for too long. There were crescent moon indents where her nails had pressed into her skin.

Without thinking, without hesitating, he laid his own hand over hers. Mangled beyond repair, scarred, spoiled, lost to time.

Leela finally looked up at him. Finally, he let him see her.

Her face was blotchy, her dark eyes rimmed red, lashes wet, and God, she had never looked more exhausted. More fragile. This girl, who could accomplish anything and everything, looked helpless.

And she didn’t believe him. Not a single thing he’d just said. Yeah, she was right not to.

Maybe he was stained. Maybe he was rotting, too. Maybe it was too late for him, too late for a man who had done what he’d done, lost what he’d lost, to be anything else.

But not for her. Never for her.

He brought her fingers to his lips, brushing them softly against her knuckles.

She made a noise—small, unsure and confused. But she didn’t pull away. God, she didn't pull away.

His grip tightened just slightly, cradling her hand in both of his now to brush another kiss, like it was a lifeline, like it was the only thing tethering him to this moment, to her. He let his forehead rest gently against hers, breathing slow, trying to keep himself from gripping too tight, from pulling too close.

"There's nothin’ left to stain or rot in me," he admitted. "Just a lot of space left for the two of you."

The words landed soft, like he hadn’t meant to say them aloud, like maybe he was trying to convince her that they were true.

And Joel—he knew what that felt like. To be left alone with it. To drown in it. To have no one there to pull you out of it. So he didn’t try to stop her. Didn’t try to fix what couldn’t be fixed. This time, he wasn't heading for the door.

All he did was stay.

Leela sucked in a breath, sharp and shallow, like she was trying to hold herself together, but Joel could already see it—she was already falling.

And he wasn’t about to let her hit the ground alone.

His fingers curled tighter around hers, his other hand coming up to the back of her head, his thumb brushing just barely along her hairline. He felt her shudder beneath his touch, felt the way her breath came uneven, quick and unsure.

Close enough that he could feel every tremor in her body, every sharp, shallow breath she took. But he didn’t shush her. Didn’t tell her to breathe. Didn’t whisper that it would be okay.

Because he wasn’t a goddamn liar.

And because this—this agony, this slow, rotting thing inside her—wasn’t something words could untangle. It wasn’t something she could be reassured out of, something she could be reasoned or comforted or willed away from.

It was in her bones. In her blood. It lived there, like a sickness that had no cure.

So what the hell could he say? What good would empty do?

All he had—all he could offer—was this. His hands around hers. His touch, light, present. The slow press of his forehead against hers, grounding, real, unmoving.

And he held her. Not tightly, not desperately—just enough.

Enough for her to know. Enough for her to feel, just for a second, what it was to be held and not taken.

To be seen and not used.

To be broken and not discarded.

Joel breathed out slowly, before pulling back just enough to see her. Leela didn’t move or speak, just watched him quietly. Hoping for something from him.

His palm lifted to touch her cheek. Not enough to startle, just enough to remind her he was still here. That he would be.

“Alright then, birthday girl,” he murmured. “I’ll put Maya to bed. See you in the morning.”

No reluctance. No more questions. No trying to make sense of whatever had just passed between them.

Because nothing had changed. And that was the point. Whatever had been said, whatever had happened—he wasn’t going anywhere.

Leela didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to. He caught the way her fingers curled into her palm gently like she was holding onto the warmth he’d left behind. There was a little curve that rested on the edge of her lips.

Joel didn’t look back as he left the room, didn’t linger in the doorway like he sometimes did. He just walked upstairs to Maya's quiet little corner of the world, enduring, sure, carrying her small weight against his chest.

Carefully, he lowered her into the crib, unfurling her fists from his collar. She stirred, a breathy sigh escaping her lips as she calmed into a deeper sleep.

Joel sighed, pressing his hands against the crib’s edge, but he didn’t move. He just stood there, staring down at her, at the impossible being that she was.

Warm, breathing, real. A perfect thing born from ruin.

Joel swallowed against the knot tightening in his throat. How the hell did something like her come from so much pain? From something that had swallowed her mother whole?

He didn’t know how it had happened. Didn’t know when he had stopped just watching from the outside and stepped into the mess of it. Didn’t know how someone like him—someone as stained, someone as wrecked—had ended up here, standing over something so goddamn perfect.

Nothing mattered because the truth was—he wouldn’t undo it. Wouldn’t take back a single second of this.

His breath ached with that same old, familiar twist as he reached down, brushing his fingers over Maya’s impossibly small hand.

She twitched, her lips parting slightly in sleep, and goddamn it—he felt it everywhere. Joel let a small grin pull at his lips as he curled his fingers around hers, feeling the faintest squeeze in return. Yeah, she was all his.

He sighed, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. Once. Then again. Then a third time, lingering, his lips brushing over her fine, downy hair, drinking in the warmth of her, the scent of her, the sheer, impossible realness of her.

No, nothing had changed.

But somehow, everything had.

X

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[sometimescharlolette]

𝐁𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐚𝐲𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧’𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞...

warning: some of the headcanons are +18 and explicit

a/n: hii, i really should finish my college essay, but this idea popped into my head and i couldn't help but write... it got a little poetic in some parts, but i hope you enjoy it ;)

• At first, Hayden fought his feelings for you tooth and nail. He was a man of strong morals, someone who always prided himself on doing the right thing. Falling for someone significantly younger than him? That wasn't part of the plan. But then you appeared—carefree, confident, and completely unlike anyone he’d ever met before. You turned his world upside down, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stay away.

• There was no way Hayden was going to make the first move. He convinced himself over and over that what he felt was nothing more than admiration, curiosity at best. But you? You saw right through him. When you asked him out, he tried to laugh it off, say something about just being friends, but he couldn’t resist you. The first few times, it really was just friendly meetups—until one day, it wasn’t.

• When Hayden finally asked you to be his girlfriend, he did it in the most ridiculously romantic way. He had spent weeks planting your favorite flowers in a small garden, waking up early to tend to them himself, getting dirt under his nails, just to make sure they bloomed perfectly. When the moment came, he took your hand and walked you through the rows of blossoms, his voice quiet but sure as he finally admitted, "I don’t want to pretend anymore. I love you."

• He was always building things for you. A bookshelf when he noticed your books piling up, a handmade chair just because he wanted you to have something crafted with his hands. He’d spent hours sanding and staining the wood, never once complaining because he knew how much it would mean to you. Seeing your face light up when you saw what he made? That was his favorite part.

• Late at night, when the world quieted down, Hayden loved nothing more than wrapping his arms around you from behind. Standing out on the balcony, watching the stars, he’d rest his chin on your head and murmur, "You know you’ve completely ruined me, right?" And yet, he wouldn’t change a thing.

• Forget fancy Hollywood outings—Hayden preferred the simple moments. Trips to the farmers’ market where he’d pick out fresh fruit for you, afternoons spent browsing old bookstores, lazy beach days where he’d carry you over the hot sand so you wouldn’t burn your feet. Life was slower, sweeter, and infinitely better with you by his side.

• Bringing you into his world meant bringing you into his daughter’s world too. Blair adored you from the start, and before long, the three of you became inseparable. Family outings to the park, movie nights with popcorn fights, and trips to Disney where Blair would completely ignore Darth Vader because meeting Princess Aurora was way more important.

• At your insistence, Hayden finally made an Instagram. It was supposed to be just for checking out Star Wars fan pages and keeping up with you, but somehow, it turned into something else. His entire feed was filled with you—candid shots he took when you weren’t looking, blurry pictures of your smile, videos of you laughing until you cried. It was less of an Instagram account and more of a personal love letter.

• Hayden was endlessly patient when it came to the public scrutiny. He knew people had opinions—about the age gap, about him dating someone so much younger—but he didn’t care. Every time a snide comment surfaced online, he’d just look at you, smile, and say, "Let them talk. I know what we have."

• And when the world got too loud, he always had a way of making you feel safe. Whether it was holding your hand under the table during interviews, pulling you into a slow dance in the kitchen just to see you smile, or whispering against your skin at night, "I love you, and I’m not going anywhere." Because at the end of the day, you were his peace, and he was yours.

+𝟏𝟖 (𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒)

• Hayden transformed each intimate encounter into a loving tribute, a sacred ritual dedicated solely to you. It was never merely about physical pleasure, but an act of deep devotion and adoration. As he explored your body with tender, reverent hands, he marveled at your beauty, murmuring awestruck words of love and gratitude. Each discovery, from the curve of your hip to the way your skin flushed beneath his touch, filled him with wonder and humility. Hayden knew he was the luckiest man alive to call you his.

• You had the power to make Hayden feel invincible, like a king surveying his kingdom as you took him into the warm, silken depths of your mouth. Your lips and tongue worshipped him with an enthusiasm and affection that set his very soul ablaze. You made his cock jump and throb with renewed vigor, painting him harder than anything. Hayden was no longer a resilient youth, but his desire for you was timeless and unyielding, a force of nature. With every swirl of your tongue and bob of your head, you made him feel like the only man in existence, the center of your universe.

• As your shared climax approached, Hayden's forehead pressed against yours, your breaths mingling, your hearts pounding as one. In the charged silence between gasps and sighs, a thousand unspoken words passed between you - a telepathic dance of love, lust, and ecstasy. Pleasure built upon pleasure, cresting in a tidal wave that crashed over you, binding you in its foaming embrace. In those blissful, electrifying moments, you were not two separate beings, but a single, wonderful sensation.

• Hayden's head lolled back, eyes squeezing shut as your lips enveloped his sensitive flesh, your warm mouth a heavenly cocoon. The feeling of your tongue, your breath, your worshipful suckling - it set his blood alight, making his heart carwheel wildly in his chest. A symphony of masculine cries, low and guttural, filled the air as Hayden surrendered himself to your oral attentions. His fingers tangled almost desperately in your hair, anchoring himself to this earth as you pushed him towards the heavens. Moans and whimpers tumbled from his lips, a fervent, instinctive plea for you to keep going, to never stop, his body trembling with the intensity of his pleasure. The sound of your name fell from his lips like a prayer, a benediction, a desperate entreaty. In that moment, you were his religion, his reason for worship, his everything.

