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iholdwhatican · 8 months ago

Text

reunions

pairing: art donaldson x reader x patrick zweig

read part 2 here!

length: 3.8k

tags: y/n is art donaldson's wife ; birthday party ; surprise visit from patrick ; art is down bad ; patrick wants y/n ; possessive!art ; the boys are fighting ; no use of y/n ; pining ; sexual tension

summary: you want to make your husband's birthday special, so you invite his attractive, charming, estranged childhood best friend in the hopes that they'll make amends. surely nothing will go wrong, right?

author's note: i can't stop thinking about them i am so ill. this is the first of presumably many challengers works. and yes i did make a new blog just for this, don't judge me. this is a drabble that was stuck in my head but I do have more for it should it be wanted! preferably something that leaves you sandwiched in between them :3

originally posted by iholdwhatican

You told yourself this whole thing happened out of the goodness of your heart. You’d just wanted to be a good wife and make your husband’s birthday the best it could possibly be. Because Art Donaldson was the most amazing person you’d ever known, and he loved you, and he deserved the world. There was nothing off limits when it came to him, no line you wouldn’t cross.

You knew how much Patrick had meant to him, how much he missed his best friend. Your cheeks hurt from how wide the stories made you smile, how happy he sounded when he recounted the things he’d gotten into with the eccentric tennis player. And you knew how sad Art was that they didn’t talk anymore.

So what better time to remedy that than for his birthday? That was a wonderful surprise, right? Right?

Upon meeting Patrick Zweig, your first thought was how the hell this man got along so well with your Art. Not to say he was a bad person, but he was just so… much. He was cocky, indomitable, the kind of person that knew what he wanted and what he was worth and wouldn’t settle for anything less. He was a force not to be reckoned with, no matter what. He was also unbelievably charming (and not bad on the eyes, which you would never admit), and you hated the way his sweet-talking got under your skin.

He asked you how Art was. You told him he was fine. Retired, now. Making the most of a quiet life. You’d just celebrated 3 years of married life. He asked to see wedding photos and you didn’t miss the sadness in his eyes at missing the event. You happily obliged. It was the most romantic day of your life, after all.

And you couldn’t help but internally pat yourself on the back. Patrick missed him too. You could mend the broken bridge between them, and your husband would be thrilled. He’d reward you for your good work.

You asked Patrick to come to Art’s party. To make contact again. To come back into his world. He only hesitated for a moment, asked if Art knew and was okay with it.

The lie slipped off your tongue easily. Of course, he’s wanted this for a long time. It’s a surprise, but a most welcome one. You didn’t have details on what happened between them- only knew of a falling out while Art was in college- but it couldn’t be that bad. Anything could be overcome, right?

Patrick accepted and you hoped the lump in your throat was from excitement and not dread. You thanked him for meeting you, told him you’d forward him the details, and went back to your husband.

The day of the party came, and you were so nervous you could hardly take it. You’d spent the last couple of days working yourself into a frenzy, convinced that this reunion was a terrible idea and your husband would hate you. You had no right to bring an estranged friend back into his life, on his birthday no less. And without saying a word to him.

God, what the hell was wrong with you?

You gripped the edge of the kitchen counter and downed your third glass of water. It did nothing to soothe the dryness in your throat. Or the pounding of your heart. You wondered how fucked you’d be at the party if you took a Xanax right now. Or five.

Just then, Art peeked his head into the kitchen, donning a sweet smile when he spotted you. He looked as handsome as ever, sporting a well-fitting polo shirt and khakis. His hair was growing out again, starting to show those boyish curls you’d fallen in love with all those years ago. He made his way over to you, wedding band sparkling on his finger, and your heart melted.

You loved him so much. Had you ruined his birthday with your stupid meddling? Maybe even ruined your marriage?

“Hey, beautiful.” He greeted, sliding a hand around your waist and kissing your head. It was a familiar gesture, a normal one. He loved touching you, keeping you close. You loved it just as much, “The cake was just delivered. You went way overboard, as usual.”

You pretended you weren’t overcome with dread and cupped his cheek, “Shut up. There’s no such thing as overboard. You deserve this, okay? You deserve to be celebrated.”

Please, please don’t be mad at me for inviting him. For bringing him into our world. Please still love me. I did it for you. I’d do anything for you.

His eyes crinkled as he smiled- in that perfect way you adored so much. He leaned down to kiss you again, this time on your lips. It was gentle and caring and everything you were to each other. It made you want to cry. Art was everything. All you wanted was to give him the same.

The doorbell rang, breaking you two out of the moment, and your husband pulled away. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Well,” He spoke, looking at you like there was nothing else in the world, “That must be our first guest.”

You hummed happily, “Guess it’s time to celebrate you, Birthday Boy. Shall we?”

“We shall.” He teased, doing a mock bow as he offered you his hand. You took it, laughing, and the two of you made your way to the front door.

You took a deep breath and tried not to focus on the unhappy way your stomach was churning.

The first hour of the party went by with a pleasant lack of reunions-turned-altercations. Patrick had yet to show his face, and you wondered if he might not come at all. Part of you was relieved at the idea, while the other couldn’t help but be frustrated.

He said he would come. What if the surprise didn’t end up being a bad thing? How would you know if he never showed?

God, you needed a cigarette.

You’d spent the entirety of the party so far glued to Art’s side, being his doting wife as you made conversation with everyone. Your eyes continued to stray to the door, looking for a certain dark-haired man. Every single time, you were disappointed. Disappointed, yes, but not surprised. From what you’d heard, Patrick wasn’t really someone who could be counted on a lot.

Maybe this whole thing was just a big mistake. And maybe the part of you that truly felt let down at not getting to see him again was something you should never, never look into.

You patted Art’s chest and stood on your tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “I’m gonna check on the food. I’ll be back.”

He nodded, smiled, and pressed a kiss to your temple. His arm released its grip on you and he continued his conversation with an old Stanford buddy without missing a beat. He was fucking incredible. At everything. You were crazy about him.

The food didn’t actually need to be checked on. The caterer was high-quality, and they knew better than to fuck up one of your events for your husband. You had full trust in them- you honestly just needed a breather. This whole night had felt like a cold fist clenched around your heart.

Instead, you grabbed yourself a large glass of wine and made your way to the patio to enjoy some cool night air.

The area was blessedly empty, allowing you to slip out of the hostess facade. You were more than happy to do it, especially when celebrating Art, but the circumstances tonight were making it much harder than usual. Which was, of course, entirely your own fault. Way to go, you! Knocked it out of the park tonight, didn’t you?

You sighed, leaned against the railing, and took a long gulp of your drink. The weather was slightly chilly, and it felt amazing against your heated skin. Already, you were finding it easier to breathe. And think, for that matter.

“Shouldn’t you be at the party, Mrs. Donaldson?” A familiar, spine-tingling voice spoke, breaking you out of your peaceful moment.

You whirled around, eyes landing on Patrick fucking Zweig leaning against the wall of your house. A lit cigarette hung from his lips, his hands nonchalantly tucked into the pockets of his dark jeans. They went well with the button-up shirt he wore, a stark contrast from the shorts and hoodie he’d had on when you first met. He looked good- really good. Enough to make a pit grow in your stomach.

“I thought you weren’t coming.” You blurted out, thankful that the darkness was shrouding your red face. His face was just barely illuminated by the orange glow of the cigarette, and you watched as he looked you up and down, “Also, how’d you get back here? I didn’t see you walk into the house.”

Patrick kicked off the wall and walked over to you, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth. His curls fell over his forehead, and you found yourself fighting the urge to brush them out of the way- the same way you always did to Art. You swallowed deeply. What the hell was wrong with you?

“I told you I’d come, didn’t I?” He responded matter-of-factly, blowing a puff of smoke into the air. The smell made you nostalgic. You and Art had made a pact years ago to quit together, but God did you miss it sometimes. You licked your lips and tried (and failed) not to stare, “I snuck in through the back. Thought it’d be less messy that way.”

You had no idea how he’d been able to get back here, but you decided you weren’t gonna ask. It didn’t matter in the long run, anyway. Besides, he was probably right. You had no idea how Art was gonna react, and it was smart to have it happen in an isolated area.

“Probably smart.” You muttered, taking another swig of the wine. The feeling of his eyes stayed on you, burning into your skin, but you didn’t meet his gaze. You didn’t want to think too hard on why.

“He doesn’t know you reached out to me.” It wasn’t a question, but you responded to Patrick’s words regardless. He’d find out eventually.

“No.” The admittance came out with a heavy breath, like you were releasing the weight that had been on you all night. In a way, you were. You ran a hand over your forehead, “I don’t know what happened between you two, he doesn’t talk about it. But I just- I’m terrified he’ll hate me for bringing you.”

Why the hell were you pouring your heart out to this stranger? What was it about him that drew you in so much and made you want to bring down your walls? How was this charming man already under your skin from one damn meeting? And how the fuck were you supposed to explain any of this to your husband, his estranged best friend?

You needed another drink. Or ten.

“You really love him.” Again, not a question. But you answered. You had to.

“More than anything else in this world.”

Patrick offered you his half-smoked cigarette and you took it without thinking. The sting of the smoke in your lungs was like coming home. It was so good it almost made you cry. But lots of things made you want to cry right now. You could taste mint on the cigarette, like he’d been chewing gum before lighting up. The same kind Art always chewed.

It made something flip in your stomach.

“Well, from what I can tell, you’re pretty great. Super caring, based on how far you went in an attempt to make him happy. Shit, you tracked me down, which is a feat in itself. And you’re gorgeous, obviously. I’m surmising that you’re basically the whole package.” He spoke calmly, as if every one of those words didn’t make your heart jump into your throat. You chugged your drink to use it as an excuse for your rosy cheeks, “So I don’t think there’s any way he could hate you. Even for inviting me here.”

You were speechless for five long seconds as he took the cigarette back and inhaled. Then you finally got your brain to stop lagging, “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough.” He countered, continuing the pass back and forth of the cigarette, “And I know Art. He wouldn’t marry someone beneath him. The fucker somehow always gets the ones way out of his league.”

You didn’t comment, but you knew what Patrick was referring to. Tashi Duncan. The now pro-tennis player that he’d had a thing with back in the day. You didn’t know the details, but you knew she was a point of contention between the two men.

Honestly, you tried not to think about Tashi. She was gorgeous, super talented, and an overall seemingly great person. Art had passed up on that for you, and it got to your head a lot. You wondered if he regretted it. Or at least wondered what his life could’ve been like.

You didn’t think you were out of his league. In fact, you thought the opposite. Not that you needed to tell Patrick that. Your insecurity and jealousy issues could stay yours alone.

“Well, I don’t know about that.” You murmured.

The cigarette began to dim as you took the last drag, flicking it off the balcony and down into the grass below. With both the alcohol and nicotine gone, you started to think you probably needed to get back to the party. Your husband would be looking for you, and you didn’t want to keep him waiting. You just had to figure out how Patrick would fit into the equation.

“If you weren’t taken, I’d be trying to charm the fuck out of you right now.”

The statement caught you completely off guard. You looked over at him, eyes wide, and tried to keep your cool at the sexy smirk on his face. God, he was so fucking attractive.

You blinked once, twice, a third time, “What?”

His smile grew at your flustered state, “I have great taste in women, and I’d flirt with you if I could. So I’m saying you’re definitely a catch. And totally out of Art’s league.”

You licked your lips. Subconsciously, “I’m pretty sure that was flirting.”

“Was it?” He didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed, “Oops.”

You ran your finger over the rim of your wine glass, trying to think of something to say. You came up empty. You were married- to this man’s childhood best friend. To the love of your life. He shouldn’t be flirting with you. And you definitely shouldn’t be enjoying it.

“There you are! I was starting to worry.” Art’s voice broke the tense silence, and you turned around to watch him making his way to you with a smile. Then he spotted Patrick and his smile dropped as his face filled with recognition, “You- what the hell are you doing here?”

You opened your mouth to speak, to explain and mediate the situation, but the dark-haired man beat you to it.

“Your pretty little wife invited me.” He said, which was probably the worst thing he probably could’ve chosen. You internally buried your face in your hands.

Art’s jaw clenched and his eyes lit up. It took you a moment to realize that the expression was anger. Honestly, it took you by surprise. It was extremely rare to see him angry, and never was it directed at you. And though he was looking at Patrick, you were terrified that in this instance it was.

“Let me explain.” You immediately choked out, clutching your empty wine glass like a lifeline, “I really just thought that-”

“She thought you missed me and wanted us to reconnect. As a birthday surprise. Isn’t that sweet?” Patrick butted in, throwing an arm over your shoulders. Art looked ready to murder someone (probably the tennis player holding you), “I doubt it was easy contacting me, but she managed. All for you.”

You laughed nervously, ducking your head, “Well, that’s not-”

“Let go of her.” Art demanded. His voice was cold and dangerous. Possessive. It made something twitch in your core. Oh, you liked that.

The brunette didn’t hesitate to do as he was told, holding his hands up in surrender, “My bad, man. I just feel like we’re already such close friends from hanging out together. Don’t you think so?”

The last part was directed at you, and Patrick nudged you. You gave him an incredulous look.

The charming, sweet man you’d just been talking to was gone. He was replaced by a cocky, near-disrespectful antagonist who was trying to egg your husband into some kind of altercation. And he was using you as the bait.

You couldn’t lie that you were frustrated, but it did feel a bit nice to be in an almost tug-of-war between the two men. You liked being an object of affection or desire.

“You should head inside, baby.” Art spoke to you, though his furious gaze never left Patrick, “Our guests will wonder where the hosts went. I’m gonna talk to Patrick for a minute.”

You’d be damned if you told him no. Even though this situation felt like a mess that was definitely all your fault. Damn you for inviting Patrick. Damn him for being so captivating. And damn Art for loving you so much that the sight of another man touching you made him see red. This entire thing was like a whirlwind.

“Okay…” You whispered, moving towards your husband and the house. You gave Patrick a small smile, hoping to convey your thoughts to him. Please don’t hurt him- he’s my world. Then you stopped at Art’s side and placed a hand on his bicep, “I’m sorry if this was a bad idea. I just wanted to make your birthday special, is all. I didn’t mean to fuck it up.”

He finally looked at you, just long enough to give you a loving smile and a shake of his head, “You didn’t ruin anything. I’m so proud of you for doing all this for me. Don’t worry.”

Then he kissed you, only to stop and pull away, “Is that- were you smoking with Patrick?”

You sucked on your teeth and nodded, “Yes, a little. I’m sorry. I just-”

But then he was kissing you again, hard and needy. Like he wanted to fuck you right then and there. Your face burned bright red, and you could feel Patrick’s eyes on the two of you. Art had never acted like this in all the time you knew him. But right now, within thirty seconds of being around his old friend, he was putting on a show to prove that you were his.

You belonged to him. And he wanted Patrick to know it.

You really, really fucking liked this.

When he pulled away, you felt dizzy. From both the kiss and the wine you’d downed. You barely had time to take a breath before he was lightly patting your cheek and sending you inside. You managed to take a look at the two men before rejoining the party. They just stared at each other, like they were in a standoff.

It was unbelievably hot.

As you went back to your guests, lips still tingling, only one thought was coming to you.

You wondered how long you could keep Patrick around, just to see what it would do to your precious husband.

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novaursa · 4 months ago

Note

I have way to many idea so sorry for everything I’m going to send you 👉🏼👈🏼

Aemond x Niece (maybe a Nyra x daemon before her wedding!?)

He’s obsessed with her, she represents everything he want, she’s a perfect Targaryen white hair, purple eyes, huge dragon vermithor or cannibal?

But she’s engaged to Jace and he hate the fact that she is “given” to a bastard. So he tried by all things to make her his, he wish so hard to be found with her in a bad position that they obliged them to get married.

