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joelsrose · 28 days ago

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For the Hour - Part 2

part 1

warning: 18+ only MDNI, literally porn with a plot, oral (female receiving) angst (duhhh), age gap? (reader is grown tho) sex work, probably more tbh.

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You sat at your small dining table, the one by the window that caught the late morning light just right, your legs crossed and bare beneath the hem of the thin cotton dress you’d slipped on after your shower, the fabric shifting with every small movement as steam from your mug curled upward and disappeared into the stillness. The book in your lap was open, held lazily in one hand, but you hadn’t turned the page in ten minutes.

It had been two days since Joel had come over.

Two days since he’d stood stiff and uncertain in your doorway, thick fingers twitching at his sides, eyes too soft for a man so guarded, jaw clenched like he was waiting to be turned away.

And God, when you’d touched him, when you’d kissed him, when you’d spread your thighs and whispered it’s okay, let me take care of you—he had melted.

Right there in your hands, against your mouth, inside your body, he had unraveled with the kind of desperation that didn’t come from hunger but from starvation.

He’d stayed for hours afterward, tucked against your chest, his hand resting at your hip like he wasn’t quite sure if he was allowed to hold you but couldn’t stop himself.

You’d held him without saying a word, feeling the tension drain from his limbs minute by minute, until all that was left was the slow rise and fall of his breath against your skin.

There was something almost boyish in the way he curled into you, in the way he reached for your hand and kept it over his heart, like he didn’t know what to do with kindness that didn’t cost him anything. He had been quiet. Tender. So careful, as if moving too quickly might shatter the moment.

Only when the sun had dipped behind the trees had he finally stirred, mumbling something about Ellie, how he hadn’t meant to take up your whole day.

He’d stood awkwardly by the door, clothes half-buttoned, hair still mussed from your fingers, eyes flicking to you like he didn’t know if goodbye meant the end or just a pause. And you—you’d kissed him again. Slow. Soft. Not part of your services, not part of anything but instinct. Because you could see it in his face, the way he flinched when he looked at you like he didn’t know how to be wanted.

And then he was gone.

Now, two days later, your hair still damp from your morning shower, wrapped in a towel that dripped softly against your shoulders, you sat in the quiet hum of Jackson morning—safe, still, yours.

You loved this time of day. The slowness. The way the light filtered through the window and warmed the floorboards. The way the silence felt more like peace than loneliness. There was no client scheduled, no knock expected, no reason to think anyone would come.

Which was why, when the knock came, you froze mid-sip.

Your mug paused at your lips, brow furrowing as you stilled in place, your heart skipping once—not with fear, but with that curious flicker of something.

You racked your brain, trying to remember if you’d forgotten a booking, a visit, anything at all. But there was nothing. No name. No time. No one expected.

The knock came again—this time softer.

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You pulled the towel from your hair as you crossed the living room, squeezing the ends of your damp strands and dragging the soft cotton down until the tips clung to your shoulders in dripping curls.

You tossed the towel onto the back of the couch, pushing aside a few folded clothes and a half-finished book in a weak attempt at tidying, like straightening the space might somehow make you feel more prepared—less caught off guard.

The knock came again, softer now, almost hesitant.

You moved to the door barefoot, the floorboards cool beneath your feet, your dress swishing low against your thighs as you undid the latch. And when you opened it—heart skipping in that strange, fluttering way it always did when the quiet was interrupted—you found a familiar face waiting on the other side.

Tommy.

Handsome in that easy, sunworn way he always was, jaw shadowed with stubble, brows slightly furrowed like he was mid-thought. He stood with his hands braced on his hips, elbows out, chest rising slow beneath a worn white singlet that clung to him from beneath his unzipped jacket—like he’d thrown it on without thinking.

“Tommy,” you said, the word escaping in a breath of surprise, soft and warm. Then, instinctively, you stepped aside, pushing the door open a little wider. “Hi.”

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, and the sound of it—sweetheart, like it belonged to you—rolled off his tongue with a kind of easy fondness that made your stomach flip.

You smiled, a flush creeping across your cheeks as you reached up to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “I didn’t know you were coming over,” you said, voice airy with the kind of nerves he always seemed to stir without trying. “I would've gotten ready.”

Tommy’s eyes dropped.

Just for a second.

But you saw it.

The way his gaze flicked down your frame—your still-wet hair clinging to your collarbones, the slope of your neck bare, droplets of water catching the light where they slid along your skin.

His gaze lingered on your legs, smooth and freshly lotioned, bare beneath the hem of your soft cotton dress, thighs he’d seen bare and trembling more times than he could count.

And God, he felt it—that same ache rising up in him like it always did when he looked at you. Because you weren’t just beautiful—you were real. Soft. Familiar. A body he knew, a voice he craved, a face he could trace with his eyes closed.

“You don’t need to get ready,” he murmured, his voice a little rougher now, lower in his throat. “You’re beautiful like this.”

You blinked at that, warmth spreading beneath your ribs, the compliment catching you off guard—not because it was the first time he’d said something like that, but because this time, it felt heavier. Slower. Like it came from somewhere deeper than flirtation.

But before you could respond, his jaw flexed slightly, and he looked away—toward the inside of your home, like he was trying to collect himself. “Actually,” he said, clearing his throat, “I’m not here for that.”

You raised a brow, smile tilting with quiet mischief. “Oh?” you asked, stepping back toward the doorframe and crossing your arms gently under your chest. “Have I been replaced?”

He huffed, exaggerated and playful, rolling his eyes with the kind of ease only he could pull off—casual and familiar—but his smile didn’t quite reach the corners of his eyes. “Nah,” he said, voice low and a little rough, “I don’t think that’s possible.”

And just like that, he was already inside.

Moving through your doorway like he belonged there. Like this was just another morning or another slow afternoon where his boots tracked dirt across your floorboards and his voice filled up the quiet corners of your house.

He didn’t ask, didn’t pause, didn’t hover at the threshold—he just stepped in, shoulders relaxing the moment he passed through, like the air inside was easier to breathe.

This wasn’t the first time Tommy had wandered into your kitchen after a patrol, or passed through your living room with dried blood on his knuckles and exhaustion in his spine, his voice rasping with something half-guilt, half-need. He came here often—sometimes late at night, sometimes before the sun even rose—and every time, he said it like a joke, like it didn’t mean anything.

But you both knew it did.

Because he could’ve gone anywhere. He could’ve gone home.

And yet—he always came to you.

You closed the door behind him with a soft click, the sound oddly final in the quiet, like you were sealing something in.

Tommy glanced over his shoulder, catching the faint hiss of the kettle starting to warm. “You makin’ coffee?” he asked, like he already knew the answer.

You arched a brow, amused. “Yeah,” you murmured, brushing past him gently, the scent of your lotion still clinging to your skin, the hem of your dress brushing his jeans as you passed. “C’mon.”

You reached out and tapped his arm as you moved toward the kitchen, and even though the touch was light, brief, playful, he followed like gravity had pulled him in your wake.

You poured a second mug without asking—because of course he wanted one—and handed it to him wordlessly, your fingers brushing as you passed it over, the warmth of the ceramic nowhere near the warmth simmering between your skin.

Tommy took it with a small nod of thanks, then leaned back against the counter like it was something he’d done a hundred times, eyes dragging slowly over your space—the lived-in quiet of it, the faint scent of soap and sunlight and whatever perfume still lingered on your damp skin.

You sat down in the exact spot you’d been in before the knock came, folding your legs beneath you, the curve of your thigh peeking through the soft drape of your dress, your book still open and waiting on the table.

Tommy watched you for a second too long, fingers curled tight around the coffee mug, his knuckles pale beneath the weight of it.

The steam rising between you curled lazily in the air, but his gaze didn’t waver. It lingered on the damp tendrils of hair still clinging to your neck, the sheen of lotion catching the light along your thighs, the soft flush warming the tops of your cheeks. And you didn’t look away. Didn’t shift. Didn’t hide.

You tilted your head instead, smile curling at the edges, teasing just enough to break the tension. “Sit,” you said, patting the chair beside you with an exaggerated flourish. “You’re making me anxious, standing there all brooding like some moody gunslinger.”

“I don’t brood,” he said, but his voice was low and amused as he stepped forward, the words lacking any real heat. He pulled out the chair and lowered himself into it without resistance—because the truth was, he’d do anything you asked. Had always done anything you asked.

“Sure,” you said, drawing out the word with a smile as you brought your own mug to your lips. “How are you?”

He shrugged, sipped, looked down into the swirl of coffee like it might give him something else to say. “I’m alright,” he answered finally. Then, quieter, more hesitant: “Actually, I’m here to… check in on you.”

You arched a brow, feigning surprise. “Wow. Look at that. Real customer service.”

He huffed a soft laugh, and you saw his shoulders ease just a little, the corners of his mouth tugging up despite himself.

Then—casual, like he was just making conversation, like it hadn’t been burning a hole in his chest since the moment he stepped through your door—he asked, “How was Joel?”

Ah.

So that’s why he was really here.

You set your mug down gently, the sound soft against the wood.

His voice came again, a little rougher this time, scraping the edge of something vulnerable. “I mean—was he good to you? Not too…” he cleared his throat, glanced away for a second like it hurt to look at you while he said it, “not too rough?”

You blinked, the question catching you somewhere between tenderness and disbelief. And for a moment, all you could do was watch him—watch the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers curled a little harder around the handle of the mug, the flicker of something wounded in his eyes that he was trying very, very hard to hide.

“He was sweet,” you said, voice soft, thoughtful. You weren’t smiling exactly, but something warm passed across your face—like remembering something delicate, something still hanging in the air. “Like he didn’t know how to take more than a few steps toward me without apologizin’. Like he thought being touched would break him open too fast.”

Tommy nodded once, slow, his mouth pressing into a thin line, and you didn’t miss the way his jaw shifted—just slightly, just enough to betray how that made him feel.

You glanced at him, amused now. “I still can’t believe you told him I was a masseuse.”

That earned you a laugh—short, low, rough at the edges.

Tommy leaned back a little in the chair, his fingers still curled loosely around the coffee mug. “Yeah, well,” he said, shaking his head, “what was I supposed to say? ‘Go see the girl who gives real good head? Didn’t think that’d go over too well.”

You huffed, a surprised little sound, shaking your head as you looked down into your mug. “Jesus,” you muttered, your lips curving despite yourself as you took a slow sip, the warmth of the drink grounding you even as something in the air shifted—again.

Tommy was watching you closely now. Not in a hungry way, not yet. Just… watching, the kind of look you’d grown used to from him, like he was trying to read between the lines of your voice, your eyes, the softness in your shoulders.

Then, quiet—so quiet it almost didn’t reach you:

“Did he…” Tommy started, voice lower now, roughened like it scraped its way out of his throat, uninvited.

There was a pause—sharp, deliberate. Then—

“Did he make you cum?”

You choked on your sip, nearly spitting into your mug as your eyes snapped up in disbelief.

“Tommy,” you said, shocked, your voice jumping up a note, disoriented by the sudden shift in tone—how quick it turned from easy warmth to something heavier, more personal, more his.

He didn’t flinch. Just shrugged, far too casual for the heat in his eyes. Like the question hadn’t just dropped into the quiet like a stone into still water. Like it hadn’t just exposed something raw between you both.

You blinked down into your lap, the words stammering at the back of your throat. “I—I mean… no,” you muttered eventually, your voice quieter now, searching for the right shape. “But that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t about that.”

“It was more about letting him feel wanted. Giving him something kind. Something soft. Making him feel good without needing anything in return.”

The truth of it sat there between you—quiet and solid, like it belonged.

Tommy’s jaw clenched, the muscle twitching once beneath the rough stubble, and he looked away for the first time, like the answer had cost him something he hadn’t prepared to give.

You watched him, eyes narrowing slightly, and the question came before you could stop it, gentle but firm.

“Why are you asking me all this, Tommy?”

Your voice was soft, but not fragile—measured, steady, the kind of question that pressed for truth, not deflection. And maybe that’s what made it land the way it did. Maybe that’s why Tommy didn’t answer right away.

He shook his head, a slow, worn-out gesture, like the thoughts behind it were too tangled to say aloud.

His eyes flicked around your space, scanning the soft curve of the room he knew too well—your home, the safe little corner of Jackson that somehow always smelled like clean linen, candlewax, and something sweet.

His gaze caught on the blanket draped over the back of the couch, the coffee cups still warm on the table, the towel drying by the door—signs of you, everywhere.

And the thought of another man—let alone his brother—standing here, sitting where he’d sat, walking barefoot on these floorboards, having you in the way Tommy had… it struck him like a body blow.

A visceral, curling wave of nausea rose in his chest, sharp and sudden, almost enough to make him reach out for the edge of the table to steady himself.

He’d told himself it didn’t matter.

That what you two had was just business—sweet, messy, stolen little hours that didn’t belong to anyone but the moment.

But now, standing here, imagining Joel touching you with the same reverence Tommy had held in his hands so many nights before—it made his breath catch in his throat. It made the room feel too small.

You said his name again, gentler now, a thread of concern woven through it. “Tommy.”

He blinked hard, swallowing past the tightness in his throat.

“I don’t know,” he muttered at first, voice rough, like it scraped its way out. Then—clearer, more broken—“I don’t know, I just… I keep thinkin’ about him here.”

He gestured vaguely to the space between you, but you knew what he meant.

“I keep seein’ it,” Tommy said, his eyes flicking toward the chair where you sat, the late morning light glinting softly off the curve of your collarbone, the shine of your still-damp hair, the bare stretch of your legs folded beneath you—legs he’d kissed, held, bent, worshipped. “Him here. Lookin’ at you the way I do. Havin’ you the way I have.”

His voice caught on the last word—have—like it was too big, too personal, too revealing. Like saying it aloud turned everything you’d been pretending into something far more dangerous.

“Tommy,” you said quietly, setting your mug down, your voice steady but touched with disbelief. “You’re the one who wanted me to see him.”

“I know,” he said quickly, the words rushing out as if he could get ahead of them, stop them from settling in the space between you. “I know, it was stupid. I should’ve never—”

He cut himself off, the sentence fraying at the edges, and suddenly he stood, the legs of the chair scraping softly against the floor as he rose too fast, too sharp, like he needed to move before something inside him split open.

“Tommy,” you said again, this time firmer, a note of warning buried inside it, but he wouldn’t look at you.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice thick, eyes focused on anything but your face—on the window, the door, the wall, the floor, as if they might offer him a way out of whatever this was. “I shouldn’t’ve come. I should go.”

He turned, already halfway to the door.

And the silence that followed was loud—louder than anything either of you had said.

Because it wasn’t just about Joel.

It never had been.

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You’d spent the entire morning trying to make sense of what Tommy had said—turning over every word, every look, every silence he’d left behind.

Your heart fluttered each time you replayed the way his voice cracked, the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes, the way he’d stood so suddenly like the room was choking him.

You’d picked at the memory like a loose thread, hoping if you tugged just right, it might unravel into something clearer—something simpler. Something that told you if he’d meant more than what he said.

Half of you had expected him to come back.

Had imagined it more than once—he’d knock, all fidgety hands and breathless apologies, muttering something about being stupid, about not knowing what he was saying. Maybe he’d kiss you too hard at the door, maybe he’d push you against the wall, try to fuck it out of his system like he had before—try and forget what he said, only to remember it even louder in the silence after.

You didn’t even hear the knock at first.

You were wiping down the kitchen counter, your thoughts miles away, your hair now dry and curling softly at the ends, falling in the way it always did when you let it air out.

And for a split second, your heart leapt.

You thought—Tommy. You thought he came back. But when you opened the door, it wasn’t him.

It was Joel.

He stood there on your porch, eyes shy beneath the brim of his jacket hood, one hand scratching the back of his neck in that same bashful way he had when he wasn’t sure how welcome he was.

In the other hand, he held a small bundle of wildflowers—mismatched, a little uneven, clearly plucked from some overgrown edge of Jackson, their stems wrapped in a scrap of twine.

“Joel,” you said softly, the surprise slipping through your voice before you could catch it. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he said, voice low, his fingers fidgeting where they clutched the flowers. “I, uh… wasn’t sure if you were seein’ anyone today. Didn’t wanna intrude. I can come back if you’re with someone or—”

“No,” you said quickly, stepping back instinctively to make space that you hadn’t decided to give yet. “No, I was just cleaning.”

Your eyes flicked to the flowers, to the gentle way he held them—like they were fragile, or maybe like he didn’t quite believe he had the right to be offering them at all.

“Those are pretty,” you murmured, the words quiet but sincere, your voice softening as it slipped between you both.

“Oh,” Joel said quickly, as if remembering himself, as if realizing he was still holding the wildflowers like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

He stepped forward slightly, offering them out toward you, awkward but earnest. The bouquet looked small and delicate in his large, calloused hands—the same hands you’d guided over your chest just two nights ago, when he was trembling and quiet and nearly too gentle to bear, fingers hesitant and reverent as if every inch of you might vanish beneath his touch.

“They’re for you,” he murmured, his voice low, almost sheepish. “You got a bunch out on your porch already, so I figured… well, you might like some fresh ones.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself, a warmth blooming at the base of your throat, your cheeks heating as you reached out to take them. “You’re so sweet,” you said, almost under your breath, the words brushing past your lips like a secret you didn’t quite mean to say aloud.

Joel ducked his head slightly, eyes flicking away like he wasn’t sure what to do with praise that didn’t come laced in sarcasm. He stood there, still fidgeting slightly, like he was waiting for permission to go or stay—like he hadn’t expected to get this far.

You hesitated for just a breath, then stepped back, your fingers curling around the edge of the door as you pulled it open a little wider.

“Did you wanna come inside?” you asked, the question light on your tongue, casual on the surface—but it carried a thousand undertones neither of you dared acknowledge.

Joel’s gaze lifted to yours, and he nodded once, slow and a little uncertain, his voice gravel-soft. “Yeah,” he said. “If that’s alright.”

And you stepped aside.

And he came in.

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Joel sat stiffly on the edge of the couch, his elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped as though they couldn’t quite decide what to do with themselves.

His water sat untouched on the table beside him, condensation slipping lazily down the glass, forgotten.

His eyes drifted across the room as you moved about with quiet grace, placing the wildflowers in a vase with care, fingers gentle even as you fussed with the stems like it mattered how they stood.

When you finally came to sit across from him, legs curled beneath you, the silence that lingered between you was thick—not uncomfortable, but expectant, like something was waiting to be named.

You tilted your head, eyes glinting just a little. “How’s your back?” you teased, your voice light and playful, the smallest smile tugging at your lips.

Joel let out a soft, surprised laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, and you saw the tension ease just slightly from his shoulders. “It’s, uh… surprisingly better,” he said, gaze darting down toward the floor, “though I’m not sure it was the massage that did that.”

His ears flushed red as he said it, and his hands twitched in his lap like he didn’t know whether to shove them in his pockets or fold them tighter.

You laughed then—low, breathy, a little caught off guard by his shyness—and it was such a sweet, easy sound that Joel felt it sink right into his chest, warm and dangerous. He wanted to hear it again. A hundred times. A thousand.

“I hope it was good for you,” you said gently, your voice softer now, more sincere. “I hope you felt good.”

Joel’s expression shifted. He looked up at you, eyes troubled, then looked away again, his foot bouncing slightly against the floor.

“That’s actually why I’m here,” he said, the words stumbling out in pieces. “Shit—it’s just, it’s been a long time since someone… since I’ve…”

You moved without thinking, your body carrying you forward like instinct, and sat beside him, close but careful, your thigh brushing against his. You reached for his hand, your fingers curling gently around his, warm and grounding, your voice low and steady.

Joel swallowed hard, breath catching in his throat.

“Go on,” you said.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been with someone like that,” he said, barely louder than a whisper. “And I’m still—” He hesitated, jaw working. “I’m still upset with myself.”

Your brows furrowed, eyes narrowing slightly with concern. “Upset?” you echoed. “Why?”

He looked at you then, really looked, like the words cost something just to say aloud.