• Though the years had begun to etch their subtle lines upon Hayden's handsome face and his body no longer sprang back to rigid attention as readily as in his youth, his desire for you remained undiminished, a relentless force that laid siege to your senses. He may not match your youthful vigor in speed, but he more than made up for it in skill and ardent devotion. Hayden's tongue, a masterful instrument honed by years, could bring you to the brink of rapture with a single, languid caress. He took his time, savoring every flush, every fold, his lips painting a roadmap of pleasure upon your silken flesh. He feasted on your pussy as if it were the nectar of the gods, his blue eyes flickering up to drink in the sight of your abandon, your back arched, your fingers fisted in his blonde hair. He reveled in the taste, the scent, the very essence of your arousal, losing himself in the act of loving you, of worshipping you with every skillful sweep of his tongue. Slow and steady, he stoked the flames of your desire, his own lust burning hotter with each throaty moan he drew from your lips. Age had not cooled Hayden's passion, but only refined his technique, honing him into a connoisseur of your every fleeting taste and texture. He was a maestro at the podium, orchestrating your pleasure with the singular obsession of a man who knew he was playing for an audience of one - you. And as he pleasured you, he made it his personal mission to grow hard again, to rise to the occasion until he filled you once more, his body a testament to his bottomless, enduring love.

[sometimescharlolette]

entering my Hayden era... ❤️❤️😍

𝐁𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐚𝐲𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧’𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞...

warning: some of the headcanons are +18 and explicit

a/n: hii, i really should finish my college essay, but this idea popped into my head and i couldn't help but write... it got a little poetic in some parts, but i hope you enjoy it ;)

• At first, Hayden fought his feelings for you tooth and nail. He was a man of strong morals, someone who always prided himself on doing the right thing. Falling for someone significantly younger than him? That wasn't part of the plan. But then you appeared—carefree, confident, and completely unlike anyone he’d ever met before. You turned his world upside down, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stay away.

• There was no way Hayden was going to make the first move. He convinced himself over and over that what he felt was nothing more than admiration, curiosity at best. But you? You saw right through him. When you asked him out, he tried to laugh it off, say something about just being friends, but he couldn’t resist you. The first few times, it really was just friendly meetups—until one day, it wasn’t.

• When Hayden finally asked you to be his girlfriend, he did it in the most ridiculously romantic way. He had spent weeks planting your favorite flowers in a small garden, waking up early to tend to them himself, getting dirt under his nails, just to make sure they bloomed perfectly. When the moment came, he took your hand and walked you through the rows of blossoms, his voice quiet but sure as he finally admitted, "I don’t want to pretend anymore. I love you."

• He was always building things for you. A bookshelf when he noticed your books piling up, a handmade chair just because he wanted you to have something crafted with his hands. He’d spent hours sanding and staining the wood, never once complaining because he knew how much it would mean to you. Seeing your face light up when you saw what he made? That was his favorite part.

• Late at night, when the world quieted down, Hayden loved nothing more than wrapping his arms around you from behind. Standing out on the balcony, watching the stars, he’d rest his chin on your head and murmur, "You know you’ve completely ruined me, right?" And yet, he wouldn’t change a thing.

• Forget fancy Hollywood outings—Hayden preferred the simple moments. Trips to the farmers’ market where he’d pick out fresh fruit for you, afternoons spent browsing old bookstores, lazy beach days where he’d carry you over the hot sand so you wouldn’t burn your feet. Life was slower, sweeter, and infinitely better with you by his side.

• Bringing you into his world meant bringing you into his daughter’s world too. Blair adored you from the start, and before long, the three of you became inseparable. Family outings to the park, movie nights with popcorn fights, and trips to Disney where Blair would completely ignore Darth Vader because meeting Princess Aurora was way more important.

• At your insistence, Hayden finally made an Instagram. It was supposed to be just for checking out Star Wars fan pages and keeping up with you, but somehow, it turned into something else. His entire feed was filled with you—candid shots he took when you weren’t looking, blurry pictures of your smile, videos of you laughing until you cried. It was less of an Instagram account and more of a personal love letter.

• Hayden was endlessly patient when it came to the public scrutiny. He knew people had opinions—about the age gap, about him dating someone so much younger—but he didn’t care. Every time a snide comment surfaced online, he’d just look at you, smile, and say, "Let them talk. I know what we have."

• And when the world got too loud, he always had a way of making you feel safe. Whether it was holding your hand under the table during interviews, pulling you into a slow dance in the kitchen just to see you smile, or whispering against your skin at night, "I love you, and I’m not going anywhere." Because at the end of the day, you were his peace, and he was yours.

+𝟏𝟖 (𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒)

• Hayden transformed each intimate encounter into a loving tribute, a sacred ritual dedicated solely to you. It was never merely about physical pleasure, but an act of deep devotion and adoration. As he explored your body with tender, reverent hands, he marveled at your beauty, murmuring awestruck words of love and gratitude. Each discovery, from the curve of your hip to the way your skin flushed beneath his touch, filled him with wonder and humility. Hayden knew he was the luckiest man alive to call you his.

• You had the power to make Hayden feel invincible, like a king surveying his kingdom as you took him into the warm, silken depths of your mouth. Your lips and tongue worshipped him with an enthusiasm and affection that set his very soul ablaze. You made his cock jump and throb with renewed vigor, painting him harder than anything. Hayden was no longer a resilient youth, but his desire for you was timeless and unyielding, a force of nature. With every swirl of your tongue and bob of your head, you made him feel like the only man in existence, the center of your universe.

• As your shared climax approached, Hayden's forehead pressed against yours, your breaths mingling, your hearts pounding as one. In the charged silence between gasps and sighs, a thousand unspoken words passed between you - a telepathic dance of love, lust, and ecstasy. Pleasure built upon pleasure, cresting in a tidal wave that crashed over you, binding you in its foaming embrace. In those blissful, electrifying moments, you were not two separate beings, but a single, wonderful sensation.

• Hayden's head lolled back, eyes squeezing shut as your lips enveloped his sensitive flesh, your warm mouth a heavenly cocoon. The feeling of your tongue, your breath, your worshipful suckling - it set his blood alight, making his heart carwheel wildly in his chest. A symphony of masculine cries, low and guttural, filled the air as Hayden surrendered himself to your oral attentions. His fingers tangled almost desperately in your hair, anchoring himself to this earth as you pushed him towards the heavens. Moans and whimpers tumbled from his lips, a fervent, instinctive plea for you to keep going, to never stop, his body trembling with the intensity of his pleasure. The sound of your name fell from his lips like a prayer, a benediction, a desperate entreaty. In that moment, you were his religion, his reason for worship, his everything.

• Though the years had begun to etch their subtle lines upon Hayden's handsome face and his body no longer sprang back to rigid attention as readily as in his youth, his desire for you remained undiminished, a relentless force that laid siege to your senses. He may not match your youthful vigor in speed, but he more than made up for it in skill and ardent devotion. Hayden's tongue, a masterful instrument honed by years, could bring you to the brink of rapture with a single, languid caress. He took his time, savoring every flush, every fold, his lips painting a roadmap of pleasure upon your silken flesh. He feasted on your pussy as if it were the nectar of the gods, his blue eyes flickering up to drink in the sight of your abandon, your back arched, your fingers fisted in his blonde hair. He reveled in the taste, the scent, the very essence of your arousal, losing himself in the act of loving you, of worshipping you with every skillful sweep of his tongue. Slow and steady, he stoked the flames of your desire, his own lust burning hotter with each throaty moan he drew from your lips. Age had not cooled Hayden's passion, but only refined his technique, honing him into a connoisseur of your every fleeting taste and texture. He was a maestro at the podium, orchestrating your pleasure with the singular obsession of a man who knew he was playing for an audience of one - you. And as he pleasured you, he made it his personal mission to grow hard again, to rise to the occasion until he filled you once more, his body a testament to his bottomless, enduring love.

[sometimescharlolette]

never getting over this

[sometimescharlolette]

I don’t think you understand how much I am screaming at this

[sometimescharlolette]

AGENT WHISKEY X F!READER (FINGERING)

Synopsis: When you and your partner Agent Whiskey go on a mission together, things go wrong and you're forced to hide in a closet. What you didn't expect was what you'd get out of it.

Word Count: 3.8k

Warnings: +18, dirty talk, good girl calling, kinda submissive, fingering, age gap

A/N: Hello beautiful people, happy Valentine's Day to you all, we've finished the smuts I had planned. I couldn't finish without Agent Whiskey, his edit was my addiction on Tiktok. I hope you like it, your comments and opinions help me improve, kisses💜💜

You had been working at the secret American spy agency Statesman for almost two years, yet your superiors insisted on pairing you with Agent Whiskey for every mission. They claimed it was for strategic reasons, but you knew better—it was to keep you in line, to make sure you didn’t disrupt their plans.

Being the rookie sucked, but being partnered with Jack Daniels? That was worse. He was cocky, overconfident, and thought his experience made him untouchable. Never mind the fact that you had saved his ass more times than you could count. Not that he’d ever admit it. Still, you could tell he enjoyed your company, if only to see how far he could push you before you finally snapped.

On this mission, disguises were mandatory. Jack looked infuriatingly good in a perfectly tailored suit and tie, posing as a wealthy shareholder with access to your targets. You, on the other hand, were stuck in a tight, barely-there black dress, reduced to playing the role of his much-too-young trophy wife.

"Smile, Margarita, or they'll think you’re only with me for the money," Whiskey murmured, his warm breath brushing against your ear.

You shot him a glare, voice saccharine with mock sweetness. "Keep talking like that, and I’ll be a widow before the night is over."

He chuckled, shaking his head as his hand pressed firmly against the small of your back, guiding you through the lavish event. You discreetly slipped a listening device under a nearby chair while Jack charmed the crowd with his easy drawl and smooth confidence. The guests were already eating up his every word, falling for his honeyed lies.

You stayed sharp, scanning the room for any signs of danger while mentally cataloging crucial details. Everything was going smoothly—until it wasn’t. Somehow, your cover had been compromised.

Before you could react, Jack’s grip tightened around your hand. "Time to go, sugar," he muttered, pulling you along as he broke into a run. You stumbled in your heels, barely managing to keep up as footsteps thundered behind you.

The chase led you down a corridor, the sound of pursuit growing dangerously close. With a swift motion, Jack yanked open a supply closet door and pushed you inside, following right behind before slamming it shut.

Now you were trapped together in the cramped, dark space, bodies pressed tightly against one another. Somehow, you had ended up in his lap, his strong arms wrapped around you, one large hand clamped gently over your mouth as muffled voices passed just outside.

Your pulse pounded in your ears, your breath warm against his palm. His scent—whiskey and leather—was intoxicatingly close. He met your gaze, the flicker of a smirk playing at his lips, eyes dark with amusement and something else. Something that sent heat rushing to your cheeks.

"You always this squirmy, sugar?" he whispered, barely audible over the sound of footsteps fading down the hall.

You bit his palm in response, just hard enough to make him stifle a chuckle.