He make sure that Larys Steong see them, he even say to the maester to give her moon tee or medicinal herb for morning sickness ?! Otto find that about the maester and decided to marry them ( daemon and nyra are not ok they say It not real) and aemond took that personally and decided that they will have a child right now 🫣

The Dragon's Mark

- Summary: When Aemond found out about your betrothal to Jacaerys, he knew how all seven hells could not hold him back from taking what was rightfully his.

- Pairing: niece!reader/Aemond Targaryen

- Note: Reader is the firstborn child of Rhaenyra. She had a reader with Daemon before she involved herself with Harwin Strong. Daemon legitimized the reader. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 4 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

- A/N: I've changed the thing with a Maester to make it more believable. I hope you don't mind.

Aemond sat across from his mother, Dowager Queen Alicent, and his grandsire, Ser Otto Hightower, in the great hall of the Red Keep. The torchlight cast shadows over their faces, making their expressions harder to read, not that Aemond was paying much attention. Their voices drifted to him as if through a thick fog, muffled and distant. He stared at the tapestry on the wall opposite, its intricate designs of dragons entwined in battle barely registering in his mind. His thoughts were elsewhere, consumed by the image of you.

You, to him, were the embodiment of Valyrian perfection, a true daughter of Old Valyria. Your silver hair fell in soft waves, catching the light like molten silver, and your violet eyes held the depth of the ancient Targaryen bloodline. You are more than a princess; you are power personified, a dragonrider of Vermithor, the mighty bronze beast who had bonded with you when you were but a girl. Aemond could still remember the first time he had seen you astride Vermithor, your small form commanding the great dragon with ease, your expression fierce and unyielding.

Now, you are a woman grown, and in Aemond's eyes, you are perfect. You are the one he deserves, a match that would not only strengthen the bloodline but would also solidify his place in their shared history. He could see it so clearly in his mind: you by his side, the two of you ruling as a power unmatched, with dragons and fire at your command.

The thought of you set a slow burn within him, a mix of admiration and desire. He had always been captivated by your strength, your beauty, and the fire in your spirit that matched his own. You are everything he had ever wanted, everything he needed. A true Targaryen, unmarred by the weaknesses of others. Aemond clenched his jaw, pushing down the surge of emotions that threatened to spill over.

His attention snapped back to the present as his mother's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and clear.

"...Rhaenyra has decided to marry her daughter to Jacaerys," Alicent said, her tone carefully neutral, but there was a hint of distaste in her eyes.

Aemond's world tilted on its axis, the words crashing over him like a wave. His blood ran cold as the realization settled in. Rhaenyra intended to wed her daughter, you, the one Aemond desired above all others, to that bastard Jacaerys. His hands curled into fists on the table, the knuckles white as the force of his anger rose within him, threatening to consume him whole.

"A match to solidify her claim, no doubt," Otto added, his voice dry and calculated as always. "She seeks to ensure her line continues to hold power, binding her daughter to her eldest son."

Aemond could barely hear them now over the roaring in his ears. The thought of you, bound to Jacaerys, of the union of your bloodlines through a marriage that had nothing to do with honor or strength but everything to do with Rhaenyra's desperate attempt to secure her position—it was unbearable.

His mind raced with images of Jacaerys, the boy who had always stood in his way, who had always been favored despite the question of his parentage, despite his weaknesses. And now, to think that he would have you, the woman Aemond had longed for, the woman who should have been his—!

"Aemond." Alicent's voice broke through his fury, pulling his gaze to her. She looked at him with concern, as if sensing the turmoil within him. "What are you thinking?"

Aemond blinked, his breath coming in sharp, controlled breaths as he forced himself to calm. He could not reveal the depth of his feelings here, not now. He met his mother's gaze, his expression hardening into a mask of indifference.

"Nothing, mother," he said, his voice low and measured. "Only that Rhaenyra's choices will bring about her own downfall."

Alicent frowned slightly, but before she could press further, Otto interjected, his eyes narrowing as he studied his grandson. "This marriage will complicate things, Aemond. We must be cautious in how we respond. Rhaenyra seeks to bind the loyalty of her supporters through this match."

Aemond nodded stiffly, though his thoughts were still far from the politics of it all. He would not let this happen. He would not allow Jacaerys to take what should be his.

"Perhaps," Aemond began slowly, "we should consider our own alliances more carefully. There are other ways to weaken Rhaenyra's position."

Otto raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the shift in Aemond's tone. "What do you suggest?"

Aemond met his grandsire's gaze, a plan already forming in his mind, a way to ensure that you would not be lost to him, that Jacaerys would not win. His lips curled into a small, cold smile.

"There are always ways to turn the tide," he said softly. "We need only find the right pressure points."

Alicent looked between them, her unease growing, but Aemond paid her no mind. His thoughts were solely on you, on the woman who had unknowingly claimed his heart. He would have you, no matter the cost. You will be his, and nothing, not even Rhaenyra’s schemes, would stand in his way.

The fire in the hearth crackled softly as you sat at your vanity, the brush gliding through your long, silver hair. Each stroke was methodical, a ritual you found soothing as the day's events faded into the quiet of the evening. You took a deep breath, savoring the calm, but beneath the surface, your thoughts were a swirling current of unspoken feelings, thoughts that often turned to him—Aemond.

The quiet attraction you felt for him had always been there, lurking in the periphery of your mind, but never voiced, never acted upon. There was something in the way he carried himself, the intensity of his gaze, that made your heart quicken whenever he was near. Yet, the distance between you had always remained, unbridgeable, or so you had thought.

You placed the brush down, your hair now smooth and shining in the firelight, ready to retire for the night. But just as you were about to stand, a knock echoed through the chamber, pulling you from your reverie. You frowned, surprised by the interruption at this hour. Before you could respond, the door creaked open, and there he was, Aemond, standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

"Aemond," you whispered, your voice betraying a hint of the surprise you felt.

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. His presence filled the space, commanding yet silent, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. His eye, that piercing violet eye, locked onto yours, and you felt your breath catch. There was something different about him tonight, an intensity that set your heart racing.

"I... wasn't expecting you," you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Aemond moved closer, his gaze never leaving yours. "I needed to see you," he said quietly, his tone carrying a weight that made your pulse quicken. He was so close now that you could feel the heat radiating from him, the scent of leather and smoke clinging to his clothes.

You swallowed, your mind racing as he reached out, his hand brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. The touch was gentle, almost reverent, and it sent a shiver down your spine. There was something in his eye, a hunger, a longing that mirrored the unspoken desires you had kept locked away for so long.

"I've thought about you," you admitted softly, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "But I never—"

He silenced you with a look, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw before tilting your chin up, his gaze darkening. "No more words," he murmured, and then his lips were on yours, claiming them with a fervor that took your breath away.

The kiss was everything you had imagined and more, a rush of heat and need that left you dizzy. You responded in kind, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath the fabric of his tunic. He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you, and you felt the world narrow down to just the two of you, the fire, and the beating of your hearts.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other as you tried to steady yourself. But before you could speak, before you could mention the name that had been on your mind earlier, he shook his head.

"Don't," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "I don't want to hear his name tonight."

You nodded, understanding the unspoken plea, and let the thought of Jacaerys fade away, replaced by the man before you, the man who had captured your heart without either of you realizing it.

Aemond's hands moved to the ties of your gown, his fingers deftly undoing the knots, and you felt your pulse quicken as the fabric slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet. You shivered, not from the cold, but from the intensity of his gaze as he took in the sight of you, bared before him. There was a reverence in his eyes, a deep appreciation that made your cheeks flush with heat.

He shed his own tunic, revealing the lean, strong lines of his body, the scars that marked him only adding to the allure. You reached out, your fingers tracing the contours of his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. It was all so surreal, so perfect, that you almost feared it was a dream.

Aemond's hands were gentle as he led you to the bed, laying you down with a care that made your heart ache. He moved over you, his gaze softening as he positioned himself between your legs, his body pressing against yours in a way that felt both new and familiar, as if you were made to fit together.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, his eye searching yours for any sign of hesitation.

You nodded, your hand cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing over the smooth skin just beneath his patch. "Yes," you breathed, your voice trembling with anticipation. "I want this, Aemond. I want you."

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a tender kiss as he entered you slowly, the sensation both sharp and sweet, a mingling of pleasure and pain as he took your maidenhead. You gasped, clutching at his shoulders, but the discomfort quickly faded, replaced by a sense of fullness, of completeness, as he buried himself deep within you.

Aemond stilled for a moment, his breathing ragged as he took in the sight of you beneath him, your hair spread out like a silver halo on the pillow, your eyes wide with trust and desire. The knowledge that you were his, that you had given yourself to him, filled him with a satisfaction that went beyond mere conquest. It was everything he had ever imagined, and more.

Tomorrow, he knew, the servants who served Larys Strong would change the sheets, and the evidence of your union would be seen by those who needed to know. But for now, all that mattered was the here and now, the way you felt beneath him, the way your body responded to his.

You urged him to move, your hips shifting beneath him, and he obliged, setting a slow, steady rhythm that had you both gasping for breath. The pleasure built between you, a slow burn that grew hotter with every thrust, every kiss, until it was all-consuming.

Aemond was lost in the sensation, the feel of you, the sound of your breathless moans, the way your bodies moved together in perfect harmony. It was everything he had ever wanted, everything he had ever dreamed of, and more. He could feel the tension building, the pressure mounting as you both neared the edge.

As you reached the pinnacle, your release washing over you in a wave of pleasure, he buried his face in your neck, his voice rough with emotion as he urged you to call his name, to let the world know who you belonged to. "Say my name," he breathed, his words a plea and a command all at once.

"Aemond," you gasped, your voice breaking as you clung to him, your body trembling with the force of your release. "Aemond, please..."

And then he was there, the last threads of his control snapping as he spilled himself inside you, his own release ripping through him with a force that left him trembling. Your name was on his lips, a whispered prayer, a declaration of everything he felt, everything he could never put into words.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your mingled breaths, the warmth of your bodies pressed together, the lingering echoes of pleasure that pulsed through your veins. Aemond held you close, his forehead resting against yours as you both came down from the heights of your passion.

In that moment, there were no words, no need for them. Everything you had ever wanted, everything you had ever felt, was conveyed in the way you held each other, in the way your bodies fit together so perfectly, so naturally.

As you drifted into sleep, Aemond's arms wrapped around you, you knew that everything had changed, and there was no going back.

The morning arrived as Aemond moved with purposeful strides. His mind was sharp, focused, each step a calculated part of the plan he had set into motion. The events of the previous night played over in his mind, not with regret, but with satisfaction. Everything was unfolding exactly as he had intended.

He turned a corner and spotted Grand Maester Mellos in the distance, the elderly man’s stooped figure moving slowly down the hall. Aemond quickened his pace, his boots echoing against the stone floor, and within moments, he was at the Maester’s side.

“Grand Maester Mellos,” Aemond greeted, his voice measured and calm, though there was an undercurrent of urgency that could not be missed.

The Maester looked up, startled by the sudden appearance of the prince. “Prince Aemond,” he replied, bowing his head slightly in respect. “How may I assist you this morning?”

Aemond’s expression was inscrutable as he spoke, his voice low, as if to ensure their conversation remained private. “I require your expertise, Maester. There is a matter concerning Princess Y/N—my niece—that needs your immediate attention.”

Mellos frowned, his brow furrowing in concern. “Of course, Your Grace. What seems to be the issue? Is Princess Y/N unwell?”

Aemond shook his head, his gaze intense as he met the Maester’s eyes. “No, she is not unwell. However, I wish for her to be examined… to ensure that she has not been harmed.”

Mellos’ confusion deepened, and he tilted his head slightly, trying to understand. “Harmed, Your Grace? I do not follow. What examination, exactly, do you require?”

Aemond hesitated for only a fraction of a second before he continued, his voice steady and deliberate. “Last night, she and I... shared an intimate moment. I want to ensure that she was not hurt during our union, that she was not harmed in any way.”

The Maester’s face went pale, the full implication of Aemond’s words sinking in. His eyes widened slightly, and he took an involuntary step back, his hand trembling as he clutched the folds of his robes.

“Your Grace…” Mellos began, his voice shaky as he tried to comprehend the gravity of what had been revealed to him. “You… you wish for me to confirm that Princess Y/N was… that she…?”

Aemond’s gaze remained fixed on the Maester, his expression unwavering. “Yes,” he said simply, allowing the full weight of his words to settle between them. “I want you to ensure that she was not harmed. And if any trace of injury is found, I want you to inform me immediately.”

Mellos looked as though he might faint, the color draining from his face entirely. His mind raced, trying to grasp the enormity of what Aemond was asking, and the consequences that would follow. The bloodied sheets, the confirmation from the Grand Maester—these were not just symbols of a consummated union; they were a declaration of intent, a claim that could not be ignored by either Otto Hightower or Rhaenyra Targaryen.

“I… I understand, Your Grace,” Mellos stammered, his voice barely more than a whisper. “But, Prince Aemond, surely you realize that such news… it will reach the ears of the Queen, and Prince Daemon…”

Aemond’s lips curled into a faint smile, though there was no warmth in it. “That is precisely what I intend, Maester. The sheets will speak for themselves, and your examination will confirm what is already known. My niece is now mine, and any plans to wed her to Jacaerys must be reconsidered.”

Mellos swallowed hard, the implications of Aemond’s words weighing heavily on him. The Prince’s plan was clear now, as was the role he had unwittingly been drawn into. The Maester nodded slowly, realizing that there was no turning back from what had been set in motion.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Mellos finally said, his voice hoarse. “I shall see to it immediately.”

Aemond inclined his head, satisfied that his instructions would be carried out. He could see the fear in the Maester’s eyes, the way his hands shook ever so slightly as he turned to leave. But that fear was necessary, a tool to ensure that the plan would proceed without a hitch.

“Thank you, Grand Maester,” Aemond said, his voice as smooth as silk. “I trust that you will handle this matter with the utmost discretion.”

Mellos nodded quickly, his face still ashen as he hurried away, his steps faltering as though the weight of what he now carried was too much to bear.

Aemond watched him go, a sense of triumph settling over him. The seeds had been sown, and soon enough, they would bear the fruit he desired. His grandsire would be forced to recognize the union, and Rhaenyra would have no choice but to break the engagement to Jacaerys. There would be no way to deny him now.

As he turned and walked back down the corridor, a sense of satisfaction filled him. Everything was falling into place, just as he had envisioned. And as for the flushed and worried Grand Maester, he was merely the first to feel the ripple effects of the plan Aemond had so carefully crafted. Soon, everyone would understand that you belonged to him, and no one—not Jacaerys, not Rhaenyra, not even Daemon—could take you away from him now.

Aemond entered the chamber, summoned by his grandsire. The usual sense of foreboding that accompanied meetings in the Tower of the Hand was magnified tenfold by the figures waiting inside. Otto Hightower stood near the center of the room, his expression grave, while beside him stood Rhaenyra, her face a mask of barely concealed fury. But it was Daemon, pacing like a caged beast, whose presence dominated the space, his anger felt in the air.

Aemond, however, was unperturbed. He walked with measured steps, his posture erect, his face a picture of calm satisfaction. His eye met Daemon’s, and he could see the rage simmering there, a wildfire barely restrained. Aemond’s lips curled into a slight smile, knowing full well that it would only infuriate Daemon further.

“You summoned me, grandsire?” Aemond’s voice was even, respectful, but with an edge of smugness that did not go unnoticed.

Otto cleared his throat, his gaze flicking between the furious Targaryens and his grandson. “Aemond, it has come to my attention—” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “It has come to my attention, through certain… whispers, that Grand Maester Mellos was called upon this morning to examine Princess Y/N. An examination that has confirmed… certain truths.”

Rhaenyra’s fists clenched at her sides, her violet eyes blazing with a fury that matched the fire of the dragons themselves. “How dare you,” she hissed, her voice trembling with rage. “How dare you lay a hand on her!”