“I didn’t make you feel good,” Joel said, his voice low and heavy with something sharp, something shameful. “Not really. Not the way you deserve. I didn’t—God, I didn’t even think to…” He broke off, his voice cracking around the edges, his hand tightening where it rested uselessly on his thigh. “You gave me everything, and I just—took it.”

And oh God, he looked so broken.

Nothing like the man Jackson whispered about behind closed doors.

Nothing like the sharp-eyed patrol leader with a rifle slung over his back and a permanent scowl carved into his brow.

He looked at you like a man wearing his heart too far outside his chest, like it might split open if you so much as blinked too hard.

“Joel,” you whispered, your voice barely above breath as your hand reached for his forearm, your fingers stroking over the worn fabric of his shirt, grounding him. “I wasn’t keeping score,” you said, soft and sure. “That night—it was about you. And you did make me feel good. You just don’t realize how much.”

He shook his head slowly, brows furrowed in disbelief, voice hoarse and threaded with that gentle Southern shame he’d never quite grown out of. “Not in the way I should’ve. My mama raised me better than that.”

You smiled, faint and wistful, your thumb still circling over his skin, and for a moment neither of you spoke.

Then his voice came again—quieter, rougher, barely more than a breath.

“I wanted to make it up to you.”

Your eyes flicked up to his, your heart thudding once, hard.

“Make it up to me?” you repeated, the question curling at the edge of something warmer, heavier.

Joel nodded once, slow and careful, like the moment might shatter if he moved too fast.

And then—your gaze dipped, caught by the unmistakable shape pressing against the front of his jeans, thick and straining beneath the denim, his body betraying just how deeply he meant it.

The sight made your breath hitch, your thighs shift, your body answering his want with a sudden swell of your own.

“If you’ll let me,” he said, voice low and reverent, eyes dark with need but soft with sincerity, “can I taste you?”

The question wasn’t crude.

It wasn’t cocky.

It was humble.

His hands were already moving, large and warm and trembling ever so slightly as they slipped beneath the hem of your dress, pushing the fabric upward in slow, reverent strokes.

His palms coasted along your thighs, the calluses catching gently against your skin as inch by inch, he revealed the soft cotton of your panties—already damp, already clinging to you in the most obscene way.

And still, his touch stayed careful, like he was unwrapping something precious, something he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to see again.

You watched him, breath caught somewhere between anticipation and awe—the same man who’d trembled in your arms two nights ago, who’d needed your guidance and tenderness just to feel safe enough to fall apart, was now beginning to take some of that control back.

But not forcefully. Not rough. Just… sure. Steady. Like he'd made up his mind that this time, you would be the one held. Worshipped. Undone.

“You can,” you whispered, voice breathless, your chest rising with the weight of the moment. “If you kiss me first.”

Joel’s eyes flicked up to yours, something impossibly soft blooming behind the heat there, and he smiled—a crooked, quiet thing that made your chest flutter. “Yeah,” he murmured, reaching up, cupping your jaw with one rough, stubbled hand. “I can do that.”

He leaned in, and when his lips met yours, you whimpered—honest and involuntary, the sound catching at the back of your throat like surprise.

His stubble scratched lightly at your skin, grounding you in the realness of him, the solidity of his body pressing closer. The kiss was warm and deep and unhurried, and you tasted something in it you hadn’t expected—gratitude, maybe, or hunger wrapped in guilt, in reverence.

And God, it did something to him.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth, like the taste of you knocked the air out of his chest.

He broke away with a groan, thick and low in his throat, and then—without a word—he sank to his knees in front of you, the motion stiff but sure, the kind of groan a man makes when his bones don’t bend easy anymore, but he’ll get on the fucking floor if that’s where you are.

Instinctively—without thought, without hesitation—you opened for him, your legs parting wider like your body had already decided what came next, like it had been waiting for him.

He exhaled shakily, eyes flicking between your face and the place between your legs like he couldn’t decide where to look, like both were too much and not enough.

His hands—those hands—were warm and large and trembling slightly as they slid up your inner thighs, engulfing the soft flesh there, pushing gently until you were spread for him completely. The pads of his thumbs brushed over skin that had never felt so exposed, so seen, and his gaze was reverent, locked between awe and disbelief.

“Can I take these off?” he asked, voice low and almost hesitant, nodding toward the thin fabric still clinging between your legs. “Wanna see all of you.”

“Yeah,” you breathed, barely above a whisper, the word escaping like it had been plucked from somewhere deep inside your chest.

Joel moved carefully, slowly, like undressing you was an act that required gentleness. His fingers hooked into your panties, and he slid them down inch by inch, his eyes never leaving you, his breath uneven as he exposed more of your skin. And when they slipped past your ankles, one leg still hooked loosely over his shoulder, he didn’t toss them aside—he kissed the inside of your calf, lips brushing against your skin like a thank you, like a prayer.

And then he saw you.

Really saw you.

His breath caught, sharp and audible, and he went utterly still.

Because he’d seen you the other night—but not like this. Not on his knees, not up close, not when you were already so wet for him you glistened in the low light. Your folds were soft and flushed and soaked, your slick painting your thighs, and the sight alone wrecked him. His lashes fluttered, and he let out a quiet, reverent sound—somewhere between a moan and a gasp, like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, voice cracking like the words cost him something. Slowly, with a tenderness that made your stomach twist, he reached out, and let his thumb drag a single, deliberate stroke through your folds, collecting some of the slick that had already begun to drip down the curve of your pussy.

His thumb stilled, glistening with the proof of your want, and when he looked up—eyes wide, lips parted, breath completely stolen—he stared at you like he was seeing something sacred. “You’re this wet for me?” he whispered, the words catching like gravel in his throat, his voice wrecked beyond recognition.

You nodded, your breath shivering out of you, but before you could speak, his hand drifted higher—past the curve of your slick folds to where soft curls framed your mound like something delicate.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he murmured, voice low and broken, like he didn’t even mean to say it aloud.

You tilted your hips forward slightly, your thighs twitching with anticipation, your voice a velvet hush. “Taste me,” you breathed, eyes dark and glassy, mouth parted in need. “I want your mouth.”

Joel let out a low, choked noise—a sound that came from deep in his chest—and nodded once, fast and fervent, like he was afraid if he hesitated you’d take the offer back.

And then he was in it.

His mouth closed over your core like he’d been waiting his entire life to taste you. His tongue licked a long, slow stripe from your dripping entrance all the way to your clit, and when he felt your thighs tense around him, heard the gasp that stuttered out of your lungs, he moaned into you. Low, guttural, helpless.

He let you move against him.

Let your hips roll forward, needy and desperate, and he took it—his mouth open, his tongue pliant, letting you grind against his face like you owned him. And maybe you did. He didn’t hold your thighs down, didn’t try to control the rhythm—you were the one with your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging and guiding, and every time you did, he rutted against the floor, his cock straining against the fabric of his jeans, aching for friction.

Because this wasn’t about his pleasure.

It was about yours.

He sucked gently at your clit, then flattened his tongue against it, letting you ride the pressure, and when you cried out his name—high, breathless, broken—he groaned again, louder this time, his hands fisting like he was trying to hold himself together.

Your thighs began to tremble.

The tension in your belly coiled tight, and Joel felt it—he knew it—and he didn’t stop. His mouth moved faster, wetter, messier, like he was trying to pull the orgasm from you with his tongue alone.

And then—

You shattered.

The orgasm ripped through you like lightning, white-hot and consuming, your back arching, your cry muffled by your own hand as you came against his mouth, soaking him, your thighs trembling around his face as your hips bucked and rolled and he didn’t stop. He moaned through it, kept licking, like he couldn’t bear to stop tasting you even as you came apart above him.

Only when your legs started to twitch with overstimulation did he finally slow, his mouth softening, tongue giving one last tender lick before he let out a shuddering breath and pressed his face into your thigh.

He stayed there.

Just… stayed, his cheek resting against your skin, his lips still brushing your inner thigh, eyes fluttered shut like he was trying to memorize this moment, like he couldn’t quite believe he’d made you come like that. He didn’t move to get up. Didn’t ask for anything. He just held there—breathing you in.

You were still trembling when you reached down for him, your body buzzing, your chest fluttering with aftershocks that hadn’t yet settled into stillness.

Your fingers threaded through his hair gently, tugging—not to guide him this time, but to bring him closer. Joel looked up, dazed and flushed and glistening at the mouth, lips swollen and chin slick with you. There was something wrecked in his eyes, something unsteady, as if he wasn’t quite sure if he was allowed to rise from his knees.

“Come here,” you whispered, voice rough with bliss, breathless from the high of it. You tugged again, and he followed instantly, like it wasn’t even a choice.

He rose slowly, his knees stiff from where they’d pressed into the floor, groaning just a little with the movement, and you met him halfway, hands cradling his face the moment he was close enough.

Your palms cupped his jaw, thumbs brushing over his stubble, and when your eyes met his, they were full of heat and adoration, soft and deep and real.

“You’re perfect, Joel,” you murmured, your voice the gentlest thing he’d ever heard.

He whimpered.

A tiny, broken sound escaped him before he could catch it—raw and completely involuntary—as if the words shattered something inside him that had been holding on far too long.

His eyes closed for just a beat, like he couldn’t bear to see the truth of your face while hearing that, and then you leaned forward and kissed him.

You tasted yourself on him—warm, sweet, slick—and moaned quietly into his mouth, your fingers still buried in his hair, tugging softly as his breath hitched against your lips.

Joel kissed you back slowly. Gratefully. He didn’t push—didn’t deepen the kiss like a man trying to take. He just let you have him, mouth parting when yours did, lips moving in sync like he didn’t know what else to do but follow your lead.

When you pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours for a moment, breath shaky, and then he nuzzled softly into the curve of your jaw—slow, needy, like an animal finding warmth. He didn’t speak. He just breathed you in, his nose brushing beneath your ear as he melted into your skin, letting you cradle him while his chest heaved softly, still recovering from what he’d just done to you.

You stroked your fingers through his hair, slow and rhythmic, your other hand trailing down the back of his neck, and he stayed right there—face buried against your throat, hands unsure, but present, like he’d stay in your lap forever if you let him.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚

It had been hours since Joel left—hours since you’d come undone on his tongue, since his face had pressed into your thigh like he didn’t know how to leave you, like he didn’t want to.

Now, the room was quiet, the night creeping in slow and soft, the kind that settles behind your ribs and makes everything feel a little heavier.

You’d eaten dinner in silence, washed the dishes with trembling hands, gone through the motions of a routine you didn’t feel inside your body.

And now, tucked beneath the weight of your blanket, the hum of the lamp casting a warm pool of gold across your skin, you stared at the ceiling and let your mind spiral—because of all the things today could’ve been, this wasn’t what you’d expected.

You were still thinking about it. Still playing it all back. Joel’s voice. His mouth. His hands. His trembling apology. And Tommy—that morning—asking if Joel had made you cum, like some part of him already knew what the day would become.

You shook your head softly, a bitter little breath escaping your lips. Whatever this was, whatever it was becoming, it was getting harder to define.

You reached to flick off the lamp, your hand brushing the switch—

But then a knock.

Not loud. Just… there.

You groaned quietly, rubbing at your eyes with the heel of your hand as you pulled yourself from bed. You reached for your robe, tugging it quickly over your pajama shorts and singlet, tying it loosely at your waist, the soft cotton brushing against the bare skin of your thighs as you padded barefoot toward the door.

And when you opened it—

There he was.

Tommy.

Looking like he’d walked all the way from his house in the dark just to lose sleep over something he couldn’t name. His hair was a mess, shoved half-heartedly back into the low ponytail he always wore to bed, strands curling wild around his temples. He was still in his pajama pants, a flannel shirt unbuttoned and hanging open over a thin tank that clung to his chest, like he’d thrown it on at the last minute in a rush to be anywhere but alone.

“Tommy?” you said, brows furrowed, voice soft with confusion. “What are you doing here? It’s late.”

He didn’t answer.

Because the moment his eyes landed on you—really landed—he knew.

He stepped forward without a word, one hand rising to your face, fingers warm against your cheek, calloused palm cupping your jaw like instinct. And he saw it—all of it. The soft flush still lingering on your skin, the dreamy haze in your eyes, the way your lips looked just a little too kiss-bruised, your hair just a little too tangled.

He knew that face. Knew it too well.

Your post-orgasm glow was something he’d memorized over countless mornings, late nights, lazy afternoons—back when your body still sang under his hands.

And then— His gaze slipped past you.

To the flowers.

Sitting in a small glass vase on the table just behind your shoulder, their stems uneven, their petals a little wild and lopsided—but unmistakable. The same kind that grew along the fence outside Joel’s place.

And Tommy's stomach dropped.

He didn't say a word.

But he didn’t have to.

Because you were standing in your doorway, robe loose and soft over your thighs, the faint scent of lavender still clinging to your skin, and you looked beautiful. Unfairly beautiful. Devastatingly fucked-out and glowing, all flushed cheeks and parted lips, your breath catching like you didn’t know how to explain it, like maybe you didn’t.

And Tommy?

He just stood there.

Mouth parted. Eyes stunned. Chest heaving like he’d taken a hit.

Because the pieces had clicked. And they clicked hard.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚

hope you enjoyyyyeedddddd

are yall team tommy or joel... 👀

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thesecretdiaryofnoah · 1 month ago

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These two mess me up so much that trying to describe the effect they have on me would accidentally turn into a 1k-word smut.

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yearningforsolitude · 9 days ago

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Thinking about Boyfriend!Tommy getting dropped off back at home from a late night of drinking with Joel. One of those nights where you met him at the door, cold glass of water in hand, ready for him.

“There’s my pretty girl,” He hummed as you opened the old screen door for him with a smile on your face. “Missed you s’much baby, couldn’t wait to come home to my girl.” He whispered in your ear, enveloping you in a tight hug, rocking you back and forth as he walked you backwards into the kitchen. The water in the glass leaving a trail on the floor as it shook with his movements before he finally backed you into the counter.

“We’re making a mess, Tommy.” You’d say, trying to hide your grin, tapping his shoulder lightly as you brought the glass down to the counter beside your waist to rest. “Just water, sweetheart,” He reasoned with you, leaving a trail of soft kisses up your neck and eventually onto your cheek. “In this heat, it’ll be dry in five minutes.”

“Alright, alright, but you know the rules. At least half the glass before we put you to bed.” You reminded him of the agreement you both had settled on long ago after his semi-routine nights out with Joel.

“Yes, ma’am.” He agreed, pulling away and giving you a fake salute, which caused you to laugh, before grabbing the glass that sat beside you on the counter and quickly downing the whole thing and returning it to its previous position by your side.

Tommy was always an overachiever.

“C’mon now cowboy, let’s get you to bed.” You leaned forward and placed a kiss on his clothed chest, before grabbing his warm hand and leading him to your shared bedroom. It was pretty much routine at this point. You sat him down, pulled his boots off along with his socks, before sitting them beside the bed, then made your way to his belt buckle. He always threw in a “It’s one of those nights?” joke as you undid the heavy buckle, tapping his hips lightly to signal him to raise them to make it easier on you to unthread his belt. Then his jeans, before finally making your way to his shirt, which he always helped shrug off. He was always left only in his boxers—just the way he liked to sleep.

He liked to get situated before tapping his chest to signal you to lay on him, which you always did. “How’d I get so lucky, hm?” He wondered aloud, running his hand up and down your bare bicep absentmindedly. “Such a sweet girl—my sweet girl. So good to me, always. Don’t know what I’d do without you.” He whispered, placing a light kiss on the top of your head.

#tommy miller x reader #tommy miller x you #tommy miller fluff #tommy miller x reader fluff #tommy miller #tommy miller tlou #tommy miller the last of us #the last of us #the last of us hbo #tlou #tlou hbo #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #tommy miller one shot #gabriel luna

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filthyjoelslvr · 23 days ago

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The Other Woman (3)

part 1 | part 2 | part 4

Content: jackson!tommy x reader; jackson!joel x reader (previous chapter)

Synop: Tommy isn't the same after you told him about you and Joel. His heads hung low, his smile falters, his eyes scream of the pain he feels. You keep running into him and each time breaks you a little more than the last.

Then, Joel tells his ex wife of the affair. And the whole town knows. They stare, they whisper, and Tommy can barely stand it.

Warnings: pinv, fingering, tommy spits in your mouth, tells reader i hate you during sex?, sad tommy, guilty joel, physical fighting (mentions blood), very small mention of SA (past), death of mother, prob forgetting some

Word Count: 10K!

(dividers by: @cafekitsune)

a/n: guys i hope you like this one!! i was in such a stump and then got a random burst of inspiration so i hope i did a good job blending it all together. i literally wanna turn this whole series into a chapter book!!! but i made this so long so another part is coming soon im so sorry yall, ik ik i need to chill. but..... should you have tommy's babies ???? AHH DONT COME FOR ME IM INTO THAT

It had been twenty-three days since you last spoke to Tommy.

Not that you were counting, but every night bled into the next without him, and each morning you woke up hoping the ache would be duller than the day before. It wasn’t.

The last time you saw him — really saw him — was the night everything fell apart. The night he looked at you like he didn’t know who you were. Technically, he never asked you to be his girlfriend, not in those exact words, but you didn’t need him to. You knew it. Felt it in every look, every late-night visit, every time he held you like the world might end before morning. You were his. And he was yours.

But now… now you were nothing.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen the way it did. You never meant to hurt him, never wanted to be the cause of that devastation you saw in his eyes that day. The memory of it still clawed at your insides.

You heard the footsteps before the knock — heavy, sure, familiar in a way that made your throat tighten.

When you opened the door, there he was. Tommy. Sunburned cheeks, wind-worn jacket, smile so big it made your chest ache. “Told you I’d be back, didn’t I?”

You had launched into his arms. Laughed. Let him spin you like a girl who hadn’t done the unthinkable. You buried yourself in him because you didn’t know how to be anywhere else. Because you were scared.

You tried to tell him. Tried to say the words. But he kissed you — kissed you like nothing had changed. And you let him. You let him love you, worship you, fall deeper when you knew the truth would tear him apart.

And when he finally said I love you, you broke. You couldn’t hold it anymore.

“Tommy, I slept with Joel.”

You watched him come undone in real time. Disbelief. Rage. Pain. That gut-wrenching, final line: "Stay the fuck away from me. We're done."

And then the door slammed, and you felt yourself unravel.

Now, three weeks later, you saw him again for the first time.

You hadn’t planned to be in town, but someone had asked for help dropping off supplies. Just some cloth and thread. It was supposed to be a quiet errand — quick. Anonymous.

But then you saw him.

Tommy walked through the square, not ten feet from you. And the sight of him made your stomach flip and your eyes sting.

He looked terrible.

Not rugged or tired. Wrecked. Hair messy. Eyes hollow. Posture slumped like the world weighed heavier than usual. Tommy, who used to light up Jackson just by passing through, didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t speak. He just walked — silent and angry and broken.

Then he looked up. Just for a second.

Your eyes locked.

It was like being struck. His face flickered — just barely — before he looked away again, fast. Like you were something painful to behold. Like remembering you hurt worse than forgetting.

You didn’t move. Didn’t follow. You couldn’t.

You’d seen the damage. You saw what you did. How far he’d fallen from the man who used to dance with you in the kitchen just to hear you laugh.

You broke him.

So you let him go. Again.

You turned away, heart hammering, eyes blurry, breath shallow.

You wanted to run after him. To explain. To beg. But that wasn’t love — not anymore. Love, real love, was giving someone what they needed. And right now? Tommy needed space. Distance. Time.

Even if it killed you to give it. Even if he never let you close again.

Because if he needed time to hate you before he could begin to understand you, then that’s what you’d give him.

Even if it meant losing him forever.

The first time you ran into Tommy again after that morning in the square, it was by accident. You turned a corner near the stables, arms full of fabric bundles, and nearly collided with him.

He stopped. Looked at you.

Just for a second.

And then he walked around you like you weren’t even there.

It knocked the breath from your lungs. You stood there, holding that stupid cloth to your chest like it might keep you from falling apart.

After that, it kept happening.

At the gate post. By the greenhouse. Outside the mess hall. Always unplanned. Always painful.

And always the same.