Whiskey's smile widened into a grin as you bit his palm, not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to show him that you had some fire in you. He liked that. He liked it a lot. His grip on you tightened, pulling you more firmly against his chest as he leaned in close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Careful now, I might start to think you want to devour me, sugar” He purred, his southern drawl dripping with sinful promise. His other hand trailed slowly up your side, fingertips grazing the side of your breast before coming to rest just below your collarbone, his thumb stroking the delicate skin there.

He could feel your racing heartbeat, could feel the way your chest heaved with each breath. Fear? Perhaps. But there was something else too. Something that made his blood start to heat in his veins. He knew that feeling all too well.

Whiskey's eyes glittered with slyness in the darkness, his gauze locked with yours. He could play at being the gentleman, but they both knew better. The air between them was electric, thick with unspoken desire and a simmering tension that was always there, lying just beneath the surface.

His hand slid higher, brushing the side of your neck, tilting your chin up. His calloused thumb brushed over your lower lip, tracing the curve of it. “You know, I've been thinking... you're not so bad to have around. For a rookie.” His voice was a low rumble, barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

"You on the other hand, are pretty bad for a senior" You retorted dryly, trying to ignore the way your body felt on his lap, the curve of your ass pressed against his groin.

Whiskey let out a low, rumbling chuckle at your quip, the sound vibrating through your chest and into yours. His grip on your chin tightened fractionally, fingers sinking into the soft flesh of your jaw as he turned your head to face him fully.

His gaze was intense, piercing, boring into you with an almost hypnotic force. In the dim light filtering through the cracks of the closet door, his eyes seemed to gleam with a predatory hunger. “Careful, sugar,” He murmured, his voice a low rasp. “Keep talking like that and I might think you're trying to charm your way into my good graces.” His thumb pressed down on your lip, tugging it down slightly as if to silence you. “And trust me, darlin', you don't want to get on my bad side.”

Despite his words, there was no real threat in his tone, only a dark promise. He leaned in closer, his nose brushing against your cheek, inhaling deeply. The scent of your perfume mixed with the lingering aroma of his own cologne, creating a heady, intoxicating blend.

His other hand slid lower, splaying across the small of your back, holding you flush against him. You could feel the lean muscle pressed against your softer curves. He was so close, too close, his breath hot on your skin.

“But maybe…” His voice dropped to a whisper, his lips barely moving against your ear. “You want to be bad. Maybe that's why you're so eager to get under my skin.” 

His hand slid lower, cupping the swell of your rear, squeezing gently. His touch was a delicious brand, sending sparks of electricity arcing through your body. Your eyes widened at his boldness, you knew you were always cheeky, but he was taking advantage of the fact that you had nowhere to escape to tease you.

"Get your fingers out of my ass," you murmured, the tight space and his presence made you feel all hot inside, and the fact that the closet was stuffy wasn't helping at all.

Whiskey's lips curled into a wicked smirk at your breathless command, clearly amused by your feeble attempt to regain some semblance of control. His hand remained exactly where it was, kneading the firm globe of your ass through the fabric of your dress.

He nuzzled into your neck, his stubble scraping against your sensitive skin as he inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with your scent. His voice was a low, sinful purr when he spoke again. “Mmm, now why would I do a silly thing like that, sugar?” His fingers flexed, digging in slightly, pulling you harder against him. “I'm quite... comfortable right here”

His other hand slid around to the back of your neck, tangling in your hair. He gripped it lightly, not enough to truly hurt, but enough to hold you in place as he tilted your head to the side, exposing the length of your throat to him.

Whiskey's mouth moved lower, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the column of your neck. He could feel your pulse jumping beneath his lips, could taste the salt of your skin. He licked at it, savoring the flavor, before suckling gently on the sensitive flesh.

His hand on your ass slid around to your hip, gripping it hard enough to leave bruises. He rocked you against him, grinding your core against the growing bulge in his pants. He was getting hard, his desire for you evident and insistent.

He nipped at your earlobe before whispering, “I could take you right here, darlin’. Bend you over and fuck you until you scream.”

His words were filthy, obscene, dripping with lust and dark promise. His grip tightened, holding you in place, trapping you against him. He waited for your reaction, wanting to gauge your response to his crude words.

Your breath caught in your throat, the sensations Whiskey was pulling out, making your body and training betray you with the way he touched you, kissed you.

"I have a knife," you reminded him weakly, you had no intention of using it against him, but damn it, you also didn't want to let him think he could turn you into a hot, messy mess with just a few touches and dirty words.

Whiskey chuckled darkly, the sound rumbling through his chest and vibrating against his back. He was enjoying your feisty resistance, finding it utterly charming. It would make breaking you all the more satisfying.

Ignoring your weak protest about the knife, he slid his hand slowly up your thigh, his fingers dancing along your skin. He found the hem of your dress and slipped beneath it, his calloused hand contrasting with the softness of your thigh.

He leaned in close, his stubble scraping against your ear as he whispered. "I want to take my time with you, sugar. I want to explore every inch of this gorgeous body of yours." His hand slid higher, brushing against the lace of your panties. He could feel the damp heat radiating through the thin fabric.

Whiskey's lips curved into a wicked smirk against your neck. He nipped at your earlobe before murmuring. "But that doesn't mean we can't have a little fun while we wait, now does it?"

He punctuated his words by pressing his thumb directly against your clothed cunt, rubbing slow, firm circles. He could feel the damp patch growing, its arousal impossible to hide.

His other hand slid around to your stomach, showing across your flat belly. He tugged you harder against him, grinding his clothed erection against your ass. He was fully hard now, straining against the confines of his jeans.

He rocked into you, the delicious friction even through the layers of clothing between you. His breath grew heavier, his chest rising and falling against his back with each ragged inhale.

He licked a stripe up your neck, his tongue flicking out to taste you. He could feel your body trembling, could feel your resistance weakening. He smirked against your skin, his voice a sinful rasp.

"Just relax, sweetheart. Let me make you feel good. I promise, I'll give you pleasure like you've never known before." He rolled his hips, pressing his thumb harder against your clothed pussy. He could feel your body betraying your desire, your need for him growing with each passing second.

Whiskey's voice was a low, seductive rumble in your ear, the tone leaving no doubt about his intentions. His thumb pressed harder against your panties, rubbing firm circles against your sensitive flesh. The damp patch had grown, the lace clinging to your folds, the dampness a testament to your growing arousal.

His other hand slid under your dress, his fingers dancing along your thigh, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He grasped the flimsy fabric of your panties and slowly began to peel them down your legs, his knuckles grazing your skin, igniting sparks of pleasure.

He leaned in closer, his stubble scraping against your ear as he whispered hotly. "Good girls follow orders, sugar. And I want you to be a very good girl for me, don't I?" His voice was a dark, wicked purr, dripping with sinful promise.

He tugged your panties down to your knees, leaving your cunt bare and exposed. He could feel the heat radiating from your core, could practically smell your desire. It made him find himself to bury himself inside you, to claim you, to make you his.

Whiskey's hand slid around to grip your hip, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh. He pulled you back against him, grinding your naked ass against his straining erection. He groaned at the contact, his hips rocking reflexively, seeking more friction.

He licked a hot path up your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. He could feel it jumping beneath his lips, could taste your racing heart. He smiled against your skin, his voice an eloquent rumble.

"Go on, darlin'. Be a good girl and spread your legs for me. Let me see what I have to work with here." 

His grip tightened on your hip, a silent command in his tone. He was giving you a choice, but you both knew you would obey. The heat between your legs was impossible to ignore, the ache in your core demanding to be filled.

Whiskey's deep southern drawl washed over you, the words dripping with sinful intent. His grip on your hip tightened, his fingers digging into your soft flesh with a possessive hold. It was a silent command, a demand wrapped in velvet, leaving you in the room to refuse.

Your body moved as if it had a mind of its own, your legs trembling as you slowly spread them apart. The cool air hits your newly exposed pussy, a stark contrast to the burning heat emanating from your core. You felt vulnerable, laid bare before him, but also unbearably aroused.

Whiskey's hand slid around to the front of your thigh, his fingers skimming along your inner thigh teasingly slow. He could feel your muscles quivering beneath his touch, could sense your anticipation growing with each passing second.

He leaned back slightly to admire the view, his heated gauze raking over his exposed legs, lingering on his glistening cunt. He licked his lips, a wicked grin spreading across his handsome face.

His thumb found your clit, circling the sensitive nub with a feather-light touch. He could feel you twitching, could sense your body's desperate need for more. He chuckled maliciously, his breath hot against your ear.

"Sweet merciful heavens, you're absolutely dripping, sugar. Such a pretty little pussy, all swollen and ready for me." He punctuated his words with a firm press of his thumb, applying delicious pressure to your clit.

His other hand slid up your belly, palming your breast, squeezing the soft mound. He could feel your nipple pebbling beneath his touch, could feel your body responding to his every command.

Whiskey's voice dropped to a low, conspiratorial whisper, his breath hot against your ear. His fingers continued their tortuous circling of your clit, applying a steady pressure that made your hips squirm with need. He could feel your body tensing, your muscles coiling like a spring ready to snap.

His other hand slid further up your body, his fingers finding your nipple through the thin fabric of your dress. He pinched the hardened peak, rolling it between his fingertips, sending jolts of electricity straight to your core.

He leaned in closer, his stubble scraping against your cheek as he murmured. "I know it'll be hard, sugar. Knowing you can't make a sound, can't let a single peep escape these sweet lips." He brushed his thumb over his bottom lip, a silent reminder of what he expected.

His fingers dipped lower, teasing along the edge of your entrance. He could feel your slick heat, could sense how badly you needed him inside you. But he held back, drawing out the anticipation, the heavenly torture.

He circled your entrance with a soft touch, his fingers gliding through your slick folds. He could feel your walls fluttering, could sense your body's desperate need for him to fill you.

His thumb pressed harder against your clit, rubbing firm circles that made your vision blur. His fingers dipped inside, just the tips, teasing your entrance with a promise of what was to come.

He nipped at your earlobe, his voice a wicked murmur. "Shhh, not a sound now. Let's not let anyone find us in here, hmm? I want to hear nothing but your breathing, feel nothing but your heartbeat racing for me." His fingers pushed deeper, your slick walls clenching around the intrusion, silently begging for more.

Whiskey felt your hips bucking against his hand, seeking more of his touch, more of his delicious torment. He could feel your breath hitting in your throat, your body trembling with the effort to stay silent.

He rewarded your restraint by slipping his finger deeper inside you, curling it to hit that perfect spot that made your eyes roll back in your head. He could feel your walls clenching around him, gripping him.

The hand on your breast slid down your body, over your belly, coming to rest at the junction of your thighs. He could feel the heat radiating off your core, could feel your arousal coating his fingers.