Before Aemond could respond, Daemon stepped forward, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword, Dark Sister. His face was a mask of barely restrained violence, and for a moment, it seemed he might strike Aemond down where he stood.

“Daemon,” Otto warned, his voice firm, though there was a thread of unease beneath it. “Violence will solve nothing here.”

“Violence is all I see fit to deal with this insolent whelp!” Daemon barked, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “He dares to defile my daughter, and you expect me to stand idly by?”

Aemond, unflinching, met Daemon’s gaze head-on, his own expression hardening. “I have done what was necessary, uncle,” he said coolly. “She is mine now, and there is nothing you can do to change that.”

Rhaenyra’s voice broke through the tension, sharp and cold. “Her betrothal to Jacaerys has been agreed upon for years. You cannot simply cast that aside as if it means nothing.”

Otto interjected, his voice measured, though the urgency was clear. “In light of these recent events, the betrothal to Prince Jacaerys must be reconsidered. It is in the best interest of both houses that Princess Y/N and Prince Aemond are wed, to avoid any… further complications.”

Daemon’s eyes flashed with a deadly light as he turned on Otto. “You would sell my daughter to this boy after what he has done? You forget yourself, Hightower. She will not be tangled into your schemes!”

Aemond stepped forward, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “This is not a matter of scheming, uncle. It is done. She is mine now, and there is nothing that can undo it. You cannot deny what has been consummated.”

Daemon’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, but he did not draw it. Aemond’s words, as blunt and provocative as they were, held the weight of truth, and that was what infuriated Daemon most of all.

“The marriage must happen,” Otto pressed, sensing the shift in the room. “And it should happen soon, before word spreads and this matter becomes a scandal that neither house can afford.”

Aemond did not miss the opportunity to twist the knife deeper. “Indeed,” he said, his voice smooth, dripping with a satisfaction that only inflamed Daemon’s ire further. “The ceremony should be conducted in the traditions of old Valyria, where fire and blood bind us as one. And it should be done with haste.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the room before delivering the final blow. “For I hope that soon, another dragon will be born of our union.”

The implication hung heavy in the air, and Rhaenyra’s face turned ashen, her fury giving way to something colder, more calculating. Daemon, however, looked ready to strike again, his entire body tensed with the desire to lash out, to wipe that smug look off Aemond’s face.

But Aemond stood tall, his gaze steady, unflinching in the face of Daemon’s rage. He knew he had won. The plan had worked flawlessly. The whispers from Larys Strong, the bloodied sheets, the Maester’s examination—all had been carefully orchestrated to force this very outcome.

A tense silence stretched between them, thick and oppressive, until finally, it was Rhaenyra who spoke, her voice cold and sharp as a blade. “If this is to be done,” she said, “it will be done according to our customs, and with the respect due to our house. But know this, Aemond—should you ever bring harm to my daughter, not even your dragon will save you from my wrath.”

Aemond inclined his head slightly, accepting her warning with the same unyielding calm he had maintained throughout. “As you wish, sister. I will see to it that Y/N is treated with the honor she deserves.”

Daemon said nothing, but the look he leveled at Aemond spoke volumes. It was a promise, a vow that if Aemond ever crossed a line, there would be a reckoning, and it would be brutal.

But for now, Aemond had what he wanted. He had claimed you, and soon, the two of you will be bound in marriage. The thought of it sent a thrill of triumph through him, and though he kept his expression carefully neutral, inside, he reveled in his victory.

Otto, sensing that the matter was settled, nodded gravely. “Then it is decided. The preparations will begin at once.”

Without another word, Aemond turned and left the chamber, leaving behind a flushed, furious Daemon and a conflicted Rhaenyra. He knew that the days ahead would be tense, that there would be fallout from his actions, but none of it mattered now. You were his, and soon the world would see it, would understand that he was not to be trifled with.

And as he walked away, his thoughts were already on the future, on the life he would build with you, a future forged in fire and blood, just as the old ways dictated.

#house of the dragon #hotd aemond #hotd x female reader #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye

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capuccinodoll · 1 month ago

Text

Honey love, dark eyes

♡ Chapter seven ♡

Summary: Joel's mind is a stormy place. WC: 14.5k A/N: Hope this part finds u well <3 remember that I no longer use the tag list, and if you want to receive notifications you can activate them on this blog or on capuccinodollupdates. Thank you for your lovely messages and comments, don't forget to leave feedback, it helps and motivates me a lot! love u <3

Joel met you on the night of your your twenty-second birthday, at a small, slightly chaotic party your friend Cassie had put together in her dimly lit apartment. It was one of those nights where the air felt like it held a secret, but Joel wasn’t planning to go. He didn’t know Cassie, or you, and the idea of spending an evening with Brianna’s friends felt more like an obligation than anything resembling fun. But Brianna had that way about her, the kind of charm that made saying no feel almost impossible.

“Come on, it'll be fun,” she’d said, her fingers brushing against his cheek in that practiced, easy way of hers. Her eyes sparkled, soft but insistent. “And I want you to meet everyone.”

Everyone turned out to be Cassie, her boyfriend Freddie, Paul, Paul’s younger sister Iris, and you. He didn’t know much about you, but Brianna filled in the gaps as she rifled through her purse for something or other.

“Well, it’s her birthday,” she said, glancing up with a small smile. “I told you about her—Cassie’s best friend from way back. It’s at her place.”

Joel frowned. “I don’t even have a gift. What am I supposed to bring? What does your friend likes?”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ve got it covered,” Brianna said, already moving on to another task, as if his presence at this party were a foregone conclusion.

He sighed, leaning back against the couch, watching her with the sort of resignation that felt familiar by now. “I’ll feel out of place,” he murmured.

“You won’t,” she said, dismissive, like it wasn’t even a possibility. “Do it for me, Joel. Then we’ll go to that bar you like after, okay?”

And so he found himself standing, shaking his head but moving toward the bedroom anyway. He picked up the phone to call Tommy, wanting to check on Sarah. It was always like this—this invisible tether that pulled at him, the need to make sure she was safe, that she wasn’t lonely or scared. Sarah’s nanny had quit a few weeks ago, and the new one, while kind, was still a stranger in their world. Joel had made it clear to everyone he wouldn’t tolerate anything less than kindness toward his daughter, but still, worry clung to him like a second skin.

When he left the house, Sarah had been curled up on the couch with her fruit and a movie, looking happy enough. He tried to focus on that image, tried to let it soothe the part of him that always itched with concern. But the worry followed him, up the stairs and into Cassie’s apartment.

The apartment was small, warm with the low buzz of conversation and the flickering light of candles Cassie had scattered around. Brianna took his hand, leading him through introductions. Smiles, nods, the blur of names until they got to you.

You were perched on the armrest of a couch where Cassie sat, and the first thing he noticed was the way your gaze landed on him—sharp, assessing, like he wasn’t quite what you’d expected or wanted. Something tight curled in his chest, an instinct he didn’t know how to name. You didn’t say much, just offered a polite, somewhat distant smile when Brianna pulled you into a quick hug. Your eyes were tired, your posture restrained, your hands folded neatly in your lap like you were holding something in.

Joel noticed the way your shirt hugged your frame, the soft sheen of your black stockings, the way your legs crossed at the ankle like you were trying to make yourself smaller. He didn’t like how quickly he cataloged all these details—how automatic it felt, like he was breaking some unspoken rule. He nodded politely, offering a faint smile, and then stepped back, unsure how else to exist in this moment.

He stayed on the edges after that, with Brianna attached to his side, her hand slipping under his collar, her lips brushing against his temple in a way that felt like it was meant to remind him he belonged to her. But Joel couldn’t stop noticing you. The way your eyes flickered away whenever Brianna leaned into him. The barely perceptible shift in your shoulders when Cassie started recounting some story about your last birthday. Like the whole night was built on a kind of friction you were trying not to let show.

Joel wasn’t sure why, but the sight of you unsettled him. Maybe it was the way you carried your discomfort so carefully, as if you didn’t want to ruin the party. Or maybe it was because he knew that feeling so well. That ache of being somewhere you didn’t entirely want to be, surrounded by people who didn’t really see you.

At some point in the evening, Joel felt the weight of it all—Brianna’s hand on his arm, the too-loud laughter from the living room, the vague pull of unease he couldn’t shake. He shifted, leaning away from Brianna’s touch.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her tone lined with concern. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Joel replied, a little too sharply. “I’m just gonna check on Sarah. Be back in a sec.”

He disentangled himself from her and headed for the kitchen, his hand fishing for his phone in his pocket. As he closed the door behind him, the sudden quiet felt like stepping into a different world. The party was still humming on the other side, but here, in the stillness, he could breathe.

He unlocked his phone and scrolled through the messages from Sarah’s nanny. They weren’t dire—just updates about Sarah refusing to sleep and crying because her movie had ended. Joel sighed, his stomach knotting anyway. Late nights made Sarah clingier, her emotions harder to soothe, and he hated not being there.

He typed out a hurried reply: Put the movie back on. She’ll probably drift off in a few minutes. If not, call me—I’ll go back home.

From the living room, someone shouted, karaoke. The cheer that followed was met by Joel’s quiet relief at being tucked away in the kitchen. He let out a breath, leaning against the counter, when the door creaked open.

You stepped in, freezing mid-motion when you noticed him. For a moment, you just stared, your expression shifting from surprise to something softer. The tension Joel had sensed in you earlier seemed to have dissolved in this quieter space.

He straightened instinctively, a faint warmth rising to his face.

“Oh, hi. Happy birthday,” he said, his voice a little uneven. “Sorry, I didn’t get a chance to say it earlier—”

You waved him off with a small smile, interrupting. “No worries. Thanks.”

There was something about the way you carried yourself in the quiet that Joel found disarming. The edges of your earlier wariness had softened, and for the first time, he saw you for more than a glance. You were calm, reflective, maybe a little tired—but there was something else, something Joel couldn’t quite place.

He searched your face for a hint, for the thing that had inexplicably drawn his attention from the moment he saw you. But it eluded him, like trying to name a feeling he didn’t yet understand. He liked you—he realized that much instantly. And not just for the way you looked; you were beautiful, that much was clear. It was something deeper, more intangible. Something that felt a little bit dangerous to analyze, something he could discover if he allowed himself the time... and he couldn't. What was he thinking?

Joel left that night without saying much else. Every time Brianna suggested they meet up again—usually with you in attendance—he found a reason to decline. Polite, noncommittal excuses. Work, Sarah, tiredness. It didn’t matter. The truth was, he wasn’t sure why the idea of seeing you again felt impossible, only that it did.

It wasn’t long before things with Brianna unraveled. They hadn’t been falling apart so much as they’d never truly held together. Their conversations ran on parallel tracks that never quite met; their connection relied on superficial agreements that felt thinner every time they spoke. The breakup came naturally, quietly—no grand argument or dramatic gesture, just a mutual fading. Joel knew it was for the best.

He told himself that the timing wasn’t right for anything serious. Not with Sarah so young, not with the weight of his responsibilities pulling him in every direction. Dating, he decided, wasn’t a part of his life right now. His world revolved around work and his daughter. There was no room for anything else.

That’s why he didn’t expect to see you again.

But then came that Saturday afternoon. Joel stood outside his house, his chest heavy with the tightness of panic, his breath caught in the raw edge of fear. Sarah was nowhere to be found. She had been playing hide-and-seek, though he hadn't known the game had begun... Apparently. His heart thudded in his chest as he drew closer. And then, the sun caught your face, illuminating every angle, softening the edges. You were holding a bundle of plastic flowers (why? he had no idea), their bright colors clashing with the quiet confidence in your smile.

“Joel,” you said, your voice light, like the beginning of a melody. And there it was—the unmistakable spark of recognition in your eyes. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted you to remember him until that moment, when you did.

He nodded, trying to muster an air of casual indifference, even as something in his chest shifted, calmed.

“Hey,” he said, the word almost too small to hold the sudden rush of feelings he wasn’t ready to name.

How could he name the feeling? The space between the last beat of his heart before he saw your face again and the next was a quiet, breathless eternity—because from that moment on, you would be the reason behind every quickened pulse, every ache and swell in his chest.

That afternoon passed like a blur. Sarah had invited you to stay for dinner before Joel even had a chance to think, let alone object. The meal was simple—chicken, vegetables, and bread that Sarah insisted she’d “helped cook.” You’d laughed, the sound light and warm, and Joel found himself watching you more than he should have. You didn’t seem to notice the way his eyes lingered when you reached for a plate or tucked your hair behind your ear. If you did, you didn’t let on.

Two weeks later, you had dinner again, but this time Joel introduced you to his brother. And all those things that passed you by, Tommy picked up on instantly, impossible to ignore the unmistakable attitude of his smitten brother. And after you’d left his home, he leaned back in his chair and gave Joel a look that was all knowing smirk.

“So,” Tommy drawled, leaning back with an almost smug ease, “are you finally gonna ask her out, or are we stuck with this whole pining routine forever?”

Joel exhaled sharply, running a hand over the back of his neck. The movement was unsteady, betraying the heat rising to his face despite his effort to appear unaffected.

“I dunno,” he muttered, his voice low and hesitant. “Not sure she—”

Tommy cut him off with a loud snort, shaking his head in disbelief. “She would, you idiot. Of course, she’d say yes.”

Joel looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly as they met his brother’s. He searched for any trace of teasing, waiting for Tommy to give himself away. But there was none. His younger brother’s expression was steady, his confidence unshakable.

“Go ask her now,” Tommy said, his tone nudging toward playful but still earnest. “She’s probably still awake. Probably thinking about you, you know.”

Joel let out a soft laugh, shaking his head as if to brush off the suggestion. “Oh, knock it off. I’ll ask her, alright? Just… when the time’s right. Not now.”

Tommy rolled his eyes dramatically, but he didn’t press the matter further. He knew Joel well enough to understand when to let things lie.

Joel, however, wasn’t brushing it off as easily as he seemed. He would ask you. Someday. Just not yet.

But that day—the day he’d finally say something—never seemed to come.

The more time Joel spent with you, the harder it became to imagine risking the delicate balance of what you already had. You fit so seamlessly into his life, into Sarah’s life. It felt natural, effortless. You’d come over for dinner, sharing stories around the table that made Sarah giggle and Joel’s chest feel a little lighter. Sometimes, you’d sit on the porch with him as Sarah played in the yard, her laughter echoing in the quiet evenings. Joel trusted you with his daughter in a way he trusted almost no one, a rare kind of faith he didn’t extend easily.

Your presence turned ordinary days into something brighter. There was a comfort in your company, a quiet joy in the small moments you shared—your easy laughter, the way your eyes softened when you looked at him or Sarah, the unspoken understanding that passed between you. Those moments felt like tiny gifts, precious and irreplaceable.

But weeks turned into months, and every time Joel built up the nerve to say something, doubt crept in and stopped him. What if it changed everything? What if you didn’t feel the same way? Or worse—what if you did, but things didn’t work out? The thought of losing the quiet, steady friendship you’d built, the one that had come to mean more to him than he’d ever anticipated, was unbearable.

Eventually, Joel convinced himself that friendship was enough. And in a way, it wasn’t a lie. He truly was happy in your presence, content with the moments you shared. He told himself he could live with the unspoken, that he didn’t need anything more.

But sometimes, late at night, when the house was silent and the world felt still, his mind would wander. He’d think about the way your smile lingered when you thought no one was watching or the way your laugh seemed to wrap around him like a warm embrace. In those moments, he couldn’t deny the truth buried deep inside him: he wanted more.

Still, he decided it was safer to push those feelings away, to bury them deep where they couldn’t surface. And so he did. He buried them so well, smothered them so completely, that he nearly convinced himself they were gone. Until, somehow, he forgot they were even there.

Well, he’d managed to bury it—convince himself it was gone—until that night, when everything shifted.