He’d glance at you, just once — eyes heavy with something that looked like grief — and then look away, jaw clenched, chest rising a little faster. Sometimes he’d adjust his jacket, or rub at his mouth like he could scrub the memory of you off his lips.

Each time you saw him, he looked a little worse.

Like he was unraveling slowly. Skin paler. Beard uneven. His usual spark — gone. Tommy had always been a light in Jackson. He made people laugh. Made things feel easier just by being around.

But now? Now he barely spoke. He avoided crowds. Didn’t show up to half the community meetings he used to help run. And when he did, he’d sit in the back with a far-off look in his eyes like his body was present, but nothing else was.

It was like he couldn’t stand to be in a world where you also existed.

And still, you said nothing.

You wanted to run to him. To beg. To explain it all again. But you stayed quiet. You gave him the distance he so clearly needed, even when it felt like it was killing you a little more each day.

Sometimes you’d go to the trade stalls to stay busy. Sort items. Help with repairs. Anything to get out of your own head.

That’s where you’d see Joel.

Not often. Just enough to notice.

He never stayed long — always stopping by for parts or ammo, sometimes to drop off gear from a patrol. When he saw you, he’d nod once. Give you a polite hey or mornin'.

Nothing else.

No private talks. No apologies. No pressure.

He had stopped coming to see you, just like you asked.

And the silence between the two of you felt like a second kind of punishment. A colder one. Because even though Joel had been the cause of it all, he wasn’t the one looking at you like you’d destroyed him.

That was Tommy.

And somehow, seeing the pain still written across his face every time he caught your presence — like your shadow alone was enough to make him sick — it hurt worse than anything you could have imagined.

Because you were the one who did that to him.

And you didn’t know if you’d ever get the chance to make it right.

The silence didn’t get easier.

If anything, the more time passed, the heavier it got. It filled the corners of your house like smoke. Settled into your sheets. Clung to your skin.

Some nights, it felt unbearable. So you started writing.

Not because you expected him to read it. Not because you thought it would fix anything. But because keeping it all inside was rotting you from the inside out.

The first letter was messy — half tears, half ink. You didn’t even bother starting it with his name. Just dove straight in. I think about you all the time. I keep seeing you in crowds. Sometimes I think I hear your laugh and then remember you haven’t laughed in weeks.

You didn’t mean to keep going, but you did. The words kept spilling out. Page after page. You wrote about the little things — how you still caught yourself reaching for his favorite mug when you made tea. How you didn’t listen to music anymore because everything reminded you of that night he danced with you at the town square. How you couldn’t stop replaying the sound of his voice when he said, Stay the fuck away from me.

You folded that one and tucked it into your dresser drawer. Told yourself you’d burn it later.

But you didn’t.

You kept writing.

A second letter. A third. A tenth.

Some were long, aching pages of apology. Others were just fragments. You looked tired today. I saw you touch your ribs — did you get hurt? You smiled at someone. I was both relieved and sick over it.

You never sent them. Never would.

But writing them was the only way to keep yourself from going to him.

Because the truth was, every time you saw Tommy — every time he looked at you and then looked away — it felt like losing him all over again. The glances were killing you more than outright silence ever could. Like he still felt something, but it hurt too much to let it show.

You knew that look. You wore the same one when you were begging for Joel's love.

So you wrote. Because writing didn’t cost him anything.

You gave him his space, his time, his absence. Even though it made you ache. Even though you missed him so much it sometimes felt like you couldn’t breathe.

And still, he didn’t speak to you.

Which meant you were alone. So you wrote. Even if the only one who would ever read the letters was you.

The bell above the trade stalls door jingled, breaking the quiet rhythm of your work.

You didn’t even look up at first. Most people came in for standard barters — thread, blankets, maybe a new pair of gloves. But something in your chest tightened before you even saw Joel because you knew today you'd talk to him.

He hesitated in the doorway, like he was unsure if he should even step inside. Then, with that familiar heavy gait, he walked toward one of the side shelves, not looking at you.

You let a beat pass. Then another.

“…Hey,” you said, voice low but steady.

His head snapped up like you'd thrown a rock at him. “What?”

You stepped out from behind the counter slowly. “I was... wondering how you’ve been.”

He blinked at you, completely thrown. “You told me to stay the hell away from you.”

“I know,” you said softly, glancing down. “I meant it, at the time. But… I also meant what I said back then — that you needed to work on yourself.”

He frowned, jaw tight, arms crossing. “So what’s this? Curiosity check-in?”

You offered a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Maybe. Just figured if we were gonna keep running into each other, we didn’t have to pretend the other didn’t exist.”

Joel snorted under his breath, leaning a little against the shelf. “Didn’t think you’d be the one to start a damn conversation, I’ll tell you that much.”

You watched him carefully. “So… how have you been? Really?”

He scratched his beard, eyes narrowed like the question was somehow offensive. Then he exhaled, slower this time. “Better. Some days. Worse on others. But I’ve been tryin' to get my shit together.”

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

Joel nodded, grumbling like the words hurt to say. “Ain’t drinkin’ as much. Talked to people about helpin’ out more on the patrol rotation. Saw a counselor a few times, if you can believe that.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He gave a dry chuckle. “Yeah. Didn’t talk much at first, but… I’m listenin’ now. Tryin’ to understand why I did the things I did. Why I kept goin’ back to pain like it was comfort.”

You studied his face, and for the first time since all this began, he looked almost… vulnerable. Not proud, not defensive — just tired and trying.

And it hit you, suddenly, how much further behind you were.

“I’m happy for you,” you said. “I really am.”

He tilted his head. “And you? You look like hell, no offense.”

You let out a bitter laugh, wiping at your eyes even though they weren’t crying. “That obvious, huh?”

Joel’s face softened slightly. “How’re you holdin’ up?”

You hesitated, and when you answered, your voice was small. “I’m not. Not really. I miss Tommy so bad it makes me sick.”

His expression darkened slightly, but he didn’t speak, so you kept going.

“I told him. About everything. The night he came home. He told me he loved me and I—” your breath caught. “I told him what happened. With you.”

Joel’s face fell. “And?”

“He walked out. Said we were done. That he doesn't want to see me again.”

Joel looked away. “Yeah… I figured.”

You furrowed your brow. “What do you mean?”

He took a breath through his nose like he was bracing for something. “Tommy came to my house that night.”

You stared at him. “He what?”

“Stormed in like a damn fire. Said he wanted to look me in the eye before he broke my nose.”

Your breath caught.

Joel gave a dry, humorless laugh. “And he did. Couple times.”

“Joel…”

“I didn’t stop him,” he said simply. “Didn’t raise a hand. Just let him. Took everything he gave me.”

“Jesus…”

Joel nodded. “Threw me into a wall. Told me I broke the only good thing in his life. Asked me how long I’d been watchin’ him like a damn vulture, waitin’ for him to turn his back so I could crawl into bed with his girl.”

You felt like you might be sick.

“I tried to tell him it wasn’t like that,” Joel continued. “That it wasn’t planned. But he didn’t want to hear it. And truth is, he had every right not to.”

You pressed a hand to your stomach. “I didn’t know he— God, Joel."

Joel shrugged. “He said what he needed to with his fists. We haven’t talked since. Tommy is scary as hell when he wants to be.”

The silence hung thick between you, full of shame and pain and words neither of you could take back. You remembered that night you told the lie about the guy harassing you — how Tommy's expression turned unrecognizable. You know now Tommy meant it when he said he could find the guy.

Joel looked at you again, more carefully now. “You still care about him?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I do.”

He nodded once, solemn. “He’s stubborn as hell, but he ain’t made of stone. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have shown up at my door.”

Your eyes welled, and this time, you didn’t stop the tears. “I think I already lost him.”

Joel shook his head. “I really am sorry."

You didn’t know what to say, so you just nodded. The two of you stood there for a while, surrounded by the quiet buzz of the shop, the weight of everything still hovering — but maybe just a little lighter than before.

Joel finally turned to leave, then paused at the door. “Take care of yourself, alright?”

“I’m trying,” you said softly.

He nodded once, then stepped out, the bell jingling behind him like punctuation on something that wasn’t quite closure — but maybe something close.

You didn’t want him.

Not in the aching, dizzy way that once made you forget what was right and wrong. Not in the sleepless, guilt-laced quiet after you let him crawl into your bed like a ghost begging to be remembered. That part of your story was over. Done. You weren’t his. Not anymore.

But watching Joel now — steady-voiced, clearer-eyed, softer somehow — still felt like swallowing glass.

Because he looked like someone learning to live. And you? You were still just surviving.

It wasn’t envy, not quite. Just a strange, heavy sorrow. Like watching a storm break over someone else’s house while you’re still knee-deep in floodwater.

You were proud of him. You were. Even if it felt like a betrayal to admit that out loud. Because Joel was trying. For once, he wasn’t running from the damage — he was naming it. Owning it. Carrying it like it was his to hold. And maybe that’s what made it harder: he was finally becoming the man he should’ve been before he met you.

But the part that hurt most didn’t live between you and him anymore.

It lived in the space between two brothers.

You hadn’t meant to tear them apart. You didn’t want that. God, you never wanted that. But when Joel told you — quietly, without flinching — about the fight, your stomach dropped so fast you thought you’d be sick.

Tommy had come to his door with all the fury a broken heart could hold. No words. No warning. Just fists.

And Joel had let him. Didn’t block, didn’t swing, didn’t shout.

He just took it.

Because he knew what he did. What you both did.

But knowing it doesn’t make it easier to live with. It doesn’t unmake the silence that now stretches between them like a scar across the years they’d built.

You’d already lost Tommy.

But knowing you might’ve helped him lose Joel too — that settled differently. A dull, throbbing grief you couldn’t outrun. You had touched something sacred, and you hadn’t been careful. And now they both carried that weight in their own quiet ways.

Joel with his guilt.

Tommy with his silence.

And you… with both.

You watched the wind roll through the trees above you, aching in your chest like you’d been hollowed out.

You didn’t want Joel. You never would again. But you wanted them to find each other. Somehow. Someday.

Even if it meant you never stood between them again.

Tommy,

I saw you again yesterday.

You didn’t say anything. You never do. Just that same half-second glance before your eyes drop like you’re afraid of catching something from me. Like I’m the infection now. And maybe I am.

I wish I could tell you that I’m sorry in a way that mattered. I wish I could hand you my heart in pieces and let you see how much of it still belongs to you. Even now. Especially now.

You looked tired. Not just the kind of tired that sleep can fix, but the kind that lives in your bones. I used to know how to make you laugh. Now I can’t even make you look at me without flinching.

It guts me, Tommy. Not just what I did. But what it did to you.

And about Joel.

I never meant for you two to stop speaking. I never meant to wedge myself between blood. I didn’t think. I didn’t protect you. I didn’t protect either of you.

And the worst part? You were both trying to love me in your own broken ways.

I still can’t breathe when I think about that night. You holding me like I was something soft. Something yours. And I was. God, I was. Even if I didn’t know how to show it right. Even if I let the wrong person tell me who I was and who I didn’t deserve.

You told me you loved me. I never said it back.

Not because I didn’t mean it.

Because I meant it too much.

And now you won’t even let me get close enough to say your name.

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. I don’t even know if I’ll ever have the courage to hand it to you.

But I had to write it.

Because pretending I don’t miss you isn’t working anymore.

Love always

Thanksgiving in Jackson wasn’t about turkey or cranberry sauce — not really. Not anymore.

There hadn’t been a turkey in years. Probably never would be again. The food had changed, stripped down to what the community could grow, trade, or salvage. Beans, rabbit, maybe dried cornbread if they were lucky. But it wasn’t about tradition — it was about normalcy. Or the illusion of it. About carving out a moment that felt familiar before the world lost its shape.

The whole town pitched in — tables made from repurposed wood dragged into the square, covered with mismatched cloths and cracked ceramic dishes. A makeshift fire pit burned low in the center, its scent curling into the air, a poor man’s incense for the ghosts of better holidays.

You almost didn’t come.

You’d stood by the door for a long time with your coat half on, debating. But in the end, the thought of free food — and a few hours outside of your own damn thoughts — pushed you out the door. You told yourself you’d stay thirty minutes. Just enough to show your face, eat something, maybe even smile like your bones weren’t aching with guilt.

But the second you stepped into the crowd, you knew something was wrong.

The air was wrong.

Too still. Too sharp. The way it gets before a thunderstorm or a fight.

People were looking at you. Not glancing — staring. Some subtly. Others, not at all. A few whispered to each other, heads bowed close like conspirators at a wake. Their eyes flicked up every few seconds, straight at you, as if you’d grown horns or started bleeding from the mouth.

You tried to convince yourself it was in your head. You hadn’t been around this many people in weeks. Of course it felt overwhelming. Of course everything felt too much.

But then it kept happening.

Someone who normally smiled at you — a woman you’d traded flour with two weeks ago — turned her head sharply when you passed. Wouldn’t even meet your eyes.

A man you used to laugh with at the greenhouse suddenly got real interested in a plate of carrots.

By the time you reached the food table, your chest felt like it had been filled with wet cement. Your hands were shaking. Your skin hot and cold all at once. The walls of the square seemed to close in, every table too close, every whisper sharpened like glass.

“…heard it was Joel…”

“…Tommy’s girl, wasn’t she?”

“…no wonder he looks like hell…”

You weren’t sure if you were going to faint or vomit.

And just as you turned to leave — just as you told yourself forget it, just go home — a hand gripped your arm and tugged you sideways into the alley behind the mess tent.

You barely had time to react before your back was against the cool stone of a wall and Joel Miller was standing in front of you, looking like he’d seen a ghost.

His voice was low, urgent. “You okay?”

You blinked at him, disoriented. “What—? What are you doing?”

“Could ask you the same damn thing,” he muttered, eyes scanning your face. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

You swallowed hard. “People are… looking at me. Talking. Joel, what’s going on?”

He shifted, jaw working. You could see it — that hesitance. That frustration.

“I told her,” he said finally. “My ex-wife. ’Bout us.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I told her. Sat down and told her the truth. ’Bout me and you. About what I did.”

You opened your mouth, but no sound came.

Joel continued, voice rough, like gravel dragged over pavement. “Didn’t expect her to forgive me. Sure as hell didn’t think she’d tell the whole damn town. But… she fuckin’ did.”

The words crashed over you like cold water.

Everyone knows.

The whispers. The stares.

You pressed a hand to your mouth, feeling sick. “God.”

“She said people had a right to know,” Joel muttered. “Don’t know why she thinks it’s their business but it’s not like I could’ve stopped her. Didn’t know she was gonna do that.”

You backed against the wall, head swimming. “She’s not wrong. She— she has every right to be angry.”

Joel nodded slowly. “Yeah. She does.”

You were quiet for a beat.

Then you whispered, “But if they’re looking at me like this… then what about Tommy?”

Joel’s expression tensed.

Your eyes burned. “He didn’t ask for this. He didn’t do anything wrong, and now he’s being looked at like he’s broken, like he’s the idiot who got played—”

“Hey.” Joel took a step closer, softer now. “I know. Believe me. I know.”

And just as you were about to say something else — to ask what Joel had seen, if Tommy had said anything — someone stumbled into the alley behind you.

Fast. Breathing hard. Gasping like he’d run the whole town.

You turned sharply. And there he was.

Tommy.

He didn’t see you at first. His hands were on top of his head, fingers laced as he paced two frantic steps forward, then back, trying to slow the breath rattling out of his lungs.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself, voice low and wrecked. “What the fuck. Fuck." He put his hand across his heart as if to slow its beat. He looked like he was having a panic attack.

You froze. Joel did too.

He looked like panic made flesh — red-faced, eyes wide, shoulders shaking. His clothes were damp with sweat despite the chill, curls stuck to his forehead, his chest rising and falling like he’d outrun his own thoughts.

And then — he turned.

His eyes landed on Joel first. Then you.

His whole body went still. And the silence that followed was sharper than any scream.

At first, he just stared. Then — he laughed.

But it wasn’t the kind of laugh you remembered. Not the soft, throaty one he used when he was teasing you in the garden, or that boyish chuckle when you surprised him with a joke. This laugh was sharp, broken at the edges. It didn’t sound like relief. It sounded like something inside him finally cracked.

He kept laughing — once, then again, a breathless huff that collapsed into a sniffle. Like he was going crazy. He dragged a hand across his face, but his eyes never left the two of you.

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ joking,” he said, voice hoarse.

He took a shaky step closer. His eyes were bloodshot, wide and dark like they were drowning in everything unsaid.

“Back here?” His voice trembled, then rose. “Hidin' back here, together, while the whole goddamn town is whisperin' about us?”

“Tommy—” you stepped forward, but he flinched.

“Don’t.” He pointed at you, then Joel. “Don’t do that thing where you act like it’s nothin'.”

His chest rose and fell in ragged bursts. “You two back here doin' — what? Fuckin' again? Thought you’d sneak off for another round while they’re out there lookin’ at me like I’m a fuckin’ stray dog that got kicked in the ribs?”

Joel stepped forward too, hands half-raised in surrender. “It’s not like that, Tommy. We were just talkin’, I swear—”

“Yeah?” Tommy barked. “Just talkin’? Like last time? Or the time before that?”

“It’s not what you think—” you tried again.

“It’s exactly what I think!” he shouted, voice cracking. “’Cause I know what it looks like. I know what people are sayin’. Do you have any idea how many people came up to me today, eyes all soft and sorry, like I just got left at the fuckin’ altar?”

You felt it then — a deep twist of guilt in your gut. His pain wasn’t subtle. It was all over him, in the way his arms stayed stiff at his sides, in the way his mouth kept twitching like he was trying not to break right there in front of you.

“They’re lookin’ at me like I’m pathetic,” he spat. “Like I’m too stupid to know what’s good for me. And you two—” his voice caught, and he finally blinked away the first tear that slipped free, “—you’re just back here. Hidin'. Doin' whatever the fuck this is.”

“We didn’t do anything,” Joel said, voice low.

Tommy’s eyes flicked to him. “You’re the last person I want to hear from.”

Joel fell silent.

You stepped forward again, slower this time, heart in your throat. “Tommy, please. Just listen. I didn’t know she was gonna tell anyone. I didn’t want this—”

“You did it though,” he said, barely above a whisper. “And now the whole town knows. And I get to be the fuckin’ punchline.”

His face crumpled, a fresh wave of hurt surfacing just beneath the surface — but he swallowed it back down. Didn’t let it rise. He didn’t yell again. Didn’t cry. He just looked at you like you were someone he didn’t recognize anymore.

And then he turned.

You reached for him without thinking. “Tommy—”

But he stepped out of your grasp. “Don’t,” he said, not angry anymore — just tired. “Just… don’t.”

And he walked away.

Not fast. Not storming. Just… left.

And it hurt worse than if he’d screamed.

You stood frozen for a moment after Tommy disappeared into the crowd — like if you stayed still enough, maybe time would reverse itself, maybe he’d come back. But he didn’t.

The silence that followed felt suffocating. Even the wind seemed to hush around you, like the whole world had heard what just happened.

Joel exhaled slowly beside you, his arms hanging limp, eyes downcast. “Well,” he muttered, voice rough and low, “that went to hell real fuckin’ fast.”

You didn’t answer.

Your heart was pounding so hard it echoed in your ears. You could still see the look in Tommy’s eyes — disbelief, betrayal, something splintered and sharp, like it physically hurt him to look at you. You hated it. Hated knowing you put that expression on his face.

“I shouldn’t’ve said anything to her,” Joel added, more to himself than you. “I knew she’d be pissed, but I didn’t think she’d… tell the whole goddamn town.”

“She had a right to be angry,” you murmured. “We hurt her, too.”

“Yeah, well,” Joel scoffed, dragging a hand through his hair, “I was ready to deal with her bein’ angry. Not every fuckin’ person in this settlement looking at us like we pissed in the water supply.”

He looked at you then, his expression unreadable. “You alright?”

You shook your head. “No.”

And for once, he didn’t press. Didn’t try to smooth it over. He just nodded.

“I know you said you were working on yourself,” you said, your voice quiet and thick. “And I believe that. But I’m not… I’m not okay, Joel. I haven’t been okay since that night. Since I lost him.”