He pumped his finger in and out of you, his thumb never stopping its relentless circling of your clit. He could feel your body tensing, your hips rocking in time with his movements, silently begging for more.

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your neck. His teeth grazed your skin, his tongue darting out to taste you. He could feel your pulse jumping beneath his touch, could feel your body responding to his every command.

He added a second finger, stretching you, filling you. He could feel your slick walls struggling to accommodate him, your body instinctively trying to draw him deeper.

He grunted softly against your neck."That's it, sugar. Take it silently, like the good girl you are. You're being so brave for me, so obedient." He punctuated his words with a hard thrust of his fingers, driving them deep inside you.

His thumb circled your clit faster, applying more pressure. He could feel your body tensing, your walls fluttering around his fingers. He knew you were close, could feel the heat building in your core.

He pulled back slightly to watch your face, his eyes covered with a haze of lust and a hint of something more primal. He could see the pleasure etched on your features, could see the way you were fighting to stay silent.

His fingers pumped faster, his thumb circled harder. He could feel your body starting to shake, could feel your impending release. He leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear.

"Come for me, sugar. Let me feel you squeeze my fingers, let me feel your body shake with pleasure. Do it now like a good girl"

Whiskey felt your head fall back against your shoulder, your breath coming in shorts, sharp pants against your neck. He could feel the heat of your breath, the way your body trembled against him. He knew you were close, could feel the tension coiling in your core like a snake ready to strike.

He thrust his fingers deeper, harder, his thumb pressing down on your clit with just the right amount of pressure. He could feel your walls starting to flutter, could sense your body's impending surrender.

And then it happened. Your walls clamped down around his fingers, your body shaking as the orgasm ripped through you. He could feel your slick gushing around his digits, your hips bucking wildly as you came undone.

He muffled your cry of pleasure with his shoulder, his hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave bruises. He held you close, his fingers still pumping, drawing out your orgasm, making it last as long as possible.

He could feel your body going limp in his arms, your breath coming in ragged gasps. He gentled his touch, his fingers slowing their movements, helping you ride out the aftershocks.

He pulled his fingers out of you, bringing them to his lips. He licked them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. He moaned at your taste, his eyes fluttering closed briefly at the exquisite flavor.

He wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He could feel his own arousal pressing against your belly, hard and insistent. He leaned down, his forehead resting against yours.

"That's my good girl" He murmured, his voice low and rough with desire. "You did so well, sugar. You took your pleasure so quietly, just like I asked." His hand slid down to grip your ass, kneading the soft flesh.

He captured your mouth in a searing kiss, his tongue delving deep, claiming you, possessing you. He could taste your moan against his lips, feel your body melting into his embrace.

Before either of you could react, the door swung open, revealing Ginger Ale standing in the doorway. She gave you both a once-over, her expression unreadable, though the slight arch of her brow suggested she wasn’t entirely surprised.

"I was supposed to tell you that you were safe, but it looks like you're doing just fine," she remarked dryly.

Flushing slightly, you quickly tugged down your dress, straightening yourself as you pushed away from Whiskey’s firm grip and stood up. "Finally, I don't have to put up with your presence anymore," you muttered, determined to pretend that nothing had happened in the cramped closet.

Whiskey, still seated, simply smirked, the corners of his lips curling in smug amusement. "Sugar, you keep tellin’ yourself that," he drawled, adjusting his suit as he rose to his feet, his gaze lingering on you with a knowing glint.

Ginger Ale looked between the two of you, her expression still unreadable, but her eyes narrowing slightly as she noticed your disheveled state and Whiskey's smug grin.

"The boss wants to see you both in the command center. Now," she said crisply, her tone leaving no room for argument. "We've got a situation developing with the arms shipment. Apparently, your little... interruption here has delayed us long enough."

She turned on her heel, expectantly waiting for you to follow. You flushed even deeper at the implication in her voice, realizing that Ginger Ale likely knew exactly what had been happening in the closet.

Whiskey, on the other hand, seemed completely unperturbed. He took his time, letting his gauze rake over your body lecherously before he met your eyes with a wink.

"I'll be along in just a moment, sugar" He said, his voice dripping with false sweetness. "There's still a few things I need to take care of here first."

With that, he reached out, trailing a finger along your collarbone, drawing a shiver from you at his cool touch. He smiled wider at your reaction, clearly enjoying the power he held over you.

He walked past you, brushing against you deliberately as he strode towards the door, leaving you feeling flustered. You had to remind yourself that he was just a means to an end - you couldn't let yourself get too caught up in his charms.

[sometimescharlolette]

JAVI GUTIERREZ X F!READER (FACE SITTING)

Synopsis: In the middle of a movie marathon, Javi asks you to sit on his face.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: +18, sexual description, oral sex (female receiving), face sitting, pussy eating

A/N: Hello beautiful people, I remember that in 2022, I watched pretty much everything Pedro was involved in, so I ended up watching The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent, well, it was a funny movie and he was adorably cute. Comments and suggestions are always welcome to help me improve, kisses 💜💜

You and Javi were nestled together in the spacious, dimly lit movie theater of his lavish mansion, indulging in a Nick Cage movie marathon. Of course, it was his idea—Javi was possibly the biggest Nick Cage fanboy on the planet. He clutched a bowl of buttery popcorn, the scent filling the room, while glasses of soda sat untouched on the nearby table. Your head rested against his shoulder, the warmth of his body soothing as you focused on the screen. Tonight’s feature: Ghost Rider—one of the few films where you fully understood your boyfriend’s obsession.

Javi’s hand rested gently on your thigh, his thumb tracing soft, lazy circles against your skin. Minutes passed in comfortable silence until you sensed a shift in his posture. Turning your head slightly, you found him gazing at you with those wide, brown eyes, his lips pushed into a soft pout. He looked absolutely adorable.

“What is it, honey?” you asked, amusement lacing your voice as you raised a curious brow. “Tired of the movie?”

He shook his head quickly. “No, I could never,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. Then, hesitantly, he looked away, almost shyly. “I, um… I’m just feeling needy and wanted your attention.”

Your lips curled into a fond smile. “Oh, is that so?”

Javi nodded, his expression hopeful. “A few kisses wouldn’t hurt anyone,” he suggested sweetly, tilting his head ever so slightly in invitation.

You bit your lip, suppressing a laugh. “Javi, are you seriously suggesting we make out while watching a Nick Cage movie?”

His grin widened, completely unrepentant. “I can’t think of a better idea.”

The situation was almost comical, but the way he was looking at you, all soft and full of love, made your heart flutter. Tempting indeed.

How could you resist such a cute and sexy request from your handsome boyfriend, especially when you had been craving his attention and affection for so long? You turned your body to face him fully, placing your hands gently on his cheeks as you gazed deep into his hopeful brown eyes.

Leaning in slowly, you captured his lips with your own in a soft, sensual kiss. Your lips moved against his tenderly, savoring the buttery taste of the popcorn that lingered on his tongue. His hands slid up to hold your waist, pulling your body flush against him as he deepened the kiss.

You both melted into the intimate embrace, the movie forgotten as you lost yourselves in the passion of the moment. His fingers threaded into your hair, tilting your head to deepen the angle of the kiss. Your own hands roamed over his chest and back, feeling the hard planes of his body beneath your fingertips.

As the kiss grew more heated, your breath became ragged and your heart raced in your chest. You had to admit, making out with Javi was so much better than watching any movie. His lips were soft and pillowy, moving expertly against your own as he explored your mouth with his talented tongue.

Eventually, you broke away for air, both of you panting softly as you came up for breath. Javi rested his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering open to meet your gaze.

"Baby, I've been wanting to do that all night," he murmured, his voice gravelly with passion. "You taste somehow even better than I remembered."

You couldn't help but blush at his words, your core clenching with need. It was moments like these that made you realize just how deeply you cared for him, and how much you needed him in your life.

Javi bit his lower lip shyly. “Can I make another request?” he asked almost innocently, a golden glow adorning his brown orbs.

You smiled, nodding, he was so kind and attentive. “Sure, love, go ahead.”

“Would you like to sit on my face?” Javi asked softly.

Your eyes widened in surprise at Javi's bold request, a fierce blush spreading across your cheeks and down your neck. You hadn't been expecting him to be quite so direct, especially not while you were in the middle of a movie marathon. But the way he was looking at you, with those innocent yet hungry golden-brown eyes, made it clear that he was completely serious.

Biting your lip, you considered his suggestion for a moment. As much as you knew you should probably maintain some semblance of propriety, you also couldn't deny the rush of desire that surged through you at the thought of sitting on his handsome face. Your core throbbed with need, aching to feel his skilled mouth on you, pleasuring you in the way only he knew how.

Decision made, you gave him a coy smile, reaching out to stroke his cheek softly. "Mmm, I thought you'd never ask," you purred, shifting to straddle his lap. You could feel the thick outline of his rapidly hardening cock through his jeans as you settled yourself on top of him, grinding down gently to tease him.

Javi groaned at the contact, his large hands coming up to grip your hips tightly. "Fuck, baby, you feel so good," he growled, his hips bucking up to meet yours.

Leaning down, you captured his lips in a heated kiss, all tongue and teeth as you poured your craving into the embrace. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging lightly as you dominated his mouth, staking your claim.

When you finally pulled back, you were both panting, your chests heaving with exertion. Javi looked up at you with ardor-darkened eyes, his expression a mix of adoration and unbridled hunger.

"Lift up your skirt for me, my love," he commanded softly, his hands sliding down to grip the backs of your thighs. "I want to taste you."

Heart pounding, you reached down and slowly peeled your skirt up over your hips, revealing your lacy panties. Javi's eyes darkened further as he caught sight of them, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

"Fuck, you're so gorgeous," he breathed, before leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your clothed cunt, you shiver.

Javi lay down on the couch, helping you to get on your knees with his head between your legs, his large hands guided you so that you sat on his face, you were a little nervous for fear of hurting him, or pressing him with your thighs. Although, he probably wouldn't mind if you kept him buried between your thighs.

As you settled yourself fully on Javi's handsome face, you couldn't help but gasp at the incredible sensation of his mouth immediately finding your clothed cunt. Your thighs quivered on either side of his head as you braced yourself against the back of the couch, trying not to put too much weight on him.

Javi seemed undeterred by your nervousness, his strong hands gripping your hips tightly as he pulled you harder against his face, his nose pressing insistently against your aching core. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with your scent, before he started to mouth at your panties, his lips and tongue moving skillfully against the damp fabric.

"Oh god, Javi..." you whimpered, your head falling back as jolts of pleasure shot through you. "That feels so good..."