It wasn’t exactly a surprise. Not really. Somewhere deep down, a quiet voice had always been whispering the truth to him, persistent and patient. But Joel had ignored it, pushed it aside like an overdue bill he didn’t have the energy to deal with, telling himself he’d face it another day. And yet now, there it was, no longer subtle or ignorable, staring him in the face with a weight that felt impossible to avoid.

Because deep down, Joel had always known that if the two of you crossed that invisible line—if he let himself take even one step past the boundary you’d built—nothing would ever be the same. It wasn’t the intimacy itself that gave him pause. Joel wasn’t afraid of touching you, of holding you close, or of sharing the kind of closeness he’d once told himself he didn’t need. That wasn’t it. What unsettled him, what gripped him with both exhilaration and dread, was the certainty that after that moment, he’d never be able to step back. He’d never be able to pull away from you, not in the way he had before, not in the way he’d convinced himself he could. Because once he gave in—once he let himself have you, even for a moment—Joel knew with startling clarity that he’d never recover. You wouldn’t just be part of his life anymore; you’d become part of the very center of it. And that terrified him as much as it thrilled him.

And then, he met Sienna. She entered his life at a time when he had successfully buried those feelings for you so deep that they rarely surfaced anymore, their edges dulled by time and avoidance. Her arrival was almost perfectly timed, slipping into the space he’d created in his effort to distance himself from emotions he hadn’t dared confront. And it wasn’t just convenience; he genuinely liked her. She wasn’t a substitute or a stand-in for something unresolved. She was her own person, someone who caught his attention and managed to hold it, filling his brief days with her with a kind of lightness he enjoyed. But, she wasn't you.

Sienna, with her warm smile and quick laugh, who was easy to like and even easier to spend time with. She was smart, kind, and effortlessly beautiful, the kind of woman who made you feel comfortable in your own skin. He’d met her one morning at the bank, a serendipitous encounter that had led, improbably, to him asking her out. It had surprised even him—Joel Miller, diving headfirst into something for once, emboldened by a rare flash of courage.

The first date had been pleasant. A simple dinner, unpretentious conversation, and laughter that lingered. When he got home, he’d felt good—content, even. Tommy had stayed to watch Sarah, and Joel hadn’t mentioned the date to you. It hadn’t seemed important at the time. Just one night out, nothing more. Not worth bringing up. But later, as he lay awake in bed, the quiet of the house pressing in around him, he felt it—the faint, prickling weight of guilt. It wasn’t sharp or overwhelming, just a subtle ache that settled low in his chest, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.

The second date was even better. Dinner had been just as easy as the first, and afterward, they’d gone to see a movie. Sitting in the dim theater, their shoulders brushing occasionally, Joel had felt a faint sense of familiarity, a hint of comfort that he didn’t expect. When Sienna invited him in for coffee after she’d smiled at him in that warm, open way of hers, Joel hesitated. Something inside him pulled back, and though his refusal was polite, it wasn’t just about needing to get home to Sarah. It was something else, something he couldn’t name.

On the drive back, his mind wandered. Passing your house, he noticed the soft glow of light spilling from your window and, for a moment, considered stopping by. Maybe he could sit with you for a while, let you bring some clarity to the restless thoughts swirling in his head. You always had a way of calming him, grounding him, even when you didn’t know he needed it. But he didn’t. Instead, he went home, crawled into bed, and left the lamp on as he drifted to sleep. Yet, even in those moments before sleep took him, thoughts of you tugged persistently at the edges of his mind.

By the third date, doubt had begun to creep in. Joel found himself questioning why he hadn’t told you about Sienna. Why he was keeping it to himself, why it felt so unsettling. It wasn’t as if you’d judge him, he told himself. If anything, you’d probably encourage him, tell him he deserved to be happy, that he should give it a real chance. That was who you were—supportive, unselfish.

But the thought of you knowing made something twist in his chest. It felt wrong, somehow, like it would shift the delicate balance between you. Admitting it to you felt too final, as though saying it aloud would confirm that he was searching for something else, something permanent, and he wasn’t ready for you to know that. He couldn’t untangle the knot of emotions tightening inside him, couldn’t put words to the unease that crept in whenever Sienna smiled at him or touched his arm. All he knew was that no matter how good things seemed with her, thoughts of you were never far behind.

Then came his birthday. You’d confronted him that night, quiet and firm, catching him off guard with your piercing gaze and steady voice.

“Why would you lie to me?” you’d asked, your tone a mixture of hurt and bewilderment. “We're friends. Why wouldn't you tell me you're seeing someone?”

And just like that, the truth he’d been avoiding stood between you, unspoken but undeniable.

You cornered him, and he didn’t handle it well. The anger Joel felt in that moment wasn’t just irrational—it was childish, unfair, the kind of emotion he’d scold Sarah for if it came from her. But it rose inside him, stubborn and hot, because deep down, Joel felt as though he was betraying you. The thought alone unsettled him; it was absurd. You weren’t his, and yet, the idea of you holding that kind of sway over him—being able to tilt the axis of his decisions—left him feeling exposed, furious. He knew, with unsettling clarity, that if you asked him to leave Sienna, he would. That realization burned, not just because of the power you held over him but because he was certain it wasn’t mutual. At least, he thought so.

“I know you too well to know you’re just jealous,” he spat, the words sharp and venomous, aimed more at himself than at you. He hated the way his own insecurities betrayed him, how they shaped the bitterness in his tone. The accusation was hypocritical; he knew that better than anyone.

The month before, when you casually mentioned that Travis had asked you out, Joel felt like the ground had been ripped out from under him. Your tone was so light, so unaffected, that it caught him off guard, knocking the air out of his lungs. His reaction was instant and visceral, jealousy surging like a tidal wave and gripping his chest in a vice. The mocking laugh that escaped him wasn’t intentional—it was sharp and bitter, a reflex from the worst parts of himself. Out of all the men in town, why him? The sting of it still lingered, the memory sharp and vivid.

Three years ago, Joel had first met Travis Dunn on a scorching Sunday afternoon. The kind of day where the sun bore down relentlessly, turning the air into a suffocating blanket of heat and making every movement feel sluggish. Joel was outside his house, organizing tools in the back of his truck, more out of habit than necessity, while the hours stretched long and slow.

Two houses down, across the street, Travis was in his yard, wrestling with an overgrown bush that refused to yield. Joel had noticed him before—a new face in the neighborhood—but they’d never spoken. Deciding to introduce himself, Joel grabbed a rag to wipe his hands and wandered over, his shoes crunching against the dry grass.

Travis straightened when he saw Joel approach, leaning on his shovel with an easy, welcoming smile despite the oppressive heat.

“That’s real kind of you, Joel,” Travis said after Joel offered to help, his voice friendly and conversational. “But I’m just about done here. Damn Texas sun’s brutal, though. Still tryin’ to get used to it.”

Joel chuckled, nodding in understanding as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “Yeah, it’s a killer. You get used to it after a while. Been working outside my whole life—kinda got the skin for it now. But if you ever need a hand, I’ve got the tools. Sometimes even the time.”

Travis nodded, brushing damp hair back from his forehead, and smiled sideways, an idea forming in his mind. “Actually, there is something.”

Joel tilted his head, curiosity piqued. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

Travis hesitated only a moment before blurting out your name as an invocation of the terrible, and the mention of you froze Joel’s easy smile in place, turning it into something tight and forced.

“You’re close to her, aren’t you?” Travis continued, his tone almost playful. “She’s something else. So sweet, beautiful too.”

Joel forced himself to nod, his voice flat. “That she is.”

“I like her,” Travis admitted, a nervous laugh bubbling up as he spoke, oblivious to Joel’s growing tension.

"No shit." His voice was low, flat.

“I mean, I was relieved when I realized you two were just friends. For a while there, I thought you might be, y’know, together.”

Joel’s brow furrowed. “What made you think that?”

“The way you act around her, and the way she acts around you,” Travis said with a shrug. “You’re together a lot. I dunno, it just... felt like a thing.”

Joel didn’t respond, but the silence between them thickened.

Travis, either unaware or unconcerned, grinned and added, “Anyway, you might wanna watch yourself, man," he said with a smug grin. "If you're not careful enough, I might just swoop in and take her off your hands forever. And trust me, I don’t do refunds—especially not with something as gorgeous as her."

Something snapped inside Joel. The casual arrogance in Travis’s tone, the smug smile—it was too much. He stepped closer, his posture rigid. Something as gorgeous, he said? Who did he think he was, strutting up and talking to him with all the confidence in the world, like they were old friends or something?

“What did you just say?” Joel’s voice was low, the Southern drawl sharpening into something dangerous.

The grin faded from Travis’s face, confusion flickering in his eyes. “Oh, sorry—”

"Y’ain’t gonna get anywhere near her with those words, Dunn," Joel growled, his voice low and thick with anger, his strong southern accent accentuating with emotion. "You better watch your damn mouth 'fore I show you what it really means to cross a line."

"No, listen—"

"No," Joel cut him off, stepping even closer. "You listen here, boy. You think you can talk about her like she’s some kinda prize to be won? Like she’s just sittin’ ‘round waitin’ for some fool like you to come swoopin’ in and steal her away? You’re downright dumb if you think you can underestimate her like that—like she’s some kinda damn manipulable thing you can just twist ‘round your finger."

“Joel, I didn’t mean—”

“You stay away from her,” Joel warned, his voice calm but edged with steel. “You hear me?”

Travis’s hands went up in surrender, his expression wary. “Alright, alright. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Joel stared him down for another beat, his jaw tight, before turning on his heel and walking away. His fists were clenched, heat simmering in his chest long after the confrontation ended.

For a while after, Travis kept his distance, careful not to overstep again. But three years later, when he reappeared, asking you out as if that encounter had never happened, Joel was flooded with a familiar anger—and something else. The possessiveness he thought he’d buried roared back to life, impossible to ignore.

“Why don’t you like him?” you had asked Joel that afternoon, your voice laced with curiosity as you leaned against the counter, watching him with that determined look that always made him feel like there was no escape. He had just scoffed at Travis invitation, brushing it off like it was the most ridiculous idea he’d ever heard.

Joel barely paused before spinning his answer, sharp and dismissive.

“I just don’t like the guy,” he said, his tone gruff. His hand reached for the coffee mug on the table, more to occupy himself than because he needed another sip.

You didn’t let it go, of course. You crossed your arms, head tilted, waiting for something more.

“He’s... weird,” Joel added with a shrug, avoiding your gaze. “Something about him rubs me the wrong way.”

That was a lie, and he knew it. The truth was more complicated, and Joel hated complicated. He didn’t like Travis because the guy seemed too perfect, too slick, the type who could charm everyone in the neighborhood without even trying. Worse, Travis hadn’t done anything genuinely wrong, and Joel knew it. Hell, he wasn’t even all that bad of a guy—just the kind who could make you laugh, who could say the right things at the right time. And Joel? He wasn’t about to admit that every quip and joke Travis threw your way felt like a punch to his gut.

The real problem was simpler, though Joel would never say it out loud: he didn’t want Travis—or anyone—getting close to you. Because deep down, he was terrified that if someone did, you’d start to drift away from him. Slowly, naturally, like it was the most normal thing in the world. He could already picture it—the quiet evenings you two spent together fading into quick hellos and polite smiles as your life began to revolve around someone else.

And Joel wasn’t sure he could handle that.

You didn’t make it easy for him, either. You’d always talked to him about your boyfriends—there weren’t many, but enough to leave a mark. He listened like the good friend he was supposed to be, his face calm and unreadable. He even gave you advice sometimes, measured and practical, and he pretended to be relieved when things didn’t work out. But the truth? He was selfish. He couldn’t deny the ugly twist in his stomach every time you lit up talking about someone new.

The worst part was the details. You shared everything—how they made you feel, the way they looked at you, the tiny, romantic gestures that made your heart race. Joel would sit there, nodding along, while his insides churned. Sometimes, he was almost convinced you did it on purpose, like you wanted to poke at the feelings he’d buried so deep. But then he’d shake that thought away because it couldn’t be true. You didn’t see him like that.

Still, the possessiveness lingered, and it wasn’t one-sided. Whenever Joel mentioned a woman he was seeing, your posture would stiffen ever so slightly. He noticed the way your smile faltered, the way you suddenly seemed distracted. Joel kept his descriptions vague, never giving you the kind of vivid details you offered him. At first, he found a strange satisfaction in your reactions. If it bothered you that much to imagine him with someone else, maybe—just maybe—you felt the same way he did.

But then you’d start listing their flaws with pinpoint accuracy, dissecting them in a way that left him wondering if you had a secret playbook for unraveling his attempts at romance. And you were always right. Every critique you made landed, exposing cracks he’d tried to ignore, as though you saw right through his attempts to prove he had control over his feelings.

It frustrated him, how easily you could tear down the façade he worked so hard to build. Yet a small part of him—a selfish, conflicted part—was glad. Because it meant you were paying attention, and maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want to lose him either.

Sienna had taken him by surprise. She was unlike anyone Joel had encountered in a long time, and that unfamiliarity left him unsure how to talk about her—especially to you. He knew you were angry, and he couldn’t blame you. You had every right to feel shut out. Still, Joel couldn’t help but dig in his heels. His life was his own, and no matter how close you two were, some things felt too personal to share.

Yet, despite his stubbornness, the guilt lingered like a low hum in the back of his mind. He couldn’t stop replaying that night, the one you had so carefully planned, the kind of evening he usually dreaded but had come to cherish since you had entered his life.

It had been just the three of you: Sarah, you, and him. Tommy had bailed last minute, caught up in some errand or chore Joel couldn’t even remember now. But Tommy’s absence hadn’t dampened the warmth of the evening. It was perfect in its simplicity. Everything Joel loved most in the world sat around that small kitchen table, the faint glow of the overhead light softening the edges of the moment.

Joel wasn’t big on birthdays. He never had been, and neither were you, which was probably one of the reasons you understood him so well. For him, it was complicated. As a kid, he’d get excited—what child wouldn’t? But as he grew older, birthdays became a cruel reminder of time slipping away, of how life only seemed to grow more complicated with each passing year.

The last time he had truly enjoyed the day was the year Sarah was born. He could still picture it vividly, like a snapshot preserved in his mind. He and Amelia had been newly married, their relationship rocky but held together by the promise of their daughter. Their apartment was small, the wallpaper peeling in the corners, but that night, none of it mattered.

Amelia had baked him a cake. It wasn’t anything fancy—a bit uneven, with frosting that leaned to one side—but Joel had loved it all the same. She had dimmed the lights and sung "Happy Birthday" softly, her voice barely above a whisper as he held Sarah in his arms. Joel blew out the single candle with a quiet wish: that this fragile moment of happiness might last forever.

After cake, he had sunk onto the couch, Sarah nestled against him, her rhythmic breathing lulling him into one of the most peaceful sleeps he’d ever had.

Joel hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but the next thing he knew, Amelia was shaking him gently awake, her fingers brushing against his cheek.

“Come on, Joel,” she’d murmured. “Go to bed. You’ve got work in the morning.”

The next morning, Joel was stirred from sleep by the sound of Sarah’s crying. It was sharp and persistent, cutting through the fog of his exhaustion like a knife. His eyes fluttered open reluctantly, his body heavy with the weight of another long day ahead. He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling as the cries continued, loud and unrelenting. Something felt off, though he couldn’t quite place what it was.

“Amelia?” he called out groggily, his voice rough from sleep.

There was no response. The silence, save for Sarah’s escalating wails, gnawed at the edges of his unease. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Joel sat up, running a hand down his face as if to wipe away the lingering haze of sleep. His chest felt tight, a faint, inexplicable tension coiling there.

Pushing himself to his feet, he shuffled toward Sarah’s crib in the corner of the room. She was red-faced and wriggling, her tiny fists flailing in frustration. Joel bent down, scooping her up with the practiced ease of a man who had done this many times before.

“Hey, hey,” he murmured softly, rocking her gently against his chest. Her cries tapered off for a moment, replaced by hiccuping gasps, but it didn’t last. Soon enough, the wails returned, sharper and more insistent.