He looked away. You could see the guilt set heavy on his shoulders.

“I'm lost,” you admitted, eyes stinging. “And now… now he thinks I’m still sneaking around with you, after everything. After I tried so hard to give him the space to heal.”

Joel exhaled hard through his nose, scowling at the dirt. “He’ll calm down.”

You frowned. “You don’t know that.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice dry. “I don’t.”

You both stood there in the quiet, the sounds of the Thanksgiving celebration still echoing faintly beyond the building — laughter, music, a child yelling for another piece of bread. It all felt miles away.

Joel finally spoke, gravel in his throat. “I didn’t wanna make things worse for you. I know what people are sayin’. I know what it looks like.”

You turned to him, heart aching. “I don’t care what it looks like for me. I care what it looks like for him. He didn’t do anything wrong, and now he’s the one people are whispering about. Staring at.”

Joel didn’t respond.

You crossed your arms over your chest, squeezing them tight. “He looked like he was about to fall apart. He was—he was running, Joel. From them. From all of it.”

Joel’s eyes closed for a beat. “I didn’t think he’d take it this hard.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “You should’ve. We both should’ve.”

Another long silence.

“I deserve it,” Joel said finally. “The looks. The talk. Whatever comes.”

You nodded, a bitter smile tugging at your mouth. “Maybe we both do.”

But even as you said it, your stomach twisted with something else — not guilt, exactly. Not shame. Something softer, sadder. Regret.

Because maybe you did deserve the judgment. But Tommy didn’t. He just loved someone he thought he could trust.

And now?

Now he was alone in it. And you didn’t know how to fix that.

Tommy,

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this.

Maybe I’ll leave it in a drawer with the others until the paper yellows. But I needed to write you — even if it’s only into the quiet.

I keep thinking about your hands. How they never reached for me in a rush. How they held me like I was something worth protecting — not because I was fragile, but because I was yours. You made me feel steady, even when the world was still shaking under my feet.

You loved me like I had never been broken.

And I think… I think that’s part of why I broke everything.

It doesn’t make sense, I know. But love like yours — it asks you to rise. And I didn’t know how to. Not then.

I was still mourning something I couldn’t name. The future I’d lost. The person I used to be. There was a storm in me I didn’t know how to quiet, and sometimes when Joel and I sat in that silence together, it felt like breathing underwater — wrong, but familiar. He knew the dark. I think I mistook that for safety.

But please believe me. I loved you.

Even when I was with him. Even when I chose wrong. Even now.

It wasn’t about choosing someone over you — it was about losing myself. And in the wreckage, I hurt the one person I never meant to. You didn’t deserve it. You never did.

I remember the way your voice softened when you said my name. The way you smiled when you thought I wasn’t looking. The way your fingers brushed the small of my back like you were memorizing me. God, Tommy — I loved you so quietly, I think you never realized how loud it lived in me.

And now I’ve stained it. I’ve stained us.

The worst part is knowing I can’t take it back. That no matter how many times I whisper your name in the dark, you won’t be there to answer it anymore.

I don’t expect anything. Not forgiveness. Not understanding.

But if there’s a part of you — even a splinter — that still remembers what we were when it was good… please hold onto that. Not for me. But for you. Because what we had was real, Tommy.

Even if I broke it.

I need you. Still. And always a little too late.

Love always

It had become a cruel joke at this point — how often you and Tommy ended up in the same room. Same roads. Same shops. Same town that felt smaller and smaller every time he looked through you like you were a stranger.

You hadn’t seen him at the counter when you walked into the diner — your mind too tired to scan for him, your stomach louder than your anxiety. But there he was, three seats down. Hunched over a half-eaten plate of food, nursing a cup of coffee like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Your throat tightened, but you didn’t leave. You couldn’t. The place was packed, and you were already late.

Tommy didn’t acknowledge you, but you saw it. The way his jaw tensed. The way his fork slowed down just slightly. He knew you were there. Of course he did. And the silence between you throbbed louder than the low hum of conversation around you.

You just wanted a quiet breakfast. Something warm. Something simple.

The man who sat down next to you smelled like sweat and old cigarettes. When he noticed you, he looked at you like you were a meal he’d already half-finished and didn’t particularly respect.

“Well, look who it is,” he muttered, loud enough for the next table to hear. “Didn’t think you’d show your face again.”

You didn’t look at him. “Not interested.”

“Bet that’s what you told Joel the first time, too. And Tommy. And who knows who else.”

The words hit you like ice water.

“Please leave me alone,” you said under your breath.

“Why?” he laughed. “Ain’t like your legs were closed before. You really gonna act shy now? After the whole town knows you were screwin’ around with both Miller brothers like it was your own little soap opera?”

You stiffened. People were starting to look over. The volume of his voice was rising, and so was your shame.

“Heard you like it rough. Heard you like to beg. How’d the Millers allow a little slut like you to ruin their family?”

You looked down, eyes stinging. The whispers were back, growing louder. You could feel them clinging to your skin.

"Ever think your mama died just so she wouldn’t have to watch her daughter turn into a whore?"

You felt it before you heard it — a sudden, unnatural stillness beside you.

The scrape of a stool. Then the sound of wood skittering against tile.

Tommy was on his feet.

Not rising — erupting.

His chair tipped backward, clattering to the ground, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look down. His eyes were locked onto the man beside you, and there was nothing soft left in them. Not anger. Not pain. Not grief.

Just something unhinged.

Something raw.

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” Tommy said, low and dangerous.

His voice didn’t sound like his own. It was quieter than you expected. Quieter than it should have been. But somehow, it carried through the room like a warning bell — low and deadly, the kind of tone that makes your stomach twist before your mind even catches up.

The man — greasy, smug, half-drunk — let out a laugh. He spread his arms like he was performing for the audience that was already starting to gather.

“Jesus, man, I’m just sayin’ what everyone else is thinkin’. You’re the one who got played. She—”

He didn’t finish.

Tommy’s fist hit his jaw so hard it made a crack like splitting bone.

The man reeled back into the counter with a grunt, clutching his mouth — but Tommy was already on him, fists flying with brutal, bone-breaking precision.

One. Two. Three.

You heard flesh meet flesh. Heard the man groan, then whimper, then go quiet as Tommy drove his fist into his face again and again — not just to hurt, but to erase him.

Curses spilled from Tommy’s mouth like venom. His breath ragged. His whole body shaking as he pressed forward, knuckles smeared red, eyes burning with something wild.

“Tommy!” you cried out, voice cracking.

But he didn’t hear you. He didn’t hear anything.

It was like watching someone drown from the inside out — a man unraveling, coming apart blow by blow.

The man had fallen to the floor now, barely conscious, one eye already swelling shut — but Tommy kept going. He grabbed the collar of his shirt and hauled him partway up just to drive another fist into his ribs. The sickening thud echoed like a gunshot.

Someone screamed. A chair scraped. Then another.

It took three grown men to finally drag Tommy off — his fists still swinging, legs kicking, his voice hoarse and cracked with rage. He struggled like an animal in a trap, teeth bared, his breath coming in ragged bursts that sounded more like gasps than anything human.

You stood frozen, rooted to the spot, hands trembling.

Tommy’s face was smeared with blood — some his, most not. His eyes darted around the room as they held him back, chest heaving, fists still clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white beneath the blood.

And then — it stopped. Like someone had pulled the plug.

No one spoke. No one moved.

The diner had gone completely still. Forks hovered mid-air. Half-eaten food sat forgotten. Every eye in the room was on him — on the blood, the wreckage, the man everyone thought they knew.

Tommy looked down at his hands, and something in him shifted.

Like he’d just realized where he was. What he’d done.

He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing more blood across his cheek. His gaze found you — just for a second.

And in that second, he didn’t look furious anymore.

He looked shattered.

Then, without a word, he shrugged off the hands holding him, turned, and walked out the door. Leaving silence and blood in his wake.

And you sat there, tears brimming, your heart in your throat.

It wasn’t just the shame that burned — it was the truth.

He was still protecting you.

Even now. Even after everything. And it was killing him.

The cold hit you first. Bitter and sharp against your skin, the kind that makes your lungs ache. But you didn’t care. You just ran — out the diner, past the wooden porch, boots scraping against the icy gravel road as you tried to catch up to him.

“Tommy!” you called, breathless. “Tommy, please— just wait!”

He kept walking. Fast. Determined. Like if he didn’t stop, none of this could catch him. Like if he just moved fast enough, he wouldn’t feel it. Wouldn’t feel you.

But you weren’t giving up this time. You couldn’t.

“Tommy—!”

He spun around so fast you almost ran right into him. His eyes were wild, his chest heaving from more than just the fight. His voice, when it came, was fire and fury and grief all wrapped into one.

“What the fuck do you want?” he snapped, sharp enough to cut you in half.

You staggered a step back, breath catching in your throat. He looked like he could explode all over again — jaw clenched, hands curled at his sides like he didn’t know what else to do with them. You’d never seen him like this. Not even the night he left.

“Tommy, I— I needed to talk to you. I just needed to say—”

“I’m losing my fuckin' mind,” he cut you off, voice shaking now. “You think I wanna feel like this? You think I like that I can’t stop giving a shit even when I want to?”

He laughed then — a dark, miserable sound that cracked somewhere in the middle. “I feel so goddamn stupid, you know that? All this shit people are saying about me— whispers, stares, fuckin' sympathy— I should be brushing it off. I shouldn’t care. But I do.”

His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths.

“And you know what that means?” he continued, stepping forward like the weight of it was too much to carry still. “It means I’m a fuckin' idiot. ‘Cause it proves I never got over you. That I thought I could, and I couldn’t. That maybe I never will.”

The words hit you hard, hollowing you out from the inside. But he wasn’t finished.

“I hate that I care about what they’re saying. But I hate it more when I hear them talkin' about you like that. Like you’re nothin' but some goddamn whore.” His voice cracked, his face twisting. “And after what that guy said in there…”

He looked down at his hands — still bloody, still trembling.

“I don’t even remember throwing the first punch,” he admitted, softer now. “I just saw red. Thought about everything. The whispers. The looks. Thanksgiving. You and Joel. I was already chokin' on all of it. And then that bastard had the nerve to bring up your mom and it just— snapped.”

He ran a hand through his hair, turning away. “And I lost it. I fuckin' lost it.”

You stood still, barely breathing. You could still feel the tension radiating off of him like heat. Still hear the echo of fists on skin, that sick, awful crack that had made your stomach twist.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, so quietly you barely heard it. “When I saw your face after, the way you looked at me…”

You stepped forward before he could finish. “I was scared,” you said honestly. “But not of you. I was scared because I didn’t know how much more either of us could take.”

His eyes met yours, and in them you saw something flicker. Guilt. Sadness. Love that hadn’t gone anywhere — it had just been buried under the rubble.

“And I need you to know,” you continued, “what you saw at Thanksgiving? With Joel? We weren’t doing anything. He was just warning me… that his ex wife told people. That everyone knew. That’s it.”

Tommy looked away, jaw tight. “Didn’t feel like nothin'.”

“I know,” you said. “But it was. I swear it was.”

A long silence stretched between you, brittle and cold. You watched him breathe, eyes fixed on the horizon like it could offer him answers.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he muttered eventually. “You broke my heart. I don’t even know if I can forgive you yet.”

You nodded, your chest aching. “I’m not asking you to. I just… wanted you to know the truth. And I wanted to say I’m sorry. For everything.”

He stared at you for a long time, the anger slowly bleeding from his features. Replaced by exhaustion. By wariness. By that familiar softness that hadn’t quite died, no matter how hard he tried to bury it.

“I don’t know what the hell we’re supposed to do now,” he admitted, voice rough.

“Me either,” you whispered. “But maybe we figure it out. Or maybe… we don’t. I just didn’t want you carrying all of this alone anymore. Let me explain everything with Joel. Please Tommy."

He stared, you could see him debating the offer in his mind. But then he nodded — once — and started walking away, indicating he wanted you to follow.

The morning air was thick with tension as you followed Tommy through the sleet covered streets, your footsteps echoing in the silence. He hadn't said a word since you left the diner, his posture rigid, his pace quickening with each step. You hesitated, unsure if you should speak, but the weight of the moment pressed on you.

Finally, you reached his doorstep. Tommy paused, his hand hovering over the doorknob. Without turning to face you, he spoke, his voice low and strained. "Don't mind the mess. Haven't really had it in me to clean lately."

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. "I know."

He exhaled sharply, pushing the door open and stepping aside.

Inside, the house was eerily quiet. The usual warmth and comfort seemed absent, replaced by an unsettling stillness. You followed him into the living room, your eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings. It was as if the walls themselves held secrets, memories of a time before everything had changed.

Tommy led you down a narrow hallway to the bathroom. The fluorescent light flickered overhead as he stood before the mirror, staring at his reflection. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the sink, turning on the cold water and splashing it onto his face. The blood from the earlier altercation began to mix with the water, swirling down the drain.

Frustration etched deep lines into his forehead as he scrubbed harder, trying to erase the evidence of his actions. You watched him, your heart aching at the sight. This wasn't the man you knew — the gentle, kind-hearted soul who had shown you what love could be. This was someone else, someone broken.

You stepped forward, your hand gently resting on his shoulder. "Tommy," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "Let me."

He stiffened under your touch but didn't pull away. Slowly, he sank onto the toilet seat, his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly together. You moved to the sink, wetting a washcloth with warm, soapy water. As you approached him, you hesitated for a moment before gently dabbing at the blood on his face.

The action was tender, soothing, a silent apology for the pain you had caused. As you cleaned him, your thoughts spilled out, raw and unfiltered.

"I've been with Joel for a while now— little over a year," you began, your voice trembling. "I knew he was married, but I thought... I thought I wanted him so badly. He made me feel things I hadn't felt in a long time. I thought he loved me."

Tommy's body tensed under your touch, his jaw clenching. You paused, meeting his gaze in the mirror. "I wasn't delusional. I knew he had a wife. But something about the way he made me feel... it made me think it was okay."

You continued, your hands moving carefully over his skin, wiping away the remnants of the morning's violence. "Over time, his love felt like hate. We were addicted to each other, but it was toxic. He never opened up to me, and I finally ended things."

His eyes softened, but the pain was still there, lurking beneath the surface.

"That's when I met you," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "At first, I was in a dark place. But you... you pulled me out of it. You showed me what love is supposed to feel like."

Tommy's breath hitched, his eyes closing as if to block out the flood of emotions.

"But then Joel came to me," you continued, your voice breaking. "He was jealous. He said he realized he truly loved me. He left his wife for me. And I... I didn't know what to do."

You paused, your heart heavy with the weight of your confession. "I wanted you, Tommy. That's why I spent so much time with you. I wanted to avoid Joel. And when you went on that supply run, I knew he would come. And he did. He made me feel like I wasn't good enough for you. Like I was a bad person."

Tears welled up in your eyes as you spoke. "He opened up about his past, and I was so confused. He said we belonged together. He manipulated me. And I believed him. I thought you deserved better. And that's why I did what I did."

Tommy's hand reached up, brushing away a tear that had escaped down your cheek. His touch was gentle, hesitant.

"I understand if you hate me," you whispered. "But I needed you to know the truth."

Silence enveloped the room, thick and suffocating. Tommy sat there, unmoving, processing your words. Finally, he spoke, his voice hoarse.

"I don't know what to say," he admitted.

You nodded, understanding the complexity of the situation. "I don't expect forgiveness. I just wanted you to know everything."

The cloth had turned a deep rust color, blood clinging to the fibers no matter how many times you rinsed it. The water swirled pink in the sink, warm and steady, but your hands wouldn't stop shaking.

Tommy hadn’t said a word since you finished cleaning his face, finished dabbing at the streaks of blood with a gentle touch.

He looked so different now. Tired. Hollowed. Quiet in a way that didn’t suit him. Like joy had been scraped out of him with something sharp and careless. Like he’d been living on borrowed breath ever since.

You didn’t know why the words started pouring out.

Only that they’d lived too long in your chest. That this silence between you was wide enough to carry them.

“She wanted me to come,” you said, barely a whisper. “My mom. We were down to a single can of beans and a couple stale crackers. She said she’d feel better if we went together. That two pairs of eyes were better than one.”

Tommy looked up, slow and careful.

“But I was… I was scared,” you confessed, fingers tightening around the cloth. “It was getting dark. I didn’t want to be out there when the sun went down. I begged her to go without me. So she did.”

You let out a breath that trembled as it left you.

“She kissed my forehead, told me to bar the door behind her, and promised she’d be back before moonlight.”

You blinked hard.

“She came back with a broken lantern and a ripped jacket… and a bite.”

Your throat swelled shut at the memory, your voice a fragile thing breaking against the edges of your teeth.

“I believed — I still believe — that if I’d gone with her, she wouldn’t’ve been bit. Or I would’ve been. Or we would’ve both made it. I don’t know. I just know I didn’t go, and she died.”

A beat passed. Tommy's eyes filled with sorrow.

“When I saw the bite, I begged her to cut it off. I screamed until my voice broke. But it was already too late. Her hand was gray. The veins were turning. She knew.”

You stared at the cloth in your hands like it could wash the past clean too.

“She held me, told me she loved me, and then she made me promise to lock myself in the back room when it started. I tried. I did. I held the door shut and covered my ears. But I could still hear her.”

Your voice splintered.

“And when it stopped— when it went quiet— I waited for hours. And then I opened the door.”

You didn’t have to say what you saw. The image lived behind your eyes every time they closed.

“I used a fireplace poker,” you said, quieter now. “It took more than one hit.”

Tommy’s mouth parted, but no sound came. His eyes shimmered like they were carrying the weight for you.

“I didn’t cry until it was over. And then I couldn’t stop. I buried her behind that barn with my bare hands. No shovel. Just dirt under my nails and blood on my wrists.”

You sat back against the wall and laughed softly, bitter and aching.

“After that, I wandered. I ended up with this man who said he’d keep me safe. I didn’t know what safe was supposed to look like anymore, so I believed him. He was kind at first. Gave me food, taught me how to shoot. But it turned fast.”

You wiped your eyes, only for fresh tears to take their place.

“He got possessive. Controlling. Said I owed him for everything. And one night… he tried to take what I didn’t owe. I ran. I didn’t stop running. Left everything behind. Everything but the scars.”

You traced a faint mark on your forearm, barely visible now, like a ghost trying to fade.

“I didn’t trust anyone for a long time. I fought for scraps. Slept in trees or crumbled houses. Stayed feral. And then… I found Jackson.”

You looked over at Tommy then. Really looked at him.

“And for the first time, people didn’t look at me like I was a stray. They gave me a home. A job. A name that didn’t feel like it came with blood.”

You drew in a shaky breath, your voice cracking again.

“So when Joel started looking at me like I was worth something, I couldn’t help it. I mistook it for love. I didn’t know better. I was still learning what love’s supposed to feel like.”

Your chest felt too tight to hold the truth. But you said it anyway.

“Until you.”

The room was quiet except for the sound of your tears.

“I was already damaged by the time I met you,” you said. “But you… you made me feel like I wasn’t broken beyond repair. Like I could be something soft. Something whole again.”

You stood slowly, walking to the sink and rinsing the rag one more time. The last of the blood twisted down the drain, disappearing into the dark.

“But I ruined that,” you said, voice low. “And I’ll live with it for the rest of my life.”

You turned back to Tommy.

He hadn’t moved. Not really. But something in his face had shifted — not softened, but cracked. A splintering of something buried deep.

If he spoke, you’d let him. If he didn’t, you’d understand.

You had no right to expect anything anymore.

You just wanted him to know who you really were before you lost the chance to be known at all.

You collapsed before you even realized your knees had given out.

The sobs had clawed their way up your throat so violently, you weren’t sure if you were breathing anymore. They weren’t dainty, quiet cries — they were guttural, trembling things, born from the deepest pit of memory. From the moment her hand slid from yours. From the way you waited for hours by the door until she came back bitten. From the awful silence that followed after you had to do the unthinkable.

The fire poker. Her eyes, no longer hers. The smell of blood and burnt iron.