He groaned in response, the vibrations rumbling through you and making your pussy clench desperately around nothing. Hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties, he tugged them to the side, fully exposing your bare, dripping cunt to his hungry gauze.

"Fuck, baby, you are sweeter than ever" Javi muttered before diving in, his tongue delving between his slick folds to lap at your taste.

Your fingers tangled into his hair, holding him to you as you rocked your hips against his face, riding his tongue as he pleasured you. He flicked his tongue against your clit, circling and teasing the sensitive bud as he fucked his tongue deep into your channel.

The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth working against your cunt filled the room, mingling with the fade of the forgotten movie still playing in the background. Your thighs began to tremble and tense around his head as he brought you closer and closer to the edge, your pussy fluttering wildly around his invading tongue.

Javi seemed driven by a single-minded desire to taste your every drop, his tongue delving deep and flicking against your most intimate places with skillful precision. He even ate you like a man starved, fueled by a hunger that only your honeyed juices could satisfy.

His nose pressed against your sensitive clit as he licked and sucked, the scrape of his mustache and stubble against your tender flesh sending shockwaves of delight through your core. Your thighs clenched around his head, holding you in place as he feasted on your dripping cunt, his grip on your hips tightening.

He could feel you quivering and rocking against him, your whimpers are music to his ears. He wanted to make you fall apart on his tongue, to have you gush your release and coat his chin and cheeks with your sweet nectar.

Javi focused his attention on your clit, sucking the sensitive bud between his lips as he flicked the tip of his tongue rapidly against it. He could feel your thighs beginning to quake and tense around his head, his fingers tightening in his hair.

He slid one hand from your hip to your ass, squeezing the supple flesh and pulling you harder against his greedy mouth. His other hand moved to press against your stomach, his fingers flashing out possessively as he held you flush against him.

He could feel your body tensing, your muscles pulling taut as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core. Javi knew you were close, could sense your impending orgasm building with every drag of his tongue against your pussy.

He doubled his efforts, sucking harder and faster, determined to push you over the edge and make you come undone. He wanted to feel you shatter, to hear you scream his name as seventh heaven overtook you.

“Javi, Javi,” you stammered his name, your eyes rolling back from the overwhelming pleasure that threatened to consume your entire body, the fire spreading inside you like a wildfire in a dry pampa, each tongue of flame throwing you closer to paradise. “Baby, I’m, I’m going to cum,” you warned him breathlessly, your fingers gripping his fluffy hair.

Javi could feel your body tensing above him, your thighs clamping down around his head as you teetered on the brink of euphoria. He could hear the breathless way you gasped out his name, could feel your fingers gripping his hair almost painfully tight. He knew you were right on the spit, ready to come undone and shatter in his arms.

Spurred on by your warning, Javi redoubled his efforts, sucking your clit hard into his mouth as he fucked his tongue deep into your fluttering channel. He could feel your inner walls starting to contract, gripping his tongue as if trying to hold him inside you.

He pulled his hand from your ass and brought it around to your front, pressing his fingers against your dripping slit. He gathered some of your essence on his digits before moving them up to circle your clit in tight, rapid revolutions, rubbing the sensitive bundle of nerves in time with the flicking of his tongue.

The added stimulation provided to be your undoing. With a sharp cry of his name, your body went rigid above him as your orgasm crashed over you like an overflow. Your pussy clenched down hard around his fingers as your clit throbbed against his tongue, your release gushing out to coat his chin and drip down onto the couch below.

Javi groaned against your cunt, the vibrations only heightening your pleasure as he worked you through your climax. He continued to lap at you, gentleling his touch as you began to come down from your high, until your body went boneless and you collapsed back against the couch.

He slowly withdrew his fingers and pulled back, looking up at you with a smug, satisfied grin, his face glistening with your syrupy wetness. "That's it, mi amor," he purred, his voice rough and gravelly. "You’re delicious, making me so happy and nice"

He sat up slowly, his hands roaming over your curves as he peppered your thighs, stomach, and the soft skin just below your breasts with kisses. He could feel your heart racing beneath his lips, could feel the way your chest was heavy with each ragged breath.

"Thank you, love, you did so well," Javi said affectionately, kissing your forehead as he settled you comfortably on the couch. Now that you were safe against his chest, your eyes began to flutter. "I've got you, baby, you can rest easy."

Javi held you close, your body molded perfectly against his as he let you rest and come down from your intense high. He continued to stroke your hair and brush soft kisses against your forehead, his touch soothing and comforting as he murmured sweet words of praise into your hair.

As the movie played on in the background, Javi kept one arm wrapped securely around your waist, keeping you tucked safely against his side. His other hand reached for the bowl of popcorn, offering you a handful of the salty, buttery treat.

"Here, eat up," he coaxed softly, bringing the popcorn to your lips. "You need to keep your energy up."

You parted your lips and accepted the offering, your teeth grazing lightly against his fingers as you ate. Javi's eyes grow dim at the contact, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He brushed his thumb across your lower lip, wiping away a stray speck of butter.

Turning his attention back to the television, Javi draped a soft blanket over your legs, ensuring you were warm and comfortable. He knew you loved these quiet moments together, just as much as he savored the passionate ones. There was something deeply intimate about sharing such peaceful, loving moments with the woman he adored.

[sometimescharlolette]

FRANCISCO MORALES X F!READER (THIGH RIDING)

Synopsis: When your boyfriend comes home from work, all you want to do is throw yourself into his arms. Unfortunately, work always seems to catch up with him first. So, you decide to take matters into your own hands.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: +18, thigh riding, description of explicit acts.

A/N: Hello pretty people, third day third smut, I confess that Triple Frontier is not my favorite Pedro movie, but he was so cute in it, plus, Oscar Isaac was also gorgeous. Comments and opinions are always welcome and help me improve, kisses 💜💜

Dating someone who treated work like a classified secret—off-limits and locked away—left you full of unanswered questions. Where did he go? Who was he with? How long would he be away this time? Francisco’s job came with odd hours and unexplainable absences, and while the money he brought home was enough to keep you comfortable, there was always that lingering unease in the back of your mind.

He had just returned from another of those mysterious trips, a carry-on bag in tow, one that was strictly off-limits until the right time. You didn’t argue. You had once heard that even the strangest routines, no matter how dysfunctional, eventually became normal. Maybe that was true. Maybe you had learned to accept it, because no matter how long he was gone, he always came back to you.

You barely had time to leap into his arms, pressing eager kisses to his lips, before his phone rang. With a reluctant groan, he pulled it from his pocket, keeping his mouth on yours as he checked the caller ID. Santiago. Of course. He shot you a sheepish look before answering, his voice slipping into fluid spanish as he greeted his friend.

With an exaggerated huff, you flopped onto the couch beside him, arms crossed. Francisco's conversation was fast and clipped, his forehead creasing slightly as he tried to smooth over whatever was being thrown at him from the other end of the line. You caught a few stray words but nothing concrete enough to decipher the nature of his work—though you had long stopped trying to piece together the puzzle. Right now, you didn’t care about any of it. You just wanted him.

Santiago could wait. The whole damn world could wait.

You sighed loudly, shifting closer, hoping he’d get the hint. But he didn’t. He just muttered a quiet apology, distracted, still lost in whatever crisis had cropped up while he was away.

Fine.

Your patience had already been stretched thin, and now, any remaining restraint went out the window. You moved, sliding onto his lap, straddling his thigh as your fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns along his chest. His breath hitched, his conversation faltering for the briefest second as his dark eyes flicked to yours, startled.

“Cariño—” he started, but you silenced him with a slow, teasing grind of your hips, your gaze locked onto his. A battle of wills.

Francisco swallowed hard, his grip tightening on his phone. Santiago was still talking, but suddenly, you had his full attention.

“What is it, baby? Talk to me” You whispered innocently, although the mischievous smile that adorned your lips said otherwise, one of your hands went down to hold his thigh, the tip of your nails brushing dangerously close to his groin.

Francisco swallowed hard, trying his best to focus on the conversation with Santiago, but it was becoming increasingly difficult with your teasing touches and the way you were grinding your hips against his. He could feel a familiar heat beginning to rise in his body, a sensation that he had been missing for what felt like an eternity.

His grip on the phone tightened, knuckles turning white as he tried to regain some semblance of control. Santiago was still talking, his voice coming through the speaker, but Francisco couldn't make out a single word. Not when you were being so... so provocative.

"Cariño, please..." Francisco's voice came out as a desperate whisper, his breath hitching slightly in his throat. He knew you were doing this on purpose, trying to distract him, to throw him off balance. And it was working.

His free hand moved to cover your wandering hand, stopping its path towards his most sensitive area. He looked at you, his brown eyes darkening with a mix of lust and frustration.

"Cariño, I'm trying to work here..." he said, his tone low and warning. But there was no real bite to his words, only a desperate plea for you to stop teasing him so mercilessly.

Francisco turned his attention back to the phone, trying to focus on Santiago's voice, but it was a losing battle. His body was already reacting to your touches, his heart racing and his breath coming in short gasps. He loved when you were like this, so playful and affectionate. It reminded him of the early days of your relationship, before life and responsibilities got in the way.

"And, I'm begging for my boyfriend's attention" You sighed in frustration, it wasn't enough for him to spend long weeks working away from you, only for him to be at home, and yet, not be there. "I don't want to have to beg for crumbs of affection, it’s eating me up inside"

Francisco looked at you guiltily, all he wanted was to take you in his arms and shower you with all the love you deserved and craved. But he couldn't, not when Santiago kept reminding him of the failures that had happened on the mission, and which he would have to resolve so that the police wouldn't be on their tail.

"Cariño, I really can't hang up now," Francisco said softly, pulling the cell phone away from his ear to meet your muffled gaze, the way you bit your lower lip in anguish always managed to break him. "But, you can use my thigh for your fun, and, I promise that when this call ends, I'll be all yours," he offered suggestively, brown eyes bathed in glistening lust.

With his free hand, he guided yours back to his thigh, encouraging you to continue your earlier ministrations. He wanted to show you that even though he couldn't give you his undivided attention right now, you still had his full focus in other ways.

Francisco shifted slightly on the couch, spreading his legs to give you more room to work with. He tried to keep his breathing steady as he felt you start to grind against his thigh, your movements slow and teasing at first before gaining in intensity. All the while, he kept the phone pressed to his ear, trying to listen to Santiago's update on the situation.

"Keep going, mi amor. Use me however you need," Francisco encouraged you softly, his voice strained with barely contained desire. His eyes never left your face, taking in every little reaction, every micro-expression that crossed your beautiful face.