Joel recognized the sound immediately—it was hunger. The kind of cry that pierced through everything else, demanding attention. He adjusted her in his arms, cradling her close as he moved toward the kitchen.

“Amelia?” he called out again, louder this time, his voice tinged with irritation and concern.

Still no answer. His eyes scanned the dimly lit apartment, searching for any sign of his wife. That’s when he saw it—a piece of paper sitting on the kitchen table. Bright yellow, stark against the dark wood, it seemed out of place, almost glaring in the soft morning light.

Joel’s stomach twisted. A sinking feeling settled deep within him, heavy and cold. Shifting Sarah in his arms, he stepped closer, his boots creaking softly against the worn floorboards.

The note was short—just five lines scribbled hastily in Amelia’s familiar handwriting. Joel’s eyes moved over the words, his heart pounding in his chest as he read them.

She was gone.

The words blurred for a moment as the meaning sank in. She was gone. Amelia had left, abandoning both him and Sarah with nothing more than a half-hearted apology. The note was filled with excuses: This life isn’t for me. I need something more. I’m sorry. I can’t keep lying to myself. I can’t do this anymore.

Joel’s hand tightened around the paper, crumpling it as Sarah’s cries rose again, loud and demanding. The sound seemed to echo in the hollow space inside him, amplifying the storm that had begun to rage in his chest.

“Bullshit,” he muttered, his voice low and trembling with barely restrained fury. He tossed the crumpled paper onto the floor, watching it roll to a stop near the edge of the table.

The anger came fast and hard, crashing over him like a wave. It wasn’t sadness he felt—not yet. It was anger, raw and consuming. Anger that Amelia had been so cowardly, so selfish. She had left a note, five lines scrawled on a piece of paper, and walked away without looking back.

His fists clenched at his sides as his jaw tightened. She hadn’t just abandoned him—that, he could handle. Their marriage had been strained for a long time, both of them going through the motions more out of necessity than love. But Sarah? She had left their baby.

How could she walk away from their daughter, from the tiny life they had created together? Joel’s thoughts spiraled, his mind racing through every moment he had tried to make things work, every sacrifice he had made to ensure their family had a future.

Was it his fault? Had he pushed her too hard? Or had she been looking for an escape all along?

The questions churned in his mind, but Joel didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on them. Sarah needed him, her cries piercing through the fog of his thoughts. He held her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he rocked her gently.

“It’s just us now, baby girl,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “But I promise you, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll take care of you. Always.”

And in that moment, his anger hardened into resolve. He didn’t have the answers, and he didn’t have Amelia. But he had Sarah, and that was all that mattered.

From the moment Joel heard Sarah’s first cry, the sound pierced through him like a revelation, sharp and clear. In that instant, his entire world shifted. It was as though the pieces of his life, fractured and disorganized, suddenly rearranged themselves around this tiny, fragile being. Everything else fell away—the struggles, the exhaustion, even his own doubts. There was only her.

When he first held her, she felt impossibly small in his arms, her body warm and soft, her head nestled against his chest. She opened her tiny mouth, her cries quieter now but still insistent, and Joel couldn’t help but smile through the exhaustion. Her fist closed around his thumb, her fingers barely curling all the way, and he felt his breath hitch in his throat.

That was it. That was the moment he knew. Nothing else mattered. Not his job, not his own dreams or fears. Sarah was his purpose. She was everything, and he would do anything—everything—to protect her, to make sure she would always be safe and never want for anything.

He threw himself into work with a ferocity he hadn’t known he possessed. Early mornings turned into long nights, and he pushed through each shift with a singular thought in his mind: This is for Sarah. He dreamed of a better life for her, one where they wouldn’t have to struggle. He wanted her to grow up in a house with a backyard, not in the cramped apartment they currently called home.

But his hours away from home weighed heavily on Amelia. She spent most days cooped up in the apartment, caring for Sarah alone. Joel knew it wasn’t easy for her. He saw it in the lines of exhaustion etched into her face, the way her shoulders sagged by the end of the day.

One night, after a particularly grueling shift, Joel came home to find Amelia sitting on the couch, her head resting against the back of it, her eyes closed. Sarah was asleep in her crib, the faint hum of the baby monitor the only sound in the room. Joel sat down beside her, placing a hand gently on her wrist.

"You'll see," he murmured, his voice soft but firm. "Time's gonna fly by, and before we know it, she'll be runnin' around, goin' to school, talkin' our ears off. So fast, we'll wish we could turn back time and have her be a baby again."

Amelia opened her eyes, her gaze tired but sharp. “That’s easy for you to say,” she replied, her tone edged with bitterness. “You’re nobody’s barf towel, Joel. Sometimes I wish she’d grow up faster.”

Her words hit him harder than he expected, like a quiet punch to the gut. Joel felt a pang of guilt and tried to see things from her perspective. He knew she was overwhelmed. He knew his long hours left her bearing the brunt of the daily grind at home. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t fully understand. For him, those fleeting moments with Sarah—feeding her, rocking her to sleep, holding her tiny hand—were treasures.

“I know it’s hard,” he said after a long silence, his voice heavy with sincerity. “But we're doing this for us, for her. So we can have more. So she can have more.”

Amelia sighed and stood up, muttering something about needing a shower. Joel stayed on the couch, his head in his hands. He was doing everything he could, wasn’t he? But the cracks in their relationship were growing deeper, and he didn’t know how to fix them.

And then, a week later, she left.

Joel didn’t care that Amelia had abandoned him—not really. Their relationship had been hanging by a thread for months, maybe longer. But the fact that she had walked away from Sarah? That was something he could never understand. How could a mother leave her own child?

Everything got harder after that. Joel had to reorganize his entire life. He adjusted his shifts at work, found a nanny he could afford, and learned to function on less than two hours of sleep. Every day was a balancing act, and every night he fell into bed completely spent, knowing he’d have to do it all over again the next day.

He was alone. Completely, utterly alone. His parents were long gone, and his friends were too busy with college and their own lives to offer more than the occasional word of encouragement. Tommy tried to help, moving in with him for a while to lend a hand. But Tommy was still just a kid himself, more often getting into trouble than out of it. Sometimes it felt like Joel was raising them both.

But no matter how hard it got, Joel never wavered. Sarah was his everything, his reason for pushing forward even when it felt impossible. And when he looked at her—her tiny smile, her bright, curious eyes—it was all worth it. For her, it would always be worth it.

Why would Joel want to celebrate his birthday? For years, the date had meant nothing to him. If anything, it was a day he preferred to forget. Even Amelia’s absence, once a source of raw pain, had dulled into something distant, like an old scar that no longer ached. He was better off without her, he often told himself. Why would he want someone in his life who could abandon her own child so easily, without a second glance?

Eight long years of birthdays came and went, each one passing without fanfare. That is, until you showed up.

It was a warm afternoon when Brenda knocked on Joel’s door, Ian trailing behind her with a small red-wrapped package in his hands. You stood next to them, your bright smile lighting up the quiet entryway as if it had been waiting for this exact moment.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?” you asked, your voice full of playful reproach. You’d only been living next door for a couple of months, but you spoke as though you’d known him far longer.

Joel shrugged, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Didn’t think it was important.” His tone was casual, almost indifferent, but the way his eyes darted to the floor betrayed the discomfort he felt about the subject.

“Well, that won’t do,” you said with a firm nod, your excitement practically radiating off you. “We have to throw you a celebration.”

Before he could protest, you’d already begun making plans, dragging Tommy—who was lounging on Joel’s couch—into your whirlwind of preparation. In what felt like record time, you had organized a small dinner in your backyard, insisting on inviting the people Joel cared about most. Brenda, Ian, and of course, Tommy, were enlisted as guests, and Sarah eagerly volunteered to help with the preparations.

The two of you spent the afternoon in your kitchen, Sarah perched on a stool as she carefully spread cream over a sponge cake. It wasn’t perfect—some spots were uneven, and the red lettering that spelled “Happy Birthday Joel” varied wildly in size—but the effort was unmistakable. You even let Sarah place the single candle right above the word “birthday,” despite her giggles about it looking “a little crooked.”

In the backyard, you strung up Christmas lights, their warm glow transforming the space into something almost magical. A flowered tablecloth adorned the table, set with colored glass plates and matching glasses. It was simple, yet charming, and as Joel stepped outside to see what you had done, he felt an unfamiliar tightness in his chest.

You stood there, watching him expectantly, your hands clasped together as if bracing for his reaction. Joel scanned the scene—the lights, the table, the cake—and then his gaze settled on you. He felt overwhelmed, unaccustomed to this kind of attention, to the idea that someone had gone out of their way to make him feel special.

“Do you like it?” you asked softly, a hint of uncertainty creeping into your voice.

Joel cleared his throat, nodding slowly. “Yeah,” he said gruffly, his voice betraying a mix of gratitude and awkwardness. “It’s… it’s nice. Real nice.”

What he couldn’t say—what he didn’t know how to say—was how much it meant to him. No one had ever done something like this for him before. Sure, Tommy would swing by with a gift and some good-natured ribbing, and Sarah always crafted him heartfelt gifts, usually paired with a movie night of her choosing. But this? This was different. It wasn’t just thoughtful; it was intentional.

You had done it simply to make him happy, without expecting anything in return. And that was what stayed with him.

A few weeks later, when your birthday rolled around, Joel found himself returning the gesture. He spent the better part of the day barbecuing in his backyard, carefully grilling your favorite dishes and picking up a cake from the bakery he’d overheard you mention. He wasn’t the most expressive man, but he wanted to show you how much your efforts had meant to him.

The party was small but warm, filled with laughter and good food. Joel watched you closely, noting the way your eyes lit up when you saw the cake, the way you laughed with Sarah and Tommy, the way you seemed lighter somehow.

It was only a few days later, during a quiet evening, that you opened up about your own complicated feelings toward birthdays.

“You know,” you began, sitting on Joel’s porch with a mug of tea in your hands, “I’ve never really liked my birthday either.”

Joel raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah? How come?”

Your birthday was always a delicate subject, one you rarely spoke about. The day carried a weight too heavy for celebration.

When you were fourteen, just two days before your birthday, your father passed away after a year-long decline that left him a shadow of the man he had once been. Your relationship with him had never been easy. There was a distance between you, a lack of understanding that made every interaction fraught with tension. He didn’t understand you, and you couldn’t bridge the gap to reach him. So, when his illness took hold, it wasn’t just his body that deteriorated—it was also any chance of finding common ground. Watching him grow weaker day by day, his spirit worn thin, felt like mourning someone you had never truly known.

When he finally passed, it was strange. The grief was there, sharp and biting, but layered with regret, guilt, and a strange hollowness. Your mother, shattered by the loss, withdrew into her own anguish, locking herself in a grief so consuming that it swallowed her whole. She became a ghost of herself, distant and unreachable, leaving you to navigate the loss alone.

Somehow, you were left adrift. With your father gone and your mother emotionally absent, the world seemed colder. The rest of your adolescence blurred into a haze of solitude. Nights became long and heavy, filled with tears that no one heard. Birthdays, once a day of excitement, became unbearable.

“It’s not worth celebrating,” your mother had said one year, her voice hollow. “What’s the point? It’s just a reminder of what we lost.”

And you believed her. You let the day pass quietly, pretending it didn’t matter. But deep down, it did. Every year, the ache in your chest returned, as if your father’s death had marked you in ways you couldn’t escape.

When you moved to Austin, Cassie was determined to change that. She insisted on throwing you a party, bringing her friends together and decorating her small apartment with balloons and streamers. She wanted to make the day special, to give you the joy she believed you deserved. But instead of feeling included, you felt like a stranger in the crowd. The forced laughter and cheerful chatter only amplified the loneliness you carried inside.

Joel noticed it immediately. From the first glance, he saw something in you that mirrored his own quiet pain, his own complicated relationship with birthdays and loss.

With the Millers, though, it was different.

Joel had a way of pulling you out of your own head. He didn’t ask if you wanted to celebrate; he simply turned on the music, took your hand, and pulled you into the courtyard to dance.

“C’mon, don’t make me look ridiculous all by myself,” he teased, his hand warm and steady on yours.

“I’m terrible at this,” you protested, laughing despite yourself as he spun you clumsily.

“You think I’m any better?” he shot back, making an exaggerated face of concentration that sent you into a fit of giggles.

His other hand rested lightly on your waist, tickling just enough to make you squirm.

“Stop!” you laughed, swatting at him, but Joel only grinned, spinning you again until you were both dizzy and breathless.

The weight in your chest began to ease. Slowly, the familiar sadness faded, replaced by something you hadn’t felt in years—a glimmer of happiness. The music, Sarah’s laughter in the background, and Joel’s insistence on making you smile wove together into a moment so genuine that you couldn’t help but let go, even if only for a little while.

With the Millers, you felt something you hadn’t in years: belonging. Joel, Sarah, even Tommy—they made you feel like you were part of something bigger, something that mattered. For the first time in what felt like forever, you were happy. And for once, your birthday didn’t hurt.

On the afternoon of his birthday, Joel made it a point to leave work early, a rare indulgence. The day had been grueling, his body carrying the weight of hours spent hauling, lifting, and concentrating through a persistent ache in his shoulders and arms. By the time he pulled into the driveway, fatigue clung to him like a second skin.

But the moment he stepped through the door, all of that began to melt away. The warm, savory aroma of your cooking wrapped around him like a welcoming embrace, teasing his senses and making his stomach rumble in anticipation. From the kitchen, he could hear Sarah's laughter, a sound so bright and carefree it seemed to lift the heaviness in his chest. And then there was your voice—soft and melodic, weaving effortlessly into the rhythm of his home, a sound that had come to symbolize comfort itself.

He paused in the doorway for a moment, letting it all wash over him. The tension in his shoulders began to ease, his mind quieting in a way it rarely did. Home. It wasn’t just the place—it was you, Sarah, the life you all shared within these walls.

As he stepped further inside, Joel noticed something different about you that evening. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on but felt instantly. He always noticed you—more than he liked to admit. His gaze often lingered longer than it should, studying the way your lips curved when you smiled, the way your hands moved with quiet purpose, the subtle shifts in your voice when you were excited or uncertain.

Tonight, though, it was as if the world had conspired to make you glow. You wore that dress he liked, the one that clung just enough to hint at your shape without being overdone. The warm light from the kitchen seemed to catch on your flushed cheeks, making your skin look soft, almost luminous. Your hair was tied up, exposing the graceful curve of your neck and the delicate, fine hairs at its nape.

He found himself staring, his fingers itching with the desire to reach out and touch that spot just beneath your ear, to let his thumb trace the softness of your skin. He could already imagine the way it would feel, the warmth of you under his touch. But Joel stopped himself, swallowing hard and forcing his hands into his pockets.

His tongue betrayed him then. A slip—a small comment, laced with more emotion than he intended.

The three of you sat around the table, and Joel took his first bite of the stew, eyes widening, a kind of bliss washing over his face. He tossed his head back and groaned.

“Sweet Glory,” he mumbled, closing his eyes. “Thank you for this.”

“Oh, come on,” you teased, though part of you couldn’t help but feel a pang of something between irritation and flattery. “You say that every time I cook for you.”

He shook his head, smiling as he chewed, then spoke softly, his gaze slipping downward.

“I’m not exaggerating—I love everything you do.” A pause, and then a quick, awkward clarification. “I mean, everything you cook.”

You didn’t seem to notice, though, your focus elsewhere. But Joel felt the heat rise in his face, a faint flush creeping over his cheeks. He turned away quickly, clearing his throat as if that could erase the moment. Joel hadn’t meant to say it aloud. The words slipped out before he could stop them, his voice soft but heavy with emotion.

I love everything you do. It wasn’t just a compliment—it was a confession, unguarded and dangerously close to exposing everything he’d tried so hard to bury.