The first swing. The second. The third.

You curled into yourself on the cold bathroom floor as if that could somehow undo the memory, or at least contain it.

And then there were arms around you.

Tommy didn’t speak. He didn’t try to hush you or ask questions or pretend to understand. He just gathered you into him with a tenderness that broke something else inside you — something quieter. Something long-starved.

You buried your face in his chest and let yourself fall apart completely.

“I’ve never told anyone,” you gasped eventually, your throat raw. “No one knows. They knew my mom died but not— not how. I never wanted to say it out loud. I was so scared. I should’ve gone with her. If I had, maybe— maybe she wouldn’t have been bit.”

Tommy’s grip around you tightened, protective and grounding.

“You were a child,” he murmured, his voice hushed like a prayer. “You were scared. That doesn’t make it your fault.”

You shook your head fiercely. “I had to kill her, Tommy. With a fucking fire poker. It took more than one hit. She didn’t even look like her anymore. But I saw her face. I saw it in the way she flinched before I— I just wanted it to stop.”

You started sobbing again, harder now, and he guided you gently back against his chest, cradling your head, his palm rubbing soft circles into your spine.

“I’m sorry,” you whimpered. “I’m so sorry for all of it. For Joel. For the way I left things. For hurting you.”

Tommy’s voice broke when he finally answered. “I’m sorry too. I should’ve listened. Should’ve let you explain. Maybe we wouldn’t’ve ended up in pieces.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at him — eyes red, cheeks blotchy. He reached up and brushed a tear from your cheek with a knuckle, like the gentlest thing he’d ever done.

“I ended things with Joel before you got back,” you whispered. “He told me he loved me and I couldn’t even say it back. I told him to leave. That it was over. I didn’t want him. Not anymore.”

Tommy swallowed, eyes searching yours. You could see the pain still there, beneath the surface. But you saw something else, too — that warm, quiet flicker that had always made you feel like home.

“I think about you every single day,” you said, voice trembling. “About what I lost. What I gave up. You made me feel like I wasn’t broken.”

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t look away.

“I missed you,” he said finally, like the words had been waiting behind his ribs for too long. “Even when I didn’t want to. Even when it hurt like hell.”

You reached up and took his hand in yours. “I love you, Tommy. I never stopped. Not even when I hated myself.”

He didn’t hesitate. “I love you too.”

And then he kissed you.

It was soft and slow, mouths trembling against each other, tasting of sorrow and healing and all the time you’d lost. You didn’t rush it. You just held on — fingers in his hair, heart splintering open in your chest like a window cracking to let the light in.

When you pulled back, your breath hitched. You didn’t want to let go. But some part of you still felt like you didn’t deserve to stay.

So you stood.

“I should go,” you murmured, voice quiet as you reached for the rag still clutched in your hand.

Tommy stayed on the floor, staring at the tile like it held the answers.

Then — softly, but with no hesitation — his hand reached out.

He caught your fingers in his, callused and warm, holding them like something sacred. Both of your eyes were still swollen. Both of your hearts still trembling. But the air between you had shifted — lighter now. Honest.

“Stay,” he said, voice low and aching. “Please stay.”

Your chest cracked. The ache, the guilt, the love — all of it swelled so fast it felt like it might knock you down again.

But you didn’t fall. “Okay.”

You knelt back down. Took his face in your hands. And kissed him once more.

This time, it wasn’t goodbye.

It was the beginning.

It started slow. Careful. Like the two of you were afraid of what you might find in each other’s mouths after so long. His lips trembled against yours like he didn’t trust the shape they made when they remembered your name. And you — you kissed him like someone starving for something you had no right to taste.

Tommy had every reason to push you away. Every reason to hate you. You cheated. You broke the one thing he gave you freely. His trust.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t recoil. He just held your face between his hands, like you were something fragile he hadn’t decided whether to keep or crush.

“I should hate you,” he said against your mouth, voice gravel-thick and shaking. “I want to. Jesus, I want to. But I don’t.”

The words cracked something inside you.

You’d cried before. At the diner. In the hallway. At night when no one could hear you. But now, in the quiet wreckage of his bathroom, with the moonlight cutting through the window like a witness, you shattered.

Your hands trembled where they rested on his chest, fingers fisting into the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing holding you to earth. His heartbeat was wild beneath your palm—chaotic and human and so, so full of pain.

“I don’t deserve this,” you whispered. “I don’t deserve you.”

Tommy pressed his forehead to yours, exhaling through his nose like it hurt to keep breathing.

“No,” he admitted, eyes shut tight. “You don’t.”

It would’ve hurt more if he’d lied.

“But I still fuckin' love you.”

That’s when the kiss deepened.

It turned desperate. Hungry. A kind of grief-driven hunger that came from needing to remember everything you were terrified you’d forgotten. His hands roamed — slow and reverent — across your ribs, your waist, your jaw. Yours mirrored his, like you were rediscovering a map your heart still knew by memory.

The bathroom floor was cold beneath you. His hands were still stained with blood, your cheeks streaked with salt. The air between you carried the heat of unspoken apologies, of regrets that couldn’t be undone.

Tommy’s breath caught as he kissed down the curve of your jaw, whispering things he probably shouldn’t say.

“I tried to forget you,” he rasped. “I thought if I hated you enough… if I stayed mad long enough… it’d go away. But it didn’t.”

You nodded, pressing your lips to the pulse in his throat.

“I didn’t mean to ruin us,” you choked. “I was so lost, and Joel— he twisted everything in my head. Made me believe I was too broken to be loved the way you loved me.”

Tommy flinched at his brother’s name but didn’t pull back.

“I still trusted you,” he said, voice like crushed glass. “Even when I shouldn’t have. Even when I saw you with him, part of me kept hopin' you’d look at me the way you used to. Like I was enough.”

“You were always enough,” you swore, the words barely breathing between you. “I just didn’t believe I was.”

Tommy’s eyes shimmered — red-rimmed and raw. He looked at you like he didn’t know whether to kiss you again or run. But instead, he touched your cheek with the back of his fingers, like you were a ghost he hadn’t dared reach for.

“I didn’t know how badly you had me wrapped around your fingers,” he whispered. “Not until you were gone.”

You curled into him, your tears soaking into his shoulder.

When he kissed you again, it was slower. More cautious. Like he was sealing a promise he didn’t know if he could keep.

Your thumbs traced the curve of his cheekbones and relearned the softness beneath the man hardened by grief.

He kissed you deeper, tongue slipping passed the curve of your teeth, exploring like the territory was new to him. He wasn’t going to stop this, not with the way your hands began to drift down his chest, his sternum — slipping underneath the fabric of his worn flannel, exploring his body all over again. Not with the way his fingers curled against your waist like he was terrified of letting go again.

And not with how long it had been since he last touched you like this — with worship and ache and hunger all braided together.

You kissed him back slower this time, deeper — like your lungs knew his breath better than your own. You felt the way his lips were cracked from the cold. The way his rough stubble scraped your skin like a memory you welcomed.

The tension, the grief, the time — it all burned through your veins as you rocked your hips against his, feeling the way his length was already bulging through the fabric of his jeans. It’s been too long since you felt the drag of his teeth against your jaw, leaving a trail of saliva along the way. Too long since you curled your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging to keep yourself upright. Too long since your name slipped from his throat like a prayer, sounding like he was waiting for this day too.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice shaking. “You’re gonna be the death of me, I swear.”

You didn’t respond. Just pressed closer until there was nothing between you but the restricting fabric. So close your knees dug painfully into the cold tile.

And when he groaned — low and guttural — you felt it in your spine.

He wrapped his arms around your back, laying you carefully on the hard floor — hips grinding into yours for any sense of relief, fingers brushing the stray hairs from your eyes. He was full of lust, full of hunger. Full of grief and devotion.

“I shouldn’t want this,” he muttered against your skin, mouth moving along you jaw, your neck, the hollow beneath your ear. “I should fuckin’ hate you.”

“I know.” You whispered.

“But I can’t.”

You didn’t realize you were crying again until he kissed your tears away.

“I tried to hate you,” he said, hands slipping beneath your shirt, rough palms mapping your ribs like he had to memorize every inch before sliding higher — grazing against the curve of your nipples already peaking. “God, I tried. But my heart was still reaching for you every time our paths crossed. I couldn’t scrub you outta me.”

You swallowed a sob, your body arching beneath his touch as he pushed your shirt above your chest — revealing your needy body underneath. His hands traveled all around the hills of your breasts, his head trailing kisses slowly down your body — hovering just over your curves. You instinctively arched up, trying to meet his mouth. His eyes flicked to yours, dark and hungry. He looked mad, yet his touch indicated otherwise.

“I still love you,” he confessed. You’re breath hitched, his lips trembled. “Even after everything you’ve done. Even after you ruined me. I still fuckin’ love you.”

Then his mouth was everywhere — desperate and sure — like he was reclaiming something sacred. And you let him. Let him bite at the soft flesh of your breasts, marking the skin no one else had touched in over a month. Your back screamed in pain against the bathroom tile, your fingers clung to him like a lifeline.

He was clumsy. Licking circles, flicking his tongue against your aching nubs. Taking your nipples between his teeth — sending electic shocks through your body — before sucking them into his mouth, tasting every part of you. His curls fell messily into his eyes when he pulled away with a loud pop. He’s never looked more unkept. But the way his eyes found yours underneath his curls had you squirming.

He trailed his fingers down to the clasp of your jeans, undoing the button and pushing them down to your ankles. You kicked them off, spreading your legs — ready and pleading. The soft cotton of your panties darkened in the center, proving how much you needed this — him.

His palm rubbed on the outside of the cotton — a soft whimper escaping your lips at his touch. He never broke his eye contact with you as his finger hooked, pulling your panties to the side and revealing your glistening pussy.

One of his fingers trailed achingly slow through your folds, collecting your juices and rubbing small circles when he came into contact with you swollen clit. He was killing you slowly, that was for sure. You spread your legs wider, begging for him to push his fingers through your entrance. But still, he trailed his fingers between you with that deadly eye contact you couldn’t stand anymore.

“Soaked.” Is all he said after a while. You didn’t know if he was trying to torture you. If maybe he was doing this to you as some sort of sick revenge plot. Have you ruined from his touch, begging and pleading for him, and then walk away without finishing what he started.

But finally, he pushed two fingers inside of you — sucking in a breath when he felt how ready you were for him. He started a slow pace, watching the way his fingers were soaked as he pulled out — just to push back in harder than before.

“Tommy…” You quivered. “Tommy please. I’m hurting— I.”

He leaned in close, lips hovering over yours. He rubbed your temple with his thumb, caressed your face.

“God, no one’s touched you in a while, have they?”

You shook your head harshly, mouth making a small O when his fingers started thrusting into you faster. A disgusting squelch filled the air.

His eyes had a fire behind them as he asked: “Was I the last person to touch you like this? The the last person to fill your pretty pussy with their fingers, huh?”

“Oh— god, yes Tommy. Just you.” You moaned. His fingers now curved inside of you, his thumb rubbing hard circles against your throbbing clit. He smirked, the fire fading out knowing that you’ve been waiting for him. Knowing you’ve been wanting him and only him.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he whispered. “Gonna take good care of my girl.”

My girl.

You know you probably shouldn’t take that as anything, that maybe it was a heat of the moment thing. But you couldn’t help the way you heart swelled. Couldn’t help the smile spreading across your mouth.

You heard him throw his belt on the bathroom floor with a rough clank. Heard the fabric of his jeans being tugged down as he finally frees himself. You physically gulp, prepared and aching for him.

He rubs his tip over you clit, slapping it against it soflty — teasingly. Your nails dig into his arms. Pleading words escaping your lips.

Tommy grabbed you cheeks with his free hand, looking you dead in the eye as he pushed his cock between your walls. You clenched around the feeling — burning sensation shooting through your body as you attempt to stretch to his size.

“I fuckin’ hate you.” He mutters, pushing himself deeper when he knows that you can take it. Your body trembles, you deserve this. But then his hand is trailing through your hair, tugging slightly — forcing you to look him in the eyes.

“But god do I love you.” He says then. I love you. And he actually, genuinely smiles — a deep moan leaving his lips as he bottoms out. Your nails are scratching him now as you try to adjust to his size. But the burn is pleasurable at the same time. “Open your mouth.”

And you do, knowing that from then on you’ll always do whatever Tommy wants. That you’ll always love Tommy. A string of spit falls between his lips, right into your mouth. You don’t swallow — keeping it open so he can see the way his saliva hits your tongue, pools into your mouth.

"That's my girl," he chuckles lightly, quietly. He finally starts moving inside of you, slow at first. Until he’s going rough, skin slapping skin. “Fuck. Fuck, sweetheart, you can swallow now.”

And you watch the way his eyes blacken, the way he bites harshly at his bottom lip as you swallow his spit. Tasting the inside of his mouth. His hand traces your throat, watching it bob when you drink him.

Tommy sits up, ripping his shirt over his head and pulling your hips into him. His thumb circles your clit while he burries himself deep. Your back is arched off the bathroom floor, tears streaking you face from the pace.

A tight heat coils in the pit of your stomach and your legs shake uncontrollably. Walls clench around him and a groan from deep within leaves his mouth at the feeling.

“Tommy,” you moan, hands tightly wrapped around his wrists to keep yourself steady. “Tommy, come with me.”

“Shit. Yeah okay, babygirl.”

He lies back on top of you, one arm wrapping around your back, the other gripping your thigh as his pace quickens. Hitting you deeper and deeper every time. You’re screaming at this point, body convulsing. And when his thrusts finally falter, you come hard around him and he follows. White strands shooting inside of you. His cock twitches with every pulse.

He gives out, putting his entire weight on you — nothing but breath and bruised hearts, limbs tangled like roots desperate to hold — Tommy moved gently. Tender in a way that nearly broke you. He cleaned you up with warm hands, wiping the sweat and remnants of need from your skin like you were something sacred. Like this was something that mattered.

He helped you to your feet, still unsteady, still shaking from all the things that had been said and the things your bodies couldn’t help but confess. And without a word, he led you through the quiet house. Back to the place that once felt like home.

His room looked the same.

Maybe that’s what hurt the most.

The blankets were still slightly uneven, the corner of the rug still curled like always. His gun sat on the bedside table, unloaded but close. Your side of the bed — the left — was untouched. Like he'd never let himself forget.

He laid you down carefully, like you might shatter, and climbed in behind you without hesitation. You shifted instinctively, curling into him, your back pressed to his chest, his arm sliding around your waist like it had never left.

His warmth enveloped you — all muscle and tension and safety. He smelled like salt and sweat and sex. And still, somehow, it smelled like home.

“We probably shouldn’t have done that,” you whispered, voice hoarse and small, swallowed by the hush of the room. You weren’t sure if you meant it, but the weight of everything hung heavy between you.

You felt him breathe in deep behind you, chest rising slow and steady against your spine. Then, softly — so softly — he answered:

“Stay with me.”

Your breath caught.

No hesitation. No conditions. No more pretending.

You blinked hard against the sting in your eyes, your fingers curling gently around the arm he’d wrapped around you like a shield.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself believe that maybe love could survive this too.

Tag list: @looneyleo @emmaaas-posts @demo-bats @aphroditesblunt @staley83 @immyowndefender @magicxmiller @wow-life-love4 @thaliagracesgf @sugarminsss @keseqna @ijustrepost @cakesandtom @lovelyc @vampiredoggies-blog @hjzghi-blog

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djarinsphere · 2 months ago

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tommy miller + overstimulation

summary: tommy just wants to keep going until you’re a mess.

pairing: tommy miller x f!reader

warnings: overstimulation, fingering, oral (f receiving), dirty talk, praise, female terms for vagina, unprotected sex (p in v)

words: around 1k

a/n: i am not kidding when i tell you that i need this man more than i need air right now

masterlist

You had started thirty minutes ago. Tommy’s fingers had expertly swiped your panties to the side, his digits finding their way between your wet folds. He had been slow at first. Taking his time as he pulled his fingers in and out of you.

Then he had curled them just right and moans had started spilling from your lips. It sounded like music in his ears, your desperate sounds paired with the wet sounds of your pussy.

“Would you look at that,” he mumbled, his free hand moving to cup your cheek while he still knelt between your legs. “She’s so desperate, sweetheart.”

Your pussy clenched around his fingers and for a brief moment, Tommy swiped his thumb over your bottom lip. “‘m gonna make her feel good,” he promised with a smirk on his lips.

You were spread out on your bed as Tommy moved further down to get a proper look at your wet cunt.

“So pretty,” he mumbled to himself.

He would take his time with you tonight. Make you come all over his fingers. Then his tongue. Then his fingers again.

And you were so close to your first orgasm already. His fingers picked up the pace, but his free hand gently grabbed your thigh. It wandered up and up until he reached your middle, finger lightly tapping against your clit.

Your entire body shivered at the touch. A whine escaped your lips, enough of a sign for Tommy to keep going.

And so he did.

His fingers worked relentlessly, but his ministrations on your small bundle of nerves were timed perfectly, giving you another wave of pleasure every time his finger brushed over it in circles.

It didn’t take long for you to come undone. Legs threatening to close, Tommy pushed them apart again.

“We’re not done yet, pretty girl.”

The tension in your abdomen returned once more when Tommy bent down, tip of his tongue teasing your clit this time. You grabbed his dark curls with both of your hands as the man sank between your thighs.

Oh, he devoured you and your sweet pussy.

His lips wrapped around your bundle of nerves, sucking on it with precision. Fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, he kept you spread apart for him while your hips bucked up against his face. His moustache was drenched by now, but he loved to have your smell and taste everywhere.

“Tommy-“

All words were lost in your throat when he added a second finger to your cunt, stretching it further. Your second orgasm was approaching, stronger than the first one, threatening to ripple through your body in record time.

“Come again for me, pretty girl.”

You could listen to Tommy’s praises all day. His fingers curled inside you again. They brushed against that sweet spot inside you — once, twice and then another time.

It was enough to sent your body into overdrive. With a loud moan, your orgasm washed over you, legs shaking in Tommy’s grip as you tried to take a deep breath, and another and another, but your pussy still ached.

His tongue pressed against your overstimulated clit again, making you whine for him. Tommy could only grin at your response.

Heat started to rise in your body. You felt like your entire body was on fire when Tommy just continued moving his fingers inside you, making you squirm from side to side. It was too much. The pleasure, the satisfied sounds the man was making and…

And yet you wanted more.

“I want to feel you come on my cock,” he mumbled against the inside of your thigh before he pushed himself up. Tommy was still wearing his boxers, but his cock was straining against them with how hard he was. If he didn’t get between your soft walls any time soon, he might lose it entirely.

Your pussy was already over sensitive, making you press your legs together as soon as Tommy briefly stepped back to push his boxers down.

“Open your legs again for me, sweetheart.”

He didn’t have to tell you twice.

When just the tip of his cock brushed against your swollen clit, you shook in his arms. Tommy was hovering above you, arms on either side of your face as he leaned down to capture your nipple in his mouth.

You moaned his name, legs wrapping tightly around his waist as he slowly sank between your folds.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your skin. Tommy’s eyes met yours, wide with desperation as he started to slowly roll his hips against yours. You always felt so good around him but today your pussy squeezed him even more.

From that point on, Tommy did not hold back. His thrusts were hard and quick, chasing his release and trying to bring you another high. You whines against his lips, his hands finding your own and pressing them down hard next to your head.

You couldn’t do anything but take Tommy’s relentless thrusts into you. He filled you out so nicely, pussy so over sensitive that the tension in your abdomen was almost unbearable.

“Tommy, I-“

Words lost in your throat, your legs started to shake around him as the pleasure became so overwhelming. You were ready to let go again, so very close…

“I know, darling. You’re taking me so well. Gonna cum too,” he groaned against your lips, his thrusts growing more frantic as he felt his own orgasm approach.

Tommy took a good look at you. Tits bouncing up and down for him, pupils blown wide and oh, how sinful it felt to have your entire body shake around him. Your moans filled his ears, his hands pressing down harder on yours as he gave you another deep thrusts.