He knew he should be focusing on the mission, on the potential threats that could jeopardize their safety and security. But right now, all he could focus on was you - the feeling of your body against his, the needy little sounds that slipped past your lips as you chased your pleasure. You were his entire world, and he was determined to show you just how much you meant to him.

Francisco had to hold back a low groan as he watched you push the hem of your dress up, revealing the lacy white cotton of your panties. He could see the damp patch forming, growing with each pass of your hips against his thigh. It took every ounce of his self-control not to toss the phone aside and focus solely on lavishing the attention on you that you so clearly craved.

He swallowed thickly, his throat suddenly dry as he tried to regain some semblance of composure. Francisco knew Santiago was still talking, his voice coming through the phone, but it sounded distant compared to the pounding of his own heart. He could feel every little movement, every inch of contact between your body and his, setting his nerves ablaze.

"Uh uhm, sí, Santiago, I get it" Francisco shifted the phone to his other ear, giving him an excuse to use his now free hand to brush his fingers along your thigh, feeling the smooth expanse of skin beneath the fabric of your dress.

He let his hand linger there, applying a delicious pressure as he listened to you start to pant softly, your moans filling his ears more sweetly than any words.

"Fuck" Francisco had to clear his throat, hoping that the slight catch in his voice would be attributed to a poor connection rather than the desire coursing through his veins. "Yes, I... I understand the situation. I'll handle it personally first thing in the morning."

He was only half-listening to Santiago's report, his mind foggy and clouded with lust. It took a great deal of effort for him to keep up the pretense of professionalism, when all he wanted was to throw you down and worship your body until you screamed his name.

But he knew he had to keep you safe, at any cost. Even if it meant denying himself the pleasure of indulging your advances fully right now. So he gritted his teeth, taking shallow breaths as he felt your arousal grow, the damp patch on your panties spreading with every desperate roll of your hips.

"I'm fucking listening to you" Francisco cursed when his friend scolded him for not being serious enough, but if Santiago knew why, he would certainly understand his actions.

He inhaled sharply, a strangled groan catching in his throat as he felt you boldly grind your clothed cunt against his thigh. The heat of you, even separated by the thin fabric of your panties, seared him deliciously. He could feel your desperation, your need, in every roll and undulation of your hips.

"Fuck, cariño..." he breathed out, barely managing to keep his voice down to a whisper. Francisco gripped your hip, fingers digging into your soft flesh as he fought the urge to yank you into his lap and bury himself deep inside your aching core.

He could only imagine how you must feel, how swollen and desperate your pretty little pussy must be by now. The thought made his cock throb in the confines of his jeans, straining against the denim. He was already so hard, it was almost painful, and you hadn't even touched him directly.

Francisco tried to focus on Santiago's voice filtering through the phone, but it was like trying to concentrate through a haze of lust. He nodded along, making the occasional non-committal noise to give the illusion of engagement. But in truth, his entire being was consumed by the feeling of your body against his, the way you were so shamelessly taking your pleasure.

His other hand slid up from your hip to the side of your breast, cupping it gently as he kneaded the soft mound. He could feel your nipple stiffening through the fabric of your dress, and he longed to duck his head down and capture the hardened peak between his teeth.

"Sí, lo entiendo, mierda" Francisco gasped under his breath, trying to stifle the sound with his hand as you rutted yourself against him with wild abandon, your juices beginning to soak through his jeans. He could feel the warmth of your arousal seeping into the fabric.

"fuck, cariño..." He gripped your hip tighter, fingers sinking into the supple flesh as he struggled to maintain some semblance of control. The phone trembled slightly in his other hand as he listened to Santiago drone on, but his focus was solely on the way your body moved, the wanton sounds spilling from your lips.

Francisco watched, enraptured, as your face contorted in pleasure, your cheeks flushed a pretty pink and your eyes squeezing shut. He knew you were close, could feel your movements growing more erratic and desperate. He wanted to tell you to let go, to give yourself over to the pleasure completely.

So he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmured, "That's it, mi amor. Take your pleasure from me. I want to feel you come undone..."

His voice was low and rough with desire, barely above a whisper. At the same time, he pressed his thumb against your clothed clit, rubbing firm circles around the sensitive nub. Francisco could feel your body tensing, your breathing growing shallow as your peak approached.

His world had narrowed down to the feeling of your body against his, the sound of your labored breathing and the way your hips jerked and stilled as your orgasm crashed over you.

The last thing he heard before your cries of pleasure filled his ears was Santiago calling his name, but he was already hanging up, the phone dropping forgotten onto the couch beside him. In that moment, nothing mattered except catching you, holding you, as your body shuddered and trembled with the force of your release.

Francisco wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest as he captured your mouth in a kiss. He swallowed your adorable moans, drinking in every little sound as he held you through your climax. His hand remained between your legs, fingers pressing against your clothed cunt, helping to prolong your bliss for as long as possible.

Your chest rose and fell with the intensity of your orgasm, your head resting on his shoulder. "oh, baby, now can I have you all to myself?”

Francisco smiled and you knew you had him. At least, for now.

[sometimescharlolette]

DIN DJARIN X F!READER (BREEDING KINK)

Synopsis: The love between you and Din blossoms when he meets you at the fair in Nevarro, little by little you understand that you are the only one for each other, and now you are ready to let your love take root.

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: +18, p in v, loving sex, breeding kink

A/N: Hello beautiful people, second day, second oneshot. I confess that it was with Mandalorian that my heart started beating faster for Pedro, I think the scene in Ahsoka will test Grogu is so cute, the way Din encourages him and celebrates like a real father, I was giggling and kicking my feet the whole episode. Well, I hope you like it and comment what you think of this man in love, kisses  💜 💜

Din Djarin and Grogu, officially adopted as the Mandalorian's apprentice and son, were living peacefully in their home near the city of Nevarro. A peaceful life was not something Din had ever imagined for himself, but as time passed, he realized it was exactly what he had been searching for—what he needed.

He met you on one of his trips to the bustling city fair. Grogu, ever the mischievous child, had used the Force to snatch a meiloorun fruit from your bag. The moment Din noticed, he immediately returned it, apologizing on behalf of his son. But instead of being annoyed, you had only laughed, a warm, genuine smile gracing your lips. Kneeling to meet Grogu's curious gaze, you gently reached for the fruit in his small hands, telling him he would probably enjoy it more than you ever could.

That moment stayed with Din. It wasn’t just your kindness—it was the ease with which you treated everyone, the way you seemed to carry warmth in your very presence. Before he knew it, he found himself lingering at your stall during his weekly supply runs, listening to your stories, laughing at your sharp wit. He told himself it was nothing at first, but deep down, something unfamiliar had begun to take root in his chest, something he wasn’t sure how to name.

Months passed, filled with small moments and stolen glances. Conversations turned longer, filled with shared experiences and an unspoken understanding. Grogu, perceptive as ever, saw what Din refused to acknowledge. One day, with an innocent nudge from the little one, Din found himself stumbling over an invitation. It wasn’t anything grand—he simply mentioned going fishing, and you, without hesitation, offered to join him. One outing turned into another, and before long, the two of you had built something more than just companionship.

When Din finally found the courage to admit his feelings, he did so with the same sincerity that defined him. But before taking any step forward, he made sure you understood what it meant to love a Mandalorian. He explained the tenets of his creed, the weight of his vows, and you listened with unwavering patience. He wanted you to know everything before making a choice, and when you did, it was without hesitation.

On a warm summer night, beneath the endless stretch of the Nevarro sky, you and Din exchanged the Mandalorian oath. A vow not just of love, but of devotion, of commitment beyond words. From that night on, you were bound to one another, and love only continued to bloom between you, stronger with each passing day.

Now you were lying in bed, your bodies tangled in an affectionate embrace, Din's helmet resting on the bedside table as he placed sweet kisses on your neck, drawing soft giggles from your mouth, the adorable sound was like music to your husband's ears.

He continues his tender ministrations, his lips trailing up the column of your neck, pausing to nip gently at your earlobe before murmuring in a low, gruff voice. "You are adorable, cyar'ika. Every inch of you is a treasure."

His hands roam your curves, mapping out the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips, the soft swell of your breasts. He cups them in his large, calloused palms, thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks until they pebble beneath his touch, the delicious sounds that escape your pretty mouth are all the reward he needed.

"I want to worship you, mesh’la. I want to show you the depth of my devotion, my love." He captures your mouth in a loving kiss, his tongue delving deep to claim you, to taste you, as his hands continue their explorations.

He breaks the kiss to blaze a trail down your body, pausing at your breasts. He takes a nipple into his mouth, suckling greedily, his hand kneading the other mound. He laves attention on your breasts until you are writhing beneath him, before continuing his descent.

“Din, love, kriffing” your adorable moans cut through the night breeze, your fingers tangling in his soft brown hair.

He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your panties, tugging them down your legs and tossing them aside. His hand finds your cunt, fingers delving between your folds to stroke your slick heat. He groans against your skin. "Kriffing, you're so wet for me, mesh'la. So ready."

He parts your thighs, settling between them, his breath hot on your core. He leans in, his tongue parting your folds, delving deep to lap at your sweetness. He strokes your clit with the flat of his tongue, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves until your hips buck off the bed.

He grips your thighs, holding you in place as he feasts on you, his tongue plunging deep, fucking into you, before suckling hard on your clit. He brings you to the brink of climax before pulling back, only to start all over again, determined to taste your release on his tongue.

"Din, oh, kriffing, by the force" you babble, the haze of pleasure not allowing you to form adequate sentences, incoherent moans are the only thing that slips from your lips.

He works you over until you are an incoherent mess, begging for him, for more. Only then does he sit back on his haunches, freeing his aching cock from the confines of his armor. He strokes himself as he watches you, taking in the sight of your pleasure, committing it to memory.

"I need to be inside you, cyar'ika. I need to feel your tight little cunt gripping my cock as I claim you, as I make you mine." He settles between your thighs, the head of his cock nudging your entrance. With a swift thrust of his hips, he sheaths himself inside you, burying himself to the hilt.

"Din." You gasp his name like it's an oath, a promise of eternal love that repeats itself every time he is inside you, loving you until your mind can no longer process anything but his love and devotion.

He starts to move, his hips rolling in a steady rhythm, his cock stroking your inner walls with each thrust. He leans down to capture your mouth, swallowing your moans, your cries of pleasure as he loves you with his body, as he seals his vow to you with each deep, powerful thrust.

He feels your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer, and he groans at the feeling of being so deeply sheathed inside you. He begins to thrust harder, faster, driven by the need to pleasure you.

“That's it, mesh'la. Take all of me, every inch. You feel so fucking good wrapped around my cock.” He grunts, his hips snapping forward with increasing fervor as he drives into you, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room.