If someone had told Joel how that night would end, he would have laughed, dismissed the thought outright. It was unthinkable, a fantasy he’d never let himself fully entertain. But as the hours unfolded, something inside him began to shift—subtle at first, like a whisper at the edge of his mind, then growing louder and more insistent.

But then came the emotions, rushing in like a storm—anger, jealousy, desire, all tangled together in a mess he couldn’t untangle. The anger was irrational, sharp and sudden, a flash of heat that burned at the thought of you smiling like that at someone else. The jealousy felt even worse, a bitter ache in his chest at the mere idea that you might one day belong to someone else, someone better than him. And the desire... it was unbearable. It had been building for so long, so quietly, that he hadn’t noticed it until it was too late to ignore.

Something broke inside him.

“Fine. I’ll leave you alone, and maybe then you can run across the street and fuck Travis Dunn, if you want it so badly,” he shot back, impatience tinging his voice as he turned toward the still-open door.

The words hit you like a slap. You froze for a moment, the anger washing over you in a wave. Before you could think twice, you rushed up to him, gripping his arm tightly to force him to turn and look at you.

“What the hell did you just say, Joel?” you hissed, grabbing his shirt, fingers bunching in the fabric as you backed him up until his shoulders hit the wall by the door. “Go on, say it again!”

Your breaths came fast, chest rising and falling as the rush of anger pushed tears to your eyes. You couldn’t believe he’d actually spoken to you like that, cutting right through to something raw and vulnerable. He’d never spoken to you like that before. Maybe he was a little drunk, or maybe he was losing his mind.

But there was no softness in his gaze, no hint of the Joel you knew. His stare was sharp, almost wild with something simmering underneath, something you didn’t understand. To you, this whole argument made no sense, at least not his reaction.

Joel’s grip on your wrist was firm, almost grounding, as he pulled you closer, pressing your palm against his chest. “I can’t stand that asshole, but go ahead and fuck him if you want,” he spat, voice laced with frustration. “Go fuck the whole neighborhood while you’re at it. I really don’t care anymore.”

His words were harsh, designed to cut, but they only drew a laugh from you—sharp and derisive. A tear slipped down your cheek, uninvited.

“What, did you ever care?” you asked, your voice trembling on the last syllable, thick with emotion.

But Joel didn’t respond, and the silence ignited a fire in you, something that swirled beneath the surface, ready to boil over.

“Do you know why we’re friends, Joel?” Your pulse quickened, each beat like a drum in your ears. “Because it just works between us. There are no ulterior motives. You know why? Because I don’t like you like that. You’re not even my type, and you never will be. And no, I’m not jealous that you’re dating some woman you’ll probably dump in less than a month, so get the fuck over it and leave me the fuck alone!”

He wasn’t your type. He wasn’t your type. He wasn’t your type? The words echoed in Joel’s mind, each repetition a fresh sting to his ego and a sharper stab to his heart. But your eyes told him a different story. They mirrored his own intensity, and that unspoken connection was undeniable.

In that moment, he surrendered to an impulse he had fought to suppress countless times before. He kissed you, a kiss laden with every restrained emotion, and carried you to your room. The world around him blurred; it felt surreal, as if he were watching himself from a distance. Every sense was heightened, every touch electric, his entire being focused solely on you.

You were perfection to him. The intoxicating scent of your skin, the soft texture of your lips, the sweet taste of you—all of it was exquisite, overwhelming. When he was finally inside you, he felt as if his heart might explode from the sheer intensity of it. The warmth, the sweetness, the way it consumed him—it was almost too much to bear, almost too beautiful to be real. Every sound you made unraveled him further, pushing him closer to a peak he had thought unattainable. The desire that coursed through you felt almost tangible, as if he could taste it on his lips with every kiss.

As you drifted off to sleep beside him, your face looked so peaceful, so heartbreakingly beautiful, that Joel couldn’t resist. He leaned in, brushing the gentlest of kisses across your forehead, your cheeks, your eyelids—each kiss a whisper of affection, as though trying to capture this fleeting moment. Only when the rhythm of your breaths lulled him into calm did he finally surrender to sleep at your side.

But deep in the stillness of the night, he stirred awake. His emotions, once overwhelming, had quieted; his mind, no longer softened by the haze of passion, now felt sharp and cold. And then it struck him—a suffocating wave of fear.

What had he done? What had he done? The question echoed relentlessly in his mind, each repetition laced with dread. He had crossed a line, dragging you into his chaos, disrespecting you in a way that made his stomach twist with guilt. He had shattered the bond you shared—a friendship he had held in the highest regard. He had taken something pure and irreversibly tainted it with his own selfish desires.

Panic surged through him, relentless and unforgiving. How could you ever look at him the same way again? Surely, you wouldn’t want him in your life anymore. The thought of losing you gutted him.

A storm of thoughts battered his mind as he quietly slipped out of your house like a ghost, each step feeling heavier than the last. The walk back to his own home was a blur of regret and self-recrimination. By the time he shut the door behind him, the weight of what he had done pressed down on him completely. He knew, with a sinking finality, that he had ruined everything.

He had ruined everything.

And four days later, the dagger in his chest sank even deeper.

Swallowing hard, you tasted the salt of your tears, and it burned your throat like an unwelcome reminder of the turmoil within.

“I’m not sure I can be your friend anymore, Joel,” you confessed, your voice shaking with the weight of your admission.

He shook his head, disbelief flashing across his features as a weak smile broke through the hurt. It was as if he couldn’t quite fathom the words that had just escaped you.

“You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do,” you asserted, each syllable a battle against the rawness in your chest.

“No, you don’t,” he countered, stepping back just inches, his tone laced with incredulity. The mocking sneer that crept onto his face felt more like a mask than a reflection of his true feelings, and yet, the moisture pooling in his eyes betrayed the battle raging within him.

You regarded him in silence, the atmosphere thickening with unspoken words as you watched his smile fade into something that was almost painful. It twisted his features, morphing into a look of discomfort that hung between you like an unsaid apology. He remained still, his gaze locked onto yours, waiting for you to break the tension with a word or a gesture. The sight of him like that burned inside you, igniting a longing to rewind time, to swallow your questions, to let him live his life free from the weight of your curiosity and the tangled feelings that had blossomed between you. But that wasn’t an option; the reality of your situation loomed large and unavoidable. You had to confront the truth: he didn’t feel the same way about you, and for him, sleeping with you felt like a transgression, a sin, a burden he couldn’t carry.

“Joel, please,” you began, your voice cracking under the pressure of your emotions. A tear slipped down your cheek, salty and bitter, tasting of the anguish that your words carried. “I can’t be your friend anymore. I can’t do this. I’m sorry, I really am, but you’re breaking my—” You hesitated, swallowing hard against the swell of grief that threatened to overwhelm you. “I think this is over.”

"She just needs time," Joel told himself, clinging to the fragile hope that things would eventually mend. But that comforting thought crumbled when he saw how easily you seemed to move on, as if he no longer existed in your world. You carried on with your life without so much as a glance in his direction, each moment of indifference cutting deeper. It felt like a deliberate erasure, and Joel's heart shrank under the weight of it, splintering all over again. Did you truly not want him in your life anymore?

His decision to break things off with Sienna had come with a strange clarity. Her warmth, her charm—things he had once appreciated—now felt hollow, like they no longer belonged in his life. Joel couldn’t pretend otherwise. He couldn’t lie to her, tell her everything was fine, and carry on as though his heart wasn’t consumed by someone else. She deserved more than being a placeholder for feelings he couldn’t shake.

In the aftermath of the breakup, Joel thought he might finally find the courage to come to you. To apologize, to face you honestly. He imagined himself laying it all out—his regret, his fear, and the possibility of something more. Perhaps, if you felt even a fraction of what he did, you could both explore the connection that had ignited that night. He had told himself he was ready to risk it all, to bare his soul if you would give him even a sliver of space to do so.

The breaking point came when Tommy casually mentioned you and Travis. The words were innocuous, but the storm they unleashed within Joel was anything but. Something dark and bitter began to fester in his chest—jealousy, anger, resentment? He couldn’t quite name it, but it clawed at him, a toxic mix that he struggled to contain. It wasn’t his proudest moment. It wasn’t even close.

“What’s this?” he asked, a note of suspicion in his voice.

Tommy leaned back, watching him with a faint smile playing at the edges of his mouth.

“Your girl next door gave it to me,” he replied, each word almost too measured. “Said it was yours.”

For a few moments, Joel just stood there, as if frozen, processing Tommy’s words. He looked down, finally lifting the lid and peering inside. There, neatly folded, was his sweatshirt—the one he’d handed you one chilly evening when he picked you up from work. Beneath that was his old Pearl Jam t-shirt, the one you’d borrowed after a swim in his pool last summer. His favorite coffee mug sat tucked in the corner, along with a few CDs, a dog-eared paperback he’d loaned you weeks ago. Each item seemed to carry its own little echo of the time he’d spent with you.

After a few seconds, Joel placed the lid back on the box, sliding it away from him with a muted thud. He kept his expression steady, but his jaw was set, and his eyes remained fixed on the counter.

“When did she give it to you?” he asked, his voice strained but steady.

“A few moments ago,” Tommy said with a shrug, holding back a smirk as he noticed the tightness in Joel’s expression. “Saw her walking back from Dunn’s house, actually.”

Joel let out a dry, sardonic laugh, a smile twisted in disbelief. "Right. Of course."

"Actually," Tommy said, savoring another spoonful of ice cream, "he walked her to the door, all sweet-like. Gave her the whole mushy goodnight routine—kiss, movie shit." His gaze stayed fixed on the bowl, though Joel could see the glint of mischief there, Tommy barely holding back a grin.

Joel’s fingers drummed on the counter, his gaze hardening. “She must be happy then,” he muttered.

Tommy didn’t look up, just continued with his ice cream, though there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Sure she looked that way to me.”

“Like I care,” Joel muttered, his gaze fixed hard on the box beside him, fingers curling against the edge as if steadying himself. “I can bet everything I’ve got she doesn’t even like him that much. That guy isn’t worth it, and she knows it.”

Tommy’s mouth quirked with amusement as he leaned back against the counter.

“Too bad that’s not up to you,” he said, casually pushing Joel’s buttons, almost like he enjoyed watching his brother’s patience fray. “She looked happy. And for what it’s worth, in her own words, she does like him.”

Later, in the solitude of his room, Joel tucked away the box—the one filled with memories and unfinished gestures. He couldn’t bear to look at it, to confront what it represented. Instead, he tried to distract himself, but the emotions that swirled within him refused to be ignored. But he didn’t. Fear, hesitation, and the unrelenting weight of what-ifs kept him rooted in silence.

What Tommy told him shattered any remaining hope Joel had of making things right with you. Whatever fragile intentions he had to mend the rift between you dissolved in an instant, crushed under the weight of his own assumptions.

You had moved on, hadn’t you? It seemed so, as if you had turned a new page in your life without a second thought. Apparently, that night with Joel hadn’t meant as much to you as it had to him. The realization struck like a knife, twisting with every memory of that fleeting connection he had held onto so desperately. Anger bubbled up alongside the pain, a raw, bitter cocktail of emotions that left him reeling. He wanted to show you that he could move on, too—that he wasn’t as affected, that he could be indifferent.

But the act fell apart every time he saw you with Travis. The sight of the two of you together hollowed him out. You looked happy, didn’t you? The way you smiled, the ease with which you leaned into Travis—it was more than Joel could bear. Each moment of apparent joy between you and this other man chipped away at something inside him, leaving him feeling smaller, more fractured.

Still, the urge to seek your forgiveness lingered. It gnawed at him, the desire to bridge the gap and find some way to fix what had been broken. But every time he mustered the resolve to approach you, his feelings betrayed him. Anger surged to the surface, overpowering the vulnerability he had tried so hard to embrace.

Instead of mending things, he withdrew, consumed by resentment and heartache. The man he became in those moments was someone he didn’t recognize—someone fueled by a mixture of longing and bitterness, too afraid to confront the truth of what he felt, yet unable to let it go.

“That’s mine,” he said.

“What?” you managed, almost gasping, your eyes darting between his face and his hands, as if looking for something—anything—to explain this new, impossible tension.

Joel didn’t move. He was still, a presence that loomed larger by the second. His gaze was steady on you, tracing your body and your face, slow and deliberate.

“The flannel,” he repeated, his voice dropping lower, rough around the edges. “It’s mine.”

You looked down at the fabric, the soft, familiar warmth of it, and felt a sudden jolt. God. He was right. It was his. But it had been yours for years. You'd worn it so often, so comfortably, that you'd forgotten it ever belonged to anyone else. Maybe he'd lent it to you once, a lifetime ago, on one of those cold nights when you both sat under blankets. But he’d never asked for it back, had he? He never seemed to care, and you never thought to return it. It had just... stayed with you.

When you lifted your eyes back to him, Joel had moved off the wall, stepping toward you with slow, deliberate steps, closing the distance between you. Too close. He was too close, and you could feel the heat radiating off his body as his presence engulfed you.

“What happened?” His voice was soft, but there was a simmering undercurrent, a teasing tone that made your pulse quicken, though you weren’t sure why. “Did you forget to include it in your little box when you gave everything back to me?”

You felt a bitter chuckle bubble in your throat, an angry little sound that you couldn’t quite hold back. You shook your head slightly, irritated, your chest tight as you opened your mouth to speak, but he interrupted you, his words coming fast, sharper than before.

“Doesn’t your little boyfriend mind you wearing another man’s clothes?” he asked, his voice dripping with something like disdain, like he had been holding that question inside for far too long. His eyes darkened, gliding down to the fabric again, then to your body, before he reached forward, his fingers brushing the edge of the flannel as if testing the boundaries. “Or does he already know this isn’t the only thing of mine that’s wrapped around you?”

Later that night, Joel’s fingers entwined with Clara’s, but her hand was cold, and the contact felt unnatural. When she wrapped her arm around his, an almost visceral rejection welled up in him. Her touch wasn’t comforting; it was suffocating.

The pair walked in silence as they left the Hoffmans’ yard. Joel kept his eyes ahead, determined not to glance back. But he couldn’t help himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw you resting your head against Travis’s chest, your body cocooned in his jacket. The sight made Joel’s stomach twist painfully.

This was his fault. He replayed the night in his mind, how he’d told you to take off his shirt, how he’d inadvertently pushed you closer to Travis. Regret pressed heavily on him, a weight he couldn’t shake.

“Do you like wine?” Clara’s voice broke the silence as they neared her house.

Joel turned to her, his gaze distant, his mind still lost elsewhere. His entire body felt stiff, as though rejecting even the possibility of being there.

“Actually, I should get home,” he said abruptly, his voice flat.

Clara blinked at him, her expression faltering. Her easy smile gave way to a confused grimace, but Joel didn’t try to read her emotions.

“Oh,” she murmured, awkwardly. Then, with a hesitant laugh, she added, “Why don’t you come in for a bit? We could… have some fun.” Her hand reached for the collar of his shirt, a playful but suggestive gesture.

Joel gently pushed her hand away, the discomfort etched across his face.

"I really don’t feel like it," Joel said, his voice sharper than he meant it to be, the irritation slipping through despite his effort to hold it back. "And if I’m bein’ honest, I don’t like the way you’re always throwin’ yourself at me, especially in front of everybody like that. It ain’t right, and it sure as hell don’t sit well with me."

The words hung heavily in the air, cutting and cruel. Joel knew his tone wasn’t fair—it came from anger that had little to do with Clara herself. But he didn’t care. If anything, it was a chance to end this farce, to kill two birds with one stone.

Clara’s face flushed, embarrassment washing over her features. She stammered, “Then… why did you invite me to come with you?”

"I wanted to tell you in private," Joel drawled, his voice low and steady, each word carrying the weight of his frustration. "I don’t like you, Clara. Not like that. It ain’t fair to either of us. So why don’t you just go on and find someone else, someone who actually wants what you’re offerin’?"