Two more and he tipped over the edge as well. Tommy buried his face in your neck as he spilled inside you, thrusts still going until it tipped you over the edge as well. Hips bucking up in a desperate attempt to process it all, you came another time, letting it wash over you entirely.

Tommy let go of your hands and instead let them roam your hips for a moment, looking down at you.

Your legs felt like jelly from all the stimulation but you wouldn’t change a thing…

#tommy miller #tommy miller x reader #tommy miller headcanons #tlou imagine #tlou #the last of us imagine #the last of us #tommy miller fanfic #tommy miller imagine #tommy miller smut #tommy miller one shot #tommy miller x you #gabriel luna #tommy miller fic

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goldsainz · 4 months ago

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# GB5 — CONSOLATION PRIZE !

MASTERLIST !

REQUEST !

001. SUMMARY !

✯ after a tough dnf in melbourne, your boyfriend feels defeated, but you’re determined to lift his spirits

002. WARNINGS !

✯ none, i think.

003. NOTE !

✯ first gabriel fic and i know it’s short but i’m slowly getting back into it so bear with me😁

word count : 563

Gabriel was quiet. Too quiet.

You watched him from across the hotel room, his back against the headboard, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as if searching for answers that weren’t there. The post-race exhaustion clung to him, but you knew it wasn’t just the physical toll. It was the DNF. The frustration. The helplessness of watching the race unfold without him in it.

With a soft sigh, you made your way to the bed, crawling onto his side and resting your chin on his shoulder.

“Hey, meu amor.” Your voice was gentle, testing the waters.

Gabriel hummed in response but didn’t turn to look at you. His fingers toyed with the hem of his hoodie, the same one he’d thrown on after his shower, his race suit long discarded.

“I know that hum,” you said, nudging him slightly. “That’s the ‘I’m stuck in my head and brooding’ hum.”

That earned you a small smile, but it disappeared just as quickly. He finally turned his head, his warm brown eyes meeting yours, and the disappointment there made your heart ache.

“It just sucks,” he admitted, voice low. “All that effort, all the preparation… and I didn’t even get to finish. Just like that, it’s over.”

You shifted, bringing a hand up to his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly over his skin. “I know, Gabi. I know it hurts.”

He exhaled sharply, shutting his eyes for a moment before leaning into your touch, like he was letting himself find comfort in you.

“You were so good out there,” you murmured. “And yeah, today didn’t go the way we wanted, but you’ll have more races, more chances. This isn’t the end.”

Gabriel let out a bitter chuckle. “Tell that to the championship points.”

“They’ll be fine,” you countered. “You’ll fight back. You always do.”

He sighed again, but this time, it felt like some of the weight on his chest was lifting. You decided it was time for drastic measures, or simply put, your secret weapon.

“Okay,” you declared, sitting up straighter. “We’re going to turn this night around.”

“Oh?” Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”

You grinned, rolling off the bed and heading towards the minibar. “Step one: snacks. Step two: a bad movie we can make fun of. Step three: endless cuddles, whether you like it or not.”

He huffed out a real laugh at that, and your heart soared. “That sounds suspiciously like a trap to get me to stop thinking about today.”

“Guilty.” You threw him a pack of chocolates, which he caught with ease. “But it’s a good trap. One filled with love and sugar.”

Gabriel shook his head fondly, peeling open the chocolate. “Fine, you win. But if we’re watching a bad movie, I get to pick.”

“Deal.” You plopped back onto the bed beside him, curling up against his side as he grabbed the TV remote to browse for the worst-rated film he could find.

The race and its heartbreak faded into the background as the night went on. Gabriel still had disappointment lingering in his chest, but with you tucked into his arms, laughing at terrible dialogue and stealing pieces of his chocolate, the weight didn’t feel so unbearable.

Maybe the Melbourne Grand Prix hadn’t gone his way, but right now, he had you—and that was a victory in itself.

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supernatural-bias · 6 months ago

Text

𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐓𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡

↳ summary: in which gabriel can be a shithead, you're awkward, and a shifter really messes up your first interaction

↳ warnings: violence, blood (mentioned), and lots of weird stuff

↳ authors note: this was a wip turned valentines day event submission for @spnfanficpond. the prompt was "an archangel falls in love with a mortal." a bit early but what the hell. for the three other gabriel fans out there, enjoy my first work of the new year.

↳ song: awful—hole

masterlist | commissions | carrd

“You know, never in my billions of years on this planet have I met someone who can avoid me as well as you all do."

Dean jolts in his seat as he looks up from his bowl of cereal, bleary eyed and slow to the draw. A few cheerios find their way onto his lap at the movement, and stick there. Through a slow blink, he stares at them, watching as his pants sop up the milk from them. Eventually he finds his voice, annoyance creeping into the groan he lets out.

"Dude, how many times have I told you to warn me before you use your freaky magic to pop in here." Dean glares at Gabriel as he tries his best to mop up some milk he spilled with the ends of his sleep shirt, giving up after a moment.

The archangel Gabriel grins down at Dean from his spot on the kitchen counter. He had on a set of unassuming clothes, looking like he might have gone on a casual stroll before dropping by the bunker. His hair fell in little curtains, framing his face like he had woken up and done nothing more than run a few fingers through it.

Dean looks down at his old Led Zeppelin shirt and mismatched socks. He grumbles.

"My bad Dean-o. I thought you would have been used to it by now, what with my baby bro practically bunking here half the time. What's up with that anyway?" Hopping off the counter Gabriel stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets, sticking his thumbs out as he begins to walk around the bunker's kitchen. He pauses every so often to mess with a stray utensil or two, fidgeting with them before placing them back at an angle that Dean knew would annoy Sam.

"Uh huh." Dean ignores the question to duck his head down and take another bite of cereal. He looks at Gabriel from the corner of his eye as he gives a crunch, swallowing for a second. He takes a brief moment to debate the consequences of drawing an banishing sigil before sighing. Dean might not like the archangel much— certainly not enough to tolerate him this early on in the morning —but he also knew that Gabriel had a habit of cursing people with some bizarre spell if they didn't give him the light of day.

"I'm assuming you didn't drop by to tidy up our kitchen and go." The hunter squints, blinking some crust out of his eyes in an attempt to be fully present for the conversation. "Can we help you, or—?"

Gabriel snaps his fingers to show Dean he had heard him, turning on his heel to look at the hunter with an expression Dean didn't see on him much. If he squinted hard enough, he thought it looked a bit like hesitancy.

"Right. I was wondering where your good pal—" Gabriel said your name, prompting Dean's eyebrows to draw closer together, "—was. You know, fellow hunter? Been holed up here for a couple months? Got a maaaajorly messed up sleep schedule? About yay high?" Gabriel holds out his arm to approximately your height with a wiggle of his eyebrows. Dean watches him do it with a frown, not entirely impressed.

"Why do you want to know where they are?" He slurps back some more cereal, eyeing Gabriel as he did so. "They've got stuff to do. Monsters to gank. How would I know where they were? And more importantly, why do you of all people want to know?"

Gabriel sucks at his teeth.

"Can't a guy just ask a friend of his a few questions?" He gives a dazzling grin; a stark contrast to Dean's bitchface. Gabriel had taken to calling it the Winchester Special long ago, and looks at Dean with a poorly concealed smirk.

"We're not friends, twinkle toes." Dean stabs at the air in Gabriel's direction with his spoon.

"Owch." He fakes a wince, sighing dramatically. "Point taken."

"You still haven't answered my question."

"I just want to get to know them a little better." The angel seemingly concedes, now leaning his hip against one of the kitchen counters and looking at Dean with a bite to his lip. "Form new friendships with like-minded people and all that."

"Like-minded people?" Dean raises an eyebrow. "You met them a week ago."

"Hey, they like killing monsters, my whole family tree is full of em." Gabriel holds two hands out, tilting them up and down like scales. "I'm sure we can find common ground in there somewhere."

"I knew letting you come on that last mission was a mistake." Dean grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes.

"Whaaat, that last one? With the shapeshifter? No way you regret that, amigo! I totally helped you nail that sucker." Gabriel grins knowingly. Dean suppresses a shudder at his use of Spanish, images of Casa Erotica surfacing in his consciousness before being forced away.

"Let me rephrase that for you: I knew that if you ever met one of our friends, you'd do this." Dean ignores Gabriel's previous comment about helping, the likes of which wasn't entirely wrong. Although you'd be hard pressed to hear a Winchester ever admit when they were wrong.

"What? Be charming?"

"Be annoying." Dean glares. "It's already bad enough we have to deal with you ourselves."

"You know I'm just gonna pester you until you give me a hint, right?" Gabriel tilts his head, quirking an eyebrow. Dean looks away, struggling to come up with an excuse to get the cosmic being to leave him and his breakfast alone.

“If you want to talk to them so much, why don't you use that mojo of yours everyone is always trying to kill us over.”

“You know I can't do that, smartass.” Gabriel stares Dean down with a squint. “You three made sure of that when you went around branding all your friends with angel magic."

Dean returns the look, only breaking away when he thought about how soggy his cereal was getting. He turns back to his bowl just in time to see a cheerio sinking beneath the milk, letting out a pathetic bubble or two as it went.

"They're on a hunt right now." He finally relents with a sigh. He figures that he could apologize to you tomorrow about pointing the angel your way. "Don't ask me where, I don't know. They said they'd be back today."

He looks up suddenly, pointing an accusatory finger at Gabriel. "Whatever you're about to do, just make sure to do it far away from here. Last time you fucked around in the bunker, it took us a week to clean up. Cas is still finding confetti in his damn coat pockets.”

"Who said I was doing anything?" Mirth dances behind golden eyes. Dean opens his mouth to respond, but finds the words dying upon arrival.

"Stupid angels and their stupid wings." He mutters to a now empty kitchen. The sound of fluttering papers was the only thing to answer him.

Whatever. Gabriel was someone else's problem now.

Picking up the cereal box in front of him, Dean frowns and goes to pour himself another bowl of cheerios.

"Ooh, honey nut."

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Sleep was the one thing you miss most from your old life, and everyone knows it.

Before vampires, and ghosts, and all those new monsters of the week that seem to pop up anytime you relax, it had just been you, your bed, and the occasional night shift. While you don’t miss those late nights spent dealing with fussy customers, you certainly did miss your old bed sheets— the kind that never seemed to be too hot in the summer, and kept you perfectly toasty in the winter. At least, they had been, until you used them to choke a werewolf out in your dorm room. They had been sort of ruined after that.

Since then, your back has been plagued with one too many nights on a shitty motel mattress for it to be concidered anything other than torture. The Men of Letters Bunker is certainly a nice change of pace from the looming threat of bed bugs and airborne illnesses, but even their mattresses are far from perfect.

You can’t entirely blame the old guys. You doubt you'd be concerned with the exact thread count of a few bed sheets if the hideout you were building was for that of doomsday. It couldn't have killed them to stash a bit more memory foam around, though. God, all you wanted these days was a bit more memory foam.

With a grunt, you open the door to the bunker, and stumble in with a somber expression.

You don't say hi to Sam or Dean as you trudge down the steps to the bunker, and if they know anything about you, they wont seek you out for a hello either. You feel way too sore to be indulging in civil small talk at the moment. All that's on your mind was is hot bath, and the inviting arms of your mediocre bed. A warm welcome back from a successful vamp kill.

It takes you approximately twenty minutes of blissful, soapy heaven before you reach sight of your bed, now accompanied by an unusual addition: leather jacket and all.

"For someone who supposedly lives here, you are really hard to find. I'm starting to hate that chicken scratch on your ribs."

Your hand is still on your bedroom door knob when you walk into Gabriel propped up on your bed. Little droplets of water are sliding off of your skin and onto the floor as you stand there, and they splatter against the hardwood unceremoniously.

"...Gabriel?"

"The one and only." Your visitor grins, shifting on his spot on the bed. He looks as casual as one can be, and it stirs something up from within you.

You pull your eyebrows together in the beginnings of a glare, but relax them at the last moment. You’re too tired to get angry right there. Instead, you decide focus on his clothes, desperate for any sort of distraction.

He looks like he’s ready to walk onto a movie set, with a smooth shirt and comfy pants, sitting there in a leather jacket and with that smile of his. Or at least something of that caliber.

Suddenly you are very aware of your disheveled appearance.

"Uhm—" To say you feel a little unprepared for this visit, both emotionally and physically, would be an understatement. You’re in sleep clothes that have far too many holes peppered in them, and your hair sticks to your forehead in the shape of damp curls. Hardly ready for any type of chatter. "Did Sam or Dean let you in?"

"You could say that." Gabriel sighs, shooting you an award winning smile as you scratch the back of your neck. You accidentally dig a little too hard, and pull away before you can draw blood. If Gabriel notices, he doesn't say anything.

Your phone buzzes from inside your pocket. You spare a glance at it, reading the notification with a set expression before slipping it back inside your pants.

"What are you doing here? Did you need something?" You ask as you step into your room, leaving the door ajar behind you. You try not to stare at him too hard as you crossed the room, heading straight for your desk chair. It has an unfamiliar jacket draped across it haphazardly, probably one of the Winchesters, and you slip it on, feeling a bit better once you zip up the front. You see Gabriel hop off your bed out of the corner of your eye as you do so. He brings his hands out his pockets, rocking on his heels while looking up at the ceiling.

"Man, you and your pals with all these questions. Is it a crime to make friendly conversation around here?”

You stare at him.

“The last, and only, time we talked was in a sewer, Gabriel.” You remind him, purposefully keeping your answer short. He smiles, seemingly not put out by the memory, even if you grimace at the mental image.

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Blood and guts covered you head to toe. Shapeshifter skin was clumped in your hair, and you had been stomping around in the sewers for what felt like hours.

The hit you had taken to the face earlier had been embarrassing. Even more so when your nose had started to bleed all but immediately, gushing down your front like a faucet while you attempted to stab the creature on top of you to an unsuccessful degree.

Dean had volunteered to cover the front of the group when the shapeshifter had gotten away, signaling at you to watch everyone's backs. You had listened without much of a complaint, falling back with a nod and taunt muscles.

All of that had happened in the span of five minutes. That's just how it went as a hunter. Expect the unexpected, and when it eventually happened, try to keep your head on straight.

Speaking of the unexpected.

"So, what's a fella like you doing galavanting around with these two chuckleheads?"

You attempted to hush the angel next to you awkwardly, using the stealth of the hunt as an excuse for your lack of conversation. Gabriel shot you a look, gesturing forwards at Sam and Dean; who were both chattering away about something heatedly while the two of you trailed behind.

"I don't think I'm the one who's going to get us caught in this situation, sugar." He cocked a brow. A smile appeared when you pursed your lips, joy overriding his deadpan look.

"Why are you even here again?" You pivoted, taking extra care to avoid a clump of what looked like teeth by your foot.

"Oh, boredom, curiosity, a hankering for my monthly dose of flannel— take your pick, really."

Your lips twitched upwards at that. Gabriel watched with a twinkle in his eyes, only for it to fade when you forced down the smile.

When Sam and Dean had told you an angel would probably be dropping by, the last thing you expected was a sly, shit eating grin accompanied by honey brown ringlets of hair. You might not be as well versed on the topic of heaven as the brothers were, but you had certainly expected an archangel of all things to be, well, more serious.

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“Well, forgive me for thinking you might have alternative motives for breaking into my room.” You bring yourself back to the present. Leaning against the wall, you settle on watching him meander about the room. “I’ve heard some stories from Dean and Sam that don't exactly paint you as a model citizen.”

”Oh, what, the time loop thing? That was years ago. Pretty long by human standards.” He smiles. Your mind lingers on the 'human standards' part of his statement for a second too long as Gabriel waves a dismissive hand at you, using the other to rotate a picture frame.

It’s the one with you, Cas, and the brothers in front of Bobby's house. The afternoon after a successful hunt, if you were remembering things right. Bobby himself had been missing from the picture, too busy making sure the camera had all of you in its sights to make his way over in time.

In the photo, your arm is slung as far over Cas’s shoulder as it can go, and you’re sporting a pair of bunny ears thanks to Dean. Sam is mid laugh in the photo, and Cas’s eyes are half closed. It’s a horrible picture.

But it’s still framed and sitting on the dresser you barely use.

”That really happened? A whole ass time loop?" You clear your throat, not wanting to think about the picture any longer. Gabriel seems to pick up on your change in mood, and spares a glance at you.

”Doubting my abilities, are you?” He sets down the picture frame gently and moves on to something else, saying nothing about your small appreciative sigh as he does so.

”More like doubting Sam’s ability to tell a story.” You snort despite yourself. “I sort of lost the plot when he started talking about the piano that fell on Dean.”

"Ah. That." Gabriel sighs like he’s recalling a fond memory, refusing to elaborate with anything more than a smile. At this point, you don’t even want to know.

"Anyways—" The angel had gotten closer to you sometime during the conversation, now on the same side of the room as you. "I gotta say, you did catch me. I am here for more than just a quick chat." He holds his hands up like a criminal caught in the act, pursing his lips while he does so. You let him play the situation up as you wait for him to go on, your old friend curiosity rearing its head inside of you as he waits.

"Remember the shifter case?" Gabriel tilted his head your way when you don’t respond, prompting you to nod.

"..the one we were just talking about?" Your eyes are narrowed at this point.

"The very same." He clicks his tongue.

"Yeah. Kind of hard to forget." You hum as casually as you can, trying not to give away any of your feelings. Gabriel notices how you’re now avoiding his gaze.

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Moonlight from a sewer grate above your head illuminated your path. Ripples of water disrupted the puddles at your feet, and there was no one there to cringe at the smell of it but you.

When the shifter had jumped you all from around a corner, Sam and Dean had taken off after it, chasing the creature down too many twisting tunnels for you to count. Gabriel, who had stuck with you nearly the entire time, was much faster than he seemed. Even if you thought you had a few inches on him, he quickly outpaced you, eventually leaving you to wonder if the boys had taken a left or a right at that last impasse. And you were pretty sure you had taken the wrong path, if the empty stretch of sewer in front of you told you anything.

Either way, you were lost.

"Shit." You cringed uncomfortably as you stepped in something especially squishy. "Sewers. Why is it always fuckin' sewers. Can't I ever go on a hunt at a nice resort sometimes?" You spoke to no one in particular. Maybe if you prayed to Chuck tonight, he'd write a nicer adventure for you. One with hot towels and massages.

You frowned. Nah. Probably not.

A sudden noise pulled your attention away from the unfortunate scene by your feet. The sound was faint, barely even there, but the curved walls of the sewers amplified it.

It sounded, well, wet for a lack of better words.

Images of blood, loose skin, and barred flesh flashed through the backs of your eyelids. Imagination and memories blurred together, and it raised the hairs on the back of your neck.

You raised your gun steadily. Holding a flashlight in your other hand, you crossed the two items over each other as you stalked in the direction the noise was coming from.

The stone battered walls around you began to slant outwards. Against your better judgement, you followed the movement of them, taking one step after another until eventually it led you into a bigger part of the sewer.

"Sam?" Dean?" You called, venturing further into the opening. The sound was amplified, now louder than the water that had begun to flow by your feet. It spilled out into the giant room of pipes before you as you crept forward. "..Gabriel?"

Nobody answered you. Just more of that noise.

With a heavy gaze, you squared your shoulders, and prepared for a fight.

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"Well, I wanted to talk about what happened." Gabriel's gaze is piercing as he looks at you. If you were anyone else, you might have squirmed underneath it, but you hold steady. Er, try to at least.

Gabriel rocks on his feet once more as you stare at a wall. From the corner of your eye, you see him clearly looking at you, and it lights a dangerous spark to something you’ve been pushing aside. Emotional constipation sort of comes with the territory of being a hunter, if you’re being honest, and in times like these your issues were certainly no help.

"Hey, if you're mad that I managed to get the final kill and not you, there's probably some angel therapist out there you could find to work out the kinks in your ego." You go for the humorous route, shrugging nonchalantly as you attempt to swing the conversation in a direction other than the way it was currently barreling. It’s your attempt to give him a way out.

"That's not what I mean and you know it." He doesn’t take it, pushing forward.