His fingers never stop their relentless circling of your clit, stroking the sensitive nub in time with his thrusts. He can feel your walls starting to flutter around him, and he knows you're close. He wants to feel you come undone beneath him, wants to watch you shatter in ecstasy.

“Come for me, cyar'ika. I want to feel your sweet little cunt gripping my cock like a warm paradise you’re” He demands, his voice rough with desire, his eyes blazing into yours as he looms over you.

He leans down, capturing your nipple in his mouth once more, biting down just hard enough to ride the line between pleasure and pain. His other hand grips your hip, holding you in place as he pounds into you, the force of his thrusts rocking the bed beneath you.

He can feel his own release approaching, his balls tightening, his cock throbbing inside you. But he holds back, determined to bring you to your peak first, to watch you come apart beneath him.

“I want to fill you up, mesh'la. I want to pump you full of my seed, to watch it leak out of your well-loved pussy.” He growls, his hips never faltering in their relentless rhythm. “I want to fill this sweet little pussy, to watch you swell with my child.”

The thought of you round with his baby, your belly heavy and ripe, sends a surge of primal desire through him. He wants to see you like that, wants to be the one to put his child inside you, to claim you in the most fundamental way.

“Come on, cyar'ika. Let me feel you. Squeeze my cock with your tight little cunt as you come on my cock.” He muttered, his fingers rubbing faster, harder, pushing you towards your climax.

He can feel you tensing, your body drawing taut like a bowstring, and with a final, hard thrust, he sends you flying over the edge. He feels your cunt clamp down around him, gripping him like a silken vise as you scream his name, your release crashing over you in waves.

With a roar of triumph, he follows you into nirvana, his cock pulsing, spurting stream after stream of his hot, thick seed deep inside you. He grinds against you, making sure every last drop is seated inside your womb, marking you, claiming you, making you his.

“Kriffing, mesh’la! Take it all, my love. Take every last fucking drop.” He growls, his hips still rocking, still stirring his seeds inside you as you both ride out the aftershocks of your intense lovemaking.

He collapses on top of you, careful not to crush you with his weight, his still cock buried deep inside your fluttering cunt, keeping his seed inside you. He pulls you into his arms, holding you close, his hands roaming your sweat-kissed skin, marveling at the way you fit against him.

“I love you, mesh'la. I love you more than anything in this world.” He murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your lips, pouring all his devotion, all his love into the gesture. “You are mine, now and forever. My wife, my heart, my everything.”

"I love you forever, and If you meant what you said, Din, about giving me a baby," you begin softly, your soft fingers tracing the delicate lines of his face. "I would like to expand our family."

He stills, his eyes widening slightly at your words as a surge of emotion and desire crashes over him. He covers your hand with his own, bringing it to his lips to press a fervent kiss to your palm, his eyes never leaving yours.

His voice is rough with emotion when he speaks, unable to hide the depth of feeling behind his words. "Would you have my child, cyar'ika? Would you carry my seed, grow round and ripe with new life?"He asks, a note of wonder in his tone, as if he can hardly believe this blessing could be real.

“Of course, my love, I would love to carry the fruit of our love” You said affectionately, your eyes shining with an adoration that mirrored his.

He rolls his hips slowly, his still-hard cock stirring the mix of your juices inside you, a low groan escaping him at the thought of planting his baby inside you. "I would be honored to give you my child, to watch your belly swell and your body change as you nurture our offspring." He murmurs, his hand sliding down to splay across your stomach, imagining it growing heavy and full.

He captures your mouth in a devote kiss, pouring all his love and desire into the heated embrace. When he pulls back, his eyes are blazing with intensity. "I promise you, mesh'la, I will love our child as fiercely as I love you. I will teach them the Way, guide them to be strong and true." He vows, his hand still rests possessively on your belly. "And I will worship this body that will bear our baby, cherish it as the temple it will be. He promises, his voice dropping to a husky whisper."

You looked at him with eyes filled with affection and admiration. "I know you will, my love, and I love you intensely for that... You will be a wonderful father to our baby as you are to Grogu"

He starts to move again, his thrusts slow and deep, stoking the embers of your desire once more. He wants to fill you again, to ensure his seed takes root. He wants to make love to you, over and over, until your womb is flooded with his sperm.

He leans down to murmur in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "I'm going to make love to you again and again, until my child is planted deep inside you. I want to see you glowing with new life, I want to feel our baby growing beneath my hands." He grows, his hips starting to piston faster, driving into you with renewed purpose.

He knows he will protect you, provide for you, love you fiercely and completely, no matter what. And now, he will breed you with his child, sealing his devotion to you in the most intimate way possible. "You are my heart, mesh'la. My life. And I will love you, and our child, until my last breath." He declares, his love burning bright and eternal.

[sometimescharlolette]

JOEL MILLER X F!READER (BRAT TAMING)

Synopsis: You disobey Joel, putting your life at risk once again, his patience runs out, and he teaches you a lesson.

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: +18, age gap, p in v, rough sex, punish sex, dirty talk, possessive behavior, degradate, orgasm denial, age gap not explicit

A/N: Hello pretty people, valentine's day is coming, and I thought I'd write a few things to celebrate this special day. There will be five in total, starting today and ending on the 14th. I hope you enjoy this idea as much as I do. In any case, comments and feedback always motivate me to keep writing and trying to improve. Kisses 💜💜

How many times would Joel have to repeat himself until your stubborn little head got it through your thick skull? Keeping you within the perimeter wasn’t some arbitrary punishment—it was survival. He wasn’t the bad guy for trying to make sure you didn’t get yourself killed. Or worse, turned. The thought alone made his stomach churn, a bitter taste rising in the back of his throat. He had already lost too many people. He wasn’t about to lose you, even if it meant keeping you under lock and key.

And yet, there you were. Again.

He found you near the HQ containment zone, cigarette dangling from your lips, laughing at something some idiot had whispered in your ear. Smoke curled from your mouth, slipping between soft, pink lips as though the world wasn’t on fire around you. As if you had no care at all.

Joel never wanted this job. Never wanted to be responsible for you. But Tess, of course, had volunteered to keep an eye on you, which meant he’d been dragged into this mess, forced to play babysitter to a reckless brat who didn’t seem to give a damn about how dangerous things were outside those gates.

“Let’s go.”

His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument, the crunch of his heavy boots against the gravel matching the unwavering determination in his eyes. He didn’t slow as he approached, didn’t hesitate as he wrapped his fingers around your wrist, yanking you away from the wall you were leaning against.

“Wait—” you whined, twisting in his grip, but he didn’t stop. The cigarette slipped from your lips, embers snuffing out against the cold ground. You cast a glance at the others, as if hoping one of them might step in. But no one did. No one ever did. Not when it came to Joel.

With a frustrated growl, he had enough. In one swift motion, he hauled you over his shoulder, one arm locking around your thighs as you yelped in protest. You kicked, fists thudding against his back, hair falling over your face as the blood rushed to your head.

“Joel, put me down! You caveman—”

He ignored you, jaw clenched tight, stride unwavering as he carried you back to the apartment. Your struggles were useless against his iron grip, every squirm and protest met with nothing more than a gruff sigh. Only once he crossed the threshold, locking the door behind him, did he finally let you go—unceremoniously dropping you onto the worn couch.

You landed with a huff, limbs sprawled in a graceless heap. “What the hell was that?” you snapped, glaring up at him. “I’m not a damn child.”

Joel exhaled sharply, running a rough hand down his face. His patience was gone, his body taut with frustration. His dark eyes locked onto yours, voice low and edged with exhaustion.

“No. But you sure as hell act like one.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine, your breath hitching as his gaze pinned you in place. He was tired—tired of chasing after you, tired of dragging you back from the edge when you so eagerly danced on it.

Joel stepped closer, looming over your sprawled form on the couch. He could see the defiance in your eyes, the stubborn set of your jaw. It was infuriating, but it also stirred something primal in him. He had to put an end to this reckless behavior, one way or another.

"Listen up, 'cause I'm only gonna say this once," he growled, voice rough and low. "You can't keep pullin' this shit, darlin'. It ain't safe out there."

He grabbed your chin, tilting your face up to look at him. His calloused thumb brushed over your bottom lip, a rough caress that felt a jolt through you. "You're playin' with fire, and you're gonna get yourself burned. I won't let that happen."

Joel leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "Maybe it's time I taught you a lesson about listening in' to your elders." His other hand slid down your side, coming to rest on your hip. He squeezed, fingers digging into the soft flesh.

"Wh-what are you doing?" you stammered, a flush creeping up your neck. You tried to pull away, but he held you firm.

"Shh, just relax," he murmured, voice a low rumble. "I'm gonna make you understand, one way or another." His hand slid higher, brushing over the curve of your breast. He could feel your nipple stiffen beneath the thin fabric of your shirt.

Joel captured your mouth in a demanding kiss, swallowing any protests. His tongue delved past your lips, claiming your mouth with a hunger that stole your breath. He kissed you until you were dizzy, until you could only cling to him for support.

When he finally pulled back, your lips were red and swollen, his chest heaving. "You're not leaving this house until I say so," he declared, voice rough with desire. "And if you try, I'll just have to punish you again."

His hand slid under your skirt, finding the heat between your thighs. He groaned at the dampness he found there, a finger tracing your slit through the fabric of your panties. "Fuck, you're already so wet," he muttered. "Guess you like bein' manhandled like this, don't you?"

He ripped your panties away, tossing them carelessly to the side. Then his fingers were on your bare flesh, stroking through your slick folds. He circled your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to make your hips buck up against his hand.

"Joel..." you whimpered, head thrown back in ecstasy. "Please..."

"Please what, baby?" he taunted, fingers delving deeper. "Please stop? Or please don't stop?" He pumped two fingers in and out of you, curling them just right to hit that sweet spot inside.

You could only moan in response, lost in the pleasure he was giving you. He worked you closer and closer to the edge, until your thighs were trembling and your walls were clenching around his fingers.

"Please, Joel, keep it up, I'm, I'm gonna cum," you moaned breathlessly, your head thrown back on the arm of the couch, your chest rising and falling with the scorching heat building in your pelvis, but before you could get caught up in the sensation of pleasure, he pulled his fingers out.

Joel smirked at the confused, frustrated look on your face as he abruptly pulled his fingers from your aching, desperate cunt. He could see the need written all over you, the way your body trembled and your chest heaved with each ragged breath. It was a delicious sight, seeing you so wound up and wanting. He planned to take his time with you, to make you beg for release like the needy little thing you were.

"Please, Joel, I can't-- ah!" Your protests turned into a yelp as his palm cracked against your sensitive pussy, the sharp sting only adding to the fire burning under your skin. He could feel your slick coating his hand, your arousal dripping down your thighs.