Her lips parted, as though to say something, but Joel didn’t wait to hear it. His feet were already carrying him away, his thoughts full of you. Always you.

He cursed himself silently, the same harsh words looping in his mind. He was always screwing up, always doing the wrong thing. Everything he touched seemed to fall apart, especially where you were concerned. It was as if he was wired to ruin everything.

He was screwing up, screwing up so bad that he kept hurting you. And he knew there was no turning back when that Saturday after the Halloween party, your eyes had locked onto his, sharp and unyielding, cutting through him like shards of glass. Your voice, heavy with pain, lingered in his mind, echoing with all the things he couldn’t fix.

"Do you think what you’re doing is right, Joel?" you asked, your tone sharper than before, slicing through the fragile quiet between you.

His brows knit together, confused, and he tilted his head slightly as if to ask what you meant.

"Do you think you’re accomplishing anything by sleeping with the women in this neighborhood?" you continued, your words rushing out faster now. "I mean, first you sleep with me—oh, the worst mistake of your life—then you sleep with Clara. And what about Sienna? What does she think of all this? You’re a selfish, irresponsible man, Joel Miller, so irresponsible." The words kept spilling, your voice trembling now, laced with both anger and something softer, something that felt like pain. "And as if that wasn’t enough, you’ve ruined us. Completely. And I hate you for that, Joel. I hate you because you’re not the man I thought you were. And i love you so much I—"

Your gaze dropped to the ground, unable to meet his eyes. The tears welled up before you could stop them, blurring the edges of your vision and leaving your cheeks hot.

You hated how raw it all felt. How exposed. And worse, how the alcohol that had loosened your tongue was no longer numbing enough to shield you from the reality of what you’d just said.

Before you could stop him, Joel’s hands came to rest gently on your arms. The warmth of his touch made your stomach flip, and it took everything in you to pull away.

“No,” you said firmly, shaking him off and turning on your heel. But you barely managed two steps before your foot caught awkwardly in front of the other, sending you stumbling.

You yelped as your palm scraped against the ground, but Joel caught your other arm before you could fully collapse. The heat of embarrassment rushed to your face as you stood quickly, brushing off your dress and refusing to look at him.

You marched toward your door with renewed determination, ignoring the sting in your palm and the sound of his voice calling after you.

“Wait,” he said, his tone softer now, almost pleading.

But you didn’t stop. Your trembling fingers fumbled with the key, eyes fixed on the lock as if opening the door quickly enough could make him—and everything you’d just said—disappear.

The key slid into the lock on your first try, a stroke of luck you hadn’t expected. You stumbled inside, not bothering to close the door behind you. Maybe it was unconscious, or maybe some buried, foolish part of you wanted him to follow. Whatever the reason, Joel did, shutting the door softly as he stepped in, his footsteps trailing after your clumsy, rushed ascent up the stairs. His hand found your lower back more than once, steadying you whenever your feet betrayed you and your balance faltered.

When you reached your room, his presence pressed down on you, heavy and inescapable. Your chest felt tight, emotions boiling over with an intensity you couldn’t contain. The exhaustion—of everything—clawed at your insides, raw and relentless.

“Fuck you, Joel,” you spat, spinning to face him, your palms colliding with his chest in a sharp slap. The sound echoed between you, loud and angry. You hit him again, this time harder, though he barely moved, only stepping back an inch. “Fuck you. Fuck you. You’re a complete asshole, and I hate you. I hate you so much.” Your fists clenched, pounding against him now, the blows strong but harmless.

The pain in your eyes, the tremor in your voice—it shattered Joel completely. Every crack in your expression, every unsteady word, drove home the truth he had been avoiding: he had hurt you. Deeply. Irrevocably. And in that moment, the weight of his guilt became unbearable. He felt like he deserved every ounce of hatred and anger you could muster, every harsh word or cold glance. Hell, he deserved worse. He deserved every bad thing the world could throw at him.

When you lay down on the bed, exhausted and emotionally raw, Joel felt an overwhelming urge to stay. He wanted to be near you, to watch over you, to be a steady presence even if you didn’t want him there. But your words had been clear, leaving no room for misunderstanding. Reluctantly, he obeyed, dragging his heavy feet out of your space. The weight of his body mirrored the weight in his chest as he trudged home.

Once inside the dark silence of his living room, the self-loathing consumed him entirely. He sank into a chair, burying his face in his hands as the shame and regret clawed at him. How could he have done this to you? How could he have hurt the sweetest, kindest woman he had ever known? He replayed every misstep, every moment he let his anger or fear get in the way of treating you the way you deserved.

Joel knew he had to make it right, no matter the cost. He had to apologize, to lay bare his mistakes and accept whatever consequences you chose to impose. Even if it meant watching you move on with Travis.

The thought of seeing you with another man was agonizing, like a knife twisting in his chest. But Joel couldn’t ignore the truth: despite his disdain for Travis, the man made you happy. He’d seen it in your laughter, the easy way you leaned into him, the light in your eyes that Joel himself had dimmed. And wasn’t that what you deserved? Happiness, warmth, stability—all the things Joel doubted he could give you.

He hated himself for the jealousy that still lingered, for the bitterness that coiled inside him like a serpent. But more than that, he hated himself for failing you. You deserved better. So much better. And if Travis was that for you, Joel would accept it, no matter how much it tore him apart.

But then, when you went to his house...

He would never have imagined the way your lips sought his again, desperate, hungry. Joel could hardly believe what was happening. The feel of your kiss finding him again, so warm, perfect—it was as if the world had tilted off its axis. For a moment, he thought he must be dreaming. Maybe this was all in his head, his mind playing tricks on him because he couldn’t bear the thought of you being gone. It was too perfect, too real. He convinced himself that any second now, he’d wake up and find himself alone again, lost in the hollow ache of regret.

But no, you were there. Really there. Beneath him once again. The weight of your presence was grounding, pulling him back into a reality where everything felt possible, where maybe—just maybe—he could make things right. Your head resting on his chest, the soft rise and fall of your breath against his skin—it was everything he had wanted and more. For the first time in weeks, Joel felt at peace. His heart beat so strongly in his chest it felt as though it could burst, and for a moment, he forgot all the mistakes, all the pain. Nothing could ruin this. Nothing, least of all him.

This time, he promised himself, he would do things right. He wouldn’t let fear dictate his choices. He wouldn’t push you away. He couldn’t. Not again.

But just as quickly as that fragile peace had settled—

Sarah arrived, interrupting the quiet moment with a sudden presence that jolted him awake. The sound of her voice was enough to make him freeze, the peace slipping away.

Downstairs in the living room, Joel forced himself to straighten, to steady his nerves. His hands were clammy, his pulse racing, but he masked it all. His posture was rigid, controlled, serious as always. Nothing about him would give away the chaos he felt inside.

You looked between Sarah and him, your gaze flicking back and forth, and Joel noticed the shy smile that touched your lips. His chest tightened, but he couldn’t help but notice the softness in your expression.

"C'mon, what do you wanna eat?" she asked. "You're staying, right?"

“I… sure, uh, I don’t—I have to do something first, okay?” you said, your voice a little unsteady, a little unsure, but there was a determination in your eyes that he couldn’t ignore.

Sarah, ever the curious one, tilted her head, her face full of contentment, though it quickly shifted to confusion.

“What?” she asked, a hint of innocence in her voice.

Joel, feeling the need to regain control of the situation, stood up from the doorframe. He walked over to Sarah, his hand gently resting on her shoulder, grounding himself in the familiar warmth of his daughter.

“Why don’t you help me pick out dinner in the meantime?” he suggested, keeping his voice calm and steady, just like he always did. It was the easiest way to pull Sarah away, to give you space without making it obvious.

Without another word, you left his house, your legs unsteady, your mind a whirlwind of thoughts, of questions. Joel watched you go, his chest heavy, knowing that what had just happened was different.

As he watched you leave, he knew one thing for certain: Sarah was going to wait for you for dinner. That, at least, was something he could count on.

#honey love dark eyes #capuccinodoll #joel miller #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic #joel miller x you #tlou fic #joel miller smut #tlou hbo #tlou joel #joel tlou #joel x reader #joel the last of us #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #tlou fanfiction #tlou #the last of us

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doodlebeeberry · 2 months ago

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It's OSC gift exchange number 4, baby!!

Thats right folks!!! once again so so excited to host the gift exchange, hopefully itll be yet another fun one! :D

doing things slightly differently this year: if you wanna join you can just fill out this google form! You can also still join by replying/reblogging/dming me with what you'd like if you prefer to do it that way though.

Rules, dates, and details are all under the cut (and also in the form), please read them through fully before joining!!!

Entries close November 28th at midnight (est)!

For those not in the know, the gift exchange is just what is sounds like! Upon joining, you tell me what you like to see in you gift. After, you'll be randomly assigned a giftee, and will make a gift for them based on what they've requested. When the day comes, you'll post your gift and @ the person it's for!

The timeline this year looks like this:

Nov. 7-Nov. 28: Join the gift exchange by filling out this form, dm-ing me, replying, or tagging this post with what you'd like to receive. You can ask for anything--shows, ships, ocs, whatever! Additionally, if there's anything you dont want to see or can't make (ie, ships that make you uncomfortable), you can make a note of that as well

Dec. 1: I'll let you know who you've been assigned and what they'd like! This'll most likely be done through tumblr dms, so if that's an issue do let me know!

Dec. 1-30: You make your gift! This can be anything, from art to writing to music and more! so long as you follow your giftee's request, the possibilities are endless!

Dec. 31: Post your gift, being sure to @ the person its from! Please do not post your gift before this date!!!

Some other things to note:

You can request anything--shows, characters, ships, etc--just please make sure they are osc related! it is an osc gift exchange after all

Asking for OCs is very much allowed, just be sure to provide me with a reference when you join

in regards to things you can't do, please do note that "i haven't seen x show so i wont do it" or "i'll only do requests for x show" are not being treated as valid requests in this context, so i won't guarantee them. also please remember that giftees are assigned randomly.

If your giftee requests more than one thing, you aren't obligated to fulfill all of their requests if you don't want to. Just be sure to do one of them and you're good!

If you need to drop out for any reason, that is completely ok, it happens! just please be sure to let me know ahead of time so I can re-assign your giftee!

On that note, if you have reason to believe you will be unavailable or otherwise unable to post your gift on the 31st, please be sure to tell me so we can work something out! Additionally, if you can't reach out on tumblr (say, your blog gets deleted) you can also poke me on bluesky (@ bumblebeeberry) or discord (thatonegaycat) about it

You can not join anonymously! I just don't think it'd fair to your giftee

While I highly doubt I will need to, I can bar you from participating if I deem it necessary. Again, unlikely, but in the off-chance it does happen I will message you to let you know, pretty please do not yell at me if I do

Not a requirement but when I send you your giftee if you could just let me know you saw the message i would greatly appreciate it!

As per usual I'll be tagging everything with #osc gift exchange, feel free to use it on your gift as well!

That's it! if you have any questions, comments, notes, what have you, please don't hesitate to dm me! :]

#yippie!!! opening it early this year cause i wanna #went with both joining options also cause i wanna. also cause i want folks to have as many options as possible yk #apologies for the tag spam here #osc #object show community #osc gift exchange #object oc #bfdi #bfb #tpot #ii #inanimate insanity #hfjone #itft #bfdia #what other show tags do people use these days #animatic battle #tdos #burner osc

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probablyreadinsmut · 29 days ago

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Javier Peña X Afab!Reader one shot

Maneater

What if it were the other way around? You were the insatiable menace who fucked her way through Colombia and Javier Peña was the one who pined after you, but you never gave him the time of day, until now.

Warnings/Tags: 18+ Onlyyyy. Alcohol consumption, language, Public groping, fingering, Oral (F receiving), PIV Sex (Unprotected, birth control discussed, wrap it before you tap it ppl). Couple of dick taps. Liiiiiitle bit 'o fluff and angst. Spanish nicknames. Overuse of 'Cariño and hermosa'. Bi reader. Time period relevant sexism and homophobia mentioned. Big 'ol praise kink. There was going to be more but I chickened out since it was my first time writing a full on sex scene.

A/N: This is purely self indulgent, Reader is Javiers DEA partner of several years. She's a little emotionally unavailable and knows how much Javi thirsts after her. Writing this bc it's that time of the month where I get the urge to howl at the moon like a bitch in heat so I have to channel it somehow.

Word Count: 4.3k

The vibes for this fic⬇️ I love imagining Javi to 80s music <3

Blog masterlist here

Bogata, Colombia. 1991.

The cigarette smoke hangs like a thick fog under the dim light above your booth. The jukebox is playing a song with a slow and sensual beat.

Everyone else had gone home for the evening, Steve had said Olivia was teething and he didn't want to leave Connie to deal with that alone. The rest of the guys had various excuses themselves but honestly you didn't give a shit, too busy scanning the bar over the rim of your glass for your next conquest. All the while Javier sits opposite, taking long, slow drags of his cigarette, just watching you. Like it was his favourite thing to do.

It was clear he had a thing for you, he wasn't exactly secretive about it. But you never gave him the time of day. Sure he was handsome and you'd bet your bottom dollar that he was a good fuck. However, you'd made it a rule to not shit where you eat.

So like a puppy waiting for scraps, he sits silently as your eyes flit from one man to another. He didn't blame you, the job you were both doing was stressful. Everyone has to have their outlets otherwise you'd go insane. Sometimes he wondered though, if there was more to it. If you needed a different body in your bed every night because it was a distraction from more than just the job. If only he knew.

"Slim pickins' tonight" It came as a mumble into the glass, finishing off the last of your vodka cranberry. "Maybe I'll go pay Helena a visit instead." You'd smirked as you said it. Helena was one of your informants, who much to your initial surprise and then sheer delight, had one day said to you that she'd always wanted to try being with a woman. You were more than happy to oblige.

And so your agreement was born, she gives you information in exchange for orgasm better than any of her clients could ever give her and you were working on getting her visa paperwork expidited.

You hadn't expected that when you came down to Colombia, but fuck if you didn't love the way she sounded when she came apart on your tongue.

Colombia wasn't exactly progressive when it came to same sex relations, so you didn't tell many people about it, for fear it could hurt her somehow. Her job. Her reputation and perhaps yours. Not that the states was much better either.

The thought of you being with anyone else always sparked this possessive jealousy in his chest, Javier knew he had no right. You'd made it clear long ago that it wasn't going to happen, but even so. He was conflicted, the idea of you being with another woman made his cock twitch in his jeans, of course it did, he was a simple man. But he was also a man who wanted you all to himself.

Exhaling a large plume of smoke above his head as he stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray, Javier decides enough is enough. It's now or never, feeling emboldened by the three glasses of Whiskey under his belt tonight.

"Cariño..." He starts as he gets up from his side to come sit beside you, blocking your view of anyone else in the bar, forcing you to just see him. "What do I have to do for you to see what's right in front of you? What do I have to do to get you to see me?" His voice is low and seductive but the way he's looking at you... Big soft brown eyes that portray the vulnerability he's been trying to hide. It's not just about sex for him, this runs deeper.

A small sigh leaves you, seeing the way he's gazing at you, like he wants to give you the whole world when you can't even give him a tiny fraction of space in your hesrt.

You had thought about it, you'd be lying to yourself if you said you hadn't. He's probably one of the most handsome men you've ever seen, a jawline that would make most women weep, eyes that under any other circumstances you would picture yourself getting lost in and those jeans. He knew what he was doing wearing jeans as tight as that.

But it's unethical. Against protocol. If Ambassador Noonan found out she'd reassign you for sure. Not him though, he's the guy, he'd just get a slap on the wrist and told to keep it in his pants in future. That's the way this environment worked. That's the way the world worked, women suffer the harsher consequences, while men get let off.