Now you’re the one fiddling with your stuff. You feel like your suffocating in your own room— Gabriel's presence practically taking up a whole corner of it without him even realizing. You briefly wonder if that was an angel thing. A mental image of giant wings crowding around you and your belongings comes to mind the more you think about it. It makes you angry.

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Each step you took into the room felt more and more coated with danger. The air was practically thick with it. You were struggling to breathe through the stench.

You saw shoes. Two pairs. One looked too familiar for comfort. Had Sam been wearing those? Or were they Dean's? A giant, rust ladened pipe blocked everything else from your view, obscuring the answer.

The sounds were only getting louder. Something— someone —whimpered.

"Goddamnit— Fuck this."

You rounded the corner at the end of the pipe, finger twitching over the trigger. You nearly shot, ready to fly into a fight, only to see—

Yourself. Kissing Gabriel.

And doing a damn good job at it.

You watched as a pair of lips the exact shade and shape as your own devoured him. The two of them had both hands on the other, trying to find purchase in the fabric on their bodies. There was no doubt in your mind anymore what those noises were, and a part of you found yourself wishing it had been something bloody. You even weren’t sure if they knew you were standing across the room from them, gun hanging in your limp hand as your eye twitched uncontrollably.

"What the fuck?"

Your identical twin was the first one to react at the sound of your strangled voice. Their head snapped back from Gabriel's, mouths parting as they turned to look at you.

Nausea rolled over you in waves as you looked into your own eyes. Everything about them we're perfect. You reckoned if you went as far as to count the number of eyelashes you had, theirs would have been the same. Not a single detail was off: from the clothes, down to the few strands of hair you could never get tamed.

"Oops. You caught me." The shifter caught their breath enough to grin, birding holes into your eyes. They even managed to embody every bit of inflection you put into your voice when you talked. You felt a little bile claw its way up your throat.

They were still holding onto the front of Gabriel's jacket, standing there. Gabriel's chest heaved from under their grip as he looked between the two of you. His lips were parted slightly, and his hair was messy; no doubt from the shifter running a hand through it. The sight of him gave you a small pause in your movements, and for the life of you, you didn't know why.

Both you and the shifter stared at him, the latter of you waiting for him to catch up. You were still trying to process all this yourself. Eventually, he found his voice and your wide eyes.

"So.. that's not you I take it?" Gabriel pointed lamely at the carbon copy standing a mere few feet away from him.

"Pretty safe to say yeah." You gave him a look that was borderline crazed.

"Ah. Well."

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Later, you didn't tell Dean or Sam how exactly you'd managed to gank the shifter in that pipe room. It was believable enough that you had managed to tackle it, letting Gabriel take over with the smiting from there. A whole lot easier than admitting you had chopped it's head off in one short go, a burst of confusion and anger aiding your rush across the room at the time as you cut of whatever evil speech it had been preparing to give about killing you all— something to do with impersonating you and striking when everyone’s guards were down.

You didn't bother coming up with a lie for why Gabriel's shirt was buttoned back up wrong. He could do that himself.

The angel had played along with your lie at the time, only commenting with a smart ass quip or two when Dean sent a hard glare his way. It was a good lie overall. You knew the brothers, Dean particularly, would blow their tops if they knew exactly what had happened. And sometimes, what the Winchesters didn't know, wouldn't hurt them.

You remember emerging from the sewers after that, Sam and Dean already talking about the quickest route out of town so they could avoid local law enforcement. You remember sitting down on a roadside curb as they talked, staring at the soiled ends of your shoelaces. You remembered thinking about what had happened, and not being surprised when Sam came over to tell you that Gabriel had already taken off, saying something about angel's business he had to take care of.

You just hate that the one thing you couldn't stop remembering was the look in Gabriel's eyes when he had pulled away from the shifter.

What more, was that you hated that that very same look was the one currently staring you down from across the room, directing all of its owners undecided attention to you.

"Look, let's not play dumb here." Gabriel chooses to be the one to break the silence. You’re partly grateful, but his opening quickly dispels any thankfulness.

"Dumb." You echo back. You feel your upper lip curl a little. It wasn't a question, just his own word thrown back at him. Gabriel nods, but you see him hesitate.

"You're angry." He says slowly, as if testing how the words fell on his tongue.

"Sure, yeah. Because if I'm remembering correctly, one of us walked into the other kissing a monster down in that shithole and then took off. And it sure as hell wasn't me." You can’t decide if you should raise your voice for emphasis, or lower it to disguise the slight shake you knew he was hearing. You settle for neither.

Gabriel doesn't have a witty response prepared for that. He opens his mouth as if to say something, before closing it without a word. You knew from Castiel that angels didn't sweat or blush, much less from embarrassment, but staring at Gabriel, you’re damn sure that he was wrong.

"Did you come here to explain yourself, or just bring up something that happened weeks ago without elaboration?" You chew at the inside of your cheek furiously, trying desperately to focus on anything other than the heat rising along your neck.

Gabriel doesn’t seem to like your sudden accusation. He tilts his head down slightly with a frown, his flush now completely gone as he bites at his own cheek subconsciously. He mirrors you without even realizing it. "Uhm, sweetheart, from what I can recall, shifters tend to tap into your hidden desires."

"I don’t want to hear it from the guy who couldn't stick around long enough to clean up his messes." You ignore the spike of anxiety you felt all of a sudden, choosing to keep your voice devoid of any emotions as you pin him in place with one look. You refuse to confirm or deny his statement.

Neither of you seem to know what to say after that. For the first time since you had met him, Gabriel was anything but smiles, and you couldn't decide if that made you uncomfortable, or sad.

You watch as a handful of emotions shadow his face. Some you can pinpoint— anger, hesitation, guilt —and some you can’t. You aren’t sure if the same story is currently being played out on your face, but judging on the way his eyes soften after finally taking a proper look at you, you bet that was the case.

He takes a deep breath, letting it out as he carefully makes his way to sit on the edge of your bed.

"You want to know why I really dropped by?" He watches you as you nod at him quickly, pushing him to continue. "To apologize."

Gabriel almost calls you sugar, but stops himself before he could. Now is not the time. Not while he's thinking about how tight your grip is around your jacket sleeves right now, and most certainly not while he's remembering how it felt when the shifter walked up to him with your smile, offering him something he hadn't thought twice about refusing.

You don't say anything. You don't do much of anything but breathe, letting the rise and fall of your chest mark each passing second. He takes that as a sign to continue, despite how much he wants to snap himself away at the moment.

"I'm not exactly a model citizen. Or angel. You've probably gathered that much." He says in one quick breath, slurring his words a little more than normal. "I make stupid decisions, and I don't exactly have the best track record about cleaning them up."

You mumble something under your breath. Gabriel stops himself, allowing you a chance to speak up in case you wanted to. When you don't, he swallows, and continues

"I understand if you want to tell Dean and Sam to kick me out, hell I figured you would have done it yourself by now.” He seems frustrated— whether it’s with himself or something else, you don’t know —and it doesn't take a genius to see it. Gone is his usual bravado and pop culture references, replaced with a bouncing leg and an uncharacteristically nervous tone. “I just wanted to say sorry for kissing you. It. Them. Whatever.”

You blink.

"Wait." You tilt your head down and shake it, eyebrows furrowed with a look of confusion. "That's what you're apologizing for?"

He pauses, hands pushed in his pockets like he doesn't know what to do with them. Something akin to confusion flickers across his face.

"..yes?"

You push yourself off the wall, unfolding your arms and rubbing your face as if trying to ground yourself. He watches as your lips press into a fine line. He tells himself now is not the right time to be staring at your lips. He doesnt stop.

"Gabriel, I'm not mad at you for that."

The angel finally tears his gaze away to look opposite you, feeling more confused than he has in a hot minute. "You're not?"

"No, you giant, winged dumbass." You nearly roll your eyes. "I'm not mad at you because you kissed a shifter that looked like me. If anything, that's understandable. Weirder shit has happened to me, trust.” You pause to crack the smallest of smiles. “I’m assuming Sam and Dean didn't tell you about the time a demon kissed Sam while wearing me?” You direct your question at him, and nod firmly when he shakes his head no.

“See, I can handle shit like that. The difference between back then, and now, is that me and Sam actually talked after exercising that bitch. You just took your unbelievably big ego and flew away that night like a dickhead.”

Anger hadn’t come immediately with his departure, you knew that. Sitting on that street curb, the most you had felt faint disappointment blanketed with a weird sense of not knowing what to do. Really you hadn’t been able to focus on it for more than a minute before Sam and Dean were dragging you and your blood soaked outfit off to the motel to peel out of there. But in the week it had taken him to show up again, you had time to think. Time to go over every detail you could pull from that afternoon, and time to grow increasingly pissed off with the angel for how he left. No matter how many hot feelings the thought of your lips kissing him stirred up.

“I'm mad because you didn't stay to fucking talk, Gabriel, not because you did something I would have without a second thought. Owning up to your shit means a lot to me, and that is the one, glaring thing that you missed that night." You tell him point blank.

In the silence that follows, you debate sitting next to him on the bed for a moment before giving in, planting yourself a good few feet away from him as he tracks you with his eyes.

Gabriel looks like he has absolutely no idea what to say. He sits there, replaying your entire conversation with him in his head as if that would somehow make it make more sense. You give him time, and as you do, you inexplicably feel the last of your anger begin to evaporate.

”Wait— something you would have done without a second thought?” His eyes slowly make their way around the perimeter of the room before landing on you.

"Fucking angels and their social skills." You rub your temples with closed eyes, a bit or irritation seeping into your tone. "And I thought you were better at this communicating stuff than your little brother."

Gabriel ignores the obvious poke at his ego via Cas in favor of holding his hand out as if to signal a time out.

”Correct me if I’m wrong, but you just said you would have kissed me if given the chance.”

”That is not the point I was trying to make.”

“But one that you still made.” He points a finger at you. You don’t redden, but you feel your face become hot once more. More so out of awkwardness than anything.

“This is not how I wanted a talk between us to go.” You muttered. Gabriel tried not to show how excited he had become again over the past few seconds, stomping it down to give you a minute.

“Well, how would you have wanted it to go?” He settles on asking. You look at him like he’s making a joke, and not a very good one.

“Not in my pajamas after basically admitting to you I would have liked to be on the receiving end of that necking.”

“Humor me then.” He tilts his head. You take a moment to deduce if he’s being serious or not. When you can’t find any hint of a joke or lie, you start.

“I would have liked to talk, mostly. Figure out how you got in that position, and then ask why you stayed. And if things went well enough and the boys were still out of earshot, maybe ask if you’d like to go hunting with me again.”

”That would have been..” He hesitates. “..nicer than what actually happened.”

”That being said—“ You hold up a hand. “—that would not have been a light offer.” You tell him. “I’m not exactly the best guy to get with, Gabe. The last person who I tried to go out with ended up with black eyes, and not because they got beat up. Why do you think I talked about suggesting a hunt instead of Olive Garden?”

”You think being with an angel is any easier?” He uses his signature move, cocking a brow at you.

“That wasn't and invitation to start a dick measuring contest.” You remind both him and yourself. “All I meant by it was that this is a bigger decision than we both probably think. For one, Dean’s going to deep fry you in holy fire when he finds out any of what happened last week, and I don't even know if it's allowed for a human to go out with an angel.”

”Sweets, you basically just put a date with you on the table. Who cares if it’s allowed, I’ll make it allowed.” He offers that up like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just offer to change the rules to heaven at a chance to sit down and watch a movie with you. “As for our very own Dean? Don’t worry, I can handle him. Father knows I’ve done it before, no sweat.”

“That’s good.” You muse with a playful look. “Especially considering he sent me a text a few minutes ago about the angel trap he’s setting up outside my door for you.”

Gabriel let out a hearty laugh no sooner than when you finished your sentence. Something about the visual of Dean hunched over outside your door with a jug of holy oil in hand was more amusing than he’d like to admit.

You smile while he laughs, unable to help yourself. Any remnants of your sour mood from this past week is old news by now. ”Hey, apparently you ruined his breakfast. In the Winchester household, that's a criminal offense.”

“Good thing I’ve got a badass hunter on my side.” He peers at you from under his lashes, still laughing.

“Not just yet, casanova. Take me to dinner first, then we’ll talk.” You halt him, closing your eyes and scrunching your nose with a laugh in a way that made Gabriel want to replicate that night with the shapeshifter; only this time with the real deal.

“That’s the plan.” He says with a cocky grin, and snaps his fingers. You don't need to know anything about angels to know he’s gone, the flutter of wings echoing in your head.

You're not disappointed by his disappearing act this time.

No less than a minute later, when you’re standing up once more to stretch your sore muscles, you hear a faint yell from outside your door, followed by familiar laughter. The sound reminds you of sunshine, and everything sweet.

You smile.

#supernatural #supernatural x reader #supernatural x you #supernatural x y/n #gabriel #gabriel x reader #gabriel x you #gabriel x y/n #gabriel spn #gabriel spn x reader #gabriel spn x you #gabriel spn x y/n #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #x reader #one shot

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otissbluebearshirt · 2 years ago

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Can’t really think of anything specific with Gabriel but just the idea of cuddly Gabriel makes me cry (´°̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥ω°̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥｀)

Like clingy and cuddly Gabriel?? Shot me now (lovingly)

Nothing Better - [ Gabriel ]

Summary: After a rough day you find yourself needing nothing more than a cuddle from Gabriel

Word Count: 886 short but hopefully sweet

Warnings: female!reader, sex references

A/N: it wasn’t really clingy gabriel but hopefully it was cuddly enough for you as it kind of went in a different direction than i meant it to

Masterlist | Gabriel Masterlist

You should have known he’d be waiting for you the moment you got back to the bunker. Should have known that the second you walked into your room you’d see him there, already under the sheets with that signature grin on his face. The one you’d normally love to see.

But tonight you just weren’t feeling it. You’d had a bad case. The worst case in a long time and you really weren’t feeling up to spending half the night with an archangel between your legs, no matter how fun and pleasurable it was.

Tiredly, you stepped into your bedroom that, low and behold, Gabriel was already occupying. You closed the door, glancing towards him just in time to catch that playful smile on his face, the sheets barely covering him as he waited for you to greet him like you normally did. Which was to throw yourself on him as you never were one to waste time. Not when it came to this anyway.

Only, tonight you didn’t. Tonight you didn’t even acknowledge him with anything more than a half assed smile that you had to force out as you peeled off your blood stained jacket, dumping it straight onto the floor instead of your laundry hamper.

“Baby?” Gabriel sat up a little, brow furrowing over your distant behaviour as this wasn’t like you at all. You hated mess so for you to leave your clothes lying messily about? Well that was the first sign that you weren’t exactly feeling like your usual self.

“Not now, Gabriel.” You sighed breathily, pulling off your t-shirt which quickly joined your jacket in a heap on the floor. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Everything okay?” He asked, growing worried when he got nothing but silence in response as you continued to undress.

The further you moved into the light the more he could see it. That faint redness to your otherwise glistening eyes and the deep, dark circles beneath them that were the starting point for the stains that ran down your cheeks.

Even as you rummaged through your drawer he could still see the way your lip never fully settled, trembling lightly with every quiet breath that parted them and it was clear that you’d more than likely only just finished crying.

“Come here.” He said softly, patting the bed next to him which had another quiet sigh escape your mouth as you misread his intentions.

“I said I’m not in the mood.” You mumbled, clumsily throwing your night shirt over your head and ending up with your arm in the wrong hole, which might have pushed you to the brink had Gabriel not shuffled towards you to help you into it properly.

The second the material sat right on your shoulders his hands moved up, brushing your hair from your face before gently cupping it. His thumbs ghosted lightly across the blackened marks beneath your eyes, watching as they began to shimmer faintly in the dim light of the room.

“Rough day?” Gabriel said quietly, barely a nod of your head answering him as you couldn’t quite find the words to. He moved back across the bed, pulling the cover down and motioning for you to join him.

You were quick to do so, feeling that warmth seep into your body as you nestled yourself next to him, his arm draping around you the instant you settled. His chin landed atop your head, his other arm wrapping tightly around you as you buried your face against his chest, allowing the comfort he brought to fully engulf you.

It was a little strange for you to be like this as Gabriel never was one for cuddles, at least not like this as he happened to like the after sex cuddles you both shared, but that was mainly due to his likeness to see your reaction afterwards.

You weren’t exactly “exclusive” either, given what he was and nothing ever seemed normal with him. But in this moment, as you did nothing but lay in his arms where you could feel the rise and fall of his chest, it felt more normal to you than anything ever had. Only at the same time, you couldn’t help but worry that you were bothering him by being so down.

“You don’t have to stay with me, you know.” You whispered, your voice barely audible for even yourself to hear but luckily for you Gabriel had celestial hearing which meant he heard you perfectly. “If you have better things to do.”

“There isn’t anything better than this, sweetheart.” He said sincerely, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head before his cheek came to rest atop it.

You nuzzled your own over his chest, where you could make out the gentle rhythm of his heart beneath your ear. Every quiet beat only brought you more and more comfort. Made you forget the day as the tension slowly faded from your body with every minute you lay there, neither of you saying a word as you simply enjoyed each other's company.

You didn’t know when you’d have this again. This moment. This peace. And so for as long as you were able, you’d be making sure to cherish each moment, as Gabriel was right… There truly was nothing better than this.

Like this? Apply to my Gabriel tag list here!

tagging: @lorileopard @captainkatya @panickinanakin1 @darkenigma322 @tortilla-chips-and-allioli @peppermint-j @alexxavicry @evanbuckbuckley @calisto-thoughts

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clara-a7 · 4 months ago

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Ｆ１ＲＯＯＫＩＥＳＧＲＩＤ | 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙖𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙖 dnf

彡CONTAINS ; jack doohan, isack hadjar, gabriel bortoleto, ollie bearman, kimi antonelli

彡WARNINGS ; crying, crash

彡RESQUESTED? ; No~ (requests are open!)

彡DISCLAIMER ; Everything written here is FICTITIOUS.

A/N ; Sorry if here are any mistakes, english isn't my first language, not my best writing

⤷Jack Doohan

It was a big day, Jack’s home race in Australia. You stood in his garage, watching anxiously as the race began. But not even a lap in, everything fell apart.

Jack lost control. His car spun out and slammed into the wall. The collective gasp of the crowd echoed through the air, but all you could hear was your own heartbeat hammering in your chest. A DNF. His first home race, and it ended before it even truly began.

When he finally stepped into the garage, his eyes found yours instantly. His heart was already heavy, weighed down by disappointment and frustration, but seeing the tears streaking your cheeks made it even worse. He hadn’t just let down his team, he had let down the people who loved him.

Ignoring the pit crew, the engineers, and even the team director’s piercing gaze, Jack walked straight to you. His only concern was you.

Wordlessly, he cupped your face, resting his forehead against yours. His touch was warm, grounding despite the storm raging inside him.

“Babe…” he murmured, his voice laced with sorrow. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, his sad eyes searching yours.

You tried to blink away the tears, tried to stay strong for him. “Please don’t be sad, babe. What matters most is that you’re okay.”

Your hands found his, squeezing them gently, trying to pour every ounce of comfort you could into your touch. “Please don’t be too hard on yourself. I’m still so proud of you.”

A faint, bittersweet smile tugged at his lips. “Babe… I’m so glad to have you.”

He gave you one last lingering kiss on your cheek before he was pulled away by his team, their expressions serious, their words already forming reprimands. But for just a moment, none of that mattered because in his lowest moment, he had you.

⤷Isack Hadjar

Today was supposed to be everything he had dreamed of his first Formula 1 race. After a strong qualifying session, he had placed as the best rookie on the grid. He was ready. A little nervous about the rain, but still eager to prove himself to the team.

But before he even had the chance, it all went wrong.

During the formation lap, he lost control. The car spun, slamming into the wall. Just like that, his debut ended before it even began.

Isaac entered his driver’s room, shoulders tense, avoiding the worried glances from you and his parents. Silently, he pulled off his helmet and gloves, placing them on the table beside you.

“I don’t want to talk about it…” he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else.

You exchanged worried looks with his parents, but his mother was the first to respond.