"Listen up, you brat," he growled, voice low and dominant. "You don't get to cum until I say so. This is your punishment for being such a reckless little fool."

Joel grabbed your ankles, pushing your legs up and back towards your shoulders. He held you in a tight hold, folding you nearly in half as he loomed over your exposed, dripping cunt. His cock strained against his jeans, rock hard and aching to be buried inside you. But he had other plans first.

Leaning down, he ran his tongue along your slit, tasting your essence. "Fuck, you taste so good," he murmured against your flesh. "Sweet as honey." He delved deeper, tongue plunging into your entrance as he ate you out with eager.

Your moans filled the room, back arching as much as his grip would allow. He could feel your walls fluttering around his invading tongue, desperate for more. But he pulled back, leaving you wanting once again.

"No, please Joel, I need-- I need to cum," you whined, voice high and needy. Your hips bucked, trying to grind against his face, but he held you still.

"Not yet, you don't," he chided, giving your clit a sharp nip. "You don't get to cum until I say so. Until I've had my fill of you."

Joel released your legs, letting them fall to the couch. He undid his belt and jeans with quick, rough movements, freeing his hard cock. It sprang up, long and thick, the swollen head already leaking with need.

Joel fisted a hand in your hair, gripping it tight as he rubbed the leaking head of his cock along your cheek. The scent of his arousal filled your nose, making your mouth water with anticipation. You could feel the heat radiating off his thick shaft, the weight of it as he painted your lips with his pre-cum.

"Open up, baby," he ordered, voice rough with lust. "If you do a good job sucking my cock, maybe I'll let you cum. Would you like that?"

He pressed the tip against your lips, demanding entrance. Your gaze flicked up to meet his, seeing the dark hunger in his eyes. He wanted to use your mouth, to fuck your face until he spilled his load down your throat. The thought sent a thrill of excitement through you.

Reaching up, you wrapped your small hand around the base of his thick cock, feeling it throb against your palm. Slowly, you parted your lips, letting the head slip past them. Your tongue darted out, lapping at the slit, tasting the salty essence leaking from the tip.

"Fuck," Joel groaned, hips jerking forward slightly as your tongue caressed his sensitive flesh. "That's it, baby. Take it deeper."

He pushed more of his length into your mouth, the thick head hitting the back of your throat. You had to relax your jaw, letting him slide in further. He was so big, stretching your lips wide around his girth. You could only take about half of him before you started to gag, throat convulsing around his shaft.

"That's enough," Joel growled, pulling out abruptly. Strings of saliva connected your mouth to his cock, dripping down your chin. He wiped the head of his cock across your cheek, smearing your spit mixed with his pre-cum across your skin.

"On your knees," he commanded, voice rough and demanding. "I want to fuck your face properly."

You quickly complied, slipping off the couch to kneel before him. The hardwood floor was cold against your knees, but the heat of his body was warm against your face. You looked up at him, waiting for his next instruction, ready and eager to please him.

Joel gripped your hair tighter, fisting it like a handle as he began to thrust into your mouth. His cock pushed past your stretched lips, hitting the back of your throat with each pump of his hips. Drool leaked from the corners of your mouth, dribbling down your chin and onto your heaving chest as he used your face.

"Take it, you cock-hungry slut," he grunted, eyes dark with lust as he watched your lips stretch obscenely around his shaft. "Fuck, your mouth feels so good."

He set a brutal pace, fucking your face with long, deep strokes. The head of his cock slammed against your throat again and again, making you gag and choke around him. But he didn't let up, too lost in his own pleasure to care about your discomfort.

"Touch yourself," he ordered, voice strained. "Play with that needy cunt while I use your mouth."

You quickly slid a hand between your thighs, fingers delving into your soaked folds. You circled your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in tight circles as Joel continued to pound into your throat. The dual stimulation was almost too much to bear, pleasure and pain blurring together until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

Joel could feel his release approaching, balls drawing up tight against his body. He thrust harder, chasing his end with single-minded focus. With a guttural groan, he buried himself deep in your throat and held himself there, spurting jet after jet of hot, thick cum directly down your gullet.

You swallowed convulsively around him, trying to gulp down every drop of his release. Some of it leaked out, dribbling down your chin and onto your heaving tits. When he finally pulled out, you gasped for air, coughing and sputtering, face flushed and eyes watering.

"Good girl," Joel praised, tucking himself back into his jeans. He hauled you up by your hair, crashing his mouth against yours in a filthy kiss. He could taste himself on your tongue, the salty flavor of his cum mingling with the sweet taste of your own saliva.

"Now, beg for it," he demanded, hand drifting down to rub your clit hard and fast. "Beg me to let you cum, you dirty little brat. Beg me to give you the release you so desperately need."

Joel smirked down at your lascivious state, taking in the way your face was flushed and smeared with the evidence of your debauchery. He could feel your hips writhing against his fingers, desperate for more friction, more stimulation, more of anything that would bring you the release you so desperately craved.

"Please, Joel, please let me cum," you whimpered, voice high and thready with need. "I'll do anything, I'll be so good, just please let me cum!"

He could feel your pussy clenching around his fingers, greedy and hungry for more. He rubbed your clit harder, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with rough, calloused fingers. His other hand slid up your body to grope at your tits, squeezing the soft mounds roughly.

"Beg harder," he demanded, pinching and rolling your nipple between his fingers. "Convince me of how badly you need it. Tell me how much you want to cum all over my fingers like the desperate little slut you are."

He pumped his fingers faster, plunging them in and out of your soaked cunt. The obscene sound of your arousal filled the room as he fingered you hard and fast, the wet squelch of your pussy echoing off the walls.

"Please, oh god please!" you cried out, head thrown back in ecstasy. "I need it so fucking bad, Joel. I'm so close, I can't-- ah! I can't take it anymore!"

He could feel your body tensing, your walls starting to flutter around his invading digits. He knew you were on the verge of cumming, teetering on the razor's edge of the most intense orgasm of your young life.

"Cum for me, you filthy girl," he growled, rubbing your clit with quick, rough circles. "Cum all over my fingers like the vicious brat you are. Show me how badly you craved it."

With a scream of pure pleasure, your body convulsed, back arching as your orgasm crashed over you like a tsunami. Your pussy clamped down on his fingers, rippling and squeezing as you gushed all over his hand, soaking his palm and dripping down onto the couch.

Joel worked you through it, fingers pumping and rubbing, drawing out your pleasure for as long as possible. He could feel your juices flooding out of you, your body shaking and trembling as the aftershocks rolled through you.

Finally, as your orgasm started to subsid, he pulled his fingers out of your dripping cunt. He brought them up to his mouth, sucking your delicious essence from the digits and groaning at the taste.

"Fuck, you taste so good," he murmured, eyes dark with renewed lust. "I think I'm going to keep you, baby. Keep you here, so you won't put your pretty ass in danger"

He pulled you close, crashing his mouth against yours in a esurient kiss. He could taste himself on your lips, the flavor of your shared pleasure mingling together. His cock was already hardening again, straining against his jeans and pressing insistently against your hip.

"You will take seriously what I say," he declared, voice rough and low. "If I tell you not to leave the perimeter, you don't, if I forbid you from going out alone, you obey. Understand?"

You could only nod, still dazed and pliant in his arms, your body humming with satisfaction. You knew that no one would ever make you feel as good as he did. And god help you, but you couldn't wait.

"Good," Joel mused softly, pulling your limp body closer to him, holding you affectionately, "cause I don't want to chase you around to save your ass anymore."

[sometimescharlolette]

Pedro Pascal as Reed Richards THE FANTASTIC FOUR: FIRST STEPS (2025) dir. Matt Shakman

[sometimescharlolette]

A MAN A MAN A MAN: Pedro Pascal x reader

Synopsis: You show the trend to your boyfriend and Pedro says he can do it. A/N: Hello pretty people, the video of this trend resurfaced on my TikTok and I thought about writing a cute nonsense with Pedro Pascal. I hope you like it, kisses 💜💜

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You were nestled comfortably in Pedro’s arms, the warmth of his embrace making the couch even cozier. He flicked through channels absentmindedly, the movies passing in a blur as he searched for something to watch. Your head rested on his shoulder, your fingers scrolling through TikTok when a familiar trend appeared on your feed—'a Man a Man a Man.'

The video played, showing a man struggling to lift his girlfriend onto his shoulders before finally succeeding with a confident stance. You grinned, watching the playful chaos unfold. Judging these videos was a guilty pleasure of yours—silly but undeniably entertaining.

"What’s that?" Pedro’s deep voice rumbled beside you, his curiosity piqued as he peeked over your shoulder.

"Oh, it’s a trend where guys try to lift their girlfriends onto their shoulders," you explained, showing him a few more clips.

Pedro pouted, raising a skeptical brow. "And why wasn’t I invited to try?"

You chuckled, caught off guard. "I just figured you wouldn’t want to."

"Nonsense. I always want to do something that makes you smile." He booped your nose playfully, his warm gaze fixed on you. "Now show me again so I know exactly what I’m getting into."

You replayed the video a few more times until Pedro nodded, determined. He stood up, adjusting his stance behind you, his hands already resting on your waist.

"Alright, you give a little jump, and I’ll catch you," he instructed, his grip firm but gentle. You nodded, bending your knees slightly before jumping—not up, but forward. The force nearly sent both of you tumbling onto the couch.

Pedro let out a breathy laugh. "This time, jump straight up, love."

You giggled, nodding as he demonstrated the movement with exaggerated effort. "Got it!"

His hands returned to your waist, and this time, you pushed yourself upward with just enough force. Pedro caught your thighs, hoisting you up onto his shoulders. His cheeks tinged a soft pink as he steadied you, gripping your legs tightly to keep you balanced.

"You did it, love!" You beamed down at him, pride evident in your voice. Pedro, grinning, released one hand to flex his bicep dramatically.

"Baby, baby—" you started, a nervous chuckle escaping your lips as he shifted beneath you.

"Relax, I got this, honey" he reassured, and before you could protest, he spun you around in a slow circle.

"Pedroooo!" Your voice rose in alarm, fingers gripping the nape of his neck as you braced for the inevitable.

And sure enough—he stumbled. His balance wavered, and just in time, Pedro caught hold of you, carefully setting you down onto the couch before he lost his footing completely.He landed beside you with a breathless laugh, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly.

"Okay… maybe I don’t got this."You burst into laughter, collapsing against him as he wrapped his arms around you once more.

"That was terrifying and adorable all at once."

"Next time, we practice with pillows before" he muttered, pressing a soft kiss to your temple as the two of you dissolved into laughter again.