And then there was the part of you that didn't want to lead him on, to drop breadcrumbs for him leading him along a path he was hoping would bring him to a hot out of the oven loaf of bread, only to be greeted with something stale and inedible.

But right now, as his large hand has found its way to your knee under the table, alcohol clouding your judgement, your horny mind is saying 'One night won't hurt, right?'.

"Javi.. You know I can't give you what you want, right?" His fingers, trailing further up the inside of your thigh are distracting and that's what he's aiming for, to seduce you and deep down, he hopes it would change your mind.

"Hermosa, I don't know what you think I'm 'looking for' here. I just think..." He scooches closer, bringing his lips to your ear, fingers gently kneading at the fleshy part of your thigh "... That we both need some stress relief tonight, let me help you, hm?" He finishes his whispered offer by pressing a barely there kiss just below your ear, hips plush lips barely grazing your skin, sending heat flooding south in your body.

"Javi" The way you breathe his name has his dick getting hard already.

"Yes Cariño? C'mon use your words.." He purrs in your ear as his hand moves to cup your pussy over your jeans, applying enough pressure against your clit to make you bite down on your lip, stopping the moan that's threatening to spill from your mouth.

You're not stopping him, infact you're parting your legs for him wider under the table. You do want this. You do want him.

Turing your head to nuzzle your lips against his jaw, nipping lightly at the shaved skin there, your words a breathless plea "Javi please... I-I-I need... Just tonight. That's it..."

He pulls back enough to look into your eyes, seeing them heavily lidded with desire, he's barely touched you and you're falling apart for him already. It's everything he's dreamed of.

"Just tonight" He echoes before he goes for it, slanting his lips over yours, keeping himself restrained for now being in a public place, definitely not looking to be arrested for indecent exposure and thrown into a Colombian jail, at least the blood hadn't completely rushed to his cock just yet.

The kiss is electrifying, his hand leaving the space between your legs to cup your face, deepening the kiss as you melt into him, one hand slipping into his hair at the nape of his neck, the other finding its way to his thigh, sliding up, up, up.

With his body shielding you and the bar being as busy as it is, no one is taking any notice of the two of you, heavy petting getting more risque for being in public, the little gasp against his lips when you find him rock hard and straining against the thick denim, has his head spinning, pulling back to take a breather.

"We should-"

"Get out of here and go back to your place?" You're keen. It has him grinning like the cat that got the cream.

"It's like you read my fucking mind baby"

///

The moment you both step into his apartment, it's game over. A clash of teeth and tongues, slamming you into the wall without tearing his lips away from yours, his hands running all over your curves as your own hands grasp at his broad shoulders, pushing his leather jacket off him until it falls to the floor.

"I need you naked, right this fucking second" The growl in his tone has your pussy clenching around nothing, nodding eagerly as he starts to undress you. First it's your shirt, ripping it open, sending buttons flying, scattering in the entryway, leaving it hanging off you, a useless scrap of material. He'd feel bad but the thought of you having to wear one of his shirts to go home in, is too good of an opportunity to pass up on.

"Look at these... Perfect tits. Fuck me" He groans as he leans down, sucking on the swell of your breast, thumb rubbing over the lace, coaxing your nipple to harden. Your back arches off the wall, pushing your chest into his face, a hand tangled in his raven hair, holding him in place, a silent plea to keep going. God those fucking moans of yours are beautiful, all rational thought going straight to his dick.

"Javiii" It's a whiney little beg, as you're kicking your shoes off, feeling the dampness between your legs spreading by the second. "I- need-"

"I know... I've got you hermosa" Slowly, achingly so, he sinks to his knees in front of you, dragging his lips downwards, his breath hot against your skin, sucking and nibbling as he goes. Your head is tipped back agaisnt the wall, you don't dare look down at him, not yet. You can feel that fucker grinning against your stomach, knowing he's about to get the prize he covets most in this world.

"Look at me hermosa, I want you to watch everything I'm about to do you you. I want you to see what you've been missing this whole time."

He's quick to rid you of your jeans, Javier likes to tease and prolong the experience with women most of the time, but right now, when the object of all his desires is standing right in front of him, he can't do that. Not now he has you where he wants you, where he's wanted you since the first day you met.

And against your better judgement, you do as he says, looking down at him, his eyes are practically black with desire now, staring up at you through his lashes, looking sinful as fuck as he sits on his knees. All for you. Ready to worship at his altar. His religion? Pussy. His goddess? You.

"Fuuuck. You always wear skimpy little panties like this in the office? Dirty girl." He hooks his fingers into the elastic of your thong, tugging them down your thighs, all the while keeping steady eye contact with you, the smug satisfied smirk on his face has him so sure of himself, so sure that after tonight you'll be coming back for more.

Once they're off, he tucks them into the pocket of his jeans as a memento of this night and he wastes no time, hoisting one of your legs over his shoulder, diving in mouth first. Not rushing, but not taking his time either. There's a hint of desperation behind everything he's done so far tonight, a testament to how much he wants this.

You gasp and arch your back off the wall as the flat of his tongue slides between your soaked lips, one hand braced on the wall above your head while the other curls into his hair, gripping and tugging at it, urging him on. The low muffled groan that leaves him vibrates through you, he's getting drunk off the taste of you, the way you're gasping and moaning for him. All for him.

Skillfully working your clit with his tongue, you feel his free hand snaking up the inside of your thigh until he reaches his destination. Wet and slippery with the combination of his saliva and your juices, he teases your entrance with one thick finger, circling it slowly before he pushes inside. "Oh fuck" he hisses against your pussy "So fucking tight, knew you would be" And then without warning, a second finger breeches you, making you cry out his name.

"I know baby... I know, I've got you. You gonna cum for me hermosa, hmm? Gonna cum all over my fingers for me?" it's taunting, it's blinding pleasure, it's ecstasy. He finds that spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyes, pumping his fingers in a deep slow rhythm as you writhe above him already teetering on the brink when he suctions his lips against your clit and sucks. It's like an out of body experience. Like you're floating above yourself watching this all happen. Trembling as he holds you steady, working you through your orgasm with his fingers, but he's detached his lips from your clit, looking up at you from his knees, just admiring the way you shatter for him. Like a work of art. Jaw slack in a silent scream, breasts heaving beneath your lacy bra.

Right now, as your cum drips down his knuckles, he can't believe his fucking luck honestly.

Once you're lucid and you're no longer trembling, he removes his fingers, you whine at the loss of him. Gently setting your leg down, he rises in front of you and brings the sticky fingers to his lips, sucking them clean, moaning in approval as you watch on with renewed arousal.

"It's really not fair you know."

His lip curls into a mocking grin as he drops the now clean fingers from his lips, placing his hand beside your head against the wall, leaning in close enough for you to catch the heady scent of your arousal on his moustache. "What's not fair princesa? Was that not enough for you?" Smug bastard. Smug, proud bastard.

The way you suck your teeth and narrow your eyes at him, tells him he's winning. Slowly wearing you down just like he wanted. You're charmed by this. Not just because he eats pussy like it was his day job but by him.

"What's not fair... Is that I'm practically naked and you're still fully dressed."

"So I am. Maybe we should do something about that hm?"

Before you can even answer his hands are on your thighs, hoisting you up to wrap your legs around his waist, lips finding yours in a heated kiss, tongue pushing past your teeth to entangle with yours, ensuring you taste yourself on him. Your arms wrap around his neck, holding on tightly as he starts to walk you into the main living space towards his leather couch.

"You taste how fucking sweet you are? I could eat that pretty little pussy all day." Filthy. Absolute filth is coming out of his mouth right now and you feel yourself dripping onto him I return. You'd had a hunch he'd be like this but honestly? It's surpassing every expectation you did have.

You squeel as he tosses you down onto the couch and he admires the way it makes your tits bounce even in the confines of your bra, but he needs to see more, just like you do.

"Take it off. Or I will." Hottest fucking threat you've ever heard.

Sitting up slightly, you remove the remains of your shirt and bring your hands to your back to undo the clasp, all the while he's standing over you, watching you like a hawk.

"I'm not taking this off until you start getting undressed too Javier. It's a two way street." Now it's your turn to smirk, two can play that game, you both know what's about to happen so why the fuck is he not naked right now?

"Hm... Fairs fair I s'pose." With deft fingers, he starts to unbutton his shirt revealing a new patch of golden skin as he goes, toned chest that you've only ever caught slivers of when he decides he's going to get a little slutty with it in the office and doesn't quite button his shirt up all the way that day. You'd always wondered if it was for you.

The subtle lick of your lips and the way your pupils blow when his shirt falls open is something he'll be playing on repeat in his mind for years to come, on nights when it's just him and his hand, abusing his cock as he thinks about you and this moment right now.

Once that's off and on the floor, he's toeing off his shoes and unbuttoning those deliciously tight jeans. God bless this man and his inability wear anything that doesn't show off what he's got. Rightfully so.

Your eyes start at the dark happy trail of hair leading downwards, following his fingers as one button is undone, then the second and it then becomes ubundantly clear, he's not wearing boxers today. Seems you're not the only one who likes to push the boundaries of what you wear to the office. Or don't wear, in his case.

Now he does tease, now he has you wanting more, he's taking his sweet time, tugging the zipper unhurriedly, with a shit eating grin as he sees you clenching your thighs together, no doubt making a mess on his couch under you.

"What's the matter princesa? Impatient for something?" He knows what he's doing. You're not rising to it, not giving him the satisfaction of knowing how much you just want to yank those goddamn jeans down and jump his bones. Instead you play your ace card, undoing your bra just as slowly, the clasp pinging open, but you hold it against you, not letting it fall away just yet. Like a horny exchange of hostages. A challenge, waiting to see who will give in first.

It was him. Unable to hold himself back anymore, he shoves his jeans down his thighs, freeing his cock.

Your mouth waters at the sight, thick, around 8 inches and slightly curved. A little darker than the rest of him, veins protuding that you could practically feel on your tongue right now. Dark curls trimmed neatly around the base and balls. Beautiful. You wondered where the hell he was hiding that thjng in those jeans of his.

"Fairs fair, I s'pose" You parrot his words from earlier and pull away your bra, tossing it over the back of his couch with abandon. Exposing every inch of yourself to him now.

Before you can even process it, he's on you, pinning you into the couch cushions as he roughly palms your breast, pinching and rolling your nipple between his fingers making you whimper and gasp under him, his lips attach to your neck, panting heavily against your skin as he nudges your legs apart with his knee and settles between them.

By some miracle he remembers that birth control is a thing, removing his lips from your neck, looming over you, taut as a bow string, ready to snap any second.

"Do I need to go run and grab a condom or-?" Thank god he'd asked because you were so lost in the moment it wouldn't have occurred to you.

"I'm on the pill. We're good." With anyone else, random encounters, you'd been insisting on using condoms, but you trusted Javier and he trusted you.

"Thank fuck for that" the little giggle you let out is fucking adorable but he's not about to delay things further by telling you that, or god forbid, ruin the moment altogether.

Pushing your thighs apart with one hand, he strokes himself with the other, spreading the glossy pre-cum from tip to base.

"Ready for me hermosa?"

With an eager nod of consent, he notches himself at your entrance and slowly started to feed himself inside. Inch by inch. The delicious sting and stretch of him making you both groan in unison.

"Fuuuuuuck she's so tight"

And then all at once you're full of him, legs wrapping around his waist as he gives you a second to adjust, Stroking your cheek almost tenderly as he checks if you're okay before he starts to move.

The leather creaks under you as he saws in and out of your tight heat, almost all the way before he's plunging back in again, setting a deliberate slow, unchanging rhythm as he listens to your moans and sighs as cues of what you like. Steadily picking up his pace as he fucks you into the cushions, holding one of your legs in place around his waist as his other hand shoots out to grip the arm of the couch, tipping his head back as he's getting lost in his own pleasure. Your nails raking down his back is sending him for a loop, theres no way he's going to let himself cum yet, not this soon and not before you cum again.

Slipping his hands under your back for support, he sits up right, pulling you up with him, pulling a gasp from you.

Quickly you catch on, slipping your arms around his neck as you start to bounce on his dick, aided by him guiding your hip movements.

"Good girl, riding my fat cock so well. Look at you, bet you could make yourself cum like this huh?"

The praise alone has you circling the drain, desperate to hold off until you've ridden him a little longer.

"Javi!" You sob, crushing your lips against his as he thrusts up to meet your hips over and over again, swallowing your moans. Then he goes and slips his hand between the both of you, inching back slightly to give himself space to work, circling the pad of his thumb against your aching clit with just enough pressure to send you hurtling over the edge, kissing him desperately as you meet your climax again, your moans drowned out by the sound of blood rushing to your ears.

It's like music to his fucking ears.

Quicker than you can register, he pulls out and flips you over onto your knees, a hand splayed out on the middle of your back gently pushing you down until you arch your ass into the air.

He slaps his dick against your ass cheek a few times before teasing it through your sopping folds, making you whine and wiggle your hips back begging him to sink back into you.

A low chuckle leaves him before he speaks, feeding his girth back into you at the same time. "You thought.. oh fuck... I was done with you? Not even close."

Sliding his hand up your spine until he's at the base of your neck, holding you down as the other hand tightly grips your hip for leverage, not giving you any time to come down from your release before he starts to fuck you again at a punishing pace. Your cheek is pressed against the leather, jaw slack, mouth hanging open dumbly, all you can do is grip at the couch cushions and get out garbled noises of pleasure.

He's ruining you in the best way possible.

"Jaaaaviiiiii!"

He's panting and groaning behind you, watching his cock disappearing into you over and over again, feeling his balls tightening, getting closer to his own release.

"Cum for me hermosa... I.. Oh fuck yes... Know you have another one in you. Cum. For. Me." He punctuates his words with hard, deep thrusts, hitting that spot deep inside you that has you screaming, pussy clenching around him. Seconds later he follows after you, spilling thick ropes of hot cum inside your abused cunt, lowering himself to lean over your back, groaning into your ear. That sound alone has your pussy pulsing, milking him for every last drop.

///

Javier was actually very attentive afterwards, checking you were okay, you felt completely boneless, slumped flat against the couch, sweaty chest sticking to the leather, completely fucked out but you were fine.

He'd gone to the bathroom to grab a warm wash cloth, cleaning you up between your thighs as you just lay there letting him take care of you.

He'd handed you his shirt, pulling back on his jeans before wandering into the kitchen to get you some water, somehow you managed to sit yourself up and pull it on, buttoning it up most of the way. Your hair was an absolute mess and the throbbing between your legs would be a reminder of him for hours to come.

"Here you go Cariño" His voice is soft now, a stark contrast from how he was when he was fucking you stupid.

You take the glass from him as he sits back on the couch, reaching for his cigarette, leaning back as he lights up and takes his first drag. Of course he's a 'cigarette after sex' kind of guy.

Your throat is so dry from how your long mouth had been hanging open for, he can still hear your screams of pleasure ringing in his ears even now.

Dropping your gaze to the glass in your hands, feeling like a piece of shit with what you're about to say to him. You didn't regret giving into him, but you regretted that you were now going to have to break his heart. You couldn't be the person he wanted you to be for him.

"Javi, I-"

He knows. He always knew. And that's what hurts the most. That he let himself think that this would change your mind. Not that he thought he could fuck you into it, but that you'd suddenly realise that he was what you were missing. "Don't. Don't say it. I already know." He sets the cigarette down in the ashtray on the coffee table before he turns to face you, reaching out to cup his hands over yours, with the saddest of smiles on his handsome face.

"I'm sorry Javi."

"Don't be. It's my fault for letting myself dream. You are my fucking dream Cariño. I'd wait as long as it takes for you to want me back, years If I had to."

He'd wait for you. He doesn't need to explain how he feels about you because his words and the way he's looking at you right now says it all and it's just too much.

"I know you would Javier and that's what scares me."

///

Tqglist for my mutuals, tysm if you take time to read this, lmk your thoughts <3

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