“That’s okay, mon cœur. Take your time,” she said softly, wrapping him in a gentle hug as his father stood beside them, offering quiet support.

After a few moments, they gave him space, leaving the room so the two of you could be alone.

You hesitated before stepping closer, trying to meet his gaze, but he wouldn’t look at you. Your heart clenched at the sight his eyes red, tears drying on his cheeks. You knew Isaac well. He wasn’t one to talk when he was hurting, and no words of reassurance would reach him right now.

So, without warning, you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace.

At first, he didn’t react. He just stood there, tense and unresponsive. But then, as the familiar scent of your perfume surrounded him, something in him eased. His arms came around you, holding you even tighter, his chin resting on your shoulder as he exhaled shakily.

“I just want to go back to the hotel…” he whispered against your ear.

You nodded, pressing a soft kiss to his neck.

“Okay, love. Let’s go.”

For now, you didn’t need words just each other.

⤷Gabriel Bortoleto

His first F1 race. The atmosphere was electric, but tension weighed heavily in the air. After multiple crashes throughout the race, your hands were clammy, gripping onto the fabric of your jacket as you watched anxiously. Ten laps to go. Gabriel was holding onto P14 not where he wanted to be, but still pushing, still fighting.

Then, disaster struck.

Lap 47. He lost control in the Mouillier turn. The car snapped out from under him, skidding across the track before slamming into the wall and coming to a halt in the gravel trap. Your breath hitched. The seconds dragged as you waited for a sign any sign that he was okay. Then, finally, his voice crackled over the radio.

“I’m okay.”

Relief flooded through you, but it didn’t erase the sinking feeling in your chest. You knew how much this meant to him. His first race, and it ended like this.

By the time he finished the post-race interviews and debrief with his team, you were already waiting for him in the paddock, arms crossed tightly, trying to keep your emotions in check. A gentle pressure on your shoulder made you turn around.

Gabriel stood there, his face calm, a small reassuring smile tugging at his lips. But you could see the sadness beneath it the way his eyes lacked their usual spark, the way his shoulders sagged just slightly.

“I’m okay, don’t worry, babe,” he said softly.

You didn’t reply right away. Instead, you reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers. His grip tightened just a little, like he needed something to ground him.

“I know you are,” you murmured, stepping closer. “But you don’t have to pretend with me.”

His breath wavered for a moment, his façade cracking. You lifted a hand to his face, your fingers grazing over his jaw before settling on his cheek. He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes for a second, as if letting himself rest—just for a moment.

“It wasn’t supposed to end like this…” he whispered, frustration laced in his voice.

You shook your head, your thumb brushing over his skin. “One race doesn’t define you, Gabriel. You belong here. And you’ll prove it—not just to them, but to yourself.”

He exhaled deeply, pressing his forehead against yours. “How do you always know what to say?”

You smiled softly. “Because I know you.”

A silence settled between you, but it wasn’t heavy it was comforting. Gabriel gave your hand one last squeeze before whispering, “I love you”

⤷Ollie Bearman

This was supposed to be his moment.

His first full season as an F1 driver something he had fought so hard for. After replacing a driver for two races last year, he had proved himself, shown the world that he belonged here. And now, with a seat of his own, he was determined to show them why he deserved it.

But then came the crashes.

FP1: A mistake. A miscalculation. He braked just slightly too late, his tires clipped the damp grass, and in an instant, the car slid out of his control. He hit the wall hard.

FP3: The same mistake. The same grass. The same outcome. Except this time, after hitting the first barrier, the car spun and slammed into the opposite wall.

Two crashes in one weekend.

By the time he made it back to the hospitality suite, the weight of it all came crashing down on him. He barely acknowledged the team’s reassurances, their forced smiles and murmured, “It happens, don’t worry.” He knew they were trying to ease the sting, but it didn’t matter.

When he saw you, the last bit of composure he had shattered.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he stepped toward you, his breathing uneven, his body tense with frustration and disappointment. He didn’t say anything he didn’t need to. He just reached for you, wrapping his arms around you as if holding on for dear life.

You immediately embraced him, your hands running soothingly up and down his back. “It’s okay,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his shoulders shaking slightly as the adrenaline, the fear, the frustration all of it poured out of him.

“I messed up,” he choked out. “Twice. I—I don’t even know if I deserve to be here.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands cupping his face. His eyes were glassy, his lips trembling slightly as he tried to keep it together.

“Hey,” you murmured softly. “You do deserve to be here. One bad day doesn’t change that.”

His fingers gripped the fabric of your shirt as if afraid to let go. “I just… I don’t want to disappoint everyone.”

“You’re not a disappointment,” you assured him, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. “You’re human. And you’re learning. No one expects perfection.”

He let out a shaky breath, nodding slightly, though you could tell he wasn’t fully convinced yet. That was okay. You would remind him as many times as he needed.

For now, you just held him, letting him take the comfort he needed. Because tomorrow was a new day, and no matter what, you would always be right there with him.

⤷Kimi Antonelli

It was his first F1 race. His dream finally realized. The youngest driver on the grid praised for his talent, adored like a younger brother by the other drivers, carrying the weight of a thousand expectations on his shoulders.

But then, the rain came.

The track was treacherous, the visibility near impossible, and in the chaos, Kimi lost control. His car spun out violently before slamming into the barriers, ending his race in heartbreak.

As soon as you heard his voice over the radio shaky but confirming he was okay you exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. But relief quickly turned into urgency as you searched for him across the paddock.

You moved through the crowd, your heart pounding, until your eyes landed on a small circle of drivers gathered tightly in one spot. Their race suits, soaked from the rain, formed a protective barrier around someone. And then you saw him light brown curls damp against his forehead, his head slightly lowered as the others murmured words of reassurance.

Max was the first to notice you. With a small nod in your direction, he spoke gently, “Your girlfriend is here.”

At those words, Kimi’s head snapped up. His eyes, still clouded with disappointment and frustration, softened the moment he saw you. A small, almost hesitant smile flickered across his face before he pushed past the drivers without a second thought, heading straight for you.

Before you could even ask if he was okay, his arms were already around you tight, desperate, as if grounding himself in your presence. You felt his body tremble slightly against yours, whether from the cold or the emotions threatening to overwhelm him, you weren’t sure.

You held him just as tightly, your hands gently running over his back in slow, soothing motions. “I’m here,” you whispered against his damp race suit, pressing your cheek against his shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

For a moment, he just breathed.

The paddock was still noisy, the rain still falling, but in that embrace, the world seemed to slow.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to cup his face, your thumbs brushing lightly over his cold skin. “You will,” you reassured him. “This is just the beginning, Kimi. One race doesn’t define you.”

He searched your eyes, as if trying to find the belief in them for himself. And then, with a deep breath, he nodded.

Max and the others stood back, watching quietly, knowing he was in good hands.

“Come on,” you whispered. “Let’s get you warmed up.”

And with his fingers still laced tightly with yours, you led him away because no matter how tough the race, he would never have to face it alone.

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ladycupcakes · 24 days ago

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Heyyy. I have a request but it's kinda weird. Pls don't judge. Basically a Tommy x Reader but Reader it's Joel's adopted daughter (like ellie) and they have a secret relationship with tommy.

Tyyy <333

Yayyy finally a tommy x reader!!! love the idea.

Hope you like how it turned out <33!

"Too Familiar: Part one"

Summary: You're Joel's adopted child, and with him out on patrol, you're stuck with chores at the stables-where your secret boyfriend Tommy makes the day a little sweeter.

Tags: Jackson!Tommy Miller x Reader, Unmentioned age gap, Joel's adopted child.

Warnings: Age gap (implied), Secret & slightly forbidden romance, Pseudo-incest (adopted kid of Joel x uncle dynamic, fictional), Kissing & suggestive make out scenes

Word count: 2.5k

Part two here

The morning light was soft, golden, spilling through the thin curtains and casting gentle shadows across the room. You were still tangled in the warmth of your blankets when a familiar voice called your name softly, breaking through the quiet of the dawn.

“Hey, get up,” Ellie whispered, her tone light but insistent as she nudged your shoulder gently. “We’ve got chores at the stables today. Joel said to get moving — he left on patrol a while ago.”

You blinked, slowly rousing from sleep, the comfort of the bed making it hard to push yourself up. The words echoed in your mind, the promise of the stables stirring something more than just the routine of daily chores. You thought about Tommy, probably already out there, hands busy with horses, the soft snorts and rustling of hay. The idea made your chest tighten slightly, a quiet flutter beneath your ribs that you tried to ignore.

Ellie’s gaze was steady on you, a small smirk playing at the corners of her lips, like she knew something you weren’t saying. “Come on, it’s already late. You don’t want to be the last one out there, right?”

You let out a small laugh, brushing the hair away from your face. “Alright, alright. I’m up.”

There was something comforting about the morning, the familiar sounds of Jackson waking up—the distant call of birds, the soft creak of wooden porches, the faint thud of hooves against the dirt paths. You swung your legs off the bed, the cold floor greeting your feet, and made your way to the small kitchen.

While you fixed a simple breakfast—a slice of bread, a cup of weak coffee—you felt the weight of the day ahead settle around you. Joel was gone on patrol, like Ellie said. That meant the afternoon was yours. A subtle grin formed on your lips as you thought about what that could mean. No interruptions, no expectations—just time.

The thought made your steps lighter as you joined Ellie by the door. She already had her boots on, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, looking ready for whatever the day would throw at her.

“Ready?” she asked, her eyes sparkling with mischief and something like sisterly fondness.

You nodded, swallowing the last bite of your bread. “Ready.”

Together, you stepped outside into the crisp morning air, the sun climbing higher and painting the sky in hues of soft pink and orange. The scent of fresh earth and hay wrapped around you, grounding you as you headed toward the stables—where Tommy would be waiting.

The moment you stepped outside, a sharp chill hit your skin, making you shiver as the cool morning air wrapped around you like a rough wool blanket.

“Man, it’s freezing,” Ellie muttered, pulling her jacket tighter around her. You nodded, rubbing your hands together to chase away the cold as you both started down the dusty path toward the stables.

Your mind was still half-dreaming, sluggish from sleep and the warmth you’d just left behind. The world around you felt hazy, the sound of your boots crunching on gravel somehow distant, as Ellie’s voice pulled you slowly back to reality.

“Hey,” she said casually, almost as if she didn’t expect an answer, “do you think Uncle Tommy… you know, will let us ride the horses after we finish cleaning the stables? Like, after we take care of all the work there?”

Her question hung in the air, simple but charged, and it snapped you fully awake. You turned to look at her, blinking in surprise.

“What?” you asked, your voice still thick with sleep. “Uh… I don’t know. I guess we could ask him, though… I mean, I’m not sure.”

As you walked, your thoughts began to swirl quietly in your mind, like whispers you didn’t want anyone else to hear.

Uncle Tommy… you thought, that’s supposed to be my uncle, right? Joel’s brother. But why is it that I feel this way about him? Like, not just family… but something else entirely?

You shook the thought away, trying to focus on the crunch of gravel beneath your feet and the cold morning air, but the feeling lingered like a secret tucked deep inside you—something you weren’t quite ready to admit, even to yourself.

The walk toward the stables stretched on in a comfortable silence. Ellie’s footsteps fell beside yours, but her mind seemed elsewhere, drifting in that half-asleep haze that comes with early mornings. She barely glanced your way, lost in her own thoughts or maybe just enjoying the cold air brushing her face. You didn’t mind. Sometimes the quiet was the kind of company you needed most.

Your own thoughts wandered too, tangled up in the way Tommy’s presence made your heart skip without even being near him yet. The chill in the air helped sharpen your senses, and the crunch of gravel underfoot marked the steady pace toward the familiar wooden building that housed the horses and the smells of hay and leather.

As you turned the last corner, the stables came into view. The big barn doors were wide open, and inside, Tommy was there, his sleeves rolled up as he carefully cleaned a horse’s coat. The horse, a strong bay with deep brown eyes, stood patiently, trusting.

When Tommy’s gaze lifted and landed on you both, something shifted. His eyes locked on you first, lingering for a moment longer than usual. There was a softness there—quiet and almost tender—that made your breath hitch slightly. You met his gaze, feeling the warmth of it even through the cool morning air.

After a few seconds, he shifted his attention to Ellie, who, noticing the look, straightened up and gave him a small wave.

“Morning, Tommy,” Ellie said casually, her voice steady.

Tommy’s face broke into a brief, easy smile as he returned the greeting. “Hey, Ellie.”

He then stepped forward, brushing a strand of hair back from his forehead, his eyes flicking back to you just once more before turning fully to the task at hand.

You felt your heart beat a little faster as he moved closer, the sound of the horse’s soft snorts filling the quiet space between you all. Ellie chatted on about the chores waiting, but you found yourself watching Tommy, the way his hands worked gently but with purpose, and how the morning sun caught the color in his eyes just right.

It was a moment suspended in time—simple, yet charged with something unspoken, something only you seemed to notice.

Tommy glanced over at Ellie, his Texas drawl rolling easy and calm as he said, “You can go ahead and start on the stables out back.”

Ellie nodded, already turning toward the row of stalls at the far end, her boots kicking up little puffs of dust.

Then Tommy’s eyes shifted back to you, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And you… you can help me with this big guy here.” He nodded toward the horse he’d been cleaning, a huge, muscular beast that seemed calm and patient. “We’ll finish him up together, and then you can take care of the others.”

Ellie disappeared around the corner, and suddenly the world felt quieter, the space between you and Tommy shrinking in a way that made your heart flutter. You hesitated a moment before stepping closer, your smile shy and small.

Tommy’s voice dropped to a low whisper, just loud enough for you as he leaned in slightly, making sure Ellie wasn’t nearby anymore. “How’s it goin’, darling?”

You blinked, a soft chuckle escaping you. “Hey… it’s good. Just—just trying not to mess up.”

He gave a low laugh, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Don’t worry, I got you.”

You bit your lip, glancing down for a second before meeting his gaze again. “How’re you doin’?”

Tommy shrugged with a grin. “Same as always. Busy as hell, but I’m hangin’ in there.”

You nodded, then added quietly, “Joel’s gonna be out on patrol all day, I think.”

Tommy’s smile softened, and he gave a knowing look. “Yeah, I know. Funny how it works out, huh? You get stuck at the stables, and he’s off somewhere on patrol.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You have a say in who gets what chores or something?”

He chuckled, the sound deep and warm. “Let’s just say I got a little pull around here when it comes to choosing tasks.”

You smiled, feeling the warmth of his gaze and the easy comfort between you both.

You wiped a bit of dirt off the horse’s flank, then looked up at Tommy with a curious smile. “So… how long is that route you gave Joel?”

Tommy glanced over at you, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Long enough to make sure I get to spend the whole evening with my favorite girl — without any old man butting in.”

You laughed softly, nudging him with your shoulder. “You know he hates it when someone calls him ‘old man.’”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, well… that’s just how it goes.”

For a moment, the quiet between you was comfortable, filled with the sounds of the horse shifting beneath your hands and the faint rustle of the stable. Then Tommy’s smile grew softer, more genuine, and he added, “You’re lucky he trusts me enough to send him out like that.”

You met his gaze, feeling the warmth behind his words. “I guess I am.”

The horse shifted again, and you returned your attention to brushing its coat, but the simple closeness, the ease of being with Tommy in this quiet morning, made your heart feel lighter than it had in a long time.

You continued brushing the horse’s glossy coat, the rhythm of your strokes steady and soothing. The morning light streamed in through the barn doors, casting golden slivers across the hay-strewn floor.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Tommy step back just a bit, moving quietly behind you. You didn’t turn to look, but felt the shift in the air—a warm presence suddenly right behind you.

Tommy’s hands settled gently on your waist, steadying you, and before you could say anything, his lips found the sensitive skin at the curve of your neck. His kisses were soft at first, teasing, warm against the cold morning chill.

You tensed, the sudden intimacy making your breath catch. “Tommy,” you whispered, trying to keep your voice low, “what are you doing? Ellie’s still around—we could get caught.”

His hands tightened just slightly, grounding you, and he murmured against your skin, “She won’t see us. I made sure she’s far enough. Besides, what’s the fun if we’re always worried about getting caught?”

You glanced back just slightly, heart pounding. “Really, Tommy, if she spots us, it’s over. She’ll never let us hear the end of it.”

He chuckled softly, lips still trailing little fires along your neck. “You gotta learn to relax, darling.”

You tried to pull away, but his hands held you gently in place, turning you around. “Relax? You’re the one making it impossible.”

He grinned, voice low and playful. “Maybe I like the challenge.”

A soft sigh escaped you as his lips moved lower, and his hands slid just a little, reassuring and warm. “If you want, I can teach you how to calm down… how to just be here, with me.”

Your breath hitched again, and despite yourself, a small smile tugged at your lips. “I might need lessons, then.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes shining with something tender and mischievous all at once. “Well, you’ve got the best teacher in Jackson.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head as he leaned in once more, his kisses trailing slowly down your neck, and the world outside that old stable faded away until there was nothing but the two of you—warm, tangled, and quietly electric.

Tommy’s hands traced slow, gentle circles along your back, his breath warm against your skin as his lips brushed lightly over your neck. He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes soft but full of that familiar teasing spark.

“You could tell her,” he murmured, voice low, almost a whisper.

You blinked, heart fluttering in your chest. “Tell who? Ellie?”

He nodded, fingers threading through your hair as he kissed you again, slower this time, more deliberate.

“Yeah,” he said between kisses, his lips grazing yours lightly, “you could tell her.”

You pulled back a little, resting your forehead against his, breath mingling. “I don’t know if I should…”

Tommy smiled, brushing his thumb over your cheek, gentle and reassuring. “She’s almost like your sister, right? And a good friend. I don’t think she’d say anything to Joel.”

You swallowed hard, the words stirring a mix of hope and doubt. “Maybe… maybe she wouldn’t. But what if she does?”

His hands slid lower, resting firmly on your hips as he kissed you again, this time tracing soft patterns along your jaw with his lips.

“Everything would be easier if she knew, darling.”

You closed your eyes, a small sigh escaping you as he nuzzled your neck, his hands warm and steady.

“I’m not so sure,” you whispered, your voice trembling just a little.

He chuckled softly, pressing a tender kiss to your temple. “Relax. I’m here.”

Another pause, filled only by the sounds of the stable—the distant snort of the horse, your breathing mingling with his.

Then, his voice lowered again, full of promise. “So, how about this afternoon?”

You opened your eyes, looking up at him through the soft light.

He smiled, that slow, sure smile that made your heart skip. “Come by my place. We’ll have some time alone. No interruptions. Just us.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you hesitated, biting your lip before nodding slowly.

“Sounds perfect,” you breathed.

Tommy leaned in again, his lips warm and inviting, trailing kisses along your collarbone as he whispered, “It’s a date.”

Tommy pulled back just slightly from your neck, then leaned in once more, pressing a slow, deep kiss to your lips—gentle, lingering, nothing rushed, but full of everything unspoken between you two.

His hands cupped your cheeks softly, thumbs brushing along your skin as he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes.

A small, warm smile spread across his face, and he whispered, “Alright, let’s get back to work. I don’t think anyone’s buying that we can spend this long washing a horse.”

His voice was teasing, full of irony, and you couldn’t help but laugh softly.

He reached for the reins of the big horse you’d been tending, guiding it slowly toward the deeper stalls of the barn.

You followed close behind, your heart still fluttering from the moment you’d just shared.

You were heading deeper into the stable to grab a tool, Tommy putting the horse back in its stall, when Ellie suddenly stepped aside, heading toward a small tool rack nearby too.

Curious, she glanced over and stopped in her tracks.

“Wow, that horse really left you looking a mess,” she said softly, a small grin playing at her lips.

You touched your hair, a little tousled, and felt the warmth on your cheeks.

"Heh, yeah… it got a bit out of hand,” you replied with a shy laugh, trying to play it cool.

Ellie just nodded and smirked quietly, not saying anything more.

The moment passed gently, and you both went back to your tasks, the quiet sounds of the stable wrapping around you like a soft, familiar blanket.

A/N: Want part two? ;)

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